Cadence OPUS 2016
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The Opus Team Teacher Sponsors Mrs. O'Connor Ms. Jacobs Ms. Lenny Co-Editors-in-Chief Kenneth Huang & Kevin Yu Lead Staff Bill Lou - Layout Director Richard Chen - Layout Director Jason Liu - Artistic Director Justin Low - Artistic Director Alvin Tsuei - Literary Director Ty Zhang - Literary Director Jack Zhang - Marketing Henry Gao - Marketing Selections Team Curtis Ho Daniel Yan Davis Zhu Desmond Lum Eric Cheng Frank Sandoval Konrad Swic Liano Liu Seth Book Vincent Liu
Arjun Mehta Davin Liu Jason Qu Kenneth Ng Kevin Li Lucas Wong Ryan Karimi Tareeq Mangalji Timothy Kwan
Cover design by Andrew Bagshaw
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Introduction Since its very conception, The Opus has sought to encapsulate the distinct, creative processes undergone by St. George’s students. On the path to creation, each artist and writer finds his own rhythm that guides his thoughts, research, and inspiration. As a result, he begins to push the boundaries in an attempt to develop his artistic or literary style to greater heights. And so, Opus: Cadence is a reflection of this very pursuit, as this year’s edition aims to further establish the ways in which artistic expression sweeps through our everyday lives. Representing the breadth of artistry that enriches the school, it also speaks to the challenge that each student embraces. The visual and literary pieces printed on the following pages are themselves the very notes of an evolving Cadence. It is our hope that as you peruse the book you are now holding, the originality of each artist and author will resonate, perhaps invoking your own yet undiscovered talents. Of course, The Opus’ creation is always a tireless endeavour, and thanks are due to a number of individuals for their significant contributions. For one, the guidance and support of Mrs. O’Connor, Ms. Jacobs, and Ms. Lenny continue to promote the success of this publication and the spirit of its team. The dedication of the Artistic, Literary, Layout, and Marketing teams are equally worthy of recognition; from their relentless, combined efforts, Opus: Cadence was born. Finally, our greatest appreciation is extended to those who graciously submitted their creations to The Opus. Your willingness to share such intimate and beautiful images, words, and thoughts are paramount to promoting creativity within the school, and serve as a constant reminder of The Opus’ very purpose. - Kevin Yu and Kenneth Huang, Editors in Chief
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ALAN CHEN Acrylic Painting
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The Traveler and His Father BRANDON ZANG
Upon his sled the man’s cloak glinted In the light, the traveler sped through the snow. The winter morning, bright and glowing, As he travelled the hills, so high and low. The beauty of the cold, the frozen air, The mountains of the west, snow-capped and white, But the man made haste and passed these sights As he sped through the snow, quiet and light. Ever going the man and his treasure, Through the forests and snow and pine trees galore. Through towns and homes of the rich and the poor, Until he reached the cold pitiless shore. Upon the shore stood the mammoth rocks, Rocks bound by frozen chains and locks. The man took off his glove and three times knocked The icy surface of the mammoth rocks. From the stones emerged a small and frail man, A beard so long that it reached past his hands. Oh his hands! His hands were painfully black, Burnt – no – frozen like the wintery lands. The man smiled and reached out his hand Towards the traveler, who smiled back, And took the hand, though hideously black And laughed and let down his heavy pack. “Father”, said the traveler, “Son”, said I
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“You’ve come from the lands far, far away, What winds from the lands of winter and ice Blew you so strong, so strong towards my way?” “Oh Father,” he said, “It’s been such a long time!” While still holding my hands that were frozen black. “Don’t you remember, Father, it’s Christmas day! The day I’d promised you that I’d come back.” In that instant, tears flowed from my eyes, The warm tears of joy that he would stay The teardrops fell upon my cold black hands And melted the hideous black away. And on that shore of the frozen bay, I told my son that I loved him, for the first time, On my last Christmas day.
DESMOND LUM Graphite on Paper
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PATRICK LU Acrylic Painting
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VINCENT LIU Acrylic Painting
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Disconnected MATT AYDIN
Hey Its me. I have a question for you. Why do you hide behind your hair Like a trapped bird Why do you act Like a bee without its buzz Why are you sailing through a stormy sea Like you’re drilling through metal I can feel your melancholy behind the screen. Hey Its me again. I’m sorry. The night is closing in Like a slow trap of steel The mother is prowling in its nest As if there’s a deep chill in the comfortable house The silence of the night disregarded As if I’m a rabbit being hunted by a wolf This might be the last message. Harris Mak painting I guess what I’m trying to say is You should text back
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Because there’s a standard. Because there’s an urgency. Because there’s a bedtime.
Because when the world ends I might not have my phone charged and If you don’t reply soon, I won’t be able to say goodbye.
