Between the Pages

What I Saw

Student reflections on visual art at the
Detroit Institute of Arts

On April 4, 2024, students in Professor Stephen Pasqualina’s ENL 3000: Writing About Literature visited the Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA). Following their reading of chapter 1 of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing, they were asked to focus on one work of art they had never seen before, or that they had at least never taken the time to look at closely. The reflections below do not attempt to articulate what each work “means” but instead explore how each student experienced the work in real time, how and why the work moved them, and the questions they’re left with following their encounters with their chosen work.

Double America 2 (2014) by Glenn Ligon (United States), part of the Regeneration: Black Cinema 1898–1971 exhibition

Jacob Yasso
I really enjoyed going to the DIA today. One piece that stood out to me the most was Double America 2 by Glenn Ligon. The piece made me feel emotional. It was very bright and caught my eye while walking through the hallway. There are two sides to the “America”: one turns on, one turns off, and then they synchronize and shut off. It felt like the push and pull between those who can easily identify as Americans and those who have a double-sided view of American identity. Whether or not this doubleness is a good or bad relationship I feel depends on the person. But I felt the bad relationship, showing the divide particularly in African American history. This was a perfect entrance to the cinema section of the Regeneration exhibit, as it also gave us the feeling of separation between black cinema and white cinema. The painted neons also had quite an important effect. It made me feel like the black paint over the neon was actually illuminating the room and that the white light behind it almost stood as stage lights reflecting away from the black paint. Overall, this piece was very simple yet generated a lot of questions for me about national identity and belonging.

The Last Supper (1786) by Benjamin West (United States)

Erin DeFever
The size of the painting is physically imposing. Reality is distorted by its immensity. Taking time to sit in contemplation of it feels like a radical act. We are alone. Unspoken. Deliberate. A visceral communion. To sit, to relieve the body of its unconscious effort of supporting itself. A small but deliberate act. Parasympathetic intensification of the falsification of materiality. The painting fills my field of vision, infringing upon the periphery. Erasing my experience outside of itself. Distorting my existence. Who am I, in relation? I lose and simultaneously gain a heightened awareness of my physical body in space. How big is this painting? How small am I? How small I am. We dance in pleasant vertigo. The illusion is strengthened by the mariner’s compass laid in tile at my feet. A curious anchor. Wujud. The stars glitter overhead. Ignis fatuus. The stars are only track lights. Oscillating between the microscopic and the cosmic. The painting is a window with a gilded frame. A window into what? From out of where? The wind howls and I catch sight of the full moon. Such majesty made tiny and peripheral. How small I am. The faces of the men frighten me. I see myself reflected in Thomas, dark and incredulous. Ever prodding at the wound. A guard passes through, keys ringing out like dread bells, destroying and fortifying the connection.

Leisure Hours (1864) by John Everett Millais (England)

Kammie Enriquez
I had quite the positive experience at the Detroit Institute of Arts. I was delighted by the fact that the public could access such beauty at no cost. I really treasured this experience, because part of me feels like I may never get to experience a museum like this ever again.
One painting that caught my eye was called Leisure Hours (1864) by John Everet Millais. The first element of the canvas that I noticed was the girls’ beautiful velvet dresses. Being somewhat of a fashion enthusiast, I thought to myself that they must have been quite wealthy, because the fabric, with its colour and texture, would have been quite expensive in the past. My eyes were then pulled to the gaze on the girls’ faces, and I felt emotionally moved. To me, they looked sad, or apathetic, or both. Their expression moved me because childhood is usually such a happy time where the demands of society have not become apparent yet. At the very least, that was my experience of childhood, and it contrasted so sharply with what was being portrayed on the canvas. Since the girls seemed to have a wealthy upbringing, I wondered what could be making them so sad. In all honesty, I did not even notice the fishbowl until I read the description provided by the museum. Apparently, the fishbowl symbolises the two girls being trapped by the expectations of their socioeconomic class. This explanation made it all ‘click’ for me. I was left wondering what happened to these girls in the future. I wondered if they retained their wealth as adults, if they ever achieved independence, and whether the girls eventually got married. Finally, I questioned if they ended up feeling satisfied with their childhoods and the outcome of their lives, or if they lived in a state of regret.

Despair (1820) by Samuel Lovett Waldo (United States)

Sam Gillmore
At the Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA), there were a number of paintings that spoke to me that I could probably write about for the rest of the afternoon. However, there was only one painting that felt personal, like it was waiting for me to find it: Despair by Samuel Lovett Waldo, located on the second floor. I almost walked past it because Kammie was trying to show me something she found in another room, and most of the paintings by it had portraits of domesticated mothers and chubby babies (which did not at all interest me), so I was surprised to see what looked to me like a teenaged face. I liked that she was on the ground, talking to the sliver of the moon above her like she was asking the universe for a favor.

I was surprised by the title because the figure depicted did not evoke a sense of desperation to me. I thought there was maybe longing in her face. I liked the idea that she was in despair, because she still seemed hopeful, like holding onto the idea of a wish was all she had left. She also looked so peaceful, crouched in between all of those trees, even though she was a woman alone in the dark, and I thought of the times I had walked for miles on end in the dead of night and still felt safe knowing I was the only one awake for miles. I tend to walk for hours when I can’t sleep, to nowhere in particular, just away from my mind. It started in the summertime when I was younger when I still lived in Georgia, and I hoped maybe the movement would tire me out. We have a huge stretch of woods behind the house, and we never really wore shoes to go outside because you get used to the rocks and sticks under your feet, and the neighborhood is built on a winding, hilly road around a lake.

Sometimes, the walking seemed to increase the thoughts I was trying to simmer, but if I found somewhere to perch for a moment, it helped to talk to the trees, which are always loud with wind and frogs (and sometimes cicadas) in the summer. Sometimes, if the moon was high enough, I could see it in the slight opening between the branches, just like the girl in the painting. The feel of the pavement under my feet is still comforting, so I thought her being barefoot was an interesting touch. But it seemed more like she had rushed away from something and did not bother with shoes, or rushed towards being alone: hiding from everyone else, but completely vulnerable in her togetherness with the universe.

