CANVAS Volume 16 Issue 2

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creative arts magazine

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union board

Canvas

Spring 2013 Volume 16, Issue 2

'Art is magic...

But how is it magic?

In its metaphysical development? Or does some final transformation culminate in a magic reality? In truth,the latter is impossible without the former. If creation is not magic, the outcome cannot be magic."

HANS HOFMANN abstract expressionistpainter, 1 880-1966

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dear reader

It's that moment when an idea hits and you can't shake it until words spill out on a page and images bleed out onto a sketchbook. Quick, before you lose it. Developer slips and slides over the paper and a photograph slowly appears before your eyes.

Hold your breath-- it's magic.

Inside the pages of this issue, we hope you find a piece of that magic for yourself. You're getting a glimpse into the heads and minds of IU's creatives who possess the talent of turning the imagined into reality. Grab hold and savor it.

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written artists

Colleen Leahy Kate Schneider Ellen Ryan Robinson

Becky BoyleEmily LaBarge Alyssa Maurer Claire Stebbins Eleanor Wyant

Athina Bikos Adam Leep

Griffin Michael Leeds Brianna Handy

visual

artists

Natalie Beesley Sarah Boyum Thomas Colcord Carly Dean Benjamin Durst Anne Fiala

William Fillmore Hannah Helton Donny Gettinger Rhiannon Connor Johanna Palmieri Stacia McKeever

Bill Pariso Erik Probst Betsy Stout Mark Totte Erin Tucker Eric Van Scoik Christine White Breanne Siniard

12 15 16 18 22 26 38 35 36 37 38 42 48 50 52 55 57 58 60 64 66 68 71 72 76 78 84 86 91 94 97 98

selections

committee

assistant

directors

director editor-in-chief designer

Ginny Martin Kathleen DeBrota Eric Van Scoik Laura Miller Mara Abonour Kate Robinson Anna Teeter Katy Davis Jennifer McCoy

Eric Van Scoik Mara Abonour Ginny Martin Kate Robinson Laura Miller Anna Teeter

Grace Miller

Dianne Osland

AJ O'Reilly

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I Lost Two: Colleen Leahy

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firstborn came blue. midwife caught it by the root, grasping. nobreath up whirled in waves flat air.

I did not weep. but next time, hollowed belly out it wept: raw and black, for years. for years I rocked them, my blue little stones, in the graveyard - in me . lone mourner, I did not weep.

I have no root.

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arid. raking waves, knotting through my hair. for years I walked frozen, stiffening the air. Clutching my blue hollow.

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Mother at the old house

sister, do you remember kissing in the rotted plank house, tongues

Colleen Leahy

and crabapples souring the good earth? tomatoes would not grow for their blacks and our mother screamed in the driveway little ghosts, we watched from the windows.

15

My father cries for Israel Kate Schneider

I'm sure of it, though we talk of other pains

like the disk that has slipped from his spine.

It has been pushed out from the base cushion layer worn through to let grind the sixty-two years of stacking and stacking bone.

He wonders most how a space so little: three square inches in the small of his back, has become the throttle control, the gears ever shifting and winding him into a twist.

He dreams of extracting it like pus from a hoof, if God would make it simple.

But perhaps it is this, beyond anything as his own bones turn on him, he is learning not to pray at all.

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iHeyyy Gfera!

Ellen Ryan Robinson

"hey girl, where you from? you a gringa mamita? I love you long time isi?"

I'm too white they say not their negrita linda morena princesa that moves like mangos fall I'm too tall they say built like sugar cana up up up turned my nose, with no small woman charm my ojos incite fear I drown drunk sailors landbound "you from here mami?" always pegged as a foreigner despite a slicing splicing slippery tongue that cooingly coughs their dark, short, shady words out "hey giiera, get lost" but I'm already gone, perdida

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On Orinoco river bottoms or stagnant Amazon watersin the dark, in the black mud, saliva-slick, they doze, cutlass bodies, stillwater drones with pock-punched muzzles and humming hulls like bright citrusa buzz of low-volt slumber,

a thick black ribbon of muscle, a ripple in the murktheir bodies rope over a threshing flank churning in the slip-stream, battery-bullet cells punching, punching, punching each charge into an embrace, and the shock does not kill, only stuns, suffocates the victims as they drown, as they fold into the electric

clamp of knife-fish bodies that caress, searching the numb body twitching in its neural collapse.

