Word and Hand Catalog by Catlin Gabel School

wo rdha nd A C O L L A B O R AT I O N B E T W E E N WRITING AND ART STUDENTS

AND

AT C AT L I N G A B E L H I G H S C H O O L

AND WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

We thank the following:

Dale Rawls and Virginia King, Catlin Gabel, and Christopher Shotola-Hardt and Jay Rishel, Wilsonville High School, for their time and energy; this project was added to their already busy lives, their full schedules. It necessitated monitoring, collecting materials, documenting, and handling exchanges between eight pairs of students â&#x20AC;&#x201C; no small task. Dardinelle Troen, who designed this catalogue, which constitutes the full documentation of months of exchanges between the sixteen participants. Steve Tilden, William T. Colville Foundation program coordinator, for bringing this project to fruition. Blackfish Gallery, for lending their space for the reception, during which each student first met his/her collaborator.

Introduction In 1999, Michele Glazer, Portland State University, and Steve Tilden created a collaborative process they called Word&Hand. It was a series of exchanges of creative work over a period of several months. The notion was to give each collaborator many chances to provoke the other, and to be provoked. They ‘spoke’ only with their respective medium – Michele in poetry, Steve in sculpture. They organized a W&H project with five additional writer/visual artist pairs, exchanging work over ten months, with a catalogue and an exhibit at the Autzen Gallery at Portland State University in 2000. This project was repeated a year later with some changes to the participants, featuring a catalogue and an exhibit at the Littman Gallery, Portland State University. Both projects were supported by the Regional Arts and Culture Council. In 2012, Steve joined the board of trustees of the William T. Colville Foundation, and suggested that the W&H style of collaboration might work well at the high school level. He invited Christopher Shotola-Hardt, art faculty at Wilsonville High, and Dale Rawls, art faculty at Catlin Gabel, to conduct a project supported by the Colville Foundation. They, in turn, invited Jay Rishel and Virginia King to supervise the writers. The exchanges of creative work began in October 2012 and ended in March 2013. This catalogue documents those exchanges. One of the important dimensions of the W&H style of collaboration is the writer and the visual artist need not know each other, and did not see each other, during their collaboration. To ensure this, students at Catlin Gabel were paired with students at Wilsonville. The core concept of W&H collaboration is a conversation, not verbally but via two different mediums. For example, the first collaborator might ‘say’ something with a line of poetry; upon receiving that line, the second collaborator might ‘reply’ with a splash of color on canvas. Upon receiving that splash of color, the writer ‘replies’ with additional lines, and so forth until each has completed their work – one or more poems, and one or more paintings. The poetry has affected the painting (or any other visual work), and vice versa.

To foster this conversation, W&H collaborators are asked to follow three rules:* FIRST, no verbal communication between collaborators -- no

comments, no questions about what the fellow collaborator is doing creatively; each must ‘speak’ only via his/her medium. SECOND, complete the work in steps so that the collaborator has

opportunities to ‘reply’ – think of it as each creative step (that line of poetry, that splash of color or 3-D shape) is like a sentence in a conversation. THIRD, each collaborator will keep a journal of thoughts, reactions,

questions, and ideas that come to mind as the exchanges progress – things each collaborator might want to have said to the other collaborator at each exchange during the process. This journal is not shared until the process is completed. It forms a running description of thinking and reactions during the collaborative process. *Applying rules to the creative process may seem oxymoronic, but oddly it can be freeing. For example, Sol LeWitt (1967) used rules to explore the unpredictable relationships between shape, shadow, and color, turning a repeated simple element into a complex visual experience. In the W&H process, the ‘no talking’ rule presses the collaborators to pour all their creative effort into their work rather than talking around it.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

The Faculty

Christopher Shotola-Hardt

WILSONVILLE | ART FACULTY

I felt bad that I borrowed Steve Tilden’s catalogue from the first Word & Hand project and kept it for over two years. I had wanted to partner up with one of the English teachers at my school and try it with high school students. When Steve told me that a William T. Colville Foundation grant could possibly fund an exchange between my school and Catlin Gabel, I was ecstatic! The most exciting days this year were when we brought the new batch of Catlin poems and artworks to our Wilsonville group. Everybody could hardly wait to see how their partner writer or artist had responded. It was like opening much anticipated holiday gifts. And what gifts! To have another creative person look so deeply into one’s work and respond to it in another creative form…. I have been teaching 26 years. This model of creative exchange is certainly a highlight for me. I look forward to the next time Steve wants to initiate Word & Hand with professional artists and writers. I’m in! I belong to the same gallery as Steve: Blackfish Gallery in Portland, OR I paint.

Jay Rishel

WRITING FACULTY | WILSONVILLE

Jay Rishel has taught English at Wilsonville High School since 2000 and currently serves on the board of the Oregon Council of Teachers of English. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Northeast Portland. “The exploration, the wondering, the meaning-making have made Word & Hand a richly rewarding experience. I have thoroughly appreciated the students’ efforts to push an artistic conversation in a cogent and meaningful direction.”

CATLIN GABEL | WRITING FACULTY Since 1982, Ginia King has been studying and/or teaching French, Italian, and English literature. She particularly enjoys the company of dogs, adolescents, and (mostly dead) poets. She believes people are happiest when they are making or experiencing art; watching her students work though the Word and Hand project has reinforced that conviction.

Dale Rawls

ART FACULTY | CATLIN GABEL I discovered that using images was my first language in the 1970â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s . I have taught visual art for quite sometime. I currently have taught at the Catlin Gabel School for the last 24 years. I work with mixed media, on paper, canvas and shaped panels. I work with Barbara Rawls at Riverhouse studio in Portland. She remains a key creative influence. In 1999 and 2001 I created work in response to poems by poet Paul Merchant for Word & Hand. I have appreciated so much how hard the high school visual artists have worked to maintain a creative connection to their own work while attempting to communicate with their unknown partner. I could not be more pleased.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Ginia King

EXCHANGE

| ARTIST

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

Patrick Flynn is a student at Wilsonville High School. He enjoys science, art, and experimentation in each. He loves abstraction. He particularly enjoys experimentation in abstract expressionism and chaotic beauty. He prefers the word “alternative” to “hipster.”

WRITER |

Lauren Wu

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL Lauren Wu is a senior at Catlin Gabel. Her first poems written as a second grader involved dancing valentines. She draws her inspiration from nature, life stories, and music. She enjoys hiking, biking, swimming, photography, and all art forms. She plans to continue pursuing creative writing in college.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Patrick Flynn

Flynn | Wu

| F I R S T C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Patrick Flynn 10 NOV. 2012

The piece began with a block of wood. It was created during a point of time in which I was attempting to create raw, chaotic, saturated abstract color pieces using cyan, yellow and magenta tempera primarily (no pun intended). I created several blocks, curious as to which ones worked and which ones did not. I was unsatisfied with the composition so I took a palette knife and created a thick layer of green--a rather ugly green, too. After applying a similar process of creating saturated colors on another piece, I put the painted surfaces against each other. This created a veiny imprint on the piece. After it dried, I applied a blue wash and yellow dry brush to accentuate the grooves. Dark blue covered the areas still showing under a layer of green.

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11Ë? X 6-3/8Ë?

M U LT D I V I D E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

As cells of kelp Collide—the deep sea bottom Stands still, unaffected. As duplicates of harbingers Divide—the internal ripples Dissipate, unnoticed. As innocent clown fish Reside—their predator Preys, unsuspected. As veins within stems Provide—they silently Sustain, ungratified.

Lauren Wu

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

SECOND SITTING:

THIRD SITTING:

A teacher remarked that it looks like a plant cell, replete with cell walls. I clearly see it and do agree. I’ve been going through a trend of writing science-y poems lately. The terminology supplements and even headlines imagery I have been trying to percolate my poems with.

Ginia, my creative writing teacher, remarked that poetry captures a moment in time. My earliest poems had ruminated on abstract ideas, so I am trying to gradually embrace this new style of more imagistic poetry, nothing quite like Pound or H.D., as I find myself too verbose for that, but definitely edging out descriptions for images that represent, and replace.

Cell division is cell reproduction, so I think I’ll run with that circle of life idea. The main subject of the painting looks like a leaf. I think I’ll zoom out beyond the focus on the leaf, and acknowledging the other concurrent processes in the ecosystem. We as a cohabiting species can be quite anthropocentric at times, so I’d like for this poem to subtly (and politely) hold up a sign, without screaming

I intend for this poem to keep with this philosophy. It will need to embody a process, but not describe it. It will be a snapshot, and to spin off more clichés, a poem worth a thousand words. I’ve decided. That process will be cell division.

Flynn | Wu

| S EC O N D C YC L E

Patrick

| ENTRY 2

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

As cells of kelp Collide—the deep sea bottom Stands still, unaffected. As duplicates of harbingers Divide—the internal ripples Dissipate, unnoticed As innocent clownfish Reside—their predator Preys, unsuspected As veins within stems. Provide--they silently sustain, ungratified.

POEM ANALYSIS AND IDEAS organic texture observations as if viewed from a scuba diver add a black blue hand reaching out flourishes of color are covered by kelp color. sea atmosphere—sunbeams through water? accentuate stems I tried adding blobs of orange for “clownfish.” It didn’t look very good so I washed it off and the paint disintegrated, exposing lower layers. After brainstorming a little and experimenting I decided I’d create a sunbeam pass under it and catch the light.

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝

Next I’d add a three dimensionalish hand reaching into the “kelp” to illustrate a first person view. I’m unsure whether to make it dark (like the black latex scuba suits) or distorted, bright magenta-orange. I’ll have to try both. I added the fish and the hand. I gave the hand an orange band to create parallelism between the fish and the hand. I am not completely satisfied with the way it turned out but there’s not much I can do about it. Overall I am satisfied; I just feel some elements of form could be changed a bit, specifically the hand. I want to stop for the day and I feel it is close enough to what I wanted and that altering it too much would push it away from that.

I bared myself in an exposé

Now surfaced, inundated

to a murky opaque viscous.

in dry emptiness

In visceral, ecstatic ripples

self-proclaimed as upright.

confined to one orientation

from fluttering feet

propelled through endless pores Checked by brethren of fish, and species undefined. with shared physiques

but eyes of ire dull with denial

their superior humanity. Proximity drains the flushing edict bubbled from its sewage excretions.

Lauren

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

The introduction of the hand has a menacing connotation. It definitely doesn’t belong and is starkly different, but the outreached hand and similar coloring to the fish begs environmental questions of similarities between biodiversity of species, and how although humans live in a different dimension, they ultimately share the same world and mutually affect each other.

SECOND SITTING

FOURTH SITTING

The painting has overall taken on a deep, murky blue overtone. As if it’s difficult to see beyond the obvious, and the answers or appropriate course of action isn’t just staring you in the face, as such is life.

I want to convey that divide and sense of bridging the gap. There will need to be a tension, as transcending the divide is unconventionally against society’s norms. What divide, you ask? I am purposefully leaving this abstract and open to interpretation.

THIRD SITTING Ginia suggested I read Pablo Neruda, adored by poets across time and space. Befittingly, I found myself dwelling on his poem, “Enigmas.” He so beautifully paints a poetic picture of the shore, the ocean, and his relationship with the two. He does this better than I’ve seen others do, or what I could dream of doing.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

R E N EG A D E

But because I would like to encourage my artist to break through the surface of the underwater setting, I will have to reverse the perspective and write about breaking through the surface. Symbolically, it will represent effort on a human’s part to bridge the gap of understanding and responsibility to earth’s co-habitants.

Flynn | Wu

| S EC O N D C YC L E

Patrick Flynn CYCLE 3

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Got the piece back, and I realized how little I like the fishes. The whole piece seems lackluster, and it’s a bit like visiting a weird cousin or something. You’re glad to see them, but you realize that they have issues. Regardless I already have an idea of what to do next. The poet responds talking about sewage secretions and stuff. Gonna try something with that—some chemical, unnatural blobs. Definitely getting rid of these fishes and the hand. Well I made the blobs, and this sort of oily aurora. It’s kind of like a cascade of nebulae in space and water pollution, although it looks pretty lackluster. It responds to the sunbeams and the fish and hand are completely covered—that’s what I wanted. Realism isn’t my thing, and the imagery was pretty gimmicky. Although it isn’t polished or developed nearly as much as I want it to be, I have completely done everything I set out to do this round.

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝

She retaliated with the majestic force of ubiquitous sails, charging toward your territory lined with steel obstructions, defenseless. Reparations, sacrifices of crimson, blood orange, to mark the befitting crimes.

A lava tube sucks another house through.

Lauren Wu

The optimist survivors prevail through the fissures of death sputtering streams of firework colored sparks. Merciless, treacherous

Invisible activity beneath the surface— Paradoxical bubbling volatile mercury of destruction and creation.

Who will triumph in the War between Water and Fire?

