4
3 6
Scholastic Art Awards 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.
6.
Laura Berrios, Self Portrait, Graphite, Silver Key in Drawing. Victoria Diaz, Skulls, Pencil and Chalk, Gold Key in Drawing. Raquel Kidd, Try it, You Might Like It, Colored Pencil, Gold Key Portfolio Finalist. Matthew Alvarez, Glasses, Oil on Canvas, Gold Key in Painting. Audrey Gonzalez, Choke, Ink, watercolor, and Gouache on Tagboard Gold Key Portfolio Finalist. Helen Vogle, Road Trip to Nowhere, enamel on cardboard, Gold Key in Painting.
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Patient(s)
MIRROR
I. Confession
III. Delusion
Wake up early today, Pour the syrup and begin. Ever heard of love triangles? I smack my lips and stick, stick, stick. Well, I’m an infatuation polygon, I say.
Salt on black paper quakes in a frame, And this is what they call Entertainment? Funny, I think. What a swell night – The streetlights shine bright.
It’s you, me, and another million Sleeping in a bed for two.
They flower up against buildings Under the dark luscious sky, A virus growing Like a baby inside me.
II. Recession
IV. Conclusion
Your tongue curls out morphemes Of an irreverent pattern, With a writhing finger you try and coax me Into the passenger’s seat, We pass the local strip joint, Yet your eye does not wander It remains eternally fixed, As if locks were clipped, And engraved with my Name.
Emma Bates hates Waking in the morning Injections and drips Her gums itch At odd hours of the day
Static hisses and pops as you change stations. From Class to Jazz to News to Blues A string of sounds piece sentences together Along the persistent zzz of turning knobs, They’ll speak for us instead. My favorite part of speech is the adjective. It describes; we hyperbolize and hit the asphalt. Talk forward, act backward. A fly’s eyes could match yours A face upturned and hazed in red There’s a sour taste lurking in my mind And that trepid sucking sound So – do you even know It?
She’d rather stay half-asleep, Horizontal in the backseat Swerving and shaking, indecisive She’s in here every day, Drowning in sea foam green It’s progressed, they say. Blame the tiles and long aisles, Or just a plain healthy self that ails From the counterfeit color on the wall She hears her dad argue with the men in white, Just have patience? Oh, I have plenty. It’s pulling feathers off an ostrich To see her smile from a tangle of tubes, So she writes her name inside her head forever And keeps these images at bay
Marilyn Horta 50
Cecilia Cabrera, Lock Abstractions, Acrylic.
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1-800 Damage Control
MIRROR Maria Arteaga, Shattering Symbols, Gelatin-silver Print.
There’s an emergency on line 89 Stop. Break. Shake. Shatter My world and break it to pieces Delicate tasks made so simple in your hands Dear crafty creature of tricks and knavery, Share your secrets.
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Folly summons And on behalf of my opposite half, it summons laughs Should I settle, should I sink into the sophomoric state of finks Should I fool you? Should I slip the banana peel down under your feet Or pelt you with snowballs Better yet, I’ll cut holes through your clothes and smear glue all over your seat; You would have to crawl And I could tie your hands behind your back: And I want you to recall. This one. This is Dependence. Weakness. To do anything for a little suspense. Anything to tug at those heartstrings, Tense? Please, take offense. Let the novice conjure up the ultimate snare ‘Kick Me’ signs. Water balloons. Green hair. “The paint is dry,” I would promise and you would swear You could wake up to toilet paper, draped from your car to your Morning newspaper Because if the horns fit, you would always wear them So I’ll sketch them onto your pictures and draw in a mustache What if I just slashed your tires and made for the dash? Because that would just break your heart I could fool you and you could fool me. And it could be Ring around the Rosie And if I stooped, stooped so low— As to pilfer your crown and steel your throne To be victorious for something that furnished your guilty glow? Though I could keep you dizzy, keep you busy, in a tizzy The glass would be bitter And you would scorn me And you could curse every broken bone in my broken body… But the operator quickly disconnected the line She must have easily recognized, Another prank call.
Nafeesa Bhanji 53
Unfinished Masterpiece Anorexia is an art
MIRROR
of self-control, obedience of distorted reflections, bottomless numbers of shaping her body just the way she desires Perfection is never achieved After all, art can always be improved Stories can always be rewritten Forgetting what joy is and Living solely in the present What the scale dictates here and now — all that matters Pain can be endured Techniques made to survive the day All to think about are The last seconds of consciousness to suffer Just go to sleep to escape the sculpting knife Only to start the cycle again The day right after
Catherine Zaw 54
Tatiana Jackson, Anorexia Nervosa,, Acrylic.
