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Collaborative Arts publication

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THE HAMILTON REVIEW transcends the traditional arts magazine in that it provides a digital collaborative platform for the arts and academia. The basic premise of this monthly online publication allows for anyone interested in the arts to work with others that share the interest. The publication is mainly targeted at visual artists (painters, photographers, sculptors, dancers, etc.), musicians, poets and prose writers, spoken word artists, and philosophers to inspire and be inspired by the work of one another.


Each month, contributors will have the option to collaborate with someone they know or to be paired randomly with a fellow contributor. From each pair one contributor will be assigned the task of creating an initial piece of work. He or she will have two weeks to create this work. The partner will then have two weeks to create a “response” to the initial work. For example, a dancer and a poet choose to be paired up with each other. The poet spends two weeks writing a sonnet. Upon completion the poem is forwarded to the dancer. The dancer, inspired by the mood or content of the sonnet, then records an interpretive piece as a response. The two works are then displayed next to one another on adjacent pages of the publication.

a collaborative arts publication made possible by the David Smallen Fund for Creativity



Click on a pair to jump to that specific collaboration



Click the corners or sides of the page in order to flip to the next collaboration



Click the             button to return to the table of contents

Table of Contents



1 Nate Livingston & Carrie Rudd


2 Kate Bickmore & Caroline Grunewald


3 Robert Knight & Anderson Tuggle


4 Will Newman & Sean Henry-Smith


5 Bonnie Wertheim & Sawyer Konys


John Rufo & Ali Crivelli


Nile Berry & Zoe Bodzas


8 Benjamin Salzman & Deanna Perez


9 Xenia Tiajoloff & Zoe Tessler


10 Izzy Bradford & Sam Wagner


11 Chris Labora & Nick Brewer


12 Jamie Lee & Sam Silverman


13 Scott Milne & Alison Ritacco


14 Mattie Theobald & Kina Viola


15 Nicholas Geisler & McKenzie Foster






The next morning the wind was gone, and the sun was its usual forgetful self. The bodies had gone south like tumbleweeds in the wind. – Stephen King


Branches shift and strain

Even as roots tell me not to go

But how long can I lie

On suburban death row


A sidewalk riddled with cracks

Where wily weeds are growing

Wholesome but not whole

I am cursed with the knowing


In the garden stands a tree

It must be forgetful as the sun

A clean slate to set it free

Every day moving on


Consciousness, a crippling crutch

Leaves me standing less than straight

With trunk between roots and branches

Sentimentally strained


I cannot grow fast enough

Or stand still long enough

















And weeds take hold in my mind

Where I can’t rest but also can’t find


A means of remembering

Or a way to forget

For branches have fallen

And old breaks have set


With each cycle I narrow

With each year I grow

And broken limbs still sting

Each time cold wind blows


Slowly thoughts of tumbling

Are wiped from my horizon

As cycles spiral into control

Running circles with the sun


It wanes and swells

And weeds grow in cracks

They weave into a bed

I should try to relax


After all, what’s one limb, a few weeds

To a tree like me?

A revolutionary revelation, indeed.












It started with a turn: you flipped to face the wall

then screamed your dreams out loud. I didn’t understand it all,

but I feared for your head and our bed

and us. Eyes closed and reeling, you shouted to

no one in particular FUCK THIS FUCK THIS FUCK THIS

then shook, ceased. Everything shifted. You found my curve again,

began to breathe like a yogi. I wish I’d taken before and after

photos, but the grains would’ve grated your grin

as you traced my tendrils on the pillowcase lifelessly. No—

the pictures I needed were high resolution, the words in a nice

serif font. Maybe then, when you left, I could’ve figured out why.



Brett Tries to Sleep


Divorcée in men’s trousers

here for the ride but dying fast.

Lady by title, locomotive by night,

never been daunted a day in her life.

Blazers not bombazine,
heiress of hangovers and
violations of trust with lust—
nuisance public, private, psychic.

Always the grounds for complaint,
contusion, concession.
Always the grounds, never the cream,

always daymare and never the dream
of serene walks arm in arm with a man
who’s never been daunted a day in his life,

who’s daunted sometimes, though
never concussed
with an ugly palimpsest of misplaced
passports and modifiers—
the slurrings, instead, all hers, half-forgotten
in Pamplona or Verona, not so sure. 


Concerned about daymares and slipping
into sky, cream of the clouds,
licked from fingers feeling awful and good
and high.  Clears her throat, opens
sinuses for air and trouble, labeled and ladled
down her throat because she’s never been
daunted, not a day in her life, by the
waters of something taut and haunted.






