The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.

Une Visite du Musée by Jackson Williams

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was the largest in the United States, with over two million works across its two million square feet of property. The gigantic complex divided 5th Avenue and Central Park in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Its limestone steps ascended to glass doors that looked minuscule under the towering Roman archways, and each one had Corinthian columns on either side to support a flat rooftop. Unmissable and ornate, the museum’s architecture was a testament to its purpose of displaying artistic achievement.

Noelle Moreaux crossed through the entrance with one hand gripping a leather satchel. It bumped against her hip as she avoided pedestrians that never seemed to have a walking speed above “tortoise.” No running in the building, but couldn’t they at least make a path for people with places to be? Tourists didn’t move at a New Yorker’s pace. Noelle was raised in the city and had the leg stamina to prove it. Rain or snow, she’d walk anywhere she had to be—if it wasn’t worth walking, it wasn’t worth visiting, she thought.

It had been fifteen years since her first visit to the museum on an elementary school field trip. Noelle no longer needed a tag-along rope to stay on track because volunteering as a tour guide allowed her to access the art world for free. The eight-hundreds section was committed to memory by now, and she prepared for an afternoon tour by adjusting her outfit. Noelle smoothed her pleated skirt and untangled a lanyard from her long hair, freshly done in butterfly locs. Her houndstooth-patterned sweater vest layered over a blouse she received last Christmas. A gold charm bracelet matched her dangling earrings, and every part of the outfit coordinated with the color palette of her section: brown, white, and yellow ochre. What kind of art history student wouldn’t pay attention to aesthetics?

Noelle’s heels clicked louder as she distanced from the museum’s entryway and found the eight-hundreds wing, where her favorite Symbolist artworks lived. Everyone but the statues faced the wall, admiring Rousseau’s brown landscapes or Millet’s blurry wood-panel paintings, and they were better in person than online. Photographs always obscured the vibrancy or scale. They couldn’t recreate the tension between a human and a beautiful thing—the kind of gravity that made people be quiet and sit still. It took something of great magnitude to stop time.

“Noelle, right?”

A man with sandy blonde hair and glasses drew her attention. His name was Theo, but he was in Noelle’s contacts as “Glasses Guy.” They shared an art history class, and their professor recommended that Noelle help a struggling classmate find his passion (pass the course). Her job was to give tours, not perform miracles. Nonetheless, she turned on her customer service personality.

“That’s me,” she said. “Ready to see some paintings?”

“Y’all have those?” he asks.

Noelle had heard a lot of lame jokes, but how Theo said it made her laugh. It didn’t match his flat, raspy voice that sounded surprisingly deep for his thin frame. He didn’t talk enough in class for her to notice before.

“Nah, we ran out. You were supposed to restock,” she said.

“Shit, let me go call Rembrandt real quick,” he said.

“No, my boy, this—” Noelle paused. She wanted to delve into how Rembrandt was a Dutch Baroque painter, not 1800s French, but that probably would’ve gone over his head. “this is more modern.”

The pair stood in awkward silence as they waited for anyone else to arrive. Noelle applied a new coat of lipgloss in her phone’s reflection, and Theo looked around as if he were an out-of-place artifact. People in the distance seemed comically small under the towering ceilings of the Met. There wasn’t a heavy amount of foot traffic in this wing on a snowy Tuesday afternoon, not that Manhattan’s poor weather usually stopped anyone. 

“We can do a private tour,” Noelle said and motioned for the lone tourist to follow. “There are a lot of ‘Theos’ around here. For instance, Théodore Gericault painted my beloved Evening: Landscape with an Aqueduct.”

An eight-foot-tall canvas dominated the wall, depicting a moody landscape at sunset. The brown rock formations in the front rescinded to dark blue clouds and mountains in the background. The pastel-yellow sky illuminated through transparent leaves that wrapped around a stone tower. Gericault’s brushstrokes were subtle and moved with the grooves of his terrain, giving the illusion that this was a portal more than a two-dimensional surface.

“Wow,” Theo said, taking in the pure massiveness of the oil painting.

“This is only one of three,” Noelle said with a smile. “It’s meant to transport us to an ancient Roman countryside because French romanticists loved old-school neoclassicism. We can attribute this standard back to Nicolas Poussin, who thought art should depict Biblical or mythological motifs. So basically, they liked Greek and Roman stuff.”

Theo watched Noelle lecture on the masterpiece with alert eyes and relaxed shoulders. He nodded as she explained the historical context behind each part of the piece. Her hands matched the energy of her voice, waving around to hammer the information. There was no telling if Theo understood any of it, but he was polite enough to listen with a small smile. Time fell like snow as they moved through the gallery halls. 

“I like how you pronounce all the French,” he said. “Like the original version of my name, Théodore. I’d sound a lot fancier if I put that on my resumé.”

His French accent was terrible, but Noelle appreciated the compliment. She swept some hair over her shoulder with a laugh. Theo’s cheeks flushed red.

“I’d stick with Theo if you’re gonna pronounce it that badly.”

“Maybe you can teach me French instead.”

“Let’s be realistic, love.”

Noelle kept reminding herself to be professional but slipped into a casual attitude with Theo. His calm manner and witty remarks charmed her enough to feel comfortable talking to him like a friend. The Met and university demanded professionalism, but Theo coaxed familiarity. His blue-framed glasses and brown eyes reflected the hues of Noelle’s favorite pieces. She didn’t think much of him before, but maybe there was something to her classmate.

“Ooh, here’s Retreat from the Storm by Jean-François Millet,” she said.

The painting showed a woman struggling against a windstorm with sticks in one hand and a child in another. Even the brushstroke technique blurred the figures in the wind’s direction.

“That’s me trying to pass this class,” Theo said. He was joking, but there was a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

“No, this one’s you,” Noelle said. She took his hand and led him to A River in a Meadow. “It’s a Théodore Rousseau.”

“Wow, that’s corny.”

“You’re corny.”

“Insulting your tour? That’s hateful.”

“You’re hateful.”

Noelle and Theo laughed as they continued through the plain, square room. Art museums were a bunch of little squares arranged in perfect symmetry. Noelle appreciated order, but hints of chaos brought a space to life. She tried to slip her hand away, realizing what she’d done, but Theo hesitated before letting it go. His hand felt warm against Noelle’s smooth skin.

“Anyways, here’s room 803, where we keep the portraits,” she said. “Anything you want to see?”

“That one.”

He pointed to a modest portrait of A Woman Reading by Camille Corot. The subject read a book in an undisturbed meadow while a man in the background sailed away.

“I’m working on something with a color palette like this one,” Theo said, then pulled a tiny sketchbook from his pocket. “Mind if we stay here for a bit?”

“Oh, sure. Nobody else is going to bother us,” Noelle said.

She discussed Camille Corot’s en plein air technique and how some of the best art is completed on-site. Theo scribbled graphite across the sketchbook while his tour guide shared her passion for 19th-century French art. Halfway through her spiel, Noelle felt that he wasn’t studying the painting as much as he was admiring her. His eyes flitted from the pages to the muse.