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MIRROR Raye Ng, Survive, Digital Photography.
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A dip in the mud Wipe off the grime Swipe off the slime Purge. Repent. Purify. Take it back and erase the black Smooth in the bumps and fill in the cracks. You chiseled them in and I couldn’t help but help One by one, widening them With my piercing recklessness; Attack The catalysts of misery and the emblems of debris Scourge and blister and warped in a twister Distress generates disorder Disconnect From the origins of discomfort Learn the pain to Dispose of the pain:
The rubbing alcohol will sting the first time And freshman year will tease But drown so you can swim And let the first measure the vim Taste the berries, sure to be bittersweet And bruise without the training wheels Be the rookie. And the itch will scratch before it heals But be numb to the feel To strip the band-aid, swift and speedy To find the wounds have concealed Endure, and survival is tasty Is what they told me.
Nafeesha Bhanji
So one, two, three Complexity denotes the end of sanity Let it be as simple as can be—
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P.D. Lee at Jasper I don’t know nothin’ - he lays that out firstbut people be askin’ so I tell. I been here awhile is all, it’s crazy. He lays that out, sure as hell.
MIRROR Scott McKinley, Enamel. 60
Burning at Diego Flats You know you were to stand just there, just there in that plain, scrub oak deep footed thicket blasted as iron and always full of Jays. Raucous singing rises through the heat, convective, alive all alive all alive all alive all to a high reeling skim milk dome
Scott McKinley, Gouache. Both disciplined and free-spirited, Scott McKinley transfers his love for art to his students. He is a keen observer of the general and the particular. Before him young men and women present rough charcoal drawings and intricately painted patterns, all of which he critiques with insight and candor. Though his students would like to believe that his main priority is teaching, Mr. McKinley’s first passion is art in its purest form. He lives to paint and to share that zeal with the next generation of artists. 61
Legacy From the holes in the ceiling small suns shone through I reached up with one hand and there grew a peach tree rooted in carpet Beside me another sprouted in a gentler, much deeper wood We blocked the shine with our fingers, little eclipses A sprung umbrage that fluttered against those equidistant stars
MIRROR
The fluorescent lights melted us into complacency, a legacy Existence pure organic artificial And we coalesced into one milky, silvery pool An ocean into ourselves, a drying flooded stairwell Breathing sage on a cellophane stage With no where left to grow but upward As this miniature Mediterranean seeped into the ground I thought of the terrazzo plane, that iffy grain Under our rosaceous, watery faces, leaves as headpieces Self-assembling mosaics laying themselves in coolness Contours of warmth ever keeping the fabric impress above us —A jigsaw gesture, we cook and break, Boil and harden into a puzzlement lake We are a fluid mixture, though dissembled and cracked We are to our permanence as sufficiency that lacks Our hands still a forest of skin With initials lovingly carved in— These pieces skitter and reveal naked root Daylight flickers from the gaps of an unlocked grasp Hearts still combined, sublime, we divide And the teeth that formed our smiles file into pearl alignment Stringing a necklace I’ve always wanted
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Marilyn Horta
MORROW
January 20, 2009
l uy Sch
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gr ap hy.
MORROW
hustle, and this enlightened spirit spread I fought to warm the blood in until it overwhelmed the entire mass of my numb hands, while my limbs people, moving in perfect unison. ached and my legs shook. They were united in celebrating My will-power to stay this great cause, which all of us awake wrestled with my made happen. body’s desire for sleep. The focus of my I was envious of my attention then changed to friends who were the man speaking with home in the tropics. my brother and sister. I I daydreamed of entered the conversation the hot beaches, just as he mentioned he trying to transform was a candidate for mayor the stubborn, chilly of a New York city. He wind into salty handed over his business ocean’s breath. card and flashed an I noticed ambitious smile. His story people dancing to was practically identical to keep warm. A simple that of Barack Obama. He bend and twist with the e was here with his wife. A long body created the kinetic rP o t o o l time New Yorker, the cold was k, O energy necessary for heat. I h bama Button, P nothing for him. A woman joined contemplated the idea and then in the conversation and relayed her threw it away under the pretense that story. She flew from Italy just to share in this I was not in the mood. Music flowed through moment and to brag about it to her friends. the speaker system set up along Pennsylvania I wondered what was stalling the Avenue, beginning with the anthem of parade until I heard the ambulance sirens Obama’s campaign: Bono’s soft words of “It’s blare. The car flew through the vacant street, a Beautiful Day.” A pair started to do the
followed by the police. That was when we found out Senator Kennedy’s seizure had caused the delay. The crowd calmed down and silence sunk in. I decided to avoid keeping track of time after that and instead embraced the scene and my frigid fingers. The host woke us up with the announcement of the approaching march. The film was rolling. I held my breath so I could listen better. I wanted to hear the first footsteps. The trucks carrying the news cameras obstructed my view for a few panicking moments, but then my eyes spotted the target. Designed as a protective tank, the black Cadillac limousine harbored one of the most important and influential people in existence. The Secret Service agent opened the door revealing a pair of highly polished black shoes. He stepped out of the car with a bright smile and wrapped his arm around his wife who followed soon after. There they were: President Barack Hussein Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama. They looked beautiful. I didn’t think the moment could excite me more until he walked forward. I screamed. I forgot how to breathe. I gasped for air, but I didn’t inhale. I almost fell trying to get the best, clear view I could get with my useless, frozen feet.