Mask (Elvis Presley), aka “Elvisi” (mid-20th century) (Chewa, Africa)

James Whitener
Recently, I heard the DIA was voted among the best museums in the United States, and I must agree with this assertion. I attend about once a year, and every time I find myself completely lost in the labyrinthine halls, in a good way. The lowest level is my favorite; it is where ancient artifacts from cultures around the world are exhibited. I was struck with laughter when I came across a mask that was created by the Chewa people of Malawi to resemble American rock icon Elvis Presley. But I learned that the purpose of this mask was not to honor Presley but in fact to warn Chewa youth of his insidious influence. I wish I could have seen it: tribal men dancing to the beat of drums wearing an Elvis mask.

To me, it represents a rebellion against the insurmountable onslaught of Western supremacy that has plagued people around the world. In class, we have studied how language can represent the replacement of culture, and indeed, this replacement was enforced by colonial powers in Africa and beyond. But this artifact paints a story of how music can also play a role in that cultural replacement. The tribal elders likely saw their youth engaging with American music, thinking and acting more like Americans. I hate to imagine a world where ancient musical traditions are lost in the name of homogeneity or “progress.”

As Americans, we grow up in a society where technology, industry, and expediency are highly prized—but I feel people in first-world countries are hitting a wall where, despite all our material luxuries, we feel confused and disconnected. That isn’t to say we should return to hunter-gatherer societies. But we could afford to pause and learn from global cultures that give greater importance to family and community life.

Self Portrait (1912) by Otto Dix (Germany)

Cari Gamlin
I really enjoyed my trip to the DIA, as I got to witness and re-examine some art I’ve overlooked after my many visits to the museum. I really enjoyed the Regeneration: Black Cinema 1898–1971 exhibit; however, what really made me think about how I view art was a self portrait by Otto Dix. I’ve seen it before but never really dwelled upon it. Seeing this piece yesterday was like seeing it for the first time.

His appearance weirdly reminded me of many things in my life. I first thought of it looking like many friends and classmates I’ve seen in classrooms. I thought first of the posture, look, appearance and size of Otto Dix: upright, muted tones, a serious face, and, moreover, white. I immediately othered him, while also identifying someone I could see befriending since he held a flower. I thought of how different he seemed to me—thus why I looked at the piece for so long. This was a man who makes art, realism I think, who painted himself. Serious and stern with a flower. The background with a vibrant aquamarine contrast to his appearance. I felt attracted to how different it was from my normal obsession with abstract art and sculpture. I made a joke to my classmates on how he looks like a Gen Z in one of our classes, but I shifted near the end.

I thought, suddenly: he looked like me. Granted, I look nothing like him, yet I do, too: his haircut and clothes and his facial expression feel close to me. I wear neutral button-ups often, and my mullet I had, which formed into locks, is a similar shape to his bowl cut. Also, that face was what I saw in the mirror when I just woke up. I also (weirdly) have been told that I look stern or scary . . . He suddenly wasn’t scary or stern to me anymore. He moved me to see similarities and to see him. I thought of the pink carnation in his hand. I also love flowers and would carry them to my dorm when I looked like him. I like this portrait for how it has made me see me, and see others. I felt my thoughts. I like art because of the experiences that it gives me. I look for what I feel and I look for this understanding, this kind of catharsis.

The Three Skulls (ca. 1898) by Paul Cézanne (France)

Josh Otten
I don’t know if I didn’t get enough sleep on the morning of our field trip, hadn’t had enough to eat, or a combination, but I felt strange and even a bit woozy as I wandered through the corridors of the museum. I was thirsty, too, which didn’t help matters. Disoriented, I felt as though I was floating past paintings on the wall certainly deserving more reflection than I was able to give them. The air, the high ceilings, the colors all seemed to be rapidly moving around me, past me, even as I stood perfectly still in front of them. Finally, I sat down on a bench in the modern art exhibition hall in front of The Three Skulls by Paul Cézanne. I can’t remember if I was drawn to the painting and sat down in front of it or just happened to sit where it was hanging, but I sat and I was struck by its utter stillness.

The way that the background swallowed any suggestion of a room behind it, instead confronting the viewer with skulls arranged before them, in different hues, looking somehow despondent and perplexed and far away, and yet right there on that table in the darkness. They are so right there, so forceful in their stillness, rendered inert and yet having once belonged to people just like those in the lively portraits surrounding them. Next to paintings so alive with color, the skulls were death made real, tangible, touchable, inevitable, right there on the wall.

Madonna and Child (1651) by Carlo Dolci (Italy)

Giulia Vitale
I always enjoy going to the DIA, and even though I have been several times, there is something new to see every time I go—not necessarily new art pieces, but a new way to look at something I’ve already seen. One particular painting that I indeed had never seen before caught my eye. It is called Madonna and Child, and it was painted by Carlo Dolci in 1651.

A lot of people have painted the child Jesus and His Mother Mary, but this rendition was special because I noticed that Jesus was holding a cross in His hand. Then, I realized that I have never seen a picture of the child Jesus in which there was also a cross. I feel like His holding the cross is foreshadowing to His death on the cross. As a Catholic, this piece made me contemplate the art and what the artist was trying to communicate by adding a cross, when Jesus had many, many years until it would be relevant to Him. I thought it was a unique take because, like I said, I had never seen anyone else make that choice. I’m glad that I ran into this painting because I enjoy religious and Italian art, and it happens that the painter was Italian. I’m also glad that I saw it because it made me consider how the child Jesus is usually painted and portrayed without the crucifixion as an underlying theme.

The End of Uncle Tom and the Grand Allegorical Tableau of Eva in Heaven (1995) by Kara Walker
(United States) [life-sized installation] in Regeneration: Black Cinema 1898–1971 exhibition

Isabella Goolsby
I’m pretty sure I spent the majority of my time in the new Regeneration: Black Cinema 1898–1971 exhibit. I found the whole exhibit incredibly captivating, especially the sections where they would play old movie scenes or music videos. I think we often forget the contributions black artists have made to the culture of cinema and media, so it was incredibly eye-opening to witness everything displayed.

One of the pieces, The End of Uncle Tom and the Grand Allegorical Tableau of Eva in Heaven by Kara Walker, really disturbed me, in a good way. I have never read Uncle Tom’s Cabin nor seen the film, but I was still able to feel the suffering and agony Walker wanted to portray in a way she felt the film neglected. Walker’s piece emphasizes the hyper-sexualization of black women in both the novel and in US history. I really felt horrified (a productive kind of horror) by the one depiction of the slaver Simon Legree and the enslaved girl Topsy.

My overall experience was very enjoyable and enlightening. I absolutely love visiting the DIA and enjoy myself immensely every time.

