Page 1


a r t + l i te r a tu re m a g azine

designed, edited, and published by students

kiosk is a semi-annual, award-winning, art and literature magazine.

In this edition of Kiosk, optical illusions and surreal imagery challenge the two-dimensional surface of the magazine, creating a cerebral experience with the finest art and literature produced by students of the University of Kansas. 2

denise dipiazzo avian tube, 2011 acrylic panel, aluminum, 18 x 18 in

design staff

editorial staff

sally carmichael anna defazio jing jian noel rivard rachel roth voranouth supadulya erin zingrĂŠ, art director

joel bonner ellen goodrich william kist katie little sara pyle sydney rayl, editor-in-chief


art contributors

liz adcock

38, 39

raechel cook


jaime del ryan

34–35, 75

jon duong

10–13, 47

seth dugger


christina fountain

06, 47

allison freund

22, 54–55

lexi griffith


james hoyt


bethany hughes


yewon ji

26–27, 75

jordan key


whittney kinnamon

04–05, 18–19, 34

wes landis

08–09, 16,

sydney lenz


alexandra moore

29, 50–51, 70

max mikulecky

14, 16–17, 54

john reynolds


kylie millward

49, 52

nancy pappas


tyler roste

36–37, 43, 53,

anthony schmiedeler

56, 62

david titterington

28, 64–65

damia smith

20–21, 38, 76–77

june you


jonathan wilde

23, 44–46, 63

justin zielke

40–41, 57

whittney kinnamon NOLA, 2012 digital photography

66–67, 72–73, 77

58–61, 68–69, 78–79

lit contributors gus bova home and family

keegan cole 25 26

things falling on sundays


william franklin how to be a fish



27 28 29 ian cook black mirror

king spider

14 16

33 34 35 36 37

victoria infinger respects from a scientist

will jenkins 10 11 12 13

theresa kelsay the loop union station

69 72 73





julia trechak baldwin


what he likes

62 78


christina fountain lines series, 2010 digital, 7 x 7 in.


nancy pappas geometrisches dekor, 2012 typeface design

wes landis a framed landscape, 2011 archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in



SCIENTIST victoria infinger

My dearest Homo Sapiens— Wise men, knowing men Animals at best The mere product of evolution But what do we know of the world. No— Truly know? We know of the sound plastic makes— The unison of click-clicks clashing together In a sloppy symphony of tapping shoes Text messaging. Or the feel of sugarless brew— Its warmth bound to the tip of our noses Liquid held only by a wall of plastic Patented with the name of “traveler’s lid” Hot coffees. We have been programmed to keep our territory safe:
To eat To sleep To fuck


jon duong strain track series, 2011 black and white photography, 120 film negative on matte print 16 x 16 in, negative: 120 Film 400 ISO (56 x 56 mm frame size)

But some of us—

Oh, Homo Sapiens

Evolve into something spectacular Some of us— Birds,

Our wings sprinkled with freedom And iced with flight Others— Lions,

Our manes thundering with confidence And striking with upmost power Most of us— Monkeys,

Typing virtual words And sipping lattes

s n o i l






s jon duong strain track series, 2011 black and white photography, 120 film negative on matte print 16 x 16 in, negative: 120 Film 400 ISO (56 x 56 mm frame size)







ian cook

Will not wants wail when needed, bleeding slow along long laments, howling wildly now, in

lanterns, above the whispering night lights

warm, deep bronze, but sometimes yellow when the fog bends, magnifying mists

journeyed, brooding, downcast thick little

atmosphere, shuddering hollow cloud, round

out wound down, holy world, air admitted sweet like love flowers blooming cherry

blossom, lofty ghosts lonesome in the hall when

my room is locked tight right in the blight,

where waiting in vain, hearts will beat fast and then not at all.

