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 ︎

Pandemic Publishing ︎

  1. Call for Submissions, SOS Edition
  2. 3.29.20 Irina V. Wang
  3. Let Yourself Be Lifted Jackie Scott
  4. Art Is Everything Jen Liese
  5. Two Poems Ella Rosenblatt
  6. Living Room Dance Party Ariel Wills
  7. On Walking When Walking Is Advised Against Keavy Handley-Byrne
  8. Untitled Cita Devlin
  9. Ads in Corona Hannah Oatman
  10. COVID-19 and Communitas Elaine Lopez
  11. A Time for Pie Elizabeth Burmann
  12. How to Stay Motivated When You’re Stuck at Home Clarisse Angkasa
  13. Coerced Harmony (A Tour) Hammad Abid
  14. Zooming In and Out Tongji Philip Qian
  15. [Form] Ciara Carlyle
  16. Hi.txt Dan Luo
  17. A poem about boredom, a composite Maixx Culver-Hagins
  18. Eyewitness News Tristram Lansdowne
  19. Distance Maps Marcus Peabody
  20. Therapeutic Suggestion Maria Aliberti Lubertazzi
  21. Keep Your Heart Six Feet Away From Mine (and other moments) Arielle Eisen
  22. Twenty Instructions for COVID-19 Charlott Isobel Dazan
  23. Cuerno 1 y 2 Yan Diego Estrella Wilson
  24. A Monolith of Grief Regarding the Absence of Touches, or Letter to a Future Lover García Sinclair
  25. Coronavirus by the Thousands Drew Dodge
  26. Two Poems Kathryn Li
  27. Beds Are Burning Aleks Dawson
  28. Still Lifes Yidan Wang
  29. Fragments of Seva Jagdeep Raina
  30. Packing Up and Staying Woojin Kim
  31. Chronic Pain and Fermentation Ralph Davis
  32. Quarantine Letters Hannah Moore
  33. Sounds of Silence: An Isolation Soundscape Dara Benno
  34. 14 Day Detox for Designers Erica Silver

Winter 2020

  1. From the Editors
  2. The Phantom Audience, or How to “Really Do It” Asher White
  3. Some Dry Season(ing) / 5 Tales in an Embryo Room Yuqing Liu
  4. Throwing Salt, Constructing the Homeland Ariel Wills
  5. Infinity Balloon Man Jack Zhou
  6. Texas Triptych Ali Dipp
  7. Phenomenology of Bones Chris Shen
  8. Erlking Yiqun Zhou
  9. Trouble in Reality Elena Foraker
  10. Family Stories Gina Vestuti
  11. Treasure Reilly Blum

Fall 2019
  1. From the Editors
  2. Architecture and Its Ghosts Xuan Liu
  3. Fit/O!de Jeff Katz
  4. Desde La Chinaca y La China Poblana Ariel Wills
  5. Ballast Tiger Dingsun
  6. Love Letters Brenda Rodriguez
  7. The Anxieties of Plant-sitting Carol Demick
  8. Zadie & Teju Ariel Wills
  9. Smooth Stones Ali Dipp 
  10. Kantha’s Melodies Michelle Dixon
  11. Glory West Megan Solis
  12. The 50 Best Albums of the 2010s Asher White

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

Negative Spaces

Emily Wright (BFA PT 2021)

The following piece developed out of a Wintersession studio-seminar, Language in the Studio, in which students were encouraged to work with writing and making as both generative process and formal outcome. The course was proposed and taught by v.1 editor Mays Albaik (MFA GL 19).


In school I am learning how to make glass, how to cast objects in glass. I am asked what I find most interesting, what excites me.

I blurt out something about negative space and ghosts. You cast an object and you fill up its negative, you take something and make its shadow.
All images by the author.


I hear that in painting there should be a balance between positive and negative space. Negative space is a term created to describe the area between two subjects. When I think about negative space, I do not think about paintings. I think about space between bodies, around objects, hollowness, inside my body. I ask myself how to measure the space between people who aren’t painted. Between people who are gone.

How do you measure that space?


There is a professor at my college who is infamous, capricious. He teaches a class called Spatial Dynamics. He may be provoked by uttering those two funny words: negative space. Space cannot be negative, he roars. So I hear.

In my dreams I take his class and I tell him I see him, I hear his roar and I feel it, too, or at least I think I do. Space isn’t absent, it’s between. It cannot be absent. It is here.