Lonely Chocolate


“Ladies and Gentlemen may I have your attention please, we regret to inform you that we are currently experiencing further unexpected delays with Flight 0817 from Boston to Chicago. Our technical crews are currently working to solve the problem. We are unsure how long the wait will be and are doing our best to get you on your flight as soon as possible.”

I peel back the sleeve of my sweater to glance at my watch. 4:00pm. We were meant to depart at two. The water I bought at the newsstand has evaporated and clings to the plastic as it too tries to escape. The plastic has also melted into the water, leaving a bitter and unpleasant taste. The chocolate I purchased out of loneliness has been reduced to a single square. It is a dangerous thing for a man to be alone.

            For the fourth time, I allow my eyes to wander over to the girl with the red scarf. She’s reading Nietzsche, and her dress flows generously over her crossed legs. I knew we had something special from the moment I saw her, at the newsstand when I was buying my lonely chocolate. There was some bohemian quality to the way she bought her Diet Coke, the way those elegant fingers graced that metallic can. A union of beauty and machine. Sometimes I am an idiot, other times I am a demigod.

            My eyes reluctantly return to that blinking vertical dash on my otherwise unblemished word document. That unholy barrier between my thoughts and my actions. There’s nothing particularly engaging about the four reasons that red packaging on bags of potatoes might lead people to believe they are healthier. Not after you’ve spent twelve hours staring at excel sheets to hypothesize it, and now four hours trying to explain it. Because I’ll wake up tomorrow and still not know why, and my boss will ask me why, and I will hand him this steaming pile of bullshit I learned how to make in college. Maybe because red is the color of blood. Maybe because of the three years I’ve spent at my firm; sleepless nights, microwave dinners, and lonely chocolate.

            She moves, and that red scarf falls slowly to her knees. I want to know everything about her. I wonder if she has noticed me yet. Perhaps one can love a stranger for an instant. The beauty of anonymity is possibility. The beauty of uncertainty is death. The beauty in death is its lack of airport gate agents.

Two hours ago, a friend called to see how I was doing. We spoke briefly but amazingly my friend brought up the intricacies of Eighteenth Century German Philosophy, and I shamelessly name-dropped just about every German Philosopher I know. Her eyes did not move to meet mine. And I ate my second to last piece of chocolate.

            The man to my right has a book carelessly propped up between his fingers. He hasn’t flipped the page in an hour. He wriggles his wrist and the smell of cigarettes wafts through the air, and his watch is more expensive than mine. There is some arrogance about the way he slouches in his chair, loins prominently forward. A true Casanova. He’s been looking at her too.

I am flying to Chicago to interview for business school. This is my last moment at home. And that girl in the red scarf could be my last chance at love. She stands. She leaves. She’s gone.

            “Ladies and gentlemen may I have your attention please. Unfortunately we are still experiencing unexpected delays…” I am unsure how long the wait will be, but I am doing my best, and I am running out of lonely chocolate.

Platinum Preferred


“Ladies and Gentlemen may  I have your attention please, we regret to inform you that we are currently experiencing further unexpected delays with Flight 0817 from Boston to Chicago. Our technical crews are currently working to solve the problem. We are unsure how long the wait will be and are doing our best to get you on your flight as soon as possible.”

Despite what the movies tell you about love at first sight, no one looks for love in an airport. Everyone wants a story, or status, or both. Fortunately for fliers, there is no better story and no more elite status than joining the Mile High Club. Also, no one wants to marry the guy they screw in an airplane bathroom.

            As a Platinum Preferred member, I have become expert in the concoction of side-glances and smiles that results in induction in the mile high club. The ideal moment, the one they tell you about in Hollywood movies and soft-core porn, does in fact exist. That moment when all you need to say “hey” and you are yanked into an airplane bathroom. Writhing around in a three-foot-by-three-foot box, you don’t even tell each other your names until after the fact or not at all. As it turns out, this fairytale does exist. Hollywood only lies about the wedding part. 

            It is all about subtlety. Pausing from my book that I still haven’t started, I glance up for a moment and look out at the rest of the passengers at my gate. I make eye contact with a young brunette. She glances back down at her book as though she didn’t notice me. It’s the only sign I need. Feeling her eyes on me again, I open up my body and put my arm around the chair next to me exposing my tattoo of a cedar waxwing, my favorite bird. Open body language is key. Never be the guy at the bar hunched over your drink.

