IBRATO
The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road, Dallas, Texas 75229 214.363.6311 Hockaday.org
D E A READER,
For every light, there’s a shadow. It envelopes us, swoops around us, carries us off into its Neverland of impossibility. But don’t be afraid of this shadow. It is only as real as we make it, as the world makes it; the shadows are merely a pawn played by humanity. Yet, as you delve into the world of Vibrato, let the shadows reveal their beauty and truth through thrilling photography, riveting short stories and poems, and hypnotizing artworks. Allow the shadows to play you, intrigue you, comfort you yet expose you because, after all… Life is darkness.
Table of Contents Photography
Art
Literature
a man, hi s ey ars e w n w o r es c de v A gilded oi d
of
em o , ns t io
with a poin t
ed dagger odged in his heart. l
my face drowns in a flood of warmth, of blood if it were to pour out from my face, I would surely die but I am already dying within from your feather-like gaze
oh, what am I to do? it as if I cannot focus anymore there are only your eyes, your smile, your laugh, your touch with every giggle erupting from your stomach, the giddiness in mine creates a scarlet enchantment;
a single flower budding in a shattered, cold realm the glass evaporates, the jagged edges ease away and even if my world were to harden again, the stem continues to sew the hole in my heart.
nothing can conceal the celosia anymore blossoming a fire in my heart; the soft petals tickle my throat as I reveal three simple words that change everything. I love you.
heavy heartbeats beat the rhythm of a silent song, a song unheard, a song forgotten by all except me.
I notice them and their face erupting into scarlet it is as if their scattering petals have dyed their entire body that color the celosia never stops blossoming from their heart
I notice them falling deeper and deeper into your feather-like gaze it is as if you have possessed them their heart has fatally resigned to your eyes
I notice you laughing at their confession it is as if you don’t care about the petals slowly losing their color their eyes once imitated yours, but now they harden like glass
I notice you ripping the stem out of their system it is as if their love for you is just a game you only entertained them so you could rise above them on the scoreboard
I notice me disappointed in you it is as if you never knew how much hope you gave them but you’re the most important thing in the world, so why should their growth matter?
I notice me shoving my petals back down into my throat it is as if my heart is turning to ice already what did either of us see in you, anyway?
I notice us slipping back into our shattered realms it is as if the fire you provided us evaporated and we lose all hope
I notice us watching you snicker from them stroking your precious ego it is as if your answer has both freed us from our petals and frozen us back to our places but for some stupid reason, we’ll still love you anyway, won’t we?
A sword and a hand, the weapon whispering promises of power and secrets of seduction, all for the price of a soul.
CAGE MATCH Kendall Marchant A snowball Inside me. Rolling, And seizing Everything It can. As it Lurches- MultipliesProliferatesSnatching up all my Fear. growing scratching gnawing tearing WRENCHING At my insides. my heart, my mind, my body, my soul, -lockedin an internal cage match. “The war to end all wars,” it seems. But what happens when no one opens the cage? What happens when no one can escape? It won’t end, that’s the catch! The hitch, the snag, the conundrum, Of life! Because, after all, We can’t escape ourselves! Who opens the cage— if we can’t win the match?
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NIGHT LIFE | ANGELINA WU OIL PAINT AND OIL PASTEL ON CANVAS | 30X40 INCHES
Justice cries tears of blood. viscous and vivid scarlet, they burn their leisurely trail down her cheeks. she remembers protests over the summer, and over years — peaceful protests, not riots, not insurrection — that were met with more severity than this invasion of the capitol building. how do you look at yourselves in the mirror? she wants to ask, and how do you look your children in the eye? her tears leave crimson scars on her face. Truth feels blood dripping from her lips, warm and nauseating in her mouth, but not nearly as sickening as these people using her own name to erase her nature. do they not know me? she wonders, and the realization is both sudden and painful: they have painted their animosity over her image and claimed this false deity as their inspiration. they cite her name but dismiss her sanctioned results. she bites her lip, adding to the carmine stain on her mouth. Democracy wipes at the blood bubbling in her nose and scorching her skin when she tries to brush it away. struggling for each shaky, rattling breath, she watches this country drive itself to dystopia; she sees the hellscape of a nation turning on itself; she mourns what was lost, what was tarnished and shattered. the mob invokes her in their battle cry, calls upon her to justify their storming of the capitol. she cannot condone their violence. another bead of liquid garnet splatters on her hand. I plunge through the air alongside drops of blood. the three sisters’ indignance, their horror, their grief, their bewilderment at the events of january sixth, it all falls with me. i take on their fury, accept it, shrug it over my shoulders, and it turns into wings. the wind whips my scream out of my mouth, but even as i mourn this violation i unfurl bloodstained feathers and, reclaiming my flight, i hope that we can heal and regain our integrity and that we never again give hate the power to damn our country.
