ariston ahr-is-tuhn 2009 literary and art magazine Ariston is an annual publication of quality work by students at the College of Saint Catherine. Since 1906 visual artists and writers enrolled at the college have been submitting their work for publication in the book which is juried, designed, and edited by student staff members. Ariston is a Greek word for the best of the best and the work in this publication has been included because of its merit.
Transcript
a r i s t o n ahr-is-tuhn2009 literary and art magazine
Ariston is an annual publication of
quality work by students
at the College of Saint Catherine.
Since 1906 visual artists and
writers enrolled at the college have
been submitting their work for
publication in the book which is
juried, designed, and edited by
student staff members.
Ariston is a Greek word for
the best of the best and the work
in this publication has been included
because of its merit.
v isua l a r t s ta f f
kelly rae trisko :coordinatoremily beatrice deutsch :lead designer
pang moua, mary delaware :layout staffcarissa samaniego, kelly rae trisko
aga su. :photography coordinatorani letourneau, mary delaware :photography staff
Printed at Sexton Printing, Inc., West Saint Paul, MinnesotaTypeset in Abadi MT Condensed, Orator Std, and Verdana
Photography by Petronella Ytsma and Aga Su.Cover design by Kelly Rae Trisko
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r o x a n n e s w a n s o ncuriousoil on canvas30 in. by 24 in.
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m a r y d e l a w a r est. patrick’s day
digital photograph4 in. by 6 in.
c a r i s s a s a m a n i e g oneighborhooddigital prints, hand bound book9 in. by 12 in.
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s a r a h g o l vcadge
a n n a g a r s k i orange lory
screen print and acrylic30.5 in. by 25.5 in.
The orange padded pews reek
of old lady perfume and stale Cheerios
as I scour the sanctuary,
blindly running my hands over the altar,
the pulpit, and the piano
in search of a place to hide.
I pause on the steps where our plastic king lies in his mock manger and borrowed blanket.
The soft light skims the contour
of his face and I wonder if Jesus, the child,
ever covered his eyes, promised not to look,
and counted to one hundred.
An urgent Ready or not, here I come!
jolts me as I crouch to hide, reminded of my duty
to play along.
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c h r i s t i n e h e h r etriangle table
wood, wood veneer, and varnish3 ft. by 2 ft.
p a n g m o u apoongmuldigital print10 in. by 13 in.
photos by lia bengtson
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k e a r s t i n r o ymile marker one
There are times I am like a ton of bricks all loaded onto a crate, forked onto a lift, unstable. I am ready to crash, about to fall and I never want to get up again. There is no need to make a building.
The states of my body are so inconsistent, so fickle and I always find myself trying to flee some aspect of myself. I can’t quite get out of my head when I’m in my heart and never out of my
heart, when in my head. I am the brick in the center of the pile, all snug and locked.
Meditation always attracted my mind more than the way I didn’t know it could make my body feel. When there were no more answers, it was there, us eight women, on the cold linoleum,
a mid week night. Winter things left undone, paint tubes open, books open, poems floating in heart like a blessed disease trying to heal me.
We became trees. For approximately 45 minutes I grew deep into the earth. My roots were straight till I hit the center and I made a grid at the core. It must have been to the warmth or
the final destination. That’s what it must be like to know yourself.
And in these years since, I find myself going back. Weeks ago I was walking a path on the brittle, crisp ground of the Arizona desert with you, my body. My back drawn to the dirt, it
curved to the small bluff before the dry path of water run river bed. This time my roots came from the length of my spine. And my branches to the turning cerulean sky and appearing stars. It is dusk, I am no where and everywhere at the same time. My whole body sinking into the desert,
running away. You, my companion, assurance among the scorpions, snakes, broken glass. You sit next
to me Indian style. In this desert we are both vulnerable. I can not help but think about your roots and what kind of tree you’d be like. If our roots would meet in the deep soil.
This stillness and the abundance of silence fills my chest. My rib cage creaking to the zephyr of the risen moon.
a g a s u .nightmare before christmas
digital photograph6 in. by 8 in.
a g a s u .jerzydigital photograph6 in. by 8 in.