MICHAEL LAU Photography
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WINSTON LI Photography
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Pt. 1 Stream of Consciousness BRIAN RIBACK
This bus ride is monotonous I’m going to take a dive into the LTE network to search for amusement I would hate to endure fifteen whole minutes without electronic stimulation It rained earlier today Of course, it’s March Wait, no, it’s April now That’s right Still chugging along down King Edward Thank god for Tumblr I wonder if that guy emailed me about the thing I should post that announcement in the Facebook group I need to update my Twitter profile pic How long has it been since I checked Snapchat? Did I reply to Ashley’s Instagram comment? Oh boy So much social networking to get done! Look up Hey, that’s cool That’s a cool rainbow Nice You don’t see those too often That’s going on Instagram What!? I’ve used 95% of my data already!? I hate you Telus
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I really do This sucks Hmmm What a beautiful rainbow…
ANDREW MO Photography
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DAVID NI Acrylic Painting
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BRANDON ZANG Mixed Media
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Pt. 2 The Rainbow BRIAN RIBACK
In the modern age there are many distractions The greatest distractor is that of technology I miss so much because of these electronic actions That I oppress man’s unquestionable ability To elevate life by a conscious endeavor Thoreau knows of no more encouraging fact When a rainbow appears by result of the weather I would hate to miss the show to be in my own iPhonic act This bus ride is boring, but with rainbows comes joy I can’t help but smile at this prismatic illusion A rainbow: so simple, content, and coy Can touch me so deeply as the afternoon’s conclusion All I have to do is look at this spectrum of colour To feel the vast wonder contained in this arc Before this rare moment, my day couldn’t have been duller But that first glimpse of red was all it took to spark My realization that nature is something to be had Way more than any screen, pixel, or button For it has the power to change me to happy from sad Without technology’s side affect of making me a glutton For the rest of the ride I bask in the colours and forget my data strife Never before have my objectives and principles ever felt so clear Connecting with nature is the simplest form of elevating my life For all of the work to bring beauty to my world is done in the atmosphere
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MATT AYDIN Digital Media
Harris Mak Painting
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KENNETH HUANG Ceramics
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The Forgotten CHRIS WELLS
Our arms brush and around I turn The face I see full of concern They’re stuck in so many places A face in a sea of faces. Sitting alone on a park bench Rain pours down, he begins to drench No one to give him embraces A face in a sea of faces. A woman covered in bruises Every night it’s her that loses From his fists she hope for graces A face in a sea of faces. His wallet empty of all cash He’s forced to search amongst the trash Before home, the dirt he erases A face in a sea of faces. In the mirror, she thinks she’s fat Her figure, her constant combat All of her friends she replaces A face in a sea of faces. Each day we pass people in need When we can help them become freed But, instead stare at our laces A face in a sea of faces.
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JUSTIN LOW 3D Printing
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CHRIS LI Acrylic Painting
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An excerpt from “Falling Trees” NATHAN FONG
An enormous murder of crows ascended from the forest, shrieking wildly, as the roar of a chainsaw cut through the air. A billow of smoke spread throughout the treetops, and the forest floor creaked under the weight of excavators and bulldozers tearing through the brush. The smell of fresh pine and cedar was quickly masked by the fumes of exhaust and wood shavings. One after another, the souls of the forest fell, kneeling before the men who tore them down… It was early fall, and the leaves had not quite revealed their beautiful orange and yellow colours yet. It was not a particularly cold day for northern BC, only about 14 above, so it was a good day for logging and transporting raw lumber to the factories. There was a bit of a bite to the air however; a tell tale sign that sunny skies and summer gusts would quickly make way for cold, wet weather, and fierce autumn winds. Not far from the logging road, the sound of chainsaws and heavy machinery broke through the silence of the mountain. It had been a hard year for the loggers, as the summer drought had limited the yield of trees they were able to harvest. Not far from the major logging site, a small group of workers, armed with 60cc Stilhs and light weight hatchets, pushed through the undergrowth. It was their job to cut down smaller trees; ones that didn’t need heavy duty machines to shuttle them back to the semis. Although that type of work was much more strenuous and required much more energy, brush workers were never paid as much be-
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cause they would never log as many trees as the main crew. It didn’t require as much skill though; no maze of buttons and delicate levers, just a four-pound chainsaw with two switches - on/off and safety. The men working in the small groups were not always the most educated - some of them hadn’t even made it past the eighth grade - but it was the only work most people up north they could find. Some of the morning sun peaked through the umbrella of cedar and pine, and created miniature mosaics of light on the forest floor. There were 12 men today, which was more than usual. Each week one of them would plan out a route, and the others would follow, trying to cut down as many trees as they could in the fewest trips possible. The men were only given an hour long break for lunch during the middle of the day, and would often still be hungry as the light crept back below the horizon. The route was a rather easy route that day, only about a two-mile long trek with minimal hills and relatively padded ground (there were a lot of fallen pine needles).
DANIEL ZHU Ceramics
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KONRAD SWIC Ceramics
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JASON YANG Ceramics
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Red Snow
COLE GLADDERS Bang! The shot echoed through the valley. A lone cougar lay still on the cold snow gasping for air. The bullet had pierced her lung. Everything came clear again, she needed to get back to her cubs. They were too young, and they would not survive the freezing temperatures of winter without her. She could hear the approaching hunter’s steady footsteps; there were three of them. Her heart was racing. She got up except the wound in her side bled more. The hunters were getting closer, she needed to keep going; the pain in her side felt like fire. She fell back down. The pain was unbearable. The snow around her was red and warm. She could slowly feel her life slipping away as darkness clouded her vision. The hunters were only meters away and were already celebrating their catch. She started crawling in a final attempt to get back to her cubs. In her heart, she knew that she would not make it back, but she had to try. She felt something grab her hind legs, dragging her away from the clearing, farther from her cubs. Her senses sharpened. She desperately clawed at the snow, attempting to get away from the hunters but she was too weak. They dragged her through the rough, rocky ground of the forest, they felt like spears being jabbed into her body. They finally reached a cabin in a small clearing. “This is it, now or never.” The cougar thought to herself. She wriggled out of the hunter’s grasp and ran with the image of her cubs in her mind. She put all the love, hatred and anger she had towards getting back to the forest. She was almost at the tree line when she heard one of the hunters cry “It’s loose!” She turned her head as three bullets tore
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through her body like butter. Once again, a cougar lay still on the cold ground. She took a final breath, smiling to herself. The sun had come out, summer was coming early, her cubs might survive. All was quiet. All was still. Three hunters shouted with glee as they dragged their trophy away from the tree line and back to their cabin. One by one, the birds started chirping again, the animals came out of hiding. Life began its day.
