Exhibition duration: September 10 – September 30, 2010
Opening Reception: Friday, September 10 @ 7:00pm
Curators: Melissa Torro and Julianna Ritter

Alfa Art Gallery is honored to kick-off a brand new exhibition season with a solo show by one of its finest artists, John Hawaka.  Hawaka dedicates his exhibition, Below, Above and Beyond, in support for the Jane Vorhees Zimmerli Art Museum’s Water project.  Hawaka’s paintings reflect great presence, power, necessity, fluidity and calm in the world, much the way water does.  They bring viewers to a world of color, reminiscent of “flora on the ocean’s floor above the waves”, too quote the artist.  Hawaka goes on to say that each of his paintings is open for interpretation, free to sculpt the audience’s ever-changing imaginations like rushing water through a canyon.

The style of my paintings for this year’s solo show are not much different from those of last year.  lacquer based paint on laminate. However, recently, I have been experimenting with different techniques… Upon observing these new pieces, it will be obvious that I have let the paint be the “artist.” The challenge now is to let the paint know that I am the artist.

-John Hawaka

About the artist:

John Hawaka signed with Alfa Art Gallery in 2008 and has brought to New Brunswick a wealth of creativity and skill.  Hawaka is one a very few artists to use lacquer in painting, making his work all the more impressive and rare to see.  Hawaka’s education and art experience is extensive.  He attended Phoenix School of Design in New York and Montclair State University in New Jersey.  Professionally, Hawaka has contributed to dozens of foundations and private collectors in New Brunswick, Princeton, Piscataway and surrounding areas- a local treasure.

About the exhibition:

Below, Above and Beyond refers to the literal physicality of water as well as to the depths of the human soul.  Water is a widespread symbol of life, and in the realm of visual arts can be translated into color and shapes- assembled into an energetic composition.  John Hawaka harnesses the power of water in the true artists’ spirit, allowing his paintings to push one’s imagination and to influence one’s emotion rather than one’s literal understanding.  His paintings shuffle between brilliant works of abstraction and representational works of the sea.  In lieu of Water at the Jane Vorhees Zimmerli Art Museum, also in New Brunswick,  it would appear that the beauty and essence of water has washed over our community like a wave.

(click here to learn more about this event)

Galina Kourteva
Assistant Gallery Director
848-219-4659
info@alfaart.org

Predictably enough, the moment my family and I got on the train, a heavy breeze made him burst into a big dry cloud and I knew I would never see him again. Even my memories of him have fallen from their stems and tattered to specks.

I have since become remarkably good at noticing that the people I care about are all made of things that can be blown away by a passing wind. My parents are formed out of ash-looking iron filings and my sister is a mound of light dusty sand. Another friend had skin filled with mercury, so the one time I accidentally punctured it when we were thirteen he disappeared down his bathroom drain and I only saw him five years later, as we walked down opposite ends of a hallway. I didn’t shake his hand, I was afraid to get his metallic greasiness all over me. Then I had one lover who was made of down feathers and another made of pine thistles, and both times I made the silly mistake of forgetting to turn off the fan before I pulled of their clothes. I never shed tears when we broke up because I always saw it coming when they were about to blow away, always saw the twine holding them together going slowly slowly frayed.

Nobody I have loved has been made out of flesh. One day, I want to love somebody who is made out of flesh, so they can break my heart when they die or leave. It is hard having funerals for people who just become clouds of things.

but was it worth it ?

Without even considering
the question, you take the plate again
to your mouth, tongue
drawn, at the ready, as if so simply
an answer: Yes
Mother, yes, even the remnants
of want are worth savoring.

the trees look like nets capturing sunlight.
they are so greedy
and delicious

the sap ambers over your head
like a syrupy halo.
O look,
your head
is a stack
of pancakes.
And I am
a fork and knife
ready to dig in.

The trees in the forest
Are like niggers
Torturing sunlight with their skin
Spinning their dances in the wind
Is there enough
syrup for them?