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t r é z a r o s a d oode to my father’s cologne
It is the smell of the things I can’t have— the smell of a childhood that could have been; the scent of something passed on, something left behind by my salt sea wanderings.
His is the faintest whisper of a smell— the sl ight breath of something long buried under the si lt layers of my l ife.
The shape of his scent is my fondest picture: a girl on the shoulders of a man, coming in and out of focus and now trapped in a box— a wisp of a memory sharp and strong to breathe in but easily forgotten.
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Characters:GirlFatherMotherBest Friend
Time:Anytime when buses and Denny’s exist
Note on stage directions:The motion of people arriving at and departing from the bus stop can be achieved by projections or even silhou-ettes behind a screen.
The reenactments of the lead char-acter’s memories can be achieved in silhouette as well if the director is con-tent with abstraction. In this way, the main character can narrate the scene while others perform it. This could mean double-casting the lead in order to have her character in two places at once. Otherwise, in the style of real-ism, the scenes can be acted out in full sight of the audience with the lights dimming on center stage and the lead character moving upstage right or left to perform the reenactment while nar-rating.
t r é z a r o s a d oautomation
Machine
Sitting on a bus stop bench. She is waiting for the last bus of the night. Sitting very rigidly and staring across the street into emptiness.
It is not in me to cry.
This one time, I convinced my French professor that I didn’t have tear ducts. In French no less. I told him it was this medical condition that I devel-oped around the age of eight. He was really appalled by it, very interested. He didn’t question it at all. I guess, I mean, why would he? People see me as a machine. I am a well-oiled machine running on all cylinders and impervious to human emotion.
A memory is reenacted before the girl and the audience. Each time a mem-ory is revisited, a light should come up on the characters and the light should dim on the girl as she speaks.
I got this phone call one morning in June saying there was an accident. I collapsed. It was really strange actually. One minute I had feeling in my knees and the next minute I didn’t. When I hung up I ran. I ran upstairs and clung to the base of the toilet and wretched until I fell back onto the linoleum. It was over as sud-denly as it had begun. But the image of this girl—practically a stranger to me, crushed and broken, without her mother to hold her hand—burned into the backs of my eyelids so that every time I blinked I saw her. But I didn’t cry about her anymore and I never talked about her.
A bus stops. A man exits and a wom-an climbs aboard. Neither of them glances her way but she studies their faces anyway.
People who ride the bus look so wor-ried all the time, distracted. They never look excited about where they are going or relieved to be leaving whatever they came from. They are just in this constant state of …some-thing. The opposite of change. Stag-nation? They are in motion and stand-ing still at the same time which seems so impossible but we do it every day. If we all rode bikes see, we’d all be aware of going somewhere and leaving something.
If you asked me why I am waiting for a bus at three in the morning, I’d lie. I would tell you that I work the graveyard shift as a receptionist at the Days Inn downtown. I don’t know why I would pick the Days Inn. Maybe because then you would understand where I come from and sort of com-miserate with me. You’d probably assume I had two little ones at home and no man in my life and that this is my first of three jobs each day. I’d be this little, sad heroine in your mind—fighting for myself and my asthmatic son and newborn daughter. Or you would just get on your bus and never give a second thought to me.
I don’t work at the Days Inn.
A memory is reenacted in front of the girl and the audience. A father and daughter are alone at a table filled with sweets and whipped cream. The father only has eyes for the small girl.
the scene freezes with the mother’s gaze.
She told me she saw it in my eyes the night of prom. She saw me look-ing at my best friend with something other than friendship in my eyes. It’s beautiful really. If it hadn’t led to such ugliness it would be so beautiful. I am glad that we looked at each other as lovers would. I am sorry that my mother was the one to notice.
A memory is reenacted in front of her and the audience. It is a girl on a step with her head in her hands, muttering fiercely.
I can remember the first night I knew. I couldn’t sleep with the empty space beside me where she should have been. I couldn’t sleep at all while we were a thousand miles apart. I went and sat on the first step of the stair-case to mine and my brother’s rooms. I sit there when I am contemplating God. I have found God and lost God on that step. So I sat there and cried silently while asking God to let me be anything but that: Anything but that, please God, oh please, anything, any-thing but that God, please, I can’t be that, oh God please let it be something else, please, please God, I’ll do any-thing, please…
I didn’t know how to explain that to my mother though, when she figured it out. When she confronted me, all I could do was berate myself. Catholic guilt I think.
