ARCHMERE ACADEMY
Tapestry 2016
Tapestry 2016
Tapestry 2016 ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com
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Tapestry 2016 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Aries John Vaile ’16
Church in Venice, watercolor, Phil Miller ’16 …………………..………............................................... cover Aries, sculpture, John Vaile ’16 ................………………….....………………........................................ 2 The Freshman Experience, Maddy Singh ’19 ……..……….....……………........….....…....................... 3 Self-Portrait, digital imaging, Liz Erdy ’19 ……………................………...……................................... 3 Penny, Grace DiGiacoma ’19 .....………………………………….....................................................…… 4 Tunnel Vision, digital photography, Ryan Padien ’18 ..............................…....….......…….….........…… 4 To Those Who Don’t Rhyme, Peter Sabini ’16 .....................................................................................… 5 Reflected, digital imaging, Jess Yuschak ’16 .......………......…….....................…....……..........…..….... 5 Mr. Trundle, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………....………....……………..........................................…...…...... 6 To Condescend, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………….......………................................................................….. 6 Sunday Breakfast, photography, Meredith Capuli ...................................................………………...…... 6 Massive Tornado Leaves 15 Dead, 42 Missing, Katherine Alberta ’19 ..................................…....………. 7 Rollercoaster, charcoal, Joe Singley ’16 ……...................……....…….................………………......…... 7 La Diferencia Entre Por y Para, Caroline Donovan ’19 ................................................................................. 8 Translation: The Difference Between Por and Para, Caroline Donovan ’19 …....................................….. 8 Forever Sandcastles, Ashley Diggins ’16 …………………........................................................................ 9 Untitled, double exposure photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 ....….............................…............................... 9 Instructions for a Portrait, Emily Lugg ’19 ……………….……...........................…………..........……. 10 Leaves, Abigail Gilbert ’19 ................................……………...................................………...…….......…. 11 Seed, Keelin Reilly ’17 .........................…...…....…….....……..........................................................…,... 11 Tree of Life, digital imaging, John Vaile ’16 ………….............................………......…………..........… 11 The Rhyme Heard ‘round the World, Evan Hernick ’19 …...…...…....……....…................................... 12 Views in NYC, projected photography, Kyla Crowder ’16 ………..............…....………..........…...……. 12 Big Blue, Martin Bonnes ’16 ………...................................................................................……......……. 13 Serendipity, watercolor, Phil Miller ’16 ………........……......………........….....................................…. 13 Her Worth, Kennedy Murphy ’16 ………………....…….……………....…............................….........…. 14 Self-protection, Kennedt Murphy ’16 .…………................…………...................................................…. 14 Light, Robbie Baxter ’16 ………….........................................…………....………............…....…..….… 14 Moving on, Gabrielle Marchese ’16 ...........................................…….......................................…....…..… 14 Prison Cell, Chris Dewees ’16 ...........................………………....…....................................................… 15 Paris observed, photography, Tori Richardson ’16 ..................................................................................... 15 Live a Little, Kate Spillan ’16 ..................................…........……….........………....…....…………...……. 16 Phil, photography, John Ciccolella ’16 ........................................................................................................... 16 Autonomy, Emily Lugg ’19 ............................................................................................................................ 17 Patterns, digital imaging, Barbara Boylan ’16 ............................................................................................... 17 Competitive Clothes, Kendall Aulen ’16 ........................................................................................................ 18 Popping Tennis Shoes, charcoal, Grace DiGiacoma ’19 ................................................................................ 18 The Beginning is The End is The Beginning, Peter Sabini ’16 ................................................................... 19 Twins, watercolor, Lauren Chua ’18 .............................................................................................................. 19 Archmere Rooms Embodied, Alex Schultz ’16 ............................................................................................ 20 Drawing with Light, photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 .................................................................................... 20 Power House, Joseph Singley ’16 .................................................................................................................... 21 Industrial Composition #4, photography, Caleb Wang ’16 ......................................................................... 21 The Yellow Brick Road, Evan Hernick ’19 ............................................................................................... 22 Our Tiny Community, photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 ................................................................................ 22
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The Freshman Experience The freshman experience is the tide of the ocean, Sweeping one away in a flood of new experiences, Changing directions with the slightest modification to its cycle. Unpredictable, splashing unassuming people on shore with no warning, However, when the high tide wanes, The beautiful products of the ocean left on the shore, Make all the struggle worth it. Maddy Singh ’19
Self-Portrait Liz Erdy ’19
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Penny Thrown in a fountain Dropped on the sidewalk, Shoved in a pocket, To never see the light of day again. Ran in the wash, Stuck in a jar, Squished to a flat, Just so some kid can have a souvenir For three days, until she loses interest And decides to throw me on the ground. Yet by the off chance, That my head’s to the sky and I sit on my tail I can change someone’s day. Placed in a frame, Saved as a gift, I become cherished. But the second you can’t decide something, You throw me into the air, Spinning so fast, you can’t even see. And as I return, I slip through your grasp, And fall straight, into the sewer grate. Grace DiGiacoma ’19
Tunnel Vision Ryan Padien ’18
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To Those Who Don’t Rhyme The first poem I read rhymed, So I thought that all poems rhymed. The first time my brother met our super cool uncle, Our uncle was smoking, so my brother thought all cool uncles smoked. No one ever told me that poems didn’t have to rhyme. Then I read a poem that didn’t rhyme And it was weird. No one ever told my brother that you don’t have to smoke to be cool like our uncle. The first poem I read rhymed And so did the second, and the third. The first gift my sister got was a doll. It was thin and pink. Its hair was bleach blonde and its plastic skin was orangeybrown. The thirteenth poem I read did not rhyme The thirteenth poem was beautiful, But because it didn’t rhyme, I didn’t recognize its beauty. No one thought to tell my sister that she didn’t have to kill herself to look like a doll. The first poem I read rhymed, So I thought that all poems should rhyme And those that didn’t were bad poems. My mom and dad kissed each other in public once while we were out So I thought, boys kiss girls they really like. I never thought I would read a poem that didn’t rhyme. I wish someone had told me that it was okay if a poem didn’t rhyme, but No one ever told me that a poem does not have to rhyme. -A Non-Rhymer Peter Sabini ’16
Reflected Jess Yuschak ’16
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Mr. Trundle Mr. Trundle trundled along, Hoping his days would never be long. Taught to treat each day like his last, To praise the God Almighty and fast. And yet he awoke each day with dread, Dread for the day that stretched ahead. Dread for the morning, dread for the night, Dread for his work, his play, his spite. Spite for himself and those all around Incapable of doing anything profound. And yet he still trundled along, Until the years behind him were long. And looking back at this meaningless work That really brought him no joy, no worth. Mr. Trundle realized he had long been dead, But true to his name still got out of bed. Keelin Reilly ’17
To Condescend The fly says to the dust speck: “You are nothing but an insignificant dirt fleck.” The spider in its web says to the fly: “You are just one of the many here that will die.” The bird says to the spider in its nest: “How could you have ever thought yourself to be the best?” Every animal hears from man: “You all tremble under my mighty hand.” And the vast universe struggles to contain its laugh, As it watches with mirth as the daft belittle the daft.
