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I n this issue of the Rebel literary arts magazine, we strive to show the

impact of advertising while documenting the award-winning creativity of the students at East Carolina University. The average American is exposed to thousands of ads per day and it is because of this continual onslaught that their underlying messages affect us. Rebel 54’s concept is to show that the advertising industry does more than simply promote products; it encourages cultural and social stereotypes. Advertising creates messages, instills values, tells us what to purchase and targets consumers of all ages on both conscious and subconscious levels. These messages are infused with concepts of what we should strive for in terms of relationships, success, sexuality, and lifestyle. Like it or not, advertisements are everywhere.


Table of contents Best in show

6–13

Dance

14–27

Illustration

28–37

Ceramics

38–47

Painting

48–59

Poetry

60–67

Fiction

68–77

Non-fiction

78–85

Metal design

86–95

Graphic design

96–105

Mixed media

106–115

Digital photography

116–123

Traditional photography

124–131

Drawing

132–139

Textile design

140–149

Sculpture

150–161

Printmaking

162–173

Judges

176–177

Staff

178

Special thanks

180

Collage source

181

Production

182

Copyright

183


BEST IN SHOW


ABIGAIL HEUSS

CUP TEMPLATE #1

PRINTMAKING


REBEL:11


REBEL:13


DANCE


CHOREOGRAPHER: LEAH DAVIS

Dance entries located on DVD in back of book.

PEBBLES


1ST PLACE PERFORMERS: KATIE-BETH PAYNE ELLEN SICKENBERGER BETH GREEN

REBEL:19


2ND PLACE PERFORMERS: CHRISTEN QUATTLEBAUM MARCUS HARDY


CHOREOGRAPHER: MARCUS HARDY

THE ESCAPE

REBEL:21


CHOREOGRAPHER:

KATIE-BETH PAYNE

NO AIR


3RD PLACE

PERFORMERS: KATIE-BETH PAYNE NICOLE PITTMAN ELLEN SICKENBERGER

REBEL:23


HONORABLE MENTION

PERFORMERS: RYANN VAUGHAN


CHOREOGRAPHER:

RYANN VAUGHAN

WALLS COLLIDE

REBEL:25


CHOREOGRAPHER:

