Mosaic 2017 by Santa Catalina School

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2017

1500 Mark Thomas Drive | Monterey, CA 93940-5291 | 831.655.9300 | santacatalina.org

Student Editors

Jessica Almos ’18 Ilana Hagen ’17 Annarose Hunt ’17

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff

Ivy Armijo ’17

Taylor Moises ’17

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Sarah Ning ’18

Sammy Bennett ’17

Madeleine Oh ’18

Sylvan Free ’18

McKenna Petersen ’17

Sum Yue Guan ’19

Kylie O’Shaughnessy ’19

Ella Hougie ’19

Emma Rofler ’18

Kaki Huebner ’19

Erika Schwerdfeger ’19

Katherine Kim ’18

Keona Shimizu ’17

Diana Kisseleva ’19

Fagie Singer ’19

Michelle Lau ’18

Juliana Tarallo ’17

Emma Laurits ’17

Ari Trueba ’19

Emma Leamey ’19

Talia Varjian ’18

Ana Leon ’18

Katalina Villarreal ’20

Sophia Leonard ’18

Dana Zeng ’19

Joanna Lin ’20

Lavender Zhao ’20

Ninja collage, Amira Chou ’19, collage, 18” x 24”

Tara Mann ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Design & Production

Communications Office

5/2017-500

mosaic The Publication of the Arts

Unveiled: Fila, Michelle Lau â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

SPRING 2017

The Publication of the Arts

Fish, Eleanor Scheetz ’19, monotype, 8” x 10”

Table of Contents Art, Blue City................................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19..................................... Front Cover Photograph, Unveiled: Fila............................................... Michelle Lau ’18...........................................................1 Art, Fish........................................................................... Eleanor Scheetz ’19....................................................2 Photograph, The Water Carriers...................................... Michelle Lau ’18...........................................................4 Poem, What We Say....................................................... Katalina Villarreal ’20....................................................5 Fiction, One Picture Says It All......................................... Tara Mann ’18..............................................................6 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Ilana Hagen ’17...........................................................7 Poem, Things I Am Afraid To Ask For............................... Annarose Hunt ’17.......................................................8 Photograph, Untitled....................................................... Isabelle Redfield ’17.....................................................8 Art, Self Portrait............................................................... Savannah Halvorson ’20..............................................9 Poem, Autumn................................................................ McKenna Petersen ’17..............................................10 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Jessie Crump ’19......................................................11 Art, Value Study............................................................... Jessica Clements ’20.................................................12 Art, Value Study............................................................... Hailey Boe ’20...........................................................12 Poem, Of Franny and Zooey............................................ Ella Hougie ’19..........................................................13 Prose, Communion.......................................................... Fila Oen ’18...............................................................14 Photograph, Untitled from the “Osmosis Series”.............. Katie Fraley ’18..........................................................15

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Poem, Sonnet in Dance................................................... Sophia Leonard ’18...................................................16 Art, Portrait: Grace.......................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19....................................................17 Poem, All That Is Green Is Now Undone.......................... Emily Radner ’19.......................................................18 Art, Self Portrait............................................................... Amanda Li ’20...........................................................19 Poem, polyhmnia, are you awake?.................................. Madeleine Oh ’18......................................................20 Photo, Untitled................................................................ Sammy Bennett ’17...................................................21 Poem, Sights................................................................... Juliana Tarallo ’17......................................................22 Art, Jug and Fruit............................................................. Jordan Gersh ’17.......................................................23 Fiction, Little Red............................................................. Elsa Sandbach ’17................................................... 24 Photograph, Eyes............................................................ Madison Gong ’18.....................................................27 Prose, Mama’s Flower Stand........................................... Emmy Siletto ’17.......................................................26 Photograph, Point Lobos Moss....................................... Jackie Hollander ’18..................................................28 Poem, Salem’s Swingset................................................. Elsa Sandbach ’17....................................................29 Photograph, Hong Kong Street Scene............................. Jackie Hollander ’18..................................................30 Poem, Typical L.A. Night.................................................. Jessica Oh ’17...........................................................31 Fiction, She Wanted a Smoothie, But Got so Much More.........Sofia D’Amico ’17................................................................. 32 Photograph, Self Portrait................................................. Cleo Kent Davy ’18....................................................33 Poem, Writers Are Ugly.................................................... Elsa Sandbach ’17....................................................34 Art, Ultralight Cathedral................................................... Sammy Bennett ’17...................................................35 Poem, Big Brother........................................................... Annarose Hunt ’17.....................................................36 Art, Collage Self Portrait................................................... Emmalia Partlow ’19..................................................37 Fiction, Our Dream.......................................................... Jessica Oh ’17...........................................................38 Photograph, Untitled....................................................... Julia Whitley ’18.........................................................39 Art, Curtain...................................................................... Sum Yue Guan ’19....................................................40 Poem, Untitled................................................................. Rachel D’Agui ’18......................................................41 Poem, Starry Night.......................................................... Madigan Webb ’17....................................................41 Poem, Lack of Control..................................................... Katalina Villarreal ’20..................................................42 Art, Self Portrait............................................................... Annagrace Camara ’19..............................................43 Poem, Fall-Winter............................................................ Sophia Leonard ’18...................................................44 Photograph, Untitled from “Home Series”........................ Fila Oen ’18...............................................................46 Prose, Seven Things I Am Mad About............................. Ella Martinetto ’17......................................................46 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Kaki Huebner ’19.......................................................48 Poem, Fallen Hard........................................................... Annarose Hunt ’17.....................................................49 Poem, Settling................................................................. Juliana Tarallo ’17......................................................50 Art, Untitled..................................................................... Jessie Crump ’19......................................................52 Poem, Untitled................................................................. Emmy Siletto ’17.......................................................53 Photograph, Untitled from the “Cuba Series”................... Coco Wang ’18.........................................................54 Fiction, Untitled................................................................ Rachel D’Agui ’18......................................................55 Fiction, Untitled................................................................ Isabelle Redfield ’17...................................................56 Art, Self Portrait............................................................... Kylie Ludviksen ’20....................................................57 Poem, A Quiet Evening Disturbed.................................... Juliana Tarallo ’17......................................................58 Poem, Bury Me............................................................... Katalina Villarreal ’20..................................................59 Poem, Magdalena........................................................... Annarose Hunt ’17.....................................................60 Art, Ninja Collage............................................................. Amira Chou ’19.................................Inside Back Cover Photograph, Zebras......................................................... Val Gonzalez ’17..........................................Back Cover

