Kent Cauldron 2025

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So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and

Bell Dedication

“The creative arts foster within us an aesthetic appreciation of our world and of ourselves. Writing enables us to share our innermost thoughts with others. It may create a tranquil world, a chaotic world, or a world filled with hope.”

C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive. The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron. In establishing this endowment Mrs. Bell further said, “I can think of no better way in which to honor the memory of C. Gordon Bell ’50. It is a gift of love in memory of a man and his love for the lively art of writing.”

C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell was the managing editor of The Gardner News until 2 0 218.

2 8 Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding. Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.

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In Memory This year’s issue of The Cauldron is also dedicated to the memory of Owen Trivell ’25 (left) and Mr. Michael Wright ’81 (right).

Owen Trivell ‘25 was a kid that never failed to light up the room.

His bright spirit brought joy to everyone around him, and his courageous fight against cancer, which ended in the summer of 2022, continues to inspire us.

Mr. Michael Wright ‘81 was a beloved faculty member, coach, and alumnus. He touched the lives of so many, offering his warmth, kindness, and unwavering support to those within the Kent Community.

Though they are no longer with us, Owen and Mr. Wright will forever be missed in Kent’s heart; their impact will never be forgotten.

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Meet The Team Marketing

Norah Norah Zhao

Marketing Marketing Team Team Leader Leader

Judith Judith Huang

Marketing Marketing Team Team Leader Leader

Gusie Sambalido Gusie Team Member Member Team

Taylor Hennessy Taylor Team Member Member Team

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Publication Jackie Heslee

Publication Team Leader

Emma Sun

Publication Team Leader

Tasha Leung Team Member

Sky Gardner Team Member

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Harry Wan

Vice Editor-in-Chief

Grace Chen

Vice Editor-in-Chief

Kate Blaicher Team Member

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Heidi Guertler

Adun Samson

Liya Fu

Angelina Malik

Ella Sun

Jilly Avancena

Team Member

Team Member

Team Member

Team Member

Jayda Wang Team Member

Team Member

Team Member

Dionne Burnett Team Member

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A Letter From The Editor Dear Reader,

The Cauldron has always been a creative outlet for students to share their creative writing and visual art pieces.

Like a literal Cauldron, it’s a melting pot of different voices, styles, and perspective that all come together as one. This year, we wanted to keep it simple and minimalistic. I feel as though the Cauldron does not and will continue to not have a fixed definition. Maybe that’s the point. It’s never quite the same every year.

As this is my fourth and final year working on the Cauldron, I’m incredibly proud of what we’ve created and everyone who contributed to it. Whether this is your first time reading or you’ve followed the magazine for years, I hope you find something here that makes you stop, think, or feel.

Thanks and enjoy, Dennis Zeng Editor-In-Chief

THE DAY I DIE

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I DON’T FEEL THE NEED TO BE REMEMBERED, BUT I WAS INSPIRED BY THE FULL CHURCH FROM CEO’S TO THOSE WHO SWEPT FLOORS. THE IMPACT MADE WAS UNFATHOMABLE. MAYBE I WANT TO BE REMEMBERED, NOT FOR THE GLORY BUT BECAUSE I MADE A REAL DIFFERENCE AND TOUCHED THOUSANDS OF SOULS.

ELLA SUN, THE DECAY OF PROBABILITY

JUSTIN VICTORY

ICE

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Luke Wilson

The wind growled a low sigh, Its voice screeched like a sound that never dies.

Snowflakes shivered solemnly as they touched the ground, Each like a tear, falling without a sound.

The trees groan, suffocated in the frost, Bearing arms with all that they had lost.

The river hums a melancholy tune, Its frozen cover shining in the moon.

The sky weeping grey, Sprinkling down on its prey.

The winter lingers like a broken bone, This season turns hearts to stone.

