v.1 is RISD’s student–led publication. Its form and content change from year to year (it’s always “volume 1”).

Info & Submission Guidelines ︎


Spring 2019

  1. From the Editors
  2. A Room without a View: Reflections on Studio Practice from a Privileged Poor Chantal Feitosa
  3. Between the Battlements Jeremy Wolin

  4. Accessing Color: Dissecting the Harvard Art Museum’s Forbes Pigment Collection Makoto Kumasaka
  5. British Club Tattoos Nasser Alzayani
  6. Making Space: Creativity and Resilience in War-Time Sri Lanka Elizabeth Dean Hermann
  7. How to Become Trans: A Proposal for the Modern-Day Gender-Agnostic Asher White
  8. Making It Up: A Conversation with Kent Kleinman Wen Zhuang
  9. “In Peace”: A Conversation with Matthew Shenoda Mays Albaik
  10. Suburbia_hours.mov Nora Mayer
  11. Negative Spaces Emily Wright
  12. Centerfold: Urgency Lab
  13. Rise Up: The Sunrise Movement Takes Root in Rhode Island Irina V. Wang
  14. After Strand Nafis White and García Sinclair
  15. Soldiers of Love? Karen Schiff
  16. Decoding Ghosts Molly Hastings
  17. An Annotated Bibliography Eli Backer
  18. Jesus, Marilyn, and Britney: Relationships between Religion and Celebrity Culture Nina Yuchi
  19. The Social (Antique) Network: Empathy in the Age of Digital Antiquing Zola Anderson
  20. My Little Episodes Michael Brandes
  21. Seeking Fair Game on Hidden Fields Reilly Blum
  22. The Should Be Here Is Not Here Joss Liao
  23. Index of Agency Sophie Chien
  24. Don’t Eat the Models Barbara Stehle
  25. Hypothetical Drink Personality Test: Who Said What, and When? Eliza Chen
  26. Dear Arabic Mohammed Nassem


Fall 2018 

  1. From the Editors
  2. How to Make a Person: A Recipe Mays Albaik
  3. Providence Votes Marcus Peabody
  4. Encounters with the Codex: Redefining Forms of Publication June Yoon
  5. How to Encounter a Puddle Anny Li
  6. A Brief List of Premises from a Maker Stuck with Paper, Politics, and Performance Yasi Alipour
  7. Art Writing and the Place of the “I” Randy Kennedy
  8. Written in Stone: Lineage, Legacy, and Letterforms Irina V. Wang
  9. The Unbearable Whiteness of Being (a Graphic Designer) Tiger Dingsun
  10. Colliers/Necklaces Théïa Flynn
  11. When One Door Closes: Examining Issues of Space and Student Curation on Campus Wen Zhuang
  12. Addressing the Empty Plinth: Lessons from Gallery Shows and Public Art Jeremy Wolin
  13. Modern Usage: In Conversation with Remeike Forbes Eliza Chen and Tiger Dingsun
  14. Dangling Threads: Remaining Unclear in Capital Everett Epstein
  15. A Vagabond Viking Voyage and Midsummer Daydream Mike Fink
  16. Everything is Interdependent Angela Dufresne
  17. La Bolita Elaine Lopez
  18. Bread Day Olive B. Godlee
  19. Against the Archive Satpreet Kahlon


2017 - 2018 
  1. Birds, Bees, and Beyond: The Nature Lab Evolves
  2. Concrete Mixer Drum Solo
  3. Negative Spaces
  4. “Printer Prosthetics” at NYABF
  5. On Writing: Nader Tehrani and Katie Faulkner
  6. On Writing: Marie Law Adams and Dan Adams
  7. On Writing: Kunlé Adeyemi
  8. Connecting Food and Design
  9. Remixing Architectural Discourse
  10. Genesis : 1: Beret Shit
  11. “No voy a actuar en el mundo antes de entenderlo”: Una conversación con Alfredo Jaar
  12. “I Will Not Act in the World Before Understanding the World”: A Conversation with Alfredo Jaar
  13. Imagining Irmgard
  14. Afterwords: Bite
  15. Afterwords: Portals
  16. Afterwords: Calendar
  17. Seeking Drafts
Mark

Negative Spaces

Mays Albaik (MFA Glass 2019)

I sang a lot as a child.


This and all images below: Mays Albaik, from the series "Recordings, Translated," 2017, cyanotype prints

While celebrated for its natural history collection and earthy character I had a throaty voice, and adults found it beautiful. My lungs caught bronchitis often, and the coughing scratched my throat.

The older I grew, the less sick I got, and the cleaner my voice became.

It wasn’t the same with my mouth.

The older I grew, the filthier it got, as though the phlegm that chafed my chords didn’t disappear, but instead became curses, and moved closer to my lips. Closer to the outside world.

This dirtiness sat, behind my teeth, under my tongue, for years.

It festered, and as an adolescent, I had many ulcers. I had pristine school reports, and my teeth were pearly white. But something in my stomach was pushing at my mouth. The skin broke open and my mouth bled, but my words stayed inside.

Then they slowly trickled out. They leaked between my teeth, through my parted lips, first in breaths, then whispers, then in words, and finally hacking coughs. My chest came full circle.


I think, sometimes, that my body formed around my mouth.

With every cough a secret tried to escape. The belt of three stars, sea-salt drying on the shore, the taste of waves lapping against stones. My secrets, saffron kisses like warm winter tea, and words whispered like thin summer clouds.

But they were inside, pressed together, calcifying, not clouds anymore but slow rock, odorless in their immobility. In their imprisonment, tasteless.

Around them, my tongue morphed. My teeth, the teeth I ground to keep the clouds in, bled, then broke, then, around their debris, regrew anew. My lips flayed, then regenerated, and now they sit, my words’ sore and swollen gate to the world.


I think bodies form around their negative spaces.

Looking for someone else’s secrets, I found fossils in my ears. They looked like words, but ones I’d never heard before. They had been sitting for years, hardening, settling. The brackets that held my thoughts from tumbling, from the clouds.

I put the words back in, but my ears hadn’t stopped forming, deforming, reforming. The brackets were loose, the secrets ill-fitting, and the headaches started.

I think the words inside my body are the hammer to the anvil of the world outside.

I ignored the headaches. I was sure the problem was in the back of my neck. My skin crawled at the smell of saffron, the taste of sea salt. Every morning I’d wake to summer clouds, and my hackles would rise. Every night I’d sleep beneath three stars.

It had to be my dreams. They drained out like septic water every morning, clotting my hair, soiling my pillows. They never fit around my neck, until I redrew my head, re-stretched my spine, replaced my skin.

I slept better then, but I still ached. The sea salt was in my lungs, the sun’s fire in my gullet. I thought of bronchitis, like it were an old friend, and of words like “rock” and lungfuls of stones.

I think the spaces of my body work in tandem to stop it from being.

I had been breathing smoke all my life.

Never a smoker when everyone else was (even the stars on moonless nights), I inhaled their tobacco breath and never breathed it out. It stayed in, pushed at itself. It coalesced, churning, flashing, a dense thundercloud of ever-changing unattainabilities.

Then I decided to sing again.

I sang in front of a mirror, “Watch your chin, your shoulders,” my instructor would say. But I watched my ears as they bled, my chest as it heaved. I watched the smoke leave my body.

Mark