INGENIUM Holy Spirit Preparatory School 2 01 4 Vo l u m e V I I I
Untitled Watercolor
Alexandra Cook
Class of 2014 FIRST PLACE VISUAL ART
Holy Spirit Preparatory School 4449 Northside Drive NW Atlanta, Georgia 30327 678-904-2811
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Soda Can People Acrylic on Aluminum
Emily Schulte Class of 2016
Untitled Acrylic on Canvas
Alex Pinzon Class of 2017
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Gris – L. Jimenez 6 The Catfish - N. Casal 6 Goldfish - T.Yao 7 Aqua - P. Johnson 7 Gray Scale - W. Garlen 8 Untitled - A. Burkle 9 Agua es Vida - L. Jimenez 9 Distant Memories - K. Zurovchak 10 Madritte’s Dove - C. Pinzon 10 Framing the Sun - C. Pinzon 10 Part of Your World - D. Mason 11 In Bloom - A. Podrasky 11 I’ll Keep on Waiting - J. Boyd 11 Stage Fright - A. Weeks 12 Peace - T.Yao 12 Year of the Rat - P. Lu 13 Clairvoyance - Z. Palmer 13 Leftovers - W. Garlen 13 Beacon - A. Cook 14 Only I can be me - S. Angelo 15 Happiness - M. Scott 15 Twiggy - M.Voss 15 Wawita de Dios - L. Jimenez 16 The Math of Society - B. Garthune 16 The Carpenter - N. Duffy 17 Pop Portrait - E. Adibe 17 I’m an Angry Baby - W. Garlen 17 The Willis House - M. Wright 18 Unfinished - S. Angelo 19 Village - P. Lu 20 Art Is… - N. Duffy 20 Technology Troubled - C. Pinzon 20 Shadows - W. King 21 CAM? - C. Boyd 21 Still Life - V. Zhao 21 Auburn Love - S. Angelo 21 Rochelle - N. Duffy 22 Unconditional - K. Zurovchak 22 Sploosh - S. Angelo 22 Don’t Hit the Puppy - A. Sinks 24 Tiger Eye - J. Daly 25 Love Hurts - S. Martin 26 Beacon - M. Radosta 27 Monet Copy - C. Hooper 28 The Brewing Storm - M. Markham 28 The Chattahoochee - A. Podratsky 29 Reflection - P. Johnson 29 Tree - S. Allen 30 Untitled - R. Durham 31 Revolution - A. Cook 32 Oyster Bed - M. Hardt 32 MR-EXP - M. Nagel 33 Body of Christ - L. Jimenez 34 The Bloody Marsh - M. Markham 34
Shape Design- J. Radosta 34 Untitled - S. Angelo 35 Self Portrait - R. Jerrum 35 Spaceland - A. Cook 35 Friendship - S. Durham 36 Mug Designs - Thomas,Yao, Mason 37 Agh! - L. Jimenez 37 Christina - A. Podratsky 37 Rose - P. Lu 38 Preschool Mural 38 Social Justice - A. Podratsky 39 Screaming Trees - M. Markham 39 Untitled - S. Angelo 39 Chaos - A. Thomas 40 Ghost - W. Garlen 40 Day of the Dead - J. Kelly 41 World of a Madman - M. Carson 41 Plum Blossum - T.Yao 42 Peace - M. Spencer 42 Untitled - P. Jordan 43 C- Pride - T.Yao 43 A Day with the Kid - M. Markham 44 Untitled - C. O’Meara 45 Shapeless - W. Garlen 46 Banana Boat - A. Cook 46 Untitled - S. Angelo 46 A Whale of a Time – W. Garlen 63
Mandolin Mixed Media Sculpture
Cameron Pugh Class of 2018
Untitled
Senior Portfolios
Pencil Drawing
Sabrina Angelo 48 Alexandra Cook 49 Will Garlen 50 Noah Duffy 51 Will Gensler 52 Mary Ruth Nagel 53
Claude O’Meara Class of 2019
Alumni Works
Time Slipping Away - J. Kuntz 54 Untitled - P. Boyle 55 Details, Chauvet Cave E. Leinmiller 55 Miles Away – The Head 56 Untitled - S. Newman 57 Black Moon - M. Theodros 57 The Innocence - K. Kaeding 57 Snail Mail - S. Newman 58 The Mariner’s Albotross - J. Kuntz 59 Isolation - C. Johnson 60 A Connotation on Infinity - J. Kuntz 60 Self Portrait - M. Mitchell 61 Interior Deign for Tech Store Z. Pittman 62 Figure Drawing - M. Mitchell 62 Barbed Wire Fence - E. Leinmiller 62
A Day at the Beach Digital Photograph
Emily Schulte Class of 2016
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Gris Digital Photograph
Lenny Jimenez Class of 2015
The Catfish Natalie Casal Class of 2017
Third Place Literature
The rainclouds press down like the roof of a cave. Water drops plop on the dock and my arms. The matted grass lies flat. The trees bow to the gusty wind. It smells like sweat, fish, and earth. The dock wearily creaks, meeting my feet. The dock’s surface is cracked and lined like leather. Drops patter and plink into puddles on the splintered wood. The fish food bobs in the murky gray lake. The rain breaks the mirror of the water. Angular twigs jut out of the water like skeletons. Trees huddle over the water, protecting it. Their branches trail in the lake like fingers testing the water. Slippery shadows slide under the surface, carefully coming closer. Sneaky eyes peer just over the water. Mouths gape like black tunnels, slowly surfacing to get their meal. They are whiskered, cranky old men. Their amber eyes stare blankly. Their skin is a glossy gray. They look balefully at me, then submerge into the mud, dirt, and rain.
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Goldfish Pencil on Paper
Tom Yao
Class of 2016
Aqua Digital Photograph
Padriac Johnson Class of 2014
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Gray Scale Digital Photograph
Will Garlen
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Class of 2014
Untitled Digital Photograph
Andrea Burkle Class of 2015
Agua es Vida Digital Photograph
Lenny Jimenez Class of 2015
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Magritte’s Dove (Copy) Oil on Canvas
Distant Memories Kate Zurovchak Class of 2014
Second Place Literature
Drifting slowly In and out of sleep In and out of dreams That once captured me. Wading idly In waves of sands In strange lands Of distant memories. Wading idly In waves of sands In strange lands Of distant memories.
