Print Study Room: Creative Writing

“The art that affects us and attacks us with the artist’s passion and dreams is something we’ve seen before, somewhere, if only we could place it. It’s a matter of how deeply one has ever looked at one’s interior world: it’s been there all along.”
– Hilton Als
In this creative writing class, we explore the connections between art and ourselves. We discuss photographs, paintings, illustrations, and visual exhibits. Students visit the Tang and practice writing literary prose about art even if they do not define themselves as art historians, visual art scholars, or as visual art students. We develop literary essays as a means to seeing clearly, experiencing life more deeply. How does a writer enter an image, and occupy it? What associations does the writer make to experience, to history, or to politics and cultures? What lives may exist beyond the “frame” of an image? How do textures, colors, shadows, shapes, and line provoke a rhetorical style or speculation? How do memoir and art criticism interact in the literary essay genre?

Student Responses

artwork

Joe Maloney, Paramus, NJ, 1980, printed 1982

contributors

Gwendolyn Clark

Paramus, New Jersey. The grass here is a sickly yellow-orange, and plastic bags rustle in the hot, summer breeze, like animals mucking about in the foliage, though no animals have touched this area for years now. Too polluted, the poison-green streetlight tells us. The light casts down upon a small section of grass and tints the blades a hue reminiscent of chlorophyll. It’s like the grass doesn’t know how to be grass anymore in this foreign landscape.

Back in the 1920s and 30s, there were women working in radium dial factories in New Jersey. They would paint these dials in this substance so that they would glow in the dark for the World War II soldiers that used them. It was painstaking work, and the women needed to be as efficient as possible so that the watches could be sent to the U.S Army. They were taught to put their dirty paint brushes in their mouths to create a fine point for painting. All of these women would end up dying in horrific ways. Their teeth and jaws would rot, along with other bones in their bodies. Later, it was discovered that this element, radium, was radioactive, and these women had been ingesting the substance for months. Some of them had even used the radium as makeup, and often their clothing would glow in the dark after working in the factories. In one scene in the 2000 play Radium Girls, one of these women workers returns home late at night and takes off her work clothes, and as she finally settles herself in bed, she sees her hung-up work clothes glowing faintly in the dark, like a green ghost. Perhaps it’s this ghost that haunts Paramus, the ghost of history.

The sky is a deep, vibrant purple, and nearly cloudless, if not for the sour apple green mass that floats near the streetlamp, hovering over a crop of silhouetted trees. The cloud streaks horizontally, a shapeshifter attempting to imitate the northern lights. The saturated sky and humming street lights scream for attention, and my eyes are drawn like a moth to the flame. It’s as if the photo is a painting, with hues that are almost too vivid to be real. But is it surreal or hyper-real? The exposures have been emphasized in this analog print, but not digitally changed. Is this an unreality, or a heightened reality? The artificial neon glow pulls images of the 80s to mind with its signature color scheme, bringing a strange atmosphere of nostalgia - there’s a sense of longing for a time I’ve never lived through. That reality seems so real, so present to me. It seems that the photograph functions as another ghost, a moment that once existed but has faded into the past, as much as the colorful display tries to convince me otherwise.

I could mention the building that sits on the right side of the foreground, its dirty white panels, the covered-up windows. But there wouldn’t be much to say. The building only holds space as a means of emphasizing the rest of the scene. I don’t want to know about this building, only what lies above it, or behind it. I think of the structure that confines the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. A half-cylinder, on its side, dull white and lifeless. There is no art to its formation, only the significance of its placement. What lies inside its containment — the radioactivity that still remains after the disaster — is the key to its creation. In Paramus, a dirt path carves its way through the orange-yellow grass and is hidden from view by this unmoving, obstructing box that dares to call itself a building. Now I understand what the building adds, by taking up so much of the image. Mystery. I look at this image and I want to know: what could be around the corner? If only I knew what lay outside my perspective of this moment. Maybe I’m not supposed to see beyond my field of vision. There could be unimaginable horrors around the corner, or miracles beyond my comprehension. Or perhaps there is nothing at all. In the case of horrors, my lack of knowledge might just be my savior, but it could also be my downfall.

The fear of not knowing, the fear that comes with not seeing, is a feeling that I am well-acquainted with. In the moments between sleeping and waking, I often imagine creatures lurking in the dark, glowing green eyes following my every movement. I imagine them with such clarity that I almost bring them to life, and I convince myself that I cannot move an inch or I will be discovered by them. The paralysis that comes with this fear is unbearable. And yet, it always seems necessary to protect myself from the sight of my monsters. The structure obscuring the path behind it, as well as the frames of the photograph, acts as a barrier to the unknown, and leaves this knowledge to its obscurity.

Looking at this photograph, one feels as if the image is trying to preserve something, to keep it from slipping away into the past. But what is being preserved? Is it the moment itself, the snapshot of sickly grass and neon light? Is it the ghost of history, the memory of those women who died in the radium factories? Or is it something more ephemeral, something that exists only in the mind of the viewer? For me, this image preserves an aching emotion, a sense of longing for a time and place that I’ve never known, a desire to know what lies beyond the edge of the frame. What horrors — or wonders? — are hiding just out of sight, waiting for me to discover them? The mystery of it all is both thrilling and terrifying. The world is full of unknowns, not just New Jersey. Is the unknown better left unexplored?

