Sight/Line: Interdisciplinary Practice in Art and Language

INTERDISCIPLINARY PRACTICE IN ART AND LANGUAGE

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Preface LastName, FirstName

What are the ethics of looking? Who is granted humanity on the basis of sight, and by whose gaze?

How is language aestheticized and positioned to craft messages of place, identity, gender, race, and power in our daily surroundings and conversations?

When you find a work of art or writing that makes a part of you more legible to others, where do you draw the line between “feeling seen” by an artist and feeling consumed by an audience?

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sight/line features the work of burgeoning artists who bend the borders between visual art, poetry, and prose. By bridging concepts and techniques in artistic and poetic composition, these artists critically examine how we use language to translate, define, and structure the world.

Contents 01 04 07 10 13 16 19 22 25 28 31 34 37 40 43

MAYA MEHROTRA JUSTIN KELLER COLE ROBERTS MARGARET HAMILTON SHAY OVERSTONE JISEON MIN OLIVIA GREGONIS ALISSA ROACH ANA SOPHIA ROLLINS HANNAH O’BRIEN MATTHEW AUTIERI NAZ KHOURY HANNAH PANG RILEY GOSNELL INDEX

Mehrotra, Maya

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Three Anachronisms Paper, waxed thread, Honeylocust pods, cyanotypes, brochures, pencil rubbings, school ID, math notebook doodles.

6 x 9 in

An archive of the converging histories of Abington Friends School, from an ecological, historical, and personal perspective.

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​​I was there.

You were there.

Were you there?

I was there.

Was I there?

Were we there?

Mehrotra, Maya

Am I here?

You’re not here.

Are you here?

I’m there.

Obscured Documents

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LastName, FirstName

Serigraphs on plywood 39.5 x 34.5 in

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Keller, Justin

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Green Eyes I ask why you had left me. He had pushed my back and I stumbled to find my balance on a twowheeler. The same boy made my dinner when my parents were working late, which was most nights.

The same boy would smack me on the nape of my neck when I got math problems wrong. A man who stands in our doorway asking for shelter, stuttering as he spoke. But, to me you were still the smartest man I knew. My family looked at you like you’re a stranger, but I embrace you in my arms ignoring the smell of alcohol and bad breath. Since you came back to me you must love me as much as I love you.

If you needed help, who better to help you than your brother. But you hated it when I called you that.

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In the Quiet Built in ’73 this building has deeper roots that I can not understand Me myself am not queer and queerness has often led me to foreign experiences with loved ones That night in New York spent dancing with only my friend and sweaty men around me A stranger in this space, but was a very welcomed guest Is this sanctuary for them?

LastName, FirstName

As I sit here reading, in this queer and unfamiliar space I begin to think of safety Thoughts of an old bookstore being a beacon for sanctuary, who are these vessels built for and what dictates one’s access to them?

Why did the man grin when I entered his store?

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I choose to stay here, in the quiet

Keller, Justin

This sanctuary is for all?

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The video and sound installation, Body of, features footage of the intimate inner workings of the artist’s mouth on a large-scale monitor. The sound-designed licking follows the viewer’s navigation of the space as questions related to the body flash on the screen. The pronouns and their plurality change with every question asked.

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Body of 7 min. 32 sec.

BIOGRAPHY

Roberts, Cole

I am quick to get ready for the day but before I leave the apartment, wait the full two minutes and twenty-four seconds into The Cure song, ‘Push’, and with my best Robert Smith voice sing the opening lyrics “Go go go… Push him away!”

I am making the time to push him away, whoever he is that day, and am going somewhere to make something. I am aware that I am on the right track when I hear and feel something scintillating in my stomach. I am interested in exploring the infinite mutability of sound as it relates to the many different forms of queer connection. Sound, without fail, manifests itself in my practice; whether that be through, video, sculpture, installation, or music production. I am drawn to sound’s ability to heighten the viewer’s awareness of their bodily functions.

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Roberts, Cole

We are unknowingly consenting to cycles and the subsequent pain that is required to break them when we begin. We are listening to loud music even though we are aware of the consequences.

We are hearing an ear ringing every night when we lie our heads down. We are never going to hear the frequencies that the ear ringing sound makes ever again in the natural world ever again. We are going to have to live with that. We are supposed to sleep where danger is not an option, yet we do not progress without. We are going to have to live with that. We are slipping down the barrels of each other’s necks and every so often embracing embarrassment and risk. We are aware that these risks could have killed us in a past life. We are getting our tiny hoop earrings trapped in each other, breaking free, and watching it all wane.