max mikulecky corporate shadow, 2012 digital photography, 30 x 45 in


lexi griffith resonate, 2012 digital photography, 9 x 14 in

raechel cook retrace, 2011 linen, paper, screen printing, and stitching on canvas, 16 x 20 in

ian cook stoke fires with your father bones at night

keep close the tired arms from the morning flight

keep it down riled when the turmoil’s fresh inside

holding someone’s head down baptized in the wishing well

quench deep thirst swallowing spare change miracles are manmade

strong laid plans are often stained

rotten hope is poorly raised and tended with unsteady hand

clasping cold clamoring uncertainty and when I ask the wind my name it replies in a whisper then goes hush and the world is solid and hollow

and old crow moans

til the bottom strung lungs become blood and exhale is thick mist

our fingers are numb but still searching for a pulse


wes landis unattached; untitled no. 1, 2011 archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in


max mikulecky outside looking in, 201 2 digital photography, 20 x 30 in


whittney kinnamon untitled (american turkey), 2012 digital photography

20 20

damia smith cogeneration, 2012 steel, plastic, 37 x 22 x 16 in


allison freund forest forever, 2012 cut paper

sa e

si a hc


p t se’n ec

n u


jonathan wilde chair, 2012 solid maple and black walnut, solid wood construction


h f o

e g a u g



ylenol , y wons


n r e h t


h t

a m i l c


gus bova

Fall struck like a battle-axe that year. People everywhere woke up freezing, curled tightly into their thin summer sheets. The latenighters, those who worked at the factories, the pizza places, the all-night cafĂŠs, emerged short-sleeved from their shifts into bitter cold, feeling bodily shock like peremptory swimmers jumping into lakes of April rain. Across the country, the poorer of them walked home through the lonely streets of our cities, clutching themselves and shivering for warmth. They cursed the cold in their native tongues, some at least bearing the language of snowy, northern climates, but others having only the hot curses of tropical dry

jordan key yellowstone 3, 2012 digital photography











seasons with which to assail the changing of seasons. The luckier ones, those who made tips in cash, stopped off at all-night bars or bodegas to buy warming liquors from people like themselves, people who lived contrary to the commands of the sun, who knew the most intimate and hollow parts of the night. They went to places where they could take the bottles home with them, half-pint bottles that fit in the back pocket and could be nipped from while walking. As customers, they tried to

be whatever they thought the bartender or storekeeper wanted them to be, talkative or quiet as needed, so that he would know that they felt it too, that they were not of the general sort who thought the world was full of machines. Sometimes, they would have a cigarette together, out back in the alley or wherever seemed best, trading empathetic, profane poetry between drags. It was the color of the streetlights and the glinting of broken glass on the pavement that waylaid them, and kept them out to 26

yewon ji marfa culinary institute (figure ground and site), 2012



t e k c o p











k c a b

e h t

n i

t i f

t a h t

s e l t t o b

t n i p - f l a h



james hoyt milkshake, 2011 digital photography

james hoyt vertigo, 2011 digital photography

r e v o l



t h g i n

spite and overcome the cold. It was the smell on the wind as it blew in from the ocean where it gathered sting, moving up through the thin chill of the mountains and finally down to wail lonely through the empty, endless prairie. The rowdy company of man, the intimations of food, sex, and music all called the night their home as well, but the walkers kept apart. They were somewhere farther up, in the calmer reaches of their heads. They stuck to solitary drinks and communion with the night’s more loyal sentinels. They knew the night like a lover, haunting its secret places until they couldn’t any longer-- breathing, for as long as possible, the clear air of the space between where they had been, and where they were headed.


david titterington censored, 2012 oil and pencil on paper, 40 x 26 in














enk yeht


xes doof dna


alexandra moore eye spy, 2012 digital photography




brem’n will jenkins As I walk these icy streets,

“Moin! Moin!” fills the air, words

wrapped in pipe smoke pluming

from the mouths of old men.

The aged wood of an old ship creaks with remembrance of days gone -

In retirement a restaurant,

no longer tugged by thick hands,

no longer hammer’d by heavy boots. Old sailors sit slouched over stools with Haake-Becks in hand,

glassy eyed, a dream on land -

the mind always abroad.

The breeze bit beards were once crusted with February frost.