In this photograph, with its vibrant hues and its eerie glow, I think of a past that was both haunting and beautiful, a past that is always with us, even as we move forward into the future. I’m struck by the thought that perhaps the ghosts of Paramus aren’t ghosts at all, but rather the echoes of a past that is still very much alive. Why then, is this city so abandoned?

There is a sense of stillness that permeates the scene. The plastic bags that rustle in the breeze, pale ghosts, seem to be the only movement in an otherwise motionless landscape. The summer breeze does nothing to cool the earth, and no humans have inhabited this area for years. The grass remains unaltered, as if it has lost the ability to grow or change. It’s as if time has stopped in this small corner of Paramus, frozen in the past, and in this abandoned place that time has left behind, the scene rots.

artwork

Lui Shtini, Big Mouth, 2013

contributors

Phoenix Goldenberg

Most of us can remember the monster we had as a child. For some, the monster lives under their bed, waiting for the kid to step out from under the covers. For others, the monster is in their closet, always peering out with their bright glowing eyes. Either way, the monster never leaves the child’s bedroom. Not me. My monster could not be confined to such a small space. She roams the halls of my childhood house, coming and going as she pleases. Even now that I am gone, she stays. Waiting for the day I return. I thought I left my monster behind years ago, seeing as though I have not lived under her roof in years. That is, until recently.

I walked into the art room of The Tang, ready for my class to begin. We had a kind woman showing us famous paintings. I was excited to see the artwork laid out for us today. The day had been uneventful, and all was going well until my eyes laid upon it.

Big Mouth by Lui Shtini. A simple painting to most people. The woman guiding us even explained that the painting is mostly abstract. While that may be true, the image was as clear as day to me, and I could almost hear her screaming out my name while I stared. The painting is of a large, black oval, acting as the shadow behind the figure. In front lies a white object. While the shape is hard to describe, I am reminded of a mask used to hide one’s true identity. Even so, the white does not cover everything, and the darkness behind still seeps through. Inside the mask is a dark circular shape. The color is somehow even darker than the black previously used, as if the circle is a void. Behind that, the background is mostly white with a bit of black at the bottom. The painting seems like nothing, but I can see behind the mask. While I did not see the actual monster that ruined my childhood, I might as well have. Because in that moment, I was taken back to that dark place.

I’m a small child, about ten years old, hiding under the covers in my bed. I know that will not protect me, but what else can I do? I can hear her stomping down the hall and need to do something. What does she want from me? Why can’t she leave me alone? I did not do anything. Not that it would matter. She will find any reason to torture me. Nothing I do makes her happy.

As I am praying that she will ignore me tonight, I hear the door open, and the covers are ripped off my bed, leaving nothing between me and her. My mother. She hovers over me, barely noticeable in my dark bedroom. After all, it is the middle of the night. Most kids my age would be asleep at this hour, but not me. I still cannot sleep at night without nightmares flooding my mind. Without her face protruding in my mind. Without her voice constantly echoing in my skull. Without any peace.

I try calling out for someone to save me. Anyone who can protect me. However, there is no use. She has already scared away everyone else. There is no one. Just me and the monster in front of me. I can cry, I can scream, I can try fighting back, but nothing will make a difference. I am just a small child, while she is a giant beast with no mercy. There is no winning with her. There is no escape.

Suddenly, I am back in the museum. I can hear my heart racing, my breathing is getting heavy, and I can barely stand up straight. I slowly take a seat and try to calm myself down. She is not really here, I remind myself. She cannot hurt you anymore.

I look at the label for the painting. Big Mouth. Even the name takes me back. Just like with the painting, her mouth would open wide as she yelled. Doesn’t matter what she was saying, I always tried to drown her out until she was finished. There was nothing I could have said to make her stop anyway. It would have been like screaming into the void. Besides, most of the time that is all she would do. Yell and yell and yell until she finally got tired.

As I continued reading the label, I noticed it was painted in 2013. I find the year ironic. I was ten years old when Lui Shtini painted the monster in front of me. It is almost as if he took the image from my mind and used my imagination as his muse. Painting the emotions I feel. Some might call this a coincidence. The fact that this creation just so happened to be in a gallery at my college. That a painting created in 2013, when my monster was mistreating me, ended up in front of me. There is no way this was a coincidence. My monster is still with me, no matter how hard I try to escape.

Even today, years after the last time we interacted, my mind is filled with memories of what I went through. She thinks she can still hurt me, and I used to believe she could not. Deep down, I know I am not the same helpless child I was when she tormented me. Still, all it took was this one painting to bring me back. Time may have passed, but even now, ten years later, I still feel the same. I am the same little kid, hiding from the monster that haunts me.

artwork

Jenny Snider, Shadow on the Wall, 1985

contributors

Vicky Grijalva

As I was walking around the print room, trying to find a painting to connect with, or to draw my attention, was quite difficult. I felt overwhelmed by the many options there were. Each painting had its unique story that was intriguing but, not captivating enough; however, there was one painting that caught my attention and had me intrigued. Where exactly does this painting take place? Is the shadow on the wall related to the person next to it? What do the faces look like to the people in the painting, and where are they going? The more I look at the painting the more I can see the people move, and I can sense the story behind it.