We are queer when we embrace failure. We are closing our eyes when we cum.

Home Body Acrylic and thread on canvas 2 x 5 ft

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Hamilton, Margaret

Hamilton, Margaret

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BIOGRAPHY If I was a cuttlefish, the first place I would go is the grass. I would observe how the world sees grass. I would morph my soft, intelligent back into the short linear blades. I would be smart enough to turn the tippy top of the grass blades yellow. With subtle serrations, only visible when held up close, implying I cut just a few days ago. I would pick a shady spot next to a fern and I would sit with it and breathe for days on end waiting for the fern to talk to me. I would be so patient. I would get bored and move myself two inches into the soil and grow roots. I would be part

of the root network where they are all talking and sharing. The bald cypress would tell me stories of how it got its knees, and tell me of the neighbors they lost. I think all the answers are underground. If I were a cuttlefish two inches below ground I would think of the underground world akin to the ocean. I would see the cicadas and I would want to be them, napping for years. I would resurface to the ground plane where the air greets the earth- thinking the fern finally spoke to me and I missed it while on my adventure below. I realized the sound was just the frisbee laughing, always laughing

1. An gel 2. Anima; 3. Behave 4. Being an angel 5. Beingangel 6. Bodddd 7. Bods 8. Bowwooo 9. Busy kitchen 10. Choices 11. Clips 12. Conifer trees 13. Crawl space 14. Cry 15. Dance 16. Dancing 17. Debris 18. Default 19. Eerie 20. Face 21. Fitting in 22. Flies 23. Gallery 24. Gasoline pile 25. Glass 26. Hanging 27. Horizontale 28. Hugs 29. Images 30. Images 31. Images 32. Images 33. In may 34. Intimate 35. Life 36. Lingerie 37. Marx 38. Meta 39. Mirror

40. Moves 41. Niceties 42. Notes 43. Photo 44. Photo 45. Photo 46. Play 47. Pov 48. Print 49. Queen 50. Rawimage 51. Ruin 52. Screenshot 53. Screenshot 54. Screenshot 55. Screenshot 56. SEE YOU 57. Segsy 58. Self 59. Selfie 60. SHEETS 61. Slice 62. Snake 63. Soviet 64. Space 65. Spin 66. Tavern 67. Train 68. Translate 69. Treebody 70. Unknown 71. Unknown 72. Unknown 73. Unknown 74. Unknown 75. Unnamed 76. Untitled 77. Zoom

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Overstone, Shay

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This is an exploration into the passage of time and the ambiguous feelings that result from extended periods of time spent away from the environments and people we were raised with.

It Keeps Going Without You Video (color, sound) 4 min.

Overstone, Shay

15 I have never ridden a horse. I’ve never shot a gun though I’ve held one. I’ve never flown first class. I’ve never seen god though i’ve been to heaven. I’ve never hated someone though I do occasionally gossip. I love to see people run for the train and make it. I’m a fan of synchronized diving. I prefer the morning over the evening. I believe in mermaids. I like to climb trees but I’m afraid of heights. The first person that ever truly broke my heart was a friend.

16 The body as a place is continuously located in other places and affected, and its influence can be detected with a sense of imbalance of symmetry. Every place where people have rendered has boundaries, grids, and lines that divide one thing from another, and rules are created accordingly, so the body as a place always changes depending on where it is located.

BIOGRAPHY

Min, Jiseon

I folded a piece of paper into a camera, took a picture by peeking into a tiny hole, and that is how I saw a memory. My grandparents’ old house had two rooms with no tables, sofas, or beds. It was a house where people lay blankets on the floor when sleeping, and pull out and sit around a low table when eating. One of the rooms in the house had a raised platform, which always seemed like a small stage to me. As a child, I waited there for mom and dad to come after work. One night, when we were all having dinner in that room, I found my baby blanket in the closet. It was a quilt with a triangular cloth sewn into one corner of it, meant to wrap and protect the baby’s head. I was touched to regain this blanket, which I had no memory of, so I tried it on my head. It felt like a cloak of a wizard or a wing that would make me fly. I repeatedly jumped off from the raised spot to the lower part of the room, feeling the slight heaviness of the blanket pressing my head, and the waves that blanket made by falling on my back. I asked my dad with joy, “Isn’t this blanket so amazing?” My Dad said, “What’s so fun about that?”