            When boarding calls, I stay seated. The key is never to jump up when they call boarding. This shows that you are relaxed and don’t even care if you miss your flight. I take the Starbucks napkin that was going to be my bookmark and draw a smiley face on it. I never say anything until the last moment. When all I need to say is: “hey”. We start to walk over to the gate at the same time and I give her a smile as she hands her ticket to the gate agent. In the ramp, she looks back at me and I give a small wave.

Before she sits down in the aisle seat diagonally in front of me, I slip my Starbucks napkin into her front pocket. We’ll only need to say one word, that’s it. Before long, drinks and lunch get served and she still hasn’t moved. Did I pick the only human that doesn’t keep anything in their pockets? The garbage cart goes by and obstructs my view of her. After the flight attendant takes my trey, I look back over. There she is, holding my napkin with a look that I can only interpret one way. Getting up to go to the bathroom, I brush her shoulder. I could have just missed grabbing the chair during a bump but who knows.

            Latching the bathroom door, I look in the mirror and wash my hands. Fixing my hair, I rinse my mouth with a mini bottle of Listerine I stole from the hotel. Tossing it in the trash, I open the door.




The End of the World

for Emma


An explosion. It’s fire,

maybe ice mistaken for shards

of glass when my ceiling fell.

Pressure from the air pushes

us down, breaks roofs

into pieces. Or it’s losing your hair


in clumps on a pillowcase.

They said someone shaved it off

leaving you shining like a newborn.

And I want to ask what it feels like,

beginning again, growing


up from the ground. We’re still

growing. The end


is a light show, the meteor shower

I watched swaddled in a wet sleeping bag,

leaning against my seven-year-old brother.

The one my lover and I dreamed-up

from inside our tent, catching our breath

and clutching each other’s faces


in darkness. We remember

human contours, trace our outlines.


At each end, we shake the dirt

from our knees & start anew.


Ken and Barbie Throw a Party


Maybe you’ll give him shoes. He’s got a lot of shoes for a lot of occasions, but you suppose he has no shoes for the coming occasions. Not that they, the coming occasions, would be much different from the prior occasions. But he would be. Different, that is.

                  Speaking of, is he really even a he? Is it fair to call him he? Should you go with size 8, or 10? Rhinestones or leather? Both? You could always go with Crocs, and maybe some of those little rubber decorations (another headache, those things) that seem so popular now. You hold a pair in your hands, slime green, and figure they would make poor gifts. Besides, something so explicitly un-gendered is probably not the best gift for the recently re-gendered.

                  Re-gendered probably isn’t a word. Nope. But it is appropriate, isn’t it? He’s got his own gender. She’s got his own gender. She’s her own gender.  You think about this flipping through belts – that maybe made-up words are the only words that’ll work. They show creativity, thinking outside of the boxes in a way that would let him know that you care. You spent a lot of time thinking about this; the decision wasn’t made lightly. You like it? Black was always your color, and you’re going to need something to keep those pants up after the operation! Right? That’s funny.


                  “Need any help looking for something?”


                  “I’m shopping for it.”


                  “What is it?”


Goddammit. You wonder if this mall has an Orange Julius. Ya’ll (the plural! so much easier!) sucked them down on summer trips to the mall, licking the condensation off of the Styrofoam sides like the goofballs you were. You’d take trips into the small boutiques, with the cheap jewelry and middle school punk rock clothes, and try things on, strutting scandalously out of the changing rooms to show off. It wasn’t with some sort of goal in mind. It was just a way to pass the time in air conditioning. Sometimes ya’ll stole stuff. Whatever.

                  You aren’t even going to touch the tie rack. You know some enterprising young lesbians who wore ties pretty well, and maybe it would show how current you are, how very passé gender was, by giving ties to an it. You mean a her. A post-him. You should call your aforementioned lesbian friends (friend) and ask them about this later. But you also don’t want to seem insensitive. You believe that charging ahead without regard to sensitivity is the most sensitive you can be.

                  From here on out it is going to be an it, you decides. It’s probably the most accurate term anyway, right? He’s been under for an hour already, he must at least be an it by now. If that’s how they do a surgery like this, which you imagines is exactly how they do a surgery like this. You only brushed through the pre-op literature you were handed, having asked for it mostly out of courtesy.  It’s not really too difficult of a concept for you to grasp. It’s been saying she for months now; maybe even a year. He came over one night, crying, hurt in some way, and asked to live with you. That was fine – you wanted a roommate anyway, someone to pass the time with beside the moldy orange in the fridge drawer.

 You’ve found “my friend” works as well as anything in social situations. You find yourself wishing your best friend away without knowing why. Deep down, you know it’s your fault.

