Calliope 2021 by Marianapolis

Art is subjective, an interpretation of what is intended and what is perceived. And in a world that constantly tells you what to think and how to feel, what a joy it is to do it yourself. Is art an imitation of life, or does life imitate art? Do we look to art to inspire, to spark progression, or do we look to art as a means of reflection, to remember, perhaps, what we try to forget? I cannot give you an answer to these questions; however, I can promise you closure amongst these pages––if you’re willing to look for it. As you flip through this collection, I invite you to think creatively, to reflect abstractly, and to feel how you see fit, because it is then, and only then, that you will truly understand what lies before your eyes; when you will get a glimpse of the thousand words that paint that picture, or the story that’s written between those lines. And it is true that you may not understand, but what is art, if not something unique? Beauty may lie in the eye of the beholder, but it is the diversity of thought and discovery of the unknown that makes us look twice. “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” - Henry David Thoreau -Chiara Faiola ’21

Emma Russell ’23 3

Haruna Kobayashi ’21 4

Calliope

/ cal·li·ope / kə-ˈlī-ə-(ˌ)pē / noun

An annual student literary and visual arts magazine presenting creative writing, two-dimensional, and three-dimensional works of art created over the course of the 2020-2021 academic year.

Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, CT 2020-2021 5

Alyssa Leveille ’21 6

Editors Chiara Faiola ’21 – Editor-in-Chief Maura Hoban ’21 – Creative Writing Editor Selection Committee Olivia-Mae Acquaah-Harrison ’22 Chiara Faiola ’21 B Hannon ’23 Donovan Hendrick ’23 Sophie Hendrick ’23 Juliana Hernandez ’21 Maura Hoban ’21 Mackenzie Jutras ’22 Avery Kurzontkowski ’23 Linh Le ’22 Sydney Lundt ’24 Emma McQuiston ’21 Lily Mueller ’22 Luciana Najjar ’24 Abbie O’Brien ’23 Emma Russell ’23 Olivia Sczuroski ’22 Violeta Torres ’24 Daniel Twohig ’22 Kyle Woodruff ’21 Faculty Advisor Kellie Ryan

Special Thank You Rachel Rogers, Karen Tata, David DiCicco, the English Department, the Visual Art Department, and all students who submitted. Front and Back Cover Juliana Hernandez ’21 7

Olivia Acquaah-Harrison ’22 8

Thanks 2020 Lily Givner ’21 Students silently watch as Enthusiastic teachers ask them to participate. Nobody unmutes. If they did, teachers would be grateful, but even an Officer’s stern voice would not be enough to get them to talk. Remember the good old days? Everyone was together and free. No online classes. Genuine smiles. Loud classroom. Interesting conversations. Silence. Here’s to high hopes of Vivid memories they wish they had made. If there was a chance they could forget, And everything was back to normal, Would they? Everyone encourages each other Because that is all we can do. Even though our last year sucks, we are ‘Xactly where we are supposed to be. Thanks 2020.

B Hannon ’23

Brianne Rett ’21 11

Mackenzie Jutras ’22

Escape Chiara Faiola ’21 Why is life not Once upon a dream But a void, an abyss of noise That drowns out her screams Why is life a game And love a joke A race against time A challenge not to choke So when life falls apart She’ll be in a garden of books Where she can be the queen And not stuck as the rook Where time flows At her own pace And all of reality Can be erased ‘Cause when the garden grows Anything she desires The story can be Whatever she requires Where love is no myth And monsters are slayed Where she finds herself Perfectly portrayed Where magic is real And imagination runs free The possibilities endless The world as it should be But is it wrong To drown herself in words Her sorrows buried deep Her troubles unheard Living a fantasy Her head in the clouds Her secrets are told But nothing out loud While it brings her joy To read every verse Is her garden a blessing Or is it a curse?

Ashley Giorgio ’22 14

“Tossing and turning The world is revolving The wind is blowing And the change is coming” from Change by Elena Polsky ’23

Maya Summiel ’22 15

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 16

Hullabaloo Kyle Woodruff ’21 Nobody knows but the hullabaloo, About adolescents cowering in the cracks on the wall Desiring for another chance, a breakthrough. Nobody knows but the squall. Pleas hidden behind silent eyes To save themselves from the inevitable pitfall. Nobody knows but the one who dies, Waiting years upon years for judgement day, Left there to live again amidst the nothingness of the sky. Nobody knows but the disarray, About flowers waiting to bloom again Crushed only by the blind and betrayed. Everybody knows except for men.

