When we had initially planned on releasing this edition of ST.ART magazine, it feels as if we were living in a completely different universe. Before March of 2020, we felt completely disconnected from the Covid-19 pandemic and other political issues facing our globe as we went about our day-to-day in our small Scottish town. Then, what felt like a semiapocalyptic wave hit us: Coronavirus had spread at an astronomical rate and was officially declared a pandemic. Unnecessary shops, restaurants and other organisations would be closed. In-person communication would be unlawful and university classes would be entirely online. We would live in a lockdown. Then, as we were attempting to adjust to our contact-less world, yet another transformation in our orderly lives came through the murder of George Floyd and the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement. The pandemic had brought to the surface what some already knew and what others refused to acknowledge, that our lives were shaped by privilege
while others were constantly fighting systemic racism and infringements upon their human rights. The world had previously remained stagnant in fighting these atrocities. However, as we witnessed more and more cities responding to defend the rights of people of color, we glimpsed the first signs of growth. We actively worked to recognise our own role in this institutionalised racism. We, both as individuals and a publication, acknowledge our own mistakes in willingly participating in this system. The year of 2020 has been one defined by uncertainty and unrest. However one might crave stability and wish things to get back to normal, it is more important than ever to accept that our previous normal is now unacceptable. It is through change and turmoil that true growth comes to fruition; in receiving this unrest and sincerely working to transform things, we can only progress. The time for dormancy has come to an end. We, as individuals and as a greater society, must embrace growth.
Tessa Lillis and Soph Penelope Hill Editors in Cbief
Editors-in-Chief Creative Director Business & Sponsorship Graphics Social Media Events Content Editors Arts & Culture Travel Creative Writing Fashion Film Photography Music Theatre
Soph Penelope Hill Tessa Lillis Angie Keswani Rachel Chalmers Iona Ward Emily Males Catherine Burke JosĂŠphine Duriez Adya Khosla Kaylee Kelley Liam Shearer Eilidh Marshall Paige Meintzer Simona Mezzina Samuel Jeffries Emily Silk Stella Milinich Karin Sofia Johansson
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TERRESTIAL
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genevieve males scott redmond soph penelope hill abdul hm shabazz juliana n. zaharevich colette duriez juliana n. zaharevich scott redmond mason rogers genevieve males kyra ho
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HOLOSCENE
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juliana n. zaharevich colette duriez ji eun lim scott redmond cheyenne setneska soph penelope hill nicola blackburn cheyenne setneska
35 joshua medcraf 36 jessica secmezsoy -urquhart 40
AUTONOMY
42 tj lamothe 44 s.m. 45 marguerite knowles 46 ana fati 47 genevieve males 49 ellie orrell (creative writing contest winner) 50 josephine duriez 51 nicola blackburn 52 ji eun lim 54 dr gayathri b. lal 57 genevieve males margeurite knowles 58 colette duriez 59 margeurite knowles 60 scott redmond 62 angie keswani 63 kyahdric moses
image by angie keswani
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It’s been seven years gone since I loved you, that one aching and innocent French night. I had never before felt the animal contortions, in a chest full of that which it wasn’t yet big enough, strong enough, wise enough to know. You still looked like you, and I suppose I did too. When I found you all these years later, it was by an accident that I longed to call fate. I felt like I had slowly breathed out everything I had learned since that night. We didn’t know who we were, if we were then or now. In seven years time, I will not hesitate to kiss you. I will taste your breath, and hope it inflates me with the feeling of the first, and the knowledge of the second. Wherever we are will be that French night, when the innocence will return, and the ache never left. I will hold your hand, as I hold my breath, not wanting to let it out again.
growing is painful. it’s coming home after a semester away to see that your childhood swingset is gone, brough to the junkyard, two benches in its place. it’s going in the treehouse to clean up and seeing it more dishevelled than ever. it’s being surprised at how clean your house is, that things have actually been put away. it’s cleaning out your closet, giving away the clothes and stuffed animals you don’t think you want to hang on to for your own future kids. it’s realizing how short five years actually is, and the milestones you thought you’d reach seem completely insane now. it’s trying to hold onto everything you thought you knew. it’s realizing that your hometown never changes, and maybe you’re too big for it now. growing up is letting go.
