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THE MIND NEEDS TO BE ENLIGHTENED BY| LIGHT FROM OUTSIDE [ISELE So 1CAN PARTICIPATE IN TRUTH, BECAUSE IT ISNOT TISELP TE NAVUORE OG 1s i" AUGUSTINE, on the concept of Divine Illumination

cmREBEL 53° seeks tofunction as a modern dayilluminated manuscript "shedding light on socialissues of our time whilehighlighting the award-winning work of studentartists and writers.GgdeaizLs:1413

TABLE OF CONTENIS &ANIMATION 6Book ARTS 12CERAMICS 20DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY 28DRAWING 38FICTION 46FILM ART 60GRAPHIC DESIGN 66ILLUSTRATION 74METAL DESIGN 82MIXED MEDIA 90MusIc 98PAINTING 104POETRY 412PRINTMAKING 124SCULPTURE 132TEXTILE DESIGN 140TRADITIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY 150Woop DESIGN 158BEST IN SHOW 164Judges 170Staff peProduction Notes 172Copyright 173Special Thanks 174cm i Z 3 4 2) 6 i 8 2) 8 ede sl Ls

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SECOND 3Holy idaaBh:aigigqsum caea cs nnes ys sen ne nLiZ STTINERsani isis mony snLithic FragmentsMixed mediacig rchise ries ioEverything begs with the silentrocks for you to be flung out likelight? " Rumi, Part love letter, part personal instruc-tion manual, this book utilizes sev-eral quotes by 13th-Century MuslimSufi and poet Jalaladin Rumi. Eachletterpressed quote references earth,dust or stone in the context of spiri-tual enlightenment. Interspersedbetween each quotation are collagesconsisting of images and materialsrelating to geology and my greaterbody of work. This piece is wearablewith the book resting at the hip; it'sbased on the idea of ogirdle books,Tcollections of prayers or psalmsworn by monks in the Middle Ages.The hollow rock form, meant to becarried in the hand, holds a quoteby Coleman Barks, a premier Rumitranslator, questioning what comesafter transcendence.

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HONORABLE »NOILNAWaiepoeneeLIZ STEINER 2CaveMixed mediaAlthough fairly literal at first look,this cave book is also meant to be avisual metaphor for oneTs own innerjourney. Dark and foreboding at first,lightening toward the center, or therealization of the self. There is a wayout of the cave as well as a way in,signifying that self-realization is notthe end-all-be-all. The journey con-tinues as one chooses how to use theknowledge one has gained.

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SIM ASHERCreating compositions through theviewfinder is one of the main objec-tives for a photographer. As a personin everyday life, I see just like mostpeople do. The importance of see-ing is not only to recognize and ob-serve what is in front of me, but tosee beyond that point and explorewhat dimensions do not lay directlyon the surface. It is my goal to workthrough the constrictions of life andinvestigate all potential destinations.Photographs take on the two-dimen-sional form, yet if a person is able tobreach the surface of the paper, whosays that the third dimension is notreally there?I chose to revisit an old photographfor my piece Don't Feed The Birds.I've taken a 4x5 piece of film and ex-posed it in a self-constructed pinholecamera to which, after developing thefilm, I enlarged the image to approxi-mately 5x7 inches. I then bleachedDont Feed The BirdsSilver gelatin print toned in copper and bluethe print before toning it in blue andthen toned it with a copper solutionto darken shadows. The image is ofmy parents backyard, a sanctuary ofa woodland environment where myimagination ran wild through myyounger years. The composition al-lows for the viewer to step into thedynamics of my youth, explore be-yond the initial foreground and readinto what the horizon is offering.The pinhole projects a dreamlikequality which engages the viewer,enhances the sense of nostalgia andevokes a sense of the darker emo-tions in what was once my domain ofchildhood adventures. Through mybodies of work " past, present andfuture " my intentions are just andseek the attention of someone who iswilling to take the plunge.

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gtih aeNitiisdaI thought it was ugly,~ PLACEbut you told me thatthey were nymphsonce, that it wasn'tsummer until youbeard a cicada song.«o~icadaby Ja Min NoHERE is only static on the radio tonight. ButthatTs alright. No one ever actuallylistens to the radio anymore. I onlywanted the constant stream of soundsso that night wouldn't seem so dark orso silent. Have you ever noticed howitTs easier to notice the stars when itTsabsolutely quiet? ItTs almost as if theyhave a faint song of their own, andtheir twinkling somehow proves it.But I dont want to look at the starstonight. If I could, I would rather sleepand maybe dream about somethingpretty and nonexistent.CALE mentions you sometimes in afar-off way, a passing thing, dismissiveand distant. We were sitting on thegrass under that big sycamore treeyou loved. The one with the knotty,gnarled roots. He wanted that bookyou borrowed a long time ago but hecouldnt even remember which one.I dread school starting back. Peoplewill pretend like they care, or they willpretend like nothing happened. Peoplewill think they are being kind. Peoplewill pretend they knew you. Maybe they