Elizabeth Walker ’22 17

Qianhui Lin ’21

Alison Tourtellotte ’21 20

Alison Tourtellotte ’21

Alyssa Leveille ’21 22

Luna Sophie Hendrick ’24 The moon glows Illuminating a world Which seldom people see Quiet streets Punctuated with warm glowing lights The sound of distant cars on a highway As they speed up and slow down The moon glows Illuminating lonely houses Where no one seems to be On dark streets Where no streetlights are to be found A cat meows in the distance As it goes on its nightly walk The moon glows Illuminating the surrounding sky A sight most long to see Clusters of stars Bunched together like a bouquet Orion, Aries, and Leo make no sound As they look down from their place in the stars The moon glows Illuminating the world Which many never see Providing light for me and you As well as the cat on his hunt

With the moon and the stars Just look up And you’ll never feel alone

The leader takes a box of matches out of his back pocket. The box has the words “DEBT CRISIS” written on the front. The leader opens the box and flips through the matches to check that they are still usable. “Are we lighting it now?” “Nah. If this place starts to crumble, then it’ll light up. Otherwise, we wait,” the leader answers. He carries the box over to a large cabinet a few paces from the melting-pot. He opens it and bends down to place the box in the far right corner. This was the first box of matches in the cabinet, but there was room for many more. from Untitled by Daniel Twohig ’22

Lily Mueller ’22 25

Juliana Hernandez ’21 26

Lily Mueller ’22

Juliana Hernandez ’21

Olivia Sczuroski ’22

Yunpeng Wang ’21

The Stranger in the Photo is Me Mackenzie Jutras ’22

My parents used to have a camcorder which they used to record every special event in our lives. When we were infants, they would record practically every second of the day, hoping to catch the next monumental event in our growth as human beings, and creating hard proof that we were really once that small, that obedient. The camcorder was the kind that had an adjustable screen that could be flipped around so that whoever was being recorded could see themselves live and in action. My older brother and I used to get as close as possible to this magical box, begging our father to turn it around so that we could see ourselves. He was always hesitant because he wanted to make sure that he was accurately recording every moment he so cherished, but we eventually wore him out and he would always, without fail, flip the screen. Bug-eyed and curious, my brother and I would see ourselves, laugh for approximately two minutes (the video was upside down), then do whatever ridiculous things we could think of— things that we would want to see on television, since we felt like thats where we were. We loved it. The picture you are seeing now was taken during the prime of the camcorder years. It is early in the morning, and I am still wearing my Disney princess pajamas. These were my favorite pajamas of all time. I was enraptured by the fact that all the princess were wearing gold, and not their respective outfit colors from the movies. I spent many long nights pondering why they were wearing this color. I had yet to see any movie where they had been together, all in gold, doing their princess things. Despite being perturbed by the gold dresses on the princesses, I wore it nonetheless because they made me feel like my nightgown was unique, and like I was unique for having it. I am wearing boxing gloves that are much too large for me and fell off of my hands at a record speed. I tried to look as angry as possible in the photo, because that was what I saw in the wrestlers on WWE’s Monday Night Raw, but I was a kid having fun so I can’t hide the smile very well. I remember my brother getting these gloves and me being exceptionally jealous- why couldn’t I get boxing gloves? And how come Disney princesses didn’t fight, but the ninja turtles did? I had yet to see a Disney princess doing any kind of physical combat, but I always saw the ninja turtles dealing with business, and I thought this was strange so I decided I wanted to be like them both. So I used the boxing gloves whenever I could. They were fun. I often had to use just one while my brother got the second, and it was rarely effective but we didn’t care because, again, we were kids having fun. My dad is in the back of the picture, a rare sight. He has worked two jobs since long before I was born, and is typically only home on Christmas day or a random, unlikely day off, so the fact that he is in this picture lets me know that he was home for the day. And even if it was not pictured here, I could tell you what he was doing. His top priority on his days off was to cook us breakfast. His specialty was french toast, and I would always stand on a chair and butter each piece. This photograph is extra special though, because the pan frier on the island leads me to believe that this was one of the extra special times where he took an entire day off to make his famous gravy. Much has changed since the taking of this photo, both with life in general and with me specifically. I am still very much confused, but more so enraged, at the lack of princesses using their physical strength and skills in my childhood, but am now glad to see that today’s standard Disney princess does in fact fight when she needs to. My dad still uses every single one of his days off to make breakfast, with the (very) occasional gravy every few years. And his breakfast of choice is still french toast which I, of course, butter (standing on the floor rather than a chair now, though). And despite my best efforts, I still cannot hold back a smile when I am happy or having fun. But the girl in this picture is alarmingly different from the one writing about her here. The girl in the picture enjoyed life— every bit of it. She loved the people around her unwaveringly. She tried new things excitedly, and was good at them too. She wanted the nightgown with the princesses in gold because she yearned to stand out. I’ve realized that I miss her. I miss the way she had free time, and used it like a kid should. I miss the way she was ignorant of the world’s problems— that she could be without immeasurable consequences. I miss the way people loved her. I miss her happiness. I miss her love. But what I miss most about the girl in the picture, and the part of her that is easiest for me to forget about, is her self assurance. Her ability to be proudly and unapologetically herself. To love the way she looked and not think anything else about it. To want to be seen. Up until the moment something in her switched, and she realized that she does not look right, think right, or feel right. I don’t know exactly when that was, but I wish I could protect her from it. That I could hunt down the beautiful monster that is life and keep it away from her as long as I could. I wish I still had her spirit. I wish I could walk up to the camcorder again and want to flip the screen to see the other side. 28