When I was six or seven, my dad would come and visit me. He always stayed at a Days Inn and it was al-ways connected to a Denny’s. The two are linked forever in my mind. He would let me order whatever I wanted from the menu—absolutely anything. I would get a milkshake and a Bel-gian waffle and French toast and loads of whipped cream on everything. Whipped cream and ungodly amounts of syrup. He paid so much attention to me while we were at Denny’s.
He stopped visiting when we moved again. I haven’t been to a Denny’s since.
A bus stops again but it is not her bus. A group of people exit and this time no one gets on.
When I packed up my things tonight, everything in me was exhausted. I imagined myself as a star that’s col-lapsed in on itself and left a black hole in its place because of its spectacular mass. My weight, my gravity didn’t allow any emotion to escape my body just like a black hole won’t even allow light to escape its pull. I just packed my things carefully and methodically because I am born of an OCD mother and some things just don’t change, even in times of crisis. I am my mother after all it would seem.
Two girls dress for a night out while an anxious mother hovers and plies them with eyeliner, mascara, lipstick for the evening. One girl brushes the other’s shoulder so lightly, as if a shadow, and
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I cried tonight before I packed my journals and my favorite tee shirts and before I ended up on this bench. I cried in a gasping, violent kind of way. I cried so hard that I fell to my knees and couldn’t get back up. I pressed my fingers against my eye-lids and the images burnt into them stung like a fresh wound. A crushed and broken girl, slight fingers brushing a bare shoulder, my mother’s disap-pointment, my mother’s tears, the retreat of my best friend from my life. I dry-heaved and wretched at the foot of my bed.
Wretched. We wretch when we are wretched.
Scene of girl at the foot of a bed, knees drawn to her chest, head in folded arms.
It was the shame that made me wretch at the foot of my bed.
So I am sitting here, waiting for my bus. I’m taking a bus to the airport where I am taking a flight to New York. My dad is there but I am leaving him too because I am my mother but I am my father as well and I too have a gift for leaving. I am taking a flight from New York to Charles De Gaulle International Airport in Paris, France. I haven’t figured things out beyond that really. I have the money, the reservations, the necessities. I even have relatives in Paris, somewhere, hippie-American-ex-patriots. I guess I will stay with them for awhile, just awhile though. I am tired of being in a country where everyone thinks they
understand me because we speak the same language.
Image of the tree-lined gardens of Versailles and the silhouette of a girl in the rain, alone.
Did you know that I once left part of my soul in Paris? I did. I left part of it in the gardens of Versailles on a rainy day where I wandered alone through the rows of trees.
I left another part of it in the Centre Pompidou amongst the modern art and this video exhibit about a fallen angel. I whispered a promise to Paris that I would come back and find those bits of my soul someday soon. That’s all I’m doing. I’m recollecting my soul. I left so much of it with a girl, my girl. I need all the rest of it I can find before I am nothingness. Not a black hole so much as dark matter—traceless and dispersed throughout the universe.
A bus stops. This time it is her bus and she gathers her things to board. As she begins to leave, she pauses to speak.
Machines were created to improve effi-ciency. They are solid and dependable and streamlined. I am none of those things. But the important thing is that I have everyone convinced I am. I am a well-oiled machine running on all cylinders and impervious to human emotion. Life is easier when you traf-fic in perception over reality. It is a means of being blind to what is burned into the backs of your eyelids when you close your eyes.
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15 in.
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k a t h e r i n e c u r t i sabove: 4-year degreecomputer illustration
6 in. by 10 in.
right above: clown vs. janitorcomputer illustration
3 in. by 10 in.
right below: yogacomputer illustration
6 in. by 8 in.
o u r p e r f e c t w o r l d
o u r p e r f e c t w o r l d
o u r p e r f e c t w o r l d
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k e l l e e i s l epetty theft
There’s some holes in these ratty brown shoes; some holes in my solesbig enough for the rain water to squelch through anyway.