II

There are thirty of them
Throwing rocks through
The broken windows
Smashing my thighs
to bits

The pieces of thigh
are bacon
sizzling on the ground

Your tongue is
scrambled eggs
hot
scrambled eggs

which burn my tongue

The abrasion
tastes of
tastelessness

The trees laugh
like angry street children

I am embarrassed
but, more so I am concerned

that I may never taste
anything
ever again.

The trees look like nets capturing sunlight
and I wonder if we aren’t ants
at a breakfast picnic?

The heat wasn’t much of an issue anyway. I work in an air-conditioned office. It’s nice. I get to observe the goings-on of the bus stop outside my window all day in Central Square. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Cambridge area of Boston, let me give you some points of reference: Central Square is on Massachusetts Avenue, or “Mass Ave”, where if I walk towards downtown Boston for ten minutes, I would find myself among swarms of MIT students; if I walk in the opposite direction for ten minutes, I’m in Harvard Square. When I leave work, the choice is a simple one: I go to Harvard Square where all the bookstores are. I work in Cambridge because I live at home and I needed a job. Home for me is Massachusetts. It’s easy to be reckless in a familiar place, and especially with familiar people (most of whom I have not seen in years, so we have a lot of recklessness to catch up on).

Since I commute to work, I read a lot on the train to Boston, and on the T. This habit, however inattentive to reality it may be, has allowed me to read one book per week since July. I’ve been absorbing lots of words recently, and it feels as relieving as it is rewarding. I have been using my reading time to conquer books I have always wanted to read, and books which I know will inspire me and help me to seek new directions in my own writing. To name a few: Poe, Burroughs, Shakespeare, Thoreau, Adams, and Nietzsche. I’m sorry I couldn’t maintain grammatical correctness and keep the list to three; I’m just so excited that I finally have the time to read and write as much as I possibly can!

In addition to this plentiful brain stimulus, I did mention whiskey earlier, which brought about its own endeavors this summer. At least, it was my drink of choice when I decided I needed to jump around for a while. Since I have a real job now, I have money. It’s a strange feeling to be able to pay my bills and still have money left over to play with, so strange in fact, that I’ve already spent most of it on shows, live music, alcohol, and books. Mmm… books.

I went to see The Black Keys with a friend from Jersey at the Bank of America Pavilion on Boston Harbor. What a fantastic venue! The security is loose, the view is great from anywhere, and it’s right on the water. The Black Keys put on an amazing show; it was definitely one of the best I have seen in the last couple of years. The duo played together for over half the set before bringing a bass player on stage to accompany them for the rest of the show. And the ocean breeze… it not only kept the audience cool, but also swept the sounds of guitar and drums several blocks around the Pavilion.  The whole evening was easily one of the best nights I had all summer.

I also went to see Modest Mouse play at the House of Blues in Boston on the last night of their American tour. To this show I went alone. The band was an hour late, and I, anticipating an earlier arrival, had already had a fair few drinks by the time they went on. Oh, I did indeed. I had a front row seat in the balcony overlooking the stage; it was a non-standing section with lots of room and a wait staff. It was too easy my friends, too easy. Modest Mouse played a lot of their old music, even from their first album—songs which I never expected to hear live. I jumped up and down excessively for their entire set. At the end of the show two girls in my section came up to me and told me that I was a “great dancer.” Funny, I thought, since I wasn’t dancing so much as I was jumping and flailing around with obscene exuberance. They asked me what I do for a living, but before I could respond, the whiskey blurted out, “I’m a poet.” It went on to tell them they could find my work under the pen name Ezra Pound. And somehow, they believed what the whiskey on my breath told them.

However, in spite of the whiskey I have been very productive in my personal endeavors. This summer I produced some of my best writing yet, both in poetry and fiction. Of course, there is always room for improvement, and I constantly strive to bridge the gap between where I am as a writer and where I want to be. While this summer saw great improvement, the perfectionist in me has yet to feel the satisfaction of producing something with which I am truly happy. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel that sense of satisfaction with something I’ve written.