Mackenzie Jutras ’22 29

Alyssa Leveille ’21 30

Unending Wander Daniel Ducharme ’22 When I wander upon the great night sky For a moment I am extremely still I see the stars aligned before my eye And I can’t help but to control my will My will O my will is what I ponder Deep into the night is where I shall wait O Can one escape from their own wander? Beyond the great big oceans full of hate The oceans await, their endless abyss Hiding their beauty behind all the hate Only seeking a temporary bliss Bliss from their rigorous and strong await My will which I will forever ponder Is the source of my unending wander

Food is Not Meant for Eating Jenin Ayyash ’21 I used to think food would cry if nobody ate it, and worried about its own taste on plates a place where it is welcomed most, wondering why nobody wanted a bite Of it’s evenly cooked flesh, fresh from gardens and butcher shops Dressed up in condiments and seasoning, she could sing melodies that made mouths water Hotter than any cocktail, and could get you drunk off her sizzle and spice instead Remember her flavor, lick your lips after every bite, don’t wash it down right away Savor the sass as she burns your tongue, leaving you with sores and embarrassment And feeling arrogant because you could have waited a little longer she knows she’s stronger than people that take her for granted Enchanted with her own self love and lust, trusts that she is delicious enough to be Even if nobody is hungry for her.

Chiara Faiola ’21 33

Green Light Olivia Sczuroski ’22 Her lips glazed with honey, dusted with warm sugar, part to reveal fractured, filtered light It races through the rest of her face until her cheeks rise like the sun at dawn She smiles. Her eyes dance like the wildflowers decorating, dangling from, the front porch in the summer wind She rises to a faulty stand, betrayed by her eagerness to dance throughout the kitchen, twirling in a hover of ethereal, scintillating haze She stumbles, draping herself over the countertop with dramatics, rustling the lace of an unsaturated wedding dress, hemmed skillfully into curtains, and startling the clueless little ladybug residing on the 'sill The apples resting on the granite tremble with spring giggles Wild wisps of hair fall over her crinkled nose and her peachy cheeks Weathered fingertips, still stained and streaked of paint, brush back the strands now entangled in her eyelashes with the utmost urgency She laughs. And the heavens bloom. She sprints out of the seasoned front door, her cardigan bellowing slightly at the ends with wind The doorway is left wide open, giving forth only a parting glimpse of her silhouette disappearing into the fields, and a middlingly chilling breeze She lives. And hell rises. 34

