2011 Criterion

brick by Brickbrick by Brickbrick by Brick

criterion 2011 | brick by brick | 1

brickbrickbybrickbrick

The Criterion is a selection of art and literature created by Columbia College students. The staff of the Criterionencourages all students to submit an unlimited number of works to be judged by a student selection committee. The staff members reserve the right to edit work for grammar, spelling, and clarity. The students’ submissions are judged without any prejudice toward the artists. The final decision on the status of the submission rests with the editors.

The Criterion holds the record for being the oldest continuously published literary magazine in the nation for a women’s college. It was first established in 1897. It used to be published quarterly and contained only literature; however, for the past twenty-five years, the magazine has been published annually and has contained both art and literature.

Columbia College is a private liberal arts women’s college with a legacy of developing women leaders with the courage, commitment, confidence, and competence to build a better world. The magazine has been through many transitions and changes, but it has survived and thrived to become an award-winning publication.

The 2011 Edition of the Criterion

Art EditorKatherine Dixon

Literature EditorKeely Fagan

Art AdvisorStephen Nevitt

Literature AdvisorMaria LaMonaca

Art SelectionsKatie BoodleJan Dittmar

Katherine DixonRachel HartnessSotonye McCoy

Jami SiscoDemetria White

Literature SelectionsAnna Geldman

Nicole HillDiana Lynde

Jordan PilkeyTaylor Stukes

artwork5 Bebe’s Flowers Jan Dittmar7 Eve’s Triumph Mariam Ashour8 Geometric II Lauren Paul9 Little Fat Lady Katherine Dixon11 The Madonna’s Price Katie Boodle14 The Watch Maker’s Hand Naomi Miller15 Refugee in Diaspora Mariam Ashour21 back porch advice Katherine Dixon22 Belongings III Anna McKeever

Self-Portrait Krystin White 23What Lies Ahead Jami Sisco 25

Suspension Kayla Sulik 26Slipskin Katie Boodle 27

Jean and Lace Anna McKeever 28Lucky Lindsey Lee 29

Self-Portrait Alexandria Jefferson 31Through the Flame Jami Sisco 33

Lightning Strikes More Than Once Lindsay Wiggins 35Koi Pond Jan Dittmar 36

Psychosis in the Middle of the Night Lindsay Wiggins 37Portrait Studies Demetria White 38

Joy’s Llama Ashley Ruff 40Who You Are is Not What You Did Rachel Hartness 41

literatureArt Raina Wallace 4

Shiloh Caroline Johnson Neely 6Tears Raina Wallace 10

The Clockwork Heart Megan Miller 12Mama Julia Rogers Hook 16

24 Man’s Number in the Labyrinth... DelResia Gerald Brand25 Man’s Slumber... DelResia Gerald Brand30 Epiphany Tanisha Rideout32 When Truth and Lies Cannot Be Told Amanda Ann Nedimyer34 What’s Real? Jameekqua Williams39 Sometimes, I Just Wonder Why? Raina Wallace

4 | brick by brick | criterion 2011

Art is the exposition of the soul—

If you like my art, you like the very essence that is me.

If you hate my art, you detest everything that I am, was, or will be.

The eyes are not the window to the soul—

No it is the brush and paint, paper and pen,

A voice and piano, the hands that create,

An old man’s trumpet, a potter and the clay

What is Art?

A child’s stick figure drawing?

Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel?

Art

Is anything that allows the soul to shine through

Art

Raina Wallace

Bebe’s FlowersJan Dittmar

Acrylic on Canvas


The place we fought was called ShilohJust the name still gives me chillsIt’s a name that still haunts my soulA name that shoots, a name that kills

It’s funny what war does to youIt makes you kill without thinkin’Doesn’t rub on you the next dayYou keep on livin’, you keep on breathin’

There by that peaceful little creekThe Union boys in blue cameWe Confederates lined up tooWaitin’ to play the generals’ games

I killed many men that dark, dreary dayBlood still drips from my shaking handsBut I was fightin’ for my freedomMy family, my home, and my land

We fought by a little white churchThat stood in the midst of the throngThe steeple watching over usWhispering a sad, soundless song

If looking down from heav’n that dayGod must have had a tearful stareDid He have a fav’rite color?Or did He even really care?