Herc You were a demigod in the dancehalls and on the gym floors. Like the hero they saw, you ruled the ashy blacktop growing weeds and aluminum posts, surveyed the cliffs and valleys of Sedgwick Avenue where projects rose and fell.

You were a pack runner with the graffiti renegades that earned you your ice-cold name-KOOL, with a K. The sound cuts harder and sharper than that soft C nonsense other DJs kissed. First it was you and the gray-black shoe-scuff of two turntables, a dual channel amp and PA speakers at your sister's party, your fingers frightened at the fresh touch of soaked vinylyou rinsed each body like a lover's, peeling the labels from black-shined faces so no monster could find your flow.

You scratched smoother, soared higher and lower, owned all over and under the midrange: treble screams and bass beats, the drowning moment when the vocals broke and you dropped in like a swimmer, submerged in the blue-red pulse-flash of rec-room aquariums.

B-boys and B-girls turn and twist together and apart, like warped chain-links you scale in flight, the fuzz from choked speakers roaring in your ears. Soon, landlords will light the fires to clear out the Bronx, but you already had the heat in you, a flame furled in your ribs like the new notes of rap that would find their way inside-you felt the trudge of that melody bound beneath funk tones and disco, you needed to turn it up, help some people listen.

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The Banjo This body holds so much pain, can you hear it? Carried over from far-off sea-coasts, its name dreaming of a lost lingual land, it leans into your lap, remembering its polyrhythmic history. Your fingers find the long paths of gut and copper, learning to clawhammer and dropthumb, to strum the arpeggio notes of knock-down rag ditties, to pluck tones of the coolest blues.

What are words to you, what is this song you stumble to pump through your young lungs?

Against me, you are so small-a warm, beating body as alive as the too-big organ in your arms.

Steadying the neck like a tiller, my hands of scuffed leather and weathered wood crumble back into the land that bore me.

I will guide you over heaving seas and rolling drones, deliver you to the truest tunes. My baby, open your ears to the yowl yawning through the stretched-hide drum face, an echo resonating beyond our circling of elbows, wrists and thighsto that trembling note singing deeper than the dull twang of age, land and race, ragged as broken hearts tucked under bowed faces.

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Under the covers, you are at the bottom of the ocean.

The darkness constricting, the sheets tangled around your feet, your lover's feet tangled around your own, clingy seaweed, skinny-dipping.

Soft kisses on your lips, down your neck, to your breast, your breaths coming faster and faster, his rough hands roaming lower and lower. Your body's reaction in response to his is a shark's response when it smells blood: fast and primal, needing and hunting.

When you forget to tread and your head goes under water, you must come up for air, take a break from the kisses.

Your tongue touches the childhood scar on his mouth, his fingers graze the beauty mark on your chin. His body is your body and your body is his, floating together, dreamlike in the vast ocean that is your bed. A storm rages above the water, the wind whips and shrieks in your ears, and still. Still you hold each other afloat, cling to each other like life preservers, so tangled together, so tightly, that you sink.

Sink slowly at first, and far, languidly, until your feet hit the bottom and you let go.

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The second time I kissed her, one of her eyes broke. You might not think it would be disconcerting to see a fiberglass eye break. But she was warm just like she was supposed to be, and she was just as pretty as any girl I'd ever liked, so it was a shock to watch her eye go into pieces in her head, tumbling out of the socket and into my fingers. My eyes got wet, but her remaining one didn't, and she just smiled and put her palm over mine, pressing the bits of her broken eye against my skin.

"Thank you for catching it."

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"Shh." She put her other hand into the front of my hair, pushing back at the locks even though her fingers caught in them. "I put a spare in my bag just in case." When she said the words, her dimples shown-two perfectly placed imperfections that only came out when she was thrilled about something.

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because we'd kissed four times didn't mean I knew her password, and by the time she woke up, I was in tears against the headboard, her head in my lap with its eyes frozen open.

No life in them, no life in them at all, and I wondered if it was her or me or

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The third time I kissed her, we got as far as my hand on her breast before she shorted, and it wasn't her arm this time, but even I could feel the spark that went off inside of her. That time, when I said a couple of days wouldn't work, she didn't say a word about it. She just cried with dry eyes and refused to let me touch her, even when I told her about the extension cord I got so she could repair upwards of 13 feet from the wall.