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The Water Carriers, Michelle Lau ’18, digital print

Acknowledgments Ms. Meg Bradley Dr. Kassandra T. Brenot ’87 Sister Claire Sister Christine Mrs. Michelle Avery Ms. Crystal Boyd ’89 Ms. Katherine Burkhuch Mr. Simon Hunt Mrs. Jamie LeMaire Ms. Claire Lerner Dr. Gerry Kapolka Dr. John Murphy Ms. Reshma Singh Ms. Akemi Ueda Mr. Fred White …and all the students of Santa Catalina who submitted their work.

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What We Say By Katalina Villarreal ’20

We say, “I’m dying” We say, “I hate” We say, “I love” And we say, “Thanks”. But we all say it with such disgrace. For yes, Every day we grow a little older, And yes some day we shall leave. Or as we say, Die. But in that moment, we are describing just a little hard task; Like doing homework, “I’m dying”When really we are living. To hate is to wish dead, Is to wish terrible things upon another or something. But we don’t really wish that someone is to die, Yet we say, “I hate”, And we hurt someone instead. We say I love, but mostly in vain. For has such a young, ignorant child, who uses these sayings for granted, And never thought once of the depth behind them; Could they truly love with all their heart? Have they felt the pain of the mere little thought of losing what or who they love? No, for love is overused day by day, Lost without the depth in its meaning, Without the utter aching pain. And Thanks. Such a simple word, One used the least. It should be used more, For each and every thing. Thanks for the little things taken for granted, For the meaning behind death, The meaning behind hate, The depth behind love, And yet still, No thanks.

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One Picture Says It All By Tara Mann ’18

The wind fluttered by, catching Lilith’s hair and trying to pull it along to its next destination farther down the beach. She smoothed down the strands and tucked them into her crimson beanie, vowing it would be the last time. For the past half hour the wind had galloped by happily and innocently until it raced back with a destructive nature like an anemoi thuellai, an ancient Greek storm spirit.

herself after turning in her depiction of her boss’s boss’s opponent. Tuesday she nearly vomited when her illustration of her boss’s boss was revealed. Wednesday, thankfully, was easier to stomach as she was only ordered to sketch “something to capture the masses,” whatever that meant. Thursday and Friday, however, were unfortunately a repeat of the beginning of the week.

“I hate this weather,” she muttered under her breath.

The weekend was her solace. Two glorious days away from the office, free for her to draw whatever she liked. No one told Lilith what they wanted to see or what she had no business drawing. It was all up to her. But after being stuck in that hellhole, nothing had come to mind. So, she had hopped onto her bike with her sketch pad tucked into her backpack and pedaled down to the beach. It seemed that the depressing week had won its battle against the right side of her brain, because in her 30 minutes of walking along the shore, no pencil had been put to paper.

While the beach was sunny and bright and the water a glistening blue-green, the wind refused to relent. The sand warmed her bare feet, and she was still amazed that it was relatively clear—no rocks, sea shells or seaweed had gotten caught between her toes or sliced open her skin. Only small, relaxing grains of sand. Lilith sighed, pulling her sweater tighter around her torso. She hugged her sketch pad to her chest, clutching one small pencil in her fist. She had come to the beach looking for inspiration, since her stereotypically lazy, fat, sweaty, and strict boss heavily censored her content. If it was up to him, Lilith’s talent would only be shown through the pencil strokes of another political propaganda piece. The past week was no different. Monday she guiltily ate ice cream and kicked 6 mosaic

