2022 Vibrato

Vibrato THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2022 | VOLUME 57

MOLLY MCPHAIL | WITHIN REACH | WATERCOLOR AND SHARPIE

ibrato

MOLLY MCPHAIL | WITHIN REACH | WATERCOLOR AND SHARPIE

DEAR READER,

The word “nefilibata,” Portuguese for “Cloud Walker,”describes those who live among the clouds of their own imagination, refusing to obey the rules of society, literature, and art. While the arts are meant to let creative minds run wild, even the greatest artists find themselves restricted by the bounds of societal norms. Vibrato invites you to walk among the clouds with us, ignore the pressures of the outside world, and discover true creativity.

ART

PHOTO

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Maneuver — Amber Li

09

Even Our Children — Mina Raj

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I Just Like Cats — Anneliese Scherz

10

Cubs — Riley Carter

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Classroom — Helen Railsback

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Innocence — Abby Ruble

17

Dreamland — Amber Li

26

The Sky is My ... — Airu Weng

21

Curiosity Through ... — Olivia Qiu

32

Outry — Mina Raj

25

Nodus Tollens — Anneliese Scherz

40

At the End — Landry Grover

28

Scars — Peggy Wang

46

Crossing Paths — Airu Weng

30

The Kitchen is ... — Molly McPhail

51

I Suck at Parallel ... — Abby Ruble

34

Apollo and Diana — Diya Hedge

59

Rendezvous — Phoebe Chen

42

Empty-Handed — Meera Thamaran

60

Follow the Leader — Airu Weng

44

Aisle of Rememberance — Amber Li

65

Solar — Airu Weng

49

Sculpture — Hanna Zhang

68

Discount — Mina Raj

52

All Eyes on Me — Anneliese Scherz

70

Mont Blanc — Phoebe Chen

54

River at Chang Nan — Hanna Zhang

76

Tag — Airu Weng

63

Down the Rabbit Hole — Amber Li

82

Brant Point — Gabriella Rees

66

Liberosis — Lindsay Heusinger

84

Osaka — Airu Weng

73

Split — Anneliese Scherz

90

Reverie — Airu Weng

79

Sunday Sauna — Amber Li

94

Love and War — Gabriella Rees

81

Ocean in a Bowl — Amber Li

102

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Break Your Mama’s Back — Diya Hedge

89

Antique Boutique — Hanna Zhang

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MEDIA

Self-Love — Stella Sigurdsson

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Opportunity Gap — Riya Guttigoli

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Angry Bird — Riley Carter

Planetarium — Lucy Roberts

LITERATURE 08

Social Norms Confuse Me — Annie Hurley

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Alternate Names for Teenage Girls — Riley Carter

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Water Weight — Gabriella Rees

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Muse — Princess Ogiemwonyi

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You Are Not A Polygon — Annie Hurley

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When I Was Five — Elise Cho

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Dear Mother, Death Is Kind — Anisha Sharma

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Heteroglossia — Sherri Hong

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Alternate ... Otherwise Specified — Anonymous

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SSSombody SSSave Me — Diya Cadambe

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Time Is No Father To Me — Olivia Weeldreyer

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Somewhere East of Time ... — Sherri Hong

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Sonnet No. 1 — Liz Steger

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On Days When ... — Sydney Ghorayeb

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The Meadow — Elle Chavis

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Echoes — Sonali Konda

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Woodchips — Abby Ruble

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The Lady and Her Lover — Anisha Sharma

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When She Walks — Stella Monteiro

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I Wonder — Sydney Ghorayeb

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January — Jessica Chung

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Thirteen Ways of Looking ... — Rachel Jan

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Opaque Pains — Sydney Ghorayeb

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Atlas — Sonali Konda

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Like A Ship in A Bottle — Julia Emery

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Every Day I Step Closer ... — Sydney Ghorayeb

88

Scents — Anika Proddutoor

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Analyses of Life — Sonali Konda

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The Sky’s Seamstress — Abby Ruble

Cover Art by Molly McPhail

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MANEUVER | AMBER LI | COLORED PENCIL, GLITTER, GEL INK ON WATERCOLORED PAPER

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SOCIAL NORMS CONFUSE ME Annie Hurley You see, it’s that

I (do not look at me. do not look at me. you

I never learned how to love quite right-

will not like what you see. I will not look back.)

