Blue Review 2021 by Mercersburg Academy

BLUE REVIEW 2021

2021 Blue Review Volume XXVIII

VOLUME XXIX MERCERSBURG ACADEMY

Blue Review 2021 Editors-in-Chief for Art: Ryan Bland ‘21 and Jay Howley ‘21 Editor-in-Chief for Literary: Lian Wang ‘21 Managing Editor: Carina Cole ‘22 Cover and Thematic Designers: Nate Austin ‘23, Jay Howley ‘21, Victoria Taperova ‘21 Spread Designer: Ryan Bland ‘21 Art Staff: Nate Austin ‘23, Lucy Bowman ‘21, Charli McInturff ‘23, Victoria Taperova ‘21 Literary Staff: Sabine Ellison ‘21, Ebube Onwusika ‘21, Dylan Gantt ‘21, Clara Getty ‘21, Mel Cort ‘23 Faculty Advisors: Kristen Pixler and Michele Poacelli Blue Review is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association

Published in 2021 By Mercersburg Academy 100 Academy Drive Mercersburg, Pennsylvania 17236

Table of Contents Alexa Marsh ‘21 Stains 1

Saskia Mentor ‘21 Lunchtime Negotiations 3

Dalila Melkumova ‘21 Ballet 7

Mel Cort ‘23 Sex Ed 9

Dalila Melkumova ‘21 connoisseur’s memories 13

Elliot Cole ‘24 her 15

Ebube Onwusika ‘21 Teardrop 17

Aden McCracken ‘21 A Blade of Grass 19

Charlotte Stauffer ‘22 Fire and Flame 21

Carina Cole ‘22 Our World is a Field of Flowers 29

Alexa Marsh ‘21 Lady Liberty 37

Maddie Dawson ‘21 Raw Materials 33 Maddie Dawson ‘21 My American Nightmare 35

Carina Cole ‘21 In my mirror 41

Dylan Gantt ‘21 Thorned Cap 39

Rose Potter ‘21 Marlboro Reds 43 Alison Huang ‘22 Hope Among Dust 45 Lian Wang ‘21 Missing Mongolia from My Bedroom Window 49 Rose Potter ‘21 Mt. Parnell 51 Alison Huang ‘22 Willy Wonka’s Magnificent Musical Menu 43

Lian Wang ‘21 Time 57

Lucy Bowman ‘21 Saturday 10

Jay Howley ‘21 Apples (quite a few!) 2 Jay Howley ‘21 Pink Man 6 Dalilah Winter ‘22 aura 13

Dalilah Winter ‘22 gloom 12 Day Kim ‘22 Drop of the Future 18

Victoria Taperova ‘21 The Naiad 15 Holden Walker ‘23 Tree of Life 20

Clara Getty ‘21 Two People 22

Avo Reid ‘22 Expressing What Words Cannot 25

Cole Smith ‘23 The Bloom of Hope 31

Jay Howley ‘21 Cramped Man Number Seven 5

Joyce Cui ‘22 Protected 23

Joyce Cui ‘22 Beneath the Surface 24

Andrea Garza ‘22 unnamed 27

Andrea Garza ‘22 insomnia 28 Sally Ballantine ‘21 Recovery Self-Portrait 30 Lucy Bowman ‘21 Red Year 36 Lucy Bowman ‘21 Feel the Morning 42 Nate Austin ‘23 emily 44 Nate Austin ‘23 Priority 47

Bryce Mitchell ‘21 Breathless 5 34 Clara Getty ‘21 Freedom and Democracy 38 Shin Miyamichi ‘22 Still Life 46

Shin Miyamichi ‘22 Self Portrait 48

Lucy Bowman ‘21 Blacksburg Kyra 52 Virginia Jones ‘21 Dissociation 54 Jay Howley ‘21 Looooops! 56

Vienna Horstmann ‘23 Ebb Tide 55 Jay Howley ‘21 Sun Geckos 58

III

Stains Alexa Marsh

The boy sipping a glass of chalky milk in the corner of the kitchen kicks his legs back and Forth under the chipped wooden chair with muddy coffee stains pressed into the pearly white cushion. Stains. They sit side by side, infinite rings of faded memories, peppered with earthy colors like chunky layers of a fabled volcano. Ashy and lined with hot pink magma that once bubbled and boiled and spurted from its rocky spout like overcooked marinara sauce. Caked over with a skin of flaky flesh, dotted with cerulean spots like fuzzy mold sprouting on the crust of white bread.

