We read the Epic of Gilgamesh and talk about the quest for immortality. We read Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave,” considering the “cave” that each of us lives in as well as our potential for getting out. We read ���Գپ����DzԱ���and discuss the role of social protest in living a meaningful life. We visit the Portland Art Museum and observe the way artists give shape to their experiences in the world.

On November 25, 2025, our class of 18 students had the pleasure of hosting Elena Villa, professional Flamenco dancer and PCC English instructor, who helped us dive more deeply into our exploration. Villa shared the rich and varied cultural history of Flamenco, a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage, and the ways this art form has helped people document their lives, preserve cultural narratives and traditions, and make meaning of the full range of their experiences for centuries.

Elena spoke in particular about the transformational possibilities of Flamenco in the context of the ��ܱ�Ի��,��about which Federico Garcia Lorca wrote: “The duende….Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child’s saliva, crushed grass, and medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.” She also shared her personal connections to Flamenco in particular and dance in general—something she was first exposed to by her father in the 1970s.

By the end of the visit, students had a much deeper understanding of this art form, its surrounding culture, and its ability to help people shape and make meaning of their lives.

Twenty-two students, guided by instructors Lara Mendicino and Tim Krause, spent time exploring Southeast with cellphone cameras in hand. Their assignment: slow down, look closely, and capture aspects of campus life and culture that are often overlooked in the daily rush to class and work.

Students returned with images ranging from the unusual to the unexpectedly familiar, often seen from new angles. While many students captured images of nature, others focused on art, architecture, and even the signs. Each participant selected one photograph to feature and wrote a short interpretation in English—which, for many, is a second, third, or even fourth language—before making an audio recording to explain the image’s significance.

Using HARTS funding, Mendicino and Krause produced 8×10 color prints of each photograph and generated individual QR codes linking to the students’ recordings. The finished works were installed as an exhibit along the second-floor hallway bulletin boards in Mt. Scott Hall, where they will remain on display through at least the end of Winter 2026. Publication of the exhibit was sent via email to instructors, staff, and administrators of the SE ESOL department. Several instructors have expressed interest in taking their classes to see the exhibit.

The exhibit invites the hundreds, even thousands, of visitors who pass through the building to pause, look, and listen. Hearing students describe their own images in their own voices can spark reflection and conversation not only about the art itself but also about the cultures, languages, and lived experiences that make up the PCC community.

More than 50 students attended the session led by Dr. Ravi Kittappa and engaged in an energetic discussion about Joyce’s creative practice and research. Drawing from her background as an artist who composes and performs with an adapted electric toy organ, Joyce shared how her experiences with physical difference inform her art and her philosophy of “access as aesthetic.” Her talk highlighted the ways that technology can serve as a tool for inclusion, empowerment, and new modes of creative expression.

Students asked wide-ranging questions that connected Joyce’s work to the course’s core themes—how digital tools shape identity, how access influences artistic innovation, and how the arts can model more equitable forms of participation. “It was one of the liveliest and most inspiring sessions of the term,” said Dr. Kittappa. “Molly’s perspective resonated deeply with students, showing them that technology and identity are not opposing forces but creative partners.”

The visit underscored PCC’s commitment to bringing diverse voices into the classroom and fostering dialogue between artistic practice, scholarship, and social justice.

Each day this week, I’ve had my coffee and breakfast at a small mosaic table on an octagonal porch overlooking an orchard. As I eat my croissants and scrambled eggs, a squirrel gluts herself on an unripe apple in the tree across from me, and a juvenile deer is doing what can only be described as playing in the sunlit field to my left. He munches at the grass for a few seconds before leaping and bucking with joy and abandon. At 41, I have dutifully taken up bird watching like a prince on whom the kingdom was foisted, knowing his day would come eventually, and taking up the scepter with dignity when the time comes (the scepter, binoculars, in this scenario). I make notes in my journal of all the sensory details, unsure what, if anything, they will become.