“What’s your favorite outside place?” Theo said. He pulled a small watercolor tin from his other pocket. “Take me there. Visually, I mean.”

“Imagine a super colorful beach with clear water, and clean white sand.”

“Hudson River, got it,” Theo interjected, earning an eye-roll from Noelle.

“Shut up,” she said. “Anyways, the beach had really soft sand. All the buildings in our area had these square red roofs—I went there with my parents. My dad’s from Saint Barthélemy, which is this tiny Caribbean island. So, he’s why I had to learn French. He’d have a stroke if he heard thee-oh.”

Noelle closed her eyes to picture the sunny island coastline where her architect father rambled in his thick accent about the old churches, but he made it fun by letting her play in them. She remembered her mother’s dark, slender fingers combing the tangles out of her nine-year-old scalp after a saltwater swim. It was messy again by the time the Moreauxs went to church the next morning. Grandmother’s steamed vegetables and spicy fish still trumped any American seafood restaurants. Saint Barthélemy was a family vacation that lived in gaudy picture frames in the Moreaux home, and thinking of it made Noelle nostalgic for the beach.

“But why do you want to know?” she asked.

“You’ll see if you come to my gallery,” Theo said, looking into her eyes with an expression of adoration. He lifted a folded piece from his sketchbook. It was a ticket. “Nothing too fancy, but a bunch of us fine arts majors put it together. I’ll make it worth your time. Promise.”

Noelle took the watercolor-stained ticket from his hand as he knelt like some kind of prince. He had a yellow smudge on his face. She thought it was cute.

“I’d love if you gave me a tour.”

Two weeks later, after some tiresome shifts and art history exams, Noelle entered Theo’s gallery. They’d been texting since their meeting at the Met, and Noelle had felt herself taking extra time to get ready before class. Her notification volume was turned up on her phone, and she had started to sing in the shower to songs off Theo’s music playlist called “Glasses Guy Hours,” which he titled after Noelle admitted to not initially using his name in her contacts. He had taste!

When she arrived at the party, other students from her school brisked around with excitement over their paintings and illustrations. Noelle wore a maroon slip dress and cardigan to keep out the December chill, but the school’s busted heating system wasn’t helping. She examined the pieces one by one, giving them the same care that she would the historic wonders at the Met, but there was an important artist missing: Theo. Maybe he didn’t show? Maybe he procrastinated on his painting? She tried not to be disappointed.

One shiny, still-wet portrait caught her attention, and it was at the back of the classroom. It showed a Black woman reading on the beach as two silhouettes, an older man and his wife, sailed toward her in the background. The central figure had blue sleeves and a beige skirt, posed in the same sitting position as Corot’s A Woman Reading. The composition had a calming sfumato of neutral hues brushed on with textured, fluffy strokes that resembled 19th-century styles. What was most impressive about this portrait was its striking resemblance to Noelle. It had the curve of her glossed lips, bend of her nose, arch of her brows, signature eyeshadow, and the intricate texture of her locs that were pushed back by a gold headband. In a wispy signature, it was signed by Theo Raschel.

Tears formed in Noelle’s eyes as she beheld the amazing work.

“Oh my god… oh my god. Is that me?”

“Ah, you found it. Of course, I was in the bathroom,” Theo said as he approached Noelle, who pulled him into a tight hug to bury her emotional face in his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her, gently rubbing her back.“Oh, hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said through a voice muffled by his shirt. Theo couldn’t help but to hug her closer.

“Well, you’re beautiful,” he said as if the statement were obvious.

“What the fuck, how? How did you do it?”

“Some tour guide dragged me around the Met for a few hours. Figured I’d whip up a little something for them.”

“You’re crazy. You’re actually crazy, man,” Noelle said. When she lifted her face, a print of makeup smudged his dress shirt.

“I look crazy now that you’ve painted me back.”

She felt Theo’s deep laugh rumbled through his chest, and it was a sound wonderful enough to drown out everyone else. They stared at each other for a moment, taking in the most amazing view of someone who appreciated the details of someone they adore.

Picture this. I’m home for winter break, and with Twitter’s recent implosion, I need to find a new social media to fill that void in my brain. Reddit is scary, Facebook is for old people. Instagram is just filled with people I’d rather not look at on your break from school. What about a trip to Tumblr? Yeah, that Tumblr. The same Tumblr that everyone used to write One Direction and Percy Jackson fanfic on. Remember that?

I log in, and to my surprise, it hasn’t changed. It’s virtually the same. The user base, who has grown-up with the platform, has the same sense of humor, carefully crafted on a web of inside jokes. It’s almost like returning home after years of vacation. 

On yet another few-hour long death-scroll, I find this post. Stylized sapphic fanart? Say less! It has a few tags, including ship tags, but one sticks out, #goncharov. This must be the source material. I click. Ohhh! It’s a Martin Scorsese movie. I scold my former film-major self. I spent a whole quarter in the major, have over 400 movies logged on Letterboxd, but I’ve never heard of Scorsese’s crowned jewel, “Goncharov?” For shame!

As I dig through the tag, I find gifs of Russian bombshell character Katya, beautiful fanart and one hell of a poster. Would you look at that thing? What a cast! Not only does it star a young, mustachioed De Niro, but also Al Pachino, the king of all mob movies, along with Harvey Keitel, Cybill Shepherd and Gene Hackman. How have I never heard of this movie? It’s stacked!

I check Letterboxd, typing in the title like my father, finger-pecking like a mad man (a slow one, on account on the foreign word). “GORBATREV.” Wait. That’s the “knock down that wall” guy. Type again. “GONCHAROV.” The top result is a list curated by a pro-user, so they have to know their stuff. Its title? “Films inspired by Goncharov (1973),” with a description reading, “a list of films that were CLEARLY inspired by Goncharov (1973) in one way or another. please don’t scream at me if i don’t have certain films here, just write a comment and i’ll add! thanks. stan Goncharov (1973)!!!” Seems legit. 

Scroll through the movies. Damn, there’s a lot, with films ranging from Reservoir Dogs and Point Break, to Home Alone and Spy Kids. Sure seems like this Goncharov film is influential, for no one ever talking about it. The top comment reads: “omg i thought i was the only one seeing the parallels between goncharov and Ratatouille!! thank you for making me feel valid uwu.” Interesting, but I don’t judge. 

Back to Tumblr. I indulge in a bigger fandom dive, gazing over pages upon pages of fanart, memes and oh, finally! A wiki page. I was already planning on watching this bad boy tonight, but it’s always interesting learning about the production beforehand. I tap. And … that’s weird. It’s an Archive of Our Own page. 

For anyone who wasn’t raised by a web interface glued together by The Onceler and Furries like me, AO3 is basically just a fanfiction site. It absolutely slays although it runs like it’s being powered by a hamster in a wheel. It has been in Beta since 2009, just to put everything into perspective. Anyway …

Why was I currently being greeted by the familiar red graphics of AO3? Why would Goncharov’s wiki be on a fanfic website? Doesn’t matter. Once I click, my smoothed out brain is happy to see a typical looking Wikipedia page. 