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i believe that you need to be at a certain place in your life in order to write about something you’ve been thinking about, ruminating on, for a long while. even with the first notion of an idea, you may have that spark of inspiration to take pen to paper and do something about it. but it’s not ‘til you’ve given it water, sunlight, and soil, ‘til you’ve let it germinate that you can fully understand the epiphany for its full potential. things develop in their own time. the waves will reach shore. the stem will break through the earth. you will experience, and understand, and become the thing you least expected. but you cannot ever expect to get there faster than you need to. you cannot ever rush into the inevitable. your future will wait for you.
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I hope she never writes about me. She would never write as beautifully, as sweetly or as tenderly As I have spent the past year Writing about her. But, Then again, I never treated her as beautifully, as sweetly or as tenderly As I have spent the past year Writing about her.
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IF I Just say I don’t quite If I didn’t quite remember, I mean, How it was the first time Because I like to think that we’re building towards something Is that worse than you remembering everything? Is that worse than you trying to recreate the first time? Because I’d like to think that we are moving away and forward Not trying to capture a still on a selftimed lens. Am I an aid and abetting of your insecurities? If so, you are still dreamy, and I am still tumultuous.
The day you stopped – I was cold all over – that you stopped loving me enough or maybe logic won – my knuckles were cold even – anyway in those 4 hours I sort of realised what you’d realised and what I didn’t want to acknowledge that we couldn’t really envision each other not really in futures we didn’t want to pin down – I have not been touched by another person in weeks in weeks in weeks in weeks – I was cold all over and very calm and I could write you as many purple-tinged plucky songs as my fingers could hold
and it wouldn’t change the fact that I am not a jigsaw person and that you find game shows fascinating and that really we love each other for what our bodies do and I don’t believe in souls and you would like to and even in what we think of as love we clash. You’ve never said once if you were in love with me. I am under blankets.
And then There are times, such as now, when I cannot believe where we are. When you are sat on your heels for the 6th hour in a row, Squeezing jigsaw pieces together and offering trivia to the TV gods. When 10 months ago you were a milkbearing mystery and now The smell of your hair moves me to nuzzle your cheek The cheek you keep all bristle Because I like your sandpaper embraces. You can call me Infantile, spoiled, all you like. You are all I like, Save porridge, and being clean, In the mornings you make coffee and will not wake until I will You pout a little when I do not move I pout a little when you do Separate awakenings are fine fine fine but Falling asleep together is nonnegotiable.
image by soph penelope hill
1. Quiet piano chords a few rooms over, giving life to the dust in the air 2. Brown curls that bounce as you walk, that ruffle, that tumble 3. Shy smiles that edge up from one corner to spread across your face 4. Ocean waves curling over small toes, soothing away the aches 5. The moon hanging, delicate and fragile like a Communion wafer 6. Crickets chirping in summer twilight, counting out the heavy heat 7. Soft stalks of wheat in the breeze, golden, and gentle, and giving 8. Your laugh when you haven’t cracked a smile in a long time
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The chair sits, but is not sat in. The bed has only one depression. The cover collects, slumps on one side. The crumbs only affront one half of the table. The shower cries now once daily. A single drawer sits empty. You are gone. The single bed lives up to its name. The loaf of bread lasts twice as long. The diary dries, withers, dies. The dishes linger longer. The mugs are used one at a time. A toothbrush shows the signs of decay. You are gone.