I’m walkin’ downtown to my Angel.Walkin’ ‘cause gas and insurance and mendin’ thedamn ‘87’s tranny would further makemy stomach grumble. Rumble like my fridge trying to cool nothin’; ramen don’t need to keep frosty,like wind blowin’ through cheap window panes, worn out coats.
Angel stole me some shoes last night. One quick cleanin’ lady swipe from the boss,‘cause I’m furious the rain prunes my toes.
Besides, sturdy work bootsdon’t really match a white collar.They belong on the strapped fellow. If I’m caught with a rich man’s Red Wings, oh well.
I’ll ask them if they’ve ever had rain waterseep into the holes of their soles.
a n i l e t o u r n e a uleft: sarah, BCOOLgelatin silver print 10 in. by 8 in.
below: untitledgelatin silver print8 in. by 10 in.
m e g a n m c n i n c hsurface no. 3intaglio9 in. by 7 in.
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s a r a h s t o c k h o l mgrain elevator: pukwana, sd
I pulled myself up through a shaft of cornfed light.
It broke over my face and lefta floating transparencyof me intermingling with duststirred from the bottom of the pit.
The ladder extended beneath my feetlike stilts in concrete.
I stopped at the top,let my arms extend, leaned backwardsfrom the steep rails and imagineddiving to the first rung:
my hands freed from clutch, air gliding past arms,abandoned grains below to catch.
I surveyed the final step:a reach across empty space
to a room where machine belts livedlike discarded shoelaces draped over a nail in the back of a closest.
They laid on metal wheelsand connected cogsunable to recall action.
The windows – portraits of open land – revealed fields occupiedwith itinerants; combiners bringing in grain.
Flying above field dust,
sparrows dove and swelledin sweeping arcs, mixing into the endless contrastof ground fading to burnished sky.
s a r a h s t o c k h o l mfrom the police state figurine series,
national emergencygelatin silver print8.5 in. by 12.5 in.
s a r a h s t o c k h o l mfrom the police state figurine series, land of the freegelatin silver print8.5 in. by 12.5 in.
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a m y r a e w e a v e rpatron saint of cybernetics
I want to absorb machines into myself—and so I lean my back against copiers—and press my cheekagainst the sides of computer towers—
until I can believethat the chink-chink-chink I hearis the sound of my own body existing
(and unseen behind me,wings of glass and tin extend from my shoulder blades
and beat in time).
e m i l y b e a t r i c e d e u t s c hdomestication unknownacrylic and drywall compound on board42 in. by 36 in.
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r e n a l i e b a i l e yvincent
silk
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s a r a g o l vcutwork
My mother’s mother makes lace,
Twisting and crossing each bobbin
Across a pin-pricked pattern.
She re-works and refines
Each pearl cotton thread,
Allowing for dropped
Stitches and unexpected knots.
She is accustomed to this open-air fabric,
Effortlessly commanding the needle
With her seventy-three year old fingers.
The beauty of her work lies in the replication:
Strands of her DNA
Are cross-stitched and looped
Into my pin-pricked disposition.
c a t h e r i n e y e e l i n g t s e nspring with the jellyfishdigital photograph with digital painting6.75 in. by 5 in.
a g a s u .ringsterling silver, amber, garnet, and chrysophrase
broochsterling silver, amethist, garnet, and amber
perfume bottle pendantsterling silver and amber
r o x a n n e s w a n s o nself-portrait with cigarette
oil on canvas36 in. by 24 in.
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g r a c e d u p r eabove: tyler
digital painting6.75 in. by 8.5 in.
below: Kali digital painting
8.25 in. by 8.25 in.
s a r a h g o l vferment
IThe way of tea is the highestform of human hospitality:Ti Kwan Yin Jade.
IICamellia sinensis preferszone 8, acidic soil, and50+ inches of rain a year.
IIIMerchants paved the Silk Roadwith bricks of puerh,an age-old form of currency.
IVLapsang Souchongreeks of pinewood flamesand burning piles of leaves.
VThe Sons of Liberty rebelled against the Tea Act by hostingthe Boston Tea Party.
VIAn afternoon of rain begs fora book and a cup:Glenburn Estate, Wiry Vintage.
VIIHer body is full and her tastelingers on the back of my tongue:Iron Goddess of Mercy.