General information is this: “A mob film set in Naples, Italy during the height of the Cold War portraying both the Italian mafia and Soviet organized crime, Goncharov has been described as ‘the greatest Mafia movie ever made’.” Okay, we know this. Scroll down, we need more. I must know more about this beautiful Katya character. 

Here we go. Plot. “After the betrayal of an unknown actor leading to the dissolution of his crime ring and the destruction of his home, disillusioned mafia boss turned independent mercenary Goncharov (De Niro) emigrates from Soviet Russia to Italy with his wife, Katya (Shepherd), who harbors secrets.” Sounds juicy! Yeah, I’m definitely watching this tonight. 

I read more about the development, interested to see why I haven’t heard of this masterpiece yet. Under the reception tab, I read that it underperformed at the box office, “grossing $1.8 million worldwide against a production budget of $1.9 million.” The Godfather, which obviously came out a year before in 1972, had grossed $135 million. Maybe that was why? Scorsese pumps out another film a year after his biggest film yet, and it got lost in the shadows. 

The next tab provides more info. “The film’s poor box office performance has been attributed to mixed reviews from critics, a lengthy run time at 3 hours and 32 minutes, and the film’s ‘Anti-American sentiment,’ including but not limited to the sympathetic portrayal of Russian and Italian criminal actors.” Wait… 3 hours and 32 minutes? I check the clock. I better get this film started before it’s too late. 

I type the film into Roku, checking which streaming services have it, and nothing turns up. Not even the janky ones, like Crackle or FreeVee, have it. Hmm … check Tumblr again. Maybe someone has an illegal streaming link. While looking, I come across the score, posted by user caramiaaddio. “all this talk about goncharov but i dont see anybody posting the soundtrack???” The post reads. “Like how are you gonna talk about this movie without the music?” They’ve attached a Spotify link. And naturally, like all Scorsese movies, the score slaps. 

It’s classical, in the same vein of the Godfather theme, but it has a light and naturally melancholic feeling to it. I keep it on in one tab, and continue surfing Tumblr in the other. More memes, more art and then … no. It can’t be. 

“Is goncharov (1973) really that much less real than whatever show the destiel bloggers have been watching with their extrasensory perception for 15 years?”

Listen, I may not be insufferable enough to be a Supernatural fan, but I am insufferable enough to know your Tumblr lore. Destiel bloggers (just look it up) are just watching what they want to, perceiving a show in a completely different form than it was intended. They took years and years of an existing media, and then made something different to suit their needs. Does that mean … Goncharov (1973) … is fake?

This feeling is comparable to watching the Challenger explode, or watching a truck full of kittens roll over on the highway. Here I am, having spent the past 10 minutes, obsessing over a film that doesn’t even exist. I planned the rest of my night around this. I liked posts, reblogged some, even. But there’s no movie to actually watch at the end. It was just Tumblr being … well, Tumblr. 

Okay, now you have to prank your friends to carry on the spirit and such. You send this meme to your friend Jack. He is a veteran Tumblr user, and could definitely regale you with stories from the days of justgirlythings. If you were to tell him that you liked his shoelaces, he’d know what to say. 

The Turgle, of course, is a reference to this golden age meme, BUT, more importantly, he was providing a new piece of the puzzle to the Goncharev lore. Thankfully, because Jack runs a meme account, (yeah, I know), he able to provide the source material, which can only be found in screenshot form these days. 

The above shoes were first shown to the world in 2020, and according to this Reddit thread, the shoe’s tag was generated by optical character recognition, also known as OCR. It is likely supposed to say “Gomorrah,” which yes, is an Italian mob movie, but no, wasn’t directed by Scorsese. Why this was tag was chosen for this shoe is unknown, but what is known is that this is the first time anyone on the internet had heard of Scorsese’s hidden gem, “Goncharov.”

And because I am incredibly bored on my winter break, I thought I’d use this as a lead. Investigate what these knock-off shoes had anything to do with Tumblr’s new favorite movie. After a little bit of digging, I find the next stepping stone. That poster I had mentioned before? Apparently, it was from a blog, Beelzeebub, that makes terrific fanart, along with awesome (fake) movie posters. With their last poster, which was obviously inspired by the shoe meme, a few users decided that they were going to create some fanart. Then the whole thing sort-of spiraled into a whole fake fandom, spawning memes, art, music and of course, fanfiction. Now, Beelzeebub, is creating character charts to keep everyone’s depictions in line, along with selling actual prints of the poster. 

When asked about how it feels to inspire an entire fandom, Beelzeebub responds like a true champ. “It’s a bit surreal to be honest,” they say. “But I’m enjoying how many creative people joined in :)”

And isn’t that the true spirit of Goncharov? Making something for fun, only for it to explode and expand into true creativity and expression? With just a pair of botched shoes from 2020, Beelzeebub was inspired to make a joke poster for their friends, and by chance, millions have been exposed to the fake movie. As of November 21st, the official Tumblr Instagram account has posted about the movie, thereby introducing their 1.1 Million followers to the pure art known as Goncharov, and confusing a whole new group of users. 

“I have never heard of this movie in my entire life,” one comment reads with several likes. Ahh … so the cycle starts again.

Anyway, what’s your favorite scene from Gocharov? 

Just because you’re vegan doesn’t mean you have to miss out on classic holiday favorites. These 10 items will have your Turkey Day cravings satisfied, no turkeys harmed. 

1. Field Roast Hazelnut & Cranberry Roast

Plant-based roasts may not have the best reputation (ahem… looking at you Tofurky), but this seasonal item is sure to please any crowd. The sausage-based roast is filled with a variety of fall-inspired flavors, like roasted hazelnuts, crystallized ginger, apples, and cranberries. However, the star feature is the roast’s puff pastry shell, making for a unique and flakey experience. This item can be found at Sprouts and Whole Foods, but goes quickly, so get it while you can!

2. Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Rolls

Trader Joe’s Cinnamon Rolls are already vegan (even if it’s accidental), and make for an easy and yummy treat. But you want to treat your family to an especially fall breakfast, try the seasonal Pumpkin Rolls. Pop the rolls in the oven for a few minutes, then top it off with the speciality pumpkin spice icing.

3. Treeline Spreadable Cheese

What’s Thanksgiving without a cheese board assortment? Treeline’s selection of cashew based cheeses are soft, French-style, and oh-so good. They also have a variety of flavors, like Herb Garlic, Scallion, Sea Salt & Pepper, and Chipotle-Serrano Pepper. Pair it with some vegan crackers (like Simple Truth’s Cranberry Oat Crisps), and you have a perfect pre-Thanksgiving snack.

