THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE UNIVERSITY SCHREYER HONORS COLLEGE

DIVISION OF ARTS AND HUMANITIES

BEING PRESENT: A VISUAL AND LITERARY CONCENTRATION

FLORIANA TULLI SPRING 2020

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for baccalaureate degrees in English and History with honors in Letters, Arts, and Sciences

Reviewed and approved* by the following:

Linda Miller Distinguished Professor of English Thesis Supervisor

Liliana Naydan Associate Professor of English Faculty Reader

David Ruth Associate Professor of History Honors Adviser

* Electronic approvals are on file. i

ABSTRACT

For my project, titled “Being Present: A Visual and Literary Concentration,” I created a concentration of art and writing. I drew inspiration from my personal experiences in natural and human settings, observing the interplay between the two.

Through 2D art, poetry and short stories, I aimed to capture the imagery of moments, either as brief snapshots or longer recollections. I tied all of these moments into larger seasons, or the chapters of my thesis; each piece, poem, and story is merely one moment in a large expanse of time. By conducting this project, or closely observing and reflecting upon vivid images of the world around me, I engaged with my environments in a more meaningful way and felt a sense of presence. Being present for even the shortest moment is essential to feeling alive.

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Figure 1 Buddha Still Life

Figure 2 Buddha Still Life iii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ...... iv

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... v

RESEARCH ...... 1

Part I: Summer ...... 9

The Middle ...... 10

A Lonely Heart ...... 15

Stars and Shells ...... 22

Basketball Nets ...... 25

Part II: Fall ...... 27

Penn State Abington 9/3/19 ...... 28

Turtle Meeting ...... 34

Perched in the Canopy ...... 36

Blood Test ...... 41

Part III: Winter ...... 44

Lights ...... 46

Tuesday ...... 51

Part IV: Spring ...... 57

The Gym ...... 58

Tunnel Vision...... 62

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 65 iv

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1 Buddha Still Life ...... ii

Figure 2 Kayaking...... 10

Figure 3 The Middle Illustration ...... 11

Figure 4 Hooks ...... 13

Figure 5 Reels ...... 15

Figure 6 A Lonely Heart Illustration ...... 16

Figure 7 Cabin by the River ...... 19

Figure 8 Urn ...... 21

Figure 9 Magic Hour ...... 27

Figure 10 Women Belong in the Kitchen ...... 30

Figure 11 Red Shirt and Rock ...... 32

Figure 12 Perched in the Canopy Illustration ...... 36

Figure 13 Self Portrait Collage ...... 39

Figure 14 Campus Tree Contour...... 44

Figure 15 Lights Illustration ...... 45

Figure 16 Sister ...... 47

Figure 17 Dreams ...... 49

Figure 18 Pose Contour ...... 53

Figure 19 Web...... 55

Figure 20 Tunnel Vision Illustration...... 60 v

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my family for enriching my childhood with outdoorsmanship and art. They have taught me a multitude of skills, the discipline needed to grow, and an appreciation for nature.

I would also like to thank the hardworking Penn State faculty who helped me through the thesis process. I am grateful to my thesis supervisor, Dr. Linda Miller, for teaching me about many inspirational art and literary movements, for providing me with a studio space to work and for guiding me toward the ultimate compilation of my thesis.

In addition, I received invaluable help from my faculty reader, Dr. Lilliana Naydan, who introduced me to a variety of post-modern literature and reviewed my writing. Through

Dr. Ellen Knodt’s classes, I learned about useful journalistic styles and historical

American literature. My Schreyer honors advisor, Dr. David Ruth, kept me informed about guidelines, while Dr. Binh Le, Dr. Carla Chamberlin-Quinlisk, and Debra Rogers helped guide me through the submission process. My thesis could not have existed without all of their help. 1

RESEARCH

In approaching this thesis as a creative project, I aimed to make something new that could express my own experiences. At the same time, as an English and History major, I drew inspiration from several past literary and art movements. Not only was I curious about how different movements interconnected with each other but also how they emerged from specific time periods. The artists and writers that resonated with me focused on the interplay of man and nature; they captured moments in nature with vivid details. Through natural beauty, they were able to draw inspiration and express themselves.

Some of the first movements that inspired me were Romanticism and

Transcendentalism. Both Romanticism and Transcendentalism were founded by liberal

New England intellectuals in the late 1800s (Colbert 37). Romanticism emphasized nature as sublime, powerful, grand and awe-inspiring. In relation, Transcendentalism asserted that divinity is all around us, in nature and in our own individual perceptions of our surroundings. Both movements focused on the relationships between man and nature.

Additionally, they applauded seeking truth through the observation of nature; this sentiment was a reaction to the increasing industrialism and rationalism in the late nineteenth century. As Norman Geske elaborates in Beyond Madness: The Art of Ralph

Blakelock, Romanticism expressed “a reaction to the growing encroachment of urban life on the domain of nature, a search for the peace and quiet of the country as opposed to the din of the city” (Geske 11).

I was first introduced to the Romantic aggrandizement of nature through the literature of Kenneth Grahame. Grahame’s The Wind in The Willows, published in 1908, 2 spoke to me in its vivid imagery and divine descriptions of nature. One passage describes a rising moon possessing “slow majesty” in its ascent into the night sky, above “surfaces

— meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day”

(Grahame 102). The intrigue and divine status established through imagery resonates

Romantic ideals, and most likely Kenneth’s idolization of rural settings could relate to the increasing industrialization of England at the time.

One of the most powerful works that encapsulates Romantic ideals is the first true science fiction novel, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Published in 1818, her novel precedes the Romantic movement, yet it possesses the poignant theme of mankind’s relationship with nature. Her story is about scientist’s disconnect from the natural world, as seen in Victor Frankenstein when he experiments with creating life. Victor laments how “The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season… but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature” (Shelley 32). Her chilling tale of a man so obsessed with his own power that he disregards nature, compassion, and both creates and becomes a monster is powerful and sticks with me. From a personal interpretation, this story emphasizes the need to be present and conscientious in daily life.

Alongside these works of Romanticism, I delved into Henry David Thoreau’s

Walden, published in 1854. Much like Kenneth’s The Wind in The Willows imagery,

Thoreau describes Walden pond as divine, calling it “a lower heaven itself” (Thoreau 32).

