Issuu

Dear Reader, We are proud to present to you the Spring 2022 issue of None of the Above (NOTA), 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. NOTA’s mission as a student organization is to showcase art, literature, and music created by fellow UW-Eau Claire students. With our biannual publications, we aim to represent this mission and display the collaboration from students across disciplines. Students from the art, music, and English (as well as many other!) departments may not often cross paths on campus, yet we come together to create a journal and overall environment within our organization that values multiple perspectives, voices, and talents. Our Open Read events are another factor of our organization that we hope creates a supportive atmosphere for expression and discovery. We were honored to partner with UWEC’s CERCA this semester to create an event that brought together many of NOTA’s editors and contributors for a celebratory reading featuring creative work throughout our organization’s history. Many of the writers and artists featured in this issue were able to participate and share their work with students, faculty, and community members. 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

contents

Avery Benson

Miguel Barrios

Gabriella Goldstein

Leah Woodward

Maisie Beagan

Lewis Bingol

Kaela Greenfield

Daniel Reich

Rowan Evans

Carlee Shimek

Madeline McGann

Somerset Seymer

Emily Popp

Kaden Ofstad

Julia Kaeding

Hannah Polzin

Erin Phelps

Mallory Studer

Thomas DeLapp

27 30 Megan Miller

Kaden Ofstad

Gwen Wheat

Grace Cunningham

34 37 38 43 46 49 Lewis Bingol

Thomas DeLapp

Michaela Schultz

Gwen Wheat

Megan Miller

Erin Phelps

Kaela Greenfield

Gabriella Goldstein

Charlie Roettger

Dawson Jollie

Leah Woodward

Somerset Seymer

Ivy Buchan

Grace Schutte

56 59 60 62 Ivy Buchan

Lewis Bingol

Daniel Reich

Colton Weitzel

Kaela Greenfield

Julia Kaeding

Erin Phelps

64 71 74 Mckenzie Minter

Jae Prock

Emily Popp

Megan Miller

Skyline

Simon Arneberg

Maisie Beagan

73 75

Sweater People

St. Peter’s Snow

The Truth I Speak—Avery Benson A poem recited for the young black scholars of Power of Perception at the annual Soul Food Dinner of 2022. In my ears I hear the full voices of hate. They swirl around my mind and consume my body, so I soak it in and alter it into hot blood. Yes. My blood is very hot because I can’t seem to understand why being black is such a threat. In 2022, I feel as if I’ve added so many years to my life. I feel as if I once floated on the winds up and up and then the breeze became fickle and I was dropped to my knees. “Can I overcome this sunken place?” I have so many feelings I fear I cannot organize. Their wretched chaos too intimidating to address, so I relinquish my energy to try. But then… just then, there is something else. Something I have never given up. Something I am pressed to consider in my anger and fears, and this is hope. I feel the radiance of young people before me and all of a sudden I am inspired.

The Truth I Speak—Avery Benson Completely overcome with joy and confidence that the world still holds something spectacular to unfold. I am in the presence of greatness. The truth is still the truth, no matter how many people try to convince us otherwise. So never let anyone convince you of who you are. You decide that. The hope? This hope I am speaking of? This is You. You are that faith that I cling to. I am confident that solutions will come because I have witnessed your melanated magnificence. Your ideas, your creativity, your integrity, your perseverance, but most of all your inflaming passion. I feel your power. And for some of you, I wonder if you have considered just how great your power is. I am here to tell you

The Truth I Speak—Avery Benson no matter the circumstances, your greatness has always lied within. In these days of scrutiny, judgment, and oppression we become ever more susceptible to silencing. We might find ourselves questioning all that we are at the hands of others, who will never and have never walked a day in our shoes. This pressure, this weight, it’s searing. Tantalizing us enough to question ourselves about our own race. Something so defining of who we are and yet so little of the entire equation. We find ourselves circling back to the question, “What does it mean to be black?” The truth? You are that definition. So I ask you instead, what will you bring to the table? For those before you, for those after, and even more importantly for the benefit of your own journey. I wish you all the strength to seek within, the confidence to live truthfully, defiantly, and most of all the courage to be you even when insecurity may come to knock at the door of your mind.

Black Friday—Miguel Barrios

This work pays homage to two of the greats of hip hop, J.Cole and Kendrik Lamar, two Hip Hop artists who have changed the game which we call rap. This work doesn’t compare both artists but combines them into one whole. Using different tones for each to keep the idea of how different they are but still using the same layout to create synergy. Painted onto a pair of Air Force 1s, an iconic sneaker within the sneaker world, adds to the iconic feel I wanted to portray. Both Hip Hop artists have yet to work together for a full project, but have teased the world with their collaboration, “Black Friday”, a small sample of what they are capable of doing if they were to come together.

Black Friday—Miguel Barrios

Untitled—Lewis Bingol

Bloodstains—Leah Woodward

The elemental pain In our blood, in our veins We’re eating each other alive. Teeth stained with red Hearts pumping, wheezing We drink from puddles like dogs. “Are we human?” we ask ourselves Chewing, slurping, teething We rarely come up for air. Their faces, pale and bloodless Frozen in agony, hot with rage We lick their final tears from their cheeks. We may run in packs of one, But together we make an army. We go to war against our fear—in fear, we never parley. Are we human yet? Well, Only humans bury their dead, And that is what we do.

Red Panda—Gabriella Goldstein

This piece is a digital painting through Adobe Photoshop and a Wacom Tablet. Each strategically placed brush stroke overlaps to give the representation of fur, giving the viewer an artistically rendered red panda. The creative process of seeing the progression of my overlapped strokes, makes the long hours spent worthwhile to see everything put together. There is also a significant meaning behind the paint. Red Pandas have a core memory in my life as they hold the spot for my favorite animal. Their puffy tails and paws, give me jolts of serotonin every time I see them.

Red—Maisie Beagan

Imagine with me in slow motion: a car a family portrait

and a little stuffed bear

sitting in the middle of a road and a young girl with red hair standing beside it all watching as the house behind her is swallowed in plumes of vicious smoke and a fire that reflects off the girl’s freckled face with a golden red glow. Imagine watching with me an older boy whose hands are tearing at his own red hair and a mother whose face is red not because of the glow of the fire, but because she is screaming at her son till her tears run dry and not hearing any of it, only silence as it all blows away into nothing. the house the pictures

the wooden rocking horse

the porcelain set

Red—Maisie Beagan

the piano and the cigarette

that started it all.

Momma always said if he didn’t stop with the smoking, he’d cause an accident, and here it is: the accident in all of its formidable, red glory. Imagine with me in slow motion the twilight settling in and the sun casting an illusion of fire across the land with its red fingertips as the little girl stands in the middle of it all, her deteriorating older brother wailing mother disappearing home and realizes none of it will ever be the same again.

Sick—Kaela Greenfield To me, Sick represents the overwhelming feelings of both helplessness and rage. Economic and political unrest and instability, the pandemic, and the climate crisis are just a few of the major factors that have evoked these specific emotions across the world. You may feel like the one with the open mouth, screaming and crying out at the injustice surrounding us. Or you may feel like you are in the mouth, waiting to be consumed by the forces that are out of your control.