It’s like Dallas weather: unpredictable and varying in form. Sudden thunderstorms are her vacant eyes and hypnotized body; her foaming mouth and convulsing skeleton are elements of a heat flash. She should be immune. She is neither a babe nor an elder, but a 49-year-old woman who now suffers from a throbbing head and a spinning world. There is always an empty seat at the table; a missing spirit who would rather spend time engrossed in dreams than the harsh realities of her world. Doctors say it is a common disease but it does not seem common — not until it has taken her place, not until you watch her fade.
One after the other, it is not rare to witness — not with this disease. Some patients I seldom see; their medications, diet, or Neurotherapy allow them to not merely exist but live. There are unfortunate souls with this as with everything else in our world. A 49-year-old woman finds herself in this collection of individuals; medications fail her as do various surgeries and types of therapy. What can I do? I attempt to help her weather her storm, but with new solutions still in creation, my guidance looks like an umbrella amidst a hail storm. We continue and we wait. Why must you do this, to her or any being? You always manage to root yourself in your victims, but while you allow some to evade you, you swallow others whole. What is it about that poor 30% of your sufferers that allows you to constantly spread and grow? I do not know.
I favor the young and old, feeding on their neurons until I dominate their lives. My first attack is usually the sweetest and its outcome determines how much control I have and for how long. While you can never fully escape me, some of my prey have the power to resist me and can eventually ignore my presence altogether. The rare few that lack strength, nearly welcome me with open arms; no matter how tenacious they are, these individuals are required to acknowledge my presence for the entirety of their lives. Do not attempt to figure out my motives; I have existed for thousands of years and have yet to be officially defeated or dethroned — don’t hold your breath.
in your absence I have begun designing wardrobes with no walls. I’ve left the clothesline and its sagging belly in the rain even now it’s hard to fill the woolen outline of your coat. so I unstitched it away instead see, your ever-faithful baby blue sweater deserves the storm to wear it if there is no one else who could fit
I
✓-- .-
I
Is this your America? withering away into the sky’s eternity, Vivacity and aspiration choking on polluted air, Sapped soil of her being struggling to resist the crude modernity, Her youth and verve battling toxic fabrication to preserve what is our most divine paradise, On all wilted surfaces ignorant individuals branding sore footprints, Stealing the wondrous breath of life from her exhausted throat, Muddying her pure soil with their schemes of destruction, Depriving her of her treasured soil for their dirty greed Wasting away her exalted exuberance, spoiling her promise, Obliterating the notes of her once harmonious tune with their piercing yells, Selfishly rusting her precious gems, They promised her eternal, abundant life and endlessly swelling seas of vigor, No truth, no respect for the delicacy of her soul or youth, Praising her perfect beauty and vital gifts in bursts of compassion, Then all abandoning to trample her being and shrivel her soul.
acy
a deadly silence pressed itself against his body,
suffocating,
but all i could do was stare.
IT'S QUIET IN HERE Sonali Konda
it’s quiet in here quiet and deafening deadly silent and clamoring screams i say nothing i hide in a web of vague outbursts and silence while voices in my head spin their own tapestry one of worry and doubt with missing threads how do you know you’re right? i just do why don’t you say something? i don’t know how words fill my brain questions and demands asking and second-guessing and then answers but nothing comes out it’s quiet in here
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MIXED MESSAGES | ANGELINA WU GRAPHITE, EBONY PENCIL, AND ACRYLIC ON PAPER 22X15 INCHES
time is a... strange thing. seconds, minutes, hours human measurement, human numbers, human construct, at least in part. and yet - entirely unalterable by human life or human death, human love or heartbreak, all the moments embodied by the cliché of time stopping or slowing down. we draw ourselves the illusion that we can bend seconds to our will and wrestle control of the hours. we labor under the belief that we can enforce discipline on the passing moments, domesticate them, make them our tools. imagine time, silent assassin and patient instructor, halting its daily odyssey for our human lives - our fleeting sparks of existence and see the minutes mocking us. time stops - hear this time stops for no one.