Yes, the water was beautiful. Yes, the sun’s rays splayed across the ocean were mesmerizing. Yes, dolphins continually burst out of the sea for a few seconds before delving back into the endless blue liquid. But she’d already seen those sights and traced those pictures. Everyone had. Her first field trip in ninth grade art class took her to the closest beach where they painted the

horizon. She wanted something new. She wanted something fresh. The wind attacked her again, but this time it succeeded in its attempt to kidnap her hat. The knitted beanie flew off of her head and danced through the air, teasing Lilith as she chased after it. Tugging it higher and higher, the wind careened away with her possession. Holding her sweater closed with one hand, Lilith jumped again and again as she tried to catch her hat. After traveling several hundred feet, the wind lost interest in its prank and dropped her hat. She darted forward and searched frantically for the hat her grandmother had knitted for her before she died. It was the only thing left that connected them. Lilith approached a rusted, browning and seaweed covered shopping cart abandoned in the middle of the beach. The little red hat sat perfectly in the middle of the cart. Lilith picked it up, shook it out and placed it firmly atop her head.

The picture was nothing particularly beautiful. It was quite the opposite, actually. The sight was depressing and Lilith’s spirits lowered as she lingered. She could only imagine the homeless person the cart belonged to. To her, the shopping cart represented one of the biggest economic problems in the United States of America. But she couldn’t look away. There was something about the cart, the bridge foundations, the boats, the rocks and the kelp. It was exactly what she had been searching for. It was exactly what she needed. Inspired, she sat down, opened her sketchbook, and copied the scene. And for years after, whenever she had a particularly rough week, she simply looked at the sketch, took a deep breath, and pushed on.

Grey Buildings, Ilana Hagen ’17, acrylic on canvas, 24” x 24”

Then she paused. She took a few steps back. Seaweed, rocks and seashells were scattered along the sand in between the shopping cart and the shore line. Bridge foundations covered in moss and barnacles played leapfrog with each from the beginning of the shore to about a hundred feet in. A few buoys bobbed back and forth in the distance, followed by a pair of boats. The wind retreated, like it never even existed. Its task was complete. The Publication of the Arts

Things I’m Afraid to Ask For By Annarose Hunt ’17

Money, Anybody’s number, A second helping, The last strawberry in the bowl, A hand to hold, Help, A ride home, The answer I can’t find,

Untitled, Isabelle Redfield ’17, digital print

A place to sleep, A dinner date, Someone to hold me.

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Self Portrait, Savannah Halvorson ’20, graphite on dictionary pages, 18” x 24”

Autumn By McKenna Petersen â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

The satisfying sound of a leaf, Crunch beneath your feet. Picking perfect pumpkins, Only to rip out the insides. Children getting candy, From strangers at night. Traditional apple pie, Now Pumpkin Spice. Autumn is beautiful time, To write a little rhyme.

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Untitled, Jessie Crump ’19, monotype, 8” x 10”

12 mosaic Value Study, Hailey Boe ’20, acrylic, 18” x 24”

Value Study, Jess Clements ’20, acrylic, 18” x 24”

Of Franny and Zooey By Ella Hougie ’19

Icarus flew into the sun so you Sit hunched on the couch and mumble your prayer over and over Say it louder, why not - but not too loud or they’ll hear you, right? And how could they understand, the men and women on the ground in their polo coats. But just for a moment speak softer, because I want you to hear something I want you to hear him. Through the window of this apartment two stories up... - are you hearing this ? Lots of people below, do you hear? I don’t either. So recite them loud, heck yell out the window, beat your fists on something - here, take this pillow and find that Icarus lived only on paper.

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Communion By Fila Oen ’18

My parents raised me Catholic. I still have foggy memories of the church we first went to on Sundays. I stood on the rickety pews with my glitter jellies, grinning - look, Mom, I’m almost your height! “Diem. Dengarin pastornya.” (Sh. Listen to the priest.) I knew the motions of the cross before I knew the letters of the alphabet. Every night with my short legs tucked in my blanket before going to sleep, I sat crisscrossed with my hands clasped in my lap, eyes shut and eyebrows furrowed, whispering Our Father and Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are you and blessed is the fruit of your“Also God, please make the world not end in 2012. Amen.” The Sunday masses continued and I was now 12: still going through the motions, still not listening to the homily. I was now my mom’s height without having to stand on the pews.

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I told my parents I didn’t believe in God. I went to church anyway. I stopped praying at 14. I went to sleep every night without pause. Still, every Sunday, I went to church. When your car drove away that Sunday afternoon, I didn’t realize that would be the last time I’d see your face. I didn’t realize I was saying goodbye. I still have your t-shirts in my closet. (Mom doesn’t recognize them when I go home.) One time during mass, I tried to recite the Prayers of the Faithful, speaking from memory instead of turning to the passage and reading off of the page. It’d been years since I last said it. I still wear your clothes. I can’t remember the words.

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Untitled from the “Osmosis Series”, Katie Fraley ’18 ’digital print, 5” x 7”

Sonnet in Dance By Sophia Leonard ’18

The show is over, the curtains are closed. My hair unwound, shoes untied. But on the stage, your hair glimmered in the bright lights, Your eyes danced over to me. I know you see it, when I look your way. I know you feel the shock, when we do the dance in which our hands graze each other. Have you grown a fear of the feeling, Or simply have you built up a stone wall over the cracks in your heart. It’s a time to say I’ll see you after this intermission. When they take their seats, and the curtain goes up. There you’ll be, waiting, watching, taking it in. I’ll be there, full flare, dressed head and toe. You’ll tell me I danced my heart out, And I’ll show you where yours is.

