Reverie- Issue No. 21

Issue No. 21

REVERIE

THE LIBERATOR MAGAZINE

in this issue

5 The Zodiac Signs’ Dreamy Characteristics Ariadne Danae Chavez Salinas 8 Tasting Menu Kara Hildebrand 11 Bittersweet End Olivia Oswald 14 Ramen Mary Claire Jackson 17 Inner Consciousness Akash Geeni 18 golden hills Katelyn Buck 19 The Gardener and the Perfectionist Pauline Belz 22 Art Through Flawed Eyes Ariadne Danae Chavez Salinas 26 The Golden Hues of Film Duaa Zulfiqar 29 The King of Instruments William Shi 33 Dreams, Dreams, Dreams...

Maya Ertay

Letter from the Editor In “Burnt Norton”, the first poem in T.S. Eliot’s renowned Four Quartets, Eliot writes that “Humankind cannot bear very much reality.” This line, laden with what initially seems like a morose depiction of the human existence, was actually the positive impetus for the creation and creative direction of this issue.

As individuals, we go about our daily lives immersed in what often feels like an unrelenting, tumultuous, and sometimes tragic state of existence. In these past two pandemic-ridden years, life has ground to a halt, begun again in a blustering flurry, and has thrust us students in a college magazine into an unrecognizable world that still seemed all too similar in its harsh realities.

So, observing the state of the world, we at The Liberator, turned to the abstract: we sought to embrace the fantastic and we resolved to utilize our dreamscapes and fleeting musings to create something beautiful amidst the starkness of reality.

We looked to our reveries.

French in its etymology, the word “reverie” evokes the fantastical experience of be-

ing lost in a potent daydream and succumbing to the wondrous thing that is unreality. As our first print issue in two years, “Reverie” works to break free from the constraints of the monotony of everyday routines and life, and has challenged our staff and Creative Competition writers to delve into what exists in those otherworldly moments when you’re caught in a reverie.

While our writers found their inspiration from within, I as Editor-in-Chief, looked out-

ward to the team that has grounded me. So naturally, I want to extend my eternal gratitude to my Liberator family (editors and writers alike), Liberal Arts Council as a whole, and most dearly, Allison McCarty, for who I wouldn’t have grown into the writer and editor I am today. Thank you for the most challenging and rewarding two years of my life thus far. It’s been a privilege serving as this wonderful magazine’s Editor-in-Chief.

This issue is brimming with heart, talent, and unrelenting passion, so, dear reader, sit back and crack open the following pages, I assure you it won’t disappoint.

Perhaps nothing is certain in this world but death and taxes, but at least we have our reveries. I implore you to get lost in this one.

Humbly, Hayle Chen, Editor-in-Chief Kara Hildebrand, Justin Pastrano, and Quynhmai Tran, Associate Editors

The Zodiac Signs’ Dreamy Characteristics

By Ariadne Danae Chavez Salinas

In Western astrology there are 12

zodiac signs: Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius, and Pisces. These signs are a representation of constellations in the celestial sphere that the Sun annually journeys through. Each zodiac sign corresponds to a respective date and has an individual symbol. There are four elements each sign is related to: air, fire, water, and earth. Hence, a person’s sun zodiac sign can be identified by looking up what constellation the sun was in during their birth date. Each sign, in tandem with their many qualities, flaunt dreamy and fantasy-like characteristics that we can observe in people.

People who are interested in zo-

diac signs know that everyone has a sun, moon, and rising sign. These are the main three placements: based on your birthday, the time at which you were born, and the place you were born. For instance, a person’s chart will tell them that their sun is in Taurus, their moon is in Leo, and their rising or ascendant is in Scorpio. According to Western astrology, your sun sign determines your identity, your moon sign rules your emotions, and your rising sign represents the way you present yourself to people.

The descriptions in this piece are

focused on your sun sign. This is the constellation the sun was in during your birth date, and it can be quickly found by looking up the zodiac sign of your birthday. Your sign will correspond to a piece in our catalog!

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Zodiac

Dates

Symbol

Aries

March 21 - April 19

Taurus

April 20 - May 20

Gemini

May 21 - June 20

Cancer

June 21 - July 22

Leo

July 23 - August 22

Virgo

August 23 - September 22

Libra

September 23 - October 22 6 6

♈ ♉ ♊ ♋ ♌ ♍ ♎

Which Piece Should You Read?

Dreamy Charateristics

Not afraid to show their passions.

Strategic, Aries strive to be the best versions of themselves.

Aries continuously try to narrow down what they want out of life.

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams…

by Maya

Romantic and loyal. Taurus will always be there for their loved ones. Their down to earth and cottage core personalities make life feel prettier.

Ramen

by Mary Claire & Tasting Menu

by Kara

Geminis are risk takers.

They are big personalities who fantasize a lot and can materialize those fantasies.

The King of Instruments

by Will

Cancers are soft. Emotional and charismatic, Cancers enjoy deep conversations. They tend to put the people they love before their own interests.

Tasting Menu

by Kara

Leos are daring. They are comfortable being the center of attention and will make a room feel upbeat. This confidence manifests as an attractive and sunny personality.

The Golden Hues of Film

by Duaa

Expect perfection from themselves. Dark academia vibes.

Virgos want to analyze things in the topics they love. The official representation of a Ravenclaw.

The King of Instruments

by Will

Libras have endless possibilities; they are passionately drawn to at least one artistic or creative ability.

Ruled by the planet Venus, Libras are beautiful and perfect.