However, as Alex mentioned in his article, the Johnsonville Press, for me as well, has consistently provided a venue to experiment with many areas of writing, as well as my own style and voice. I greatly look forward to my new role in the Johnsonville as Editor-In-Chief because few things make me as happy as working on writing projects, whether of my own creation or of someone else. In the coming months I aim to bring the Press into a new phase where the improvement of writing and other artistic crafts is brought to the forefront. What I want is to color outside the lines. I want to destroy the box I try to work outside of.

Fuck the box. There is no box.

I want to tear down the invisible walls that always seem to get between the idea and the reality. I will challenge the Johnsonville writers and artists to do the same. So on that note, I would like to welcome you all to the next generation of the Johnsonville Press. Happy reading!

In the summer of ‘09 I took four English courses, which meant hundreds of pages a day, three-hour plus class periods, and a one-way commute roughly an hour long. I wasn’t left with much room (or energy) for the puppet shows or philosophizing that usually occupy my mind. Instead I was recycling thoughts– seemingly incapable of thinking about anything other than class.

This summer I took classes again.

The first pair weren’t so bad. Sure, “Hume, Kant, and the 18th Century” was pretty much all lecture  and “Intro to Metaphysics” was more like “Intro to This is What You Write a Philosophy Parody About”, but at least they were fun to think about. In Summer Classes Part Deux, though, I had Intro to Logic. Here’s the thing: I already took “Intro to Logic” at my community college. Unfortunately,  it transferred in as “Logic, Reasoning, and Persuasion”, and I found myself having to take another Intro to Logic class if I wanted to be a philosophy major. For some reason that’s what I want. I chose this for myself. But did I choose the means of choosing? PHILOSOPHY!

The first time I took “Intro to Logic,” I thought the class was great and full of valuable info. This time around “Intro to Logic” was more like Cubes, Tetrahedrons, and Dodecagons because those were the only types of objects that the software understood. That’s right: I had to use software to learn Logic. And… It… Was… A… Slog.  Dodecagons were a huge part of this philosophy class, which makes sense on account of I can’t count the amount of times that I’ve been out and about and found myself confronted by Dodecagons, forcing me to think, “Dodecagons? What do I do? How do I live my life?! WHAT SORT OF PERSON SHOULD I BE?!” Although, maybe my inability to count is based on a false theory of counting. When zero is the amount of a thing that you have and you say “zero,” does that mean you counted?

I drove a metal box at 75 MPH to describe cubes!

At times, Logic had an effect on me like that of heroin qua David Cross’s joke about heroin. “3 PM? But I thought it was–9 pm? But it was just–1 AM? Hey, when did it become–8 AM? How did it suddenly become–noon?” So, I’d find myself experiencing recycled thoughts and chunks of the day just passing by seemingly in an instant, prompting me to ask myself, “What am I doing with my life? I AM GOING TO DIE ONE DAY!”

And then I’d become unhappy and start to envision my future birthdays. See, what happens in these instances is that I forget to imagine all the stuff that will inevitably happen between now and my future birthdays, which is like fantasizing about having sex but only envisioning a cheerleader’s skeleton on a bed. And, look, I’m not saying that a skeleton is necessarily an awful lay–”They don’t call it a boner for nothin’!”– but, come on now, I’d like a little meat on my partner; and organs under that meat, and skin over those organs. And while that might not be the right order of bones, skin, meat-stuffs, and whatever else is in a person– and maybe a talking sandwich isn’t the best way to think of people in the first place. Nonetheless it conveys how dreadful a thirtieth birthday for my twenty-three year-old self is–or how dreadful August 30th is when I’m still living like it’s the 4th of July. It means I haven’t done anything…with my life or with my summer.