Neighborhoods ravished by fire under Nature’s fury Inundated with turbulent rains.

burning… and gone in the time it took to read this consuming wooden structures as if they were toothpicks, or a house of cards. Alas, her center empties of magma every entity from stone, soil, sand, self, extinct...

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

C YC L I C A L U N K N OW N

Will the unsound surface cave in on itself?

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

SECOND SITTING:

THIRD SITTING:

Yes! Anarchy! Red and orange and yellow! Fire. Chaos. Had it coming? Well, it is a beautiful painting with a new palate, but no, I don’t suppose it’s a good thing that Earth, which is now what this kelp leaf has zoomed out to—a view of Earth from space, or in a picture in future history, take your pick— has consequences catching up to it.

I would like to instill a little optimism/ call to action/opportunity in my poem. I don’t appreciate literature that is all cynics and lamentation (grief is a different story).

I think volcanoes will serve as great imagery. This documentary I’m watching inspires vivid visuals. However, I’m not intending to draw upon the out-ofour-control aspect of volcanoes, but rather, the natural beauty of them, while pointing out the animate qualities of destruction they possess. Parallelism and personification, anyone? Again, the personification isn’t to play the blame game on humankind, but to say, “hey man (pun intended), you should know that if you keep doing what you’re doing, things aren’t gonna end well for you, or anyone else (as an afterthought).”

Flynn | Wu

| T H I R D C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Patrick Flynn

Got this piece of junk back. Immediately, I realize that it just lacks. Doing stuff for the standard art class and coming back to this red headed stepchild of a piece is painful. I want to start something new, but I would hate to end it just right here; I’ve got to finish what I started. It’s a hard knock life. Here’s the poem, and my notes. She retaliates with the majestic force of ubiquitous sails charging toward your territory lined with steel obstructions, defenseless. Chaos chaos chaos chaos, good, my point is getting across Reparations, sacrifices of crimson, blood orange, mark the befitting crimes. Red is my favorite color, so vibrant and violent. Man this poet knows what I like it’s like feudal Chinese law Invisible activity brims beneath the surface— Paradoxical bubbling volatile mercury of destruction and creation it’s clear that I have to really emphasize my willingness to create and destroy recklessly and yet I need to find a way to do that in an appealing way A lava tube sucks another house through. Fire ravishes neighborhoods under Nature’s fury inundated with turbulent rains Fantastic imagery. Why did a lazy artist like me have to get paired with such a smart poet? The optimist survivors prevail through fissures of death, sputtering streams of firework colored sparks. The life is carried on through a persona of death. Color is emphasized Merciless, treacherous burning… and gone in the time it took to read this; consuming wooden structures as if they were toothpicks, a house of cards. Visceral cruelness Her center empties of magma every entity from stone, soil, sand, self, extinct— The weakness of the piece compared to the power of the artist. It’s clear that the artist is describing what I wanted to do all along: chaotic beauty. Although I got the chaotic portion of it, not so sure about the beauty portion. In order to respond I washed more paint off. This gave the piece less form and more textural color, which is what I wanted. The aurora has been deformed and distressed and the sunbeams are dead fragments of yellow.

In an impulse of sickness for the piece I created, I started a new one using a sort of turquoise. Looking at it I realized it wasn’t going anywhere and it would be inefficient with everyone’s time to start over. So using the second piece, in a similar way this piece was created, I took the washed out piece and placed it against the wet blue surface. This created blue streaks at the higher points in the texture (literal high points, not figurative). I finally feel this piece is close to being resolved.

ENTRY 5 I got the piece back from the last exchange. There will be no more. I’m not sure if ol’ Shotola-Hardt said there was a poem to go with it. I think I remember he said something about my partner usually being late with poetry. Either way, the piece will go under some changes. Looking at it now all I can say is that I want it to be better, but I feel like it’s stuck. I’m not stuck, the piece is just stuck in the past: a time when I was different as an artist, less experienced. I hope C-1 understands... It’s truly remarkable how much I’ve changed since the beginning of this project, a mere three or four months ago. I would like to share my final thoughts on the project; they’ll be brief, I assure you. It was a great idea, but I wasn’t ready. Art for me, although an intellectual and stimulating experience, is purely recreational. I didn’t want to wake up an hour early, do extra work or invest my best effort in something that I didn’t take seriously. I ended up creating something that will likely end up subpar because I didn’t enjoy making it. Oh well, maybe I’ll get it right next time.

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Flynn | Wu

| F I N A L C YC L E

Lauren Wu

CYCLE 4 | FIRST IMPRESSIONS Have to say, this is my favorite piece of the four. The softer, mossier palate is gorgeous, especially the turquoise (my favorite color) as a border. I love the different textures as well, including smooth, flaky, and bumpy. Generally a hodgepodge, but everything seems to fit. I think it can be interpreted as both or either ugly or beautiful. It could be the unsettling aftermath of disaster, or not.

SECOND SITTING I’ve decided to look at this piece as a separate entity from the trajectory I’ve been following from the previous three cycles. I like the hodgepodge idea, and believe it fitting of our country. My school recently held its annual diversity conference, and its theme, Kaleidoscope, reflects the art here. A teacher who co-led a workshop on culture shock for the conference talked about the respective melting pot and tossed salad phenomena of the U.S. and Canada. In the U.S. newcomers or minorities are expected to work to assimilate to the mainstream, while in Canada, people distinguish themselves in cultural enclaves. I would like to explore an illustration of this, whatever amalgamation it may be, in my poem.

THIRD SITTING Since I’m more familiar with the environment of the United States, I’ll stick to that. I imagine this child, on the brink of a melting pot. He or she is brought to America not of his or her own volition, but of his or her parents’. He or she is leaving behind their known comforts, friends, family, and identity. Now, he or she is expected to assimilate. I see the orange streaks in the painting as this child. In the painting, I see the colors on the edge as immigrants and foreign-born citizens, returning expats, minorities, marginalized people in general. They are trying to fit in, but are at times treated like infiltrators. Whether social or ecological, environments should be minded and adequately attended to, which may require change within ourselves, within our shared environment.

S O LV E N T C H I L D H O O D

I am a budding thorn to them. In this decaying foliage, I rustle the fallen leaves. There arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t any more for me to catch. I gather the leaves in my arms. My arms arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t long enough to carry more. I release my arms

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

In this thicket of roses,

with the utmost strength I can muster. My wrist hits a branch, springs open, streams red. The wind carries the remnants, the pain. I lift my chin, walk to the next tree, look for the bloom.

t t w w o o EXCHANGE

| ARTIST

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

I was born in Bend, Oregon in 1995. I was raised in Central Oregon, parts of Southern and Northern California, Arizona, and now most recently, the Portland Metro Area, I feel that I have grasped onto inspiration of the world around me at a very early age. Being raised in a family of musicians and artists has provoked my artistic energy since day one—which in fact led to my first art show as a 1-yearold baby. Art is a way of living, and it has become my way of life. People ask me, “Are you going to be an artist when you grow up?” I simply respond with,”Are you going to have eyes when you grow up?” I am Doone Williams, The Artist.

WRITER |

Elise Thompson

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL

Elise Thompson, junior at Catlin Gabel, I love tea, fireplaces, steep mountains, pistachio ice cream, wide windows and long car rides. When I write, I try to step into a new identity and explore life through a new perspective. Try on rugged boots, ankletwisting heels, thin-soled sneakers, that sort of thing. If I find myself immersed in my new character, I’ve been successful.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Doone Williams

Going into this project, I was mainly just excited by the idea of participating in a dialogue in which communication between partners would be strictly through art—I wondered to what level the communication would play out, and whether I would feel a connection with my partner. Throughout the project, I noticed my pieces developing in ways they hadn’t before—I found myself writing with the purpose of eliciting a strong, specific reaction from my partner, rather than simply writing for writing’s sake alone.

| F I R S T C YC L E

Doone Williams THE BEGINNING 10: 26PM Tonight I am listening to nothing but Oscar Peterson and old Stan Getz albums—spinning on the record player. Ready to open my new gold paint, which I am dying to use, and am about to. Nothing but wood, mud and acrylic paint. Every note on the piano and every hit of the drum I see walls, rich accents of glamour, elegance but raw structure. Not sure if this should be perceived as mystery or perhaps completely recognizable. Empty room, but walls of energy.

11:57PM Chandelier.

Gold On The Ceiling, ACRYLIC & PLASTER ON WOOD 21˝ X 48˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Williams | Thompson

a nightmare previews across the widescreen of his closed eyelids:

between his parched lips.

attempting deliberate steps, he limps to the sill, presses his

grey eyes exhale

forehead to the frosted glass.

wide eyes watch

somebody chalked spider webs across the pane.

stuttering smoke stumble

pillows of breath balloon before nostrils,

out his throat.

ashes, invisible in the grey light, jump to the floor.

the rise and fall beneath his chin does not belong to him.

bones start to melt, like candles dripping wax.

ink’s parade across his chest turned mundane,

the walls around him fall away, wind hugs his side,

forgotten years ago.

coaxes leathery flakes from the wrapping he used to call

a pale crescent patch behind his ear whispers scars to his

Skin,

deaf drum.

little fragments swirl away,

an empty four-chambered cage,

join the jagged spindles asleep in the black.

flecked with gold, buried in soot,

his eyes, first frightened,

rattles.

now teem with calm,

he faces a square window.

and he slowly sinks to the ground.

outside, the sunset succumbed to the suffocating dust of dusk,

mellifluous flecks of gold would glimmer

and the trees have become nothing more than jagged spindles

if there were light to catch their dance.

traced across an electrocardiogram monitor.

simmering in a pool of honey,

the line jumps:

the cigarette’s eternal glow pulses.

up, down up.

it beats.

Elise Thompson

23 NOVEMBER 2012 –

20 NOVEMBER 2012 Received first painting. Last night I grabbed it and ran to the car. All I could think about was that the art was heavy and dark. I was kind of terrified to begin responding. Now I see a hall (ballroom?), colossal chandelier (does it drip?), ash walls and floor. An eerie vibe, like something happened—something bad—and now the room has been left to decay. The gold along the arches and the ceiling, and such make the room look like a magnificent palace or mansion that once teemed with energy and happiness, but all that glory has been sucked out.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

his fingertips fumble, numb as they struggle to lift the red glow

All that’s left is a dying, dust-filled skeleton. Something happened to the owner. Something tragic, but maybe they had it coming. They deserved it? Like King Ludwig and Neuschwanstein, how he ordered that stunningly exquisite rooms be built, but then mysteriously drowned before the castle was finished. So the grandeur he dreamed of never became a complete reality.

Interpreting... Each time I look up again at that painting I notice the dripping all over, like melting. Ooze, seep, dribble, bleed. Was this hall constructed for parties and life, or just as a formality? Was it meant to be sad, or did that happen over time? If I walked under the gold arches, would I enter a tunnel or just another room? I think a tunnel. But where does it lead? Could this all be underground? This becomes so much harder when I realize how many different ways I could take this.

26 NOVEMBER 2012 – I know what to write about. A man’s atrophy.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Williams | Thompson

Windows, ACRYLIC & PLASTER ON WOOD 31˝ X

| S EC O N D C YC L E

13-3/4˝

Doone Williams RESPONSE #1

Wow. Completely unexpected but I am excited. This poem brought much more melancholy yet very curious intentions. I am seeing more use of architecture and structure to capture this emotion and tone.

Thick, BAROQUE, statements. Line vs. meaning vs. mood I want to embrace this “dark figure”—a boy, a man? Lonely and afraid. But enclosed and protected in these walls. KEEPING THE GOLD. The gold is key; makes this exciting and professional. But this poem is dark and whoa… powerful. Should I show the body? Or keep it as an open ended figure… ghost?

5 DECEMBER 2012 –

Received second painting. I’m sort of lost—can’t quite figure out what they’re trying to say…

17 DECEMBER 2012 – Interpreting… Facing large windows, I look to the golden outside (is the sun rising? in that moment where windows let in a sort of orange glow and I always think a light is on but when I go to turn it off its just the sun..?). The chandeliers have some gold in them, now. I think they were just white before – or whiter than now, at least. One’s roped higher than the other – whys that? Further dilapidation? Is this a mansion or a church? I love the candle on the far left. And how it’s so much bigger than the rest of the painting. Was that simply meant because of perspective, like I’m holding the candle and looking out the windows, or is the candle bigger because it’s more important and the artist wants me to really notice it?

24 DECEMBER 2012 – More interpreting… Jacob thought there’s a person standing in the bottom far left window but I’m not sure. Even if there isn’t I kind of like that idea, though. Someone standing there. They stand apart from the candle. Why is the candle still lit? If there are chandeliers hanging and a golden hue coming from outside, there’s no need for candles, anymore. It should be snuffed out.