“Apples (quite a few)” Jay Howley

Acrylic Painting 48” by 48”

Lunchtime Negotiations The International Businessman’s Guide Saskia Mentor Wait for the buyers to take their seats. They will dig in. You will wait for scraps. Set your least valuable foods aside. (e.g. raw cauliflower, grapes, etc.) Pretzels, organic potato chips, and cookies should be placed in front. If you have anything— ANYTHING of the international variety, remember that this is not the world market. Hide your milk-boiled rice. Hide your chicken tikka masala. Hide anything remotely foreign. Not only is it a crime, but any food in your lunchbox is guilty by association.

Attempts to trade vegetables for desserts will be scoffed at and rejected. As will you. Gushers are the highest form of currency. To you they are unattainable. Cosmic brownies have a chance with Grandma’s cookies. Throw in some of those organic potato chips, just for good measure. By now, lunch will be nearly over, and you will have spent so much time wallowing in shame over your cosmopolitan cuisine, that you will have forgotten to eat your lunch. Pack up your browned apple slices and go to class on an empty belly.

“Cramped Man Number Seven” Jay Howley Pen and Ink 11” by 14”

“Pink Man” Jay Howley Acrylic Painting 48” by 30”

ballet Dalila Melkumova

mom’s hand lukewarm, impassive heat, pushes me on the back (all sweaty in black) towards the ballet. I map the floor in music’s haze, size five pointe shoes tracing hurtful circles, tender, invisible crescents, a numb passé. for a second, I don’t suck my stomach in. I succumb to thrilly polka; its bright red melody is sinking into my hair, right through my skin, my whole body filled with lively, dotty sensation, until the r e m o t e control lands mercilessly under my ribs. I almost puke. my knees that once passé-d with ease turn weak

(traitors. there is no beauty without pain). the teacher stares. “you should look thin.” my stomach shrinks. I shrink. the remote’s button pressed. polka starts playing again. it’s stuck in a waltz-like loop of young ballerinas. when I’m back home, it’s bruised begging hands and mom’s aloof eyes: “it can’t be that bad. exaggerations.” I stay in the array of white buns in torn mesh and pale, scared faces. we tell lies as a gift for mother’s day. these days are now away, for I am in the states. but I still fear tutus and buns, remotes like guns, unaired hairspray. I won’t rebound. I won’t be found at the ballet.

Sex Ed Mel Cort

she squirmed underneath him nothing if not a little bored his arms slackening next to her ears as he tried lord knows he tried and she realized that if she squeezed her eyes shut and ignored his raggedy breath on her neck, she could almost for a second think. So she thought of the woman at the whole foods a week ago in the soft yellow t-shirt (the color of the pillow under her head) (no don’t think of that right now) and baggy overalls that pooled at her ankles, which always seemed to be moving, flitting, exploring. she thought of the way she smiled at the cashier (as he whispered something detestable) and her hand crept down her stomach, her wrist wrestling out of his jealous grip, and thought of her brown curls and spray of freckles across her nose.

he tried, for the millionth time, but for the first—so did she and he deflated murmuring his pride or brags as they were before she politely asked him to not spend the night.

“Saturday” Lucy Bowman Digital Photography 10” by 15”

connoisseur’s memories Dalila Melkumova I. dzhomba.

with the musty taste of my tears.

I take a sip and forget everything.

Opening the little orange tea bag, breathing in the half-native smell felt almost like a sign that I belonged to my culture. My grandma, her eyes Tatar-brown and hair Tatar-white, drank dzhomba in buckets, and I childishly supposed I would become Tatar drinking it, too. We sat down at the table, traditional Tatar sweets hidden in a small bowl with an old Russian ornament, and took hot sips. And then, there was nutmeg.

In my memory, my auntie trails to the bazaar under the hot sun of Central Asia, cutting the heavy air with the sharp clinks of her golden bracelets. The bazaar smells like thyme, pepper, and sweat, and the sun-wrinkled passers-by look at me with confusion: I am a blue-eyed girl, a white blur that sticks out between colorful Azerbaijan fabrics. In the family photos with my tan cousins, my paperwhite skin looks almost like a camera defect. In cold Moscow, I was brought up in traditions of Tatars and Azerbaijanies; still, disapproving glances haunted me wherever I went. Dzhomba, the classic Central Asian milk tea, is always made with salt. In the past, tasting the salt crystals at the tip of my tongue would make me salty as well: “I hate being Tatar. I hate living in this country being Tatar. I hate being mistaken for a Russian on the streets when I am not one. I just wish I was not pale. I wish I was a real Tatar, mom. Am I?” But she never replied with anything. Like that, my dzhomba would become saltier