Shiloh


Eve’s TriumphMariam Ashour

Ink and wash on Paper

Will God always ‘member Shiloh?The blood, the pain, the agony?Where the blue and the gray both foughtTo give someone their liberty

The creek still bubbles eerilySeems to ‘member when it ran redFilled to the brim with the bloodOf the blue and the gray, the dead

Never in my life have I seenSomethin’ as that blood curdling dayVoices still whisper in my earCrushin’ me ‘til I can’t even pray

What will happen in fifty years?The answer I can’t poss’bly knowBut I will never ev’r forgetThat cryin’ corner of Tennessee called Shiloh…

Caroline Johnson Neely

Geometric IILauren PaulGraphite on Paper


Little Fat Lady 1Katherine Dixon

Mixed Media


I can’t move moutainsor cleanse fires in hell.I can’t lift a caras a baby screams for help.

I’m no miracle-worker.I can’t rescue you.But if I can’t do anything else,there is one thing that I’ll do.

I can wipe the tears from your eyes.Yes, I can wipe tears from your eyes.As they fall to your cheeks,as it storms, when it rains,when God sees fit to call your name,I’ll always wipe the tears from your eyes.

Tears

Raina Wallace


The Madonna’s PriceKatie BoodleMixed Media


There was a clockwork heart. It pulsed with the steam that powered it, various cogs and gears ticked away.

There was a clock on it.It timed the steam to be released,when more water should flow into the pump.

Was this the true power of the heart?

There were miscalculations.When the makers look on it,there is something strange about it.

There were strange tendencies the heart had.The heart would on occasion pump rapidly,or even flutter as a leaf in the wind.

There was a worker who enjoyed the heart.He would sit next to it and talk,almost everyday he'd visit.JustLike Clockwork

Was this the true power of the heart?

There was hatred.Makers driving the worker away,as if the heart would work for him they say.

The Clockwork Heart


There was anger.The heart glowed with the fires inside heating it,watching the worker being taken away.

There was less steam.The makers ran around it to help,checking on it periodically.JustLikeClockwork

There upon the calendar was marked the time of activation.Years ago before the skies were blackened by smoke,but the heart is making the smoke now.

There it went.The last of the steam released,the heart stopped.

There it goes.Various cogs and gears that ticked away,The clock that was on it, gone.Fallen.Broken.

There they went.The makers picked up the pieces,and began putting it together again.AlmostLike Clockwork.

Megan Miller


The Watch Maker’s HandNaomi MillerGraphite on Paper


Refugee in DiasporaMariam Ashour

Mixed Media


I am cold in the chilly room as I apply make-up to my dead mother’s face. As the glacial, bottled air swirls around me and the syrupy smell of funeral flowers engulfs my senses, I carefully apply powder and blush to return the glow to her skin that she enjoyed in life.

Hanging on a hook behind me is the emerald green dress that I have chosen for her to be buried in. It will set off her red hair nicely. I have to smile as I remember finding out she dyed her naturally black hair because she adopted me, a red-headed baby.

“Mommy, Debbie’s mother said that it’s vain to put coloring stuff on your hair,” I can hear the six-year-old version of myself pontificating. I had spent the night with a little girl in my class who had a prematurely gray mother and had blurted out that my mommy said her hair would never be gray “as long there was Miss Clairol.”

My mother sat me down and explained that while I was adopted, she and my daddy had chosen me and Debbie’s mommy had to just take what she could get. She said that it was the same with Debbie’s mommy’s hair. That was her only choice, my mother told me, as she straightened the double lace on my little socks.

“But I had a choice in who I picked for my little girl, and I choose to have the same color hair as my precious baby.”