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"No, t I won't let you see my wires was a new technological feature or if it had been there the entire time.

The fourth time I kissed her, her tongue hit my tongue like the end of a 9-volt battery, and she passed out on my bed for twenty minutes. I tried to unlock her phone, to call someone, but just of voice tone if this I wondered again."

a trick of the dim light in the bedroom that made them seem the same way when she sat up and looked at me.

"I'm really sorry," she said, bringing a hand to her face, its index finger jumping like a Mexican bean. "Will

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that, uh...will that cord you have reach the bed?" Her dark hair was so pretty under the light that I couldn't help but nod, even though my heart wouldn't stop beating in a bad way.

Before I kissed her for the fifth time, I told her that maybe we...maybe we should just-

why this happens to you."

Her fingers shook as she tried to pull her hips back into place. "Look, people like me...objects like me...we can't fall in love."

"Why?" Giving up, she let her legs fall, and I

"No," she said, her fake eyes filling with something I didn't realize she'd been programmed for. "Don't you say that, Jezebel."

So I kissed her anyway, and when I whispered, "I love you," against her mouth, her torso disconnected from her upper half.

That night we fought so hard that the outlet next to the nightstand got ripped from the wall. She couldn't move after that, and I could see all of her wires coming out from under her belly button. She kept trying to hide them, but nobody's hands are as big as their stomach, and she cried so hard I could have sworn I'd seen her cheeks glisten.

But maybe that was just my trying to make her something she couldn't be.

"Tell me," I said, touching her leg and forgetting she couldn't feel it. "Tell me

caught them, two palms against the knees. "Because we aren't made for it.

The last time I kissed her, she stayed all together, her middle reattached in a few-days stay at some place she'd never told me about. Even as she dropped her hand from my cheek, I wondered if it was because it was a secret or because I'd never asked.

"You were beautiful to me for a while,' she said. And the words hit me so strangely that I couldn't respond, not even as she walked away from me.

That night as I lay in bed, my hands searching for something under the comforter that would never come again, I chalked the whole thing up to a flaw in her machinery.

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Three Triptychs Christ,The Moon, My Lover Claire Stebbins Staring out my window watching you eclipse the sun obscuring my thoughts of amateur arithmetic and torah numerology in excelcis deo watching you recede from the ocean watching the ocean recede from you who are you?

II The Morals, The Passion, The Money The world that I've built for myself is you an expansive vaudeville set with christ hiding beneat the floorboards I can't remember who put him there, do you? this place can fall into such dreadful disrepair but if you want to dredge him up again, to put something else besides me up on that pedesta.

I wouldn't be against it I wouldn't be but I have this terrible nightmare, it's true I just have this terrible nightmare, it's awful you're laying on the table that you set for me lying there with six tongues and eight eyes scee-eee-eeeaming "marry me Ezekiel,

time to face the family wheel"

I fly off in Merkabahs in 87 different directions I wish I could find some meaning in that but the truth is I'm hardly as confident as I think I really don't have my life goals quite figured out I think about my brother more than I care to admit but I'll be damned if I rest on all my laurels I never want to feel quite so comfortable that I bleed out into ether bleed out into ether

III The Players, The Worlds, The Lives You don't like video games because they're for greasy boys in hoodies who refuse to leave a trance with eyes like dusty cathode rays ignoring church and science alike I like video games because I enjoy the experience of exploring a world knowing there is a grand designer who built it just for me you don't like video games because they are power fantasies for horny teenage boys who want to shoot aliens and nazis with big phallusguns always being the one true destined hero for every world they enter

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I like video games because every time you ask why a character in a movie didn't save him or her I want to ask myself why I couldn't save him or her realizing that I'm not the one true destined hero for every world I enter trying as hard as I can I'm but you don't like video games because killing as many police as one can in vice city must be affecting our children changing their preconceptions of the world and besides, you're not very good at them.