He also asserts “Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of contemplation of his most elevated hour” (74). I agreed with Thoreau that an artist and 3 writer must seek beauty even in the smallest details, which is what I aim to do through my concentration. Furthermore, Thoreau voices concern that “the inhabitants of New

England live this mean life that we do because our vision does not penetrate the surface of things” (78). Through my research, I found that many artists addressed Thoreau’s concerns; their art aims at finding truth and expressing emotion beneath perceived reality.

While I resonated with the Romantics’ appreciation for nature, I didn’t want my own work to be as lofty or give direct meaning, like transcendental divinity. For this reason, I turned to the Realist, Imagist, and Modernist movements. Realism focused on vivid details without aggrandizement, sometimes of stark realities. I found Ralph

Blakelock and Winslow Homer’s art to be particularly powerful because they straddle the

Romantic portrayal of uncorrupted sublime and Realist harshness. Ralph Blakelock began to portray more than just surface aesthetic of natural surroundings. In Beyond

Madness: The Art of Ralph Blakelock, Norman Geske explores the fusion of

Romanticism and Realism that exists in Blakelock’s paintings. Geske elaborates that

Blakelock studied at the Hudson River School around the mid 1800s; “In this time,

American artists were discovering for themselves the landscape and recording it in a prolonged celebration of its variety and wonder.” Although this school emphasized

Romantic ideals, Geske stresses that Blakelock’s works are not outward in their appreciation for nature: “His pictures possess an introversion of feeling and a stillness of mood that is hushed and indistinct” (Geske 2).

This introversion was one of the reasons Blakelock’s works stood out to me.

Unlike other landscape painters of the time, whose pictures are overly grandiose and beautiful, Blakelock’s pictures express something deeper, an underlying emotion in their 4 tone. Not only did he draw inspiration from the beauty of the American West, Mexico,

Panama, and West Indies, but he was also imbued with the philosophy of Barbizon painters in Paris. Geske explains that “Barbizon placed primary emphasis on the instinctual and subjective response to experience. It encouraged the creation of images that were broadly conceived and devoid of any suggestion of mechanics of drawing or composition,” and he states that this movement was “the calm before the storm of

Impressionism and ‘modern’ art” (10). In fact, Geske asserts that the Barbizon painters marked the end of the Romantic and neoclassical structures prevalent in European paintings since the French Revolution. Thus, I find Blakelock’s work interesting because it straddles the Romantic portrayal of uncorrupted sublime and Realism. The results are melancholy, mysterious paintings of nature, simultaneously detailed and obscured.

In addition to industrialism, another redefining factor of the later nineteenth century was the American Civil War. It was after this divisive time that Realism began to flourish. In the article “Winslow Homer, reluctant Modern,” Charles Colbert states that such influences “included the trauma of the Civil War, the advent of Darwinism, and a host of ills associated with capitalism, which, if not entirely new, were newly acknowledged in art” (Colbert 39). In particular, Colbert attributed Darwinism to inducing a sense of numbness or meaninglessness to experience, suggesting that “These were considerations made by ‘reluctant moderns’ so reluctant to abandon entirely the systems of belief they inherited from their ancestors” (48).

He describes Winslow Homer as a reluctant Modernist because Homer’s art focuses on secular realities with deeper moral or psychological implications. These implications are what stood out to me; there are stories being told through his images. In 5 the article “Winslow Homer: his melancholy truth,” John Parks quotes Homer to have said “When you paint, try to put down exactly what you see. Whatever else you have to offer will come out anyway,” a true Realist in his adherence to accurate portrayal (Parks

45). I find that some of his most powerful works are his paintings about fishermen; they portray a harsh relationship between man and nature, the endearing men upon the ruthless ocean. This relationship can partly allude to Romanticism, as Homer portrays nature as a revered force, yet he does not aggrandize nor glorify it.

The multiplicity of meaning in Homer’s works creates depth beyond what is portrayed. Many of his works can simultaneously express different themes, such as the pioneer spirit of freedom or consequential resource exploitation. In the piece “Two

Guides,” Homer portrays two confident pioneer men within the silhouette of a mountain, as if to indicate that their power is forever bound by the forces of nature (52). In Winslow

Homer: American artist: his world and his work, Albert Gardner emphasizes that

“although the subject matter of these pictures may perhaps appear old-fashioned or be dated by details of costume or topography, the spirit of these men, their approach, their attitude of mind, their range of perception, is not outmoded” (Gardner 17). That is why

Homer’s works resonate with me like Ralph Blakelock’s; there is underlying emotion or meaning behind what is portrayed.

After the Civil War, there was an exodus of American artists to Paris, a phenomenon of restlessness and rebelliousness among Western artists to experiment with art (71). Homer was one of these artists, and some of the influences behind his powerful works may have come from his time in Paris. At the Paris exposition of 1867, he saw

Japanese paintings and prints. Gardner points out the importance of Japanese art, 6 suggesting that they heavily shaped Western artists’ manner of working, way of seeing, feeling of color, and manner of composition (93). As for Homer, he took from ukiyoye prints the keenness of perception and concentration on essentials (106). While Homer’s appreciation for Realism is apparent in his works, his undeniable patterns of composition and focal points echo the powerful techniques used in Japanese ink painting. Turning to

Ann Farner’s article “An endangered Japanese art form loses its outpost in SoHo,” it summarizes Japanese ink and wash technique in the description “This painting technique emphasizes minimalism and is concerned with capturing the soul of the subject matter rather than replicating it” (Farner A17). This capturing of the soul, which is immediate and encourages imperfection, is why I particularly like the ink medium.

I also drew a lot of inspiration from the Imagist poetry of 1910-1920, which appeared during the first industrialized conflict of World War I. William Pratt’s The

Imagist Poem: Modern Poetry in Miniature states that this movement was a reaction to

Romanticism, which poets found could not express their spiritual unrest after the war. It was yet another medium that took minimalistic principals of Japanese ink paintings, as well as tanka and haiku poetry (Pratt 28). Like ink painting, Imagism embraces “variety, irregularity, and individuality,” capturing what the founder of the movement T. E. Hulme called “momentary impressions… the real substance of experience” (39). Hulme also stressed that images “are not mere decoration, but the very essence of an intuitive language” or as Pratt suggests “a moment of revealed truth” (43-44). The image is the poem, not a part of it. The Imagist movement aimed to capture moments, like snapshots, and let the image speak for itself. 7

Pratt explains how Imagism was a form of “symbolic realism” and quotes the poet

Wallace Stevens, who said, “It obeys instinct” (20-21). Imagists generally obeyed three rules: treat a subject directly, only use necessary words to convey presentation of the subject and create rhythm using musical phrase (31). When the Imagist movement began to fade around 1917, Pratt concludes that “Imagism was no longer a movement: it had become a tool, which each poet could adapt to his own use” (37). I wanted to use Imagist principles as a tool to create my own works, focusing on instances of time and images to become present in my surroundings.

