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Unveiling the Inner Artist: InterArts Cabinet of Curiosity

Christopher Chiasera

Christopher Chiasera is a creative writer from Long Island, New York, and first-year student presently enrolled at Hartford, Connecticut’s Trinity College. Despite having already compiled two collections of poetry and prose - Into Which They So Innocuously Peered (2019) and Disarming the Gatekeeper of the Mind (2021) - and secured publication of two standalone pieces in Trinity College Literary Magazine’s Spring 2021 edition, he is far from satisfied with the fruits of his artistic journey. In undertaking his most recent Scalar project, Chiasera hopes to showcase both the academic and literary merits of his work, find inspiration in curious places, and further press the bounds of his capacity for creative expression.

In the gallery below, view some of Chiasera's creative writing from the Fall 2020 semester.

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Broken Food Chains: A Short Story
By Christopher Chiasera
Two pairs of tiny webbed feet imprint on fertile soil at the bank of the river, flicking backwards on the balls of their little ankles, propelling a narrow, brown body into the nearby forest of grass. Beams of summer sunlight beat on the dirt. Stirs and buzzes, the whining of cicadas and rustling of reeds, animate the air, injecting into it their liveliness; everything moves with choreographed asynchrony. A pink tongue flutters against dewdrops as they roll from the tall, green spires stretching skyward all around, and indulges in their wetness before driving forward. Delicate, marble eyes mount themselves on a blunt, reptilian snout, which sniffs for beetles. White feathers rustle in the not-so-far-off distance.
The webbed feet pause in the dirt to give themselves a moment of rest, letting the body they carry idle in the shade; all the morning and into the oppressive heat of late afternoon, it has sought out bugs to eat, unsuccessful yet undeterred. The little brown gecko settles its fingers and wiggles its tail as tiredness momentarily subdues its hunger, allowing itself leisure, enjoying the coolness of the grassy canopy in its secluded spot amidst the brush. The tongue hangs out slightly from the jaw of the moist head. Streaks of light are dulled by the chlorophyll ceiling and cast faint glows across the damp earth, while a blazing sun scorches dry terrain just beyond. The brown gecko pushes its stomach deeper into the cool, soft cushion of loam.
Then, just ahead, a subtle writhing of the ground disrupts the quiescence. Six stickly legs emerge from the dirt and lift a glistening exoskeleton upward, as two antennae feel sluggishly around; the unsuspecting, frilled-shelled beetle pokes its head into the air, having woken from a long slumber, and begins grudgingly to stagger into the damp jungle. The gecko, stupefied, relaxed, does not take immediate notice of this - until it does. Both crescent eyes widen, exposing their whole black orbs. The muscles of all four legs contract and then release like springs, and the gecko soars abruptly through the thin curtain of grass, sending ripples from the bases of their stalks to their upmost tips, to pounce upon its prey. The beetle is not nearly quick enough. It finds itself nestled between the warm fleshy folds of the gecko’s mouth and is promptly crushed to death.
Before the little brown gecko can dine upon its newfound meal, the sun overhead is eclipsed, and the lizard left to darkness; it has even less time to react than did the beetle. Thick, vegetative walls are torn asunder, and the unhampered heat of the world beyond the grassy jungle pours in. White wings flap at the sides of a looming mass of feathers, as a long, pointed beak pierces the ground like a harpoon: a white heron, looking for lizards to eat at the bank of the river, noticed stirring in the brush and spotted food. Massive talons disrupt the settled soil and kick through the tall grass, and circular eyes on each side of a flailing head look wildly about, as the gecko is lifted into the air, caught in the heron’s bill by its tail.
Everything slows as the little brown gecko is flung from its refuge amongst the weeds and into the sky; the crushed corpse of the dead beetle drops from its mouth and lands in the soil far below. For the first time in its short life, the lizard sees the world from above: in one direction stretches a vast plain of green grass and bristly undergrowth that yields some miles down to a steady tree line; in the other, a shallow river runs along the hillside, bordered by thick tufts of reed. The sun bears down at equidistance from the eastern and western horizons, assertive and bold at the heart of the cloudless blue canvas overhead. Dry, hot air caresses the gecko’s stout face. Warmth spreads across the scaly skin. Life teems every which way; the black-marble eyes, for a moment, reflect the whole of the universe.
At the peak of its journey heavenbound, the brown lizard presses its hind legs against the heron’s narrow beak and urges its body forward with all its strength. The forcefulness of the struggle and momentum of its mass converge on a single point at the base of the tailbone, and, finally, the gecko detaches from its snagged appendage, falling through the air and crashing through the roof of grass and shoots to land in the dirt with a thud. It swiftly kicks itself up on its hind legs, mouth still agape, eyes still starlike and ablaze, and charges through the thick curtain of grass in the direction of the winding river. The beating of its long, webbed feet on the dry soil adds to the cacophony of noise from the plain, as the hungry heron swoops its neck and pursues from close behind. The tailless gecko scurries down the silty shore, to the fine border between water and land, and pauses before the sunlit stream of pulsing whiteness, as broad, feathered wings enclose. The weight of the bulbous avian body shakes the ground as it bounds forward. The little brown gecko acts on little more than instinct: it closes its eyes, and jumps in.