ELLEN SICKENBERGER

CORRUPT


HONORABLE MENTION

PERFORMERS: ELLEN SICKENBERGER MARCUS HARDY

REBEL:27


ILLUSTRATION


ASHLEY THOMPSON

THE WOLVES AND THE CHILD

SCRATCHBOARD 1ST PLACE

REBEL:33


LOGAN WAGONER

SELF-PROMOTIONAL SERIES: THE VILLAN AND JACK-A-LOPE


WATERCOLOR SERIES

2ND PLACE REBEL:35


OMAR ABBAS EGYPTIAN REVOLUTION DAVID VS GOLIATH OIL PAINTING 3RD PLACE


TIMOTHY WEAVER EDUCATION VS THE STATE

INK & DIGITAL HONORABLE MENTION

ASHLEY THOMPSON THE OLD WOMAN & THE WINE JAR

SCRATCHBOARD HONORABLE MENTION REBEL:37


CERAMICS


CATHERINE STASEVICH

GOLDEN PHEASANT PITCHER

1ST PLACE

REBEL: 43


LIZ BROWN

BLIND CONSUMPTION

2ND PLACE


KYLE REES

FACE WITH GLASSES AND HAT VS NAME

3RD PLACE

REBEL: 45


CATHERINE STASEVICH

ANGLERFISH BOTTLE

HONORABLE MENTION


ALISON FLEGAL ABUNDANCE

HONORABLE MENTION

PATRICK HUTTI

UNTITLED #2

HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL: 47


PAINTING


OMAR ABBAS

VENICE’S SHAME OVERTAKES

1ST PLACE REBEL:53


JONATHAN PEEDIN

WHITE SUN ALUMINUM DANCE

2ND PLACE


MALLORIE KEELEY

DENIAL

3RD PLACE

REBEL:55


TARA MOLDOVAN

INSOMNIA

HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL:57


BRYANT UMAÑA

HE SAYS SET IT FREE, I SAY HOLD IT TIGHTER

HONORABLE MENTION


MALLORIE KEELEY

THE MIRROR POISONED THE HUMAN HEART

HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL:59


POETRY


KATIE THARRINGTON

AUTUMN SHOWERS

1ST PLACE


Howling to the moon The rain monsoon This afternoon Swoon and swell Their voices tell Of tales beyond the deep Of voices from the great deep sleep. For when sunshine is hidden Behind clouds of blackish gray, Our shadows do not follow us They have left the ground today. Distracted by the thunder The shadow slips away, Deep into the storm drains In the tunnels where they play. Falling from the sky The groaning gasps of rain Tumble down umbrella skins Into puddles on the ground. And the rain continues to fall As the deep night grows old Drenching the walls of buildings tall And oozing out into the cold.

REBEL: 65


REBECCA BLANCHETTE

DRIVING THROUGH

2ND PLACE

My foot retreats from the pedal as I float through a small Connecticut town, quaint and friendly like the breath of a neighbor. There’s a clock tower on a cobblestone sidewalk, screaming at me to keep going as it creeps its way towards 2 o’clock. A big white gazebo is standing in a patch of grass, taking its authoritarian stance in the center of town as it watches over everybody. It’s competing with the wise walls of the coffee shop, that listen to the townsfolk’s small talk. What is it about fresh java, that makes everybody spill the beans? The park is littered with the snowfall of burnt leaves, and a festival brings together all the people who know each other’s names. Pumpkin pie is being sold, alongside hot roasted peanuts and cider, in wooden vendor stands. And the trees are fashioning apples that people are picking and placing in burlap sacks. They’ll bring them home to their mothers or wives, who will slice them up for apple pie, and serve it warm after supper with vanilla bean ice cream. Children are stuffing leaves in old flannel shirts building scarecrows to put on their front porches, next to plump pumpkins with googly eyes and marker-made smiles. Crunchy cornstalks crinkle in the wind, where the outskirts of town begin. I’ve only got three hours to go, just enough time before the dark blanket swallows the shy sun. So I push a little harder on the gas and keep pointing my jalopy north, towards the city.


KATIE THARRINGTON

FICKLE FELINE

3RD PLACE

Mountains and continents Toy with my confidence Critical thinking and a critical mass A mountain of monuments With no lasting memories I hear the starlit vespers With each night’s suggestive gestures To the sky. The birds and bats and nocturne owls Nesting in the treetops, roosting hoots and growls. Near the misty mountains we hear the lion’s Mighty roar and half past the belt of Orion, In the skies above she climbs. Leo lights the lovely sky tonight.

