Silent Voices 2016

SILENT VOICES a literary arts magazine

Woodward Academy Volume XXXVI

AR · TI · FACT arte (by or using art) + factum (something made) In the journey of life, we all use artifacts to illuminate our path, steady our footsteps, and understand our own realities.

These artifacts can both be curiously both intensely personal and so public that they form the very framework of our society.

A private walk in the park. A casual remark made by a stranger. Watching an athlete perform. Reading a great novel.

Even just reflecting on your friendships. These all can be moments that shape and fire an artifact.

Some artifacts are carried with you and you are the only one to ever see them. Others have been left by fellow humans and you encounter them through your life. Building on each other, all of our artifacts – owned and discovered – determine our every step and inspire our next thought. Like a great forest, each tree has its own roots, feels the breeze its own way, and nurtures its own set of birds and animals. Just as any of the trees may be an artifact in your life, you may be an artifact for the next person you encounter. We are all artifacts.

In this edition of Silent Voices, we seek to explore some of our modern day artifacts. Through six chapters, we examine some of the ways we form artifacts – the influences on their creation and their influence on us through our lives. We explore how artifacts age and how the sequence of our encounters shapes us and our world view. This edition is a walk through students’ collective attics where you can rummage and engage with our artifacts. Handle with care.

Your Editor, Olivia Jones ‘16

Each of these books comes with perforated pages, so — if you feel so inclined — you can take an artifact for yourself.

CREDITS Head Editor Olivia Jones ‘16 Art Advisors Morgan Watson ‘16 Katy Warren ‘16 Editorial Board Alanna Pearson ‘18 Camille Rogers ‘16 Erin Edwards ‘17 Avni Kulkarni ‘17 Eva Jones ‘16 Hannah Erbrick ‘17 Jessie Newman ‘16 Katy Warren ‘16 Mahala Broad ‘19 McKenzie Westen ‘19 McKibben Collins ‘19 Mia Green ‘18 Morgan Petrini ‘19 Morgan Watson ‘16 Peyton Strong ‘18 Special thanks to JP Mulkey ‘16 Morgan Watson ‘16 Nic Huey ‘16 Avni Kulkarni ‘17 Peyton Strong ‘18 Jack Kostyshen ‘18 Adviser Rebekah Goode-Peoples

Additional thanks to Nicholas Widener, Jennifer Knox, Chris Greenway, Andy Cunningham, Mark Carrington, Marcia Spiller, and Dr. Chris Freer for their support and comments during the creation of this artifact.

COLOPHON The editorial board and advisor at Woodward Academy, 1662 Rugby Ave, College Park, GA 30337, created this 36th volume of Silent Voices. Bennett Graphics printed 1,300 copies in April 2016, which were distributed to the student body and faculty of the Upper School. Happy Times was used for titles and Minion Pro was used for copy. Bennett Graphics printed this volume on 80# Cougar Opaque Smooth Text in White. We used InDesign CC and Adobe Photoshop CC to produce this issue.

SILENT VOICES

human

each

realized

imperfection

He

loves

God

I. Self Exploration

creates

Silent Voices

Self Exploration All of our artifacts are relative to our own experience. As we reach and feel our way forward in our lives, the things we touch are interpreted from our own perspective. Does that doorknob exit a room or does it enable us to enter a new room? In considering this question, we are exploring our world, but we are also exploring ourselves. Because artifacts are like pieces of a puzzle, we use them in putting together the mosaic that becomes the definition of ourselves. As such, when we create an artifact by interacting with others, nature, or other situation, we are also putting down another piece of the puzzle that is ourselves. Every artifact is part of the lifelong journey of self-exploration, and these pieces illustrate the importance of artifacts in every person’s exploration of themselves.

i

Self Exploration

Table of Contents WORDS: Human........................................................................................................4

Hannah Erbrick ‘17 Inside my Notions.....................................................................................7

Carly Pilger ‘19 I walk Forward – yet Still In Place..........................................................8

Avni Kulkarni ‘17 Phobophobia............................................................................................10

Cameron Robinson ‘18 Anatomy...................................................................................................13

Peyton Strong ‘18 When I sought to find perfection.........................................................16

Sam Lefar ‘16 Freak Show: A Piece on Mental Illness................................................20

Kori Lannaman ‘16

ART: The Old Man (Ink & Water).....................................................................5

Marco Moreno ‘17 A Phone Call (Photography)....................................................................6

Zach Orig ‘16 Into the Dark (Photography)....................................................................9

Grace Brown ‘16 Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................10

Sabrina Zhao ‘17 Strum (Sculpture).....................................................................................11

Maya Foreman ‘17 Skull Study & Back Study (Drawings)...................................................12

Sabrina Zhao ‘17 Untitled (Photography)............................................................................14

Dani Ben-Arie ‘17 Walnut Grove (Mixed Media Photography).........................................16

Katy Warren ‘16 Alexis (Photography)...............................................................................19

Nic Huey ‘16 Untitled (Sketch)......................................................................................21

Sabrina Zhao ‘17

ii

Human

Silent Voices

everybody knows I’m human Human and Suffering and Poetry are nothing new What is Human? from anywhereit is something like spring alone in the dark on a rock but we sing Now the sun is loud through the window where we walk-there are scars What is after Human? we are trailed by sawdust or the stuff of the stars But we are made of dirt and blood I will become you as I rot in the earth We sing, we breathe, we dance Human the sky blinks as if upon children What am I but a child?

I am 2, I am 10, I am 13, I am 15: Death and I look at each other and each time I am more of a child and more afraid Human is afraid; I am afraid fear was promised to me and I have it by the mouthful of sawdust fear is Human Human is made of humans I am everyone I’ve ever known I am nothing new to the world but I am new to myself Hannah Erbrick ‘17

8

Self Exploration

Ink Drawing | The Old Man | Marco Moreno ‘17

9

Silent Voices

10

Self Exploration

Inside my Notions And as I walked home, I thought. And as I thought, my feet began to move slower and slower. At one point my thoughts became so heavy I came to a complete stop; crumbling under the weight of my notions. I fell to my hands and knees, and a hot tear rolled down my cheek as I realized I was in a hole, and as that realization sunk in, I lifted my head and saw that I was not actually at a complete stop halfway home, but at my front door.

Carly Pilger ‘19

“I am a lover of the decisive moment, defined by Henri Cartier-Bresson, one of my biggest influences for photography. I was in Philadelphia to see Pope Francis when he visited the United States, and like always, I was wandering around the street with my 35mm camera. I stumbled upon the notorious Westboro Baptist Church protesting the Pope’s arrival, but it wasn’t their signs that caught my eye. I was able to photograph the decisive moment of a woman in front of the protesters who answered a phone call, and her reaction to that phone call. The woman was visibly distraught over what she heard amongst the backdrop of WBC’s signs. As for the cracked texture, they were actually unintentional; I left it in the heat for too long when I was mounting it and the centers of the two basically curled. However, I’ve grown to admire the fault and realize that the piece wouldn’t be the same without them. Sometimes accidents actually make things better.”

A Phone Call | Zach Orig ‘16

11

Silent Voices

I walk Forward- but Still In place I walk Forward -- but Still In place Yet the Sun climbs and Sets-I can See You ahead of Me But Never reach your Steps-He has given Us Wheels to turn And Two feet for Walking But as I reach Eternity-I --pause-- to Let the droplets Flow-Regardless of what My Path is-Regardless of My hope The Man hooded of Deep Darkness Will Take my Soul afloat -Avni Kulkarni ‘17

12

Self Exploration

Photography | Into the Dark | Grace Brown ‘16

13

Silent Voices

Phobophobia

As I stand here before you ready to speak, I know he’s watching and I KNOW he sees He is always in the crowd watching me, always QUIET, always at ease He has no gender, he’s not like we, but to make it seem REAL I called him “He” He’s always been there but no one else could see, he stays INVISIBLE to everyone except me.

He is in the dark in the places I can’t see, always watching---and SEEKING me He knows when I’m afraid and fearing he, when I look away from him I know he’s SMILING at me He doesn’t hate me, he loves to be with me, the more afraid I become, and the more POWERFUL he will be I figured what he is and why he is always near, he is me and all of my FEARS. Cameron Robinson ‘18

Painting | Sabrina Zhao ‘17

14

Self Exploration

Sculpture | Strum | Maya Foreman ‘17

15

Silent Voices

16

Self Exploration

Anatomy Please. Come. Look in the tomb.

Where the trees rot before they can bloom.

Where the bats dance on the evening breeze.

And the sun is always setting.

Please. Come. Look in the mind.

Don’t feign to be shocked by what you might find.

A cool blue creek flows full with thoughts.

And the sun stays brightly burning.

Please. Come. Look in the heart.

Where music plays and critters dart.

Where each storm is of fluttering fallen blooms.

And the sun melts into the stars.

Please. Come. Look in the soul.

Take an empty, barren, broken stroll.

Faded and jaded with the winds of age.

And the sun dodges the moon’s bright gaze.

Please. Come. Lastly the skin.

The mask that shields the world within.

The painted edges and plastic seams.

And the sun, oh the sun, stays tightly locked in.

