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THE MIND NEEDS TO BE ENLIGHTENED BY
| LIGHT FROM OUTSIDE [ISELE So 1
CAN PARTICIPATE IN TRUTH, BECAUSE IT IS

NOT TISELP TE NAVUORE OG 1s i

" AUGUSTINE, on the concept of Divine Illumination

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REBEL 53° seeks to

function as a modern day
illuminated manuscript "
shedding light on social
issues of our time while
highlighting the award-
winning work of student

artists and writers.

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TABLE OF CONTENIS &
ANIMATION 6
Book ARTS 12
CERAMICS 20
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY 28
DRAWING 38
FICTION 46
FILM ART 60
GRAPHIC DESIGN 66
ILLUSTRATION 74
METAL DESIGN 82
MIXED MEDIA 90
MusIc 98
PAINTING 104
POETRY 412
PRINTMAKING 124
SCULPTURE 132
TEXTILE DESIGN 140
TRADITIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY 150
Woop DESIGN 158
BEST IN SHOW 164
Judges 170
Staff pe
Production Notes 172
Copyright 173
Special Thanks 174

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MICHAEL ROBERT WILLIAMS

Environments
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oEverything begs with the silent
rocks for you to be flung out like
light� " Rumi

, Part love letter, part personal instruc-
tion manual, this book utilizes sev-
eral quotes by 13th-Century Muslim
Sufi and poet Jalaladin Rumi. Each
letterpressed quote references earth,
dust or stone in the context of spiri-
tual enlightenment. Interspersed
between each quotation are collages
consisting of images and materials
relating to geology and my greater
body of work. This piece is wearable
with the book resting at the hip; it's
based on the idea of ogirdle books,T
collections of prayers or psalms
worn by monks in the Middle Ages.
The hollow rock form, meant to be
carried in the hand, holds a quote
by Coleman Barks, a premier Rumi
translator, questioning what comes
after transcendence.

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Although fairly literal at first look,
this cave book is also meant to be a
visual metaphor for oneTs own inner
journey. Dark and foreboding at first,
lightening toward the center, or the
realization of the self. There is a way
out of the cave as well as a way in,
signifying that self-realization is not
the end-all-be-all. The journey con-
tinues as one chooses how to use the
knowledge one has gained.

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SIM ASHER

Creating compositions through the
viewfinder is one of the main objec-
tives for a photographer. As a person
in everyday life, I see just like most
people do. The importance of see-
ing is not only to recognize and ob-
serve what is in front of me, but to
see beyond that point and explore
what dimensions do not lay directly
on the surface. It is my goal to work
through the constrictions of life and
investigate all potential destinations.
Photographs take on the two-dimen-
sional form, yet if a person is able to
breach the surface of the paper, who
says that the third dimension is not
really there?

I chose to revisit an old photograph
for my piece Don't Feed The Birds.
I've taken a 4x5 piece of film and ex-
posed it in a self-constructed pinhole
camera to which, after developing the
film, I enlarged the image to approxi-
mately 5x7 inches. I then bleached

Dont Feed The Birds

Silver gelatin print toned in copper and blue

the print before toning it in blue and
then toned it with a copper solution
to darken shadows. The image is of
my parents backyard, a sanctuary of
a woodland environment where my
imagination ran wild through my
younger years. The composition al-
lows for the viewer to step into the
dynamics of my youth, explore be-
yond the initial foreground and read
into what the horizon is offering.
The pinhole projects a dreamlike
quality which engages the viewer,
enhances the sense of nostalgia and
evokes a sense of the darker emo-
tions in what was once my domain of
childhood adventures. Through my
bodies of work " past, present and
future " my intentions are just and
seek the attention of someone who is
willing to take the plunge.

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LESLIE BAKER
~ Lost
i Digital print

After a long morning exploring the
endless streets of Venice, my friends
and I decided to take a shortcut to get
back to our hostel. Our shortcut led
us through street after street packed
with tourists and vendors. Eventu-
ally, we found ourselves surrounded
by throngs of people at a dead end.
As my friends consulted a map, |
turned around to get a better look at
the sinking city. What I saw was not
the romantic Italian city I had envi-
sioned. English-speaking vacationers
with bags of souvenirs were packed
in a corner café as the Venetian wa-
ters spilled ominously into the dead
end street. It was then I realized my
friends and I weren~t alone in our un-
certainty " Venice was just as lost as

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I thought it was ugly,

~ PLACE

but you told me that
they were nymphs
once, that it wasn't
summer until you
beard a cicada song.

«

o~icada

by Ja Min No

HERE is only static on the radio tonight. But

thatTs alright. No one ever actually
listens to the radio anymore. I only
wanted the constant stream of sounds
so that night wouldn't seem so dark or
so silent. Have you ever noticed how
itTs easier to notice the stars when itTs
absolutely quiet? ItTs almost as if they
have a faint song of their own, and
their twinkling somehow proves it.
But I dont want to look at the stars
tonight. If I could, I would rather sleep
and maybe dream about something
pretty and nonexistent.