Art through flawed eyes: Van Gogh, Degas, and Monet

by Ariadne

Zodiac

Dates

Symbol

Scorpio

October 23 - November 21

Sagittarius November 22 - December 21

Capricorn December 22 - January 19

Aquarius

January 20 - February 18

Pisces

February 19 - March 20

♏ ♐ ♑ ♒ ♓

Which Piece Should You Read?

Dreamy Charateristics

Mysterious and out of the ordinary. A Scorpio’s charm makes them dreamy, however their driven mentality might make their personalities dark.

The Gardener and the Perfectionist

by Pauline

DOJA CAT. That is your dreamy characteristic. Sagittariuses are brave and bold. They know what they are worth and won’t settle for less.

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams… by Maya & Ramen by Mary Claire

Cozy and comfortable. Business casual vibes. Prioritizes quality over quantity. Ambitious and strong. Capricorns are admired for their simplistic nature.

The Golden Hues of Film

by Duaa

Friendly and naturally beautiful, Golden Hills Aquariuses like their independence

by Katelyn and don’t like being controlled.

Their originality is to die for, and others daydream about the way they prioritize fun and friendships.

THE DREAMERS OF THE Bittersweet End ZODIAC SIGNS. Light

by Olivia academia vibes. Magical and artistic, & Pisces are the definition of fantasy.

Golden They daydream it, they romanticize it— Hills they live, eat, and breathe fantasy.

by Katelyn

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Tasting Menu

Written by Kara Hildebrand Graphic by Mary Claire Jackson

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pappardelle | brown butter | roasted beet | goat cheese | manuka honey served with a glass of cabernet sauvignon and house made ciabatta I murmur prose in my sleep and wake up hungry. I’m twenty one years old in the deepest trenches of winter, curled up against a lukewarm breeze.

Nothing hangs in the air but a breath of roasted garlic, lingering as last notes trail into whispers. I write like I have something to prove and find myself frequently caught between an idea and a platitude. A friend tells me they could never find the time to cook like me and the backhanded compliment aches a little, like a necklace clasped too tight. It’s not about time, I want to tell her. A meal is deliciously straightforward, unlike sentences that dissolve somewhere between my mind and my keyboard. I remember it all in bite-sized portions.

How crumbs turned into boxed noodles and canned sauce turned into rolling out homemade pasta with a wooden spoon (because I didn’t own a rolling pin). Stir the sauce, knead the dough, dice the onion; trivial things that seem essential amongst Very Important things. I’d never reveled in my food before. Now, I eat until I’m full, and I type until I’ve run dry.

icelandic yogurt | orange blossom honey | granola wafer served with cafe au lait and bourbon caramel I am sixteen and I believe my body is permanent—something that will be there when I have time for it. It rests its head against the bedroom window, blinking away a tangerine sunrise so private it almost feels like it belongs to me. The morning air has a sublime crispness to it, like the first bite of an apple. Dawn is saturated with newness, and I’m in the business of newness. I never say no to a party because Adult Things are the newest thing I’ve discovered, and I suppose I find myself boring because I am the oldest. I make time to do my makeup in the morning because I think being pretty will make people like me, I make time to study at night because I think good grades will finally make my parents proud of me, and eating is an act of compassion stuck somewhere in the middle. For the first time the hours in my day feel like a finite resource, and I spend them on anyone but me. I remember it all in bite-sized portions, when every meal was intentional. I fuel myself instead with shallow bonds because loneliness is an empty room with white walls and white floors, and sometimes I lose myself to the alabaster nothing.

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dandelion greens | raspberry basil vinaigrette | candied walnuts | braised carrots

pan-seared chicken breast | parmesan truffle frites | roasted tomato puree

served with lemon and cucumber water

served with lemon sorbet and chantilly cream

I go vegetarian in seventh grade because my favorite Youtube vlogger tells me I need to slim down for the summer. I want to control my body the way one controls their breathing to stop a panic attack, and I trade out diet fads like one would sample a flight of wine. A boy in class says I look anorexic and only then do I give up trying. Too much, too little, too something, too nothing. My legs are tucked under me, stamped with the texture of wood panels from a person-sized set piece. The silence of a mostly-vacant theater is fractured by low murmurs between friends. I’m convinced I want to be an actress, but really I’m just enamored with the concept of remolding myself.

Everything from my glossy lips to my studded ballet flats has been sampled from a celebrity, a TV character, an influencer. Food is something added or subtracted to shape my figure, to parse out an identity among cobblestones. I remember it all in bite-sized portions.

When I had scraped knees instead of these blisters on the backs of my heels.

I like packing my own lunch for school. I like sitting tucked away in corners of the library with a book, and I like the boundless stream of printed letters that can carry me anywhere. I like writing in my diary about how I’ll never love anyone the way I love my fourth grade square dancing partner.

These are the only things that matter to me, the only things that I know.

They’re like the syrup that pools at the bottom of a snow cone, that perfect last sip that you stomach mouthfuls of flavorless ice just to get to. I learn a lot of things from watching my parents’ favorite sitcoms. I learn that lazy men date beautiful women. I learn that women care a great deal about not eating their food. I ask about this and my mom tells me I’ll understand when I’m older. I think she’s wrong. My body is something that sprints and leaps and rolls, that turns pages and grips a pen in a stubborn fist. It simply is what it does: that’s the only thing I know.

And food is just food, absent from all other things.