Talking Oak (1857) by William Maw Egley (England)

Jannath Aurfan
One painting that caught my attention was a painting of a woman and her picnic titled Talking Oak by William Maw Egley. The experience of art defined in this painting showcases a strong vibrant boldness of color, and how she is waiting for someone, whether that someone came or not. She waited by the tree, and what the artist has accomplished is a mixed composition of colors that depict the emotions running inside this woman’s mind. It moves me to think how much excitement could be there on the other side of the tree. It moves me in a way to think about what this woman is doing waiting around the tree, wondering if there is more adventure, or if she is merely being too dependent on someone else.

I think having a picnic is peaceful and there is no need to have company, and you don’t need to be around people all the time. I think instead of wasting time waiting, I am wondering: what is she expecting from this other person? Who is she waiting for so that she can’t start eating in this pleasant weather? The questions this painting leaves me with are: what will happen to the food if it gets too cold, and would it be worth it to wait to meet that someone? I think she needs to look after her health. The painting leaves me concerned about her choices, as she’s not thinking about herself by thinking about that person (or the animal) that might arrive.

L’androgyne (The Androgyne) (1946) by Alice Rahon (France)

Myka Davis
There is a piece at the DIA titled L’androgyne (The Androgyne) by Alice Rahon. When reviewing this artwork by Rahon, I feel a sort of satisfying annoyance. When I look at the piece, I feel a part of my brain being itched because of its seeming likeness to the human body. That much I am able to identify. The annoyance comes when I lose that familiar feeling of recognition and find myself searching for what the construction is. It seems that the construction is made up of strings, but then when I look deeper, it looks like wood that has been bent into specific shapes [the piece is made of brass wire]. I swear I am seeing eyeballs on the lower part of the “body” as opposed to the top, where they obviously normally are. Why are the eyes there and not on top? I know art defies simple comprehension, but this piece was making me mad. Also, I swear I am seeing a BBQ fork where the technical shoulder and arm would be . . . but that’s neither here nor there.

Sidewheeler II (1913) by Lyonel Feininger (United States)

Grace Patrick
I hadn’t been to the DIA in a while, so becoming reacquainted with the art there was very calming. My chosen piece to analyze is Sidewheeler II by Lyonel Feininger, which was painted in 1913. The painting is abstract, but it is filled with pointy shapes.

I had this weird sensation of itchiness while looking at this painting, almost as if the sharp points were cutting my skin. I was able to make out what looks to be a sun of sorts on a horizon, sitting above waves. The colors are muted, which contrasts with the sharpness of the entire painting. I still don’t understand what this painting is supposed to portray, whether it be a sunset sitting above waves or hills showcasing a sunset, or something completely different. It also looks as if the sun might be sitting in a boat with windmills hovering over the boat, or even large spotlights. The mystery behind this painting is intriguing but irritating to my analytical mind. At closer observation, I found red smears towards the right of the painting. This makes sense to me, as Feininger might have been trying to create this essence of sharpness, which could cut flesh. At closer observation, there was a red cast upon other parts of the painting as well. I’m not entirely sure what Feininger wanted to portray even now, but I do know that he wanted his viewers to feel uncomfortable in some way with this sharpness, and I think the usage of red smears possibly imitating blood was quite clever. I still would like to understand what he had in mind when he was painting this piece, as well as if it is a conglomerate of concepts, or a landscape piece.

Bookshop: Hebrew Books, Holy Day Books (1953) by Ben Shahn (United States)

Emma Porta
I chose the painting by Ben Shahn which is located in the collection of Contemporary Art after 1950. I had never seen this painting before, although I had previously been to the DIA. My first reaction was positive, as I felt really attracted to the red and the many blurred colors in the window. I personally also really like the childlike painting style. The painting also caught my attention because the small, local edifications with such a “cute” aesthetic give me a homey and familiar feeling. I also noticed the sign, which made me like the building even more because it is a bookstore.

However, once I paid attention to the two human figures, all these feelings vanished. Their faces are scary, and the baby’s face looks old, turning the scene into something creepy and confusing. In addition, the baby looks attached to the woman, dehumanizing her.

I expected to contemplate a beautiful, small shop in the streets of a small tourist town in Europe, and I finished staring at two characters taken from a scary story. I wonder what type of intention the artist had, and if the painting represents something negative, such as poverty or war.

Diomedes Devoured by His Horses (between 1865 and 1870) by Gustave Moreau (France)

Gabriela Zavala-Jungo
I had been to the DIA plenty of times before this trip, but the art pieces being displayed are constantly changing. The work of art that really caught my attention this visit was Diomedes Devoured by His Horses by Gustave Moreau. When I first glanced at the painting, I walked past it, but once it was registered in my mind, I was confused by the painting and wanted to see it better.

I stood in front of the painting, very confused by what I was looking at. I then found the spots where the horses were biting the man and I was even more confused. I kept asking myself and Grace: why were the horses eating the man in such a vicious manner? Why were they eating, period? [This painting depicts an ancient Greek myth, in which Hercules lets these flesh-eating horses loose on their own master, Diomedes.]

It made me feel uncomfortable because it was not natural. Never in my life had I seen or heard about a horse eating a man. Seeing the evil manner of the horses and the face of the white horse, I had this eerie feeling. Horses are supposed to be pretty animals, not human-flesh-eating creatures. Then analyzing the man’s face, I felt pity, and I could also almost feel his pain. I certainly left disturbed by the painting.

On the Beach (ca. 1868) by Édouard Manet (France)

Hannah Cunningham
As someone who frequently visits the DIA, I feel I’ve seen everything. Yet, every time I go, I feel as though I find something new there, which is why I’ve always liked going to the DIA. During our trip yesterday, one painting that stuck out to me was On the Beach by Edouard Manet.

The first thing that stuck out to me about the painting was the lack of detail on the faces. It looked as though the faces were blurred in the painting. That specific detail (or, moreso, lack thereof) made me wonder if that was intentional, and if so, why?

Another thing that stuck out to me was how simplistic it was. Within the DIA are a few intricate pieces of art and sculptures, though I enjoyed this painting as much as the ones with finer details. I think this painting stood out to me because it made me reminisce on my childhood, as my grandma lived near Lake Erie, and I would often spend my days on the beach, collecting rocks, shells, and beach glass. This painting moved me because it made me stop and remember what it was like to hear the waves crashing, to feel the sand beneath my feet, and what it was like to skip rocks and watch them skip across the water.

