CalArts Eye, May Edition

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MAY 2015

N O VOL. 5

. 4









The CalArts Eye




Stephanie Taglianetti

Lauren Artiles

Ben Levinson



Patrick Behnke

Gingy Q

Aimee Goguen

Harri Gould


Charlie Latan

Sirap Leakim

Ben Levinson

Salina Mahoney

Luke Martin

Drew Straus

AJ Strout

Stephanie Taglianetti


Margaret Andersen

Cover text excerpt from L’été 2015,

by Itxy. Cont. on page 9

Photo credit: Patrick Behnke




Photo credit: Patrick Behnke


Always Joyful Strout

This book dedicated to Dreamy Kremlin



Being likable is easy peasy

most anyone can do it well

by following these simple rules.

Chapter One: Gender

Performing dike-able is not

an approved likable virtue

and should be avoided.

A display of dude-li-ness

by any girl or woman is

a threat to the male position. [1]

Likewise, men should avoid being

feminine, girly, whirly, sweet, or cute

or be deemed weak wispy wymens.

Once you accept your rightful gender

it's appropriate to thoroughly

address identity issues.

Chapter Two: Identity

Forget yourself altogether

fashion an identity of newness [2]

made from what isn't wrong with you.

Being likable takes practice

fake it 'til there's nothing left

but newly new yew.

Don't talk to the likable

you may scare them away with your

unlikable conversations. [3]

Spend time with likable people

likableness transfers quite well

from one person to another.

Chapter Three: Transformation

Take anti-depressants

in case your unlikableness

is due to super sadness.

Get plastique surgery as it

may increase confidence-ness and

confidence is completely likable.

Forget your reality and

accept that positivity is

more important than the truth.

Chapter Four: History

Tell no one that you've almost died

or faced any kind of trauma

cuz that's a bummer-rama.

Never bring up your past life since

it's a testament to all that made you


Simply forget all that is

neutral or melancholic-ish

and be positively positive. [4]

Chapter Five: Behavior

Be pleasant and outgoing!

these are the ingredients for

acceptable-ness and love.

Smile a lot and forget about

the unapproved events that

shaped you into unlikableness.

Buy things for the likable

cuz they're more worthy and may

acknowledge you in return.

Conclusion: If all else fails, learn to like




Female athletes are an exception


For a list of approvable identities, see

book 2


Buy Commendable Conversations

by the same artist


Overly positive-ness is also unacceptable

Exercise more!

endorphins make you happy and

happy is likable, unhappy is not-able.






and Beauty (i.e. Cognitive Consonance)

Ben Levinson


Charles Curtis visited Friday 1 to tell us about

the wolf tone on the cello and the ways in

which he and Eliane Radigue (in their piece,

“Naldjorlak”) approach something near magic

through fault and failure. Although, he didn’t

say that. I suppose, I am saying that.

A place to start: the wolf tone is a disturbance on the

cello. It wavers, croaks, and insults the ears in the

settings that we most often give the cellist. We give

the cellist directions: eliminate the wolf, obfuscate

the change in bow, maintain a nice tone (rich and

warm), etc. The cellist obliges. She may be lauded for

her doing so (all the while achieving cathartic expression

nonetheless!). 2 This is the classical mode. The

cellist is a channel, an avenue for the heart of God,

perhaps. The composer: an everlasting divinity that

must be expressed. She allows breaths of style and

ornamentation to be left to the machine—the cellist,

the stylist. This is not to say that the cellist becomes

a slave. A certain cellist may be relieved by this divine

capability of transmittance. 3 He is suddenly free and

able to receive the composer and her content. 4

This is no condemnation. This is fodder for an essay

into the troubling matters of music-making: beauty,

agency, voice, style, material, and ideology. If I make

one decisive statement in all, it may be that beauty

itself is a normalized construct, built up from a tradition

of claiming certain qualities as beautiful (i.e.

positive). 5 I think I can make this statement and back

away without much repercussion. But, if this is so—

if beauty can be conceived as an expression of power

(a norm to be wary of )—what can one do about it?