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Bittersweet End Written by Olivia Oswald Graphic by Quynhmai Tran Between the pages I get lost in you I open up your story But that’s nothing new I merely unfold the bindings And there you lie Each night we meet again As the stars appear in the sky It started off slow Growing one chapter at a time Page by page And line by line You’re never seen or heard And understood by few If only people could accept The love I feel for you Your arms wrap around me Lightly grazing my spine How I wish it were real But it’s all in my mind The weaving of your bindings Is the joining of our palms Together we are boundless No one can convince me that it’s wrong You lie next to me Providing warmth against the chill But whenever I awake I’m alone and unfulfilled

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Made of ink by another Just simple words on a page Lying safe between covers Whilst I’m wasting away Others seek out love Kindling fires with people anew Yet I cannot stop myself From searching for you Each crowd is faceless Blurring together into one Conversations die in silence As I’d rather have none Spending more time in stories Has beaten down my soul Now I long for your presence For someone I can hold It’s tempting to reach out For the comfort of your touch But you never appear And paper bindings just aren’t enough The emotion is overwhelming As I know you don’t exist How can I possibly know A feeling such as this You’re always there when I need you Within the comfort of a book For you can never leave me Tucked on my shelf inside a nook I long for your existence For us to be joined as one If only I could tell you But you were left undone As the days roll on

I begin to question Whether this yearning Is only an obsession To long for someone imaginary Can hardly be love I crave to be comforted And words simply aren’t enough I dream of hands Being pressed against mine Instead of pages that have torn And cracks along the spine

I’ll refrain from opening myself back up to you And instead I’ll head beyond these walls In search of someone new And if I do find someone To fall for as I did with you I’ll begin to have my own story Wishing that others will long for it too

For how could I Have fallen for you You’re an intangible thing I think I outgrew Although this love for you Is something I thought I’d never feel I can’t look past the problem Of you never being real Maybe you weren’t always Meant to be mine forever and stay But rather remain a pastime Instead of standing in my way I shut your story in confidence Knowing we can simply never be And I feel a comfort in my knowledge that Someone real is waiting for me Your book is now closed Finally ending the chapter I now look ahead Towards what happens after So when the stars appear tomorrow

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Ramen Written by Mary Claire Jackson Graphic by Mary Claire Jackson

“Hug me, it has been so long since I forgot what a warm home means.”

-Alexandria Vasiliu

Today I cooked ramen for the first

time since I left you. Second nature and each second so wrong. Maybe it was cooking in a fully lit kitchen. Free to be loud, to take up space. The brick cracked so sweetly. Then he asked why I had broken it, habits of a forgotten life. “I used to do that for CJ.” Bub had always wanted me to break it, fearing, as siblings do, he would be shorted the food he was rightfully owed. Too young to catch that all the noodles went in the same pot, that it made no difference. Chubby cheeks and untamed hair, a vision so palpable and yet—trying to recall only disturbs settled silt. Worlds that once were, ripple into nothing. All in my head. But that’s how it is. Trying to remember is just chasing a mirage, but when you don’t try, it takes you. I dumped in the packet of golden powder, the smell drafted up in little clouds of dust.

Caught.

I was back in a dark house. The piling disgusting dishes, the paper clutter, the odds and ends of every unfinished project, illuminated by the singular light over the stove, had swallowed up the kitchen. So vivid. Don’t touch, don’t make a sound, don’t breathe.

The musk of the dog and that house’s strange familiar tinge overpowered the fragrance of my cheap ramen powder. Nothing ever covered the smell of you though. It wasn’t terrible as long as you avoided the living room. Too poignant over where you lay sprawled across a sunken couch, no pillow, no blanket. An impatient CJ fiddled with his spoon, threatening to disturb the delicate silence. “Hey hey hey, it’s almost done. Please.” Once dinner was finally ready, we poured our steamy bowls and made our way out front. Easier to breathe outside.

Red wine’s fruity spirits are just too nauseating. We settled on the drive, facing the line of gleaming houses across the way. Slurping and clinking spoons filled the stale cool air. Alien silhouettes framed in their little yellow boxes mingle and titter about as they settle in for their own dinners. Warmth soon fills up my stomach, enough to

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last the night. Isn’t that the only value of twenty cent ramen—warmth? I wondered what the silhouettes were talking about. Bub droned on about having ramen again tonight, just trying to get under my skin. I hushed his whining but really, it wasn’t his fault.

I just—what would I have said? I never knew what food I was allowed to touch and even if I mustered the willpower, what if I burned something and what if it tasted unbearable and what if it made CJ sick and what if you woke up and—“Hey, I know, I know. I’ll make you something nice for breakfast. How about muffins?”

Come back. Back to the apartment

kitchen, drag myself to the now.

Make myself a bowl of ramen. The creamy chicken flavor is the same, unmistakable and unremarkable. It still tastes empty. Tastes like loneliness and survival. Tastes like scrambling to get upstairs before you lock in on a target.

Tastes like sleeping in CJ’s bed so when you awoke at three a.m. you wouldn’t wake me. Tastes like asking Dad when he’ll be back, like hearing the roar of strangers in the background. Tastes like anxiety attacks years later when someone spills wine across the table into my lap. Tastes like climbing out on the roof, numb, wondering if you would still wake up this time.

Stop. I said come back. Life doesn’t taste like that anymore.

I looked around the now, rediscovered

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a reality with a fully lit house, where you were not. Settling into the sea of fluffy blanket that had engulfed the couch I uncovered a buried treasure, the cat. Clio chirped and chattered her hellos, all wide eyed at being awoken from her slumber, and stretchhhhed, all the way into a crescent. And when I spotted the little leaf beginning to sprout off my Monstera, my thrilled exclamations spilled out without a second thought. Knowing how worried I was about killing that thing, my roommates sounded their congratulations. Finally ready to eat, Marcus hurried over with his steaming bowl and foggy glasses. Always so excited for these simple pleasures.