Framing the Sun Soap Resist
Carolina Pinzon
Class of 2015
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Carolina Pinzon
Class of 2015
Part of Your World Colored Pencil Sketch
Delphine Mason Class of 2016
In Bloom Monotype Print
Anna Podratsky
Class of 2017
I’ll Keep on Waiting
Digital Photograph
Justine Boyd Class of 2015
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Stage Fright Aidan Weeks Class of 2018
Breathe. I peered out of the side of the tattered, blue curtain and got a glimpse of the entire 327 children attending Trinity School. Tiny three-year-olds giggled and squealed while their teachers struggled to keep them seated. Some squirmed free, running around in their grape juice-stained shirts. The fifth graders chattered to one and another about the show. “When is it going to start?” “I really hope this doesn’t cut into recess...” Teachers quickly hushed their classes in hopes that they would actually listen for once. I sighed and turned back to the stage. It was dim, but I could just see my peers hustling about, preparing the props, adjusting costumes, and cramming last minute lines into their brains. Some gave me sympathetic looks, others jealous glares. I got a couple thumbs up from some girls I never associated with. None of these small gestures could take away my nervousness. Two minutes left before it all starts. My little heels clicked up the shaky ladder leading to the prop house. When I first saw the structure, I froze. There was no way it could hold me and three other students. But, of course, it did, and I became accustomed during practice to avoid it. It smelled of paint, and nails poked out in every nook and cranny. Gabrielle gave me a wave because everything we did could be heard outside. She and I both sank down in the corners, not visible by the window. My costume fluffed around me and I fiddled with my microphone cord. As the opening song played and the curtains opened with a loud whoosh, I felt as if every single set of eyes could see me right through the house. The intro song began to play, and my classmates hurried about the stage as if they were at a tavern. They began to sing a sweet melody I had heard many times at rehearsals, each one equal to the next. I mouthed along to the lyrics to prevent my nerves from getting worse. The song ended as quickly as it had started, and my song soon was echoing through the gym. Breathe. I was now Carmen, gypsy without a single care. I stood in the prop house and perched up at the doorway. The spotlight blinded me, but I kept walking to the stairs. I paused just as planned. Every single head was turned in my direction. My beginning note approached, and I found my happy place. I didn’t stop, my voice in harmony with the tune, and I danced across the stage till the applause ceased and the curtains closed. Great, I thought, only twelve more scenes to go.
Peace Pen and Ink
Tom Yao
Class of 2016
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Year of the Rat Sharpie Pen
Peisen Lu Class of 2016
Clairvoyance Digital Photogrpahy
Zach Palmer Class of 2014
Leftovers Spray Paint and Tape
Will Garlen
Class of 2014
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Beacon Mixed Media
Alexandra Cook Class of 2014
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page 15 Top
Only I can be me Mixed Media
Sabrina Angelo
Class of 2014
page 15 bottom
Twiggy Watercolor
Mia Voss
Class of 2014
Happiness Michelle Scott Class of 2014
First Place Literature
Troubles are scarce nowadays The trials and tribulations of the past are gone I have seen so many things that fill me With a bubbly and light burst of laughter The sun shines at all times Even the storms have their joy The booming and rolling thunder Complements the flash of lightning The stinging bees have the flowers Blooming and opening thirstily to the sky The tumultuous ocean is filled With teeming, colorful life Days of sorrow are overcast By the hope that lingers humidly With fingers of lace, the clouds stretch Filling the gaping maw of sky The sweet aroma of love lingers Consuming the hearts of the young Turning the fatigue of life To a fresh, springing fire The fire of passion burns away the doubt The days are long and fulfilling The slender slight of a smile Arises in the midst of chaos
** 2nd Place Visual Arts
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Wawita de Dios Digital Photograph
Lenny Jimenez Class of 2015
The Math of Society Bailey Garthune Class of 2015
God gives us one body. Now add the “guidelines� that come up with the body, such as gender and race. We are simple. Along with the body, he gives us one mind. We add possessions, opinion, social standing, money, and other substances that are unnecessary. Now we are not simple; We are vastly complex. From these substances stem death, violence, and disagreement. Subtract these substances, and we are simple again. We are all simple, and we must stay simple.
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The Carpenter Cut Paper Collage
Noah Duffy Class of 2014
Pop Portrait Colored Pencil
Emeka Adibe Class of 2019
I’m an Angry Baby Mixed Media
Will Garlen Class of 2014
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The Willis House Morgan Wright Class of 2019
Ariana jumped as something creaked behind her, the faint flashlight beam barely illuminating the dark hallway. “Why did I take this dare? Everyone knows on Halloween the monsters are awake in the Willis House,” she muttered, clutching the flashlight. The smell of damp, rotting wood was fresh in the air. She started as a flash of lightning illuminated the room for a brief second, followed by a booming crash. She was ready for the next flash, which revealed a pale, leering face. Ariana screamed, dropping the flashlight. The bulb flickered for a moment, then blinked out of existence, leaving Ariana in total darkness. A soft sobbing came out of one room. As Ariana stooped to pick up the flashlight, it had disappeared. She whirled around as the sound of a knife against stone emanated from a room behind her. Ariana backed into a wall as a scream followed a maniacal cackle. Something was out there. For a brief moment, she wondered if she would ever come back. “Ok. Ok. You just have to go up to the room at the end of the hall and open the window,” she said, trying to calm down. A rhythmic chanting rose up from the basement. Unable to resist the curiosity, she inched toward the stairs. They were fairly quiet as she descended, considering the house was rumored to be hundreds of years old. At the bottom, a doorway shone with light. Ariana stepped softly towards it. When she arrived, she saw people with hoods walking in a circle around some kind of altar covered in candles. Only, they weren’t really walking. They were gliding, as they had no feet and no hands. They were all joined at the wrists. One of the chanters on the farthest side faced her. His face was boney and long. It had no nose, and the mouth was so disfigured,
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the features barely recognizable. She couldn’t even tell if he was a boy or girl. The figure took notice of her, raising it’s stumps where hands should be. As if in response, the chanting rose, summoning a howling wind that nipped at her heels as she fled up the stairs. She headed towards where the stairs started. Creak. Creak. As she ran up them, the wind died down, but the chanting continued. Maybe the house really was haunted. She shivered as she got to the top of the stairs, the remains of the cold wind raising goosebumps on her skin. It felt as if icy claws were running down her spine. Something clenched her foot as she stepped into the hallway. She screamed, and she thrashed about, back pedalling furiously. She felt cold, lifeless arms embraced her as she backed into something. She choked on her scream when she felt an icy coldness seeping into her, sucking the life and heat out of her body. She felt her hands go numb. That’s when she broke free, racing down the hall, oblivious to her surroundings and resisting the urge to turn back. She stopped, panting before a closed door with a sliver of light slipping out of the bottom. She rushed in, thinking only of getting away from that thing’s clutches, not of where she was going. The room was filled with a flickering green light provided by a fire dimmed by a boiling cauldron and torches on the wall. Two figures hovered over the cauldron, turning when she entered. They wore long, flowing robes, but their faces were what drew Ariana’s attention. Their faces were hideous. Lined and sagging. They had long noses. Their hands were shriveled with long, curving fingernails. In unison, their faces contorted in what was supposed to be a smile. “Come here my dear. You’ll make a lovely addition to our dinner. Won’t you join us?” hissed one. “Uh, no thanks. I already ate,” Ariana said, backing away.