My mother wants to hold me at night,

never learned how to love quite right-

like real mothers do. Like good mothers do,

Not in the way that real people love, with big

yes? But I do not know how to be held like

hearts and loud lips, with

this,

hands and eyes and hips,

her seemingly foreign arms bracketing me

soft touches and whispered phrases.

in ways that I do not understand.

Am I too slow? Too fake?

I never learned,

Do I even exist at all?

never learned how

I do not do things like real people, I never

to hold things, how

learned how to be real either.

to hold others right.

I do not understand this strange dance that they do,

(it is not that I do not love you,

I do not understand but

it is not that I do not love you,

I am trying, I am trying, I am

I do, I do, I do.)

trying to love you, trying love everyone around me in a way

Eyes are foreign to me as well - I

that makes sense.

never learned how to hold them in the palms of my hand, how to stare

(I do not know how to hold you right,

through them

I do not know how to look at you right.

like glass, always too slippery,

never have the right words to say, never

too uncertain of a thing for me to keep,

know what it is that you want to hear.)

always too fragile of a thing for me not to break.

I never learned how to love quite right-

I do not look,

I speak a language all on its own. I speak in a

do not dare meet steely pupils,

foreign tongue of

lest I be pinned in an embrace of its own,

love,

an ocular trap of

(nobody understands it but me.)

staring, staring, eyes pinning me so tightly that I forget how to breathe.

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EVEN OUR CHILDREN | MINA RAJ

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CUBS | RILEY CARTER

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ANNELIESE SCHERZ | 11X9 INCHES LINOCUT BLOCK

ALTERNATE NAMES FOR TEENAGE GIRLS Riley Carter

1. Color within the lines 2. Create an identity, but not one too dominant 3. Develop your femininity, but only in terms of bra size

7. Slut.

8. Prude.

9. Use your voice, but not too loud 10. Your body, your ~choice~

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CLASSROOM | HELEN RAILSBACK | PAPER AND PENCIL

WATER WEIGHT Gabriella Rees

I CONTINUOUSLY

MYSELF INTO YOU, AND YET, SOMEHOW ALL I AM IS WATER WEIGHT. 2

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DREAMLAND | AMBER LI | SOFT PASTEL ON PAPER

MUSE Princess Ogiemwonyi

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The bruises he left on my body led him to galaxies only he could see my screams he turned into backdrops for his melodies my blood he used as paint i should have known something was wrong when (he told me it was his favorite shade) my pain brought out his favorite shade my teardrops he used to decorate his poetry reassuring me that they added a much needed dimension to the page and i like a fool refused to acknowledge my own pain because i was a muse i was his muse he chose me when i had no one and nothing left to lose so i might as well be put to good use you see i was the spark and he was the fuse and when put together we burned brighter than any untamed fire and ever could ever should he told me he loved me all to distract me from the loosely wrung noose tied around my neck that tightened with every piece of artwork he produced you see i lost myself in him and he found himself in me and even i have to admit that there is some kind of wicked beauty in the irony and that is when he left me without even a goodbye and i began to realize to him i was nothing but low hanging fruit so when you listen to his music read his poetry gaze at his artwork or admire his choreography remember me look for me the broken girl hidden in every piece you see i was his muse and if you don’t believe me look closely i have the bruises to prove because something so few of you seem to see is how quickly being a muse can turn into being abused.

You Are Not A Polygon

(And Neither Am I) (Dedicated to my Friends. Because I love them.)