Shower Thoughts—Madeline McGann

the tub might seem like a nice place to sleep when your thoughts are racing and your legs feel weak but as the water continues rising and the drain plugs up you’re just drowning now you’re stuck ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sometimes when I’m in the shower i feel as though if I scrub hard enough i can wash away the judgmental stares of myself from the outside looking in

Britney Spears—Daniel Reich

Duck—Somerset Seymer

In my ART 107 course this past fall, I got the chance to try out drawing with dip pens. I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did. My main inspiration was this ceramic duck that was made to look like it was made of wood. Finding this new medium and subject matter was extremely fun, but the main thing I have to say about this piece is that I really like that duck sculpture.

more than bloody drinks & horrified legend—Rowan Evans

one day you’re sitting on a cloud somewhere & then clouds aren’t personified :— dancing with the dead thing’s lyrics from next door neighborhoods selling happiness on your front porch handing out packets of skills :— to sun your skin I’ll kaleidoscope your mirror :— you scream bloody Mary three times :— Stephen King would laugh hysterical hymns out of void :— windows are clear of fingerprints and cum my partner sung from coral bridges I splattered on his skin :— your skin :— with my fingernails :— bloody Mary would be proud of how strung up he is on my thighs :— caught up in my homespun web :— lucked out January blood moons bourgeoise-styled haircuts fiddle between my teeth :— jack knifed Havana in my fruity body

Move—Emily Popp

“Move’’ is a simple printed piece that utilizes primary colors and found frottage patterning to produce a whimsical, dancing movement across the page. Lines and overlapping stamps produce a sense of motion and depth, with dynamic diagonals leaping from section to section. The lack of any one focal point leaves the viewer in a sense of childish disarray, almost frenzy.

So it is—Julia Kaeding

I hope your dreams are softer than your current consciousness. Sat upon a precipice at the edge of sleep, darling boy, you

buoy between

benevolent

rest and respite, or wanderlust and weary. Tasks of the evening finished, book with dogeared pages closed – gently – under paperweighted hardcover,

finding no

meaning in existence without subliminal command of filling and filing time. Exist without a list motivating your movements. Bereft of meaning, so it is, he says.

Trying to process the

full spectrum of humanity in a

single

serendipitous moment. Take time to tether yourself – tight – to the reality in which exists the peaceful parts of yourself.

Produce Stickers—Kaden Ofstad

Incense Burner—Hannah Polzin

What We Used To Be—Carlee Shimek We grew up like normal kids—Botan, Jiro, and me—playing baseball after school and watching anime at night. We held slumber parties and built forts where no girls were allowed, imagining us all living together in a big mansion, rich and famous without actually thinking about the work behind such successes. We ran through the streets of San’ya, no longer called that except by generations still stuck there since before the 60s. Our grandparents and great-grandparents and uncles and great-aunts had all been here, thus we knew it was still San’ya at heart. Its cramped apartments and underdeveloped parks, where the yakuza recruited most of its newbies, were home, despite the lack of fancy TVs or new clothes. We would take the tram to Akihabara for glimpses of the latest episode of our favorite anime, and when we got older we traveled to Roppongi and were each other’s wingmen for dates. Our biggest argument as kids was over where the mansion would be. I wanted it in Malibu in the US, Botan thought about Singapore, and Jiro demanded it be in Brazil. Botan and Jiro teased me about moving to America, because my name was Luke, named after the Star Wars character, so I often lost the mansion argument whenever they brought it up. My parents loved the franchise more than my friends and I did chikan when we got into puberty, but before we experienced our first one-night stands. I always thought my parents were dasai for their obsession with American things, like the American dream or Hollywood films. They probably would’ve moved us there if we weren’t stuck in San’ya. As we got older, the arguments changed to who was better at getting girls or who could down the most shots. Answer: Botan for the first one and Jiro for the second. I never seemed to win at anything between the three of us. Surrounded by so many people, I was always too normal, too boring compared to the rest of them. That’s probably what made it easy for me to follow Botan and Jiro into the yakuza. We earned cash as kids collecting bottle caps on the streets to sell to recycling plants, since none of our parents could afford to give us an allowance. We would tag-team gas stations—I would distract the cashier, since everyone said I had an “innocent, unsuspecting face,” as Botan or Jiro stole chips and snacks. If we were feeling bold, Botan would cause a disruption in the aisles and usually Jiro, with his small, stealthy body, would sneak behind the counter and take cigarettes or tobacco or alcohol. Sometimes we would sell it to people on the streets. Mostly, though, we wanted to try the stuff for ourselves. I never thought this was doing any harm, until one day Botan got the idea to steal actual money. He even had a paintball gun to threaten the worker with.

What We Used To Be—Carlee Shimek “Maji manji?!” Jiro exclaimed in disbelief when Botan told them the plan. I shook my head while Jiro’s eyes lit up in excitement. “Ataoka,” I said, shaking my head at their craziness. “We can’t do that. No cashier cares about missing food, but this is something that they would call the police over. What if we got caught?” “We’d wear masks,” Botan said, “all you have to do is put the money in the bag. I’ll do all the heavy lifting.” “Come on, Luke,” Jiro said, cuffing my shoulder with his, “wan chan.” “You’re not gonna be a riajuu, are you?” Botan said, and I caved to get them to stop teasing me. Amazingly, it went off great. The cashier believed the paintball gun and no cops came smashing down our doors. We became like addicts after that, enjoying the rush of getting away with something we shouldn’t. Even seeing kids our age involved in crimes being murdered on TV or hearing in school about someone’s brother that died from this sort of work didn’t deter us. It was easy to upgrade from risky hit and runs to a business venture with the yakuza after that. None of us were going anywhere in school. Jiro always said the teachers sucked, and he was right. And even if we could go anywhere with school, we couldn’t afford it. Better to go straight into the workforce of contraband. At a club one night, we were approached by a dude offering money to be runners across the city. Small-time jobs compared to smuggling across borders. Botan and Jiro eyed the dude’s fancy patterned shirt and golden rings, while I eyed the handgun in his pants. It was illegal to carry one in Japan. But I figured, I’d already done illegal shit; what’s more? Plus, I was more scared to say no than scared of something going wrong with saying yes. It snowballed after that. Our parents never knew what we were doing. They always assumed we were being normal kids, like we used to. Sneaking onto rooftops with a telescope we snatched from the garbage to stare into pretty girls’ apartments. Playing video games with shitty graphics or being party boys. Jiro would always scream “zurui!” when we played Dragon Quest, convinced we were cheating. I missed those days when we walked our home streets with innocence, unaware what went on in the dark. Then we started going out at night. Jacking cars and running drugs for the Inagawa-kai. It was an exciting money-making business at first. You’d think it was just our after-school jobs. Before we knew it, years had passed and we were in so deep we could never be riajuu like our parents. I remembered when that thought scared me. Now, I’d give anything to be like them… normal.

Self Portrait 1—Erin Phelps

I created this piece during a time period of self-reflection and thorough observation of my facial features. Each wire piece was carefully formed to the structure of my face, and eventually grafted into one single figure. This piece explores the ways in which I am identified and represented through physical identity.