I'm here to tell you that It is all true. it is affecting our children but a world of sandboxes with plastic objects we could try to swallow is better than a world without sandboxes and I never cared if you were good at them I just want to explore it all with you

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A Letter From My Guilt To God Eleanor Wyant

I am one of those kids Who has to go on mission trips So that I can stare at suffering As if it is an exotic animal Locked up at the zoo Whisper hopeful nothings Into its poor little years And be on my way

Feeling like I did God good My parents go on date night every Saturday My family says they're sorry My friends go to Princeton My boyfriend opens the car door for me I have not yet met grief I work at the GAP My church raises money for the less fortune My father pays for my anorexic therapy

So I can deal with this 100 lbs. of humility I do not know destitution I do know a little girl Who runs a razor blade along her scalp So men on the street can't tell she's a woma I know a past love with welts Mapped like constellations across his back That he swears mean nothing A friend whose body chooses to hate itself Yet he is still believing

A leader Who doesn't know how to talk to women Without day dreaming A sister who shakes When the world is bleeding I know too many people Who do too many things So they don't have to feel something

day Let Let Let Let Let Let

ME feel something my anorexia rid me hospitalized my worth leave me naked my pursuits be insufficient me into that forsaken cage my failure be

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But they will not find me there The placard barren of my species My trouble pale in comparison My skin pale in comparison Their images run through my before bedtime dreams

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I am complacent An ache barely existent My tired eyes Flutter shut

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I can't help but convince myself That God chooses favorites And wonder Why in the hell would me ever choose me So I don't pray for mercies Forgive me Lord I pray for 400 miles per hour winds To justly grace my town Stealing all of my undeserving I pray for glorious infection For my perfection of cells To betray my hopeful body I pray that those who love me See my insides So that I am left to fight alone

I pray God That your bountiful blessings Fairly condemn me

"I ray for 40 hour winds

And forgive me father For I know that is blasphemy But how else am I supposed to feel So command the weight of the world Penalize me with the waves of all 5 oceans Let all that I have not and should not fall upon me So that I can create some rectitude of my body For once and for all Allow me to experience something That I am deserving

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scrubbing his clothes rubbing raw the hands meant to pleasure him later if he so chooses

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we laugh at him together at his unimpressive member

the way it falls limp after a night of drinking, the way his pale face reddens in frustration adorned in stiff, starch dresses made to conceal us to camouflage our bodies because they are his we continue washing, laughing

Finding Home

Fur, heavy with blood

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begging for rest in

heaves upward, inward,

long, labored breath.

Struggling to stand, she waits an eternity in vain.

Hope collapses with her legs and she submits.

The light in her eyes dwindles, like an extinguished candle's

final flicker.

As she accepts her fate in fading light, the doe's surrounded.

Wolves, returning whisper promises of safety.

Only once they have swallowed the horizon, the young doe closes her eyes.

She reminds herself that the wild willows upon which she lay, make a fine home.

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Tattletales and Hairline Fractures Griffin Michael Leeds

Someday I'll have to tell my children that their Nona was not perfect. I think I'll tell them about the time she pulled me from school early to watch the neighbors' house burn down. How she could tangle me into psychological knots! She once advised me against trying out for th middle school cheer squad on the account that my fifth grade figure was "too plump." That might be a better one for when they're a little older and equally self-conscious abc adolescent transformations. Christ, that what parents are supposed to d Maintain a repertoire of cautionary tales to tell offspring during each ag milestone? I could reveal how she often snuck silverware and napkins home in her purse when she ate at a restaurant. "These places have crates upon crates of extra forks," she would justify to me as I watches her unroll the utensils from a linen rag and rinse them under hard water "They have more than they know they can do with them. I know. I use to work at a joint like that." No. Th time she took me to the Deckers' burning house would get the point across. I was called out of my second, grade class to find my mother waitir for me at the front office desk. She

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lied to the secretary that she had forgotten to call in about my 1:00 appointment with the "special head doctor," dragged me into our rickety blue car, and sped out of the parking lot, burning tire marks into the school pavement in her hot pursuit to see this house fire, making me an accomplice in her scorched rubber vandalism.

We could see the black turret of smoke from the school. Six minutes and two ran stoplights later, we were parking near the scene of what was slowly becoming the former home of the recently married Decker couple.

It was only four blocks from our dilapidated one-story. It didn't faze Mom in the slightest that the freak lightning bolt could have blitzed our own house instead of the unfortunate Deckers. The young and fair Mrs. Sherry Decker was hanging laundry when ominous clouds suddenly gathered above her to strike up a game of meteorological Russian roulette. The rainless formation

dropped a ball of lightning squarely on the paper dry shingles of their roof. Oatmeal flakes of ash were already flying through the air as the deafened Sherry ran inside to rescue personal belongings.