5 JANUARY 1013 2012 – Decision. He will talk.

a door cracks; she peers in. she hasn’t seen him move all night, but still, the candle in her hand shakes, echoing the terror resonating through her limbs. in the flickering light, her round cheeks materialize and they emit a gasp as her footsteps ebb. slowly, silently, they return and she knocks. the marble man blinks, sends soot leaping from eyelashes, inhales, and a school of sawdust swims down larynx, gags. rusty hues bloom from iron bars, glass is speckled with rain, and finally, marble ripples, its dark twists turn taut, and brittle, they shatter – a fingertip scratches behind an ear, a man emerges. under a cable-knit brow, his pupils are foggy, slightly stale, as if raked from a tavern floor. he sees the hazy figure. she tremors in hiding, each shiver sends tsunami waves tumbling. she begins to approach. eyes locked in hers, his lips move.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Elise Thompson

“I blinked and it came into focus and I saw a maple, its trunk slim, fingers small. But its branches were heavy – heavy with blood, like they would collapse if I let my breath go.” soon at his side, fingertips reach, touch an arm shocks reel down both spines. hers quivered and he thought she looked beautiful, when scared. “When I said blood, I meant the leaves were red. I wasn’t describing the actual blood. It was trickling so thin no one saw it – no one except me and the boy hiding in the fork of the tree - we were young, like you. He cradled his knee in one hand and a salt shaker in the other.” 21

Williams | Thompson

| T H I R D C YC L E

Doone Williams

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

RESPONSE #2

SPOT ON. I feel like I should change the style to perhaps steer this in a different direction to capture the meaning. This woman. A candle. Is it still lit? Is it still flaming or flickering or completely burnt out? No more gold. For the tone is cold now. Flat.

The Woman, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS 12˝ X 12˝

Elise Thompson Received third painting. I don’t know what to think, really. When I was writing my last poem, I was trying to push my artist to try out a completely different landscape or palate by changing the point of view of the narrator and inserting an image of a bleeding maple. ...now, this girl, with the black mouth, confuses me. I can see that there’s a candle on her right, but what else is there in the white? Are those windows behind her?

7 FEBRUARY 2013 – Interpreting… The girl in the painting looks far older and more experienced—haunted?— than I intended to illustrate. Mine was meant to be young, innocent, naïve, but this one looks like she’s been abused, silenced (hence the black lips?), and carries some heavy burden – she’s depressed, she’s exhausted. Maybe this is what the girl feels inside.

10 FEBRUARY 2013 –

More interpreting… Maybe now it’s time to turn to firstperson narration, tell the story from the girl’s perspective. Or maybe not even mention the scene from before, but instead tell about her past in a way that offers insight to the scenes I’ve already written. She has never met other kids lives alone with the man - he’s her grandpa she doesn’t know concepts of normal childhood is forced to conform hers to care for and protect him from his mind.

11 FEBRUARY 2013 – Changed my mind. Nah we don’t want to hear her voice. She’s not even real, anyway.

13 FEBRUARY 2013 – Decision. We need a change of scenery.

each square centimeter of bark is covered in hundreds of lenses. splinters, shed by the sun, leak from sweaty clouds and pierce these microscopic sequins with breaking news. once it told the boy it could see. his eyes scrunched and weight shifted. finally he informed it, authoritatively scribbling in a leather-bound notebook, “Your branches stretch ten meters wide, and if SA=4πr2, you’ve got approximately 125,663.71 square centimeters of different angles of vision.” the maple didn’t understand, so it sighed, and instead focused on the tingle of warm legs dangling across its scarred, sappy body, the reassuring prods of plump toes squirming against its arms.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

6 FEBRUARY 2013 –

but now, partially hidden behind mottled panes, the boy grasps knobby fingers to a blotchy, withering scalp and secrets sting his hoarse throat as he yanks them forth, whispers for the chandelier. he chokes on his last syllable and winces, terror rippling across his face like he has just seen a ghost suddenly appear or perhaps disappear. his soles gingerly meet floorboards, and slowly, he hugs the air and begins to waltz.

Williams | Thompson

| F I N A L C YC L E

Doone Williams 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

RESPONSE #3 [FINAL]

Favorite one yet. It’s time to end the story, with how it started?

This poem gives me the chills! When painting the first painting I left the whole space empty, but I envisioned spirits, ghosts, elements of memories or lost memories—this poem, being the last as well, completely tied it all together, and I felt like we really wrote a story. This is poetry. This is art.

Woman in the Window with Gold, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS 12˝ X 12˝

Because this is not only a mystery but a memory, I want the face to disappear, but I want to still be able to see it. I don’t how I will do that yet. I feel like it will match the message. Back to the original style. Tie it together. Sad it’s over.

24 MARCH 2013

Finished final response. I decided to respond with a prose poem because I changed the voice to first person (the man’s point of view), and so I wanted to incorporate a slightly different tone. I’m still unsure about the mathematical reference I used, but entwining the man’s love for math with the couple’s dance seemed too good an opportunity to pass up (the equation he mentions, r=9cos8t–3, describes the curve of the polar plot below).

your rough breath skids. like velvet stroked backwards, it tears my chapped skin. coils round my neck. venom trickles

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Elise Thompson

down my spine. i clutch your waist tighter. we spin. “You are beautiful.” i say this while falling. splat! i shriek to myself, but continue to plummet. we spin. i glimpse my corpse, splayed on the ground. we spin. “r=9cos8t–3.” we spin. “We’re carving a polar plot, darling,” i explain. “Shh, Robert, just dance.” frazzled soles scrub away at floorboards. we spin. we spin. spin. spin.

3 EXCHANGE

| WRITER

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL

Ever since my first “Bob Book” I have loved to read. However, throughout high school, I have focused my creativity on woodworking, music, and ceramics. This year I started taking a creative writing class and found yet another outlet for my passions. Most of my work revolves around my love for the mountains and rivers of the Northwest. My dream is to one day become a certified American Mountain Guide Association professional guide and give back to the Cheley Children’s Burn Camp, which has provided me with so much.

ARTIST |

Lauren Salgado

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

As a senior at Wilsonville High School, I’ve enjoyed every minute of these past four years, but also cannot wait to start college at Oregon State next fall. I’d love to go into graphic design or textile design and work with combining colors and patterns. It’s a little contrary to the work shown in this project, but the artwork displayed did offer exciting challenges that I’ve never had to face. I hope that I’ve not only created successful works for this program, but also raised thought-provoking questions.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Chris Reimann

I am putting the final pieces together for my Advanced Placement Studio Art portfolio, which entails sending 24 completed works to the College Board for grading. This, along with a pre-college program down at OSU during the summer, will complete my senior year, hopefully with success.

Reimann | Salgado

| F I R S T C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Chris Reimann JOURNAL ENTRY 1:

Writing my first poem is very hard. I want to make sure I can create something that my counterpart feels inspired by. It is hard not to tell myself the poem isn’t good enough. This project is incredibly open ended, which simultaneously excites me and scares me. I think it is safe to say, though, that the parts that excite me and scare me are one and the same. For that reason I’m plowing forward full bore hoping things end up well. The poem has been fun to write. Fishing is something I hold incredibly close to my heart. I have fond memories of fishing with my grandpa and cousins when I was young, and some of my favorite books revolve around fishing. Therefore writing the poem was by no means hard and something that I have wanted to do for some time now. Can’t wait to see what happens next.

A TROUT JUMPED

A clear line will always cut the air black against any background. You will stand on the same bank that the lightning struck midnight navy blue and orange and yellow: the only sign, that thousand splintered trunk, leans over the edge. Your long arm, your cast will cut the air, will cut the sky, dichotomizing the irregular heavens until it falls fly first against the current searching for the trout’s mouth. How often does mist provide a clear picture? How often can not seeing the other side be a good thing? Where do you find all that matters is within ten feet of your unsure footing?

11/16/12

11/20/12

11/30/12

After reading the first poem: Fishing, Fishing... all I can think of is fishing... taking a chance? Sending out for a catch, not knowing what you’ll end up with in the end. Cutting the air, not knowing what you’ll hit.

It’s like they’re telling me, hello, but more in the sense of, well, who knows if this conversation will go well; it’s a once in a lifetime chance, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be cheery.....“Splintering trunk” that’s been struck by lightning isn’t exactly a pleasant thing, ... it’s death. Who says this is all going to be good?

I hope they get it... A message in a bottle is so personal... yet so distant. It’s literally from a stranger, and what you put inside means everything. It’s the core of the piece and I hope they don’t think that they can’t open the box... Though that’s kinda taking a chance too, whether or not it’s empty.... So essentially it’s a wooden box, pretty sturdy, painted grey on the outside. --> grey= the unknown. But you have to enter the unknown to know it... if that makes sense... So on the inside it’s painted blue, mixes of different shades and what not, made to look “current” like. Kinda resembling a river... as well as I could. then there are rocks covering the bottom, completely. Making the box really heavy. Small river rocks... Then nestled on top, a message in a bottle. Note is tea stained to look worn. Has written in black ink, “sometimes taking chances is a good thing.” B/C I feel as if they were taking a chance with me, and really didn’t feel like I was a good sort of chance. I’m reaffirming that I won’t bite. :)

I like this stanza. A lot. (in reference to the last stanza in the poem) It makes the poem more understandable for me. “How often can not seeing the other side be a good thing?” haha, that’s definitely in reference to me... I like the “unsure footing” “It’s so true —it’s how I feel. How am I supposed to respond easily to this and know it’s a good enough answer? I imagine a cloudy overcast Oregon day where you’re walking down a road and can’t really see in front of you, but you trust that a brick wall won’t suddenly show up. I want to use the midnight navy blue and orange and yellow (sketches drawn) Dichotomizing--> to divide or separate into two parts, kinds etc. “cut the sky, divide the heavens.” “you will stand on the same bank” --> river bank? Plus fishing.

(crossed out sketches shown) Plus notes -use of “happy color” designs, give them the sense of comfort and that “it’s okay” but cover the designs with mist, the outcome is still unknown. (more first idea sketches plus notes) Okay, so now... what signals a “happy” design? -organic -swirls -free flowing -nothing too rigid or geometric -keep it loose, mix paints, have happy accidents.

11/24/13

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Lauren Salgado

*New idea* -Tea stain the note, crinkle it, make it look old... (drawing of a box) -inside is blue, painted, -rocks on bottom -message in a bottle (drawing of a bottle with a cork) “sometimes taking chances is a good thing” Only problem: What am I giving them to say back? ...from a writer’s standpoint... Message in a bottle= someone throws one out for another to find, usually it’s important, meaningful. Personal. It’s a chance that you find it too. Handwriting is vital. (writes “sometimes taking chances is a good thing” over and over)

‘

| F I R S T C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Reimann | Salgado

Message in a Bottle, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝ 30

Chris Reimann Well of all the things I was expecting a box was not among them. That being said it is a really cool piece of art and I really enjoyed writing about it. When I first got the box I was very confused. It was completely black on the outside and I thought thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all it was. When I picked it up though I almost dropped it because of the weight inside. Upon opening I was struck by the deep blue my counterpart created. It had incredible depth which was really cool to look at. The stones were awesome and the little bottle was really intriguing. It took me a long time to get the poem out though. While the piece was awesome, I wanted to take us in a different direction. I decided to focus on the dark exterior as opposed to the interior. I spent a lot of time thinking about it and decided to focus on my fear of the dark when I was little. It was fun to look back on myself and look at a somewhat irrational feeling. Something I realized though was that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not 100% over it yet. That was something of a shock, which I hope shows a bit in the poem. Until next time then...

DA R K B OX

The darkness is smeared across the outside. Inside, I walk, my mirror jumping me panel to panel and the broken one shatters my image bleeding swirly blue. I watch it run smoothly to the bottom again. I can smell the bottle that I threw in one of my obscene fits,

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

JOURNAL ENTRY 2:

burnt rage. It cuts my feet. And the darkness persists into the murky gloom ahead. I sometimes peek over the edge, watch it expand faster as the blue in my world curls into the bottle I threw and blew whole again.

Reimann | Salgado

| S EC O N D C YC L E

Lauren Salgado 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

12/17/12

Annotations: HEY. NOT COOL. (in reference to the fact that they broke my bottle) -peak.....peek? -blue and blew? ...why burnt rage? it cuts your feet? why are you angry? -why is it Darkbox and not Dark Box....?

I feel like within my box they’re seeing a reflection of themselves, somehow, some way... So, do I give them a mirror? A reflection of themselves? ...but that’s what they just shattered right? HAH. They gave themselves 7 years of bad luck. Maybe I mention that. All I’m thinking of is making a gateway to hell. Dark. Especially for me.