Sunday Breakfast Meredith Capuli ’17
Keelin Reilly ’17
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Massive Tornado Leaves 15 Dead, 42 Missing Devastation is the worn coffee maker, chipping slightly and stained with years of love and use. It once groaned in exhaustion from endless toil, but now it sits silently, unsure of what to do with its much-needed break, like an eager student who doesn’t know what to make of his free time on summer vacation. It misses the gentle, but firm grasp of its owner’s calloused hands at the break of dawn when it felt like they were the only two people in the universe. It wonders if heaven has dawn and summer vacation and chipping coffee makers. And it wonders if he still drinks coffee; it would help to clear the dirt in his lungs. Nobody has bothered to move it, so its sits idly near the windowsill, collecting dust like its owner, waiting for an autumn that will never come. Katherine Alberta ’19
Rollercoaster Joe Singley ’16
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La Diferencia Entre Por y Para
Translation: The Difference Between Por and Para
Voy a dar ejemplos de la diferencia, La diferencia entre por y para, Escucha, Estos ejemplos son importantes. Por un año y un día, Te amé por un año y un día, Mi corazón fue para ti, Tu corazón, No fue, Para mí. Te di todo de mí por tu amor, Yo viví para ti. Yo respiré para ti. Pero, Tu viviste por una razón diferente, No viviste para mí.
I am going to give examples of the difference, The difference between por and para, Listen, These examples are important. For a year and a day, I loved you for a year and a day, My heart was for you, Your heart, Was not, For me. I gave you all of me for your love, I lived for you, I breathed for you, But, You lived for a different reason, You did not live for me.
Aquí están los ejemplos de la diferencia entre por y para, Usa por y para con precaución Usa amor con precaución.
Here are examples of the difference between por and para, Use por and para with caution Use love with caution. Caroline Donovan ’19
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Forever Sandcastles Sparkling, blue waves, Crashing upon the shore, Scorching, hot sun, Beating down on beachgoers’ backs, Umbrellas propped up in the sand, Every four to five inches, Parents yelling out for their kids, And kids yelling gleefully. Fine, golden sand, And we built sandcastles. Working from daybreak to dark with my grandfather, Slaving away with shovels and buckets, Sculpting a paradise of sand mansions, For all the secret beach crawlers and critters. Stopping only when the bell of the ice cream truck, Dinged for all of the children of the beach to hear, And scamper up the sand dunes and down the boardwalk, For a SpongeBob Popsicle with gumball eyes. I thought those sandcastles would forever tower, Surviving the brutal tide, And the next morning, I found them knocked away. Tears dripped down my sunscreen covered cheeks. Is anything permanent? Ashley Diggins ’16
Untitled Spencer Lutz ’16
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Instructions for a Portrait Start to sketch her when she does not realize it, because it is when she doesn’t think she is being watched that she is most herself. Draw her when she is writing, when the world around her is shut out by a blue ballpoint pen and the little purple journal where she writes down bad poetry and ideas that come to her in the shower. She’ll be sitting at a wooden table, with one leg outstretched and one curled under her. She’ll be barefoot, wearing black pants and a sweatshirt that dips just enough to show off her collarbone. Her head will be tilted to the left, supported by her left hand; her journal held open by her left elbow and her writing hand. She’ll look peaceful, deep in thought. Draw her straight on, from directly in front of her. Once she notices, she’ll protest; she’ll try to convince you how decidedly unphotogenic she is. She’ll plead with you to find a different muse. Hold your ground. Eventually she will give in, but she’ll ask you to draw from a better angle, or to hide her imperfections. Don’t. Draw her straight on, straight ahead, just as you see her. She’ll be sitting up straighter now that she knows she’s being watched, her legs folded carefully, her hair arranged thoughtfully, her back straight chest pushed forward. Draw her not in this position, but in the way she sat before, when she didn’t know of your presence. Sketch her from the floor up. Start with her feet, calloused at the toes and the heels and tapping rhythmically on the linoleum floor. Both the calluses and the tapping are products of a decade of dancing lessons, when she was shuttled to the studio every Monday and taught to speak softly and step carefully. The rhythm stuck, being quiet and graceful did not. Draw her legs next. They are short and not in proportion with the rest of her, a feature that earned her the nickname “Tiny Legs” on cross-country. Black leggings cover several years’ worth of bruises and scars from climbing trees and running and errant razor marks from shaving. She’d never tell you this, but her favorite scar is on the inside of her right calf, earned during a trip to the beach with her friends in late September. The water was too cold and rough for swimming but still they went swimming anyway, which is how she cut her leg on a rock. It is small and crescent shaped and she loves it because it reminds her of that day. Move up further and pencil in her hips, her stomach, her chest, all hidden by the table. Her form is not fragile; she wishes her waist were smaller and her hips and chest were bigger. Another remnant from ballet lessons, she is quick to criticize her angles, which are decidedly unlike those of a ballerina. Fill out her shoulders, her arms, her hands. She is broad-shouldered from years of swimming, a feature she tries unsuccessfully to hide with a baggy blue sweatshirt. She arches back occasionally, a habit picked in physical therapy. Perfect her hands, which are thin and covered in blue ink. She wears red nail polish, though it is chipped on her right thumb from where she picks at it unconsciously. Take a moment to watch her scribble in her notebook. She writes quickly and without pausing, and you can only guess at what she is writing. Stretch your hand, put down your pencil, and observe your own line of graphite that has smeared along your arm. Wash it off and continue.