Donovan Hendrick ’23 35 35

Chiara Faiola ’21 37

Product of Detonation Olivia Sczuroski ’22 As a member of this society: We walk alone with sanity Trying to keep with its pace Among the violence- and the rat race causes some to ponder fate And others to wonderif it was there in the first place Thoughts speed through our mind as we all run out of time Others will get up and fight For peace among racesAnd equal rights Let the lies be banned A woman is equal to a man And people are people: beyond gender and love Though some just won’t understand I’m still a personDespite what I am. We are warriors with the key To breaking through patriarchy We are the ones with the ability To help people on the streets, refugees Watch the people now, beneath what society sees Those who are loving their neighbors They’re not on your phones, not in the papers Others will stand up to get education And food and water in every nation There’s people fighting out there now So others can stand authentic and proud The sound in the city is democracy It’s how we pave our way Signs as far as you can see Peacemakers lining every street In every person there is a spark They’ve lit a fire inside our hearts We do and say what we please So one day everyone will be free We are the leaders we’re meant to be That stand up to unjust cruelty Expect us to sit idly and mutely As you deem us immature and unruly

But hey, send us to school to learn As all of our hopes of change burn Pressure us into a mold So we do only as we’re told I’m sorry your idea of perfect Simply isn’t worth it I’d ask what causes so much depression But haven’t I already answered that question As if healthcare wasn’t already a mess No one acknowledges generational stress Illness in our minds, and death on our screens Us kids are out here crying- dying- and you’re mad when our hearts scream Please take a moment and look around How times have changedwhat we’re facing now I know your life was hardand my appreciation is true But can’t you comprehendwe’re suffering pain too We beg you to put down your weapons That form of freedom is just deception If I meet my end by a bulletplease don’t let it be in vain Get off your couch and take a standso others don’t suffer the same If you had seen that this was written Under a teenager’s name I hope you’re not surprised to see This revolutionary flame If you don’t see it in our eyesYou aren’t looking deep enough It really shouldn’t shock youThat we actually know this stuff So if you cared enough to ask usIf we were okay You’d hate our modern opinions anyway Because despite what we are shown This generation knows The violence and the hatred must go But go ahead, light the match Singe our trust It’s your world to burn It never belonged to us Just remember Hush, hush Just remember “If we burn, you burn with us” I am not a peaceful child of creation I’m the product of detonation.

Yunpeng Wang ’21 39

Bloom Avery Kurzontkowski ’23 Her only expectation is to bloom with might. Although she is small, although she is quiet, In the eyes of her gardener she will rise with strength. All winter she sits dormant in a paper bag, In the back room of a home depot. Many identical to her surround her in her space, As she impatiently awaits her future. When March comes she is planted, And by May she will shoot through the earth, Soaking up the sun and all its sweetness, Bringing serotonin to the people around her. She does not stand out, But she rather lies low. What will come of her is greater than what she started as, And all eyes will turn to her when she rises. This seed is small, This seed is tiny, This seed is quiet, But her potential is not any of this.

Emma McQuiston ’21 41

The Consequence of Wonderland Haley O’Connell ’22 i have imagined quite often, what it might be like to love and be loved by a boy who is proud to call me his whose eyes cause a nervous feeling in my chest whose laugh shines a light on each and every corner that was once dark whose heart is so full that i fear it may be too much for me to hold in my handsmy handswhich you held in yours as you admittedas you said those words which interrupted this state of imagining and created a new reality which i know not how to exist in i feel as though i am an imposter living in my own made up world, i feel like Alice, who had created the world in which she found herself but knew nothing of how to live in it and such is the way you made me feel the way you changed me when you held my hands in yours and you said “i love you too” but what i failed to imagine, my love is what it would be like to be left by this boy who brought me worlds of happiness that i had yet to explore who had promised me forever in this life full of ‘for now’ but whose promises could notwhich were not42

kept despite the meaning of the word and those promiseswhich you whispered in the silencehave ripped me from the dream i thought to be a new reality which was clearly nothing real at all i am once again an imposter this time in a very real world and again i am Alice, who was woken from her dream, and awoke cursing her made-up world yet still i long to go back and such is the way you broke me the way you hurt me when you held that phone in your hands and you said “i feel nothing”