12/23 So, it’s like they entered my box, and are stuck inside...looking at themselves in the mirror on every side...one side is broken Drawing of boxes, with 7 years of bad luck written on the and it shatters their image (I see it like a movie where the insides... main character is going insane) -black hole into darkness. yay. “Bleeding swirly blue” - They uh, definitely warped my image -color the outside black, inside red/orange of a river bed. -is that good enough? BLEH. I feel like I need something more impressive.... They can smell the bottle...(MY BOTTLE) that they threw...it reminds them of the smell of blood and salty metal rust tears 1/19/13 “cuts my feet” -the broken glass....sad :( I’m a little late writing about this.... sorry. lots to do. OBSCENE (according to dictionary.com) So, what I ended up doing was: 1.offensive to morality or decency; indecent; depraved: -First I sprayed it black, and beat it up and tortured the box. obscene language It actually broke and I had to have it screwed back together 2.causing uncontrolled sexual desire---> Really? and nailed. (kind of a representation of my anger and 3.abominable; disgusting; repulsive emotion) -I drilled in a hole at the top, on the lid, I played with the pun **darkness persists into murky gloom ahead of “threw and blew whole again.” b/c I don’t really think yikes... what the hell did I do? Did they even read the message that they’ve been whole after being broken so much. within the bottle? -I also painted a peak on the inside, playing with peak and peek I sometimes PEAK ---> shouldn’t it be peek? peak of a -I broke my message in a bottle and ripped apart my mountain? peek over edge of box? message... -stained the bits that had the wood showing through “As the blue in my world curls into the bottle, -made scratches I threw and blew whole again.” -scratched in “whole” next to the hole and “peak” next to -threw the bottle? the mountain. -blue--> sadness/sorrow -added back in the broken bottle, some rocks, message and -blew....broke the bottle and made them whole again? cork. -This whole poem includes shattering and cutting, breaking. ...it looks quite distressed. -Them becoming whole is a good thing though, yes? -I hope they understand I’m a little angry they broke my ....self esteem issue? what in my box triggered this? bottle... -I hope things make more sense with the next poem...

LATER DURING 12/23/12 I imagine the poem played out like a movie, very surreal and weird and kinda doesn’t really make sense until you look deeper into it. So it’s like the guy or gal writing to me got trapped in my box, and my box is mirrors on the inside, showing their reflection, and as their eyes jump from panel to panel with a vision of themselves; it’s like they go insane and find a mirror shattered at one point.... just had a little revelation. Freaking mirrors, reflection of the water....duh. Okay, anyways, one of the panels is shattered. They go into an insanity rage and throw my bottle and break it. Something tells me they think something’s wrong with themselves....

1/7

Darkbox, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Reimann | Salgado 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Chris Reimann JOURNAL ENTRY 3

It’s been an interesting couple weeks. I went on a research binge for my mountaineering exploits this summer and have also been watching a couple climbing movies. How lucky I was that inside the box I got back had a beautiful mountain inside it. When I got the box I was a little confused because the box looked very similar. When I opened it though it was really cool. This made the poem writing super fun. I had just watched a movie about Meru, the mountain considered by many Hindi to be the center of the earth, so when I saw the mountain in the box I almost immediately knew what I would write about and after going through three or four drafts I felt it was ready to go. The last couple weeks of school, it’s been hard to focus. This is mostly because I have started climbing outdoors again and therefore I’m getting distracted. Now after this poem I have been able to focus again.

| T H I R D C YC L E

MERU

The center of the world, mountain of my dreams, pull me in, I will wait patiently for razor arêtes and clear blue ice that gives me passage; be aware of the cold. Fragility is unacceptable at the frigid future headwaters of the surging holy lifeline; reminder of a world mapped; a final western reverie. Where granite waves are enveloped by sky we become conquistadors of uselessness. She doesn’t care, her cold beauty Calls me all the same.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Lauren Salgado 2/17

Yeah I know. I’m late with this response...I’ve been busy, I’m sorry. Anyways Googled “Meru”... In Hindu and Buddhist cosmology, Mount Meru is considered to be the center of all the physical, metaphysical and spiritual universes. 84,000 “yojan” high, or 672,000 miles... 82 times the earth’s diameter. “Having the sun along with all its planets in the Solar System revolve around it as one unit.” “difficult to find”/technically it doesn’t exist, but whatever. ... “like I need bad music”... like, this mountain is a reminder of what’s good...? I don’t know.... “granite waves enveloped by sky....” Drawing of a box, inside view, mountains lining all sides, one large peak with solar system surrounding it. green bottom, like a valley. -Include compass.....map?

Journey to Meru, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝

2/22 Just the paintings were done on the box and the inside, outside painted brown and compass and mossy stuff added later. So, essentially, I hope, I took them to Meru, the mountain that “pulled them in” Although, Meru is also a city ( In France apparently) -And is this the Meru that they were referring to? I’m kinda sad this project only has one more round. it would be better to go on for much longer. So that each pair of students can get more in depth.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Reimann | Salgado

| F I N A L C YC L E

Chris Reimann JOURNAL ENTRY 4

Well here is the last poem. I’m pretty bummed that it is ending. It has been incredibly interesting to play off of my counterpart. I’ve learned a lot about my writing and the way it functions on its own. I started this project hoping to improve my poem writing and it has made incredible leaps and bounds. When I first started writing I couldn’t comprehend writing about climbing, my absolute passion. After seeing the second box with the mountain drawn on the inside, I immediately knew what I would write about. The poem came easier than almost I’d ever written before. Since then it’s almost the only thing I have written about. The process was incredibly difficult at times. I found myself angry because I couldn’t transform the piece in front of me into words. One day I sat down in front of the box I had gotten and just wrote down words for almost an hour. Afterwards I had nothing I wanted to use. The project taught me so much and I’m super excited to see what the finished product looks like.

ORBIT

Wind snakes through rock fields building transient tones that wrap spindly fingers around my ankle. I rest on my laurels, waiting for the music to meld into silence of a valley and its protective peaks. Resting on cold granite, enveloped in the warmth of cold waiting for one sun to dip below the horizon and another to rise, blue. Below, the yellow tent beckons, but the white peak screams thousands of feet above demanding the attention of every cell, every pulse; offering (only once) a glimpse at an atmosphere and all its orbiting wonders.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Lauren Salgado

Mount Meru, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 1-1/4˝

POEM NUMERO 4: ORBIT Got a poem Friday, basically telling me that this mountain they’re staring up at is majestic and wonderful. And that although their yellow tent is tempting, they’re not gonna leave their spot on the rock looking at Mother Nature’s creation. So, I decided I’m gonna do one last fancy schmancy portrait of a mountain. -Sunset/nighttime goodiness -on the lid of the box... -add in little yellow tent. -add in moss and rocks and stuff to make it coherent with the last one. Writer, whoever you are, this is a great last poem... a good ending I think. Thanks for being my partner :)

fo ur EXCHANGE

| WRITER

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL

My name is Layla Entrikin, I am 18 years old and I am currently a senior at Catlin Gabel School. This my first year taking a creative writing class. I was drawn to the Word and Hand project for several reasons, but mostly because I thought it would be a good chance to expand my horizons, and to push myself creatively and artistically. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always been slightly enamored with letters, and the whole correspondence piece of Word and Hand felt like a similar form of communication; a sort of call and response, but hopefully with a twist.

ARTIST |

Stephanie Pettro

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

I am a senior at Wilsonville High School. Realism is my favorite style of art. Acrylic paint is my favorite medium. Although I have no intention of pursuing a career in art, it has become a very important aspect of my life and has brought along many opportunities for me.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Layla Entrikin

Entrikin | Pettro

| F I R S T C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

E P I S T L E : PA R T O N E

Layla Entrikin C-4 10 NOVEMBER 2012

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about letters. When we write letters and whom we write them to. Love letters in particular. It’s hard to define what exactly I like about them or why everyone finds them so romantic. I want to write a poem that is sort of like those letters, but with more depth than just romance: something desperate, something fleeting or futile.

I’ve been waiting on this porch for a while, now and you still haven’t arrived so I’ve taken to counting the number of instances that certain sparrow flies overhead She dips and turns and perches listlessly on the branches of the cherry blossom tree shivering in the chill of March waiting to bloom E P I S T L E : PA R T T WO

Pink pocks the skyline Now as all the blossoms have flowered the air breathes green life into the rocky hillsides and You haven’t written to me yet but I know you must have some sort of reason, because I know you know how long I’ve been perched out here on this wooden bench on my porch just watching the sky E P I S T L E : PA R T T H R E E

The blossoms have fallen The sun warms the trees and the leaves and my face and makes everything look awful and too colorful

I haven’t seen that sparrow in weeks now

JOURNAL 1, EXCHANGE 1: This poem seems so heavy with dark thoughts. The woman knows the person she cares about the most has sent her a letter, but it seems to have gotten lost. There are many mentions of time passing by and even seasons changing. It feels so cold and depressing; it’s fitting that I do something in the winter. Maybe about the letter that never came.

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 10˝ X 10˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Stephanie Pettro

Entrikin | Pettro 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Layla Entrikin C-4 9 DECEMBER 2012

I was extremely nervous to receive back the artwork in response to my poem. I was worried my partner wouldn’t have enough to go off of, and that it would end up being sort of disconnected with the poem. But whoever it was did a fabulous piece that gives me a lot of space to interpret. It’s a torn letter, which means I could continue that theme, but it is also on a bed of clouds which sort of makes me want to take it into a much more ethereal realm than I have before. I still want to maybe incorporate the tear or letter, even if it isn’t as concrete as it was before.

| S EC O N D C YC L E

TEAR

And she waited. She stared out at the sky, watching clouds shift from one nebulous shape to another, tumble, undulate, a vast whiteness hugging the landscape to its chest, breathing in and out as one, permanently changing together, ephemeral lovers who expect the unexpected. The slivers of anguish prick during separation, the unannounced sweetness of solitude surprises. She watched as he tore everything she ever gave him, and her eyes on the shredded portions of light crumpled upon the hearth as he turned into a black point on the horizon, his back hunched to the cold. She gathered the pieces and turned to the door, dusting her hands on her dress. She left the window open.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Stephanie Pettro

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 10˝ X 10˝

JOURNAL 2, EXCHANGE 2: I don’t know what I did wrong, now I’m being yelled at in writing form or at least my character is. All of these ripped shreds of paper. Maybe I should send an apology letter—that would be ironic.

Entrikin | Pettro

| T H I R D C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Layla Entrikin C-4 10 DECEMBER 2012

I’ve been thinking more about continuing with the romance, but moving the perspective to third person as opposed to first person. I spend a lot of time in first person so I was thinking it might be a fun challenge for me. I’ve also decided I definitely want to got off the tear, but I can probably incorporate some cloud imagery. Even so, I really need to give them something more to go on visually so that they aren’t grasping for straws.

C O U R T R O O M A P O LO G I A

I’m sitting at this table. It’s big and sturdy and wooden (oak, perhaps) and protecting me from your stare. I am confident, boisterous, almost insolent at this table. I can bang my fists, shout. Sometimes, I think you flinch, but mostly I just think you are cold. Maybe tired. Maybe desperate. You are sitting at that table. A spider web of glass, so threadbare. It probably can’t even hold up the weight of your palm, face up, pleading. Your mouth makes no words now. I silent scream, and you watch.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Stephanie Pettro

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 12˝ X 9˝

JOURNAL 3, EXCHANGE 3: Now I am being taken to court. I feel like this relationship is messed up. My character has done something really wrong and I don’t think their apology was taken well. One image that really captivates me is that of the spider. This whole thing seems like a mess which could be illustrated in a tangled web.

Entrikin | Pettro 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Layla Entrikin C-4 15 JANUARY 2013

I’m not sure where to go from here. There isn’t much to go off.

25 JANUARY 2013 I think I’m just going to focus on the apology. I want to move away from anything I’ve done before, the woman, the man, that could all play a part, but this natural space, the house. I want to move on.

| F I N A L C YC L E

N EG AT I V E S PAC E

It started with touching. A hallelujah, a whispering of skin upon skin. You drew my name from tendrils of amber light. Absence turned permanent, a gaping hole, and you turned a stranger. Space was only flitting wings, soft enough to disappear. I wanted the flame and you wanted the night. Illuminate the dark, you said. See if you can see me, you said. You taunted. Knuckles bleeding I didn’t beg. You stopped to breathe. Someone pinched out the blaze, but both of us fell and there was never anything to catch us.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Stephanie Pettro

Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 12Ë? X 9Ë?

JOURNAL 4, FINAL

This poem seems like it is taking some elements from the others but almost like it is moving in a different direction past that of the previous poems. Not resolving the problem between our characters but explaining the issues; I wanted the dark and they yearned for the light. I feel like the problem is slowly fading away and we can move on, though unresolved.

EXCHANGE

| WRITER

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

Ever since she first learned how to read, the written word has been a lifelong passion for Laura. She dabbles in both prose and poetry in her free timeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;poetry in particular has become a favorite medium for channeling her whimsical, strange, and mile a minute thoughts, as well as a quick escape from the fabric of reality. She gleans inspiration from anywhere and everywhere and likes to emphasize the emotion and the story behind everything in her writing. Every person, moment, and object has a back story and those stories are the medium to describe the wonder of everyday life. The wonder that may easily be forgotten. As a senior in high school, she hopes to attend college in the fall and master the skills of writing in pursuit of publishing a stack of novels. After college, she aspires to be an author with a shelf full of books and a cat named Gatsby.