really do mean well, but I don't think Ican muster-up the energy to play along.1 went driving down to the reservoiryesterday and they had it fencedoff. A large steel plate was bolted onthe chain links trying to scare offeverybody but I don't know if theywill be scared. We weren't scaredeither. It's weird how after everythingthat's happened the place could lookso calm, and most of all, exactly theway it always has been. The fire pitthat we made was still there, withthe charred logs waiting for anotherbonfire. Crushed beer cans wereembedded in the rust-colored dirt,shining like silver. The water wasblue-black and so still. It remindedme a little of that mood ring youalways used to wear. If I dip my feet,I know what the water will tell me.The cicadas were still droning theirsleepy summer song.you were the one that told me thatcicadas first live underground formost of their lives. Then they emergefrom the soil, naked and vulnerable.We saw one sleeping on a tree onetime. I thought it was ugly but youtold me that they were nymphs once,that it wasnt summer until youheard a cicada song. They were stillsinging when you left. Funny, I donTthear any cicadas singing tonight.The summer really is dying, I guess.ITS muggy in my room. The airconditioning is broken again, so |have the windows open. The nightbreathes its sticky cloying breath in,rustling the curtains. It perfumes theroom with honeysuckle. Rememberthat one time we were very little andwe tried to collect all the honeysuckledew in a mason jar? We had beenswimming all day in your backyard.We played Marco Polo, and youalways cheated, holding your breath,hiding in a corner of the pool. Thatwas the year we discovered thatit was a honeysuckle vine thatblanketed your fence. The floretslooked like little golden trumpets inour cupped hands. We picked themoff the vine until the lightning bugscame out, dotting the darkness likeneon stars. Our mothers came outto find us and we hadn't even beenclose to filling that jar. I sometimesthink about being a kid again, andthere are things that are hazedover like dreams but they feel sofamiliar. I wish you were here so youcould remind me of the things thatreally happened.

cmWHAT happened that night? I rememberso many things except for all theimportant parts. We sat by the blackwater and you laid your head on myshoulder. You hair smelled like smoke.There were people all around us, smokingand talking and drinking. There weretwo-headed shadows in the bushes,contorting their bodies against thetrees. When they came out into thefire-lit night, the shadows turned outto be our friends with tousled hairand mussed up clothes. Their smileswere stretched out on their facesand they talked to us and we talkedback. Your face was glistening, and Ithought maybe you were melting. Iput my hand on your face to makesure you would stay the way youwere, beautiful and glistening, andI asked you if you were alright andyou said oyes? and took my handin your warm ones and kissed myfingers. There was a fire in my brainand I could hear my heart thumpinglouder than the hooting and howlingof our friends. The trees and theirgiant shadows were spinning, andthe ground was rippling like a rust-colored sea. The fire was burningholes in your face. You smiled andsaid you felt alive and climbed in mylap. oGet a room!? someone yelledacross the reservoir. You laughed,but you stayed and I was glad.YOUR eyes were opened wide andthey looked just like the water, inkyand fathomless, and I thought Imight drown just from staring. Youkept laughing and talking about starsand constellations but I didn't see anystars. Just the wan, looming face ofthe moon in the sky. It reminded meof a hole cut out for a diorama box.Was some giant peeping Tom spyingon us? I could feel the weight of yourbones, your limp hair sticking to myneck, and maybe we were starting tosink a little bit. It would have beenjust fine if we got swallowed up bythe rippling earth, as long as yourthin limbs were wrapped around meand I could feel this rush of bloodor joy or electricity making my heartflutter, making my fingertips tingle. Wecould live underground, just you and me,naked and vulnerable. You said into mychest, oI could fall asleep right now:T1 could hear splashing and shriekscoming from the water. CaleTs sun-bleached head was bobbing in andout of the fluid blackness. He waswrestling with the other boys inthe reservoir, twisting and turning,iL 8 IEA ee Ls 14

whooping and cursing. He wavedand yelled for us. oCome swim, youpansies!? I asked if you wanted togo for a swim. You slowly nodded,your eyes blinking sleepily. I tried tostand but the ground was tilting andit took a few tries. I shed my clothesand jumped in the water to loudshouts of approval from Cale and theboys. The water was warmer than Iexpected. You stumbled forward,peeling off your sweaty clothes. Themoon made your nakedness glow.I watched you slide into the water,your limbs languid, long hair fanningout behind you. Sleepily chuckling,you said, oMarco.? I slid away fromyou, laughing, the water swirling allaround me. I answered back, oPolo?You swam circles around me, takingyour time. Cheater, I said. oYoudon't even have your eyes closed.?WITH an arch look, you glidedtoward me with white limbsoutstretched. You latched onto melike a ghost in the water, weightless.oGot you.? Suddenly, you pulled me in,your mouth on mine, and we sanktogether, the water heavy as it wasweightless, as still as it was fluid. Idon't know how long we stayed downin the darkness like that. I could hearmuffled shouts above me, our namesbeing called. Your arms slipped fromaround my neck. I opened my eyes,but I could only see darkness. Mychest was burning and water rushedinto my lungs, and it was all I coulddo to kick my feet, try to free my bodyfrom the water swallowing me up.And then I saw the stars, or maybethey were lightning bugs. They hadcome to drink the honeysuckle dewyou and I collected for them.WHEN I came to, I was in a white room,the sun blinding, shining cruelly onthe white sheets or a trolley bed. Theytold me they found you, but you werelong gone by then. You burrowedunderground while I was asleep.ALL I can do now is feel time pass.Maybe by next summer, things willbe better. The cicadas will tell mewhen that will be.Maybe by nextsummer, thingswill be better. Thecicadas will tell mewhen that will be.