This type of morning, without the city sound of garbage trucks or the neighbors’ dogs, without my cat begging for food, and with no looming to-do list, is only possible because I am in the middle of a brief writing residency. My days are luxuriously free and aesthetically inspiring. A few days in, I have found my rhythms and routines, and I get why writing residencies are a thing: the luxury of time, the novelty of location, the ever-so-slight pressure to produce something good.

Despite being a writing instructor, my own writing practice is relatively new to me. I attribute this mainly to the fact that until my late 30s, I was working so much that I didn’t really have time to write. I studied literature in graduate school, and the bulk of the writing I produced consisted of long academic essays and — I’ve come to realize recently — emails with my friends. When I decided two years ago to start working more seriously on my own writing, I did not have a specific goal in mind. I just knew I had ideas, and I finally had the time to write them down. Over the past two years, I have written fitfully and at random. Usually I just wake up one morning with an idea and work on it until I realize I am hungry and it’s 2pm. Though I’ve written poetry and toyed with fiction in the past, my strength is nonfiction. It’s no surprise that after teaching students to write essays for 13 years, I gravitate towards the genre myself. While the fitful and random writing process worked for a while, it is not conducive to consistency or habit, and as I’ve gradually set more goals for myself (publishing more, posting monthly to substack), I’ve had to consider what it means to have a writing practice, how to write even if the muse hasn’t paid her visit.

Much of my writing reflects on the past. My own past and those I shared it with. Lately, my research (if you can call it that) largely revolves around re-reading old emails, which serve as a time capsule for what I thought, how I wrote, and who I was friends with at any given time from 2004 to 2011 (at which point smartphones, texting, and social media overthrew the personal email empire). Looking through old emails has become the closest thing to a writing ritual that I have. In fact, during my residency, I’ve been working on an essay about email, an ode of sorts to the last bastion of long form written communication before the fragmentation and chaos of texting and social media took over for good, before writing an email became so burdensome that people were foaming at the mouth to give it over to ChatGPT, even if it meant accelerating the destruction of the planet.

And so, here is the closest thing I have to a writing ritual. From my perch overlooking the field with the deer and the birds and the squirrels, I open old emails: between me and my best friend, between me and my mother, between me and my old roommates (who, when we were travelling, or sometimes even when we were living together, wrote each other long narratives about everything from relationships to god to climate change to Kate Bush). As I read my old writing, I am equal parts embarrassed and proud, delighted and horrified, humored and saddened. But most of all, I am heartened at this reminder that I have always been writing. And with this reminder, I can get to work.

A ritual to remind you you were always a writer

Step 1: Open your oldest email account

Step 2: Search for an email that’s as old as possible with one of your earliest acquaintances.

Step 3: Open one at random. The more decontextualized, the better (look for cryptic subject lines like song lyrics or simply “mushrooms”).

Step 4: Read the exchange in one big gulp.

Step 5: Cringe at your naivete, your sincerity, your bad writing.

Step 6: Celebrate your naivete, your sincerity, your bad writing, and your good writing (it’s there too).

Step 7: Notice how and where you were developing a voice, a point of view, perhaps even a world view.

Step 8: Marvel at the time capsule that big tech has given you in exchange for your privacy, a glimpse at your past thoughts with a to-the-minute time stamp.

Step 9: Open a blank page (digital or paper) and start writing.

Over the five days I stayed at Carolyn Moore Writers House, I used Kim Krans’ tarot The Wild Unknown Alchemy Deck and Guidebook to guide my daily writing. Each day, I drew a card and wrote in response to it.

Pictured below is the tarot spread in completion, the five daily cards grouped together. The one card to the right was my clarifying card, a final card meant to clarify and amplify the meaning of them all, and to give a sense of what I could take with me as my residency came to a close.

Quicksilver, the first card I drew on my first day was appropriate. In short, the card can be read as “the sacred threshold demands your attention.”

Coagulation, the second card I drew, can be read as, “experience the merging of others while not losing oneself.”

The New Pearl, the third day’s card, can be read as, “find the grit that will become the pearl.”

Iron, the card drawn for my fourth day, can be read as, “be held by the structure already in place.”