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There was something about John James Audubon’s “White Heron” that drew me in: perhaps the vividness of the illustration, as looming and large as intricately detailed; or the elegance of the great white bird, poised on two long legs, its head stooped to the ground with the graceful bend of a strong, powerful neck; or even the spotted reptilian form tucked beneath, small and unsuspecting, subject to the scrutiny of eager, avian eyes. Whatever the appeal might have been, it prompted a process of creation which would extend far beyond the literal parameters of the work, and would constitute the scenic context for "Broken Food Chains," a short story about the pains of growth.
John James Audubon was an American ornithologist, painter, and natural historian of the late-seventeenth and early-eighteenth centuries, who rose to prominence in the scientific and artistic communities following the publication of his The Birds of America. At the age of thirty-five, Audubon declared his intention to document one of every species of bird indigenous to the North American continent by drawing them, and to compile such drawings in an illustrative book. This effort spanned the length of seven years, from 1820 to 1827; furnishment and distribution of the book continued until 1838, largely under the supervision of engravers Robert Havell Jr. and William Lizars. Original copies of The Birds of America consist of 435 hand-colored prints, each drafted on two-by-four-feet “double elephant folio” sheets printed by copperplate etching. Only 120 original copies are purported to remain in existence, and one of them is currently housed in Trinity College’s Watkinson Library. On December 6, 2010, a complete copy of its first edition sold at Sotheby’s Auction House for £7,321,250 (or approximately $11.5 million), and, that same month, The Economist found five out of the ten most expensive books to ever sell to have been reproductions of this one.
I stumbled upon The Birds of America’s “White Heron” on Trinity College’s Watkinson Library website, and was immediately struck by its artistic detail and capacity for motion; the whole painting felt immersive and alive, although, truly, unmoving and unanimated. Disparate images and ideas seemed naturally to cohere and relate a narrative: the lofty, assertive poise of the heron juxtaposed with the stagnancy and sluggish disposition of the lizard suggested a showdown between predator and prey. The cloudless blue sky alluded to summer, and thick blades of grass situated the portrait’s subjects amongst the plains. I could envision the subtle depression of the earth meeting with fervent white water as gravel and dirt turned to silt. The many features of the work each assumed a critical role in the structuring of my story, and recommended directions in which I might take it. "Broken Food Chains" is the synthesis of my own artistic ingenuities with inspiration from elsewhere; if my writing were its arteries, then Audubon and his artwork would be its heart. I would consider this short story to be as much accredited to him as it is to me.
Bibliography
"Audubon at Pitt". University Library System, University of Pittsburgh. 2008. Retrieved 22 August 2011.
"Book value". The Economist. 8 December 2010.

"Central Park's Winged Tenants, By Audubon". The New York Times. 26 December 2003.

"Original Audubon Prints - Antique Natural History Prints - Books - Havell - Bien - Imperial Folio - Bird and Animal Prints". minniesland.com. Archived from the original on 19 June 2010.

Oxford illustrated encyclopedia. Judge, Harry George., Toyne, Anthony. Oxford [England]: Oxford University Press. 1985–1993. p. 26. ISBN 0-19-869129-7. OCLC 11814265.

Reyburn, Scott (7 December 2010). "'Birds of America' Book Fetches Record $11.5 Million". Bloomberg.