She turned and raced out the door. She skidded to a halt as a yawning gap in the floor appeared. She heard a scratching noise at the bottom, probably some creature. Glancing backward, Ariana saw the witches advancing, holding a torch and assuming she was trapped. Ariana backed up, and took a chance. She took a running jump, desperately attempting to cross the gap before the witches got to her. There was a moment where she was in the air. Then, she was falling. She got ahold of the other side, barely holding on. She pulled herself up and looked back when she heard a wail of distress. She took a moment to realize it was coming from the pit. She scrambled into a standing position and took off running, ignoring the stitch in her side. The witches let out a keening wail. They waited a moment, by which time an answering call had sounded. “There it is,� panted Ariana, clutching her side, but not slowing down. Unfinished She hurtled into the door and had to scramble with the handle. Acrylic on Canvas She glanced back, realizing that the light had gone out. The door Sabrina Angelo handle opened, Class of 2014 and she fell in. Kicking the door closed, she took in the room. It was a dusty room, undisturbed and uninhabited. Getting to her feet, Ariana brushed herself off. She jumped away from the door when something rammed into it. She pulled a chair up to it just as a chainsaw sounded on the other side. Running to the window, she realized it was locked. Ariana glanced over her shoulder when a splintering sound came from the door. A figure clad in all white entered, holding a chainsaw. Giving up on the window, Ariana saw the witches coming behind him, along with the creatures from the basement. Behind them, about 50 or 60 ghosts and zombies poured in, the zombies in different states of decomposition and the ghosts floating unearthly a few inches from the ground. Doomed to forever haunt the Willis House, Ariana never made it out. She warns any who would dare enter. She joined the ranks of others, waiting for the next victim. That house, haunted by the same spirits and creatures as before and a few extra unlucky souls who happened in there, still stands today. Legend has it that some people have heard voices inviting them in.
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Village Sharpie Pen
Peisen Lu
Class of 2016
Art Is... Acrylic on Canvas
Noah Duffy
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Class of 2014
Technology Troubled Mixed Media
Carolina Pinzon
Class of 2015
Shadows Digital Photograph
Walker King Class of 2016
CAM? Marker
Cameron Boyd
Class of 2018
Auburn Love Still Life Graphite
Vivian Zhao
Mixed Media
Sabrina Angelo Class of 2014
Class of 2014
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Unconditional Kate Zurovchak Class of 2014
Rochelle Art Stix and Soap
Noah Duffy Class of 2014
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I knock on the door, but you don’t turn around. You never do. Nevertheless, I still wait a few seconds before entering. I guess it’s a bit of a habit. I may not be a child, but I still abide by your rules. Shutting the door quietly, I look around the study. You are an avid reader; you always were. I take a cursory glance over the authors I know so well. Dickinson. Poe. Hemingway. When I was little, you would lie on the bed beside me and read to me. I remember how happy you were that I wanted a book for my fifth birthday instead of a doll. I’m afraid that you are going to become immersed in the imaginary world of literature and never return to me. The wooden walls and floor are as dusty as the bookshelves. You blend in well. Your arms are clasped behind your back as you stare out of the window. I can only imagine your thoughts. A picture of Mother sits on your desk. Her smiling face has gleamed from that spot for nearly fifty years. Her auburn hair shines bright, and her green eyes burn with fire. I wish that I could find the courage to walk up to you and wrap my hands around your cold, stiff fingers. I wish that I could hold you in my arms and tell you that all is not lost. I wish I could bring mother back. I see the wrinkles on your collared shirt and black dress pants. If she were here, she would never have let you get away with wearing those wrinkled clothes.
She took good care of you. Your hair, once a soft brown, is now gray and lifeless, just like you. Standing near her picture, I wait. I wait for you to acknowledge my presence. My poor father, why do I try? I promised you that I would never leave you alone when you grew old and feeble. I promised that I would care for and love you. I wished that you had promised the same. I’m here with you now, but we are both alone. You don’t recognize your daughter, and I don’t recognize my father. But I love you all the more for it. You used to say that love is tested in times of darkness. If love outlasts everything, do you still love me? Did love outlast your memory? I pray that it did. I love you, but it’s very hard to love the blank stare that extinguished the twinkle in your eyes. How can I love something that is absent of love and life? Yet, I will try. I will try to love you and your blank stare that pierces my heart. I love you, Father. Walking to the window, I stand by your side. Although we are together, we are apart, silently watching the rain fall.