On the Beach is a simple painting, but I believe there’s beauty in simplicity.

—————

For more information on the works of art featured throughout this piece, visit https://dia.org/collection—or, better yet, visit the Detroit Institute of Arts, open Tuesdays through Sundays. Admission is free for residents of Macomb, Oakland and Wayne counties.

Duality in Being: A Review of Farnaz Fatemi’s Triptych Reading

by Olivia Vitale (‘24)

As both the school year and my time here at the university come to a close, I am grateful to have been able to attend the final event in the 2024 Triptych virtual author series. I found myself captivated by the work that Fatemi shared with those in attendance at the reading. Born and raised in California to an Iranian family, Fatemi spent her childhood navigating the sounds around her. She speaks English but grew up hearing those around her speak Farsi. As a result, Fatemi writes about her experience searching for a sense of belonging. Fatemi’s reality as a twin and someone who finds herself in the space between languages and cultures creates the duality that can be found in her work, as much of it is reflective of her own life experiences.

Sister Tongue زبان خواهر (The Kent State University Press, 2022)

During her virtual reading, Fatemi shared poems from her debut book, Sister Tongue, as well as some new work of hers. Much of the work that was shared touched on girlhood, language, culture, family, food, and love (all of the most important things, in my opinion).

Fatemi read parts of a prose poem divided into vignettes featured in Sister Tongue, and I couldn’t help but draw parallels between her experiences and my own. Born in Michigan to a family of Italian immigrants, I know all too well what it is like to hear different languages in my home and feel suspended between two cultures. One vignette highlighted a time Fatemi traveled to Iran, and she recalls trying to order ice cream in Farsi on a hot summer day. Hearing her read, I was not only transported to the scene that was set in her writing, but I was also seeing my younger self try to order gelato in Italy in the sweltering heat, as I have done too many times to count. Fatemi recalls her aunt being proud of her for speaking Farsi, and I understood what she felt in that moment, having searched for familial approval myself when speaking Italian.

Also captivating was Fatemi’s reading of her poem entitled “Farnaz,” which tells the story of how she was given her name. The poem is divided into three parts, and Fatemi shared with us that the poem had gone through many versions before she settled on what has been published. Initially called “Origin Story,” the poem starts its first section depicting Fatemi’s recognition of the differences between her upbringing and that of her cousins in Iran or her parents before they immigrated to the United States. A line from this section that paralleled my own reality was the line that read “I yelled into a phone so my Iranian family could hear me.” Over the course of my life, I have gotten to know my family by yelling through a phone, since trips back to Italy would have to wait anywhere from a year to several years. The second part of “Farnaz” lets the audience in on the decisions made when Fatemi and her twin sister were named. This section made me picture their names as bridges between the United States and Iran, keeping their culture in who they are, despite being removed from it geographically. Following a gambling theme, the third section of the poem highlights Fatemi’s searching, wanting, and waiting for a meaning. Although Fatemi might never feel as though she is whole rather than split in two as an Iranian American, just as I can never decide if I am Italian or American, there is comfort in the space in between, and I found that space in her poetry.

I could continue forever, praising Fatemi’s work and sharing my connections to it. However, I will allow any curiosity you may have surrounding her work to lead you to purchasing Fatemi’s book, Sister Tongue, and seeing yourself in her words. I would also encourage you to take part in future Triptych events so that you do not miss out on such an amazing opportunity to hear what others have to say. The next event, Triptych+1, is your chance to hear student writers read their original work, and I may or may not be sharing my own poetry. Come and find out for yourself on Thursday, April 18th at 6:30 pm at Pages Bookshop in Detroit.

Olivia Vitale is in her last semester of her undergraduate education. She is a biochemistry major and literature minor, experiencing her own duality in her scholastic interests. Olivia is pre-med and will be applying to medical schools following graduation. Outside of school, she loves to read, write poetry, watch movies, and crochet.

Great Reads by Native American Authors

Spring Break is just around the corner and with it, hopefully, a few days of relaxation and being able to step away from the daily duties of a busy student (or faculty). Maybe this also means that you will find the time to pick up a new book or revisit one you’ve loved for years.

Pulitzer Prize-winning and Native American novelist N. Scott Momaday’s recent passing (on January 24, 2024) inspired us to compile a list of our favorite books written by Native American authors. We hope you’ll enjoy exploring our recommendations and maybe you’ll even find a new favorite read. Leave your own recommendations in the comments!

Make sure to click on the book titles. They will link you to a copy of the book—many can be found in our McNichols campus library!

House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday
by Rebecca Tull, Assistant Library Professor

“This 1969 Pulitzer Prize winner is set on a reservation in New Mexico and in Los Angeles and tells the story of Abel, a WWII veteran and his struggle to assimilate and adjust. The author’s familiarity with reservation life is evident throughout.”

The Man Made of Words by N. Scott Momaday
by Prof. Sigrid Streit

“Exploring such themes as land, language, and self-identity, The Man Made of Words, retells Momaday’s own journey as one of the first recognized Native American writers of this century.”

The Way to Rainy Mountain by N. Scott Momaday
by Prof. Sigrid Streit

“The Way to Rainy Mountain combines history, folklore, an poetic memoir as it it takes the reader through author N. Scott Momaday’s own journey of discovering his Kiowa background and identity.”

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer
by Prof. Erin Bell

“In this non-fiction book, Kimmerer, reflects upon how indigenous knowlege impacts her work as a botanist; as such, it may be appealing to those studying in STEM fields. The text is lengthy but offers a variety of points of connnection to ecology and the greater world. We learn about the secret lives of plants as well as creation myths. Kimmerer also includes various genres of expression from chapter to chapter which make the text formally interesting as well.”

There There by Tommy Orange

Wandering Stars by Tommy Orange
by Prof. Mary-Catherine Harrison

“There There is multigenerational and polyphonic, mythic and modern. The prologue, an experimental reframing of Native history, will leave you reeling with its brilliance. In the novel, Orange braids the intersecting stories of twelve narrators until their lives explode in a devastating finale at the Big Oakland Powwow. I am confident this will be a book that will be read by generations to come. This break I can’t wait to read Wandering Stars, Orange’s new novel that was published just this week. It tells the stories of some of the ancestors of characters we met in There There. It will be available at the McNichols Library very soon!”

