2023 Hippocrene

Hip·po·crene

( Hip · po · crene | \hi-pə-krē-nē )

noun, literary

1. used to refer to poetic or literary inspiration

2. Greek Mythology — a fountain on Mount Helicon, sacred to the Muses: its waters inspire poets

HIPPOCRENE

2022-2023

The

Arts & Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School

TABLE OF CONTENTS

(red denotes seniors)

ERIC PENG ’23

WILL ROSENBAUM ’24

AIDAN BEGG ’23

KENNETH WANG ’24

CHRISTOPHER JENSEN ’23

ALLEN YAN ’25

RYDER MARSH ’23

CHRISTOPHER BOWERS ’24

ALLEN YAN ’25

ERIC PENG ’23

JOAQUÍN ACUÑA ’24

MICHAEL

DYLAN

ANDREW

RYAN

FLORIAN

KENNETH

LUKE

SAMANTHA

CHASE

CHRISTOPHER

HIPPOCRENE

2022-2023

The Arts & Literary Magazine of Avon Old Farms School

TABLE OF CONTENTS

JIAZHUO CHENG ’24

LAWSON BYRNES ’24

FRANCIS HAGOOD ’23

Perfection

Will Rosenbaum ’24

Perfection is something that does not have a flaw. There is nothing wrong with being perfect, and nobody who is perfect would want to be any other way. Many people in the world strive for perfection as a goal to achieve. Whether it is to be perfect in academics with a 5.0 GPA, or to get a 1600 SAT score, the majority of people would not view being perfect as a flaw. Every college wrestler wants to have a perfect record and will work nonstop to achieve it. Every NFL team wants to go undefeated with a Super Bowl, however perfection has proven to be an extremely rare occurrence that will likely never happen again. Perfection guarantees nothing, and to work for it will only help to enhance the probability of success.

Even those who seem perfect will be criticized. For example, the Philadelphia Eagles were 8-0 at the beginning of the football season, but they were still criticized. They had played many of the worst teams in very close games, and people referred to them as frauds despite the fact that they had a perfect season. In sports such as basketball, even the greatest of all time was not close to perfect. Michael Jordan has stated, “I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life.” So the question remains, is being perfect worth striving for?

SELF-PORTRAIT

AIDAN BEGG ’23

PEAR FLOATING KENNETH WANG ’24

Curtain Call

Christopher Jensen ’23

I rarely talked when I was a kid. Ordering at restaurants, I would often point to the menu and show it to the waiter, before my mom interjected, telling me to say what it was I wanted. The amount of times my dad has told me to speak louder is almost too many to count. I mainly kept my head down and focused on schoolwork. I was never really sporty either, aside from one or two years playing little league baseball. So when the time came to pick an afternoon activity for high school, I picked the fall play, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.

As a freshman in high school, being someone who would struggle to handle a conversation, and with almost no prior acting experience, I got the lead role in the play. It fit rather well, considering the lead role was a 15-year-old kid named Christopher Boone. What really hit me was the fact I had to be in every single scene in the play, had lines in almost all of them, and had to memorize it all, plus scene blocking, in just shy of two months. But finally, the big night came on Halloween of 2019. As the sound of people chattering behind the red

curtain grew louder and louder, my stomach became tighter and tighter, then eventually, the curtain came up. And seemingly, just as it started, it finished. The memory that will always stick in my mind is during curtain call, walking up to the center of the stage to a crowd of upperclassmen cheering, and hearing the cheering get louder as I entered their view. I remember a sense of bliss and belonging coming over me.

I will always have a small, close

group of friends I hang out with constantly, but since that show, I have been more and more able to hold a conversation with others and to make new friends. I have formed tight bonds with many other kids in the theater, and had fond memories throughout the rehearsal process. I have gone from simply willing to sing and perform to wanting to sing and perform. In many key ways, that theater production allowed me to be more confident in myself, more comfortable talking to others, and grow as a person.

This experience helped me to come out of my shell. Ever since, I have been more social and willing to talk to people.