Hot food, good company, a moment of rest and soon that contented grin painted across his face would turn the everyday colorful. And of course as he sat down, Clio decided to make our space hers, resettled between our laps to resume her slumber. Sprawled with her tummy on display, she positioned herself strategically in hopes of getting some love. The fur on her pudge sits like a toddler’s unruly bedhead and as she drifts, her soft snore drifts up and the whole world goes quiet. The gentle lights of a lit tree echoed the atmosphere of the room. Its twinkles reflected off his glasses in purples and blues as he laughed. It wasn’t as hard to come back here. A vibrant world, a space for ease, for tenderness, for loud living, for nourishment, for joy even in the mundane. This place is always so perfectly warm.

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Art by Akash Geeni

golden hills

By Katelyn Buck I used to dream of worlds where I was skinny.

Impossible worlds where I didn’t have these golden hills and wings and round cheeks.

Where I could fit into chairs and not get stares when I walk

And I fly close to you and show off

down the street.

The golden hills of

and tell you that you’re wrong.

my skin created beautiful sunsets before you looked at them

And you grab my wings and pluck my feathers and

and said flatlands were better.

cut my hills and ruin something beautiful.

I jump from these hills and I fly.

You ruined something beautiful.

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The Gardener and the Perfectionist Written by Pauline Belz Graphic by Quynhmai Tran 19 19

This trip has more permanence than usual, the gardener thought to herself.

America is big, overwhelming, allencompassing; it swallows you whole like a shark that inadvertently encounters you in some murky waters.

Staying here seems inevitable, even as the children write their quintessential postcard to Oma and Opa in Bad Berleburg.

So, when it threatens to swallow you whole, what better to do than to recognize it for what it is? This is how the journey begins: An RV, a perfectionist, and three other Germans on the road. Kind of like you see in all those American movies, right?

Sensationalism and spectacle remain forever a part of that American dream.

Freitag, den 21.07 Gestern 16:30 sind wir endlich losgekommen … mächtig genervt … die Nerven lagen mehr als blank …

Stimmen reichlich gereizt … … die Kinder hatten raus, keinen Streit mehr zu provozieren und auch keine nervigen Fragen mehr zu stellen …

Friday, 07.21 Yesterday at 4:30, we finally left … very annoyed … everyone was on their last nerve … voices clearly irritated … … the children figured out not to provoke any more fights and also not to ask any more annoying questions …

The perfectionist himself: husband to the gardener, father of three children,

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and seemingly the father of the RV. He is willing to go to great lengths to start something new here, but only if it is planned pristinely, regardless of its unpredictability. He sees it for what it is: just one more of the great many science experiments he structures in infinite detail.

Sonntag, 23.07 Ich wurde früh wach, wundervoller Sonnenaufgang.

Fischreiher spielen fangen über’m Schiff.

Sunday, 07.23 I woke up early, beautiful sunrise.

Fishermen played with their hooks off the side of the boat.

The gardener moves with nature’s neverending flow. It will lead her where she needs to go, just as it always has.

Her mother told her that, and she moved just the same. The perfectionist and the gardener go hand in hand like puzzle pieces. Do opposites really attract? Or are the opposites really opposites at all?

Sonntag, 06.08 - Pragmatismus: alle duschen, Wäsche waschen, Daddy kann arbeiten - Kinder leicht genervt, brauchen erstmal ihre Zeit, um sich mit sich selbst zu beschäftigen … wollten eigentlich starten in dem Park - ich schreibe Postkarten; gegen drei verlassen wir den Platz, finden einen schönen Platz auf dem timber creek Platz

Sunday, 08.06 - pragmatism: everyone showering, washing the laundry, Dad has time to work - children somewhat annoyed, need some time to themselves first … wanted to start their day in the park - I’m writing postcards; around three, we leave the spot, finding a nice spot on the timber creek campground

that still did not manage to drown out home. Donor-funded academia, sensational media painting politics in the realm of reality TV, and wave after wave of commercialism—each of which knocks them out again.

In the times when it becomes most overwhelming, the simple is what they always returned to, the things they were sure about.

They are both observers. It’s hard to observe the human condition; it’s hard to adjust to the human condition.

The two were sure about their resolve to keep their kids on solid ground. A little bit more freedom with a little bit more responsibility, sending them out to a world they had barely had the chance to navigate.

The perfectionist, with his wavering OCD diagnosis, embodies his father’s signature stoic, acutely aware presence. The gardener adopted her mother’s lively spirit and a deeply intrinsic desire to understand people.

Although they are both observers, they are not both sharers. The gardener’s desire to understand him runs headfirst into his avoidance of perception.

Freitag, 22.07 Ich bleibe gerne zurück, koche und nehme unser kleines Reich im Beschlag … ich liebe es sofort … es ist eigentlich so anti-amerikanisch: klein, beschieden, aber unheimlich praktisch und durchdacht … und von uns wohl organisiert …

Friday, 07.22 I like to stay back, [I] cook and become engrossed in our little area … I love it immediately … it is actually the direct opposite of American: small, humble, but unbelievably practical and thought through … and well organized by us …

In taking on an American opportunity, there was so much brought to life

Immediate high achievement is expected. America is competitive, and you have to get on board. Kids are already worrying about their high school credits in middle school and their college credits in high school.

Everything and everyone is ranked, and there is a price tag on everyone.

Immigrants observe everything.

Everything is larger than life here, so they have to. Everything moves quickly here, so they have to. Trying to slow everything down either fails or happens under the guise of first impressions.