KONRAD SWIC Photography
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KONRAD SWIC Ceramics
JONATHAN CHIANG Ceramics
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DANIEL WISE Ceramics
JONATHAN CHIANG Ceramics
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JASON LIU Mixed Media
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Deity’s Lament DANIEL ZHANG
He who made the stars and skies sees all; He who whispers in the ear of man hears all; He who forged man and alien knows all; Yet He who created life is the loneliest of them all. With wrinkled hands and clouded eyes He holds men’s hands and watches them rise, Leads them forth and makes them wise, And quietly guides them to life’s last prize. Though time flows around Him like a river past debris, His memories remain like treasure, locked without key. Though space glides about Him like wind through the trees, There is nowhere in His universe for Him to be free. How, He wonders, could perfection evolve so many flaws: Ira, invidia, superbia, inscitia! He gave man science, spirituality, and the supervision of laws, But mankind had already forsaken its Theois and Theia. For He Himself must remain under His guise, No matter if or where the cloth cross flies; Every moment His children utter unholy lies, Is a moment in which a part of Him approaches demise. He who grasps the world shall embrace all, He who transcends consciousness shall experience all, He who is man’s sentinel shall guard all, He who is one of a kind shall endure all.
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Transition PAUL BAO
My Vancouver is a dark sea of panic: Rising, bobbing, gasping, With the ocean as my grave; A chilling sky of cold sweat as The hands of time fold and clench, Am I blind or blinded by the darkness Gripping me by the throat? My Vancouver is the blank sky: I, the lone raven, scavenging On lands in drought of tranquility, Caged in by an unseen boundary, Imprisoned in a cage with no key. Seeing the wide sky of celestial legions, Where flocks cry in cacophonies. My Vancouver is a close friend: When clouds take me astray with the winds, Through my sudden rainstorms and clamours Its falling petals shroud the blood stained dove, Messaging me gentle raindrops of serenity Washing the pain off like dirt and grease. But unable to clean the stains of sin. So as my barricades and castles made of sand, Are swept away in the morning tide, I hope that you, my closest friend, Will be forever by my side.
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EMRE ALCA Photography
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PRESTON CHAN Photography
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Autumn
DARIUS CHAN Autumn, draped in a yellow raincoat, topped with a crimson hat, Rays of magnificent scarlet and citrus, seep through her arms, Falling on crisp leaves as they drift down, blanketing the earth. With them, a single feather, golden as the sun. The child picks up the feather with an analytical curiosity. Atop the fronds, Autumn crumples with the golden feather in hand. Shivering in gentle care, the feather lays like a young child. Minutes crawl like ants on a hill but with no destination in mind. Trickling whispers seep from the stone filled creek. It’s time, wake up! Through the fronds, a lone raindrop caresses Autumn’s cheek. Fluttering eyes widen, then close, from the blinding light. Autumn gradually arises, covered in leaves, like a golden bird. In hand, the feather shrivels as it slips from Autumn’s gentle fingers. The child stumbles forward, dazed and bleak, a ghostly figure. All is quiet except for the rustling of wind, it seemed as if everything stood still. WHOOSH! A swirl of leaves and feathers spiral up towards the sky like a tornado. Encasing Autumn in the eye of the storm, her size so insignificant. Within the vortex, a grand figure emerged, a Phoenix. Grand as the sun, pure as a diamond, the bird arose from the ground. Autumn’s coat had melted into a magnificent body of golden feathers, Her hat grew into a long head of red, glinting in the light. The bird expanded its elegant wings, feathers of all kinds of red, orange and yellow. With a single flowing motion, the bird arose into the sky, with a tail of fronds.
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KONRAD SWIC Ceramics
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The First Light KEVIN LIM
2016. The world Today, we crave for the inventions of tomorrow, like driverless cars, and supercomputers. But sometimes, we forget that it wasn’t all so complicated. What if fire was never invented? We would never be able to cook our food, We would never have heat, or light. We would never have more than we need, and in turn we would never build our cities. We would never have agriculture, and we would never have bread and wine, or fruits and vegetables. We would never have heat to harden our clay into bricks, and we would never have built our homes. We would live in caves, like animals. We would eat roots from the ground, gathering resources until there were none left. We would be weak to illness and hunger, and death would be an everyday occurrence We would be sickly and poor and, after a while, we would go extinct. We would never worry about poverty, or famine. There would be no terrorists or war, only the infinite struggle for survival. We would never travel the world, and if we did, we would only see a dying world, burning and drowning at the same time. All because of a little flame.