                  But what is more important than pronouns is the post-op party, you think, walking through the big gray metal detectors back into the mall, hoping they wouldn’t go crazy. They don’t. This party is the only reason you came back into the shitty mall anyway, picking up streamers, hats, and the obnoxious tubes people blow on festive occasions. The idea of a gift came later, as you walked back into the hospital to set up and saw the carnage of wrapping paper underneath the curtain next to his (then acceptable, anatomically at least) bed. So you rushed back out the door like any good friend would and left the nurses to set up the streamers. It wasn’t going to be up for a few hours, it wouldn’t miss you. It’d be happy you showed up at all. Purple was a good choice of streamers.

                  You walk into the sport collector’s shop by the Orange Julius (later you’ll get two, like he did for you when you got your tonsils out, when you  used to say words like “faggy” ‘cause you didn’t understand why not), remembering how much he’d loved “dude stuff.” He also liked table settings; placemats and the like. He never hosted dinner parties; but she might host dinner parties. These placemats have Derek Jeter on them – compromise! Get it, you switch hit – you’d say to old him, then it, now her – and you’ve retired your bat! So glad we still know how to joke together.

                  You remember the placemats you  brought back from Jamaica for him, thick things woven from palm fronds and splattered with red, green, and yellow paint. You picked them up in the airport on the way back, and used them one night in y’all’s apartment, and he had used words like “acceptance” and “transition” over a bottle of wine while you stared at a fucking placemat like you were supposed to know what to say. Maybe you’ll get him a table cloth, or sew one out of the one he was on now, exposed. Like a before and after picture, but a quirky one. This is your transition, woven with your acceptance. You head into another store.

                  Y’all had gotten the pills for the first stage here, together, and then picked up some Ramen. You used to come here with your grandfather to get his medicine too, and he’d get you a candy bar afterwards, or maybe a pretzel. So it wasn’t so different this time, you told yourself. Just picking up medicine, and then an Orange Julius for everyone! You recognize how little has changed in those years as you walk in double doors, past the check-out isles and greeting card stacks. The produce section is in front of you, in the distance.

You’ll get him tampons. Welcome to club, buddy, pal, girlfriend! Punch your ticket on one of those and join the club— I know you don’t really need them, do you think I didn’t do the research? It’s a joke, get it?! I also got you some goat cheese. Everyone loves goat cheese – have it on a cracker. Of course it tastes sour, cheese is supposed to taste sour. It’s mold for Christsakes! We’re eating mold!

You shouldn’t have left your watch at the hospital, but you did and it’s too late now to get it back. You’re sure everything is fine. You’ll be there when he wakes up either way. Besides, it’ll just be happy to see you, right? You’re friends, best friends, and all that matters is that you are there for them no matter what they – Maybe the tampons are a little much. Maybe she’ll just be happy to see you...

                  Shampoo! Everyone loves shampoo! And really, do we need gendered shampoo? Do we really need gendered anything, are you right? Honestly, hair is dirty, and then it’s clean. No hormones involved. Now racially marketed shampoo, you could make a killing on that. That’s a difference you can get behind. Not like segregation – like finding a meaningful difference in people. It’s not really about race at all, it’s about owning up to yourself, about knowing your limitations and strengths and body. Race is beyond the point here. You’re talking about hair! So don’t you get all up in arms.

                  Besides, even its need shampoo! Especially its! Remember when we used to watch the Adams Family together? Back at your mom’s house after school. Cousin It, with the hair that covered his entire body? I’m not calling you a freak! Just, like, you’re an it, and he’s the It, and so you both need shampoo! Don’t make this about me – I’m not calling you a freak, you just said the word “freak.”

‘You’. That’s it! YOU! That’s what you are, a you!

But really – they’re just pronouns right? I threw you a party. Isn’t that enough?


about the contributors...


Nile Berry is a Public Policy major from New York City. When he’s not producing videos or writing he can be found playing football, urban exploring, or trying seasonal craft beers. On top of video, Nile sculpts, writes screenplays, and attempts to draw.  



Zoë Bodzas is Creative Writing major from New Jersey.  She's fond of interior design, glitzy museums, and portmanteaus.  



Kate Bickmore is a Studio Art major from Albany, NY. Recently her days are spent working on art, observing nature, eating clementines, writing letters to far away friends, late night dancing, meeting new people, and absorbing as much sunlight as possible.