You never sat on a chair, teetering on the edge like a sparrow at bird feed, ready to fly at the slightest provocation. You sunk in to it, you owned it no matter the room. When people talk about ‘their chair’, it never applied to you. You made any one yours, the comfort you felt flowing into everyone around you, like a drill sergeant whose only order was ever ‘at ease’. We would start in the middle of the bed, one writhing mass of limbs and warmth, then be prised apart by the crowbar of comfort. A solitary foot, my slinking finger may cross the divide, running down backs like waterfalls in Spring, then retreating back in the comfort of knowing there was a place to retreat from. When the curtains parted, we came together anew. There were drawbacks, like the drawing of a duvet to one side. Your slender frame clearly needing more than its fair share of protection against the night. I would wake from the warmth of a dream of you, and bridge the divide for long enough to prize my own possession from you, incising and prizing with surgical
precision, keen to avoid the trauma of morning brought on before its time. The table was reserved for when one of us cooked. Really cooked. Wood and legs require an occasion, not beans on toast. You would sprinkle like a fairy with dust, too excited by conversation to attempt to self regulate. You were more the clean freak than me, it made me smile to think that you would realise and be frustrated by your own inattention, so I just let you carry on. I would shower twice. Once for practicality, once for pleasure. If fortunate, further pleasure would lead to the need for further practicality. You looked like an uncensored shampoo advert, the beads of sweat you caused on my forehead making the wash itself unreliable, I would want to continue until we were pruned like the age I expected to hold you until. What little there was is now gone. You would not think a pair of underwear, a pyjama top, and a left sock would leave such a hole. You are gone. I remember less the nights we spent sharing it, and more how at home you looked when I came back to you in it. The cover drawn to mid stomach, the feet peeking from the bottom, a can of juice on the bedside table, it felt like the room was yours and I was merely intruding. It fit you perfectly, like a tailored suit or knitted sweater, and you look just as warm, just as cared for. I hope you were. The days the cover could not be excised from your grip, I would excuse myself from that of the bed, to the kitchen. I could not believe you had never had beans on toast before I had met you. Perhaps the signs we could not co-exist were there from the start, but still you seemed to take to it. I enjoyed feeling useful, even if it went against everything I stood for to serve you what could charitably be coined warm bread. No table was required, this I gave you in your royal chamber, sat proud in the middle where our divide once stood. There was always something. That next thing we were going to do. Activity, dinner, trip, party, organised nothingness. My ADHD and your American-ness dictated there were few quiet nights, and those there were ceased to be for long. That combination of wanting you all to myself, but showing you off to the world, whispering nothings in your ear then shouting them from the rooftops. 29
I still don’t forgive you for beating me at mini golf. I wanted to seem like I had it together for you, I wanted to seem adult for you. For some reason, that manifested in my cleaning of the dishes. Successful adults do not have their dishes stacked, my status as student loomed large over me and I wanted to wash it away through fairy liquid. Besides, there was a joy in being able to see your smile in one more surface. I assigned you my flatmates unicorn mug. You thought it was sweet, I thought it was a way to cover up the fact that I only owned one mug. Sat beside the beans on bread, brewed for ten minutes (a lifetime compared to my warmed milk), more honey, never sugar, than milk. It became second nature, I still start a second cup whenever I make one for myself. I couldn’t throw it away. I keep imagining you coming back and being offended that I did, so I don’t. Greyfriars toothbrush. You are gone.
The chair remains. The bed remains. The cover remains. The table remains. The shower remains. The drawer remains. You are gone. The bed remains. The bread remains. The days remain. The dishes remain. The mugs remain. The toothbrush remains. You are gone.
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While you sleep Itchitch Scraaatch golden coast bake burn Eastern koel flies damp. dirt, pine dusty grit and brown despair summer in august so you forget. whip stony lords of the sea a folklore that was never to be. ...squelch sun giggles you try your best now soar away brown despair.
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The moon was full above us when finally, we met After the three-day journey with no seeming end Best-laid plans of steady breathing, water and pleasant aromas Stained and pushed aside with the bloody hospital covers Your grandmother recently gone was at your side A guide to me and you In times long ago my beginning would have been our end But it was now No expected cries permeated the sterile room The connection of us was broken into me and you Cut away by concerned faces in loose scrubs When my call finally rings out you know it to be true Another Phoenix rare but present in all our generations throughBad and good we persist For life goes on When finally, you held me, all seemed well Driven by a mother’s yearning Your fingers entwined in mine Trying to help me do what seems nature But was not for us Despair and hunger sets upon us But for a nurse whose pity shown Towards mother and fledgling makes clear a bottle is as good as any breast At peace I nestle under your wing It sets upon you like a sudden gale Poisoning you on your love Contaminating Because such evil thoughts mean evil deeds Don’t they? Dad carries his share as we battle the storm together
High over the hills and through valleys and down rivers Of sorrow only a mother can know When the calm sets in we’re here waiting Like sunshine after rain The other chicks know different When They see, smell, taste and touch it. Driving it from amongst them By 11, 12, 13, I no longer try To move beyond the bounds of the nest Going through motions, Each day, Each week, Never to change unless I fall out and hurtle below I’m your solitary and transient child in amber Not living but wasting time that others would spend much wiser At fourteen you watch me try again to die And the tears flow as you see me caged Collapsed into myself there I am glass A fragile glass that only shines at certain angles A glass menagerie And I don’t want to break and cut you When you try to catch my shards. Until one day that me is gone Between the blaze and from the flames I step back into it The world To endure and live My next go round is an inferno. It goes so fast we almost miss it. Out of the cage and into the waiting claws Vulnerable and open I am something to be played with And thrown aside in time For too long I don’t realize 37
I am numb and used To be taken in hand Until the spell breaks Me? A cat is no match for a phoenix I had just forgot Third times the charm It is a matter of faith Whatever that means To keep going and take that step into Nothing to it But you have to try We fly together Birds of a feather Until you drop Down below into the hospital bed Among x-rays, CT Scans and biopsies We found an ember growing This time spelling death not rebirth They snuff it out You rose again not as a victim but as amazon A survivor maybe? But a phoenix always. The wind changes And after all is said and done The day finally comes And it is time for me to go Carrying myself forward I soar Rising above you Shrink away Feeling different soil beneath me I make a place of my own It’s hard I know But it’s something meant to be felt To live those young days again Would be grand
But so is just watching Me Whose time is now. Take this And hold It Close The lands we fly over are different But we share the same sky Life goes on Into Spring then Summer will come Until it is you see me from a distance Hurrying towards you Landing to meet again You and Me We who are Phoenix.