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JACKY YANG Mixed Media
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TIGER XU Graphite on Paper
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Pawn
FRANCIS CHAMBERS His fate Is not his own Tied to invisible strings From the moment of his birth A greater entity watches And he is helpless Emotions Unbidden Slaughter Move forward Rinse and repeat for Days on end there is no end Perhaps a better life lies on the horizon Now he can only march forward step by step
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Might, Veracity
Herman Lam sculpture HARRISON LEE
To love or not to love, that is the quandary. Whether ‘tis healthier for my heart to soar The opportunities and chances of sweet intrigue, And by holding on, take merciless damage? To stay, to leave; Moving on; and, by goodbye we say kill The memories and the stories of our past That my heart is clinging to, ‘tis a history Impossible to ignore, impossible to retrieve. To stay, to leave; To stay: more damage of my dreams and realization, no, not a chance; For in staying in this fortress of feeling what could have been When we saw each other one last time and I hung up on her one last time, Must give me feelings of bittersweet. There’s the premise That makes forgivable the stupid mistakes committed, Of brittle feelings hurt. For who could bear the burning insults and scandalous remarks of ignorance, The man’s ego, the sensitive woman’s trust, The mixture of unhealthy toxins gushing in our veins, The unbearable pain of heartache, and the depressing feelings That sneak up on you every time you think of her name, When you come across her everlasting visage and force Yourself to look away from her everlasting beauty. With any courage or dignity? Who would doubt my loathsome honour, To let go and abandon every spark and every last hope, But that the wildest dreams are to be eliminated, The burning desire for her love faded to black Nothing more to believe in, nothing more to hide, And throws in the towel of will and the gauntlet of determination Than look to others that are waiting for me? Thus obsession does make fools of us all; And thus the inflexible heart of a man Is one to avoid at all costs with the audacity to change, And independence of a mighty male and veracity With short windows of commitment that don’t linger, And fight for the greater good. Right to rise! The amazing grace that found me, pulled me from my misery, Be grateful of her, be all my mistakes redeemed, Moved on.
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WILLIAM LIN Acrylic Painting
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ERIC CHENG Photography
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JOSH JEYARATNAM Ceramics
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JONATHAN CHIANG Ceramics
PANDU WAHONO BASKORO Ceramics
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Night of Our Dream HARRY HUANG
Boldly I stand before the sea of chance, In the frigid night air of rhythmic spray, Waves buffeting the bluff and wind in dance, Trembling, rocking, shifting, our bodies sway. The waves ascend high, the moon suspends low, Come closer! See how the night can glitter! No sooner, the foggy air will bellow Loudly, and bring the darkness to shudder. But for this moment, we breathe—look beneath, What once was large, how small it now does seem, Symmetry of hearts embraced like a wreath, On this sweet winsome night, the night of our dream. Never will we part until death arrives. Oh, high seas! Take our bodies, not our lives!
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Nisei; Growing Up in America ISA SAMAD
Aidan Chan film stills
I was the child of a Japanese migrant, eager to pursue the so-called “American dream”. I was just a regular kid, with no ill intentions. Yet everyone would ignore me, as if I was some sort of monster. I was just trying to get by. They called me an alien, even though I was a human like everyone else. Prejudice and war had estranged virtually all of my kind and I, “凹んだ時に、 もう一度たちあがって”. like many, was at the heart of this animosity. In the midst of this despair, I had remembered my late uncle’s words. I was a kid, who persevered through tremendous adversity. And I will never forget that.
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Ballade JASON QU
I hold within my breath a sigh That brings to me quick bliss. I sense a sudden urge to die, And bid farewell with this. The blossoms falling down in waves, Sweet shades of pink and white. I cannot picture life that gave To me a glimpse of light. My frame feels stiff, devoid of glow, My soul to heaven flies. Left here is but an unlit row, Whom heaven leaves denied. The strange cloud to the arch does soar, Let free from earthly woe. It’s won at last its hard-fought war, Departed from its foe. And now, my frame does stand morose Its lifeless limbs locked tight. Near Acheron it stands more close, Its struggle lost to blight. Yet Lo! From Earth does raise a beam, That seeps into my veins. This seems to be but from a dream, Yet I am free from pain.
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This stream of light within me flows, A source from Earth so pure. The world’s ether within me grows, To life I am secured. For once in years I feel revived And poised to see the dream. Into life’s course I point and dive, This fast and rapid stream. I seek to see a better day Than ones through which I’ve been: I know that such is now at bay, To dawn I run and grin.
TIGER XU
Graphite on Paper
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RYAN CHENG Photography
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Resolve
RYAN KARIMI To say that I feel nothing is a lie, for I can feel the barren emptiness. Façades begin to crumble; I deny that something eminent is still amiss. As days turn into weeks, and months to years, worn memories, they rust and they erase. Your voice, your smile, your hopes and dreams and fears, they all have drifted into empty space. And what was once your tranquil, radiant throne from which you sat and kept me company now lies in darkness: slowly rots alone. I’m left to wonder how this came to be. Yet time moves forward; night gives way to dawn. Through darkness there’s a flame that must burn on.
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Fate
JAY LUO We all dwell on an eternal train. Heading towards the future, Towards our destiny, Towards a rich, brilliant light. Every second, a newcomer joins, Every second, someone has to egress. Where we’re heading, What our finish line looks like, We don’t know. But we will keep going, keep fighting, Until we say goodbye.
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ALEX MACKAY Ceramics
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VINCENT LIU Acrylic Painting
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Style
JD EDMONDS We use dyes as a tool to style, bring colour to an unblemished and unremarkable piece of cloth that we create, expecting beauty to come out of it, the wearer to whom it will come rarely has a say in the shape or size of the piece nor in the way it is designed, nor in the colour, the person will wear the piece as it is received because they respect the maker of it, eventually some accept the piece as it is, as well as those changes that occur from the wear after a time, allowing the colours to stain or run, they do this, while others make their own changes deliberately, altering it to create a piece that becomes more personal due to a manifestation of their evolving image into the piece, with their own symbols or personality, while also making efforts to remove the stains and blemishes that no longer represent themselves anymore, ever remaking the image that they put on display, but once permanent stains occur, those that the wearer can’t alter themselves, they eventually accept that the most important colours are the ones that are never washed out, even if you try
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Life and Death KARIM JAMAL
Death lurks in the darkness Like a predator stalks its prey In the depths of deep crevasses Where the dead writhe in dismay. But the rabbit is still in its nest Like a baby in its womb. And the animals still rest Like a dead man in his tomb. And the sun still shines Like the skin of a frog. And civilization still roams the earth Like the moss on a log. Death tries to consume the world Like a cloud of poison Gazing over the living happiness Like a greedy man with no reason But the seed has been planted Like a corpse in the ground. The flower still blooms Like a dog sleeps safe and sound. The beautiful cherry blossoms still fall Like the salmon after they migrate. The bear takes a sip from the lake Like the light of life can vibrate. Death grips the world Like an angry savage does to its prey The murmurs and whispers of terror Are things that dead people say. But the old man is still breathing Like the slow rise of the sun. The aged fox is now limping Like its time is almost done.