Sheely, Kate. “The Watkinson Library: Bringing Rare Books and Special Collections to Life.” Trinity College, www.trincoll.edu/the-watkinson-library/.
Rewarding Curiosity: Wadsworth Atheneum's Tureen Turtle
By Christopher Chiasera
Walking into the Wadsworth Atheneum’s Cabinet of Curiosity, onlookers are met with an eclectic assortment of glinting objects, attractive monuments, brilliant wares, and captivating spectacles of antiquity. Before them sits a set of twin encasements, each filled with ceramic vases and intricate, glass figurines; gilded frames line the emerald walls with seraphs and biblical images; wooden shelves of lofty cabinets decorated with fanciful pottery, tiny statuettes, miniature busts, metal bodies, and carefully-engraved ornaments. Tens of dozens of novelties pull their eyes in all directions, to every space at once. Where I stand, however, one single, unremarkable sculpture, resting stoutly on its four legs, mounted on a dresser in the corner of the room, inexplicably draws my attention above all others: a lonesome tureen turtle, beautifully painted and artfully shaped. As others pass me by, they seem to pay it little notice - but I simply can’t bring myself to look away.

Procured from Urbino, a city of central Italy, this tureen turtle dates back to the end of the sixteenth century, and has its heritage in Renaissance craftsmanship. Produced either in the workshop of Ozario Fontana, an esteemed Italian potter and maiolica (tin-glazed earthenware) painter, or by the Patanazzi Family, it likely was the centerpiece of many extravagant banquets. The base and exterior of the turtle are smattered with dull, rustic colors that confer upon the entire sculpture a sense of terrenity; though its shell is missing from the exhibition, the two would usually be conjoined so as to offer a jarringly lifelike replication of the creature. The interior of the tureen dish features a painting of baby Moses, floating on a piece of cloth down the ancient Nile’s winding blue waterways. This stark contrast between the turtle’s inside and outside was hoped to inspire awe in unsuspecting banquet guests. The passage of centuries has transformed an exciting ornament of various historical feasts into an antique work of art, and has deposited enough social and aesthetic significance into it to warrant display in the Wadsworth Atheneum.

What attracts me to this object is its capacity to differentiate what lies within from what lies without; its initial appearance, especially at a distance (even more so, I imagine, if its original shell were preserved), is banal and monotonous. For those who care enough for closer inspection, and are willing to look beyond superficial impressions, they soon discover something beautiful. Good art is not obliged to present itself as such; the best of art, moreover, is not that which opens itself up to the observer unprovoked. The perception and internalization of creative materials and products, I contend, is intended to be revelatory. Art that advertises its aesthetic value so explicitly is often cheapened by the breadth of its appeal; art whose propensity for recognition is artificially imposed, and which is engineered intentionally to appease audiences, misses out on its opportunity to indicate something substantive. This tureen turtle does exactly the opposite: rather than immediately make its artistic worth known, it implores those who notice it to make their own valuations. It feigns staleness, and then surprises with refreshing novelty. It draws in the curious, and rewards them for their curiosity - and that, I think, is the grandest achievement possible of any piece of artwork.

tureen turtle - a short poem
cool blue pool
in a shallow bowl
of
ceramic earthenness.
like a mirage:
dry, sandy crusts
like death upon the tongue,
like licking
dirt.
dampened by
a wet, watery heart
that brims against the edges,
threatens to abound
instead of beat.
such beauty within,
such quenchful drink
for a thirsty body.

why, then,
do you not
refresh yourself?
Bibliography
“Cabinet of Art & Curiosity.” Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, 13 Apr. 2021, www.thewadsworth.org/explore/on-view/cabinet-of-art-and-curiosity/.

Fliegel, Stephen N. “Maiolica.” La Gazzetta Italiana, May 2015, www.lagazzettaitaliana.com/history-culture/7881-maiolica.

Gill, N.S. “Why Was Baby Moses Left in a Basket in the Nile?” ThoughtCo, 14 Oct. 2019, www.thoughtco.com/story-of-moses-118325.

John J. Audubon, Reproduction of plate 121, Birds of America, orig. 100 x 72 cm, Watkinson Library
A Stain on the Pavement: A Poem
By Christopher Chiasera
AFTER LONG, dreary days
of heavy rain,
pouring down from
thick, black
cumulus paintbrush strokes
that puddle in the mud,
and rot
grassy roots,
flooding out the flowers
with watery drink,
drowning
the budded sprouts
who peek their heads above the surface,
a single slug
slowly rolls its warm
body
over the tough perforation
of asphalt and dirt.

his moist skin
seizes with effort
and the length of his body
throbs,
wiggling in the
mud-dirt,
pressing against
the border
that splits flowerfield
and parking lot.
he
juts his face
from the gelatinous mass of
the rest of him,
forward,
into the air,
hoping to
bring with it
everything behind,
trailing his own wetness
across the silt
to trail it, instead,
across the vast plain
of hardened tar
not so far
ahead.

he does not know that,
tomorrow,
once the clouds have cleared
and the sun is yet again
let rise from the horizon
and into the sky,
he will have been
boiled
to little more than
a stain on the pavement;
that there is no
protection
from the oppressive rays
of heat and light
in the middle of a parking lot;
that slugs
ought to stay
away from
dry, rocky deserts
and reside forever in the dirt.

but
even if he knew,
i am not sure
it would have changed his mind.