CALE mentions you sometimes in a
far-off way, a passing thing, dismissive
and distant. We were sitting on the
grass under that big sycamore tree
you loved. The one with the knotty,
gnarled roots. He wanted that book
you borrowed a long time ago but he
couldnt even remember which one.
I dread school starting back. People
will pretend like they care, or they will
pretend like nothing happened. People
will think they are being kind. People
will pretend they knew you. Maybe they

really do mean well, but I don't think I
can muster-up the energy to play along.
1 went driving down to the reservoir
yesterday and they had it fenced
off. A large steel plate was bolted on
the chain links trying to scare off
everybody but I don't know if they
will be scared. We weren't scared
either. It's weird how after everything
that's happened the place could look
so calm, and most of all, exactly the
way it always has been. The fire pit
that we made was still there, with
the charred logs waiting for another
bonfire. Crushed beer cans were
embedded in the rust-colored dirt,
shining like silver. The water was
blue-black and so still. It reminded
me a little of that mood ring you
always used to wear. If I dip my feet,
I know what the water will tell me.
The cicadas were still droning their
sleepy summer song.

you were the one that told me that
cicadas first live underground for
most of their lives. Then they emerge
from the soil, naked and vulnerable.
We saw one sleeping on a tree one
time. I thought it was ugly but you
told me that they were nymphs once,
that it wasnt summer until you

heard a cicada song. They were still

singing when you left. Funny, I donTt
hear any cicadas singing tonight.
The summer really is dying, I guess.

ITS muggy in my room. The air
conditioning is broken again, so |
have the windows open. The night
breathes its sticky cloying breath in,
rustling the curtains. It perfumes the
room with honeysuckle. Remember
that one time we were very little and
we tried to collect all the honeysuckle
dew in a mason jar? We had been
swimming all day in your backyard.
We played Marco Polo, and you
always cheated, holding your breath,
hiding in a corner of the pool. That
was the year we discovered that
it was a honeysuckle vine that
blanketed your fence. The florets
looked like little golden trumpets in
our cupped hands. We picked them
off the vine until the lightning bugs
came out, dotting the darkness like
neon stars. Our mothers came out
to find us and we hadn't even been
close to filling that jar. I sometimes
think about being a kid again, and
there are things that are hazed
over like dreams but they feel so
familiar. I wish you were here so you
could remind me of the things that

really happened.

cm

WHAT happened that night? I remember
so many things except for all the
important parts. We sat by the black
water and you laid your head on my
shoulder. You hair smelled like smoke.
There were people all around us, smoking
and talking and drinking. There were
two-headed shadows in the bushes,
contorting their bodies against the
trees. When they came out into the
fire-lit night, the shadows turned out
to be our friends with tousled hair
and mussed up clothes. Their smiles
were stretched out on their faces
and they talked to us and we talked
back. Your face was glistening, and I
thought maybe you were melting. I
put my hand on your face to make
sure you would stay the way you
were, beautiful and glistening, and
I asked you if you were alright and
you said oyes� and took my hand
in your warm ones and kissed my
fingers. There was a fire in my brain
and I could hear my heart thumping
louder than the hooting and howling
of our friends. The trees and their
giant shadows were spinning, and
the ground was rippling like a rust-
colored sea. The fire was burning
holes in your face. You smiled and

said you felt alive and climbed in my

lap. oGet a room!� someone yelled
across the reservoir. You laughed,
but you stayed and I was glad.

YOUR eyes were opened wide and
they looked just like the water, inky
and fathomless, and I thought I
might drown just from staring. You
kept laughing and talking about stars
and constellations but I didn't see any
stars. Just the wan, looming face of
the moon in the sky. It reminded me
of a hole cut out for a diorama box.
Was some giant peeping Tom spying
on us? I could feel the weight of your
bones, your limp hair sticking to my
neck, and maybe we were starting to
sink a little bit. It would have been
just fine if we got swallowed up by
the rippling earth, as long as your
thin limbs were wrapped around me
and I could feel this rush of blood
or joy or electricity making my heart
flutter, making my fingertips tingle. We
could live underground, just you and me,
naked and vulnerable. You said into my
chest, oI could fall asleep right now:T

1 could hear splashing and shrieks
coming from the water. CaleTs sun-
bleached head was bobbing in and
out of the fluid blackness. He was
wrestling with the other boys in

the reservoir, twisting and turning,

iL 8 IEA ee Ls 14

whooping and cursing. He waved
and yelled for us. oCome swim, you
pansies!� I asked if you wanted to
go for a swim. You slowly nodded,
your eyes blinking sleepily. I tried to
stand but the ground was tilting and
it took a few tries. I shed my clothes
and jumped in the water to loud
shouts of approval from Cale and the
boys. The water was warmer than I
expected. You stumbled forward,
peeling off your sweaty clothes. The
moon made your nakedness glow.
I watched you slide into the water,
your limbs languid, long hair fanning
out behind you. Sleepily chuckling,
you said, oMarco.� I slid away from
you, laughing, the water swirling all
around me. I answered back, oPolo�
You swam circles around me, taking
your time. Cheater, I said. oYou
don't even have your eyes closed.�

WITH an arch look, you glided
toward me with white limbs
outstretched. You latched onto me
like a ghost in the water, weightless.
oGot you.� Suddenly, you pulled me in,
your mouth on mine, and we sank
together, the water heavy as it was
weightless, as still as it was fluid. I

don't know how long we stayed down

in the darkness like that. I could hear

muffled shouts above me, our names
being called. Your arms slipped from
around my neck. I opened my eyes,
but I could only see darkness. My
chest was burning and water rushed
into my lungs, and it was all I could
do to kick my feet, try to free my body
from the water swallowing me up.
And then I saw the stars, or maybe
they were lightning bugs. They had
come to drink the honeysuckle dew
you and I collected for them.