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The gray hare stops running Like a little boy facing his fears. The livings time is up Like a dying man gives the world his last cheers.
Death is here The living Are no more. Everything stands still. A new soul Is awoken As the life is restored.
WINSTON LI Mixed Media
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JACOB PALLAI Ceramics
JAKE MALLINDER Ceramics
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JAKE MALLINDER Ceramics
COBY KOLZIER Ceramics
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Life of an Immortal DANIEL ZHANG
Basked in the setting solemn sun I knelt, Eyes laid on stone-smooth, soft, and sleek visage; No one conjured the bliss and joy I felt, No one cast brighter shade than your image, And nothing silenced swifter than your grace. The stars outshone, the moon eclipsed - you did All that and more. In denim or silk lace, To me you were the same: pure and candid. Recalling day we met to day you left, There was so much we always could have done. When now I stand lonely, still and bereft Of you, knowing you loved to see the sun. Now you lie in eternal agelessness, The land of peace, joy and sheer nothingness.
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SETH BOOK Ink on Paper
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OLIVER MELGROVE Ceramics
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TONY WANG Ceramics
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JASON LIU Photography
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The Trace KEVIN LI
You can cut down a tree. Sway your axe and destroy it, like a hunter to his prey. But remember, as the tree falls, it makes a sound. The sound of branches snapping, of leaves rustling. The sound of the lifeless tree pounding the earth with a thud. The sound of birds, screaming as they lose their nests, crying with fear and despair—another tree has fallen. So with this sound, humanity leaves a trace, and with this trace, humanity pays a price. The tree may be no more, the birds, dead. The branches broken, the leaves, fallen. But the stump remains,righteous, gallant. To every crime, there is a trace. And this is the trace.The dust blows, ruthless. Destroying everything in its path.The trees have fallen. Smog swarms the air, covering everything in pale grey ash. Suffocating every living thing. Every plant, every live stock, every human being, every soul. People scream, wail and weep in the countryside, gagging for fresh air, digging for food. Because they lost what they had to keep and left a wound, very deep. To every trace, there is a price, and this is the price. You can kill a tree. But just wait and see.
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Thy Curse LUKE PAROLIN
For I though have a curse A curse that thy cannot hide A curse that consumes me A curse that obliterates victors eliminates innocents Thy curse Shall limit me For thy curse Thy world will be depleted thy curse eats me up from the inside razing my bones absorbing my flesh dismantling my brain penetrating my defences Thy curse plagues me Controls me Thy curse will be the end of me Shall no cure no cure is ready Others laugh Others mock Thy curse is expanding I cannot dream No light enters me there is only darkness Only despair I have no reality Only pain for thy curse has consumed me ripped me apart I see no sun only rain no hope no love Thy curse is the demons inside For I though have a curse Thy curse
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JUSTIN HUANG Acrylic Painting
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GRIFFIN SMITH Ceramics
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TONY WANG Ceramics
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JUSTIN LOW Mixed Media 76 | OPUS
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The Loud and the Quiet NICHOLAS GOETZ
Noise permeates the air Like a skunk’s poisoned reek Trampling through the ears of all Like a thund’rous high-pitched shriek. But the baby’s in his crib Like the tree furled in its branches. And the crab is in the coral Like the clouds up in the sky. And the rabbit’s in its den Like the monk within his temple. And the snowflake lands on the eyelash Like the fly sits on the feather. The din is expanding Like dread inside a nightmare That blossoms from a tortured mind To offer up an awful scare. But the kitten naps in the wool Like the worm inside its silk. The cobra’s in a trance Like the Earth in the moon’s gaze. The owl glides through the evergreens Like the stingray swims through seaweed. The lake lays calm and flat Like the painting in its frame.
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Loudness clutches the helpless world And all it does is cower. Sinking time quickly withers Like a mournful flower. But the book gathers dust on the shelf Like the pebble grows moss in the puddle. The turtle dozes in its shell Like Saturn rests in its rings. The dew slides down the glistening grass Like the toboggan in powder snow. Moths caress the windowpane Like fingers brush an old photo. Such a roar The frightened night Wails in agony. The noise stops. Time freezes in its tracks Like prey that knows its doom. It is silence Not noise That lurks in the gloom.