He waved to the crowd, in all different directions, making sure not to miss anyone. We waved back, screamed, laughed, and cried in joy. Everybody held hands with their neighbor, whether or not they knew the person seemed irrelevant. These few seconds were eternal. Yes, this was what we would brag to our friends about. This was the defining point that made the trip worth it. The crowd, a mixture of all classes and races, came from different states and countries, united for change, and were moved by this fragment of time and space. I waited for months; he labored for years; people struggled for lifetimes. We did it.
Mitra Hosseini
Mitra Hosseini, Inaugural Parade Film, Photography.
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Daniella Garone, 2 Face Joe, Sculpture.
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A History MORROW
My family was tortured by the Nazis. My family was tortured by the Stasi. My great uncle was a Nazi. I am German. My blood runs through the soil that soldiers walked on. I have suffered; I have cried; I have felt betrayal; I have never forgotten. For one can never forget. One never should. She was forced to tell; she was forced to lie. Funny, what information sleep deprivation can extract. This is my history. This is the world’s history. This is hatred and love and fear. Do not back away from it. For if you do, you will succumb to it. Drench your clay smile with water; smear your hands with mud. Make your mark on the wall; paint it red and white. Let it dry until it crumbles and blows away in your hand. You stretched your arm out to me. I grabbed it and pulled myself up. We are but equals with the same masks that form to our features. My mask has never worn off since then. Yours seems to be cracking in places. I have water and mud, ready to fix it. Once again have I placed my Sunday smile back on my clay mask, but never again will I forget when I did not have one.
Barbara Uchdorf
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Tangerine Twilight MORROW
She had been waiting here for much of the day. Here. The spot between point A (her house) and point B (somewhere else). The uncertainty factor of it all only made this spot more enticing. It was an intersection, bright lights illuminating the already electric blue sky as though it were Christmas. She allowed the heat emanating from the pavement to seep through her clothes, refusing to stand for relief. This place was perfect. Four paths met and departed immediately.
They never noticed her, and how she sat each day, waiting for the perfect moment, when God in the heavens would inject the sky with a burst of citric colors that would resonate through the clouds. Today was different. She put film in her camera, and aimed it at the sky, ready to remove the cap from the lens and allow heaven to drain itself into her camera. The rest of the walk home she was partially blinded from the image
“She was partially blinded from the image ingrained in her retinas.� People were so busy scrambling from point A (their homes) to point B (somewhere else entirely) that they never noticed the ride between. They never noticed how the man who sat across the street and sold mangoes has the habit of twitching his nose excitedly, almost like a rabbit. They never noticed the young, but tired and rapidly aging, woman who waited for the bus each day, her hands clasped in her lap, her purse held close to her like a bandolera, her eyes darting around nervously until relief came in the form of an elongated six-wheeled vehicle. They never noticed the man who ran each day, growing thinner and thinner until he began to look like death itself, stripped to the bone.
ingrained into her retinas. The world around her was tinted with a dark shade of blue, the result of staring into the tangerine twilight a few minutes too long. She wondered if they would notice if she never came back. Unlikely. If they could drive day by day ignoring the sky, filled with a brilliant orange that engulfed all horizons, how would they notice her? She would return. Not for the celestial sunset, the Christmas lights, or the electric blue sky. Not for them. She would return for the mango salesman, the fearful bandolera guardswoman, and the man who runs to escape death but instead transforms into him.