There was another exodus of American artists to Europe after WWI. Echoing the minimalism of Japanese ink painting and the principles of Imagism, these individuals sought the underlying truth beneath the surface of reality and looked for intimacy with their surroundings and other people. The lofty ideals of Romanticism seem to vanish, this time under colder, more critical eyes of societal cynicism. These artists were the fully realized Modernists, also known as the Lost Generation.

Out of all the members of the Lost Generation, Ernest Hemingway is particularly influential to me, particularly his stories about fishing. His short story “Big Two-hearted

River” does not romanticize nature, but his character and alter ego, the wounded WWI veteran Nick Adams, does turn to his environment to seek truth and healing. Through nature, Nick has the autonomy to progress at his own pace and introspect through the beauties around him, a much more therapeutic setting than the battlefields of WWI. In the story, the river is a second heart to his, his stream of consciousness. It holds aspects of life and death, the surface of Nick’s consciousness and depths of his subconscious, the known and unknown. 8

In "Ernest Hemingway's World War I Short Stories: PTSD, the Writer as Witness, and the Creation of Intersubjective Community," Henry Seiden suggests that

Hemingway’s character is “trying to stay focused on the here and now, trying (the reader knows) to put the nightmares of his war-traumatized past behind him” (Sieden 96-97).

Through Nick’s trauma and his journey to well being, Hemingway reflects upon his own war experiences. Furthermore, his personal experiences explore universal themes of healing from emotional pain. Seiden suggests, “For coming to terms with the shared wounds of the larger world, we look to our artists and writers (along with our philosophers and our priests)” (98). Even though Hemingway could not save himself through writing alone, his stories of emotional struggles can resonate with readers and offer some assurance that they are not alone.

After researching and analyzing interconnectedness of different art and literary movements, I could not help but contextualize my project and myself within history. The restlessness of these past artists and writers relates to what I feel, especially their uncertainties towards industrialism, wars and the human condition. Natural spaces allowed them to reflect on all of these concerns, albeit indirectly. Within their reflections,

I discovered the theme of being present. This practice offers a means of healing, focusing on the here and now to reflect, rather than worry, about what is beyond our control.

While our minds can disconnect us from the world, being present serves as a means to reconnect. In this thesis project, my purpose was to be present and to emphasize experience without imposing meaning.

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Part I: Summer

Figure 3 Kayaking

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The Middle

Figure 4 The Middle Illustration 11

The boat floated undetected between the domed blue sky and shadowed depths.

Eel Bay remained silent and waveless under the cold hisses of rogue winds, glass from which our vessel and surrounding landmasses protruded.

My family formed a tight square from vantage points off the gunwale. What was once frivolous preparation had ceased into intent observation. My casted line drifted somewhere beneath. We stared past our reflections into the clarity below. Hoping.

Waiting. Silence.

Suddenly a shape, big and black and slowly swimming below: a huge catfish, like the shadow of a boat, yet distinctly organic and unbound. Two thoughts: desperate eagerness then helpless realization. I loosened my grip as I saw the creature’s indifference. A fat and happy beast without a care.

We watched it go along its way, powerful and unthreatened among the tall seaweed forests, until it reached the distinct edge of the river floor, steadily dipped into the deepest gaping abyss of the bay, never to be seen again yet knowingly, teasingly below us. We simultaneously released our breath and slackened our rods. Other creatures swam beneath the surface, unseen and yet existent. We drifted nowhere, somewhere in between.

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Figure 5 Hooks

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Approaching a red stop sign beside the bridge.

Looking around at all monarch butterflies.

Leaning over the railing.

Spotting a crawfish beneath the trickling stream.

Leaning in for a kiss.

Walking through the grass and mud toward a flowered archway.

Watching the sunny world go by from a bench.

Spotting a hummingbird feed on the flowers.

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Figure 6 Reels 15

A Lonely Heart

Figure 7 A Lonely Heart Illustration 16

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Thwacks to the head with a green stick, and the bass still gasps for air. Later, with more experience, I would find it easier to let them hang in a basket, the air killing them more peacefully. For now, I hunch barefoot atop the rock with a board in hand and a basket of bass nestled in a crevice beside me. Knives, scissors and a descaler rest to my right. Occasionally, the river waves lap up around my feet. The sky is that hazed, blank white, the kind that casts few shadows. Smoke drifts low and slow from my family’s fire uphill. My sister reclines on a chair beside it, while my dad checks on the fishing rods from the cabin deck.

Gripping the clamp of the board, I take the bass by the gills and secure it. The metal jaws bite down on its tail, yet the fish still slides to the sides. Bringing the board to the water’s edge, I grab the descaler and begin to clean, tail to head, against the natural direction of the scales. They flutter and fly, glistening in the air, onto the rocks, into the water and upon my bare legs. Rinsing the bass, I watch as its remaining scales drift down into the elodea forests below. The utensils clink as I trade the descaler with a knife, and holding it to the bass, slit its belly open. I pull out its organs, holding them a moment to identify the stomach, intestines, liver and swim bladder. Then I notice the heart. It’s beating. Beating steadily.

I rest the board behind me, throwing all but the heart into the waves. I watch the guts sink to the scales, and soon enough sunnies and bluegills zip out from the weeds and curiously nibble at them. Walking up the rocks, I call to my sister beside the fire pit.

“Check this out,” I present the beating heart,

“the bass’s heart’s still beating…”

“Mmm what… oh. That’s weird…” 18

We stare at the heart. It keeps beating.

I make my way to the cabin uphill. I show my dad the heart, and my mom exits the cabin to take a look too. She quickly gets me a paper cup from a bag on the table, and

I run back down to the rocks to fill it and place the heart inside. It still beats. So I rest the cup in the nook of a root behind me. Back to work.