Annie Hurley

I am used to attempting to compound my thoughts, trying to origami-fold them into slips of knowledge that can escape my lips, comprehensible phrases of information to share with others, but I am limited, I do not have the right words, because.

Because how do I explain the way that a name is not just words, but a color, a time, a number, that a song is blocks, shapes crunchy and tangy on my tongue, electric guitar feels of crackle-pop-snap pomegranate sparks.

How do I explain that they are a galaxy of tiny, misshapen, stars, scrawled in pencil across a scrap of paper, every gap of space poorly drawn constellations.

I am used to being misunderstood.

This is not what happens.

They all understand. The polygon that isn’t. our brains connect, entangle, detonate in a cacophony of creative harmonies, and I cannot begin to express my joy.

(No matter. Words do not have to be used here.)

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CURIOSITY THROUGH THE LENS | OLIVIA QIU SCRATCH BOARD

WHEN I WAS FIVE Elise Cho

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INNOCENCE | ABBY RUBLE

DEAR MOTHER, DEATH IS KIND Anisha Sharma

Borne as pain in the soft skin of a babe, Do not cry, dear child, because the mother drowned your kin, And kissed her blue head as death strode forward, Do not cry, death is too kind.

Loud cries of vendors in the markets, Borne to bear, the chain-ed bands, A thousand more red-tipped hands.

Do not cry, dear child, when the man chokes you, Because he’ll swallow your screams, because your kin Sold to him for a small price, behind the red door, in The entrance to hell.

Do not cry, death is too kind.

The jail is unlike one you’d ever been in, a lady with The same red silk as before, blood streaks from her eyes, she was Borne to bear, the chained bands A thousand more red-tipped hands.

As the body is washed away by the currents.

Do not cry, dear mother, for Death is too kind.

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NODUS TOLLENS | ANNELIESE SCHERZ OIL PAINT 10X8 IN

THE SKY IS MY VALENTINE | AIRU WENG

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HETEROGLOSSIA Sherri Hong

To live fast or to live long, one must think of all fruits eaten above this earth when tears were timeless water lights were mindless sands We made her a virgin to sit among the peach pits Treacherous as a wicked dance, a serpent seed had grown it outgrew dunes of sorest needs to become an apple in her hand live to perish Apple of paralysis, love bitten, madness ridden fruit of bleeding mist, Recoiled into a form unknown In the drowsy garden of malaise, crept out of the crimson soil and opened his eyes to see a world not through heavenly glow not through celestial lights but through a virgin, a pure, naked virgin who swallowed a seed buried deeply beneath this earth

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SCARS | PEGGY WANG | SKETCH

THE KITCHEN IS TOO BRIGHT MOLLY MCPHAIL | OIL PASTEL

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ALTERNATE NAMES FOR TEENAGE GIRLS OTHERWISE SPECIFIED Anonymous

1. 54th percentile.

ii. “why are you up 3 pounds” 2. prays to scale every night, victim to elastic mirror 3. a body checking addict 4. grasping, gagging for validation

i. one breath out.

7. cries drowned under shower water,

9. perfume trail of ice cream regret 10. baking soda’s breath…

11. too empty, too full.

12. eyes of red, chipmunk cheeks… but 13. hair thick 14. heartbeat steady 15. knuckles unscarred 16. failure.

ii. imposter to my own disease 17. OSFED i. purging disorder

TITLE | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM

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O UTC R Y

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OUTCRY | MINA RAJ

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SSSOMEBODY SSSAVE ME Diya Cadambe

My skin tingles as I feel your stone-cold gaze on me, every step I take careful lest I be paralyzed by the hissing serpents waiting atop your head.

Even though you could’ve done so, you haven’t killed me yet. I faintly wonder why you’re doing this; wonder how long you’ll keep up this cruel game of cat and mouse before relishing in my screams as life drains from my body.

