OSU’S ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE // WINTER 2015

OSU’S ART & LITERARY MAGAZINE // WINTER 2015

Our
Own
Uncanny
Va l l
ey
“The Uncanny” is that which is familiar and unfamiliar at
once—things we know taken out of context and given new
meaning to create something we are not altogether comfortable
with. This often results in a shock to the system, creating
a sensation that can only be described as creepy.
But who says the uncanny has to freak us out? I think, instead,
we can learn a great deal from the things that distort
the commonplace, and that’s what our Winter edition of
Prism achieves. The pieces we selected this term all happen
to have a sense of the commonplace, transformed. Ranging
from simple to off-the-wall, our collection of art and written
work stretches the imagination in form and imagery,
allowing their subjects to take on new meaning through a
different lens: sometimes literally, as in Koa Tom’s “My Gutter,”
and but also with nuance and subtlety as with Eric Callahan’s
poetry or Alysa Phan’s spectacular artistry.
Also in this issue, we’ll be examining the architectural installation
in Oregon State’s newest completed building and
Prism Magazine’s new home, the Student Experience
Center (you can find us on the fourth floor). Staff writer
Darryl Oliver interviews OSU alumna Alice Marshall,
who has been working very hard to put up the SEC’s
resident art piece at the heart of the building. In
his article, you’ll get a peek at Alice’s work as well
as the art piece, itself another great example of
reconsidering our more mundane surroundings
to reflect a different kind of vision.
By generating new ways of thinking about
objects, places, and situations, this term’s
magazine will invert what you know to
examine it anew.
Thank you for reading,
Megan Haverman
Editor-in-Chief

Missing women
Alysa Phan
Screen Print
1

Prism Magazine / Winter 2015 / Volume 51:2
Editor in Chief
Megan Haverman
Graphic Designers
Beau Leslie
Lauren Salgado
Literature Editor
Mitch Buechler
Digital Editor
Brendan Hesse
Poetry Editors
Sara Crawford
Nicholas Browning
Staff Writer
Darryl Oliver
Additional thanks to all those who attended literature and art boards;
this publication would not be the same without your involvement in
the decision-making process!
Prism is published three times annually under the authority of Oregon
State University and the Student Media Committee policies for student,
faculty, and staff of the Associated Students of Oregon State University.
Prism accepts submissions of literary or artistic nature year round from
enrolled students.
Cover: The brighter side
Hollie Arnold
Silk Screen Print
Back cover: Spoon me
Tanner Henderson
Acrylic painted with Spoon
Prism Magazine
480 Student Experience Center
Oregon State University
Corvallis, OR 97331
541-737-2253
prism@oregonstate.edu
Printed by Lynx
Salem, Oregon
2

Contents
01
04
05
06
07
08
09
10
17
18
20
23
24
25
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Missing Women
Alysa Phan
Exodontia
Jasmine Casimir
Dialogue
Ashley Coleman
Home
Peter Warila
Forgotten
Kathryn Hampton-Wonder
Creepy Crawlies
Jasmine Casimir
Untitled (Still Life with Malt Liquor)
Jerome Stretch
Lose a Fight
Nicholas Browning
Reproduction Seduction
Ashley Coleman
Marco Polo
Ashley Coleman
Afterglow & Alice
Darryl Oliver
To Naomi / Knock
Kathryn Hampton-Wonder / Jenna Jarvis
Striker
Daniele Armantrout
Agoraphobia
Brionna Poppitz
Gill, Gulp, Gasp
Alysa Phan
Orange
John Petticrime
Thrift Shop
Dyllon Sue
My Gutter
Koa Tom
Vandalism
Hollie Arnold
One Day
Dyllon Sue
Shout Softly
Eric Callahan
Untitled
Tanner Henderson
Ukiah, Oregon
Daniele Armantrout
Kristopher
Emily Dicksa
The Garden
Dyllon Sue
Dark Clouds
Eric Callahan
Final
Cass Lyon
Contributors’ Notes
3

exodontia
Jasmine Casimir
Acrylic on Canvas
4

dialogue
Ashley Coleman
Poetry
I taste your tongue
--salty, sarcastic, dry
Like a desert mirage at the bottom of the ocean
You soar through the waves
On your reptilian coils
And tempt me with a bite
Of a wet red sweetness
Camouflage, my love for you
Spoke like a silent rain
Tapping on the tin of your inner surface
Like hummingbird wings on a violin
Distill your edges, your canyons corroded
I am as vast as an open valley
5

Home
Peter Warila
Poetry
Dew drops sparkle, drawing in dawn’s light;
to release in every direction.
Now here, now there, suddenly gone, now back
in all brilliance.
The water and the light coax a living
audience from the earth—a throng sprouting,
flowering, spreading; growing more slowly
than human perception can decipher—
a force borne by a boiling, crushing rhythm;
molten deep in this massive planet orb.
Now wait, step back, step back, again; and see
this pocket marble, rolling around the sun.
All this a speck in a galaxy’s arm,
And Milky Way a speck in its cluster,
All this universe a speck in something—
I’d bet that speck sparkles just like the dew.
6

Forgotten
Kathryn Hampton-Wonder
Poetry
The child sits and counts flowers for the little house
She builds beneath the cherry tree. Surrounding the house is a field
Of open ocean
And if she closes her eyes, she can feel herself flying
Skimming the tips of her toes along the aquamarine sea.
All by herself, she can travel to weird and wonderful places
Where colors yet unnamed burst free
From cracks in the most ordinary of items.
A table, a toothpick, the strange
Grey rock she pried from the front-garden bed
Become treasures her parents cannot see.
Except for a small seed in her mind, the girl is happy.
But slowly that seed grows
Encompassing her cherry-tree island
Telling her that she must come back to earth, that her table is not a hobbit-hole,
And how her faerie house will remain empty
Until one day
When the girl closes her eyes and finds
She cannot remember how to fly.
7