Rope Swing—Mallory Studer

This painting was an exploration of atmospheric perspective with the use of oil paint. I had taken the original photograph at Mount Simon in the Spring of 2021 and used it as a reference for my painting. This was my first attempt at a well thought out oil painting. I really enjoyed recreating such a beautiful scene on canvas and the piece provided me many great take-aways for working with oil paint.

spatial rhetoric and sidewalks between summer and autumn—Thomas DeLapp

cold air like sweet red wine swirls twists spins collapses into your body fragile fiery notes fall with fluttering leaves she steps through them and asks where you will go from here the mountains are as unreachable as they’ve always been what will you do without me hold onto fistfuls of forgotten wind and swift smoke we once shared blues rattling through shaking fingers cling cramp grasp clutch but there are edges to these

spaces

and ends to these sentences.

so you stop outside the apartments and watch the river hum as she softly clicks into place in the ellipses

Grounded—Megan Miller

A Sestina for Never Growing Up—Gwen Wheat

with barefoot hops we kiss the roses climb the stone steps of our imagined London adventure at our toes, up & up toddler escape artists in diapers & dresses wanting to play Peter Pan around the grandparent’s yard we run from our peace— nap time—awake dreamers, Look up & ask the clouds how to fly: our Peter taught the guardians of the sun the trick to never

land

on ground but only giggle laugh in cyan landscape a new everlasting place we reached for fairy voices pull footsteps to backyard hill belly breaths

rolling down is how we fly

elbows / knees / elbow again / tumble / twist / tumble again / upside down & around greetings of pixie dust & sparkling hair pieces dizzy for lagoons, Look at this place & ask the petals how to play catch me when I’m free the little girl trampling ground with swordplay along Minnesota-birch-pirate-ship-masts

herringbone-brick-patio-islands

& lily-of-the-valley-stars battling the role of peacekeeper because we want to be every ragtag lost boy overstepping boundaries breaking rules Look at the mess & ask the girls to wash up evening manners call beneath the chimes of our Tinkerbell flying over raspberry bushes—gossips sussurating with butterflies— enchantment billowing from the edge of the yard even grass playing the syrinx—a song about shepherds—with wind & its hiccups & laughs we choose both mud & tiaras challenge blandness between clean & dirty hands

Look down & ask the doorstep

how to never change the pine-needle-fortress illusion of peace

A Sestina for Never Growing Up—Gwen Wheat

of mind safety from pirates / Captain Hook / timepiece crocodile tick-tocks from bushes by the garden an alarm to fly away with macaroni noodle necklaces & nylon fairy wings drawing step by step instructions for mermaids we have to leave behind players in the game we believe no one can lose Look at us & ask Neverland for what the real secret is to make the crocodile-clock stop to never grow up the treasure hunt map weaves around responsibilities to cleanup the world we grow & coddle in our Midwestern centerpiece of the table shouting “may I please be excused to Neverland” staging our own Balducci effect a trick of misdirection to fly back home to our Peter

Look here & ask lilacs on display

if he still hums the shepherd tune to cloud-petal-girls on the doorstep can you hear us from the landing door shut: bent wings of grownups wishful thinking wrapped in footsteps behind us our masterpiece guarded by for-sale-red-ribbon in flight

the fine print never said stop playing

Blindsided—Kaden Ofstad

Painting had been an area of the visual arts that I never dared to explore. However, I eagerly wanted to expand my horizons. After years of observation and admiration of the sheer detail that goes into painting, I felt I was ready to embark upon it. For the inspiration of this piece, I had photographed a close friend of mine, Neala Luedtke. I studied the lighting and the interactions between all the colors hitting her face. After some experimentation with different poses and lighting adjustments, we landed on a photograph that I felt perfectly captured her beauty.

I’ll Say—Grace Cunningham “Plant a tree,” he’ll say. He’ll be cupping the small, black seeds in his hands, holding them out towards me. “Just put the seeds in the ground and see what happens. Not too hard, right?” “So you say.” It’s in my head time and time again. A seed goes in the ground and the roots go out and the tree grows up. It’s pretty incredible, the way it goes from a seed to a giant hunk of wood anchored to the ground. It’s terrifying. “Not to mention,” he’ll remind me, “the fruit.” “The fruit,” I’ll say. So the tree goes and grows itself out of the ground and then it thinks, I haven’t done enough. I’ll grow some fruit. “It’s an apple tree.” He’ll step back, rock between his feet, how can she not understand this on his face. “I’ll forget to pick the fruit and it will fall to the ground and rot.” “Really?” He’ll look amused. Usually it would annoy me, but it will be alright from him. “Yes, well, I don’t have a perfect memory like some people.” I’ll kick at the ground and maybe look away. Who knows. Maybe I’ll look him in the eye. “It’s not normal to be scared of trees.” He’ll laugh, a bit uncomfortable. “It’s not normal to be me.” I’ll smile. It’s not really normal to be anything, is it? It will stretch up above the ground and it will sneak its roots out under the ground, where you can’t see them. Can’t pull them out. “You’ve got to get over it some time. Just plant a tree. A little seedling can’t hurt you, right?” He’ll be watching me, looking concerned. He’ll drop the seeds into my hand. “Try it.” That’s not true. A seedling is just as frightening as the seed and maybe more terrifying than a full-grown tree. It’s all that potential. “Except that a seedling will grow,” I’ll say. “So what? Everything grows.” He’ll step towards the door. The door that is made from trees. So much is made from trees.

I’ll Say—Grace Cunningham “It will grow and it will stretch out and the branches will ooze out from the trunk like snakes.” “Well, that’s one way to put it.” He’ll open the door and step out. “Come on. I’m just trying to help.” “Everyone is,” I’ll say. The perils of living in a small town where everyone cares whether or not you’re scared of trees. Scared of trees. Like that’s all it is. “Well, if you change your mind.” He’ll point toward the seeds in my hand. “One more chance.” He’ll leave, walk out through that door made of wood and look back over his shoulder. He’ll be waiting for a response. “Thanks for caring.” I’ll nod at him like I’m actually grateful for the seeds. Where did he even get them? Just pulled them out of his apple or something? I’ll look at the seeds in my hand. They’re so small. They could be so big. The idea paralyzes. I’ll clench my fingers around the tiny pieces of the future. No, I can’t plant these. I can’t be responsible for something like this. I will drop the seeds. They’ll fall between two wooden boards of the floor. Lodged there, they won’t be able to do anything. They won’t be able to grow. I won’t be able to grow. Now I’ll sound like him, even to myself. I’ll look at the seeds, trapped in between the wood boards. Wood comes from trees. They’re trapped by themself. I’ll work one seed out from between the floorboards. It’ll be so small. So small, so terribly enormous. I’ll walk over to the door, still open from when he walked out. I’ll laugh, one of those empty giggles that comes when it’s a choice between laughing or crying. My hands will be trembling as they hold the lonely seed. He gave me another chance. I’ll give it one chance, just for today. I’ll toss the seed out the door, and it will fall among the blades of grass. My hands will still be shaking. I won’t beplanting it. “Good riddance.” I’ll say.

Practice and Profit—Lewis Bingol

Art has always been a driving factor in my life. Since my youth I have dreamed of making a living off my work. The watercolor series started as an ADHD driven impulse to make then spiraled into designing 5 pictures all with a similar style and feel. Then as I started on piece #3, the thought of profit came to mind, and then I started to design them as sticker and not just simple practice pieces. They were then made and sold, so now these 5 simple pieces stand as a monolithic reminder of my dreams becoming reality.