If my birthdays are going by that quickly, then soon I’ll be imagining my own death. No matter what the circumstances though, death is something I’m a little more psychologically prepared for than failure i.e. letting myself down. Life after death isn’t something I’m concerned with, but life after failure is. Logic made me envision my own failure again, and again, and again, and this bothered me until I realized that logic too, like all things, must pass. And with that realization I managed to wrestle control of my summer from Logic, and get back to hitting the pavement, hitting the books, hitting the pen and paper, hitting my friends and family, and even hitting New Orleans.

The trains I take in New Jersey are not of the scenic variety. I am used to the Riverline, which connects Camden to Trenton, and the Northeast Corridor, which I am sure every Rutgers student has taken at least once. These commuter lines are usually packed and loud, following urban and suburban routes in this country’s most densely populated state. If your train experiences mirror mine, then you will be pleased to know that the ride to Montreal is in so many ways dissimilar to my New Jersey commutes. The ride is long, but pleasantly quiet;  there is lots of leg room and a view of miles upon miles of tree-covered mountains reflected in the still and beautiful Hudson River. The train maintained a pace of only sixty miles per hour, which at first felt infuriatingly slow. Yet, after a while, I relaxed into the slow and steady pace of the train. After all, there was nothing I could do. There was not a number of impatient leg jiggles that would make me arrive in Canada more quickly. I was stuck, but contentedly so.

People will often tell you to that the best way to experience Europe is by train. America, the land of the “infamous cross-country” road trip, is supposed to be experienced instead by car. I have had my fair share of family road trips through endless corn and wheat fields, across Iowa, South Dakota, Wyoming, there and back again. I have even had the pleasant opportunity to travel by bus down from the Austrian Alps into Italy, to the Adriatic Sea. Although each trip is beautiful in its own regard, my train ride to Canada got as close to the landscape as possible. We skimmed right along the river, out of sight of roads and cars, shooting right from city to country, and back into the city again. I would have no appreciation for this part of the country had I flown. I happened to read in Arrive, Amtrak’s complementary magazine, that this is one of the most beautiful rides in the country. Because I traveled alone, I had the extended fourteen hours to read, to write, and to think with little interruption. And finally, after such a long day, after watching the miles go by, I was reunited with my close friend after spending nearly a year apart.

Although I am sure Montreal is a beautiful city, I spent most of my time two hours away in Canada’s capitol Ottawa. I will remember my brief experiences with the city very fondly— my taxi ride through the streets, walk-up apartments with colorful, winding metal staircases, following friends down those unfamiliar streets on the convenient, rentable Bixi Bikes. I passed beautiful parks and buildings in a whirl. I danced at a strange club, drinking Canada’s finest with sullen, young Quebecois hipsters. I will be happy to visit again soon, when I will maybe be able to provide a more vivid and useful guide to the city, because in truth, I can’t even remember the name of that strange club I went to.

Though with a group of people driving to Montreal is the cheapest option, I still would recommend Amtrak’s Adirondack line; it’s a great opportunity to take some time off and see the countryside. I cannot wait to return to and experience Montreal to its fullest. During my short trip this summer, I only had a small taste of what Montreal has to offer; however, I am content that I experienced the journey to its fullest. I hope to enjoy many more trips by train, both in America and abroad. Now, I did learn some things as well. Remember to pack light, and to pack a lunch. The snack car is convenient, but it does not offer substantial or cheap food. Always be calm and polite to border patrol officers—my nerves sometimes incriminate me. Most of all, future traveler, have fun being young and seeing the world!

Mac ‘n Cheese:

My mother’s mac ‘n cheese, which I nicknamed “birthday pasta” over a decade ago, will always be superior to all others, but E.A.T. Café’s (1064 Madison Avenue) is easily one of my next favorites. Despite the price tag of an outstanding sixteen dollars, the dish is worthwhile. The macaroni and cheese is gushing with cheese and cream that is clotted to the perfect texture. It is paired with a faultless penne that denies any flavors an escape route. The toasted bread crumbs on top give a delicate crunch to an already perfect macaroni and cheese dish.