cmi:Rli|GNOOASfbey,PLACECidna, PeteCby LaTasha R. Jonescould have avoided all that trouble if only I hadremembered 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 wasjust the two of us, Edna and me. But thatseems like forever ago. There were thoseyears we spent with our son and daughter.Pete joined the bunch some thirty yearslater, turning our retired duo into aretired trio. Edna felt lonely, I suppose,though we were always together. Ourprecious-little-grown-babies were livingacross the state, and I guess she missedhaving someone to care for. The kids hadbeen long gone, living their own lives.IT was just us again. Edna and me.we talked about traveling around thecounty... out of the country... in the state.We talked about making some changesto our old brick house. I wanted a pool.Edna wanted an over-done garden inthe backyard. And after we exhaustedour meager energies on car rides, plane10 dea lee cS

tickets and dirt digging, we foundrefuge in staying put and relaxing. Wewere together often... a lot... all of thetime. I had no idea my wife was boredwith me. Always complaining aboutbeing by herself. Always talking abouthow she missed her babies, how sheneeded more friends. And what was Ito her? Not very exciting, obviously. Thewoman, my wife I mean, was starting toirk me some kind of crazy.I was sick and awful tired of hearingher whine about her babies and herboredom. So, I took her out to findsomething that would curb both. Weended up at the dog pound. She spotteda funky little scrap of skin, bones andugly fur. There wasnTt much to him;he was barely ten pounds. He wassitting at the front of his cage with hisears hanging back, looking all sad andlonely. Edna found her Pete. Pete foundhis Edna. They clicked immediately.Sparks went flying. Their connectionwas magnetic. Edna called him her ooldboy,? and Pete whimpered at her withdelight. He started wagging his mangytail the moment he saw her, and I donTtthink itTs stopped moving since. Soulmates, I always thought, were meant tobe between a man and a woman. Not awoman and her old boy-mutt-of-a-dog.But I guess I just don't know too muchabout the confines of soul-mating.YOU know, I never really warmed up toPete. He just rubbed me sour. He wasalways with Edna. Always beside her.Always around her. Always followingher around wherever she went. Waitingfor her by the door when she left.The two of them were inseparable.Wherever Edna went, Pete was sure tofollow. HeTd lay behind her legs whenshe sat on the sofa with me. She'd lethim ride with her in the car when shewent out for whatever she was going outfor. HeTd ride happily in her lap withhis head hanging out of the window,taking in as much air as he could. Shewas paying me less attention and givingit all to him.had a feeling that that damn dog wouldbe the cause of my untimely death. Ihada hunch, I guess. My wife thought that Iwas just being paranoid. Though I triedShe spotted a funkylittle scrap of skin,bones and uely fur.Chere woe | muchto him; be wasbarely ten pounds.S

to convince her otherwise, I didn't reallycare what she thought about it. I knewwhat I knew. And what I knew was thatthat dog didn't like me.oyou know good and well that dog don'tlike me. You see how he snaps at mewhen I go to hug you. He go stark crazywhen I come in my own damn house.Barking like a crazy animal.?SHE found it all quite amusing.oponTT be ridiculous, Martin. He just dontlike no other man to be around me, thatTs all?SHE had two men fighting over her "every woman's silent dream. She neverknew that I routinely and accidentally,of course, stepped on his scraggily tailwhenever I had the chance. I didn't doit on purpose, you know, he was justalways in my way. And besides, I neverfancied the over-sized rat. He was somekind of ugly and that irked me somete Can | ike Me.I didnTt like bim.We had a mutualunderstanding.He'd keep to hisSide oF the HOlLand | kept to mine.|kind of crazy. Why couldn't the womanfind a better looking thing to love " aprettier one? He was about as big andweightless as a young cat. His body wasrounded and his tail was long and sharp.Thin, gawky and a painful eyesore. Youknow those animals that people say areso ugly they're cute? Well, I think Petewas the prototype. His fur remindedme of the old carpet my momma anddaddy had when I was growing up. Itwas burnt orange and brown and sat aneasy two-and-a-half inches off the floor.It was shaggy and loose. I imagine thatold carpet was bright and full of life in itsheyday. But by the time that my little sistercame along, that thing was dingy, run-down, flat in some spots and high in others.I never partook in the happenings ofPeteTs well-being. No feeding, walking,petting, bathing, brushing or lettinghim out. He didnTt like me. I didn't likehim. We had a mutual understanding.He'd keep to his side of the hall, andI kept to mine. Always sticking to theopposite side of her, Pete never sleptbetween my wife and me. He neverbegged me for food. He didn't dare lickmy face, hands or feet. You'd think hewas an unwelcomed man intruding ona