4. Favorite Day Pumpkin Pie Ice Cream

This limited edition frozen dessert from Target is sure to satisfy your pumpkin spice craving before or after Thanksgiving Day. The almond-milk base is chockful of pumpkin pie chunks (yes, you’re hearing that right), and even rings up for dollars under Ben & Jerry’s plant based options. 

5. Turkey and Stuffing Seasoned Kettle Chips

Turkey-flavored chips that are vegan? Sounds like a dream come true! The good people at Trader Joe’s have concocted this yummy and surprisingly vegan combo. Eat them alone, or find a good dip to pair it with (Hello, TJ’s carmelized onion). 

6. Tofurky Savory Gravy

Okay, I know I’ve already made my distaste for Tofurky known, but this gravy is out of this world. It’s just like I remember from my pre-veg days, but better. Put it on everything, mashed potatoes, Holiday Roast, stuffing… the list goes on! 

7. Sprouts Green Bean Casserole

Thanksgiving isn’t thanksgiving until the green bean casserole hits the table. If you’re too busy (or lazy!) to make this dish from scratch, Sprouts has an amazing premade meal that just needs to be popped in the oven or microwave. Don’t forget to top it off with some  fried onions too! (Most are vegan but make sure to check the label). 

8. Sprouts Sweet Potato Casserole 

Sprouts also offers an amazing sweet potato casserole, topped with a yummy brown sugar mix. This product in specific doesn’t include marshmallows, but you can get some Dandies, a great gelatin-free marshmallow brand, at most health stores. 

9. 365 Value Stuffing

Whole Foods’ generic brand, 365, has a great option for vegan stuffing fans. It’s only available during the holidays, so if you love stuffing, stock up for the rest of the year. It also pairs amazingly with cranberry, and of course, the aforementioned vegan gravy.

10. Daiya Pumpkin Cheesecake

What do you get when you combine a New York favorite, and a seasonal flavor? Daiya Pumpkin Cheesecake, that’s what! It’s also gluten free, so if you have any GF friends, they’ll be safe with this special dessert. Luckily, Daiya products can be found at most local chains, so Kroger, Publix, and even Walmart will have you covered.

By Maria Puntus. Maria is an international student from Moscow, Russia. She is a currently junior graphic design student at SCAD minoring in user experience, but she’s taken a special interest in fashion journalism as well.

This article was submitted by a contributing writer. To have an article published with The Connector, email editor@scadconnector.com.

Today, the fashion industry faces a prevalent back-to-vintage movement, but also a reflection on ideas that have no age, with one main concept being Greek Mythology. 

SCAD alumni are keeping up with the trend, offering their own interpretation of legends and myths. Anh Dao, a fashion designer originally from Vietnam, graduated this summer with a senior collection devoted to Venus. He proves that even classical topics can be seen through the prism of modernity and technological advances and have no limitations to further elaboration. 

What is the objective of your senior Venus collection?

Dao: My collection is all about classical ideal theory upgraded into a more diverse direction. I use a lot of images from Renaissance Art and modern architecture, and I like to fuse images that don’t usually seem like they would go together.

How did you come up with this reimagination idea?

Dao: When I was growing up, I was very interested in mythical stories that told fairytales about goddesses. They were so different from what I was experiencing as a child. I’ve also always been interested in going to the museum and seeing all that ancient history. And I was inspired by that mythical energy. 

What part of the development process do you enjoy the most?

Dao: I enjoy the research in the beginning as well as making collages and drawing. I also love looking for ideas in vintage garments. I like going to the thrift store and picking out different kinds of things that people seem to throw away. It’s detailed vintage, which helps add the pepper to my design. 

Which creators or designers inspire you?

Dao: I love the work of Alexander McQueen. He was always the one that inspired me the most as an artist and as a designer. He always tried to push the limit in finding different ways to renew ideas that we’d already seen. Some like it, some do not, but [McQueen] was always trying to reinvent existing designs.

Is there anything that you hope to prove with your art?

Dao: I want to stand for diversity. The new standards of beauty now are all about that. You know, size zero is water. We’re told to be thin, and we’re also seeing that kind of standard in classical awkward goddesses’ beauty — a certain symmetrical, proportionate face. Those are speaking to a very limited audience. But I want my brand to branch out and reach different kinds of women, different kinds of people from different races. Different backgrounds. I also want to be represented as a new idea of duty. 

Anh Dao represents a young generation that is inspired to challenge the creative world and global society. His gowns are tender yet confident; they speak color and structure through volume, layers and contrasts. Blue merges with magenta — blue and grey are never pure colors — but they’re fractioned into shades and tones. His designs are bold and playful, and they give a sense of movement — of coming and going. Those ways, according to legend, gave birth to Venus. 

Personally, as I look at the collection, I can see how the vision of the modern woman and her essence merge into one in Dao’s pieces. His collection perfectly showcases the balance between elegance and power. His dresses are comfortable, yet chic. It’s every woman’s dream, right? 

The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.

“The Seventh Sacrament” by Julia Wood

Trigger Warning: suicide, violence, child sexual abuse

“Man shall not lie with young boys as he does with a woman, for it is an abomination,” (Leviticus 18-22). 

“Boy molesters will not inherit the kingdom of God,” (1 Corinthians).

Iridescent light shone through the stained-glass windows of Wycliff Cathedral on the second Sunday of Easter, 1989. Blue and purple shadows danced upon the tiled floor as a procession of eight-year-olds entered the vast, grey-brick building. Maria Marino, her palms pressed firmly together in a prayer-like manner, shuffled behind Anna Muzzi, her four-foot-nothing classmate, whose blonde hair was typically fashioned in pigtails, though, on this day she wore her hair down, a white veil covering the crown of her head. Maria wished to pluck every last golden strand from Anna’s misshapen little head until she was left bald and hideous, but she refrained from doing so, reminding herself of how utterly embarrassed her mother would be by her sinful actions. 

As Maria continued down the large hall lined with mahogany pews, her head could not keep still. She glanced around at the harrowing statues of Saint Mary and Joseph, the eerie, framed portrait of Sister Jude Agnes, who died in a car accident back in ‘83, and the massive crucifix erected behind the grand marble altar. Her stare held at the wooden fixture, entranced by the ghastly face of a dying Jesus Christ. She tried to pull her eyes away, but something about His sorrowful eyes and familiar brown hair spoke to her; He was just like her: brunette and brooding.

While she focused on the wooden carving, she failed to notice how low Anna’s veil dropped to the ground. Too enticed by Christ, she accidentally stepped upon the girl’s covering, jolting her head back. Anna let out a cry and the procession halted for a moment; the children confused as a sudden outburst had not been a part of their rehearsal the night prior. The parishioners’ faces were blank until Bishop Renaldo stepped out into the apse of the cathedral. He passed the crossing, then sauntered toward the two girls, calm as ever. When he arrived in front of Anna, he outstretched his old, wrinkly hand and lifted the child back to her feet, shooting a sly grin in Maria’s direction before beginning the Mass.