I place my hands on my neck, quivering, quavering, I hear my quaking heart trek. You stare at me, eyes as soft as feathers, and state your confession. And now I must ask myself the question: How should I respond? Two doors are presented. One leads me to where I am resented. It’s not simple to admit, but if I lead myself there, I’d find myself in a world where no one needs to care. I can live in solace, but in enmity. These doors are sitting innocently, and eventually, my trembling hands will leave your memory, with hatred adorned around its edges. The other leads me to where I am treasured. My heart throbs faster, because the very thought that I could be remembered positively, emphatically, unquestionably loved Am I selfish for wanting to be your beloved? Possibly, as these doors are obscured with irregular chains wrapping around the doors hastily, pulsing like the veins on my shuddering hands, as I should never be loved in your memory. I do not have a solution, How come I am suddenly so important; am I just a substitution to refuel your spirits from your recent losses, In that case, I am right to be cautious Your eyes may be mere lies, although I hate to admit I still want your love, but I don’t deserve it I only deserve to fade from your memory once again And eventually, you’ll fade from mine, but even then my hands will never stop shaking.
I th
oo long. n on autopilot t e e b e v ' I i nk
reyer
42 e ld ivia We Ol
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LOST AND UNFOUND | ANGELINA WU TITLE | PHOTOGRAPHER MEDIUM OIL PAINT AND OIL PASTEL ON CANVAS || 40X60 INCHES
Upon her wooden, antique chest A reflection layered upon itself: The vision of a woman, wild With more than womanly anguish, Hair standing up on either side, Face bereft of charm and beauty; Eyelids drooping down in wrinkles, Elastic cheekbones no longer resilient, No anguish now to hide For what once no man could ever grant Formed the outside border circle Of hard, unsanctified distress; Her mouth lay open — not a sound Crept through those parted, blood-red lips Whatever it was, the hideous wound In silence and secret bled and bled; No sigh relieved her speechless misery, No voice to speak her endless woe; In her lurid eyes a glare The lingering flame of life’s hunger dying Mad because its appetite now gone And provoked at the surging fire Of jealousy and fierce revenge And strength that could not deteriorate nor tire.
My hands snatch at the air. The waves strike My limbs weaken, My head pulses, My eyes snap open and closed. It’s salty. I rush to the surface, and I want to throw up. No, I don’t. But It would be nice To expel The knot of guilt From my body If I could. Tangle upon tangle; It warps, distorts, And crescendoes. My fears amplified, A seasick lullaby, that plays: over, and over, and over. Until I can't hear it any longer ...or so I think.
Gone! For one peaceful moment. A lull in the storm, Silence in the surf, The sea is calm, and I rest afloat. But, it returns, Too soon. After, Such a fleeting gasp of fresh air, A single breath of balance, And my head is shoved back under the waves. And once again I gulp, And once again I am quelled by the weight of the snarling, untamed sea.
I can't be afraid of the darkness if darkness I become. Not the darkness of evil or fear, the darkness in protection, in balance the home of the stars. Sparkles in raindrops only reflect the light, they are not light. Is that why they embody tears? Tears that make the world go round?
I am friends with my window. It seems just as mortal and breakable as I. There's beauty in its vulnerability. Is there not?
You're no being of darkness, merely a friend. Danger looms in dark amnesty. An enemy of an enemy qualifies not as a friend. Darkness is not the enemy of light.
You're not the only one to think this way... in ultimatums, in diabolic relationships. I prefer to think of night and day as lovers. How else could a sunrise or sunset be so beautiful?
War is only romantic when we shoot the memory of it with love. No one dies at the bullet for the hatred of another but the love for his own.
Your eyes are sunrises. Your pupils court their irises. They loved before you knew how. And if eyes are the windows to the soul, your soul is love.