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image by soph penelope hill
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I became an adult in the blink of an eye. “I’m not ready” I said. Silence replied. And a series of vane explanations Medical terms The endless tale of a lost cause.
and yet, it feels like time can never pass. Not enough, not a healing force we trick our minds into. I became an adult and yet I am still wondering. Can a loss make up for the wasted time of a better person?
I became an adult in the blink of my eyes. Can a phone call express the sorrow of a loss?
In the years I will spend w/o/a/ndering I will ask myself: will you let your heart be carried in mine?
I became an adult in the blink of my father’s eyes. It will take time,
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Kites without strings Floating across the room with the magnifying indifference of a person meeting its end ‌and accepting it. Impenetrable silences are corrupting my ability to formulate; The bubbled-up zest of my independent emotions Face the dependable outcome of my despair. It is fierce and lonely to obey the rules within yourself Are they righteous? Loyal? Asking for a change you cannot give‌ Bruised up by my emotions corrupting each other Confidences crumble I crumble I wonder where my string is.
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sought solace in cerebral pursuits, though my heart remained anchored in quicksand. time slowed and calendar dates became the measure of everything. never was my mind so concerned with numerals and plans. never did my hand move so quickly to the next piece of work the next administrative task. an attempt to grow towards the next year, where you sit, upon January’s shoulder. measured out time in coffee cups, and in brown freckles wiped from a counter. serendipitous streets; wound through with heartache, whose cobblestones profess to hold onto each footstep. I wonder now if you’ll forget me quickly, how I swam through tidal pools and held fish-supper picnics in the walled garden, after collecting October’s windfalls.
radiator juts bones jut out stab nah nothing to engage nothing i am my thumb i am limp A storm comes when clouds are sharp and black?
stab, stab sheaf? no, stab i know what I’ve done till later meh bodies bodies bathroom breakdown bodies. tiptoe i hear you fucking tiptoe if i tiptoe maybe She won’t hear me stab. vegetables limp vegetables she is stiff. i know what i’ve done till later why am i so cold?
the storm never comes from the oval window i spot you impaled by the intransigent sharp cloud. do you still love me? do you think I’m pretty? i’ve forgotten where my knife is. bullshit stab
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The silence that surrounds me is unbearable, it pounds in my head with an intensity that's visibly palpable, it suffocates and chokes me leaving me gasping, it urges me to turn around and escape but still holds me prisoner, it is this silence which makes me realise that my life is never gonna be the same again. The people around me are murmuring in hushed tones, some of them familiar, others acquaintances, and the rest are the 'so called' relatives. I can't make myself peer around, categorising everyone into known and unknown or to keep a mental tab of who is here and who is not. The simple, mundane task seems as exhausting and taxing as lifting a mountain on my shoulders. The limbs, just like my brain, has also forgotten how to function; it won't lift a glass of water even though my throat is screaming in agony; it won't lift itself to hug my mother who is drowning in her anguish and misery; it won't even bother to wipe of the tears streaming across my face. Pain is a terrible thing, it taints the best of memories with sorrow and recalling them seems as tormenting as they were pleasant once.