marriage. And he was, if you ask me.OUR relationship reminded me of theone I had with my dad. I was his firstand only son. I should have been hispride"a source of gleaming joy. But Inever was. That man loathed the verysight of me. I was very much a mommaTsboy. I like to think that it had much todo with his ill feelings for me. He wasused to being the center of my motherTsworld. I stole her attention. I stole hisshine. I had no other choice but to be mymomma's baby boy. Instead of doing asDad did and wanting to be a manTs manlike him, I followed my ma around likesome kind of shadow. I was stuck upunder her embrace and found refuge inher presence. She would take me withher when she went for groceries, whenshe went to the fabric store, when shewent to buy a new dress. I was wherevershe was. My father didnTt teach meto catch. My Ma helped me with that.He didnTt show me how to ride a bike.That was Ma's doing, too. I donTt evenremember him talking to me aboutwomen. But, you know, I already knewa lot about that. I was always around one.MY little sister popped out when I waseleven, and everything changed for myfather. I remember the day that theybrought her home. My dad was smilingfrom ear to ear, joy all over his face. Hewas holding her, not Ma. He was feedingher, not Ma. He never even cut up myfood for me when I was too small to doit myself without making a catastropheof it. You'd think that he was the onewho just had the damn baby. Ma wasstanding next to him holding her bagsand a large oItTs a Girl? teddybear with apink ribbon around its neck. She seemedhappy about having my little sister.SHORTLY after my baby sisterTs homecom-ing, I remembering overhearing my dadtalking to his buddies about her. She hadn'tbeen home a full five months. He had awhole heck of a lot of excitement in hisvoice. He was excited about the tight gripshe'd have on his fingers. He was excitedabout how much she smiled at him. He waseven more excited about her bright browneyes. He loved all the cooing sounds thatshe made. He loved how she'd furl her eye-brows and nose when she saw something

new. He loved her curly black hair. He lovedher long baby doll eyelashes. He was smittenwith his little girl and everything about her.ONE night, as I was on my way to thebathroom, I heard my name come outof my fatherTs mouth. He was talking tomy mother. He sounded upset, irritatedeven, so I stopped to listen and stoodundetectable outside their barely-openedbedroom door.owHy you gotta be so hard on him,Charlie?? Ma asked, sounding slightlyhurt 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 fragilelittle doll baby since you popped hissilly-self out. Ain't no need in me givinThim more than he needs. I ain't want nochildren then, anyhow. I know heTs myson, and I love him and you know that.But we just ainTt never warmed up toeach other and you know it. I didn't wantto share my time or all my space. But youinsisted. And I donTt know why we gottakeep talking about this. I ainTt ever lay noharm on that boy. Just leave it be.?1 heard Ma sniffle, give Dad a kiss andturn off her bedside lamp. That was~ales,ASVLcmthe end of it. I donTt know how theirconversation started or where it evenbegan, but I heard how it ended. Dadhadn't wanted me then. I was anuninvited guest raining in on his partywith Ma. It was just the two of them. Iwas his untimely intruder. I was his Pete.I was treating that dog the way my dadtreated me. It was a sadder case forme. I was the manTs child. His son. Hisheir. Pete was just the scruffy muttthat we paid seventy-five dollars for(vaccinations included). Dad wanted itto be just Ma and him. But I guess shefelt lonely, like Edna had, and wanted toshare her love.EDNA, with her confidence in her pocket,would go out on Tuesdays with hergirlfriends to play bingo. For a few hoursonce a week, it was just Pete and me.All alone. Him and me. Edna usuallyremembered to let him outside beforeshe 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 themiddle of her second game and pleadedwith me: oJust for a few minutes, Martin.I donTt wanna make my baby hold all his10 Hed lhe 13 14

business in. ItTs not good for his tender littlebody.T She went on and on about how hisbladder might explode and how he mightget an infection. I caved in, though I knewthat Pete would never let his businesstouch my hardwood floors. He preferredthe comfort of my soft, green grass andoccasionally, my fresh rosy carpet.AFTER hanging up with Edna, I satback and finished watching the news.Pete and his tender business could wait.There was only thirty minutes or so leftand I didnTt want to miss the breakingnews: Al Sharpton was giving a speechon the state of Black affairs in America.Somewhere between AlTs talk on sex,violence and some Lacrosse players, Idozed off into a strangely deep sleep.Three solid hours passed before I wokeup. Pete popped into my head; hisbusiness was next and then, my floors.And in that exact order.I got up as quickly as my body wouldlet me and set out to find the old mutt.I stepped out of the living room in aslow rush and started down the hallway.Before I could run four full steps, theheat of PeteTs business was meltingbetween all five toes of my bare left foot.It smelled worse than my own businessMy legs went in theair. | hit the floorbard, falling flat onmy back. | heardwhat sounded like AYa million eggshellscracking.la St 88after I had a few bean burritos and spicyenchiladas. I was still in motion whenmy foot met the warmth and the left sideof my body went forward. My legs wentin the air. I hit the floor hard, falling flaton my back. I heard what sounded likea million eggshells cracking. I winced inall my pain and forgetfulness.I stayed there as I was, stretched out inthe hallway, hoping Edna would walkin soon. I pushed my head up towardthe ceiling and tried to roll my eyes backto look around. I saw an upside downimage of the bane of my retired life.PETE. He was standing in the doorwayof the living room. Panting. I know itsounds crazy, but I was sure he had adamn smile on his face. I was sure hewas laughing. That little mutt did thison purpose, I thought to myself.AND this is what I get.