The ultimate difference is that of reflection. Every little detail matters in that too, but it can be done on its own time. The gardener and the perfectionist do it on their own time, and so do their children by following their very nature, as children do.

America is fantastical, over-the-top, and brimming with opportunity, as they say.

Who are you to not take it in?

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Art Through Flawed Eyes Written by Ariadne Danae Chavez Salinas

Monet

Graphic by Quynhmai Tran

It is not often that one stands in

a museum and asks: “What can I not see? The art of three French Impressionists, Monet, Van Gogh, and Degas—who have left a colossal footprint in history and the hearts of artists and art lovers alike—beg this compelling question. Through their usage of stippling to create textures and realistic outlines, their paintings transcend dreamy and fantasy-like snapshots of landscapes and depictions of people. What casual observers and connoisseurs alike do not know, is how their poor eyesight greatly impacted the way they created their artwork: all three French Impressionists painted exactly what they saw. Monet’s cataracts were medically recorded and worsened over time. It is speculated that the yellow tones in Van Gogh’s paintings are not coincidental and were caused by a medicine or chemical that created this visual phenomenon.

It is postulated that Degas had a progressive retinal disease that made his vision blurry. The obstacles of their vision impairments tell beautiful stories; three artists would use these visual impediments to produce world renowned works.

Technique or Reality? Monet’s

art was created to portray realistic landscapes. Audiences throughout the world remain unconscious of his medical records and receive a sense of inspiration from his fuzzy work.

Unlike Van Gogh and Degas, Monet’s ocular impediments are medically recorded. From 1912 to 1922, Monet’s cataracts continuously worsened.

In the artist’s early work Women in the Garden, the immense amount of detail, accuracy, and the usage of oil on the canvas to clearly build the

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scenery demonstrates that Monet did not have any eyesight problems. He was able to paint every detail he saw without any blurs or abnormal tones.

As time passed and his cataracts progressed, Monet looked to specialists to aid with his sight issues. However, Monet did not want to undergo a surgery to get rid of the cataracts until 1923, and the development of his cataracts are exemplified in The Japanese Footbridge, produced in 1922. Through his inability to portray a realistic picture of the Japanese footbridge and its surroundings, The Japanese Footbridge exhibits not only the way Monet saw the world around him but the difficulties he faced when painting these views. The Japanese Footbridge also displays certain colors that might not have been the realistic colors and tones one sees when looking at a footbridge, suggesting the cataracts might have altered the tones and colors Monet now saw the world in. Most of Monet’s audience are not aware of these events and his cataracts but still find Monet’s style compelling.

Van Gogh

Based on his artwork, critics have theorized Van Gogh had an ocular ailment that caused a yellow lens in his vision. This occurrence is known to be caused by excessive drinking of absinthe, a potent liquor popular in France during his life there. This phenomenon has been suggested to be caused by the overuse of medication for mental instabilities. For instance, medication like “digitalis” can cause symptoms like “Xanthopsia,” which is this yellow sight that is seen in his artwork.

Van Gogh lived a socially complex and emotionally conflicting life. His mental health issues and eye perturbations are evident throughout the letters he wrote; when analyzing his paintings there is a constant usage of yellow in distinct tones. Nevertheless, since there are no medical records to back these health issues, it could be that Van Gogh chose to utilize yellow tones and colors in order to portray what he saw, like the still life above.

As one can see in his work Quinces, lemons, pears and grapes, Van Gogh used yellow tones on the surroundings and general background of only yellow fruit. Even though this produce is commonly green, the green color is overpowered by the usage of yellow.

The unnatural coincidence of using yellow produce and a yellow set up and background is a clear indicator of this optic flaw.

Citations Eye Associates. Van Gogh’s eyesight and paintings.

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Michael F. Marmor, M. D. Ophthalmology and art: Simulation of monet’s cataracts and Degas’ retinal disease.

Still, all of these are only theories. In his time, this utilization of the color yellow hindered his popularity due to the lack of realism and true colors and tones in works like the still life.Today, however, this potential sight problem now enhances the beauty of his pieces to the modern observer.

Degas

The retina’s function is to sense light and send images to the brain. Without it or with a damaged retina, a person can become completely blind. During his peak as an artist, Degas endured a progressive retinal disease that would show dramatic changes in his artwork.

In Degas’ Foyer de la Danse, Degas depicts a perfect outline of the room, the position of the ballerinas, and a realistic usage of colors and tone to portray the scenery. The white and transparency in the ballerina’s tutu is perfectly placed in order to portray a realistic texture. This precision subsided as Degas’ retinal disease progressed.

Thus, his paintings became cloudy and

blurry, as this is what he actually saw.

This can be seen in Degas’ Dancers, completed in 1887.

Between these two artworks, there are fifteen years of his worsened vision due to the progress of his retinal disease.

The 1887 piece shows a large blur of green color and an out of focus perception of the ballerinas, especially the ones in the sides and background.

Artistically, this could be interpreted as the passing of time or the grace of movement. However, knowing of Degas’ retinal disease allows the audience to understand that this is due to his flawed sight and the effects of this disease. The loss of detail in color and the characteristics of the scenery did not take away charm from the effect that Degas’ work had, like Foyer de la Danse in 1872. His audience found elegance in the effect his disease had on his art, and his works became a fantasia and model for the romanticization of ballerinas.

These artists’ works are

incomparable, loved by all kinds of people, and seen in exhibitions throughout the world. Their names carry themes of escapism, romance, and reverie to the heads and feelings of all who think of them or see their art. There is beauty in their works, but what is even more beautiful is that these presumably visually impaired men were able to transform their difficulties with their sight into the heavenly paintings we now know and love.