Shadow on the Wall was created in 1985 by Jenny Snider. You can see there are three people, a car, a wall next to one of the people, and a shadow; however, the shadow can count as the fourth person in the painting. The shape of the shadow shows the form of a human body just lingering in the painting. The color palette of this painting reminds me of a cloudy, rainy day when you’re out in town and you still must do errands and get things done despite the weather. There are a lot of whites, blues, greys, and black in this painting. You can’t see the faces of the people in the painting, which gives you the freedom to imagine what their faces look like or the expression they might have. The more you look at the painting the more details you notice. The way the brushes have stroked the canvas and the way each color goes in a different direction but all blend well with one another, catches my attention. You can see the sharpness of the colors and the little bumps of paint that were left behind. Usually, paintings look smooth and soft; you can’t even believe they are paintings. You want the painting to feel finished and perfect; however, with the Snider painting, this is not the case. The borders of the canvas also do not seem perfect: there is paint left behind. The canvas is messy. You feel able to see and to understand the rawness of the painting and the emotion added to it. You feel the vulnerability of the painting and its invitation: to go inside the painting, and learn more about the emotions the people are hiding from you.

The car is driving off somewhere to another location that is not visible. The way the colors are painted—and the direction of the color—suggests the car might have driven by a puddle of water that almost splashed onto the person walking across the street. The wall or the building next to one of the people has several different colors painted on it but it could just be a brick wall or a store. The wall reminds me of the brick wall in downtown Saratoga Springs where several drawings are done on brick. You’re now walking in downtown Saratoga Springs, several times past the brick wall and weirdly enough, when you get toward the end of the wall you arrive at the intersection of a street, just like in the painting. There will always be people waiting by the crossroads waiting for the lights to turn red to walk across the street; one of the people in the painting is waiting to do so. You’re wondering what direction they are going? What is making them enter that small shop downtown? Why are they deciding to go right instead of left? Sometimes you will see those people who take risks and decide to cross the street even though cars are moving, and the lights are green instead of red. It’s quite odd how one painting can remind you of certain scenarios that are part of everyday life.

Suddenly, you have immersed yourself in the painting and you’re now the shadow. Lingering around, looking and listening, trying to take everything in and get adjusted to the feeling of not being seen. You’re confused as to where exactly the shadow will be taking you. The person next to you doesn’t see you and you’re trying to get their attention, but they are too busy looking at the person crossing the street because they like what they are wearing and are debating if they want to ask the person where they got the coat. It could also be that the person is crossing the street as cars are passing by but then again, you are just a shadow and are not a mind reader. You walk away from the person next to you and you start to observe and look at the two other people. The person with the yellow coat made it across the street safely and is now going to enter a coffee shop that is next to the brick wall. You had noticed the person wearing all dark blue clothes and saw they looked relieved that the person made it to the other side safely. As you turn to the right to see what’s beyond the brick wall you notice that there are so many different restaurants, boutiques, coffee shops, all waiting to be discovered and explored. The shadow then decides to keep walking and lingers at each shop looking through the window curious as to what the people are doing and why they decide to walk on this side of the street.

The color of the painting may suggest that the day might have been a dull one for the people in the painting but for you, the opportunities are endless, and you just want to be able to explore this small town that was not visible to the spectator but that is now visible to you, the shadow. The shadow that was next to the person originally escaped the painting and is flowing by people, shops, animals, and cars. No one can see you or hear you and you like it better that way, because you are seen but not noticed or bothered.

Four girls contort their bodies in different positions on a sheet with blue and red dots. The words “Twister” are written in red font on the left and right corners.
artwork

Laurel Nakadate, Twister [from The Seven Sisters Schools], 1995-1997

contributors

Winston Hofler

Laurel Nakadate presents four girls who contort their bodies in an intense game of Twister, their faces completely hidden from the viewer. The photo is a chromogenic print with colors that appear bright. The girls take up most of the photograph. The edges and background give a glimpse into the room they’re in during this moment. Two of them lie closer to the floor on their legs while the other two stretch their arms to the ground. They all appear to be in different positions completely still, like a group of statues formed by an architect in ancient times. Yet, it’s unclear what sort of feelings, emotions, or states of mind they have as they cover their faces from the viewer. They wish to remain a mystery. What is it that is running through their minds and bodies?

As I look at them, I hear sounds coming from them. At first, the girls make sounds of pain and straining, as if they’ve been stuck in these positions for hours and have no choice but to maintain themselves, uncomfortable as they may be. Their noises are not shouts or screams but rather, sighs and moans of annoyance and fatigue, for they wish to be done with this game and regret their decision to enact the times they had when they were children and bonded over Twister. They all thought returning to this game would be a worthwhile attempt to regain the joys of their childhoods. A time when there were fewer things to contend with in life and they could just have fun. Unfortunately, time has not been kind to their bodies and it’s only during the middle of their game that they realize how big a mistake this decision was to play Twister.