“Was fur ne’ schoene Zeit! Arbeit ich auf dem Meer und dann nichts mehr.”


bethany hughes

seth dugger

afloat, 2012

untitled, 2012

digital photography

ink on paper, 6 x 6 in

william franklin

First, Renounce alcohol for a semester. Your friends will demand reasons—provide them. I don’t have time, I don’t have money, or even, I’m really managing a lot this year. Convince them—they will comply. Next, Be on top. Wrangle your life, get a feel for things. Be two steps ahead of the game. And make sure to let everyone know. You’re a winner. You’re the one holding the reins. This is who you are.

Now, that being established, Pick up your friend, Katie. The one with curls in all directions, the kind you trace in circles when she speaks and her eyes—like stars that silently fume. Agree on a bar, free jazz and martinis. Order a dirty for yourself, whatever’s sweet for her. There’s no one there, only the band and the open door. So, Tell her about your abstinence over drinks. Chat about the places you’ve been, the things you’ve both done. And who you think you might be. Talk a great deal, but enjoy the way she faces you. Enjoy the olive sunk to the bottom of your glass. The idle way she tugs sugar off the rim of her drink, only to place it on her napkin—enjoy this too. Think, She’s refreshing really, a gin this smooth. Oh, and Katie, she’s just too sweet. Has love for the earth. On Wednesdays it’s knee-deep in one of those man-made fish pools (the kind that dry out in winter), tagging and clipping off fins. Maybe a job as a forest ranger, she says. Possibly a career with the EPA if things go well. You cringe at the thought of where those snipped fish parts end up. “Don’t you feel bad cutting up all those fish?” “Well, it doesn’t hurt the fish.” “Fish don’t have feelings anyway, I guess.” “How do you know?” “Because I only ever see them swim, mouth gaping, eyes vacant. There are no emotions there. Maybe I’ll write about a fish.”

“You should write about two fish, and they fall in love.” Yes, two fish, together, madly in love. In the south, the handle of Florida that is, two catfish circling in throes of passion. At the bottom of a pond, two swimmers turning round and round. Stirring up soot, these fish nibble on each other’s fins. These two fish—until one is yanked away. Now, as she talks, Play back the years. Become a child again, you’re six years old. Be loving and innocent. Be naïve and be trusting. Trek up to your Grandparents’ acres of balmy Florida land. Wake up before the sun. Today’s the day you scurry across the farm, row after row of strawberry plants. Have your fill. You’re little anyway, can only carry so much. Allow Grandma to point you over to the end of the field. There’s a modest pond there. Your Grandpa and cousins are fishing, although to no avail. Hold so much trust in the world when you’re young. Run grinning to meet all these older male figures. Get handed a cane pole, the kind without a reel. No one’s had any luck yet. But you are not convinced. Surely this pond full of water contains at least two fish. Wander around the edge and trail your bait in the water. Feel just the slightest pull, barely even a nibble but impulsive, ambitious you—rip the catfish out of the water. Walk it over to your family. Proudly display your choking-to-death prize. “Can we cook it Grandpa? Can we eat the fish for dinner?” And his toothy smile shining underneath those God-awful, standard-issue Navy glasses: “Of course we can, Will.”


And march around your Grandparents’ yard. Sport your inflated six-year-old sense of accomplishment, but rightfully so—you’re young on this earth. What have you to show? A set of new teeth, a scar from the leg you cracked last year? Don’t forget that catfish you snagged, too. They say pride is a sin. But to a child tasting success, a good day is just that, and nothing more. Later, Hear your parents calling out by the car. The sun’s setting on the sunshine state—you’ve got to go. Notice the catfish sleeping on the grill, whole, intact, and long dead. Sprint inside and between gasps for air: “Grandpa! What about my catfish! I thought you were going to cook it!”


whittney kinnamon in the car, 2011 digital photography

jaime del ryan untitled, 2012 digital photography

Notice the glaze over his eyes, the sweating lowball of whisky gripped in his massive hand. Check the way he shuffles across the kitchen to avoid stumbling. Forget any sweetness in his tone or the gap-toothed smile he exchanged for that fish. Receive a gruff “I forgot about your fish, Will. It’s time for you to go.”