Speaking Ceasefire— Mckenzie Minter If I discovered I was dying, there’s not just one thing I’d regret not saying to someone because I had a lot to say, with too much fear and too little time. I wouldn’t focus on the “I love you’s” or the “thank you’s” because I pride myself on expressing my gratitude when I have the chance. As someone who was born and raised in the Midwest with a developing guilt complex, I think I’m good on the “I’m sorrys”, too. I grew up in a big city in Wisconsin, which can sometimes sounds like an oxymoron, providing me with an excellent case of conflicting identities. I wanted to remain small in Madison but live big. Sometimes I think I was reminded of just how small my presence was when I went to the grocery store, so there was no use worrying about apologizing to the next person I ran into at a Piggly Wiggly. No more “ope’s” or “I’m just gonna squeeze past yous” so I can grab the last block of sharp cheddar cheese before one of my peers restocked them. One interesting thing I learned from living in Madison is that it’s a populous city where everyone knows everyone. You’d think we had block parties or lived on top of one another; it was really that rumors spread faster than the common cold. But if I was dying, I wouldn’t have to worry about all that. No more feeling sorry for not recognizing my aunt’s third cousin twice removed at our family reunion. I don’t have to be concerned with being on the East Coast and awkwardly walking past someone because their speed wasn’t quite mine. What I learned in the Midwest will stay in the Midwest, and rightfully so. I would openly stare out the window or bob my head to my favorite song without worrying about taking up too much space in public. There are smaller things that I would regret not saying, like telling my brother to sit up straight in the hopes that I would listen myself. However, there are two kinds of people we never listen to: our older siblings and ourselves. Maybe my brother would’ve been the person I’d apologize to. Ethan, I want to listen to you obsess over your new video game, and of course, I want to hear you gush over your girlfriend without the jealousy clouding my eyes, provoking you to say “never mind.” I would’ve called more and told him about this funny joke I heard at school, sent him a meme on Instagram, and asked about his classes. I would’ve shown him that it’s okay to talk about yourself sometimes and asked him why the last time I saw him cry was at our great-grandma’s funeral over ten years ago.

Speaking Ceasefire— Mckenzie Minter I probably would’ve asked for more stories about my dad’s high school experience because it’s better than watching a movie of some random actor living it. Let me tell you, my dad had plenty of stories from high school, a lot of which are about his friends, which I guess is another manifestation of the Midwest guilt complex where we don’t like talking about ourselves but it’s rude not to. Like the time his friend Bates— because you weren’t cool if someone called you by your first name— geared up to play golf at his parents’ lake house, yelling “Fore!” as he wove his way through the bedrooms and hallway, ultimately landing in the kitchen where he would break a window and be told that he was never hanging around those hooligans again (even though he was the one who caused property damage). Or the time that my dad witnessed my high school math teacher get into a fight when he was my age. It was hard to learn the Pythagorean Theorem knowing that Mr. Nelson hit some kid for kissing his girlfriend. The story my dad told me at every band and orchestra concert as we walked down our high school hallway was about the time his team won the first baseball championship in 1991. I listened intently and pretended like I didn’t know each time, not because I wanted my dad to think I didn’t listen to him before, but because I wanted him to feel proud of my excitement each time. Some people say that those who peak in high school never stop talking about high school, but for my dad, he wanted us to know that we were never too young to make our presence known. Maybe the thing I’d regret the most is not telling my elementary school bully that my hairy arms and short stature were genetic. That might’ve stopped me from sneaking my dad’s razor he used to sculpt his beard. It might’ve saved me a few Band-Aids from the number of times I fell, trying to walk on my tiptoes and appear taller. I probably would’ve had perfect attendance in third grade if I felt that other students weren’t staring at me. I was trapped in this weird headspace where I felt that if I were taller, I would be more memorable, but I hated being watched. I inevitably reconciled my hatred for my height, and maybe that’s why I never said anything. I got over it. New insecurities came, and eventually I forgot what he said, but whenever I reach for a razor, I think about the time before my dad taught me that taking up space was important and how I just couldn’t do it yet.

Foxy Skies—Gabriella Goldstein

This piece is a digital painting through Adobe Photoshop and a Wacom Tablet. Each stroke of my brush was strategically placed and overlapped at a flow of 50% to give the representation of fur. The perfect tones and shades of the hues were picked from the original reference, to give the viewer the closest artistically rendered fox that I could provide. Digital paintings are something I have progressed in since I have started my graphic design journey. The creative process to the end design is what makes the long hours spent worthwhile to see everything put together.

44—Thomas DeLapp

the creek preens itself in the brown of trees and dirt

and turns into the river

who gently whistles

there’s no need to be afraid

and lets it nest

before it flies away

Rhetorical Questions—Gwen Wheat

I’m terrible at statistics but I have a favorite probability. 1 in 250. We grew up as pre-k-teeter-totter-robbers third-grade-playground-movie-directors fifth-grade-flashcard-connoisseurs wait high-school-actresses and professional gigglers for the rest of our lives getting caramel hot cocoas at McDonalds tickling every candle at Target a swim in sweet sandalwood trapping warm apple pie in glass sniffing after the rain eucalyptus tricking cinnamon pumpkin and buying lavender white tea minute turned to hours of headacheshometown-hoedown-hollers of country tunes because at least our laughter never gets old, next stop is every manicure, hug, laugh at dumb TV, phone calls you

Rhetorical Questions—Gwen Wheat

are half asleep and did I tell you what my dream was last night? Prom held us again dancing in lilac dresses we never match even though grandma prayed for us to be identical for years have matching dresses, bows, and crew socks classmates thought we were just cousins. Just not twins. At the dream prom we danced like every celebrity pop star wanted to date us and we both know they really did a whole line up at the school gym doors but no, I don’t date. I dance. And I fell in love with our syringa colored tulle us running down a garden to other plants in the family twin I hope your favorite nickname was Olive because “if it costs you your peace it’s too expensive.” Maybe that’s how I’d describe us— goddesses and guardians.

Poise—Michaela Schultz

The googly eyes really reminded me of when I was younger, and I would wear them on my hands out in public without even thinking about it because I didn’t even know to think about it. Yet somehow, with all the knowledge we’ve gained throughout our lives, it seems more difficult to be ourselves and really let our inner child out. I’d really like to get back to not being unaware, but just allowing myself to be comfortable and following the “what makes me happy” brick road.

Hobbes—Megan Miller

Lions in the Dark—Dawson Jollie

I remember thinking as a child That nothing good came from The dark, That there will always be monsters Waiting to strike, and leave Their mark; The moon shall never leave the Sky, and the stars will dance With grace, But the sun’s departure casts The Long Shadow, evermore on This place; And that is where I thought They hid, the places too dark To see, Always watching, always waiting, All smiling at me, their snack To be; Yet soon I grew and grew, And my eyes a little older Than before, No longer slave to the stories of Ghouls and ghosts the night has In store;

Lions in the Dark—Dawson Jollie

I stepped into it, touched it with My fingers, let my eyes explore This domain, To find not monsters under my Bed, nor boogie man to bring Me pain; But beheld by I, a sabled pride: Lions upon the land, courageous And strong, Each stride bound with power, so Worthy the title “king,” none could Prove wrong; Fear turned to awe, faster than ice To water, as I kept the creatures In sight, How I craved such strength as they, Beauty and confidence: beings rich With might; But alas, my eyes did soon adjust, Lions and monsters the same: none to trust.

Mask—Erin Phelps

After being consumed with the experience of loss, I created this painting through a series of layers of black and red watercolor paint. This piece incorporates the idea of masking, and the pressure behind remaining emotionless in the face of society. The girl seated represents a fragile, delicate woman repressing her spirit in the eyes of the viewer

I, Matter—Leah Woodward

Novae explode and die. The chaos starts anew. Come together, near and far. Be hot. Be bright. Be a star. What does it take to be me? My mass has no destiny. I watch galaxies collide and burst into new colors. The blue. The red. New orbiting lovers. And a planet full of shining people. Their fusion ignites. Across the Earth, a billion lights. The sun is their luminary, they glow in her golden embrace. But I shade my face And turn away. I want to stay In my own gravity. I am dark matter, leave me be.