We know the traps: hold too tightly to the patterns of

beauty and we find kitsch, or worse, cheap material

for propaganda; divorce ourselves from beauty (i.e.

recognizable patterns) altogether, and we find nothing:

true noise and the experience of drowning in a

sea of information all the while floating among it. 6

What of stretching the bounds of beauty? One might

push the elements of beauty until the edge of a breaking

point. Surely, it has been done, and where does it

get us? To new styles and new voices! New iterations

of that disturbance, beauty. How do we approach it

without expressing and reinforcing the powers that

act through this beast?

is a product only of the entirety of the experience

it took to make it—an investigation of sorts of the

prospect of attempting to tune the entire cello to resonate

at the normally decried of wolf tone. The resultant

sounds of this experiment are otherworldly and

doubtlessly beautiful, yet they seem to purport a removal

from the ideals of beauty. They are supposedly

nothing more than the full exploration of the sounds

typically tossed aside. Here is a materialist approach

to the task of beauty. It’s appealing. 9


Music Workshop (Prof. Michael Pisaro): Friday, April 17, 2015



Not to say that there is no virtue in navigating the harshest constraints!

Many find freedom in this terrain, and who am I to tear them

from it?


Freddy Perlman said it was the only –ist that he would allow himself

to be called!


A reiteration of the dead, of dead iterations of beauty, that aesthetic

purity which we gather around and devour its essence. It will make

us all the more human, we beg of it.


We project its patterns upon all that we view. Michael Pisaro tells

us of the grids of Agnes Martin: perfectly imperfect so we know their

aspirations despite their failure. The viewer is only aware of the flaws

of the grids because the viewer’s reductive perception supposes

that the grids themselves wish they were not flawed—a sort of suspension

of disbelief. Perhaps all beauty works something like this.


Of course, this is an appealing prospect to some.


But he has no interest in claiming authorship!


Without a score it can hardly be replicated by another or even

analyzed compositionally. Furthermore there is no reasonable way

to discern what each collaborator lent to the piece in the first place.

Through a process of collaborative authorship, the piece becomes

somewhat illusive.


But, to be certain, the listener (myself and others) must then bring

their own ideals of beauty to the piece. They project their beauty on

top of it, denying its denial. Betraying it. These sounds are beauty

and will continue to shape beauty. It doesn’t matter that you found it

in the trash, it will be beautiful nonetheless.


We come back to Eliane Radigue’s “Naldjorlak” for

Charles Curtis’ cello. Curtis explains that it was written

cooperatively. 7 It has been born out of experience

and leaves no mark other than its own. 8 The piece



From Girls To Blob

I once knew a slippery lady. She slipped and slimmed on me. She slid

and slopt off me. She made it sloppy. She made it wet. She ran and

jumped on me. and shinned. and sloughed away. Her house was a cream

house. She smelled like a milk boy. She ghosted me. A shut in, a lock

down, a runner up, a registered offender of crime.

Photo credit: Patrick Behnke


My mouth has thrasher teeth. They call me dog mouth. They call me.

They bite at me and I bite back. They are also dogs with twisted

mouths. We lick dog and eat dog. My mouth has a dog inside of it. When

I open my mouth the inside mouth dog takes a deep breath of air. I

shut my mouth on the mouth dog. I win with my mouth shut. I open my

mouth to breathe and bark and bite. I howl and growl at her. I open

mouth kiss never. My mouth is filthy from all the licking. My mouth

opens for inside out girl. My teeth chew her hard. My teeth are dog


Dogs Of Church

I turn her over and force her to look at a life-sized porcelain tiger.

