Vibrato 2019 Magazine by The Hockaday School

T H E H OC K A DAY S C H OO L | 2 0 1 9 | Volume 54

The Hockaday School Volume 54 2019

Vibrato

V I b r ato

GNARLY

| ELOISE

SINWELL | Acrylic Paint on Canvas

VIBRATO | VOLUME 54 | 2019

The Hockaday School 11600 Welch Road Dalls, Texas 75229

214.363.6311 Hockaday.org

Dear Reader, From the breathtaking outdoors and godly architecture to people in our lives that inspire us every day, greatness is all around us. As you read this magazine, immerse yourself in heavenly landscapes, be entranced in mesmerizing diction, transport yourself into another world of captivating artwork, and lose all sense of reality while engrossed in exceptional films. Take note that, all around us and in different forms, there are gods among men.

WATERFALL

| ALEXA

MAY | Photography

Literature

FIlm

14 Seasons | Caroline Subbiah 38 The Depths | Sari Wyssbrod 60 Phonies | Alexa May 92 An Afternooon with... | Alexa May

TO THE GIRL WHO HAS HAD HER HEART BROKEN Justice Coutee McCullum Do not be sad, for he has lost his way. Distracted by the green he thought would be other side, he has fallen into a hole where he can no longer see you Enclosed by it, he can’t help but forget you. Forget how you loved him, maybe even more than you loved yourself. How you supported him, carrying his burdens on your back so he could rest. How you cared for him when he was abandoned by everyone but you. How you forgave him when he stole your heart and then proceeded to play with it. Behind by his charm, his love laid cold and fragile His truth unfolded into lies, his lips saying you are mine and I am yours when his mind wanted to say I think we should see other people You even told yourself you would never be a fool for love, yet he was an exception Sacrificing all your time, when he only gave you part of his Lying in bed wondering if he is thinking about you just as much as you are thinking about him Questioning what was more to “oh babe something came up” when he calls to cancel plans When he says I love you, and had you convinced he meant it That your love for each other was real, the kind of authenticity you can only find in legal documents You even asked God “what was the reason for you putting him in my life?” But little did you know, God planned to teach you what bullshit masked behind love looks like How the words I love you don’t mean I’m in love with you How we can lean our hearts against things that are incapable of supporting them That if he was in love with you as much as he says he was, he wouldn’t have let you go Although a hearts purest thoughts may cause the deepest wound, they are better than lies Your days without him may move a little slower, may be a little less sunny, but Girl Trust me, You don’t miss him, just the idea of him

STARRY EYES

SIMONE HUNTER | Colored Pencil and Marker

HEARST REFLECTIONS

JESSICA KATZMAN | PHOTOGRAPHY

Shea Castleman Dear Slow Poke, Roll your way through life, … Fight the battle, and Control your own path. Sweep the bystanders off their feet. Force others to feel the Glow of your personality. Ignore the cacophony around you, Sparkle in the sunlight, Confront the clouds who block your light. Stand strong, away from the sunken ships. Although the waters force you to break, You can reform, you can rise again. Be proud of your colors, Stormy grey, tired turquoise, rumbling royal, And peaceful, periwinkle blue. Glimmer majestically in the light. Don’t be a statue. Move around, make change. Do not allow Poseidon’s currents to manipulate who you are, Who you want to be, And when you break.

SS REYKJAVIK

ALEXA MAY

| Photography

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I AND LOVE AND YOU. Shalini Kishore I’m a pictursesque skyline from afar. Take two steps closer. Do you flinch at that cracked paint on those cars? Rusted hinges on creaky doors, Yellow-brown grass, On a seemingly never-ending moor Not the green you thought it was, But then again, you don’t seem the type to scare easily. Everything is less beautiful as you get closer. Except you.

HONEYMOON SHACK

| PAIGE HALVERSON | Photography

SEASONS Caroline Subbiah A story of the ups and downs of a girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first love, told through the passage of the seasons.

KATHERINE HANCOCK | Oil on Canvas

FRUIT

PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM

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syzygy

/’ sizijē/

Hailey Sipes

noun ASTRONOMY a conjunction or opposition, especially of the moon with the sun.

Apollo coaxed the Sun into his chariot, Like a master bribing his dog with a meaty bone. Winged horses rode off, allowing the Moon to make her entrance And to save dear Icarus from the fall As the heat of moonlight fails to amount, And the arrival of night leaves nothing but a chill in the air Finally, Icarus’ cyclic death found an end, The Sun removed from his perch, The wax never waning, Melting, boiling the flesh of his arms and along his spine, Leaving him plummeting for Poseidon’s vast waters. Yet the Moon stared at the boy For she didn’t understand what gave men the right to fly like gods Like the eagles that sat upon the throne of Mount Olympus. However, she was alone The sky empty and starless, the shade of a fresh bruise. Her powers were few and thin, for she was not a goddess She could not walk on two legs like her mistress, Artemis, Justice was not the Moon’s to deliver. The strings of the Fates remained uncut for dear Icarus The oceans free from his plummeting assault, But Hades would not like it, Cerberus, too For they lost a soul to devour And Charon, the coin of another shade. So, the Moon wept quietly, Not knowing what to do She watched and watched and watched As Icarus soared higher, His father not breathing a word of warning And for once, the tragedy clinging to the boy’s back Was the only thing to fall.