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To make "Something Out of Nothing", I contend, is an impossible task - what an artist wills into existence can never be wholly segregated from him and his experience. Whether he sculpts it with his hands, or scribes it into paper, or paints it onto canvas, or merely entertains the prospect of it, he must also allow it to thieve a little piece of himself. Art is a translation of the incorporeal, from its genesis within to habitat without; it does not reflect the artist’s mind, but is the artist’s mind. There is no distinction between the two, but varying iterations of; his work is to his thought as praxis is to theory. He cannot help but produce something unoriginal if he relies on his own facilities to do it; his efforts will always yield something mediate, some tether between his soul and his body and the world he inhabits. Therefore, A Stain on the Pavement is in no way made “out of nothing.” It is the logical consequent of my own interaction with the conditions of my world and developments in my life.
My time in college has made me feel like a slug: slowly, I move forward; my legs begrudge beneath my body (although I suppose slugs don’t have legs); I slither solemnly along in the same direction, hoping to stumble by happenstance upon something exciting. It is not that I am unhappy - I do not think of slugs as unhappy creatures - but rather that I am split. I half cast a backward glance at the people and places and comforts I leave behind, and half look ahead to the daunting future promises that stretch out before me. Do I abandon the past and embrace the future, or hang to what I have always known? Do I sacrifice contentedness for the chance of greater contentedness, at risk of losing more than I gain; or satisfy myself with what I already have, neglecting future opportunity altogether? Is it fair to entertain the former, or selfish? Is the chasm between these two, disparate paths irreparable? Do I delude myself thinking I have a say in the matter? Attending college is almost inherently a transformative experience - but to what extent do I embrace the change? Although writing poetry likely will not bear formidable answers to any of these questions, it certainly makes them appear more tangible and less defeating. A Stain on the Pavement suggests taking but one possible path of many, and encourages unabashed commitment to personal exploration in the face of impediment no matter the repercussions. Sometimes, investigating beyond what is comfortable, even if such travails end tragically, is preferable to remaining infant.
The United States of A-Marilyn: Politics and Powerful Women
By Christopher Chiasera
Dear Marilyn,

A few weeks ago, while eating lunch outside the library, I was approached by none other than the wonderful, one and only Emma Stover. Generous enough to join in my meal, she sat down beside me at my table. We chatted briefly about miscellaneous subjects - how unbearably hot it was outside, how her afternoon class in the library had gone, how the little brown birds skittered on tiny feet across the concrete beneath us - until I remembered, quite suddenly, the InterArts project we had just recently been assigned: a gift, especially one of personal meaning or value, was to be given from each of us to a predesignated member of the class. Since you were my assignment, I figured I would ask Emma about the sorts of things you enjoy or are interested in, in hopes of creating something that you might like to receive. She looked away for a moment, to give the question thought, and resolved it with an answer more succinct than I had anticipated: “Marilyn,” she said, “likes politics and powerful women.”

Although I didn’t say it aloud, my first thought, to paraphrase, was:

Emma, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Needless to say, getting from Emma’s response to a workable idea was a long and difficult process. There were countless testaments to your interests and hobbies that I felt I could make: a poem or song lyrics about female empowerment, a short story about the woman’s plight in American politics, an essay on the history of femininity and its effect on society. I know you’re passionate about civil engagement, political activism, and public policy - but what significance could I extract from these ideas, or the themes they seemed to elucidate?

Ultimately, after an abundance of thought, I settled on making you something far more straightforward and to-the-point. My foremost and most immediate association with the idea of political empowerment is the Declaration of Independence - what could possibly be more empowering than the prospect of national self-determination, than liberation of oneself from tyranny? Furthermore, easily one of the most male-dominated professions of all recorded history, from inception to present, has been that of the politician. What if, I thought to myself, instead of the Founding Fathers having been white men, they were actually all Marilyn? Thus, my magnum opus, The United States of A-Marilyn (click the image to see annotations), was born. I hope you like it!

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