Chiara Faiola ’21 43

Rachel Ullstrom ’22

Sam Bouchard ’21 44

Owen Trainor ’21 45

Stitches Maura Hoban ’21

My Mimi’s eyes crinkled around the edges as she considered my question. She looked at me and said, “Go ask your mom to find my knitting bag.” I beamed and ran out of the apartment, straight to my mom. My mom sighed, but went upstairs to find it. When she emerged clutching a big black bag, I did a little happy dance. I screamed thank you and wrapped my arms around her middle. She smiled, handed me the bag, and off I went. My first attempt at a knitted square looked like a blob, but my excitement could not be contained. Mimi advised a little more practice and said that I would soon be quite good. Through, make an X, around the back, pull out, slip off became my internal mantra for the rest of the evening. Soon after, Mimi showed me how to purl. Through, make an X, around the front, pull out, slip off. The inversion of the stitches that I had grown comfortable with imbued me with doubts, thus ensuring that my purling was even worse than my knitting. Mimi looked at me and said, “Do you know what really good professional knitters always do?” I shook my head, wondering if I would ever get a handle on this whole purling thing. “Well, they make mistakes,” she said. I looked at her, confusion evident on my face. “You see, they make the mistakes on purpose.” My eyes widened. “Mistakes are part of life, especially the knitting parts. The mistakes make it yours.” Her smile brought mine back, and I looked back down at the size eight needles in my hands. Time to try again. Mom’s associate approached me one day when I had gone into work with her. “Could you do me a favor?” I nodded and wondered what kind of sandwich she wanted me to grab for her at the shop downstairs. “I’m getting married,” Lindsey said, and asked me to knit hearts for her wedding. I looked up at her in awe and assured her of my hearty consent. We agreed to go to Michael’s together later that week to find the right color. I ran off, still beaming, to tell my mom all about it. 46

Later, we decided on lavender yarn for the hearts, and bright red for the flowers Lindsey’s friend was going to crochet. I looked up a couple patterns and found one that was perfect. I even adapted it a bit to have the hearts be three different sizes—no easy feat for a novice knitter. I spent weeks making the hearts, and had a bag filled with finished products for the wedding. When I brought them into the office for Lindsey, she was overjoyed. She keeps one in her office—I see it every time I visit. By the time I had become a seasoned knitter, Mimi couldn’t hold the needles anymore. Her arthritis had finally conquered her hands, but she seemed to find joy in the fact that she had taught me to knit before it got that bad. She was the recipient of my first hat, although I made her a new one a couple months ago that looked much better. She wears it around her assisted living facility, and tells anyone who will listen her hat was knitted by her granddaughter. My Mimi just passed away. Working on my knitting projects makes me feel close to her. Life is knitted imperfectly. We make mistakes, and we can’t always undo the stitches that made them. But, the mistakes make the colors pop and the experience yours. I like to think that Mimi and I are stitched together. The colors may fade and the seams may need replacing, but we’re still connected through the yarn, through the purling and the knitting that she taught me so carefully to do.

Emma McQuiston ’21

Haruna Kobayashi ’21 48

The Mirror Violeta Torres ’24 The bitter wind flew through her hair as she stood staring off into space. Her face was still and pale. Her eyes were a cobalt blue. A thin, knitted cardigan clung to her forearms. Her blouse and faded jeans were no match for the raw breeze. It seemed to come out of oblivion. Perhaps it was from the abyss that lay below her feet. It petrified her that she wasn’t standing on anything. Everything around her was darkness except for a cold reflective surface. The girl wasn’t looking at it; she was afraid of what she might see. Her head was turned to the left, but she could feel the burning gaze of the object. Mirrors don’t have eyes, and that scared her more. There was a faint sound in the distance; breathing. Something was heaving and loudly. Maybe they were panting. Footsteps followed the noise. They were quick and sounded as if they were running up a flight of stairs. They were all around and getting louder. Nevertheless, the girl refused to move. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Then again, that could just be the footsteps. She couldn’t be sure which was which since they were both deafening. Her shaking hands covered her ears to block out the noise. It didn’t work. An entity started whispering like a snake. It hissed violently but too quiet for the words to be understood by the girl. Hot tears were rushing down her face. The only form of warmth given in the void. She curled into a ball and quivered. Her knees hid her face. “The Mirror! The Mirror!” The voice seethed. As the words were spoken, all other sounds stopped. It was right next to her. The girl shook her head and kept her eyes glued shut. She felt insane. Nevermind that, she was insane. All the thoughts that swarmed her mind yelled for her to open her eyes. The only thing she was thinking was how crazy she must be. She pleaded with her brain to end this nightmare. “Listen to me, foolish child,” The entity scoffed, “Why are you so nervous?” 50