REBEL: 67


FICTION


SAMANTHA BELMONT

SWING

1ST PLACE


“Is something wrong?” I see his bare legs swing over the edge of my bed as he sits up. I won’t let my eyes venture any higher than that. I should respond. Instead I fasten my bra, pick up my school sweatshirt from the laundry-strewn floor and pull it over my head, not bothering to put on a top. “Is something wrong?” he asks again. I feel him staring at me. I can’t look at him, sitting there in his underwear, watching me tug my jeans higher to cover mine. “It’s fine. I just need to get a little fresh air. I’ll be right back,” I say to the pink hibiscus printed on the bedspread. He takes a long, steadying breath, then exhales huffily. “Okay.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to go with you?” “No, I’ll be right back.” Three minutes later, I’m peeling back the hole in the chain link fence next to my apartment and shimmying my body through to the other side. I maneuver my way through the dark strip of woods buffering the playground from my building, crunching over the fallen leaves. It’s disconcerting at first, the sudden crackle in the unlit grove, but after three or four steps it’s familiar, reminding me of selecting the best leaves to pulverize beneath my light-up sneakers. I march the last few steps into the clearing, relishing the deliberate crack. My pants vibrate. “Is everything ok? –Kyle” I put the phone back in my pocket. I should go back. It’s brighter on the playground than in the woods. Even though it’s late October, the trees still boast enough leaves to block out most of the moonlight. There aren’t any trees here, though. I can make out the silhouettes of all the equipment: the jungle gym, the slide, the monkey bars. All of them are blanketed in a blue wash, but not the swings. The sand beneath the swings is subtly luminescent, like snow, and casts an ethereal light on the eight chains. The glow encourages me forward. I nestle into the seat and wrap my hands around the thick chains. They feel cold against my skin. Perhaps I should have taken the time to put on a real shirt. The swing is low to the ground; it’s going to be difficult to get started. Rather than kick off just yet, I twist the chains around one another, rocking side to side. I don’t know why I came here. I really had intended to get some air. I guess this still counts. It’s appropriate, in a way, that I would come here tonight. My first romantic experience was on a playground, after all. Well, “romantic” probably isn’t the most accurate word for it. I made my friend tell the boy I had a crush on that I liked him. Then I took off running. Still, that’s a lot more romantic than this. I’m certainly not going to scrawl “I love Kyle” on my notebook or “Mrs. Kyle–” Do I laugh or cry? I do neither and allow the chains to run parallel again. Do I really not know his last name? I pull out my phone and scroll to his name on the contacts list. Simply Kyle. I have to know it. Did Jessie say it when she introduced us Friday night? I didn’t know anybody at that party. It was all people from her high school and her boyfriend’s friends, so there were a lot of names to remember and everybody was so loud. No, she didn’t. That’s right, Kyle introduced himself. Did he say it? No, he just said that he thought we had a biology lecture together last semester. I told him I thought I recognized him. I’ve never taken a biology lecture. It was nice to have someone to talk to, though. We talked for three hours on the porch! How could he not have said it? It was much quieter out there,

REBEL:73


so I would have heard it if he had. A lot of the people at the party were underage, so the porch was generally avoided to prevent the debauchery from being too obvious. He didn’t say it on the way to the diner either. All I’d said was that I’d heard they had great sundaes, but felt silly going without a date. Then we were in his car. He used his credit card to pay for the dessert. I should have checked it then instead of worrying whether or not my hair was messed up. He did compliment it, though. My pants vibrate. “Are you coming back? –Kyle” I text back. “Just a minute.” I meet a boy. We have one date. We get naked together. I push off from the ground, tucking my legs tightly under me to keep my feet from dragging. Each pump repeats the statements. Legs out. I meet a boy. Legs back. We have one date. Legs out. We get naked. Legs back. I meet a boy. Legs out. One date. Legs back. Naked. Legs out. Naked. Naked. Naked. I thrust harder, forcing myself higher into the air. I try to kick the thought away with my feet, leave it on the ground, but I can’t escape it. Each squeak of the chains screams it at me. Naked. Naked. Naked. I’d never been naked with a boy before tonight. I’ve been without clothes, but never naked. Until now, I never understood the difference between naked and nude. I’ve been nude with boyfriends. I felt vulnerable, sure, but there’s a trust involved in being nude, a comfort level. I was in love with the boys I’d been with before. It was never rushed or purely physical. It actually meant something. I meant something. I don’t mean something to Kyle-With-No-Last-Name. Not something important, anyway. I was naked. I was exposed. We weren’t going to make love; we were going to have sex. Some people think that’s corny, but it makes a difference to me. But that’s not why I left. I left because I wanted to do it. I want to do it. I used to swear that I would stay a virgin until I was married. When I was seventeen, I fell in love and made an exception, and it goes on from there until I’m in college sitting on an elementary school swing without a shirt while a man I don’t know waits for me in my bed. My pants vibrate. I drag my feet, bringing the swing to a stop. I pull out my phone. “Checked outside. You’re not there. I can take a hint. I’m leaving. –Kyle” I read the text again, digging a trench with my toes in the sand ahead of me. I drag my foot back and forth as I weigh my options. I get off the swing and type as I walk back to the woods. “Sorry. Don’t leave yet. On my way.”