Smoothie:

Even though McDonald’s offers cheap milkshakes and Jamba Juice, which smells like oranges and wheatgrass as soon as you walk in, I prefer Terri NYC (60 West 23^rd). Just a block away from my office, Terri makes it nearly impossible to resist walking over for a quick, healthy smoothie (and a vegan sandwich). Terri NYC creates unique smoothie and juice combinations. While many sound too bizarre to taste, I took a chance and ordered a Green Power smoothie. The Green Power smoothie is one of their bestsellers: it costs less than seven dollars, and its color is true to its name. The concoction includes kale, pear, banana, almond butter, and soymilk. That’s it. It’s sweet, hearty, and the perfect breakfast smoothie to get in all the protein, potassium, and other vitamins and minerals to jumpstart a day. Thankfully, by downing the Green Power smoothie more than just a handful of times, it is easy to alter the taste and ingredients at home for an even cheaper price.

Bagels:

New Jersey’s best bagels are by the shore, not by Seaside Heights were Snooki resides, but at Hot Bagel Bakery (67 Monmouth Road, Oakhurst). The owner is an Italian from Brooklyn who knows how to bring the New York taste to Jersey. The fresh scent of the bagels penetrates my car window as soon as I pull into the small plaza’s parking lot. As a child my favorites were their salt, egg, and plain bagels, but now I’ve grown to love their whole wheat, cinnamon raisin, onion, and garlic bagels as well. The garlic bagel has perfectly roasted garlic on one side that doesn’t stick to your fingers or fall off into the wax paper protecting the treasured meal.

New York claims it has the most authentic bagels and I can’t disprove that declaration. After trying many bagels ranging from the Upper West Side to Midtown I have narrowed my favorite bagel shops down to two: Vic’s Bagel Bar (544 3^rd Avenue) and Kossar’s Bialys (367 Grand Street). Kossar’s Bialys is the oldest bialy bakery in the United States and specializes in bialys, although their bagels are just as delicious. When I walked into Kossar’s I thought I had the wrong address since it was dark and completely empty inside. They put more emphasis on the oven in back and all the racks in front with empty trays than Vic’s Bagel Bar. Vic’s Bagel Bar was established within the past year and is welcoming with its bright lights and white interior. It features a “bar” where you choose fresh ingredients to blend to shmear on your bagel. The cream cheese creations are usually as expensive, if not more, than the bagel itself. The wide range of options is inspiring to make cheaper versions of the spreads at home- it’s an easy way to make a bagel somewhat healthier. The bagels from Vic’s are freshly made in an open kitchen where a few men make loads of them. Vic’s features a flat bagel, or “flagel,” which I believe is the perfect bagel for a spread since the flavors aren’t lost in between all the chewy, thick carbohydrates.

Cheese:

Artisanal Cheese (2 Park Avenue) has the widest range of cheeses available for purchase to-go, or to eat-in at the old-style restaurant. When I stopped into Artisanal Cheese it was peak time for business professionals making it a lively, fun place to eat a heavy meal. Those behind the cheese counter are helpful and educated about every aspect of each cheese. After trying about twelve of their cheeses I walked out with a quarter of a pound of Idiazabal, a Spanish sheep’s cheese, and ate it within a few hours. It’s hard for me to not choose any of the Abaye cheeses but Artisanal’s staff made it easier to walk out with an even better cheese than I expected.

Vermont may not be known for its cheddar but it’s the best. While in Vermont I stopped by a local farm for some raw milk and fresh cheddar at a local cheese shop. Each of the cheeses that I purchased had a perfect tangy bite and texture. I used an entire block of a one year aged premium cheddar, a small block of garlic cheddar, and the raw milk to make a roux for a pound of whole wheat pasta. Unfortunately, traveling to Vermont when I crave the best roux wouldn’t be environmentally friendly. Artisanal, which is an easy ride away from New Brunswick, is a great alternative though they cannot provide raw milk or cheddar at the same prices as Vermont.