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ERIC CHENG Photography 80 | OPUS
JAMIE WALLACE Photography
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A Parable
TIMOTHY KWAN Let us imagine a city, and this is how it appears: There once was a city, and now it is a town. For all the efficiency and determination of humans, there are patches of unfinished works scattered all across the world. This town is one such patch. Inhabited by almost nobody, this city is nevertheless gigantic, its empty, sprawling buildings scattered between empty, sprawling roads and empty, sprawling blue skies. Nobody truly knows how this town came to be. Perhaps it really once was a town, with quaint, old houses inhabited by quaint, old people. Perhaps, then, time passed, like it always does. Maybe people—new people, with new hopes and dreams—flooded in, building that town and turning it into this town. Spurred on, the town must have grown, and grow it certainly did! How else would this town be a city? But all that was speculation, the speculation of maybe-people living their perhaps-lives and conceivablybuilding the city, one speculative brick at a time. At any rate, the town became a city. How it came to be is best left to the speculators. Now, such a large city could only have grown larger. People—more people, with certainly more hopes and dreams than those who came to this city not so long ago— must have flooded in. This city was certainly the envy of many, with the shining towers that must have risen due to the people, and their definite hopes and dreams. But all that was a certainty. Many things grow, and this city was certainly no exception. Better to leave the certainties to the history books and their writers. This city was large, defying all expectations. The
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buildings were built higher; the population grew larger; the pride and love for this metropolis only grew and grew. After all, why wouldn’t it? It was the jewel of humanity, the pride of men, the pinnacle of evolution, even when evolution was taken out of the hands of nature and into others. But all that was gone, of course, since the city is now a town, and time has passed. Something happened—that is, of course, what usually happens—and something happened again. The world turned—the years passed—and the city? It was bound to be a slow death, of course; the kind of death that creeps up behind you and slowly smothers you. People saw it coming, of course; people are extraordinarily perceptive, and this city had no shortage of people. But no one did anything, of course; it is well-known fact of life that people are content to sit and watch the show, as it were. It was once a city, and now it—well, now it is nothing. Now let us see this town, and notice the empty, sprawling buildings scattered between empty, sprawling roads and empty, sprawling blue skies. Now look at ourselves—humanity, the proud race, the achievers, the men and women so sure they will grow up and do great things. Perhaps one can notice a resemblance. But pay this tale no heed; it is all imagination, of course, and since when did imagination make a difference?
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JUSTIN LOW Charcoal on Paper
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Emptiness
NICHOLAS TEGHARARIAN The story begins with the tale of Thomas, a boy looking for a way out. He searched endlessly to find his aspiration as his time on the Earth slowly winded down. Closed doors and missed opportunities taunted his memories as he trembled with uncertainty. Hopes gone, dreams crushed, regrets burning through his heart, Thomas pondered, decided, jumped, and bled. Now he cannot return. Thomas is finished, over, lifeless, dead.
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ADAM DORNER Acrylic Painting
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Maskara PAUL BAO
Inside the comfort of my family’s apartment, I stare at the drizzling tears of the sky. In the slight reflection of the window stands an adolescent girl with dead blond hair and swollen blood-shot eyes. A small figure made of skin and bones, she cringes at her board-like body. I hesitate, and then dye myself with a new identity. The flamboyant blush masks my repugnant marks; a casualty of depression and greed. A cloying gas fills the room. It’s an empty night. The hallways at my school are familiar. The raucous sounds scramble together, cloaking the underground horrors. Students shuffle through, their eyes averting the Unraveling: the unraveling of their spirit, the unraveling of their pride. Not that I, of all people, should be criticising these students. I am a bystander, desperate not to be a victim. Soon to be an oppressor. I slowly tread the swaying tightrope, across the seemingly infinite stretch of land. I somehow find myself leaning against Jessica’s locker for support. The one person I could still hopefully call ‘friend’. Room 257. It is shut tight like always. As I try to open the door, its tacky knob almost refuses to relinquish its grip on me. I stumble into the room with everyone already gathered in a circle: a manipulated ritual. Their eyes lock onto me like a predator to its prey. “Iris,” the ringleader sing songs, “How nice of you to entertain us with your presence. Take a seat.” I hurry to assimilate myself amongst the others. Shaking, I take out my lip gloss to cover the embarrassment. “Now that everyone is assembled, let’s talk about the next
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victim of the Unraveling.” Eyes begin to wander around the room. Some giggles sounded. I try to follow uneasily, but manage only to cough. “Any suggestions?” After a period of uneasy silence, a boy in a leather jacket suddenly springs in anticipation, staring right into my eyes. “How about ---” I stand and interject. “Jessica! How about Jessica? I’m sure she wouldn’t m-mind,” I stammer, and bite down on my lip. There was no other way, I repeat to myself. There was no other way. Looking across the room, Jessica gawks at me like a deer caught in headlights. I was prepared to stare into eyes of pain, confusion, anger- all fueled with betrayal. Instead, I see a reflection of myself. I try to look away, but the image burned itself into my mind with a searing pain. Without warning, I begin to cry. I raise my hands to catch the dripping sorrow. But what fell from my face wasn’t tears; it was mascara.
Konrad Swic PHOTOGRAPHY
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Untitled
QAASIM KARIM A jagged rock rose from the frothing sea, pitch black, dark as the skies above as storms whirled through the inky night. It resisted, strong and proud, against the sea, as waves roared and hit its ragged cliffs. And upon those cliffs on that hellish rock, target of the rage of sea, stood a tiny wood and metal house, and beside a concrete tower, highest point for miles around, a lighthouse, sentinel of the ocean blue, stood pale and thin. Thunder clapped and roared and lightning turned night into day as winds flew round as the isle defied the will of the tempest. Rain smashed against the roof of the house, sliding down the corrugated iron, rusting, slowly, surely. Each raindrop was a drumbeat, a bang on the poor residence, but for all the grand noise, it was barely heard over the storm. And again the waves crashed, the foam coming higher and higher, a siege grander than those of the medieval ages. As once more lightning curled through the air, and the world was illuminated once more, a thousand tiny black rocks their heads just above the sea were about the island like a group of sharks. Boom! Thunder roared and the world fell back into night, as the smell of ozone flew with the wind through the air, mixing with the scent of the sea. And crash again as waves once more assaulted the poor island, this time with the foam being flung above the cliffs, and closer to the poor homestead. The house was rattling in the wind, shutters smashing back and forth, the wood of the house quivering with each impact, as by its own accord, guided by the wind the house tried to annihilate itself. Another massive crash was heard at once as part of the rough broken cliffs finally conceded to the water breaking from his brethren and crashing, with a noise just over the storm, with a
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massive splash sending ripples to the next assaulters, the waves upon the mad ocean. And now, with the fallen stone gone, the lighthouse stood perilously close to the each, teetering on the edge of annihilation. This lighthouse itself was concrete structure, grey, but now black in the stormcoated night – without the house it stood, as the only entity built by man for a thousand miles north, west, south and north and now it stood, alone, but oddly without a light.