Not Cut Out For This—Kaela Greenfield

This piece highlights the societal expectation for women and girls to maintain unrealistic beauty standards promoted by our culture and media in order to be considered worthy, desirable, or important. Although in recent years, waves of body positivity movements and increased inclusivity have emerged, education systems and social media sites still perpetuate the association of specific body types and features with an individual’s value. Systems that should promote the acceptance of bodily diversity are instead negatively affecting the mental and physical health of our country’s youth.

Loss of Self-Portrait—Somerset Seymer

Self-portraits have always been the easiest type of portrait for me as it was the face I’d known the longest and I felt as though I couldn’t mess it up. But college is a time of change and there are times when I barely recognize who I am anymore. This feeling of not truly being myself led me to the idea of making a self-portrait, but without the face. The grey checkerboard mimics the background of transparent .PNGs to help represent my feelings of loss and disengagement from myself.

What are the stars other than the unification of all people everywhere?—Ivy Buchan

When I was a young child counting constellations I always wondered what they’d taste like Little specks of sugar on the black silk of night Dancing around the milk bowl of the moon When I learned what really composes the stars I wanted to touch them To dip my fingers into their flame And pull out the energy that impels their light across galaxies When I first fell in love I began to smell them The Pleiades are like lavender, and Ursa Major like pine wood, still wet with sap Our own sun is a cayenne pepper, brash but wondrous When I learned to play instruments It was as if I could hear them There is no sound in the vacuum of space but for their thunderous roar A tone like the most expressive of music, as foreboding as it is welcoming When I grew old, I became content to look Until one night, trying to pick out Orion’s Belt, I died Exhaling my last breath into the chilly air And wishing I’d seen Betelgeuse go supernova

His name was Lucas, or Oliver, or Sam—Grace Schutte Heather was the newest, younger than me even, and a spitfire. She had a southern drawl and was very loud when she spoke—which was often. She liked to complain about her celiac disease and how hard her life was, explaining in vivid, excruciating detail that dumb fucking thing her boyfriend did that was so fucking stupid. When I applied online, there was a link to work in hospice. I asked my dad what that was. “You don’t want to work there,” he said. “That’s where all the dying people are who don’t have anyone to visit them.” I came in twice a week, a couple of hours at a time, and mostly wiped down wheelchairs with heavy-duty chemicals, delivered mail and gifts to patients, and gave directions. When I wasn’t doing any of those things, I would help the ladies who worked the front desk. It was sometimes tortuous. They didn’t often need help, so I’d be sitting at the desk for hours at a time, waiting for something—anything—to do, while the espresso machine in the cafe across the hall would whir and spit temptingly. Like I said, torture. I’d been there two years when Heather asked if I could help her out with something. I followed her down into the basement, somewhere I didn’t often go. She charged ahead to the storage room, passing the beds and the large cushioned chairs, and instead went toward a swarm of tall, metal machines in the back. They were skinny, except for at the base, where four wheels protruded from their mounts. They had no screens and didn’t look like monitors, not that I was qualified to determine what they were. I didn’t like them. That, at least, was clear to me as I stared up at the bony, protruding metal, black as cool steel. I was more curious as to why they were in the hospital in the first place; these did not seem like tools medical professionals would use to help their patients. The one we grabbed was heavy and hard to maneuver through the hallways. When loading it up into the elevator, the other riders gave it bewildered side glances. Heather looked dead ahead, unbothered; I, on the other hand, buried my fists in the pockets of my vest. So they could also tell. They saw the black cloud that seemed to burn around it. Even though it was turned off, there was an electric quality about it that seemed to tremble throughout its metal shell. I didn’t want to be seen with it. We got off on the third floor of Tower D and hung a right. The sun filtered in through the thick windows and plexiglass walkway, casting cool tones over the wing; the place was swathed in blues and grays. It was quiet on this floor, with very few visitors or nurses walking around. Heather stopped us before a set of closed doors—locked ones, I soon

Falling—Kaela Greenfield

Falling represents how we should look at experiences of failure and uncertainty as opportunities for change.

His name was Lucas, or Oliver, or Sam—Grace Schutte realized and a nurse from the other side let us in. I only had a moment to take in the utter stillness before Heather made her way to room 6241. I hurried after her with the camera, but it was difficult to roll over the threshold, so I didn’t see the little boy in the bed until after Heather had started rearranging the furniture in search of an outlet. >><< Hospice comes from the Latin hospitium, an ancient concept of “hospitality as a divine right of the guest and a divine right of the host;” at some point in lexical history, that shifted to hospes, meaning “host” and, somehow, also “guest” or “stranger,” and eventually to hospit, which Google auto-fills to “hospital.” Harsh, I thought. “But they’re dying,” I said, as though that meant anything. Dad, though, didn’t seem to care and instead shook his head and said, “Just let somebody else do that.” >><< I like to think his name was Lucas, or Oliver, or Sam. Maybe he got bullied at school; maybe his parents were getting divorced—maybe he didn’t have any; maybe the girl or boy he’d confessed his love to had laughed at him; maybe he was too smart. A gravelly voice, though distinctly feminine, emitted from somewhere within the robot, “Can you hear me?” “Yes,” Heather responded dully and turned to leave. “What is it?” I asked, dumbstruck. “A camera,” Heather responded. “Creeps me the fuck out.” We stared at each other, surprised and offended at the invasion and lack of humanity of it all. I wanted to stay, at least until his parents arrived—because they were coming, right? But instead, I gave him a little wave and said bye. He didn’t say anything back, and I never saw him again. Since then, I’ve tried to track it down, learn more about it, and convince myself it is real. The closest I’ve gotten is one called the AvaSys Telesitter. It claims to be a “remote visual monitoring system that uses advanced audio and video technology to monitor multiple patients simultaneously.” Its features are said to minimize the risk of falls, non-adherence to risk safety, pulling at tubes, cognitive impairment, confusion, and wandering. It says it meets all HIPAA and patient privacy measures and is only applied after “consent is covered under admission.” Where are his parents? I thought. Heather made a frustrated grunt as she got on her hands and knees to reach the outlet. Where are they?

His name was Lucas, or Oliver, or Sam—Grace Schutte The room was as barren as the hall, empty save for the boy, the bed he laid in, a desk pushed against the wall and a few chairs, untouched. There was nothing for it to hide behind. It couldn’t be tucked away behind a wall of monitors, wires and tubes. Instead, it stood at the foot of his bed, looming with its singular eye trained on the boy, merciless. In my two years volunteering at the hospital, I had escorted patients from the Wound Center to the ER, helped a confused old woman with yellow skin and eyes search for her car in the wrong parking garage, been called brave for asking patients how their day had been going for the sake of small talk—because how could it be going when you’re at the hospital?—but never had I seen anything like this. He must have been eleven or twelve, but he was small. So small and fraillooking. He had striking blue eyes that peered out from under his dark hair—he was beautiful. The skin was pale, so much to the point where the feathery blue veins in his neck could be seen from where I stood in the doorway, the pulse that fluttered there dancing to a silent beat—no, actually. His slight frame was tucked under the covers, so neat he must not have moved since they were placed. But resting lightly on top was his arm. It was flecked with cuts of varying length and orientation. Some were thin and scabbing, others long and gash-like; they weren’t in neat rows but instead crept up and around the tender flesh in whatever manner they so desired. I wish I could say they told the story of his life, like some crude hieroglyphics, that there was something beautiful in his expression. But it wasn’t like that—it still isn’t. In my mind they are angry and puckered and unforgiving, and they look like they hurt as much as they did then that I, even now, can’t bear to look at it anymore, so—I turned away and stared at my shoes instead. His other arm rested under the covers. I only ever saw the one. I lied. I couldn’t see it at all. I like to think he got out of there eventually, that I didn’t leave him scared and alone with that thing to watch over his every move, to make sure he ate every last spoonful and drank every last drop. I pretend I didn’t notice his too-light body blending into the blues and grays of his room with the empty chair next to him. When I was sixteen, I was a volunteer at the front desk at my local hospital and already knew I didn’t want to be a nurse. This is why.