creepy crawlies
Jasmine Casimir
Monoprint
8

untitled (still life with malt liquor)
Jerome Stretch
Photography
9

Lose a fight
Nicholas Browning
Creative Non-Fiction / Abridged
I didn’t plan on getting my ass kicked
that day. Just another day of high school like any
other, until I bumped into my best friend Aaron
in the crowded locker hallways. For a split second
I thought he had been goofing around with
purple makeup. He had a black eye more gaudy
than grape Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape.
“Dude, what the hell happened?” I
asked. He acted almost like an ashamed animal—
furtive, unwilling to meet my eyes. Normally
Aaron was the most confident guy I knew.
“Jordan came into my work yesterday
when I was closing. Just walked up and coldclocked
me, then bolted. Almost knocked me
out.” His voice was quiet, more of a mumble, guttural
and grating.
“He came into your work?” I nearly
shouted. My eyes narrowed as I imagined the
scene. Aaron still wouldn’t look at me. “Are you
all right? Did you kick his ass?”
“I couldn’t dude. Jordan knocked me
into a table and ran out before I could do anything.
Plus, I can’t risk getting into trouble while
on probation.”
The dull roar of dozens of conversing
students surrounded us, punctuated by the
clan sounds of lockers slamming shut. The faint
cornflower stench of too many bodies packed
together mixed with the musty hallway air. Everything
around me sort of faded out of focus.
“Fuck him,” I spat, irate. I paced back
and forth, clenching and unclenching my hands.
“Does he think he can get away with that shit?
How can someone just do that?”
Aaron didn’t reply, kept his startling
blue eyes locked on the faded linoleum floor. He
was supposed to be the guy on top of the world.
My idol.
I came to a decision in an instant.
Seemed like the only possible thing to do. The
only honorable thing to do. “I’ll fight him for
you.” The words leapt from my mouth, escaping
before I had a chance to catch them.
Now, I thought of myself as a tough kid.
Maybe even invincible. Sure, I’d only been in one
fight my entire life, back in middle school, which
ended up devolving into more of a wrestling
match than a real brawl, but it still seemed impossible
that I might not win this battle. I was the
hero, the warrior swooping in to save the day. Besides,
I had a reputation as a football player and
all-around tough guy. Jordan probably wouldn’t
10

fight me anyways.
“Thanks dude,” Aaron said. I thought
that reply kind of strange. Why didn’t he try to
talk me out of it? Or at least ask if I was sure. I
wasn’t.
“I gotta get to class. Let me know when
you set it up.” Aaron clapped my shoulder and
turned to join the bustling swarm of bodies
around me. I stood there, transfixed, watching
him walk away.
“Already, regret began
sneaking into my pores”
Well, no turning back now.
I took up a post near Jordan’s locker in
between first and second period. As soon as he
walked around the ugly brown corner my heart
rocketed into activity, like someone had just
shot one of those “go guns” used at track meets.
Adrenaline crowded into my head, muddling any
common sense I might have possessed.
All I saw was a crop of black hair as
Jordan walked with his head down. A short guy,
but pretty bulky. Kind of like a gorilla. For some
reason, he reminded me of Aaron.
“Jordan,” I said, hustling to block his
path. Neither of us had our friends around. No
one to impress. Just me and him.
He raised his head, a wan frown on his
lips. Didn’t seem surprised to see me. Maybe
resigned. He had a big square face, and bags
and black-purple streaks below his eyes. Like he
hadn’t slept or something.
“Meet me after school in The Pit. Bitch.”
He sighed. “I don’t want to fight you.”
Well that felt good. Of course he didn’t.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t wise enough to take
advantage of the offered out. “You don’t have
a choice. You’re going to fight me. I’ll find you if
you don’t show up.” I nodded my head, pleased
with the command. What a badass.
Jordan’s tiny eyes narrowed. No way he
would say yes. The asshole was terrified.
“Fine,” he said. “After school.” And walked
away.
That was unexpected.
I think a part of me never believed the
fight would actually happen. Already, regret
began sneaking into my pores.
Word spread around school like the
Ebola virus. In high school, nothing beat a good
fight, especially when it involved one of the
popular kids.
The rest of the day sped past me. I
hardly remember my classes. What sits clear in
my mind is the sour tinge of too much adrena-
11

line. A looming sense of dread. Repeated trips to
the restroom as my stomach rebelled against me.
Fantasies played out in my mind, covering every
possible scenario the fight might take.
Yeah, I didn’t like Jordan, and I was honestly
furious over what he had done to Aaron.
But I didn’t hate the guy. Did I really want to hurt
him?
I couldn’t back out. The entire school
would find out in an instant. I’d be branded a
wimp, a pussy. And what would my friends think
of me? What would Aaron think?
I recruited the aid of my older brother
Steve, a veteran of many battles, to join in my escapade.
Truthfully, I didn’t give the idea of involving
my brother much thought, self-involved as I
was. I shouldn’t have called him. He had his own
problems, drinking problems that had caused
him to drop out of college, fueling the fire of an
increasingly tense relationship with our parents.
“Of course I’ll be there,” he said. For all my
brother’s faults, he loved his family selflessly,
would do anything for them regardless of the
consequences. And, if I’m being honest, the guy
loved mischief. “Is this kid tough?”
“Nah,” I replied boastfully. “I’ll have no
problem with him.”
“All right little brother, I got your back.
Just don’t do this unless you’re sure.”
Another chance for an out. “I’m sure,” I
said instead.
Steve was already waiting in the parking
lot for me after school, leaning casually against
our dented tan Explorer. Aaron and a couple
other guys in our crew hurried to join us. Just
because Aaron wouldn’t fight didn’t mean he
wouldn’t watch.
A literal mass of my peers followed
behind, and began milling around my car as if it
were a celebrity, eager to see me battle Jordan,
the little turd.
It was terrifying. Not to mention stupid.
A crowd that size was sure to attract the cops.
We made quick plans to lose all the would-be
spectators, and got word to Jordan’s guys to
move the venue behind an old church. We took
one of my buddy’s cars to throw off our pursuers.
Mission Impossible style.
I sat shotgun, trying to get control of
my rapid heartbeat and frenzied breathing. My
brother sat behind me, shooting off veteran
scrapping tips. “When we get out of the car, don’t
talk to him. No shoving, no shit talking. Just walk
up and clock him in the head before he has a
chance to react.”
I nodded my heard, eager for his wisdom,
though a sour pang broiled in my stomach.
“Just don’t give him a chance. Once you
12