Copy the outline of her neck and face. Place her features: round eyes, close-set around a round nose above a wide mouth. Add details: the birthmark on her chin, the wire flowers pinned in her earlobes, the blush of her cheeks that comes from the knowledge that she is being turned into art. If you are ambitious you could try to capture the finite details of her personality. You might attempt to catch her voice in her slight smirk, her sarcasm in the glint of her eye, her knack for music in the curve of her ear. But after several failed attempts you’ll find that it takes much more that a pencil to fully describe a soul. Sketch her hair instead. Her hair is a tumble of muddy creek water, creased from being worn in a loose bun since the early morning. It is an intermediate of straight and wavy: just straight enough to negate wavy but wavy enough to make humidity a problem. When she was younger, she used to love to wear it down. She’s worn it tucked away since middle school, when the popular girls started to make fun of the girls without stick-straight hair. She wears it this way all the time now to hide it; she only wears it down when she has the time to flat iron it. Shade in her hair, her skin. She’ll plead with you to omit the blemishes that dot her face and chest; you’re tempted to follow her instructions. But as you tap each spot on the paper ever so gently with the tip of your pencil, you realize that it is not noticeable unless you squint. Take a moment to discover that your blemishes too are not as noticeable as you think. Do not neglect the space around her. Draw the linoleum floor, the wooden table, and the steaming mug of English Breakfast tea that sits upon it. Recall the scene before you started to sketch. Before you began, she was a part of the surrounding space, a part of the environment. Now, you notice, she is another human, another human, another person interacting with the space around her and making memories and living and laughing and crying and, at the moment, writing in her notebook. You realize that she is not very feminine, is not very fragile. Her waist does not curve in dramatically and her stomach is not perfectly flat and if she were to stand up, her thighs would press together. You realize she is not fragile but confident. She pushes outward into the space around her, her chin does not drop and her shoulders are pressed back. She is poised, confident. You noticed that her legs are too short and her skin is pockmarked and she is not the average model. But you have drawn her and you have found that she is radiant. She is beautiful. When you are finished, hide the drawing away. Forget about it. Give it time. Perhaps you will find it later when you are cleaning the studio; perhaps you will rediscover it and fall in love with it. Maybe, in time, I will fall in love with it, too. Emily Lugg ‘19
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Leaves Bloomed from the arms of the trees, Underneath the dark gray sky, The droplets of water fall and roll off of me. I watch summer come and go. Lost and surrounded by all of the red and orange around me, but I soon turn my final color, brown. Vulnerable against the harsh winds, Everything I once knew, falls all around me, Dead and withered under the freshly fallen snow. BUT I LIVED Abigail Gilbert ’19
Seed Small seed, Quiet seed, Patient seed, Gather your strength. Bide your time Sitting in the mud and refuse of this world. Wait until the storms and cold have passed, Then strike. Leap out from your shelter, Divide and shoot up faster than gravity can pull you down. At your greatest height Spend all you have in one declaration. A proud, defiant challenge to the world’s melancholy. Unfurl your petals, And laugh in the face of the earth. Keelin Reilly ’17
Tree of Life John Vaile ’16
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The Rhyme Heard ‘round the World The screams of pain harmonically unite As gunshots ring out in the mid’ of night Soldiers align, wave after wave As enemy forces anxiously wait The men perish in honor of fight Redeemed knowing it’s for the right At the end of the battle, all is calm As American soldiers touch heart to palm And suitably sing the flag its song I come back to reality, sitting in my house Staring back at me is the blinking mouse As he’s all alone, drowning in the white sea I start my homework for History Evan Hernick ’19
Views in NYC Kyla Crowder ’16
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Big Blue Rocking back and forth left and right We floated over the rough, continuous waves Zack said we must turn around and go back Back to land, distant and slight Waves after wave we road through the blue The blue felt infinite as we hovered The waves became rougher and bigger The yellow speck amongst the blue struggled to stay upright As the boat turned sideways the rush came, we fell Zack and I both, into the blue, underneath it was silent Blue all around all I could see was blue nothing else The few seconds felt like an eternity, the blue was silent The silence broke, a force approached striking loud And quick, blue all around except for the flash Of yellow. I came to and went above the blue, I feel my face with my hand and there it was Red all around, hand red, face red, water red Martin Bonnes ’16
Serendipity Phil Miller ’16
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Her Worth
Light
You should have crowned her, cause she’s a goddess. You never got this. Banks
Everything is about you It’s what you should have done, or should have not, but she you crowned to only disrespect her. She only cried cause she knows exactly what she’s worth, too good for a fool who disrespected a goddess. Everything is about you. Admit your wrongs, never. You don’t realize what you got. You’re going to miss this.
And so I let the light in, the brightness of the sun so the rays can illuminate my letters, the pages filled with words rambling on about that time with you. If only we could think about the good times not The bad, what would we find?
Kennedy Murphy ’16
Moving on
Self-protection
To her death is quite romantic, she wears an iron vest Bob Dylan Careful who she gave it to Always feared he still loves her Cause the anxiety tastes like death Always left to wonder what it is She never thought it felt quite right when he acted all romantic She made a promise to herself she Would never be the girl who wears her heart upon her sleeve or an attitude of any less than iron Her heart was hers in a bulletproof vest. Kennedy Murphy ’16
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find Natasha Bedingfield
Robbie Baxter ’16
Letting go of what I had Grouplove
Letting go of what I had the time has come, I am letting uncertainty take me. Immersing myself into the unknown Go with the wind and travel far out of this place with what you have left. I stray away from all that I had here I leave it behind. Gabrielle Marchese ’16
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Prison Cell
As Lady and I look out tonight from Desolation Row Bob Dylan
I look into the mirror above the table as I finish my last meal. I wonder
what my lady
is doing as I sit in the chair. And I remember how soft her hand felt as I caressed it in mine. You shoulda seen
the way she’d look
at me. That smile was so bright when I asked her out. I start to wonder if the stars are out tonight. It’s easy to forget here. All that I know
how bright they shine from
are these bars of desolation.
There ain’t that much hope here on death row. Chris Dewees ’16
Paris observed Tori Richardson ’16
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Live a Little “Live a little” they say, but you remember the terrible night, the accident. Your brother, the boy you loved, now lying there, cold and still-for once not smiling, forevermore an empty shell, you realize. No one will realize, nor understand, so you try your best to remember, looking at shoebox memories, naïvely smiling faces-before the pain, before the accident. His “loves” turned to “loved,” And people tell you “Oh brother, I’m so sorry for the loss of you dear, dear brother.” You mock their fakeness, how they could not possibly realize how you had loved the world so, how you struggle to remember that everything is meant to be ordered, not accident after accident…going through the motions with your “smiling” mask on, attempting to recognize the smiling girl in the photos, the girl with the brother. The euphemistic use of “accident” infuriates you, for you realize, think of all that you’ve seen and remember that nothing is an accident. How could you have loved a world in which “loves” can turn to “loved” in a split second, so you carry on, smiling on the outside, trying to simply live since you can no longer remember the sound of his voice. Not just your brother, your comrade, but you never realized before the accident… You fear the unpredictable, the accidents Because you could not possibly have loved anything more, yet you realize: maybe that’s the point of all this sadness: so the smiling moments are more profound, so through your brother, you learn to live a little, to remember how this life is filled with beautiful accidents, realizing, remembering how you could have loved someone, a brother, entirely, wholeheartedly, so you finally smile and live a little once more. Kate Spillan ’16
Phil John Ciccolella ’16
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autonomy (n) independence, the condition of having self-government It’s something of astronomy. the galaxies have learned to dance without thinking the planets turn on self-centered axes the stars burn without a care for the wishes placed among them. Independent. Their orbits have no regard for desire so they spin on in their own design. Teach me how to be independent: show me how to burn without fuel, how to write my own metaphors. Maybe someday I’ll learn self-governance, and teach myself the autonomy of a soul. Emily Lugg ’19
Patterns Barbara Boylan ’16
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Competitive Clothes Neatly laid out on my bed in preparation for the night ahead, an array of shirts compete for who will be the chosen one as I begin to shower next door unaware of the conflict to come. Leaping up first, the crop top steps over her rivals heading straight to the full-length mirror resting against the grey wall to stare into her reflection.