Coming back to the present, I focus as I line her lips with a pretty pink pencil. I glance over at the lingerie she will be wearing on her final journey. I found it in her special drawer, all nestled in tissue and sachets. I reason that whatever she was saving them for, this is the day to use them.

Mama’s best friend and the queen of all things beautiful, Edia-Beth, is in the room with me. She has closed her beauty shop for the day to come and prepare my mother for her crossing into the next world. She is working on Mama’s hair and chatting incessantly, but I know it’s to keep herself from crying. I am doing the same thing by concentrating on the application of the make-up. The funeral home people didn’t want me to come back there, but this is my mother. After all the years of watching her make up her face, I know only I can do it right. I may not have given her a son-in-law or grandchildren,

Mama


but I am going to give her a grand exit, no matter how much it hurts.

We both finish at about the same time, and Edia-Beth and I step back to scrutinize the results of our efforts. My mother is stunning. She lays there in true splendor and I know when they put the dress on, that green will be the perfect shade.

I don’t pretend to understand the Southern funeral rituals. It seems strange to me to lay a dead person in a box all dressed up and then have the family stand beside them while all of their friends and neighbors go by, peer into the coffin, and then tell the family how natural they look. They are dead. No one seems to want to bring that part up. But it was my mother’s way, and if she wanted that for herself, I am going to give it to her. Everyone is going to tell my father and me how gorgeous my mother looks.

I notice a small chip in her nail polish. That will never do. All of my life my mother lectured me on manners, dress, and style.

“No lady will ev-ah have a run in her stockings or a chip in her nail polish,” Mama always said. “It’s cheap and it says that you don’t care enough about yourself to take the time to do things praa-pa-ly.”

To this day, I always have an extra pair of panty hose in my car or bag. I also carry the bottle of nail polish with me when I wear a color. And in 30 years, no matter how tired I am or how late the hour, I will never go to bed without washing my face and moisturizing.

“Moisture, moisture, moisture,” Mama used to say as we both stood in the bathroom applying her sweet smelling golden Flowing Velvet cream to our faces. I was about eight and had to stand on a stool to see in the mirror as I mimicked my mother’s movements.

“Always upward movements, darlin’, always stroke upward,” she would tell me. “Up, up and away with the wrinkles!” And we would usually end up in a fit of giggles.

I still have her last bottle of that cream. It is hardened now and its only value is sentimental, but I have taken it with me for four moves.


I stare down at the body on the table under the rose colored sheet. I inappropriately wonder if the funeral home puts pink on the women and blue on the men.

I stand there and try to reckon with the fact that it is my mother on that table. When I first walked in, I saw that her olive skin had gone pale, and her hands were cold and hard when I touched them. But it is her. Or her earthly remains.

“Mama where do people go when they die?” a five-year-old me is asking one humid Saturday night as we polish our toenails and get ready for church the next morning. It is July, and we will be wearing sandals. Mama said that painted toenails are “cheerful to look at and let people know you care about yourself from tip to toe!”

“Well Darlin’ they go to heaven and live with God and the angels for eternity,” she replies without missing a beat.

“Even the bad people go to heaven?” I ask looking up from my toes.

“I think God is a loving and forgiving God, sweetheart, and He sees the good in everybody,” she tells me, bending over to inspect her feet.

“Even that lady that you got mad at yesterday at school when she broke in line to pay for her candy bars even though it was your turn? I heard you say….”

“Now look at what you’re doing pumpkin,” Mama said real fast, cutting me off. “You’ve got a nick on your big toe. Here let me fix that.”

Mama had told the woman to wait her turn, and when the woman said it was her turn, Mama reminded her that the Bible said she could go to hell for lying. The lady let Mama and me be next in line.

The memory makes me chuckle out loud, even in this frigid room where my mother’s body lies. Edia-Beth looks up.

“I was just remembering Mama’s temper,” I tell her.

“Lord yes,” Edia-Beth says. “Your mama was a spit-fire, that’s for sure. I’m going to miss her something awful.”