Sulphur, the card for my fifth and final day, can be read as, “embrace a both and mentality.”

And finally, Sap of the Moon Plant, the card I drew to clarify what to take from all cards, can be read as, “a metaphor for the wellspring of the unconscious–release your grip–the dream is waiting to show itself but awaits your sincere invitation.”

In her introduction to the tarot deck, Kim Karns recalls what an art teacher once told her during a critique: “I bet you thought you were working on a sculpture. Maybe the sculpture is working on you.”

That’s the point of view I held at the Writer’s House. I was there to work on writing, but more importantly, I let the writing work on me.

Some writing prompts to let the writing work on you:

• Quicksilver: Write about a time you stepped out of your everyday routine into a space that transformed how you saw yourself or your work. How did that shift feel?
• Coagulation: Explore the metaphor of creativity as a plant you’ve neglected. What happens when you start watering it again?
• The New Pearl: Write a short scene in which a character receives unexpected “grit” to work with. How do they transform it into something valuable?
• Iron: Imagine a house designed specifically to foster creativity. Walk through its rooms in your mind and describe them.
• Sulphur: Use a freewrite to explore how “ease” and “uncertainty” can exist together in the creative process.
• Sap of the Moon: Begin with the sentence: “It was always there, waiting for me…” and let the rest flow.

A Final Note

My writing desk at the Writers House

The experience allowed me to embrace a space of process so the purpose of my stay became one of allowing myself the time and space to simply be open to the experience of being at the house, writing and reading. I did, however, manage to see at least one creation to completion, courtesy of the wild blackberry bushes growing throughout the property.

A blackberry pie at the Writers House

Thank you to Justin Rigamonti and the HARTS program at PCC for giving me the opportunity to write, compose, and become inspired at the Carolyn Moore Writers House. And thank you to James Pepe for the gift of Kim Krans’ Alchemy Deck & Guidebook.

On Saturday, June 7, students from ART 217: Comics Art and Literature concluded the term by attending and tabling at (BwPCon) in Portland, Oregon. The event made their coursework more tangible and provided real-world engagement with the wider comics community.

During the Spring term, students in ART 217 focused on graphic adaptations, examining how existing narratives, histories, and biographies are reinterpreted through the medium of comics. They closely studied Eileen Gray: A House Under the Sun, Days of Sand, and Kusama: The Graphic Novel, using these texts to inspire their own visual storytelling efforts. Each week, the class also produced physical, handmade micro-comics in the form of one-sheet folded zines. In preparation for BwPCon, the 20-person cohort  revised and printed their comics to share with the public, which gave them a chance to talk about the value and accessibility of this medium.

The day of the convention, ART 217 students took turns tabling in two-hour shifts. Not only did they distribute more than 400 comics, but they also chatted with curious attendees and taught some folks the fold-and-cut zine technique.

“I couldn’t be more proud of how our students showed up—both professionally and creatively. As an instructor, witnessing this level of engagement was moving. This wasn’t just an academic exercise; it was a real-world entry point into a larger dialogue about comics as a serious and vibrant cultural form,” said instructor Jay Olinger.

To see more student work from ART 217, .

Dillon visited PCC’s MUC 262: Interface Design class on March 3 to share his approach to interface design and iterative design for the DHH community.

MUC 262 is a second-year course in the Associate Degree for Creative Coding and Immersive Technology, which is part of our Music and Sonic Arts Program. It is an advanced class where students study user/human centered design techniques and work in a hands-on way to build new, innovative interfaces for controlling sound, light, and video.

Simeone’s process and technical advice expertise was a fascinating masterclass in human centered design, and was coupled with a table full of innovative sound and light objects designed for DHH musicians.

Students got to do some hands-on exploration with GeLu, a new instrument for deaf musicians presented at the 2024 , among many other inventions. GeLu combines two bracelets – one with gesture sensing and haptic feedback plus another with LED color feedback – to help users visualize audio data synchronized with sound.

In the Zoom lecture, “Curating as Conduction,” Laurel introduced the students to the exhibition “: .” She also gave an overview of her career trajectory as an art curator and took questions from the students about professional goals in the arts. After the talk, students hopped on the MAX to make a visit to .