I sit down to write about the death of my brother. Not because I want to, but because I feel like I should. It seems like people should write about this if it happens. People write about things that happen. Not much ever comes of it, but I will keep sitting down to write and then not write, and maybe this is therapy and maybe I am selfish and maybe I am honoring him and maybe I am wrong. I don’t really write but I think of him often. How do you measure space?

Last week I copied down a page of his sketchbook into my own: horse, tiger, sheep, pig, cow. Last week I made a cast of his words in glass and now I have a big slab with the words imprinted into it. I was thinking about memory and fragility but now that the words are physical I realize they’re not fragile, they’re strong. I think if I pounded them with a hammer they’d laugh. I used to think I’d get a tattoo of them somewhere but something about words in the skin feels sacrilegious. Something tells me they’d try to get out. Instead I got a tattoo of a cat’s cradle and stuck his words inside glass.

Today I put the words in my backpack and I carried them. If someone asked why, I’d say I’d thought I might need them. I think I do need them.

Two Faces

In my bedroom I sit at my desk and I type on my computer and I look around the room. I wonder what comes of simplifying the world into positive and negative spaces. There are two black faces and there is one white vase. There is either and there cannot be both. One becomes background.


I live with ghosts in a house on Congdon Street. I have not seen their faces and they have not seen mine. I listen to the movie they watch. The wall between us is so thin that when one of them coughs, sometimes I jump. Sometimes I get an urge to knock on the wall but then I do not because they are my ghosts only until they hear me, until we acknowledge we hear. I think about myself as one subject and my ghosts as the other and the composition of space between us: an air filled with sound I cannot see, a wall that hides what I do not know. It is in this house I have realized that a space can have feelings. Quiet and temporary and lonely and a little bit beautiful, the space between these walls.


If I could talk with the inside of my head, the part that is in charge of figure-ground perception, I would say this: You know, the tricky thing with you, is that you have to separate. You hold on to one and discard the other. Why can’t you hold on to it all? What happens if you hold on to what isn’t there?

Everything would melt. There would be no object. No present.

Tell me, please,

what it’s like without time,

tell me.


It is nighttime in my bedroom and I am sucking in air through a tube. The tube spins medicine into mist to loosen the airways to the lungs. My boyfriend smokes cigarettes on weekends and I wonder if I would do the same if I didn’t have asthma. When I was fifteen I traveled to Spain with my best friend and we met two brothers who offered us each a cigarette. We sat on the steps across from our bedroom and I sucked mine down until it was gone.

It’s Saturday on Congdon Street and my lungs aren't filling up the way they should. Lungs are magic, something hollow seems so fragile but is so powerful except when it’s not. Maybe my lungs are the glass that won’t break, maybe my lungs are like ghosts, hollow and foggy. I haven’t seen the space behind my wall and I can’t feel the space inside my lungs but I can imagine that it’s there until I do. The feeling’s quiet and temporary and lonely and a little bit beautiful, the feeling as I wait for a tobacco kiss and a full lung and a ghost to break the silence with a cough. 


I am touching the words that I buried. One side smooth, flip them over and they cut me with their cat tongues, horse, tiger, sheep, pig, cow.

When casting an object, you bury it in a sandbox. Its imprint is filled with molten glass. After it cools, you can feel the little bits of sand embedded on one side, the other side soft. When I flip the words over, I see them in reverse, cloudy.


We were 13 and 31 on the day he died.

Bird Bones

I don’t really write but I think of him often. What happens when you write about the things you can’t see? I sit down at my desk to write about the death of my brother and I become him. It’s funny, death, it’s hollow and cloudy, so easy to make a romance of something you can’t see, of someone who’s gone. So easy to conjecture. Fill in the spaces.

Psychologists tell us that we rely on figure-ground perception. We rely on ground to serve figure, to serve that which is not buried, to serve those still here. I am still here, and I am supposed to write about things that happen. But it’s the air that keeps the lungs alive, it’s the negative space that gives a bird’s bone flight. In my dreams I tell you I see you, I feel you, I roar,

you aren’t absent, you’re between, you’re here.

A Promise

If I could talk with the inside of your head, I would have so much to say.

But right now we won’t talk, the inside of your head and I. We won’t talk but we’ll listen, I’ll listen, to the space between us and

I promise I won’t knock,

I promise that for now I won’t knock.

Emily Wright is thinking about trees, ghost stories, video games, toy cars, and the Antiques Roadshow.