Author: Melinda Cardenas

by Amanda Charnley (BA ’09)

instagram: @artofamanda

An homage to the “conjur woman,” a lesser known, recurring figure in the work of Romare Bearden. This figure synthesizes African traditions and wisdom, Indigenous cultural practices, and Christian rituals.

for more photos visit @artofamanda and her post here

By Haotian Wang (BA ’23) and Emma Zhang (BA ’22)

Lyrics: Emma Zhang+Haotian Wang // Music: Haotian Wang+Emma Zhang // Arrangement: Haotian Wang/Emma Zhang
Mixing/Recording: Haotian Wang+Emma Zhang // Cover: Emma Zhang

This is a song we wrote together at the end of February when we were still in New York. In this song, we write about our own experiences at the airport, coming back and forth from home to New York. It’s also the first song from an EP we are currently working on.

By Christopher Bottone

instagram: @botwizzle

A Music Vid for a single/ the single off my upcoming debut record “Mudgie”! Out May 15!

by Veronica Liow (Gallatin MA ’21)
www.veronicaliow.com, instagram: @veronicaliow, twitter:@veronicaliow_

by Lisa Cooley (BA’ 20)

Artist’s website

To the richest man in the world
There is a forest
I’m sure you have heard
that houses the richest
man in the world

The man owns the forest
and so he is proud
and from where he sits
on his throne with his crown

the forest looks green
it bustles and teems
money grows on its trees
and falls at his feet

how does this forest
make money, you ask?
For this I’m afraid
I must step out of form

For this forest is not
a forest at all

And if you step a bit closer, you will realize that there is something very strange
and off-putting about the too-perfect birdsong
that harps to a rhythm that never misses a beat,
you will notice it repeats on a loop that is metallic
and flat, and at the same time it dawns on you
that the birds are long dead—or never existed at all.
You start to hear new sounds, faint whispers and growls,
in the language of steel
and cogs and chemicals, this ruthless prime-
al energy
This forest grows strange fruit,
of furniture, and mugs, and books, and rugs
capitalism’s detritus, and no, the fruits are not the cadavers
but the picking, packaging and delivering can be deadly
and if you step deeper inside this carnivorous forest machine,
the voices grow louder
chanting raise profit, raise profit,
the prophet of their god screams
free shipping at no cost, at whatever cost, human cost
And if you peel back the synthetic bark of the trees,
you will find nothing organic about the cold metal
that gleams from underneath
And the roots give away to a
river not made
of water but metal
cogs churning and screeching 24 hours a day
run on the power of minimum wage
and the blood of sick workers
with no choice but to work
and you wonder then why
this mirage of a forest looked green at all

So if you are reading
Jeff Bezos, my dear
Please do the right thing,
Pay your workers their share

And if you don’t care
Let me be very clear
we won’t take it anymore
Prepare for class war

by Roy Nathanson (Gallatin professor)

Don’t Touch Your Face!

And by all means, keep your hands away
from your eyes – they hear things!
Mysteries that amaze and frighten us.
For instance, they hear
when you sip tea with a spoon.
They advise the spoon
to have its own cup of tea.
“In these dark days, you deserve a cup,”
your eyes tell the spoon.
These days, they speak to me too!
“Let small be small,” my eyes say.
“Introduce yourself to your germs.
Give them a spoon and their own 2 eyes.
Let them have their own cup of tea.
I’m sure they are as frightened as you are!
Let them make themselves at home. Who knows?
Maybe you’ll end up living side by side!
After all, far smaller things vibrate this world
and manage to negotiate proper living quarters.”
Then my eyes go so quiet, even they think it’s night.

Don’t Touch My Face!

I know it’s not the advisory du jour
but I want my hands to have clarity—
to know the do’s and don’ts.
Certainly my arms, fingers,
slumping shoulders, lips, skinny ass
or the desperate neurons in between
have neither the motive or opportunity
to touch anyone’s face. So none
of these actors have been weaponized.
It’s my hands that must know the rules.
So I wrote the directive quite legibly:
Don’t Touch My Face!
But what of my heart, or yours for that matter?
We all know how hearts tend to be desperados
even in the best of times, and these days?
Mine says it can barely see out there!
Yesterday night my heart was so beat.
“C’mon Roy, it pleaded. “We hearts are wily.
We need clear messages. We need to know
where/what/when it’s safe to touch.
We see—but through our own kind of cloud.
And unfortunately, we never learned to read.”