The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich
by Prof. Erin Bell

“Erdrich is one of my favorite authors; I appreciate how readers can trace the lives of her characters from one novel to the next. The Last Report…really stuck with me as it offers commentary and critique of the impact of the church/missionaries about the indigenous communities in America.”

The Night Watchman by Louise Erdrich
by Prof. Lauren Rinke

“Time after time, when the characters in The Night Watchman confront conflicts, they respond with solidarity to overcome them. When people in power try to enforce their will on others, the most effective way those people can fight back, the novel seems to suggest, is through collective action.”

WHEREAS by Layli Long Soldier
by Prof. Stephen Pasqualina

“WHEREAS confronts the coercive language of the United States government in its responses, treaties, and apologies to Native American peoples and tribes, and reflects that language in its officiousness and duplicity back on its perpetrators.”

Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit: Essays on Native American Life Today by Leslie Marmon Silko
by Prof. Stephen Pasqualina

“Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit is a collection of twenty-two powerful and indispensable essays on Native American life, written by one of America’s foremost literary voices.”

Black Elk Speaks by John G. Neihardt
by Prof. Stephen Pasqualina

“Black Elk Speaks, the story of the Oglala Lakota visionary and healer Nicholas Black Elk (1863–1950) and his people during momentous twilight years of the nineteenth century, offers readers much more than a precious glimpse of a vanished time. Black Elk’s searing visions of the unity of humanity and Earth, conveyed by John G. Neihardt, have made this book a classic that crosses multiple genres.”

Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto by Vine Deloria
by Prof. Stephen Pasqualina

“Deftly blending humor, social critique, and call for reform, Deloria challenges Native American stereotypes as well as agencies’ attempts to “help” the natives. What’s more, he’s not afraid to call authorities out on their own hypocrisies.”

American Indian Stories by Zitkála-Šá
by Prof. Stephen Pasqualina

“American Indian Stories, first published in 1921, is a collection of childhood stories, allegorical fiction, and an essay. One of the most famous Sioux writers and activists of the modern era, Zitkala-Sa (Gertrude Bonnin) recalled legends and tales from oral tradition and used experiences from her life and community to educate others about the Yankton Sioux. Determined, controversial, and visionary, she creatively worked to bridge the gap between her own culture and mainstream American society and advocated for Native rights on a national level.”

Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko
by Rebecca Tull, Assistant Library Professor

“This story, set on an Indian reservation just after World War II, concerns the return home of a war-weary Navaho young man. Tayo, a young Native American, has been a prisoner of the Japanese during World War II, and the horrors of captivity have almost eroded his will to survive. His return to the Laguna Pueblo reservation only increases his feeling of estrangement and alienation. While other returning soldiers find easy refuge in alcohol and senseless violence, Tayo searches for another kind of comfort and resolution. Tayo’s quest leads him back to the Indian past and its traditions, to beliefs about witchcraft and evil, and to the ancient stories of his people. The search itself becomes a ritual, a curative ceremony that defeats the most virulent of afflictions-despair.”

The Woman Who Owned the Shadows by Paula Gunn Allen
by Rebecca Tull, Assistant Library Professor

“2011 American Book Award Winner. Dogroy Beaulieu, who reveals his marvelous story to a native writer, is a painter by nature, an intuitive visionary artist. He creates shrouds of sacrificed and crucified animals and birds, the faint traces of natural motion on linen, at his studio on the White Earth Nation in Minnesota. The very sight of the shrouds torments the traditional fascists on the reservation, and the faint traces of native totems haunt the patrons of galleries and curators of museums.’I create traces of totemic creatures, paint visionary characters in magical flight, native scenes in the bright colors of survivance,’declares Dogroy. His artistic sentiments and shamanic tribute to the shrouds, however, do not protect him from his envious enemies on the reservation. Dogroy is banished by casino politicians, in flagrant violation of the new Constitution of the White Earth Nation for his artistic tease, his baroque mockery, and his ironic portrayals.”

This Wound Is a World by Billy-Ray Belcourt
by Prof. Isaac Pickell

“An absolutely captivating book of “poetry” that really defies any genre expectations, This Wound Is a World is a challenging work that will push students to contend with their Western preconceptions about indigeneity, religion, gender and sexuality, and writing. I would strongly recommend this book, as it does something different than most Native American writing, demanding we accept the intersections that define Native life.”

The Surrounded by D’Arcy McNickle
by Prof. Michael Barry

“1936 novel set on Flathead Reservation; I cannot remember enough about it, but I remember that it is an engaging book.”

Yellow Bird: Oil, Murder, and a Woman’s Search for Justice in Indian Country by Sierra Crane Murdoch
by Prof. Michael Barry

“Harper’s ran an excerpt called “The Good Mother” which three different students of mine read–all of them thought it was moving and thought-provoking. Sierra Crane Murdoch is not Native American, but Lissa Yellow Bird is– she is the woman about whom Murdoch writes at length. Murdoch describes her thoughts when she is asked to write a letter of recommendation for Yellow Bird in Yellow Bird’s bid to foster a child. Yellow Bird has five biological children of her own, some of whom she lost custody of when she was using alcohol and other drugs.”

Tracks by Louise Erdrich
by Prof. Michael Barry

“1988. One of my favorites. I can never forget these characters, who alternately narrate the events: Nanapush and Pauline–and I won’t forget Fleur Pillager either (Fleur is not a narrator, but a principal character). (Our first introduction to her is in this sentence: “Fleur was in the next room, boiling heads.”) Some of the characters show up in Erdrich’s other books as well. One of the characters, Eli Kashpaw, wraps himself in the meat of an animal he has successfully hunted, and almost freezes to death walking back to civilization, and meanwhile the meat has frozen into the shape of his back and his body. Those kinds of images are in every chapter. (There are elaborate traps described in the narratives, for both animals and people.)”

Night of the Living Rez by Morgan Talty
by Prof. Amanda Hiber

“In twelve striking, luminescent stories [set in a Penobscot community in Maine], author Morgan Talty—with searing humor, abiding compassion, and deep insight—breathes life into tales of family and a community as they struggle with a painful past and an uncertain future. A boy unearths a jar that holds an old curse, which sets into motion his family’s unraveling; a man, while trying to swindle some pot from a dealer, discovers a friend passed out in the woods, his hair frozen into the snow; a grandmother suffering from Alzheimer’s projects the past onto her grandson; and two friends, inspired by Antiques Roadshow, attempt to rob the tribal museum for valuable root clubs.”