'I, being the bundle of energy that I was, was running around welcoming guests, hollering at the catering guys to speed up the process, coordinating with the event management team, making Maa stop hovering over Bhaiyya and letting him gear up in peace, and keeping Papa from fussing over everything all over again; after all Bhaiyya's wedding had to be perfect. I always liked being at the center of things, loving the control and sense of power it gave me. So was the case of that occasion as well, I rose up to my role and took up the whole supervision duty upon myself, but how the family trusted the 18 year old 'super girly' me was still a mystery! The wedding was obviously a hit; my mother's welled up eyes, my father's look of pride, my brother's smug look and my sister in law's smile made all the efforts worth it. At the end of the day, Papa came up to me and told me that I'm as good as a son can be. For some reason, that made me sad because I just wanted to be his daughter who was good, I was not a son and I didn't want to be.' Squinting my eyes and focusing back on the scene before me, I see my brother holding his 3 year old son and struggling to hold a tray of drinks for the crowd in the living room. At that moment, I realised that this grief can't consume me the way it's trying to, I have to be strong for my family which I have always been and always will be. My hands suddenly get their life instilled back, and I am springing into action, going to
Bhabhi and taking over the drinks section, escorting Maa to the room, mingling and accepting condolences from everyone kind enough to offer and relieving Bhaiya of the load of responsibility thrust upon him. My father would have been proud. "Papa." 'Most of the people who knew my family have always claimed that I'm a replica of my father, both physically and mentally. It always exhilarated me to hear it because my father was my hero. We would go on father daughter bonding sessions, like trekking, having junk foods which Maa hated, playing outdoor games, or just cycling. Those occasions always made me feel closer to Papa. But growing up, I became cognizant of the fact that he was not perfect, he like everyone else had flaws, flaws that I couldn't accept or adjust with. I, being a very picky eater, once refused to eat egg burji at lunch, Papa got into a really foul mood and barked at me "You are just a girl, learn to behave like one as well and start eating whatever is given to you without a word. The less opinions you have, the better." I was so stunned hearing such cruel words from my father that I stopped talking to him altogether. But he was my father after all and I loved him nevertheless, so I re established communication, all the while keeping in mind that never again will I let anyone be that demeaning to me.' Seeing Maa leaning over Papa's dead body and crying nearly breaks me,
but I hold myself up. But as soon as I caught sight of my best friend trotting over to me, I lost it. My tears pour again as she pulls me to her and I hold onto her like a lifeline. I don't have to pretend to her and I can draw strength from her for the time being. Her mother takes over my responsibility, talking to people and taking care of funeral arrangements. I will remain grateful to her even after all this gets over. It's not only blood relations that counts, but also relationships that keep us sane and grounded. She has always been there for me, even when Papa was diagnosed. 'Papa had been lethargic and anorexic for a while and he also started complaining of abdominal pain, but he refused to visit a doctor. That day began with Papa nauseated, then vomiting blood. Panic and chaos began, Maa rounded up everyone, got ready and set off to hospital to get Papa checked. I was seated in the waiting area, Maa and Papa were inside the doctor's room and Bhaiyya was on the way from his house. Scared didn't even begin to cover the emotion that I felt. I knew vomiting blood was serious, but that's about all I knew. I started pacing up and down the corridor waiting for the diagnosis made based on the symptoms, blood reports and whatever investigations they did. The stricken look on Maa's face was all I saw when they came out. It was bad, I knew and I didn't wanna know anymore. We didn't speak on
the way home or maybe it was that I couldn't hear what they were saying, I was in shock. When we rounded up the corner, she was there waiting. My best friend always and forever.' I sneak out of the house without anyone noticing so that I can have a moment to myself. Walking up to the stream nearby, I settle down near the edge and keep my feet underwater. How to move forward? Until today, everything had been about Papa, his treatment and his prognosis. Right now, I feel lost and confused on what to do next and where to go. The pressure of being an adult was so humongous that I felt my shoulders hunch. About 2 months ago, I was as free as I could be. I had finished my degree and got placed in a nice company with a good sum of money to my name at the end of every month. I was planning to attend parties, go on trips and spend the money on anything that I please. But I was in for a rude awakening. Life without Papa seems kinda like an impossible reality. My father, who used to take the brunt of every misfortune in our lives, is no more. The chores at home which were his duties namely, gardening, laundry, washing dishes at dinner, maintenance of the house, and the financial matters that he claimed were his and only his duty - what happens to them? Maa who always had been dependent on him, what will she do? Who will give me and Bhaiyya life
advice? He left a hole in all of our lives as well as hearts. But the fact is that the clock keeps on ticking, moments keep on passing by, and already the day is coming to an end. Life goes on with or without him; we don't get a say in it. We just move forward rearranging our jumbled up lives and picking up pieces. Our family will survive holding onto each other for support and company. It just feels like I grew up from a 25 year old girl to a 25 year old adult in a short span of time. We never know the exact point in time when we take up the driving seat of our life, it's a cumulation of our experiences that leads up to the point. Whatever happens, we have to face them head on once you grow up because no one's gonna fight them for us. If I take a step back today, I will regret it for life. I have to move on. Getting up from my position so as to go back home, I take a peek at the sky. "Papa, we miss you." My father would have been proud. "Papa."