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FIRST 3Kowa>eSeeJEFFREY MASONMarchesVideoSECOND. iooprC)rmRACHAEL JONESTitle SequenceVideoThis 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 FFTOV IdKATIE RICHARDSONResonanceVideoFILM ART CAN BE VIEWED ON THE DVD AT THE BACK OF THE BOOK. 65

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KIM VOUGHTAs a final project to conclude a studyabroad trip to England and Scotland,my class and I were required to createa piece reflecting an aspect of our trip.I was really inspired by the LondonTube system for its clean and simpledesign. I realized that by enlargingthe map, I could make an interactivepiece to highlight our most visitedstops. I created abstracted illustra-tions of tourist sites on the ~Spot OnTcards and tokens to bring the tubestations to life. I also incorporatedphrases we heard during our trip onthe Blue Tube cards that would set aplayer back in their travels. A playerwould collect tokens at each touristattraction and feel as though theywere a part of our travels.Spot OnDigital output, cardboard, wood

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SECOND +Nees(fr7 Pia eRACHAEL JONESThis editorial spread was an assign-ment for a design class. I experiment-ed a lot with mixed media and collageto achieve an organic look.oper feruliey during therie. A startererulizer high in phoapho-a ik formoulanen such thisecond number repre Seve LSf phosphorus.) Mus thewer at the rate of 2 table-i.ant in the soil, pour |an around the root, thenhole with sail. A starterbe made by mixinna of a complete fertilizesa gallon of water. Core-ed starter solutions arewhut ON 38Home Vegetable GardeningDigital outputDa not leave the proectors over the plants' nelonger than necessary, however. Hit getswarm during the day, remove the protec-tors to provide proper ventilation lor theplants. A shingle stuck in the ground at aslant on the south »shail

RSJOV1d 3%{>LOGAN WAGONERPedalWatercolor, pen and ink, digital manipulationThe goal of this project was to createan illustration to go in a layout for afictional editorial spread for a maga-zine. The topic of the article was abrief piece about how we spent oursummer this year. I spent the greaterhalf of my summer riding my bikedaily on mid- to long-distance rides.After having put over 200 miles onmy bike this summer, I found theimagery easy to conceptualize. Theabstract frame in which the water-colors exist is actually a simplifiedoutline of Pamlico County, my homecounty. The text reads as if it were aletter written by the Road, addressedto me and letting me know how im-pressed it is with the progress I havemade in life.Watercoloring time was upwards ofeight hours. Ink work was anothertwo hours. The application of textwent through several refinements be-fore reaching the skewed perspectivenow depicted.cm i Z 3 4 2) 6 i 8 2) 8 ede alee 1s 14 is

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HEATH WAGONERThrough metalsmithing, I have be-come closer to my father. My fam-ily has therefore become closer. Thebones that make up the chain of thisnecklace are made from the bonesof a fish he caught and my mothercooked. He is now fishing clean afterfishing for fourteen years and bat-tling drug addiction.My Father Was A FishermanFine silver and fish bone

SECOND| SARAH WESTIlluminated BoxCopper, vellum, brass

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cmLESLIE PEARSONGiven and ReceivedHandmade bookstand, handmade book, digitally-printed fabricUsing narrative as a counterpoint toimagery, my art explores lifes com-plexities and offers insight into thehuman condition. I am interested inthe way people absorb their everydayexperiences and translate them intoimages and stories, specifically interms of photographs, journal entriesand letters. The majority of my workis autobiographical and reflects mythoughts about freedom, femininity,identity, overcoming personal limita-tions and finding strength in thingsoften considered weak or vulnerable.I use multimedia processes: textiletechniques, video and audio com-ponents, sculpture, photography,painting, leatherwork and text asvehicles for communicating my per-sonal experiences and Christian faith.10 iil eZ as: 14is

iy,hug,SECOINID ©DEANNA JANNUZZIContinuing TraditionScreenprinted and dyed fabric, photography, book arts, tortellinioWe are what we eat? Coming froma large Italian family, this couldn't betruer. Food is as valuable as gold. Ev-ery aspect of this work was carefullythought out and organized. Each pieceof cloth was dyed using food items(coffee, tea, wine); the wooden stoolwas passed down to me from mygrandparents. The recipes come fromour family, some directly out of ourofamily cookbook,T written by RachelVictoria Mills, and some from my ownmemories. Influenced by the idea ofan hourglass, the tortellini representgrains of sand, enhancing the idea ofchanging time. Screenprinted tortel-lini on the organza, with the heaviestprinting at the bottom, further expressthis idea. Sitting on top of the stoolwith the recipe book and tortellinispilling out of the mason jar is a pho-tograph of my Mom-Mom (Gilda Jan-nuzzi) with her sisters and cousins.IOVI1d 3ES eR en a aepst pe Sen as a ee eSa ais