What seemed like hours upon hours passed as she knelt in the pews, incense engulfing her senses in a thick haze. Between dozing off, she watched her brother, Marco, just four years her elder, serve the priest as an altar boy. He fetched and carried, brought up the gifts of the Eucharist and the Holy Bible, and rang the altar bell before Bishop Renaldo sang the Eucharistic hymn. 

Finally, the schoolchildren, adorned in their white dresses and black suits, formed a line to receive the Second Sacrament: Holy Communion. Maria was accustomed to taking a sip of her mother’s Barbera during supper, but was nonetheless thrilled to taste the Blood of Christ. As it touched her lips, however, her face puckered in dissatisfaction, for she was simply drinking watered-down grape juice. As she turned to smile for her mother’s Kodak, a bit of red trickled down her chin and onto her perfectly pearl-colored dress, nearly causing a heart attack. She trudged back to her seat, stained dress prominent on most of the film, and searched desperately for her older brother, who always gave her an encouraging smile in times of trouble, but he was nowhere to be seen now that the ceremony had ended. The rest of the Marino family exited the cathedral, along with the other 300 Catholics, and crossed onto North Whitaker Street, where their four-story brownstone awaited their effervescent arrival. But what, rather, who they found hanging from the living room ceiling fan would haunt them forever.

***

In the Winter of 1999, mere days before Christmas Eve, a copy of The Blue Tribune appeared on every porch and driveway in Little Italy, from 3rd and Union to Lovering Avenue. Maria Marino, cheeks red and eyes watery from the frigid temperatures that gnawed at her exposed skin, picked up the plastic-wrapped paper on her walk home from school. She flicked off the wetness from the melted snow with her nylon gloves, wiped her feet on the jute doormat, and stepped inside her home, warmed by the log fire her mother had kept blazing since morning. 

“Here’s the latest, Mama,” she said, kicking her shoes off, removing her coat, and sitting on the arm of her mother’s velvet chair that she had kept from the ‘70s. “The Eagles won against the Patriots, but they’re not makin’ the playoffs…”

Flipping the pages, she said, “The Russian election has been declared valid by the Central Electoral Commission… shares are rising in Taiwan, Japan, and Singapore… and the Diocese is…”

Maria’s lungs felt as if they would collapse if she continued reading the article on the center pages.

“What’s going on with the Diocese, Maria?” her mother asked, urging her to continue.

Her eyes burned as tears slipped and landed onto a photograph of Marco, blurring the black and white image. He looked happy, but she cried because she missed him, not having seen that portrait since his funeral ten years ago. The Marinos found themselves living in a perpetual state of mourning from that day onward. Maria herself was too young to understand the gravity of what had occurred, but nonetheless she suffered alongside her family. Her father had not stopped drinking since the funeral reception began and, after eight years of whiskey in coffee cups, his heart decided it had had enough. All that was left was Maria and her mother and the stack of survivors benefits that superseded their loved ones.

“The Diocese is being investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation following a slew of suicides in Wilmington. These tragedies are believed to have resulted from years of sexual abuse at the hands of the Archbishop, Jerome Renaldo. A suicide letter allegedly written by Daniel Cera, a 15-year-old altar server at Wycliff Cathedral, states that the Archbishop had not only assaulted him over the course of six years but, to his knowledge, also molested four of his peers… Marco Marino, a former Wycliff altar boy, who committed suicide in 1989, is suspected to be another victim.”

Maria’s mother gasped as she spoke, petrified by the words on the page.

Without hesitation, Maria stood, threw her jacket and gloves back on, tied her shoes, and opened the front door.

“I’m going out for a smoke.”

Snow crunched under her feet as she opened the garage, grabbing a bright red canister and a fresh pack of Marlboro Reds. Tearing the wrapping with her teeth, she pulled out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, and blindly searched through her coat pocket until she felt a frigid Zippo. She lit the cigarette and gazed at the cathedral across the street. She had not willingly stepped foot in that building since she turned eighteen, straying away from the hypocrisy that festered amongst the congregation, but the rage that seethed in her veins carried her to the front door.

Luckily, the entrance was unlocked, and the doors opened with a slight tug. As Maria entered, cigarette lazily hanging from her mouth, she peered throughout the nave, noticing the complete absence of parishioners as her boots loudly echoed each time they smacked the beige tile. As if she were on a mission, she marched straight toward the rectory located in the basement. 

“Bishop,” she called out in a sickeningly sweet tone as she started down the stairs, “It’s me. Maria Marino. It seems you were quite fond of my older brother. I’d like to talk to you about him.”

He heard her every word as clear as a blue sky on a summer’s day, but the cowardly clergyman stayed silent in his bed, covering his ears with a pillow like a child frightened by a thunderstorm. The only thing separating the two was a wooden door and a golden doorknob that would not budge. Maria placed the canister next to her feet and pulled a bobby-pin from her hair in attempt to pick the lock, but to no avail. 

“Just open the door, Jerome. Let’s have a nice conversation.” 

She took one final drag of her cigarette, aimlessly tossed it on the floor, and started to bang her fists incessantly against the door, so much so that they began to blister and bleed. She shouted repeatedly, “Come out, you sick f-ck! You can’t claim sanctuary here! I know what you did! We all know what you did!” 

But Bishop Renaldo never came out of that room, no matter how loud she screamed or how hard she hit, and in the end, it made no difference. Maria had made her mind up as soon as she had read the news; she didn’t want him tried and convicted like any common criminal. She wanted him dead.

In a matter of seconds, she bent down, looped her arm through the plastic handle on the red canister, and unscrewed its cap. Then, retracing her steps, she allowed the gasoline to soak into the embroidered rugs, which lined the flooring from the basement to the altar upstairs, and onto the highly flammable pews. All the while, even as the putrid gas burned her nose, she smiled.

The can eventually ran dry, and she opened the steel doors once more, greeted by a cool wind. She stood in the doorway just long enough to light another cigarette, casually puffing the tobacco, discarding it when she had gotten her fix, and ambling on back home to find her mother in the same position as when she had left. Everything had changed, and yet nothing was different. 

As she peered out her bedroom window, Maria’s brown eyes glowed bright amongst the darkness as Wycliff went up in flames.

Within the last decade, Atlanta has become one of the best cities to see street art in the United States. Whether you’re biking past the monumental murals on the BeltLine or watching graffiti artists in action at Krog Street Tunnel, local street art has kept our city quite colorful over the years. If you find yourself feeling just as inspired but aren’t ready to face a possible vandalism charge, look no further. Thanks to Studio W.I.P.’s latest Atlanta location, you can unleash your creativity with friends and family in a vibrant new way — complete with a 16-by-20-inch canvas, multiple cans of spray paint and a collection of over 300 graffiti stencils at your disposal.

Adam Dittman, Chicago-based artist and founder of Studio W.I.P., explains that the studio’s mission statement is found within its acronym. “The name ‘Studio W.I.P.’ is a wink and a nod to artists everywhere that have written ‘W.I.P.’ (or ‘work in progress’) on their artwork before, but it also goes much deeper than that,” he says. “Our mission statement is that we’re all works in progress, and together, we can strive to be good stewards of our space, our community and our art in both Chicago and Atlanta.”