Jayda Wang, Untitled, Photograph

Veronica Jiang

INK REMEMBERS

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Untitled, Will Lund

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THESE PAGES WERE FRAGILE, THE HANDWRITING A RELIC OF A DIFFERENT LIFE. YET, THERE IT WAS—MYSELF AT TEN, REACHING OUT TO THE CURRENT ME. AS I READ, A FAMILIAR NAME SURFACED: CYNTHIA. I sIt at my desk, wonderIng who she’d become. Last year, I sent her new year’s greetIngs. she never repLIed. her voIce, Laugh, and presence have faded, yet she Is ImmortaLIzed here. she was once so centraL to me that I’d promIsed on the fIrst page: “best frIends forever.” now, I know better. “forever” dIssoLves In the face of reaLIty; the peopLe we once heLd cLosest become STRANGERS. as I turned the page, a bIrthday card sLIpped out. I kneLt, worrIed It mIght crumbLe. her handwrItIng greeted me: deLIcate, sLanted, ImpossIbLy famILIar. I couLd aLmost smeLL her jasmIne LotIon. at the bottom, her fInaL words jumped out: “I Love you forever.” we’ve both LIkeLy forgotten the depth of our frIendshIp, but In those three words, somethIng was preserved. wrItIng Is a defIance, a rebeLLIon agaInst tIme and Its quIet erasures. It Is proof that we exIsted, that we Loved, that we mattered to someone, even If onLy for a moment. wrItIng fIxes our EMOTIONS, PROTECTS THEM FROM FORGETTING. IT PERFECTS THE IMPOSSIbLe fantasy of “forever.”

SKIMMING HER CARD, I FELT A DISTANT WARMTH. THE MEMORIES came aLIve: fragILe, worn, but stILL there. tentatIveLy, I opened OUR OLD CHAT AND SENT A MESSAGE. IN WRITING, I REMIND MYSELF THAT I stILL feeL that I’m reachIng for meanIng. wrItIng Is not just a record of LIfe, but a way of hoLdIng on to Love, to memory, to the thIngs we fear wILL sLIp away. It Is tough, unyIeLdIng, and honest, even when we are not. In Its sILent, stubborn way, It teaches me to be the same.

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God’s Riddle.

Addy Smith

Every night when I was younger, my father would come into my room and serenade me with his long God riddle. The routine was unspoken. We’d close our eyes, fold our hands, and direct our attention to the words. Once my baby brother was old enough he would join in too, and slowly we together learned The Lord’s Prayer. I never questioned it, these lines were just a part of life. Until I grew older, I called it “the God riddle” and my dad would always laugh.

He delivered the reading like a passionate preacher as if every night was the first and last time he would ever pray. The repetition was comforting, and although I didn’t know what it meant, I understood that the words were important to him.

My lack of understanding humored my father, so we began to add our own anecdotes to the prayer. After we spoke through The Lord’s Prayer like any other night, we added room to pray for our family and friends, events in life we were looking forward to, and even a joke of the day. “Amen” followed every new segment, and a kiss on clasped hands to lock it in. I would look forward to this evening activity every night now that we had transformed it from a solemn reading to a lighthearted daily reflection. I began to take this newfound creativity with me throughout middle school, finding fun in seemingly boring things. Whether it was turning math problems into stories or making up songs to memorize history facts, I found that a little imagination could turn any mundane task into an enjoyable challenge.

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Transitioning from a large public middle school to a condensed, Episcopalian boarding school was certainly a culture shock, but the one thing that stayed constant in my life was my religious expression. Unlike many of my new friends, I thoroughly enjoyed our first few chapel services as they helped me combat my homesickness. When Mama Kelderman proceeded to read the first few lines of The Lord’s Prayer at our introductory chapel meeting, an immediate wave of comfort came over me and I joined her in reciting. My friends immediately shot confused facial expressions my way and asked questions like “How do you know this?” All I could think of is: it’s the god riddle. It’s my god riddle.

Elva Hu, Untitled, Water Color Painting

One of the first lessons I learned at my new school was that people love complaining. Inherently it is easier to have negative thoughts over positive ones.

This was especially true in the case of my class and chapel. The people I initially surrounded myself with would constantly moan and whine about the mid-day chapel obligation and this influence began to rub off on me. I started dreading going because enjoying the readings and hymns made me come off as uncool. I was desperate to make friends, and as a result of that, I gave up the thing that gave me the most comfort in life. One night, memories of my father’s passionate prayers resurfaced, and I realized how much I missed that connection. The next day, I volunteered for the reading.