Sploosh Digital Photograph
Sabrina Angelo
Class of 2014
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Don’t Hit the Puppy (Based on a true story) Aimee Sinks Class of 2014
Finally the day had arrived, the day my dad had promised me for fifteen years. He was teaching me to drive. Driving isn’t just a method of transportation or a way to get from point A to point B; it’s really much more. It marks a special time in a teenager’s life. It marks freedom. I grabbed the keys to my dad’s silver Honda Civic, unlocked the doors to my future, and hopped into the driver’s seat when my dad said, “Katie, get out. You’re not just going to jump into driving like that. I told you I would teach you how to drive, and that means step by step.” “But Daaaaad!” I whined defiantly. “Katie, get out. You’ll get to drive eventually,” He sternly replied. I slowly dragged myself out of the driver’s seat and stomped over to the other side. I crawled into the seat sullenly and pouted as my dad started the engine. My dad peered over at me and sighed while saying, “Don’t be so down. If all goes well today you’ll be driving in no time.” As he finished comforting me, he started off towards our local church. The church sits in the middle of a vast expanse of asphalt. Parking spots are marked by bright yellow paint and barriers that sit on either end of a set of ten spaces. Lampposts are scattered in between, but other than that, no other obstacles remain. Surely this is the perfect place to teach a teenager how to drive. As we pulled into the lot, my mood didn’t improve. “Dad, why are we in a parking lot?” I asked impatiently. “Katie, I told you I would teach you step by step. The first step is learning your car and learning how it works. Let’s get to it!” This was not what I had in mind at all, but I decided that I was never going to get to drive unless I got this over with. I hurried over to the driver’s seat once again, and I was in heaven. I moved my seat forward, raised it up a bit, and adjusted my mirrors, making my future vehicle as mine as possible for that moment. “All right Katie, start her up!” my dad said as he sat next to me. I turned the key and nervously gripped the steering wheel. The car lurched forward, and we began to move. The speedometer read five miles per hour, then seven, and as it began to increase, my father interjected, “That’s good. Seven miles per hour. Nice and easy.” Again I was upset to have my efforts thwarted by my father but soon enough I thought. I drove around the lot for another hour. I weaved in and out of the barriers, around the lampposts, and up and down the rows of parking spaces. I even reached ten miles per hour! I felt invincible. I felt like a bird that had just learned to fly. I began to taste the freedom that driving brings.
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It was starting to get dark when my father said hesitantly, “Ok. This is your last test. If you pass it, you can drive us home.” My face lit up with joy, as I made sure I had heard correctly. “Really, Dad?! I can drive us home?” “Like I said, only if you pass this last test. Parking. You have to be able to park when we get home.” “Ok, Dad! I’m ready!” “So here’s the test. I’m going to put two cups on the ends of the yellow paint marking a parking space. These cups represent puppies. You must park without hitting a puppy. Got it Katie?” “I got it, Dad! I won’t hit the puppies!” I shouted, eager to pass the final test. I jumped in the car, started the engine, and circled around the barrier at the end of the row. I started down the path of truth and spotted the cups. There it was, the only thing between freedom and me. I slowed down, and started to pull in. My car began to slide into the space with no evidence of error. Then it happened. My excitement overwhelmed me, and I rushed the rest of my car into the space. CRUNCH. Oh no! I put the car in park, turned off the engine, and got out as fast as I could. I looked at my dad. His posture and face said it all. I had hit the puppy. I stepped away from the space to see how bad it was. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as I had thought. The car was parked almost completely in the space. Only the end barely jutted outside of the lines. The only problem was the cup, or the now pieces of plastic that laid at the edge of the parking spot. I had hit the puppy. Defeated, I walked over to the passenger side and got in. I didn’t need to say anything for my dad to know how disappointed I was. “It’s all right, sweetie. Next time,” he said, trying to ease my pain. I sat there thinking about how close I was, how I almost got on the road. If only it weren’t for that puppy.
Tiger Eye Mixed Media
Jordan Daly Class of 2018
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Love Hurts Soap Resist
Sarah Martin Class of 2014
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Beacon
Megan Radosta Class of 2015
People huddled together, grieving, crying. Dressed in black, filled with despair, Searching for light In the midst of the darkness. They were gathered for a funeral, A 12-day-old baby boy’s funeral. He came and went all too soon. Noah David Tramonte, April 9-21, 2013. She arrived, his beautiful mother, Dressed in yellow, filled with Strength. Light radiated from her, And she became their beacon, their hope. She loves her son, and she could not Be more proud of him. She celebrates his life; though short, It could not have had a greater impact. His life that brought people to pray For the first time in a long time. A baby boy that brought people to Christ: Baby angel, Noah David Tramonte.
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Monet Copy Oil on Canvas
Carson Hooper
Class of 2014
The Brewing Storm Digital Photogrpah
Matt Markham Class of 2014
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The Chattahoochee Anna Podratsky Class of 2017
Warm summers and bright blue skies rain down on the flowing water. I find myself standing on an outstretched open island. Chilling water captures my skin, embracing it in a frigid hold. The soft sticky sand cradles my toes as they dig deeper and deeper. Chattering geese graze their feet in the water as they take off for flight. Canoers in their drifting boats draw their paddles, ready to fight the water. This calming aura hypnotizes everyone as the trickling water lulls them to sleep. Children play by the water as a small laughter fills the air. A cool breeze tickles my skin as it softly caresses my cheek. A light aroma brushes my nose with a fresh scent of spearmint.