The Firekeeper’s Daughter by Angeline Boulley
by Prof. Lauren Rinke

“This story examines the difference between images people project for the benefit of others and their true identity. We see how the tribal community is the main character’s source of strength throughout the story.”

Shrouds of White Earth by Gerald Vizenor
by Rebecca Tull, Assistant Library Professor

Inspired by Myth: A Review of Donika Kelly’s Triptych Virtual Visiting Author Series Event

by Kristin Murphy (’23)

I am beyond grateful to know that a space exists where my mind can be captivated and relaxed at the same time. This space is Triptych, the University of Detroit Mercy’s virtual visiting author series. The Triptych series began when I was a senior at Detroit Mercy, but it has remained an event that I look forward to attending regularly, even after graduating.

It was my pleasure to attend the second Triptych installment of the year featuring the highly accomplished poet Donika Kelly. Kelly filled the virtual room with laughs, and shared defining moments that led her to claiming her craft as a successful poet.

Her poems were rich in imagery, imagination, and reminiscences from her lived experiences. This reading exemplified the symbolism of three that Triptych demonstrates: a place where creatives can share stories, be inspired, and redefine what it means for us as members of a community to call ourselves writers.

Bestiary (Graywolf, 2016)

The Renunciations (Graywolf, 2021)

To show my gratitude for Donika Kelly’s presence, and the Triptych series itself, I created a poem inspired by the mythological essence in her poetry:

Dear Diary: Cerberus

To carry three heads is a mighty burden

Though it serves my master and my world well

I find it difficult to balance

Three necks bridled with stiffness, three necks to groom, to guard

My thoughts are never singular or coupled in form

Uniquely combined, the thoughts are heavy

Not in the me, myself, and I sense

But what is true, what is false, and what I am at the moment

I speak from the mouth that my master wipes clean, the head that he pets softly

But these thoughts are ours

Screenshot

Kristin Murphy is a recent alum of Detroit Mercy and a current Lighthouse scholar at Wayne State University. She is working towards a master’s degree in public health, but literature has remained a favorite subject of hers. Kristin enjoys reading, creative writing, and exploring the city of Detroit.

Painted into the Picture: A Review of Tracy K. Smith’s Wade in the Water

by Deja Spruill (‘24)

Slavery is not only extremely relevant to the foundations of American history, but it is also extremely relevant to the social and political structures we see today. The treatment of enslaved African Americans has left so much blood on America’s hands, that it’s dripped into future generations. In Wade in the Water, Tracy K. Smith eloquently describes the pain and the pride that exists in the African American experience. And while her content is jaw dropping, her skill steals the show as she plays with diction and form to make true poetic art.

Smith does a masterful job of portraying the daily interactions and feelings of African Americans. She describes the bodily comfort that African Americans feel in the presence of other African Americans and why it is bittersweet that this comfort can’t be found everywhere. In “Driving to Ottawa,” she describes it as “The momentary kind / Of love two strangers share, / Pushing out those long sighs / And then rushing to fill the lungs / Again with weightless clear air.” Smith transports readers to the moments when it feels like you can breathe again in a world where it often feels like you can’t.

In the titular poem “Wade in the Water,” Smith describes how love is what African Americans need and have always needed. It’s a heavy weight to constantly extend love to strangers when you come from an oppressed group of people. “I love you in the rusted iron / Chains someone was made /” Smith writes, “To drag until love let them be.” Today, African Americans live in a society with opportunities that their ancestors did not have, and Smith acknowledges the plight that it took to finally be free and share “I Love you’s”. Smith reminds African Americans of their history and offers an understanding as to why it is sometimes hard to love in a society that hasn’t always loved you back.

In “Declaration,” Smith uses the poetic technique of erasure on the Declaration of Independence to reveal an underlying message. She uses the grievances that the Colonists expressed to the British to expose the similarities of these grievances to those that enslaved African Americans experienced: “He has / sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people… He has plundered our— / ravaged our— / destroyed the lives of our— / taking away our—…Our repeated / Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury.” Here again, Smith highlights the ties of African American suffering to America’s foundation. Elsewhere, in “Unrest in Baton Rouge,” Smith writes: “Our bodies run with ink dark blood. / Blood pools in the pavement’s seams.” Word choice is important in these lines. Smith doesn’t say “Our blood”; she just says “blood” because it doesn’t matter whose blood it is. We’re all human beings.

While painting the picture may be good enough for some poets, Tracy K. Smith paints you into the picture and holds you in place until the poem is over. “Is it strange to say love is a language / Few practice, but all, or near all speak?” In Wade in the Water, Smith asserts that love freed enslaved people from their chains and shackles, so maybe it can free their descendants from theirs.

Deja Spruill is a senior at Detroit Mercy, double majoring in English and Political Science. She enjoys reading and writing, and recently began working as a first grade Assistant Teacher. She feels every book offers the opportunity to explore new worlds and enjoy new experiences without leaving your seat.

No Savior but Love: A Review of Danez Smith’s Homie

by Siah Pawa (‘26)

Danez Smith, a poet from St. Paul, Minnesota who identifies as black, queer, and non-binary, often explores themes of race, gender, and sexuality in their work. Inspired by the loss of a close friend, Smith’s second full-length poetry collection, Homie, is a love letter to friendship—both its good and bad aspects. For Smith, friendship is a saving grace. Through their exploration of friendship, love, and identity in marginalized communities, they aim to celebrate and uplift the experiences of black and queer individuals, emphasizing the importance of seeking joy and intimacy in situations where they may be scarce. In a country full of disparity, xenophobia, racism, and violence, Smith asserts that friendship is one of the reasons for living.

In the poem “How many of us have them,” two boys affectionately tease each other and hurl abuses back and forth. The first stanza comprises one line, while the second has two lines. The poem builds up, with each stanza growing by a line until the final stanza, which consists of 12 lines. This form, which Smith has coined “a dozen,” is inspired by the dozens of insults boys throw. The uniqueness of this form shows the originality of Smith’s work and the many paradoxes that they introduce to their readers. The poet informs the reader that friendship matters more than wealth and that genuine love and support can save one from death and despair. It aims to broaden your understanding of the world, challenge your beliefs, and inspire personal growth. As Smith writes, friendship is “The way you would break me into a better me.”