The sound of waves, their steady, beating hush is the only thing that echoes in my mind. I cut the gills, ripping them out and tossing them to the waves. They’ll be gone by tomorrow, swept away or eaten. I cut the fins, rinsing the bass in the water again. Rinse and repeat, all the bass sit nice and neat, ready to be cooked and eaten. I’m left glistening, my arms and legs covered in scales. Scooping up water below, I rinse myself off and turn to the cup, still safe behind me. The heart is still beating.

As I wash the tools, they clink and chime against the rocks, and the blood dissipates away. I leave the cup in its nook, bringing everything else back up to the cabin, leaving them on the picnic table for my mom to take before I descend back down to grab the cup. Ascending back up to the cabin, my steps slow as I watch the heart beat on. I rest it atop the railing. I keep watching.

17 minutes. That little heart beat on for 17 minutes in that little paper cup. It pumped beneath the surface of the water, alone and separated from its body. The bass was dead and gone, but the heart was still alive. Still alive and alone for 17 minutes.

Beneath the blank sky, cupped in the cup in the cup of my hands, the beating heart began to slow. Then it stopped.

I climbed back down to the rocky shore and threw it back. Back into the river.

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Figure 8 Cabin by the River

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Blue dragonflies

dancing up and down

round and round

above a single stone in the still creek.

Foam forms marble patterns downstream, as the ticking of a stick bobs succinctly every second.

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Figure 9 Urn 22

Stars and Shells

Along a strip of land called Cape Hatteras, the same land where the Roanoke

Colony disappeared, is a lighthouse. It towers 193 ft, striped black and white with a red stone base. It towered before us one white-sky day as we waited to climb its stairs, but thunder rumbled and the park rangers closed it for 30 minutes.

We left and drove through sandy woods until we came upon a small graveyard, where the white headstone of an unknown soldier stood, littered with trinkets and coins.

My sister left a pinecone atop the headstone. I left a shell.

At the edge of a flat grassy field, my sister and I sat atop the trailer roof, searching for stars in the dusk. Plumes of cumulonimbus clouds approached from the sea ahead, with silent flashes in their towering heads. The arrow-like streak of a meteor cut down into them from above. The thunderheads continued to quietly encircle us at a distance, leaving an open sky full of stars. The beam of the lighthouse repeatedly washed over us from behind.

Under the hot sun, past enormous mounds of bleached-white broken shells, through the dunes we marched with packs, coolers, and umbrellas. Sweat dripping and sand sifting through our sandals, we came to a flat stretch of shore. Ahead, the imperfect shape of a cross stood 5 feet tall. As we approached, we could see it was made of gnarled driftwood, littered with broken shells and other bric-a-brac. A flotsam cross.

At the tip of the cape, shaped like a crescent, there was a sand drift island created from a storm. A boy was the first to kayak out to it and aptly named it Shelly Island.

From the shore, trucks lined up like a parking lot, and people staked their spots with 23 towels, buckets and umbrellas before wading neck deep into the sea and swimming out to the island.

I could feel the current tugging me, so I swam ahead with it until I made it to the island. My family waded behind. People moseyed the island shores, taking what they could, leaving footprints and looking out to the sea. We hunted for illusive unbroken conches. A young woman hunched over a blanket littered with them, protecting her collection like a brooding hen, eying passerbys suspiciously. I pocketed a black shell before swimming back to the cape.

Weeks later, the island washed away, taking shells and footprints with it.

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Lying low on the beach, as the wind and sand brushes over skin.

A stifled pause makes everything still.

The crash of a distant wave breaks,

and I remember where I am. 25

Basketball Nets

In the quiet neighborhood of Clovercrest,

there is a basketball net in every driveway,

standing quiet by its quiet house by the quiet street

that weaves a clover shape through the suburb.

When you walk through Clovercrest,

you would swear that no one lives there,

apart from the occasional car drifting in or out

and the mechanical buzz of lawn care services.

Outside Clovercrest is a park

with a basketball court where young men play, and where youth gather beneath the time capsule pavilion,

trying to win the virtual Pokemon gym.

Inside Clovercrest are basketball nets,

standing,

rusting,

quiet.

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Black shutters, black doors.

Black shutters that don’t close anymore.

Black shutters that bleed down the house.

Black shutters that face the front out. 27

Part II: Fall

Figure 10 Magic Hour

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Penn State Abington 9/3/19

The ground crunches under my feet, and robins rush up into the trees as I make my way to the table. I take a seat in the warm sunlight and place my book in the dappled shade of the tabletop. Opening The Red Badge of Courage, I pick up where I left off, in the middle of a battle.

Crimson roars and whistling bullets fill the forest, Henry holds position and the sunlight sets the terrain ablaze in yellow. I look up momentarily to see a red-chested robin calling at me from a branch above. He looks annoyed that I’ve stolen his hunting grounds, his feathers fluffing, but I stay seated and turn back to the book. The battle rages on.

Slowly, the sounds in my head begin to echo through the trees around me. I hear the barks and bellows of a man at war. Mortars continue to fire around Henry and his brigade. The voice continues to shout ahead of me, intermittent yet consistent. A few slow blinks, and I’m putting down my book to listen. It continues.

My book disappears into my bag as I lock my eyes on the woods between the voice and me. My legs take me to an asphalt path, and I consider which way to go, deciding on a dirt trail. The shouting gets louder as I follow along the wood’s edge toward the pond, when I spot a red shirt. Its arms hold a bright yellow sign under the clear blue sky. More arms are holding tall signs on poles. Sunglasses gleam as the bodies sway with words of conviction. Above the shouts of the red shirt, the sign says in bold black font “Homos go to Hell!”

I circle around the loud group at a distance, counting four members: the leader in red, two young men in black and grey, and an adolescent in green, bearing a 29 camera. Black and blue uniformed officers stand stiffly around them. A few students are gathering around the pointing, growling red shirt. I recognize him from semesters past.

I avoid the noise and head toward the cafe, grab some lunch and sit by the windows to watch. I can’t hear anything now, only see the red shirt sway on his feet as he points and waves the sign. He takes out a book, throws it to the ground and stomps on it, nearly losing his balance in the fervor. The crowd around him grows; now phone screens gleam. Most students keep their distance except for a few, which edge closer. They seem to be speaking to the red shirt, but a tree blocks the scene. I finish my sandwich and fries.