Reflection Digital Photograph
Padraic Johnson Class of 2014
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Tree
Samantha Allen Class of 2017 The tree Twists and turns in an unnatural looking way It has a huge hollow Its dark, old, and grey It’s sinking and sagging from all the years And yet it has not withered away It lies in the middle of a luscious green meadow The meadow is surrounded by new young trees Standing tall The meadow covered in scattered flowers of yellow and white A man sits under the bare old tree Its gorgeous branches reaching out Towards the surrounding trees And up Towards the bright and shining sun The tree, it’s rough and ancient Feels like sandpaper It smells of earth Like dirt and pine Like it’s mixed in with the scent of surrounding trees Some birds sing their songs, but The meadow is filled with mostly silence It’s peaceful and tranquil there in that meadow The grass, it’s soft and thick Its color, not a dark yet not a lime green But somewhere in between Its color is not hard on the eyes Or harsh to look at It’s soft And spotted, speckled with white and yellow The white and yellow of the flowers The sweet smelling flowers Their intoxicating aroma relaxing The tree may be old, but it’s teeming with life Ants and squirrels and birds, animals of all kinds Some homes were nested and others carved with a knife All the other trees are farther away, so It needs not compete for the warm light of day That tree, it still sits there in that meadow That meadow is secret and hidden away
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Untitled Digital Photograph
Ryan Durham Class of 2016
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Oyster Bed
Madeleine Hardt Class of 2018 I look down at the murky waters in front of me, a deep red stain spreading among them. Suddenly, I no longer have the strength to hold myself up and fall into a squat. Pain prickles in my knees, and I watch blood drip off my fingertips, onto the shards of oyster shells beneath me. I cry for help, yet no words leave my lips. I watch as pictures flash by my eyes, my vision now speckled with black dots. I see my family, friends, some of my fondest memories. I stand up quickly and put all my strength into one last cry for help. As a young child, I spent most of my summers on Hilton Head Island running around gator ponds, climbing trees, catching lizards and crabs, swinging on rope vines, and swimming as far out into the ocean as I could. Like most children, I had few cares in the world and a very small realization about how valuable my life was and how much I treasured those around me. I did not regard the possible effects of the dangerous things I did, and even if I did, I ignored the thought. I learned to push back that voice in the back of my head until it was small and faint. One summer, my perspective on life changed when I caught a glimpse of what it would be like to lose it all.
Revolution Cut Paper Collage
Alexandra Cook
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Class of 2014
Early on a beautiful summer day on the island, my friend, our dads, and I went clamming. While we usually went to explore the nearby streams, we found none and decided to play on the oyster beds. We ran across the beds in our fathers’ large rain boots, jumping from bed to bed. The voice in the back of my head was stronger that day, yet I pushed it aside as usual. As I was venturing to the oyster bed that was farthest out, my foot slipped at the last second. As I hurdled into the next, I slammed my hand down to stop myself. A searing pain took over my arm, from my fingertips to my elbow. I turned to see that the thin waters I had just leaped over were now red. I heard a faint scream from my friend in the background, then quick footsteps as she ran to get our fathers. I could not speak. I could no longer hear the waves crashing on nearby rocks, and my vision was blurred. Around me, below the MR-EXP shallow waters, was marsh mud that I would sink right into. Mixed Media Mary Ruth Nagel At that moment I felt helpless. I regretted going this far out and not being careful. I wished that I had listened to that faint Class of 2014 voice telling me to slow down, go back. It was then, for the first time, that I thought of all the wonderful things I could lose: friends, family, loved ones. All of these things I lived for gave me hope and enough strength to stand and cry out once more. Soon, my dad was helping me to the shore. I watched the sand in the near distance the whole way, contemplating the gray color, when I looked up and realized that I had blacked out and was surrounded by dull gray. I fell limp, and he carried me the rest of the way to the shore, my friend and her dad keeping pressure on the palm of my wounded hand, helping me regain my vision. Though the small scrapes on my knees and fingers have healed, I still have a small scar on my right palm, blue and red on raised skin, to remind me of that day. When I see it, I am reminded of everything I would have missed. I am reminded of all of the people in my life and how valuable they are to me. I learned to listen to the voice in the back of my head. That painful, scarring incident taught me how lucky I am to be alive and how quickly life can be taken away, so I live every day to the fullest.
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Body of Christ Soap Resist
Lenny Jimenez
Class of 2015
The Bloody Marsh Digital Photograph
Matt Markham Class of 2014
Shape Design Acrylic on Canvas
John Radosta
Class of 2017
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Untitled Mixed Media
Sabrina Angelo Class of 2014
Self Portrait Graphite
Rhett Jerrum Class of 2015
Spaceland Spray Paint
Alexandra Cook Class of 2014
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Friendship Sarah Durham Class of 2018
Every once in a while, I walk my dog down a street that is parallel to my own, a street where a friend used to live. As I pass her house, memories rush in. Happy memories of playing games since we were three, being able to walk to her house, pretending to be things we were not, climbing trees, adventuring, running around, laughing, and spending entire days together. I then have memories of some of the last days we spent together and of the day she moved. I walk outside and shut the front door behind me. The sky is blanketed by dull ominous gray clouds, seeming to match my emotions perfectly. Walking as slowly as possible, hoping it’s not real, hoping it’s a dream. It is real, however, and I continue walking. I make my way through our secret path, pushing aside the branches to reveal the path. Leaves crunch under my feet. Beautiful flowers bloom on the sides of the path, but I feel nothing. I walk out into the street, my hands in my pockets, my mind numb. Finally, I reach her house, an elevated home with beige stucco walls and a small set of stairs leading up to its green front door. I knock on her front door, and my best friend opens it, her face full of sadness, her deep blue eyes bursting with sorrow, her mouth turned down ever so slightly into a frown. Her house is not like it used to be; everything is gone, and it’s empty. There’s no furniture, only a handful of cardboard boxes. Her father already waits for her and her mom in New York. Her mom walks around their house getting one last look and making sure they will not forget anything. We wait; there is nothing left to say or to do. We just wait. My head fills with gloom and despair, and each second feels as though it lasts years. Then the moment that I have been dreading comes as the taxi arrives. We say our melancholy-filled goodbyes. We hug, walk out the door, and her mom locks the door behind us. I just sit on her front porch as she makes her way down the stairs and out toward the taxi that is taking her to the airport. Each step creates a larger gap between us, growing as each second passes. It will soon be a canyon that is too large to cross. I will not cry. I will not cry, not now. She gets into the taxi and shuts the door behind her. I will not be able to walk over to her house again, or even see her because she is moving to New York. My best friend is leaving. I have known for months, but it still feels unreal. The car begins to drive away, and I see her waving from the inside, small drops of water glittering on her cheeks. I wave back. I wave until I cannot see her any more, though I can still hear the car speeding down the street. I get up slowly and take one last look at what was my best friend’s house, a house full of memories, full of laughter and friendship. I can feel the hot liquid welling up in my eyes. I turn away and run as fast as I can, tears streaming down my cheeks. The wind stings my eyes and dries my cheeks, only to be replaced by more tears rolling down. I run down the street, down the path, back into my house, and a new wave of tears pours down from my eyes, unable to stop myself now. The day my best friend moved over 800 miles away will always be one of my most vivid memories of us together. The day she left also made me realize that you never know when someone might leave your life, so I learned to treasure each moment I have with them.