WHEN I came to, I was in a white room,
the sun blinding, shining cruelly on
the white sheets or a trolley bed. They
told me they found you, but you were
long gone by then. You burrowed
underground while I was asleep.

ALL I can do now is feel time pass.
Maybe by next summer, things will
be better. The cicadas will tell me

when that will be.

Maybe by next
summer, things
will be better. The
cicadas will tell me
when that will be.

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fb
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PLACE

Cidna, Pete

C

by LaTasha R. Jones

could have avoided all that trouble if only I had

remembered to let the damn dog out.

) 1T was Edna and Pete, and then there was

~ me. We three lived under the same two-

story roof. There was a time when it was
just the two of us, Edna and me. But that
seems like forever ago. There were those
years we spent with our son and daughter.
Pete joined the bunch some thirty years
later, turning our retired duo into a
retired trio. Edna felt lonely, I suppose,
though we were always together. Our
precious-little-grown-babies were living
across the state, and I guess she missed
having someone to care for. The kids had
been long gone, living their own lives.

IT was just us again. Edna and me.

we talked about traveling around the
county... out of the country... in the state.
We talked about making some changes
to our old brick house. I wanted a pool.
Edna wanted an over-done garden in
the backyard. And after we exhausted

our meager energies on car rides, plane

10 dea lee cS

tickets and dirt digging, we found
refuge in staying put and relaxing. We
were together often... a lot... all of the
time. I had no idea my wife was bored
with me. Always complaining about
being by herself. Always talking about
how she missed her babies, how she
needed more friends. And what was I
to her? Not very exciting, obviously. The
woman, my wife I mean, was starting to
irk me some kind of crazy.

I was sick and awful tired of hearing
her whine about her babies and her
boredom. So, I took her out to find
something that would curb both. We
ended up at the dog pound. She spotted
a funky little scrap of skin, bones and
ugly fur. There wasnTt much to him;
he was barely ten pounds. He was
sitting at the front of his cage with his
ears hanging back, looking all sad and
lonely. Edna found her Pete. Pete found
his Edna. They clicked immediately.
Sparks went flying. Their connection
was magnetic. Edna called him her oold
boy,� and Pete whimpered at her with
delight. He started wagging his mangy
tail the moment he saw her, and I donTt
think itTs stopped moving since. Soul

mates, I always thought, were meant to

be between a man and a woman. Not a
woman and her old boy-mutt-of-a-dog.
But I guess I just don't know too much
about the confines of soul-mating.

YOU know, I never really warmed up to
Pete. He just rubbed me sour. He was
always with Edna. Always beside her.
Always around her. Always following
her around wherever she went. Waiting
for her by the door when she left.
The two of them were inseparable.
Wherever Edna went, Pete was sure to
follow. HeTd lay behind her legs when
she sat on the sofa with me. She'd let
him ride with her in the car when she
went out for whatever she was going out
for. HeTd ride happily in her lap with
his head hanging out of the window,
taking in as much air as he could. She
was paying me less attention and giving
it all to him.

had a feeling that that damn dog would
be the cause of my untimely death. Ihad
a hunch, I guess. My wife thought that I

was just being paranoid. Though I tried

She spotted a funky
little scrap of skin,
bones and uely fur.
Chere woe | much
to him; be was
barely ten pounds.

S

to convince her otherwise, I didn't really
care what she thought about it. I knew
what I knew. And what I knew was that
that dog didn't like me.

oyou know good and well that dog don't
like me. You see how he snaps at me
when I go to hug you. He go stark crazy
when I come in my own damn house.
Barking like a crazy animal.�

SHE found it all quite amusing.

oponTT be ridiculous, Martin. He just dont
like no other man to be around me, thatTs all�
SHE had two men fighting over her "
every woman's silent dream. She never
knew that I routinely and accidentally,
of course, stepped on his scraggily tail
whenever I had the chance. I didn't do
it on purpose, you know, he was just
always in my way. And besides, I never
fancied the over-sized rat. He was some

kind of ugly and that irked me some
te Can | ike Me.

I didnTt like bim.

We had a mutual
understanding.

He'd keep to his
Side oF the HOlL

and | kept to mine.

|

kind of crazy. Why couldn't the woman
find a better looking thing to love " a
prettier one? He was about as big and
weightless as a young cat. His body was
rounded and his tail was long and sharp.
Thin, gawky and a painful eyesore. You
know those animals that people say are
so ugly they're cute? Well, I think Pete
was the prototype. His fur reminded
me of the old carpet my momma and
daddy had when I was growing up. It
was burnt orange and brown and sat an
easy two-and-a-half inches off the floor.
It was shaggy and loose. I imagine that
old carpet was bright and full of life in its
heyday. But by the time that my little sister
came along, that thing was dingy, run-
down, flat in some spots and high in others.
I never partook in the happenings of
PeteTs well-being. No feeding, walking,
petting, bathing, brushing or letting
him out. He didnTt like me. I didn't like
him. We had a mutual understanding.
He'd keep to his side of the hall, and
I kept to mine. Always sticking to the
opposite side of her, Pete never slept
between my wife and me. He never
begged me for food. He didn't dare lick
my face, hands or feet. You'd think he

was an unwelcomed man intruding ona

marriage. And he was, if you ask me.