Eventually, I drift out to a balcony to watch and listen to the spectacle. I finally hear specifics: condemnations and slurs from the red shirt and his group at the surrounding students. Everyone is going to hell, they aren’t true Christians, biases upon biases of identities. His fire fuels retaliation from the students. One breaks past the officers and takes a selfie in front of the red shirt, before quickly getting herded back by a female officer. The line of the students advances toward the protestors, onto the grass field.

The words circle round and round. Condemnation, retaliation, repeat. An older, strong-bodied woman brings out speakers and proceeds to play “Why Can’t We Be

Friends”; the red shirt’s group brings out a megaphone. I grip the railing and read one of the tall signs, the specific list of who’s going to hell, the mantras and biblical references.

Retorting students try to maintain humor, but some begin to reflect the anger and hate.

This inflates the red shirt.

Something pulls me closer to look, and I’m descending the stairs and passing between the protestors and the students. The red shirt has tapped out and lets the black 30 shirt show his stuff. He’s quieter but has the megaphone. He reproaches the students, saying he’s trying to save them. Laughs ensue, insults continue. I take a seat at the outdoor classroom and pull out my sketchbook.

Figure 11 Women Belong in the Kitchen

Now he’s talking about women and their proper place at home. Two female officers stand between him and the students. A blonde-haired girl sits beside me and begins to speak.

“You missed the beginning. It was really good!” I realize she’s talking to me.

“They called me a WHORE!,” she laughs.

“I texted my dad, he’s a cop, that this guy on campus called me a whore. I’m waiting for him to respond. I asked him to shoot him.” She gets up and rejoins the standing crowd. 31

I begin sketching the scene as the black shirt approaches me across the asphalt path. He’s asking me something, but I just stare at him and draw his face.

“This isn’t communist China. You guys are allowed to speak!”

He looks over me to the other students seated behind. One person responds, but the rest stay silent. I hear the red shirt starting up again about how we’re getting killed by school shooters. The black shirt returns to the red shirt. Then red shirt approaches.

“I heard you guys were quiet. What I know for sure,” his shining sunglasses turn to me,

“is that this little girl is going to hell!”

I look at his eyes as he removes his glasses.

“Are you a feminist?” he asks.

I stare.

“Are you a lesbian?”

I stare.

“You are allowed to speak,” his eyes flicker away from mine to the crowd around me as I sketch him. I feel the silence begin to rise from those around me.

“Well, you are the crowd I’m hear to teach,” the red shirt determines and begins to preach. Satisfied with my rough sketch of him, I pick up a rock and begin the draw it.

After some time, red shirt quickly exclaims,

“Don’t become the next school shooter. Stay safe!” and returns to his line of three. My rock sketch is getting more detailed with shadows. An officer’s sunglasses look at me.

“That was impressive,” he smirks. 32

I smirk back and shrug. The scene continues and repeats. The lines of the protestors and students shift from the green grass to the black asphalt and back again. The crowd wanes. I leave for a meeting. Hours later, I’m across campus, and I still hear the shouting. I open my book again, and the voices echo into the text. The battle rages on.

Figure 12 Red Shirt and Rock

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Autumn colors on campus.

Leaves drifting down swift and slow.

A man walks far ahead of me, a bag on his back.

A leaf falls to his right, and he quickly catches it.

Still walking, he looks at it for a moment,

flips it to the other side,

then casually tosses it away. 34

Turtle Meeting

3pm at the Penn State pond.

Leaves are becoming gold.

Sun strikes the rocks and makes them glow,

and the fountain flows.

Two shiny shells sit next to the waterfall and swaying grass.

More heads peek up from the water,

bobbing up and down through the waves,

their black shells beneath the surface.

They swim from right to left,

past floating leaves,

steadily making their way to the falls,

where they crawl up glistening

and slowly heave themselves upon the rock,

joining the others.

Four or five bask the last warmth of Autumn.

35

The rising screech of cicadas

has hushed into lulled crickets.

Green wilts into yellow,

and crispness creeps through the air.

The long field grass hardens while mosquitoes make a last attempt to feed.

Deer are grazing nearer,

their velvets disappear,

red coats turning grey. 36

Perched in the Canopy

Figure 13 Perched in the Canopy Illustration

It was 3am. My self-made mocha complimented the morning mist. All the while, I concentrated upon my big leather boots, securing them tightly. Soon after, through the glare of the headlights, the road slipped out from the darkness. With gear in the belly of our metallic beast, we drove in comfortable silence until asphalt became grass, then trudged through sleeping fields into a slumbering wood. My dad, parting ways in a grassy clearing, disappeared into the brush. I, meanwhile, attached myself to the lifeline of my tree and ascended into its branches.

Initially, the air was a suitable 54F. I watched the waning moon and several stars peek out from behind stratus clouds. As daylight began to bleed colors into the cloak of 37 night, the temperature plummeted and seeped into my skin. For the longest time this chilled me until the rising sun swept away my shivers. In that time, the woodland inhabitants awoke with pleasant chatters. A rooster’s crow sounded from the field to my left, a coyote’s consecutive wails from somewhere behind me. I turned my gaze to the multitude of rustling possibilities around me. The charged crossbow in my hands sat still.

The caffeine backlashed. Without physical movement, my heart thudded and my extremities itched, but the forest provided ample distraction to channel my energy.

Amusingly, squirrels bustled about fallen leaves and downed trees in carless foraging frenzies. One squirrel discovered a chestnut, which it promptly carried up the tree in front of me and proceeded to gnaw noisily. A red-tailed hawk swooped dramatically into the clearing at some unseen prey, only to miserably miss through some unknown miscalculation.

This sent the surrounding forest into a panic: birds cried, squirrels screeched, and the hawk looked perturbed. Despite the chaos, the initial squirrel I had observed scampered foolishly back into the clearing. I could clearly see the hawk turn its head with a spark of interest. Immediately, it took a second, hasty descent towards the ground, only to clumsily crash amongst the thickets. For a few moments, I noted this avian predator’s perplexity. The squirrel had seemingly vanished. Promptly, and without doubt in extreme frustration, the steely-eyed raptor began poking its beak into pockets and clawing back brush with its talons. In a sudden burst, the squirrel leapt out and scattered up the tree, turning around halfway to squeak spiteful phrases.