VIII“There is a great deal of poetryand fine sentiment in a chest of tea.”-Ralph Waldo Emerson
IX Dragonwell Wild Mountain is sensitive to heat, but Ceylon Lover’s Leap loves to boil.
XFriends share first, second and third infusions of Blue Beauty oolong.
XIThe youngest shoots are picked,withered and dried into prizedSilver Needles.
XIIDisplaying tea is the aestheticof just adding water:Lion’s Mane Green.
XIIITaste determines which leafyou choose, which cup you pick,which category you define.
a n i l e t o u r n e a ui’m lost without yougelatin silver prints with red stringeach print 3.5 in. by 5 in.
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continued
: i’m
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e m i l y b e a t r i c e d e u t s c hmarianis[rolls]acrylic on canvas42.5 in. by 36 in.
l i v g u n d m u n d s o nverticals
digital photographseach print 6 in. by 4 in.
k a t h e r i n e j o h n s o nles voyageursacrylic on wooden paddle58 in. by 8 in.
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The Cape –
Your headlights illuminate hundreds of feetIn the flat winter airA seagull sounds like a siren
And here all at onceOur bodies shift forward and back With the green
Every dark face I seeReminds me I am whiteAnd hereI am less
This is my body below the equator
Emmarentia –
You place the cast iron pan to the tableBlack forest Namibia trufflesBut I give you money anyway, all my American dollars
There is shy compassionIn words
I am here And twenty feet awayIn the same compound, the same dirtYou don’t eat, you fold laundry
Today the house sankIn rushes and dark red water
Port Elizabeth-
Against the bared wallsThe green glass bottle flies to the dirt
And just around the cornerTheir souls lunge for the soccer ball In their winter jackets
I have been having strange dreams about AmericaIn which and afterI feel like I cannot remember my home
Still somewhere an ox pecker sitsOn the white ivory elephant tuskIn the wetness of the morning
k e a r s t i n r o ymuthaland
The title of this poem was taken from a graffiti tag on the side of a bridge in Johannesburg, South Africa.
y a n s h u o z h a n gthe making of loneliness, fragmental verses
Finally, all my leaves have fallen. When the wind twisted me into the center of autumn gold, I never knew that this moment of glory would turn out to be the beginning of the withering of happiness for me. “Let life be beautiful as summer flower, and death as tran-quil as autumn leaves” (Rabindranath Tagore). Death is far from reach, yet tranquility embraces me when the fallen leaves wave into sunset to bath me in the light of sublimity. Barehand-ed in the wind, I feel the salty breath from the ocean that begins to lick my face. One breath away from the ocean, it is the sea wind that blows away my leaves of yearning. But when I look around, I only find that the entire world is blown to bareness.
This is a fragile, pale island at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Drifting above the seawater, the island is constantly trying to escape the embrace of the continent. But it was right here that
we met. Here, the power of des-tiny pulled us together, but another type of power stronger than destiny parted us. “Time?” You look into the rocks whose edges have been tamed and blurred by seawater. Indeed, invisible but omnipresent, shape-less but invincible, time seems to be the only power that can both shape things in the world and erase them at the same time.
Walking along the beach, the wind once again straightens up my memo-ries.
It is a miracle that people meet each other at a precise moment some-where along the infinite span of time, said the Poet. However, if time is something infinite, any two points in the time span can be seen as close to each other as one, added the Phi-losopher. Any two points. From the moment you placed your eyes on me, to the day my heart no longer beat at your approach.
His eyes are as blue as the morning sea when the sun has shed its young rays upon it; his hands can caress away any pain in my heart.His breath inhales and exhales the air of life for me; his smile is as fresh and tender as new buds in spring.
But finally, the sea has devoured any piece of a message from him. When his shadow disappears behind the
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twisting coastline, the sun starts to set. The sea starts to grow darker in color, till finally it becomes a pool of black pigment. Now the rocks we used to sit on have melted into the dark embrace of the sea, whose low and heavy undertone is sighing at the dim-ming of the day.
“The Fish says, ‘Sea, you cannot see my tears, because I’m inside of you.’ ‘No, I can see your tears,’ says the Sea, ‘because you are in my heart’ ” (Murakami Haruki, Japan).