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Collage of Grace, Sum Yue Guan â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19, painted paper collage

All that is Green is Now Undone By Emily Radner â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

On down the road, a meadow lay. Blossoms of yellow! Oh, so bright. In pools of damp, the birds did play With verdant green, and beams of light.

In all those lovely days of yore, When nature sent a cloud to burst. Shower and mist, the tree adored! Sweet heath did not know fear of thirst.

Now bare and rocky, dry and brown, Sharp edges shrivel in the sun, Fields of poppies no longer drowned. All that is green is now undone.

Now scratched, the Earth is turned to dust. If only we could changeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we must.

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Self Portrait, Amanda Li ’20, graphite on dictionary paper, 18” x 24”

polyhymnia, are you awake? By Madeleine Oh ’18

i. at night, i dream of the walls closing in. when i wake, the bad feelings do not go away. sometimes, i think i am living in a dream — and not even my own but somebody else’s. ii. i am a collection of half-loved words: truths that catch on my tongue, lies that build thick in my throat. a handful of youth, of risk. i ask you to kiss me until i am no longer hollow — but this is a mistake. iii. i lay still as you dismantle me, analysing each bone as if they encase a delicacy between the casing of my ribs, as if it could be plucked and eaten. iv. what does love taste like anyway? v. there is life beating between my lungs, pumping gold between bones and under skin. A pulsation — a heat where the cold used to settle. i am whole by my own making. vi. there are flowers growing where i buried our love.

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Untitled, Sammy Bennett â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17, digital print

Sights By Juliana Tarallo ’17

She would not know the outcome of that night, Naive young soul so early in her life. An innocent small Lamb so full of light, Then saw her dad embracing...not his wife.

She spent the day just dancing in the sun. Stilled when she saw beyond the window sill. She did not know what damage had begun. This woman’s lowered zipper sent a chill.

And with her father’s cool and quick goodbye, The girl’s sweet smile formed into something new, At church she sees her father start to cry, She hopes he bruises knees upon that pew.

Tonight we dance and then go Home to die, While Mother sings a mellow lullaby.

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23 Jug and Fruit, Jordan Gersh ’17, oil on canvas, 16” x 20”

Little Red By Elsa Sandbach ’17

“This is a full confession from Elliot Wolfgang Thomas. He is admitting to aiding in the killing of Mrs. Tracy Annyl.” A policeman is sitting at a long metal table across from a young man in all black. He has piercings, a large tattoo of a wolf on his arm, and when he smiles we can see that he has had his canines sharpened to points. After a long pause the young man growls, “I swear to God things were not supposed to turn out like this. You have to believe me. We always talked about doing it; she needed the money and I did too, but I swear, it was never supposed to happen like this.” He looks down, then up, then down again, and picks at his yellowed fingers—evidently he is an avid smoker. His pack of cigarettes has been placed just out of reach of his cuffed hands. “We’d been planning it for a long time. We knew Red’s grandma had… . Well a lot of dough. She’d been a baker or something, got famous for her gingerbread and made a heap. But she was stingy. Stingy and sick… and frail. We thought if we… scared her bad enough she might just—don’t know

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she might just have a heart attack, and we could say it was an accident. She was going to change the will; she didn’t want Red and I dating. I have tattoos and piercings, and Red wanted them too and—she just didn’t like me okay? I mean, she really hated my guts. I’m pretty sure she was trying to poison me… . Every time I ate at her house I got crazy sick the next day. Sometimes she would try and make me stay the night… but the room she had me stay in always wigged me out. Bars on the windows you know. I’m not even sure what she put in the food but… okay anyway, Red and I had been planning for a few months. I knew she thought I was a scary guy, right? She told me I looked like an animal once… long nails, scruffy beard… she just hated me. Once I walked into the room and she had her huge oven open and she was sharpening a knife, and she said “hello” like she knew I was there before I even knew I was there. “Just tell us what you did. We still have to examine your girlfriend. We need this to go fast.” The officer sighed and checked his watch. Elliot eyed the cigarettes.

“Sorry, right. Well we figured if Red told her some cock and bull story about us in the woods… that I came out and attacked her or something. And then after all that buildup if I… jumped out pretend to go at them or something… . She would just, drop. And we tried— believe me we tried—to have it turn out like that. It was supposed to… Red was never supposed to get hurt, but that old woman was vicious. And I guess she couldn’t see well. Red ran in… I’d bit her so she was bleeding a little; we wanted it to look real. She was standing at that horrible oven again… sharpening knives and cooking some kind of meat for pies I don’t know. Anyway Red came in screaming and crying and bloody and told her I’d attacked her that I was dangerous and that I was—but I guess she never finished the story. The old woman went at her… . She dropped the knife and picked up some rolling pin nearby. She was screaming about kids and gingerbread… . The only thing I could find nearby to stop her was a knife… she’d been using it to cut the candy decorations and the meat for her newest cookie house or whatever, she was trying savory gingerbread I think. I just meant to hurt her, get her off Red… but she… she bled so much, so fast… we—we couldn’t stop it officer. We

