ar t + l i terature magazine

47

ar t + l i terature magazine

47

In this edition of Kiosk, optical illusions and surreal imagery challenge the two-dimensional surface of the magazine, creating a cerebral experience with the finest art and literature produced by students of the University of Kansas.

denise dipiazzoavian tube, 2011acrylic panel, aluminum, 18 x 18 in

designed, edited, and published by students

kiosk is a semi-annual, award-winning, art and literature magazine.

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sally carmichaelanna defaziojing jiannoel rivardrachel rothvoranouth supadulyaerin zingré, art director

joel bonnerellen goodrichwilliam kistkatie littlesara pylesydney rayl, editor-in-chief

design staff editorial staff

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art contributors

whittney kinnamonNOLA, 2012digital photography

bethany hughes

raechel cook

jon duong

christina fountain

lexi griffith

jordan key

wes landis

liz adcock

jaime del ryan

seth dugger

allison freund

james hoyt

yewon ji

sydney lenz

alexandra moore

whittney kinnamon

john reynolds

nancy pappas

anthony schmiedeler

david titterington

june you

tyler roste

damia smith

jonathan wilde

max mikulecky

kylie millward

justin zielke

30

15

10–13, 47

06, 47

15

24–25

08–09, 16,

66–67, 72–73, 77

38, 39

34–35, 75

30–31

22, 54–55

27

26–27, 75

68–71

29, 50–51, 70

04–05, 18–19, 34

63

07

56, 62

28, 64–65

42

36–37, 43, 53,

58–61, 68–69, 78–79

20–21, 38, 76–77

23, 44–46, 63

14, 16–17, 54

49, 52

40–41, 57

lit contributors

victoria infinger10111213

respects from a scientist

julia trechak48baldwin

ian cook1416

black mirror king spider

gus bova2526272829

home and family

william franklin323334353637

how to be a fish

will jenkins30627778

brem’n what he likesO.C.D.

theresa kelsay

keegan cole

697273

5455

the loopunion station

things falling on sundays

christina fountainlines series, 2010digital, 7 x 7 in.

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nancy pappasgeometrisches dekor, 2012 typeface design

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wes landisa framed landscape, 2011archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in

R E S P E C T S F R O M A S C I E N T I S T

victoria infinger

jon duongstrain track series, 2011black and white photography, 120 film negative on matte print16 x 16 in, negative: 120 Film 400 ISO (56 x 56 mm frame size)

My dearest Homo Sapiens—Wise men, knowing menAnimals at bestThe mere product of evolution But what do we know

of the world. No—Truly know?

We know of the sound plastic makes—The unison of click-clicks clashing togetherIn a sloppy symphony of tapping shoesText messaging.

Or the feel of sugarless brew—Its warmth bound to the tip of our nosesLiquid held only by a wall of plasticPatented with the name of “traveler’s lid”Hot coffees.

We have been programmed to keep our territory safe: To eatTo sleepTo fuck

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But some of us—Oh, Homo SapiensEvolve into something spectacular Some of us—Birds,Our wings sprinkled with freedomAnd iced with flight Others—Lions,Our manes thundering with confidenceAnd striking with upmost power Most of us—Monkeys,Typing virtual wordsAnd sipping lattes

lions

But some of us—Oh, Homo SapiensEvolve into something spectacular Some of us—Birds,Our wings sprinkled with freedomAnd iced with flight Others—Lions,Our manes thundering with confidenceAnd striking with upmost power Most of us—Monkeys,Typing virtual wordsAnd sipping lattes

jon duongstrain track series, 2011black and white photography, 120 film negative on matte print16 x 16 in, negative: 120 Film 400 ISO (56 x 56 mm frame size)

monkeys

birds

Will not wants wail when needed, bleeding slowalong long laments, howling wildly now, inlanterns, above the whispering night lightswarm, deep bronze, but sometimes yellowwhen the fog bends, magnifying mistsjourneyed, brooding, downcast thick littleatmosphere, shuddering hollow cloud, roundout wound down, holy world, air admittedsweet like love flowers blooming cherryblossom, lofty ghosts lonesome in the hall whenmy room is locked tight right in the blight,where waiting in vain, hearts will beat fast andthen not at all.

ian cook

max mikuleckycorporate shadow, 2012digital photography, 30 x 45 in

Will not wants wail when needed, bleeding slowalong long laments, howling wildly now, inlanterns, above the whispering night lightswarm, deep bronze, but sometimes yellowwhen the fog bends, magnifying mistsjourneyed, brooding, downcast thick littleatmosphere, shuddering hollow cloud, roundout wound down, holy world, air admittedsweet like love flowers blooming cherryblossom, lofty ghosts lonesome in the hall whenmy room is locked tight right in the blight,where waiting in vain, hearts will beat fast andthen not at all.