STARS

CAROLINA STEWART | Photography

MATTER Catherine Sigurdsson

They say matter can neither be created nor destroyed, but how can one destroy what never mattered? WHY DOES YOUR HAND LOOK LIKE THAT? | ELOISE SINWELL | Digital Art

ANGRY FEMINIST Claire Trochu Hell yes I’m angryand I have a right to bewhen you try to take my autonomy away from me Don’t mess with me, it’s in our history: decades of oppression and misery To add insult to injuryfeminism is vilified, crucified -as if we want anything but to be unified From infancy you take our dignity, it’s a system of hatred and bigotry This country is a corrupt industry where the product is male victory “Come to America, we have liberty!” Do we really? Between shootings and sex slavery, this liberty’s kind of a mystery... You claim it’s absurd, our issues auxiliary: but if you were unheard, you’d sure think differently But I’m sure you’ve understood sufficiently, there’s not hundreds of women out there like me, telling their story, heard very shortly, then forgotten and put to the periphery

DEFIANCE

GRACE LABER | Photography

A DISSONANT MELODY Grace Laber My parents share a secret smile. Two friends whisper hushed nothings, Connecting on a level unknown to me, they share. My boyfriend, full of passion, attempts a similar confession Ringing in my heart a bell of disharmony. Why can my heart not tune to this song, As if the world sings a beautiful melody and the only Note that I can produce is one of discord.

DREAMING BEYOND THE HORIZON | HANNA ZHANG | Oil Paint

WHITE

PICKET

FENCE

| C A RO LINE

STEWA

RT | Ph otograp

T R ! P

KATHERINE HANCOCK | Colored Pencil and Oil Stick

TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR Hailey Sipes There was little the girl remembered of the man. Her eyes had dared not settle on his face when he’d creaked open her door, so she memorized the details of the rotting wood of the crawl space around her. Memorized the scuff marks on his large, black boots as he just brushed past the soft crack between her and him. All the while, she kept her lips sewn shut. How long had she been sitting there? She could not remember. Hair hung limp from her shoulders, knotted at the back of her skull, glossed with the shine of grease. Curled in the corner, head buried in her knees, her spine twisted like a sickly old wolf’s, hunched and gruesome. The emptiness in her belly birthed a beast, feral and untamed. She feared that if the man were to find her, the fatigue might win out and she might lose, or perhaps the primal hunger instead, and the win would be far too much for her to bear. The stars that glimmered in her eyes mere days before had spit and sputtered and died out. Days. At least, that’s what she thought. The concept of time blurred together in her mind. Minutes felt like hours, hours like seconds, days like millennia. She wished she could claim that at least she went down with a fight, the gaseous light spending its last breath creating a supernova. She wished she could claim she did just as much damage to the man as he’d done to her, shattering him to pieces in her final moments of shining. But her death was more of a simple fade, her light flickered out without consequence, without notice, and amongst the billions of others – no one would miss her. Her line had been cast, her catch much larger than she could carry. The bass flopped in her palms, slicing and ruining the flesh. Yet the blood dripping from her hands lacked the pain she’d expected. Crimson stained the floors, stained her jeans, leaving them warm and sticky at first, but then just stiff and scratchy. The splinters of wood nestled into her skin, and the girl reached out her fingers to grasp the sound of her mother’s voice, chiding her as the horse drawn carriage took them around the city on tour. You need to clean that. She’d say. The girl remembered her words, the way she’d look down at the gash on her knee where she’d tripped and fallen onto the concrete. But the melody was lost in the deep crevices of her mind. People claim that memory loses its grip on the faces of loved ones first, but she could still see each and every detail of her mother’s face. Each blemish, each perfection.

SHADOWS

CLARISSA FUENTES | Photography

LEGACY Seerat Sohal Destiny penned a great, spectacular, life story for me. One filled with swashbuckling escapades and the everlasting scent of adventure. Another enclosed in a misty grove, sweet secrets and otherworldly entities swirling within. A third, with an intrinsic aura of mystery, promising unkept vows and sorrowful spells. But it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough for me. I created my own life story, one of ambition and amity, jeering Destiny throughout it all. And I must say, I have never regretted that choice. Not once.

AMAZON

CHRISTINE KIRBY | Photography

THE ANTHEM OF TEENAGE BURNOUT ANONYMOUS a bubble surrounds me. and responsibilities and commitments pound their fists, scream their muffled cries, leaving little spidery cracks that threaten the day that my bubble will shatter and rain down on me in splintery shards of glass. happiness comes in an orange bottle and tastes like chalk. my words have no weight unless theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in 12-point times new roman. for I am a child, or at least treated like one, yet expected to behave like a small adult. life is an endless loop, every soul just another pawn in the system, completing one dull task after another, with no way out. running on a hamster wheel, spinning faster and faster yet going nowhere.

VANDAL | TOSCA LANGBERT | Acrylic, Gesso, Ink, Resin on Canvas

CALYPSO (THE CYNIC) FALLS IN LOVE Shalini Kishore On that day my soul grew romantic: In stepped my unfaithful neurotic, Ah distinctly, I was surely dreaming! This was unpatriotic, despotic! And so I screamed: “Is that a feeling?” Love’s hypochondriac too quoth: “Don’t be so dramatic.”