Amanda M. Nichols
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Danielle Garone, Father Time, Digital Photography. 71
You Made Me Write Bad Poetry MORROW
You made me string together the foulest combination of words to ever distaste my word processor. It’s truly upsetting. However, most bad poetry is derived from genuine feeling. It’s quite interesting to see how a writer feels his words carry the weight of the world with them, and watch those carefully crafted words fall flat two days later when it is read by a man, woman, or group of individuals with less giving character. These individuals are callous in their evaluations, not giving the content behind the flourish of each rhetorical device created strategically to appeal to the audience a second thought. In fact, the audience finds these appeals below them, and then savagely annihilates any hope of the paper being worth anything, at all, ever, as long as that ink should drip.
I write to understand as much to be understood. Thus far, I have been proven unintelligible. So what can I say I have learned? I’ve understood that I might as well be typing “asghf ” to communicate that life is too important a thing to seriously write about. So please, let us continue to write bad poetry, because it’s the only proof that we, as humans, have left to demonstrate the insatiable beatings of our chests, and the tenderized rationalizations of our emotions.
Asghf. Damn.
Daniella Carucci
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Cecilia Cabrera, Bored and Sick, Graphite. 73
Bystander Effect MORROW 74
My car reeked of pineapple that smelled almost too sweet, its aroma escaping the plastic bag sitting on the hitchhiker’s lap in the rear seat of my car. I felt bad for the man, who was carrying his groceries for the week, on his way home to his poorly nourished family. I could tell that he spent his last pennies on what his wife and children needed, giving up the luxury of a car he could use to go to work, relying instead on his well -worn shoes. “My wife hasn’t eaten pineapple in years,” he explained, overjoyed that my sympathy had given him a break for the day. “It’s her favorite fruit. I’m so excited to see her reaction.” I nod to agree, and my foot shifts downwards on the brake heeding the red glare of the traffic light. I only physically agreed; internally I knew his wife wouldn’t be all that happy. She’ d be disappointed that he had spent the money on something unnecessary instead of something with more sustenance. I only knew this because I had once been on the verge of poverty myself. Maybe
that’s why I was the only car to stop—out of the many on the road—to let the poor man have a free ride home. The man retreated into a satisfied silence, and I could imagine he was dreaming about his wife’s face finally stretching into a smile after years of stress - creasing frowns maring her complexion. I didn’t quite notice the approaching storm clouds or the rumbling thunder. Nor did I expect that poverty could drive a man so far as to risk prison to steal my life and car, along with whatever change I had in my pockets. “When the ax entered the forest, the trees said, ‘The handle is one of us.’”
Catherine Zaw
Keilani Rodriguez, Cold Morning, Digital Photography.
“When the ax entered the forest, the trees said, “The handle is one of us.”
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Black History Month MORROW
Black History Month What a great idea Let’s push aside the truth, Let us forget the reality That “Black” is American History. Let us condense this lesson. Shove it all into the shortest month of the year So that it’s over quickly And come March first Is easily forgotten Forgotten… Over quickly… How contradictory to our past, A past long Riddled with tears and forgotten accomplishments. We will only teach them four names: King, Douglass, Tubman, and Parks Smothering the complexity To further the simplicity That leads to their futility.
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We will make them do more than forget. We will make them color blind. All they will see is black and white, Not even shades of gray. The false perception Of a lack of interaction Between America and all that is Black Will consume our lesson plans. We will intensify the divide So that they forget So that they cease to believe That Black History is American History. There is no need for separate lesson.
Victoria Melendez
Ronel Constantin, I Am Me,, Acrylic.
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Coincidental Fate MORROW
They say it is written, Inscribed in the lines That seal our destiny When they intertwine They say you must bear The bumps on the road As symbols that come From some ancient code. The brilliant orbs above That always seem to know Were arranged by a wise hand Long, long ago. The ageless monuments That withstand time Are as much reflection As they are a sign. Do the squares on the board Decide our fate Or do we have the power To declare checkmate? They say karma overrules Everything else, But maybe all that is written Is what you write yourself.
Sonul Rao 78
Isabel Conoepan, Leaving My Mark, Photography. 79
Strange ways MORROW Eduardo Moreno, Break, Mixed Media.