lexi griffithresonate, 2012digital photography, 9 x 14 in

raechel cookretrace, 2011linen, paper, screen printing, and stitching on canvas, 16 x 20 in

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stoke fires with your father bones at nightkeep close the tired arms from the morningflightkeep it down riled when the turmoil’s freshinsideholding someone’s head down baptized in the wishing wellquench deep thirst swallowing spare changemiracles are manmadestrong laid plans are often stainedrotten hope is poorly raised and tended withunsteady handclasping cold clamoring uncertainty and when Iask the wind my name it replies in a whisperthen goes hush and the world is solid andhollowand old crow moanstil the bottom strung lungs become bloodand exhale is thick mistour fingers are numb but still searching for apulse

wes landisunattached; untitled no. 1, 2011archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in

ian cook

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stoke fires with your father bones at nightkeep close the tired arms from the morningflightkeep it down riled when the turmoil’s freshinsideholding someone’s head down baptized in the wishing wellquench deep thirst swallowing spare changemiracles are manmadestrong laid plans are often stainedrotten hope is poorly raised and tended withunsteady handclasping cold clamoring uncertainty and when Iask the wind my name it replies in a whisperthen goes hush and the world is solid andhollowand old crow moanstil the bottom strung lungs become bloodand exhale is thick mistour fingers are numb but still searching for apulse

max mikuleckyoutside looking in, 201 2digital photography, 20 x 30 in

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whittney kinnamonuntitled (american turkey), 2012digital photography

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damia smithcogeneration, 2012steel, plastic, 37 x 22 x 16 in

2020

allison freundforest forever, 2012cut paper

chaise

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jonathan wildechair, 2012solid maple and black walnut, solid wood construction

ce n’est pas

une chaise

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lonely

chill

ocean

th l guage of snowy, thern clima

Fall struck like a battle-axe that year. People everywhere woke up freezing, curled tightly into their thin summer sheets. The late-nighters, those who worked at the factories, the pizza places, the all-night cafés, emerged short-sleeved from their shifts into bitter cold, feeling bodily shock like peremptory swimmers jumping into lakes of April rain. Across the country, the poorer of them walked home through the lonely streets of our cities, clutching themselves and shivering for warmth. They cursed the cold in their native tongues, some at least bearing the language of snowy, northern climates, but others having only the hot curses of tropical dry

jordan keyyellowstone 3, 2012digital photography

gus bova

yewon jimarfa culinary institute (figure ground and site), 2012

overcome the cold

who worked at

seasons with which to assail the changing of seasons. The luckier ones, those who made tips in cash, stopped off at all-night bars or bodegas to buy warming liquors from people like themselves, people who lived contrary to the commands of the sun, who knew the most intimate and hollow parts of the night. They went to places where they could take the bottles home with them, half-pint bottles that fit in the back pocket and could be nipped from while walking. As customers, they tried to

be whatever they thought the bartender or storekeeper wanted them to be, talkative or quiet as needed, so that he would know that they felt it too, that they were not of the general sort who thought the world was full of machines. Sometimes, they would have a cigarette together, out back in the alley or wherever seemed best, trading empathetic, profane poetry between drags. It was the color of the streetlights and the glinting of broken glass on the pavement that waylaid them, and kept them out to

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overcome the cold

james hoytvertigo, 2011digital photography

half-pint bottles that fit in the back pocket

james hoytmilkshake, 2011digital photography

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david titteringtoncensored, 2012oil and pencil on paper, 40 x 26 in

they knew the night like a lover

spite and overcome the cold. It was the smell on the wind as it blew in from the ocean where it gathered sting, moving up through the thin chill of the mountains and finally down to wail lonely through the empty, endless prairie. The rowdy company of man, the intimations of food, sex, and music all called the night their home as well, but the walkers kept apart. They were somewhere farther up, in the calmer reaches of their heads. They stuck to solitary drinks and communion with the night’s more loyal sentinels. They knew the night like a lover, haunting its secret places until they couldn’t any longer-- breathing, for as long as possible, the clear air of the space between where they had been, and where they were headed.

fall struck like a battle-axe that year

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they knew the night like a lover

alexandra mooreeye spy, 2012digital photography

fall struck like a battle-axe that year

food sexand music

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seth duggeruntitled, 2012ink on paper, 6 x 6 in

As I walk these icy streets,“Moin! Moin!” fills the air, wordswrapped in pipe smoke plumingfrom the mouths of old men.