Beet Salad:

“Salads” would be a more general category which encompasses all options. For me summers require beet salads. The color and sweetness of beets fit into the season, with the exception of the stains on white pants. Counter (105 First Avenue), a lesbian owned vegetarian hot-spot in the East Village, boasts fabulous appetizers. The beet salad at Counter is smooth and perfectly roasted with radicchio, toasted pistachios, balsamic, and New York chevre, a local and sustainable dairy with no animal rennet.

The best alternative to Counter’s roasted beet salad was one I helped make in Vermont, which had organic beets picked from the farm I stayed at, and fresh Vermont goat cheese. The salad was just as beautiful as the location of the picnic: Hamilton Falls, a waterfall with freezing cold (yes, it was really cold) water from a snow cap. Who would have known that a simple boiled beet salad works perfectly after a quick swim in a chilly waterfall?

For three weeks in July, Monday through Wednesday, I worked on art-related activities with children and adults at the Plainsboro Public Library. The events I volunteered for were “A-Team Mondays”, “Artful Conversations”, and building the piñata for the End-of-the-summer International Banquet. The theme of this year’s summer program was math. Therefore, all the events I signed up for mixed arithmetic with the art world. Also, since I’ve always enjoyed painting, drawing, and making collages, I was very excited to engage in those activities with other people again.

Throughout those days, I showed up early and began setting up before the little ones arrived. Volunteers ranging from ages thirteen to seventeen joined me, including some who had attended my old high school and even knew my brother. Regardless of how young they were, I had no problem blending in. They were sweet, helpful, and outgoing. Each day after we finished setting up, a flock of Indian, Chinese, and American children ran into the large room with their parents.

My favorite day was the one where children created portraits of their birthday, or a holiday, using paint and tissue paper. Most of them, including myself, chose the former.  I had a delightful moment with an Indian girl at my table when we realized that we were both born on the 26^th. Later on, when her sister was on her second composition, she began to emulate my signature “vines & swirls” drawing. I was really happy that I influenced her in a good way.

Aside from that event, I really enjoyed the evenings of Artful Conversations. However, we were surrounded by adults and teenagers instead of children. Thus, the activities felt relaxing and intimate. We learned how to make Origami and how to build mobiles inspired by Pythagoras.

But making the piñata for the International Banquet turned out to be the most memorable event. It was a “Monster Math Piñata”: a creature that devoured numbers and had mathematical functions for irises. Those were the two most exhausting days I had due to the cleaning and the energetic crowd of children. However, what stuck with me the most was a little girl who helped me papier mâché the piñata. She had curls, a huge smile, and was possibly not even five years of age. When I taught her how to properly cover the newspaper with paste, she made up a little song: “Running around in circles, and boom!”  She repeated the same lyric over and over as she moved the brush in circular motions across the paper. Luckily after all the hard work was done, the final result was amazing. I was in disbelief that we successfully made a piñata from scratch.

Ultimately, I became quite comfortable volunteering. I also enjoyed working with a teenage girl named Michelle who had a positive attitude and fun personality. During those days, I was a witness to my community’s creativity. I was amazed by the talent exuding from the children and parents; several of them made the coolest, most colorful compositions.

Even though it was only for a few days, making art with my community was a great experience. All those years that I spent raising my sister became an advantage. I had a genuine smile on my face because those kids made me feel like I was one of them. They brought me excitement and made me look forward to something every day. Those children always sought my help, thanked me for it, and complimented my work in the process. It felt really good. I also loved having the opportunity to make art again. It was great to contribute to my little town while nurturing one of my interests. Being helpful is something that I’ve always considered important as well as enjoyable. It’s part of who I am.

Let me be clear: this is not the statement of some pompous first year law student seeking to undeservedly congratulate himself (although admittedly, a walk through the Presidential Garden beats a walk through the Grease Truck parking lot.) This is the statement of a kid who was told by his high school guidance councilor that he was lucky to have been accepted by Rutgers University as an undergraduate, and who ended up at a top 20 law school in Washington DC. Undeniably, I owe this fact to my work with the Johnsonville Press, so if you’ll forgive my nostalgia, I’d like to take the opportunity to briefly reflect on that valuable endeavor.