Peyton Strong ‘18

Drawings | Skull Study & Back Study | Sabrina Zhao ‘17

17

Silent Voices

18

Self Exploration

Photography | Dani Ben-Arie ‘17

19

Silent Voices

Mixed Media Photography | Walnut Grove | Katy Warren ‘16

When I sought to find perfection When I sought to find perfection I concede it slip’d detection: As it entered in my sight I fled in terror to the night The sight of nothing burned my eyes It ripped and screamed with painful cries: For when I tried to comprehend, It burnt my soul and tore my head.

I once sought to find perfection But I could not find it.

I once, in my gaze, could bind it, But in the end I escaped without detection.

In that moment, that frozen second, Where I locked eyes with God, I almost declared it a fraud As the cold void of absolution beckoned.

How dare you speak of perfection as a good thing?

A goal to be reached,

20

Self Exploration A mountain to be peaked, The glorious end of an infinite string?

Perfection would eat my soul Forbidding movement, Denying improvement.

Leaving me bereft of my every goal.

I revel in imperfection, The clarity of direction, The discord of voices of all different kinds Speaking with all different inflections.

Each step forward allows another step to be taken.

Each meeting creates a future, not to be shaken.

Each second blazes forth into the next, the future towards, Smelting destiny like a sword at forge.

In this crucible of Earth, humanity is crafted, And the soul is birthed from the flecks at the bottom.

The future rising, like the immortal phoenix— Each mistake brings forth a new creation to ponder!

It all stops.

There is no kindness.

There is no devotion.

There is no determination.

There is nothing.

It all goes away.

No light to cast shadows, No warmth to create cold.

No noise, not even the silence can be deafening anymore.

There is no passion, no tranquility, no emotion.

It all flies out of grasp. no one is left nothing is there It vanishes.

21

Silent Voices I pity God. Sitting upon his empty throne, Watching over the world, with no cares of his own.

Nothing to strive for, nothing to live for, No reason to exist except to fulfill our imperfect beliefs.

Perfection is empty. The soul cries as motion halts.

Loneliness crushes down, leaving a hollow shell behind: A pressure wrought from weightlessness.

The perfect spirit, once formed, will be gone… …But it refuses.

Dreams swell up from within…

Hope blossoms forth…

The imperfect spirit grasps the future And creates a new shape, a new image.

Surging forward towards its own tomorrow!

When I set off down the road to perfection, That journey that promised the World to me If only I had the strength to seize it, I stopped.

I looked down as far as I could see All the way to the light at the end of the drastic tunnel.

I turned around and walked the other way.

I’m not done exploring yet.

Sam Lefar ‘16

22

Photography | Alexis | Nic Huey ‘16

Self Exploration

23

Silent Voices

Freak Show: A Piece on Mental Illness Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, children of all ages Come one! Come all!

See the Greatest Show on Earth!

Here, you’ll see the things you can’t see anywhere else…

Follow me!

Here, we have the woman with two faces...or was it three...perhaps four?

Well, anyways here she is...I mean they are!

See how the woman changes from Jekyll to Hyde in a matter of moments?

One minute she’s here ...and the next minute she’s not Isn’t it perplexing?

Ladies and gents, would you be so kind to divert your eyes this way?

Here, we have the girl who can distort her own image No need for trick mirrors when you see yourself differently in every surface you look into Short? Fat? Tall? Slim? It’s all the same to her!

“How do I look she says?” “Huge!” replies the looking glass “And what about now?” “Even bigger!” It says louder Isn’t it scandalous?

Quickly. We mustn’t delay!

Here, we see the Little Girl Blue She hasn’t felt anything in months Why, her soul is as empty as your bag of popcorn, sir! Need a refill?

Look, she hardly stirs.

Don’t dilly dally too long (she has a tendency to suck the fun out of the room) Isn’t it peculiar?

24

Self Exploration

Drawing | Sabrina Zhao ‘17

Now, walk softly. We daren’t provoke this one.

Here, we see the Soundly Sleeping Soldier Not too loud or he’ll snap you right up, young man I don’t quite know how he got like this But please don’t make too much noise Isn’t it mysterious?

And now, that concludes our tour.

Hasn’t it been marvelous?

If you would, give our attractions a hand.

A little louder. They enjoy your feedback.

That’s better.

If you exit to the left, you will find a gift shop with plenty of souvenirs to commemorate your visit.

Kori Lannaman ‘16 Cleo Carmack Hudson Poetry Award Recipient

25

SILENT VOICES

quietly,

cosmic

the branches

strings

danced

and

to

waves

II. Relationship with Nature

Silent Voices

Relationship with Nature We exist within nature. All around us, all the time, every place.

Through every sense, we can always tune into our natural surroundings. And because nature is omnipresent in our lives, we can forget its very presence. The following pieces explore when we are aware - when we have taken the deep breath of the cool night air, when we have listened to the birdsong, when we have felt the glare of the fluorescent light.

Nature is always with us. As such, even when it is not the crucible of an artifact, it is always part of the definition of our artifacts. As she touched my hand, the rain fell. As my lungs burned on the hike, I heard the rocks crunch under my feet.

As I gazed over the field where I once played, I witnessed only an asphalt parking lot. Yes, nature is a crucial player in our artifacts, but so too have we increasingly impacted nature, altering society’s collective artifacts. These pieces highlight the pervasive influence of nature on our artifacts.

iii

Relationship with Nature

Table of Contents WORDS: the solitude of a falling petal..................................................................22

Nicole Hofland ‘16 The Magnolia Tree...................................................................................26

Jaylen Taylor ‘18 The Language of Water............................................................................29

Michelle Taylor ‘16 Sunlight.....................................................................................................32

Josh Grainger ‘16 Tree of Fate...............................................................................................34

Izzy Baldwin ‘19 and always blue........................................................................................39

Olivia Jones ‘16

ART: Ephemeral (Photography).......................................................................23

Katy Warren ‘16 Freak in the Streets & Smoke Break (Photography)......................24-25

Nic Huey ‘16 Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................26

Garrett Snyder ‘16 Deer (Mixed Media Painting)................................................................28

Kat Johnson ‘16 untitled journal (Mixed Media)........................................................30-31

Morgan Watson ‘16 Untitled (Photography/Film Manipulation)........................................33

Dominique Cornitcher ‘16 a certain kind of time (Photography)...................................................35

Olivia Jones ‘16 Release Me (Mixed Media Photography)........................................36-37

Zach Orig ‘16 Kids (Mixed Media Drawing)...............................................................38

Marco Moreno ‘17

iv

Self Exploration

Photography | Ephemeral | Katy Warren ‘16

29

Silent Voices

Freak in the Streets | Nic Huey ‘16

30

Smoke Break | Nic Huey ‘16

“I approach international street photography in a very different way than I do here in America. The language barrier between you and your subject completely changes the way you interact with them to create a photograph.”

Nic Huey ‘16

The Magnolia Tree I sit down with our family’s favorite book It is old and yellowing and cracks as I open it The pages stick together As I flip the pages I see plenty of picnic days spent outside in the hot southern sun Hands struggling to fight the sun’s sweltering heat The sun threatens to eat away at our skin Leaving us as poor little puddles to be washed away into that big beautiful river we claim as our own I skip through the book and see myself as an infant in my dear, Dear Dear’s arms Before I could even breathe, she and I had a special connection We are the sole magnolias that grow on our family tree The rest of the branches are littered with yellow hammers So we stick out But we are okay with that I flip the pages to the summer days in the home of the ladybugs Traveling up north seemed to only escape the humidity The sun beat down still, making me darker than I already was Jonathan and I sit together on a bench of a swan boat, sweating but smiling He has a weed in need of hacking growing atop his head I have sweet Bostonian ice cream dried on the edges of my mouth like an

extension of my smile The ice cream continues to drip down my arm sticky and hot I dip my arm into the water as we glide by Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Oack, and Pack I try to rid myself of the stickiness and a smile slowly grows across my face I slowly turn and splash Jonathan He shouts at me stop But of course I don’t More pages flip by and finally I see myself playing guitar in my Ridgeland home Where I’m from, Your hair will frizz faster than you can say, “Y’all come see us naw ya hear?”

The people will crawl over each other to welcome you And will be sure everybody and their grandma knows what and/or who you were doing last night You can leave valuable items out for a day and be sure you’ll see them there tomorrow A chorus of frogs and cicadas and crickets lull you to sleep at night And the sweet mocking birds wake you up bright and early If you don’t have a pool Grab a hose Remembering brings a smile to my face as I finally close the book I close my eyes and I am there again Roasting in that beautiful blazin’ southern sun Jaylen Taylor ‘18

Painting | Garrett Snyder ‘16

Mixed Media Painting | Deer | Kat Johnson ‘16

The Language of Water On a starry night I fell asleep on the bank, All alone in the silence I heard the old creek say.

“Come in and splash around for its cool and still in here.”

I tried not to be scared but then he whispered in my ear.

Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop Ripple, Ripple, Drop Such a pretty tune I thought as I waded in the creek.

Then the water babies came and splashed each other’s feet.

What came next were the mermaids, their tails a shimmering blue their hair as dark as the twilight sky their eyes like the big new moon.

Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop Ripple, Ripple, Drop they sang as they danced around like fools while the moon was heading downward and the stars were not as bright yet we danced like mad drunk men all through that starry starry night.

When the sun started to arise Everything went cold.

For water creatures do not like the light unless the moon is full.

But they will be back, oh yes they will be back when the next full moon rises for they always come back waiting for you waiting for me because coming back would be the truest form of serenity.

Michelle Taylor ‘16

Mixed Media | untitled journal | Morgan Watson ‘16

Sunlight “are you feeling it yet?” his voice spikes in my ear colors begin morphing the tv screen melts onto the floor I snap out of it “i think so” I decide to walk outside the grass grows around my toes the leaves dance in and out of focus around me the tree trunks sway to Zeppelin where have I gone a lone chromosome floating through nature another planet for sure The sunlight peaks in the horizon an azure God watching me just an ant on the cosmic scale The world melts away Josh Grainger ‘16

Photography & Film Manipulation | Dominique Cornitcher ‘16

Tree of Fate I sat in a tree above the stars to see my fate, Venus to Mars.

Constellations wound together with strings that shine like the sun; twelve gates open wide all with a different fate.

Those destined to be together are written with the words of destiny.

These fates intertwine with fated souls.

These souls will meet even if the stars change.

Child, look to the heavens.

They predict destiny.

But if you are afraid of what yours shall hold, do not sit with me, in my tree of fate, with roots of truth and leaves that reflect the moon.

Instead, child, stay on the ground and discover, explore, and find.

Or child if you so dare to challenge the stars, choose your own fate.

Take a dance with destiny and defy the strings of the sun, for they will not hold you down.

Weave a path for only you to take.

Izzy Baldwin ‘19

Photography | a certain kind of place | Olivia Jones ‘16

Mixed Media Photography | Release Me | Zach Orig ‘16 “I love working with Polaroids because there’s actually a lot you can do with them. For this piece, I used a technique called lifting (or transferring) to peel the emulsion from Polaroids that were taken of me and my friend Marcus. Polaroid lifts are relatively easy and involved putting the Polaroids in hot water in order to remove the emulsion from them. Afterward, I deconstructed leftover Polaroid film packs and rolled the emulsion onto the metal that holds the battery in each film pack. The results were better than I was expecting, and it was a ton of fun working with instant film.”

Zach Orig ‘16

Drawing | Kids | Marco Moreno ‘17

and always blue you know just as well as I do. they never carry the breezes nor the gestures, with renewal. it’s true, it’s now more vigorous and less nurturing. the world has stopped holding the door open for you. we fought the kiss and the love, why not the gaze? you were an ocean: waves grew around a dark heart to reveal a lock {bent & broken} where was the red fear then? the memories: sometimes wild

and always blue.

Olivia Jones ‘16

SILENT VOICES

she

questions

that

voice;

truth

shaking,

III. Opinions

and

unknown

Silent Voices

Opinions Facts are cold and hard. They create boundaries, helping us form our understanding of things. We rely on facts every day. Interestingly though, facts are seldom the things that forge our artifacts. Opinions are flimsy and extemporaneous.

They flood our interactions like white noise, and we learn to ignore most of them. However, despite this, opinions can crystallize some of our strongest artifacts. The artifacts so created demonstrate how the factors influencing us change through our lives. That he touched my hand matters, but so too does when it happened. Most importantly though was what was his opinion of me at that moment. Without the reagent of opinion, many of our artifacts would simply just be experiences, lacking the emotional connection to harden the moment into a lasting part of ourselves. In these pieces, we provide an expose on how flimsy opinions can ignite the creation of our artifacts.

v

Opinions

Table of Contents WORDS: Her Story...................................................................................................40

Eva Jones ‘19 Vietnam Day 34.......................................................................................43

Camille Rogers ‘16 Auschwitz 2015........................................................................................44

Olivia Reznik ‘16 Stifled.........................................................................................................46

Liliana Burgess ‘16 2015: A Haiku...........................................................................................52

Liliana Burgess & Arjun Srinivasan ‘18 Their Eyes Were Watching God.............................................................53

Erin Edwards ‘17 November 13th.........................................................................................54

Jessie Newman ‘16 Privilege.....................................................................................................57

Erin Harris ‘17

ART: Untitled (Mixed Media Photography)...................................................41

Domia Edwards ‘16 Untitled (Jewelry).....................................................................................42

Kadi Weakland ‘17 Untitled (Mixed Media Photography)...................................................45

Katy Warren ‘16 A Casual Conversation (Photography).................................................46

Zach Orig ‘16 Empty Sound (Sculpture)........................................................................49

Maya Foreman ‘17 Untitled (Mixed Media Painting).....................................................50-51

Samantha Smith ‘16 Untitled (Mixed Media Painting)...........................................................52

Kat Johnson ‘16 Untitled (Sculpture).................................................................................55

Hans Meyer ‘19 Untitled (Photography)...........................................................................56

Domia Edwards ‘16

vi

Her Story

Earth

Remains pure and untouched The secrets she possesses are unimaginable Only to be answered with even more of her stunning questions Giving hope and light to those she protects The fragile, curious anomalies of life Wandering just upon her surface Life only starting to begin here Yet she is older and wiser than time itself Whispering to her beautiful creations Giving them a place to call home Nothing but silence in return Ignored by her own children For they had forgotten the gift that was so graciously given Too distracted by their own lives Starting to answer their own questions

Mixed Media Photography | Domia Edwards ‘16

Failing to see the impact Dust harmlessly warming the sky But deadly poison to her Blind to her suffering with their self want So killed by the things she filled with her love Screams of pain echo the sky Once beautiful and full of wonder Now dry and filled with only sadness Still no change from them They will realize one day She stops and whispers again “When all of your hope is drowning in fear And the only home you have ever known is gone Remember the excitement and the surprise For you were born out of love Only out of my love” Eva Jones ‘19

Jewelry | Kadi Weakland ‘17

Vietnam Day 34 Dear Mom, I miss you. I miss waking up to the sound of bacon sizzling and to the smell of coffee. I miss the feel of sidewalk beneath my shoes and the chatter that flows onto the street when store doors open. I miss home.

I killed a man. There’s no nice way to put it. I know you taught me to keep it real and not to sugarcoat things. So I’ll tell the truth. I’ll tell you how I looked down at him and pressed my finger against the trigger. I’ll tell you how I stepped down from my post when it was over and I looked at him, really looked at him. You know that game we played when I was little?

We’d look at people and try to guess who they were, where they were from.

I looked at him and I played that game. I tried to imagine who he was and who would miss him.

When we got back to the camp I went to the river. I walked right into the water, clothes and all. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, underneath my fingernails. Call me crazy, but I thought I could erase what I’d done. Be clean and be a new person. I didn’t even touch him. I was afraid to, yet I washed as though I was covered in blood.

I want to come home.

Sincerely, Your son.

Camille Rogers ‘16

Auschwitz 2015 The only thing that separated you from death was time.

A short seventy years ago, walking down a beaten path, consciously aware of what was to come, they marched towards a certain death.

There’s a different kind of feeling when you walk where they have.

It’s a different type of monster than what they teach in class.

They warn you of the tragedies, state the wrong doings, praise the ones who saved, and curse those at fault.

But can they express the heartache of a mother separated from her daughter?

The anguish of a brother losing his little sister?

Do they describe the innocence of a child who thinks she’ll see the morning sun, when all that really rises is ashes from the ovens?

“Mommy, I can’t breathe” Seventy years pass until you see her scratch marks on the walls, and yellow wildflowers blooming from her ashes.

Seventy years pass and you realize you became a witness, walking down that beaten path.

Olivia Reznik ‘16

Mixed Media Photography | Katy Warren ‘16

Stifled

Silent Voices

“David’s the new kid. The black one,” I said, kicking my scruffy penny loafers through piles of dusty woodchips.

“You can’t call him that!” My gaze abandoned the sun-warmed splinters, hustling over to assess the girl on my left. Her voice had been intense, yet hushed. Unsure. Troubled green eyes hid tentatively behind blunt brown bangs, flanked by short, braided pigtails. Emily twisted slightly, an involuntary action mandated by slight mental discomfort, a desperate attempt to find some level of relief from familiar physical movements to counter the uncertainty of uncharted emotional grounds. I watched her school uniform contort, not quite made to fit her lanky, seven-year-old body.

“Black? But he is.” My voice was quiet but superficially strong, its resolve contradicting the confusion in my brown eyes that mirrored my friend’s.

Nine years later, the vague discomfort I experienced on that playground often frequents the recesses of my mind. You can’t say that, whispers the quiet voice, you can’t think that. Except it’s not a quiet voice. No, it’s more than that. And it’s not just me.

I wonder if that persistent little voice felt a sense of validation on January 7, 2015. As horrified spectators watched splatters of blood drying on the

Photography | A Casual Conversation | Zach Orig ‘16

56

pavement in front of Charlie Hebdo’s publication offices, I bet that the sneaking suspicions, the niggling doubt spread by a lot of pusillanimous voices, received a sick sense of confirmation. No, you can’t say that.