“Me too,” I say. “Me too.”

I take out the nail polish that was in her purse, of course, and set to repair that chipped nail. There is no way she is going into eternity with any flaws, if I can help it.


I look back down at the body that I had run to since I could run. I had scampered to it in sheer glee, scuttled to it in fear seeking protection and sometimes scurried to it just for utter love. I had crawled into that lap and those hands had been the hands I always wanted when I was ill. Those hands burped me as a baby, wiped and cleaned my little soiled butt as they changed my diapers, and so many times over the years, those hands stroked my face when I was sick or sad.

Now I stroke hers. Her face is cold and hard like her hands. It has a doll-like quality. I have to smile at the comparison because my father’s pet name for her has always been “Doll.”

Staring down at my mother’s body and thinking about Daddy facing life alone, I feel fresh tears rolling down my own cheeks.

I stroke her hand and whisper to her.

“Oh Mama…how am I supposed to get through the rest of my life without you?”

I want to shake her.I want her to wake up and yell at me. Just once more I want her to summon me to that kitchen table and list all the ways I’ve disappointed her. I want her to swear me to secrecy as she tells me all the deep secrets of her church girlfriends. Or share one of her many tidbits of beauty or fashion advice.

I want her to query me about my love life and tell me how I was her only shot at being a grandmother. I would even welcome her telling me that I was making a huge mistake by ‘living in sin’ with my current significant other. Though she dearly loved him, she repeatedly told me that he would “nev-ah buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free.”

Lost in memories, I don’t know how much time has passed when a funeral home employee cracks the door open and asks if I need anything. I tell him no and continue sitting by my mother’s body. Finally I bend down and kiss her cold, hard forehead, squeeze her waxen hand one more time and walk to my rental car.

On the day of the service, I wheel my father up to the coffin before the funeral to let him bid his last farewell to my mother. He pulls himself up and takes her hand. Through gruff tears, he strokes her face and tells her how pretty she is. With shaking hands, he straightens the necklace I have put on her that says ‘Beloved Mother.’ The love between them was so deep it was almost tangible. It hung heavy


in the air. I leave him there and go sit a few feet away to give him his privacy.

When he signals, I go back. We both take our last look at the woman who had molded and shaped our lives into the people we were at that moment, each of us telling her goodbye.

He puts his hand on mine and says, “You did good, Julia. Real good. I thank you.

Holding his warm big hand in my right hand and slipping my left hand on top of my mother’s cold, lifeless hand, the three of us are one, for the last time.

With a final squeeze, Daddy and I turn as they close the coffin. Life without Mama had begun.

Julia Rogers Hook

back porch adviceKatherine Dixon

Serigraph


Belongings IIIAnna McKeeverMixed Media


Self-PortraitKrystin White

Graphite on Paper


Up front and kinda off-kilterOmniscient lapis and emerald and onyx and ochreDial him up to anotherDimension, to that community -- o come unity(!)He craves. After twirling in theSweet loam he can then spiral up or down to that gilt onGossamer city heat and heartThen winking out in satin sun near the cool concert hallAll chivalrous and shining he’ll(at a much slower clip) make for some cumulus calm cloud Without our static or intent.

Man’s Number in the Labyrinth: On Alvin Loving’s “Memories of Midtown #9”

DelResia Gerald Brand


train the mind’s eye and it will seethe smaller of the two holding the vaunted, half-full chalicetrack it now, swirling down til it’sstarker than dreams, brighter than thepersimmon wind spied through orbehind fluttering eyelids. it can squire you around, tooand driving live ore up from somemidnight mine it will alsodredge up Azure diamonds whileUnawares, and without clear boundary, she preens.