Dread makes my head pound uncomfortably as I realize I’m trapped. There’s nowhere left for me to go, no backup ready to to aid me in survival. I’m on my own. I accept that I’ll die, and open my eyes to see your hand reach out.

Understandably, I freeze, but then I see it. Faint and practically unnoticeable, but it’s there: A wish under the deformed green skin. Realization strikes me as I realize what you’re silently begging me for: help.

Suddenly, this demented game makes sense, and I shake in relief.

You just want help, someone to not scream and strike you with a knife once you approach them.

As I raise my eyes to yours, I see them closed though I have a sword in my hands. You’re trembling since you know how vulnerable your actions make you, but you haven’t opened them yet. I instantly drop my sword and carefully grasp your cold hand, knowing that I will be alright.

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APOLLO AND DIANA | DIYA HEDGE | GRAPHITE PENCIL

TIME IS NO FATHER TO ME Olivia Weeldreyer

Time is no father to me he is lazy, in his passing; careless of the hours,

-

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AT THE END | LANDRY GROVER

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EMPTY-HANDED | MEERA THAMARAN | ACRYLIC ON TILE

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Sherri Hong

-

SOMEWHERE EAST OF TIME YELLOW BUTTERFLIES

-

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SONNET NO. 1 Liz Steger

By me, and as you soar you sing a tale Of love and woe and hymns within the sky.

I call you back to me but still I fail.

How I want you to return to me soon I beg for you to please remove your wings But you do not hear me, you are immune.

You stay high above and are among kings.

Yet, I know that you love me though you leave Me waiting for your landing on the ground.

Found time to stay together and surround Our worlds with the love that we have found here.

My love, this is all the joy I need near.

AISLE OF REMEMBRANCE | AMBER LI | OIL ON CANVAS

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CROSSING PATHS | AIRU WENG

ON DAYS WHEN I DO NOT LOVE MYSELF Sydney Ghorayeb

I deny myself pity, Shove myself inward, Locking my tenderness in a dark safe.

I dig miles downwards Casting aside mountains of soil Until my shovel clangs as it strikes my heart.

I put a safe around that too.

Climbing out of the gorge, I lose hold of the keys; They tumble into the black tunnel.

I harden.

My face carved out of smooth marble, I become a living statue, Projecting the same cold visage.

Bearing the curious gazes of strangers, I focus my eyes on the worn concrete beneath my practical shoes. worry lines, I deny the lively girls of the city Cause to whisper.

Deafened by my guests’ shouts, I stumble into a hallway I do not recognize, Following the circular, mahogany staircase Into a maze where each bend, Each turn, Leads deeper into the shadows.

Would it be better To quit the quest to summit the insurmountable, To quit clawing up the slippery walls of this chasm, And surrender to the Lord’s judgment?

No, I will turn to others.

Throwing out my unruly guests, I wield my needle and thread Designing dreams out of colored string.

My mind is a bustling hostel, Drunken men bellowing out, Belting fanciful tunes of knights and witches.

Surely the Lord’s wrath requires no haste.

supper to all passersby,

2

Floods of shadowy visitors, thoughts That do not dare darken any other doors.

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SCULPTURE | HANNA ZHANG | GRAPHITE

THE MEADOW Elle Chavis

Whatever happened to the Meadow?

To the beautiful spring days of our childhood.

Whatever happened to the autumn leaves?

Falling and swirling in variegated shades of russet, gold, and amber.

Whatever happened to the winter nights?

Snuggling under a blanket together with warm cups of cocoa.

Whatever happened to the summer sun?

Beating down on our backs when we swam in the backyard pool.

What happened to the days where we didn’t have to worry about grades or responsibilities?

Days we danced and laughed and played without a care in the world.

Whatever happened to nap time and snack break?

We used to run and jump and chase each other through the woods, but Now there’s homework, exams, essays, and research papers due every day, and We hardly have the time to talk to each other.

We should go back to the Meadow, you and me.