start, keep hitting him until he’s done.”
That seemed pretty damn cruel, but my
adrenaline pushed my usual reason aside.
“You got this,” one of my guys chimed in.
“Yeah, beat his ass dude.”
Did they think they were helping? I just
nodded again, clenching and unclenching my
fists, drunk on excitement and fear and testosterone.
It felt like forever and an instant to pull
around behind the old church. Jordan’s troupe
was already there, standing beside a faded blue
pickup parked near the back of the lot. Jordan
and three others milled around the truck, includ-
“I just nodded
again, clenching and
unclenching my fists,
drunk on excitement
and fear and
testosterone”
ing Jordan’s older brother. Made me glad I had
brought Steve.
It was a warm day. Sunny, with clear
skies and a soft breeze, carrying the smell of
tar from a roadwork site a couple streets over.
A length of grass stretched between the parking
lot and the church’s old brown bricks, which
seemed to be glowering at me.
My buddy’s car eased to a stop and my
friends patted my back and fired me up and
Aaron’s purple eye squinted when he smiled, and
the moment a part of me thought would never
come — that I’d secretly been hoping would
never come — arrived.
I wore a black Dragon Ball Z shirt. Figured
having a screaming Super Saiyan rampaging
across my chest would give me strength and
inspire fear in my opponent.
So many thoughts thundered through
my head as I adopted my best tough guy walk
and strode towards Jordan. But at the very
forefront of my mind, overpowering the adrenaline
and my friends’ cheers and the desire to
uphold my reputation, was the realization that I
absolutely did not want to do this. I just couldn’t
come to terms with the fact that I was about to
use my fists to slam into another person’s skull. It
felt so wrong. But I wasn’t brave enough to back
out.
“Where’s Jordan?” I demanded in my
manliest voice, puffing my chest out like a penguin.
Somehow I’d lost sight of him amidst his
circle of friends.
“Here,” he answered from behind me,
13

sounding almost timid.
I turned, swinging my fist round with my
body, and my knuckles glanced off his cheek.
And in that moment, as he pulled his
own arm back, hand clenched tight, I realized I
would do just about anything to avoid having
that bony pound of flesh connect with my face.
An odd realization, considering the circumstances.
I’m not sure what I’d expected. Maybe like in
the movies, when the hero clobbers his opponent
and the enemy goes down from a single
swing.
Instead of taking my chances in a boxing
match, I dropped low, heard the whisk of air
as his fist flew right above my head, and I bum
rushed him like the football player I used to be.
Perfect form I thought to myself, lodging my
right shoulder just below his hip bone. I lifted
Jordan completely off of the ground, at least two
feet, and body slammed him, spearing him into
the grass with all my weight.
He made a pathetic sort of urrff sound
when he hit the ground and the breath blasted
from his lungs. His body went limp beneath me,
and for a moment I thought the fight might be
over.
“Hit him!” I heard Steve and my friends
shouting in the background. The order puzzled
me but my heart was thundering in my ears and
I was so pumped up that I followed their advice.
Sitting on Jordan’s stomach, I positioned a leg on
either side of him like schoolboy bullies are wont
to do, and swung wildly at his head. A couple
blows landed, I’m sure of it, but he’d recovered
enough to throw his hands in my face, and roll
back and forth beneath me, displacing most of
my ill-aimed attacks.
“Being punched in
the face was an odd
sensation”
Was this what being tough felt like? It
was like riding a wave, being swept along in a
current too powerful to resist. I didn’t feel like
me, barely felt like I was in control of my body.
Jordan rolled out from beneath me and
leapt to his feet. Me being the inexperienced
pseudo martial arts master I believed myself to
be, I followed after him.
Being punched in the face was an odd
sensation. I mean, a really solid blow clobbered
my right cheekbone. I didn’t even see it coming,
just a flash of white, and heard a meaty fwap
sound and my head jerked to the side of its own
will. A second later my head yanked the other
way and another fwap filled my ears. My por-
14

celain nose started gushing blood. Torrents of
crimson goo just poured out, flowing down my
mouth and chin and into my shirt collar.
I couldn’t get close to the guy. Every
time I pushed forward I got pummeled. I tried a
heavy right hook. Jordan leaned out of the way,
then pushed forward with his back foot and
launched a cross into my cheek. Getting fancy,
I tried a quick 1-2 combo, a jab with my left and
another right hook. Jordan slapped away the
feeble straight-armed punch and pushed beneath
my hook and another flash of white struck
me, and my head rocketed back and I shook it
to clear the stars. Adrenaline must have been
shielding me from the pain, but things were a bit
foggy now, hazy.
A lull stretched in the combat. Both of
us heaved with breath, and I felt bile in my stomach,
and maybe the adrenaline was starting to
fade because my face felt strange and puffy. My
tongue sat gummy in my mouth, like a parched
blob.
Somehow during the scuffle, Jordan had
lost one of his shoes. We faced off, both wavering,
him standing lopsided in one gray shoe
and one yellow sock. I couldn’t really breathe
and wasn’t having much fun, and his fists were
covered in my blood.
Then it hit me: I was losing the fight. No
more catcalls from my brother and friends. They
stood by, grim, silent spectators watching as I
got the shit beat out of me.
“Hey, can I get my shoe?” Jordan asked.
What a weird question. Didn’t seem to
fit in with the violent scene the two of us were
creating. It kind of broke my heart. Of course
he could get his shoe, I was about to say, and
opened my mouth to tell him that—
“No, don’t let him!” Steve shouted from
the sidelines.
The order reinvigorated me, and instead
of saying anything I recalled my earlier success
with the football tactics, and lowered my head
and charged forward once more. I ran right into
Jordan’s fist.
This time my legs buckled, and I fell to
the ground, and Jordan just sort of collapsed on
top of me. My body felt like Jell-O, my limbs like
goo. We rolled around a bit, but every now and
then I’d hear that fwap sound, though the noise
was muted now, far away, and it took me a moment
to realize he was still hitting me.
For the first time, I was afraid. I mean,
how many times had I been punched? What if he
was doing permanent damage?
Following the fear came an even stranger
realization. A humbling, humiliating one, as I
realized Jordan had complete control over me.
15