The tingles on the tongue were distinct; I always tasted pepper in my neighbor’s tea, cardamom in my aunt’s. It was all the same drink, but somehow every cup was different. I liked it this way much more than I liked it bland—it is almost like the spice made the tea recognizable in the ocean of different drinks. It came to my mind that I, too, was my own person in the sea of faces. I was a different, but not “foreign”, Tatar; the people who did not believe it simply liked their tea bland. It was only important that I knew who I was, and looking at my reflection in the teacup I suddenly realized I did. Then, dzhomba became pride.

II. jasmine. I take a sip and forget everything. In front of my eyes, teal willows reach for the vast blue river, drowning in the buzz of cicadas. The subtle jasmine aroma slowly fills the air, and I climb up the hill to see the statue of an old deity. The passers-by look at me with curiosity: I am a redhead in a remote Chinese province, wiggling my way through pastel sun umbrellas. During my exchange, I threw myself into everything: I memorized all the wu-shu dances, practiced calligraphy till midnight, and gave Chinese preschoolers piggyback rides as we headed to the shop for green tea ice cream, a bouquet of summer-scented flowers, and a bucket of scabrous peaches. It was worth my teacher’s annoyed glance for the times we got soaked in the rain. When I drink Chinese jasmine tea, its bittersweet aftertaste lingers on my tongue long after I finish the cup, just like my memories. The Chinese tea ceremony is a very time-consuming science, but I love the details—they beckon to me. As I lift the lid by its teal porcelain knob and silently pour the tea into gaiwans, I myself become poured with the memories of my teal days, and the typically non-fruity jasmine tea becomes rich with peaches and summer fruit. I will never know the meaning of every single tradition of

that country, but, still, I can’t help but want to learn more every day. Then, jasmine tea became curiosity. III. southern-sweet. I take a sip and remember everything. Breathing in the fall air, I laugh and suddenly exchange smiles with a passer-by: I am a new student in the United States. My southernstyle tea is almost all sugar, but I keep on drinking—its overpowering sweetness is similar to that of a welcoming smile. Then, even as I am still drinking it, sweetened tea is becoming courage to start anew. I consider myself a tea enthusiast, maybe even a connoisseur. My creations can take me to any moment in the past, but never to the future. Furthermore, taking a sip of the tea that would show me my future ahead of time is not something I would ever consider doing— contrary to the popular belief, the best thing about tea is the aroma, that thrilling yet hazy preview of what happens next, and never the taste. Just like I inhale a new tea scent, I get a foretaste of my ever-changing future with every fresh cup, but anticipation is impossible without a little mystery. As for now, I will take the teapot and fill it with some new tea to brew into a memory, just to refill it over, and over, and over again.

“gloom” Dalilah Winter Digital Photography 10” by 10” “aura” Dalilah Winter Digital Photography 15” by 10”

her Elliot Cole

she has honey eyes eyes that shine like amber skies her hair is soft soft like clouds and smells like sweet smooth vanilla her voice can unfrost my soul and cause a small flame to begin to burn she looks at me and smiles once in a while i let my mind run think about her and her golden gaze staring into my soul like she can see the flame inside me and i swear it shines in her eyes

“The Naiad” Victoria Taperova Digital Photography 10” by 13”

Teardrop Ebube Onwusika

without tears the sad story stayed sad without the crystal balls that fell from her eyes, pooling silently onto the palm of her hand, there would be a lost chance, to shatter the facade and reveal kinder kindness, yet tears did grace the scene, and Hope, Happiness and Magic, anticipated misery morphing into peace, finally she was on her way, the whirlpool of worries distant, as tears travel, from the sky, to the ground, flying around, sifting softly through trees, tending to our gardens, and helping us wait for everything to become a miracle. “Drop of the Future” Day Kim Mixed Media 14” by 12”

A Blade of Grass Aden McCracken

I never wanted flowers— I wanted grass. But not a bouquet of grass, just, A single blade.

But this time, Staring at you as you drift into the horizon, I can’t help but wonder, If all I needed was a flower.

I wanted you.

But, after all, You’re just, A blade of grass.