“I Rise (Above the World)—Colton Weitzel

The inspiration for this woodcut is a poem by Maya Angelou called “And Still I Rise”. This is my interpretation.

A World Falling Away—Lewis Bingol

Creating this piece was an exercise in environmental design. As I hope to someday go into game design, I wanted to see what I could make with what I already knew. As I went through the design process, I found myself crafting a story for the pillars, why they were there, what built them, if they were even built. As it came to an end, I added the figure in front for scale and it became what could be interpreted as some kind place of worship, slowly degrading as reality collapses around it.

Song of a Drowning Man—Ivy Buchan

I go down to the water I go down to the sea Pray the waves to sweep me under Take me down to dream Where fishes walk and dolphins swim There will I find peace Far separated from any kin And at long last at ease The ocean will keep my body I pray it keeps my soul Here below, a ghostly copy Where no one seeks to go With fire below and ice above I journey in darkness hence Till I see something not known of And find some comfort thence The waves above may call me home But I will never go Their low and constant, pining drone Has no seeds left to sow From enormous creatures all around I hear an aching cry The water seems to be sinking down Leaving us all to dry

Song of a Drowning Man—Ivy Buchan

I cannot walk, I cannot touch The land I knew so well Though the call of a little dove Reminds me of a bell And they rang that fateful day When we were lost in song But as I sunk beneath the bay I think we had it wrong Bells above and depths beneath Will always seem to say “Come to me and find your sleep, I’ll wake you at the day” But when it comes, that breaking dawn Stitched with colors bright The iron waves in which I drown Don’t let me see the sight So go on home, away from me Lest waves carry you too away Find a place for you to sleep And wake at the day Don’t think of me but once a year When the howling winds they cry I grant you shed a single tear But hear my quiet reply

Untitled—Daniel Reich 58

Flowers left for us to find—Julia Kaeding

Pressed petals petrified on ragged pages, thorns innocently pricking pin tip holes in dusty mildew manuscript. Pulling the book from a trash bin bound for exile, drawings scrawled in margins, love notes tumbling from their hiding places within bookspine seams you weren’t meant to see the book made in its first owner’s image.

Breath once poured over pages recreating a gentle firm grip of a hand holding hard cover steady so notes are not written to fade. Unopened cover, unappreciated print disregarded, disillusioned. Throwing, forgetting finalizes the death of this delicate history. Who was the last to read it?

Illusions From A Candy Cigarette—Maisie Beagan

I hold the cigarette between my teeth. I am seven and the cigarette is, of course, candy, And my father bought it for me despite the hideous glare my mother gave him, As if she thought he was starting me onto something early. But anyways—I hold the candy cigarette between my teeth As I’ve seen so many times from people on TV, And slip into a world Where I’ve grown to six foot three. I’m balancing in black stilettos, fox fur falls down to my ankles, my heels tap like morse code against the concrete, sending secret ciphers into the pulse of the city. A man in a suit walks by and holds out a lighter And I make a show of pulling the King’s box out From the inner pocket of my fur coat To offer the thing delicately between two fingers. He takes it without a word, just a nod, And I turn to the cigarette of my own And hold it between my teeth. As I stumble over a crack in the pavement And out of the heels, I remember I am seven and the cigarette is, of course, candy And I have to run to catch up with my parents who don’t seem to realize I’ve fallen behind at all.

Dirty Habit—Erin Phelps

This piece is meant to highlight the beauty of women indulging in a dirty habit. I wanted to capture and romanticize a female smoker in a positive light. My goal when making this piece was to invalidate the negative stigma around women who smoke and give women the same validation for smoking those men receive.

I’m freezing out here but the church door is locked and I’m too scared to ask you to unlock it—Jae Prock

i want to be more to You than a sidewalk fear than a miscommunication in Your steps as Your bare feet dance across the broken street to be more than those swollen toes, hugging the concrete deliberately desperately i want to be more to You than that droplet of sweat forming on Your forehead while You drag that tumor God calls a tongue across an ice cream cone i want to be more to You than that cone or the flavor You got “superman” it’s the kind of flavor Your mom said You couldn’t have but it’s a hot, hot heavy June day and why listen to a mother who’s always high on a substance You can’t pronounce anyways? i want to be more to You than her feverish screams that keep You up at night the hot, hot water she pours over Your head cleansing You of her sins

I’m freezing out here but the church door is locked and I’m too scared to ask you to unlock it—Jae Prock

don’t get me wrong i like that flavor “superman” but i want to be more than a shattered rule more than Your calluses scraping greedily at the last few molecules of a cone that cost You $5 cost your mother’s purse $5 let me be more let me be a part of You i wish so desperately to be more than the water You were baptized in than something that makes You shiver a cold shock to the throat a mother’s kiss that will never come i want to taste what You’re tasting freedom rebellion a lack of love maybe i could be that love no i want to be more to You than that love let me be You

The Sanctum of Cedar Lake—Charlie Roettger

I grew up in the neighborhood of Kenwood for sixteen years. I can best describe it as a confluence of white-collar families and well-established artists. It wasn’t uncommon that you’d see someone suited up in full business attire ride their bike around Lake of the Isles and wave over towards someone in tye-dye and jeans. Kenwood hid all kinds of hidden gems that I wouldn’t come to appreciate until I was much older. I spent a handful of Halloweens crashing at Louise Erdrich’s house trading Baby Ruths and Butterfingers with her nephew. I once got scolded by the former head coach of Minnesota United FC because his youngest son challenged me to a pillow fight, and I smacked him down with a couch cushion. I boasted my fair share of minor connections with interesting people, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the mystique and intrigue that inspired my wee little heart when I first heard of a spot in the neighborhood called Hidden Beach My dad first took me there when I was eight years old. When he told me about the place, I was humming with the excitement of adventure—I was expecting him to dust off a treasure map or recite some archaic riddle. Turns out it was two blocks away from us. Go figure; I wasn’t allowed to wander much further than about a hundred feet away from my house. Once he girded his gym shorts and rolled up his Elvis beach towel, my dad walked me down past the eclectic spread of houses that towered over ours. We crossed a set of railroad tracks and found ourselves at the lip of a pea-green forest. The stack of Magic Tree House books I’d left behind at home made my mind fire with fantastical excitement. My manic, childish excitement began to taper off when not 10 feet away from us was a wooden sign that read ‘Minneapolis Park & Recreation Board: East Cedar Lake Beach.’ “I think we’re at the wrong place, Dad,” I said. “Well no, the beach has a couple of names. Most people around here call it Hidden Beach,” he said. “Why?” I said. “Because before most people knew about it, hippies used to come here to swim… naked,” he said. And the spark of wonder returned. We walked down a gravel path. I grumbled uncomfortably as I scanned for patches of grass—I’d left my shoes at home. The trail bisected two patches of forest, each leading off with paths of their own. A couple of minutes later the gravel gave way to sand. I looked up. In the distance, the trees began to thin out, revealing a shaded sanctuary unlike any beach I’d ever been to. There were no nymphs bathing each other in the cerulean lake, no pixies descending from the trees to crown me with a garland of dandelions. There was, however, an older man who