A difficult sensation to describe, almost surreal,
being at the mercy of this man I could not beat,
who was pummeling the shit out of me. I could
barely move, so tired, hanging on the edge of
consciousness, my pathetic rubber arms held up
in front of my face, trying to deflect the blows.
Fwap, thump, thwtack.
It took every ounce of courage I possessed
to utter my next two words, far more than
it had taken to start this damned debacle.
“Jordan. Stop,” I slurred. My mouth was
full of blood. Ringing filled my ears. “I’m done.”
I prayed to whatever god would listen that he
“Red hands, soaked
all the way up to his
wrists. My blood”
would stop hitting me.
And he did.
Jordan rolled off me and stepped away,
and my brother ran to my side, helping me to my
swaying feet.
Jordan didn’t say anything, just shuffled
over to retrieve his shoe and then headed towards
his friends, hands still balled in fists. Red
hands, soaked all the way up to his wrists. My
blood.
We walked to my friend’s car in silence.
I was trying not to cry. I wasn’t upset because
of pain, and I wasn’t afraid or anything. I was
upset because I had let my friends down. Aaron
wouldn’t even look at me.
“I’m driving, you little punks,” Steve said,
and yanked the keys from my friend’s hand. No
one argued. He was breathing almost as hard as
I was, and his face had taken on a reddish hue.
Must have taken all his control not to join the
fight.
Once more I found myself in shotgun,
head in my hands, staring out the window. I
sat in a haze, imagining a mask on my face, the
sticky half-dried blood pasted across my mouth
and chin and throat feeling like a coat of drying
paint. My Dragon Ball Z shirt was ruined.
“Are any of your teeth loose?” Steve
asked.
“What?”
I realized he’d asked me the question
more than once.
“Check your teeth dude.” He looked
at me, eyes intense. Creases in his brow. “Any
loose?”
I followed his advice. My face felt swollen,
numb. Like it belonged to someone else.
“Nah, they’re good.”
We pulled out from the old church.
“I’m sorry,” I said into the silence. No one
answered. I had lost, more than just the fight. “I’m
sorry guys.”
16

TITLE
Author
Medium
TITLE
Reproduction seduction
Author Ashley Coleman
Medium Intaglio Drypoint Triptych colored with Makeup
(lipstick, eye shadow, nail polish)
22
17

marco polo
Ashley Coleman
Poetry
Preclinical reports showed
A rainbow-goad, crickety world of choice molecules
Littered with shadowy gopher holes and black blood freckle towns
Nonconformists and jellybean hopes
I was one of it’s flora babies
Glistening, made of peach jelly
Finger swirling tendrils of silk-shimmer
Tongue counting whistles like prayers
I was tweeting in a glass prison
Wings flapping and blue feathers ruffled
While street-smart Rapunzels roamed the night
In nothing but nightclothes and slippers
I became like a camouflaged scar
Skinless and throbbing with all the same biological tendencies
In the wolf-light where a bioluminescent smear
Dissolved like sugar, marking the time
And I became bruisable, and I learned what love is
The rapture or erasure as perishable as punch cards
“Happy anniversary, goodbye”; don’t bite me, mark me
A man should never love in translation
I can still feel the wool of him
In the terns where we made love
But he left me smelling sick
With nothing but a birthmark and light on the neck-nape
Sapphire is the color in Heaven
And you are God’s child, act like it
For the fragile hour can be dropped like glass
18

And hour has shape and proportion
I found myself in tickets to concerts never attending
In the glare of his glasses, the blue soda jean culture
I was a bubblegum chemical illusion of polyester guilt
The unflattered reflection of albino grieving
I have a halo of cotton lace and a soul of beaded satin
I find adulterated truth in funhouse mirrors
Wrath never took seed within me
But I have a shrapnel lexicon of human voices
Love turned me into a test dummy
And your voice called out in abstraction but got lost in the details
Because you are the sailor, and I am the siren, singing
Outside a submerged submarine beneath Arctic ice
I am a beacon, calling to you in a slumber
I carry spiders and dreams of hyper-alert texture
I’m one in a miss-matched wash of colors and white
Heavy fabrics and delicates thrown in a barrel
And I come out alone, the ever-missing sock
There is a feverish feast of internal impulses
Behind phony smiles and the amassing of lines
We’re told the clicking of our heels must match
The syrupy song stuck in our heads
But baby, deep down, you are made of paper glass
Of cellophane colored tissue wrapping
And I never cut corners when it comes to gifts
Especially as fragrant and precious as you
19

“As my
involvement
increased,
so did my
interest in
the piece”
Photos courtesy of Philip Pompetti
20

Prism Presents: Afterglow & Alice
Darryl Oliver
The Student Experience Center is complete.
Well, almost complete, that is. It has finally
been opened to the public after months of painstaking
construction, traffic jams and class disruption.
For those of you who’ve been inside of the
SEC, you’ll have noticed that the spiral staircase
seems to be missing bits and pieces. Panels in all
different hues of orange line the staircase and sit
in piles on the floor. Those panels, the stairwell,
and, in fact, part of building itself are all a work of
art by way of architecture; its assembly is led by a
young woman with blue hair.
The project is named Afterglow, designed
by Matthew Au and Ramiro Diaz-Granados,
both instructors at Southern California
Institute of Architecture. And that young woman
with the blue hair? That’s Oregon State Alumna
Alice Marshall, the liaison between the artists
and architects, the person in charge of bringing
Afterglow to Corvallis. Alice graduated from
Oregon State University last year with a degree
in Studio Art. Born and raised in Albany, Alice is
a local, and there was no better choice to help
with the project. I got a chance to sit down with
her to chat about Afterglow and her experience.
Question: How did you get involved with the
Afterglow project?
Alice: Well, I was working as the Memorial Union
Concourse Gallery Assistant Curator and Installer
for Art Shows while I was also doing some parttime
work with Kent Sumner on the Permanent
Collection of Art for Oregon State. So through
him and his connection to the art installation
at the SEC, I’d already had my foot in the door
for really anything relating to art happening
at Oregon State. When I’d heard that Ramiro
needed an assistant I jumped right in. It started
off that I would just be doing six hours a day, you
know doing the little things and helping out.
And then it just escalated and I was working ten
to fourteen hours a day doing the actual installation
aspects of the piece. I’ve had to step up to
the position of Installation Manager since both
Ramiro and Matthew can’t be in Corvallis at the
moment.
Q: I hear the project is based of the setting of the
Oregon sun, a little more about its origins?
A: Of course! Originally it was based on the
colors, hues, and atmospheric ambiance that
occurs when the sun is setting or rising around
Mt. Hood, when the light is refracting off the
21