Dittman unveiled Studio W.I.P.’s second location in Atlanta’s upper west side this past July. “Atlanta is just an awesome city,” he says. “I’ve always had an affinity for it, so after getting settled with Studio W.I.P. in Chicago, I really wanted to see if we could bring this down south.” 

But long before opening the studio’s first location in Chicago, Dittman fell in love with street art in his hometown of Detroit. “There’s a place called Eastern Market in Detroit, and I was there all the time as a kid,” he says. “They’ve always had these big, bright murals that I was in awe of.” Although Dittman eventually moved away from the area, “those murals were always the one thing [he] wanted to see” every time his family returned for a visit.

Once Dittman relocated to Chicago, his love for street art only grew larger. “In 2018, I began collaborating with local muralists and leading these one-off workshops — very similar to what our guests can experience at a Spray Paint and Sip class, but on a much larger scale.” 

Back then, Dittman and his team would come together and paint a wall in the Chicago community after teaching new street artists the basics of graffiti and spray painting. But about a year ago, Dittman evolved his workshops into the beloved Spray Paint and Sip classes that Chicago — and now Atlanta — can’t get enough of.

In February 2021, Dittman and his team at Studio W.I.P. decided to host a couple’s workshop for Valentine’s Day. But instead of taking cans of spray paint to the streets of Chicago, couples experimented with spray paint and graffiti stencils on a canvas that they could bring home. This unique take on street art quickly became a fun and creative weekend activity that continues to bring together couples, friends and families alike.

The Spray Paint and Sip class at Studio W.I.P. takes the concept of similar B.Y.O.B. art experiences in the area and flips it on its head. For guests that are over the age of 21, Studio W.I.P. recommends bringing a bottle of wine or a hard seltzer to sip on while spray painting. However, Dittman wants to emphasize that Spray Paint and Sip classes at Studio W.I.P. are an awesome family experience for curious muralists of all ages. 

“Some of those other B.Y.O.B. art experiences aren’t really designed to be family-friendly,” Dittman says. “Some of them require a little more skill and a little more patience than we do. But here, even if you’re eight years old, you’re bound to create something pretty cool.”

“And [Spray Paint and Sip] isn’t really a sit-down experience,” he adds. “You’re up on your feet, you’re moving around, and it’s kind of aerobic in a way.”

Dittman laughs. “We pretty much break every rule that those standard experiences have.” 

Studio W.I.P. welcomes artists of all skillsets, even beginners, and especially folks that are new to creating art with spray paint. As long as you’re open to trying something new, Dittman’s team in Atlanta will show you all the tools you’ll need to make your own graffiti masterpiece. 

“What we try and teach in a Spray Paint and Sip class is a technique that’s broken down into three fundamental parts of spray painting — distance, pressure and speed — which will help in learning how to properly use the can,” says Dittman. “Even if you never use spray paint for street art ever again, but you eventually find yourself spray painting a piece of furniture in the future… distance, pressure, speed. That’s all you need to remember, and that’s what we’ll teach you.”

Dittman encourages guests to come in with an open mind, because at Studio W.I.P., it’s more than okay to make a mistake. “We reward risks, so we want you to screw up,” he says. “Because with spray paint, it’s easier to fix than you might think.” 

In fact, Dittman says that his favorite part of the creative process at Studio W.I.P. is seeing the phenomenal growth that most guests achieve in just an hour and a half at Spray Paint and Sip. “The best part is at the end, where people who may have struggled at the beginning finally become so stoked to see their final product,” he says. “And even though some of it is — if I have a critical eye — not the best, it doesn’t matter. Because our goal at Studio W.I.P. is to facilitate a safe and creative experience for you and your loved ones.”

However, Dittman makes it clear that this is a space that supports all types of creative experiences, and that Studio W.I.P. isn’t just limited to graffiti. “If you want to express yourself with graffiti in our environment, by all means, we support that — but our experience is not geared towards that,” says Dittman. “Nor do I pretend to teach people how to be a professional street artist at a Spray Paint and Sip class. That’s a skillset that is learned with time and through different experiences. Here, we just want you to encourage you to get creative and have fun.”

Studio W.I.P. also wants to emphasize — especially to SCAD students — that they are always looking for new instructors to hire in the Atlanta area. “But you don’t necessarily have to be a spray paint artist to work with us,” Dittman says. “We’ve hired people who are good at writing, we’ve hired people that help us with marketing … but ultimately, we’re all about working with multifaceted artists that do more than just paint.” If you’re interested in working at Studio W.I.P., email your resume to info@studiowip.biz with “Atlanta Team” in the subject line. 

The best way to sign up for a Spray Paint and Sip class at Studio W.I.P. in Atlanta is through their website. Classes are offered Wednesday through Sunday. For more information, check out Studio W.I.P. on TikTok and on Instagram at @thestudiowip.

The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com

“How to Date a Boy you Hate for a Year and a Half” by Teddie Thompson

Be nice to him. Sometimes lonely men will take any affection you throw at them and see it as romantic interest. Divvy out affection sparingly, otherwise, you’ll be swatting them off like horseflies. You laugh at his jokes because he’s funny, you smile at him because he’s nice, you talk to him because he’s your friend. You think you’re safe, you think the flirting is a joke. And then suddenly you’ve been dating for two months.

Four months in. You like him a lot, but is that enough? Maybe love is a skill, maybe it takes time to get good at it. Good at recognizing it. They say love is hard to understand, hard to identify. This could be nice, you tell yourself. Prince Charming, though he’s not very charming. Prince Adequate and Handsome could give you a stable life. You could be boring like your sisters and their husbands. You could go skiing and join the church and stay at home. That could be what love is. You have the sinking feeling, you know this flower isn’t going to bloom. You keep waiting.

Six months in. You’re waiting for it to feel like Jenna. The Greeks believed there are 7 types of love, maybe romantic love sucks more than platonic, affectionate or even pining love. She does that thing with her eyes when she’s sad, she smiles like the moon peeking over a canyon, and she does that vocal fry that makes you laugh every time. That’s a type of love. What does he do? Tell jokes you hate. That must be love too. Why can’t he just be her? Why can’t he make you feel like her? You just can’t grasp it. Maybe it takes time. Maybe there’s another shoe that needs to drop, someone’s holding the laces. Somethings gotta give, they say.

You told her, before you and he started dating. You told her everything, every pain and every triumph, the moment you saw her and you knew something you didn’t know. She thanks you, and lets you go. You try to let her go too.

Nine months in. He likes politics. He explains it to you, but you don’t have the energy to care or keep up with his mean friends that laugh when you ask “Who’s that?” at UN conferences. She loves explaining things, even if you ask her who the character you’ve seen a million times is, she laughs. Everything he shows you is fine, just fine. You like different movies, and different music, you’re only half-listening when he tells you about them. But when she says it, you couldn’t take notes that would rival your attention. No one’s ever told you you have good music taste, no one likes your movies, no one wants to do things with you. Not even him. But she does.