Nervous but determined, I recited the words with newfound conviction. The experience was liberating, reminding me of my true self. I also joined the chapel choir, rediscovering the joy and comfort of singing hymns. Embracing my faith openly, I found strength and authenticity, learning that real friends accept me for who I am. All it takes is a simple change of mindset to enjoy life without meaningless complaints.

By staying true to my beliefs and expressing my identity, I found the strength to overcome social pressures and live authentically.

And in doing so, I reconnected with the comfort and joy that had always been a part of my life, hidden within the simple, profound lines of the God riddle.

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Watching From Afar as Justice is Being Served - Anonymous

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!...

BOOM!...

BOOM! The sound of Justice.

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Life

by anonymous anonymous by

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If I could live life Once again, I would take Every course of Action Every mistake, mistake, as long long as as ItIt So as leads leads me me back back toto you. you.

Jayda Jayda Wang, Wang,Untitled, Untitled,Photograph Photograph

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Yin Yang

by Kadence Parsons

I was small, And the world was big, loud in ways I couldnt understand.

But there you were, Connor.

Black and white, a yinyang stamped right near your mouth, Like you carried a balance without even trying, a reminder that even opposites can belong together in peace.

You didnt need to speak.

You were a steady breathing place, where the world stopped asking me to be bigger than I was.

I clutched you too hard sometimes, The way children do.

All hands, all need, No apology.

You stayed anyway.

You forgave everything without a sound.

You reached an old age, always still in my arms.

You stayed long enough for me to believe, stupidly, that you always would.

And when you slipped away, I wasnt there.

I wasnt holding you.

I wasnt even close.

The guilt lives in my ribs like a second heartbeat, like an apology that cant find a mouth.

But Connor, You are still here.

In the silent places between breaths, In the way my arms still remember How to cradle something softer than the world deserves.

You taught me about love.

You are still teaching me about loss.

And somehow, You are still choosing to stay, even when I wasnt there to say goodbye.

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Your life is written in the stars In the beginning, your whole life ahead of you, The possibilities seems endless, Your mind races with images of becoming an astronaut, a doctor or even play with magic.

But is that the case, or is your future written from the second you were born. Written by the alignment of stars and planets.

Do you really have any choice in anything at all?

Can you become any one of your dreams, Or have your dreams lied to You, Leaving you with false Hope For something you’ll never achieve Do those planets command you till your end Make every decision for you, Every job, every raise, every love, and every heart break.

Is your life written by your pen, or written in the Stars

Elva Hu A Winter Noon Digital Art

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Opposite

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Two faces One as calm as the night by anonymous One fierce as the storm They are forever bound yet never whole On one side, a warm ray It warms the heart and guides the way A hand leading you down the right path On the other side, a fierce gaze The Fear and the Blaze A haunting truth that never lies Yet neither can stand alone Their nature is conjoined their fate is already written The message is hidden in the pattern Two sides of the same coin.

For What is love without loss?

For What is joy without pain?

To understand is to see both sides of the same coin We are whole because of what we fear Two sides of us in unison In balance to shape us into who we are.

Jayda Wang, Sacred Steeps: A Yin-Yang Perspective, Sculpture

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AT TIMES,

tears still fall from my eyes. Tears that fall against my will. Tears that shine like the ocean in Hong Kong Harbor.

It was summer then. The Hong Kong air that day was characteristically hot and unbearably humid. It was the kind of day where one would be ill-advised to be outside in the sun, and yet, there I was. My feet were buried in the warm, golden sand. Waves, resembling brilliant hills of turquoise that had been granted the breath of life by the heavens, would wrap gently against my ankles before retreating back, over and over again. And as the radiant beams of sunlight filtered through the palm trees near us, I stared out emotionlessly at the scenery that Hong Kong Harbor presented me with. The only things that I could hear were the sounds of my breathing, the waves, and the creaking of wood as you, Father, rocked back and forth on your old beach chair.

Jayda Wang, Photography

Old Man and the Sea

As beautiful as the scenery was, I still would have preferred to stay somewhere cool and shaded from the sun. You, however, insisted on taking me somewhere special since it was the first time I had come to visit you in Hong Kong. So, in stark contrast to the Beijing cityscape that made up my childhood home, you decided to take me to the sea.