As they continue to hold their positions, their sighs and moans start to turn into soft cries for help and mercy. They are unable to take any more of the pain and torture they are placing onto their bodies. The girl in the middle of the mat lying close to the mat starts to plead with the others that they remove themselves from their positions for the fun has completely dissipated from their game. Yet, despite her begging, she–along with her friends–cannot seem to break from their poses for some unconceivable reason, like they’ve all been turned to stone and cannot make even the slightest movement. As much as they try, the girls seem almost compelled to remain in their positions, pain and all, because deep down, they wish to still regain some memories of the fun times they had playing this game as children. If only that fun wasn’t buried beneath an intense layer of pain and suffering.

Then, a little laugh comes out of the girl in the blue shorts to the left. Not a laugh of sadness, pain, or any sort of negative emotion, but instead, a laugh of pure joy and happiness. She’s the first to realize that in their shared experience of body contortion and slight pain, there is fun to be had as they witness the wild ways they move their bodies and discover how much beauty there is in the human form and in the many ways it takes shape. The three of her friends hear her laughter, confused at why she is acting this way; they all think she expresses some sort of hysteria. Then, her friend looks at her face to see her laughter is genuine ecstasy. Her friend cannot help but join in the laughter as she spreads this overwhelming joy to their other two friends, finally able to understand the play of their bodies.

Suddenly, something has set a light in them and shows no signs of stopping. A bright orange flame, like one you would see in a campfire, which only continues to become brighter and brighter with more wood and time. Strangely, this flame appears to be throughout their whole body as the flame begins to expand in their chests and begins to spread through their head, arms, legs, fingers, toes, and to every other part of their bodies. For all the pain and joy they experience on the outside, there is a deep passion that drives them through their shared experience of Twister, for they support one another in every way possible, regardless of how desperate their individual efforts may seem. That passion is what has allowed them to stay as close as they have been since they were kids; even when things might seem difficult and even impossible, they always lift one another to continue their journey through life, not just as friends, but as soulmates. In this one brief moment in their lives, we are able to witness that burning passion and support they have for one another that has always existed between them, even as kids. In the end, they will persevere through the toughest moments while cherishing the moments of joy and happiness they experience.

Eventually, they look up to me. They are still giggling from their game, with nothing but big warm smiles, almost as if they welcome me to join in. It’s then I realize what the photograph wants to say to me: that our bodies are all beautiful regardless of how different we are. They do experience pain through the act of play with our friends, but that pain eventually turns into a burning flame that allows us to appreciate the concept of friendship and the support that comes from it. The girls signal that I should also view my body as they do; not as something that is simply a physical part of myself, but as what makes me unique to the eye of others. And yet, they show me that you do not need to be completely nude to prove how beautiful the form of yourself as a human is. You just need to have the will to be playful, whether alone or with friends and to accept the initial pain that comes through play. And if with friends, one will be able to light the flame within their bodies in a connection of shared joy.

I’ll admit that it is hard for me to share the same perspective of these girls. While we may be around the same age, I am a male whose form differs in many ways from the form of a female. I wear very different clothing (compared to theirs) which tends to expose very little if anything of my naked skin. There is no reason physically why I should be able to connect to their understanding of the human body’s beauty. Yet, I share the same love and respect for my body, regardless of being the opposite gender. Given the body is what makes us so human, I believe it’s best for one to take care of it if one wishes to continue living longer and enjoying life more. Otherwise, one will have a harder time living and trying to find the joys of it.

That’s not to say I understood this matter when I first observed the photograph. On the first view, I found Nakadate’s photograph to be creative, but without a clear message or concept to express. To me, it just seemed like four girls in bizarre positions in a game of Twister who at that moment do not show their faces. Part of me felt it wasn’t clear what the photograph wanted to say or rather, it was just a photograph to show an event and not tell a story. It wasn’t that I thought Laurel Nakadate was a bad photographer as I looked at this photograph. Far from it. I just felt she took this one for fun and had no interest in a message. Again, a fun photograph, devoid of any meaning.

Then, when I took another and more in depth look at it, I came to realize the complexity of Nakadate’s photo and what it says about human bodies; however, it was in my discovery of the burning flame that made me realize this photo is as much about friendship as the human form. The four girls show clearly they support one another in every movement and decision they make with their bodies during the game. Even when forced to deal with pain and suffering, they continue to support one another nonverbally through the close proximity of their physical bodies and the emotions they present with their faces to one another, whether those emotions are positive or negative. No matter what, they remind themselves they are not alone in this experience and as long as that flame is burning within all of them, they will be able to achieve their goals and wishes, eventually.

I also felt naked in the way Nakadate’s photo came to remind me of my own optimistic look at my own self, both physically and mentally. On a surface level, I feel like my entire body is exposed to everyone around me, to present the truth of who I am as a human being from both a physical and mental perspective. While it seems uncomfortable at first, I’ve actually come to enjoy this exposure a great deal. There’s always been a point where I feel I have to hide my true self and present an alternate version of my real personality and appearance to others in order to make a good impression, something that has become far more draining as I feel dishonest with myself. Then, through Nakadate’s photo, for once in a long time, I’ve returned to connect more closely with how I perceive myself through my body and with the honesty of who I truly am. That exposure after a long time is one I am grateful for, as I have in recent times been harder on myself and have even had moments where I’ve moved further away from my true being to please others that has even caused me to hate some qualities of myself. But, those sorts of thoughts have escaped my head for once after my time with this photograph and it feels great just to be able to look at my body as one of my best qualities to illustrate the truth of who I am.