SMOKE PORTRAIT

ALLEN YAN ’25

Road to Recovery

Ryder Marsh ’23

I felt the jerking motion of the car, followed by the loud screech of tires skidding across the pavement. Everything went black. As I slowly came, the smell of burning wires and the noise of static radio penetrated the eerie silence.

I glanced to the right of me to see my friend, clearly in shock, crushed in between the glove compartment and his seat. As I jumped out of the car, I noticed my other friend was already out and doing relatively okay, so I stuck my head in the window to check on my other best friend. He was motionless in the back. “GET UP; YOU HAVE TO GET UP.” No response. We worked together to get him out, and as we placed him on the ground, his eyes fluttered open. Moral courage means understanding your failures, appreciating the consequences of your actions, and doing the work it takes to learn from those mistakes to be a better person. My road to recovery from the accident was long and painful; I had to seek forgiveness from those people who I had hurt and I also had to find a way to forgive myself.

After being brought to the hospital with all my friends, I was faced with talking to their parents. Having to look into the eyes of a terrified mother knowing you were the one who injured their son was like no pain I’ve felt before. What could I say to make this okay? So, I didn’t say anything; I simply hugged them. “It’s okay,” they said, “people mess up, it’s a part of growing up.” I learned that night in the hospital that being there for someone brings hope when life seems so hopeless. Those parents were there for me even after the amount of chaos I brought into their lives, and I will forever be grateful to them for their forgiveness. Going back to school was one of the hardest setbacks I had to face. We decided we would all go back together, as brothers. As students and faculty stared, we realized we were the elephant in the room. For someone who had been battling social anxiety ever since middle school, it was tough. I had people coming up to me making fun of me for my “driving skills,” calling me names, and reminding me of how stupid I was. With my friends by my side, I persevered and kept my head up. I shared my story and my feelings because

talking through them helped. I believe toxic masculinity tries to prove that men speaking up about their feelings isn’t very “manly,” but I say that’s wrong. The only way I could’ve moved on was by having people who would listen. Now, almost a year later, I’m also doing the work it takes to learn from my mistakes and be a better person. Throughout this ordeal, I realized I took my parents’ trust for granted. Trust and accountability are the biggest things in my family’s life; they’re easily broken and nearly impossible to rebuild. After countless long talks with my parents and months of earning their trust back, I’m back to driving and hanging with friends. I’ve

also gained a new appreciation for the importance of making tough choices. When I got behind the wheel that day, I knew what I was doing was wrong and dangerous, but at that moment, I didn’t have enough courage to stand up to my friends or myself and make the better choice. Now, I don’t let anyone pressure me into doing anything I feel uncomfortable with. I also find myself advising others, even when they don’t want to hear it. Through all of this, I’ve finally found the courage and confidence to trust myself and follow my intuition. Luckily, I was given a second chance, and it’s one I will not take for granted.

EXASPERATION

CHRISTOPHER BOWERS ’24

ALLEN YAN ’25

Birds’ Birth

Joaquín Acuña ’24

To make a bird you need not much

Blue red and yellow just enough

Reflect a lonely ray of sun

Just draw and suddenly you’re done

Remember though to use a brush

Formed from strings that sing when touched

And if you want a bird that sings

Its voice will come from true love’s tears

Bonus points if your head turns

Or your food of choice is worms

Perhaps you’ll get a bird from May

Like the small yet pretty jay

As your hand moves you must remember

Your job is now a bird assembler

In this large room you’ll stay as long

As humans dream of the bird’s song

MADONNA ERIC PENG ’23

The Lonely Wanders

Michael Mounsey ’25

The lonely wanderers

Come and go with the morning dew.

What do they do?

Where do they go?

Never in pairs. Far in the distance and in great despair Wander the woods, wander the trails, Wander without purpose to no avail.

What do they do?

Where do they go?

Wanderers of the woods will never know.

JOEL PORTRAIT DYLAN RUTLEDGE ’24

LookOutonaSummer’sDay

Andrew Foster ’24

Would it have been Golden like the others?

Or a vibrant green, with flashes of happy people, Perhaps yourself, Blue and gray, Darkness in your soul No!