to accent her outfit as she begins to apply her eyeliner and false eyelashes. Entering the battlefield armed in my robe and turban, I was shocked at what lay in front of me or rather what was no longer laid out. My room transformed from a carefully organized system to a lawless state of anarchy. Kendall Aulen ’16
The white button-down blouse stands aloof in the corner, sizing up her competition. she calls out the over-confident newbie, “You may have been her latest purchase but she always comes back to me.” The cream, cable-knit sweater shrinks back from the mounting argument as she buries herself under a fort constructed of plush pillows. Blending in with her neutral surroundings, she slowly disappears. The flowy floral tank brushes her hair gazes aimlessly into the mirror, ignoring the launched insults while simultaneously responding to the multiple texts overwhelming her phone. The white tee arises from the corner where she had situated herself into the feathered butterfly chair, hoping to ease the growing tensions and begging the opposing garments to concede.
Popping Tennis Shoes Grace DiGiacoma ’19
The bold graphic tee ignores the surrounding chaos. In her own little world, she tries on various leather accessories
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The Beginning is The End is The Beginning The last time I saw Her, she smiled to me and said I don’t think we can go on like this, it’s just too Stressful and I want you to be happy. I wish I had known what I do now, because then I would have Said, I need you to be happy. Now I don’t know where she is or who she’s with, Only that my heart is with her Til the end of my time. Remember when we first met? I asked her Enthusiastically, trying to channel the love we had felt on our first days As if it was yesterday, she replied. Part of me couldn’t help but think she was Lying . Luminous and colorful, the world spun before me I could see my life mapped out on a timeline of fantastic events that made me, me From my first words to my first kiss and on, and I could go to Every single time in my life as if it were just a small dot floating in the universe. Instantly, my eyes opened and my ears heard the Sounds of the morning birds. Twins Lauren Chua ’18
A wonderful feeling consumed me, freedom mixed with glee and relief. Delighted, I proceeded forward, but I Realized that I was all alone. No one was around, not Even my family. Could I be dead? As if to answer my question, I heard a voice say my name. I turned and My eyes rested upon her, beautiful and radiant. I embraced her. Peter Sabini ’16
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Archmere Rooms Embodied An evening block party, Marvin Gaye and chardonnay, Relaxed, smooth, the jazz club in center city, Library timidly enters, Tall, muscular, young, sincere; everything the others want to be, A younger sibling stealing the thunder, creating ghosts A nod and hello, shy at first sight Library timidly scurries to the food. “I was once like that,” SLC grumbling in his third empty wine glass, Boasting about his glory days in his youth, In retrospect, a shadow of his former self, Looking for attention, the narcissist of the bunch, Mood swinging like a swing set, sexy attitude, physique, Turf Fields sparks conversation with SLC, Only to be interrupted… “Baby come check out these guns” sweaty Weight Room looks up and down, Laughing and leaving, Turf Field with a smirk on her pretty face, Always insecure, enormous figure, Weight Room ignores, Right around the corner, he always wants a piece, She never gives herself up, With her looks and smooth skin, she cannot give in, Tight t-shirt and small legs stride towards Patio. Corner of the room, glowing like the moon, Manor in solitude, Stoner, Weirdo, and Urban Outfitters fanatic in one, Quiet, the ripped jeans and colorful hair do the talking. Focused on his art, as History Department spills his drink, Spill, splatter, splash, Manor glares into his eyes, Notoriously snarky with sporadically nosey comments, Missing his youth, button down and tie, Calmly, intensely, glares at the others, finding the imperfections. drawing with light Spencer Lutz ’16
Whispers, “He needs to take advantage of this opportunity to be young and clean,” “How has he not checked me out yet?” Alex Schultz ’16
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Power House Last February, my father At the dumbbell rack, old Phillies hat and a 3XL retro Jordan shirt lecturing me about work ethic, How you can accomplish anything in life if you work hard enough. My father, who had played some professional baseball, knew it was my dream as well. Power House Tampa, boiling over with juiceheads in their prime He always had a Philadelphia attitude, growing up in South West Rows of houses packed together, with families hustling to feed their children. Stickball, wall ball, football, and street fights were the usual occurrence in that time. We had just got done benching, and he only went up to 405. Standing by the dumbbell rack we saw a man who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Probably in his late 20’s. He was grunting out half reps of 130 pound dumbbells, chest press no incline. I remember his throwing his dumbbells down almost right onto my foot, as if he were better than every one in the gym. I remember the exact words my dad said, “They look like Tarzan, but play like Jane.” He then scooped up the 170 pounders and proceeded to knock out 15 reps. Not too bad for a 50 year old. Joseph Singley ’16
Industrial Composition #4 Caleb Wang ’16
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The Yellow Brick Road They come together, from different places But all have the same goal They wish to find who they really are Somewhere along the yellow brick road They learn things that they'll later need Half way through, it seems to fly They continue along, using new brains Lions and tigers and bears, Oh my! Nearing the end, they can see the light Almost fully prepared for the final test They cheer and cry, saying final goodbyes and take their last steps on the yellow brick road Evan Hernick ’19
Our Tiny Community Spencer Lutz ’16
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Tapestry 2016 Editor Zoe Akoto ’17 Assistant Editors Keelin Reilly ’17 Shreyas Parab ’18 Editorial Staff Emma Stovicek ’17 Emily Lugg ’19 Gillen Curren ’18 Natasha Gengler ’18 Layout Zoe Akoto ’17 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Art Advisor Ms. Jody Hoffman Thank you to Mr. Jordan’s Creative Writing Class, Mrs. Wolf ’s Lit Class and to all who submitted work to Tapestry.