Monet. (1867). Women in the Garden [Plein air painting] Musée d’Orsay, France.

Monet, C. (1920). The Japanese Footbridge MoMa, New York.

Van Gogh, V. (1887). Quinces, lemons, pears and grapes [Still Life] Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.

Degas, E. (1872). Foyer de la Danse [A group of dancers practicing in a lofty room of the old Opéra on rue Le Peletier] Musée d’Orsay, Paris.

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The Golden Hues of Film Written by Duaa Zulfiqar

Graphic by Quynhmai Tran

So often we find it difficult to be

satisfied in a world where the unknown remains a mystery. It’s easy enough to merely voice our content, convincing ourselves that ignorance truly is a blissful state of being, but truthfully, how can we be so forward and make these claims, if movies still exist?

At the basic level, movies have often been categorized as a mode of entertainment, however, it is unrealistic to assume that film is solely for the viewer. The filmmaker themselves arguably reap far more benefits, as they are able to suspend rational thought and explore their deepest personal desires. In labeling ourselves human, we accept the fact that the majority of our lives are lived desperately searching for satisfaction, indulging in anything that can bring us even remotely close to fulfillment. On account of this, the filmmaker cannot help but explore the avenues of their own curiosity, taking full advantage of any method that may bring them closer to unearthing their endless

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inquiries. Some indulge themselves in research, others observe communities unlike their own. However, the bold filmmaker uses this storytelling method to visualize the hypotheticals of their own lives. They live out their subconscious fantasies using a medium that requires them to appoint stand-ins. Stand-ins that could potentially look the way they want them to look, whose sole purpose is to act out the storyline they are given by their creator. How else can we figure out whether or not our longings our valid if not to live them out, even if it is through the use of other people?

We yearn to know what happens in our futures, decipher how our past experiences have affected us, and dispute whether or not we are making the right decisions in the present. There is nothing more uneasy of a feeling than the thought that our lives are futile, as we helplessly submit ourselves to the unknown. This is the life that the filmmaker refuses to live. They cannot help but address the “what ifs” that infect their brain.

What if we became everything we wished to be? What if there existed a world where subjectivity was the basis

of all thought? What if we could do the impossible and time travel? With these questions in mind, it becomes apparent that every single frame serves a distinct purpose, as the viewer cannot disregard the filmmaker’s use of sound, dialogue, or even color.

While the former techniques are imperative in how the viewer perceives the film, color is undeniably the most noticeable. Each color is coded to represent a specific emotion. If the viewer were to be presented with the color red, they would say it represents anger and power, the color purple represents fantasy and allurement, pink romance, and yellow childhood.

Think about how films play with the dichotomy between adulthood and childhood, often flashing back to our younger days with noticeable jump cuts. When bright, fluorescent white and blue shades harshly drench the screen, we cannot help but become nauseated at the extreme starkness of the image. The moment the director snaps back to a memory, flashback, or a depiction of the character’s youth, there is an apparent color difference. The filmmaker has grown accustomed to planting specific associations, as yellows and golds are reserved as colors of innocence and what once was. They symbolize far-away memories, so long gone they might as well be dreams. One would even describe these memories as “fuzzy.” When we think yellow we think warmth. We think about endless summers and sticky weather, laughing with our friends until there is no air left to breathe. But then suddenly, it

becomes so far away that we question whether or not our memories happened or if they are fantasy. The representation of our childhood in the media does not just make us feel seen, it tells us how to feel. When we think about movies and color theory it is apparent that we have been conditioned to feel a specific way: aspirational.

To be aspirational is a privilege,

as too often we succumb to the overwhelming feeling of apprehension we associate with the future. However, there is one stage in our life in which we were able to aimlessly enjoy this feeling: childhood. Daydreaming about what the future may hold is the defining characteristic of childhood that keeps the young mind afloat. This tell-talegolden-hue has served as the background for a multitude of coming of age films, but Sean Baker’s The Florida Project goes as far as to create a new lane. Upon its release, it was expected to garner much attention at awards shows such as the Oscars, but to the audience’s dismay, it was snubbed in the major categories.

It is argued that The Academy wasn’t ready for this, as the movie told the story of an underprivileged community, a community that lacks mainstream representation. Was this a genuine overlook on The Academy’s part, or were they actively refusing to explore a film with a more sensitive subject matter? This is the question viewers prompted the film association to ask themselves.

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The film follows a young Moonee,

who lives with her mother, Halley, in a city just on the margins of poverty. A cruel twist of faith has left this neighborhood in the shadows of Disney World, leaving another idealized world to dream about.

What’s interesting about this film is that Baker chooses to tell this story primarily from the perspective of the motel’s children. As a result, the entire movie has been painted golden with purple undertones, to highlight how the children perceive their world as one giant playground.

The reddish hue suggests to the viewer that there is more than what meets the eye, as Baker strategically communicates to the audience that although the visuals may tell us one thing, reality suggests another. We miss our childhood regardless of how bleak it may have been, and we can not help but romanticize it.

This movie, in particular, stayed with me as it explored the innocence of childhood without compromising reality. The sadness stems from our own perceptions, as mundane adult life is a normality, but Baker suspends this reality, not because he does not acknowledge it, but because Moonee and her friends do not. Their worries do not line up with their mothers, as they are more considered about whether or not the local bright pink donut shop is open that week. This is the unsung power of color that Baker has tapped into. On the surface, it seems as though this is an innocent story that follows the adventures of a group of mischievous children, as they navigate the only world they know.

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However, he chooses to supply a more idealized view because that is the association he designates with childhood.