For you would not, could not Not on a starry night, Nor on a summer’s day

When you walked among the wheat fields You could not

Before you could paint You had your life stolen

As lovers often do But I could have told you, Vincent, This world was never meant For one as beautiful as you

FLORIAN LEAVES

FLORIAN LIETZ ’23

Ode to Dio Archway

Luke Adelsbach ’24

Dear Diogenis Damned Dormitory archway, You are my worst enemy

You were built for dwarves, Every time I walk through it

I smack my damn head disturbing my thoughts and dreams.

Though every time I hit my head

I feel that cold stone smack my forehead

The history that goes along with that building also

Hits me 100 years

was still there In the same spot

When the Blind Veterans Or Monet Mazur

Replaced the students and Roamed the campus.

Those low hanging ceilings

I thank and give credit to For the remembrance of the

Unique history that was once forgotten

DIOGENES ARCHWAY SAMANTHA JENSEN F.A.S.

FALL CHASE WEISLEDER ’24

FOCUS CHRISTOPHER BOWERS ’24

To the Man

Luke Adelsbach ’24

To the man

Wretched on 50th and Broadway

Who loves to scream

At the fearing passers-by

To the man

Who has perfected

The art of pick-pocketing

REMEMBRANCE

CHASE WEISLEDER ’24

Silently waiting

For the next naive tourist For the man

Who was never taught His left from his right Or to how read For the man

Who is touch starved

Forgetting what affection

Feels like For the man

With their childhood home

Full of tightly wrapped tin foil wrappers

And old rope I Love You.

Blasters and Blisters

Ethan Renvyle ’25

Mud arcs through the sky, flung into the air in a flash as the earth is carved out beneath it. Radiant tracers of plasma race over the surface, a mesmerizing yet lethal light show. Screaming, shouting, explosions, and shots, a myriad of sound permeates the desolate landscape as a fog slowly sets in.

Inside a trench, a young man sprints towards his officer. His equipment is dirty, worn from use, and not entirely fitting him. The folded stock on his blaster rifle and bandages on his left hand tell a lesson learned in the heat of combat. His rifle is modified, altered by a soldier an unknown number of people ago. He sprints as fast as he can, panting as a nearby explosion showers him in mud and causes him to stumble.

As he runs, the sound of a war cry comes from the fog, and in equal response nearly every blaster in the trench is set upon the expanse and fires. In an instant, creatures begin pouring from the mist, the light show starting in earnest as creatures and men fall. At first the tide is stemmed, corpses piling up and impairing movement, but then they become cover. Stagnation sets in once more, and as the young man runs off a creature breaks from cover and sprints at the trench line, jumping in.

The young man lets out a scream of surprise, his rifle issuing a string of

bolts onto the dirt before he levels it to the creature, who takes notice and begins a charge. The young man fires a burst again, the recoil causing only one shot to even glance the target, and the creature falters momentarily. He reorients his aim, once more shooting. The creature has its legs taken out from under it, firing a retaliatory shot. The creature’s shot rebounds off the side of the young man’s helmet, making his ears ring and sending him to the side. The creature begins setting up for another shot, only to be stopped by two shots to the torso from behind.

Empty of life, the field is laden with corpses at all turns. Stacked, sparse, many and few, all kinds are seen. The trooper’s ears still faintly ring, and he is grateful for the silence. After five minutes of nothing, he sighs, sliding down and pulling out his mess kit and a few cans of food. He takes some damaged ammo cartridges, not salvageable or safely usable any more. He sets them down on the floor of the trench in a small pile, and uses a fork to hit a control on one. In a second, it begins venting its contents, a plasma fire starting up and lighting the rest until a miniature cookfire is formed. It’s a dirty trick, one made and taught out of necessity, and one that is technically criminal. The officers don’t care. If anyone bothered to enforce the rule nearly every soldier would be jailed.

Dream Song

Jiazhuo Cheng ’24

I talk to myself: why am I bored of everything? Gin loses its flavor, hills lose their color, literature loses its sense, and I have no interest in meeting friends.