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Tapestry 2016 ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com
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Tapestry 2016 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Aries John Vaile ’16
Church in Venice, watercolor, Phil Miller ’16 …………………..………............................................... cover Aries, sculpture, John Vaile ’16 ................………………….....………………................................……..... 2 The Freshman Experience, Maddy Singh ’19 ……..……….....……………........…….…..................…...... 3 Self-Portrait, digital imaging, Liz Erdy ’19 ……………................………...…….....................…............... 3 Penny, Grace DiGiacoma ’19 .....………………………………….....................................................…… 4 Tunnel Vision, digital photography, Ryan Padien ’18 ..............................…....….......…….….........…… 4 To Those Who Don’t Rhyme, Peter Sabini ’16 .............................….....................................,…..........… 5 Reflected, digital imaging, Jess Yuschak ’16 .......………......…….....................…....……..........…..….... 5 Mr. Trundle, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………....………....……………..........................................…...…...... 6 To Condescend, Keelin Reilly ’17 …………….......………................................................................…. 6 Sunday Breakfast, photography, Meredith Capuli ...................................................………………...…... 6 Massive Tornado Leaves 15 Dead, 42 Missing, Katherine Alberta ’19 ..................................…....………. 7 Rollercoaster, charcoal, Joe Singley ’16 ……...................……....…….................………………......…... 7 La Diferencia Entre Por y Para, Caroline Donovan ’19 ................................................................................. 8 Translation: The Difference Between Por and Para, Caroline Donovan ’19 …........................….,.….….. 8 Forever Sandcastles, Ashley Diggins ’16 …………………........................................................................ 9 Untitled, double exposure photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 ……..……..…..…………..................…..….. 9 Instructions for a Portrait, Emily Lugg ’19 ……………….……...........................…………..........……. 10 Leaves, Abigail Gilbert ’19 ................................……………...................................………...…….......…. 11 Seed, Keelin Reilly ’17 .........................…...…....…….....……...........................................…….......…,... 11 Tree of Life, digital imaging, John Vaile ’16 ………….............................………......…………..........… 11 The Rhyme Heard ‘round the World, Evan Hernick ’19 …...…...…………....…................................... 12 Views in NYC, projected photography, Kyla Crowder ’16 ………..............……………..........…...……. 12 Big Blue, Martin Bonnes ’16 ………...................................................................................……......……. 13 Serendipity, watercolor, Phil Miller ’16 ………........……......………........….....................................…. 13 Her Worth, Kennedy Murphy ’16 ………………....…….……………....…............................…...…..…. 14 Self-protection, Kennedt Murphy ’16 .…………................…………...................................................…. 14 Light, Robbie Baxter ’16 ………….........................................…………....………............………..….… 14 Moving on, Gabrielle Marchese ’16 ...........................................…….......................................…....…..… 14 Prison Cell, Chris Dewees ’16 ...........................……………………...............................................…..… 15 Paris observed, photography, Tori Richardson ’16 ..................................................................................... 15 Live a Little, Kate Spillan ’16 ..................................…........…………………….……....…………...……. 16 Phil, photography, John Ciccolella ’16 ............................................................................................................ 16 Autonomy, Emily Lugg ’19 .............................................................................................................................. 17 Patterns, digital imaging, Barbara Boylan ’16 ................................................................................................ 17 Competitive Clothes, Kendall Aulen ’16 ......................................................................................................... 18 Popping Tennis Shoes, charcoal, Grace DiGiacoma ’19 ................................................................................. 18 The Beginning is The End is The Beginning, Peter Sabini ’16 ..................................................................... 19 Twins, watercolor, Lauren Chua ’18 ................................................................................................................ 19 Archmere Rooms Embodied, Alex Schultz ’16 .............................................................................................. 20 Drawing with Light, photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 ..................................................................................... 20 Power House, Joseph Singley ’16 ..................................................................................................................... 21 Industrial Composition #4, photography, Caleb Wang ’16 .......................................................................... 21 The Yellow Brick Road, Evan Hernick ’19 ................................................................................................. 22 Our Tiny Community, photography, Spencer Lutz ’16 .................................................................................. 22
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The Freshman Experience The freshman experience is the tide of the ocean, Sweeping one away in a flood of new experiences, Changing directions with the slightest modification to its cycle. Unpredictable, splashing unassuming people on shore with no warning, However, when the high tide wanes, The beautiful products of the ocean left on the shore, Make all the struggle worth it. Maddy Singh ’19
Self-Portrait Liz Erdy ’19
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Penny Thrown in a fountain Dropped on the sidewalk, Shoved in a pocket, To never see the light of day again. Ran in the wash, Stuck in a jar, Squished to a flat, Just so some kid can have a souvenir For three days, until she loses interest And decides to throw me on the ground. Yet by the off chance, That my head’s to the sky and I sit on my tail I can change someone’s day. Placed in a frame, Saved as a gift, I become cherished. But the second you can’t decide something, You throw me into the air, Spinning so fast, you can’t even see. And as I return, I slip through your grasp, And fall straight, into the sewer grate. Grace DiGiacoma ’19
Tunnel Vision Ryan Padien ’18
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To Those Who Don’t Rhyme The first poem I read rhymed, So I thought that all poems rhymed. The first time my brother met our super cool uncle, Our uncle was smoking, so my brother thought all cool uncles smoked. No one ever told me that poems didn’t have to rhyme. Then I read a poem that didn’t rhyme And it was weird. No one ever told my brother that you don’t have to smoke to be cool like our uncle. The first poem I read rhymed And so did the second, and the third. The first gift my sister got was a doll. It was thin and pink. Its hair was bleach blonde and its plastic skin was orangeybrown. The thirteenth poem I read did not rhyme The thirteenth poem was beautiful, But because it didn’t rhyme, I didn’t recognize its beauty. No one thought to tell my sister that she didn’t have to kill herself to look like a doll. The first poem I read rhymed, So I thought that all poems should rhyme And those that didn’t were bad poems. My mom and dad kissed each other in public once while we were out So I thought, boys kiss girls they really like. I never thought I would read a poem that didn’t rhyme. I wish someone had told me that it was okay if a poem didn’t rhyme, but No one ever told me that a poem does not have to rhyme. -A Non-Rhymer Peter Sabini ’16
Reflected Jess Yuschak ’16
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Mr. Trundle Mr. Trundle trundled along, Hoping his days would never be long. Taught to treat each day like his last, To praise the God Almighty and fast. And yet he awoke each day with dread, Dread for the day that stretched ahead. Dread for the morning, dread for the night, Dread for his work, his play, his spite. Spite for himself and those all around Incapable of doing anything profound. And yet he still trundled along, Until the years behind him were long. And looking back at this meaningless work That really brought him no joy, no worth. Mr. Trundle realized he had long been dead, But true to his name still got out of bed. Keelin Reilly ’17
To Condescend The fly says to the dust speck: “You are nothing but an insignificant dirt fleck.” The spider in its web says to the fly: “You are just one of the many here that will die.” The bird says to the spider in its nest: “How could you have ever thought yourself to be the best?” Every animal hears from man: “You all tremble under my mighty hand.” And the vast universe struggles to contain its laugh, As it watches with mirth as the daft belittle the daft.