OUR relationship reminded me of the
one I had with my dad. I was his first
and only son. I should have been his
pride"a source of gleaming joy. But I
never was. That man loathed the very
sight of me. I was very much a mommaTs
boy. I like to think that it had much to
do with his ill feelings for me. He was
used to being the center of my motherTs
world. I stole her attention. I stole his
shine. I had no other choice but to be my
momma's baby boy. Instead of doing as
Dad did and wanting to be a manTs man
like him, I followed my ma around like
some kind of shadow. I was stuck up
under her embrace and found refuge in
her presence. She would take me with
her when she went for groceries, when
she went to the fabric store, when she
went to buy a new dress. I was wherever

she was. My father didnTt teach me

to catch. My Ma helped me with that.

He didnTt show me how to ride a bike.

That was Ma's doing, too. I donTt even
remember him talking to me about

women. But, you know, I already knew

a lot about that. I was always around one.

MY little sister popped out when I was

eleven, and everything changed for my



father. I remember the day that they

brought her home. My dad was smiling
from ear to ear, joy all over his face. He
was holding her, not Ma. He was feeding
her, not Ma. He never even cut up my
food for me when I was too small to do
it myself without making a catastrophe
of it. You'd think that he was the one
who just had the damn baby. Ma was
standing next to him holding her bags
and a large oItTs a Girl� teddybear with a
pink ribbon around its neck. She seemed
happy about having my little sister.
SHORTLY after my baby sisterTs homecom-
ing, I remembering overhearing my dad
talking to his buddies about her. She hadn't
been home a full five months. He had a
whole heck of a lot of excitement in his
voice. He was excited about the tight grip
she'd have on his fingers. He was excited
about how much she smiled at him. He was
even more excited about her bright brown
eyes. He loved all the cooing sounds that
she made. He loved how she'd furl her eye-

brows and nose when she saw something

new. He loved her curly black hair. He loved
her long baby doll eyelashes. He was smitten
with his little girl and everything about her.
ONE night, as I was on my way to the
bathroom, I heard my name come out
of my fatherTs mouth. He was talking to
my mother. He sounded upset, irritated
even, so I stopped to listen and stood
undetectable outside their barely-opened
bedroom door.
owHy you gotta be so hard on him,
Charlie?� Ma asked, sounding slightly
hurt like she was sad and wounded.
oThe boy needs your attention, too.�
oAND what for?� my dad answered.
oMartin gets all that from you, don't he?
You been treatinT that child like a fragile
little doll baby since you popped his
silly-self out. Ain't no need in me givinT
him more than he needs. I ain't want no
children then, anyhow. I know heTs my
son, and I love him and you know that.
But we just ainTt never warmed up to
each other and you know it. I didn't want
to share my time or all my space. But you
insisted. And I donTt know why we gotta
keep talking about this. I ainTt ever lay no
harm on that boy. Just leave it be.�
1 heard Ma sniffle, give Dad a kiss and

turn off her bedside lamp. That was



~ales,

AS
VL

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the end of it. I donTt know how their
conversation started or where it even
began, but I heard how it ended. Dad
hadn't wanted me then. I was an
uninvited guest raining in on his party
with Ma. It was just the two of them. I
was his untimely intruder. I was his Pete.
I was treating that dog the way my dad
treated me. It was a sadder case for
me. I was the manTs child. His son. His
heir. Pete was just the scruffy mutt
that we paid seventy-five dollars for
(vaccinations included). Dad wanted it
to be just Ma and him. But I guess she
felt lonely, like Edna had, and wanted to
share her love.

EDNA, with her confidence in her pocket,
would go out on Tuesdays with her
girlfriends to play bingo. For a few hours
once a week, it was just Pete and me.
All alone. Him and me. Edna usually
remembered to let him outside before
she left, so I wouldn't have to be bothered.
But there was this one Tuesday in May,
the day that damn near broke my back,
when Edna forgot all about her dear old-
boy. She phoned me while she was in the
middle of her second game and pleaded
with me: oJust for a few minutes, Martin.

I donTt wanna make my baby hold all his

10 Hed lhe 13 14

business in. ItTs not good for his tender little
body.T She went on and on about how his
bladder might explode and how he might
get an infection. I caved in, though I knew
that Pete would never let his business
touch my hardwood floors. He preferred
the comfort of my soft, green grass and
occasionally, my fresh rosy carpet.

AFTER hanging up with Edna, I sat
back and finished watching the news.
Pete and his tender business could wait.
There was only thirty minutes or so left
and I didnTt want to miss the breaking
news: Al Sharpton was giving a speech
on the state of Black affairs in America.
Somewhere between AlTs talk on sex,
violence and some Lacrosse players, I
dozed off into a strangely deep sleep.
Three solid hours passed before I woke
up. Pete popped into my head; his
business was next and then, my floors.
And in that exact order.