His birthday, 10 months. Give him gifts, be the best you can be. Tell him you love him. He’ll never say it first. Ask him about that, he’s vague in response. At dinner, tell your friends you’ve been thinking of breaking up with him. They say, you’re leading him on, he’s a good guy and you’re manipulating him. But no, you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It has it’s ups and downs, there are moments when you plan your wedding and moments when you draft a text that starts with “I’m sorry … ” Begin to have a general disregard for how he feels.

One year. Hate yourself, because you really do like him, just not the way you’re supposed to. Dislike talking to him. You feel like you’re lying. He’s boring and his jokes aren’t funny. The thought of “What if I never find another Prince Adequate and Handsome” kept you hanging on by a thread, but now its time to leave for college.

Break up. In the Starbucks drive-thru at 8:30 AM on June 1. Your friends have all gone to pride, maybe you’re jealous. They post coming out stories, and you realize that maybe you weren’t interested in men because you were with him, but you were barely with him. Maybe you don’t look at men because you’re over them. He would show you pretty girls, and you would agree. He would show you handsome men, and you nit-picked.

She’s dating someone now. You can’t tell if he’s actually an asshole, or if you just hate him because you wish you were him. But no, even her sister thinks he’s an asshole, and it’s a weird feeling. You know what she deserves, you’d give her the world if you could. But all you can do is smile, and hope she befalls the same fate you did.

Art school. There’s a fear among us art students about “the great beyond” or what happens after we graduate from school and we’re thrust into the world and have to make a living off of our passions. With the creative industry and its jobs being so dependent on our technical skills and personal voice, thoughts resembling questions like “am I good enough?” or “am I doing enough work?” begin to bubble to the surface of our minds and plague us regularly. But it’s important to know that most of the time, success is far from linear and you are not a failure if you take a while to get your “dream job” or if you end up in a completely different spot from where you were originally planning. 

Tim Kaminski, also known online as “randomspirits,” is a concept artist and educator currently working as an Art Director at Robot Entertainment, a video game developer responsible for titles such as the “Orcs Must Die!” franchise. Previously working on other big games such as “Brawl Stars” and “Clash Royale,” his personal journey after finishing school as with an M.F.A. from SCAD in Illustration and his thoughts on the industry is something many of us can find inspiring.

Most current upper class college students and recent graduates were placed in a special situation due to COVID, with many of us having done a full academic year or two completely online to curb the virus spread. Not only that, but many who graduated during that time had difficulties in finding employment as a whole, let alone entry level jobs in positions related to the niche degrees that we study in at SCAD, limiting the number of options they had for what they were going to do. Kaminski had faced a similar dilemma during his own academic career and chose to go through the path of obtaining further education.

“When I went to school, the economy had just completely crashed and tanked,” Kaminski said in an interview with The Connector. “I went to school and finished when a lot of people were thinking that they had to keep working, but I was like, ‘I’m checking out, I’m gonna go and focus on education because right now it’s hard to make money, so why not kind of build for the future?’ Even though it technically was getting me further into debt in an economical crash.”

Kaminski then went on to study at SCAD for an M.F.A. in Illustration four years after getting a B.F.A. at Northern Michigan University. “I wanted to take advantage of the situation and just focus on education because it was a better time than any other, really.” He decided to do so because while he always had aspirations to enter the creative industry as a concept artist, he finished his tenure at Northern Michigan University without any work to show for it.

However, after he was able to refine his portfolio during his M.F.A., he was quickly able to land an art director role and he has been moving up ever since to where he is today. Now, on top of his work at Robot Entertainment, he runs an online shop selling his work, regularly mentors younger aspiring artists and most famously, runs and participates in one of the most famous #Swordtember prompt lists annually. 

It took a lot of time and hard work to get to his current position and one of the many things that Kaminski emphasizes, both online and during alumni talks at SCAD, is that it is incredibly unlikely to land your “dream job” from the very start. In between his B.F.A. and M.F.A., he had gotten himself a job in graphic design, because even though he already had his eyes set on doing concept art and game art, he graduated his Bachelor’s with no portfolio to show for it. “I really disliked it,” he remembered, “I was out of there as soon as possible.”

So it is incredibly important to continue to work towards your true goals and remember not to stay stagnant. During this process and even after landing the job of your dreams, it is crucial that you manage a good work-life balance so that you stay happy and healthy throughout. During his talks as an alumni mentor, he makes sure to get his point across on it.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re creating, like, the most amazing work out there, if you are constantly depleting your mental wellbeing. I understand the need to fulfill job requirements, but knowing when to take breaks and slow down is important in sustaining your mentality.”

So in finality, if you ever find yourself (which, in all honesty, is quite likely) in positions such as these, remember to take care and be good to yourself, because finding career success is not a straight path and the journey is different for everyone.

And in the meantime, especially if you are into concept design, be sure to check out Tim Kaminski’s collections of amazing tutorials for sale on his online shop, which also includes beautiful art prints and join his Discord channel to keep up with him and other like-minded individuals.

Romance books are no stranger to judgement and criticism, although it’s considered to be the most popular genre in the United States. This Valentine’s Day, I wanted to get insight into this genre from fellow classmate and Graduate student, Galyn Chatman. After reading her work in our “Autobiography and Memoir” class, I wasn’t surprised to learn she was a published romance writer. 

Chatman is a SCAD M.F.A. writing student in Atlanta. When she entered into the program, she had a clear passion for writing romance, but she didn’t initially initially begin with that focus. In fact, her home library is filled with humorous nonfiction and parody cook books like “Fifty Shades of Chicken” by F.L. Fowler. Reading and writing romance, is a fairly new discovery for her. 

But once she finally cracked open the spine of “Fifty Shades of Grey,” the number one bestselling romance book of all time, Chatman was hooked. She connected to attraction, the idea of how diverse and individualized attraction is and the incredible surprise when that attraction is reciprocated. Romance is unplanned, and unexpected. It’s exciting to see what makes that person feel special. And in the romance genre, very few things are off limits. It’s a section of art where people can genuinely explore.  

Getting Published

After winning a flash fiction contest and submitting to several of her favorite indie romance anthologies, she got published – but not without using a pen name. Having a professional career outside of her M.F.A work and a young daughter, Chatman was worried what people would think when she applied to a job, H.R. googled her name and found her published in “12 Days of Kinkmas.” So, that’s when G. C. Elizabeth was born. 

When I asked why she enjoyed writing romance so much, Chatman said, “I like the freedom. The attraction and the intimacy is just another layer of expression.” There are so many layers to romance, more than lust and what happens behind the bedroom door. “They’re stories that feel complete, there’s nothing missing from the human experience with romance.” 

