bloom
scribbles / the mini issue / 9. 5
th e m i n i iss u e “I sit before flowers hoping they will train me in the art of opening up I stand on mountain tops believing that avalanches will teach me to let go I know nothing but I am here to learn.” —excerpt from The Student by Shane Koyczan
9.5 /
A p r ‘1 5
printed on 100% recycled paper / supported by the CIS Art and English departments
i. 01 03 05 07 08 10 13 16
contents
17 21 22 23 25 28 29
Editor’s Thoughts / The Scribblers Writer in Bloom: May Huang Artist in Bloom: Anny Teng Artist in Bloom: Shirley Lau shape-shifters, Vanessa Cheok Waiting to be Worn, Chloe Barreau This Compulsion to Come Back, Katherine Yang Unsaid, Charlotte Target lessons i learnt sitting on the floor of the bathroom after i ran out of class in order to avoid a complete breakdown, Sasha Corr / slant /, Rachel Lee & Winter Break, Jimin Kang of life, Karis Tao Bauhinia blakeana, Evelyn Choi Not Even Atlas, Sophie Li Glasshouse Gazing, Charlene Phua Ode to the Seed, Cynthia Huang The Bloom Mix, Nicole Choi
感謝 The Scribbles team would like to extend our deepest gratitude to the CIS Dream Fund for allowing us to bloom and blossom in this mini-issue.
editor-in-chief Jimin Kang directors operations / Cynthia Huang writing / Sophie Li art / Chloe Barreau layout / Nicole Choi writers Vanessa Cheok Chloe Barreau Katherine Yang Charlotte Target Sasha Corr Rachel Lee Jimin Kang Sophie Li Karis Tao Evelyn Choi May Huang Charlene Phua Cynthia Huang
artists / photographers Shirley Lau Anny Teng Haley Wong Chloe Barreau Isaac Um Victoria Witt Michelle Wu Amelia Wong Nicole Choi Natalie Lin Justina Yam Haani Jetha Kristen Wong Anne Lau Doroty Sanussi cover art / end quote design by Amelia Wong, 13G2 inside cover by Stephen Megson back cover by Doroty Sanussi, 13B2
editor’s thoughts the scribblers
Here is the flower crown made from the petals our blossoms have shed. Still, we continue to bloom. Enjoy
i
新年 A sound like a thunderclap plants red flowers in a dark garden. Who is drawing on this blank, black page?
as Grandma presses red packets into our hands, whispering 新年快樂, and sits down to peel a tangerine the color of the last flower that just dashed its shimmering pollen into our surrounding, sunless fields. Mandarin wedges in hand, we watch with curious eyes and wait for the next flowers to bloom.
01
art by Anne Lau, 11R2
writer in bloom
We watch cloaked boats put on this crackling performance of electric blossoms that bloom and wilt in an instant
談話 Why do you write? Primarily to revisit and reflect. Mary-Beth Hughes said that writing is to “master the problem by making it conscious”, so writing is therapy for me. But writing is also like composing a song, and playing around with rhythms and intonations is always fun.
may huang / 13B2
Where do you draw your inspiration from? From the past, the natural world, books, random things that people say, 等等! What does culture mean to you and how does it play a part in your poetry? Culture and heritage are like the roots of a flower they absorb the water and nutrients you need to grow. I want to always be aware of the soil in which I’m planted, no matter what colors my petals are.
為什麼你決定以兩種語言寫詩？ 這樣比較有地道性 ，也能增強詩歌的音樂 美。另外，我在詩歌中所引述的話本來就是 用中文講的。 What themes will you explore in the future? I’m graduating soon, so I’ll probably be exploring my quarter-life crisis. 哈哈哈。
02
a few thoughts My creative process normally begins with an idea. This idea can either be a vague grasp of a technique I want to explore, or a vision of what I want to create. This idea gives me a pathway towards the specific research I then conduct. Research is crucial as it allows for my creative juices to flow. Inspiration also helps me build upon my original idea: I take inspiration from artists and pieces explore similar concepts or technical approach.
that
From my research, I then adjust and modify my original idea into sketches of feasible creations. I’m personally a progressive worker, so that involves a lot of planning, modeling and experimenting before I make the actual art piece. You could say my progressive work is my art!
My IB artworks follow the concepts of memory, recollection and trace. These themes stem from the inevitable truth that memories can never be recollected. Through these works, I’ve explored how the morphing of memories have created my sense of lost identity amidst my desperate attempts to recollect the forgotten fragments of time.