couldn’t stop it. Red wanted to cover it up; she knew she’d never see any of that money if the police found out, but… I called the cops. I didn’t want it to get worse–to go further. You know, you see all those shows where they would’ve gotten off, and they make it worse, and they bury the guy and chop him up and…. I wanted to be able to see her again in this lifetime I guess is all.” “Yes but how did she end up in the oven?” “Officer, I’m sure I don’t know… . Like grandmother like granddaughter I guess, when I walked back in Red said she’d taken care of it I told her I’d just called the cops she got so angry… I asked her what that smell was and she… she opened it… God officer it was horrible. She’d taken all of her clothes off I—God, officer, she was wearing her grandmother’s clothes- she was wearing her clothes with the blood and the hat and…” Elliot made a jump for the cigarettes, but hindered by the handcuffs, looks around angrily and begins to cry. “She’s an animal, officer… she’s an animal.”

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26 mosaic Eyes, Madison Gong ’18, digital print, 13” x 19”

Mama’s Flower Stand By Emmy Siletto ’17

It took Mama and Jorge ten minutes to haul the sad little stand from the side of the road, peel off the “free” sign that had been soaked by the rain, and get the whole thing into Mama’s truck. I remember the look on Dad’s face when she brought it home, when he asked her what it was for and she said “flowers.” It was a strange little structure, turquoise and canary yellow. Paint was chipping in places, and there was a hole in the flat patch where a box should have been, but Mama loved it just the same. First, there were the signs which had to be made and then remade and then made again as we sorted out discrepancies over what they should say and what colors they should be. In the end, they simply read “ Flowers —>” and were painted to match the stand. The stand itself was cleaned up a bit, and an old fashion milk box was attached to hold the vases, mostly used vitamin and Kombucha bottles with the labels scrubbed off. The bouquets were two dollars a bunch, on the honor system, and I remember how proud Mama was over the first two dollars she ever got. I remember the excitement driving home from school in the weeks that followed, waiting to see how many bouquets had

been sold and how many dollars were in the little tin can. I remember the day we came home to find all the money been taken, but Mama said she didn’t mind because whoever had taken it probably needed it more than we did. But this was all before the notes started coming. First there was Bill who left an IOU promising two dollars for the bouquet he’d taken. Who, when he came to bring his money, explained that he stopped every Friday at our little stand to buy flowers for his friend who was in the hospital with cancer. Then there was Mark, sixteen, who came to buy Dahlias for his sweet heart and Lois who walked by with her dog every other morning. There were also anonymous notes with messages like “Thank you for your beautiful flowers; they bring such joy to our day,” or “When will the lavender be back ?” That’s when Mama started putting up quotes on her little chalkboard sign and offering baskets of free vegetables for people to take. There was this unspoken relationship between Mama and her customers. It gave her joy and fulfillment knowing that her work was appreciated, that her customers relied on her to have flowers out every day, and that the flowers we grew for months in our own gardens brought joy to the homes of strangers even for a day. The Publication of the Arts

28 mosaic Point Lobos Moss, Jacqueline Hollander â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

Salem’s Swingset by Elsa Sandbach ’17

There is still just the little altar boyWho wanders through the war with frozen feet. Still breathing fire to fight the Devil’s ploy He chars the skull, the heart (and me in heat.) And here too many whores to count have spent The night still begging for release from these Foul walls, all of them stained and thick with scent Of bloody Salem stones–a sick reprise. The altar boy and poor damned girls still stand With war paint on and crowns of thorns: they scream The bleeding words you found on your right hand When you awoke from revolution’s dream: “Our mothers, lovers, sisters, aunts, and wives Still swing in solemn unjust loss of lives.”

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30 mosaic Hong Kong Street Scene, Jackie Hollander â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

Typical L.A. Night By Jessica Oh â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Some people are not what you assume. She wears the dress she wore yesterday. She puts on a free sample of perfume. She wears a big coat the size of her small room. She goes out for drinks, but sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never pay. Some people are not what you assume. Her pearls are an heirloom, But after her night out, she stores them away. She puts on a free sample of perfume. She buys a black hat with an ostrich plume From the thrift store next to the old Safeway. Some people are not what you assume. She went out last night, and tonight will resume. She prays that her heavy makeup will stay. She puts on a free sample of perfume. This is her daily costume. She did not know it would be hard to live in L.A. She puts on a free sample of perfume. Some people are not what you assume.

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She Wanted a Smoothie, But Got So Much More By Sofia D’Amico ’17

Seven dollars for a smoothie? That is a crime if you ask me. But it was my turn to approach the counter and order the green sludge. “I’ll have the Cyprus,” I said, embarrassed. I heard a voice behind me laugh and say, “Crazy expensive for a smoothie, no?” He even sounded good looking. I turned around and smiled. “Yeah, you took the words right out of my mouth.” He was beautiful; his skin was clear, his build was statuesque, and his smile was blinding. He stepped up, handing the cashier some money. “I got this one.” He stuck his hand in my direction, “Hi, I’m Zach.” “Maggie,” I replied, immediately regretting the messy bun and sweatpants. Despite this, I heard him say, “Let’s get outta here, Maggie.” We grabbed our smoothies and walked out, open to adventure.