I’ve watched men cut you down to nothing. I’ve watched men tear away at your delicate layers. I’ve cut you down to nothing, hurting you, When I was the one who was supposed to mend your sharp edges. When I’d caress your coarse skin, You’d tear into my flesh, Drinking my blood as it poured out onto you, Slipping out of my hands and into the wind. And yet, I’d blame myself. I’d chase after you, Through fields of flowers. I’d beg you to come back to me, To stay with me, To hold me, Like I held you.

Holden Walker “Tree of Life” Illustration 6” by 6”

Fire and Flame Charlotte Stauffer

Fire is a fickle thing, Hard to start, easy to keep. As more and more logs are thrown on, The fire devours its fuel. But what can be said for the way it greedily consumes? It has not a mind of its own.

Smoke spirals up to remind us, Even after the blaze is gone, About the warmth it held.

There becomes a time when the fire has taken all it could, Leaving nothing else to enrapture in its bold flame. At this time the fire clings to its source, The center of the hearth. Brash flames remain, Then dwindle into a comfortable heat. This cinder is more intimate, More difficult to extinguish, Than a single charred twig. The glow gets fainter, Until the red hot coals, A badge of a once-proud hearth, Remain cooling. Embers kindle their own fire, With no flame on the outside, It eats itself from within.

“Two People” Clara Getty Acrylic Painting 11” by 14”

“Beneath the Surface” Joyce Cui Watercolor 8” by 10” “Protected” Joyce Cui Inkwash 9” by 12”

Expressing What Words Cannot Avo Reid I was three weeks old when my mom took me to Washington, D.C. for the first time. I would make the same trip on countless occasions in the coming years, but I like to imagine that first drive—dusk has just settled and snow is falling, gentle but steady. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m going to my first service at St. John’s Church, where I will later be baptized, the church my parents were married in and my brothers are buried behind. Four months ago, it burned down. The nursery, where the fire caused the most damage, had just been renovated. Protesters and riot police clashed on the street I grew up walking down. The next day, the church was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Every window was boarded up. Tendrils of smoke still escaped from the basement. A sea of black helmets and riot shields. A week later, on June 4, D.C. braced for another night of abject violence brought

on by unspeakable injustice. This time, though, artists took to the streets. Overnight, commissioned by D.C. Public Works, seven people painted the words “BLACK LIVES MATTER” down the length of 16th Street NW, in a mural so large it can only be photographed in its entirety from high above. The next day, Mayor Muriel Bowser officially renamed the plaza. A crowd gathered to see the sign unveiled from beneath a D.C. flag. They linked arms. They held up their fists. A city came together. It was Breonna Taylor’s birthday. A month later, the fence was still up around St. John’s. Most of the windows along Black Lives Matter Plaza were still boarded. The street, however, was alive. On September 5, the church collaborated with the P.A.I.N.T.S. Institute of D.C. to decorate the plywood covering the stained glass windows. Street artists from all over the city flocked to St. John’s. The church’s doorstep, so long a

battleground, became a canvas. In the words of Reverend Robert Fischer, the murals were intended to “shine God’s beauty outward and spread the message of God’s grace to our neighborhood.” The Smithsonian has expressed interest in obtaining the boards once they’re taken down, citing their cultural relevance. The plywood covering the entrance to the parish, previously covered in graffiti, is painted with a mural of Desmond Tutu, the legendary South African cleric and anti-apartheid activist. Next to his portrait, inscribed in sky-blue block lettering, reads a biblical verse: “Let justice roll down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream” (Amos 5:24). The murals touch on many aspects of today’s turbulent world: the pandemic, racial injustice, political strife, economic crisis. They hold in common, says Rev. Fischer, the concept of ubuntu, championed by Tutu. There is no direct equivalent in English. It most directly translates to “our lives are inextricably bound together.” Displays of creativity and unity like this one are happening all over the world. In a wartorn province in Syria, George Floyd’s face is painted on a lone fragment of wall standing amongst a pile of rubble. On a rooftop in Naples, Italian artist Jorit Agoch painted a mural of George Floyd, Malcolm X, MLK, and

Angela Davis above the inscription “Time to change the world.” Floyd and his final words are painted on the Berlin Wall. These street artists wear masks. They distance from each other, yet they put up their fists. They are a product of the time they live in, the time for which their work serves as a dark and piercing mirror. Throughout history, turbulence and change have walked hand in hand, and wherever there is either, there is art. It is present not merely as an afterthought, or a mode of expression, or a coping mechanism—it is present as a medium of change. Pamphlets in the American Revolution, AfriCOBA in the Civil Rights movement, Haring in the ’80s. Here and now, more than ever, the cliché about art expressing what words cannot proves its relevance. Art expresses the collective pain of 400 years of a people’s unspeakable oppression, and the restlessness of a world longing to escape the shackles of stagnation. The art of this moment in history will grow to define it. What it defines, however, lies in the fingers of the painter, the bristles of the brush, and the eye of the beholder. It lies in the hands of a generation. The choice is ours.