The aged wood of an old ship creakswith remembrance of days gone -In retirement a restaurant,no longer tugged by thick hands,no longer hammer’d by heavy boots.

Old sailors sit slouched over stoolswith Haake-Becks in hand,glassy eyed, a dream on land -the mind always abroad.

The breeze bit beards were oncecrusted with February frost.

“Was fur ne’ schoene Zeit!Arbeit ich auf dem Meerund dann nichts mehr.”

bethany hughesafloat, 2012digital photography

brem’nwill jenkins

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First,

Renounce alcohol for a semester. Your friends will demand reasons—provide them. I don’t have time, I don’t have money, or even, I’m really man-aging a lot this year. Convince them—they will comply.

Next,

Be on top. Wrangle your life, get a feel for things. Be two steps ahead of the game. And make sure to let everyone know. You’re a winner. You’re the one holding the reins. This is who you are.

william franklin

Now, that being established,

Pick up your friend, Katie. The one with curls in all directions, the kind you trace in circles when she speaks and her eyes—like stars that silently fume. Agree on a bar, free jazz and martinis. Order a dirty for yourself, whatever’s sweet for her. There’s no one there, only the band and the open door.

So,

Tell her about your abstinence over drinks. Chat about the places you’ve been, the things you’ve both done. And who you think you might be. Talk a great deal, but enjoy the way she faces you. Enjoy the olive sunk to the bottom of your glass. The idle way she tugs sugar off the rim of her drink, only to place it on her napkin—enjoy this too.

Think,

She’s refreshing really, a gin this smooth. Oh, and Katie, she’s just too sweet. Has love for the earth. On Wednesdays it’s knee-deep in one of those man-made fish pools (the kind that dry out in winter), tagging and clipping off fins. Maybe a job as a forest ranger, she says. Possibly a career with the EPA if things go well. You cringe at the thought of where those snipped fish parts end up.

“Don’t you feel bad cutting up all those fish?”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt the fish.”

“Fish don’t have feelings anyway, I guess.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I only ever see them swim, mouth gaping, eyes vacant. There are no emotions there. Maybe I’ll write about a fish.”

“You should write about two fish, and they fall in love.”

Yes, two fish, together, madly in love. In the south, the handle of Florida that is, two catfish circling in throes of passion. At the bottom of a pond, two swimmers turning round and round. Stirring up soot, these fish nibble on each other’s fins. These two fish—until one is yanked away.

Now, as she talks,

Play back the years. Become a child again, you’re six years old. Be loving and innocent. Be naïve and be trust-ing. Trek up to your Grandparents’ acres of balmy Florida land. Wake up before the sun. Today’s the day you scurry across the farm, row after row of strawberry plants. Have your fill. You’re little anyway, can only carry so much. Allow Grandma to point you over to the end of the field. There’s a modest pond there. Your Grandpa and cousins are fishing, although to no avail.

Hold so much trust in the world when you’re young. Run grinning to meet all these older male figures. Get handed a cane pole, the kind without a reel. No one’s had any luck yet. But you are not convinced. Surely this pond full of water contains at least two fish.

Wander around the edge and trail your bait in the water. Feel just the slightest pull, barely even a nibble but impulsive, ambitious you—rip the catfish out of the water. Walk it over to your family. Proudly display your choking-to-death prize.

“Can we cook it Grandpa? Can we eat the fish for dinner?”

And his toothy smile shining underneath those God-awful, standard-issue Navy glasses:

“Of course we can, Will.”

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jaime del ryanuntitled, 2012 digital photography

whittney kinnamonin the car, 2011digital photography

And march around your Grandparents’ yard. Sport your inflated six-year-old sense of accom-plishment, but rightfully so—you’re young on this earth. What have you to show? A set of new teeth, a scar from the leg you cracked last year? Don’t forget that catfish you snagged, too. They say pride is a sin. But to a child tasting success, a good day is just that, and nothing more.

Later,

Hear your parents calling out by the car. The sun’s setting on the sunshine state—you’ve got to go. Notice the catfish sleeping on the grill, whole, intact, and long dead. Sprint inside and between gasps for air:

“Grandpa! What about my catfish! I thought you were going to cook it!”

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tyler rostetrailer park façades, 2012scan from 4 x 5 negative

Notice the glaze over his eyes, the sweating lowball of whisky gripped in his massive hand. Check the way he shuffles across the kitchen to avoid stumbling. Forget any sweetness in his tone or the gap-toothed smile he exchanged for that fish. Receive a gruff “I forgot about your fish, Will. It’s time for you to go.”