No one but us and our dreams.

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I SUCK AT PARALLEL PARKING | ABBY RUBLE

ECHOES

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SONALI KONDA

everything is so much ...louder when there’s only me and my thoughts. the ac’s heavy exhale lurks in the corner of the room. i can forget about it, for a moment, when i’m on the knife’s edge of falling asleep, but as soon as i notice it again, tune in to its familiar language of purrs and hums, i’m wide awake and listening. every once in a while—just when i think it’ll never stop— it holds its breath

at this point too used to the whispers to let their absence go unnoticed. royal lane never empties, not fully, so as i wait to fall asleep, watch the clock tick into the quiet, cold loneliness of early morning, there are always cars, a crescendo and decrescendo of engine and speed,

noting each passing dull roar, each nighttime journey that beckons these people away from sleep. and then, harmonizing with the ac’s murmurs and royal’s grumbling greetings, is the echoing, responding chime in my ears. constant, ringing, wavering as a tide that approaches, hesitant, before retreating and trying again. before, maybe, i’d say this is silent: the quiet of my room at night, with only the ac and the passing cars as company. now, though? now it’s a crowd.

ALL EYES ON ME | ANNELIESE SCHERZ | WATERCOLOR

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RIVER AT CHANG NAN | HANNA ZHANG | WATERCOLOR

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WOODCHIPS Abby Ruble

nickels in to make him love me.

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WOODCHIPS

THE LADY AND HER LOVER Anisha Sharma

When I speak of you, my dearest lover, My eyes glitter like freshly polished stone; My lips, rose-red, breath-sweet, speech can’t discover But only hums the song with a honey tone.

One no one sees, hears, nor touches but me; And if you disappear without a trace, You’ll take with you my heart and its key.

I will travel to the deepest forest, Summit the tallest mountain from the plain; To hold you in my arms, my dearest, To burn away our darkest pain.

I love you, dearest, oh how I love you so, And you loved me once too, long, long, ago.

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RENDEZVOUS | PHOEBE CHEN

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FOLLOW THE LEADER | AIRU WENG

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AMBER LI | OIL ON CANVAS

WHEN SHE WALKS Stella Monteiro

When she walks, she Leaves a trail of stars Broken and beautiful and Perfect on the ground I watch in amazement With mine, and when I pull away, They are glowing, Gold with a magic only I can see.

When she looks away, her Soft smile lights up my day.

As she blushes, As her hair curls, Soft around her face, I want to reach up, To brush it back, to Feel the pulse of her Perfect magic, against my Leaving trails of stardust down

Felt the rush of her glorious Beauty tumble through my body.

When I pulled away and saw My arm alight with A glow that she had given Me. How long it took for It to fade. How it buzzed like An electric shock, but Somehow still made me smile.

How will I survive when I can no longer tread on her Path of stars?

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SOLAR | AIRU WENG

I WONDER

Sydney Ghorayeb I wonder if your heart stings when our eyes meet.

Mine doesn’t.

No, instead it shines a beacon of light so blinding to everyone in the vicinity.

I wonder if your thoughts race when our eyes meet.

Mine don’t.

No, instead they crawl, inching through the tidal wave of information recovered.

My brain cannot compute.

It shuts down.

You know this person, it screams at me You know them, it whispers.

You need them, it murmurs.

But I don’t recognize your blank green eyes

Mine don’t.

No, reaching to you with one goal, one need, to pull you back to me.

I wonder if you miss me, who I used to be.

I do.

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LIBEROSIS: TO HAVE AND TO HOLD LINDSAY HEUSINGER | METAL WIRE

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DISCOUNT | MINA RAJ

January a new mind, a new hope, they all say.

A sparrow, air.

-

A new year,

The world is still silent here,

she has yet to explore. herself in the ears

into what your future withholds.

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JANUARY Jessica Chung

a new mind, a new hope, they all say.