LIAM MUNRO Ceramics
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JOSH JEYARATNAM Ceramics
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ANONYMOUS Ceramics
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Desensitization RYAN KARIMI
A light breaks through the misty veil of dawn, and with it, brings the promise of the day. Consumed by memories of lives forgone, I close the blinds; I slowly turn away. With every passing night the numbness grows and wraps its tendrils ‘round my clouded mind. I pushed them all away, yes, that I know. But when did I become so damn unkind? An exile in the depths of ravaged soul, I’ve long since given up my rusted throne. Though solitude can take a heavy toll, right now, I only want to be alone. The ones I knew have all but gone away, and I’m to blame. What more is there to say?
Sandy Seas
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WINSTON LI Photography
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Saying Goodbye to my Grandmother TAREEQ MANGALJI
It was January 3rd, at around twelve noon. The cozy room in the corner of the large building was quiet enough to hear a pin drop; something that almost never happened within any room of my family’s ‘Richmond House’. As I rocked back and forth on the shabby chair, I looked at the family beside me and then at my 88 year old grandmother before me on her palliative program issued bed. Her ragged breathing echoed repeatedly, bouncing off of the narrow space between the two wooden framed doors and bright blue walls beside them. I closed my eyes, as the salt from one of my many tears brushed my chapped lips and promptly entered my mouth. I intertwined my fingers with my grandmothers, trying to calm the shaking from both our hands and looked up to find my family mirroring my morose expression. A short beam of sunlight silently pushed itself through the open window and entered the hopeless, yet surprisingly upbeat atmosphere within the household. Instead of illuminating the room much like it would on a normal Saturday afternoon, the extreme burst of light instead focused on one particular person in the room; my grandmother. The sun cast rays upon her face, giving her the spotlight and making us the audience watching intently with undivided attention. As a few family members left the room to free themselves from the stressful environment, my mom walked to the side of the bulky bed where she was joined shortly after by both of her brothers. I could feel the nervousness as they stared down at the mother who had been by their side for the entirety of their lives. All three of them gently nestled their
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hands into the sheets covering her tired body while my grandmother’s breathing came to a slow. Her body relaxed and unstiffened as her breathing became limited before gently coming to a close. I looked down at the lifeless body and felt allayed when I realised that she was now in a better place without pain and suffering. The wind started whipping violently at the curtains within the room before slamming the window shut and stopping abruptly as the presence of my grandmother had left the room in which she had resided for the past fifty years.
ALLAN ZHOU Ceramics
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Mac Shepard acrylic
IRVING TIAN Repurposed Plexiglass
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The Rails JASON QU
He hides underneath in the subway station beneath great slabs of earth and concrete. Streams of life flow past him And trains zoom by and by. He is just three stops away from a shower, cooked dinner, and a bed. Yet in this nether of tubes and rails He sits beside a nebulous trail; Watching on as the many spheres fuse Into a can of sweat and heat. And separate once more, diverging Onto paths of folly and hopeless dreams. Tonight he dines not on takeout and wine But rather tastes and samples the lie That society has decreed to be life. On this cold evening he feels The faux wind of the tracks And senses the ephemerality of providence. Minute by minute, hour by hour The spheres of life begin to dissipate. First the students, then the businessmen, Finally the struggling artist with his derelict banjo, Until at last, just he remains, An oddity amongst the flickering lights. And yet, though without passengers, the trains Flow in the tubes still, whizzing by and by On futile tracks, with no mission to fulfill,
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Heeding but the beck and call Of a remote operator. They rush through the tubes Like how the spheres rush through the world. Our friend becomes now, from an oddity, To one who is with the trains. He, just as they, travels without purpose. He, just as they, travels not because of himself But for some arbitrary path set by a maker, Yet, his tracks are much more wider, harder to escape. As day dawns, the spheres descend once again Into the nether of tubes and steel bullets. The trains? They now have a purpose on their rails, To ferry around their cargo of minds and souls. But the spheres? They remain, just as before, Mindless, soulless, and at time’s command. And it is at this point that he no longer wishes To ascend up to the world of the sun and sky, To leave the nether and return to the living. For up there he is tethered to his trails While down here he is free Let go from his tracks and rails, Here he is the master of the day and night, For he has no purpose, no goal Yet he is free from the rails of life.
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Happy Birthday WESLEY NG
Today is your birthday, a special day for you; for a celebration; for a coming of age; for a party. Four years have passed since we last spoke A simple argument combined with time and distance. I think about you often, daydream about what could have been. Create elaborate scenarios about our reconciliation. We talk and laugh, go out for a drink, maybe watch a film or play a game. But then I open my eyes, and the reality that you’re gone sets in; a harsh bitter truth that weighs me down. A friend once told me he saw you at the theatre, but I never have. Either you’ve been living a great lie or he was hallucinating. Maybe one day I’ll finally find you, pay you a visit. I wonder what you’d do if you saw me? Would you smile and wave? look away shyly? kick my ass? Haha. I still remember the last time I saw you, my eyes level with your chest; For someone of six feet, I’ve never experienced that before a breeze pushed through the dusted window and the crystal chandelier began to sway; the chandelier that was once your living body blew helplessly in the wind. I always thought that I could… Nevermind Happy birthday old friend. I miss you.