Man’s Slumber: On Alvin Loving’s “Memories of Midtown #3”

DelResia Gerald Brand

What Lies AheadJami Sisco

Pastel


SuspensionKayla SulikGraphite on Paper


SlipskinKatie Boodle

Intaglio


Jean and LaceAnna McKeeverCollagraph


LuckyLindsey Lee

Intaglio


As she sleeps, my heart beats, slowly as I walk near...closer and closerI can almost see her dreams, no worries, carefreeThe rage in my heart has escalated to an insurmountable furyAnd now, I feel she has no purpose to go on and live her life's dreamHer future flashes before my eyesShe's a wife, she has kids, everything completeBut I have the power to alter these thingsI hate her. She should suffer the most painful and unimaginable endHer world should go dark as she slowly slips away...Now I've confirmed my intentions, I know what should be doneHer gentle face sickens me as I raise my hands beginning to strikeBut suddenly,Pleasure takes over my demeanor as I imagine how my life would change so easilyBack to how it was or how it should've been in the first placeSweet.I'm not being selfish, this will benefit us all in the long run, she'll just be making the ultimate sacrificeMy hands begin to tighten around my weapon of choice, proceeding to slay my enemyBut thenHe turns over unaware of what is about to unfoldHis eyes still closed, his arm embraces her, and unconsciously she moves closeSo I stopI couldn't bring myself to do what I thought I couldHis face was so peaceful...holding herIn that moment I realized no matter what I did nothing would changeHe would never love me

Epiphany

Tanisha Rideout

Self-PortraitAlexandria Jefferson

Graphite on Paper


Lies separate earthly beingsTruth binds entirely But subjects douse us Knowing the differenceCan be a dark powerShedding light on what we knowUnderstanding what we don’tBring me to edgeLet the facts fall How to tell is trickySome know notI wish to believeBut it’s all too shadyI am extremely brightBut still see nothingThe light which shines on theeHides all truth in a boxI want to believeBut I see two sidesThe one shownAnd hidden partly Blending realityI still want to believeBut sparse time completes this clockAnd yet I beat onI still stay just to be sureMy belief fadesFacts underlinedBinds brokenTruth and lies are oneToo much thoughtAll crossing directlyMy love for this

Still underlyingShadowing decisionsBroken heart not wantedDepression scarcely neededChoosing betweenBlack and clear skiesNot very wiselyStaying makes most senseIn this fantasyBut when to truly make amendsIs what seems to scare meHappiness lies with what I haveNot with what I wish to seekBut in the end stayingMay be dismal and bleakWaiting may cross tiesAnd prove to be what I needKnowing the truth may end in agonyDoes one see only what they wishAnd hide what they do notOr shall all come cleanAwakening the immoralCreating havoc is what I wish notLetting it be will create harmonyAnd that which is slackWill dissipateAnd the world will become one

When Truth and Lies Cannot Be Told

Amanda Ann Nedimyer


Through the FlameJami Sisco

Pastel


Can you distinguish the real from the fake?Or do you even have what it takes?To tell the difference from a pretenderPretending to be something that they are not.Just so they can fill in that empty spot —The space that has been vacant for three years.Tell me, please, where I went wrong.Go wrong in finding out the truth.The truth about me and you.Were we actually meant to be?Or is this just a fantasy that I am in?No longer can I or will I pretend,Pretend to be your best friend.Because this all will come to an end one day.You, my friend, my partner, my lover.Then no longer will I pretend,Pretend to be best friendsBut we both know in our hearts what’s realThis deep dark emotion that I feel,It cuts so deep like a blade that there is nothing to cover it up.It can only be healed from your warm and gentle touch.But I know that it’s all a lie.And I’m just blinded by it all.Maybe if I take off the blindfold that has been on for so long,Then I will know what all went wrong with us, or was it just you?You put on a mask to cover up the real you,But no longer will I stay in the dark.The light has been spotted on and everything is clear.I can see now what I hearOr what I heard, a coward, a pretender.

What’s Real?


You’re not real or a winner.You’re just my inner emotionNow can you tell me what’s real?It’s me and the way I feel.