“insomnia” Andrea Garza Acrylic Painting 12” by 16”

“unnamed” Andrea Garza Acrylic Painting 12” by 8”

Our World is a Field of Flowers Carina Cole I am no longer the delicate flower I once was I’ve blossomed and have woken up to the world I’ve seen awful things Heard terrible stories of pain and injustice How the petals of flowers in other fields have been plucked off by careless hands So I’ve grown thorns and learned to climb alone. I turn my face to the rolling hills before me Every color you could imagine, intricate patterns, and varying leaves Eventually, the temperature must change Wilted mush covered by a blanket of snow We fade and lose our life Our veins ripped apart at the stem But as we grow in the field and look back on seasons past Why do we not realize that when winter comes we are all the same?

“Recovery Self Portrait” Sally Ballantine Mixed Media 18” by 12”

The Bloom of Hope Cole Smith The thick fog of the place I had awoken in blinded me, barely giving me room to see my own hands. My breaths felt torn and ragged, making it painful to breathe, and every exhale seemed to leave the taste of blood on my tongue. As I walked, drops of water accumulated on my bare arms from the cloud that encompassed me. The tall trees, stretching endlessly into the fog, juxtaposed with the suffocating humidity of the ground, made my head spin. My eyes pierced into the mist, searching for some sort of beacon to reorient myself. I thought back to waking up in the dense mist, the dim grey light reminding me of the morning before dawn. I tried to think back to the moment I went to sleep… but there was nothing there. I looked up, realizing I had stopped moving. I sat there for a few minutes, or maybe it was a few hours. It didn’t matter because anything felt better than walking. My eyelids began to feel heavy, and the allure of sleep tempted me. As I continued to just barely hold off sleep, a dim blue light appeared over my head, pulling me back into reality, as I blurrily gazed at its glow. It looked

like a deep blue flower. Somehow, it gave off a faint radiance, driving the fog away, creating a dome of sorts that the fog couldn’t penetrate. I looked around at the area created by the petals. The trees and plants that lined the path I walked were gnarled, twisting unnaturally in every direction, and the green color that must have once filled their leaves had been replaced with a yellowish-brown that made them look sickly and weak. The flower itself was attached to the tree by a mess of vines, the largest of which stretched far into the fog. Peering at the vine, which ran across the ground into the fog, I could barely make out a faint blue glow in the distance. My legs seemed to move on their own accord. I found myself sprinting towards the light, all my fatigue from moments ago vanishing. It was another flower, this one slightly brighter than the last. This time, it took me only a few moments to find the next flower in the darkness. I ran between the beacons, each one growing brighter than the last until finally, they stopped. The vine continued, but the flowers were gone.

I looked frantically in every direction, a wave of dread washing over me. This couldn’t be it. There had to be another flower, somewhere. What do I do now? They have to lead somewhere. This is all I have left. I turned back towards the flowers. They were all slowly growing dimmer. My body suddenly felt too heavy to keep up. The light above me continued to fade, disappearing, abandoning me.

from behind it. My heart started beating faster, and the pounding from the mirror seemed to pulse at the same pace. I slammed my fist against the surface. I need to get out. I hit the mirror again, hearing it crack slightly. The pulsing sound behind it was deafening. “Let. Me. Out!” I screamed. I threw both of my fists against the wall as hard as I could. The mirror shattered beneath my weight, and my vision went white.

No. I kept standing. This can’t be it. I grabbed the vine that connected the flowers, running in the direction it led, into the fog. As I pushed deeper, my body seemed to grow heavier, and the vine, which was smooth at first, had become sharp with thorns. But I didn’t let go. When the pain started to become unbearable, I reached the end of the vine. There was a mirror that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction. In the dark, I could barely make out my reflection. My eyes looked sunken and my skin a pale white that seemed to barely cling to my body. I looked like the trees that I had seen earlier. I pressed my hand against the surface of the mirror and felt a faint pulsing

My eyes opened slowly to a bright room. I heard a beeping sound to my right and saw a small TV with green lines moving in a stable pattern. I took a deep breath. My breathing was still raw and ragged, but the air felt good, cool and refreshing, and most importantly, it felt safe. The walls around me were grounded and secure. I looked out the window, which peered over the parking lot full of cars and a few ambulances. I could see the city around the hospital, and in the distance beyond, I could see green fields and trees. The sky blue flowers sitting on the window sill were bathing in a beautiful light. It was a bright day out.