When the hawk came to realization, it jumped onto the same tree and rested on a branch with clear disdain, directly within my line of sight. It even peered at me for a 38 moment, its acute vision sensing something off in my camouflage, but the moment shattered when another swooping came from my right. The hawk’s mate appeared and the two screeched at one another in a heated discussion. Then, both rose high above the canopy, circling the forest and calling out their curses upon the creatures below.

After some time, the forest calmed. A sparrow even landed upon my thigh before looking at me suspiciously and hopping away into the branches. When I casually turned my head to investigate one of many rustles, I was met with an even more surprising sight.

There, standing at the entrance of the clearing, was a six-point buck. He was a familiar face, one I had observed last year in thickets too far away. Today, he stood astutely, considering whether to enter for about five minutes before taking two steps in.

He sniffed and looked around. I cautiously and silently began to shift myself in his direction, squinting to hide the whites of my eyes. Another five minutes and he stepped back, then, he entered and paused. Calmly, without haste, I closed my left eye and held my breath. My finger gently pulled the trigger. I made no miscalculation.

39

Figure 14 Self Portrait Collage

40

Through the fog,

bodies march up and down the Woodland stairs.

A red-tailed hawk drifts silently through the forest and lands on a branch above,

watching them. 41

Blood Test

Outside the Labcorp room, an old man wearing a facemask looks at me as I come in. I go for the door. Locked. It’s 7:20am; the place opens at 7. I look to a woman sitting inside while I knock and jiggle the doorknob. Her wide eyes meet mine. I gesture to the knob, pointing and jiggling. Wide eyes. She looks scared.

“Can you open the door please?”

“She didn’t open it for me” the old masked man says.

I see the woman wordlessly rise and turn to a nurse, who comes and unlocks the door. The wide-eyed woman slips away into the patient rooms, and I hold the door for the masked man.

Nurses sit behind a closed glass window. Daytime TV gossip plays, and two women and the masked man watch. I check in at the computer kiosk, designed to face away from the glass window. My driver’s license scans, and I’m in. Sitting, waiting. My phone stays in my bag. I don’t look at the TV. I look at a photograph across from me.

Birches turning orange among green pines by water. The majority of the picture is the water reflecting underneath the trees. The water shows the parts of the trees cut off by the picture frame. The water reveals more than the picture frame does. Laughter from the

TV. Kanye’s finding Christanity. The crowd applauds.

It’s a grey morning. I’m now looking at dead leaves quivering outside through a small window. The clock to my right is tick tick ticking slowly. Gauze, blue rubber bands and empty vials sit in a bin attached to the left armrest of my chair. A stiff, grey padded chair. I even see Disney Frozen stickers above the laptop in the corner of this small room. 42

A Snapchat filtered selfie of two smiling ladies sits beside the stickers in a thick, navy blue frame.

A needle, covered in a pink cap, sticks out from the biohazard box to my left.

Everything seems to be on the left except for a sink to my right. My best guess is that more people are right-handed and prefer to get their left arm pricked. People are talking, their voices occasionally washing over the tick tick ticking.

A lady whisks into the room to print out five medical stickers. She says she’ll be right back and leaves. Down the hall, people are discussing being afraid; a young woman is talking. Something about driving on the highway five weeks after getting her permit.

Laughter and stories, my son, girls are different from boys.

One of the ladies finally enters my room, prepares my left arm, and draws blood.

Three vials, the larger ones from the bin. I tell her that this is my phobia. “Really?” she laughs once then goes silent. My arm is stubborn and bleeds slowly.

With the needle sitting there, I start feeling faint. I tell her so, so she leads me to room three right down the hallway and sits me in some stiff blue padded chair. A small tan cup of water placed into my hands, and I’m left alone. I look at the clear plastic bin labeled “URINES” in front of me. Still sinking lightness. Sip. I look at the rough pastel brush marks of a painting outside: flowers, waterfalls, colors. More sinking lightness.

Sip. Breathing, relaxing, thinking of breakfast. Breakfast sandwiches and coffee. Sip. The sinking slowly stops and the lightness lifts.

A man jokes with a nurse down the hall.

“When I turned 21, I thought I was all that. I thought I had so much time. Next thing I knew I was 30, then 40s came… those years really fly by.” 43

“Yeah, they sure do. My son is 16.”

“He’ll be a father before you know it.”

“No no, I don’t want that for a long long time.”

“Well you’re not that young.”

“I’m not that old either.”

I sit there listening, thinking about how I turned 22 one week ago. I keep thinking. I feel better. So I get up to leave, saying goodbye to my nurse, who asks if I need more water, but I’m fine. Outside, the cold mist hits. Shivering, I turn on the car’s heat and wait. 44

Part III: Winter

45

Figure 15 Campus Tree Contour

Figure 16 Campus Tree Contour

46

Lights

Figure 17 Lights Illustration

Figure 18 Lights Illustration

On the sixth of December, my dad got a doe. My mom and I walked up the edge of the tilled field, minding our ankles on the uneven, overgrown ground. The waxing moon illuminated the path and our breath steamed out as we marched up and on.

A small orange light appeared to the right ahead. I pulled out a flashlight from my sling and shined upon it, the bloodied red end of an arrow’s lumenok. Coming closer, I saw that it was covered with white fur. Shining my light, I could see a clear trail of blood into the forest.

I was told to wait as my dad slowly climbed down his tree stand. When he came over, he turned on his light, and I showed him the trail. We left our slings and bows in the field; my mom kept her backpack with the orange tracking tape. Once we all were ready, 47

I led the way. The trail continued, blood brushed on grass and sputtered on leaves until it began to lessen as we approached the field on the other side of the woods. I found more droplets, very small, a brush of crimson on grass, reflecting in my light. My mom had just pulled out the tape, when a tan furred heap appeared in the grass ahead.

There was the doe. My mom got out the infinity rope instead, and my dad looped it around the doe’s neck, holding the grip. We thanked the deer for feeding us and patted its hide.

Then my dad and I began to drag, shoulder to shoulder, marching through the grass, uphill and around the forest wall, toward the truck. Thankfully the ground was even, unlike the last field. Our only obstacles were a few branches in our faces and beneath our feet.