A sparrow,

A new year,

The world is still silent here,

has yet to explore. in the ears

TITLE | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM MONT BLANC | PHOEBE CHEN

S

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P

L

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ANNELIESE SCHERZ | SCRATCHBOARD

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT THE MOON Rachel Jan I. The moon glints in a perfect arc of teeth And so bites the sky II. Across the red snarl of sunset The moon chases, The curve of it, a hunter’s bow III. To the murmur of the millwheel, The oar breaks the moon rippling beneath it IV. With no exit sign in sight, I point Myself towards the moon instead, Eye seeking forlorn brightest eye V. My eyes are twin moons Waiting to cataract VI. In the face of the moon, I see my father, my sister, A rabbit making medicine The root of all the oldest stories An empty porcelain bowl VII. The night persists, And the moon is full with the weight of waiting

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VIII. At the turn of the moon, The whales turn their pale bellies In ascent, Summit, Dive, the imitation cycle Of all tide-pulled creatures IX. Then there’s the turning cavity of my chest, which I thought was the moon, as in a crater X. and lets the moon paint him silver XI. So tired of illuminating touch, Even the moon, the loneliest daughter, must dream of being reached XII. Wolf moon. Worm moon.

Silent, gleaming moon XIII. What is a lullaby But a tenderness given breath Under moonlight?

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TAG | AIRU WENG

OPAQUE PAINS Sydney Ghorayeb

The sun sets earlier now.

But even during the day, the windows are the deep black of bulletproof glass.

Here the dark bags under eyes are insidious, disguised as passion.

However necessary.

outline of a shadow.

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SUNDAY SAUNA | AMBER LI | SOFT PASTEL ON PAPER

ATLAS

Sonali Konda My back hunches under the weight of the world and all its burdens and sorrows. i can feel my breath catching, my lungs straining as the sky above me thunders a threat to fall. my knees shake; the ground wavers beneath me. the sound echoes in my ears, the immortal grumbling discontent of the gods. i shut my eyes at the sound, as if that will help me escape this lonely living death to which i am sentenced.

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OCEAN IN A BOWL | AMBER LI | CERAMICS

LIKE A SHIP IN A BOTTLE Julia Emery

I’ve always really liked jars Glass bottles, Mason jars, bottles with strange shapes, jars in fun colors I don’t know I guess I liked the idea of them or maybe it was the look Recently I learned that my jars had another purpose They can take away my pain And my joy Whenever I’m having a strong feeling, I put it in a jar Just bottle it up Then I take my jars of anger, sadness, jealousy, love, depression, and hope And I put them away on my shelf They feel so much lighter in a bottle then they were in my head Why doesn’t everyone do this?

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TITLE | PHOTOGRAPHER | MEDIUM BRANT POINT | GABRIELLA REES

OSAKA | AIRU WENG

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EVERY DAY I STEP CLOSER TO THE BRINK OF INSANITY Sydney Ghorayeb

Every day I step closer to the brink of insanity.

I tasted heaven and was thrown back to hell.

Here the shadows are insidious, disguised as passion.

They consume everything, until our memories of heaven fade as quickly as the remnants of good dreams in the glaring morning light.

Some days your head crashes to the wooden desk.

And you struggle to keep your eyelids from shutting.

But this battle against gravity is impossible, however, necessary.

Lest you succumb and are compressed to nothing but a shadow.

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BREAK YOUR MAMA'S BACK | DIYA HEGDE GRAPHITE PENCIL AND CHARCOAL

SCENTS

Anika Proddutoor It’s the smell of nostalgia. That sticky smell of watermelon sour candy we frantically ate at the wee hours of the night. I smelled it again. This time it was the smell of It continues. The smell of freshly baked cookies.

I haven’t baked in years? The smell of black tea being made on the stove. You were changes every day, but it always reminds me of one thing. The next day, it was the smell of salty bitter tears. The smell of rotting the nostalgia anymore. All I smelled was

books, untouched.