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Dry out. Give your friends reasons, but tell only yourself—it’s a check on behaviors. And three weeks in, take liberties. Pick Ka-tie up, go for a dirty, and when she suggests a story about two romantic fish, say what-ever’s on hand. But make sure to sneak a glance at that olive swimming in gin like a lonely fish at the bottom of a pond.

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damia smithhands tied, 2011steel, cotton, beeswax, 14 x 38 x 31 in

damia smithdefense mechanism, 2011anodized aluminum, steel , 9 x 3.5 x 8 in

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liz adcockair head, 2011digital photography

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justin zielkeblind to the world, 2012digital, 13.75 x 8.25 in

june youfrozen moment of drama, 201 2soft pastel on birch plywood, 20 x 20 in

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tyler rostecathedral, 201 2digitally stitched photograph

jonathan wildethe urban liner, 2012digital photography

jonathan wildethe lines that light, 2012digital photography

In the smallest room of our house there was a modest, upright piano.

When our father was practicing, my brothers and I knew to behave so

we found solitude and waited.

In the basement, I sat cross-legged in a grungy yellow chair, picking threads

off the armrest. In the floorboards chords reverberated—

Our home, an artery for a solemn performance nobody saw.

Thuds from the foot pedals echoed as they were released.

It sounded to me like a stirring of noises, not music,

inside which one could discern the player humming as low

as the bottom registers.

One Christmas, we visited my parent’s rich and childless friends.

The man, faceless in my mind, wanted to show my dad

their grand piano which fit snugly in front of a rounded corner, glistening and quiet.

They laughed about how the room’s architecture was perfect for it.ju

lia

trec

hak

In the smallest room of our house there was a modest, upright piano.

When our father was practicing, my brothers and I knew to behave so

we found solitude and waited.

In the basement, I sat cross-legged in a grungy yellow chair, picking threads

off the armrest. In the floorboards chords reverberated—

Our home, an artery for a solemn performance nobody saw.

Thuds from the foot pedals echoed as they were released.

It sounded to me like a stirring of noises, not music,

inside which one could discern the player humming as low

as the bottom registers.

One Christmas, we visited my parent’s rich and childless friends.

The man, faceless in my mind, wanted to show my dad

their grand piano which fit snugly in front of a rounded corner, glistening and quiet.

They laughed about how the room’s architecture was perfect for it.

kylie millwardcat stenographer, 2011clay, found objects, photography, 8.3 x 13.6 in

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alexandra moorepicture day series, 2012 digital photography

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kylie millwardspace jockey eagle, 2012 acrylic on illustration board, 8.6 x 9.6 in

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tyler rosteberlin windows, 2011digital photography

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max mikuleckyapartment fire, 2012digital photography, 20 x 30 in

keeg

an c

oleSunday 1: Rituals

I made a connection with a morning bird when we both whistled at the same time and we squawked at the discord it made, following the brief eye contact losing myself in eighth beat pupils he flew off like fire-dawn. Some clouds darken the sun because we sang an accidental raindance.

Sunday 2: ComfortA girl clutches onto the he that she calls hers’ him when the rain comes as the bus they’re in shakes down the street quivering in the morning. The inside is hot but the outside is cold but the inside holds the heat of she that holds the he that holds the pole that keeps them stable.

Sunday 3: AbandonedA pup stands lit by streetlamps sweeping with rain in a pothole of an abused street, its leash floating in the wind held by a phantom owner playing surrogate. A bus drives by slowly staring at a wreck that is unfortunate parenting until the headlights turn off. The leash falls and drags behind as he walks and hides under the porch of an abandoned house either for refuge from the rain or in hopes of an orphanage. A girl steps out and looks responsibled.

Sunday 4: Things FellI see two men against the plywood skeleton of a future bank kissing underneath the scaffold awnings of construction, hanging over them like fruit trees, their groping hands ravaging, a force pushing both into the rusty trunk, a resonant resin shake triggers the raining of nails like ripe apples and they both knew how it felt to discover gravity and stability in something falling.

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allison freundfreundseptember, 2012film photography, 13 x 8 in

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anthony schmiedelerran out again, 2012screen printing and photoshop, 11 x 11 in

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justin zielkereundempty, 2011digital, 5 x 9 in

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tyler rosteportrait no. 5, new york, 2012digital photography

tyler rosteportrait no. 1, new york, 2012digital photography

The feel of a beard not his own, rubbingthe nape of his neck, the coarse kissesof secret nights. He likeschest hair, rubbing against his as he trustson top. He likes strong hands

but tonight his wife sleepsat his side – unaware -The heart that beats beneath his breastis a dead thing to her ears.

In the room down the hall – Two Children –One Boy – One Girl – a Duty done –peaceful, soft, silently sleeping.