“Not real,” The girl muttered. The wind whipped around her still. It made her limbs as cold as glaciers. “Not real.” “Why won’t you look in the mirror?” It asked. The question stuck in her head for a second. Why won’t she look in the mirror? She thought she had her reasons. In fact, she does. However, it still clung to her innermost thoughts. “Do you have an answer?” She released a short breath from her lungs. It fogged and crystallized in the air. The tears had frozen against her cheeks. The girl stood up while readjusting her cardigan, so it covered her shoulders. Her dark blue eyes still peered to the side rather than in front of her where the mirror stood. The words felt so loud even though there was only silence. They were caught in her throat. She inhaled shakily. “I’m afraid of what I’ll see,” She admitted, “I’ll see my flaws. Not on my skin or on my clothes but in my eyes. I’ll be reminded of everything I’m not. I’ll see how I’m fake. I’ll see the real me behind all the clothes and all the masks I wear. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be me. I want to be nothing and feel nothing.” “Well, there is only one way to know what you’ll see. Whether that be you or who you’re pretending to be. Look at the mirror, and all will be resolved” the voice spoke softly, almost as if it cared. The girl didn’t move at first. She didn’t care what the entity had to say. Her fears were enough to keep her away, but something felt okay about looking. At that moment, she turned towards the mirror. Maybe it was the reassurance that made her do it. Perhaps it was the tiny bit of confidence she had left in her soul. Her eyes made contact with the shiny reflective surface. It was quiet for a second, and even her heartbeat was silent. Then everything was gone. The abyss was now an abyss. The mirror was dust and ash. Where the girl had once stood, there was nothing. The girl was nothing, just as she wished for.

Status Jay Patel ’21 Girls of status Mix the makeup with ratchet. Him or him? Or maybe that Louis bag is it. The wealth class I fit Your personality I resent Your beauty, a present. Dinner is steak Then it’s your heart your parents will break. It’s the Mercedes your dad wouldn’t let you take. It’s the money they didn’t put in your bank. It’s the personality your wealth completely makes.

Luciana Najjar ’24

Mackenzie Jutras ’22 54

Heart Attack Lily Givner ’21 “His heart was too weak,” they said. Eerie silence filled the house. Am I supposed to accept this? Rejection is all I feel. There was nothing left for me to do. He was Already gone far from here— The empty shell of who I once knew. The soul of the man I called “Grampy” already watching from above. Aching of my heart ‘Cause yours couldn’t start. ‘K… I guess that’s all I can say.

Ian MacKenzie ’22 57

Ayana Kobayashi ’22 58

in my mind: we are sixteen, no we are immortal we are untouchable we are unapologetically alive our souls hum at the frequency of concentrated light and the view from up here? … wow. and we are up to our ankles in seawater, the ragged hems of our jeans stiff with salt our bare feet bleed and you cradle a piece of the moon in your palm. you stand reaching for the sun in nothing but a bikini top, your mother’s jeans. radiating confidence. illuminating. there’s something unfathomable about us. and the view from up here? ... how beautiful it will be; how tragic it will be; how painful it will be to forget it. and we sit in the dark [the very picture of a playful, cynical, hedonism] the sequins in your dress reflect erratic lights, our pulses beat the same, and the night is holding its breath. we dance like everyone’s watching, make plans, we laugh and scream until our lungs scream back in the way that only mortals can. who needs poison to feel alive? not us. not now. and i hope you had fun, because the view from up here? wow. and we drape ourselves over the limbs of a tree that’s seen more than we ever will not that we know. not that we care in dress clothes and good-grimey shoes and sweaters never chosen to fit someone utters lines of poetry that they’ve stolen unashamedly “too much joy, i swear, is lost in our desperation to keep it.” any meaning is taken by not us. look and you will find but we don’t even have eyes. who needs eyes with hearts like ours? and our only view is this sacred, perishable moment: us. drifting skyward. Lily Mueller ’22

Qianhui Lin ’21

Ashley Giorgio ’22 61

Trinity Semo ’21 62

Haruna Kobayashi ’21

Ayame Mizuno ’22

from Listen Up by Avery Kurzontkowski ’23

“Settle down. He tells me to be quiet. But how can I ever calm the fire in my mind, While everyone around me is stuck on what is given to them, And all I want is to reach for more?”