Architectural Study—Megan Miller

The Sanctum of Cedar Lake—Charlie Roettger stood where the trail flared out. He stood as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be, and grinned as his gaze caught ours. “GOOD AFTERNOOON!” he said. He pulled out a tally counter and clicked it twice. “Good afternoon!” my dad said. “How many you got today, Al?” “Umm.. eighty-seven since about nine in the morning!” he replied. “Oh, wow!” my dad said. We continued on. Waiting for the man to be just out of earshot, I turned to my dad and asked him, “Who was THAT guy?” “The Good Afternoon Man, of course.” The crowd was much bigger than I’d imagined. Families and college students fanned out near the water, crowding the space with blankets and music. Once we reached our own little corner, my dad reminded me to put on some sunscreen as he unrolled Mr. Presley onto the smooth grains of sand. I took the sunscreen out of his backpack and squeezed half the bottle into my open hand. I lathered my belly, face, and arms until I looked like Casper the Friendly Ghost. I expected my dad to laugh or yell at me, but just then, he shook my greasy shoulder and pointed back to the trail. Emerging from the clearing came a pair of terrible, shambling monsters. The two figures were covered head-to-toe in a viscous crust of mud. The only thing I could make out were the whites of their eyes and the crease of their smiles. They walked on over towards the onlooking crowd and were greeted by cheers and whistling. They broke into a run as their feet breached the lake and they dove right. A few seconds later, a girl with dirty blonde hair emerged with an older woman who looked just like her. They scuffed off whatever mud the lake water hadn’t cleared and they stepped back onto the shoreline, heading back towards the spot they’d emerged from. Before I could open my mouth to ask, my dad gave a chuckle. “Wanna go check out the Mud Pit?” My dad led the way as we wandered back down the gravel trail. We looked ahead to see the older woman grab her daughter by the hand and stand off to the side. The sound of rocks crunching under thick tire treads filled the humid air as a police van rolled on past us. Several people picked up their blankets and towels as it announced its presence, coming to rest by a bed of reeds and cattails. What I hadn’t noticed before was a concrete slab that stood underneath where the van was parked. It was worn, cracked, and fit the dimensions of the vehicle almost perfectly, as if it were exactly where it was supposed to be. And that van was there nearly every time I’d come back to visit the beach. It stood by like a vigilant guard dog clutching handcuffs and drinking tickets in its slobbering maw, the last line of defense preventing the beach from descending

The Sanctum of Cedar Lake—Charlie Roettger into Reefer Madness. I always wondered, when and why did this sequestered little haven become so fiercely guarded? It’s understandable that roving bands of delinquent hippies didn’t make for a family-friendly atmosphere, but Big Brother wasn’t doing much to help set the tone either. Skimming the web for news clippings and articles yielded predictable results. Mostly predictable, I should say. From the 1980s onward, there were a number of fights and drug busts. Nearby neighbors would peer over into their front yard to see groups of young women squatting in their hedges. The night sky once flashed red and blue when some guy punched a police officer, prompting seventy more to flock onto the beach. I scrolled through retellings of petty misdemeanors, my disappointment growing with each example of gross overreaction. And then there were a couple of incidents that made me lean into my screen. One night, a woman got into her car, buzzing off of something strong, and plowed through someone’s garden before smashing into a group of cars. Another night greeted police officers with an even stranger scene: somewhere on the beach, a pair of goats were arranged in ritualistic fashion, spared of their heads, blood, and testicles. In one bloodcurdling gesture, the neighborhood fell victim to the sensational lull of the Satanic Panic. This of course rattled the bones of some of the older residents. It turns out that to this day, the police that patrol the area aren’t even sent there by the city. They’re off-duty patrolmen, acting as hired mercenaries, paid off by a few rich benefactors to protect against the godless heathens that roam these gilded streets. The police continued to keep a vigilant watch every time I swung by. Every time but one. In late August of 2020, I was stuck coming up with an idea for a final date. I’d shared the summer with a beautiful soul and our fling was reaching its end. Our first time meeting each other was at a beach on the other side of Cedar Lake; I figured I’d make this relationship come full circle. The birds chirped against the quiet winds as our sandals crunched the gravel. We took turns stammering through awkward flirtation. When we got to the foot of the beach, it looked nothing like the last time I’d seen it. There were only about a dozen people strewn across the sands with a few more splashing about in the lake. A couple teased each other as they walked across a vacant concrete slab, running their hands through the cattails as they sunk into the water. This unfamiliar tranquility made the beach feel like it was finally living up to its name. Off in the corner, wearing a pair of orange camo trunks and a sky blue swim shirt, I saw a familiar face beaming at the two of us. “GOOD AFTERNOOON!” it said.

Album Remake—Emily Popp

Album Remake—Emily Popp This work is an imaginative album cover that also functions as a display piece and a double-sided poster. This innovative means of delivery allowed for me to design many facets to be included in the final product. In this piece I wanted to capture the style of music that Glass Animals produces. I chose to recreate their 2014 album “Zaba”. This album is tribal, transfixing, and humid, yet vivid and trippy. Each color, type, function, and mood were carefully chosen and curated. All these elements came together to produce two intertwining posters and a three-dimensional experience.

Skyline

Hailing from the DIY Minneapolis scene, Skyline has been making strides in Eau Claire. “We’re all individuals and we all have our own experiences and deep connections with music” Stated drummer and UWEC student Ben Ostertag. “I think of it more as a collaboration than a single entity, all of us are bringing something different to the table.” Lead vocalist and UWEC student Jackson White and guitarist Dawson Lud recounted the formation of the group during high school, leading to the recent addition of bandmates Ostertag as well as Jon Butler on bass. Other DIY groups like Hippocampus and The Happy Children were the ones which came to mind; “It’s really hard for us not to take inspiration from bands we were seeing in high school, The Happy Children’s energy was unmatched.” said White. The group’s EP Can I Be In Your Peripheral? showcases these diverse backgrounds and interests mentioned by Ostertag. Songs like “Stuck Between” highlight Butler’s upright bass timbres and sensitive vocal performance, while “Eye To Eye” develops a rhythmic interest beyond that of any typical midwest emo group. “Park” and “Springtime”, the opening and closing songs, both carry White’s soaring and aggressive vocal lead joined by an equally fast paced accompaniment. This group dynamic, ranging from jazz to rock interests, is possible via their collaborative songwriting. “One of us brings a strong idea, and all of us are open to everything everyone is saying and now it’s almost a completely different song.” Lud states. White mentions: “after recording I was thinking about how all of these songs fit into a story, and since thinking about that I’ve been a lot more focused in songwriting, keying into certain topics as opposed to very broad stuff.” The group’s recent performances at local venues has only increased their interest looking towards the future. White states: “I want to do a full length project this summer and record the album we’re capable of recording… and that’s the beautiful thing about this band is that we’re constantly growing and reaching out for more, and constantly evolving.” You can find Skyline on Instagram (@skylinebandmpls) and on major streaming services like Spotify.