I got up as quickly as my body would
let me and set out to find the old mutt.
I stepped out of the living room in a
slow rush and started down the hallway.
Before I could run four full steps, the
heat of PeteTs business was melting

between all five toes of my bare left foot.

It smelled worse than my own business

My legs went in the
air. | hit the floor

bard, falling flat on
my back. | heard
what sounded like AY
a million eggshells
cracking.

la St 88
after I had a few bean burritos and spicy

enchiladas. I was still in motion when
my foot met the warmth and the left side
of my body went forward. My legs went
in the air. I hit the floor hard, falling flat
on my back. I heard what sounded like
a million eggshells cracking. I winced in
all my pain and forgetfulness.

I stayed there as I was, stretched out in
the hallway, hoping Edna would walk
in soon. I pushed my head up toward
the ceiling and tried to roll my eyes back
to look around. I saw an upside down
image of the bane of my retired life.
PETE. He was standing in the doorway
of the living room. Panting. I know it
sounds crazy, but I was sure he had a
damn smile on his face. I was sure he
was laughing. That little mutt did this
on purpose, I thought to myself.

AND this is what I get.

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RACHAEL JONES

Title Sequence
Video

This was an assignment for a video class where we were asked to create an open-
ing title sequence for a book. I picked an autobiography by Susan Jane Gilman,
and had the idea of using actual home videos and footage from my childhood.

THIRD FF

TOV Id

KATIE RICHARDSON

Resonance
Video

FILM ART CAN BE VIEWED ON THE DVD AT THE BACK OF THE BOOK. 65

(GRAIN lob Siciy

KIM VOUGHT

As a final project to conclude a study
abroad trip to England and Scotland,
my class and I were required to create
a piece reflecting an aspect of our trip.
I was really inspired by the London
Tube system for its clean and simple
design. I realized that by enlarging
the map, I could make an interactive
piece to highlight our most visited
stops. I created abstracted illustra-
tions of tourist sites on the ~Spot OnT
cards and tokens to bring the tube
stations to life. I also incorporated
phrases we heard during our trip on
the Blue Tube cards that would set a
player back in their travels. A player
would collect tokens at each tourist
attraction and feel as though they
were a part of our travels.

Spot On
Digital output, cardboard, wood

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RACHAEL JONES

This editorial spread was an assign-
ment for a design class. I experiment-
ed a lot with mixed media and collage
to achieve an organic look.

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LOGAN WAGONER
Pedal

Watercolor, pen and ink, digital manipulation

The goal of this project was to create
an illustration to go in a layout for a
fictional editorial spread for a maga-
zine. The topic of the article was a
brief piece about how we spent our
summer this year. I spent the greater
half of my summer riding my bike
daily on mid- to long-distance rides.
After having put over 200 miles on
my bike this summer, I found the
imagery easy to conceptualize. The
abstract frame in which the water-
colors exist is actually a simplified
outline of Pamlico County, my home
county. The text reads as if it were a
letter written by the Road, addressed
to me and letting me know how im-
pressed it is with the progress I have
made in life.

Watercoloring time was upwards of
eight hours. Ink work was another
two hours. The application of text
went through several refinements be-
fore reaching the skewed perspective
now depicted.

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HEATH WAGONER

Through metalsmithing, I have be-
come closer to my father. My fam-
ily has therefore become closer. The
bones that make up the chain of this
necklace are made from the bones
of a fish he caught and my mother
cooked. He is now fishing clean after
fishing for fourteen years and bat-
tling drug addiction.

My Father Was A Fisherman
Fine silver and fish bone

SECOND

| SARAH WEST

Illuminated Box
Copper, vellum, brass

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LESLIE PEARSON

Given and Received

Handmade bookstand, handmade book, digitally-printed fabric

Using narrative as a counterpoint to
imagery, my art explores lifes com-
plexities and offers insight into the
human condition. I am interested in
the way people absorb their everyday
experiences and translate them into
images and stories, specifically in
terms of photographs, journal entries
and letters. The majority of my work
is autobiographical and reflects my
thoughts about freedom, femininity,
identity, overcoming personal limita-
tions and finding strength in things
often considered weak or vulnerable.
I use multimedia processes: textile

techniques, video and audio com-
ponents, sculpture, photography,
painting, leatherwork and text as
vehicles for communicating my per-
sonal experiences and Christian faith.



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DEANNA JANNUZZI

Continuing Tradition

Screenprinted and dyed fabric, photography, book arts, tortellini

oWe are what we eat� Coming from
a large Italian family, this couldn't be
truer. Food is as valuable as gold. Ev-
ery aspect of this work was carefully
thought out and organized. Each piece
of cloth was dyed using food items
(coffee, tea, wine); the wooden stool
was passed down to me from my
grandparents. The recipes come from
our family, some directly out of our

ofamily cookbook,T written by Rachel
Victoria Mills, and some from my own
memories. Influenced by the idea of
an hourglass, the tortellini represent
grains of sand, enhancing the idea of
changing time. Screenprinted tortel-
lini on the organza, with the heaviest
printing at the bottom, further express
this idea. Sitting on top of the stool

with the recipe book and tortellini
spilling out of the mason jar is a pho-
tograph of my Mom-Mom (Gilda Jan-
nuzzi) with her sisters and cousins.