Mrs. Copeland for your constant support and encouragement during the creation of the magazine. Your enthusiasm, dedication, patience, and optimism have truly allowed us to put our best foot forward in this publication. We are ever grateful for the time and effort that you have invested into helping us construct this magazine, and none of this would have been possible without you. Your advice, both about Vibrato and other subjects, will continue to travel with all of the staff members throughout our lives. Your passion for this publication is infectious and, through your positive outlook, you have helped us leap over barriers always thought to be insurmountable. You are surely deserving of more thanks and admiration that we could ever articulate. Thank you for everything. Dr. Coleman, Mrs. Culbertson, and Dr. Koscis, for your endless faith in and passion for the making of Vibrato. Your tremendous work in making the best of this year is inspiring to us all. Cindy Salome at 360 Press Solutions for your enthusiastic, problem-solving mindset that propelled us forward in our creation of the magazine. Your cheerful energy and willingness to help allowed us to transform our ideas into a reality. Thank you for always being just within an email's reach. Every student who submitted to the magazine. Your bravery and courage in submitting your original, individual creations has not gone unnoticed. Each and every one of you plays an integral part in the process of creating this magazine, and we could not have done it without you. Even the submissions that did not get the opportunity to be featured in the magazine have made an everlasting impact on the staff and have inspired us in ways unimaginable. Vibrato is a literary magazine that showcases the literature, photography, and art of Hockaday's Upper School student body. Students submit original pieces, and the staff of Vibrato reviews these works anonymously. Together, Vibrato staff members meticulously select pieces to include in the magazine, design the spreads, and share the publication. As you read this year's magazine, we hope you allow yourself to shed any preconceived notions and relish in the creativity, vulnerability, and truthfulness expressed by the various authors. Approach each work with a sense of eagerness and excitement to discover the profound messages buried in the pieces, as these authors have given their heart and soul to their work. The text of this issue is set in Merriweather, and the titles are set in Proxima Nova. For photography, art, and literary pieces, variances in size and style of these fonts are used. The main title of the magazine is set in Acier BAT. The magazine was designed using Adobe InDesign 2021 and Adobe Illustrator 2021. The 108-page book is printed on Polar Bear Velvet Book 100# paper. The cover and divider pages are printed on Topkote 130# stock. All parts of the magazine were printed by 360 Press Solutions in Austin, Texas.
The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road, Dallas, Texas 75229 214.363.6311 Hockaday.org
_____ of 600
DEAR E A D E R,
Light is life. Light hovers, it lingers and it moves, casting shadows over trees, buildings, people, and everything in between. As such, shadows shift too, changing with light’s every movement, appearing and disappearing as it flickers, with the shutter of a camera or a change in scene. As you flip into the light, embrace this. Let the brilliance of writing, art, and photography entertain you, and see that shadows are not only the puppets of light, but its complements. Ultimately, let these pages enlighten you because, after all… Life is light.
Table of Contents Photography
Art
Literature
As we lay, Arms pinned to the coarse sidewalk, Stargazing. Darkness folded over our bodies— A blanket of heavy, silent air.
—So, what do you think is the purpose of life?
I knew he was mocking me, But, truly, I couldn’t be bothered. I laughed, flicking my eyes ever so slightly to study his face, A perfect, marble construction. Whoever the sculptor, He should be proud.
A lilted smile brushed over his lips, And his eyes turned to study me.
I laughed again: A light giggle that somehow Rang out across the dark.
—That. That right there. That’s my purpose in life.
And as if he hadn’t just set Every fiber in my being alight, He turned his deep eyes back to the sky. And whispered —Your turn.
he
bu
rn
but
ed
he
for
rw
got
in
gs
tha
to
th
t li
ke
she w ould only rise f rom
eg
ap
ro
un
d
hoe
nix
the a shes of he r def eat rather than su ccumb to them
EXQUISITE INTIMACY Percy Stout
AND YET, WITHIN A PARTY OF JUST OURSELVES, WE SEEM TO HAVE FOUND A MOST EXQUISITE INTIMACY. 10
He gazes past me, at something – some unknown entity, an aspect of that entity, possibly everything, possibly nothing at all. Either way, I am some insignificant atom in the vast multitudes of his mysterious, secret universe, his infinite
world of perfect dichotomy. -Catherine Stidham
Text
I thought we could go to the mountains together sometime.
But you were already on the slopes, headed straight down.
Where was my kindergarten boyfriend or classic chaperoned date, with the entire party's family, where curfew was at eight?