SARAH JAKUBOWSKI

DISGRUNTLED

2ND PLACE

“Can I have a blt, double-meat, on whole wheat?” Maria looked at the customer. “Why? Do you really think the wheat will make it healthy?” Shit. She’d been saying things like that more frequently, lately. Just yesterday, her idiot boss had a “talk” with her. Told her to stop being a smart-ass to the nice customers, only he didn’t phrase it that way. Then he had smiled at her and patted her on the back, just like they were pals. She didn’t care. She didn’t like this job. She was better than this job. But she needed this job to pay rent, so she had to be a good girl and keep her mouth shut. Greet the customers and smile, smile, smile. As she made the BLT, she idly contemplated murdering her boss. Hide the body in the big walk-in freezer. Would whoever found it be able to know it was she who did it? Maria knew that to date bodies, they checked potassium levels in their eyes. Potassium, K, atomic number 19. After death, potassium in eye mucus decreases at a steady rate. She didn’t know if freezing would slow that process or make it harder for the investigators to figure out the time of death. Maybe if she’d passed Chem1000, she’d know by now. Of course, if she’d passed Chem1000, she wouldn’t be back in her home town, making sandwiches for $7.25 an hour. Maria didn’t drop out of school because she was an idiot. Far from it. She just hated stupid, required classes. And she was able to do well on exams without attending class, so she was often absent. The only problem with prerequisite classes was that, unless attendance was required, nobody would show up, which is why they made it so if you missed a certain number of days, your grade would drop, eventually to an F. She did that her first semester, failing general chemistry. Fuck general chemistry. She wanted biochem., she wanted physical chem., she wanted organic chem. She didn’t need tests on the periodic table. She’d memorized the periodic table in middle school, had a poster of it on her wall, recited it silently at work if she needed an internal distraction from external hell. Screw waking up at eight to go to class and study it. General chemistry was the first class she failed. Next semester she failed it again, after she overslept on exam day. The semester after that, she dropped out of school and slunk back home, like a dog who’d tried to run away but couldn’t hack it in the real world. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Her mother enrolled her in community college. “Maybe you just weren’t ready for real college,” she said in an attempt to reassure. But of course community college Chem1000 was even worse than “real” college Chem1000. So she dropped out of community college, too. Her parents didn’t kick her out like some parents do with their unemployed, dropout kids. In fact, her mother had the habit of reminding her, “No matter what you do, we’ll always love you and you’ll always have a place to call home.” Sometimes, she’d say this more than once a day. There was only so much of that that Maria could take. So she moved out, to a tiny hotelroom of an apartment. The carpet was worn. The faucets constantly dripped. Other than the bed she’d brought over from her parent’s house, she had no furniture. With no job yet, and no money left over after the security deposit, her refrigerator was barren. After a week, the novelty of having her own place wore off and she started to hate it. Thus began the frantic job search, the countless applications. It was the wrong time of year to apply for a job. Everywhere she went, it was the same: “We’re not hiring now, but you can fill out an application.” Well, fuck that. It wasn’t like she could say to her landlady, “Well, I don’t have rent now, but here’s a voided check.”