Suddenly, an orange light streaked through the sky, steadily passing by, and we caught our breath as it split into three pieces before fading into darkness.

A collective sigh steamed out into the crisp air. Turning our eyes back to the grassy floor, we pushed our shoulders forward and continued. Occasionally, we paused to rest, held back by the weight. Once we reached the truck, we all grabbed the doe’s legs and heaved her up into the bed. The metallic beast grumbled to a start, warming us as we drove from grass to asphalt. We swiftly dipped and climbed the forested hills of the countryside into the suburbs, toward home. Through the foggy windows, the colorful illumination of Christmas lights streaked past from the pockets of developed land.

48

Figure 19 Sister

Figure 20 Sister

49

So many dreams

right before waking

vivid and clear morphing, reshaping

moving and talking

floating and falling. 50

Figure 21 Dreams

Figure 22 Dreams 51

Tuesday

Chords begin to play,

and sleep quickly fades away.

The volume rising as well as my hand

reaching to silence it.

Then in muffled covers,

I turn over.

The chords rise again.

Fumbling, I silence them for good,

sit up and lean, stretch, pause,

heavy until a few sighs bring me back.

The light always helps,

and so I turn it on.

The piercing cold hits my feet

as they patter across tile,

toward a pile of prearranged clothes.

Warmth comes back every layer, drowsiness fades towards the bathroom,

and creatures begin to stir. 52

The routine ensues.

Cleaning, feeding, watering and talking,

I shuffle to and fro.

A canary begins to sing,

and a bunny twitchily bounces.

I get myself ready.

Dark, light or misty,

I usually leave on time,

listening to music or videos,

noting the sky

or things driven by,

with a tight or gentle smile.

Up and up the hills I march to class

and start to listen,

speaking up occasionally,

sometimes trying to doodle,

always wondering about time,

and what has to be done.

53

“I forget to remember.”

The thought will rise

from some distant time.

“My sails depend on the wind of my emotions.”

Too poetic,

I think.

All contained within myself,

I suddenly remember

there are others in my life.

How easily I forget.

How lonely I feel,

when I forget.

54

Figure 23 Pose Contour

Figure 24 Pose Contour

55

56

White skies

Few shadows

Long drives

Always music playing

Always a lot to see

Always too much to feel 57

Part IV: Spring

Figure 25 Web

Figure 26 Web 58

The Gym

When life seems funny, I drive the past new suburb developments of orange- brown dirt mounds and wooden frames, where fields and forests used to be. A falcon flies across the road ahead of me and lands in a tree, sitting and staring cooly as I come to a stop light. Then I drive 55 mph through the setting sun. The highway’s empty until I reach that line of traffic. Sometimes I drop my arms from the wheel with a sigh, sometimes I glance at the other cars and wonder where they’re going. Then I keep going.

Brake lights, movement, sunlight hitting the trees and buildings flying past. I make it to the gym and feel relatively at peace, eager even to move, to think less, to feel more. The check-in woman lets a couple in, but pauses to try and attach her phone to its charger before scanning my ID. I move past, feeling tight as I get to the locker room, passing by changing women. I pick locker 56, grab my earphones, lock up and go out to the crowded floor of bobbing bodies, a herd of ambition going nowhere on machines.

I find a treadmill, adjust my earphones and music once or twice, then run. After 3 minutes, I have my breath, but my body protests, and I reduce speed. A young athletic girl steps onto the treadmill to my right, glancing over at me as she matches speed. I remind myself I’m here for my own improvement, not competition, so I slow down.

After 10 minutes, I’m moving, but don’t feel like I’m moving. Looking around at people, they’re not moving either. I try to stare further ahead, imagining distance, grass, and hills. A path. Air. And I grow tired of the treadmill. So I move to the elliptical after cleaning my machine, notice more men at the weights than women, and more women at the ellipticals than men. 59

I remember hearing that women fear about building too much muscle. It’s unattractive to have too much muscle. It’s hard for women to build muscle. And I get on an elliptical machine between two young women for 10 minutes.

The red-headed girl to my right, initially going slower, begins to take longer strides, while I slow down when I need to. I yearn to go outside, away from people going nowhere.

Finally, the time finishes; I skip the cool down, clean up, grab my things from my locker, briskly walk to the car and only take only my phone, keys and sunglasses. I walk the asphalt path, glancing at the yoga studio’s windows, wondering if people can see me, or even look out to see me, remembering what I saw from inside those windows: tall pines behind the black path that I’m on now.

I walk past the employee parking lot, looking at the trees to the right where I’ve seen deer before. Through the trees, long shining solar panels face east. One tree has the face of the Necronomicon on it, sagged and discolored from a year or more of being there. I continue to walk toward the sun and approach a soccer field, passing a GaGa pit with yellow “RESPECT” painted on its side.

I pass a pond with a thin layer of ice. A bench rests beside it. I only sat upon that bench once, beside a young man. I remember that day, the path, being hoisted up into the air and quickly put back down. Then my eyes flicker to a rustle beneath the bulrushes.

Black voles scurry about, and I stop to watch them.

Then I walk on, climbing the grassy hill, starting to run rather than take the longer forested path. I see cars come and go. A young man in a red jeep approaches the 60 crosswalk, looking at me but doesn’t stop. I jog across after he passes, then walk past a line of small trees getting darker from the sunset. Cars flash by.

I feel that I’ve walked this path a long time many times. I look at the trees again, remembering when I saw a bluebird for the first time. Not sure exactly which tree it was in, but one further down the path I’m sure.

Should I make another go around the loop? Responsibilities creep in. I approach the cobblestone crossroad getting overgrown by grass, and from there I jog back to my car. I get inside with a sigh, struggle to pull out my sunglasses from my pocket, turn on the engine and drive.

61

The babbling brook whispers around my legs.

I wonder where it travels,

how long it travels.

Sunlight flickers off the stream, warming my face.

I close my eyes and listen. 62

Tunnel Vision

Figure 27 Tunnel Vision Illustration

Figure 28 Tunnel Vision Illustration 63

Following the powerlines, through fields and over the hills, past blue barrels and marshes, a forest wall reveals a small path. Down this path, through underbrush and branches I find my feet before a creek. If I’m lucky enough to cross its wobbly stones without getting my feet wet, I make it to a stony shore that juts out into the creek. There may or may not be an old bench there, depending on flooding. The creek pools deep with bluegills, sunnies and minnows before entering a stone tunnel in the wall of a steep ridge.