ARTIST |

Zoe Schlanger

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL Turning the intangible into a tangible piece of art feels good, that is why I create. Nothing is more thrilling than filling a canvas, carving an image into a block, or molding a slab of clay. Nothing is more satisfying than taking nothing and turning it into something completely your own. Word & Hand opened me up to the possibilities of collaboration. I am thrilled that I took part in this process of creating a shared visual and written experience with another artist.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Laura Payne

Payne | Schlanger

| F I R S T C YC L E

Laura Payne 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

NOVEMBER 11, 2012— And I’m here. The Word and Hand project, I’m actually here! I was hoping beyond anything that I could actually be a part of this and there was always a part of me that kept saying it would never happen… But that part of me is forever silenced because I’m here! The author in a team of author and artist, two characters working together in something amazing: in creating pieces of art. The creative process really is amazing, isn’t it? Creating something beautiful that didn’t exist before; and you came up with it. Your own mark on the world. And this mark will be especially unique since it combines the minds of two creative people. To start this unique mark, it looks like I’ll be starting the conversation between myself and the artist. I have a few ideas floating around at the moment and I’m just trying to grasp the right one. Then again, maybe the pure idea is exactly what I need to start with. That way the conversation can start with something and then go anywhere. That should be fun! But who am I kidding, all of this is going to be fun! I’m excited so let’s get started! How does one start a conversation? They introduce themselves. I think that might be an excellent place to start. Not in a poem that would be interpreted as narcissistic though I hope. I don’t think it would be interpreted in that way though unless it was intentional. Writers have created characters based on themselves before and artists have done self portraits… But saying all this, it seems that I’m missing the idea. I need to stop worrying and just write. Write what feels natural. If I over think before I even start then I’ll really be in trouble.

NOVEMBER 13, 2012

I think 18 is the poem I’ll send in first. There’s some nice images in it and it flows well. It’s also open to interpretation; I think the artist can work with this. I wrote the rough draft of this before I was a part of the Word and Hand on a day I can’t remember. But I do remember how frantic and distressed I was feeling. I was hating growing up, hating being eighteen—I still hate growing up. But looking over this again with the revisions I’ve made, this poem has turned in to more than that. You’re shouting at the moon—a seemingly enchanted and magical thing—to take you someplace where you don’t have to change. Because as you grow and get older more is suddenly expected of you whether you’re ready for it or not; and if you’re not ready then you’re in for some ride. More than anything, you’re afraid of conforming, getting caught up in something and losing yourself and everything else that matters to you.

You stand at a crossroad where you need to decide what to do or if you can somehow escape. But you can’t escape because you can’t stop time from ticking on the clock; the passage of time, the turning of the years. So you find a key—not to escape but to wind up the clock counting your years and keep it in good care. Then you break whatever chain or doubt might be holding you down and you fly into the stars to make your own life. Your own life however you want it to be. And maybe in the end, getting older isn’t such a bad thing. The threshold, the crossroad, the place you decide your future. Just make sure it’s yours.

NOVEMBER 14, 2012 18 Shouting at the moonlight, “Away! Come Away!”…

NOVEMBER 15, 2012 I have the final draft of my first poem! I just finished typing it up and I’m happy with the way it turned out. Who could know that one moment of feeling totally stressed and constricted and alone could create the first draft of this? The idea for this poem I wrote before I became a part of Word and Hand. I’ve learned that some of my best poems come from my darkest moments and this poem—or rather the idea of it—came into existence during one of those moments. I was scared of college and growing up and all I could think about was that Peter Pan was a genius for running away to Neverland and I just wanted to live my life. So to blow off steam, I wrote what I couldn’t say to anyone at the time. That’s what some of my greatest works are: my emotions. Thoughts I can’t speak or thoughts that gnaw at me. That’s what began this poem and now the final draft is the version for my friend, the Artist. I hope I’ve given the Artist enough freedom to contribute new thoughts to this. My biggest fear with this one is that it might be too complete; that the Artist will only be able to illustrate what I’ve written because I’ve boxed them in. But that could be the challenge, couldn’t it? Whatever thoughts the Artist gives me to work with, I may not expect. And so in turn the Artist could challenge me as I might have just done to them. I’m just hope I’m not wrong and really have boxed in the Artist’s creativity! I’ll be bursting until I receive a reply. I can’t wait to see the Artist’s voice. We’ve just now begun a great and perilous conversation. Let’s see exactly where it takes us, shall we?

Shouting at the moonlight “Away! Come away!” Let me escape Where I can be free! Time’s ticking by But I stand unchanged The World scowling Bent on beating me grey

The diamond hidden Shining below

Hop on the wind

The heart still pure

Sprout wings and fly

But wise even so

Escape

The sun in the flowers

Before the ground swallows me alive

The flavor of life

Why must I change?

Imagined escape

Be absorbed in a mass?

And call of solo flight

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Chained to a desk From now until death?

Cry out in the moonlight

Search for the key—find the way out!

“Away! Come away!”

Find the way out!

The way is mine

Clock’s counting up

Wind the clock Break the chain Fly to the stars

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Payne | Schlanger

| F I R S T C YC L E

Zoe Schlanger 11/20/2012

Read the first poem from W5. It is titled 18. From the rest of the poem I gather that the author is writing about the next stage of her life (Yes, I have decided my partner is a she). Well, lamenting the next stages (desk work, ya know) and then choosing to break free from the binding duties of our generation (of every generation). I suppose that is how I would sum up “how the poem means” to me.

11/21/2012 I started my “response” piece and have decided to focus on one image from the poem presented in the opening of the third stanza. I went into the studio yesterday to start a piece. While there I found a large sheet of brown (somewhat wrinkled) paper and huge rubber sheets for block printing. So focusing on the lines “The diamond hidden/ Shining below” I decided to start carving away lines to form diamonds. Big diamonds, fat diamonds, skinny diamonds, all kinds of diamonds, I don’t discriminate. Very little planning was carried out before I started carving away with those nice little shavers. It feels so smooth like cutting into butter with those guys—they could take whole hunks of flesh off of you, the width of the wound depending on which size instrument you choose. Okay, back to the piece now (that was a weird little serial killer moment). I finished the block and printed five black, silver, and yellow images onto the paper before I left the studio. I vaguely decided on printing 13 more to make 18 identical images on the paper to honor the title of the poem—may not stick with this idea because I am not sure how it conveys what I am trying to say back to the poet. Which brings me to what I am having a difficult time discerning: why I chose to respond in the way I am. I turn 18 in 4 days and am trying to understand how all of that fits in to all of this. 18 prints? Is there any significance? I am a strong believer that no significance is necessary in a piece, only an idea and a process. I think that this is where my partner and I differ. Her poem is all about the “meaning” and I just decided to carve some rubber and cover it in ink and slap (literally, I was slapping the block print) it on a big piece of wrinkled paper.

I had hoped to just have a conversation with my partner about who we are. Although I have already learned a bit about the poet I wished for more of a unique one-on-one conversation about our inner/outer/every part of us selves through our work. I guess I have gathered already that my partner values her individuality and is, at this point in her life, unwilling to compromise her individualism for capitalism (In no way am I saying that for sure, 100%, I know for a fact what my partner was trying to say in her poem, or that she is a female radical individual—super sorry if you are a boy. Not my intention to reinforce social ideas of gender/sex). I don’t really know what I am saying about myself other than that I am hasty and not one to reply directly to a prompt. Mostly I want to see what she will do next. I want to broaden the spectrum, the realm of possibilities with my response. Perhaps I will decide to add more to my piece in addition to the prints. Perhaps I will conceal a piece of myself, reveal a snippet (a true, earnestly felt part of me) on the paper—a piece of me independent of what she will already gather from the work (that I too am independent/ un-restrict-able) something more than that in the hope that she will catch my drift and confront a more real, more simple, more difficult idea: who are you? Pardon my awful writing. I am just getting down my thoughts.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Big Diamonds, Little Diamonds, All Types of Diamonds, MIXED MEDIA ON PAPER, 86˝ X 36˝

Payne | Schlanger 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Laura Payne

| S EC O N D C YC L E

DECEMBER 3, 2012

I’ve received my first reply! I can easily say that the piece I have is one of the biggest out of the art we’ve all received. Bigger than most pieces I’ve ever seen.

Any worries I’ve had about possibly confining the Artist have been shattered. I can see easily how the Artist gleaned from my poem while still moving in their own direction. The piece reminds me somewhat of a mural or graffiti. A found piece with an anonymous message that might have been painted on an otherwise bland surface. The paper and sharpness to the image really help me get this picture. The top of the piece has the words, Listen: Animal Collective What would I want? Sky Fall be kind Everyone told me that this is the name of a band, a song, and an album. I looked it up and listened to the song. My first impressions were that it had a very similar feeling to my poem but it also reminded me of the piece. It’s repetitive and technical and has a slight feeling of just floating back in to something. The piece comes off as rough and purely a design but has many different levels to it. A subtle imprint, message. -urban -a song unique and created by many -“You’re not the only” -“What is the right way” -freedom, youth -“Is everything all right? You feeling lonely? You feeling stormy?” -“New order blinking” -“Should be floating but I’m weighted by thinking” -experimenting with sound like an abstract painting -intense sensory perception -euphoria? -Moany, lonely, stormy, phony -“You’re not the only” -“Clouds stop and move above me” -“Grey is where the color should be” -“And the sky gets filled up too fast” -“I’m a fly on the river that’ll make me some change” -“Taking it lightly and so I hurry. I start to worry”

“You’re not the only” really makes me think about history— about how it tends to repeat itself. I’m also thinking about the quote from my poem: “The diamond hidden, shining below”. I’m finding so many things in this piece that relate to that. More than just the diamonds though—repetition, hidden, a found message. I think of messages written and art created by survivors of various disasters. Messages to people in the future as reminders that whatever happened to them could happen again. If someone feels lonely, phony, stormy, guess what, you’re not the only.

DECEMBER 11, 2012 Scars in the stone Scorch on the soil What’s left when the dust settles? Count the stones that you’ve obtained Clumsily I’ve written a color here Leaning upright at the wall of stone Boxed Barred The spoils of sky kept Just out of reach A million colors Shout the same Some falling Some fading At the misting rain What’s left when a mark is Scrubbed from stone? What results When one listens? When one doesn’t? When one faded color bleeds Into the next? Exchange round two! Remnant

Clumsily I’ve scratched a color here Staggered upright at the wall of stone The spoils of soil Now traded for the sky A million colors Shout the same Some fall Some fade At the misting rain What’s left when a mark Is scrubbed from stone?

DECEMBER 11, 2012 (CONT.) This one’s about dreams. And history. People scratch a dream in stone hoping it can break a wall down. Or they scratch a message to carry on after they’re gone. Something to say they were here and they experienced this. But what happens when someone forgets their dream? Or when an event that could repeat is ignored? What results when one color bleeds into the next? When the events of one generation repeat themselves?

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

REMNANT

What results When one listens? When one doesn’t? When one faded color Bleeds into the next?

Payne | Schlanger

| S EC O N D C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Zoe Schlanger 01/02/2013

New Year! New poem! Woot. Okay, lets get down to it. Green paper is a nice touch. No detectable meaning behind the color of the paper. Do wonder if she listened to What Would I Want? Sky though. I see some adventurous formatting decisions. Wonder if it is meant to mirror my careless printing…… If it is then this person funny, I like their style. Okay, anyways, to content. Uno Momento. Okay. She does do a nice job responding to my work (Oh my god, I am so sorry again, if you are a boy). Well I suppose they listened to it because of the lines about the sky and the poetic questions, and the part about “When one listens/ When one doesn’t”. God, this song I am listening to right now is so good. Music. Jeeze. But anyways. I am deciding to take off from those lines I just quoted and not listen to the poet. So I started painting this portrait of my friend from middle school, Mara. She’s awesome. Anyways I’m using a sick reference photo with the colors all inverted. The picture is very religious. Like she is Christ-like. Anyways, I have wanted to paint it for a long time and now I am. I am just going at it right on top of the big brown paper that I printed on. I left a border of diamonds but trimmed some of the paper away, rolled some gesso in a rectangle in the middle, laid down a few layers of black acrylic after that and got out the oils. I really like the skin color she has going right now. I have been working a lot in warms recently and I am excited to cool things down. So, yeah, that is where I am at right now.

01/07/13 Damn, she looks good in gold Date unknown: have moved on to glazing my head that I made last year. Such a cool process. I felt my face and molded the clay to feel like what I felt. No mirrors. It was awesome. Want a better explanation? Ask me. I am better at articulating in-person. Date unknown: Sending back my final artwork. Man with two noses. I love him. He is my lover.