Loneliness is a bite from the suste-nance of love. If we are so hungry that we cannot resist from taking a bite, remember that all we swallow is loneli-ness.
Can one really learn about another person, no matter if they are lovers or enemies?
“You are not the fish; how can you know that the fish is happy?” “You are not myself; how can you then know that I do not know about the happi-ness of the fish?” (Zhuangzi, 200 B.C., China)
The constant sighing of the sea an-swers me. The sea is full of capacity of wisdom. Every drop of water can reflect the seven colors of the sun, and every fish swallows and spits the truth of life that can only be found under-neath the earth.
It is on the sea that continents and islands drift away from each other to begin their own history; it is the sea that divides the world up into frag-ments. We are a coherent world, but sometimes what authors the story of our world or our own lives is not linear logic. Destiny, change of mind and other forces can all interrupt to twist our stories into many, many turns.
Loneliness is the greatest force among them all. It is a relative state, because no one can escape the social world. However, anyone is ultimately lonely. Ultimate loneliness means arriving in the world alone, and also departing from it alone. But this is not pessi-mism. Real pessimism is the lack of understanding of the nature of indi-vidual life. It is always easy to lose one’s identity if one tries to identify with others because he or she is afraid of loneliness.
But my dear, why is it that when I ex-plained all this to you, you just turned away, picking up a dandelion along the street and blew away its seeds? Do our lives resemble these white parachutes that flew all around? We all start from one place (our mother’s womb?), get scattered during our journey of life, but will ultimately come to the same final line again when our journey ends.
Finally, when you understand it, loneli-ness is not fearful.
b a i l e y d u d y c h aleft: pilot control panel
below: air force junkyard headphonesdigital photographs
each print 6 in. by 4 in.
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f r a n k i e b a r n h i l lthe great let-down: radiohead on leaves
A leaf lets go of its anchor and falls, as if going down a quaking dumb-waiter,suspended only by air.
Its free fall is notunaccompanied.Others join its golden corners,Rays of gold— Brown—Red—they trickle to the ground, for The Great Let Down.
But instead,the leaves are allowed to keep floating after falling.Only this time,they must dance upon a different density; WATER.
A brisk lake breaks their fallfrom grace to ground.
Until—slowly—a wave wakes over the free-fall,finally letting that first released leaftouch dark, wet, earth.
The Greatest of Let Downsis letting it all sink in.
above: surface no. 1intaglio7.5 in. by 9.5 in.
left: surface no. 5
intaglio12.5 in. by 8.5 in.
m e g a n m c n i n c h
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k e l l y r a e t r i s k obicycle
digital photograph15 in. by 20 in.
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k e l l y r a e t r i s k oshoes
digital photograph15 in. by 20 in.
k e a r s t i n r o yflux
This is a springIn which I will never see you again.The hills before the valley homeSpew forth an earthy bloodBlack on the whiteAsphaltGlowing like tourmalineOr gasoline.Little rhythms of music wrap aroundThe ever dainty buds on naked woodThe greener the deeperSo many roots trying to find the centerAnd life in waterWhat terrifies me is everywhereThe earth uncovering itselfHow can it go on livingWhen the dead are still dead
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You became a thousand different peopleeach time I fell asleep.
You lied about your surname to everyonebut me: it was French,and completely unpronounceablewhen daylight touched it.
You were a one-eyed cat once;a man;my daughter.
And so on and so on(and thus and thus)until everyone I spoke to,everyone who walked beside me,was you,and every shadow knew your presence.
Voice unheard, sight unseen,the world held your scent,and I loved you in every form.
a m y r a e w e a v e repistolary romance
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m a r y d e l a w a r efor the morning glories
lead and nylon string6 ft. by 3.5 ft.
m e l i s s a g a m s tleft: untitled (florence series)silver3 in. by 4.5 in.
below: untitled (florence series)gold plated silver2 in. by 2 in.
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c a r i s s a s a m a n i e g ohang on
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a g a s u .waiting
digital photograph6 in. by 8 in.
I. South Dakota opened itself flat like a well-worn bookread a thousand times by overhead skies.
The sun was smeared behind a bulk of clouds;
when we reached the centerfoldof the state, it dropped:an egg yolk falling into the pan of the Missouri, water shimmering like melted butter.