It is apparent that color plays

a significant role in the viewer’s perception of not only the film but their approach to life. To willingly accept these associations presented in film says a lot about our outlook on growing older. To look back at our childhood with such fondness and accept the nauseating prospect of adulthood tells us how much we fear the unknown.

What if we instead answer this question: does our fear of adulthood stem from genuine apprehension or have we been conditioned to think this way because of the media?

The King of Instruments

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Written by William Shi Graphic by Quynhmai Tran

I was seven years old when I sat

in front of my first grand piano. I remember feeling overwhelmed, like a wanderer stumbling upon a gaping abyss. My feet dangled in the void several inches off the ground, unable to reach the pedals underneath. I was staring straight into the dark maw of a massive beast with its white teeth grinning at me. The keys felt so alien as I ran my fingers across them, like they were dancing across a frozen lake; in my periphery, I was acutely aware of the strange old woman fiercely staring at me with anticipation.

There was a silence in the air, waiting to be filled with harmonies and song.

The stranger jolted at the first sound she heard, but frowned as she heard no rich note created by the piano hammers striking the strings, rather just the quiet sobs of a child. I wanted to go home.

One of the most famous composers

of all time, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, was said to have started playing the keyboard at three, composing songs when he was five, and performing at the imperial court of Vienna when he was six. The ability to play the piano has historically been recognized as a mark of social status and discipline.

However, when proficiently played by a child, it becomes the mark of a genius.

The instrument itself is a beauty of design, with its wide tonal ranges giving it the versatility to mimic a full orchestra.

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With its tonal capabilities, you

can invoke the dramatic triumph of bombastic trumpets or the somber rumbling of a tuba. You can instill the piercing melancholy of a violin and pair it with the swift melodies of a flute. It has the ability to capture any emotion and be played like an extension of your soul. For the power it gives a musician, it has always been called the king of instruments.

The piano has been the mainstay

of Western classical music for the last 300 years. The waltzes and sonatas composed on it are deeply tied to the reverie and regality of European high society and noble parties. It is a centerpiece of American suburbia, with it frequently being featured in the parlors of picturesque 1980s nuclear family homes in media and reality.

Having a nice piano, even one no one plays, is a visually imposing display of wealth. When played, the ambiance it creates gives an air of sophistication and grace. For all these reasons, many households, especially Asian ones, have encouraged or forced their child to try to learn the piano.

Sadly for my parents, I was not

Mozart resurrected from the grave, but that didn’t mean I was allowed to quit.

Having a child not being able to play an instrument would be a stain on my parents at dinner parties which, much like spilled wine, needed to be cleaned or hidden. For years I was forced to go to lessons where I constantly disappointed my teacher, performed

in recitals for pieces that I didn’t care for, and I was stuck alone for hours at a time in my own corner of the world with nothing to confront but my mediocrity. I wasn’t like my friend, Dylan, who won piano competitions left and right, nor was I wowing people like Charlie by mastering the 3rd movement of “Moonlight Sonata” before I graduated elementary school.

My abilities were simply nothing to brag about and not even useful enough to achieve noteworthy things for a college resume. Thus, once I entered high school, my mother largely lost her attachment to the idea of having a piano playing prodigy, and without her pushing me I let the eight years I’d sacrificed waste away.

A few months later my friend showed me an animated show called Your Lie in April, and it would change my life. The show followed the story of a young orphan boy who was the “Lebron James” of children’s piano competitions, but who quit when his mother died. For his entire life, his mother abusively pushed him to perfection and with her gone he mentally broke and could no longer play.

A quick aside for those who aren’t

aware how piano competitions work, you might wonder how one judges a performance, since after all, isn’t art subjective? How does one reduce all the emotional complexities and nuances that are possible on the piano into a single, testable metric? The answer is you don’t. Instead, you force kids to follow the score.

The score is a very literal transcription for a piano performance that contains very rigid parameters about how you are supposed to play the various passages. You give impressionable, curious kids an instrument that gives them the freedom to explore the world and instead force them to box themselves into a tightly scripted, curated experience.

In the show, the main character is

famously called a robot that is a “slave to the score” for his startling accuracy he displays at competition, but feels no joy for his playing since it has no soul.

One day however, his life changes when he witnesses a girl throw a high stakes competition by playing the set piece, the piece everyone plays, completely differently from the other competitors. The slow, rather boring Beethoven song in her hands becomes injected with this levity and fierce passion which completely transforms the song. The stunned audience is enraptured by the performance of this fourteen year old girl with the main character remarking that, “This piece is no longer Beethoven’s … there’s no denying that she owns it.” The show goes on to explore the journey of these two character’s self-discovery through music; it is overall an excellent show that I recommend to anyone who loves music, but this scene I just described has always held a special place in my heart. There was something so beautiful about watching this child shed the expectations of those around her and create something that was so imbued with her own identity.

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Musicians, especially in the classical world, live in the shadows of timeless giants who lived centuries ago and the concept of putting on a performance so powerful that people associate the song with you rather than the composer is just so inspiring. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I experienced something similar when my old teacher played one of their favorite songs for me—the intensity of the anguish and glory expressed in those moments seared into my memory.

Her hands struck the opening

chords with such intensity that it felt like a boxer sucker punched me in the gut. Each note slowly rang out with this weight, as if her hands bore the weight of the world when falling on the keys. She tells me, “I imagine the great bells of a cathedral that my family has gone to for generations… the sound timeless and enduring with centuries of history.” The next part crashes against my bones in fast, successive waves of chromatic triplets that flow with this feeling of agitation, like emotions gushing out after being bottled up for an eternity. After a long explosive climax of the main theme, the passionate interlocking chords just fade into this sad, quiet seven bar coda. When I asked her why she ended a song filled with such rage and fervor with melancholy, she only told me, “At a certain point you are just tired, tired of being angry, and tired of longing for a past you can never go back to.”