I lay down on the bed, and close my eyes. I return to my childhood, and in these days, friends interest me. Nature interests me. Literature interests me, especially fictions, which gives people infinite imaginations.

LOCKER ROOM PORTRAITS

LAWSON BYRNES ’24

Friends, nature, and literature exist as before, but I am now heavy bored. Who is the one that changed?

Real Artists Don’t Use Erasers Francis Hagood

’23

The gluey aroma of acrylic paint and the faces of twelve new classmates overloaded my senses when ushered into the bright room full of windows and easels lining the walls. I sat as a stranger amongst BFFs on a rug depicting a cartoon town. It was my first day at Wee Little Arts, an art class I attended in place of kindergarten nap time. Ms. Bradshaw hushed us and reviewed yesterday’s lesson. This was my first formal art instruction. Enthralled, I worked to catch up. After introducing me to everyone, Ms. Bradshaw asked all of us rugsitters, “Real artists don’t use what?” In unison, all but I replied, “Erasers!”

“Real artists don’t use erasers” reverberated in my five-year-old brain. How could this be? “I am a real artist,” I reassured myself. My mind reeled: If I can not use an eraser, am I supposed to be perfect? How on earth am I supposed to be perfect? How will I fix a mistake without an eraser? I was equally perplexed as I was panicked. Ms. Bradshaw then threw out another zinger, “In art, there are no mistakes.” Relieved, I realized a mistake is only a mistake if perceived so. This was my first encounter with subjectivity. Since Wee Little Arts, I have wrestled with subjectivity through art. I figured that because mistakes did not exist in art, I could express myself in my truest form, without judgment or skepticism from my peers or myself. “Real artists don’t use erasers” became a mantra, applying this philosophy to everything I cared about: academics and friendship.

In high school, I developed a perfectionist mindset in the classroom. I struggled to maintain a healthy balance, working myself thin mentally and physically. But afternoons were wholly different, spent cocooned in the art studio in front of a canvas without the slightest idea of time or my next obligation. Painstakingly repainting and resanding the

same face for days, each layer showed more depth and clarity in the portrait’s complexion. Each rendition proved better than the previous. This iterative process illustrated similarities in academics. Failing a quiz, or even a test was only a mistake if I did not learn from it. Like strokes on a canvas academic mistakes do not erase: they are inevitable and are part of the learning curve.

Art has been my universal language that merges my interests and forges new friendships. Since my days at Wee Little Arts, I have attended private, public, charter, and boarding school in the United States and Spain. Art connects me to others, no matter how little we have in common: different languages, backgrounds, and experiences. I can confidently express myself and learn from others. Drawing and labeling a detailed eukaryotic cell before being able to speak a lick of Spanish endeared me to Carla and Marco, two of my first Spanish friends in sixth grade. Observing composition and mimicking color theory from Shije and Li, two Chinese students I painted with each afternoon, mentored me about details of fine oil painting in tenth grade. And learning Photoshop turned my art digital when creating commitment announcements for social media posts for Zach and Chris, two college-bound lacrosse players I befriended in twelfth grade. In art there are no mistakes; art has given me endless opportunities to connect with others.

Art keeps me whole. It allows me to escape from my own head, shows me perfection in imperfection, and connects me to the world, all the while teaching me that subjectivity applies everywhere. “Real artists don’t use erasers” has taught me not only how to create art, but also how to live my life. Taking a step back from any canvas – in the classroom or art studio –helps me reevaluate the validity of what might be perceived as a mistake, providing me with a different perspective on reality.

A Guide for the Day Watchman

Shawn Field F.A.S.

I have stood watch through the night... as a young boy quietly on-guard, silent sentry in the darkness listening, protecting, waiting... naïve with no real understanding of divorce -yet.

I have stood watch through the night... as a midnight to six a.m. Christmas Eve pier sentry

-darkness to darknesshighlighted by frequent snow fall, punctuated by an empty Naval base full of orange-lit streets, dark buildings And pier sentries -each one an illuminated shadow pacing back & forth.