It’s a twisted sort of ironic that free speech, a concept that seems so noble, so necessary, so fundamental to democracy, is oftentimes used only as an excuse for vulgarity. Offensive jokes, racist smears, and morally abhorrent ideas flourish like bacteria under the shadowy guise of the First Amendment. Yet is there a more essential right?

Voltaire’s words are splattered garishly over the walls of elementary and middle schools, tasked with motivation and indoctrination, inspiration and political correctness. Can I truly believe that I should “disagree with everything you say but…defend to my death your right to say it” when something you say is deplorable? Repugnant?

Deadly?

I think that I should. As a It’s a twisted sort of ironic that society, we are taught to walk free speech, a concept that seems on eggshells, to avoid offending so noble, so necessary, so fundaanother person at all costs.

Political correctness hangs like mental to democracy, is oftensmog above our conversations: times used only as an excuse for heavy, hazy, stifling, vulgarity. permanent. Unfortunately, this nobly-intended concept has backfired. Instead of promoting benevolent, educational, and open-minded discussions, it dooms necessary conversations about issues regarding gender, race, emotion, and other topics deemed “too sensitive” before they even begin. We skirt the fringes, afraid to offend, afraid to be labeled as something we are not or something we don’t want to be. So we stay silent, foreclosing needed societal growth and creating a de facto self-censor. At school, we have safe zones, where judgment is supposedly left at the door with the raincoats and umbrellas. It is in these rooms that we are encouraged to discuss the aforementioned sensitive issues, be it sexual orientation or drugs or race. But we don’t, for inside each student, myself included, there is a deeply-rooted fear, not just of other’s interpretation of our ideas, but of our own emotions. You know the ones—the ideas and questions that stay hidden because we are not quite sure if they are normal, if they are okay. Like Emily, we are hesitant to speak, for we don’t know what words we can and cannot say. In these situations, we must speak. Frank conversations with one another are, and have always been, the sparks that light the fire of change and provide the clarity necessary to identify problems with the status quo. Only in a world in which we are not afraid to communicate with one another and to voice our opinions can we progress. Every civil rights

movement, regardless of the scale, was given life by someone courageous saying something that seemed outrageous. By pushing the boundaries of blasphemy, we grant ourselves flexibility to speak out in the future while allowing ideological extremes to reach a middle ground.

On a larger scale, anything short of absolute freedom of speech and expression dances on the edge of a slippery slope, perilously hovering above an Orwellian nightmare. When a person or group of persons has the power to determine what is or is not an “acceptable use of free speech” is when democracy and freedom receive their death sentences. Particularly in this increasingly litigious world, precedent matters more than function (though whether that is beneficial to society or not is certainly up for debate). Once we begin to censor one another on the grounds of offense, we have boarded an unstoppable train; everyone is offended by something, and everything offends someone. Freedom of expression is either complete or meaningless.

Ultimately, questions of freedom of speech speak to the dichotomy between “can” and “should.” I believe that the ability to express oneself is fundamental, that it’s the foundation upon which any society that claims to be free must grow.

One of the greatest attributes of such a society is that people tend to exercise decency and restraint. It’s funny how the demand for an action plummets when it is legalized, normalized, and “mainstream;” as long as someone has the ability to express their opinions, it is highly unlikely that they will push the limits of blasphemy to gain attention. Hebdo was a tragedy, yet it sparked necessary conversations about our right to converse. I believe that we should take every opportunity to discuss our ability to discuss, so that we can ensure the ability of future generations to write, to read, and to express until, someday, kindergarteners on the playground won’t be afraid to say what they see.

Liliana Burgess ‘16

Sculpture | Empty Sound | Maya Foreman ‘18

2015: A Haiku spelling bee, clock bomb muslim ban, Afghanistan bad year to be brown Liliana Burgess ‘16 and Arjun Srinivasan ‘18

Legs | Kat Johnson ‘16

Their Eyes were Watching God their eyes were watching this I think He realized for He continued to smile smile never reaching His eyes their eyes were watching as angels pierce through the earth not because the devil wrought their hand but because they questioned His word’s worth their eyes were watching pretty gospel makes pretty lies continue to preach to the chorus hymns may blind ears, but never my eyes Erin Edwards ‘17

(pages 50-51) Mixed Media Painting | Samantha Smith ‘16

November 13 we live in a world where blood pools at the feet of minds deranged enough to drain the life away from innocence. a world where barbarity and tragedy have become a common thread in the days that seem to be marked by another disaster created and demonstrated by man, performed by minds that can choose against the evil they spread but instead wish to see masses of shaking fear and dripping blood who laugh at mothers dropping to their knees grasping at their baby’s now lifeless hand we live amongst people who can enter into a crowd of voices and fire until all they hear are screams of great fear and then, eventually, cries of despair my heart breaks and my limbs shake because are we ever really safe?

Jessie Newman ‘16

Sculpture | Hans Meyer ‘19

Photography | Domia Edwards ‘16

Privilege Privilege, let’s call it what it is, it’s a blessing, a perk, and unknown by the white kids it’s funny, laughable, hilarious even, that it’s unbeknownst to them, the one thing they’re always given they wear it like an audacious cologne, so cutting like a sword but when the black kids try to buy it, it’s the one thing they can’t afford they wear it when they get pulled over for going 80 in the 55 and the oh-so pale policeman chuckles heartily and lets them ride she wore it when she typed the “n-word” in her ignorant comments and the school turned a blind eye as if it wasn’t uncommon he wore it when he shot up the church but was coddled and only called mentally unstable the world is funny with how it can cause so much hurt and leave so many issues on the table but here I am, a black, young, empowered girl no privilege in my pocket, still praying for justice in the world.

Erin Harris ‘17

SILENT VOICES

you

feel

power

to

deep,

anxiety

turning

together

IV. Highs & Lows

Silent Voices

Highs & Lows Our own state of mind plays into the formation of artifacts. The places we visit, people we interact with, things we do, and even the thoughts we have are all colored by our emotional state at that moment in time. The alchemy of artifact creation only happens with the elixir of emotion.

Only if this week’s tests had gone well, the weather was clear, and your friendships were healthy would that moment she touched your hand had meant the world. Only in that happy state could that touch have created euphoria. If you had had a cold, you might have recoiled. If you had just failed a test, you might not have even noticed. It was the sequence of little experiences that led up to that moment that sparked the formation of an artifact. Our highs and lows are where the work of artifact creation happens as shown in these pieces.

vii

Highs & Lows

Table of Contents WORDS: I Have.........................................................................................................58

Gabby Wilkinson ‘16 The Wave.............................................................................................60-64

Paul Zachos ‘16 feet and firetrucks....................................................................................67

Katy Warren ‘16 Direction...................................................................................................68

Gabby Wilkinson ‘16 Kenny the Carrot Man.......................................................................72-74

Izzy Baldwin ‘19

ART: Anathema (Painting)...............................................................................59

Alanna Pearson ‘18 Untitled (Photography)...........................................................................64

Kate Chartier ‘16 Syd (Photography)..................................................................................65

Dominique Cornitcher ‘16 Untitled (Photography)...........................................................................66

Nic Huey ‘16 Untitled (Sculpture).................................................................................68

Morgan Croft ‘17 Darby Cay Architecture (Sketches & Simulation).........................70-71

Jack Kostyshen ‘18 Untitled (Drawing)...................................................................................73

Kat Johnson ‘16 Flower Head (Painting)...........................................................................75

Annalyn Smith ‘18

viii

I Have

Have you ever once in your life touched infinity?

Have you ever felt the bass through the speakers knock your heart against your rib cage?

Have you ever watched the sunrise and felt like it was a start to a new age?

Have you ever heard a song live for the first time and found yourself paralyzed in awe?

Have you ever seen a baby’s toothless smile and thought it was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever saw?

Have you ever driven with no destination and for the first time ever felt free?

Have you ever laid in the middle of a field being happy to just be?

Have you ever laughed so hard your stomach hurt and smiled so big your cheeks burned?

Have you ever done something you should’ve regretted but didn’t because it was a moment you earned?

Have you ever turned up the volume and sang with your best friends with windows down?

Have you ever felt the tender love of a family member and felt like you just might not drown?

Have you ever looked someone in the eye and told them how happy they made you with no reason why?

Have you ever been told that someone is proud of you and immediately felt like you could fly?

Have you ever danced because you could and sang because there was no reason not to?

Have you ever gone outside to thank the world for being the world because it has been so good to you?

Have you ever once in your life touched infinity?

Gabby Wilkinson ‘16

Eva Jones ‘19

Painting | Anathema | Alanna Pearson ‘18

The Wave “Come on, it’s about to go off!” Rick shouted. I ran behind him, panting and clambering towards the safe house door. My steps were uneven on the muddy stone ground, and I could almost feel my lungs collapsing from a lack of air. Rick reached the metal door of the safe pod and grabbed the handle, ready to pull it closed when I got in. I gasped for air the entire way as Rick continued to shout at me. Finally, I felt my body slam into the back wall of the pod, and Rick slammed the door shut. And then the wave hit.