PLAGEa=ct"HEATH WAGONERcm dL va S 4 ~s 6 t 8Coffee Pot For Broken HomesTin coffee potI made this piece this summer at Pen-land School of Crafts. At first, thispiece began as a simple explorationin tinsmithing. Upon further obser-vation it became an investigationinto imagery from my childhoodgrowing up in a dysfunctional home.The tradition of my parentsT morningcoffee always occurred regardless ofthe previous day's disagreements.10 ed le Ls 14is 1

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J>a13at#re PLACEShoemakerby Rebeka h ToddNCE there was a girl who played in green, green fieldsShe was always seen wearing her favorite shoesThey were always faithful and they never lost their shineBut on a stormy day the waters fellAnd her shiny pair of shoes, they couldn't bear the swellThe soles, they wore out before she could blink her eyesAnd suddenly, the sky has gone from blue to greyIt's almost as if the sky can feel my pain.Because she can't afford to settle inNo, she can't afford the clothes she's inNo, she can't afford to let him win no more, no more.So she started on a path to find a man she knewOn the rocky road she walked though her feet were badly bruisedWhen she made it to his doorstepHe could barely believe his eyesHe said, oHoney, how you made it here, I don't knowoYour shoes are so worn out your heels areScrubbing against the floor?

So he sent her on her wayAnd he didn't charge a thingHe said, oThe next miles may be painful,But they will never be as much pain as you've been in.TSo she packed her suitcase on the very same dayShe's putting on her new shoesAnd she's walking awayShe'll always hate the stormBut she will never hate the day she found her strength.Because I can't afford to settle inNo, I can't afford the clothes I'm inNo, 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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ocmennnao%)ryveDisccAcrylic and collageCATHY BROWNgle @ eht i Sa | 4

LEERSECONDCATHY BROWNHaving a mother diagnosed withschizophrenia has become a catalystfor this body of work. She has under-gone troubling experiences, such asrape and abuse, as well as permanentconfinement in an assisted living fa-cility. In this series, I use the dolls assurrogates to represent my motherand myself. Dolls are inert represen-tations of children that are subject totheir owners discretion. My motheris similar to a child in the sense thatmajor decisions are made for her.The dolls I choose are well-patinaedfrom use as well as other unknowntragic experiences. They are decapi-tated, disfigured and damaged, withragged clothes and patches of hairgone astray. These conditions evokememories of my mother's inabilityto control the circumstances of hercondition. I use the dolls to createnarratives of my conversations withher as well as to illustrate the awk-Can I smoke just one morecigarette before you leave?Oil on canvasward disconnectedness that existsbetween us._ tedPsdV id

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cmKATELYN KEITHMy work is a portal into a foreignatmosphere where living structuresexist. The structures are made up ofindividual parts to create the whole.They interlock, cling and form uponone another as if by necessity. Thedesire to create these interlockingsystems stems from my personal cu-riosity with social networks. The ideaof community both frightens andcomforts me. In my work I often ex-plore moody landscapes where thesestructures exist. I see this atmosphereas the hardships and dangers thatsurround the community. They areHONORAYour troubles are on the risecause youre in disguiseAcrylic, oil, encausticscast out into a world of uncertainty,allowing them to gain a sense of prideand bravery even in their misfortune.The atmosphere around them is bothmurky and brooding and has the feel-ing of being able to change tempera-ment on a whim. My paintings focusin on a glimpse of this bittersweet andmeddlesome world.2 10 dLat¢NOILNAWlee"Ais14 iS

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inta FLACEDjverydaoemby LaTasha R. Jonesdo not clock in because we are on a systemcalled integrity I often think to shit on it andcome and go as I please but I like gettinggood evaluations it is 10:45 I am early asusual the first thing I hear is the loud-mouthed brat who thinks she is GodTsdamn gift to the world she is babblingabout her meek Marine fiancé who isWO a Seventh Day Adventist or maybe aJehovahTs Witness I think she convincedShim to celebrate his birthday andCHRISTMAS he drinks alcohol too he isin Iraq but somehow manages to get onher nerves that are in Greenville he doeswhatever she tells him to do I think I needto find a man like that loud mouth got herhair cut again last Friday now I have towatch her play in it all day I have the urgeto kick the chair from under her but don'tfeel like thinking of an explanation.