Sweater People

Creative energy runs deep within Sweater People, whether from their promotional art, music videography and recording, or eccentric performance ideologies. “Our act has evolved,” bass player and recording artist Will DeBlaey states; “it’s almost like a high wire, ‘are they going to screw up?’ Because we do wicked things like dancing during a drum solo. There’s this image of collegiate musicians standing there, straight faced and focused, and we’re trying to have a really good time”. Sweater People’s pianist and graphic artist Hans Furest reminisced the origins of the band back in late 2019. The group, consisting of Hans, Will and drummer-slash-videographer North Skager, was originally slated to be a jazz piano trio, but after bringing in other songs they enjoyed, the group slowly started to shift their focus out of the standard jazz repertoire. “We took this background we had and explored it in our own way” DeBlaey states; “not sure we would call it ‘jazz’”. “We all attack it from different angles,” Fuerst adds. “And it becomes what it becomes… A lot of my writing is straight up video game melodies”. After the group got a taste for Furest’s original work, COVID-19 pushed the group from meeting again until the summer, where Furest’s roommate and fellow musician friend Dawson Redenius joined the group. From there, the group has recorded multiple original songs accompanied by music videos, and has performed at some of the premiere venues across Eau Claire and parts of the Twin Cities. “I like to treat my songs like a lead sheet,” Redenius says. “I have the melody, and the chords, and then we improvise. We tend to repeat once we find our part, and we group write more than individually write”. Fuerst adds: “whenever we bring in a tune, it’s like our baby, but all of us raise it… The songs I write aren’t any more of my songs than they are their songs”. Listening to a track like “Discolored”, one can hear not only the individualism from their respective instruments, but a deep sense of collective music-making as a whole. The song follows a structured progression, but each player takes risks in each section via short improvisations, rhythmic changes and other creative decisions. These individual sounds are heightened by the mix; each instrument receives its own pocket in the sonic landscape. Across all their songs you can find more free-form, and more groove oriented tracks which only deepens their catalog’s appeal. Sweater People is aiming for the sky, with more performances and more video releases planned in the coming months. Skager states: “Sweater People does what we want, expressing our own art and music, but bringing it back to people.” You can find Sweater People on Spotify, Youtube, Bandcamp, as well as follow them on Facebook and Instagram (@sweaterpeopleec)

Simon Arneberg

Indie folk artists are no strangers to nature; their music usually coalesces with its sounds and organic themes. UWEC senior Simon Arneberg has own approach, and it has flourished during the time of COVID-19. He recounted a trip with Intervarsity: “I’ve never written a song before, but I think it would be cool to write songs with meaningful lyrics, based on imagery about nature… For some reason nature is so normal but so profound… It took getting sent home for COVID to actually get the means to do it.” Despite being new to songwriting at the time, Arneberg had a strong instrumental foundation, as he plays all the instruments on his records from piano to trumpet. From the time of his first EP release, Branching Out, Arneberg has released two more to complete a trio of tree-related EP’s. His newest EP, Windwatcher, is somewhat of a departure towards new approaches to songwriting. “I’ve been focusing on how to do the music production side of things, I’m learning to have a more polished sound and more intricacies in the sound… One thing that I’m trying to get better at is storytelling; like doing something no one else knows about, putting it in the song, and telling a story that people can relate to.” Listening to Windwatcher you can hear that polish throughout the record. He continues the use of doubled lead vocals as well as harmonizing with himself like on previous EP’s, but mixes those vocals, as well as guitar, piano and trumpet in such a way as to fill the space like a soft blanket. “When I do the creative process of recording itself I’ll find that I’m more creative and make up something new, some of the best songs are written later in the process while recording another song.” Through his output Arneberg has amassed over a hundred monthly Spotify listeners, and continues to seek performing around the Chippewa Valley. Despite this, his approach to music stays the same; “I don’t really care what people think about it, it’s more of a way to express things creatively… I just want to make good music for the sake of making the best music I can.” You can find Simon Arneberg’s music on Spotify, Apple Music and other major streaming services, as well as following him on Instagram and Facebook.

St. Peter’s Snow

What do you get when you combine folk, jazz, and several members of the philosophy club into a band? St. Peter’s Snow did exactly that, and the music speaks for itself. “Kyle and I really like folk, Jason is really good at playing jazz guitar, and they like to blend that and it’s really interesting to see where it goes” said Ruby Sonnek. The group formed around its two central guitarists, Jason Armstrong and Kyle Fought who adds vocals as well. When performing in smaller venues or open mics, these two will often perform as a duo, which showcases the groups songwriting as they also double as the main songwriters. “Most of our songs either spring out of a jam, like someone will come in with a chord progression, and if we like it we’ll record it and refine it a little bit later… Other times I’ll come in with a halfway complete song and toss it over to Jason and build it from the ground up.” Kyle said. Listening to a song like “Car In Drive” and you can hear this collaboration; a folk inspired acoustic guitar riff which is splattered with jazz influenced phrases on an electric, all underneath the evocative lyrics by Kyle. The group’s evocative nature is clear even from their name, stemming from the novel with the same name by Leo Perutz that deals with themes of mind control. With their other member’s (Ryan Danesberg on drums, Liam Casey on bass and Ruby on chord organ as well as visual art), the up-and-coming group is planning to take their material to the studio for a full album. Kyle states: “it’s totally collaborative, I have my own stuff I work on, but St. Peter’s Snow is definitely a group project”. You can follow St. Peter’s Snow on instagram: @stpeterssnow

MEET THE TEAM

Elise Vitort

Editor-in-Chief

Rome Balciunas

Prose Editor

tzmer Charlotte GPouetry Editor

Lakmann Sam Mus ic Director Alex Scheppk e Fi

nance Manager

McKayla Siegel

Graphic Designer

Bethany Mennecke Art Director

Alexia Folkman

Graphic Designer

Kate Netwal

Graphic Designer

Olivia Stehr

Graphic Designer

BJ HollFaacurltsy Advisor

Editors’ Note On behalf of NOTA as a whole, thank you for taking the time to pick up this issue of NOTA. We hope you were able to get lost for a moment in the imaginations of our writers, musicians, and artists. This semester, we took a cosmic, otherworldly twist on the popular style of collage art and infused it with elements of our university and community. Our artists worked diligently to create a cohesive feel throughout the issue, bringing elements from the cover to the inside. This issue was created through both physical and digital media, using digital programs to create the issue while also physically creating elements. Thank you again to our contributors, without whom, we simply wouldn’t have a book. We also want to continuously thank the Student Senate Finance Commision and Candis Sessions, whose logistical work keeps us running smoothly. Additionally, we want to extend our gratitude to our art, music, and literature teams. Each editor and designer for NOTA does so many behind-thescenes tasks. From creating eye-catching posters to sending countless emails to spending a large portion of their free time deciding between the use of a comma and an em-dash, we all play a unique role in this organization. It can be thankless work, but we hope they know how much they’re appreciated. BJ Hollars, our faculty advisor, is also an essential part of this team. We are both so thankful for his guidance and support throughout this hectic year! Finally, thank you to our readers for the part they play in the publication process. Thank you for letting these works of art, literature, and music be released to an interested and curious audience. We are consistently motivated and encouraged by your support! Sincerely, Elise Vitort, Editor-in-Chief

Bethany Mennecke, Art Director

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

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Special Thanks to/Literary Selection Committee Carlee Shimek Poetry Editor Intern

Eliot Gannon

Prose Editor Intern

Emma Friend