First came the sirens. The bone chilling sound heard just before bombings in the past, now being used to alert the remaining to the incoming An eerie quiet spread out population wave. For an excruciating across the street, and all few seconds, the droning that remained of the two sound echoed through the air. Finally, it was time for outside were piles of ash. the wave. I looked over towards the west, where the device was located. Although it was too far off, I could feel the vibrations of the device through the ground, and I saw the ethereal blue light begin to emanate from the source. But this time, something was wrong. Two other people ran through the street. My mouth opened in horror, but I dared not open the door for them. Rick saw them too, and I could tell from his face that he knew there was nothing that we could do. As the wave built up its speed, I could only see the other two people screaming in terror as I closed my eyes, not wanting to be blinded by the wave. After just a second I opened my eyes again. An eerie quiet spread out across the street, and all that remained of the two outside were piles of ash.

“You alright?” Rick asked.

I remained motionless, staring at the place where two humans had been before. Slowly, I felt my head move up and down.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m-” “I know.” Rick replied. “The first time you see it right in front of you is the worst. But it doesn’t get any easier.”

Rick’s eyes drifted down the street to the piles of ash. He grabbed the handle of the pod and slid the door open.

“We should keep moving. We have to get back to the shelter.”

I slowly followed him back outside, and we began to walk back towards the house. I tried to think of happy thoughts to calm myself down. Think of a better time, I told myself. Think of the ocean. When I was a child I had spent many summers by the sea, watching the tide pull back and forth. In the last couple of weeks I had used these therapeutic thoughts to calm myself down. With the way things were now, I doubted that I would ever get to see it again. I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on the sea once again.

When the device fell out of a plane about two weeks ago, no one knew what to think. Some of the more curious ones came from states away just to see the strange thing, and others remained inside, for fear of the destruction that it could cause. I was one of these people, and on the day the bomb fell, I took my wife and daughter down into the storm cellar of our home. The previous owners of our house had constructed it, said it was for the “end times.” I had always thought they were a little crazy, but I had never been more There is still good in this world, thankful for the and I am not going to be the bunker than I had one to let it go away. that day.

Soon after, the warnings came. All over the television, reporters discussed the device, making sure to note the bomb-like shape of the device and a ticking timer that was set to end at noon in about a week. They urged the population to stay away from the device, and because there was no real benefit to being near it, I decided to heed these warnings. In the following days, I had stocked up on canned food and water and kept a careful eye on the news reports.

I could tell that my wife thought I was growing distant, but all I wanted was to keep them safe.

Rick and I reached my house and knocked on the steel door of the storm cellar. Rick’s wife opened the door, and flung herself into his arms. I squeezed past them and went to go see my daughter.

My wife stopped me.

“She’s finally asleep, just let her rest.”

I peeked over her shoulder to see my daughter wrapped under the blankets of her bed, the side of her face illuminated by a single lamp on the dresser. I looked back at my wife.

“We found some food this time. Has she been alright?”

“The fever isn’t getting any better. I think she needs medicine.”

I looked away to hide the fear in my eyes. I wished that I could lay down in the bunker and never go outside again, spending my days dreaming of the ocean. I didn’t want to find myself outside like that again. But I couldn’t let my daughter go that easily.

She was the only reason that I could wake up in the morning, the only thing that kept me alive. There is still good in this world, and I am not going to be the one to let it go away. I turned around to face my wife again, a look of determination in my eyes.

“I can go right now. The wave just went off, I can hit Moretti’s drug store and be back in just a few hours.”

“Alright. Just be careful, okay?”

In the past she never would have agreed to me leaving so easily. I longed for the days before the device fell, when I could look my wife in the eyes and be sure that she would look back at me with the same smile she always had.

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I walked back out towards the door, where Rick stood with his wife.

“Hey, I’m going back out. Can you keep an eye on them for me?”

“No, because I’m coming with you.” He grinned as he said it.

“I don’t want you to have to deal with everything again. I know how much you’ve seen, you deserve a break.”

Rick’s smile faded, but he finally shook his head in approval.

“Be careful, brother.”

“I will.”

The first wave hit just after the timer ended. A crowd of several dozen had crowded around the device in preparation for what was going to happen. I remember watching it on the television,

but when the timer ended, the feed blacked out. I sat in the silence of the storm cellar until I heard a deep, booming sound overhead.

I didn’t know how bad it actually was until I had left the bunker for the first time.

A few hours after that, Rick and his wife arrived at my house.

I had only talked to I opened drawers, searched Rick a few times before, through cabinets, and at neighborhood parties and other social cleared off countertops, but gatherings. He lived the entire store was dry. down the street a few blocks, and I remembered the time that in casual conversation I had mentioned the storm cellar that had been constructed under the house. They begged us to let them in, and how could we deny them? After the things they had seen, we couldn’t possibly let them die out there. Over the next few days, Rick explained everything that had been going on. The device let out some sort of shockwave every day at noon and at midnight, which incinerated any living thing that happened to be outside. The government had attempted to aid the surviving population by setting up sirens and dropping metal pods onto the ground, which negated the effects of the wave and could be used to survive a deadly emission from the strange device. Rick and his wife had survived by getting into one of these pods. From the sadness in his voice, I could tell that many others had been left outside.

Rick and I had gone outside many times to scavenge for food and supplies, but today we had taken a huge risk by remaining outside for so long. I shuddered at the thought of the other people we saw outside, who were just a little too late.

It took me longer to reach the drug store than I had thought, and I worried that the wave would hit again before I could get back to my house. Fortunately, I knew the location of a pod nearby, which I could jump into if I needed a quick way out.

I opened drawers, searched through cabinets, and cleared off countertops, but the entire store was dry. I leaned over onto the counter, my head down in deep thought. There was another drug store just a few streets over. If I hurried over to that store, grabbed some medicine, and ran back, I could make it to the pod in time for the wave and then get back home. It was a huge risk, but one

that I was willing to take.

I climbed over fences and worked my way through debris to get to the next store. I was reminded of the frantic rush to get into the pod earlier in the day, but this time I wasn’t headed towards a pod.

My daughter needed me and, remembering this, I shot forward with a new purpose, eager to get to the store.

I reached the second drug store and kicked down the door.

There was no time to waste. Searching through the rooms, I found one last cabinet that had not yet been searched. I grabbed a metal bar from the ground and pried it loose. Inside I saw a bounty of medicine, with a range of effects that could cure just about anything. With my pack filled with medicine, I began to sprint back to the pod. She needs you, I kept telling myself. Don’t quit now. My footsteps echoed on the pavement. Street after street flew by my eyes, and I sensed that I was close. My pack jostled up and down on my back as I crossed behind the last building. What I saw in the street made me freeze in terror.

Just a few blocks away, The pod still stood intact. However, someone was already in it. I could hear the air raid sirens go off as I ran towards the pod, screaming for help. I was too far away, and I knew it, but I thought that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance. I felt the crash from the device travel through the ground.

It was too late. I knelt down on the ground and closed my eyes.

Just think of the ocean, I told myself. Everything is going to be fine. I could hear the tide slipping in and out, and I could see the sun shining down across the water.

I was going to be fine. I could feel the waves.

Paul Zachos ‘16

Photography | Kate Chartier ‘16

Photography | Syd | Dominique Cornitcher ‘16

feet and fire trucks I was barefoot when I saw him taken away on a stretcher.

I was barefoot when I was running down the hill – full of leaves and dew – there’s no time for shoes when your world is collapsing.

I was barefoot when my mother, with her wet hair and bathrobe, screamed, “Go back to the house.”

I was barefoot when I heard the fire truck and ambulance screeching like newborn children – the lights on the fire trucks mesmerized and terrified me all at once.

I was barefoot when I saw her crumble to the ground in despair.

I was in the shower when the noise had stopped.

I can’t get the mud off of my feet.

Katy Warren ‘16

Photography | Nic Huey ‘16

Direction They noticed how she didn’t always brush her hair How a pimple appeared on her nose How her boobs were getting smaller How she forgot to shave her legs last night They commented on how her teeth were just the tiniest bit crooked How her make up would always clump How her nails were always too short How her legs weren’t toned enough They thought they had noticed everything They thought they were being good friends Maybe if they pointed out all of her imperfections She could correct each one But they missed all that was too easy to see They didn’t notice how there was dried blood on her sleeves From the blade talking too loudly to her How frown lines were set in her face From smiles making less arrivals They didn’t comment on how her eyes were red and puffy

From the fight with herself the night before How all of her shirts hung looser From food just not sounding so great any longer But one day they noticed all they had missed the shrinkage the tears the scars the frown But one day they noticed all they had missed As her feet dangled Turning North North east East South east South South west Pausing And turning again If they hadn’t noticed the imperfections they defined but the imperfections worth defining would her feet be moving in one direction rather than turning in all of them?

Gabby Wilkinson ‘16

Sculpture | Morgan Croft ‘17

Located deep within a chain of islands within the Bahamian Island called the Exumas, the Darby Cay concept is designed to live in a luxurious and ecological friendly environment.

Being the Gateway to the island, the Towne Center would set and impressions of high end luxury to those who visit. It would include 30 shops that would help grow the island chain.

The Pond club would be the central fitness and health center of the island. Planned to include over thirty villas alongside numerous fitness and health food facilities.

The Point Club: As shown on the map, the Point Club would be one of the many restaurants on the island. It would serve Sushi and Seafood.