Throughout the book, Smith appreciates the people who have loved and appreciated them, highlighting the importance of kindness in a society ravaged by injustice. My favorite aspect of Homie is the silver lining Smith brings forth from pain and suffering. The poet offers a confident and sensitive approach to social injustice, showing the reader that love and friendship can help one overcome the psychological effects of discrimination, and even adding that they need no savior but their own love.

I recommend this book because of its messages to society. Regardless of the book’s being directed at a black audience, any reader can benefit from Homie. The best audiences for these poems are those who have suffered pain, rejection, and discrimination, but whose lives have been changed by genuine friendships. Smith’s words are a reminder to embrace diversity, challenge societal norms, and foster meaningful relationships that can bring about change. While it is a turbulent book—part diary, part war cry, and part bright elegy— every poem in Danez Smith’s Homie appears as a maze designed to take the reader to a new understanding of friendship.

Siah Pawa is Liberian American undergraduate student at the University of Detroit Mercy majoring in Dental Hygiene. She enjoys the outdoors, music, and reading. She aspires to be a business owner of her own clinic.

So, You Missed Triptych with Srikanth Reddy…

by Ronan Mansilla (’26)

…and I regret to inform you that you missed out on a wonderful evening of poetry and wisdom from the brilliant and multi-faceted Srikanth (“Chicu”) Reddy. Over the course of the hour, the esteemed poet/editor/critic read from his three books of poetry and eloquently answered audience questions. Devastated that you missed it? You should be! But try not to be too hard on yourself. Although it’s no substitute for the real thing, I’ll do my best to catch you up on the first Triptych event of 2024.

After an introduction from University of Detroit Mercy’s poet-in-residence Dr. Stacy Gnall, Reddy began the reading with his latest book, Underworld Lit. Inspired by challenges in Reddy’s life, the book takes the form of a professor’s notes, containing (among other things) journal entries, snippets from the course description, and fiendishly difficult quizzes. The course in question, “Introduction to the Underworld,” is meant to “introduce students to the posthumous disciplinary regimes of various cultures” and “help them develop the communication skills that are crucial for success in today’s global marketplace.” As the narrator contends with his own mortality following a cancer diagnosis, the book becomes intriguingly dichotomous: is this a course about the underworld, or one for those who have already entered it? I highly encourage you to pick up a copy of this striking and darkly humorous book. You only live once, after all (or do you?).

Following Underworld Lit, Reddy moved on to his second book, Voyager. At a time when Reddy felt unmoored by the political climate, he turned to his students’ poems and was inspired to produce a book of erasure poetry. Erased from what? Taking a fight-fire-with-fire approach to his political stressors, Reddy chose the memoir of the controversial Kurt Waldheim: Secretary General of the United Nations, President of Austria, ex-Wehrmacht. One of the many amazing things about Voyager is that it actually consists of three erasures, all of them of Waldheim’s memoir. Despite their shared origins, each of these erasures tells a unique story—a feat of extreme prowess on Reddy’s part. The first erasure is deeply philosophical, offering the reader propositions like: “To believe in the world, a person has to quiet thinking. / The dead do not cease in the grave.” The second is more personal, with Reddy adapting Waldheim’s words to tell his own story which includes, in true meta fashion, the writing of Voyager itself. The third erasure is a farewell to Waldheim, depicting the politician on a journey through the underworld—an appropriate follow-up if you’ve first read Underworld Lit. Voyager is a breathtaking book, a flagship example of the erasure form, and it is not to be missed.

Working Benjamin–Button-style through his poetic timeline, Reddy concluded with his first book, Facts for Visitors. This is Reddy’s most traditional book of poetry (it contains several examples of classic poetic forms), but let there be no mistake: Facts for Visitors is far from mundane, and in it, Reddy proves as adept at experimental forms as he is with classic ones. There is a myriad of interesting themes here, but the most striking of these is language itself, both as a subject (“Lately, I have taken an interest in words like ‘here.’ Here was a chapel, for instance. Here is a footprint filling with rain.”) and as something cleverly manipulated (“No matter how often you knock / on the ocean the ocean / just waves…”). Addressing the temporality of language, Reddy writes that words, once spoken, “remove themselves from expectation & are now held in memory.” He even examines ink, the historical store and vehicle of language: India ink and Earthly life are both made of carbon and water. All of this is ear candy to a word nerd like me, and I can only imagine that it would be for you, too.

The remainder of the evening consisted of a Q&A with Reddy, and through his answers, he provided valuable insight into his creative process. When asked what got him into poetry, Reddy spoke about his freshman year of high school, when one of his teachers introduced him to the challenging, philosophical poetry of Wallace Stevens. Reddy was specifically drawn to Stevens’s “Disillusionment of Ten O’ Clock,” with its descriptions of the outlandish pajamas that people are not wearing and the intriguing dreams they aren’t dreaming. It was then that Reddy realized poetry could say something different. It doesn’t have to make immediate sense, Reddy said, but “if you put time in with a poem, it can make you feel differently for all time.” Asked how he knew when a poem was completed, Reddy stated that he occasionally realizes a poem is finished only after he’s written beyond its natural conclusion. On the other hand, he mentioned that some poems are never finished but rather let go; sometimes, Reddy said, it’s the loose ends that make a poem beautiful, as they invite the reader to help make the poem’s meaning. Finally, when asked how Reddy felt about reading his older work, he said that outside of poetry readings, he rarely looks back at his prior poetry. That said, he offered this encouragement to any prospective poets: when your future self looks back on your current writing, they’ll likely miss the voice that is yours right now.

I hope this has encouraged you to pick up Reddy’s books. In the meantime, be sure to visit the University of Detroit Mercy’s English Department Linktree, where you can register for the next Triptych reading, featuring Donika Kelly. Her reading will be on Thursday, February 15^th at 6:30 PM on Zoom. I look forward to seeing you there, lest you make the same grievous mistake twice by missing it. I can’t promise that I’ll be there again to help you cope with your crushing disappointment.

Ronan Mansilla is a sophomore at the University of Detroit Mercy double-majoring in English and Computer Science. When he’s not writing about himself in the third-person, he enjoys listening to New York’s most underrated band, watching surprisingly non-cheesy television, and reading about flyposting gone wrong. Also pictured is his dog, Hazel, who is not supposed to be sitting on that chair. Ronan and Hazel are both stoked about the new season of The Chosen.