Sunday Breakfast Meredith Capuli ’17
Keelin Reilly ’17
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Massive Tornado Leaves 15 Dead, 42 Missing Devastation is the worn coffee maker, chipping slightly and stained with years of love and use. It once groaned in exhaustion from endless toil, but now it sits silently, unsure of what to do with its much-needed break, like an eager student who doesn’t know what to make of his free time on summer vacation. It misses the gentle, but firm grasp of its owner’s calloused hands at the break of dawn when it felt like they were the only two people in the universe. It wonders if heaven has dawn and summer vacation and chipping coffee makers. And it wonders if he still drinks coffee; it would help to clear the dirt in his lungs. Nobody has bothered to move it, so its sits idly near the windowsill, collecting dust like its owner, waiting for an autumn that will never come. Katherine Alberta ’19
Rollercoaster Joe Singley ’16
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La Diferencia Entre Por y Para
Translation: The Difference Between Por and Para
Voy a dar ejemplos de la diferencia, La diferencia entre por y para, Escucha, Estos ejemplos son importantes. Por un año y un día, Te amé por un año y un día, Mi corazón fue para ti, Tu corazón, No fue, Para mí. Te di todo de mí por tu amor, Yo viví para ti. Yo respiré para ti. Pero, Tu viviste por una razón diferente, No viviste para mí.
I am going to give examples of the difference, The difference between por and para, Listen, These examples are important. For a year and a day, I loved you for a year and a day, My heart was for you, Your heart, Was not, For me. I gave you all of me for your love, I lived for you, I breathed for you, But, You lived for a different reason, You did not live for me.
Aquí están los ejemplos de la diferencia entre por y para, Usa por y para con precaución Usa amor con precaución.
Here are examples of the difference between por and para, Use por and para with caution Use love with caution. Caroline Donovan ’19
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Forever Sandcastles Sparkling, blue waves, Crashing upon the shore, Scorching, hot sun, Beating down on beachgoers’ backs, Umbrellas propped up in the sand, Every four to five inches, Parents yelling out for their kids, And kids yelling gleefully. Fine, golden sand, And we built sandcastles. Working from daybreak to dark with my grandfather, Slaving away with shovels and buckets, Sculpting a paradise of sand mansions, For all the secret beach crawlers and critters. Stopping only when the bell of the ice cream truck, Dinged for all of the children of the beach to hear, And scamper up the sand dunes and down the boardwalk, For a SpongeBob Popsicle with gumball eyes. I thought those sandcastles would forever tower, Surviving the brutal tide, And the next morning, I found them knocked away. Tears dripped down my sunscreen covered cheeks. Is anything permanent? Ashley Diggins ’16
Untitled Spencer Lutz ’16
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Instructions for a Portrait Start to sketch her when she does not realize it, because it is when she doesn’t think she is being watched that she is most herself. Draw her when she is writing, when the world around her is shut out by a blue ballpoint pen and the little purple journal where she writes down bad poetry and ideas that come to her in the shower. She’ll be sitting at a wooden table, with one leg outstretched and one curled under her. She’ll be barefoot, wearing black pants and a sweatshirt that dips just enough to show off her collarbone. Her head will be tilted to the left, supported by her left hand; her journal held open by her left elbow and her writing hand. She’ll look peaceful, deep in thought. Draw her straight on, from directly in front of her. Once she notices, she’ll protest; she’ll try to convince you how decidedly unphotogenic she is. She’ll plead with you to find a different muse. Hold your ground. Eventually she will give in, but she’ll ask you to draw from a better angle, or to hide her imperfections. Don’t. Draw her straight on, straight ahead, just as you see her. She’ll be sitting up straighter now that she knows she’s being watched, her legs folded carefully, her hair arranged thoughtfully, her back straight chest pushed forward. Draw her not in this position, but in the way she sat before, when she didn’t know of your presence. Sketch her from the floor up. Start with her feet, calloused at the toes and the heels and tapping rhythmically on the linoleum floor. Both the calluses and the tapping are products of a decade of dancing lessons, when she was shuttled to the studio every Monday and taught to speak softly and step carefully. The rhythm stuck, being quiet and graceful did not. Draw her legs next. They are short and not in proportion with the rest of her, a feature that earned her the nickname “Tiny Legs” on cross-country. Black leggings cover several years’ worth of bruises and scars from climbing trees and running and errant razor marks from shaving. She’d never tell you this, but her favorite scar is on the inside of her right calf, earned during a trip to the beach with her friends in late September. The water was too cold and rough for swimming but still they went swimming anyway, which is how she cut her leg on a rock. It is small and crescent shaped and she loves it because it reminds her of that day. Move up further and pencil in her hips, her stomach, her chest, all hidden by the table. Her form is not fragile; she wishes her waist were smaller and her hips and chest were bigger. Another remnant from ballet lessons, she is quick to criticize her angles, which are decidedly unlike those of a ballerina. Fill out her shoulders, her arms, her hands. She is broad-shouldered from years of swimming, a feature she tries unsuccessfully to hide with a baggy blue sweatshirt. She arches back occasionally, a habit picked in physical therapy. Perfect her hands, which are thin and covered in blue ink. She wears red nail polish, though it is chipped on her right thumb from where she picks at it unconsciously. Take a moment to watch her scribble in her notebook. She writes quickly and without pausing, and you can only guess at what she is writing. Stretch your hand, put down your pencil, and observe your own line of graphite that has smeared along your arm. Wash it off and continue.