That said, perhaps it was all part of your plan. Watching the light shimmer ethereally on the surface of the water did calm my angry heart, and the summer air held me in a perpetual embrace, as if it was afraid of what I might do if it let go. Regardless, I just stood and waited for you to speak, struggling to keep my eyes focused on the horizon before me. I was aware, from the moment you suggested that I pay you a visit, that you wanted to have a talk with me.

After a long period of silence, you finally called out my name. Your voice, I noticed, had changed tremendously since the last time that we had met. It was hoarse, and no longer held the briskness and energy that it once did. It stung me a bit to know that your voice, if nothing else, was beginning to show that you were now an old man.

I wanted to respond. I wanted to call back, I wanted you to know that I was listening and that I was willing to talk, yet I didn’t. I was terrified that if I even so much as opened my mouth, the ocean of hideous, unadulterated emotions that I had locked away would come flowing out. They would come rushing forth unabashedly, surging ahead violently, spilling its contents in whatever way it pleased, much like a tsunami.

Once you realized that I wasn’t going to respond, you sighed. It wasn’t an exasperated sigh, an angry sigh, or even a disappointed sigh. It was a sigh that signaled… anticipation. It was almost as if you had expected this reaction from me. The two of us never really learned how to communicate with each other, after all. But then again, with how you played your role in my life, that tragic, somewhat unfortunate fact is just a matter of course, a reality so apparent to me now that it doesn’t even warrant the shrug of a shoulder.

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Writte n Yushe by n Yang

Once you realized that I wasn’t going to respond, you sighed. It wasn’t an exasperated sigh, an angry sigh, or even a disappointed sigh. It was a sigh that signaled… anticipation. It was almost as if you had expected this reaction from me. The two of us never really learned how to communicate with each other, after all. But then again, with how you played your role in my life, that tragic, somewhat unfortunate fact is just a matter of course, a reality so apparent to me now that it doesn’t even warrant the shrug of a shoulder.

You… You were never what anyone would describe as a “good father”. You never even came close to being a “good father”, and I think that a small piece of your soul has always recognized that and felt guilty for it.

The first time that I had seen your face was on my third birthday. Upon seeing this tall, almost imperious figure that I had never seen before enter through the threshold of our apartment and proceed to loom over my tiny self, I felt a feeling of dread. To say that I was afraid of you would be an almost sinful understatement, and when you tried to hug me, I struggled against your arms and promptly ran away to hide in my room.

I eventually worked up the courage to peek slightly out of my door frame at you. There you were, sitting in your black suit that you had worn to work. Physically and appearance-wise, you were a thirty-year-old through and through, yet your spirit felt so bitterly shattered to such a point that it made you resemble more so a man nearing imminent death in his late-seventies.

Mother eventually led me out of my room and held my hand as she introduced you to me.

“This here is your Father,” how do I even begin to explain the simple stupidity and pure ludicrousness of this statement? But, regardless of what words were said by who, one thing was certain. As we looked into each other’s eyes, a crack seemed to appear between the two of us. From that crack spread a sea, a sea so vast and so expansive that all hopes of crossing it and reaching land on the other side were nothing short of impossible. This sea, as well as this “impossibility” that came as a cursed byproduct, would come to dictate and characterize our relationship for years to come.

I would like to think that we eventually grew to and learned to love each other, but it was never in the way that a Father loves a child, or a child loves their Father. You have been and still are, to me, a book that is shut tight, one whose contents only the author knows, and I am far too afraid to even attempt to peek at the pages. Thus, I may never know if the emotions you feel in your chest when you lay eyes upon me qualify as love of any kind. I, however, convinced myself that you did love me, and that your love came with conditions.