03
artist in bloom
It sounds corny, but without passion there is no drive behind creating any form of art.
04
anny teng / 13R2
artist in bloom
05
a few thoughts
shirley lau / 13G2
The very bottom line of my inspiration would be instinct. It’s hard to make art when I can’t invest some part of myself or things that are important to me in a piece of art, so I actively try to seek out topics or situations that engage or incite reactions from myself. Inspiration doesn’t stem from one specific subject matter; rather, inspiration comes from my instinctive reactions. This mural drawing was inspired by my fascination with sea life. The sea occupies 70% of the Earth’s surface, but is largely unexplored and leaves much to the imaginative mind. For a species that claims to know so much, humans’ limit of understanding for the sea is humbling and should deserve our respect. Our actions, however, show a complete lack of respect for what we don’t even understand: we pollute and destroy seas without seriously considering the innocent world that is getting destroyed. I hope to reimagine the sea through my world, not in its polluted state, but in a respected state of life. My creative process usually starts with looking at other artworks that interest me, be it through subject matter, style, technique or any other unique aspect. These artworks then lead me to look and research for photos of the actual subject matter to understand its reality in context to the natural world and our society. After that, I usually start with my piece, being driven primarily by my imagination and the images I have seen regarding this subject.
06
shape-shifters
Vanessa Cheok, 11B1 We followed the animals to the river to find our second life— The brambles drawing our fingers red. Crouched behind branches, we waited for miracles, longing to see a small boy emerge from the waters before us, to hear the wolves run quietly in the mountains behind us, to find a snake’s green skin, lit like a lantern, as the falcons tear gold from the dark. In the night, like a bird’s molting feathers, our hair.
07
Nicole Choi, 12G2
waiting to be worn Chloe Barreau, 11P1
Make a mess! Play! Come, jump around the swings of the world! Contain all the light, and hold it tight, when at night our world shakes to freeze our body and mind.
Michelle Wu, 12P2
Pale masks waiting for feathers, glitter, and fervor, the warm glow of a child’s mind, light, novel, and not too old to think of a thousand things too big.
08
09
Anne Lau 11R2
this compulsion to come back Katherine Yang, 10R1
He has a weird kind of face. Bony and skinny and cheekbones and nose, like a compass, like his brain. Like, you don’t know if maybe, when he was a kid, his eyes already quick and curious, his thoughts seeped into his skin and pushed and pulled at his bones ’til they jutted out like the corners of his mind maze. You couldn’t say exactly what kind of angles they are, but you could explain at length what they're like when his head swivels to look at you and you lift your chin infinitesimally, feeling sharper already. He's awesome. It’s awesome, what you guys have—people always say you&him or him&you, never one without the other at most a phone call away, making him noodles for your Die Hard marathon together or collecting blankets for you guys to make a fort in the hallway. You’re hanging the last blanket up on the plastic hanger so that the light outside is blotted out and the only source of illumination is the string of flashlights taped to the top of the fort. You turn around. He makes a finger gun. You grin. His lips quirk. It’s as natural as anything and as you settle into your bean bags, you think that okay, maybe you, like... like like him.
10
above: Isaac Um, 9G1 right, top: Natalie Lin, 10B1 / right, bottom: Kristen Wong, 9R2 11
12
unsaid
Charlotte Target, 12B1 When it was over, there was so much I had left unsaid. The string of words I threw at you was all exclamation marks and capital letters in bolded font, punctuated finally by an angry full stop. Looking back, it marked the end of one sentence and the start of another. Truth is, I never stopped thinking about you. It surprised me how quickly resentment turned to regret. Soon you were the first thing that came to mind whenever I found myself awake at night, sleepless underneath the weight of what I never said. Pride—then shame—kept me from picking up the phone and just telling you that I love you, that I need you, and that the last time I felt happy was sitting in your kitchen at 2am playing Scrabble as the leaky faucet dripped in time with your wine-greased laughter. Sentiment replaced shame in my old age and I found myself buying you roses again. It took some work, but I finally tracked you down to say what I didn’t that night. I always thought I had more time, but I guess you only get so many tomorrows. I left the flowers on your grave.
13
Haani Jetha 10B2
14
15
Justina Yam 13B2
lessons i learnt sitting on the floor of the bathroom after i ran out of class in order to avoid a complete breakdown Sasha Corr, 12G2 one: breathe. in. out. in. out. in two: you are wrong. this is wrong. what are you on? three: to cry is to be weak. do not cry. hold it back. four: we count. we can’t. to breathe is to lie, to cry is to die, we can not, we must not. five: there is a lone form of sad, that looks like a cliff but feels like a blowhole, it spreads out in your veins like a flu but does not touch the cells. it goes to your heart. it eats you.