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They stay strange ways Confusing people making things hazy Made to think people like me are crazy Even though large corporate interest get paid People don’t stop to think about the minimums made Big business going try to bottle this So can the taxpayers hire some lobbyists? Man it’s the signs of time People distracted from radio and billboard signs The drinks the drugs they abuse it The TV, the radio, the music The tears the cries they abuse it Manipulate your feelings and then they use it Nobody cries when the truth becomes lies And then these lies get harbored inside Stuck in the system of misery And nobody checks when these lies become history They stay strange ways You can’t reform ‘em A society based on consumerism vanity What the fuck man am I losing my humanity? From the moment of your birth You were born to a slave Made to lie down and behave We were once swans Got turned into ducklings Started off as men Got turned into sucklings People don’t see the situation They’re already used to the lie saturation I storm through the tracks live on location To give ya’ll fools education Along with mental stimulation Trying to save a nation . . . From mental annihilation. They stay strange ways You can’t reform ‘em Michael “Zero” Akinlabi
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MORROW Tatiana Jackson, Gluttony,, Graphite on Paper.
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Feed Me Every impulse that we fail to relieve will become like barbwire to our minds and strangle us. It will brood and poison. Our bodies will punish our refusals to feed it with the wonders of food, flesh, and indulgence. Once the body sins, the action purifies the soul and the proverbial itch will be scratched. However, once you sin, all that is left are the recollections of pleasure and the luxuries of regret. Yield to temptation before the soul becomes sick with longing for the forbidden fruits of life, which have become so illicit only in the mind.
Go on, have the Big Mac. After all, experience is the name everyone gives to his or her mistakes.
Daniella Carucci
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Bagboy MORROW
The list is tight between my teeth. I reach behind my ears to pull up some straggly strands of hair and the automatic door opens with a stick. I take the list, now pockmarked and wet, and run my eyes along the careful bullets. Milk, orange juice, salami, butter. Easy enough. The snowman crayoned on the bottom right peeks out a grin and I smile back at him. “Have a Memo Christmas” is stitched in a red and green semicircle above his coal-piece eyes and magic hat.
on Grammy’s dress begging for some peach rings or a big jug of detergent, which they happily to refer to as “Juice!” The constant bloop of price ringing percusses under the late Sunday flurry, and sure enough, James is restocking. There’s that fuzz on his face, but I still recognize him. He lifts a chubby palm, simultaneously recognizing me. His face is a big round plate of brown sugar with a domino smile. He could cast a shadow over me, but he truly is harmless.
The neat rows of brown tiles at the entrance cascade into a tessellation of earthy tones under the pace of my feet. Over the nickel line of shopping carts and through a length of plate glass, I see that Mom’s still outside waiting in the car, adding to her carbon footprint. Her face looks distorted through the fluorescent paint spelling a backwards SALE $2.99. Then again I’m nearsighted, so everyone has a thick fuzz growing in the space between their eyes. A few more wisps of hair escape from its confines. So again, I half-eat the list and fix my purposely messy bun.
“Hah-hah-hi.”
People subsist on what this place has to offer. Carts clink along, their wheels get caught and stuck in a bended-arm sort of way, and waddling toddlers pull
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Hi, I say in response and smile back, like I did with Mr. Snowman, now folded up in a hasty origami and stuffed in the pit of my hand. I keep walking, past the Honest Weight and half-priced Halloween decorations, fixed on locations that inch farther from James’ presence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him wipe his hands on his apron and go on organizing Cheerio boxes. There’s a slight hesitation in every move, a back-andforth tug that makes me wonder what’s wrong with him. Bread.
Was that on the list? “Excuse me,” I say bashfully, almost running into a couple mulling over wines.
c ans . The lady cashier “Oh, sure sweetie,” and charges the the woman steps back. Her card with a big hair reminds me of Dolly chuckling shake of her Parton. head. Definitely autism, I think The platinum bunch moves to myself, the windowpane door with her, but in succession like a lesser sliding shut behind me as he grabs a hold dancer or a breathy poodle. The man pats the furry zeppelin affectionately with a of a rebel Cream of Mushroom. calloused hand as she continues to read off The parking lot is newly slicked with the back of a 2002 Merlot. Somewhere in the back of my mind I imagine ramming into the rain, and the Highlander is still running, wall of spirits, bottles exploding in red waves snug between a pair of faded blue lines over over a scab of glass. I feel for the weight in the tarmac. Two bags of groceries dig deep my pocket. Three quarters wouldn’t cover pink rings on my forearms and I wish I had gone for the more reasonable quart. Inside the cost. the car, I whine about how we should get those new reusable bags and maybe go What’s the first thing on the list again? organic. Somehow I manage to fit all the items *** into a carry-basket, lugging it down the last unexplored aisles. I see James again at the We don’t come back for another two front but briefly. As I hand the cashier Mom’s ATM card, a noisy clatter rouses shoppers and weeks, and when we do, it’s more of a family bagpeople alike to turn in his direction. The outing. Mom and I are near the bakery room grows even taller with interest when when a strange little man approaches us. he gets down on his hands and knees and I keep my eyes on the eight guava-cheese begins playing Twister with renegade soup puffs stacked in a miniature tower. My
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MORROW Audrey Gonzalez, Vegetables, Digital Media. younger brother had uncovered a box of them under the assortment of coconut and cherry turnovers. Lounging face down in the cage of our cart, I consider them worthy of a fairer display. The man says he’s interested in my look (whatever that is) and adds that he’s a photographer with a studio on South Beach. I count the miles in proportion to where we are here and now. South Beach is about fifty-five minutes away. But besides that, he looks greasy. “How old are you, my dear?”