Having lacked your presence for the first three years of my life, I began to yearn for it desperately. Your very presence, in my mind, represented a form of love, and I, for the lack of a better phrase, worked tirelessly for it. You were often away for long periods of time due to work, but my intuition as a child was that you’d

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Emma Sun, Photography leave simply because you were disappointed with your son, who couldn’t live up to your expectations. So everything that I did, everything that I had accomplished was for the sole purpose of keeping you by my side, a goal that will doubtlessly continue to find refuge in my subconscious mind, in the very essence of my soul. I also came to find, and I took great care not to let this show, that I liked it when you smiled at me, or even when you did something as simple as referring to me as “son”. It sent a wave of warmth from the depths of my heart to the ends of my hair and tips of my fingers, and I was willing to do anything to feel that sensation. I was willing to do anything and everything to have you by my side, even if it meant leaving Beijing, my beloved childhood fortress, to follow you to America.

You yourself often praised me with pride and satisfaction glittering in your eyes for how much I had grown over the years here in America. I had thought- No. I had faith that with this, you would never again leave my side, that you would never abandon me. So imagine the agony that tormented my soul when I received news that you would leave for Hong Kong, this time with no way for me to follow.

That night, I cried silently in the shower. It was as if the glass box of happiness inside my heart that I had toiled so much to fill had shattered, and as I desperately tried to pick up the glass shards, cutting my fingers until they bled raw, the happiness just kept on slipping away.

I tried tricking myself into thinking that I hadn’t cried at all, that it was just the shower water running down my face, but my heart knew otherwise. The happiness that I had compiled with you was gone, and in its stead a jumble of hideous, confused emotions showed themselves.

So, as I looked out at the horizon, I solemnly accepted that this hideousness will always be a part of me, that this void will always exist between us, and attempted to drown myself in the sound of the sea.

But then, you stood up from your chair, made your way over to me slowly, and placed a hand on my shoulder, something that I still wasn’t accustomed to. As I listened to your breathing, in perfect sync with the coming and retreating of the waves, I couldn’t help but glance at your visage, and what I saw hurt me.

Your face no longer had the youthful traits it once did, and was instead a rough landscape of wrinkles that I had never taken notice of before. Your hair had turned gray… And your smile, oh, your smile was what hurt me the most.

Your smile no longer carried the same spirit it once did. Your smile was once that of a man who was willing to take on the world, unafraid of any challenge that came your way, but as you smiled in that moment, your face closer than ever to mine, it was the smile of someone who had gallantly accepted his fate, his defeat, perhaps, in the face of the world.

A wave of guilt rushed over me as I asked myself, when did my Father grow so old? Why had I neglected to take notice of this? And… was this because of me?

But, just as I was about to turn my head away in an attempt to wash away the guilt and all those unwanted emotions, I froze. You began to speak, and I didn’t dare move a muscle.

“You might hate me, my son. That is alright. I can accept that. But please don’t let that hate stop you, don’t let me stop you from moving forward. From now on, go see just how big the world is, do great things, and don’t do it for me.

Just know that no matter what, your Father loves you, and your Father misses you.”

And at that moment, my heart burst open. There were a million words that I wanted to say, but all of them were pushed to the bottom of the sea floor as a torrent of emotions surged out of my chest.

I buried my head in your shoulder, and I cried. It was the first time I had cried in front of you, and at that moment, the world was so big, yet also so small. The world was confined to just you and Hong Kong Harbor… Yes. The world to me in that instance was just the old man and the sea before us.

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By Luke Wilson Beneath the sun, the kite takes flight.

Shifting winds, new paths above in sight.

Strings unravel, in the sky’s embrace.

The change unfolds with airy grace.

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Untitled by Addy Smith “Is she still breathing?”

My younger cousin and I kneeled next to our grandmother as she laid on the couch, and suddenly it seemed that all the blood in my body was rushing to my head. My vision fogged and my breathing quickened. I hesitated, caught between the answer I wished was true and the reality unfolding in front of me.

For months I couldn’t get the scene out of my head. The vision of her motionless beauty at rest played in my mind like a never-ending roll of film that I couldn’t escape. I replay every second of that day, agonizing over my choices, wondering if there was something — anything — I could have done differently. But she had passed suddenly; peacefully. The burden of being the one on the phone calling for help with her life in my trembling hands is something I continue to struggle with, a mental weight that sometimes feels impossible to lift.