Jack Kostyshen ‘18: Aspiring Architect Architecture. This word means a lot to me. Growing up, all I ever wanted was to be an architect. I would frequently ask people what they wanted in a house, and then I would draw detailed schematics of the entire things.

Now I still keep it up. I not only constantly sketch, but I design detailed buildings in my favorite software, Google Sketch-up.

Kenny the Carrot Man

“You had one job Stacy!” Kenny shouted at his sidekick. “One job!”

“Hey! Without me, you wouldn’t be here!” Stacy yelled back.

“Yes, I would! You are a PAINTING OF A PINEAPPLE! You are totally inconsequential!”

“Then why did you give me a job, huh? Not so great now, are you?”

Kenny sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry. But a thunderstorm is coming.” His voice became very shaky. “You-you know what that means.” They both fell into silence as they remembered the last time a storm had struck, which had been only last night.

-----Kenny was a superhero, the most powerful in the entire world. It made him feel good to hear this, despite the fact that he was the only one in the world. Kenny fought crime, like all respectable superheroes do. But Kenny…Kenny had a weakness. A weakness so crippling, it renders him completely unable to fight crime. It struck every time a thunderstorm came, as soon as the first drop of rain fell within a five-mile radius of him. When the thunderstorm came, Kenny could do nothing to fight it. When the thunderstorm came… Kenny turned into a rabbit.

Looking back on his life, many years into the future, Kenny might realize that living in London was not his best idea by far. But he did, and turning into a rabbit was his curse.

Years ago, when he first ate the radioactive carrot, he was blessed with the powers of CarrotMan. Though laughable at first, he soon proved himself a formidable hero after displaying his power of shooting razor sharp carrots out of his fingertips. The people of London hailed him as their hero, and so he stayed.

After a few days of dry weather, the first storm came. Kenny, ignorant of his curse, foresaw a chance to further prove his worth to the Londoners. He stood on a balcony overlooking the city, waiting for the crime, traffic, and general dampness that would inevitably come with the storm. He could smell the warm, clean scent of approaching rain and readied himself for his crime-fighting expedition. He donned his bright orange cape and tights and stood with his hands on his hips, in a stance he thought appropriate for superheroes. A drop of rain fell on his shoulder, and suddenly, Kenny had lost his human-ness. Kenny had turned into a bunny. He hopped off to the nearest alley in fear, confusion, and shame. He nibbled on the blades of grass poking out through the concrete.

He twitched his nose. Then, when the storm was finally over, Kenny became human again.

He noticed a painting of a pineapple in the alley, took a liking to it, and brought it home.

Kenny placed the painting on his apartment wall and looked at it happily. He put a hand fondly over the pineapple and gave it a pat. Kenny then literally peed himself, as the pineapple had begun to talk to him. This was when Kenny discovered that he had the power to bring paintings of fruit to life. You’d think it would be paintings of carrots, or at least vegetables, but no. Just as no one is able to explain how razor sharp carrots just materialize out of Kenny’s fingers, so no one is able to explain this phenomenon.

----“I need ideas, Stacey, and PRONTO!” Kenny demanded. He ran his hands through his dirty blond hair.

“Why? You always do the same thing, no matter what I tell you. Your need of routine

is a little unnerving, for a superhero.” Stacey replied irritably. I really do need a raise, he thought. Of course, paintings of pineapples have nothing to do with money, so it’s really more of a pride issue.

“Hmph. Well, it’s off to the nearest field, then.” Kenny said.

Stacey’s motherly instinct took over. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? You don’t want a carrot for the road, or anything?”

“I’m fine, Stacey. Take care of the flat while I’m gone.” Kenny answered fondly. As one might guess, paintings of pineapples can’t exactly protect from a home invasion, but Stacey liked to think he was helping out.

Kenny walked from the flat to Meadowbrook Meadow, his go-to field. Meadowbrook Meadow was constantly being evaluated by a city board, mostly because of its horribly repetitive name. It was rarely occupied because nobody liked to be in such a redundant place. Kenny stood in the middle of the meadow, raised his arms dramatically, then, after about five minutes, lowered his arms dramatically, because the position was very tiring. He sighed. He sat on the ground. He grew bored of this position and flopped down on the ground. He decided it dull and began to roll around. Kenny found this quite exciting and was just starting to enhance his rolling technique when he heard a rumble of thunder and morphed into a rabbit.

Turning into a rabbit swiftly and painlessly requires several minutes of getting into the rabbit mindset, which Kenny had been doing as he rolled around. Rabbits think very simply and only in the present, which is a great stress reliever.

Kenny recommends this to all of his friends with anxiety, which makes them extremely annoyed and anxious because Kenny really ought to know by now that most people cannot turn into rabbits.

Carrots, rabbit-Kenny thought. Mmm...Grass. Kenny thoughtlessly nibbled on some grass for several minutes, was spooked by a clap of thunder, and scrambled into the woods adjacent to Meadowbrook Meadow. Scary, Kenny thought of the thunder. Kenny saw a stream running through the woods. Water, Kenny thought. He took a drink. Wet, Kenny reflected on the water. He sniffed the air tentatively: Rabbits. He hopped towards the scent.

Several metres later, Kenny happened upon a rabbit hole. Dark, he noted. Rabbits, he remarked on the smell of the hole. He tentatively hopped down the hole and was greeted by a colony of rabbits. Rabbits, Kenny thought again. They hopped up to sniff him.

Kenny squeaked what he thought was a hello, but rabbits, truth be told, do not have a sophisticated form of communication, so his squeak was interpreted differently by every rabbit in the colony. Some took offense. Some thought of food. One believed he was professing his love for her. She hopped up to Kenny and sniffed him appreciatively.

They left the hole and did something together for which rabbits are quite famous.

It is important to know that, at this point, Kenny fully believes he is a rabbit. He has completely forgotten his human life. If he had not, it is doubtful that he would be engaging in these famous rabbit activities with this bona fide rabbit.

Love, Kenny thought as he and the female rabbit stared at a blade of grass contemplatively. He and the other rabbit snuggled together in the cold rain.

Suddenly, a bright light pervaded through the rainy darkness of the forest. Bright, Kenny though calmly. The light descended through the trees and stopped in front of the happy rabbit couple. When their eyes adjusted, the rabbits saw the light for what it really was. It was a carrot. To be precise, a large, glowing carrot. To be annoyingly precise, a radioactive carrot. To be precise to such a point that the reader might steal my kidneys to get me to shut up, it was the carrot that had spawned the carrot Kenny had eaten all those years ago, which had given him his powers.

KENNY! The Carrot vibrated, which, if you are terrible ignorant and don’t know, is how carrots speak.

Yum, Kenny, who was still in rabbit form, thought.

OH FOR VEGGIE’S SAKE The Carrot shook. It turned Kenny into a human.

“AHHHH! Where am I?” Kenny demanded. His rabbit friend was so shocked she stood still.

KENNY! The Carrot continued, YOU HAVE FOUND LOVE! “I have?” Kenny wondered.

QUITE! WITH THIS LOVELY RABBIT! The Carrot affirmed.

“What?” The details of his rabbit excapade were coming back to him. “Dammit, now I’m a felon!”

I HAVE GIVEN YOU THIS POWER, proclaimed The Carrot, BUT YOU HAVE VIOLATED THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS BY FALLING IN LOVE WITH THIS RABBIT! “There were terms and conditions? I don’t remember those.”

YOU SIGNED UP FOR FACEBOOK A WEEK AFTER YOU ATE MY BRETHREN CARROT. YOU AGREED TO THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS, WHICH INCLUDED THOSE OF BEING A SUPERHERO! “There were 23 pages! How was I supposed to read through that?”

NOW YOU MUST CHOOSE, The Carrot demanded. YOU MAY LIVE AS A FULL TIME RABBIT, OR A FULL TIME HUMAN! YOU CAN NO LONGER BE BOTH! “Is this real?”

INDEED “Is this supposed to be difficult?”

AFFIRMATIVE “Well, why would I want to be a full time rabbit? I’ll remain human, thanks.”

GOODBYE, KENNY “Bye, large carrot.” The Carrot disappeared to haunt a salad somewhere.

Kenny walked off. His rabbit friend hopped away and lived a really happy life with really real rabbits.

Two weeks later, Kenny remembered taxes and regretted his decision.

