Carnegiea

Literary Magazine

Winter Webzine Release

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HOT OFF THE PRESS: Carnegiea Lit Mag’s Winter Webzine! While we started with a focus on a printed form of our magazine, today’s world requires we adapt to a digital format to exhibit our community’s art. We are so grateful to be able to share the wonderful work of 40 talented young artists from Southern Arizona. We’d like to thank all of you who submitted, as well as the members of the Carnegiea Team for their hard work in putting this together.

We recommend viewing the webzine in full screen. Right click to shift the perspective of the zine, and disable “Smart Pan” in the settings to view the full 3D book. For slower connections and older hardware, use our simple viewer.


If you are interested in a limited print release of the Winter Webzine, considering donating to Carnegiea Literary Magazine with our donation link!

flora

By Elizabeth (Liz) Louis

@lizarts

this piece was an exploration in line, pattern, the female body, and the human face + its expressions. i let my creativity flow free without restrictions of realism or expectations.

Alone on the Swing Set

By Arpi Schlesinger

@arpiiiiii

In the middle of the park, a girl sat alone on a swing set. She sat suspended above the mahogany bark dust like a sword hanging by a thread, slowly rocking back and forth in the soft but frigid breeze. Rust consumed the chains holding the rubber swing like an infection, creaking in a steady cadence that sliced through the silence in the rest of the park. Shadow covered the green fields of grass like a goose-down blanket, untouched by the sounds of crickets or field mice. No ducks paddled through the river to the west; no frogs croaked on its bank. But sound was not the only thing that escaped the park. Light seemed to as well. No street lamps guided wandering passersby, only darkness perfect for housing bats, raccoons, and other nightly monsters—not that this park had any. The icy air of winter repelled congregating fireflies and forced them to burrow in their warm nests. Like the fireflies, the people in the surrounding  neighborhood burrowed as well; they shut their blinds and turned off their porch lights. The neighborhood was asleep, surrounded by the silent and lightless atmosphere and embracing it like a mother with her children. 

But this park was not completely consumed by darkness and silence. There was the moon, and there was the girl. The moon beamed its harsh, white light onto the girl, revealing a thick head of raven-black hair that dangled in the air, almost touching the bark dust below her feet. The light reflected off the girl’s pale skin, giving her arms and legs a soft glow, a contrast to the darkness of her hair. Her head drooped and cast in shadow, avoiding the moonlight like the plague. She stared blankly at her bare feet in silence. The swing continued to sway back and forth, indifferent to the pale figure that sat on it. The creaking of the rust marinated chains was not the only sound in the park, however. The girl’s stomach spat out a symphony of howls and growls that masked a constant, low hum. But this sound wasn’t enough; the symphony was suppressed. The park was still quiet. The girl was still alone.

Ash and Kristofferson

By Lin Clark

@the_annus_artist

Fantastic Mr Fox is my favorite movie and I just absolutely love it. It’s so aesthetic and comforting and this piece really just made me happy and I love the characters so much.

Reflections: The Clientele’s ‘Suburban Light’ Turns 20

By Jonathan Gibson
University of Arizona

I wasn’t alive in 2000. I have no way of knowing what the indie scene was like, what passed as important music in those days. Thus, that year exists in a sort of void that separates indie music I remember from my childhood (Phoenix, Franz Ferdinand, and the like) and ancient history (Pavement, R.E.M., Britpop). 

Out of that year came Suburban Light, the debut album by English indie poppers the Clientele, released 20 years ago today (November 28th). A compilation of singles and B-sides released on small British indie labels, it takes influence from a number of bands and scenes I only enjoy somewhat, largely 60’s psych-pop filtered through the mystery and atmosphere of 80’s indie like Felt and Galaxie 500. From this stew of sounds comes something that is, to me, absolutely intoxicating. 

Despite being a compilation, Suburban Light is a strong, cohesive album with a particular sound and style. It’s impossible to talk about the record without discussing the production, which makes the record a warm, lo-fi, reverb-saturated glory. Although recorded cheaply, Suburban Light sounds fantastic, and the coating of reverb gives it a truly timeless, ethereal feel despite the minimalist approach, befitting of the mysterious black-and-white photo found on the cover. The sound of the record is dominated by just three instruments—frontman Alasdair Maclean’s guitar, James Hornsey’s bass, and Mark Keen’s drums, with the occasional keyboard thrown in, and a 12-string guitar on just one track, “Rain”. 