Crossing a prairiesaturated with the lasting raysof a closing day,
I absorbed every caressing rise and slope of land. The panorama extended for miles,before being sliced
by a razor of skywhose edges still glowedfrom a lowered sun.
I wanted the road to disappear,to be swallowed by brome& the fences to dissolve into mud.
I craved to cut the strings (of telephonewire) until there would be nothing left to see but world.
II. Pulled by an unseen tether,inflated pinnacles rose & wrapped mein rough geometric angles.
drove wests a r a h s t o c k h o l m I was confined to figure
eight lanesclinging to paved shelves-
constricted corridorsbetween charred woods.
The North Fork’sgray water swelled; freefrom frozen captivity
it charged in a torrent spiral
swallowing whole trees,gnawing the bank.
The whole scene
from the wooly skyto the stark angled mountainscarved by glaciers& coated with blistered trees
captured mein an etched woodcut.
III. We stepped onto salted decayed stairssoftened by sand.
This is where the map ceased, where land could no longer unfold.
Tin sky bellowedwind above the dissolvedvoid. Sand
was imprinted: crustaceans, shattered shells,our feet.
I ran the last stretch of continental land
until I reachedthe point of being,
(the location) where everything rushestogether and apart at once.
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yanshuo zhang, junior, English major. At age twenty, I have traveled three continents (Asia, Americas and Europe) and learned to speak three languages (Chinese, English and French). My life is composed of dreams free enough to float above the sky, yet solid enough to be pulled together by aspiration and diligence.... I am proud of my life as a traveler, and the most exciting part is to be able to record every breath-taking moment of my journey by the pen in my hand--if the world is a castle fortified by cold realities, words is the power to melt it into tenderness.
liv gundmundson is a senior graduating with a double major in French and International Relations. She plans to put half of this degree to the test by moving to Paris in
the summer.
melissa gamst wants to eat grape candy and make wallpaper jewelry.
kellee isle is a third year English major. She likes history, animation, sleeping, Vikings (not the ones who play football,) and reading everything from books, to comics, to NyQuil labels, to the entire internet. All tiny bits of her free time are dedicated to medieval combat re-creation and armor making. Her future will likely be entirely too nerdy, hopefully filled with various writing, and definitely free of boxed macaroni and cheese.
amy rae weaver will graduate this spring with a major in music and a minor in English. She gesticulates like she might generate clean energy from the effort and always greets crows when she sees them. More likely than not, she
does not want to hear what you think about pop culturerenalie bailey is a senior in Apparel Design. Upon graduating, she plans to design clothes that no one in their right mind would ever wear.
pang moua is graduating and doesn’t know what to do with her life. Please give her a job! Maybe one that allows her
to travel as well...
roxanne swanson is a senior majoring in Studio Art. She paints in oil and seeks to paint an honest vision of what she sees so that she may create a human connection and experience on canvas. Her goal is to bring subjects to life by inviting the viewer into a vivid sensory experience.
catherine yeeling tsen was born and raised in Malaysia for the first thirteen years of her life, until fate tore her away from the warm and beautiful land of oceans and mountains to the cold flat land of Minnesota. In this new land, she grew to love visual arts in many forms such as photography, painting, and drawing. Also, Catherine has a
particular fancy for food.
kearstin roy -Almost done. time for something else. outside. “I know what I mean, do you know what I mean?”
- C.B.
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bailey dudycha is a first year at St. Kate’s, and is planning on majoring in American Sign Language Interpreting with a minor in photography. Her two photographs are from an airplane junkyard in Tucson, Arizona.
emily beatrice deutsch “paints objects as [she] thinks them, not as [she] sees them.” Pablo Picasso
mary delaware is a junior Studio Art major with an emphasis in Graphic Design. Her goal in life is to be an art director for an awesome publication and spend the majority of
her free time gardening and reading.