Jameekqua Williams

Lightning Strikes More Than OnceLindsay Wiggins

Digital Photo

Koi PondJan DittmarAcrylic on Canvas


Psychosis in the Middle of the NightLindsay Wiggins

Oil on Canvas


A man on a hospital bed A loving family trying to hold on to tears already shed There’s a little girl wondering why everyone’s crying. Momma looks at her and says honey—it’s your grandfather—he’s dying.

What do you do as you watch your world crumbling down brick by brick? What do you do as you watch your loved ones cry? Sometimes, I just wonder...why?

A child losing her hair her mother doing her best, as she’s slowly watching her child die They just look at each other, and both exclaim—it’s not fair. A doctor walks in tears in his eyes—he says I’m sorry—but you’re dying.

Sometimes, I Just Wonder Why?

Portrait StudiesDemetria White

Charcoal on Paper


What do you do as you watch your world crumbling down brick by brick? What do you do when all your family does is cry? Sometimes, I just wonder.....why?

What did they do wrong? Why can’t we fix it? Who created such terrible things? And why do they exist? Why can’t we stop this? Why is everything wrong? Oh, why does a child have to die? Can’t they just belong?

What do you do as you watch your world crumbling down brick by brick? What do you do when all your family does is cry?

Sometimes, I just wonder.....

Dedicated to Arthur Paul BallAugust 16, 1935-January 12, 2010

Raina Wallace

Joy’s LlamaAshley RuffPastel


Who You Are is Not What You DidRachel Hartness

Chalk on Paper


Patrons

Brenda Greene Administrative Assistant, Student AffairsCharles Israel Professor of EnglishJim Lane Associate Professor of EducationChristin Mack Admissions Counselor, Class of 2003Cathy Miller Instructional Technology CoordinatorSteve Nevitt Professor of Art, Program CoordinatorSandra O’Neal Professor of English, RetiredNancy Tuten Division Head, Languages and LiteraturesJane Tuttle User Services LibrarianHelen Weed Lead Programmer/Analyst

Benefactor

Celeste Carter Administrative Assistant, Divison of Arts and Communication StudiesLaurie Hopkins ProvostStephanie Kelley Dean of StudentsHelen Tate Division Head, Arts and Communication StudiesAlan Weinberg Professor of MusicCaroline Whitson President

Grand Patron


SustainerJackie Adams Goodall Gallery SpecialistSandy Leach User Services LibrarianTandy McConnell Professor of History

LaNaé Briggs Director of Student ActivitiesGretchen Crosswell Admissions CounselorMarie Cunningham Tuition Accounts Service CoordinatorSue Gerdes Administrative Assistant, Offices of Residence Life and Student ActivitiesSarah Hood LibrarianDeanie Kane Associate Director of AdmissionsLaurie Mozley Academic Resource Coordinator, Business, Math and SciencesPatti Scurry Administrative Assistant, Division of Languages & LiteraturesBrett Welsh Coordinator of Multicultural AffairsJohn Zubizarreta Professor of English

Supporter

FriendHilary Kruger Admissions CounselorHelen Rapoport Reading Lecturer, Divison of Languages and LiteraturesMarcy Jo Yonkey-Clayton Visiting Artist in Dance


Awards

1st Jami Sisco What Lies Ahead2nd Katherine Dixon back porch advice3rd Jan Dittmar Bebe’s Flowers

Art awards were chosen by Mary Carlisle who serves as Coordinator of Campus Scheduling and Special Projects at Columbia College. Mary Carlisle’s education includes a BFA in ceramics from Converse and a MS in Arts Administration from Drexel University.

DelResia BrandWinner of the 2011 Marilyn Beth Mahoney Poetry Award for her poems “Man’s Number in the Labyrinth: On Alvin Loving’s ‘Memories of Midtown #9’” and “Companion Piece or Man’s Slumber: On Alvin Loving’s ‘Memories of Midtown #3’”

This year’s winner was chosen by English faculty with input from students and Criterion literary staff members.

Art

Literature

Documents

2011 Criterion