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HEATH WAGONER

cm dL va S 4 ~s 6 t 8

Coffee Pot For Broken Homes

Tin coffee pot

I made this piece this summer at Pen-
land School of Crafts. At first, this
piece began as a simple exploration
in tinsmithing. Upon further obser-
vation it became an investigation
into imagery from my childhood
growing up in a dysfunctional home.
The tradition of my parentsT morning
coffee always occurred regardless of
the previous day's disagreements.

10 ed le Ls 14

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MENTION

Unbridled Royalty

Concrete, found glass, sterling silver

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re PLACE

Shoemaker

by Rebeka h Todd

NCE there was a girl who played in green, green fields

She was always seen wearing her favorite shoes

They were always faithful and they never lost their shine
But on a stormy day the waters fell

And her shiny pair of shoes, they couldn't bear the swell
The soles, they wore out before she could blink her eyes

And suddenly, the sky has gone from blue to grey

It's almost as if the sky can feel my pain.

Because she can't afford to settle in
No, she can't afford the clothes she's in

No, she can't afford to let him win no more, no more.

So she started on a path to find a man she knew

On the rocky road she walked though her feet were badly bruised
When she made it to his doorstep

He could barely believe his eyes

He said, oHoney, how you made it here, I don't know

oYour shoes are so worn out your heels are

Scrubbing against the floor�

So he sent her on her way
And he didn't charge a thing
He said, oThe next miles may be painful,

But they will never be as much pain as you've been in.T

So she packed her suitcase on the very same day
She's putting on her new shoes

And she's walking away

She'll always hate the storm

But she will never hate the day she found her strength.

Because I can't afford to settle in
No, I can't afford the clothes I'm in

No, I can't afford to let you win no more, no more.

MUSIC CAN BE HEARD ON THE DVD AT THE BACK OF THE BOOK. 104

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CATHY BROWN

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SECOND

CATHY BROWN

Having a mother diagnosed with
schizophrenia has become a catalyst
for this body of work. She has under-
gone troubling experiences, such as
rape and abuse, as well as permanent
confinement in an assisted living fa-
cility. In this series, I use the dolls as
surrogates to represent my mother
and myself. Dolls are inert represen-
tations of children that are subject to
their owners discretion. My mother
is similar to a child in the sense that
major decisions are made for her.
The dolls I choose are well-patinaed
from use as well as other unknown
tragic experiences. They are decapi-
tated, disfigured and damaged, with
ragged clothes and patches of hair
gone astray. These conditions evoke
memories of my mother's inability
to control the circumstances of her
condition. I use the dolls to create
narratives of my conversations with
her as well as to illustrate the awk-

Can I smoke just one more
cigarette before you leave?
Oil on canvas

ward disconnectedness that exists
between us.

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cm

KATELYN KEITH

My work is a portal into a foreign
atmosphere where living structures
exist. The structures are made up of
individual parts to create the whole.
They interlock, cling and form upon
one another as if by necessity. The
desire to create these interlocking
systems stems from my personal cu-
riosity with social networks. The idea
of community both frightens and
comforts me. In my work I often ex-
plore moody landscapes where these
structures exist. I see this atmosphere
as the hardships and dangers that
surround the community. They are

HONORA

Your troubles are on the rise
cause youre in disguise
Acrylic, oil, encaustics

cast out into a world of uncertainty,
allowing them to gain a sense of pride
and bravery even in their misfortune.
The atmosphere around them is both
murky and brooding and has the feel-
ing of being able to change tempera-
ment on a whim. My paintings focus
in on a glimpse of this bittersweet and
meddlesome world.

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D
jveryda
oem

by LaTasha R. Jones

do not clock in because we are on a system
called integrity I often think to shit on it and
come and go as I please but I like getting
good evaluations it is 10:45 I am early as
usual the first thing I hear is the loud-
mouthed brat who thinks she is GodTs
damn gift to the world she is babbling

about her meek Marine fiancé who is

WO a Seventh Day Adventist or maybe a
JehovahTs Witness I think she convinced

S

him to celebrate his birthday and
CHRISTMAS he drinks alcohol too he is
in Iraq but somehow manages to get on
her nerves that are in Greenville he does
whatever she tells him to do I think I need
to find a man like that loud mouth got her
hair cut again last Friday now I have to
watch her play in it all day I have the urge
to kick the chair from under her but don't

feel like thinking of an explanation.

CNTRL+ALT+DELETE and I log onto
my job with email coffee or Mountain
Dew | ignore the sixty unread messages
waiting because there are hurried

uneven footsteps charging my way I

roll my eyes and fake a smile I have
only been here ten minutes my boss is
already telling me about her son he is
her pride and her immeasurable joy he
is stationed in Japan and just bought one
of those little racer cars she asks me if I
know what kind of car it is because she
has never heard of it he has to pay a toll
wherever he goes so she doesnTt know
why he even bought the darn thing she
shows me a picture of the deer she killed
Saturday a six-pointer or something its
tongue is hanging out its mouth its eyes
are wide open I smile and feel sorry for
the deer but donTt let her know because
sheTs proud of her job well done she
is completely inside my cubicle now
invading the space I do have she brings
me up to speed on the state of her brain-
dying mother even though I did not ask
about her she is impatiently waiting for
her to die though she does not say it I
spent all weekend with Mother in the
hospital she had a bacterial infection

and you know her mindTs goinT and

cm dl 2 3 4 5 6

she won't too sure where she was and do
you know that she took Robitussins and it
made the infection worsen she is thinking
about buying a trailer and putting it in
her yard so her mother can be closer she
stands there and talks for ten minutes
more about how much she dislikes her
second born drug-addicted son He done
gone off and got married again