volcanic molecules that have been trapped in
the atmosphere since Mt. Hood’s eruption. So, it’s
very exclusive to Oregon, which is really cool.
Q: How did the artist go about designing Afterglow
for the SEC?
A: It’s completely custom to this building. It was
sponsored by this program called Percent for
Art, which states that all large-scale buildings at
Oregon State University must take 1% of building
cost and put that towards art for the building.
After the funds are distributed, they put out
a call for artist and designers, and then they hold
a competition to see which art would fit the best.
Matthew and Ramiro both got the plans for the
building and then made the design to fit this
building specifically. It’s a very interesting piece
because we are working closely with the contractors
and construction workers. It’s not purely
aesthetic, but it actually has a function that correlates
with the function of the building.
Q: Can you tell me a little bit more about your
role within the project?
A: Well, again as I said earlier everything escalated
very quickly. It started off with me being
asked to do things such as removing or applying
tape or handing the workers bolts. Then things
became more and more hands on. Now I’m communicating
with contractors and they’re asking
me for the specific placement of sprinklers and
light fixtures. But as my involvement increased,
so did my interest in the piece. It is definitely a
resume booster and it is very satisfying work as
well.
Q: How is Afterglow coming along—almost
finished?
A: It’s about 93% done. All the ceiling parts on
each floor are done. So by the end of March it’ll
have all the facia pieces; that’ll cover all the black
marks. I’ve been with them since about mid-November.
Ramiro and Matthew have been working
on it since June, constructing the pieces and
what not. They started designing even before
that. It’s been a long time coming, we’re all very
ready to see it finished.
Q: Thank you so much! Last question, any advice
for the aspiring Liberal Arts Major?
A: Yes, I would say keep a realistic and open mind
about any opportunities that come your way.
Don’t let fear get in the way of anything you do,
and always keep a focus on what’s ahead!
Make your way down to the Student Experience
Center to check out Afterglow, inspired but the
Mt. Hood sunset for your student experience.
22

to naomi
Kathryn Hampton-Wonder
Prose Poetry
Little Jewel Bird who sits on my shoulder, you seem to me a small goddess,
a deity of all things bright. How is it possible that you know so much?
Naïve, how I tried to teach you my language and you taught me yours instead,
through greetings called as I step through the door, silvery warbles
that reach my ear and invite me to respond in kind. I have no feathers, no
colorful instruments with which to take to the sky—and yet you preen me,
you dance when I sing and sit contented as I type. We are alike, you and I,
twins of the heart, unlimited by the restrictions of our species.
knock
Jenna Jarvis
Poetry
Depression creeps up on you.
It does not knock on the door
Of a formerly happy heart.
It invites itself in,
Pulls up a chair,
And gets comfortable.
It gets acquainted with your worst memories,
And pals around with your weaknesses.
It leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
And it makes black and white seem more appealing.
It writes, “help” on your forehead
With invisible ink—
So that only those who truly look,
Can read it.
23

striker
Daniele Armantrout
Photography
24

agoraphobia
Brionna Poppitz
Short Story
Hiding in a corner of her room, Mary
heard the voices calling to her from outside her
window.
“Join us…” they chanted in low drones.
Each s hissed in her ears, penetrating and ringing
through her brain. She couldn’t think.
“Join usssss…”
She pressed her hands against each side
of her head, squeezing her eyes shut. As the voices
grew louder, Mary whimpered. She wished
the stringy mess of dark hair that hung around
her face could drown them out, but they were
drowning her out instead. At first, they’d only
been a low buzzing in the background, coming
in and out like a bad radio signal. Then they got
closer and closer, and now the voices were a
deafening scream, flushing out all thought.
She didn’t dare open her eyes or go near
the window. Last time, all she saw were pale, deformed
faces with thin and naked bodies pressing
up against the wall below, so many of them.
Her only comfort was the iron bars behind a
single pane of glass. If nothing else, they couldn’t
get in. But that didn’t stop their unrelenting calls
from reaching inside the white, padded walls of
her room.
Minutes passed at an excruciatingly
slow pace. There was nothing to hide under,
nothing to cover herself with. The entire room
was empty. Like a sick child, Mary whined and
slid from her sitting fetal position down the wall
to lie, curled up on the floor.
All sound is a muffled hum. Mary’s
cushioned walls are solid: no doors, no windows.
No way out. In the middle of the room, somehow,
she reaches out and touches the floor but
can’t feel it. Colors start to change around her.
The walls are not just white, but fuzzy sky blues
and puffy creams swirling together, shifting to
shades of gold and purple then back again. After
a few minutes, they form bruised-skin blotches
that grow over some colors and fade out behind
others.
Soon, the blotches begin to morph
and take shape. On the wall to Mary’s right, she
sees the playground of the elementary school
she went to when she was younger. All of her
classmates are playing together, jumping off
steps and swinging on the monkey bars while
Mary peeked out from between the bushes and
a fence. On the wall to her left, Mary sees a cute
boy standing below her bedroom window like
he had during the summer she turned fourteen.
He plays a guitar to her softly in the night, then
asks her to come down. Mary had said no. On the
25

wall directly in front of Mary, she sees her mother
waving from her car, making an ‘I love you’ sign
with her fingers as she sends Mary, with her butterfly
backpack on both shoulders and anxious
eyebrows, off to her first day of high school. Mary
had run away and gotten lost in an alley.
Distracted by her memories playing
out on her walls, Mary doesn’t notice at first that
they’re moving closer to her. Slowly, like an unstoppable
mechanism, they move forward, and
it’s not until they’re three feet from her that she
understands what’s happening. Panic muddles
her brain, and she looks around frantically for a
way to escape. But it’s too late. They’re already
too close. Instinctually attempting to save herself,
Mary pushes against the walls with her feet
and back, to no avail. Her legs are burning from
“Mary probably would
have stayed there if it
weren’t for the voices
calling her”
the effort, and her back is cramping up against
her knees. With tears in her eyes, she shoves
futilely with her hands against the wall in front of
her until suddenly it stops.
Relief floods through her body as each
of the walls becomes a pillow and falls, one by
one, away from her. Looking around, Mary finds
herself on a four-by-four foot wood platform.
Over the edge, a thin fog reaches down into
oblivion, and she can no longer see the pillows
that dropped below her. For a moment, everything
is still.
Rapidly, a harsh wind picks up, blowing
one way then the other. She slips dangerously
close to the edge, but there’s nothing to
hold onto. Mary’s hair whips around her, and as
she grips the platform with white knuckles, she
realizes that her only choice is to jump. Taking a
deep breath, she lets go.
Mary woke up with her face pressed
into a padded corner between the floor and the
wall. It didn’t bother her. She breathed through
the cushion that was crushed against her mouth
and eyes, keeping them shut. It was comforting.
Cozy, even. She could lie there for days and
weeks. When she breathed out, warm air blew
over her face and heated her cool cheeks.
Mary probably would have stayed there if it
weren’t for the voices calling her. She giggled
and got up. Those silly voices again, always
demanding attention. She skipped over to the
window and leaned her forehead against the
bars, grinning. They were standing outside on
the pavement in long black robes with faces like
Greek theater masks.
“Join us, Mary,” the voices entreated.
She shook her head, swaying. “I’m happy
here.”
“How could you be happy?”
“I am safe,” she murmured.
“Yes, very safe,” said one voice from the
back of the crowd. “As you make accidentally
loud noises in the middle of the night and whis-
26