Crescent Strategy Video (color, sound) 3 min. 6 sec.

I was laying down in my bed under a white, cozy blanket, surrounded by my loved ones. It is only then that I realized that language, structure, and truth were of no use. It is confirmed that life did not have to be so difficult at all. And yet, life, not death, was all I had up till then.

That’s why······.

Min, Jiseon

My very first memory is of holding my grandmother’s hand. We were walking down the alley that led us to the daycare center. It was a warm bright day. I was hesitant but tried not to show that to my grandmother because I knew I had to go and I knew that she had to leave. I was on my grandmother’s right side, so my left hand was holding my grandmother’s right hand. Most of it might just be my imagination. But I can’t help myself not to imagine, so I imagine and hope for my very last memory.

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Gregonis, Olivia

Good Girl is a short single channel video in color with sound. It is a shot of the artist from the shoulders up wearing a Scold’s Bridle. The contraption prevents the artist from speaking clearly; subtitles slowly reveal what she is saying.

Good Girl Video 5 min. 25 sec.

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BIOGRAPHY

Gregonis, Olivia

It was during this time last year that I thought about running away. I was driving home from work on a Friday afternoon sitting at the red light on Jasper street at the weird 5 way intersection. I dreamed about getting on I-676 and taking the exit for New York. Driving up above the city and finding a motel where I could stay a night or two. This sounded like a much better option than going back to my apartment on 18th street. As my blinker clicked and tears rolled down my cheeks I thought about the conversation Jacob and I had the day before. I had asked him if he would be mad if I left and didn’t tell anyone where I was. To my surprise he responded “Olivia what kind of questions even is that?

What do you mean I would be so mad and upset”. I inquired why and he said “I would be so worried about you”. I was baffled. I hadn’t considered he’d be worried because I didn’t even care what happened to me. I just wanted to get away. I didn’t end up leaving like I wanted to. Instead I drove home and took a shower like all the Fridays before. This was a year ago and I’m not this sad anymore, thank god.

by Gregonis, Olivia

LastName, FirstName

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Pizza in a pot is like pizza except it’s not. It’s pasta.

Pizza in a pot is what your uncle tells you you’re gonna have when you tell him you want pizza.

You’re four, maybe five years old and your parents left to go to a wedding and your uncle is watching you. He’s silly, wears glasses and loves Barbara Streisand. When you ask what’s for dinner and he says pasta you tell him you want pizza. He says “ok, that’s what we’re gonna have, pizza…in a pot”.

He explains it’s like pizza except all mixed up in a big pot. You think about it and while it’s certainly not the pizza that comes from the delivery man in the white and green box, it will have to do. As it turns out, pizza in a pot is pretty good.

“The sketchy part of town” :: “Where Megan jogs in the morning” “The Vine Street Expressway” :: “My Grandma’s Backyard” “It says ‘Poor Connection’” :: “Sorry my wifi is shitty” “Our kitchen floor” :: “Their living room ceiling” “West Philly” :: “North Philly” :: “South Philly” “The United States of America” :: “Russia” “Kingston” :: “Philadelphia” “Could you help me get something to eat?” :: “Sorry, I don’t have any cash”

A place is most often defined by its borders, however rigid or indeterminate the lines drawn may be. For example:

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Roach, Alissa

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Unattained (Not An Easy Road)

A place becomes a “home” once you are rooted within these borders, or rather when the soil is familiar with your blood. In dislocation, or migration, the outer edge of the borders of home seemingly stretches across the horizon in all directions, and you are left to search for the entrance.

Soon you realize the only options are transplantation into the earth or transcendence toward the sky.

Roach, Alissa

Video (color, sound) 6 min. 24 sec.

Audio by Cole Roberts

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BIOGRAPHY It had snowed a couple days before and the air was still cold, but somehow the snow was collecting in brown puddles by the sidewalk. Maybe the sun had something to do with it, since it was beating down hard. I crossed Broad and leapt over one of the puddles to get to the train station. A man stopped me to yell, “YO I LOVE HOW YOU MANEUVERED THAT.” I said “Thank you!” and tried to continue on my journey. He kept going, “I thought you’d need some help with that, but you got it, you good, I like that, I like that about you. What you do at Temple?”