DEAR EDWARD HOPPER 2

SHERRI HONG | Photography

THE DEPTHS Sari Wyssbrod The Depths is an experimental piece about a woman struggling to move past and overcome her grief.

THE

QUESTION

Hailey Sipes The seed is planted with a lack of professionalism, A theatrical narrative of a growing passion Between two inebriates, Drunk on the slightest bud of a rose. A string of lyrical nothings whispered into the ear, Summer lovers race to the beach, The pebbles crunching against the soles of their shoes. It was an intimate dance of vulnerable, Pounding, swelling hearts Against their cages. A small, gallant knight weaved through painted fingers, Its red paint chipped at the snout and along the mane, The soft green felt of the underside caving in. She released him and he plummeted into the sand. A centuries-year-old soothsayer with a taste for cigarettes waits Beneath the shadow casted from a tall oak, His spells dying before they can croak past his cracked lips, Watching as the flowers begin to bloom. A murder of crows circles around the shore, And one plucks the knight from the grains, Carrying it in his long, black beak to the soothsayer. He drops it in the old manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s paper palm. Seasoned, naĂŻve eyes locked on the object, Twisting it in his hand. And when the lovers fluttered back to the road, He returned it safe into the painted fingers. The rose withers.

HANDS

KAREN LIN | Pen and Ink

IDENTITY

NANCY DEDMAN

| Pastel, Pencil, Pen

NEVER AGAIN helena Perez-Stark Today I cut apart the crude stitches Which had sewn our hands together And I discovered we were rotting. The stink of flesh that longed to slough off And bone which wanted to be exposed Was eminent. We snipped away all the bad bits And left only what was clean So we saw we were not whole.

LISTEN TO YOUR WORLD Sarah Landry The effervescent voices harmonize Together, they form an electric current, A steady grasp on the world, A conceptual understanding of the unknown The brittle voices brawl They armor themselves, Resume a persistent stance, Raise their shields, And beckon for their enemy Through taunting coercion But the ears reap power But the ears seek true passion But the ears hold influence For it is the ears that listen To the harmony And make sense of it all And it is the ears that Soak in the arguments And soften the sharp edges Of conflict Your ears first taught your mouth to speak, So listen before your words leak and learn from your ears attentively, For they will influence your perspective proportionately

SUNNY BEE

HELENA KUIZ | Photography

ANGKOR

MEGHNA JAIN | Acrylic on Canvas

THE YEAR THEY CAME Shea Castleman Weeks and weeks of preparation Have all come to this day, the day they came. Away from the predators, Away from bad weather. The family forms like a cloud, uncertain at first But later joined together, Ready to take on the world Ready to pass the generation onto the next All of the uncertainty vanished.

Their first Spring; The birds are chippering, Welcoming the cubs into the beauty of Spring. The smell of the green grass, inhabited by little drops of mildew and the creatures of the earth. To see the colors of the rainbow, splashed across the earth like splatter paint. To feel the exciting complexity of new life. To taste the freshly bloomed fruitâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweetness that explodes in your mouth. To hear the morning birds, waking up the world with their music.

TREE OF LIFE

GIGI SPICER | Photography

Their first Fall; The fox gestures to the cubs to follow him in his journey towards fall. To smell the crisp autumn chshcshchsch of the freshly turned leaves. To see the colors; red, yellow, orange lazily idling off the bare trees. Feel the crunch of the pine cones laying on the ground under their feet. Savor the taste the millions of food served on the day of thanks. Hear the gusts of wind, creating a tornado of colors, leaves, leaving a flurry of colors in its path. Their first winter; The polar bears, snow leopards and penguins all show up as the cubs dive into their first winter, ready to show the cubs the harsh, gentle climate of winter. Smell the aroma of the smoke from the fire, lingering in the air. See the white, the streets and mountains and roofs and trees covered in the soft, light snow. Feel the brisk breeze and harsh winds cutting at your face. Taste the snowflakes on your tongue and taste the joy in the atmosphere, the holiday happiness. Hear nothing, hear the silent of winter, the rare peace and silent of winter. And you, what do you notice in the Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter? Nothing is my guess. But what do these cubs notice? Everything is my guess.

Their first Summer; The bumblebees flap their wings wildly, bursting with excitement to show the cubs around summer. Smell the familiar waft of a flower, freshly bloomed. Colors bursting at the seams. Watch the glows of the lightning bugs, clicking on and off like times on life! Feel the rays of the burning, hot sun, beaming down and illuminating the whole earth. Taste the gust of happiness in the air, the animals run around, unaware of the vulnerability of their existencesâ&#x20AC;Ś Hear the insects humming in the dead of night, their voices like a gentle tap of a maraca, the best lullaby in the world.

AMO TE Tanvi Kongara and Celese Gierhart Iām īnvītus amēns velīt cachīnnos Ēt cēnām sine mē; fugīt amōrem. Cēdēs āb pietā favēsque pāppo. Nōn crēdīs mihi aut amōri, Pōlla? Dā mē aut rapiō amōris ōmnem

English Translation:

I love you Now the unwilling lover would like laughter And dinner without me; she flees from my love. You will go away from my devotion and give favor to that old man. Do you not trust me or my love, Polla? Give it to me or I take all of your love.