Religiously Mara-fied, MIXED MEDIA ON PAPER, 86˝ X 36˝.

Laura Payne

I think the Artist and I are really on to something. The last piece I got has come back modified. - The border is gone - More open, more vulnerable -“Listen” is now in a bottom corner, more likely to be unnoticed? - The cut around the edge of the image isn’t completely straight - Rough around the edges - Small paint splatters; black. One gold stain on the back. - A negative of Jesus, the face is unclear - All that’s left is faith - Sits on a gold square, seems to be a different paint than the diamonds were painted in - He holds something in His left hand, the other hand comes forward, maybe reaching out to the viewer? - Gold paint over black foundation - Halo sits between black and gold Overall, everything seems to be straightforward but at the same time, certain elements seem unclear or as if they could be missed if one didn’t want to see them. - Negatives have to be developed - Faith has to be developed? Faith can be all you have left when you lose everything, so what happens when you lose even that? Some gravel stones slipped O’er the chipped painted stand A gold support A comforting hand As she stepped her feet lightly From where the stones fell She poised herself Balanced Suspended as well Somewhere between the hand and the air She stared straight down At the rushing black below. She gulped Up her arms The past stains were branded Easily ignored But still Stains And scars They seemed to rub off At the slightest foreign touch She’d always pull back then Another now stained It seemed she was covered At least in her eyes The stains were all she dared to see And perched somewhere Up there

Between the hand and the air She dropped her last possession With the fall of the stones Determined to follow Or wash away the stains She saw herself empty But in truth could be saved But as her feet slipped As her hands let go She fell with the gravel stones And her faith To the water below

JANUARY 17, 2013 I can simplify this; it would probably be better if I did simplify it. I’ve come up with a good symbol to build the poem around—the stone falling off the bridge. Faith is described as a rock and the person on the bridge has lost their faith along with everything else. So the rock—out of place among gravel—falls right before the person does. I think the stone would be a good symbol to play around with. I’m probably going to cut the part about stains entirely. Stains are so clichéd now that I think about it. The stone is a much stronger symbol I think.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

JANUARY 15, 2013

Much later At last! A result!

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Payne | Schlanger

| T H I R D C YC L E

END UNTITLED

Balanced Perched on a perilous rail Somewhere between The black And the gold. As a blank A negative I hold in my hand A thing unknown A part of me? It seems to me Paper Or glass close to shatter But they tell me it’s solid Stone Or diamond Or perhaps a foundation Maybe I don’t hold it Maybe it holds me But I still shake Unbalanced.

Heavy And stained What I hold has been Covered Splattered By words. Words of others Apart. Distant and guiding They stained it with words No resonance striking. Not one song heard. For me There is Nothing. In their words Nothing.

Maybe something Lies beneath But it’s too badly stained. The limit, I let go It falls Solid for sure. And I follow Behind it Solid as well. But empty Nothing It’s all gone now.

DATE UNKNOWN— have moved on to glazing my head that I made last year. Such a cool process. I felt my face and molded the clay to feel like what I felt. No mirrors. It was awesome. Want a better explanation? Ask me. I am better at articulating inperson.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Zoe Schlanger

Marika’s Adventure to Baconland, CERAMIC, 11˝ X 10˝

Payne | Schlanger

| T H I R D C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Laura Payne

FEBRUARY 23, 2013 I love my Artist. The piece I’ve now received is something new from the piece I’ve been received over the last few exchanges. I now have sitting across from me, a most intriguing sculpture. A bust. The tongue sticks from it the mouth and the right eye. The head has been carved into a bowl. It is empty and solid.

Something in its mannerism reminds me of death. Another interesting point is that this is a contrast from the previous piece. The last piece illustrated abstract ideas. This one seems to do the same but the idea is pinned on something that’s definitely human. This is one for the typewriter. *Bust solid but empty as well—head carved into a bowl *A person’s identity carved out by the world *Tongue in the right eye—the difference between what is said and what is thought *Inside the mouth darkened *Eyes empty except for the tongue—the remnant of what might have been? *The bust is overall featureless, this could be anyone *Someone who has been carved out, sculpted into whatever and unknown force chooses, it is worn as well *Identity stripped *The Artist is bringing our conversation full circle, back to the idea of identity. The first poem was someone beginning the journey into life; I believe that this sculpture is someone who has reached the end of their journey. And now they are a carved out shell of their former self. They have lost everything and now they are nothing except what a sculptor has rendered. The head is carved, the dreams are gone. This is a life gone. What is it into life with us that we can lose so easily? We know in the back of our minds—no matter how brave we are—that there is a possibility of failing. We can be the masters of our failure. So is the environment we allow to influence us. The ominous truth that is entirely changeable. Life can lift you up or destroy you. The choice is yours. Life’s Lament They all believe in such high things, Walk the road So full of dreams. The think themselves Immune to it all. And in fact they are But they forget Their poor memory is the Death of them. Instead they allow Demons to fill their minds One by one With each disappointment

They’re all the same. The successful few The happy fewer They never know how close they are I can’t tell them So of course they hate me. And my counterpart comes Literal or figure Sometimes welcomed Sometimes invited Always leading them to dust But the worst is when They allow my counterpart To move though them Their hand not their own Rather those around them Or self inflicted chains If only they trusted me If only I could speak But that seems to be All that I am If only If only They all lament And so do I Their living death

2-27-13 They know They believe In such high things So full of dreams Some sprouting wings But so It seems They may be blind And suddenly A barrier Within themselves What does Life say when faced with a ruined soul? Death’s often personified so I now want to do the same with Life. Life’s Lament Like countless others, nothing’s left. They’ve joined the ranks of the mass. Empty eyes Glazed over, All remaining is a memory Of their former color But cruel irony. Their downfall in memory lane. They begin their road Believing in such high things Their dreams all they see They think themselves immune.

MARCH 18, 2013 Starched sharp collars Bind their tongues A seal of approval Deforms their face Shattered Their face in remnants Falling from the mind of 18 Their true selves shouting But remaining inside The two faced plague A living Death A life chosen wasted Life’s lament And the saddest part The cruelest truth Death repeats And Life always ends Or perhaps Perhaps It never began I can’t believe this project is coming to an end! I thought we might go all the way to the end of the school year. I’d hoped that. But every project must be completed sometime I suppose…I really will miss the thrill and the challenge. But I can’t wait to meet my artist! Speaking of whom, I’ve received my final piece! Another bust of curious nature! There are a few key things to note I think I’ll incorporate into the poem… -There is no color to the bust. The color it is, is the color of the clay it was created with I think (a sculptor’s new muse! They’ve become the color and nature of the sculptor?) -There is no face, but the beginning of two. Two faces of humanity…the people we are in public as opposed to private? -The “face” has been broken and pieced back together, one piece is missing. No matter how bad the damage or how good the repair, one id never the same afterwards? Slowly falling apart?

- A collar or suggestion of clothing at the neck—society, the seal of approval, the norm? - A finger comes from one nose, the true self trying to reveal itself? Desire and difference between thought and action? This whole piece seems to be about the physical, the last bust seemed more mental. Mind vs. body Mind vs. matter -body language seems to suggest death again Sacrificing self for the sake of gain! But is it really gain? No. That’s what causes them to be carved away… *The most interesting feature of this has to be a bite mark on the side of the head (I have to remember to ask the artist how exactly they accomplished that). The bite is right next to the missing piece in the face…they’re being consumed? Eaten away? But by what? Life? Death? Their own demise? There could be some reason it’s next to the missing piece… IRONY! There’s a bite out of the shards that have been repaired, it’s ironic! The piece was repaired only to be consumed (maybe not quite the right word…). *The illusion of reality that we perceive. *Repair can be made but the damage is done People are taken advantage of? People (sculptors?) may repair others, but for personal gain. Sculpting in itself is a medium of manipulation in a way. Ha! That’s genius! People put on masks for personal gain. But not only does that wear you down (and repair can only do so much) but it’s possible that you’re a tool without you’re realizing. Manupulation! I can’t wait to start a poem about this one!

MARCH 20, 2013

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

And in truth, they are. But they forget. And soon they’re gone A lifeless marionette. Their hands are not theirs As soon as they choose. Their face now marble A sculptor’s new muse. They handed the pick Their own demise. And then it’s me that they despise. What makes them choose To live with Death? And what makes them blind To the chains on their wrists? The barrier between What they think And say What makes them choose To be carved away?

I’m thinking for my last poem, I’ll be continuing Life’s Lament. That seems like the piece that could tie the others together. In the last stanzas, I’d like to tie in images or at least the titles from the other pieces and place those alongside the themes I’m getting from this last art piece. I think that would be the best way to tie it all together in a way that can be presented. This is really the end of the project…wow. I still can’t believe it. So for the last part of Life’s Lament…I’ll expand on the question posed at the end of the last stanza. I’ll go in to another thought process. And then I’ll end it…how? I think I have to sit down and think this through a bit more before I start anything to permanent. One thing’s for sure, this is going to be fun!

MARCH 21, 2013 And so we’ve arrived at the last day. The last piece, the last poem. I finished Life’s Lament last night on my computer and sent it off; all in all, I’m really proud of how it turned out. It’s the longest poem I’ve written out of all of the others—three pages. But that’s appropriate I suppose; the last art piece had a lot to say. I’m just hoping I tied the art and the poem together all right.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Payne | Schlanger

| F I N A L C YC L E

LIFE’S LAMENT

Words, oh words! They matter so much! Those acted upon Most precious of all Those sealed away The saddest thing A soul’s hand imprisoned fighting to be free

Like countless others, nothing’s left They’ve joined the ranks of the masses Empty eyes Glazed over All remaining is a memory Of their former color But cruel irony— Their downfall in memory lane They begin their road Believing in such high things Their dreams all they see They think themselves immune And in fact they are But they forget And soon they’re gone Lifeless marionettes Their hands are not theirs As soon as they choose Their faces now marble A sculptor’s new muse They handed the pick Their own demise And then it’s me that they despise What makes them choose To live with Death? And what makes them blind To the chains on their wrists? The barrier between What they think And say What makes them choose To be carved away? Like countless others— Nothing unique— They wear two faces Their own creations Starched collars—sharp And binding And frail A seal of approval is their Holy Grail

But when the battle scars begin to show Approval is gone And so are they No longer a soul No longer a life A stone Consumed A chosen wasted Life They shattered not so long ago When scratching a name In a wall of stone Their pieces were found Their pieces returned But one fell away And the damage is done Life pieced together By kind words, gentle words Words of nothing, no resonance All they do is bleach All they do is burn— The mouths soon demand Their something in return The limit When it’s reached Drives the color away A falling shell Gone No need for more words Their own manipulation Their own two faced plague A self contained puppet And the miserable thought It repeats—Death It always does And Life must end If it ever was Perhaps Perhaps It never was Perhaps Perhaps It never can be

But doubt, it seems Is where it ends Without fail It is the end Decide, decide Eighteen remnants, A beginning And all that’s left An end untitled, Ultimate loss A final chord Through the time bound air— The clock still counts Ticking everywhere— Color, and word, and stone, and hand Life’s lament For the countless others Remember Remember Who speaks your words Remember Remember Who holds your hands Remember your feet and where you stand Remember the way—the way is yours Remember the way And find the way out And choose, and choose, Find the way out.

This is What Happens if You Pick Your Nose, CERAMIC, 12˝ X 10˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Zoe Schlanger

Sending back my final artwork. Man with two noses. I love him. He is my lover.

DATE UNKNOWN

EXCHANGE

six

| WRITER

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL I’ve always loved to write, and poetry has always fascinated me. Writing is such a great way to get all my emotions out and weave figurative language through each line. I especially love to see how other people write. It’s so interesting how writers can look at the same thing and see totally different things. And that’s probably what I love most about writing.

ARTIST |

Fiona Noonan

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL

My name is Fiona, and I’m a senior at Catlin Gabel. I like dancing solo, I like baking, and I like details. Some would say I like details too much, even, but that’s what art is for, to me. Paradoxically, it’s an escape from other detail-oriented parts of my life; it’s a forum in which I can channel my neurotic tendencies into a relaxing and aesthetically pleasing purpose. And don’t think that my detail issue translates to perfection––it doesn’t. But if detail means losing myself in cutting shapes, or adjusting lines, or shading a leaf for hours, then that’s my jam. If it means slapping paint around until I’m happy, then I’m good with that too. –Fi

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Perrin Dean

Word and Hand sort of fell into my lap: I was a substitute artist at the last minute, swapping in for another artist not long into the exchange. When I was asked to participate, I loved the idea of a conversation through images––both visual and written. I hoped I would form a relationship with my writer, and I was drawn to the possibility of knowing parts of someone impossible to perceive in a normal, face-to-face relationship. Abstract, detached friendship free of obligation is rare, and I was excited to try it out.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Dean | Noonan Perrin Dean

| F I R S T C YC L E

11/12

11/13

11/14

Nervous. I want them to be able to read and find something in it to respond to. But there are so many things to write about. So maybe I’ll write about that. My fear and hesitation. Questioning.