Ayana Kobayashi ’22 65

“Too many women carry in their palms reminders to never bleed. Reminders to die beautifully, to live perfectly.” from Yours by Lily Mueller ’22

Lily Mueller ’22

Bonfire Sophie Hendrick ’24 I’ve been taught from a young age to dream To reach for the stars Without worrying about getting burned To grasp my dream from behind And take control of it To lose myself in the fantasy That I created A fantasy that will one day come true But now I hide away from the world Because I’ve been burned too many times to count My dreams turned to dust in my hands Falling apart as I hold them Grasping for any piece left As they dissolve into the water beneath me I attempt to cool the burns But the water turns to fire Stinging my eyes and lungs with smoke I look into the mirror And see my crown disappearing Fading away as my robes turn to ash I scream for the world to come back Even though it’s already gone My dreams were the death of me Burning away at the life and sanity I had And they were right I lost myself in the fantasy In the dreams I created They came true just like I was told But the dreams were a bonfire And I was too weak Used as fuel for the flames A branch to grow the fire 68

Yunpeng Wang ’21

Brianne Rett ’21 70

from Teacup by Olivia Sczuroski ’22

-Teacup The first word murmured by a creature with hands too small to grasp a paintbrush, but not too minuscule to hold Legs too chubby and stubby to travel the desire of a curious heart, but not too weak to stand proudly Ears, at not half the height to meet piano keys, but not too low to listen Eyes, a violent black to a honey brown, prancing rapidly at a world with so so many colors A prismacolor palette of a world not yet known Wild, dark curls, unadulterated, with hazelnut highlights, glimmering a soft brick A chaotic means of covering an equally busy mind

Rachel Ullstrom ’22 38 72

Sam Bouchard ’21 73

Claire Marchand ’24 74

Elizabeth Walker ’22 75

The Welcome Rock The Welcome Rock is a special assignment given to our AP Art and Design students. Each member of the class is tasked with designing and executing a piece of artwork that will adorn the 4’ x 12’ boulder which sits near our main entrance to campus. Now in its 9th year, this project is both exciting and daunting. Students are asked to create unique designs that will translate well on a large scale and represent Marianapolis, while also highlighting their personal artistic style. When asked to reflect on the experience students said, “The Rock murals are an extraordinary and eye-opening project for us because it challenges us in unprecedented ways. First, the murals are community projects, not individual pieces. Therefore, we sketch ideas that embody the School’s spirit and mission. However, we also want it to be meaningful and reflect our personal style. As each year passes, coming up with unique designs is getting harder and harder. The idea of representing the School but also ourselves, it can be tricky to strike the right balance. The rock is a special assignment which we take a great deal of pride in, but it also opens artists up to a great deal of criticism as their work is on display for all to see. Additionally, with such an expansive canvas, we must manage our time correctly and watch the weather. The project doesn’t stop just because a blizzard arrives, so it’s vital you are intentional with your approach and flexible with your plans. Despite all the challenges the results are incredibly rewarding because the project inspires us to grow our vision and extend our boundaries. Most importantly, the murals are an important part of our community, and having the opportunity to paint the Rock is an honor.”

Brianne Rett ’21 76

Juliana Hernandez ’21

Lily Mueller ’22

Olivia Sczuroski ’22

Alison Tourtellotte ’21

THE PROCESS

Draft your ideas and making necessary changes to the design

Prime your canvas

Block in your larger shapes

Add all the details 78

Have fun with hidden images

Just like everything else, our rock project was unfortunately impacted by the pandemic. This year, 4 students were unable to physically be on campus and therefore they could not complete the mural project. Nonetheless, all artists did brainstorm and contribute so we would like to celebrate that!

Yunpeng Wang ’21

Haruna Kobayashi ’21

Ayana Kobayashi ’22 Aware she would likely not physically be on campus during the year, student Qianhui Lin ’21 used her experience of painting the rock in Fall 2019 to make a pamphlet of tips for her classmates. This was a very creative way to improve the rock project, without actually being on campus.

Brianne Rett ’21 80