However, while I can connect to the girl’s love of their bodies and how it presents the truth of themselves, it’s the burning flame within them that I still have yet to find and it might be some time before I do. Only one question remains. How do I find that flame on my own or with close ones?

artwork

Manuel Álvarez Bravo, El ensueño (The Daydream), 1931, printed later

contributors

Helen Horner

Does the photographer know her? Really know her, I mean. I hope he knows she does not gaze longingly at a potential lover down below and dream about him, her hand coyly touching her face, wishing it were his hand. I hope he knows that her head is filled with an inner world of her own making, full of color and light. I hope he does not think of her as an untouchable feminine mystery, a case to be cracked. I hope he knows he will not solve her by taking this picture.

I am a frequent daydreamer. Those who have tried to snap me out of it have failed, and I’ve accepted that I will always have a near-constant cacophony of sounds and images in my mind to attend to. My vivid thoughts, though they hinder my concentration, are valuable and worthwhile. Others, the non-daydreamers, don’t see this. The girl sees it, though. We are the same.

ADHD. I stare out the window, forget things, take longer to process ideas. I can’t figure out the board game or card game rules, can’t even follow simple instructions sometimes. I doodle on paper, I have the uncanny ability to tune people out, I have a need for constant stimulation. People used to tell me I was mysterious. My mom told me I used to sit for hours on end on the living room floor and flip through picture books. She scolded me for losing things. How did they not know? Why did I have to figure it out on my own? I have no resentment towards my parents, though. I wasn’t that stereotypical kid, bouncing off the walls and making impulsive decisions. I was quiet, I did well in school, and I sat still. To them, I was a good kid, just a daydreamer.

The girl and I, we are not a mystery, not lovesick, not lazy or slow or inattentive. We are processing the world around us in a different way, perhaps in a philosophical way. For her and me, there is so much flying around in our minds that we sometimes need to stop what we’re doing and sort it out. It is laborious, sure, but fulfilling and beautiful, too. There is special power in our vivid dreams.

artwork

Lui Shtini, Big Mouth, 2013

contributors

Diana Jorgensen

Lui Shtini’s Big Mouth is large and disturbing to look at. Its mellowness in color and shape screams for rigidness, as it melts down the canvas structure. It attempts to do so in color separation, as the edges of the snow terrain stay firm from slipping into the black abyss and the nothingness beyond it. Even within the snow, a hole is present; it’s waiting for me.

I tread around the hole, occasionally losing my tracks as snowflakes fall to cover my footprints. With my heavy snow boots and snow attire, I kick some piles of snow into the hole, but quickly it either melts or it, too, gets lost. I lie flat on my back, wave my arms and legs around, and an angel is born beneath me. Born to disappear in the snow.

Hours pass, and I move on to the other side, to the black abyss. I kick snow in there too, only I notice that dark gray ripples hug the kicked snow. Is it water? It can’t be. Sea water too is murky and unsafe, but this right here is nothing like sea water. The ripples appear to be more feathery, like a bed waiting to be slept on. Should I jump? Will I jump? Oh, how it must be so nice to be hugged by feathers as the snow was. What if I melt too? Will I become nothing?

Being older now, I partly dislike snow for when I have to shovel my car out of the West parking lot. I dislike snow when I too tread along to my classes, being precarious of my shaky left knee as I sprained it just last winter. I also dislike snow from when I got frostbite on my right index finger from holding my reusable bottle outside for too long. I dislike snow when my mom would yell for me back in high school to shovel the driveway and her car out, even though we all knew she’s not leaving her bed today. I dislike snow even when sledding with my home best friend and her baby sister, but only when I have to carry both our sleds up the steep hill. There’s much to dislike about snow; yet, so much to like:

Typical winter day for a six-year old me would be waiting for my dad to make trails for me in the snow. It would be mid-morning and I would have already had on my warm blue winter jacket on, hot pink snow pants, oversized winter boots, traditional Sami mittens, and a knitted raspberry shaped hat my mother who I didn’t know then had surprisingly made for me. I’d be sitting at the kitchen table as I watched my dad with the tiny snow plow go around the empty pasture and mark passageways for me. I’d be so eager for them my legs on the chair would kick up and down. Then when it’s done, I run outside to the pasture. The walls around me stand about a foot above my height. I’d look down the trail-way; it wants me to come in. And so, I run in, my hands brushing along the enclosed snowy walls around me. A smile would beam on my face and my eyes would squint hard enough so as the harsh cold air didn’t blind me. The end of the trail led to the end of the fence, where beyond it is the woods. My dad always told me I couldn’t go past that fence due to wild animals and hunters. “That’s their playground Diana, and this area is yours,” he’d say to me. I could easily slip through the fence; we only have it up to keep wild animals out and the horses in. The spaces between the wood are wide enough for my younger self.