tyler roste trailer park façades, 2012 scan from 4 x 5 negative

Dry out. Give your friends reasons, but tell only yourself—it’s a check on behaviors. And three weeks in, take liberties. Pick Katie up, go for a dirty, and when she suggests a story about two romantic fish, say whatever’s on hand. But make sure to sneak a glance at that olive swimming in gin like a lonely fish at the bottom of a pond.



damia smith defense mechanism, 2011 anodized aluminum, steel , 9 x 3.5 x 8 in

damia smith hands tied, 2011 steel, cotton, beeswax, 14 x 38 x 31 in


liz adcock air head, 2011 digital photography

justin zielke blind to the world, 2012 digital, 13.75 x 8.25 in


june you frozen moment of drama, 201 2 soft pastel on birch plywood, 20 x 20 in

tyler roste cathedral, 201 2 digitally stitched photograph

jonathan wilde the urban liner, 2012 digital photography

jonathan wilde the lines that light, 2012 digital photography

In the smallest room of our house there was a modest, upright piano. When our father was practicing, my brothers and I knew to behave so we found solitude and waited. In the basement, I sat cross-legged in a grungy yellow chair, picking threads off the armrest. In the floorboards chords reverberated— Our home, an artery for a solemn performance nobody saw. Thuds from the foot pedals echoed as they were released. It sounded to me like a stirring of noises, not music, inside which one could discern the player humming as low as the bottom registers.

julia trechak

One Christmas, we visited my parent’s rich and childless friends. The man, faceless in my mind, wanted to show my dad their grand piano which fit snugly in front of a rounded corner, glistening and quiet. They laughed about how the room’s architecture was perfect for it.


kylie millward cat stenographer, 2011 clay, found objects, photography, 8.3 x 13.6 in


alexandra moore picture day series, 2012 digital photography



kylie millward space jockey eagle, 2012 acrylic on illustration board, 8.6 x 9.6 in


tyler roste berlin windows, 2011 digital photography

keegan cole

Sunday 1: Rituals I made a connection with a morning bird when we both whistled at the same time and we squawked at the discord it made, following the brief eye contact losing myself in eighth beat pupils he flew off like fire-dawn. Some clouds darken the sun because we sang an accidental raindance. Sunday 2: Comfort A girl clutches onto the he that she calls hers’ him when the rain comes as the bus they’re in shakes down the street quivering in the morning. The inside is hot but the outside is cold but the inside holds the heat of she that holds the he that holds the pole that keeps them stable. Sunday 3: Abandoned A pup stands lit by streetlamps sweeping with rain in a pothole of an abused street, its leash floating in the wind held by a phantom owner playing surrogate. A bus drives by slowly staring at a wreck that is unfortunate parenting until the headlights turn off. The leash falls and drags behind as he walks and hides under the porch of an abandoned house either for refuge from the rain or in hopes of an orphanage. A girl steps out and looks responsibled. Sunday 4: Things Fell I see two men against the plywood skeleton of a future bank kissing underneath the scaffold awnings of construction, hanging over them like fruit trees, their groping hands ravaging, a force pushing both into the rusty trunk, a resonant resin shake triggers the raining of nails like ripe apples and they both knew how it felt to discover gravity and stability in something falling.


max mikulecky apartment fire, 2012 digital photography, 20 x 30 in


allison freundfreund september, 2012 film photography, 13 x 8 in


anthony schmiedeler ran out again, 2012 screen printing and photoshop, 11 x 11 in


justin zielkereund empty, 2011 digital, 5 x 9 in

tyler roste portrait no. 5, new york, 2012 digital photography

tyler roste portrait no. 1, new york, 2012 digital photography

what he likes will jenkins

The feel of a beard not his own, rubbing the nape of his neck, the coarse kisses of secret nights. He likes chest hair, rubbing against his as he trusts on top. He likes strong hands but tonight his wife sleeps at his side – unaware The heart that beats beneath his breast is a dead thing to her ears. In the room down the hall – Two Children – One Boy – One Girl – a Duty done – peaceful, soft, silently sleeping. But still there he lies, restless, dreaming of what he likes.