Raw Materials Maddie Dawson

I am a girl of glass. Transparent in thought and movement, You know me as well as I know myself. One shiny, polished piece The glass is whole. You are a boy of cinder. Set in your ways You know what you want. But I can’t understand you as easily. My first priority is you. The shoulder you cry on is mine of glass. I watch a tear roll down my shoulder like rain on a window I’ve yet to watch my tears roll down cinder. The glass is smudged and scratched. I tread lightly around you, Knowing the clash of our personalities would result in a mess of ash and shattered glass. You bear the weight of a past you don’t think I can handle, But little do you know you’ve given me the rest of your burdens. All this weight resting on glass, it’s bound to break.

“Breathless 5” Bryce Mitchell Digital Photography 10” by 15”

My American Nightmare Maddie Dawson

No parent wants to see their little girl go out fearing the world but ready to experience it all at the same time. Yet they have to prepare them for that. Carry pepper spray. Put the keys between your fingers. Lock your windows, even when you’re on the third floor of an apartment building. Don’t let anyone hold your drink. Learn how to fight. Bite. Scratch. Kick. Punch. I’ve had to protect myself since I was 10, when the boys at the end of the street couldn’t keep their thoughts to themselves. Running was no longer a way to get exercise, but a tactic to escape the boys on the golf cart who could catch you. I didn’t run by myself again until a few years later. I kept protecting myself when I was 11, and the man at the finish line of the 5k kept asking where I lived, where I went to school, where he could find me. There’s a certain irony in running from the finish line. I protected myself at 12, when the boy in school took Urban Dictionary’s “National Smack That

Ass Day” a little too seriously. This time, I ran at him, ready to leave a handprint on his face until the teacher walked in the classroom. I let my guard down at 13, stuck around for puppy love with the boy who gave me his sweatshirt and leather jacket and flowers. It didn’t last that long when he got wide-eyed for my best friend. My guard went back up at 14, when the boy who put his hand on my back let it slide down farther than I wanted it to go. At 15, it was the creepy old man staring at me, following me around the gym. The list goes on, leading up to now. I’m 18, pepper spray in my bag, keys between my fingers. Ready to bite, scratch, kick, punch. Amy Vanderbilt’s Etiquette no longer holds up. I have to be a scrappy female if I want to survive, manners thrown out the window. This is my American Nightmare, because the American Dream is not being afraid to walk down the street alone at night.

“Red Year” Lucy Bowman Acrylic Painting 35” by 60”

Lady Liberty Alexa Marsh

Are the lines that stretch down the Patina skin of lady liberty emblems Of a hallowed history? Once her Thick brows and her stiff lips curled Below the sturdy bridge of a Muscular nose exuded the sternness Of a stoic, something absolute and Tangible like the peel of an orange Resting in my palm. Shooting from Spikes atop her gallant crown were Cream stars painted on a cloth of Red and blue. Draped across her Body in silken folds, a robe rusted With stains of a shaken past, but Still her tarnished blue shimmered. Trailing down from her clouded Eyes, I think now those streaks Are crusted with bitter salt. Oily Tears plastered on frozen cheeks, Our mighty Mother of Exiles weeps.

“Freedom and Democracy” Clara Getty Acrylic Painting 36” by 24”

Thorned Cap Dylan Gantt A feather in your cap or is it a thorn that causes you to beam at the grandeur of your creation: this great nation which you know arose from the hurt of the few the indigenous Is it for liberty or for power that you deem yourselves benefactors of the Lady in Turquoise who holds the flame of justice even if you do not So I ask again: Is it a feather in your cap that you take what is not yours? No! It is a thorn A dampened, degraded, decomposed thorn that cannot spark the flame any longer

Solemn eyes, solemn expressions with which we watch you expecting you to do What is right What is just What is American Yes, we are proud of how far we have come of what we stand for what we should stand for Yes, we are ready to take the flame to give it breath passion and purpose Yes, it is our time raising our hands raising our voices and demanding To be a place of peace of justice of liberty For those who dream of nothing else But the Lady in Turquoise

In my mirror Carina Cole

Is my favorite stranger She has flowing midnight hair And constellations on her cheeks I ask the stranger how I can be more like her Because as I take heavy breaths and lose myself to the depths of night, she admires the solitude and comfort of darkness. I’ve always felt like a scared child, regardless of my age Holding myself as tight as a mother’s embrace I break the silence and tell the mirror that I am afraid of what’s to come, or more so what I haven’t done But our lips move in perpetual rhythm My hand touches the hand in the mirror, which touches mine with pride The stranger says “Don’t you see? We are the same. We have every ounce of confidence that you feel I do. When you need a reminder, look in the mirror and see how far you’ve come and all that’s left to do.”