The firefighters had already given up before we arrived, blaming the depleted water table; the Decker home was collateral damage in the town's war with drought. Peter Decker drove onto the gray plot minutes later. The fire chief handed off Sherry to her husband. The chief had spent forty minutes restraining the sobbing shambles of Sherry from running between the smokebelching walls to save "just one more thing" from the inferno, a squatter declaring his new entitlement to their home. Sherry had left her solid gold wedding band on the kitchen counter while she prepared a pie. It was a winking globule by now. "I'm sorry," she repeated into his shoulder.

Peter looked baffled like he was being flattened by his home as it caved before him. He was not expecting to receive a call at work informing that he was a newly made vagabond.

Sherry eventually calmed to silent tears, white ashes in her hair stealing her youth. The young pair stood beside the small heap of effects Sherry had managed to wrestle from the flames before the fire chief dragged her away upon arrival: wedding photos, an heirloom chair, and the urn holding their spaniel.

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In the background of this dejected display, as rafters collapsed and threw up clouds of ash and the walls shrank closer to the ground, Mom stood holding my hand. I've had sweaty palms ever since. As the fire's last mockery, the nearly unscathed porcelain toilet was the only thing left standing above the rubble; the pressure of licking flames had drawn a crack halfway down the bowl.

Mom had a solemn air to her poise.

The tiniest, wryest smile flickered over her lips. Her generation's entertainment was historically closer to public hangings than game shows.

She smiled out of deference to the humor of an unexpected blaze. She recognized the feverish tempo of the dancing flames and kept its beat as she tapped me on the shoulder when it was time to go. We had ice cream for dessert to celebrate the occasion.

My children would someday need to know how Nona did not sympathize when my nightmares were bursting into flames for months after the Decker fire. Could my kids learn to forgive me then when I made mistakes? In the middle of the night I would vow until my lips were chapped that I would never put them through something like that. I wanted

them to be the nearly unscathed porcelain toilet. If I was doomed to screw them up, I might as well keep the damage minimal. If they knew how bad she could be, perhaps they'd see I was at least trying, even if at her expense.

I certainly felt like an accomplice when my youngest tugged at my shoulder one night to confess fiery nightmares. Earlier that day he incessantly begged me at the supermarket for a bed lamp so he could read by its light. I conceded, lacking the strength to battle with him. However, I still left him with an agitated Remember the Alamo: "Just don't fall asleep with it on or else you'll cause a fire." Here I was pushing hypothetical arson onto my

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own child. That'd be like Mom saying the Deckers' tragedy was my fault. I

had to make a peace offering, both with my son as well as with my own mother. We held sweaty hands as we walked down the carpeted stairs. I flipped on the lights to the kitchen, footsteps reflecting on the black and white checkered linoleum tiles, and we shared an apologetic bowl of ice cream.

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Slick, Part II

All the trees

Brianna Handy

shed their leaves they did they

shrugged stretched shook from knotted shoulders and elbows redleatheryellowleather jackets rustling beneath our feet.

You found a geode you did you split its husk in three pieces on a naked tree and there we sat we did we sat on the damp brush

bleeding through our jeans and we cradled in our hands we did we cradled in our hands those broken pieces and we studied we did we studied our own broken pieces traced our fingers against the crystal boxes once inside.

41

And I didn't smash I didn't I didn't smash my own geode open against a

naked tree.

And I should've smashed I should've I should've smashed my own geode open against you.

Because you did you ripped away my orange's skin tore my rine rag crushed my flesh ate its sweet.

And all the trees shed redleatheryellowleather

jackets exposed for winter.

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Duck Brianna Handy

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Zamboni whirls trace an egg around the white boards, shaving away crescent cuts until the slices your crisp crossovers grazed into the flat glacier melt away.

In our garage I wobble on plastic Barbie roller-skates not a Squirt but a Midget and a pack mule with bulletproof styrofoam shin guards and a goose feather pillow snug round my waist with Dad's belt. Your

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wrist shot slap shot snap shot backhand shred that orange puck never cradled in the mesh hammock, never ricocheted off duct taped posts. But your sister, I clutch it in the gut, snare it in the chest, trap it in the mouth until the backboard flashes red against black and blue impressions that even ice cannot numb.

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Natalie Beesley, Insecurities

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Thomas Colcord, Is this Love or Just Confusion?

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