I told him “Sculpture.” He told me his name was Q, that he went to Temple 25 years ago for engineering, and that he now “builds houses”, and went on to search for his Instagram page on my phone. It was populated with the wood framework of multiple homes. I felt my hands going numb and put them in my pockets.

He asked, “Is your father in your life?” I told him no, he paused, and he said, “I could tell, I’m sorry to hear that.” He pointed at the scarf I was wearing to keep my head warm and asked, “You Muslim?”, to which I replied, “No.” He said, “Yeah, but you present that way. I like that about you.” He continued on to say, “It’s scary out here in North Philly, you better be careful… you know, I love you. I love you and I would beat someone to death for you. I would kill for you, I really would.”

Rhymes with Love november 23rd olivia made me a cake, 1. olive oil 2. with homemade persimmon jam 3. and a chamomile-thyme cream cheese frosting 4. and pistachios on top they said they steeped four bags of chamomile tea in hot melted butter to release the flavor and that the persimmons were fresh in season at the store earlier that week and they just had to buy them dry roasted unsalted whole pistachio nutmeats are their favorite and every time i visit them there’s a bag - in the second cabinet - to the right of the fridge - bottom shelf - pushed all the way to the corner - with the dried cranberries and slivered almonds (and on top of an olive oil cake with homemade persimmon jam and a chamomile-thyme cream cheese frosting)

olivia laughed and said the persimmon top in the middle was to cover up the big dent; the pan was so hot that • they dropped it • and it caved in • but they filled it with persimmon jam • put the top on • like it was on purpose we served ourselves the biggest slices you’ve ever seen (twice) strong black coffee how we always make it the french press on the counter and their cracked mug of the chicago skyline for breakfast, later for lunch and there were only two slices left by nighttime so we had it for dinner too i know that there are rules in poetry, but secretly i’m sure that olive oil cake with homemade persimmon jam and a chamomile-thyme cream cheese frosting with dry roasted unsalted whole pistachios on top rhymes with love

¿Quién Eres? [Who Are You?]

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Cardstock, ink, bookboard, fabric, metal leaf 8.75 x 5.75 in.

Rollins, Ana Sophia

BIOGRAPHY this year home is in a crooked brick apartment building leaning so slightly to the left that it took me a few months to notice it. my landlord replaced they keypad to the front door in january and it’s crooked too, when you look closely the top corner is a few centimeters closer to the handle than the bottom. the locks in our doors are unforgiving. when i’ve had a good day they play tug-of-war with me and when it’s a bad day they make me cry, but either way they seem to love my keys and never let them go. the old white banisters leading up to the third floor never align with the stairs and sometimes and i find myself wondering if whoever built these apartments was bad at math or if the building is just crumbling. when i’m lonely i look up at the top of my crooked front doorframe leaning against the light blue wall and it tells me that it’s okay to slouch. every day it tells me the same thing and we never get tired of each other. if you pay enough attention you’ll notice the hallway leading from the front door to my kitchen is skewed a bit to the right but even still the lemon bars i make every so often always turn out just right. i cut them into crooked pieces and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or if that’s just how i am now.

Rollins, Ana Sophia

Playing with the concept of institutionalized language in a dictionary/ encyclopedia-like format, common definitions of 37 terms used to identify people with ties to Latin America are annotated by the artist as a means of questioning terminology we use to shape identity and problematizing the concept of a singular “latinidad.”

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O'Brien, Hannah

A visual depiction of emotions passing through time and what is or is not seen by others.

Beginning again Organza fabric, acrylic, stretcher bars 44 x 36 in.

29 July 24th 2020 I lost 5 birthmarks that day My skin moved It will never be the same now 5 birthmarks are no longer a part of me Now hundreds of stitches fill the gap between my skin is this what will make me happier December 2020 Healing The worst thing they ever said to me was “ I liked you better before” before losing 5 birthmarks The me before the scars and stitches The part of me I felt so unhappy in My healing wasn’t the same after you said that The smile has faded The self doubt grew larger Did I lose the only good thing I had?

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Beginning Again I miss the feeling, When it all felt right But this will take time.

I haven’t been myself, And so I begin again This is for me.

You had me at the very first word, To the silence that followed I am captivated by you.

O'Brien, Hannah

Autieri, Matthew

31 Stargarden / Son of Man Photo prints

This piece is an excerpt of two separate pieces.