Where was my desperate line of suitors, waiting eagerly by the sandbox, or the special one who shared a cookie from this girl's transformer lunchbox?
Am I the one who's hurting my own romantic life, by showing up to war zones with my stupid, plastic knife?
Will my tender heart be trampled or manipulated or abused because I've never had a boyfriend because I've never had to choose?
I've never had a guy who's liked me just that way to show me what could be waiting behind forever and a day.
20
CABIN I TIANXIN XIE I PHOTOGRAPHY
On the mark of 5-o-clock p.m. in the latter part of a dreary January, I held true to one sole objective: to see my great-grandmother one last time before night struck. Around me, thick frost slowly crawled through the rifts of gaunt trees. Icicles, sleet and rain enveloped me, drifting through the blurry air. The sidewalk was coated in a layer of dirty snow, and people’s black overcoats and heavy leather boots only darkened this already melancholy evening. The thought of sightseeing and observing proved quite unenticing; I kept my eyes down until I reached her apartment complex. As I opened the old wooden door, the sound of stiff metal creaking on unoiled hinges poured into my ears. Through the shadow of the thick stone arches, a dubious, apathetic look on his stern, solemn face, the receptionist studied me. Urgently, I signed in and nodded. I found her in her usual position: slumping lazily over her tufted leather armchair, her head flopping back like a lifeless hen, silent. “I’m here,” I mumbled in a half-audible undertone. Her health in the past months had been deteriorating, and I walked over expecting only a weak, withered smile of acknowledgment. Even so, I was presented instead with two limp arms draping over the arms of the chair, ankles neatly crossed on the floor in their position when she used to read, fingers intertwined and pale; wrinkled, gaunt, arthritis-stricken hands resting on her stomach, over a baby-blue knit afghan blanket.
Cautiously, I lifted the bundle of faded blue fabric, slightly torn at the edges. I hinged it in the crook of my arm and petted it, waiting for it to say something. Slowly, memories of the blanket dripped, trickled into my mind… I vaguely remembered our dances around her backyard in the warmer months of winter, youthful and joyful as the snowdrops around us. Flakes of snow would dot our noses, sprinkle our hair, and cover this blanket in a lacy sheet of silver. We would build a snowman and take it inside. It melted, so we would jump in the puddle of water and eat the carrot from his nose. We used the sticks and coal from his arms and face to make a fire, and warm ourselves with cups of hot chocolate. Our jumping had left a mess on the floor, but we were happy, gloriously trapped between youth and adulthood – enjoying our momentous adventures and her words following them: “…when life trapped me in the worst, I have always found a place of comfort in these worn, afghan patterns. They were mine from the day I was born. One day, it will be yours, and I pray that-” her voice would slightly lower its volume: “I pray that it may give the same to you.” I reached out, and felt her hand. Life had all so suddenly left these gaunt, frigid branches of palms that once, in a distant memory, used to hold both storybooks, and this blanket – the life of my childhood. Except all so suddenly, this – her storybook of life had ended, and at me. My five-year-old self used to dream about the future, about the day I would inherit something this – big. But I never truly understood her until it was too late to go back. Now, this blanket was all I had – my only memory of my great-grandmother and our five-minute endeavors in her snowy backyard.
En garde
2
I never knew the value of tears,
until I was paying my debt in counterfeit smiles.
Why so wispy? my eagerness erupts as my grandmother teaches me her recipe slicing vegetables – deftly She holds her hand over mine as I swipe a 3-inch steel blade across the top of a red bell pepper, guiding me to chiffonade and fine dice – carefully “Why so thin?” I ask – They mix better. The flavors form my first stir fry: sweet juliennes and salty sirloin strips seem to clash for starters but actually complement; enrich the whole From this, I would learn more dishes, more accessories to julienned sweetness, All part of a single abundance.
i’m back in the magnolia treethe little one in the back of our yard in chicago. it looks too small to actually climb: i usually just lounge on the first or second branch. (i have seen someone get to the top; we were nine then, i think. still young enough to believe in the idea called forever.)
i’m perched on a branch i know will hold me, hands clenched around cool wood, surrounded by glazed green leaves- it’s summer; the flowers lie abandoned on the ground. no longer piano-key white and heartbreak pink, they’re forgotten as soon as they make the shift to brown, crumpled, with the pungent scent of a finale.