16
/ slant /
Rachel Lee, 11G2 Everyone was out in the ballpark and you were busy chasing the slant of cold winter light like you knew the cusp of happiness, a crumble of velvet sugar that became the brittle bones which locked you in the schoolroom and left you gasping for oxygen— now the typewriter keys clank and rattle in your lungs. what do you have to say, it’s not difficult, don’t be shy nobody understands that you can’t speak because the wind doesn’t blow and words stick to the lining of your esophagus. Outside the cold winter light slants like a December tune. Maybe it’s time you started singing to the cicadas.
winter break
Jimin Kang, 12P1 Today is the first day of winter break and there is no-one at home. I enter my room and the word for my first reaction is: dumbstruck. Mother has drawn the gauzy curtains across the December-tinted windows and there are butterflies stitched into the seams. Hazy light streams through the little fibers I’ve breathed in my sleep; a collection of dreams. Plaid scarf sits on chair, cork-board sits on wall, painting of Spanish towers hangs askew on parched whiteness. Closet filled with memories yet to be worn.
17
Enter cat, leg rubs. The soft purr is all you hear in this wintry wonderland. Two weeks stretch ahead, thirsty and thick, like that. I am in love with this snowless land, and this winter it will eat me whole.
W
P1
Vic t
or
ia
itt
2 ,1
18
Natalie Lin 10B1
19
Amelia Wong 13G2
20
of life
Karis Tao, 10HZ terrifyingly, the world is there just a little bit further, against the very tips of your fingers, and you are only held back by the fragile fear of being torn down brick by brick. but you are the artist of who you want to be, strength you kept at bay, wings you hid, your very breath galaxies and worlds and eternities. reach just across that little gap and you are magnificent.
Anny Teng 13R2
21
bauhinia blakeana Evelyn Choi, 11B2
Things I think of when I think of home: egg waffles, poised skyscrapers, small roads, nine tones, umbrellas in smog. Bloodline pictograms dart down the streets, down my tongue, traced in neon. We stand in sardine subway cars, staring at linear rainbow nodes that sprawl out like velvet filaments, like butterfly leaves. You ever think about who turns the skyline lights on? You ever spot new sparks on the avenue of old stars?
not even atlas
Sophie Li, 11R2
The letters come back and we slip into our familiar routine, electric hands, clammy roots, it is a madness we are used to. Hunger is growing. It wears the shape of all of us, it says that we are all forms of lost. We are living the slow war— Hear the hurricanes in our centers of dust, the noose in every corner. It is 4 a.m. and we type with the sounds of the rattling of bones, we are the dreams of our mothers, we are smiling, we are pretending that the world isn’t heavy on our shoulders.
art by Hillary Yee, 11P2
top: Nicole Choi, 12G2 / bottom: Michelle Wu, 12P2
24
glasshouse gazing Charlene Phua, 13P1
Imagine. Imagine this; standing in a field with wheat up to your shoulders, as far as the eye can see. Gold, gold, gold, rippling like molten tide with the wild wind whistling through your hair; you are six acting seven; you are sixteen feeling sixty; you are sixty feeling six, grasping– Straws. Under your feet they crunch when you shift. Minute. Taste the salt in the air. Hear the gulls up above you, calling. The rush of the gale buffeting you, the sound of the tide as it crashes against the cliff you are standing on, your head tilted back, throat bared to the world, unrepentant, unapologetic, an ache in your chest, the possibilities before you; infinite. Like the spray on your face, a pleasant sting from vapor rising– Up. Up is how you are, where you are going, ascendant. You close your eyes and feel like your soul is floating, bumping against your eyelids and cranium as it tries to leave, transcendent. C’est la vie. Such is life. A dream. A hope that fills you to the brim, floods your senses, invades your senses, you could burst but—
25
Chloe Barreau 11P1
26
27
Anny Teng 13R2
ode to the seed
Cynthia Huang, 11Y2 All embrace that gentle seed, which with Sunken eyes and withered dreams, Still tries to Breathe.
Victoria Witt 12P1
28
29
Photo by Haley Wong, 12R2
開花 《絕句二首（其一）》 杜甫
遲日江山麗，春風花草香。 泥融飛燕子，沙暖睡鴛鴦。
30