The text on the left is from an interview with my grandfather on his near-death-experience, and the images on the right are photo narratives of my conception. Links to both in full are provided in the QR codes on the next page.

BIOGRAPHY I had to have been about six years old, which meant my brother couldn’t have been older than three or four. It was a nice day, probably late spring or early summer. I was preoccupied doing something inside, as were my parents and sister, and after some time we realized Stevie was nowhere to be found. My dad had just covered our picnic table with a fresh coat of white paint, and Stevie got into it with sharpies. In his three or four-year-old chicken scratch, he had somehow been able to cover nearly the entire table, legs and all, in a text none of us had ever seen before. Runelike - hieroglyphic in nature, dozens of different little symbols scrawled in blue ink. I remember being scared honestly, and that summer the rumor was born that he was an alien, and this was his attempt to contact his home planet. I’m still struck at the thought of it. In that moment something compelled him to do such a thing. The root of that impulse fascinates me. I wish my dad had run out of paint on that first coat so we could have admired it a bit longer, before it was ultimately covered up again. It was erased just as quickly as it had arrived.

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FUL L PD F

Autieri, Matthew

Stargarden

FUL L PDF

Son of Man

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Khoury, Naz

al Mina Ink on coffee and tea-stained paper 50 x 7.5 in.

A thousand-word long sentence exploring the niche port in Jbeil through the progression of history into today’s vibrant nightlife culture with touches of diasporic disconnection.

What makes this port the visual face of Jbeil?

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Khoury, Naz

‫ليبج نبا‬

BIOGRAPHY

There’s something that feeds my ego about having been to a part of the world a little less than 0.1% of humanity can legally access, almost like being a member of an exclusive club that is limited because of those who seek to leech its vitality and make it a military playground. On a warm July 2018 morning I drove with my father casually past the checkpoint where we handed the soldier our citizen IDs before going on our merry way through the maze of mountains and villages and the abandoned site where Jesus once turned water into wine. That day hypotheticals became experiences as we visited ex-military bases turned to cultural spots, graffitied walls on mountains overlooking an occupied land below, and the homes of my father’s friends with stories to tell. The final stop was the family home of my father’s friend Marwa, a controversial yet unafraid political commentator whose mother insisted on feeding us the best loubieh I’ve had before we traveled to the new home they were building. I wandered through the unstable foundation and stood on the roof, unsure if it could hold our weight, while she pointed out the occupied Golan Heights only a couple hundred meters away.

And when the loud booms came from that direction she felt the need to reassure me that it was normal -but I already knew that. We all did. I lost touch with Marwa after I came out but sometimes I wonder if that house still stands. But I do not need to ask to know that even if the house was bombed, her family would simply rebuild it because she and every other Jnoubi are the essence of Lebanon and Lebanon is the scrappy kid with the bandaged knees that gets back up every time.

Excerpt from al Mina

All throughout al Mina and the old souq and the citadel stray cats wander around and make their homes unaware of the deep history of the millenniaold structures they inhabit and they live in harmony among the locals who feed them bits of food and, in feline eyes, seem almost as immortal as the land they reside on and I sometimes wish I was one of these cats and at two am I would sit atop the limestone ledge on the side of the road and overlook HER and HER boat-shaped teeth drinking microscopic bits of the Mediterranean Sea and I wonder if I were this tiny port in a once-glorified city that literally contributed the alphabet and the color purple to the rest of the world would I someday become angry at that world which no longer acknowledges me as they once did and in retaliation swallow every inch of sea on Earth in order to expand and make my presence known but as a result I may bury myself and my entire history and my inhabitants under the ocean floor to decompose under the natural erosion process that would break down the millennia-old limestone bricks a hundred thousand years faster than air ever could and even with that great of loss of history would the world even notice or would they continue to focus their love and attention for history in good-old Europe which is not a region seen as the global face of war despite being the instigator and then I am so glad that I am allowed to admire al Mina and not be HER but I also feel sorry because I, like the other diaspora and the tourists, will jump in a car on the highway to Beirut and fly out from the International Airport that has taken on the role SHE once had thousands of years ago as the primary hub for travel and trade in the region and SHE remains peacefully cycling the sea’s saltwater for the foreseeable future.