CNTRL+ALT+DELETE and I log ontomy job with email coffee or MountainDew | ignore the sixty unread messageswaiting because there are hurrieduneven footsteps charging my way Iroll my eyes and fake a smile I haveonly been here ten minutes my boss isalready telling me about her son he isher pride and her immeasurable joy heis stationed in Japan and just bought oneof those little racer cars she asks me if Iknow what kind of car it is because shehas never heard of it he has to pay a tollwherever he goes so she doesnTt knowwhy he even bought the darn thing sheshows me a picture of the deer she killedSaturday a six-pointer or something itstongue is hanging out its mouth its eyesare wide open I smile and feel sorry forthe deer but donTt let her know becausesheTs proud of her job well done sheis completely inside my cubicle nowinvading the space I do have she bringsme up to speed on the state of her brain-dying mother even though I did not askabout her she is impatiently waiting forher to die though she does not say it Ispent all weekend with Mother in thehospital she had a bacterial infectionand you know her mindTs goinT andcm dl 2 3 4 5 6she won't too sure where she was and doyou know that she took Robitussins and itmade the infection worsen she is thinkingabout buying a trailer and putting it inher yard so her mother can be closer shestands there and talks for ten minutesmore about how much she dislikes hersecond born drug-addicted son He donegone off and got married againI sip my coffee and smile and nod andthink only seven and-a-half more togo I fill a printer with recycled paperthen Hi. Can 1 help your GoogleEBSCO CINAHL RefWorks FacebookOPAC Outlook Setvice Requesisand PowerPoint slides (Please printhandouts not one slide per page) Itell a patron they have a sixty dollarfine and they will need to talk to loudmouth about it but she is on the firstfloor talking to someone about how herfriendTs doctor told her she had HPVand it is actually an STD.I stare into space for a minute or twoor three F11 for a receipt Alt+R to clearthe screen.ieiS14Ls

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In CaseYou've Already(¢ orgottenby Ja Min No/OU remember last yearwhen spring sneaked upon us inagreen hazeand you crawled out of your cavewith nothing but your skin onand you couldn't wake me upbecause I had the sleeping sickness,the spell of a long winterso you meandered with the riverand almost drowned of loneliness,sun burnt and sun-crazedyou returned with no answersjust a sprig of acacias in your handLt©ooaeSECOND 3&

V\elting Aurorasby Thomas V. Weaver, JrHEN hearts tickled me pink, colors flooded myeyes and watched magenta guppies give birthon 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 redand flies impregnated nude watermelon beds.Maggots danced til sunrise, wiggled up to the skyand couldn't wait to take flight.Maybe when Daddy shot that elk, trout quitswimming upstream, and cicadas left no whatnotson 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 Dippernowhere in sight.MammaT voice went flatline and slammed the doorone last time.GREE REOn FLACE

My auroras no longer flew, but hid under meltingglaciers. I tried to hold my paint, which was toomuch to bear for these tiny hands and ran rightinto Daddys lap.Daddygrabbed me,shook me around,told me to be a man,pushed me in the chestand shoved me to the ground.ThatTs when I opened my eyes...I never saw Mary Lou again and never saw themmaggots fly. Never found Mamma Dipper, just arusty, cracked handlein the back of DaddyTs pickup.Heshoved meone more time,and knocked theblue right from my iris...What I saw was black andwhat wasnTt black was white.ThatTs the day I became a manand never looked back again.cm

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oChese Daneby LaTasha R. JonesHESE dayslooking for a bone_ to raise my sagging back,a footstool to perch my bunionsand toes, the time to tell you I do nothave anyso you do not expect anythingbutnothing.MENTIONHONORABLE 3%cm dl a 3 4 ~S 6 t 8 2) 1G Jen HZ 1s 14 as:

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"wend cn mmmTEER)36 PLACESt MARREELI screenprinted the Wastecore posterwhen I saw recycling bins being ne-glected for the convenience of closerand more readily available trashcans. With the amount of educationpeople have, it seems their apathytowards the environment and Earth'smaterials is greater.I projected to the future to see whatremaining artifacts archaeologistswould find; a crust layer of of wast-ed, over-produced garbage from ouromodern? society. I saw anthropolo-WastecoreScreenprintgists making statements about howcareless and consumptive our cul-tures were, rather than progressiveand respectful toward Earth.I designed it to be a newspaperheadline to represent the future pro-jection being made now in 2010.NEWSFLASH.

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L-25 EE BreniFIRSTFLAG EGJESSE MORRISSEYMy sculptures are influenced by theforms and forces of nature. Certainnatural forms captivate me: seedpods, bursting with potential life en-ergy; branches and vines that reachand grasp in anthropomorphic ways;textures that mirror the processes ofgrowth and decay. As a child I wasalways drawn to the natural worldaround me. I would range through thedense New England woods, marshesand ponds where I made discoverieswhich may have seemed common-place to others but were fascinating tome. I was a child that had an eye fordetail and the tiny things that made na-ture amazing did not escape my gaze.Nature can be likened to a web and itcannot be represented by somethingas simple as a single object; there is noend result, the cycle is in constant mo-tion. The technical aspects of my workSkinCast iron, kozo fiber, steel, sassafrass" the processes employed " allowme to mirror nature. This methodof creation contains technical, time-consuming, spontaneous and _ re-sponsive processes which allow thework to grow and evolve. These twodifferent ways of working are as im-portant as the artwork itself. Thoughmy individual sculptures may appearto be an ~end result; they are simply asnapshot into the cycle of nature as |16) ial eZ Ls: 14is: 16

interpret it. They evoke questions asto where they came from and wherethey are going. The forms I createare not meant to literally representspecific organisms but instead con-tain the essence of many differentorganisms combined to represent thecourse of nature. The sculptures em-body my view of nature and they takeon new forms in the same way thatnature evolves.