I have stood watch through the night... upon the Red Sea, Gulf of Oman under a new moon on gun mount watch

Without lights or smoking lamps, night vision or stray sound No measurable distance in such darkness, No sense of time or Self, and Self

Only qualified by sweat and quiet fear.

I have stood watch through the night... in a hospital, as your father, my son of three already feeling the pain of this life

LEO HE ’23 RED-HANDED

Weathered Feet

Philip Camuto ’23

It was a cold Nantucket morning. I woke up with my feet out of the covers. The bright sun coated my eyelids and coerced me into rising. I walked over to the shower and turned on cold water to wake me up. My feet were dirty from the night before; I scrubbed them with soap. I shut the water off and dried off. I brushed my teeth while brewing a coffee for the day. I was ready to go. The clock read 7:00 am. I got my surfboard out of the garage and strapped it to the top of my car. Before leaving I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals and grabbed my key. I turned the car on and got on my way to the beach. I drove down Milestone Road for about fifteen minutes when I slowed down and took a left turn. I went around the bend and headed onto the dirt trail, surrounded by trees. Dirt quickly turned into sand, and trees into short bushes. The path was quiet, but not boring. I felt my suspension compress and expand with every oscillation of the

road. I knew the way by the back of my hand, as I had been going here since I was just about eight years old. I drove further and further down the beachy road until I found the perfect spot. I pulled onto the side, elevated above the main path and put the car into neutral and pulled the handbrake. Click click clickclickclick. I turned the car off and grabbed my wetsuit, already in the car from the morning before. I unstrapped the board and got going. I started to walk to a break in the foliage leading to the beach.

My feet were sandy and the wind pulled my hair back. Once I got to the beach, I turned right and put my day pack down at my usual spot, laid my surfboard on the sand, and pulled a deformed stick of sandy wax out of my bag; I started to rewax my board. I put on my wetsuit and headed out with my board in hand. Walking until a few feet back from shorebreak, where my feet sunk ever so slightly into the dark, wet sand. I saw a golden opportunity and I took it. I started to paddle out to sea.

3.141592…

Colin Lee ’24

Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about π a number that goes on for infinity it goes on forever it has no end this produces a curious fact the area of a circle is also infinite

When I contemplate infinity my mind doesn’t picture a circle it feels compassion it prays deliver us from evil and it pictures either a cross, a cathedral or the Pyramids but maybe, just maybe God is a circle

Charles Goggin ’23

There are 171,146 commonly used words in the English language. Among the hundreds of thousands of words, there is only one which I decidedly detest: dad. I am a strong believer in the power of words, but more in a sense of poetry or insults. To dislike a word is one case — maybe a word is uncomfortable when rolling off the tongue, or is plagued by a vendetta against onomatopoeia. But to hate is another: I hate dad because Dad changed my life, and reminds me daily. On February 21st, 2013, my father passed suddenly. Before that, my life had been lived with that very word every day — Dad was a word I not only didn’t hate, but loved. But death doesn’t listen to love.

So, since that day — February 21, 2013 — I have had to live with exactly that word, dad, without my own. And sure, I recognize that it is in no way the English language’s fault that I don’t have Dad anymore, but the meaning of the word has changed for me. No longer can I associate Dad with fatherly love and support, but rather funerals, thousands of “I’m sorry for your loss”-es, and years of hurt, sadness, and mourning. Daily, I’m reminded that Dad is no longer applicable for me. From the awkward silence when someone asks about my Dad, or being reminded that friends had dinner with their parents and I with my parent, not even touching on Father’s Day. For years, I denied myself the necessity that was understanding — death, the years following, and the parts I missed at my young

age. I ignored the hurt, pain, and questions surrounding Dad — convincing myself the part he played in my life was minimal, and that it’s easy to go through life without one. But in doing so, I extended the hurt associated with dad giving the word itself more and more power over myself. No matter how hard I tried or how far I ran — how convincing I believed the facade I put on was — dad followed me, and with it a visceral pain I felt whenever I heard it.