anthony schmiedeler gazing, 2010 torn paper and masking tape, 24 x 36 in


jonathan wilde blues & orange, 2012 digital photography

john reynolds perspectivism, 2010 digital photography


david titterington adoration, 201 1 oil on wood, 15 x 15 in


david titterington sorcerer, 2012 oil on canvas, 60 x 48 in

wes landis BGRC: son, 201 2 archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in

the loop theresa kelsay

A trashcan

outside the Walgreens overflows,

and the smell of

baked pavement,

sidewalk grime,

fast food,

and car exhaust peels the scab

off some old memory

of walking through an amusement park, at thirteen,

with my family,

dreaming about being somewhere in the future.


tyler roste portrait no. 22, new york, 2012 digital photography

sydney lenz black lung, 2010 digital photography


alexandra moore get yourself an egg and beat it, 2009 digital photography


sydney lenz bucket o’ chicks, 201 1 digital photography

union station theresa kelsay

The soul stirs

and leaves itself

like a watermark

on the ceiling corner;

traces of the desire born in places

it does not want

to stay.


wes landis a found installation, 2011 archival print (digital photography), 20 x 30 in

noitats noinu yaslek asereht

srits luos eTh

flesti sevael dna

kramretaw a ekil

gniliec eht no ;renroc

erised eht fo secart secalp ni nrob

tnaw ton seod ti

.yats ot


sidnal sew 1 1 02 ,noitallatsni dnuof a n i 0 3 x 0 2 , )y h p a r g o t o h p l a t i g i d( t n i r p l a v i h c r a


yewon ji marfa culinary institute, 2012 bas wood, 9 x 15 in

jaime del ryan untitled, 2009 digital photography


damia smith epithelial neoplasms, 2010 copper, enamel, monofilament, and steel, 18 x 13 x 15 in

o.c.d. will jenkins

Hera has put the Hydra in the caverns of my head. I taste its poison fumes, breathing fear. I unsheathe my weapons, pills, therapy. I am no Hercules, a feeble mortal only. I taste its poison fumes, breathing fear. I turn the knob twice, hacking off another head. I am no Hercules, a feeble mortal only but as the scaly appendage falls to the floor, I wonder. I turn the knob twice, hacking off another head. Its body twitches, claws clutch air, the tail raises high but as the scaly appendage falls to the floor, I wonder. Is that it? Are there more? Its body twitches, claws clutch air, the tail raises high, while the flaming arrows that lit my caverns slowly die. Is that it? Are there more? I pull pills from drawers, thinking of therapy while the flaming arrows that lit my caverns slowly die. poison blood seeps, while its stumps pulse. I pull pills from the drawer, thinking of therapy. Two new fears break forth where once was one!


wes landis unattached; untitled no. 2, 201 1 archival print (digital photography), 20 x 30 in

Poison blood seeps, while its stumps pulse, the old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears break forth where once was one! I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another. The old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears snap and snarl. I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another by rattling the door, tapping the floor again - and again. Two new fears snap and snarl, pushing out without end. I rattle the door, tapping the floor again - and again while the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark pushing out without end. I call for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. While the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing! I call out for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. I unsheathe my weapons, pills, therapy. I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing! Hera has put a creature in the caverns of my head.


tyler roste MOM A no.1, 201 2 digital photography


The staff of Kiosk 47 would like to thank the University of Kansas Student Senate, Coca-Cola, and the Department of Design and the Department of English at the University of Kansas. Additionally this issue of Kiosk would not have been possible without help from: Diane Roth, Temta Viengluang, Hong Zhang, Donlong Jian, Janet DeFazio, Pete DeFazio, Brooke Rivard, Lucien Rivard, Richard ZingrĂŠ, LeAnn ZingrĂŠ, Marsha Rodriguez, and Steve Carmichael. We would like to extend a special thanks to Jane Hazard, Mainline Printing, Andrea Herstowski, Mary Klayder, Michael Selby, Nancy Pappas, Lauren Schimming, and everyone who submitted work to and supported Kiosk.

Kiosk 47  

Designed, edited, and published by students, Kiosk is a semi-annual, award-winning, art and literature magazine that has been in publication...

Kiosk 47  

Designed, edited, and published by students, Kiosk is a semi-annual, award-winning, art and literature magazine that has been in publication...