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“Sixteen.” “And uh, your name is?” “Marlenuhleen,” I mumble in a low, low voice, trying to conjure a secret identity in a moment’s notice. “Melanie?” “Yes, exactly,” my mother swoops down, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. Mission Accomplished.
He gets a little nervous and after speaking for a while longer, hands me a business card. But when he turns to browse the French breads, I crumple it. I’ve already decided, no modeling ‘til I’m at least eighteen. All the while, the bakery ladies in hairnets are speaking loudly behind the counter; it’s a mix of Spanish and hard, broken English. Peeling back the skin of a tangerine, I come upon the rippling underbelly of a goldfish. I run my finger along the fissure that divides him in wedges. That day I don’t see James and I can’t help but miss his greeting. My mom eases out of the bright, white lines on the tarmac as I feel for the tangerine’s gills. *** There’s no list this time, I’m just here for two sheets of poster board and a pound of deli ham. I hope for a quick in-and-out so I take the express lane, wholly depending on its name. “Four fifty-two,” the cashier says, chewing a good sized wad of gum. Her nails clack together like the rainbow beak of a toucan when she takes my Lincoln bill. She hands me a toffee-colored plastic bag and I thank her. “Hah-hah-hi,” His words are slurred and well-meaning, but nonetheless James startles me because he appears out of nowhere. He’s beside me by a wall of soda bottles, all gappy-grinning and waving as if I were off some far distance.
“Howya doin’?” He stands tall with a large spherical belly at his center. A forest green apron draping from his neck and a wide, flat nose planted over a child’s smile. “I’m good,” I try and sound as genuine as I can. “And you?” “Oh. I’m fine,” he says, with the faintest Southern drawl. “Yuh-you have a niiice day now.” Then he does something unexpected. Instead of bringing up his hand again in an exaggerated farewell, his arms spread wide and hold me in a sort of loving gauze. The warmth of his embrace speaks of an intelligence that is beyond what I can comprehend, and I walk away feeling stupid. M E M O R A N D U M If one day there were no more supermarkets, we would probably go back the route of our ancestors—picking and hunting and ensuring our survival—but if there came a time when we did not look upon one another with love, there would be a great famine in all the earth.
Marilyn Horta 87
sourtongue
Andrea (Andi) Espinosa, Sourtongue, Ink.
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MORE
Artist Dwelling
Corner Perspective.
I like to think that buildings are alive with stories to tell of where it has been and where it is going. My main focus with this design was creating a space that was suitable for the freedom and creativity necessary for an aspiring artist. After all, the environment in which you live is crucial for artistic, spiritual, and intellectual growth. 3D Model.
Mitra Hosseini
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The Sky in Front The world of architecture is everywhere. I feel that my architecture is an outlet for my vivid imagination. It is a way to express my mood, to pass up time, and to achieve something while having fun. Personally, I incorporate nature as an integral part of the home’s design. Why have beautiful landscaping if an ugly wall covers the view? Thus, “The sky in front” building is designed with a west glass curtain wall from floor to ceiling to take advantage of its surroundings.
Inside Living Room.
Jorge L. Buitrago
Isometric View.
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Transient Delight for String Quartet
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by Jiwen Lei
“Creating music is the service I render this world; it is the least I can do to express my gratitude.” To hear and see Jiwen Lei’s composition performed, visit us online. http://crhs.dadeschools.net/elysium. Click on the music category.
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Coral Reef Senior High // 10101 SW 152nd St. // Miami, Florida 33157 // (305) 232-2044