per ‘sorry’ to an empty room, you are safe.”
“And as you lie in your grey comfort,”
said another to the left. “And eat your trail mix
of Skittles and M&M’s and lemon drops, you are
safe.”
Individual voices came from everywhere.
“When you stare at walls without seeing
them, you are safe.”
“While you’re hiding under the covers,
you are safe.”
“After all of the lies, you are safe.”
“And once the days are over, and you’re
glad they are, mind drifting to unconsciousness,
you are so safe.”
Mary caressed the bars in front of her
with a sedated smile. “I’m glad you understand,”
she said.
Slowly, peacefully, Mary opens her eyes.
Her hair swirls around her face and behind her
head while she floats in a thick, clear liquid like
embryonic fluid. Her mouth is loosely closed and
her lungs sit comfortably between inhale and exhale.
Basketball-sized bubbles hang, suspended
in the liquid, evenly spaced in front of her. With
frog-like breast strokes, she then calmly swims
toward the next bubble. It takes a little longer
than it would in just water, but she has plenty of
air left by the time her mouth reaches the edge.
She breathes in the satisfying amount of oxygen,
then calmly swims toward the next one.
This works well. The tight, black clothing
she wears is good for swimming, and the dim
light filtering down from above is just enough for
Mary to see a path of a few bubbles. She always
knows where she’s going next, and her only
concern is that her muscles are getting tired. It
doesn’t worry her, though. Mary feels that she
could keep going like this for hours, or at least
until she reaches wherever this path is taking her.
Bubble after bubble, the task comforts her like
the steady rhythm of a drum.
A few minutes later, her lungs start to
ache and she doesn’t know why. The spacing
of the bubbles is the same as it’s always been.
They’re the same size as they’ve always been.
But now her muscles are aching from the lack of
oxygen, and she’s beginning to get dizzy, even
though her lungs are full. It’s getting harder and
harder to push her limbs through the syrupy
fluid around her. Every movement is a struggle.
Closing her eyes tight, she tucks her chin into her
neck, fighting to force herself beyond the pain.
After a few seconds, she opens her eyes again to
find the next bubble, but what she sees below
her makes her stop, frozen.
“Mary caressed the
bars in front of her
with a sedated smile”
At the bottom of what she can only
assume to be a giant tank, are hundreds, maybe
thousands of dead bodies. All of them are wearing
the same tight, black clothing, good for
swimming. All of them, men and women, had
been in their 20’s. Their skin is grey and wrinkled
from the liquid, and their eyes, some open, some
27

closed, are blank and lifeless. Looking behind
her, she sees a path of basketball-sized bubbles
that she’d left with each exhale of breath. She
jerks her head back in front of her. There are no
more bubbles, only foggy darkness. This is where
she’d been led to die.
Immediately, she starts swimming
upward. There has to be an end to this place.
If there’s light, there’s air. Mary would not die.
She would not give up. Her muscles scream in
“she felt more awake
than she’d ever remembered
being in her
life. Everything looked
more real, more threedimensional”
protest, but she can’t rest. The light is getting
brighter. She’s almost there.
A halo of black presses in on her vision
as she reaches the top. But all she finds is a thick
layer of glass separating the fluid from the open
air. She pounds desperately against it, but it
doesn’t break or crack. Unable to stop them,
her lungs involuntarily attempt to take a breath,
sucking in the fluid, and she chokes. With a
horrible flush of hopelessness, Mary realizes the
truth of it. She’s going to die here.
This time, when Mary woke up, she felt
more awake than she’d ever remembered being
in her life. Everything looked more real, more
three-dimensional. She sat on the floor with her
back against a bed and could feel everything. All
of the bumps and all of the sharp edges of the
dark grey concrete floor and walls scraped her
hands. Mary’s entire skin tingled with excited
nerves. Every breath brought in a rocky dust
smell. She moved her tongue around her teeth
and could taste the minerals in her saliva. The
only dull sense left was a diminishing ringing in
her ears.
In the background, she heard muffled
voices and looked up from her nubby blue
sweatpants to see her mother, standing on the
other side of a glass door. She was talking with
a doctor in a white lab coat, holding a clipboard.
As the ringing faded, her mother’s words came
into sharp focus.
“…be okay right?” Mary’s mother fiddled
with the sleeve of her lavender cardigan.
“Eventually, yes,” the doctor replied. “But
she’ll have to stay in our facility until the drugs
are completely out of her system. The withdrawals
should be passing pretty soon. A couple of
days, maybe.”
Mary’s mother nodded and glanced at
her, then did a double take. “Wow, a few seconds
ago, she looked so dead. She was just gone. But
now look at her eyes.”
The doctor followed her gaze and
pursed his lips.
“Her body adapts quickly.”
“Can I go in and talk to her?”
“I’m afraid not. For now, it’s best if she
continues with her treatment as planned.”
Mary’s mother nodded again, taking
one last look at Mary as the doctor led her away.
28

Gill, gulp, gasp
Alysa Phan
Oil on Canvas
29

orange
John Petticrime
Flash Fiction
The memories came in waves. More
coincidence than irony, as waves of memory
happen to people with their feet on dry ground
too. It was of a swingset. Old, tired, rusted, with
a chain that would always creak, even if it wasn’t
moving. A woman approached, but the fall
wind blew her hair around like Medusa’s tentacles,
obscuring her face. As she drew nearer,
the sky darkened, and when she whispered, all
that could be heard was the whistle of the wind
through the pines.
The sawing of a tree. A Douglas fir.
Winter, obviously. Snow always dampens sound,
and amid the quiet was only the rhythmic draw
of a saw against fresh, wet wood. Slowly, the fir
fell. The closer it drew to the ground the slower
it seemed to get, as if it was fighting gravity,
straining to right itself, to take root again. Kings,
queens, dictators, and tyrants all eventually
topple, but amidst their proclaimed nobility,
their birthright, there is nothing sadder than the
felling of a tree.
With a great cresting wave, a moving of
earth and soul alike, a back is pressed against the
cold wood of a bedroom door. How many trees
did it take to craft this floor? This door? There
is something funny about a muffled argument,
that something so loud can be so soft. Wood and
walls act as guardians, diffusing and dampening
the hectic, red sounds of a soon-to-be-finished
marriage. Children pray to God for help, or to
praise him for their fortunes, and yet no thanks
are laid at the feet of the walls and doors, our
protectors, the shields against the sounds of
frustration, fatigue, and hopelessness.
Grey sky. Unchanged, despite the
circumstances. He supposed the sky looked the
same in Arizona. The sky would even be comparable
to someone in Japan, their back to the
ground, looking at the clouds. With a heave, he
was on his knees. Rolling, pitching, drunk-like
in his own right he drew deep, heavy breaths.
Orange was a tropical color, he thought, meant
for pumpkins, college mascots, and attracting
people to Florida. Orange was the color of
confetti, of the frosting on carrot cake. The color
orange was never made to be a death sentence.
Orange never heralded the loss of life. No one
ever wore orange to a funeral, and no one’s coffin
was a bright orange. His was. He was at his own
wake, an open-casket affair in which the corpse
can stand up in the coffin and die its real death.
Just as the first falling leaf of autumn leaves summer
no choice but to fall away, he rose.
They would find the orange life raft
weeks later, drifting like the last Cheerio in a
bowl of milk. There would be a note, but rain
and sun would have washed away the ink. Better
that no one read it, for a swing, a tree, and a door
mean little to anyone.
30