I sip my coffee and smile and nod and
think only seven and-a-half more to
go I fill a printer with recycled paper
then Hi. Can 1 help your Google
EBSCO CINAHL RefWorks Facebook
OPAC Outlook Setvice Requesis
and PowerPoint slides (Please print
handouts not one slide per page) I
tell a patron they have a sixty dollar
fine and they will need to talk to loud
mouth about it but she is on the first
floor talking to someone about how her
friendTs doctor told her she had HPV
and it is actually an STD.

I stare into space for a minute or two
or three F11 for a receipt Alt+R to clear

the screen.

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In Case
You've Already

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by Ja Min No












/

OU remember last year

when spring sneaked upon us ina
green haze

and you crawled out of your cave

with nothing but your skin on

and you couldn't wake me up
because I had the sleeping sickness,

the spell of a long winter

so you meandered with the river

and almost drowned of loneliness,

sun burnt and sun-crazed

you returned with no answers

just a sprig of acacias in your hand

Lt
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ae

SECOND 3&

V\elting Auroras

by Thomas V. Weaver, Jr

HEN hearts tickled me pink, colors flooded my
eyes and watched magenta guppies give birth

on beds of mango tangoed in coral.

When Mary Lou had that roly-poly-race-
first to the Double Bubble Gum won"

my Bubba got first, but died later that night.
He was exhausted. I kissed him goodbye.

I used to see in color, when candy apples shone red

and flies impregnated nude watermelon beds.

Maggots danced til sunrise, wiggled up to the sky

and couldn't wait to take flight.

Maybe when Daddy shot that elk, trout quit

swimming upstream, and cicadas left no whatnots

on the old sycamore tree.

Then Momma packed bags; forgot to say goodbye.
She took pink and yellow and left me with the rest.
That night I found Little Dipper; Big Dipper

nowhere in sight.

MammaT voice went flatline and slammed the door

one last time.

GREE RE

On FLACE

My auroras no longer flew, but hid under melting
glaciers. I tried to hold my paint, which was too

much to bear for these tiny hands and ran right

into Daddys lap.

Daddy

grabbed me,

shook me around,
told me to be a man,

pushed me in the chest

and shoved me to the ground.
ThatTs when I opened my eyes...

I never saw Mary Lou again and never saw them

maggots fly. Never found Mamma Dipper, just a
rusty, cracked handle
in the back of DaddyTs pickup.

He
shoved me

one more time,

and knocked the

blue right from my iris...

What I saw was black and

what wasnTt black was white.

ThatTs the day I became a man

and never looked back again.



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oChese Dane

by LaTasha R. Jones



HESE days



looking for a bone

_ to raise my sagging back,

a footstool to perch my bunions

and toes, the time to tell you I do not

have any

so you do not expect anything

but

nothing.

MENTION

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Sowelo

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MARCO ALMENGOR

Untitled
Lithograph

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TEER)

36 PLACE

St MARREEL

I screenprinted the Wastecore poster
when I saw recycling bins being ne-
glected for the convenience of closer
and more readily available trash
cans. With the amount of education
people have, it seems their apathy
towards the environment and Earth's
materials is greater.

I projected to the future to see what
remaining artifacts archaeologists
would find; a crust layer of of wast-
ed, over-produced garbage from our
omodern� society. I saw anthropolo-

Wastecore
Screenprint

gists making statements about how
careless and consumptive our cul-
tures were, rather than progressive
and respectful toward Earth.

I designed it to be a newspaper
headline to represent the future pro-
jection being made now in 2010.
NEWSFLASH.

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KeeTlee

RACHAEL JONES

Linocut

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JESSE MORRISSEY

My sculptures are influenced by the
forms and forces of nature. Certain
natural forms captivate me: seed
pods, bursting with potential life en-
ergy; branches and vines that reach
and grasp in anthropomorphic ways;
textures that mirror the processes of
growth and decay. As a child I was
always drawn to the natural world
around me. I would range through the
dense New England woods, marshes
and ponds where I made discoveries
which may have seemed common-
place to others but were fascinating to
me. I was a child that had an eye for
detail and the tiny things that made na-
ture amazing did not escape my gaze.

Nature can be likened to a web and it
cannot be represented by something
as simple as a single object; there is no
end result, the cycle is in constant mo-
tion. The technical aspects of my work

Skin

Cast iron, kozo fiber, steel, sassafrass

" the processes employed " allow
me to mirror nature. This method
of creation contains technical, time-
consuming, spontaneous and _ re-
sponsive processes which allow the
work to grow and evolve. These two
different ways of working are as im-
portant as the artwork itself. Though
my individual sculptures may appear
to be an ~end result; they are simply a
snapshot into the cycle of nature as |

16) ial eZ Ls: 14

is: 16

interpret it. They evoke questions as
to where they came from and where
they are going. The forms I create
are not meant to literally represent
specific organisms but instead con-
tain the essence of many different
organisms combined to represent the
course of nature. The sculptures em-
body my view of nature and they take
on new forms in the same way that
nature evolves.