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Top of page:
Mug Designs Sharpie Pen on Ceramics
Agh!
Austin Thomas, Tom Yao, and Delphine Mason
Christina Pencil Drawing
Anna Podratsky
Class of 2017
Digital Photo
Lenny Jimenez Class of 2015
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Rose Soap Resist
Peisen Lu
Class of 2016
Preschool Mural Created by:
The National Art Honor Society
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Social Justice Pencil Drawing
Anna Podratsky Class of 2017
Screaming Trees Digital Photograph
Matt Markham Class of 2014
Untitled Digital Photograph
Sabrina Angelo Class of 2014
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Chaos Monotype Print
Austin Thomas
Class of 2015
Ghost Digital Photograph
Will Garlen Class of 2014
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Day of the Dead Mixed Media
Jaelyn Kelly Class of 2017
World of a Madman Mary Carson Class of 2017
In the beginning, I ran from the guilt and fled from the pain. Overcome with sorrow, for I feared tomorrow. The further I ran the heavier the load. Keeping my head up while my spirit was low. I yearned for a hand, but was grabbed by the ankles from a shadow of a man, dragged into darkness, driven out of sanity. I wailed to the world. Took the fate of others and held it in my hand. My vision was blurred, my heart contorted by the thoughts I possessed. The days grew longer, buried with thirst for the night and the vast darkness that went on eternally. Dragged into darkness by a shadow of a man. Dragged into hell, without a helping hand. I saw my own reflection, the tears overflowed. A madman is what I have become. My hands stained, I grinned and laughed like a lunatic, my sense of justice blurred. My conscience was sinister, an unrighteous metamorphosis. My final moments in the light, seeing the bodies of the dead. I smirked at the world; a madman is not what I am. For I am not human; I have become a being of the underworld.
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Plum Blossom Monotype Print
Tom Yao
Class of 2016 Third Place Art
Peace
Color Pencil
Matt Spencer
Class of 2018
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Untitiled
Oragami Sculpture
Patrick Jordan Class of 2015
C - Pride
Pen and Ink Drawing
Tom Yao
Class of 2016
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A Day with the Kid Matt Markham Class of 2014
It was a beautiful day in Central Park. The sun was shining, families strolled by observing my beautiful, but shedding hair. It would grow back in a few months. It did this every year. I proudly took my position along the concrete path that ran around the entirety of the park. My spot was best because I could always look across the park and see children playing baseball. It was a wonderful game to watch. However, the game I always loved to be a part of was hide n’ go seek. At the ball fields, some little league games were taking place. I could see the families gather along the gray fences to watch their sons play ball. As always, they let the younger children scatter about the open, green area surrounding the ball field. This is when I usually got to play hide n’ go seek. This was the only time I understood what being a human is like. I could see the children swarm together to discuss the rules and regulations. As usual, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew what they were saying. The Counter must close his eyes and count 60 Mississippi’s. Then, and only then, can the Counter open his eyes and sprint about the park searching for the other children. Once he has found another child, he must tag him in order for a new game to begin. The new Counter is the child that is tagged. I had seen and played this game so many times! The children soon broke their huddle and scattered, leaving one lonely child where they had once huddled together. I could see all the children, running as quickly as they could. One of the children began running directly towards me. I knew what this meant. I was one of the best hiding sots in the park. This wasn’t the first time a child had come to hide in me. By the time the Counter yelled “41 Mississippi!”, the child had reached my feet. He reached for one of my limbs to lift himself up off the ground and into my hair. Although it was thinning out, my hair was still very protective of those trying to hide from the Counter. The child quickly grabbed limb after limb, trying to get as deep into my hair as possible. I could feel the urgency if this child to get away and make it impossible to be seen by the naked eye. Gradually, the child stopped climbing, coming to rest in a couple of my arms high above the ground. He laid himself out and became relaxed. I could feel the tension go away as the child drifted off into another planet. I continued watching the Counter as he had already found a victim to chase and to tag. They ran around the field, rolling, sliding, juking, and sprinting to avoid being tagged. However, the Counter came out victorious as he tagged the little boy on the arm, ending the game. It was the only game they played because the baseball game had reached the last inning. All the children returned to their families’ side to prepare for the trip home. The little boy who had climbed into my hair, however, still laid in my limbs, peacefully alone in his own little world. The baseball game concluded, and all the families left the park. The little boy still laid calmly in my arms though. I could see his family leaving the park, unaware that their little boy was stuck in a game of hide n’ go seek. I could see the family get into their SUV and drive away. And as this happened, the little boy in my arms began to stir. I could feel him using my limbs to get down my body and out of my hair. He seemed to make it with ease for some time until he quickly came to a stop. The child began screaming and crying, unsure what to do. “Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy! Mommy! Help me, Mommy! I’m stuck! Help me!” he continued screaming and crying. Many people could see this distress in the little boy but were too busy and caught up in
their own lives that they passed him by. However, in the distance, I could see a young couple with their dog slowly making their way towards me and the little boy. They were still out of range to hear the little boy’s screams and seemed to be on a date.