ELLE WOODS

ELOISE SINWELL | Oil on Canvas

I WISH I WENT TO FENCING MORE

ANGELINA WU | Charcoal

the screen illuminates the dark room flashes bright forces insecurities into light bumpy skin. yellow teeth. double chin. altered body flaunted on Instagram skin smoothed. teeth whitened. fat shifted. the photo edited for Two days posted Two days ago liked Two hundred times the screen protects a secret quarantines emotions anonymizes each individual

Catherine Dedman

stress. anxiety. depression. calculated captions deceive followers funny. carefree. happy. the comment deliberated for Two hours posted Two minutes ago conned Two hundred followers the screen clicks off extinguishes the light assassinates the Instagram identity. Darkness envelopes what remains.

TOSCA LANGBERT | FIRING PRACTICE TARGET AND ACRYLIC

LAZY DOG DAYS

PARKER HAWK | Photography

WINCING AROUND Helena Perez-Stark Every day an arrow hitâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; I must look funny going around like this. Stupid stumbling: staggering bleeding. but they got heavy! Sinking further into flesh.

PHONIES Alexa May Take a look at the effects and dangers of technology on current society through the lens of a seventy-year-old grandmother.

ALASKAN ICY HIGH RISES

TANVI KONGARA | Photography

her side. Everything he touched was the fabric of her dress. It drove him mad. A choice had to be made; a tie had to be cut. Helena would always be in Ariel’s heart forever, but the weight of her in his head would soon bring him down. The leaves did not shake when the wind raked through their homes for they were on the ground. Under Ariel’s boots, the foliage, heavy and sodden, refused to crackle when he stepped across them. The gentle, comforting susurrus of the river had been reduced to an eerie, unsettling trickle. Unsure of what was here for him if not even the earth’s God-given hum, Ariel waited. He pulled out an envelope from his coat. Old and worn, it crinkled under the weight of his fingertips. Unfolding the papers in a familiar, routine way, Ariel slipped out a letter graced with the final touches of Helena’s soul. Snowflakes gently landed over the ink, dampening the page and streaking her words across it. Ariel might have desired to protect an item so precious to him if the writing on the page was not already smeared by his own teardrops. read it again. Besides, he had no need to ever read it again. Every word on the paper had been ensrhrined in his memory and etched into his solitude.

ONE COLD WINTER’S NIGHT Sari Wyssbrod When the frost settles along the land, it demands a kind of respect. The bitter cold takes over the surface of the world with its downy snow, the grey clouds smother the sky like a scratchy hood, and ice strives to fill the void between that which it cannot quite reach. The air becomes an unforgiving, hostile force that splinters with every movement, shatters against the skin like glass, and attempts to ensnare every warm breath. Yet, as winter coiled her limbs around every inch of the world, Ariel remained remarkably unmoved. He had little to cover him, save him, protect him, but he felt nothing. The question as to the possibility of this plagued him. He had no inkling of whether he had learned to valiantly brave the cold or if he had simply succumbed to it at last. The smell of wavering warmth still drifted through the back of his mind. The sight of his hands outstretched over an amorphous substance that licked away at metal and wood, conquering it all, still burned at his fingertips. But all the while, Ariel no longer yearned to be protected by the heat and instead welcomed the cold breeze of winter. The howling winds that pulled at him drifted softly past his ears, singing his name in a voice warmer than a thousand suns. The gentle voice led Ariel down to the river. The river was once a powerful force, raging past gnarled tree roots and rocks with a lack of mercy that wore them away, dragging anyone who touched it down into its depth. But it too had been brought to its knees by winter. Though some water trickled weakly through the cracks, the wild current had stopped in its tracks, solidified by the hand of ice. The wind had grown stronger now, whistling notes through the bare trees and lifting up their fallen leaves. Through it, Ariel could still hear her voice.

Then it was as if Helena stood before him in that hollow by the stream. Like always, she was the most beautiful sight, but some otherworldly aura made her feel out of place. She smiled sadly, her beautiful eyes dulled like the snuffed wick of a candle. Each of them should have been over joyed to see each other, but both had only exchanged pained glances. “I’m sorry,” Ariel whispered. “I love you. I always will.” Ariel realized that thinking of Helena the way he did, how often he did, and how painfully he did was just as poisonous to her as it was to him. Until Ariel could release her, she was just a ghost doomed to haunt him. Neither could go on the way they did. So, Ariel tore apart the letter in his hands. He felt a tear in his heart with every piece of the parchment he destroyed, but, when it was over, he felt lighter as if some force had lifted a weight from his shoulders. Thinking they deserved a better end than to wear away in the cold snow, he slipped the remaining shards of the letter into his pocket. A creak echoed through the space as a tree somewhere along the bank gave up, slipped from its grip in the earth, and crashed into the river. Its fall tore through the ice, releasing the river from the teeth of frigidness. The waves crashed through the stony snow, eating swiftly through winter’s grasp, which slowly wore away. Ariel made his way back to his home, lit the fireplace, and dropped the letter into its gaping, hungry mouth. He found himself in the first slumber of his life where no agonal nightmares or sweet, nostalgic dreams tormented him.