I must have searched through dozens of different renditions of this song on YouTube and none of them are

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comparable to that experience. Not to say that the people playing in the videos I watched did a poor job, just that their expressions and styles were nothing alike. My teacher came to the U.S as a Russian immigrant and has very complex feelings towards her original country. The way she expresses herself while playing that song “brings back memories of her first home.”

Reflecting back on my own

musical journey after watching this show, I realized the true beauty of playing music is how you can express feelings that language simply can’t.

How you can leave behind your own legacy through your unique performances of songs. Now, making music is something I deeply cherish.

It’s so therapeutic experiencing my emotions through the piano whether it be venting away my heartbreak and anger or basking in the joy of life.

The strange old woman, who was

both my teacher and friend, smiled as I brought a few sheets of paper to her. It was the first time I’d ever brought a piece of my own volition, and I was a little nervous since it was no masterpiece like “Sonata” by Chopin. Rather, it was a theme song from a show I really liked. My fingers drummed restlessly on my thighs with anticipation at her next words and with excitement as I looked past her and at the piano. Its glowing keys beckoned to me as if it was begging to be played. After leafing through the stack she finally says, “This song is a bit unconventional, but I think it can work, though just to double check, are you certain you want to play this at the next recital?” I stare into her eyes with a certainty I’ve never felt in my entire artistic career: “Yes, I do.”

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams…

Written by Maya Ertay The Green A painstaking brightness.

The first encounter Of one product of nature with another, First stumble, and stutter Just about to open up and discover The five dimensions of a dream; And the 6th, to make everything seem As real as the sunrays.

It’s everywhere, the green; The chirping of a bird, The movement of a herd The softness of the pillow, The smell of that carnation right next to the willow; The sweetness of a strawberry And the baby: Voracious, eager and warm To swallow all the charm.

The Red It’s the charms That makes the human what they are.

The charms as entities But also as the deities They become Through the power of the red Whose strength is a dread; Insatiable makes their heart Seek in everything: the spark.

The butterflies in the stomach Brings both the joy and the ache.

Little does the young human know Butterflies in all parts of the dream grow.

They grasp the soul And fight the foul, Lighting in every smile, a candle Sometimes more than one can handle.

The Pink But it doesn’t really matter How much they can handle.

Dreams are overwhelming, Everywhere there’s another crystal of one’s heart, Pounding.

More than ever before No regrets ashore As it’s the era of pink A kiss, a passion, a wink Drags one From one island to the other.

The tightness of the skin is joyful Offers hope Witn no scope Of any kind — Until the numbers Come to mind.

“How can one calculate a dream,” a young human asks A dream is a dream, The spontaneity is what makes the stream.

Yet calculations set the scene As if they don’t, then comes the grief.

The Yellow Sooner or later it comes Numbers everywhere Turn into blurs As if someone spurs The heart of the human — Not so young anymore.

A reasonable mind knows It is the ship of balance everyone rows.

One gets tired as the current grows.

The current is the stream Of the very dream That the human once deemed Green, red, and pink.

The brightness is now to sink Under the deep water lies

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The bits And pieces Of all sorts and kinds That leave the mind Unsettled, Unsatisfied, Hopeless, And eventually; Careless.

The human should beware, First the smoothness, then the dream is past.

Tired is the human.

It was no state to prolong The restless, ongoing song In the human’s head; Never to end.

Can you fight a color, dear human?

The Blue It is the color of surrender — blue.

A very delicate hue Where the human claims the color of the river, And unpeacefully settles, no more to shiver.

The Purple Right before the dream ends, Blue leaves the hands To purple, but not cold.

So the human had to fly To bring back the red And unite it with the blue in the sky.

Hence comes the purple: The most real part of this dream.

Now more than ever: Clean.

For restful death the human cries As the spark in everywhere, One by one, Dies.

There’s both the sparks and the thoughts Both the numbers and the hopes The colors will eventually unite, Right after the purple lasts a fortnight.

There is fog on the horizon, It’s almost like now the dream is hidden.

The dimensions fade away, It’s okay, human, It’s okay.

No more to be enjoyed, Nothing more to be explored; Much turmoil to deal with, Yet no one to proceed with.

The Brown

A random array Of dots The dream, like a clay So hot, Now hurts And slides by the hand, That touched all and felt all, Gets slower and delicate.

Now with all sorts of texture, very intricate.

After all, the smoothness was not to last:

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The brown, The brown.

The color of elitism; Criticism.

The human was to mess up from the beginning, Hopping from one color to another, Mixing the potion — That’s the dream.

The human doesn’t realize How it’s the dream that they idealize.

They laugh, they cry, they repent “Live” through it to the utmost extent.

The world is full of dreams Billions of dreams, All of which is nothing But reveries.

The Liberator Magazine is the official publication of the College of Liberal Arts at The University of Texas at Austin.

Editor-in-Chief Hayle Chen Associate Editors of Content Kara Hildebrand Justin Pastrano Associate Editor of Media Quynhmai Tran Staff Writers Ariadne Danae Chavez Salinas Duaa Zulfiqar Mary Claire Jackson Maya Ertay Olivia Oswald Pauline Belz Creative Competition Winners Katelyn Buck Akash Geeni William Shi

This magazine was printed by The University of Texas at Austin Document Solutions in Spring 2022.

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