Hannah Erbrick ‘17

(previous) Drawing | Kat Johnson ‘16

Flower Girl | Annalyn Smith ‘18

SILENT VOICES

love

succumb

needed

to

color;

glass

you

words

V. Relationships

Silent Voices

Relationships

Just as one may dust off an ancient tool and learn about how humanity once functioned and provided for itself, one can look back and view old possessions, phone calls, text messages, and letters exchanged with another person and discover more about themselves. We’re all on the same journey through life, but we may meet each other during different phases of our development. We build relationships with others once we’ve come to know ourselves and our place in this world. Only then can our connections prove to be meaningful. Relationships, whether they be romantic, platonic, or even unfriendly, mold our interpretations of ourselves and leave a wake full of memories and artifacts that are often reflected upon or revisited later in life.

ix

Relationships

Table of Contents WORDS:

tumble........................................................................................................76

Nicole Hofland ‘16 Dreamscape...............................................................................................79

Olivia Jones ‘16 The Intimacy of a Dance..........................................................................80

Morgan Petrini ‘16 green...........................................................................................................84

Peyton Strong ‘18 Hands..........................................................................................................85

Izzy Baldwin ‘19 Little Brick House.....................................................................................86

Olivia Jones ‘16 Donuts & Ashtrays...................................................................................88

Camille Rogers ‘16 Lost in the Crossfire............................................................................92-93

ART:

McKenzie Westen ‘19

Untitled (Mixed Media)..........................................................................77

Morgan Watson ‘16 Quixotic (Photography)..........................................................................78

Katy Warren ‘16 Untitled (Drawing)..................................................................................81

Morgan Watson ‘16 Untitled (Photography)...........................................................................82

Ashley Kimbrough ‘17 Untitled (Photography)...........................................................................83

Cameron Cooper ‘16 Untitled (Mixed Media Photography)...................................................84

Cameron Cooper ‘16 Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................85

Monica Duong ‘16 Enlighten (Photography).........................................................................87

Katy Warren ‘16 Hollywood Sunglasses (Drawing)..........................................................89

Annalyn Smith ‘18 Untitled (Mixed Media Photography).............................................90-91

Katy Warren ‘16 Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................92

Cameron Carmen ‘17

x

tumble

love is not a timeline no direction no order no path it’s irrational, messy, chaotic so let the jumbled words tumble from lips when you can’t fathom anything more lovely than the way God has placed the light of the moon in his eyes. and I swear, the seas will ice over before the day the sun rises and my heart doesn’t race at the sound of his name. and with the rise and fall of his chest, I’m reminded that the waves will always wash away the pain. and, I’m certain there’s nothing greater than the tiny galaxy held between the palms of our hands.

Nicole Hofland ‘16

Mixed Media Drawing | Morgan Watson ‘16

Photography | Katy Warren ‘16

Dreamscape This night I shall dream of your bedazzling breath and tiger-eyes.

My body meets the dream blankets, only to be greeted with the heat of nightmares but I’m wrapped in your palms, listening to the echoes of your hand-music, Longing to sip from your strawberry lips, hoping to travel to the never-here.

In my dreams, we fly on the exquisite winged falcon of forgetting -- skimming vast continents of empty chests and cardinal songs.

The depths of all the oceans of the universe shall never separate our daydreams.

We are brilliant falling souls, the seas greet us with the words we always needed to hear.

In the twilight we feast on chocolate-coated promises and tender wooden box-hearts of love. (they’re sweet in all the wrong ways) Adorned in white silk, You pluck my moaning love-chimes from my fingertips.

I press the pillow that you wear around your neck against my body so that our I’s melt into we’s.

You will always be the tiger of my own falling eye of love.

Olivia Jones ‘16

The Intimacy of a Dance I feel him in my veins, rushing through like an unbreakable current. I stop. I breathe. He presses up against me and holds my hand in his. He lifts my eyes to his and rests his other hand on my tiny hips. He takes a step and in one fluid movement, we are gliding around the ballroom. My gown trails behind me as I mimic his movements. He leads me in a spin and a dip. His strong arms catch me before I fall. His piercing eyes stay fiercely locked with mine. We move. We sway.

It ends. He gives me a swift bow and I curtsy lightly, but when I look up, he has moved on to the next. I falter and move on as well.

Morgan Petrini ‘19

Drawing | Morgan Watson ‘16

Photography | Ashley Kimbrough ‘17

Photography | Cameron Cooper ‘16

Mixed Media Photography | Cameron Cooper ‘16

green. the color broccoli of grass stains and tea the color of summer and bitter jealousy of illness and insects and icy peas balanced on my bruisy knees through lies and spells and dizzy anger dirty money and forced laughter whenever I’m jealous whenever I’m mean you (only you) are the cause of my green.

Peyton Strong ‘18

Hands

hands are a marvelous thing. carrying burdens, throwing punches, wiping tears, rubbing backs. clenching, then letting go.

Camille Rogers ‘16

Painting | Monica Duong ‘16

Little Brick House In my little brick house there’s nothing really out of the ordinary.

A grandfather clock is in the corner, reminding us with its slow tickings.

A midnight cat is purring on a cushion.

Some silver utensils are resting one by one in a wooden, kitchen drawer.

Nothing is unusual until you open my humming, rusted refrigerator.

Some off-brand ketchup, celery sticks, an almost-ripe avocado.

The fluorescent lamp on the back wall flickers like something out of a horror movie.

If you push past the bottled Coca-Cola and the plastic tupperware full of green beans, you’ll find a jar full of the breaths we never shared (will never share) and next to it, a small vase of my wilting love I stopped watering after you left.

Olivia Jones ‘16

Photography | Katy Warren ‘16

Donuts & Ashtrays

We stood in front of the movie theatre the last time he told me he loved me.

I remember the buzzing sound of the neon lights, the smell of stale popcorn, and the voices that disappeared when he uttered those magic words. And for a moment everything seemed perfect. I’d always viewed that phrase as something remarkable the first time you were able to hear it from that person that makes your heart skip a beat as opposed to your grandma that pinches your cheeks and cooks for you. The funny thing is my grandmother was dead and I went to that movie alone.

I had spent the day doing the sort of maternal tasks I promised myself I’d never succumb to with a man. And as I folded his faded graphic tees with not-so obscure band names and hung his pants with the crease the way he liked, I couldn’t help but feel like this wasn’t it. This wasn’t the place I was supposed to be, this wasn’t the person I was meant to become and he wasn’t the man I was meant to end up with.

As we stood outside the movie theatre, with him apologizing for missing dinner, offering up the same old excuses, these thoughts swirled in my mind. And when I saw the speck of lipstick in the wrong color on his collar and smelled the expensive perfume that I’d never wear I knew for sure this wasn’t right.

I’d felt it two months ago, when I brought him two boxes of donuts to work to celebrate his team winning over their biggest client yet. And as I approached the glass conference room doors, I watched his hand rest on her lower back and saw her spine shift into him. It was as if they belonged together. I was insulted. He belonged with me... right? He turned and saw me, and a dash of disbelief crossed his eyes. No regret, no fear, just surprise to see me there. I played the part of the jealous girlfriend as we argued in the lobby of his office building. I left, walking into the cold wind, wiping away a tear. But that’s all I could shed.

So as he stood in front of me, pleading for forgiveness, I felt that cold wind again.

But this time inside of me. And there were no tears. And I turned away from him, walking away from the life I’d tricked myself into enjoying. He didn’t even chase after me. His voice just faded into the mix of the night. I walked to our apartment, I knew he wouldn’t dare come back here. He was going to see her. I grabbed a few things I felt weren’t tainted by him. And just to further the point, I poured his favorite ashtray of disgusting cigarettes on the bed. As I watched the dust settle into the sheets, I felt free.

Camille Rogers ‘16

Drawing | Hollywood Glasses | Annalyn Smith ‘18

Mixed Media Photography | Katy Warren ‘16

Lost in the crossfire (letter and response)

(letter:) To you, I can apologize for those you have loved and lost buried and cried but I cannot apologize for those lost in the crossfire that responsibility is not mine to take I can give you hope for the future but I cannot make your problems go away I can love you, cherish you, want you but I cannot protect you from the dangers of the world that is your risk to take in walking outside your door I can apologize for my wrong doings my misspoken words my mistakes but I cannot apologize for your wrong doings your misspoken words your mistakes I can apologize for the anger the hate the helplessness but, my dear I cannot apologize for the consequences of another’s words another’s actions another’s hurtful accusations I can apologize for those you have loved and lost but, in my heart I know that I cannot apologize for those lost in the crossfire

Painting | Cameron Carmen ‘17

(response:) You say that you cannot apologize for those lost in the crossfire but isn’t that what you have done? you apologize for the words spoken the anger the hate but you cannot apologize for the repercussions of your actions you apologize for your mistakes but you cannot think of the consequences of your words your wrong doings your hatred your actions caused tidal waves with undertows you cannot imagine you think of those lost in the crossfire as foreign items because they were never dear to you but, to you, I’m dear to your heart what if I was lost? you say that you can apologize to me but what if part of me was lost in the crossfire, too? what if those tidal waves pulled me under, too? you apologize to me but can you apologize for me? because, darling, I cry not only for those lost but also myself because part of me was lost that day in the crossfire, too Mackenzie Westen ‘19

SILENT VOICES

wounds

sting

and

fill

of

with

dreams

good

VI. Lessons Learned

Silent Voices

Lessons Learned Artifacts are created through our lives. But they are also to be picked up and handled as we encounter them. Tucked away in our minds and recalled at a random instant, or hiding under a stone we casually pick up, artifacts attune our experience. As we continue, we may encounter certain artifacts over and again, and with each touch we become more accustomed to their shape and texture. Our familiarity in these moments generates lessons in our lives – experiences that take on oversized import and serve as the guideposts for our journey. Rather than becoming numb to the artifact, we use it to anchor us and comfort us. Some artifacts can grow old and feel foreign; however, even old artifacts can become like true friends, whose very nature and meaning is kindred to our own being. These pieces show how the lessons learned in our lives are established through the accumulation of artifacts along our path.