REBEL:75


Finally, finally, finally she got hired at a place named Sandwich USA, a privately owned, incompetently run Subway knockoff. Then came the training, her boss condescendingly walking her through the simplest tasks: “And here’s how to chop an onion...” That was the first day. Chopping onions until her eyes watered. Then it was overripe tomatoes until her hands and the work area were soaked in tomato juice. Every now and then, her new boss would peer over her shoulder. “Good work!” he’d say, encouragingly. Maria gritted her teeth and thought, “Hydrogen, H, atomic number one. Helium, He, atomic number two. Lithium, Li, atomic number three....” Until it was time to go home. She wanted to be a famous scientist who helped solve crimes, but instead she was chopping vegetables and learning the abc’s of customer service. But at least the job gave her financial stability, which meant a lot to her. She still couldn’t afford furniture and her fridge always seemed woefully, depressingly empty, but she could pay rent. She could pay rent. A year passed, and then another. Not much changed. She’d acquired a couple of chairs, learned to save her tip money to buy groceries. She didn’t have much, but did the best she could with what she did have, and she managed. Physically, anyway. Emotionally, she was a wreck. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” she would think before going to sleep. “I’m a scientist. I shouldn’t be stuck here, making overpriced sandwiches, prostituting myself out to rude customers for tip money.” She would bite her lip and turn her face into the pillow, trying not to cry. She would think, “Beryllium, Be, atomic number four. Boron, B, atomic number five.” All things considered, it was no wonder she slipped up now and then and was honest with the customers. She wrapped the blt in wax paper and gave it to the health-conscious customer. Maria smiled and said, “Have a nice day.” The customer didn’t tip. When she went home that day, Maria was tired and in a bad mood. She unlocked her apartment and looked around. “Jesus,” she thought. “How is it possible for a place with so little things to get so messy?” It was mostly the kitchen. The few dishes she did own were dirty. They filled the small sink and crowded the counter. Accidental science experiments of mold grew near her real science experiment of ammonium nitrate and lye. Whenever she was going through a rough time, she liked to make potassium nitrate. Potassium nitrate, KNO3. A fun, cheap, homemade thing to set on fire. She didn’t have a TV, so she had to keep herself entertained somehow, and setting things on fire was as good a way as any. She decided that science had priority over dirty dishes, so she got started on the potassium nitrate. A couple of days ago, she’d stolen a cold pack from the first aid kit at work because of its ammonium nitrate contents. She’d dissolved it in hot water. Mixed it with lye that had also been dissolved in water. For the past two days, she’d been waiting for the water to evaporate. Her apartment wasn’t well-ventilated, so she’d been constantly light-headed. Even with the oven fan turned on high, she’d had to wave away ammonia fumes every time she wanted something from the kitchen. But now the mixture was dry and all she had to do was add a little sugar and drop a match. Burn, baby, burn.


Some part of her considered scattering the mixture across her apartment. Really rub it into the grain of the carpet, then set the whole fucking place on fire. A purplish pink flame of bad memories and lost hopes. But no, she lit it on an oven sheet, with a bowl of water next to her just in case something weird happened and she needed to put out the flame. Today, not even pyrotechnics could brighten her mood. Quite the contrary. She watched the brief outburst of flame, and then started crying. Everything was wrong with her world. She wanted to be solving crimes, she wanted to be saving the world. Instead, she was in a kitchen full of dirty dishes, setting things on fire. She didn’t even know what potassium nitrate was really for. Surely it had a use, but all she’d ever do with it was set it on fire. Pretty. But useless. Not saving anyone. “Fuck that,” she scolded herself out loud. “Fuck that self-pity shit.” She balanced the oven tray on top of the rest of the dishes, and went to take a shower. She was still in her red, white, and blue Sandwich USA work shirt. The stench from work clung to her. No lie, there’s no place dirtier than a restaurant. She stood under the hot water, washing off her tears, washing off the work day, trying to wash off the past three years of her life. She stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out (which, granted, wasn’t very long). Dried herself off, then stood naked in front of the mirror, examining her reflection. First the typical girl worries. She sucked in her stomach. Observed the thin sliver of fat that was starting to form under her chin. She really needed to stop stealing cookies from work, it was starting to show. After the usual ceremony of criticizing her body, she looked closer. Gave her reflection a wary smile. Who are you? She leaned closer towards the mirror, just looking at her face now, just looking at her eyes. They were wide and wondering and scared. Who are you? She blinked and swallowed. Carbon, C, atomic number six. Nitrogen, N, atomic number seven. Oxygen, O, atomic number eight.