Helena had floated in his mind for ages, or more properly, had anchored herself to his consciousness. At first, when the grief made him raw, he loved nothing more than to hear her voice in every whisper of the world, but now it was nothing more than a torment. Everywhere he looked, he saw the color of her eyes. Everything he heard was her voice. Everything he smelled brought him back to a moment by

TUNNEL

EMMA ROSEMAN | Digital Art

THE WARMTH WITHIN 1408 MILES Sherri Hong uttering the name of yours is like floating on a sea full of rose petals drenched by the sun in the fragrance of the moon Saturated by the love of the universe Kissed by every single ash inside our beloved houses. uttering the name of yours is like stepping on the realms that I lost drawing out the wilting of the darkness and separation eventually all the dimensions combined into one eternal one tracing the silhouette of yours on my palms my heart opens and cracks into sugar on cinnamons the heaving of my chest pushes away the waves of the pink bubbles floating inside one glass of champagne searching for the scent of yours in my chaotic fantasy is like peeking into your pupils on the ceilings of the spacious firmament staring at one grape on your lips imagining the taste of it was sweeter than the devotion of my love. ROSEWATER

SAWYER BANNISTER | Photography

HANGING GIRL Helena Perez-Stark

I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t become you, (whose hair drifts down Past her hips and whose face I am too fearful To glimpse).

SICK STUDY | HELENA PEREZ-STARK | Watercolor

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AN ADVENTURE THROUGH THE WOODS Riyana Daulat I wandered in solitude among Mother Nature: her gifts abundant and invigorating. I could hear the murmuring babble of the brook, And the wild flavor of the partridge-berries stained my tongue as red as drops of blood. I met a small partridge with her ten babies; we became fast friends and she told me all her woes. Then, I met a frightful pigeon, who in a way reminded me of my mother. It sat alone and didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say many words. Next, a squirrel appeared from inside his home, he chattered quickly before scurrying away. As I continued my adventure, a mighty wolf emerged from his den underground. But instead of fleeing away from him, I decided even an intimidating wolf needs love. So, I patted his head, and he stood by me. The beautiful flowers called out to me, and I felt as if I must answer. So, I gathered them up and decorated my hair with the colorful petals. Though I have felt like I have been detached from everybody throughout my life, In the end, I realized I am not alone at all.

ELYSIUM

CAROLINA STEWART | Photography

Seera Sohal “A dystopian world is enthralling yet terrifying,” you say Unaware of the sheer gravity of your words A dystopian world shelters famines and droughts and horrifying diseases some with no cure A dystopian world fawns over fascism, dictatorship and tyranny It would squeal in delight upon hearing about building barriers for that would lock people in, and force people out creating a perfect experiment to test ideas of oppression and alienation A dystopian world courts the execration of one another in which people commit unforgivable and unbelievable crimes on one another for simply looking, believing, and loving differently A dystopian world absorbs all this unaware that it will lead to humanity’s inevitable, well-deserved death Have you not realized? We now live in a dystopian world.

SPIRAL

NANCY DEDMAN | Colored Pencil

MORE THAN A NUMBER

NEELAM JIVANI

| Acrylic on Canvas

something like family Caroline Subbiah

After Matthew Olzman

Here’s what I’ve got: the reasons why this family might work. Because Mom makes the coffee and Dad buys the bagels. Because Dad hates stuffed peppers but will eat when Mom cooks them. Because we have dinner together every night, squeeze like sardines on the stained beige couch and watch Modern Family. The parenting books don’t approve, but we don’t care. Because they told me stories when I was younger and my mind turned pirouettes late at night. Because they tell me stories now, about their childhoods, about marriage, about how to live. Because Mom reminds Dad to take his vitamin supplements but knows not to press it. Because we love rain. Because we love museums. Because my parents only throw things at each other some of the time and they usually apologize afterward. Because we don’t talk about that night when Mom stayed at the nearby motel. Dad cooked pasta and left it on the stove too long and it burned. We picked at limp soggy tasteless strands for an hour before giving up. No Modern Family. Later, I cried metal tears into my pillow. When she returned the next day, suitcase in hand, it was like waking from a bad dream, the bitter taste still in your mouth. We hugged. It was a promise. We haven’t broken it yet. Because we are ninety percent happy. Because this is all we know. Because why would we change now?

FAMILY PICNIC | Jade Ngyuen | Photography

WAITING ROOM THOUGHTS, AUGUST 2018 Ellen Schindel

I feel another force Holding me up. My back bone seemed to dissolve into my stomach My acids filled and turned. Numb. From my shoulders The rest of me dangles I don’t know the force holding my shoulders. I just hope it’s benevolent.

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STITCHING LIFE

MEGHNA JAIN | Linocut

FRUIT

PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM

COLD

CATHERINE HOWARD | Photography

OATH (ARS POETICA) Caroline Subbiah a poem should be a pulse rattling against your wrist. your mind, your body, stripped down to the warm beating flesh as your organs sing together in loud, beautiful harmony. a poem should be unfiltered coffee, dark, thick like honey. thoughts strewn across the page like a bag of dead leaves turned on its side, so its contents scatter in the wind. a thousand butterflies. i am ready, willing. i wait with open arms, with nets stitched from fairy floss, to catch the stray thoughts that float by like seaweed in the waves. let yourself sink, and trust that you will come back up.