“Feel the Morning” Lucy Bowman Digital Photography 10” by 15”

Marlboro Reds Rose Potter

I love you like I love cigarettes I loathe you Sick without you, sick around you I’ll stop eventually I’ll leave eventually I tell myself that I can do without you But I never seem to get you off my mind

“emily” Nate Austin Mixed Media 6” by 6”

Hope Among Dust Alison Huang

Bang! Shots flew zooming across the battlefield spinning at the speed of light searching for their next targets Scorching sun winked at cracked grounds mocking as it cried for a single drop of water A sole radiant flower bloomed amidst the chaos Fighter planes whispered

from afar and crescendoed until they were shouting simultaneously in my ears Souls arose left and right leaving powerful stories for the ones close enough to share in haunting flashbacks Ink on paper Names in print Words left unsaid to express so much in so little “Still Life” Shin Miyamichi Illustration 14” by 11”

“Priority” Nate Austin Illustration 14” by 11”

“Self Portrait” Shin Miyamichi Chiaroscuro 14” by 11”

Missing Mongolia from My Bedroom Window Lian Wang The road outside my window glows softly in orange, a mix of sodium street lamps and blinking construction lights. Where the road curves, double white lines crook in a sharp angle, before straightening behind curtains, out of my view. I wonder if I trace this road far enough, I can leave the highways of Hong Kong and reach where concrete cracks from seasons without maintenance, where dirt smoothed by travel gave way to rocks that jogged the car around, so even with wheels and steel and leather in between, I could still feel the road. Ten hours a day I traveled these unpaved roads, roads that headphones couldn’t tune out, roads that were a part of me. Behind glass blurred by raindrops and city lights, a minibus passes by, slow enough that I can see the passengers in muted color and three dimensions. The rain is no doubt creeping into the sponges of each leather bus seat and plastering onto clammy thighs. The

moisture is no doubt too wet—not the dryish sheen, baking under unobstructed sun, that stiffened the horse’s mane, coarse and heavy against my callouses. The firm contour of muscle that ran down its neck and pulsed in the rhythm of its strides, the burning friction of reins against the meat of my palm. My limbs were rearranged until riding felt more natural than walking, until I fused with the horse, the hard-packed ground, the sky, and everything fell apart but this piercing connection that made me everything else. The green outside my window is a pure, dark green. The scaffolding mesh of an overdue construction, the cleanly trimmed shrubs and overgrown, coiled leaves. I know the earth isn’t this green. The earth was yellowish, louder, it could never be mistaken for background. The earth was patchy, bald where overgrazed, it sloped upward and slumped down in undulations like a wave. The earth didn’t stop for paved roads or construction sites or

apartment buildings, and even inside the ger it was just the earth, softened grass that drank in every curd of raw milk, simmering on the smoke of dried cow shit and churned until it frothed and turned alcoholic and the earth got drunk off of that. The sky in Hong Kong is smaller than mountains, trapped within salmon bricks. The sky here is far away, hiding the truth that if I pilgrimage to where yellow-green collides with unadulterated blue, I can become the horizon. And I almost did become the horizon, when I rode upwards and grazed the sky, allencompassing and a mere whisper from us. Isn’t this God? The sky was my religion, have you seen heaven on eye-level? The sun was a brilliant white, mixed with grey underbellies of clouds, I mean whole clouds, you could see their volume, how they puffed up in the middle, and you could feel their weight. You could see rain without being in it, a sheet of grey connecting clouds to the earth.

A frame of cold steel reduces the howling storm outside to a murmur and stills the air, even as I watch mountains shake and branches bow to the wind. My apartment ceiling is a white so bright under fluorescence, even when I know the sky outside is black, the crack between the door and the ground was so pitch black that to this day, I don’t know what nights in Mongolia look like. Only lattice frame and thick canvas stood between me and the night, I could take down those walls in thirty minutes and carry them on horseback. Nothing in Mongolia was rooted, nothing was closed, the toilet was a hole in the ground with wood on three sides, but a crack ran down one flimsy plank, so even those walls were a formality. Mongolia was all movement, the only constant was the weight of midsummer wind, the stumbling few seconds when a canter lifted into a gallop, the yellowish-green, and blue, whole and undivided.