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SECOND

KOBERT PRICE

cm i uy 3 4 S 6 i

Medium Malfunction
Poplar, found objects

The work Medium Malfuntion displays
an amalgamation of mechanical ideas
and forms shown through the use of
an organic medium. With a light that
will never sound and gears that will
never turn of their own volition, this
once-living medium has the illusion of
function with only ones imagination
to power it " like a child's toy.

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ROBERT PRICE

Soundwave
Steel, found objects

The work Soundwave uses form to
display a theoretical function: waves
of sound moving through the air
from a found object that once pro-
duced true sound. It is a snapshot of
an instant of exploding activity fro-
zen forever and left for the viewer to
decide if it was music, a warning or
even a message blared from the horn
and sent out into the world.



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PEATE: DESIGN

SAMANTHA PELL

The ability to edit ones ideas and
thoughts is why I find writing so ap-
pealing. I use text not only as a way to
communicate with others, but also as a
texture. Working in this way allows me
to selectively choose what to share and
what not to share, and by using meth-
ods of subtracting and adding writing
through deconstructive screenprint-
ing and embroidery, I have created an
agitated and aggressive piece based
on personal frustrations. Here, I am
choosing to speak loudly and openly
about the things that at the time were
left unspoken.

ITm Through With Holding Your Hand

Deconstructive screenprinting on dyed cotton, machine embroidery

16) dLat 12 HES 14 Ls IMs

It is too cold to go outside today

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Cotton, organza

ETHANY SHAFFER

Sun Rise
Hand-dyed silk

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SAMANTHA PELL

HONORABLE

Lita

Handmade kozo paper, silk organza,

cotton, machine embroidery, matte medium

This piece is part of a portrait series
of women who have influenced my
life. With each woman, I have con-
ducted an interview and/or com-
piled memorable stories that they've
told me throughout my relation-
ship with them. These recollections
have been transcribed behind each
woman's portrait. These portraits
were stitched with free-motion em-
broidery and pasted in layers on the
surface of the paper with matte me-
dium. By spending time with each
woman, I have been able to gain a

closeness with them that I had yet
to experience and make personal
connections with their stories to my
own experiences. These discoveries
between myself and the people that
I hold dear have been a very enlight-
ening experience.

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SARAH WEST .
Untitled

Sterling silver, enamel, ruby, peridot

This piece exists in static motion.
What is under the surface is at times
revealed and obscured. Perceptions
change. Space recedes. Memories un-
fold. Like the line of ink meandering
through the drawings that this piece
is based on, the silver and enamel
twist and overlap and for me, run the
length of my life.

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# JUDGES

VISUAL ART

LITERATURE

MUSI

@

Eleanor Willard
Department Chair of Advertising
and Graphic Design at Pitt

Community College

Margaret Thiele
Office Manager at Greenville Museum
of Art and Metals Instructor at Pitt

Community College

Gail Ritzer
Artist and Community Arts Instructor

Mike Hamer

Teaching Instructor in the Depart-
ment of English at East Carolina
University

Angela Mellor
Assistant Professor in the Department
of English at East Carolina University

Nicholas Bailey
Composer for Influence Music
Publishing

cm

EDITOR

STUDENT STAFF

FACULTY ADVISOR

PHOTOGRAPHY

STUDENT MEDIA

COPY EDITORS

S

Anna Vaughn Creech

Rich Griffis
JoEllen Pollard

Alex Watson

Craig Malmrose

Gunnar Swanson

Henry Stindt
Photographic

Paul Isom
Yvonne Moye

Student Media Board

Lisa Beth Robinson
Sarah Jakubowski

10

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Pela aie

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FRODUCTION NOEES

PRINTER

EDITION

PRESS

STOCK

TVYPOGRAIHY

Theo Davis Printing

2,000 books and DVDs

Komori Lithrone $40

Cover: Neenah Paper ESSE
CVR 105 lb cover in Pearlized
White Smooth

Text: Flo Dull Text 100 Ib
Glama Natural Translucent in

Pearl 27 Ib

Trajan Pro

Minion Pro

Patrick

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REBEL 53 is produced by and for
the students of East Carolina Uni-
versity. Offices are located within
Student Media in the Self-Help
Building. The contents are copy-
righted 2010 and 2011 by REBEL
53. All rights revert to the indi-
vidual artists and writers upon
publication. Contents may not
be reproduced by any means, nor
stored in any information retriev-
al system without written permis-
sion of the artist or writer. Printed

with non-state funds.

COPRTRIGHET We

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cm

4 SPECIAL THANKS

Nicholas Bailey
Holly Garriott
Mike Hamer
Gregory Hedgepeth
Paul Isom

Sarah Jakubowski
Craig Malmrose
Angela Mellor
Harrison Metcalf
Yvonne Moye

Justin Pearson Photography

Pitt County Arts Council at Emerge

Frank Pulley

Gail Ritzer

Lisa Beth Robinson

Janet Stancil

Henry Stindt

Gunnar Swanson

Tarboro Printing Company
Theo Davis Printing

Margaret Thiele

University Printing & Graphics

Heather Wilkinson

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