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ANTIQUE BOUTIQUE | HANNA ZHANG | WATERCOLOR

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REVERIE I AIRU WENG

SE LFLO VE. 2

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STELLA SIGURDSSON | OIL ON CANVAS

ANALYSES OF LIFE Sonali Konda

a breath. the faint intake of air and the soft sigh of exhalation, the cadence of lungs expanding and compressing.

a spark. the ivory and stained glass of eyes, or pain or a soul.

alive?

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LOVE AND WAR | GABRIELLA REES

a pulse. the steady marching rhythm of blood

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PLANETARIUM A film by Lucy Roberts

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THE SKY'S SEAMSTRESS

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THE SKY'S SEAMSTRESS Abby Ruble

We always called my Great Grandma “Yellow Grandma” because of her love for all

“memories” on January 23rd

OPPORTUNITY GAP | RIYA GUTTIGOLI | SCRATCH BOARD

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RILEY CARTER

MANY, MANY THANKS TO: Ms. Copeland for your constant encouragement no matter the number of computer shutdowns or InDesign mishaps. Your dedication not only to the magazine but also to the people who run it shows your true compassion and amazing leadership. While you advise many publications at Hockaday, you make sure we always feel respected and valued as a team. The feeling goes both ways. We have so much respect for you and the inspiring work you do each day. You have gifted us with a creative outlet we are so incredibly thankful for, and we cannot thank you enough.

Dr. Coleman, Ms. Culbertson, and Dr. Kocsis for keeping everything running smoothly and providing us with a safe place where we feel able to express ourselves creatively.

Cindy Salome at 360 Press Solutions for the inspiring love and effort you put into our publication. You turn simple paper into something beautiful and our craziest ideas into a reality.

Every student who submitted this school year for trusting us to take each of your individual talents and turn them into our own masterpiece. You spend countless hours perfecting your work and this dedication does not go unnoticed. Your creativity drives ours and we would not have a magazine without you.

Vibrato is a literary and art magazine that highlights the talents of Hockaday Upper School students, including, but not limited to, art, literature, and photography. We encourage the submissions of our peers, then review the submissions respectfully and anonymously through our own selective process. We combine these pieces into a cohesive magazine that highlights both the student artists’ talents and the graphic design skills of our staff members. We hope as you read this magazine, you experience the deep, intrinsic layers of creativity that unify the student body through our opinions, emotions, and vulnerability. Dig into each word, brush stroke, or snapshot to uncover the world we live in.

The titles of literary pieces in this volume are set in Proxima Nova font and the body text is set in Merriweather. Depending on the accompanying media, we altered the size and style of the fonts to best display each artform. The title on the cover is set in Merriweather. This magazine was designed using Adobe Photoshop, InDesign and Illustrator software. Pages are printed on 100# gloss and silk coated stock with card stock used for the cover and pages 35-38. The magazine was printed and bound by 360 Press Solutions in Austin, Texas.

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OUR STAFF Abby Ruble Co-Editor-in-Chief

Victoria Hart Managing Editor

Yoyo Yuan Asst. Media Editor

Gabriella Rees Co-Editor-in-Chief

Allison Yang Photo and Media Editor

Riley Carter Asst. Photo Editor

Jaden Thomas Social Media Editor

Sonali Konda Literary Editor

Lillian Rubarts Art Editor

Diya Cadambe Asst. Literary Editor

Shruthi Juttu Asst. Art Editor

Bronwynn Blair Asst. Social Media Editor

Julia Copeland Faculty Adviser

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Number ________ of 600

Vibrato THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2022 | VOLUME 57

MOLLY MCPHAIL | WITHIN REACH | WATERCOLOR AND SHARPIE

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Vibrato THE HOCKADAY SCHOOL | 2022 | VOLUME 57

MOLLY MCPHAIL | WITHIN REACH | WATERCOLOR AND SHARPIE

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