thrift shop
Dyllon Sue
Poetry
The engagement ring in the window stands
for something that once was, but will never be again.
Torn, mud stained overalls cover the mannequin.
That princess dress is from the girl’s family
three years after the drunk driving accident.
A sudden draft blows the lower ruffles up,
while the technician properly teaches
the perfect way to rewire a house
to save money on the monthly bills,
with a giant WARNING on the cover.
Let’s see. There may be dirt in the baseball cap
worn in the 1994 Jefferson High championship game
or even an empty tool box once belonging
to a man who thought it was right to drink
a bottle of whiskey and drive home.
31

My gutter
Koa Tom
Photography
32

vandalism
Hollie Arnold
Silk Screen Print
33

one day
Dyllon Sue
Poetry
One day, the ocean will stop
kissing the sandy shores,
Pele’s uneven metronome,
rinsing the beaches salty tears.
One day, a snorkel will not purify
the vibrant blue when beaches
become landfills
and cigarettes a fish’s pupu.
One day, another honu will stretch
its head out of its shell, only
the 6-pack plastic
a death lei.
One day, a fisherman will reel
the last ‘ia gasping for life
to be frozen, shipped, sold,
to the local market on Kealoha Street for pocket
change.
‘Ekahi la, we will recollect stories of young
about the beautiful sunsets
and warm sunny water,
Ua mau ke ea o ka ‘ana I ka Pono.
Pele – Most powerful Hawaiian demigod
Pupu – Appetizers, snacks
Honu – Green sea turtle
Lei – Garland, necklace
‘Ia – Fish
Kealoha – Love
‘Ekahi – One
La – Day
Ua mau ke ea o ka ‘aina I ka Pono – “The life of the
land is perpetuated in righteousness”
34

shout softly
Eric Callahan
Poetry
I.
Snow stills the forest,
enhancing the sound
of a trickling stream
as it weaves
between oak and pine.
The stream carries whispers
from the mountain to the forest,
telling the hare to find home,
for the coming cold.
The fox lies, singing
summer, and bounding through
snow drifts on light paws.
Distracting himself
from the darker nights.
With autumns passing the world
is bare, able to say nothing
but its naked truth.
II.
Shouts
fly and clash
above the table, a verbal
dogfight. Raucous
aunts uncles cousins nephews nieces
gather in a kitschy dining room,
burdening the hardwood
floor with stomps and kicks
hidden by the tablecloth.
Jokes and stories pervade
the evening. Laughing
grunting fighting hugging
all done with emphatic gestures
so that words can be said,
even as they are drowned
in the din of
shouts.
35

untitled
Tanner Henderson
Glass on Cardboard
36

Ukiah, oregon
Daniele Armantrout
Photography
37

kristopher
Emily Dicksa
Poetry
“Will you please build me a tower?”
“Will you please build me a tower?”
“Will you please build me a tower?”
This boy has glasses as thick
as double-paned windows,
held on by a soft strap that
swoops around the back of his neck.
His huge front teeth hang out
of his mouth like two solid blocks.
His hands are full of blisters from swinging
on the monkey bars for hours.
As he boards the school bus,
he is the only one who has to wear a seatbelt.
His wide eyes are moving as if
they’re watching a fly skip around
on a white wall. He cannot sit still,
so he puts on his Magnavox headphones
and waits for the music to wrap around him.
I have grown patient trying to understand
the words of an autistic six year old.
But he has grown impatient and frustrated.
This world must feel to him as though
he packed for a trip to Australia,
and instead landed in Greenland.
His weak stomps and screams
occur every time he feels like
he can’t communicate.
But Kristopher,
when your Velcro shoes
shuffle quickly toward me,
and your skinny arms wrap
tightly around me
to say hi,
we speak the same language.
When he first enters the classroom,
he scatters the giant red tub
of Legos across the floor.
He repeats his request over and over.
38

the garden
Dyllon Sue
Poetry
Summer,
we worked on a garden,
our garden.
Removing rocks,
pulling weeds,
watering seeds. There
was
progress.
The roots soaked up love
through dampened soil.
Sunflowers grew tall,
the sun shone down
and tulips sprouted here and there.
Flowers grew in my lungs.
Roses, violets,
beautiful.
Happy between your two lips,
I lost my breath.
Winter after next,
I’m gasping.
The garden long gone.
You stopped tending the plants,
pulled fewer weeds.
But, complacent where we were, I
kept working.
Alone.
Infections spread through
roots to the
Roses, violets,
you.
Still beautiful, but now
I can’t breathe.
39

dark clouds
Eric Callahan
Poetry
In the city rain slaps
concrete, and beats on glass panes.
Burdened clouds release
their sorrow. Puddles form
in cement pockmarks
and torrents race along the gutter.
Slick wet roads shine
neon fever,
as streetlights and signs
replace starlight blocked
by dark grey clouds.
Scrunched faces hide
beneath waxy hoods,
as passersby never speak,
or nod hello. Ambling
morosely in their long black coats.
In Central Park
worms rejoice in squishy mud.
40