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Pang, Hannah

I am a soft rumble, looking to pull apart the heaviness of generational pain. I create work based on my experiences of being an artist stuck between two definitions of home: China and America. I move emotions of dislocation, confrontation of fear, and communal warmth into the forms of textiles, earthworks, and photography. Through using my silhouette as a mark-making tool, I explore a balance on the line of breathing life into and pulling life out of objects. I see this line as a space of creation as an artist, taking control of experiences and molding them to the vision I see fit. I want to understand and display the tenderness of human life through physical interaction with my work. To cut, touch, rub, peel, and lay are the beginnings of my process. I see the life of an object as it relates to my experience, a mode of communication and storytelling. My work is indecisive, just as I am. My work is in progress, floating between thoughts.

Ink onmMylar 11 x 8.5 in.

When My Vision Returns Home

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Pang, Hannah

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Ache to Mine

parameters are set when letters become symbols become them i learned that chinatown started with a single laundromat chinatown started in the building that i like to get my hair cut (cash only and the wash is free) there’s always a daughter waiting to go home i like it when i speak the other tongue although mine trips over itself folding in and being bitten a lack of assurance (insurance?) folding in and out folding out and in packaged in a brown paper just like they used to do it one sleeve at a time we all get ready in the chorus of conversations outside the new grocery store (i quite like that one their fish snacks are good) the hum of the washer becoming inside a cloudy window bedsheets and long-sleeves are hung up to dry it’s too cold outside today remember to wear a coat

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Gosnell, Riley

I remember receiving a message from this man on grindr and I never took grindr seriously it was a way for me to feel like there were people like me around me even though all of them were always over ten miles away from me and the people who were my age were doing things like having their first kiss and getting crushes and asking people to dances and I remember seeing the message and having a moment of adrenaline and anticipation for what could be a chance that I could actually feel free and I replied then he replied then I replied then he replied then the next thing you know I am at his house and we are watching a show and I am really nervous I am in the middle of the countryside in Maryland far from my house and I don’t know this person and I am feeling like I am finally living the life I dreamed of being able to be myself with someone else then he wanted to do what we agreed to do then I realized that the life that I wanted wasn’t this and this wasn’t freeing but there was no way of leaving or telling him no and I remember my parents calling me after I fell asleep at his house wondering where I was and I never told anyone I did this and I realized that I lived the dream that I thought I wanted and I was living the nightmare that I never wanted knowing what awaited for me back home.

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BIOGRAPHY

Gosnell, Riley

What would happen, if we met again at 426 Weston Drive?

Would your parents sit in brooding silence, not wanting to make eye contact with me? Do you think they’ll remember when they said our friendship would never be split apart? I dream about your house, the smell of spices, and cleaning supplies. I dream of a space we created below your parent’s bedroom, where we would pretend to know how to vogue or talk about the men we saw on Grindr. I dream of seeing your parents again, my body now adorned with all the tattoos and earnings they swore you could never have.

What would happen if we thanked them for their harshness, giving us more adrenaline to take risks? How disgusted would they be if we told them you lied to miss church, instead we went to our first pride three hours away in D.C.? Do you think they heard us escaping out the backdoor, after they condemned us from being friends, believing I made you queer? Sometimes, I dream of a time when we weren’t exposed, where you weren’t arrested, and I can call 426 Weston Drive a second home. I wonder if it didn’t happen then, what would be of us now? If we waited till we wanted to, had the courage and the strength, would it all go differently?

“Splitting”, a state between support and collapse.

Untitled

Wood, string, nails 50 x 36 in.

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Index

JUSTIN KELLER @_ justinjkeller COLE ROBERTS @colerbrts cole-roberts.com MARGARET HAMILTON @margaret00000000 margarethamilton23.wixsite.com/my-site-1 SHAY OVERSTONE @shaydaylayway JISEON MIN @suneemin ALISSA ROACH @roach0000000 alissaroach.com HANNAH O’BRIEN @rhannahobrien_art hannahobrien2718.wixsite.com/website MATTHEW AUTIERI @0111o0 matthewautieri.wixsite.com/matthewautieri NAZ KHOURY @imonazite HANNAH PANG @limehotchip hannahpang.com RILEY GOSNELL @riley.is.art

MAYA MEHROTRA JUSTIN KELLER COLE ROBERTS MARGARET HAMILTON SHAY OVERSTONE JISEON MIN OLIVIA GREGONIS ALISSA ROACH ANA SOPHIA ROLLINS HANNAH O’BRIEN MATTHEW AUTIERI NAZ KHOURY HANNAH PANG RILEY GOSNELL