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CHRIS LI Origami
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FELIX HOEHNE Photography
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Sonnet 1
WILL ANDREWS As Spring does bring the birth of buds and birds, And summer clothe the earth in cheery dress, We sit behind our screens and stare at words, And fill our minds with vain and pointless stress. As fall strips golden leaves from steady trees And winter brings its light blanket of snow, We hide, inside, away from the cool breeze, Dreaming of places we will never go. When will we stop and embrace earth’s splendor? Absorb spring’s rain, or summer’s thawing sun? We are still lured by humanity’s vendor Who sells nothing but two dice and a gun. Nature is marvelous, pure, and divine, A refuge whose beauties constantly shine.
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RYAN CHENG Photography
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STEPHEN LIN Photography
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Paradise
NICHOLAS GOETZ Surrounded by cliffs composed of obsidian as black as night is a gorgeous garden. This is no ordinary garden, though, for instead of a small quantity of enclosed greenery, it is a magnificent diamond-shaped sprawl that is an incredible fusion of nature and structure. At each end of this completely symmetrical place is a cobblestone courtyard with dark moss that lurks in the crevices between its tightly packed stones. Each is illuminated by a large crystal shard located at its center that emanates a beam of piercing violet light towards the sky. Surrounding each courtyard are eight tall, vine-covered pillars. Long ago, perhaps they supported a great roof of some sort, but they, with the majesty of an ancient ruin, are all that remain. Within this garden are huge trees whose roots burrow deep in rich soil that is covered in smooth green grass and lush ferns. The trees form a near-total canopy over the garden. The primary sources of light are violet crystal orbs that are fixed in the nine huge, dark grey marble statues that dot the garden’s three main gravel paths. There are three statues per path, each a cloaked figure with a staff that holds one of the aforementioned orbs. Their faces, completely obscured by their hoods, would appear unrecognizably inhuman upon close inspection. The walkways on which the statues reside are lined with a multitude of flowers that are a myriad of bright colors. Various prints linger amongst the small stones of the paths as unchanged as the day of their creation.
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Weaving through the expanses between the main paths like tangled thread are smaller paths: along these paths the trees are taller and the flowers more numerous. Evenly spaced crystals on the ground provide light in these walkways. Radiant pools of turquoise water rest as still as sleeping children, as there is not a single wisp of wind throughout the entire area. Not a single creature scurries amongst the garden’s splendor. This place is so vibrant, yet, oddly, nothing stirs in the slightest. This is a place frozen in space and time, a place in twilight, and there is an atmosphere of apprehensiveness that is always present. Anything could happen at any time, but everything remains the same; everything continues to wait. At the center of the garden is a rift that cuts the land in half: a very sudden shift from the tranquility of the rest of the garden. It has an aura of quiet malice that fills the air like a foul aroma, even though the fault is simply a dull chink in the armor of the garden’s beauty. There are no trees for ten feet on either side of the fissure, and those that are closest to the crack seem to lean away as if in retreat, but their roots hold them fast. There is not a single blade of grass within each of these ten-foot spaces; however, there is one green sprout that pierces the desert earth next to the crevice like a diamond in mire. The rift begins to emit a crimson red glow, and a biting breeze stirs the drowsy trees from their long sedation. The earth shakes, and the little sprout wobbles helplessly.
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ALLAN ZHOU Ceramics 110 | OPUS
JUSTIN LI Ceramics
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TIGER XU
Graphite on Paper
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TONY WANG
Ceramics
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Index
Adam Dorner 87 Alan Chen 6, 7 Alex Mackay 59 Allan Zhou 97, 110 Andrew Mo 17 Brandon Zang 8, 19 Brian Riback 16, 20 Chris Li 25, 103 Chris Wells 23 Coby Kolzier 65 Cole Gladders 30 Daniel Wise 33 Daniel Zhang 35, 66 Daniel Zhu 27 Darius Chan 40 David Ni 18 Desmond Lum 9 Emre Alca 37 Eric Cheng 49, 80 Felix Hoehne 104 Francis Chambers 45 Griffin Smith 74 Harrison Lee 46 Harry Huang 52 Irving Tian 99 Isa Samad 53 JD Edmonds 61 Jacky Yang 43 Jacob Pallai 64 Jake Mallinder 64, 65 Jamie Wallace 81 Jason Liu 34, 70 Jason Qu 54, 100 Jason Yang 29
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Jay Luo 58 Jonathan Chiang 32, 33, 51 Josh Jeyaretnam 50 Justin Huang 73 Justin Li 111 Justin Low 24, 76, 84 Karim Jamal 62 Kenneth Huang 22 Kevin Li 71 Kevin Lim 42 Konrad Swic 28, 31, 32, 41 Liam Munro 91 Luke Parolin 72 Matt Aydin 12, 21 Michael Lau 13 Nathan Fong 26 Nicholas Goetz 78, 108 Nicholas Teghararian 85 Oliver Melgrove 68 Pandu Wahono Baskoro 51 Patrick Lu 10 Paul Bao 36, 88 Preston Chan 38 Qaasim Karim 90 Ryan Cheng 56, 106 Ryan Karimi 57, 94 Seth Book 67 Stephen Lin 107 Tareeq Mangalji 96 Tiger Xu 44, 55, 112 Timothy Kwan 82 Tony Wang 69, 75, 113 Vincent Liu 11, 60 Wesley Ng 102 Will Andrews 105 William Lin 47 Winston Li 14, 15, 63, 95
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Lightstreaks VINCENT LIU Digital Media
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