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Self Portrait, Cleo Kent Davy ’18, digital print, 13” x 19”

Writers Are Ugly By Elsa Sandbach ’17

“I am not waxing poeticI am waxing thread to sew these nine lives back together.” This creative process is akin to sutures where you fill the needle’s eye with floss. We all shrug, nurses in their pink scrubs, doctors in their white coats, me in my hospital gown and gloves fit to my shaking hands, it got the job done the last prose poem too, why not again this time. Tides you over, I guess, but you’re still waiting to be where you need to be to finish this, to have some pre-waxed button thread in your hands again, to be able to make pancakes without getting mad and ending up crouched and screaming into a puddle of batter. To be where you need to be to feel a kiss in the crook of your arm and know someone is close, not just anyone. Because you can be in love but love is still in the state of Indiana. You know I’ve asked six people tonight if I am broken yet? They only said I’m distant with them lately. Mirror images hurt. But hear me out we will get there eventually. We writers are little succulent gardens of heartare aloe and soothing, are not often watered, are ripe to bursting with love. Mine, simply, for you my dear. We writers are soft and stark and somehow thriving on these San Francisco walls and shelves of Indianapolis apartments. Has a window box ever made you cry? No, hear me out, dig your hands into the soil and cry. Remember we will get there eventually. Remember we are not often watered. Remember we are faraway today. Remember we are ripe to bursting. 34 mosaic

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Ultralight Cathedral, Sammy Bennett â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17, digital print

Big Brother By Annarose Hunt ’17

I know you aren’t a hugger, And I know you smoke. I’m seventeen and on the brink of, Well, everything. You’re kind to me and You blow the smoke straight up. You’re seven years older, A lifetime more brave. We don’t always talk. Sometimes it’s more like Just noises. But you always understand. Hey, I’m really glad I have you. Just so you know.

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Collage Self Portrait, Emmalia Partlow ’19, collage, 18” x 24”

Our Dream By Jessica Oh ’17

Yeah. I knew her. We used to be best friends. She would come over after school in her broken down truck, and we would study for our math tests. We use to talk on the phone for hours in high school. We would talk about our plans for college, our dreams of making it on Broadway, or starring in our own tv show. She was talented, that’s for sure, but I thought I was too. I don’t know why I expected our paths to be the same. I thought we would both end up at the same college, and I thought we would end up living in the same neighborhood. I thought we would wear similar dresses on the red carpet, star in similar movies, and sing similar songs. Perhaps we are too alike. The world doesn’t need the both of us on tv. I guess it makes sense why she made it, and I didn’t. Now, I only get to see her if she is on television. I only hear her if her song is on the radio. I know you don’t really care to know who I am. You are interviewing me to get information on her, not me. But I am what she would be like if her dreams didn’t come true. I show the life she would have had if she didn’t make it. I am proud of her. She followed our dream.

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Untitled, Julia Whitley â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18, digital print

40 mosaic Curtain, Sum Yue Guan ’19, acrylic, “5 x 7”

Untitled By Rachel D’Agui ’18

They ran in circles, Dancing around each other She chased him around her head, And he was always two steps away, Smiling back. He got tired and left, fatigued. Momentum carried her still. She ran and ran and ran and ran. The dizziness caught up with her. She fell.

Starry Night By Madigan Webb ’17

Swirling Swirling, wind and sky. Blues and yellows, Stars up high. Magically shining light Brush strokes short and thick and bright. City life is calm below Painted by Vincent Van Gogh. Stars above like bright balloons, Are outshined by the crescent moon. Our world seems small next to this sky, So endless, wide, that space defies. Impossible to say goodbye. Make a wish...

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Lack of Control By Katalina Villarreal ’20

I don’t know how to express myself The words don’t flow right out of my mouth. Although I try, It’s all I can do. For I can’t speak, when I speak of you. And I could fly in my dreams up high, Run away from the endless night As it consumes, And gulps me down whole. There’s beauty in my lack of control. So please I beg, Take me away I do not want to end this charade.

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Self Portrait, Annagrace Camara ’19, graphite on dictionary paper, 18” x 24”

Fall-Winter By Sophia Leonard â&#x20AC;&#x2122;18

For every shoulder that is a landing pad for tears, There will be a hot air balloon that lifts into heaven. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know heaven is where you wanted to end up, But I learned something new about you every day. Time. We had more time. We could go easy, steady, because there were always going to be coming moments, Something new, a ceaseless journey. We were going to wake up on Sunday morning and wait until the alarm went off a third time. Then we were going to get dressed and take on what lay outside that blanket. We were going to sit at the outdoor cafe and pretend that we were somewhere, anywhere, else in the world. The people surrounding us just common, But us, we held a spark. When later came around I would hide behind you, Unable to take on the demons that the night brought, alone. When the evening came you and I were going to comb our hair, Put on our best nightgowns, and climb into dreamland, Protected only by the thin sheets and our skin locked in embrace.