Copy the outline of her neck and face. Place her features: round eyes, close-set around a round nose above a wide mouth. Add details: the birthmark on her chin, the wire flowers pinned in her earlobes, the blush of her cheeks that comes from the knowledge that she is being turned into art. If you are ambitious you could try to capture the finite details of her personality. You might attempt to catch her voice in her slight smirk, her sarcasm in the glint of her eye, her knack for music in the curve of her ear. But after several failed attempts you’ll find that it takes much more that a pencil to fully describe a soul. Sketch her hair instead. Her hair is a tumble of muddy creek water, creased from being worn in a loose bun since the early morning. It is an intermediate of straight and wavy: just straight enough to negate wavy but wavy enough to make humidity a problem. When she was younger, she used to love to wear it down. She’s worn it tucked away since middle school, when the popular girls started to make fun of the girls without stick-straight hair. She wears it this way all the time now to hide it; she only wears it down when she has the time to flat iron it. Shade in her hair, her skin. She’ll plead with you to omit the blemishes that dot her face and chest; you’re tempted to follow her instructions. But as you tap each spot on the paper ever so gently with the tip of your pencil, you realize that it is not noticeable unless you squint. Take a moment to discover that your blemishes too are not as noticeable as you think. Do not neglect the space around her. Draw the linoleum floor, the wooden table, and the steaming mug of English Breakfast tea that sits upon it. Recall the scene before you started to sketch. Before you began, she was a part of the surrounding space, a part of the environment. Now, you notice, she is another human, another human, another person interacting with the space around her and making memories and living and laughing and crying and, at the moment, writing in her notebook. You realize that she is not very feminine, is not very fragile. Her waist does not curve in dramatically and her stomach is not perfectly flat and if she were to stand up, her thighs would press together. You realize she is not fragile but confident. She pushes outward into the space around her, her chin does not drop and her shoulders are pressed back. She is poised, confident. You noticed that her legs are too short and her skin is pockmarked and she is not the average model. But you have drawn her and you have found that she is radiant. She is beautiful. When you are finished, hide the drawing away. Forget about it. Give it time. Perhaps you will find it later when you are cleaning the studio; perhaps you will rediscover it and fall in love with it. Maybe, in time, I will fall in love with it, too. Emily Lugg ‘19
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Leaves Bloomed from the arms of the trees, Underneath the dark gray sky, The droplets of water fall and roll off of me. I watch summer come and go. Lost and surrounded by all of the red and orange around me, but I soon turn my final color, brown. Vulnerable against the harsh winds, Everything I once knew, falls all around me, Dead and withered under the freshly fallen snow. BUT I LIVED Abigail Gilbert ’19
Seed Small seed, Quiet seed, Patient seed, Gather your strength. Bide your time Sitting in the mud and refuse of this world. Wait until the storms and cold have passed, Then strike. Leap out from your shelter, Divide and shoot up faster than gravity can pull you down. At your greatest height Spend all you have in one declaration. A proud, defiant challenge to the world’s melancholy. Unfurl your petals, And laugh in the face of the earth. Keelin Reilly ’17
Tree of Life John Vaile ’16
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The Rhyme Heard ‘round the World The screams of pain harmonically unite As gunshots ring out in the mid’ of night Soldiers align, wave after wave As enemy forces anxiously wait The men perish in honor of fight Redeemed knowing it’s for the right At the end of the battle, all is calm As American soldiers touch heart to palm And suitably sing the flag its song I come back to reality, sitting in my house Staring back at me is the blinking mouse As he’s all alone, drowning in the white sea I start my homework for History Evan Hernick ’19
Views in NYC Kyla Crowder ’16
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Big Blue Rocking back and forth left and right We floated over the rough, continuous waves Zack said we must turn around and go back Back to land, distant and slight Waves after wave we road through the blue The blue felt infinite as we hovered The waves became rougher and bigger The yellow speck amongst the blue struggled to stay upright As the boat turned sideways the rush came, we fell Zack and I both, into the blue, underneath it was silent Blue all around all I could see was blue nothing else The few seconds felt like an eternity, the blue was silent The silence broke, a force approached striking loud And quick, blue all around except for the flash Of yellow. I came to and went above the blue, I feel my face with my hand and there it was Red all around, hand red, face red, water red Martin Bonnes ’16
Serendipity Phil Miller ’16
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Her Worth
Light
You should have crowned her, cause she’s a goddess. You never got this. Banks
Everything is about you It’s what you should have done, or should have not, but she you crowned to only disrespect her. She only cried cause she knows exactly what she’s worth, too good for a fool who disrespected a goddess. Everything is about you. Admit your wrongs, never. You don’t realize what you got. You’re going to miss this.
And so I let the light in, the brightness of the sun so the rays can illuminate my letters, the pages filled with words rambling on about that time with you. If only we could think about the good times not The bad, what would we find?
Kennedy Murphy ’16
Moving on
Self-protection
To her death is quite romantic, she wears an iron vest Bob Dylan Careful who she gave it to Always feared he still loves her Cause the anxiety tastes like death Always left to wonder what it is She never thought it felt quite right when he acted all romantic She made a promise to herself she Would never be the girl who wears her heart upon her sleeve or an attitude of any less than iron Her heart was hers in a bulletproof vest. Kennedy Murphy ’16
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find Natasha Bedingfield
Robbie Baxter ’16
Letting go of what I had Grouplove
Letting go of what I had the time has come, I am letting uncertainty take me. Immersing myself into the unknown Go with the wind and travel far out of this place with what you have left. I stray away from all that I had here I leave it behind. Gabrielle Marchese ’16
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Prison Cell
As Lady and I look out tonight from Desolation Row Bob Dylan
I look into the mirror above the table as I finish my last meal. I wonder
what my lady
is doing as I sit in the chair. And I remember how soft her hand felt as I caressed it in mine. You shoulda seen
the way she’d look
at me. That smile was so bright when I asked her out. I start to wonder if the stars are out tonight. It’s easy to forget here. All that I know
how bright they shine from
are these bars of desolation.
There ain’t that much hope here on death row. Chris Dewees ’16
Paris observed Tori Richardson ’16
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Live a Little “Live a little” they say, but you remember the terrible night, the accident. Your brother, the boy you loved, now lying there, cold and still-for once not smiling, forevermore an empty shell, you realize. No one will realize, nor understand, so you try your best to remember, looking at shoebox memories, naïvely smiling faces-before the pain, before the accident. His “loves” turned to “loved,” And people tell you “Oh brother, I’m so sorry for the loss of you dear, dear brother.” You mock their fakeness, how they could not possibly realize how you had loved the world so, how you struggle to remember that everything is meant to be ordered, not accident after accident…going through the motions with your “smiling” mask on, attempting to recognize the smiling girl in the photos, the girl with the brother. The euphemistic use of “accident” infuriates you, for you realize, think of all that you’ve seen and remember that nothing is an accident. How could you have loved a world in which “loves” can turn to “loved” in a split second, so you carry on, smiling on the outside, trying to simply live since you can no longer remember the sound of his voice. Not just your brother, your comrade, but you never realized before the accident… You fear the unpredictable, the accidents Because you could not possibly have loved anything more, yet you realize: maybe that’s the point of all this sadness: so the smiling moments are more profound, so through your brother, you learn to live a little, to remember how this life is filled with beautiful accidents, realizing, remembering how you could have loved someone, a brother, entirely, wholeheartedly, so you finally smile and live a little once more. Kate Spillan ’16
Phil John Ciccolella ’16
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autonomy (n) independence, the condition of having self-government It’s something of astronomy. the galaxies have learned to dance without thinking the planets turn on self-centered axes the stars burn without a care for the wishes placed among them. Independent. Their orbits have no regard for desire so they spin on in their own design. Teach me how to be independent: show me how to burn without fuel, how to write my own metaphors. Maybe someday I’ll learn self-governance, and teach myself the autonomy of a soul. Emily Lugg ’19
Patterns Barbara Boylan ’16
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Competitive Clothes Neatly laid out on my bed in preparation for the night ahead, an array of shirts compete for who will be the chosen one as I begin to shower next door unaware of the conflict to come. Leaping up first, the crop top steps over her rivals heading straight to the full-length mirror resting against the grey wall to stare into her reflection.