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marguerite knowles
The windows sigh with the morning, and show me only what they want to, The cries of despair turn to dancing rhythm in melancholic distance. Sheep lead the way to nowhere, as Summer loses track of Fall. Buttons quieten themselves to simple beauties, the tree weeps for the pages anew. I follow not, I follow not. I beg the windows for clarity, but they give me only what they want me to see. Paint me in joy, write me in sorrow. The great migration stops only when the day is so broken they fall through into depth. Where the sheep go, the tigers will follow, and Winter wants only to lie down with the Spring. I see no tomorrow, I see no sky. The radio buzzes in and out of stationary existence. I follow not, I follow not. The dancing can only go for as long as it does, not a moment more or the cries become joy in desperation. The window knows this, and can’t bare to pass it on. Sheep walk the map of footsteps of sheep before, their hooves becoming muddy and brittle. The walls sweat with desire, close in slowly and meticulously, never more, never less. If I could break through I would, but the window is painted shut. Who chose the names of the seasons, does she have a postal address? I follow not, I follow not.
The floor is still where I left it, unless it came back just in time. The window shows me only my reflection, even that is distilled in silence. Roses do not die, they wilt in the arid heat of beauty. So the sheep said, so must be true. I lie down so I can not fall asleep, but simply exist in its presence. The words escape me in a whisper, running to the shore where they can be swept up by the deafening roar of progress. I throw away tomorrow in hopes of today, but will no doubt pick it up and dust it down in the evening. Winter and Summer go where they have been, Spring looks over the balcony, and wonders why no-one appears to profess love unrequited. Fall. Beg me their temperance, beg me their silence. I follow not, I follow not. The windows sigh with the night, and show me only what could have been. The dancing turns to rain, drops of golden nothing. Rhythm in ecstatic promise. Sheep settle for what may never come, as Fall creeps out from under us. Buttons break open in flagrant disregard, the tree comes to terms with her loss. I beg to follow, but they turn me back. I follow not, I follow not.
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Liberty has stepped on our necks for over 400 years and has passively asked us to breathe He loosened the noose and he called it a leash and he said to us “you’re free” But the older I get, the more that I see, that this freedom was never for me. How can I smile or live in denial with the truth in front of my eyes? How can you stand, when all over this land, the skies are filled with our cries? How can you say that our pain isn’t real – that injustice is all in our minds? Why can’t you feel the pain that we feel? How are you still colorblind? You see that I am black but you ignore that fact, hoping it’ll make me fit in. But it doesn’t change that my people are estranged and still hated because of our skin.
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Colophon For each issue, the ST.ART Magazine committee collectively decides upon a theme. Then, a call for submissions is opened universally and internationally. Selections for the issue are chosen with the theme in mind at the discretion of Editors-in-Chief Soph Penelope Hill and Tessa Lillis, and Creative Director Angie Keswani. The number of features per artist within the issue is directly related to how many items the artist submitted. The GROWTH issue was made using Adobe InDesign. The only font used in this edition is Adobe Garamond Pro, 11pt; titles and headers handwritten by Angie Keswani. A big thank you to all contributors, whose work and talent make up this magazine, and thank you to those who buy ST.ART’s print issue, whose support allows this work to come to fruition. Special thanks to Amelia Meyer, who has so graciously supplied the front and back cover for the GROWTH issue.