WOMAN

| NANCY DEDMAN | Pencil on Paper

FICTIO Hailey Sipes Fiction, as it seemed, was always drawn from real life, assets plucked from their shelves and tossed into a false world for the sake of authenticity and relatability.

SNOW BRIDGE

CHARLOTTE BENEDICT

| Photography

HALO // GOODBYE

TOSCA LANGBERT | Ink

Michelle Chen

My body aches with thunder. I have never felt my limbs so full of blood. My underworld runs, flushed-faced.

Death I [fax quoque, quam tenuit, lacrimoso stridula fumo, usque fuit nullosque invenit motibus ignes]

My body is No Longer Eurydice, but filled with electric thrills. I am technicolor gold, fleetingly immortal.

Our wedding day woke up white, dipping her toes into the morning, let wind ooze over her lungs like honey.

You come, chasing after the memory of me. Your music may charm souls, lyre, but it cannot charm a losing battle.

The sun, his golden skin smooth like an unpeeled apple salutes Dawn, she blushes.

Euphoric, you grasp me. Your memory ascends, limping. Lyre, lyre, lyre

I washed my face with marriage, sweet-flowing, and watched fresh dew tremble with small desires, waiting.

I remember warmth. I remember day, expanding its yellow wings upon morning

Dusk comes, brooding his heavy mind. You step forth blackened. I remember south winds chafing.

air [you turn your eye blinded by love, churning softly with death]

I remember soft sand seething, flames hissing, smoking, the night boils under your tongue.

smooth across my hands, swollen with longing, I fall in decrescendo

a murder of crows and the serpent. I felt him ice cold, slithering, spiked my ankle red.

I am

EURYDICE CONTINUUM

Death II [flexit amans oculos. Et protinus illa relapsa est, bracchiaque intendens, prendique et prendere certans, nil nisi cedentes infelix arripit auras]

[supremumque “Vale”]

I am the promise of sunrise that lingers on the soft skin of evening, tugging at your ears like a song from far away I am every time you put the summer in your mouth, ripe, always dressed in a smile, forever sweet like the air when you lay your head on the window to dream I am the black earth that collects in your collarbones every time you think of me, until the day that you, too, bathe in the River Styx I am the sand that slips from your hands to the deep azure, only to resurface in your coffee the next morning, a pearl, and say: Orpheus, I will never forget your love. Latin excerpts from Ovid’s Metamorphoses “Orpheus and Eurydice”

NARCISSUS Hailey Sipes Because what would they be without vanity? Their skin smooth, clothes tailored, words primed and proper

until they

D R I P P E from painted lips like honeyed belladonna.

FRUIT VOID | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM | KRISTI LI | Digital Art

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AN AFTERNOON WITH SKY Alexa May Cloudless blue skies, golden Sky, & lots and lots of sticks. An afternoon spent with the golden retriever, Sky, as she explores the uncharted territory of her backyard.

Nushah Rahman Each morning I wake A blank slate And proceed to the closet to select A mask For Family I begin with the mask I wear only with family The most beautiful of them all Glass skin, not a single scratch mars the surface The ever-present light flush, rosy-cheeks (The indicator of the blood boiling underneath) Silken hair, each glossy strand Richly dark yet shining so brightly Perfectly straight and rigid, never bending nor curling (Years of pressure taught me everything must be straight) And of course, most importantly, the smile A museum that never closes Always displaying its set of pearls All perfectly even, without a single space (There is hardly room for spaces when they always clench together) For Friends The mask for friends isn’t so stern A jolly front that never frowns Crow’s feet at the ripe age of seventeen Eyes shut, wings fluttering beneath them (Whether from laughing at my own jokes or pretending to laugh at others’) A visible glow shines through Highlight on my cheekbones Along the bridge of my nose Under my brow bone (Perspiration from the ungodly heat) Indentations on each side of my mouth Like tiny craters cracking open Oh the happiness of dimples Popping out constantly with each smile (While the aching in my cheeks grows) For Myself You would not like to see The mask I wear when I’m alone Each feature more horrifying than the next A grotesque concoction of Skin speckled with spots, fresh blistering zits And dried skin that brushes off and floats down like snowflakes They say eyes are the windows to the soul But these black holes seem to be locked I have no choice but to stand in front of the mirror And deal with the burden that is me Until it is time to sleep So I take it off and once again I am a blank slate. CIRQUE DU COLLUSION | TOSCA LANGBERT| Ink and Watercolor

LOUVRE

VARSHA DANDA | Photography

PEARL Jenny Choi Mother and I have arrived in the realm of fairies. There are strange mirrors, paintings of stuffy men, and roses. Pretty, pretty roses. I want one, I really, really want one, I really, really, reallOh look! Someone is coming! These old men keep saying I am a bird, a ruby, or a coral but I am Pearl. They want to know who my father is. They ask, “Canst thou tell me, my child, who made thee?” I place my finger over my lips, and I don’t answer. What a fun little game.