Her heart pooped and tiger grrrrd. I turn her over and force her to

look at other things that are weird. She is possessed. I can’t tell if

I was the demon entering her body or the priest performing her an

exorcism. I turn her over and force her to look at the church. I turn

her over and force her to look at the dogs barking at the church. I

turn her over and force her to look unconscious. I turn her over and

she eats freely off my lap. She is a lap dog. Lapping up milk and just

eating. She eats dog of farm. She eats 23 year old bulldog. She eats

thick butch women. Strong women; women athletes like basketball

players and long distance runners. She eats women that build boats,

women that race sail boats, and women that cut down wood. Women that

stomp around kicking cannibal chimpanzee. She eats slow and fast and

hard. She eats for pleasure. She eats police officer, deputy,

dispatcher, and 911 Operator. She eats so many things. I turn her over

and force her to fuck her own face. I bend her further and longer away

from me.



Photo credit: Patrick Behnke


Funny that Joni Mitchell’s California sits

in Paris, France. James walks towards me.

He grabs me & he pulls me from my seat.

I’m not Joni, I’m with her. A song & a poem

sit side by side in a park in Paris, France.

The only thing she does is sing

on & on about California & what she will do.

A poem won’t sit and it moves back to James

in New York, who won’t let it sit. He’s reading

the news and it sure looks bad. The news,

it’s all here too. Joni knows it, but that’s all.

She just sings. She’d kiss the sunset pig,

but she’s sitting in a park in Paris, France.

Meanwhile, the poem has moved on.

I’m living with James Chance in New York

now. Things are pretty good. I think about Joni

from time to time & when I do, she’s still

sitting, singing about California. She dreams

about it too, I imagine. I wanna see the folks

I dig. Joni, you sound too chipper to know

that the news looks bad. My apologies

if I sound a little droll, I can’t handle leaps

as well as you do, sitting in Paris, France,

all the while placing the song in California.

Did it help you get there? I’m just stuck,

waiting for someone to force me out

of my seat. It sure looks bad. It sure does.





Salina Mohoney

There was a customer at work today.

This morning he had shaven half of his handle bar mustache off.

Before ordering, he mutters, "let's skip the mindless and typical

consumerist transaction and let's actually care about each other's

day." He speaks out of the corner of his mouth, eyes watery

and wandering.

"How is your day?" Me.

"Good. And yours?" Him.

"Fine." Me.

He tries to haggle the price of his coffee (black, no room) like

they do "back in Tibet." Like he went to "this summer." Which

was a very "enlightening experience."

He then joins his group of equally half shaven, sharply dressed

friends. They huddle in a group discussing important things.

Like books and facial hair.

I thought about sharing this experience on Facebook. I thought

about telling my friends about how much he annoyed me. I

thought about shaving the other half of his stupid handlebar

mustache and making it a nostache, a sad-statche.

He seemed to be missing that he was sitting in a Barnes &

Nobel Inc. and worse, I didn't really hand him that coffee at all.

In fact, Fifth Avenue New York handed him that coffee. 41,000

employees handed him that coffee. Even our crumbly, 73 year

old executive chairman from who-knows-where handed him

that coffee before I did. The man was just a walking question

mark in funky, red suspenders like all the other walking question

marks in funky red suspenders.


If ordering coffee and the "transaction" seems forced: Step

1 is checking you're not douche bag. Step 2 is not lecturing

your neighborhood coffee gal about the woes of consumerism.

Especially when I have the power to either make a really great

(or extremely crappy) cup of joe.

Thanks sweetly,

Your local, sassy barista

L’été 2015

The heat permeates through my tan skin

and I feel restless and fatigued. It’s summer

and I’m burning and I feel my limbs melting

away. It’s hot but it’s beautiful and I want

only to lie in the sun until I become part

of the earth. I want warmth and sleep but

summer seems only to offer an inferno and

insomnia. Itchy uncomfortable sad and eager.

I coin this the worst summer ever. I cry

at best twice a day. I’m trapped in a sauna

with the same depressing playlist playing

over and over again. In my

house. In the car. From my

phone through my earphones.