Izzy Bradford is a rising senior Studio Art major from Bethlehem, PA. In her free time Izzy likes to eat, cook, and hang out with animals and friends. Her seriously lacking art site can be found at



Nick Brewer is a computer science major from Tucson, AZ. In addition to his technological interests, Nick spends much of his time playing piano, composing, and creating art in various mediums. Head to to hear some of his compositions. 



Ali Crivelli is a Chinese major at Hamilton College from Pennington, NJ.  She likes exploring all types of art, including but not limited to theater, dance, music, and painting.  She also practices yoga regularly and enjoys gardening (organically) and cooking.



N. Geisler is a writer and filmmaker by trade and dream from Ithaca, NY. He'll listen to just about any genre of music as long as the quality isn't bad. You can find some of his other work at



Gina Goldberg  is an artist/water polo player/biochemistry major from Los Angeles.   She rarely does things the right way, but she rarely ends up doing things the wrong way.



Caroline Grunewald is a comparative literature major from Pittsburgh, PA. She enjoys working as the Acoustic Coffeehouse Coordinator and hosting a radio show on campus, and she carries her journal with her at all times.



Robert Knight is Assistant Professor of Art at Hamilton, and resides in Clinton, NY with his wife and two children.  He grew up in Boston, MA, and enjoys biking, skiing, and playing chess when he's not making photographs. More of his work can be seen at



Sawyer Konys is a sophomore Studio Art Major from Syracuse, NY hoping one day to attend medical school. He primarily works in photography but also works in charcoal and etching focusing primarily on portraiture and figure drawing.


Find him at:




Jamie Lee is a junior double majoring in History and Economics from North Davis, California. His mother is a diplomat for the U.S. State Department, and his father is a businessman in China. Jamie loves good food and company, and depending on his mood brooding in dark corners. He is most passionate about personal growth, which happens most for him when he’s having new experiences or meeting new people.



Bryce Lupoli is a Music major from Santa Barbara, California. After graduating, he will be pursuing a career in opera. Look for him in a theater or homeless shelter near you!



Scott Milne is a senior History major at Hamilton College, hailing from Culver City in California. He is unqualified for most artistic activities but enjoys doing them despite this. Right now he enjoys playing around with long-exposure photography, exploring hidden places and listening to others' stories. 



Deanna Perez is a Studio Art major from Lynbrook, NY. When she's not reading books or cutting them up, she loves watching Jimmy Fallon and playing soccer. To see more of Deanna’s work please visit



Carrie Rudd is a Studio Art major at Hamilton College from Hastings-on-Hudson, New York. She finds great joy in experimenting with all forms of art making, particularly painting. She is thrilled to have contributed to the Hamilton Review, and she wants to thank Nathan Livingston for a truly  wonderful collaboration!



Benjamin Salzman is an intermedia artist specializing in digital technologies who currently resides in Clinton NY.



Zoe Tessler is a Biology and Studio Art double major from Amherst, MA. She is primarily a painter and digital illustrator, but I has been exploring new media such as ceramics and photography as of late. Zoe’s online portfolio can be viewed here. 



Mattie Theobald is a senior Public Policy and Studio Art concentrator from Bloomington, Indiana. After graduation she will be circumnavigating the globe counterclockwise on a research fellowship studying how changes in educational policy affect young artists.



Xenia Tiajoloff is an Art History major and avid dancer from Kinnelon, NJ. Most of her days are spent in the studio refining her technique and jamming out to classical music. Her free days are spent reading Joyce's novels or sketching or bathing in the sun out on Minor field. When she is lucky enough to be inspired, she writes poems. 



Anderson Tuggle is a senior History major from the Chicago suburbs. Next year, he will live in Turkey and teach English at a university. Hopefully he will find a piano to play over there too. For more videos of Anderson’s songs/covers, go to



“My name is Sam Wagner and when I grow up I wanna be a screenwriter. I like pretty girls and beer. I am from NYC but I am moving to LA after graduation because I love surfing and I hate winter. Thank you for reading about me.”


Bonnie Wertheim is a senior English major. After Hamilton, she plans to pursue a career in journalism. You can read some of her writing here.



Kina Viola is a barista and Creative Writing major from White Plains, NY. Her thesis, a chapbook titled We Are All Transplants, explores the act of transitioning—an appropriate topic, as she is in the process of moving down the east coast to Oxford, Mississippi. Find her at





about the editor...



Samuel Finkelstein is a Studio Art major from New York City. One may find him scribbling on scrap paper or experimenting with how to fuse art and technology. For more projects please visit He cannot express enough gratitude to all of the contributors of The Hamilton Review for their time and for making such beautiful work.

May 2014