o=% >#PlassSECONDKOBERT PRICEcm i uy 3 4 S 6 iMedium MalfunctionPoplar, found objectsThe work Medium Malfuntion displaysan amalgamation of mechanical ideasand forms shown through the use ofan organic medium. With a light thatwill never sound and gears that willnever turn of their own volition, thisonce-living medium has the illusion offunction with only ones imaginationto power it " like a child's toy.EG led ez 1s: 14lsale

THIRD %*-Hoyle 4ROBERT PRICESoundwaveSteel, found objectsThe work Soundwave uses form todisplay a theoretical function: wavesof sound moving through the airfrom a found object that once pro-duced true sound. It is a snapshot ofan instant of exploding activity fro-zen forever and left for the viewer todecide if it was music, a warning oreven a message blared from the hornand sent out into the world.cm

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SAMANTHA PELLThe ability to edit ones ideas andthoughts is why I find writing so ap-pealing. I use text not only as a way tocommunicate with others, but also as atexture. Working in this way allows meto selectively choose what to share andwhat not to share, and by using meth-ods of subtracting and adding writingthrough deconstructive screenprint-ing and embroidery, I have created anagitated and aggressive piece basedon personal frustrations. Here, I amchoosing to speak loudly and openlyabout the things that at the time wereleft unspoken.ITm Through With Holding Your HandDeconstructive screenprinting on dyed cotton, machine embroidery16) dLat 12 HES 14 Ls IMs

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emSAMANTHA PELLHONORABLELitaHandmade kozo paper, silk organza,cotton, machine embroidery, matte mediumThis piece is part of a portrait seriesof women who have influenced mylife. With each woman, I have con-ducted an interview and/or com-piled memorable stories that they'vetold me throughout my relation-ship with them. These recollectionshave been transcribed behind eachwoman's portrait. These portraitswere stitched with free-motion em-broidery and pasted in layers on thesurface of the paper with matte me-dium. By spending time with eachwoman, I have been able to gain acloseness with them that I had yetto experience and make personalconnections with their stories to myown experiences. These discoveriesbetween myself and the people thatI hold dear have been a very enlight-ening experience.=TIraxOAZ1s14dls:

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IN SHOWSARAH WEST .UntitledSterling silver, enamel, ruby, peridotThis piece exists in static motion.What is under the surface is at timesrevealed and obscured. Perceptionschange. Space recedes. Memories un-fold. Like the line of ink meanderingthrough the drawings that this pieceis based on, the silver and enameltwist and overlap and for me, run thelength of my life.peNes[Ti4~ae

# JUDGESVISUAL ARTLITERATUREMUSI@Eleanor WillardDepartment Chair of Advertisingand Graphic Design at PittCommunity CollegeMargaret ThieleOffice Manager at Greenville Museumof Art and Metals Instructor at PittCommunity CollegeGail RitzerArtist and Community Arts InstructorMike HamerTeaching Instructor in the Depart-ment of English at East CarolinaUniversityAngela MellorAssistant Professor in the Departmentof English at East Carolina UniversityNicholas BaileyComposer for Influence MusicPublishing

cmEDITORSTUDENT STAFFFACULTY ADVISORPHOTOGRAPHYSTUDENT MEDIACOPY EDITORSSAnna Vaughn CreechRich GriffisJoEllen PollardAlex WatsonCraig MalmroseGunnar SwansonHenry StindtPhotographicPaul IsomYvonne MoyeStudent Media BoardLisa Beth RobinsonSarah Jakubowski10S1AreHeaSoinsPela aieiere %12

(CigFRODUCTION NOEESPRINTEREDITIONPRESSSTOCKTVYPOGRAIHYTheo Davis Printing2,000 books and DVDsKomori Lithrone $40Cover: Neenah Paper ESSECVR 105 lb cover in PearlizedWhite SmoothText: Flo Dull Text 100 IbGlama Natural Translucent inPearl 27 IbTrajan ProMinion ProPatrickae, dei lz Ls 14lsROT,Ie

cmREBEL 53 is produced by and forthe students of East Carolina Uni-versity. Offices are located withinStudent Media in the Self-HelpBuilding. The contents are copy-righted 2010 and 2011 by REBEL53. All rights revert to the indi-vidual artists and writers uponpublication. Contents may notbe reproduced by any means, norstored in any information retriev-al system without written permis-sion of the artist or writer. Printedwith non-state funds.COPRTRIGHET WeILaLsl

cm4 SPECIAL THANKSNicholas BaileyHolly GarriottMike HamerGregory HedgepethPaul IsomSarah JakubowskiCraig MalmroseAngela MellorHarrison MetcalfYvonne MoyeJustin Pearson PhotographyPitt County Arts Council at EmergeFrank PulleyGail RitzerLisa Beth RobinsonJanet StancilHenry StindtGunnar SwansonTarboro Printing CompanyTheo Davis PrintingMargaret ThieleUniversity Printing & GraphicsHeather WilkinsoniEille 13 14 iSseme gg SET Ga2g YS ARR Len

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