REBEL:77


NONFICTION


SARA JAKUBOWSKI

SKELETONS IN THE ART ROOM CLOSET

1ST PLACE


I have spooned with a skeleton. We both stayed very, very still. Lying like that – curled in the same position, facing the same direction, sharing the same pillow – we were not so different. I was taller, but the proportions were the same. Same number of ribs. It was held together with wire and masking tape and I was held together with muscle and flesh, but we were there for the same reason – to be drawn. Nudity isn’t something that’s thought of on an everyday basis, even in this enlightened age. It’s possible that I was the first entirely naked person some of the students have ever seen – or at least the first they’ve thought of in an artistic or anatomical sense. Same with the skeleton – bones just aren’t thought about very often. All of us are somewhat aware of our inner structure. Maybe we’ve stood in a graveyard and wondered about what lies underneath. Certainly we’ve all heard scary stories about skeletons coming to life. But when was the last time you thought about your own skeleton, as much a part of you as your name is? To me, bones aren’t horrifying or morbid any more than nudity is perverse or indecent. All the same, sharing a dressing room with a to-scale model skeleton is unnerving. Undressing in a front of a skeleton is different from undressing alone or disrobing in front of a group of people. It’s sort of like when you change clothes at home and your cat walks in – it’s awkward, but you’re not entirely sure why. Sometimes, I’d dress the skeleton. I’d pull my shirt over its skull or slip its long feet into my shoes. Once, I put my bra on it. Unfortunately that day, the day I put my bra on it, was the first day the teacher actually used the skeleton for a demonstration. He went to the closet to get it and I followed. After a long moment, while he no doubt was trying to figure out the protocol of unclasping a student’s bra, even if the bra is not currently on the student, he said, “Well. It is a girl.” Which is how I learned the skeleton’s gender. Later I learned that a previous class had named it Gertrude. The reason Gertrude and I posed together was usually anatomical. We’d be set up in the same position so the artists could compare what someone looks like on the outside versus what they look like on the inside. In these poses, I was very aware of the engineering of my body. I knew that my knee operated by hinge joint, my shoulders rotated by ball-and-socket joint. I knew that I had 12 ribs, the bottom two “floating” – as in not connected to my sternum. I knew that if I were to move my arm – which I wouldn’t, of course – the parallel ulna and radius bones would move separately from one another. I knew myself as a structure, as a machine. Other times, the skeleton was used as a prop. Not as a replica of me, but something distinct. I was the live subject, it was the still life. On one of these poses, I was perched on a set of stairs, and the skeleton lay in a crumpled heap below me. I was looking vaguely downward. It was a three-hour pose. I stared at a speck of charcoal on the floor in front of Gertrude. I’d estimated that I was about an hour into the pose and was counting down the remaining time. I would count to ten six times, then think, “that’s a minute.” I’d do this 60 times, then would think, “that’s an hour.” Then I’d do it all again. I’d wonder if it was possible to actually die of boredom, for a brain to simply shut down out of lack of use. My vision blurred, my head started to droop. My eyes met Gertrude’s eye sockets and we shared a silent, still moment of understanding before I lifted my head again.

REBEL:83


SAMANTHA BELMONT

REVOLUTIONS

2ND PLACE


Martha Graham, legend of modern dance, said “Dance is the hidden language of the soul of the body.” Well, if that’s true, I suppose that means the soul of my body is mute. You see, I cannot dance. You, like so many others before you, may be thinking, “Everyone can dance. What you mean is that you can’t dance well. Here, I will show you that you can dance. Just move with the music, like this.” But I promise you it has been tried. At birthday parties, drama club rehearsals, middle school dances, high school proms, downtown clubs, determined friends have placed their hands on my hips and fought to make them match the music. I try to learn from my well-intentioned instructors (Lord, do I try!), but the second my hips are free of their grips, my body reverts to its uncertain spasms, stiff and inelegant as always. I remember a wedding I attended as a kid; I couldn’t have been older than six. I strutted out to the dance floor and whirled myself around, spinning in circles as my dress flew out around my knees, like the petals of a baby pink flower in full bloom. The music pulsed from the DJ’s station. My pirouettes quickened. I lost my balance, was lifted off the floor and tumbling back to Earth all in one motion. It was then that my mother noticed me, a pink-petaled heap on the floor. She grabbed my hand and plucked me from the ground. “What are you doing?” she demanded, dragging me to the children’s table. “Dancing.” “Spinning isn’t dancing,” she scolded. “Sit here and behave yourself.” As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned that most of what my mother tells me is correct. In this instance, though, I have to disagree with her. I may not remember how to do it now—now that I’m old enough to know what judgment is, now that I know how to feel foolish—but I’m certain that my spinning, that swirling movement of unabashed elation, was dancing.