What is the Johnsonville Press? I’m tempted to call it a publication, but to be honest, from convocation last May through the release of this issue, it could not even have been accurately called that. At best, it’s a loose association of a few Rutgers students and alumni, a network of young minds with diverse backgrounds and interests. We’re united only by the good fortune of having had attended Rutgers University—and by the assumption that we are all the masters of our own destiny, that the choice to do something worthwhile together is always better than the alternative of solitary practice or (what is worse) collective stagnation.

Perhaps the best analogy for the Johnsonville Press is a slow moving train, steadily rolling onward. While it’s in your station, with a little effort you can get on or get off; hesitate too long, however, and the opportunity to ride it somewhere will eventually have passed you by. We have only a short amount of time in the self-imposed limbo of academia, a time when we’re old enough to start deciding who we want to become and have enough free time to make it happen. How we use that time is up to us; if we use it wisely to hone our chosen skills, we reap the rewards at our next stop. Squander it, and we’re left wondering “What was the point?” For their part, Johnsons may not know where they want to go yet, but they certainly know how to get there…

As our first Editor in Chief Michael Stuzynski used to say, “every swinging dick is a Johnson.” This was not meant to suggest that the JVP is some kind of misogynistic, homoerotic club, but to stress that the potential for success lies in everyone. Through participation, all can better themselves.  All you have to do is do it. The Johnsonville Press was made by the doers, for the doers. When faced with the choice between getting in the fight and doing something, or sitting back and wallowing comfortably in mediocrity, a Johnson will run, stumble or, if necessary, crawl into battle. Was it a coincidence that the JVP was founded in one of the county’s recognized DIY capitals? Maybe so, maybe not; but if it was a coincidence, it certainly was a precipitous one.

A Johnson prefers pushing the limits of his own understanding of the world to tacitly accepting what he’s told. A Johnson would rather prove himself wrong and look foolish than sit back and avoid taking that risk altogether. A Johnson craves intellectual combat, because he knows that the reward—truth—is the only means of affecting his own reality. After the fight, a Johnson pats her opponents on the back, pours another glass of wine and laughs at the carnage it has wreaked on her own preconceptions. And a Johnson does it all for herself, and for no one else.

The benefits of working with the JVP are always going to be specific to the individual. What’s more, as with fate, these benefits will generally only become known in retrospect. Personally, the Johnsonville taught me how work with other opinionated people to reach common understandings. It taught me how to be comfortable with the sound of my own voice. It taught me the difference between actively striving to shape my own destiny and passively letting it become a reality, and how to use both to achieve my own purposes. Above all, it taught me how to avoid getting caught up in the minutia of everyday life, how to press on while keeping my goals in mind and to keep focused on the task at hand.

Would I be where I am now without the Johnsonville Press? Perhaps I would be. Will my present endeavors prove as successful as those of my past? Time will tell. But do I have the courage and the experience to seize upon them with confidence now? Thanks to the Johnsonville Press, I know I do.

I will always owe the Johnsonville a debt of gratitude for helping to make me who I am today and who I will become tomorrow. And I always pay what I owe. That’s why I will continue writing, maybe not as often as I’d like, but as often as I can afford. A Johnson never forgets where he comes from.

In the coming months, the Johnsonville is going to continue its slow and steady ride forward. The last remaining member of the original JVP staff, Matia Guardabascio, has graciously accepted the position of Editor in Chief (new writers, believe me, I know she can be nitpicky; don’t get frustrated—she will vastly improve your writing ability if you let her.) I have the utmost faith and confidence in her, and in the energy and resolve of the third generation staff, as should you. I know this train is bound for great things. I may not know where it’s going, but I do know that it’s time to get back on…

Johnsonville Press on my friends.

Alex Giannattasio

Johnsonville Press Founder and Second Editor in Chief