Reminding me that summer

feels like a long slow period of

time filled with agitation and

desire for movement. It’s late June now

and I’m a plank of sad, sad wood. I’m immobile.

I write sentences in my head, think

of texting my friends and asking to hang

out, but instead I rest without movement

for weeks. I stare at the damaged wooden

floor, at the chipped walls and grime

between the cracks of tile on the kitchen

counter. I sit in the sun and melt into

the concrete. Now it’s mid July. I’ve made

myself move but I do so with great difficulty.

My body, sluggish and yawning always.

My eyelids fight to remain open and

I can’t seem to stop scratching. The itchiness

is intensifying- the sadness maintains

a consistent existence. Panic attacks are

decreasing. I lie in my mom’s messy queen

sized bed staring at the ceiling fan as it attempts

to cool me. I hug the pillow and cry,

wishing without end that it would stop. I

enter a vortex of self pity. I feel so bad

for myself. I’m too young to be this sad.

I need attention, I need someone

to hold me. I sweat, and I

cry, and I cover my face. I’m

so sad and it won’t go away. I

scratch and make myself bleed

and I cry until I can’t take it

anymore and I need someone to make me

stop. I cry into their arms, they tell me

it’s only a season, I deny and declare that

this is permanent. She holds my sweaty

hands, hugs my itchy body, reminds me

that it is only a season, Fall will come, and

I will thank myself. She says we should do

something, I’m melting into a clump of

self-pity and depression. I stop scratching,

I wet my face and we move. It disappears.

It returns. It digs deeper and deeper until




a knot forms in my throat and

tears trickle down my face as they

dance to old school Missy Elliot

and sip on their beer. I feel distant

and hot and I’m melting again. Inside

I am falling apart, inside I am

grimy countertops and scratched

wooden floors and chipping walls.

Inside I am melting. On the outside

it is beginning to show. Now

it’s mid-august but my summer

still has a month to go. The movement

is ending, the momentum is

at its close, and I only look forward

to one thing. There are moments

of bliss and infinity when

I stop crying and see harmony

in the world. It’s getting better I

think. I see my favorite band play

my favorite song; I move without

lethargy, I am happy and inspired

and reminded that this is only a

season. I remember the day weeks

after and wish to relive it. I place

it in a special crevice in my heart.

It’s early September and it’s almost

over. I coin this the worst

summer ever because I cried for

more than half of its entirety. I’m

lazy and unmotivated. I promise

never to return for months at end

again. I remember how much love

I receive, how grateful I should be,

I cry because I’m leaving. I cry

because the season came to an

end but the feelings remain. I cry

because I won’t have my mom’s

bed to lie on. I sleep it off. I don’t

think about it. My playlist replays

as we get a ride home, drunk and

depressed with glitches of happiness

as the cool air touches my

face, making sure I don’t melt

away. One time we stayed awake

until the sunrise, drove home on

an empty freeway at 90mph, and

I felt the wind blow my sadness

away. I was finally exhausted

from lack of sleep, I fall asleep in

my sisters arms as the day begins.

Poem for my mother on her 70th Birthday




So, this is you at 70, sitting

by the library window.

Your tinsel hair, lank and gleaming,

sends glowing fish

over the surface of the books,

all the way to where the canaries

lay sleeping,

near the stacked

flutes. Your hands fold and shift

in your lap

like tiny bellows. The shelllike


fills with echoes.

Let’s walk together,

past the garden,

where the trees bloomed in


to my table

tucked between valleys

cupped by leaves.

How loud does one speak

to the dead? Across the table

you sit with you hair like stars.

Your voice

whistles past the house,

and rustles a book in the library.

After you blow out the candles,

I wait for you to speak. Some


are found so far from their origin,

that the source has long since

dried up.

It is no surprise to hear your voice

now. Lift me to your ear

to hear the sound of the sea.