REBEL:85


METAL DESIGN


NICK HEYL

STUDY OF FABERGÉ EGG #1 & #2

EGG, COPPER, SILVER

1ST PLACE


REBEL:91


TINA LAZZARINE

HOPE

COPPER, SILVER, ENAMEL 2ND PLACE


HALI MORITZ

FROGS HAVE IT EASY

ENAMEL, COPPER, SILVER 3RD PLACE REBEL:93


NICK HEYL

FORTIFIED BEARINGS

HONORABLE MENTION

KENDALL BOOTH

CUTTLEFISH BRACELET

HONORABLE MENTION


ELIZABETH SMITH

CREATURES OF THE DEEP

HONORABLE MENTION REBEL:95


R54 GRAPHIC DESIGN ILLUSTRATION


RICH GRIFFIS

CINQUE

IDENTITY SYSTEM 1ST PLACE

REBEL:101


JOSH VAUGHAN

HAYMAKER

PACKAGING DESIGN 2ND PLACE

REBEL:103


DEVIN BUTLER

PEARLY WHITES

ARTICLE SPREAD 3RD PLACE


REBEL:105


MIXED MEDIA


NICK HEYL

VARIATIONS ON FORM AND MATERIAL

1ST PLACE

REBEL:111


BRITNEY N. COBB

CUTTLEFISH AND CORAL

2ND PLACE

REBEL:113


KENDALL BOOTH

OH THE WAYS TO MAKE A WISH

3RD PLACE


REBEL:115


DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY


RUSSELL CLARK

A SELF-MONUMENT

INKJET PRINT 1ST PLACE


LORRAINE TURI INKJET PRINT

THE CARETAKER

2ND PLACE REBEL:121


JODI BOWMAN

SEVEN PINES

INKJET PRINT

3RD PLACE


BRYAN BANKSTON

DOOR

INKJET PRINT HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL:123


TRADITIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY


BRYAN BANKSTON BROWN VAN DYKE

BALLERINA ON TRACKS

1ST PLACE


BRYAN BANKSTON

PERCHED

BROWN VAN DYKE

2ND PLACE

REBEL:129


AMY BRIDGEMAN GELATIN SILVER PRINT

UNTITLED

3RD PLACE


REBEL:131


DRAWING


OMAR ABBAS

QUIT

1ST PLACE

REBEL:137


BETHANY PIPKIN GRAPHITE

EKISTICS

2ND PLACE


TEXTILE DESIGN


SYDNEY SOGAL

URBAN WALK-THROUGH

1ST PLACE REBEL:145


BETHANY SHAKER

MAGNOLIA CORSET

2ND PLACE

REBEL:147


KATHERINE HOBBS EXCHANGE

3RD PLACE

REBEL:149


SCULPTURE


CATHY PERRY

FLOW

PINK ALABASTER

1ST PLACE

REBEL:155


MIKE MCATEER

THE SOUTH SHALL RAISE MY BLOOD SUGAR

FLOCKING FOAM MOLDING PASTE POLYMER CLAY

2ND PLACE


CHOCOLATE-FILLED JUVENILE DIABETES

FLOCKING LATEX RUBBER POLYMER CLAY

2ND PLACE REBEL:157


SAMANTHA WOITOVICH

FERROUS FAUCETS

IRON

3RD PLACE


REBEL:159


JENNY READLING

ISADORA

BRONZE HONORABLE MENTION

CATHY PERRY

HONORABLE MENTION

REACHING

BRONZE, IRON, WOOD


CHRIS MORGAN

GENUFLECTION TO THE CUBE

HONORABLE MENTION

JENNY READLING

VICTORIAN DOLLIES

STEEL

STEEL

HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL:161


PRINTMAKING


HEATHER FILTZ

THREE EGGS

INTAGLIO 1ST PLACE

REBEL:167


HEATHER FILTZ

LITHOGRAPHY

A RUSH TO MY HEAD

2ND PLACE

REBEL:169


ANNA BOGGS

LITHOGRAPHY

CARNIVAL

3RD PLACE


TIMOTHY WEAVER

NONE

INTAGLIO HONORABLE MENTION


TIM MOORE

UNTITLED

LITHOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION


HEATHER FILTZ

PASSING THE CHERRY

LITHOGRAPHY HONORABLE MENTION

REBEL:173


S pecial thanks to the judges of the 54th edition of the Rebel who