I never did go beyond that fence, at least not until I was taught how to shoot from a rifle. I wonder what would have happened if I did. I’d be dressed in bright colors, so hunters would see me and not shoot me. Would the animals dare come to hurt me? Or would I get lost? Would I be found if I was lost? Or am I just, well, lost?

My getting lost into my past leaves us to the next day, where all that was before remains the same as it ever will be. I play the game of the Merry-Go-Round, and I chant to the lyrics of the song:

The merry-go-round goes ‘round and 'round, The children laughed and laughed and laughed, So many were going 'round and 'round, That the merry-go-round collapsed.

And when I collapsed, I fell on my back. I chuckle at losing myself to the insanity this canvas inflicts on my mind. I should be panicking that I cannot leave this place. The image had burned itself into my brain so much so I am stuck in it. I do not make an angel this time. This time, I decided to roll around in the snow, even with my hair getting wet and snow building up around my neck and slipping under my jacket. But the smile that beamed before when I was around six-years-old comes again, and the smile becomes laughter. I shut my eyes and roll and laugh and play. I continue doing this even when I’m by the cliff of the hole. Snow is around me until I wind is gushing around me as I plummet to nothing. My own mouth is like Big Mouth; I laugh and my smile beams across my face. Oh, I am lost. Oh but, I am at peace.

artwork

Issei Suda, A bound goat at Ginzan Onsen Yamagata, 1976

contributors

Gabriel Mahady

A camera flash, woody bramble, ropes and cloven hooves all interweave into a single dark scene. A goat props itself up against a stone, craning its neck back in a contorted and eerie position. The leaves have jagged edges. The goat’s horns are rough and cracked.

The goat, this beast is a bound prisoner, marked for slaughter. Its lips curl around that nearby branch, a last resort, a last meal before the cold hand of death comes down for eternity. It doesn’t realize what is to come in that moment. To the goat, nothing comes after that moment. There is just food to be eaten. No instinct to run, nobody there to shout, “watch out!”

What good charity is there in a final meal? It’s a hallmark of a death sentence, a final indulgence before a pre-planned demise. Why that? Why a feast? It’s ritualistic, almost, and ironic, so cruelly ironic that the act of eating is the final choice of free volition that the prisoner is allotted.

The goat doesn’t seem to notice the rope around its neck, restricting its ability to run and hide in the coming moments. Maybe this is a hunt for the thrill, a cruel game for the dogs to chase down wild beasts (or tame ones, in this case), all for their master to have a chance to play the reaper.

A farm animal like this was never raised to be hunted. Not like this. It was raised for a slaughterhouse. The slaughterhouse is clean and sterile. It’s a factory line of death, a machine to process living beings into cuts of meat for consumption. There is no running. Though, this goat- in the wild- is clearly unable to run. It’s a beast marked for slaughter. Fresh meat, biting a twig off a fresh plant, feeding the flesh that will soon run cold.

Maybe the slaughter never came, maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, the goat’s fine, the goat’s just chilling there, in the dark- why is it so dark in the image? There’s no blood, there’s no dogs, just the ropes and the brambles and the goat. The flash never disturbed it, a break in the night- or maybe dawn, it’s hard to tell without color in the photograph. But there’s no doubt that the goat’s light-colored fur is unstained by blood or grime, besides the dark marks around its feet. Perhaps it was led there as it trudged through mud.

It would make sense if the ground was damp. The scene was at Ginzan Onsen, a hot spring area in the Yamagata Prefecture. Such a picturesque location for such a haunting and mysterious photo. The springs and bathhouses are nowhere in sight, not even an implication of them in the background of the scene. How far away are they? Did the goat perhaps wander towards them, drawn in by the sounds and lights of the town, only to find itself tied and restrained to the woodlands?

Someone is holding the rope. It’s held taught in the direction of the photographer. I think they’re trying to remove it from the brush. If I listened in, would I hear someone cry out? “Watch out! Watch out!”

But the goat doesn’t care, it doesn’t even notice! It’s tragic, it’s comedic. It’s too preoccupied with its bite, the stick, its little snack. The fate of the animal, be it benign or tragic, is completely outside of the scope of its perception. Whatever fear that the human mind takes on, the wandering towards the worst possible conclusion, it’s lost on the goat. It doesn’t matter.

The image was taken in 1976. Goats live for about 18 years at most. This animal, no matter what happened after the shutter clicked, is long gone. There’s really no reason to be afraid, is there? The forest is probably still there. The onsen is still there. And the goat, in whatever peace and joy it may have attained in that moment, still experienced that moment.

artwork

Nan Goldin, Self-portrait in blue bathroom, London 1980 [from The Ballad of Sexual Dependency], 1980

contributors

Caitlyn Matthews

A long day at work. Doesn’t matter what occupation, because you and I know the feeling of having so much on our plates that we bite off more than we can chew. Why? Because we expect ourselves to be these people that have it all figured out. It still doesn’t take away from the fact that we are burnt out and need to soak ourselves to put out the heat. A shower could suffice, the feeling of water dripping down our backs as the steam fogs up our mirrors and unclogs our pores. Yet, there’s always the lingering thought of a bath. Allowing ourselves to marinate in hot water that turns lukewarm after a short period of time. This is a private place; a place where we can escape for hours on end, and no one would know.