final
Cass Lyon
Oil on Board
41

contributors’ notes
Alysa Phan
Fine Arts; 5th Year Senior
Forever young my spirit will be
Open minded beyond what eyes can see,
Good taste and swell craft is what I aspire
Work becomes play, I will never grow tire,
Cute things and unique scenes is what I create
But there’s always something to communicate,
With art and design I have the power
I will play till I reach my finest hour.
Ashley Coleman
Fine Art; Senior
Being an artist is an emotional and kinesthetic
ritual for me. Psychology, science, and storytelling
inform both my visual and poetical works,
and I approach subjects that resonate with my
life. Often a compromise between traditional
working methods and innovative techniques
through exploration, each of my pieces, whether
written or visual, has its own personality.
Cass Lyon
Fine Arts; Senior
Conscience or not, all individuals unavoidably
make a choice as to what they believe. I am
currently working on a series of relief prints
and paintings illustrating my walk in faith as a
Christian. My current body of work explores the
concept of self-denial not just to worldly lusts
but also to things such as self pity or anger. The
figures I use in my work are making a spiritual
choice to control how they will be influenced,
often by blinding themselves wrapping a cloth
around their eyes. Faith is neither an adjective
nor noun, it is a verb.
Daniele Armantrout
Psychology; Sophomore
Photography started out as a hobby for me, and
now it is a passion. I shoot anything that catches
my eye, although I have been developing my lifestyle
and portrait photography. I try to capture
the moment the way I see it so I can share it with
others.
Dyllon Sue
Business Marketing, Writing Minor; Junior
Born and raised in Honolulu, Hawai’i, my family
and friends mean the world to me. I enjoy art
whether it’s writing, poetry, photography (follow
me on Instagram @dysue), or creating random
recipes in the kitchen. Poetry allows me to
express my thoughts and feelings on paper and
replicate scenarios that I have in my mind. I pay
much attention to detail and enjoy the elements
of my poems that magnify certain areas. This
is the first time my work is being published, so
feedback is encouraged. Love you Sue’s: Ellarene,
Dalton, Devynne, Denysse, and Rhyenne!
Go Beavs!
Emily Dicksa
Public Health, Writing Minor; Senior
My poetry comes from my desire to love and
celebrate the people and world around me.
42

contributor’s notes
Eric Callahan
English; Junior
I enjoy writing poetry and like to use it as a way
of looking at my own ideas and beliefs.
Hollie Arnold
Fine Art; Junior
I can’t be the only one who likes getting stuck
behind those obnoxiously long trains, can I?
Graffiti artists are some of the most creative
people I know, their work reaching millions as it
passes by on the moving galleries we get “stuck”
behind. My recent work reflects the idea that
there’s always a brighter side to a dull situation…
That ‘clickety clack’ is the sound of inspiration.
Jasmine Casimir
Fine Arts; Senior
The methods with which I navigate my own
artistic process often include removal, addition,
and removal again; a cathartic physical process. I
am drawn to a deep, harsh, cool palette, layers of
wash, and experimentation with textures. I find
these techniques are most easily accomplished
through painting and monotype print. The subject
matter that is most often featured references
aspects of the human condition, such as pain,
self-image, humiliation, isolation, and curiosity.
My work, to me, is all part of an ongoing process
to evolve to the next idea, with many starts and
no end.
Jenna Jarvis
English; Freshman
I wrote my piece “Knock” about one month
after my dad passed away from cancer in 2013.
I still miss him every single day but writing that
poem and a few other pieces, have helped me
cope with the loss. I hope that my writing can
bring comfort to other people who are dealing
with any sort of heartache or any other internal
struggle.
Jerome Stretch
Photography, Art History minor; Senior
Untitled (Still Life With Malt Liquor) is part of a
larger series of work that explores traditional
aspects of still life paintings with contemporary
and taboo subject matter. Juxtaposing counterculture
paraphernalia with ornate backdrops
and studio lighting, forces the viewer to question
their expectations of still life.
John Petticrime
New Media Communications; 5th Year Senior
Follow me on Instagram @petticrime
Kathryn Hampton-Wonder
Biology, Chemistry Minor; Sophomore
I grew up in Portland, Oregon as an only child. I
began writing poetry in high-school and enjoy
the process of it, how normally dry, boring
writing can become vivid and alive. Poems, to
me, are like words made into music. They come
from the heart instead of the head. Most of my
43

contributors’ notes
poems are inspired by emotions, and my desire
to hold that and translate it into a story so others
can also experience it. One of my main goals
in writing poetry is to transport my reader into
the moment portrayed in the poem and have it
resonate with their own experiences.
Koa Tom
Photography; Junior
I don’t have a firm intent or purpose at this time-
I’m seeing where this carries me, though I am
not totally passive about it--I can’t know where
to go until I know where there is to go. Hence,
I am back in school. I am pursing photography
because it was what I was filling my time with
and felt my self in when I had some time. I have
a love-hate relationship with school: I love it,
but it keeps me from my other loves, like being
outside. However, I believe this a step to get to
where I want to go, which is take pictures and be
outside. Love!
Nicholas Browning
English; Junior
I wanted to write something really honest. So…
here’s a story about me getting my ass kicked.
I strived to make my prose convey a sense of
personality, and show how a goofy insecure
dude really thinks. This debacle changed me a
lot as a person. I’ll be happy if a few people are
entertained by my unfortunate adventure, and
maybe spark a bit of contemplation, too. Thank
you for reading.
Peter Warlia
Exploratory Studies, minor in Writing; Sophomore
I’ve hailed from Eugene, Loveland (Colorado),
and Portland, so far, living in a string of six houses
through an upbringing of private, public and
homeschooling in a family of seven. I’ve been
lucky enough to have the chance to be part of
some truly diverse circles of people, who all walk
to wildly different beats. Growing up, I saw there
are endless ways of looking at the world—endless
stories in people and mountains and nations
and stars. When I see a good one I do my best to
remember it.
Tanner Henderson
Fine Arts; Senior
I’ll be honest with you; I am still very much a pupil
of art. I do have particular interests in expression
but the main focus of my current work looks
at the fundamentals of design. In my sculpture
I explore materials and their involvement in
the compositions. Recently I am interested in
relationships between form, the physicality of
the materials, and sometimes use. When it comes
to making marks I am inspired by many surrealists
of the past and grim artists such as Zdzislaw
Beksinski and Dali. I also am particularly fond of
expressive gesture—something which, I believe,
is the root to all power in most images.
44

SUBMIT TO
OSU
ART
LIT
MAG
submission deadline : 04.24.15
submit via email to: prism@oregonstate.edu
submit via email to: prism@oregonstate.edu
include your full name, phone number, and the titles of submitted work
include your full name, phone number, and the titles of submitted work
open to all majors // accepting all mediums // facebook/OSUPrism
open to all majors // accepting all mediums // facebook/OSUPrism

“I carry spiders and dreams of hyper-alert texture
I’m one in a miss-matched wash of colors and white.”
-Ashley Coleman “Marco Polo (Uncharted Poetry)” Page 14