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The couple continued to make their way towards us and suddenly began to look around in Pencil Drawing curiosity. I could tell they could hear the little boy’s Claude O’Meara cries for help now. They began to walk with more Class of 2019 urgency now, searching for the sounds of help. He and the woman he was with began running towards me. For some reason though, this man seemed familiar. As the couple reached my feet, I was instantly able to recognize the man. However, the last time I had seen him, he was a child, much like the one in my arms now. He was the only child ever to get stuck in my arms. There had been a frantic rush to get him away from me as people in a red truck and big tall ladder came. They had set the big piece of metal against my body and retrieved the man from my arms. “Little boy,” the man yelled, “calm down. I will help you get out of that there, okay!” The man was much heavier than the little boy. I could feel my arms buckling under his could feel my arms buckling under his weight as he made his climb towards the little boy. He went higher and higher, making it more and more difficult to hold his weight. The further he climbed, the weaker my arms were. The arms I have higher up on my body are weaker, younger, and less developed. I was very thankful that the woman stood idly at the bottom. It would have been difficult for my arms to hold all of their weight, especially if they were to stand on the same arm. After climbing 4 or 5 of my arms, the man stopped climbing. I could feel him getting into position near the little boy. “Okay, buddy. What I want you to do is grab my arm okay? And then I will slowly help you onto this branch, okay?” The man yelled. “Okay, I can do that,” the little boy yelled. The little boy began to move and shift his weight off my arm. He slid his feet off first and then held on to my arms. “It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you!” the man yelled. I felt the little boy’s hands come off my arm and his feet land on my arm that the man was standing on just below. “Good job, buddy!” he said. “I told you you could do it. Do you think you can get yourself down from here?” “Yes sir!” replied the little boy. “Alright, let me see. I’ll stay right here in case you need any help down below,” said the man. The little boy was quick to move down my arms. He would get to one arm and already be starting his way down to the next until he stood next to the woman at my feet. “Wow! That was great, buddy! I can’t believe you got stuck at this point,” yelled the man proudly to the little boy. The man soon followed the little boy out of the tree to my feet below. “So where do you live, buddy?” the man said as he dusted himself off at my feet. The three began to walk off. “I live at the corner of 4th and 71st,” said the little boy as his voice faded. “I know where that is!” said the woman. “We can drive you there.” That is the last I heard from the boy. I still see him at the ball fields, but now it is his brother who sits and watches as the little boy swings for the fences.
Untitiled
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Untitled
Mixed Media
Will Garlen
Class of 2014
Untitled
Ink and Watercolor
Alexandra Cook
Class of 2014
Untitled
Digital Photograph
Sabrina Angelo
Class of 2014
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Advanced Placement Studio Art Portfolios Throughout Ingenium, you will see many works by AP Art Students. These artists have spent at least the last 4 years at HSP preparing for the AP art class. Students enrolled in the course have two semesters to complete 24 unique works of art. Half of the portfolio serves to demonstrate the artists’ mastery of multiple visual art skills. The other revolves around a singular theme of the artist’s choosing. These “concentrations” are meant to represent the individual’s artistic voice. The works must not only center on a singular theme, but relate to each other in both style and medium. In the pages that follow, you will find a small sampling of the studio art concentration from this year’s AP Art class.
2013-14
AP Art Students Sabrina Angelo Alexandra Cook Noah Duffy Will Garlen Mary Ruth Nagel Will Gensler
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Sabrina Angelo For my concentration I created a series of fashion photographs that mix bright and bold fashions with gritty unkempt environments. By creating such a strong contrast between the fashion and the setting, I am forcing the viewer to take notice of the clothing. The background is so different that you can’t help but see the clean designs of the clothing worn. My love of both fashion and photography is what inspired me to create this series.
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Alexandra Cook My AP Concentration is a study of religion and mythology through illustrations of spiritual stories. I have always been curious about religion and am interested in learning as much as possible about the many practices that exist on this earth. Although these religions may seem to present altering points of view, there are correlations between each and every one. Through my work, I hope to elaborate upon these similarities. The intended medium is digital Photoshop cs5. This medium represents a distinctive and more modern take on traditional religious art. In this way, certain mythologies such as Norse and Celtic may appear more relevant in a society that is largely unfamiliar with practices of old.
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Will Garlen My concentration is a series of cut paper pieces depicting the story of a robot. This robot is created in a lab environment, escapes, and decides to travel the world and beyond. Through the use of the medium of cut paper, I am able to create the depth of the vast environments, as well as the small details of the robot. Each piece is made up of hundreds of tiny scraps of paper that I must arrange and create to fit the design. My Inspiration behind this series comes from my deep adoration of robots and my love of the whimisical side of art. Through this inspiration, I explored the concept of futuristic machines and basic mechanical engineering, while all along staying very whimsical in my art.
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Noah Duffy My Concentration is a series of painted playbills. In my work, I want to make people feel reminiscent for a time that was not their own. Through my art, I try to tell these stories in a new and modernist way while channeling different styles or movements. I try to take a commercial art spin on the theater life of which I have always been surrounded. This gives my work something easy to tie them together without limiting me by any means. I am an aspiring artist and actor like to personalize and refine my craft, I use familiar visual signs from shows, arranging them into new conceptually layered pieces.
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Will Gensler The nautical series I am doing for my concentration is supposed to be simple but beautiful. In the simplicity, there is beauty of just the image and not much distraction of detail. You get the big picture in a little frame. In my case, this is quite literal as all of my work is no bigger than a postcard. All of my images were inspired by places I have traveled, and they are simplified because each is based off of a memory and the details have escaped my mind.
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Mary Ruth Nagel My concentration is a series of mixedmedia doodles that incorporate inspirational quotes about girls. The many layers of my pieces represent the many different layers that I believe girls are made up of. The incorporation of quotes within the pieces are meant to both inspire and encourage girls to embrace the many layers of themselves and be who they are. I chose to work in a playful manor representative of how many teenage girls will doodle almost trance-like while talking late night with their friends. My concentration was inspired by growing up in a house full of woman and by being surrounded with all of my best girl friends.
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Alumni Work This year, we decided to celebrate some of the amazing artists in our Holy Spirit Prep community who have continued to pursue their passion after departing our hallowed halls. We have been fortunate to graduate some outstanding artists in a variety of media, from painters to writers, and even rock and rollers! Here is a sampling of some of their post-HSP work. We extend a special thank you to all of our Alumni who made this section possible and wish them the best of luck in their future endeavors. Keep creating!
Time Slpping Away Graphite
Jackie Kuntz
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Class of 2009
Untitled Large Format Photography
Peter Boyle Class of 2011
Details, Chauvet Cave Erica Leinmiller Class of 2009
Spindle stalactites like spiders who descended, then abandoned their silk. Calcite glitters in uncertain light, turns bear skulls to sculptures.