We all got in trouble at one point for filling up our tub with too much soap. We take mounds of bubbles in our hands and try to look like Santa Claus. We let the water run for so long that a wave forms, towering over us, about to concave. Our parents laugh it off, but we don’t know how long that cleanup is for them, nor do we help. We never wanted to mop away the bubbles, we wished they stayed there, making play time last forever.

We had bath toys. Fish. Mermaids. Any aquatic creature that would be able to handle the waves created by our pruned fingers. We wished to be like them. Able to breathe underwater, swim for days and days, look up to the surface and try to understand how different it is to be on land; a place where everything is constantly evolving. We used to play mermaids in the bathtub, pretending we were lost at sea with nowhere to go, nothing to do. The thought of that sounds scary back then, but man it doesn’t sound as bad now. We let our imaginations run wild in the tub. A confined pool of water that could be anything if we put our minds to it. But when was the last time we played mermaids? When did we stop tipping our mom’s body wash in to create walls of bubbles? When did we know our innocence was gone?

We look at the tub as a place of self-care. Light some candles. Sip a glass of wine. Dim the lights. Get lost in the vapors that rise as we let the scorching water hug our curves. We like to imagine if someone else was in that tub with us, holding us, caressing us. We wish to feel them molding into the water that clings to us so sensually. It wraps around us with big arms and tells us “You’re beautiful, you’re safe, I’m here.” This is a place where company is welcomed.

This is a place of solitude. A place where we know only a few bodies lay in it before. It’s selective in that way. Before we dip ourselves into the depth of our minds, we look in the mirror. We look at our bodies. How they’re shaped. Connecting the dots of our birth marks trying to a find a pattern. Placing our hands on the spots people have touched before, telling us how beautiful we are even with our imperfections. We look at our mirrored selves and wonder if there will ever be a day when someone will understand this vulnerability. The tub does.

The tub does not speak, but still takes us in and cradles our body with its acrylic curve. We allow our thoughts to run free. Whatever comes to mind is entirely valid; nothing is as outlandish as it seems. The tub listens. It keeps these thoughts held within its frame, never to be revealed or discussed. The tears that fall from our eyes add to the baby blue water that wraps around our necks. The tub chokes our thoughts out and drains them into oblivion. The tub feels. We sink our bodies into the water and hold our breath to see how long it would take us to break the surface, gasping for air. The tub tests us. How far can we go? How long until we reach our breaking points? How long until we move from this full tub to an empty one, which will be lowered into the ground with flowers thrown to our sides and figures dressed in all black turn away? Break. Two minutes. We huff and puff until we reach our stasis once again. We love testing ourselves, don’t we?

Sometimes, we aren’t aware of how much water is filling up the tub before it’s too late. We hear the water hit the ground and immediately think of the next best method of approach. Start draining? Turn off the faucet? Grab towels? While we contemplate, the water continues to slip over the edge. We can think of many analogies that cause this sense of panic: not realizing what we’ve done before it’s too late. We think of relationships we’ve had and the unexpected ends. We don’t realize when the last time we said “I love you” was, and now we’re being forced to fall out of love, just like the water is right now.

As Nan Goldin looks at herself in the mirror, I see me. I see myself in the most vulnerable state I can be in, undressed completely in front of a mirror; I’m aware of the marks that taint my body. I see a version of myself that isn’t happy where she is. What could I have done? What did I not do? The walls are the shade of blue that takes the same hue as a mostly filled tub. There is no water in her tub though. Our tub, I should say. Nan and I had someone with us in this tub before, but they’re no longer here with us. They held us in ways no one else could. They spoke to us like we were the only thing that mattered. What does it matter now? They are gone. Whether it’s someone we played mermaids with or someone we gave our bodies to, this tub now looks emptier than ever before. We know our lives led us to this very moment, choosing to soak in a tub rather than stand in a shower. We choose to be nothing for hours, letting the water cool down as we sink into oblivion. But we always come back, and the tub will be there listening, feeling, testing.

artwork

Stephen Shames, Student, Intercommunal Youth Institute, Oakland California, 1971

contributors

Kayla Moody

One thing in my life that has remained consistent is my inability to do math. When faced with numbers, my brain grows eyebrows of her own that furrow in frustration.

My willingness to grasp these concepts leaps out of the window with no intent of returning. I am defeated by math and haven’t even bothered putting up a fight. Instead, I find comfort in my nook of the English Language.

In Elementary School, my teacher pulled out a CD from behind her desk and promised us that we would never forget the contents of it. The video was a compilation of songs sung by Black girls and boys who looked just like us. Except they were experts at math.

These little mathematicians sang us our timetables in Black musical genres ranging from Reggae to R&B. Not only teaching us to multiply up to 12 x 12, they provided positive representation for the children who so desperately needed it. I never forgot that CD.

In High School I began to understand the impending doom of life after childhood. Navigating these already vulnerable years with a ticking clock behind my eyes forced me into a search for security. So I clung onto Coding.