Unknown Where this will lead Where this will go Unknown What I should say Should I say no So unknown How anybody would feel If I Winked at a stranger Tonight

Wink at a stranger Only look with one eye Maybe then You’ll see Not everything is dubious Maybe everything is free Notice, though It’s still only a maybe

Out in the world There are strangers But how do we know That they’re strange I believe That at least once We should all Wink at a stranger

II.

Unk now n W he re th i s w i l l lea d W he re th i s w i l l go Unk now n W hat I shou l d say S hou l d I say no S o unk now n How anybody w ou l d feel If I W ink ed at a st range r Tonight

Future ideas/where it could go: Question mark, dark/muted colors, paths, decisions, mysteries, unexpectedness, repetition.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Fiona Noonan

Fetal, GRAPHITE, OIL PASTEL, 8Ë? X 8Ë?

19-30 NOVEMBER 2012 This poem makes me feel empty inside. The idea of unknown to me connotes an amount of anxiety that necessitates an instinctive response, almost a protection mechanism. Because of this I immediately thought of a person curled into the fetal position, naked, with no defenses but closing their eyes to the outside world. The three different panels, though crudely rendered, represent a bleak worldview, not being able to escape from the world, and events spiraling out of control, respectively. There is an anger and sadness.

Dean | Noonan

| S EC O N D C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Perrin Dean 12/3

The one in pencil is simple. Blank. Sketched. The blue seems timid. Reserved. The red seems to break out. Though figure stays the same: fetal position. The figures also grow in size. Lines coming off in blue/red. More lines in red. Three long tick marks on sketch and blue. Marks are off by themselves. On sketch, right bottom by le (sic). On blue, top left by edge. On red, incorporated in lines. Lines fade as they get farther from figure. Woman. Hiding her face. Ashamed? Journey of where she wants to be? Who she wants to be? Foot isn’t connected. Doesn’t know where she’s going.

12/7 Fetal position but legs are moving out. Moving forward. Growth. Red looks a little like a bird. Metamorphosis. Blue has green in it. Growth-plants. Fire. Burning growth? Colors fill in body. Lines out-connections multiplying. Reaching out. Three lines = three pieces? Counting? Getting stronger/getting stranger. Who we are vs. how people see us? Blank They fill my spaces The colors are wrong So I’m still unknown

Blue They think me timid Reserved and so I’m still unknown Can’t you see Me, I’ve grown Still my feet Find ground unknown Fetal Sitting in fire Flames soaring higher In position same Though winning this game I’m the only one who dared Sit in the unknown of red

12/10 You think me scared But I’m just waiting For my time To stand in your unknown Almost, I stand You see me burning I’m not The fire is mine Fetal Sitting in fire Flames soaring higher In position same Though winning this game You think me scared But I’m just waiting For my time to stand in your unknown I’m the only one who dared Sit in the unknown of red For my time to stand I’m the only one Who dared to sit In the unknown of red Red, Blank and Blue Blank They fill my spaces The colors are wrong I’m still unknown Blue

They think me timid Reserved and so I’m still unknown Can’t you see Me, I’ve grown Still my feet Find ground unknown Fetal Sitting in fire Flames soaring higher In position same Though winning this game You think me scared I’m just waiting For my time to stand I’m the only one 1,2,3, here I am I’m the one-alone Who dared to sit In the unknown of red Fetal Sitting in fire Flames soaring higher In position same Though winning this game You think me scared I’m just waiting For my time to stand One, two, three, here I am I’m the one-alone Who dared to sit In the unknown of red

I I . ( R E D , B L A N K , A N D B LU E )

They fill my spaces The colors are wrong I’m still unknown Blue They think me timid Reserved and so I’m still unknown Can’t you see Me, I’ve grown Still my feet Find ground unknown Fetal Sitting in fire Flames soaring higher In position same Though winning this game You think me scared

Fiona Noonan

19-30 NOVEMBER 2012 21 December 2012-11 January 2013 This poem in some ways interpreted my previous artwork quite literally. The idea of flames and stark colors–– red, blank, and blue––made me think of an escape. Somewhere there is a desire to flee quickly, and to sharply cut ties with a present situation. In some ways I feel we are continuing the dialogue from the previous art and poetry. The anxiety and fear remain, and the bird is supposed to represent a flight from that. The actual creation of the art, which required an exacto knife, may link more closely to my feelings about the poem than the content of the art itself. Regardless of the poem and my response, I am also experimenting with various media, which is part of why I chose to do a paper cutout.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

B l ank

I’m just waiting For my time to stand One, two, three, here I am I’m the one-alone Who dared to sit In the unknown of red

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Dean | Noonan

| S EC O N D C YC L E

Untitled, CUT PAPER COLLAGE, 5˝ X 8˝

1/18

1/25

1/28

Mockingbird? Hummingbird? If you turn sideways, it’s a mask. No feet 3 pieces of paper Blue/green have seen before-in middle portrait Black-sketch Peacock feather? Lines still swooping out

I’ll rip off your mask

Three’s the key Wings have sprouted Three’s the charm Grown from the infant, fetal Three shades to me Like water and light Three shades to warmth rainbow internal

Turn me sideways To hide your eyes I’ll turn sideways To hide your eyes Peacock feather: vanity, immortality, nobility, pride, joy, wisdom. “Eyes”, all seeing = mask? Olive branch: peace, wisdom, light, Christianity

I’ll take off my mask When peacocks fly I see eyes in you That no one else sees

Unknown are The eyes behind the mask All is known In the eyes distant from face Wings have sprouted Your wings sprouted From the infant, fetal Grown from the fetal infant That held the rainbow inside That held rainbow internal The rainbow, internal The colors have dimmed The colors have dimmed You’ve found your own And merged to solid With blue in tow You’ve found your own With blue in tow No need for feet If there’s flight Not just hummings Peacocks might

Unknown are The three’s I see The wink, the stranger Is all that could be

UNKNOWN Are the eyes behind the mask All is known In the eyes distant from face The colors have dimmed And merged to solid You’ve found your own With blue in tow

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Perrin Dean

Wings have sprouted Grown from the infant, fetal Like water and light A rainbow internal No need for feet If there’s flight Not just hummings Peacocks might Three’s the key Three’s the charm Three shades to me Three shades to warmth Unknown are The tree’s I see The wink, the stranger Is all that could be

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Dean | Noonan

| T H I R D C YC L E

I I I . U N K N OW N

Are the eyes behind the mask All is known In the eyes distant from face The colors have dimmed And merged to solid You’ve found your own With blue in tow Wings have sprouted Grown from the infant, fetal Like water and light A rainbow internal No need for feet If there’s flight Not just hummings Peacocks might Three’s the key Three’s the charm Three shades to me Three shades to warmth Unknown are The threes I see The wink, the stranger Is all that could be

Fiona Noonan

19-30 NOVEMBER 2012 January-February The poet has taken the idea of escape and flight, and even of fear, from the bird cutout and put it into his or her poem. The stanzas are quatrains with no rhyme scheme or meter. The themes of light, dark, colors, and repetition have continued, so I decided to incorporate those into my artwork. I used a block print I had made to put a silver and white brocade pattern on a white paper background. I then repeatedly wrote “empty” down the side. In some ways I felt emptiness in the poetry, which I wanted to reflect in my piece. I hope to expand on this piece if I get the chance. why I chose to do a paper cutout.

Winking at Strangers, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 18˝ X 24˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Dean | Noonan

| F I N A L C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Perrin Dean 2/22

Black/silver No color Spaces between “empty” gets bigger VOID at bottom Does empty lead to void or equal void? Some overlap between black and silver Fading In pattern: wings, flowers?, arrow Some patterns are the other way (reversed). Empty spaces in silver, but there’s no black. Some empty’s are hidden in the black. “Empty’s hidden in black” Treat empty like a person. Empty’s hidden in black She leaves her spaces there VOID= empty space, not valid, vacant, blank Void = avoid

2/25 She doesn’t want people to know she’s empty sometimes Sometimes she does Sometimes it’s all she has But it’s not true Reversal Empty’s hidden in black She hides her spaces there Empty has a lack Of faces in the air Sometimes Sometimes Sometimes Sometimes

it’s everywhere she tries to hide it’s all that’s there it’s a lie

2/26 There’s always a black And a white you can’t see No colors to blur Except for a sliver in between She fades in places As emptiness will Sitting in spaces Waiting until Her spaces are gone Colors appear There all along Fetal in fear

Sometimes it’s a lie Sometimes it’s right there Sometimes she hides But always everywhere

I V.

Empty’s hidden in black She hides her spaces there Empty has a lack Of faces in the air Sometimes it’s everywhere Sometimes she tries to hide Sometimes it’s all that’s there Sometimes it’s a lie There’s always a black And white you can’t see No colors to blur Except for silver in between She fades in places As emptiness will Sitting in spaces Waiting until Her spaces are gone Colors appear There all along Fetal in fear Sometimes it’s a lie Sometimes it’s right there Sometimes she hides But always everywhere

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Fiona Noonan

Winking at Strangers, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 18˝ X 24˝

8 MARCH 2013-15 MARCH 2013 The final poem I received responded to several of my pieces, I think. There were references to my first set of drawings, but the majority was about the most recent piece––a white paper board with block prints in black and silver. He or she expanded the limited canvas into an exploration of color and incompleteness, which I tried to reflect using a face, parts of a face, and colors. It was one of my more literal responses, but I was happy to continue using the same piece of art this round.

I think the last couple of exchanges have allowed us to have more of a dialogue than we were at the beginning, when the poems and artworks didn’t really take us beyond their own limited scopes. At the same time, themes of emptiness, color, fear, and escape have spanned the project, and it’s cool to see how those motifs have manifested themselves so differently.

7 EXCHANGE

| ARTIST

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL

Art challenges me to express myself in a wordless, stationary medium. To accurately render an item, I must understand its place in a specific environment, and art is thus a mode for me to come to terms with situations around and in me. As an artist, I am interested in how variation in texture and color can change how an artwork reads. Ideally, the work I create will remind viewers of an experience of their own, and in this way, the artwork will provide a ceaseless commentary on what informs the human experience. For this reason, I was interested in participating in the Word and Hand project: I wanted to see how anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interpretation of my work would continually inform my own work. I wanted to learn how my work would change in response to an outside impetus, rather than solely my own whims.

WRITER |

Anna Fernandez

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL

This year I am a senior at Wilsonville High School, and my favorite class is AP English Literature. When I was young, Nancy Drew and Harry Potter sparked a love of reading and writing within me. I believe that all forms of writing are some of the most beneficial assets to society. Both are crucial mediums through which abstract and complicated ideas may be communicated. As a person and a writer, I aspire to create and spread progressive ideas through the tools provided by the English language.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Hannah Rotwein

Rotwein| Fernandez

| F I R S T C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Hananh Rotwein 15/ NOVEMBER 2012

Round 1: And so it begins. Word and Hand. Today I resurrected a piece I stated in August. It’s a Prismacolor marker and colored pencil rendering of my flower headband (the one I made at Free People with Abs). Per usual, I thought it supremely awesome when working on it, but then a little meh afterwards. I do like it. Maybe I’ll love it when I get it back. Maybe I’ll see it in a new way. Right now I’m curious to know how it will progress and morph, because I can’t think of many ways (at the mo) in which it could go. We’ll see! Worked on it for nearly three yours (listened to three episodes of “This American Life”--”Act V,” “Summer Camp,” and “Babysitting”).

Demolition, COLOR PENCIL. 6˝ X 8˝

A mere piece bit of chance captured into a moment and an idea? A beginning or all it will be? Aesthetically pleasing, but I can’t hear the words, yet, Can’t see the faces yet, the faces can’t see their future yet. Excitement and brightness contradict the fragility of the foundation upon which they are laid. Always. Concrete and shouting loudly, but misunderstood What else is new.

Anna Fernandez #1

It’s all bright and beautiful – a beginning. A concrete aesthetically pleasing beginning that makes me wonder where it will go. The color and texture shouts from the page – a message which is loud yet still unclear. I guess most beginnings are, though. I wonder about the flowers: one so bright, and another small, yet with a large presence. Then lastly, the largest: so dark and strong on the outside, while so delicate and pale internally. Oh, there is a hint of green in the background. Don’t we all have a hint of green in the background – there whether we like it or not, the inescapable reminder of where we came from.

Where will this go? Upon second look it appears as if it may stand on its own. Then again, isn’t that how most beginnings are. The first flowers, eagerly anticipated, so widely celebrated, and eventually forgotten as each one meets its inevitable mortality. The inevitable mortality we all try to escape – forever unsuccessful, forever promising forever.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Is this a part or a whole?