to accent her outfit as she begins to apply her eyeliner and false eyelashes. Entering the battlefield armed in my robe and turban, I was shocked at what lay in front of me or rather what was no longer laid out. My room transformed from a carefully organized system to a lawless state of anarchy. Kendall Aulen ’16
The white button-down blouse stands aloof in the corner, sizing up her competition. she calls out the over-confident newbie, “You may have been her latest purchase but she always comes back to me.” The cream, cable-knit sweater shrinks back from the mounting argument as she buries herself under a fort constructed of plush pillows. Blending in with her neutral surroundings, she slowly disappears. The flowy floral tank brushes her hair gazes aimlessly into the mirror, ignoring the launched insults while simultaneously responding to the multiple texts overwhelming her phone. The white tee arises from the corner where she had situated herself into the feathered butterfly chair, hoping to ease the growing tensions and begging the opposing garments to concede.
Popping Tennis Shoes Grace DiGiacoma ’19
The bold graphic tee ignores the surrounding chaos. In her own little world, she tries on various leather accessories
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The Beginning is The End is The Beginning The last time I saw Her, she smiled to me and said I don’t think we can go on like this, it’s just too Stressful and I want you to be happy. I wish I had known what I do now, because then I would have Said, I need you to be happy. Now I don’t know where she is or who she’s with, Only that my heart is with her Til the end of my time. Remember when we first met? I asked her Enthusiastically, trying to channel the love we had felt on our first days As if it was yesterday, she replied. Part of me couldn’t help but think she was Lying . Luminous and colorful, the world spun before me I could see my life mapped out on a timeline of fantastic events that made me, me From my first words to my first kiss and on, and I could go to Every single time in my life as if it were just a small dot floating in the universe. Instantly, my eyes opened and my ears heard the Sounds of the morning birds. Twins Lauren Chua ’18
A wonderful feeling consumed me, freedom mixed with glee and relief. Delighted, I proceeded forward, but I Realized that I was all alone. No one was around, not Even my family. Could I be dead? As if to answer my question, I heard a voice say my name. I turned and My eyes rested upon her, beautiful and radiant. I embraced her. Peter Sabini ’16
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Archmere Rooms Embodied An evening block party, Marvin Gaye and chardonnay, Relaxed, smooth, the jazz club in center city, Library timidly enters, Tall, muscular, young, sincere; everything the others want to be, A younger sibling stealing the thunder, creating ghosts A nod and hello, shy at first sight Library timidly scurries to the food. “I was once like that,” SLC grumbling in his third empty wine glass, Boasting about his glory days in his youth, In retrospect, a shadow of his former self, Looking for attention, the narcissist of the bunch, Mood swinging like a swing set, sexy attitude, physique, Turf Fields sparks conversation with SLC, Only to be interrupted… “Baby come check out these guns” sweaty Weight Room looks up and down, Laughing and leaving, Turf Field with a smirk on her pretty face, Always insecure, enormous figure, Weight Room ignores, Right around the corner, he always wants a piece, She never gives herself up, With her looks and smooth skin, she cannot give in, Tight t-shirt and small legs stride towards Patio. Corner of the room, glowing like the moon, Manor in solitude, Stoner, Weirdo, and Urban Outfitters fanatic in one, Quiet, the ripped jeans and colorful hair do the talking. Focused on his art, as History Department spills his drink, Spill, splatter, splash, Manor glares into his eyes, Notoriously snarky with sporadically nosey comments, Missing his youth, button down and tie, Calmly, intensely, glares at the others, finding the imperfections. drawing with light Spencer Lutz ’16
Whispers, “He needs to take advantage of this opportunity to be young and clean,” “How has he not checked me out yet?” Alex Schultz ’16
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Power House Last February, my father At the dumbbell rack, old Phillies hat and a 3XL retro Jordan shirt lecturing me about work ethic, How you can accomplish anything in life if you work hard enough. My father, who had played some professional baseball, knew it was my dream as well. Power House Tampa, boiling over with juiceheads in their prime He always had a Philadelphia attitude, growing up in South West Rows of houses packed together, with families hustling to feed their children. Stickball, wall ball, football, and street fights were the usual occurrence in that time. We had just got done benching, and he only went up to 405. Standing by the dumbbell rack we saw a man who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Probably in his late 20’s. He was grunting out half reps of 130 pound dumbbells, chest press no incline. I remember his throwing his dumbbells down almost right onto my foot, as if he were better than every one in the gym. I remember the exact words my dad said, “They look like Tarzan, but play like Jane.” He then scooped up the 170 pounders and proceeded to knock out 15 reps. Not too bad for a 50 year old. Joseph Singley ’16
Industrial Composition #4 Caleb Wang ’16
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The Yellow Brick Road They come together, from different places But all have the same goal They wish to find who they really are Somewhere along the yellow brick road They learn things that they'll later need Half way through, it seems to fly They continue along, using new brains Lions and tigers and bears, Oh my! Nearing the end, they can see the light Almost fully prepared for the final test They cheer and cry, saying final goodbyes and take their last steps on the yellow brick road Evan Hernick ’19
Our Tiny Community Spencer Lutz ’16
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Tapestry 2016 Editor Zoe Akoto ’17 Assistant Editors Keelin Reilly ’17 Shreyas Parab ’18 Editorial Staff Emma Stovicek ’17 Emily Lugg ’19 Gillen Curren ’18 Natasha Gengler ’18 Layout Zoe Akoto ’17 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Art Advisor Ms. Jody Hoffman Thank you to Mr. Jordan’s Creative Writing Class, Mrs. Wolf ’s Lit Class and to all who submitted work to Tapestry.
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