I was drowning in a sea of self discovery and existential dread and on top of that, I needed to figure out what I intended to do with my life. I stuck my nose into coding because of the rumored financial security that computer science would offer. I hated it.

I wish I remembered my first experiences with existentialism. I wonder if the girl in this photo knew that she was participating in something revolutionary. Who did she grow up to be? Has she ever considered that this photo of her younger self completing an addition equation would end up gracing my eyes?

I was drawn to her beret which matched the one worn by the man in the poster on the wall. Reminded of the Black Panther party, I learned that this girl was a student at a Youth Institute founded under their organization. With their efforts, lives for Black children were changed inside and outside of their schools.

This organization envisioned a future for education in which our youth would receive utmost support. In a world with properly funded education for children of color, I would be good at math.

artwork

Nan Goldin, Nan and Brian in bed, New York City 1983 [from The Ballad of Sexual Dependency], 1983

contributors

Lila Ressler

Loneliness is a quiet, invasive companion. It settles in the morning like dew on the grass and overstays its welcome.

If it was a color, it might be a dull yellow. Not like honey or a sunrise but a sad, ugly citrine. Sour. The kind of yellow you would never put on your wall.

The awful thing about loneliness is that it is inherent to the human condition. Ubiquitous, it’s a malady we must learn to live with. It plagues us, day and night—though especially at night—and we spend each moment quenched and sick, searching for a remedy we’ll never truly find.

Loneliness begins in childhood: sitting alone on the bus, not being chosen during a game, hoping for an invitation to a birthday party. It fuels competition and gives way to a hungry desperation, a desire to be admired, envied, wanted. As we get older we learn to cope with its persistent presence. We know to grab onto those around us before others get the chance. We rendezvous with romantic partners in frantic hope of permanently gluing ourselves to someone else, finally curing our longstanding problem, allowing ourselves to be understood, and seen.

Because that is loneliness’ inverse, the solution that we are in constant, trivial pursuit of: being seen. A photograph allows its subject to be seen, to some degree. Reading gives you a glimmer of insight into the author. Looking into someone’s eyes, too, gives you a piece of their puzzle.

But can this really cure us of our ailment? Can we truly rid ourselves of the bitter pit that burrows into our cores like a leeching parasite? At night, we laugh and shine and watch each other dance, intoxicated with the idea of knowing and being known. But in the mornings we wake in a cold bed, bathed in flat yellow, together—but always utterly alone.

artwork

Unrecorded artist, title unknown, n.d.

contributors

Chris Schuckers

The wind swings up through the fields and against the house, the tall grass swaying as blows. A grand farmhouse with a stone foundation and dark wood siding sits atop a hill, overlooking the pasture and crops. With each gust, the structure visibly shifts, making its old wooden presence known with creaks and groans. The house is rather large yet empty. Through the rustle of leaves and grass, voices can be made out from behind it. After a long day of farm work or school, the family have gathered in the grass behind the house for a ritual of sacrifice and necessity.

A juxtaposition is written on the faces of the two characters partaking in the killing. A younger boy holds onto the legs of a limp and headless duck, while an older woman, likely his mother, holds the neck. Their faces in this moment, seemingly seconds after the death of this bird, show their true feelings about the ritual. The mother with middle parted hair and round metal glasses grins widely, posing for the photo. Unprepared for this immortalizing moment, a vulnerable look of grief, tears, frustration, and forced smile are shown on the boy’s grimacing face which is barely in frame. It is a hardened face, as if he has seen too much for such a young boy. He has always hated killing his friends. The animals were the few things in this world that weren’t critical or pushy, but kind and curious. He would spend as much time as he could caring and living with them, but now wasn’t the time to show his grief. “Stop being a wimp!”, “It’s just an animal!” they used to say as he’d cry and hold onto the legs as his mother did the work. They never really understood.

On the back of the photo, presumably his mother writes “I always get this end of everything if you know what I mean Ha Ha”. The hilarity and irony in holding a bloody and messy neck of a friend didn’t sit well with him. “This is how a farm works, get used to it” her father used to yell at her when she was little, screaming at the sight of death. And get used to it she did after years and years of enduring. Now she has no choice but to find joy in it. Life is too short to hold shame from doing the necessities. A few more years and the boy will soon learn to push his feelings deep down, to protect himself from feeling bad about the things that he must go through in life, she thinks to herself.

There is such joy to the end of life. There is a juxtaposition of life and death, with life being this beautiful and precious process but creates the materials we need to live and thus requires death to acquire. This eternal process, combined with human emotion, brings up a constant moral dilemma. A fox is no doubt joyful for each kill, and a cow joyful to rip grass from the ground. But our killing and living is oriented differently as we must consciously and actively kill. Empathy is a necessary feeling, but in some moments this feeling overwhelms. With each death, big or small, comes the mental damage that haunts us long after that life has gone. I like to think that grief is a form of afterlife for the other. This is a pleasant and warm thought whether true or not. The importance of empathy and grief is to be grateful for each life that lives and to cherish each death that dies. One day the boy will realize this, unpack the bottled-up emotions that cause him so much turmoil and to allow life and to allow death free of shame.

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