So, for once, I tried something different. I decided I’d set out to relearn dad — giving it back its love it had once earned. And since I have unlearned my hate for dad, instead remembering the fatherly love I had once been awarded by the same word, and the associations it had just a few years ago. It may sound crazy, to relearn a relationship of a now deceased man and an associated word, but it’s liberating. I’ve learned instead that the true reason I hated Dad wasn’t because I didn’t love my Dad, but because I believed that Dad no longer loved me. I thought the only way to protect myself from the pain of Dad no longer representing real, tangible, accessible love was to throw away my love for Dad entirely.

What I’ve learned, however, is that I couldn’t possibly be more wrong. Dad’s passing didn’t

mean the passing of his love, or a need to throw away the memories and associations I had before. In fact, Dad’s passing left me with one thing: the knowledge that, if nothing else, he loved me, and his love is still constant.

Now, I’ve learned to live with Dad in a different way. Sure, I can no longer see the word dad and think of the Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes that morning, or safe arms waiting for me at the bus stop, and not to say that I don’t still wince when someone asks to speak to Dad or where my parents are - but I know now, perhaps more importantly than ever, that dad follows me because Dad is looking out for me. Dad loves me, and I love Dad.

HOMEWORLD FRANCESCO CALABRESE ’23

Impression Sunrise

Joel Taylor ’24

Orange glows the ascending sun, As it illuminates its reflection over the boaters at bay Lonely on the water, they are; Undisturbed by the tired town And overcome by the elegant aurora

The tranquil waters carry the raft amidst A maze of resting ships

Slowly and effortlessly, the boaters paddle As they escape the fatigue of the early morning

Slowly they paddle, as they enter the depths of the ocean

The New Americana embraces the individual High on legal marijuana; woman able— Suffragettes cause. Initial want Into fruition. Disabled minds wavering Are no longer fiery optics to be desensitized to.

Yet in fruitful sanctums, the old lay—craven folk Having liar’s ambitions | indoctrinate and initiate. Ample, avaricious tongues | demand more and silence. Ethnic exodus | greive asylums walls. Blackcraven and Brownravenous | subject heedless minds From ashy conviction | lest Vulcancràsh

Of disastrous pityfail. Hellfull vixens enact A credo | of racism, passivity, lingervoid.

New Americana

Azhaan Khalid ’24

Pimple

Henry Kice ’24

A lighthouse is set into the rock; A pimple on the face of the sea. The liquor keeps the keeper grounded

Though the sirens sing. His mustache is salted to taste, Reminding him of beef

And not the cod and lobster floating in his stock pot. The boat arrives tomorrow with the wickie

And a few hundred pounds of food not sea-spawned. But the keeper’s ears pop and pop, A squall this way comes.

Clouds and whitecaps assemble:

The rock, sea, sky, his skin are impossible to differentiate

In this grayout. The keeper wanders, slightly befuddled

And sees his light.

His seat is a bed of barnacles and he watches the light.

Eyes not blinking, so entranced by the light gracing him, He doesn’t notice hands wrapping around his torso. The merfolk tow him to their sub-rock lair.

After their feast, the keeper’s bones are incinerated in a bright pearl light

That shoots through the peak of the lighthouse. The wickie, taking an observation by the railing of the boat, sees this.

CONCEPTO CHRIS MISIASZ ’23

Midnight Oasis

By Donovan Crowley ’24

An aurora shined before me from heaven’s grounds. The moon reflected against the calm, dappled water, And I reached out to a speck of hope But to no avail. When the water and air collided, I felt it all. Time became still. I could see as far as the mountains, But the beauty laid before me.

A figure emerged from the dark. The sudden screech casts a wave of disturbance As it soars out of my grasp to the gods.

My feet were confined to the sand, And emptiness surrounded me.

I closed my eyes and inhaled the cold mist. A gentle breeze rustled against my cheek And took my foolish soul.

Just as water, I float away. My tears were screaming with anguish, And my dreams were lost forever. Everything was gone, And the world laid still.

Flower

Arseniy Gurevich ’24

A lot of leaves were flying by, Too fast to catch them all.

I picked some up - They all were dry, I always hated fall.

As I was walking by the leaves, I saw a little flower.