xi

Lessons Learned

Table of Contents WORDS: A How-to Guide on Painting and Living .............................................94

Morgan Watson ‘16 Mr. Frost....................................................................................................97

Jessie Newman ‘16 The Language of Dreams.......................................................................101

Gabby Wilkinson ‘16 18 Things I Learned by 17....................................................................102

Katy Warren ‘16 how to put your goldfish to sleep.........................................................106

Evonne Iau ‘19 to those who deserve.............................................................................110

Jessie Newman ‘16

ART: Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................95

Morgan Watson ‘16 Untitled (Painting)...................................................................................96

Monica Duong ‘16 Rhode Island Triptych (Paintings).................................................98-100

Marco Moreno ‘17 Untitled (Painting).................................................................................103

Garrett Snyder ‘16 Untitled (Photography).................................................................104-105

Domia Edwards ‘16 Untitled (Photography).........................................................................107

Domia Edwards ‘16 Untitled (Sculpture)...............................................................................108

Alaina Riviere ‘17 X (Sculpture)...........................................................................................109

Maya Foreman ‘17

xii

A How-to Guide on Painting and Living Part A: How to Deal with a Mistake Rule 1) There is No Undo Button i. There is no reversal in painting- once the paint has met the canvas there is no return. You cannot erase the paint. Any attempt to remove the paint is fruitless because there will still be a tincture of color smeared across the canvas. The only remedy for the painting is to continue, but using a more desirable color. ii. Similarly, in life, once a poor choice is made, there is no undo button. There is no eraser. You can solve your errors only by moving forward.

Rule 2) Time Heals all Wounds i. Remember that before you start painting with a different hue, you absolutely must let the previous paint dry, or it will mix with the fresh, new pigment. ii. Mistakes cannot be resolved by immediately trying to fix them. Unless you let the wounds heal, the prior errors will infect your new beginning.

Part B: Your Body is Essentially a Masterpiece (Certain qualities of a human beings’ physical form mirrors the components of a painting. A finished painting resembles the human body’s growth and the aging process. ) Rule 3) Smell i. After you finish a painting, experience it. Inhale the harmony of the various aromas - chemicals from fresh paint, mold from old paint, cotton from the canvas, pine tree from the wooden frame. No two paintings smell the exact same because no two paintings are the exact same. Even if you copy a painting to the exact detail, it is still internally different. Because the process the artists took can never be identical. ii. Once you truly connect with a person, you can recognize their individualized scent from the unique combination of their surroundings - their laundry detergent, the spices in their diet, the perfume of their mother after she hugs them in the morning. Bottle this personalized perfume of your life and wear it unapologetically, because it is yours and yours alone.

Rule 4) Touch i. run your fingertips along the canvas. Compositions never rest upon a singular smooth layer, but a theatre of war from the lumps and raised surfaces of your previous brushstrokes, your past decisions. ii. The human body is a battlefield of irreversible markings. Scars, stretch marks, freckles. They are not raw, fresh evidence, but vestiges. Tangible shadows of your past. No matter what you do, you can never mask my own past choices. They will remain buried, but never disappear.

Part C: Conclusion Rule 5) You Have all of the Control No artist achieves their desired painting on the first try. You are equipped with nothing but these metaphors. You decide how you paint. You control the brush.

No one is going to do anything for you. You have the colors and the cosmos at your fingertips.

Morgan Watson ‘16

Painting | Morgan Watson ‘16

Mixed Media Painting | Monica Duong ‘16

Mr. Frost

She tipped her cap to Robert Frost thanking him that he provided at least two possible paths.

Just not the ones expected.

There was one.

It was steady.

It was sure.

There was no possibility of pain or fear because these did simply not exist.

She could not feel the sting of a bee or a wasp or of someone’s biting word because the wasp would have no venom, the person of no biting retort.

There would be no fall from greatness, no plunge from a blissful paradise for no cruel and twisted root would exist.

But if all you saw were endless blue skies, and meadows and pristine lakes, and that beautiful change of leaves from emerald to gold to crimson would it all still be beautiful?

Would a child’s laugh still sound like a melody if ears had never heard a screech of pain?

Would a full table appear bountiful if scarcity had never been experienced.

Would love exist in this blissful paradise?

The other follows the motion of a beating heart.

A human heart.

It travels up, only to fall to the base line, to sink deeper but then remembering to rise.

Here, love and pain is felt.

Parents feel the collection of tears well in their eyes when they see a smile stretch their child’s cheeks but also when their lips touch to their child’s forehead and all they feel is blazing heat and aching temples the drops fall for a reason so different but yet for a feeling just as strong.

“So, Mr. Frost, I ask you, what would you choose?”

Jessie Newman ‘16

18 Things I Learned by 17 1. You’re going to meet people who change you. You’re going to give them pieces of yourself. You won’t notice you have though until they leave with the pieces. It’s your responsibility to fill the gap up again.

2. It’s perfectly okay to break a lamp every now and then out of pure frustration or anger. Just don’t be upset when the light goes with it.

3. Existential crises are acceptable but for the sake of others and yourself, limit them to only once a month.

4. “Be there or be square” simply means you’re not a-round.

5. If you leave doors open for people who only know how to leave, don’t be surprised if they bolt. The way they leave tells you everything.

6. If you have to burn bridges to stop yourself from crossing them...burn away.

7. Don’t underestimate underdogs; they know they can survive.

8. For heaven’s sake, don’t break pinky promises.

9. You are judged on your choice of company. Choose wisely and carefully about the people who surround you.

10. People who are trying to change the world never apologize. Don’t say sorry if you don’t mean it.

11. Family is more than blood. Blood is more than family.

12. Don’t waste all your monopoly money on Boardwalk. Invest in train tracks.

13. The world is not simply black and white. People are not solely good or bad. Learn to accept the spectrum of ambiguity.

Painting | Garrett Snyder ‘16

14. If your friend talks badly about everyone to you behind their back and you think you’re an exception, you’re not.

15. You can’t win them all. Be proud of your successes and humble towards your failures. There’s always next time.

16. If you leave a baked turkey on the edge of the kitchen counter, your dog is going to jump for it. If you leave an opportunity untouched, someone else is going to take it. Don’t leave valuable things unguarded.

17. A person’s favorite song can tell you a lot about them. Unless it’s a song on the top ten list, then it’s strictly showing their musical preference.

18. There are two types of people in this world: The ones who change others and the ones who are forever changed.

Katy Warren ‘16

Photography | Domia Edwards ‘16

how to put your goldfish to sleep step one- choose the anesthesia. clove oil, if you have some. just a few drops or tricane-S, i looked it up and you could probably find it in a pet store. anyway this way, the goldfish will never know its fate. don’t cry; that’s all it is, it’s resting. step two- freeze the goldfish place the fish in a plastic bag full of water, stick it in the freezer and wait till it’s a block of ice frozen in time, like a peaceful sleep. no, trust me when the ice melts, your goldfish will be gone. step three- bury the goldfish give it a sentimental memorial and a garden ceremony toss flowers on it’s matchbox grave or you could just throw it away in the landfill or down the toilet because it’s just a goldfish and really, it’s not a bad way to die considering that humans are as insignificant as goldfish there are probably more goldfish than humans minus one, i mean. we’re all swimming around in the same old, same old, routines like goldfish, mindless like zombies. unaware.

now i’m not saying you’re a goldfish or you should put yourself to sleep but maybe once your goldfish is sleeping permanently you might see the same glass bowl around you too.

Evonne Iau ‘19

Mixed Media Photography | Domia Edwards ‘16

Sculpture | Alaina Riviere ‘17

Sculpture | X | Maya Foreman ‘17

to those who deserve do you ever think of all the people who deserve to be remembered but instead had a string of words mumbled or a thin piece of splintered wood marking what had once been a thousand memories. do you cry for the flesh turned to ash whose only witness was their own spirit pushing them to their end wishing for one more day no one more hour to just be alive. do you shudder for the life that could have been forged through interactions and experience and chance but instead was shattered to a forgotten nothing do you ever mull over the eyes once full of the genuinity of what they felt fear despair overwhelming courage but despite the effort glossed over. why are people forgotten when moments of their life could fill pages of a book why are they never remembered? so many excuses have followed: “they are remembered in their own culture” “to move forward, you can not look to the past” “I wish to only see the beauty in the world” “blame my history teachers” but

we live in an interconnected world where the human experience can be shared by those separated by thousands of miles or by a different cultural lense serbia and cambodia should be remembered by someone from italy and the philippines and canada but as a race we make mistakes grievous, tragic, horrific ones ones that do not need to repeated so we must look to the past and learn not only of the travesties but of the triumphs of the beautiful human mind and spirit of the people in guatemala and america beauty bring cloudless days but also powerful smiles that can dry tears and massage aching muscles beauty is not reserved only for unadulterated good but also for the people who have been face to face with their own nightmares and lived and perished because don’t you dare blame someone else for not realizing the worth and experiences and love and passion and tears and fear and brokenness of the people around you and the people who have walked before you so, please, I beg of you write down the stories of the forgotten whispers and inscribe them into your heads and hearts and please think and remember them at least every once in awhile.

Jessie Newman ‘16