I wonder why that one flower is pale on the inside, or is it just that is the only flower we can see inside of? It is interesting that the palest flower on the inside is the darkest on the outside, strengthening that age old cliché. I judge upon first glance then realize the flower isn’t finished. I do not believe I am alone in this action, automatically comparing the unfinished beginning to all of its finished counterparts.

Rotwein| Fernandez 2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Hananh Rotwein 13 DECEMBER 2012

Round 2: Words. “Words” and words as inspiration. Do I love my response? Do I hate my response? Who knows. “What else is new.”

Remodel, MIXED MEDIA COLLAGE, 18˝X 24˝ 80

| S EC O N D C YC L E

Sometimes everything seems sloppily smothered, oppressed, with a pretense of being happy, just a hastily pasted enamel. Thoughts, ideas, and reality become unreadable. If any screams exist, they’re unheard, suffocated and indecipherable beneath the putrid color of care that has faded. It’s awful, the helplessness and the questions and the yearning, but what are the words to do?

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

T H E WO R D S A R E S U F F O C AT I N G

Anna Fernandez #2

The paper isn’t supposed to be ignored – “it’s so thin I could blow my nose in it”. The reason for the paper is unclear – naturally, of course. I feel like I have dissected the image, but I guess during most beginnings the first image is always analyzed and over analyzed, but no matter how many times the first image is analyzed it can only provide so much insight into what it will become. The image is so bright and bold, yet it is set in something within something so timid.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Rotwein| Fernandez

| T H I R D C YC L E

Hananh Rotwein 31 JANUARY 2013

Round 3: Sick of my painted newspaper and drawn flowers piece. Moved on to a light bulb that I painted white and then attempted to cover in newsprint words (ie not newspaper itself, but the ink that forms words. We’re on a words kick, my poet and I. They seem to perhaps think I’m being cruel to words by covering them in paint.

Untitled, LIGHT BULB AND MIXED MEDIA 4”X 3”

Reversed and undetectable They hint at an idea

Anna Fernandez

A glimmer in the clouds

No more beauty and brightness. The happy bright – almost shallow – quality of it is gone; it’s no longer just something nice to look at. Now it suggests more, perhaps something deeper – well, maybe there was something deeper to start out with and I wasn’t picking up on it.

#4 Wow, it is really cold in here. How am I supposed to be inspired and profound when my limbs are slowly losing feeling? The piece now feels full of contradictions: the pale, sick looking yellow, the hastily wrapped board, and the old newspaper versus the bright beginning of the flowers. The piece is a contradiction like so many other things in life: a feminist flaunting high heels patiently waiting for a “gentleman” to open a door for her, a “hipster” caring and conforming so much with those of their image, everyone out there who is trying to change the world but cannot change themselves – but aren’t we all? This piece suggests the flaws and contradictions in each of us.

Attempts to illuminate fail to shed clarity Clouds still confusing the message Sparks still distracting the eye Words still yearning for confirmation

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

STILL YEARNING

#5 I wonder what the significance of the newspaper is. What is the artist trying to say through the stories? I can’t detect a pattern, so far. The yellow reminds me of sickness – a sickness smothering the news? The words seem like they are suffocating beneath the yellow and the flower, which has been thrown on top.

| F I N A L C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Rotwein| Fernandez

Listen to the Twang, LIGHT BULB AND MIXED MEDIA 4˝X 3˝

Hananh Rotwein 3 FEBRUARY 2013

Round 4: Continued with the newspaper light bulb. We’re still on a words kick, my poet and I. A specific line, “they hint at an idea,” influenced my work this week. I more than hinted at an idea this time—I spelled it out on the light bulb. It’s bolder than what I’ve previously done (and less aesthetically pleasing?). We’ll see what the poet thinks.

This is completely unexpected. How does the light bulb fit with the flowers and the newspaper? What is the artist trying to say? Light representing an idea, perhaps? An idea of what? Also the glitter must be addressed. The glitter isn’t as sparkly as I would typically consider glitter; the glue has diluted it, dragged it into the mass. Now only a skeleton of the original remains – just enough to prove what it once was, an identity that has been stolen.

#7 Plugging in the light bulb didn’t provide any additional insight. I also learned that the words could have been put on so that they would read normally, but instead they are on backwards. This morning I looked carefully again to try and decipher any sentences but the most I could identify were a few two letter words.

#8 “What are the words to do?” Perhaps the artist is saying the words must start over; they must spark – glitter? – into something new. The light bulb is an idea of what the words could do. They could start over in a different form. What does this mean though? What is the underlying message the artist is trying to convey with this? It is also interesting how the yellow is gone – unless the gold glitter counts. The yellow seemed almost like a sickness to the words, holding them back, a part of the suffocation. Now the yellow is gone so it could be a new beginning, a new piece with a different form, representing starting over. After the words have been suffocated by the sickness of the yellow and “hastily pasted” over by the flower, they must completely escape and take on a new form. The future of the words and the idea is still cloudy, backwards, and enshrouded in white, but it is there.

THE TR AIL THROUGH THE FOG

Words have finally spoken The tiny fragments have collected Simply asking to be heard Listen to their way of speaking Listen to all that could be there Hiding in the mist Walk the path Whispering through the fog They are impossible to hear at first – Impossible to see at first

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Anna Fernandez

Listen with patience Look with patience Walk with patience The journey of the brave Unknown to the rest The obscured path will speak along the walk Louder than the promised words, residing at the end.

EXCHANGE

eig ht

| ARTIST

CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL Kelsey once scoffed at the idea of art being a primary passion and had no confidence in her art nor hope for an art filled future. She now considers herself a budding artist and knows that art will always be her first and foremost interest. She is thankful to the Word and Hand project for making her step outside of her comfort zone a little bit by making her follow her partnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s direction and as it is her first time collaborating with another artist.

WRITER |

Victor Oporta

WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL I am junior at Wilsonville High School. I became involved with Word & Hand when Mr. Rishel introduced it to my AP English class in the fall. It struck me as very intriguing; I had never really heard of or imagined such an exchange and thought that it could produce some very interesting work and be a thoughtprovoking form of discourse. Throughout my life I have mostly written prose but have always loved poetic forms for their relative brevity and profundity. Word & Hand presented a way for me to expand my realm of experience in writing while also being able to create a thought process with another person through our respective media. Word & Hand has allowed me to learn about myself as a writer and as a person with the help of my partner. It is something that I will carry on with me for the rest of my life.

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Kelsey Hurst

Stranger, INK ON PAPER, 11˝X 8 1/2˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Hurst | Oporta | F I R S T C YC L E

11/20/12

Obviously took time to cut out and glue on paper. Androgynous figure. Appears to be sitting/laying. Discernable eyes. Dark circle in center of throat, legs are lighter than torso, arms also. Torso has elliptic pattern on left side, patterned harder marks on face. Red appears to be same throughout. Appears to be done in colored pencil, although I’m no expert in art media.

11/27/12 Phonetic intensives – words whose sound is intrinsically related to their meaning.

R E D ( WO) M A N

There’s a figure in the distance A light mist hangs in the air It scared me in this instance I wasn’t prepared A light mist hangs in the air I thought I was the only one

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Victor Oporta

I wasn’t prepared For you to ruin my fun

Hurst | Oporta

| S EC O N D C YC L E

1. I’m surprised with where the poet is taking my art, and I like it.

Stranger, INK ON PAPER, 11˝X 8 1/2˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Kelsey Hurst

Victor Oporta Happy Birthday to me! But I digress… Not that the figure has one hand and one foot obscured. Crude presentation, matted on printer paper. Vast open space in comparison to figure. Final presentation? Probably not. Kind of rough, unrefined, lonely, sad. Red still.

12/27/12 Red figure is unchanged, so far as I can tell. Looks like blanket draped over the shoulders, but there’s an animal head and an arm-like protrusion. Animal head is connected to blanket. It doesn’t seem to have a body other than the blanket. More circles in the throat area of the animal, similar to the person. Armlike protrusion resembles branch, but seems to function as arm, has strings connected to it. Calling body of animal “blanket” for lack of a better term. Animal only has one visible eye with the other shrouded—similar to person. More of the same pattern seen on the human’s head seems to be falling out from under it animal figure is black. Might as well mention that. It has some red colored pencil accent, some leftover pencil lines. The strings connecting to the “blanket” are red, but the animal is mostly black ink. One arm of the animal is shrouded similar to the arm and leg of the person. Animal’s eye is much larger and more pronounced than person’s. Animal seems to be enveloping person with “blanket.” In the Steve Jobs speech that Deeder (AP Econ teacher) had us watch, he said that one can only connect dots backward, so you must lay them down now. That is what I must do with this piece. Animal is definitely a mammal; you can quote me on that. Elliptical shapes don’t make another appearance from the torso of the person. Possibly next time? Take it as it comes.

R E D ( WO) M A N

There’s a figure in the distance

Colludes with your consciousness only to

A light mist hangs in the air

Further confuse

It scared me in this instance

Mind you

I wasn’t prepared

You should be amused

A light mist hangs in the air

Further confused

I thought I was the only one

The mist casts a veil

I wasn’t prepared

You should be amused

For you to ruin my fun

Your mind is not so frail

I thought I was the only one

The mist casts a veil

The mist conspires

But only for a little while

For you to ruin my fun

Your mind is not so frail

Sending it up like a pyre

You’re no longer beguiled

The mist conspires

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

11/29/12

Colludes with your consciousness, only to Send it up like a pyre Mind you

Stranger, INK ON PAPER, 11˝X 8 1/2˝

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Hurst | Oporta | T H I R D C YC L E

Kelsey Hurst

2.I enjoy the darkness they read from my drawing.

1/24/13

The tree seems to be in the same vein of the animal: black pen, strings. I think I’m going to continue finish my current poem and start another. I’ll leave it pretty open on the second. I’m liking the mist, sort of a discovery motif, maybe I’ll stick with it. Doesn’t seem like they are going to change the paper that it’s matted on. I kind of like it. It’s like a really cool, extended doodle.

N AT U R A L P H E N O M E N A I

N AT U R A L P H E N O M E N A I I

There’s a figure in the distance

Further confused

A light mist hangs in the air

The mist casts a veil

It scared him in this instance

He should be amused

He wasn’t prepared

His mind is not so frail

A light mist hangs in the air

The mist casts a veil

He thought he was the only one

But only for a little while

He wasn’t prepared

His mind is not so frail

For his mind to be spun

He’s no longer beguiled

He thought he was the only one

But only for a little while

The mist conspires

Only so long can the mist confound

For his mind to be spun

He’s no longer beguiled

Sending it up like a pyre

The mist settles down

The mist conspires

Only so long can the mist confound

Colludes with his consciousness, only to

To the figure he draws near

Send it up like a pyre

The mist settles down

Mind you

The area is clear

Colludes with his consciousness only to

To the figure he draws near

Further confuse

Near to what?

Mind you

The area is clear

He should be amused

All this work for naught

The fog sits low in the morning

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Victor Oporta

Hurst | Oporta

| F I N A L C YC L E

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

Kelsey Hurst

3. Since I didn’t really have a conscious meaning behind what I was drawing, I am having an easier time of weaving the words into my art, but at the same time I am keeping it the way I like it and not obviously/ overtly depicting the poet’s imagery and trying to convey the feelings instead (the dread, fear, etc..)

Rest, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 16˝ X 12˝

Victor Oporta 3/16/13

New piece! I must admit that I don’t think that it’s as cool as the last one, but I still like it. The use of mixed media is cool. Human figure is sort of carried over from the last piece, although all the limbs are visible this time. Lighter colors, much lighter mood than the last piece that looked like a heavy metal album cover. Light blue and white, figure is a little darker colored, but still a little happier than before. One thing that I get from this is tumult. The person is lying down and floating in this endless sea of clouds, almost as if they have no choice. I’ll run with that.

The fog sits low in the morning

I look into my empty cup

A cool breeze blows by as I take my

Expecting to see the words at the bottom

morning coffee

The words I’ve been looking for

The air is ripe with clichés

While staring out into the fog

I fill my lungs with the soupy air

I should know they’re not there

I’m out of breath I stare again into the fog “Throughout time man has wondered…”

More coffee can wait

who cares?

It doesn’t help anyway

Drinking coffee doesn’t help That’s a first

Sometimes (always)

I’m being suffocated

I wonder why I look into the fog

By lack of originality

Day after day Week after week

There’s nothing I can do to stop it

Year after year

I drink more coffee

Platitude after platitude

2013 | word & hand | Catlin Gabel High School / Wilsonville High School

N AT U R A L P H E N O M E N A I I

Still nothing There may be something out there I’ll tell you when I find it As for now I need more coffee

Kelsey Hurst

4. I like how this piece, both the poetry and my art ended.

WILLIAM T. COLVILLE MEMORIAL FOUNDATION P. O . B OX 9 0 9 N E S KOW I N O R 97 1 4 9