Untitled Charcoal
Anne Meadows
If you listen hard enough you can hear your heartbeat echo above the ocean of silence.
Class of 2011
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Photos By: Valheria Rocha
Miles Away (For Rick Bragg) Music and Lyrics By: The Head
Jack Shaw, Mike Shaw, and Jacob Morell Class of 2010
The finest days are here An angry dad and a beer The lonely mom tries to make it better Runs and hides, tries to escape the fetter The happy days are gone A brand new dog and a home The sorry mom tries to make the breakfast Runs and hides, tries to make him worth it Miles Away The dreaming days are far A working man finds a bar The dirty mom burns another burden At the field, where the knuckle’s hurting Miles Away Miles Away This song was inspired by “All Over But the Shouting,” a book the boys read at HSP for Mrs. DeFilippi’s English class.
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Untitled Digital Photograph
Sophie Newman Class of 2011
Black Moon Oil on Canvas
Mehalet Theodros Class of 2012
The Innocence Oil on Canvas
Kayla Kaeding Class of 2010
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Snail Mail
Sophie Newman Class of 2010 Currently, the United States Postal Service delivers mail Monday through Saturday—come rain or snow, sleet or hail. Sunday is the only day that the stamps aren’t stamped, signatures aren’t signed, and boxes aren’t shipped. However, within the next few years, if everything goes on as they are now, they will probably be stopping mail delivery on Saturdays as well. I don’t know about you, but when I first heard this, something inside of me screamed “They can’t do that!” But, honestly, why can’t they? “Snail mail” has been drastically declining, with a drop of more than a billion letters being sent or received over the past twenty years. Looking at the numbers, it appears that paper mail just isn’t that important to people anymore. But if this were true, then why was my initial reaction appalled and opposed to stopping Saturday mail delivery? This is obviously a question that everyone is going to answer differently, with contrary opinions on the topic. Today I’m going to share with you my opinion, in hopes that you will at least consider it to be, one day, your opinion. Our society loves technology— myself included. It is absolutely brilliant. We are able to text someone a quick reminder, stalk our friends on Facebook, and find the latest Buzzfeed quiz to take. We can “follow” our fellow Tweeters to stay in the loop and most importantly, provide visual updates on Instagram—#selfie. But for all the efficiency of today’s fancy multimedia methods of communication, nothing beats getting a handwritten letter. I’m
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presuming you have received a text message before, likely thousands— maybe in just the last week. But out of those thousands upon thousands of electronic communications, how many really meant something to you? Probably not very many, if any at all. Don’t get me wrong, texting provides us with the capability to reach someone no matter where they are located within seconds. But the question is, are those messages significant? Now think about walking to your mailbox, opening it, and seeing a white rectangular envelope with your name on it. Touching the lightweight paper, that holds such heavy meaning. Just for you. Hearing the rip as you tear your way through the sealed edges, to disclose the words written inside. Just for you. It is almost a universal truth that everyone enjoys getting a letter in the mail. There is something so personal about someone taking the time to sit down and write out their thoughts, emotions, or a story. Just for you. Or even a package! When all you want to do is rip it open as quickly as possible. Someone intentionally thought of you when they taped it up and sent it off. Whatever is inside is just for you. Just for you. “But it’s so time consuming to write letters!” people complain. Exactly. That’s the beauty of it. Although technology has provided speed to the way we communicate, it has also undermined the need for personal, and private, exchanges. ‘Cause sometimes it isn’t about speed. Sometimes, it is simply about thoughtfully creating a message to a friend or family member, about confirming the connection of two lives, about filling the gap between physical distance—with the magic of carefully crafted words. Letters are
saved, re-read, and cherished in a way that a text or chat message can never be. Letters are tangible, and there is something extraordinary about that. Let me tell you a little story to illustrate my point. A story about a boy and a girl—the most popular kind. They met at a “Back-to-School Party” just before their freshman year of high school at the age of fourteen. The two always admired each other from afar, but the timing never worked out. She was busy with academics and her social life, while he was focusing on sports. Finally, during senior year of high school their separate paths came together. In that year, they fell in love—of course. But college quickly came, and they were separated by states and sometimes even countries. This wasn’t easy on either of them. There were no such things as cell phones or Facebook to keep in touch, so, instead they wrote letters. For five years they hand wrote pages and pages back and forth. That’s 1,826 days. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what it. They married, had four daughters, and still have a trunk full of handwritten letters stored in the attic—proof that they overcame the struggle of distance. This boy and girl just happen to be my parents. And if it weren’t for “snail” mail, I probably wouldn’t be here, telling you this story. I, for one, am thankful for the power the handwritten letter can hold. And we all should be, not just because of my parents’ sappy love story, but because writing letters builds character. It builds The Mariner’s Albatross relationships on dedication rather than Oil on Canvas convenience. It builds trust, and we all could Jackie Kuntz Class of 2009 use a little bit of that. For those of you who have received a letter before, know that indescribable feeling you get. And if you know that feeling, then you know that you have the capability, to give someone else that same feeling. If you have not had this privilege, my most sincere sympathy goes out to you, for there is no way possible that I shall be able to provide you with the right definition for such a feeling. It would be as hopeless as attempting to describe a laugh, cry, or the taste of chocolate. So, all I can leave you with is my encouragement. Write someone. Pick up that pen or pencil and write someone because “snail mail” isn’t overrated.
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Isolation Acrylic on Canvas
Curtis Johnson
Class of 2010
A Connotation on Infinity Oil on Canvas
Jackie Kuntz Class of 2009
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Self Portrait Oil on Canvas
Morgan Mitchell Class of 2008
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Interior Design for Tech Store Digital Illustration
Zoe Pittman
Class of 2012
Figure Drawing Graphite
Morgan Mitchell Class of 2008
Barbed Wire Fence Charcoal
Erica Leinmiller
Class of 2009
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The Ingenium Staff is...
Acknowledgments Ingenium Staff: Alexandra Cook Noah Duffy Will Garlen Patrick Higgins Carolina Pinzon
Faculty Advisors: Rockie Rombalski Jamie Reger Jeff Rumiano Karen Browning
Special Thanks to: The HSP chapter of the National Art Honor Society 63
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