RED HEAD | SIMONE HUNTER | Colored Pencil and Marker

SEEING THROUGH MILK Lily Forbes Milk cascading from the dull pitcher Drips with the deafening pulse of time. I examine the meager trickle of sweat formulating Beneath Mum’s rutted brow. Her cold visage and somber lips Peer down into the little white puddle forming beneath her, Exhausted eyes glaring back at themselves. Paint chipped walls whisper woebegone truths, Seeming to utter, “this will all be yours one day.” The callused hands? The sorrowful glances? The pungent cheese and stale bread atop some old cloth? The laborious hours spent in a house that’s not mine? The husband I don’t recognize And the daughter I don’t have time for? No more milk left in the pitcher. The ticking of time continues to spill. Inspired by “The Milkmaid” by Vermeer BRIEF BLUE PERIOD

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TOSCA LANGBERT | Colored Pencil

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BUILD ME A CITY AND CALL IT JERUSALEM Shalini Kishore I cannot give you what you want— Jerusalem was constructed a thousand years ago, on ashes and treachery and division out of what claimed to unify. You want the impossible from me! I am a grown woman— these limbs and sinew will never stretch in time. All that is left to do now is to cultivate my insides: to water my mind’s impenetrable castle with something greater (see: more motherly and more encouraging) than Jerusalem could ever be. A city on a hill? Please.

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HASSAN II

MEGHNA JAIN | Acrylic on Canvas

FRUIT

PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM

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MOTHERLY LOVE

CHRISTINE KIRBY

Photography

KENYAN ELEPHANT

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CHRISTINE KIRBY | Photography

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STAR SEARCHING Leena Mehendale On the jet-black nights where the sky seems to blend in with the ground seamlessly, I stumble out through the iron-spike gate separating the vast world from my backyard. Billowing clouds of dust arise from my heavy footsteps as I precariously avoid crushing young grass seedlings streaked with multifarious dainty wildflowers. Through the darkness, my eyes struggle to discern dark figures of motionless owls perched on thick, black branches with gleaming bright yellow eyes, spotlights amidst an empty stage. Spring grasses intertwine with plant stems while dead leaves hang lifelessly from sturdy oak trees and their decrepit, gnarled stumps. Squirrels hurry back and forth from their cozy lodgings in a hollowed-out pine tree, gathering fallen nuts for the fast-approaching wintertime. Stars above shine their heavenly light on all wandering souls below, beckoning those to feast their eyes on midnight’s beauty. The moon glows faintly behind a canopy of the trees as if hiding from an unknown seeker. Adoring mothers describe the sky’s pictures to their fascinated children,faces lighting up with joy upon spotting the brilliant constellations; tender lovers confess fervent passions to the stars’ glory with assurance that their secrets will remain locked away; apprehensive, hopeless mourners weep, tear-streaked faces with salt permanently crystallized on their eyelashes searching through darkness for a sign.

DIPTYCH PT. 1

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KATHERINE HANCOCK | Acrylic on Paper

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LOVING AND BREAKING Arabella Ware Lately, I’ve been writing about you a lot. Somehow, you have worked your way back into my poetry.

I can’t help but paint you with these words of mine because it always looks so beautiful. I miss this. When I could stare at you and masterpieces would pour out of my body with the same delicacy and intensity of your gaze. I miss the way that I could sing when I traced the skin on your neck, but most of all I miss the words that visited me when I loved you. Those were the words that carry lifetimes. Those were the words that carried our bodies together and I have been mute for so long that the aching in my backbone has given way to the inevitable aftermath of a poet’s broken heart. So here it is, plain and simple, three poems of before you loved me, when you loved me, and after you left: ~ There is something very simple about this love. It is like eating cereal at midnight and listening to your favorite song when it’s raining, Lyrics trickle from your lips and poetry glides off of my tongue. You are so gentle. ~ Before you loved me: It is these beginning stages that are the embodiment of love. Our hearts, honeyed in the prospect of future, are ever so vulnerable. I take your hand with the caution of a child, still learning how to walk, and place a piece of me inside of it, handing you the first fragment of my naive soul. I think of you as I close my eyes, wondering, praying, that somewhere else, you are doing the same. I dream of you as if you are something divine swallowing me in feelings that I don’t yet understand. Oh, how I crave you. I wince, it’s like learning how to breathe again. ~ I learned him. I read him like my favorite book and I sang him like my favorite song. I memorized his texture like it was the only thing I could touch.

PRODUCT OF INSOMNIA

KATHERINE HANCOCK

| Photography

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When you loved me:

After you left:

When I lie next to you, speak to me. Tangle me in your stories, wrap me in your lullabies, hold me with your poetry.

I only knew you in this form of impalpable existence. You were every yellowing page in my notebook, every loose leaf of paper that I tucked so lovingly into the pages of my favorite books. And yet we are like puzzle pieces, whose edges have been sanded down so that we no longer fit together.