One student wrote that “Laurel spoke about her educational background, previous internships and positions, and exhibits she’s worked on, presentations given, but what I found to be most remarkable was her drive to create more equity in the art world. I learned of the wage disparity between [arts] workers and . . . her work with undocumented women. Going into the exhibit with her values in mind, my expectations were exceeded by Waste Scenes, which tells a story about the effects of neoliberal capitalism using multiple mediums of art.”

Art history students send a big thanks to HARTS Fund supporters for the opportunity to chat with a professional in the art world.

Dr. Krishnamurthy’s visit came on the heels of his recent tour in Chennai, India, where he performed as part of the world-renowned Chennai Music Season, an annual festival that gathers the finest musicians in the Carnatic tradition. As a highly respected mridangam artist, composer, and scholar, his perspective provided a unique window into the evolving global landscape of Carnatic music. His visit sparked thought-provoking discussions on the intersections of tradition, modernity, and identity in the performance and transmission of classical music.

Throughout the session, Dr. Krishnamurthy engaged with students in an open and dynamic exchange. Their questions spanned a range of topics, from the technical nuances of mridangam playing to broader considerations of how Carnatic music functions in diasporic and contemporary settings. He responded in detail, often drawing from personal experiences and offering insights into the ways in which rhythm, improvisation, and pedagogy shape both his practice and his understanding of identity.

A highlight of his discussion was his tribute to his guru, the legendary mridangam maestro Guruvayur Dorai, who was recently honored with the prestigious Padma Shri award—one of India’s highest civilian honors. Dr. Krishnamurthy spoke at length about Guruvayur Dorai’s immense contributions to the field of Carnatic percussion, his impact on generations of musicians, and the deep influence he has had on his own artistic and academic journey. He reflected on the rigorous yet profoundly enriching guru-shishya (teacher-disciple) tradition, emphasizing the importance of oral transmission, embodied learning, and the lifelong process of musical refinement.

Beyond the technical and historical aspects of Carnatic music, Dr. Krishnamurthy also touched upon his own interdisciplinary work, which bridges performance, ethnomusicology, and music technology. His ability to move fluidly between tradition and innovation resonated with the themes of Dr. Kittappa’s class, which explores sound as a means of constructing and negotiating identity. Students were particularly intrigued by his thoughts on the ways in which Carnatic percussion continues to evolve in response to changing social, cultural, and technological contexts.

As the session came to a close, it was evident that Dr. Krishnamurthy’s visit had left a lasting impact on the students. His ability to articulate the complexities of identity through rhythm and sound provided an invaluable perspective on the fluidity of musical traditions and the ongoing dialogue between past and present. His return to the class underscored the importance of sustained engagement with artists and scholars whose work challenges and enriches conventional understandings of music and identity.

Dr. Kittappa and his students expressed their gratitude for Dr. Krishnamurthy’s generosity in sharing his time, experiences, and deep passion for music. His visit was a reminder of the profound ways in which sound constructs, reflects, and transforms identity—both for those who create it and for those who listen.

One student wrote that Leonora Carrington’s “work offers escapism and adventure to the viewer.” In reflecting on the depiction of gender in Carrington’s prints, another student wrote, “The female figures in The Magic World by Leonara Carrington were depicted as beautiful and true integral characters of a make believe society. . . . Given this, it’s a well reasoned assumption that [art critic] Carol Duncan would appreciate how the female-like figures . . . are portrayed in a positive light. [Carrington’s] examples show how female artists have reclaimed the use of female imagery as a way to drive wholesome associations with women.” And, another student reflected, “Leonora Carrington . . . portrayed women in empowered, mythical roles. Her surrealist approach with dreamlike figures and vivid color schemes challenged conventional portrayals of women as objects.”

For further reading about Leonora Carrington’s series of 11 lithographic prints from 1974 illustrating costume designs for S. Ansky’s play The Dybbuk, see Matt Stromberg’s Hyperallergic article ““