But still there he lies, restless,dreaming of what he likes.

what he likeswill jenkins

anthony schmiedelergazing, 2010torn paper and masking tape, 24 x 36 in

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what he likes

jonathan wildeblues & orange, 2012digital photography

john reynoldsperspectivism, 2010digital photography

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david titteringtonadoration, 201 1oil on wood, 15 x 15 in

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david titteringtonsorcerer, 2012 oil on canvas, 60 x 48 in

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wes landisBGRC: son, 201 2archival print (digital photography) 20 x 30 in

sydney lenzblack lung, 2010digital photography

t h e l o o p

A trashcan outside the Walgreensoverflows,and the smell of baked pavement,sidewalk grime,fast food,and car exhaustpeels the scab off some old memory of walking through an amusement park, at thirteen,with my family,dreaming about being somewherein the future.

tyler rosteportrait no. 22, new york, 2012digital photography

theresa kelsay

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alexandra mooreget yourself an egg and beat it, 2009digital photography

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sydney lenzbucket o’ chicks, 2011digital photography

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wes landisa found installation, 2011archival print (digital photography), 20 x 30 in

theresa kelsay

union station

The soul stirsand leaves itselflike a watermarkon the ceilingcorner;traces of the desireborn in placesit does not want to stay.

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theresa kelsay

wes landisa found installation, 2011archival print (digital photography), 20 x 30 in

union station

The soul stirsand leaves itselflike a watermarkon the ceilingcorner;traces of the desireborn in placesit does not want to stay.

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jaime del ryanuntitled, 2009digital photography

yewon jimarfa culinary institute, 2012 bas wood, 9 x 15 in

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damia smithepithelial neoplasms, 2010copper, enamel, monofilament, and steel, 18 x 13 x 15 in

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Hera has put the Hydra in the caverns of my head. I taste its poison fumes, breathing fear. I unsheathe my weapons, pills, therapy. I am no Hercules, a feeble mortal only.

I taste its poison fumes, breathing fear. I turn the knob twice, hacking off another head. I am no Hercules, a feeble mortal only but as the scaly appendage falls to the floor, I wonder.

I turn the knob twice, hacking off another head. Its body twitches, claws clutch air, the tail raises high but as the scaly appendage falls to the floor, I wonder. Is that it? Are there more?

Its body twitches, claws clutch air, the tail raises high, while the flaming arrows that lit my caverns slowly die. Is that it? Are there more? I pull pills from drawers, thinking of therapy

while the flaming arrows that lit my caverns slowly die. poison blood seeps, while its stumps pulse. I pull pills from the drawer, thinking of therapy. Two new fears break forth where once was one!

wes landisunattached; untitled no. 2, 201 1archival print (digital photography), 20 x 30 in

o.c.d.will jenkins

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tyler rosteMOM A no.1, 201 2digital photography

Poison blood seeps, while its stumps pulse, the old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears break forth where once was one! I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another.

The old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears snap and snarl. I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another by rattling the door, tapping the floor again - and again.

Two new fears snap and snarl, pushing out without end. I rattle the door, tapping the floor again - and again while the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark

pushing out without end. I call for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. While the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing!

I call out for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. I unsheathe my weapons, pills, therapy. I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing! Hera has put a creature in the caverns of my head.

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Poison blood seeps, while its stumps pulse, the old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears break forth where once was one! I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another.

The old wound, freshly healed, while two new fears snap and snarl. I wash my hands thirty times in a row, hacking off another by rattling the door, tapping the floor again - and again.

Two new fears snap and snarl, pushing out without end. I rattle the door, tapping the floor again - and again while the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark

pushing out without end. I call for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. While the endless faces of fear roll, glistening in the dark I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing!

I call out for Iolus, noblest of therapists with torch in hand. I unsheathe my weapons, pills, therapy. I hear him running to my aid. He comes cauterizing! Hera has put a creature in the caverns of my head.

The staff of Kiosk 47 would like to thank the University of Kansas Student Senate, Coca-Cola, and the Department of Design and the Department of English at the University of Kansas. Additionally this issue of Kiosk would not have been possible without help from: Diane Roth, Temta Viengluang, Hong Zhang, Donlong Jian, Janet DeFazio, Pete DeFazio, Brooke Rivard, Lucien Rivard, Richard Zingré, LeAnn Zingré, Marsha Rodriguez, and Steve Carmichael.

We would like to extend a special thanks to Jane Hazard, Mainline Printing, Andrea Herstowski, Mary Klayder, Michael Selby, Nancy Pappas, Lauren Schimming, and everyone who submitted work to and supported Kiosk.

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