katherine curtis is currently a junior majoring in Communications and Journalism at St. Kate’s. Before she discovered a love for comics she walked through life, but now she frolics. She used to doubt the quality of her artwork, and at times she still does. Nonetheless, she does not allow these thoughts stop her from doing what she does. Don’t let it stop you either. Even if you think you are not good at something, try it anyway. You will never regret trying. Like the comics? You can check out the entire “Our Perfect World” series on FaceBook. Leave comments and laugh out-loud, join the group and you will receive notifications every time a new
comic is added to the collection.
sarah golv is a senior at St. Kate’s with a degree in English and minor in Latin. She enjoys a good cup of tea, a close game of cribbage, and walks in Highland Park. Life after
graduation? Who knows?
kelly rae trisko, no Rae is not my middle name, yes, it is my first name, well part of it…
katherine pease I hold firmly to the belief that “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end“ (Seneca). When English fails me, art helps me make sense of the insanity. Ultimately, through my work, I am striving to document this secession of events that I have come to know
as life. Fully understanding it will come with time.
sarah stockholm believes in the cosmic need within each individual to create. (To create implies to construct the world differently, to reinvent, to revolutionize. To create we must go beyond tweaking what has already been created and manifest a new reality that can be experienced in art, literature, political action, spirituality, relationships, daily existence and personal consciousness.) She thinks that the world would function more harmoniously if we were in a constant state of creation.
frankie barnhill welcomes soulful contradictions. A homebody with a knack for travel, a Mountain-gal with a(n acquired) taste for the Midwest, a mandolin-player sans the mandolin. Her greatest life work will either be a cookbook or an autobiographical dark-comedy screenplay directed by Wes Anderson—Barnhill will not play herself.
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allison cole is a senior in the English Department. She prides herself on having watched Children of Men five times while it was in theatres and thinks everyone should set aside time everyday for philosophical contemplation.
aga su. “I am at heart a gentleman.” Marlene Dietrich
tréza rosado is a sophomore student eyeing a career in making money off of self-involved angst. As such, she hopes to further revel in sadness and melancholy over the course of her remaining two years at the College of St. Catherine in order to prepare for her future as a detached, unwashed, socially awkward writer trolling Greenwich Village for signs of
social decay.
grace dupre is a sophomore at St. Kate’s who is majoring in Studio Art. She loves spending most of her time fantasizing, exploring, and creating things: playing music, writing stories, and drawing, painting and animating – mostly on her trusty tablet. If she could not make art, she’d be a full-
time dreamer. or work in a shop of some kind.
molly davy is a first year at St. Kate’s this year. Her mother and grandmother also went to St. Kate’s. She is on both the jury and exhibition teams for Ariston. Molly is majoring in Art History and journalism.
courtney hampton I am a cat person, therefore I have a cat by the name of Agassi Sampras Pete Andre Hampton II. And, yes, I do play tennis thanks largely in part to my mother. I also am a self professed “cosmetic addict” and am perhaps one of the few people who has not, nor has a desire to, read Twilight.
carissa samaniego is homesick for places she’s never been and in love with people she’s never met.
christine hehre is finally qualified to call herself a graduating senior, although she will probably be one of those life-long students with plans of completing a second major next year and plans to attend Medical or PA school project at least another 10 years of academic rigor. Likes: Diet Coke, Americanos, red wine, Scrabble, simplicity, human anatomy, The Counting Crows, office supplies, prime numbers and sleeping in late.
katherine lauri johnson is a junior at St. Kate’s, double majoring in Art History and American Studies. Initially she majored in Studio Art at University of Wisconsin Stout but began to hate art (due to becoming burnt out from it) so she decided to switch her major to English, and consequently transferred to St. Kate’s. However art would not let Katherine out of its sight and kept following her... i.e. through befriending art students, working in the art building and so on. So Katherine finally started to pay attention to this sign and began creating art once again as well as becoming an Art History major. She has finally come to accept her love/hate relationship with art and will be studying art in Aix, France at
the Marchutz School of Art this coming Fall.
megan mcninch is a Senior and a studio art major at CSC. She is currently interested in the impact of the passage of time on organic and manufactured surfaces and just really
likes to make stuff.
ani letourneau always thinks too much into things, so she couldn’t think of what she should say about herself. So she leaves you with this: Never be afraid to do anything, live your life to the fullest, ART is a gift and music is awsome, so ROCK ON! Cheesy? Maybe, but that’s just the way it is :)