He who holds the ocean in his mouth; pour a steady current from your lips and into my heart. Spill your terrific scripture into my veins so that it pulses through me like electricity. Sow me in everything that you adore, paint me in everything that has hurt you. Read me your testimony, lead me through the massive architecture of your brain, show me what it means to live and how it feels to be alive. I want to melt into you, like candle wax that has seeped into the hardwood floor. I want to dance upon your fingertips as you etch me into paper, teach me how to fall in love without knowing from where. Play symphonies upon the strings of my heart, something that sounds like the end of the world. Take me to the edge of the universe, so that we can fall into each other over and over, steeping in each other’s arms; We are like stars, reborn in the blanketed sky, washed into oblivion by the restless night, burning with so much hunger. Hold my eyes so I can watch the anguish flash across your tired face, let the embers stirring in your soul ignite with passion that burns like a wildfire… and write it down for me. Read it to me. Give me yourself, inscribed in that perfect parchment paper that you keep on the top shelf. Caress me with your magnificent hands, calloused from the pain that you have leaked into ledgers, sweetened by the joy you have breathed into ballads. I want to hold you pure in my hands, entirely unrevised. ~

We pranced upon the threshold of adolescence, swooning in its idyllic simplicities, yet we outgrew each other. Like butterflies, our metamorphoses always looked like departure, and it wasn’t until we untangled ourselves from one another that I realized what love truly feels like. Love is a fire that changes course as easily as the wind. It is anguish disguised as lust; it wears red lipstick and waves a magic wand, but the passion it bears is only a glorified version of hatred. This is what I know about love. Love is the scars that you decorated me with, love is the words that we fired at each other like bullets. Wounds infected with reality. Love bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds, and I don’t know how to stop it from killing me. This is what I know about love. So, each day I dress myself in my armor, I shield myself from your touch, and shy away from your glance, I am not afraid of you, but I am so afraid of falling back in love. ~ You were so frightened of this manmade perception of commitment, but love does not come in terms, it comes in truths, and perhaps if you had been listening closer, you would be too addicted to my mind to walk away.

I look up at this boy who I am so dependent on feel his imprint pressing into my soul. He designed my heart in the likeness of himself, then broke it over and over again. I should have moved on, forgotten, but you were a forest and I was a wildfire, We were meant to burn.

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Cece Tribolet Darkness Hits In a slow dreary motion First arrives the bouquet of lilies clasped by the sky With a small boy sitting on his lap. Next the pockets of bursting light Spring from their tunnels of darkness Each with something unique about them. Turning the darkness into a circus of light The sun has been taken over by these bundles of life The moon and stars create reflections in the river And people create peepholes for the bats amongst the shadows The people of the town have put their selves to rest Unaware of the beauty going on in their own backyard Unaware of the power of just a few lights. The moon creeps away first, followed by the stars And as the townspeople awaken, they shew them off The moon goes back into hiding, the stars back into their tunnels The night has ended but will be back tomorrow.

FEELING BLUE | ANOUSHKA SINGHANIA | Photography

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Parker Hawk “Sorry, I have cross country” Editor-In-Chief

Ellen Schindel “Sorry, I have crew” Editor-In-Chief

Catherine Dedman “Powerlines” Managing Editor

Varsha Danda “Tickling my Memory” Communications Editor

Christine Kirby “Projector Kicker” Photography Editor

Hailey Sipes “Get Lit!” Literary Editor

Emma Roseman “Food Thief” Art Co-Editor

Alexadra Hart “Thing 1” Art Co-Editor

Tarini Gannamanenit “Fixerupper” Assistant Photo Editor

Merritt McCaleb “...” Assistant Literary Editor

Many thanks to: Mrs. Patel for all the time and effort you put into making Vibrato the best publication possible. We really appreciate all your advice and continuous support of our ever-changing ideas.

Bethany Vodicka “Thing 2” Film Editor

Allison Yang “Legacy” Saff

Dr. Cranfill for your wonderful feedback on literary pieces and for generously giving time to the magazine year after year. We’re incredibly grateful for you and your expertise.

Leena Mehandale “Mini Parker” Staff

Catherine Stidham “she doesn’t even go here” Staff

Dr. Coleman, Mr. Murray, and Mrs. Palmer for your support and facilitation of our creativity. Melanie Hamil at Impact Graphics and Printing for being so flexible throughout the years and allowing us to create a unique magazine every year. Thank you for helping us and our crazy ideas become a reality. Vibrato is a magazine that exhibits the original art, photography, film, and literature of the Hockaday student body. Together, our staff members review each submission anonymously, carefully select pieces for the publication, design the spreads, and distribute the magazine. As you indulge in this year’s magazine, we hope that you appreciate each piece the same way the staff does. The text of this issue is set in Arvo and the titles are set in Big John and Slim Joe. Variances in size are used for titles of literary pieces, art, film, and photography as well as the names of the authors, artists, filmmakers, and photographers. The main title of the magazine is set in Big John. The magazine was designed on Mac computers with Adobe CC 2018. The papers used for the 116 paged book is printed on 100# Polar Bear Gloss Text, respectively by Impact Printing in Dallas, Texas.

Gabriella Reese “Freashmeat 2” Staff

Alexis Cuban “Seating Chart” Staff Victoria Hart “Wait What?” Hart Staff

ANTARTICA

Number _____ of 650

| ELOISE

SINWELL | Acrylic Paint on Canvas