dedicated their time and expertise to jury the many entries submitted by East Carolina University students during Fall, 2011. Each judge brought her own distinct expertise, which yielded the selection of the highest quality of creative talent featured throughout this magazine.


Judges Visual art

Stacy Jarrell Instructor, Advertising and Graphic Design Pitt Community College

Jodi Hollnagel-Jubran Professional Sculptor, President of J&H Studio Inc. Adjunct Instructor 1998–2007, School of Art and Design East Carolina University

Charity Valentine Coordinator, Associate of Fine Arts, Pitt Community College

Literature

Liza Wieland Fiction Editor North Carolina Literary Review Associate Professor of English East Carolina University

Dance

Patricia Pertalion Retired Professor, School of Theatre and Dance East Carolina University


Rebel 54 Staff Editor

Rebel 54 design

Phillip Winn

Jacklyn Lopez Andrea Smith Phillip Winn

Faculty advisor

Craig Malmrose

Professor, Graphic Design

Photography

Student media

Henry Stindt Photographic

Genevia Hill

Interim Director of Student Media

Paul Isom

Former Director of Student Media

Yvonne Moye

Administrative Support Associate Student Media, Student Media Board

Copy editors

Lisa Beth Robinson Tori Rodriguez


Special thanks

Holly Garriott Henry Stindt Paul Isom Craig Malmrose John Dixon Patricia Weeks Yvonne Moye Pitt County Arts Council at Emerge Hanna Jubran Carl Billingsley PIP printing Lisa Beth Robinson Gunnar Swanson Kate Lamere Rich Griffis Nikki Rausch Kyle Walker Campus 31 Student Television Chris Stansbury Cara Friez Matt Egan Genevia Hill Teresa Ramaglino Maria Modlin Materials Management Frank Pulley Theo Davis Printing Our professors, families, friends and anyone whom we might have left out.


Collage source

Playboy Penthouse Hustler OMNI Co-Ed Esquire Life Farm Journal DC Comics Field & Stream Car Review Time TV Star Parade


Production Printer

Edition

Press

Stock

Theo Davis Printing

1,540 books and DVD’s

Komori Lithrone S40

Cover: FRENCH POP-TONE in Lemon Drop, 100 lb. cover Text: Mohawk Via Smooth Warm White, 80lb. text Mohawk Via Linen Pure White, 70lb. text

Typography

Libel Suit Adobe Garamond Pro


Copyright

Rebel 54 is produced by and for the students of East Carolina University. Offices are located within Student Media in the Self-Help building. The contents are copyrighted 2011 and 2012 by Rebel 54. All rights revert to the individual artists and writers upon publication. Contents may not be reproduced by any means, nor stored in any information retrieval system without written permission of the artist or writer. Printed with non-state funds.


Rebel is a division of Student Media Please direct questions or comments to rebel@ecu.edu


Rebel 54  

The 54th edition of East Carolina Student Media's "The Rebel" literary arts publication.

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