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You were going to tell me about the day you knew your life had changed, The day when that one stereotype made sense. I was going to confide in you that my mom and dad didn’t sleep in the same bed anymore. My whole world was going to lay at your feet, Unspoken, unopened, waiting to unfold at your touch. Your touch. I can still feel where my hands pressed into your shoulder blades when we embraced. My hips still feel the warmth and curve of your body when I pressed up behind you. Every passing second that you’re gone, My body is wrapped further in this web, It’s getting thicker and darker. I hear even your name, and my breath is gone. You held me up with the strings that were plucked from your heart. Every dance I do will be one with you.

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Untitled from the “Home Series”, Fila Oen ’18, silver gelatin photograph, 5” x 7”

Seven Things I’m Mad About and One Thing I’m Not By Ella Martinetto ’17

When I was a freshman I thought I was smart. I didn’t join any clubs and then was so very pleased with myself because I had all this free time to hang out and watch Netflix, but I should have joined things and met people and done stuff. And maybe my freshman year would have been busier and more stressful but the experience itself would have been so much richer. I didn’t start theatre tech until I was a sophomore, and I’m angry about that 46 mosaic

because I love tech. I love being at tech. I love the people I met at tech, and I love the person I became at tech. Tech taught me how to be confident in my decisions, how to be responsible, how to think on my feet, and I should have done more of it while I had the chance. One time I forgot to charge my iPad, and it died in the middle of class the next day, and then I had to take notes by hand.

When I leave Catalina, I’m going to forget things, and I don’t want to. I don’t even want to forget the things I don’t like. I don’t want to forget that sometimes when I walk by the dining hall it smells like roast chicken even though we aren’t having chicken at all that day. I don’t want to forget the fear that strikes your heart when you get back from winter break and realize that bird diving season has started, and the birds outside the chapel will not rest until they have attacked you at least twice. I don’t want to forget the things I don’t like here, because it means that I’ll forget good things, too. I don’t want to forget my teachers and my friends and how funny they are and how passionate they are and how eager they are to share that passion with the world and with me. They always run out of guacamole on taco day. You know? You get all excited because you’re getting to the front of the line, and you can see the bowl up ahead of you, and then you get there, and it’s empty. They don’t even take the bowl away-- they just leave it there to taunt you.

sink every time I wash my hands, and it makes me uncomfortable. I’m angry because every time I think about graduating, the last piece of advice my ring sister gave me before she graduated goes running through my head, and all I can hear is: “Your senior year goes fast, Ella. Don’t rush it. Cherish it.” And it’s been a real damper on my senioritis. The Thing I’m Not Mad About: I took her advice. I listened when she told me to take my time this year. I focused on my friends because I know we’ll never all be together like this again. I thought about the things I’ve learned and the person I’ve become since I started high school. I listen when people here talk to me because I know I won’t be able to listen to them the same way again after May 27th. I paid attention to things I did not want to forget, even the things I don’t like. And when I think about all these things and the reason I paid attention to them, I don’t feel angry anymore. I feel thankful.

I’m angry because after the slam poem about the water pressure in the C2 building’s bathroom faucets being too high, they tried to fix the problem, and now the water pressure is too low. I feel like I’m being gently cried on by a

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48 mosaic Untitled, Kaki Hubner ’19, monotype, 8” x 10”

Fallen Hard By Annarose Hunt ’17

You are so good at that That thing you do with your face How to tell you. Your eyes are so earnest I could tell you every secret I’ve ever had Trusting you all the while. You could be so dangerous That thing you do with your face You could lie to anyone but you don’t. I keep telling myself I won’t fall I’ll never be the girl who falls For guys who do things with their faces. But that thing you do You’re so good I don’t need to fall, I’ll jump.

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Settling By Juliana Tarallo ’17

The aged and staticky radio cassette sent a soft wave of music Throughout the small, quaint house, not disturbing the dancing Candle flames in the relaxed night. The delicate and quiet grandmother Sits on the old loveseat, quietly tapping her foot next to her husband, Who squints to read the day’s paper, even with his glasses perched on his face. They weren’t always this way. Quiet. Still. But it is hard to remember. As the clock on the wall ticks the day away, she remembers To grab the kettle from the stove, having heard its signalling music. She makes her way to the kitchen door frame, flashing him a pensive face, But quickly turning back to retrieve the kettle. Her head is dancing. What happened to them? Oh, but to have once again the spontaneous husband With a kind and strong face! That would be the day for the delicate and quiet grandmother. She didn’t know why, but as the static buzzed in the ears of the grandmother, As well as the heavy breathing of her spouse, she began to remember. For as the old woman brought the steaming teacup to her husband, The room was filled with a familiar tune: the music Of their life, back when life was about laughing and dancing And there were no challenges of adulthood to face.