Mt. Parnell Rose Potter I never see the mountains moving When things get tough, they stay. I’m not quite sure what they are proving I never see the mountains moving What part of me are they improving? It seems easier to run away I never see the mountains moving When things get tough, they stay.

“Blacksburg Kyra” Lucy Bowman Acrylic Painting 16” by 28”

Willy Wonka’s Magnificent Musical Menu Alison Huang classical the bittersweet sensation reminds me of a new memory while the warm liquid glides smoothly down like a slide jazz the rocks sizzle and pop in my mouth play-wrestling with my tongue while giving my teeth the old kicks dancing all the way down to my stomach rap I squeal and laugh from the sudden jolt as the spicy, sour sensation crawls all over while the never-ending flame churns and boils devouring my insides, imbuing a jolt of energy pop the laughter erupts from everywhere as I’m seduced by its sweetness and elasticity I fight to overcome the zing and vivacity and conquer it with a final “Pop!”

“Dissociation” Virginia Jones Acrylic Painting 40” by 30”

“Ebb Tide” Vienna Horstmann Quilt 24” by 30” “Looooops!” Jay Howley Acrylic Painting 30” by 24”

Time Lian Wang

I carve myself into earth: Amun colors my skin wheat and crumbles breath to dust, sweeping songs of high war into lost ears, baking memory into sandstone hollows filled to the brim with time. Four thousand years collapse between skin and stone. I am the sculptor, whose callouses dent on the ridge of a chisel, whose knuckles crack like the land in jagged lines that cut through time. I am the ghost of a future when gold has faded into sand and dirt has mellowed harsh angles that now slope to the ground, where I look up to the same blue undiluted by time. 

Amun was the ancient Egyptian creator-god, who later fused with Ra, god of the sun, to become Amun-Ra.

“Sun Geckos” Jay Howley Mixed Media 9” by 11”

Colophon In the 2021 Blue Review, we explored the theme of mazes. When navigating a maze, we are constantly making choices, without a bird’s eye view or a map to the exit. In our search for the right path, we inevitably take many wrong turns, meet dead ends, and retrace our footsteps. There is uncertainty, frustration, despair, but there is also the hope and conviction that there is an exit, however convoluted the path to it may be. The ongoing COVID-19 pandemic in many ways resembles a maze. Coming into this fall, no one knew the trajectory of the next year and beyond, and we’ve taken many wrong turns in our response on the individual, national, and international levels. We’ve had to adapt, pivot, and continue to live. Amidst this uncertainty, renewed optimism has arisen from the camaraderie, empathy, and the shared global consciousness of this time.

text was set in Avenir and the title font was set in Tenby 5. The book was printed and bound by Mercersburg Printing of Mercersburg, PA. Blue Review is an extracurricular publication at Mercersburg Academy. Submissions from all artistic disciplines and literary styles are drawn from the student body from the start of the Fall Term to the start of the Spring Term. The submissions are then critiqued by staff members who evaluate them based on a rubric. Roughly 60 pieces, which are accepted for their strong merit, are paired and ordered in a thoughtful progression to advance the theme of the book. Blue Review is Mercersburg Academy’s annual literary-arts journal. It serves not only as a showcase but also as a motivation for students to share their creative work with the school community. An annual literary review has been published since 1901, with visual arts introduced in 1993.

The theme of mazes is illustrated on the front and back covers, table of contents, and throughout the pages. Inspiration for the color theme of the book came from covers of 20th century popular science books such as Sagan and Shklovskii’s Intelligent Life in the Universe. We were also influenced by the color bands of Apple’s original logo. Our bold split-complementary palette is a nod to those designs, which set the tone for our current digital age. Through our title font, Tenby 5, and the design of mazes that resemble circuit boards, we leaned into a digital feel to represent the landscape of this technology-driven year. While we acknowledge and appreciate that information technology has made human connection possible in a socially distanced and immobile world, this connection sometimes feels unstable and sterile. The layout of this book was designed by our staff on an iMac 19,2 Intel Core i7 using Adobe Illustrator CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe InDesign CC. The body

Blue Review 2021

Articles inside

Dalila Melkumova ‘21 Ballet