and what then for these flowersso recently admired and coveted? so recently blooming like stars scattered in the magnolia’s boughs? will they lie there, starting to disappear under drifts of mulch, erased from the narrative spun by the seasons? as soon as the luster of spring and youth is gone, are they forgotten?
it’s a t-shirt and shorts day, the best and the worst kind, when the sun beats down hot enough you can feel it, a tangible thing. the heat makes the magnolia flowers’ scent strongermore distinct- more oppressive, and i wonder: if all that’s left of the petals is a rotten stench, do we ignore the beauty they once had, their former fragrance?
that’s the pattern, though, isn’t it? we cherish the blossoms, weave gilded words glorifying their vivid pink-on-white, soft petals, sweet aroma. and as soon as they’re past their primeno longer pretty, don’t smell good anymorewe discard them without a second thought, as if they’re now failures.
this life is cruel like that: we only appreciate things as long as they serve us, as long as we deem them useful. after that, after beauty or talent or emotion has run its course, we’re so quick- too quick- to toss everything away. it goes for fellow humans, for animals, for ideas and feelings and concepts that no longer fit the ideal mold of what we humans look for; it goes for flowers.
PERSEPHONE I ANNIE HU RLEY I DIGITAL ART I 8 X8 INCHES
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THE PATRIOT I NANCY DEDMAN I COLORED PENCIL
I
7X10 INCHES
A secret love on my lips lay who roams my thoughts that muse my day. And though he doesn't give a glance his presence makes fairies dance.
While heat creeps into rosy cheeks, I wait and take one last hopeful peek and when I do, to my surprise, I see sunlight dance in his brown eyes.
He laughs and makes a pointless joke. I laugh so hard... I start to choke. His eyebrows burrow in concern but a look from him is all I yearned.
I nod my head, he turns away, a hopeless love. This love won't stay.
FENCEI I ANGELINA WU OIL PAINT AND OIL PASTEL ON CANVAS 60X40 INCHES
If anything is possible,
how is perfection impossible? -Sophia Chen
SELF· z�•o ,RAIT
42
the crickets. they are chirping again, surely you can hear them too.
it is one a.m., and i can't sleep again. i know i promised you that i would start sleeping better, that i'd go to bed sooner, but the old air-conditioner, rattling as it attempts to churn out cool air, tends to keep me awake. no matter how hard it tries, the pitiful old machine can't quench the summer heat that seeps through the windows and under the cracks of our doors.
i never liked the sound of crickets. too noisy for me, but i remember that you liked them. "they're rasping, yet melodious," you said, with this little crooked smile on your face, and i thought: you're perfect.
let me tell you a secret, something that i've never told anyone before: i wanted to kiss you, right then, right there, in the old peach tree, our legs tangled in the rounded branches. i don't know why i didn'tkiss you, that is. maybe i was just too scared.
-□
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WHITE ROU!irl JADE NGUYEJIITPROTOGRPH7
as an individual, one can shine with a grand radiance. with no one else to impede upon your light, one can grow quite proud as the world can only see them. when this happens, one fails to realize that the spotlight was meant to be shared, as we all deserve a glimpse of freedom. in your blinding brightness, you never realized that others are suffering beneath your feet. if you were to lift others into the spotlight with you, a masterpiece would be born as working together creates a radiance far grander than a single thing can produce and the world would finally realize what it was missing not one star at the top, but a whole sky of stars
OUR STAFF Catherine "let me look at my old sketch books" Stidham Co-Editor in Chief
Doris "Finding Dory" Zhang Co-Editor in Chief
Abby "that looks like my 6th grade lnstagram" Ruble Literary Editor
Gabriella "the adult" Rees Co-Photography Editor
Lillian "i don't understand this, but i like it" Rubarts Assistant Art Editor
Jaden Thomas Staff
Leena "ok y'all" Mehendale Co-Editor in Chief
Allison "the Zoomer" Yang Art Editor
Victoria "do we wanna vote?" Hart Co-Photography Editor
Sonali "the professional" Konda Assistant Literary Editor
Julia "the TV fixer" Copeland Faculty Advisor
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THE THINGS THAT HELPED US THROUGH QUARANTINE
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