Pushing From Underneath the Veil: A Review of Terrance Hayes’s American Sonnets For My Past And Future Assassin

by Lydia Chapman (‘26)

The book American Sonnets For My Past And Future Assassin—Terrance Hayes’s fifth poetry collection—embodies the true heart of America. In it, the poet tackles America’s deep-set, rich history that is often untold yet seeps into the surface of today.

American Sonnets For My Past And Future Assassin (Penguin Books, 2018)

Hayes speaks of both America and the sonnet as places to dwell. They are part “music box” and part “meat grinder” to “separate the song of the bird from the bone.” He frequently draws on such visuals with dichotomous connotations to represent an active, snappy, and pugnacious America. For instance: “I make you both gym & crow here. As the crow / You undergo a beautiful catharsis trapped one night / In the shadows of the gym.”

Elsewhere in the book, Hayes’s poems are more direct in explaining the chaotic and complex space that is America, often focusing on the unique relationship mainstream culture has with minorities. “Why are you bugging me you stank minuscule husk / Of musk” he writes, “Should I fail in my insecticide, I pray for a black boy . . . you funky stud, you are the jewel / In the knob of an elegant butt plug, snug between / Pleasure & disgust.” This unexpected metaphor captures so well America’s relationship with the media—a relationship that can be obscure, that separates people from what they really are. These seemingly contradictory feelings of admiration and aversion create a confusing tension for the artist. While art by minorities can receive much praise, the creators themselves do not always receive the same respect.

Throughout American Sonnets, Hayes remarks on the past pushing from underneath the veil and impressing on our present. “Drive like fifteen miles along a national parkway” he writes, “Where the confederate statues have been painted / White so often they will probably look like ghosts . . . Join the bottleneck at the mouth of the tunnel running / Beneath the fathoms of the river. You may recall a bomb / Was set off there some years ago . . .” Here, metaphor and message fuse; the physical description and its accompanying meaning feel so real. The past is masked so that the present and the future are not as haunted by it; yet, the past still lurks in the recesses of our minds.

The final poem in Hayes’s American Sonnets is about a flower called “Lorca’s Breath” that is said to grow petals just before dying. This flower has leaves that “ hang / As if listening to a lover whisper with her back / To you . . .” Hayes’s poetry elegantly suggests that maybe this tired flower is waiting for America to listen, whispering her sentiment with the meager breath she has left.

Lydia Chapman is majoring in social work at the University of Detroit Mercy. She enjoys basking in the sun, watching musicals, and peeking into the experiences of others through reading.

For a School That Cares

by Mona Alawie

For what are you grateful? This question is often lightheartedly tossed around a dining table filled with an excessive amount of food—each dish taking up space until the weathered wood is no longer visible. There are common answers like food and a roof over our heads (things to be more than grateful for, of course), but what if we thought deeper about what we appreciate throughout our day, week, or month? What if when this question is asked, we don’t default to the obvious? What if we shifted the discussion to whatever causes us to smile or whatever makes our chests feel less heavy and hearts more full?

I walked out of class last week and it was raining, but there were still students around the Write Something! Desk that asked people to share what they’re grateful for. They were thinking about what to write on the little sticky notes and laughing together. A smile printed on my face, and right then, I was grateful for seeing students happy and witnessing the irony that they were living a loveable moment while pondering something loveable.

I thought about this same question extensively. What am I genuinely grateful for? What are things that I often find my inner monologue being thankful for? Well, there’s a list:

Finding a snack in the kitchen
The way snow falls (not the actual cold, though)
Long, tight hugs
My sister doing well on a test she was so worried about
Finally remembering that thing that was on the tip of your tongue
Sleeping in freshly washed sheets
Being able to breathe through your nose again after being sick
Sunshine ❤

As time progressed, the Kiosk became as covered as that full dining table but with sweet and wholesome sentiments. All of the colorful sticky notes, each stamped by a unique handwriting and individualized message. They were all meticulously placed in a perfect spot, and this began to represent the diversity of the University of Detroit Mercy. Each personalized square tells a story of how the writer interprets life from a kind and gracious outlook. One sticky note read “I’m grateful for the people I have in my life,” another said “Everything happens for a reason!” and someone added “My family and friends.” Some have encountered amazing people, some find peace in the belief of fate or karma, and others think the world of their loved ones. Each of these messages is layered and reveals something vulnerable about the person. They allow those swiftly passing by to read one of the most cherished aspects of people’s lives. It is a heartwarming and comforting feeling to not only share those aspects of our lives, but to also be able to relate and connect with the sentiments of others.

The funny thing is, I have grown to be grateful for a board in the middle of my college campus. A board that has collected smiles and little pieces of those around me. It has allowed me to shift my perspective and have a deeper appreciation for the little things, because even sticky notes and a few pens can truly make a long lasting and positive difference. So here’s number 11: For a school that cares.

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Mona Alawie is a recent graduate of Detroit Mercy, completing her major in Political Science and minors in Women and Gender Studies and Leadership. As an Arab American woman, she enjoys literature centered on diversity and uplifting voices that go unheard. Mona views poetry as an outlet for indescribable feelings and the most beautiful creations.

Student Film-Poem: Poetry in Picture

Artist Statement:

The inspiration for my short film, Poetry in Picture, began in the Fall 2023 course I was taking, Study of Film (ENL: 2550) taught by Professor Rombes. The class was presented the final exam project early in the semester. We had the option to choose between a short film, movie trailer, or essay. Immediately, I knew I wanted to make a film. I began brainstorming ideas in September and filming nature around me because I knew it could be useful. The bright, colorful trees helped me build my film. “Let the idea come natural, don’t force it,” I thought to myself. I had a lot of self-made poems in my repertoire that could be useful for narration, then realized the poems could be the backbone of the short film. I split up the short film into five sections: an introduction poem combined with videos of trees and then four more poems I created in a Study of Poetry course (ENL: 2450) with Professor Gnall from my previous semester. The film has no specific theme besides my own poetry. I captured film all across Michigan to create it, then had friends narrate each section.

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Colin Gaddey is a junior at Detroit Mercy, studying for his bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering. He enjoys writing poetry and making short films, letting his creative mind expand beyond variables and math formulas. He recommends that everyone take a step into poetry no matter their interests, because there are no rules or limits to creating poems. He believes that life is full of poetry, and that we see metaphors and lessons around us every day. We can choose to ignore them or to expand our love of life through them.

Student reflections on visual art at the Detroit Institute of Arts

Student reflections on visual art at the
Detroit Institute of Arts