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She set down the steaming cup as a smile formed on her wrinkled face, And for a moment, the grandmother didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel like a grandmother, But rather a figure of her youthful self, laughing and dancing Once more. Oh what a spectacular thing to remember! And as both of their ears and brows perked with the joyous music, The grandmother grabbed the aged and calloused hands of her husband. And for the next few moments, the previously tired and pensive husband Transcended his age and stared at his wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s smiling face. The couple clumsily clashed and clomped to the fast-paced music. Fatigued would not be the word to describe him and the grandmother. Rather two souls brought to life. Laughing. Dancing. Remembering. And their eyes were lit and their souls were dancing. As the candles faded, the quieting radio calmed their dancing. And time once again resumed for the aged-- and now aching-- husband. But oh, how nice it was to momentarily remember. He sat to rest his feet and perched the useless glasses back on his face. Time does not resume for the gentle grandmother. In her head, she will always dance to their very own music. Goodbye sweet, sweet music. When will you next transform my wrinkled face? As with her drifting husband, the music will soon also fade for the grandmother. She will struggle to remember, but the tea is cold and candles no longer dancing.

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52 mosaic Untitled, Jessica Crump ’19, digital print, 13” x 19”

Untitled By Emmy Siletto â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Tell Peace and sleep stay away for children take their place tonight Haunting the streets they dance and sing in crinkled sheets with lanterns bright

And morbid thoughts pervade the mind when standing at our door we see A child dressed in bloody rags while chanting out an eerie plea

I wonder if the little ones who once a year are kept from bed To walk the streets in eerie dress know that this night is for the dead

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54 mosaic Untitled from the “Cuba Series”, Coco Wang ’18, silver gelatin photograph, 8” x 10”

Untitled By Rachel D’Agui ’18

His legs were on a beach somewhere in Cancun, tanning in the sun. His legs were hiking the Alps, gaining muscle and strength. His legs were climbing the stairs up Lady Liberty, viewing the Atlantic from above. Him? He sat in his chair, staring out the windows of Wichita High School. He found comfort in daydreaming that his legs were somewhere bigger and better now. It seemed like yesterday he’d been rushed to the hospital, having woken with numbness in his thighs. He’d been rushed to surgery before he could understand the operation. The bell rang. He wheeled out of class.

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Untitled By Isabelle Redfield â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Living in Paris has changed her. She feels removed from all else. She believes herself autonomous. Her father taught her many things, one of which was to â&#x20AC;&#x153;be interestedâ&#x20AC;?. She took this advice. She is interested, but not in the typical things this world offers. She loves the sound her feet make on the gravel at night, she sees beauty in the way her cigarette burns, she recognizes plants as people. Her mother taught her to wear sunscreen. This is all she has on her face. Her soul is clothed only in the nighttime, and it dances in the dark.

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Self Portrait, Kylie Ludviksen ’20, graphite on dictionary pages, 18” x 24”

A Quiet Evening Disturbed By Juliana Tarallo ’17

Bankrivers lay peaceful for now. Colors brilliant neverwhere and shinemoon constant. Yet the moonsailors can feel the earthshake. Scuddled waters disturb the timekeeper’s land of wonder. Don’t shadowfore the knighthowlers come. Watch them flide across the liquid mirror. We’ll see them come again tombsorrow, And worm through the earth like a pillarcat. That will be at breakday. So Drop Rain!

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Bury Me By Katalina Villarreal ’20

Swiftly softly drifting down The snow will touch the ground Cover up the little things Slowly freezing over the stream My eyes are clear yet cold My mind is free but far My soul is colorful and untouchable Soft clothing covers my skin I look up and see only white I could fly away If I wanted to I want to Is it ok to feel this way To want to go But want to stay All I can see is the snow Covering the ground

Sticking to my eyelashes And falling through my hair I’ll try to be calm I’ll let time tick away But I wished I could really breath It’s ok Yeah I’m just fine I will tell you this little rhyme I am standing here upon A little hill But I am deep inside Freezing water Don’t worry I won’t drown The snow will cover me As it covers the ground

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Magdalena By Annarose Hunt ’17

She walked through the thorns on wire, Barefoot balancing girl with dark brows, high cheeks Slender in her father’s suit only month’s ago Her mother’s unwavering fiery spirit.

After the crash, a different woman Strong though isolated in her pain Relearning herself in paint, Made from wire and filled with thorns.

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Student Editors

Jessica Almos ’18 Ilana Hagen ’17 Annarose Hunt ’17

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Nancy Hunt

Staff

Ivy Armijo ’17

Taylor Moises ’17

Rowan Azhderian ’18

Sarah Ning ’18

Sammy Bennett ’17

Madeleine Oh ’18

Sylvan Free ’18

McKenna Petersen ’17

Sum Yue Guan ’19

Kylie O’Shaughnessy ’19

Ella Hougie ’19

Emma Rofler ’18

Kaki Huebner ’19

Erika Schwerdfeger ’19

Katherine Kim ’18

Keona Shimizu ’17

Diana Kisseleva ’19

Fagie Singer ’19

Michelle Lau ’18

Juliana Tarallo ’17

Emma Laurits ’17

Ari Trueba ’19

Emma Leamey ’19

Talia Varjian ’18

Ana Leon ’18

Katalina Villarreal ’20

Sophia Leonard ’18

Dana Zeng ’19

Joanna Lin ’20

Lavender Zhao ’20

Ninja collage, Amira Chou ’19, collage, 18” x 24”

Tara Mann ’18

Jenna Mann ’18

Design & Production

Communications Office

5/2017-500

mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2017

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