Rules for Romance

It wasn’t until she began applying to contests and submitting to open calls that she realized there were rules for writing romance. “Morality is big. They want stories about humans meeting each other that contain literary integrity,” said Chatman. No matter if it was general romance or Harlequin, all the agents she encountered wanted writers to stick to these general rules:  

1. All intimacy scenes must be consensual. And all characters must be adult.
2. No devices (alcohol, drugs, etc.) used to make someone engage in the act. “They’re looking for literature. Not porn,” Chatman said. 
3. The love interests must meet or communicate in every chapter.
4. All stories must end with a happily ever after, or a happy for now. 
5. Frown upon affairs. They don’t like people cheating or leaving their families. 
6. OWN voices is a growing demand, the more LGBTQ and women of color representation – the better. 

Attraction is so diverse, and every individual and relationship dynamic is completely unique. With more stories sharing and exploring these variety of attractions, the more honest the story becomes. 

But what about intimacy?

But there’s so much criticism for romance, particularly with the erotica genre. There’s the stereotype that it’s bad writing. But myself, and millions of readers across the globe, disagree. “It’s more than sex,” said Chatman. “It comes down to the people. The components of attraction. We like each other and this is surprising because we didn’t plan this. We’re writing about what makes people feel special.”

From the writing perspective, Chatman said, “Next time you want to trash romance. Try writing a kissing scene. It’s impossible to write a good kissing scene, that isn’t cliché, feels natural and makes the reader believe it.”

She even found that experimenting with perspective and point of view really helped her in writing. Three of her four published short stories are written in second person point of view. Where the reader is being told what’s happening to them. For example writing, “You are going up the stairs… you feel giddy.” 

“It’s so hard to write intimacy,” Chatman said. “And it’s easy to write bad intimacy. There’s describing the acts, then there’s knowing the character. Knowing that particular way he looks at her that makes her toes curl.” It’s about the human components of intimacy, beyond just the physical. That’s where good romance and good storytelling is. 

You can read G. C. Elizabeth’s work on her website, and find her in a variety of romance anthologies. Treat yourself, and fall in love through fiction this Valentine’s Day.  

This article was submitted by a contributing writer. To submit your own work for The Connector, email features@scadconnector.com.

The Fans Strike Back: A recap of Atlanta’s Ultimate “Star Wars” Experience by Darren Okafor

On February 5, the Exhibition Hub Art Center in Doraville wrapped up their latest exhibition, The Fans Strike Back. For those unaware, The Fans Strike Back is a touring exhibition of exclusive figurines and fan-made statues of iconic characters from the “Star Wars” movies. While the exhibit is still fairly new, they’ve already traveled the globe to big cities like Berlin and New York.

At the Doraville exhibition, I was welcomed at the front entrance by executive producer John Zaller, who not only oversees this exhibit but many others like it — such as the Claude Monet Immersive Experience that was hosted at the same venue last fall. 

As soon as you step foot into the exhibit, two of the most familiar and friendly faces in the Star Wars universe will greet you. Of course, I’m talking about R2-D2 and C-3PO, standing side by side in their life-sized glory. I was amazed by the detail of the figures, from the scratches in R2’s paint to the mix of silver and gold in 3PO’s coating. But I was even more amazed when Zaller told me that both statues were completely handmade by one man, Daniel Prada, the owner of the collection, who built them in his youth. Zaller bent down and patted R2-D2’s chassis, informing me that under all the intricate paintwork and detailing was the drum from a recycled washing machine. 

This was a reoccurring theme throughout the exhibit. An almost seven-foot-tall figurine of Chewbacca had an old bag remade into a bandolier, and a row of stormtroopers with old boots were painted white to fit within the uniform. While these details might seem simple on their own, it’s when they are put together to make these costumes and statues that they become something more. Not to mention the amazing attention to detail that went into making them accurate to the films. There were often times where I couldn’t tell whether a costume was fan-made or taken straight off of a “Star Wars” set.

However, it’s not just the amazing figurines and statues that draw you in. The team behind The Fans Strike Back exhibit have truly gone above and beyond to provide guests with a full “Star Wars” immersive experience. 

The entire exhibit was organized in chronological order of the events in the movies. In the beginning, fans could see items from the prequel era movies such as a Tusken Raider, Jawas and a large replica of Anakin’s pod racer from The Phantom Menace. In the middle, there were famous locations from the original trilogy, such as an icy hallway on Hoth, Emperor Palpatine’s throne room and Jabba’s palace (with a carbonite-frozen Han Solo included). 

By the end of the exhibit, fans could visit newer characters and figures from the sequel era of the movies, such as Kylo Ren and his death troopers. Throughout these sections were bits and pieces of information from every movie, including fun trivia that would interest even the most knowledgeable “Star Wars” fan. 

There was also an extra segment at The Fans Strike Back that covered non-canon characters and characters from properties outside of the movies, such as “Star Wars” animated TV show, “The Clone Wars.” This section was just as good as the rest — it included a samurai-inspired stormtrooper set of armor that had to be one of the coolest and most original pieces of cosplay that I’ve ever seen. I obviously wasn’t the only one who thought this, as the armor won Best Cosplay at a cosplay competition in Japan in 2016. I even saw an exclusive figure of Ralph McQuarrie’s original Boba Fett design that I really, REALLY want now. 

The final section of the tour included a VR experience, and the crew was kind enough to set up a headset and chair just for me. As I sat down and placed the headset on, I was taken on a journey through the galaxy. I zoomed past asteroids and traveled through hyperspace, all while my chair matched the action happening on screen. 

Once the VR experience was over, Zaller showed me a painting, commissioned by Daniel Prada, that represented him as a child in the “Star Wars” universe. Daniel had been building this collection since the age of ten years old, and with every new statue he created, he brought the “Star Wars” story to life. I think that’s what really made this exhibit special. 

As I went through the tour and saw the ingenuity necessary to make these statues, I also saw the childlike imagination and passion that went into them. As a kid and a fan, your dream is to be in the “Star Wars” universe, and you’d do anything to feel remotely close to it. For me, that took the form of buying toy lightsabers and practicing the now-useless skill of twirling them behind my back as Anakin does in Episode 3. For Prada and the members of The Fans Strike Back team, that dream created this amazing immersive experience. 

If you have a chance to check out this exhibit during it’s next stop, it’s a great place for those with an interest in cosplay. The craftsmanship put into the costumes and statues is sure to spark the inspiration for your next great creation, and it’s a great place to dress up in cosplay and take pictures. I’ve heard that Jabba’s palace has seen many slave Leia cosplays in its day. 

The Fans Strike Back was a fun and family-friendly experience that I think anyone could enjoy. While I am a diehard “Star Wars” fan, I think this exhibit could also be engaging and worthwhile for casual fans or just those with a mild interest in “Star Wars” and the sci-fi genre. 

Although this exhibition has closed in Atlanta, The Fans Strike Back will be traveling to multiple other cities across the United States within the next year. If you’re interested in attending, be sure to find a city near you on their website. For more information about upcoming immersive experiences at the Exhibition Hub Art Center in Doraville, click here to see their agenda.