A year and a half later I find myself standing on a stage, staring at the curtain in front of me, and shaking with jitters. My lines fly through my head; the pit in my stomach grows deeper and deeper. I’ve had big roles like this before, I reassure myself, but every time I take the stage it feels like starting over. The rush never goes away. As the curtains part, I gaze into the audience, searching for someone I know couldn’t possibly be looking back at me. I imagine her like the last time I saw her, her pale face matched with a chipped layer of dull red lipstick. The lights go up and I recall my lines once more. I take a deep breath, and as I close my eyes as Addy, I open them as “Alice”. I momentarily forget about my grandmother and immerse myself in the world of the 1920s.

Throughout my life, performing has offered me a creative outlet for all my emotions, as I feel them in full. By playing different characters, I develop a deeper understanding of human connection and relationships. I always deep dive into every scene I’m given, asking questions such as “What would my character be thinking?” and “How would they react to this situation?” I investigate different interactions by placing myself in the character’s shoes and viewing many perspectives, and this lesson I take with me in my day-to-day life.

Sometimes I feel like I’m just an actor attempting to give my best performance every day.

I perform for myself — because it’s what I love to do — but I also perform for others. I want to do well and I never want to disappoint the audience. Hearing the crashing applause after a bow is a feeling nothing in life could replicate. I have tried all formats of performance: musicals, plays, choir, improv, dance recitals, and even sang for a few bands. One thing remains the same, the nerves never go away. After frantically locating all possible exits from the theater, I force myself to let go and let the music infiltrate my thoughts.

Here I am, once again, standing downstage center waiting for the bright world of theater to take me away. The curtains part ways and suddenly all the eyes are on me. I perform my routine of scanning for my grandmother, my biggest fan, knowing she’s watching me lovingly from an empty seat. The familiar feeling of dread creeps up on me, but I fight it. This time I do not see her lifeless on the couch. This time I see her gazing back at me, her beautiful face glowing as she waits in anticipation for the show to start. The lights come up and once again, for two hours, I leave Addy behind.

I Wander, Elva Hu

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Guiding Mountain Charlie Raser

Not much can be seen through the density of the Jungle.

That is, if the time to look can even be found.

Trudging through an endless thicket.

More mosquitos than one can bear, raises the question, is there not one creature here without malevolence?

In higher places, one thing can be seen from the Jungle.

However faint, far off, the silhouette of a mighty mountain lingers.

Its ridges blended into the horizon, shrouded by a fog just as mighty.

Its image blurred, yet its presence pronounced.

I wonder.

When the hour comes I reach its base, Will I still feel so inclined, to climb it?

Its grueling steeps,

Its rugged slopes ever daunting.

Will I want to climb it then?

My legs ache,

My skin itches.

But when I reach the top of the far off mountain,

Will my arms not ache instead?

Will my skin not then be cold?

Is the mountain as mighty as it seems?

What choice do I have,

but in the density of the Jungle, to revere it as such.

Elva Hu, Untitled, Painting

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Reflection Of Love

Veronica Jiang

Once again. My words, like feathers, too light To leave a trace in his heart. These closed eyes Cover the contempt inside his wry sight.

What’s the reality under his guise?

With godly robe, the rosy lips open, revealing the unsurprising result.

Does he know the feeling of heartbroken?

Trigger by anger, I shout an insult.

Peaceful smile as always, he ignores her curse. Boring. He thinks, just like her smug love.

Gently pick up the floating leaf that blurs His face, his reflection reaches above.

Leaning to embrace his own hollow skin, His wild obsession kept deeply within.

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Jayda Wang, Photography

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Grace Chen, Kent CT, Photo

Acknowledgements

Thank you to everyone who made this magazine possible.

Special gratitude to Joseph McDonough, our teacher advisor for your patience and support. Thank you to the students who submitted their beautiful pieces and the teachers in the English and Art departments who encouraged them to.

Finally, thank you, reader, for spending time with your nose burrowed in our magazine!

The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedicated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of 520 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymously, are selected by an editorial board of students.

This edition was made using Adobe InDesign. Allied Printing of Manchester, CT prints and binds the magazine. The electricity used to manufacture the print of the magazine is generated from a 700kW onsite fuel cell, wind and solar power.

Front and back cover: Mari Summers, photography