The tunnel is old and tall. The water goes through it but doesn’t appear to flow.

Drops from the ceiling fall and create dark ripples through the tunnel. The other side is bright and yellow. A large buck gazes through the portal from the other side. He stares for a long time.

I want to walk through the tunnel. But I don’t have galoshes. And I don’t know how deep the water goes. All I can do is stare through at the deer that stares back.

To the right of the tunnel, I can climb the ridge, using roots and small trees as my grapples. If I can break through and up this wooded path, I have to continue up a steep rocky hill until I reach its top. There, I find the train track. It’s rusty. To the left, it stretches around tall rocky hills and disappears around the bend. To the right, it stretches on into the distance where hazy red lights flash at a crossing.

The terrain around the tracks is raised and rocky. Scraps of metal and bolts lay about. And deer bones. Lots of deer bones. Mostly rib and leg bones, very few skulls.

The only remains of old impacts. Once, there was even a coyote skeleton. All the bones litter around the tracks beside blue glass, fishing lures and broken bottles. Maybe there’s a feather. Walking over the tracks, the ridge steeply drops again. I find the other side of the tunnel with another large pool. No buck. I cross back over the tracks and follow 64 alongside it for a distance. The woods below become sparser and open into pine trees.

Blue-jay territory, I note as I watch them flicker and call through the needled branches.

The hill rises before me into grass and thickens into brambles alongside chainmail fence.

I don’t continue.

Before I descend back to the tunnel, a horn echoes through the hills. A train steadily approaches around the bend from the left then flashes by. I see faces look out the window at me, and I look back as they disappear between moving silver and beating

ka-chunk ka-chunk ka-chunck.

The train passes and shrinks into the distant red haze with a fading howl. Then the air becomes silent. 65

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Colbert, Charles. “Winslow Homer, reluctant Modern.” Winterthur Portfolio, vol. 38, no.

1, 2003, pp. 37-55.

Farmer, Ann. “And endangered Japanese art form loses its outpost in SoHo.” The New

York Times, 28 May 2010, pp. A17.

Gardner, Albert T. Winslow Homer: American artist: his world and his work. C. N.

Potter, 1961.

Geske, Norman A. Beyond Madness: The Art of Ralph Blakelock, 1847-1919. University

of Nebraska Press, 2007.

Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in The Willows. 1908. Sandy Creek, 2009.

Jesty, Justin. “The realism debate and the politics of modern art in early postwar Japan.”

Japan Forum, vol. 26, no. 4, 2004, pp. 508-529.

Karlholm, Dan. “Surveying contemporary art: post-war, postmodern, and then what?”Art

History, vol 32, no.4, 2009, pp. 712-733.

Parks, John A. “Winslow Homer: his melancholy truth.” American Artist, vol. 70, no.

767, Jul./Aug. 2006, pp. 44-53.

Pratt, William. The Imagist Poem: Modern Poetry in Miniature. Story Line Press,

Ashland, Or, 2001.

Seiden, Henry M., and Mark Seiden. "Ernest Hemingway's World War I Short Stories:

PTSD, the Writer as Witness, and the Creation of Intersubjective Community."

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Edition. Wisehouse Classics, 2015. 66

Thoreau, H. D. Walden and Civil Disobedience. 1854. Signet Classics, 2012

ACADEMIC VITA

Floriana Tulli [email protected]

Thesis Title: Being Present: A Visual and Literary Concentration Thesis Supervisor: Dr. Linda Miller

EDUCATION The Pennsylvania State University, Abington, PA May 2020 Bachelor of English and Bachelor of History

RELEVANT PROJECT EXPERIENCE Schreyer Honors Thesis in English August 2018 — May 2020 • Researched and created a multimedia concentration of short stories, poetry, and 2D art. The Jivaka Project March 2020 — May 2020 • Compiled audio files from Philadelphia Buddhist temples into the Jivaka database. Pre-Law Society Club Law Forum Panel October 2018 • Managed finances and coordinated catering for hosting a panel of lawyers. Abington Enactus Business Club Presentation March 2017 • Presented business projects with a team at the D.C. Enactus Competition.

WORK EXPERIENCE Philadelphia Freedom Valley YMCA, Ambler, PA Art Teacher Assistant for ages 8 - 12 April 2019 — May 2020 • Cultivated children's creativity and created a safe welcoming environment. • Created a family-friendly environment through mural painting. Senior Lifeguard July 2016 — April 2019 • Maintained a safe, welcoming environment for patrons and their children. • Initiated Emergency Action Plans. • Accommodated the specific needs of disabled, elderly or special-needs patrons.

Pets Plus, North Wales, PA Pet Care specialist September 2019 — October 2019 • Created a clean, safe, and friendly environment for customers and animals. • Provided pet care information to customers.

Uswim1, Upper Gwynedd, PA Swim Instructor July 2018 — September 2018 • Encouraged children to gain confidence in water. • Taught children specific swimming skills in 2 week sessions to pass a swim test.

HONORS

Schreyer Honors College - Penn State Abington 2017 — 2020 Penn State Abington Honors Program - Penn State Abington 2016 — 2020 Sigma Tau Delta - International English Honor Society 2017 — 2020 Civitas Victus Dictio - Penn State Abington 2018 — 2020 Penn State Provost Award - Penn State Abington 2016 — 2020 Michael T. Plam Memorial Award in History - Penn State Abington 2020 Faculty Recognition Award in English - Penn State Abington 2019 Evan Pugh Scholar Award - Penn State Abington 2019 Ogontz Award - Penn State Abington 2018 — 2019 Hallowell Award - Penn State Abington 2018 Beverley Wright McHugh Award - Penn State Abington 2018 President’s Freshman Award - Penn State Abington 2017 Abby Sutherland Award - Penn State Abington 2017

EXTRACURRICULAR The Pennsylvania State University, Abington, PA Treasurer of Pre-Law Society Club September 2019 —January 2019 Enactus Business Club January 2017 — September 2017 THON Volunteer February 2017

Sebastians Riding Association Inc., Collegeville, PA Volunteer 2011 — 2013

Language Proficiency: English (Native) Italian (Limited)