Photo credit: Gingy Q


the prophet.


an extension of privilege.


2 beings.

1 Intrinsic

Is it not insecurity who breeds environmental reflection?

“Speak, so that I may hear you!”


the social being,

erased the past

So that we could contemplate.



Artwork: Stephanie Taglianetti

∆ Stephanie Taglianetti ∆


Once there was a Little Dirty Girl who didn’t

have a house. She had many houses and

none of them were pretty. And none of

them were really houses, but her Momma liked

to pretend. Little Dirty Girl was pretty, which

made her Momma jealous because her Momma

used to be the most beautiful.

The horrible people from the

lousy village would tell her

Momma, Oh what a beautiful

Little Girl you have, and they’d

pretend she was clean the

same way her Momma did.

And this made Momma mad,

but she’d never say anything.

had to wear his cousin’s old

clothes with holes, right?

Because clothes are for wearing,

not for choosing. And

clothes are just the product of

stupid people in this stupid

country and their stupid goddamn



And this also made Slapdaddy

mad because no one was

supposed to think that Little

Dirty Girl was pretty because

no one was supposed to look

at her, ever. So he cut off all

her hair and treated her like a


And a tough boy with short

hair wouldn’t mind sleeping

on the ground, right? Because

the ground is where

all things start and where

all good things are built and

where the best things last.

And the ground is where Little

Dirty Girl belongs anyway,

with her pit-bull and the coldest


And a boy wouldn’t cry if he

And a boy wouldn’t care if

he couldn’t have breakfast

sometimes or lunch most

times and a boy wouldn’t

need someone to look at him

or Momma and they should

both just wipe those sad, stupid

looks off their sad, stupid

faces or else someone will.



egg plantation transcription


Luke Martin

excuse me, stew, i disagree,

what are we serving so i know

how to sell it, those tee shirts

are here, black coffee?, never

gonna see this, yeah but it’s a,

no this is fine, i think i’ll have

a, they’re like, what’s that?,

yeah, bank between, aw yeah,

there’s a tattoo, ooooohhhhhh,

i appreciate you, what is

it, i’ll have a, habañero, no

its French grilled, it’s a pas-

medium, uncountable rivers,

too many streams, please,

yes, yes, that’s good, yeah

thanks, i’m waiting for my,

to get together, how’s it going,

boxes, even, dream that,

seen, have you, seen it, have

you, no, seen, no, nada, out

front, he wants, it was like

a sad, oh i was seven years

old, this is, this good, cash,

check, get you, i was sure, i

was behind me, have a good

day, you too, see you later,

like a little warm up on the

coffee?, sure thanks, oh i see,

everything ok?, sure, no it’s

not, no, no it’s not, two three

four, oh!, yeah, do you like,

he was like why?, to not be,

i’ll have the, ok, seep together,

seep apart, you should

never, you couldn’t have that,

i mean, if i didn’t do it right,

sit down, and in:

ta sauce so it’s like spicy, i’ll

be right there with a cup, yes,

she said, i want cream, absolutely,

oh my god, absolutely,

right this way, oh yeah yeah,

here we are, the history,

i’m proud of, that, are you

crazy, i love that, please, how

are the two of you doing today,

oh wait till she takes the,

what can i start off you with,

the seventies?, choose your

sides, fruit, cheese, i i i just,


think we rollin’, speaking of,

move, that’s crazy, we’re just,

they’re just, that was good,

were going and, what’s that,

step on and calm down man,

is that ok, mud, so

we went to the, yeah, i’m so

sorry you were, yeah i mean,

right, right, no, no, my back

has been, frozen, well, thank

you, this they had, take the

time to ask, my father never,

he yelled at me, hold up,

thank you, yeah, figure out, it

yeah, it was, but, we’re good,

yeah yeah, here tonight

or this is our, and eleven, the

whole thing?, only the same,

no seriously, seriously, two

years, yeah, yeah, drag, pull,

here, yeah, make it, i’ll leave

this here there’s absolutely

no rush when you’re ready,

hi!, so nice to see you, first

heat of, they run though they

run though, have a good day

guys, yeah exactly that’s the

problem, hi, you ready for


photo: Salina Gallegos

another?, you know i, you

know i, five six two, how was

this one?, more coffee and

more, let’s do ok well is the

pasta, well i don’t, like spice,

ok, ok, i can’t, ok, yeah well

it should be out pretty soon

too, oh oh, here what, so

much, too much, thoughts,

it’s alright though she’s, yeah

last semester, everywhere,

crash, crumble, let’s not stay

long, we move

but, see that’s

just the thing,

and even if he,

we can’t, we can,

it’s working and

it’s not, and we

float, so are you

guys, i just faced

it, oh no, that is

customary, good

morning, it’s not

like that, it’s like

a, good morning,

good morning,

alright, how are you, how are

you, good, sliding and slipping

in a circle that, good,

coffee, you good, you good,

i’m good, don’t even like it,

i fight, i keep telling you is

round, yes of course, where

were you?, thi¬s is taking, of

course, there’s green salad,

is round is wound around,

we do, yeah but we’re just

giving away, no more, you

and through me, has to be,

Artwork: Sirap Leakim

the name that the name that

i know, it was an insurance,

yup, i mean it’s not, okay so,

it’s just a service, he works,

i’m sorry, one hundred, who

did math, oh no eggs, the

person, wouldn’t worry

about it on me, hi!, we saved

you a seat, good morning,

five seats, mommy, not at all,

let’s not do that, it’s so, look

i just, turn it to me, i have


no idea, can i ask you something?,

my mom likes, is

there an S there, i divided by

half, i was thinking, oh well

my god!, of course you can,

i’m so proud of you, scared,

on this good morning, those

were for, okay okay, no worries,

morning how are ya,

let’s just imagine we are the,

thank you, brisket, how are

you, awesome, smallest of

pebbles, pushing, puncturing,

if we are (un)lucky, the

continuum, yes, of course,

you may go, with chips, you

want two, she said why?, she

told me that, just just go, yes

i’m meaning to say, would

you like two?, bonjour, the

way i see it, oh no i’m

sorry well, uh oh, is this what

you, i’m having, number, i

know, six of them, see that

last one, right, i

didn’t have, dog

paper, are they flying?,

i’ll have the,

is that going to

be it for you?, no,

warmed up, hey

Vinny nice of you

to wear the right

uniform, led to the,

i know, i know but

um, the tickets are,

yeah, fifty percent,

are you serious,

one, one, i cried,

nice watch, are you ready for

this?, we’ll make it happen,

ah she said, you know what

i said, well you know, is it so,

like some more coffee?, no

thanks, go down, how are

you, good how are you, good

thanks, sit down.



dr. drew was talking about love on loveline


loveline makes me sad, but i don’t know why

because i don’t think love is real and it’s stupid to be sad about things that aren’t real

but if i was jillian and i loved david and david and i

had been dating for five and a half years and i found out

after reading david’s facebook messages

that david had been fucking a lot, like a lot, of other women

i guess i might think that was something ‘real’ to be sad about

most of the time, dr. drew is pretty nice to the people who call in

even though they seem like sad and pathetic losers

who are totally incapable of understanding that david

just doesn’t love them anymore and suggesting an “open relationship”

won’t make david love them, again

dr. drew said on loveline that a person can form an “addiction” to another person

dr. drew also said that there is a big difference between loving someone

and being “addicted” to them

i’m pretty sure jillian isn’t still listening to dr. drew because she keeps crying

and suggesting different things that could “save” her relationship

but, honestly, i’m not really listening to dr. drew, either, anymore

because i’m, like, 99% sure i’m a “person-addict”

and i’m, like, really freaking out about it

Artwork: Sirap Leakim





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