It broke for me all the beliefs

About the autumn’s power

I bent to see from where it comes, I had to rake the leaves.

The ground was hard, the sky had clouds, It had no chance to live.

A lot of leaves were flying by, I didn’t care at all.

I had the flower, can’t deny, I always hated fall.

ACUÑA, JOAQUÍN ’24

ADELSBACH, LUKE ’24

BEGG, AIDAN ’23

BOWERS, CHRISTOPHER ’24

BYRNES, LAWSON ’24

CALABRESE, FRANCESCO ’23

CAMUTO, PHILIP ’23

CHENG, JIAZHUO ’24

CROWLEY, DONOVAN ’24

FIELD, SHAWN F.A.S.

FOSTER, ANDREW ’24

FURTADO, ALEC ’25

GOGGIN, CHARLES ’23

GUREVICH, ARSENIY ’24

HAGOOD, FRANCIS ’23

HE, LEO ’23

INDELICATO, RYAN ’24

JENSEN, CHRISTOPHER ’23

JENSEN, SAMANTHA F.A.S.

KHALID, AZHAAN ’24

KICE, HENRY ’24

LECH, CHASE ’23

LEE, COLIN ’24

LIETZ, FLORIAN ’23

MARSH, RYDER ’23

MISIASZ, CHRISTOPHER ’23

MOUNSEY, MICHAEL ’25

PENG, ERIC ’23

RENGER, JONATHAN ’23

RENVYLE, ETHAN ’25

ROSENBAUM, WILL ’24

RUTLEDGE, DYLAN ’24

SHEEHAN, JAMES ’24

TAYLOR, JOEL ’24

WANG, KENNETH ’24

WEISLEDER, CHASE ’24

WINDSOR, STUART ’26

WU, JASON ’26

YAN, ALLEN ’25

letterfromtheeditors

Over the course of the 2022-2023 school year, Avonians have been hard at work ensuring that this year’s Hippocrene will be one for the ages. Thank you for taking the time to delve into the stories, emotions, and experiences that our artists and writers have expressed throughout this magazine. Each of these boys has taken a risk, shown vulnerability, and been true to themselves by bravely submitting their work to be published, which is no small feat for any artist, photographer, or writer. It has helped each of them make their mark on our community and ensure that their legacy lives on within the pages of each spread.

Hippocrene has taken many forms throughout its existence and has developed since its creation as a simple school-wide visual art and literary publication. Today our Hippocrene stands as a full-fledged, painstakingly designed magazine that culminates in some of the best photography, drawing, poetry, and prose that our students have to offer.

It has been a privilege to serve, help curate, edit, and publish the works of wonderfully talented young men over my three years here at Avon Old Farms School. Hippocrene is a tradition that sets Avon Old Farms apart from any other prep school, but more importantly, it has

Colophon

Academic Advisors: Samantha Jensen, Evan Sayles

Creative Director: Justin Manafort ’23

Photography: artist submissions

Printing: Marketing Solutions Unlimited, West Hartford, CT

Press Run: 450 copies / 7” x 10” / 48 pgs. plus cover

Cover paper: 120# Gloss / 4 color plus aqueous coating

Text pages: 100# Gloss, perfect bound

Vellum pages: 30# Chartham translucent paper / K color

provided a place for young men to creatively express their interests in the art world. Readers such as yourself have continually allowed my fellow student editors and me the opportunity to fully understand the publication process, as well as express ourselves creatively throughout our careers here at Avon.

Avon is a deeply special place – one of tradition, one of community, and one of brotherhood. It has been a great honor and pleasure to be a part of Hippocrene throughout my time here. It will forever remain an experience that I look back on fondly. Without fellow artists, photographers, writers, and readers, our editors and curators would not have made such memories and connections provided by Hippocrene

Thank you.

Aspirando et Perseverando,

Francis Hagood ’23 Editor-in-Chief

Editors:

Justin Manafort ’23 Charles Goggin ’23

Front Cover: Eric Peng ’23

Back Cover: James Sheehan ’24

Produced with Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop. Three deadlines, all submitted online. Fonts vary throughout.