Fundraising for No More Deaths

carnegiea lit mag fundraiser for no more deaths

We are fundraising for No More Deaths (No Mas Muertes)! No More Deaths is a local humanitarian aid group that provides services for migrants, refugees and residents of Southern AZ and Northern Mexico. Check out our Print Shop, where we’re selling high quality 8″x10″ prints of art local young Tucson artists. All proceeds will be going to No More Deaths.

Pink Tan

By Andie Thornton

This piece is a small digital edit of a picture of myself. the meaning subjective but i love the feeling it conveys, through colors and body.

Cry about it

By Chloe Vance

Most of my life I focused on realism and using only pencils. I never focused on color and I never let my own style develop. This year I’ve been doing a lot of art in my spare time. I’ve finally given myself space to explore color and style; it’s been really fun.

She’s Not A Monster

“She’s Not A Monster” is a brief and shallow look at my experience with disordered eating. This piece came about after I felt like I needed a way to get my feelings and experiences out.

By an Anonymous Author

She’s not a monster

Not some devil on my shoulder

Not some disfigured creature who wishes me harm

Who whispers curses and promises into my ear

No

How dramatic

And easy

That would be

Because really

She’s me

She is me who pokes me

She is me who laughs at me

She is me who tells me I’m not good enough

She is me who is always happy

She is me who is always loved

She taunts me

With empty promises

“Just a little farther,”

She lies

“You’ll be so happy.”

She is cruel

But she says she has my best interests at heart

It is foolish that I believe her

Because she is heartless

Those Amber Stones

By Justin Sims

Harold had nothing but her on his mind when he observed the museum. He knew exactly what it was that he needed to do, the time was now. With not a soul in sight, he slithered his way into the heart of the museum.

As Harold slinked through the desolate museum on nothing but the very tips of his toes, he allowed his eyes to venture across the near darkness. His retinas scanned over every inch of wall, disregarding shadowed figures in their frames as he searched for his true heart’s desire. Among the dozens and dozens of beauties lining the walls, there she finally reared her head: his chef d’oeuvre, his cream of the crop, his masterpiece.

Harold rattled with anticipation, his mouth salivating at the idea of her being so near. No longer able to keep himself composed, Harold gave into his primal instincts and galloped as valiantly as a Trojan warrior riding his steed into battle, chasing his own sort of glory: her.

Dashing across the vast compound of the museum took only a second for Harold, and soon enough she was close enough to touch, to smell, to taste. Here she was before him, in all of her grandeur.

Her beauty was enough to force tears from even the strongest willed, as if a bowl of onions was hidden behind her gilded panel. Every stroke of pigment knew its place in the world of her canvas, alternating between being distinguishable to the naked eye to disappearing among a sea of strokes. Her wispy bangs eclipse her eyes, making her even harder to read and her intentions unknown. There is a sense of uneasiness when staring into those amber stones. She feels real, and she is plotting against you in your most vulnerable moment.

Nothing could stop Harold from touching her, not the safety of her crystal sarcophagus, not even the subsequent alarm that rang throughout the hollow cavern. Harold allowed the severity of the roar in his ears to fade into the background. This was his moment. He was finally alone with her.

Harold removed her from the shards of her once effective prison, a place she hadn’t been taken from in years. The sensation of her ornate frame alone was nearly enough to send Harold over the edge. He refrained himself, only allowing the slightest tracings across her delicately carved edges. Harold shakily outstretched his fingers towards the canvas itself. Feeling that thick acrylic paint bury itself into the beds of his nails gave him a feeling of euphoria, a high that he knew he could only reach with her. He could feel the months of effort behind each stroke, no longer with his eyes alone. Harold could taste the pigment with the ends of his nails, he could finally feel that darkness behind her eyes. Yet, he still wanted more.

As he lay with her among the particles of shattered glass, he knew that he would never feel this level of connection with anyone else. This Dark-Haired Beauty was his soulmate. He hovered over her exposed paint, running his fingertips along her face, grazing her hairs, giving her a playful boop on the nose. This was paradise. Harold leaned in for a kiss, staring deep into that hellish golden abyss the entire time. The acidic sweetness of her lips put Harold into a state of pure ecstasy, he could taste every molecule of passion poured into her. He was in love with the feeling. Her scent somehow was even more lovely; the way she made his nostrils burn, the way she made him feel that oh-so familiar sting in the back of his throat.

Harold took no notice of the blotched shapes now surrounding him. A glint of fluorescence shining through his eyes could not take his attention away from her. The sounds of blaring alarms and barking of commands took a backseat to the silence behind her eyes. He could stare into those eyes eternally.

Painting: Dark Haired Beauty by Juana Romani

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