A recent series of meetings initiated by campus security highlight concerns from students about campus safety.

The Black Student Union put on its Black History Show on Feb. 20 in The Forum to celebrate Black History Month. With help from the NAACP, the organization was able to showcase some of the best performance talent on campus. The goal was to “pay homage to African American/Black culture and the concepts of unity and liberation.” While some acts unveiled themselves for the first time, others acted as an encore from a similar event previous for Martin Luther King Jr....

Conor Flynn is a second semester Studio Arts major taking intermediate printmaking. He’s shown here working on a multi-layer monoprint after class Feb. 25.

Charlie Stevenson is a freshman studio arts major and is currently creating a piece in which light is of great importance to the mood of the scene. He also suffers from hemiplagia, paralysis of one side of the body.

La’ Charles Trask aspires to be a music video director as well as an actor, and has created several short films and music videos during his academic career.

Sen Salinas is a senior Studio Arts major who has attended the Santa Fe University of Art and Design for all four years. She’s currently applying to grad school, and hopes to major in Art History.

CWL’s Visiting Writer series brings working poets, fiction writers and nonfiction writers to campus for readings, Q&As and classroom visits.

Earlier this week, Santa Fe got a little snow storm, and now it is back to 50 degree weather and the snow is still hanging around. Thankfully, the campus has the bright colors of the graffiti wall to bring students out of the winter funk.

At small universities, students have the opportunity to make connections, and receive the attention they need. Making this happen is very important to SFUAD’s new interim president, Maria Puzziferro, who wants to put her focus on students and their educational experience.

By Alexa Curnutte Our dark porch lingers in the camera flash. Blue painted slats, red trimming, brick steps. When I look at the picture I imagine Mom taking it. Dad probably wasn’t there. My brother, Chance, and I are grinning down at the camera through the white rise of our cheeks, flushed deep pink from the October cold. It’s Halloween. Chance is Buzz Lightyear. I’m a fairy. My small hands clutch the white plastic end of my wand, iridescent strings floating down my knuckles. Chance’s black mask is crooked. If you look closely you can see that he stands oddly on one leg, shifting his weight off center. The clubbed foot, after surgeries and casts, is still struggling to become normal. My ears stick out like broken egg shells and my calves have already begun to bow outward. Our costumes glow against the small shapes of our bodies. Most Halloweens Dad was deployed. Christmases. Birthdays. The ‘Take 1!’ sign behind us is in Mom’s long cursive. Behind that is a pumpkin mask on the door. It’s eyes are blank, barely feasible in the worn out paper of the Kodak. Life hovered like that, in the background. As children we waited for phone calls, a knock on the door to sneak up on us. Anything that moved suddenly. Autumns like the one in this photograph were quiet, but summers hummed with energy. Distracted us. We survived on Walmart runs, metal carts full of frozen beef and bandaids. I was an army daughter among army sons. The boys had orange tipped plastic guns. On Saturdays they played war, and I became familiar with the sting of Bbs on my legs. We ran through the thick pines, unaware of the cumbersome way our young limbs moved. Under...

By Makai Andrews   When she was in grade school the boys would make fun of her because her thumbs looked like toes. She painted them orange and dotted them with silver rhinestones to prove them wrong. No one would waste that much time on a foot.   Mother was having an affair with the pool boy when she was eleven. He was a young man from Arizona, moved here in hopes that he’d get in with some celebrity housewife who needed a pool cleaning and an actor for her next movie. He wasn’t having much luck, so far. Mother had the gardener drive in a big tree on one of those trucks that are too big to turn at normal street corners. She planted it next to the pool, where she was sure dozens of leaves would fall everyday. She shook a branch to make sure, dumping piles of leaves into the crisp water. Now the pool boy would have to come four times a week, not two. There’s just so many leaves in there, silly me for planting a tree right above it, she tells Father. Oh, but isn’t it just beautiful.   Father liked his whiskey. Liked his whiskey with ice. Liked whisky with ice that looked like little islands of glass were floating up from a pool of golden mud. Sometimes she thought if she stuck her finger in the liquid, it would harden around her finger and she’d have a gold-capped nail. She tried it once, but instead of a special finger she got broken glass in her arm and bruises from Father’s hard day at the office. She wiped up the golden mud after he was finished. Brother was born when she was thirteen. He had eyes like hers...

The Deep End by Annalise Lozier The sun bobbed in the sky like a peach in the water. We sunk below the surface and you were the apex of a triangle. With the light slicing past you, I was hidden in your faded glow, a planet in the dusk; and my fingernails, which my dad said made me look like a homeless goth looked to you like worn-down continents hidden in the binding of an atlas. Your face falls apart like tissue paper, dark purple and melting in the past. I can never really picture your nose and I can’t say how often I’ve mistaken your smile with the pointy chin of the man in the moon, but your silhouette still burns on my eyelids. You’ll be relieved to know I don’t love you, cross my heart and burn out my eyes. Your fingers pushed through my chest like it was so much dust, you tapped the metal hatch to ask if anyone was home, but there wasn’t-- it was only me and a few gray teeth. underbridge she had a face like sarcasm, her teachers said she scraped the paint off the walls when she skirted too close to the edge of the room under her shoulder blades she could pull back the muscle and untangle the tendons the tendons wrapped around her bones played with her joints like a rubik’s cube                               when she spoke she looked               towards the windows or at the wormy yarn knit its fingers into sweaters she laughed loudly to cover the cracking sounds her spine made she laughed with her teeth bared she had a face...

Students have begun to take their art beyond the Graffiti Walls and have started spray painting the sidewalk. Facilities worker Pablo Negreros recently spent his day attempting to scrub paint off the sidewalk that students have...