Le Papillon - Edition Four: Timeless

TIMELESS

JANUARY

COVER ART BY ASTER MONEYBENOIT

EDITION NUMBER

04

|

2025

EDITORS NOTE Dear reader, In a world which is continuously evolving and changing, there is comfort to be found in the things that remain constant—the things that are timeless. The ideas, moments, and works that can transcend eras are those that capture the essence of the human experience. They resonate across generations, countries, religions, and beliefs, creating unity within the human race.

When thinking of timelessness, you might think of the classic works of Jane Austen and William Shakespeare, or Leonardo da Vinci and Vincent van Gogh—all of whom have helped to shape the world of literature and art. But there are also works shaping the present—contemporary voices, who will continue molding humanity's most creative fields through their words and their art.

In this issue, writers and artists explore universal timeless themes such as fashion, history, love, and identity. The goal of this edition is that with every page you turn, you can appreciate the small moments in life that are often overlooked. The only thing truly ever lost is time.

Le Papillon’s Editor-in-Chief, Chelsea Jenkins

“ART PERSISTS, IT TIMELESSLY CONTINUES” - OSCAR WILDE

CONTENTS A LONELY RIVER

ADDISON WHITE

LOVE IS TIMELESS

LOGAN LEHMAN

TIMELESS AS US

ANONYMOUS

MAKE ME ETERNAL

AREEBAH ESHAL

HOLD

SOPHIE BRUTON

THE HOUR THEY LEFT

DOMINA LUNAEA

GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING

SOPHIE BRUTON

HOPE ESPOIR

ANONYMOUS INCONNU

UNTITLED

LOUISE-BLAISE RENIVA

OF SPRINGS PAST

XYZA YUTING

SNOW STOP

CIRSTEN AYOTTE

TIMELESS TEA

AVA SKILLING

AUTUMN FOG

BROOKE HENDERSON

CLASSIC

CADENCE MILLER

THE TIME LOOP HAT

SHAYLA KING

FROM STORMS TO SUNSHINE

K. ERLER

I’M STILL STANDING

ANONYMOUS

THE GAMEMASTER

ANONYMOUS

IF TIME WAS LIKE WATER

LOGAN LEHMAN

TIC TAC TIC TAC

ANONYMOUS

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A Lonely River The artwork captures timeless beauty and emotion that everyone can relate to. Its classic themes remind us of shared experiences; capturing scenery that connects us all.

By Addison White

7

BY

In forests, things move constantly, The riverbanks bend and become strange, The trees grow and melt away, It never stays the same.

“The sky is always blue,” but that’s a saying I never get, The greys, yellows, pinks, and reds light up the sky, At sunrise and sunset.

The cityscape changes, The landscape rolls, Beliefs are ever changing And death takes its toll.

But one thing has always been, and will forever be, That love is endless, timeless, and sacred, it’s always you and me.

ESS EL

AN LEH G M LO

AN

LOVE

T I M IS

Love flows like a river, Bends like a tree, Lights up your life like fireworks, But can sting like a bee.

In moments of happiness, Joy and peace, Moments of grief and doubt, Of truth and belief.

In moments of light, And darkness too, Love is always present, Looking after you.

No matter what you think, What you care to believe, Love is the one thing, That unites humanity.

8

M E I LE T Winding trails I never thought I'd find someone so similar and yet so different to myself. Yin and Yang we were. In the dark you were a soft incandescent glow and I was your landmark amongst the endless wilderness. We unified each other and I never wanted to be incomplete again.

US MO NY

Sanguine like a dream We met when we were young. Still wide-eyed and curious. Every buzz, every creak, every snap of a branch was a wonder. You made me smile when I felt lost; I was your compass when you felt imperfect. We were inseparable, you and I.

AS US SS

BY AN O

A fork in the road As time wore on our feet grew. You grew lean chasing dreams, birds, and everything you could see. I found strength delving into the realm of thought and wonder of every moss, tree and soil. One day you went to explore, leaving only a promise behind. I held onto that promise as I stayed the course, remaining your beacon for when you returned. You always returned and I always sought you out.

All roads lead to home As I tread through the hedges and push through the leaves, I see you. You've acquired new scratches and scars from your journey to discover and I have new memories from my endless days of searching. We're different now then what we once were I suppose, but you and me darling we're thick as thieves and nothing is as timeless as that.

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I want to be eternal.

Immortal Infinite I want to breathe far past my last breath.

I want my skin to rot into the ground, Let it fertilize the daisies that will grow over top my grave. Give me no tombstone, not a word, for you cannot sum a lifetime into a slate.

I am not just a loving wife nor a devoted daughter.

I am no hero, no martyr.

So let my bones be feasted on by bugs and be dug up by the children of the child.

Let them put me in a glass case for people to stare.

And I will not weep, For I am no hero, I am not a martyr, I am no somber daughter of a daughter. And let my soul perish, For to be eternal by human standards is worst of all.

So let me die as an idea Let them be unknown to who I was.

Let them try and fail to decipher my life, May the world remember me as hope, As perfection.

I want to be eternal like a saint.

Not like a person.

Don’t let them find my soul, Don’t let them immortalize it before I do.

Oh, children of the child!

I am not your somber daughter of a daughter.

I am not your martyr, or hero or loving mother. I am not your devoted daughter. Do not display my human, But my mangled bones.

Let me be mystery, Let me die as a question.

Immortalize me as a child’s young curiosity.

Not as a person.

10

Growing old and holding on to what you care about most is timeless and necessary. The journey feels long, but do not forget the pieces that make you who you are.

11

T h e

H o u r IT WAS THE FUTURE, THE CRACKS STRETCHED WIDE WITH FRIENDS DRIFTED AWAY, ONE

THE CLOCK'S D AND I ASK MYSELF, WAS I EVER ENOUGH? AT HOME, THE TICKING

UNTIL THE HANDS STOPPED, THE GLASS A CLOCK AND I ASK MYSELF, COULD I HAVE SAVED IT?

TIMELESS, THEY SAY, N BUT IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN

FRIENDSHIP FADES, FAMILIES BREAK, AND I’M LEFT HOLDING THE

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T h e y

L e f t

TICKING CLOSER, EVERY CHIME OF THE HOUR.

BY ONE,

DRIFT WORSENING.

A SINGLE GEAR GRINDING DOWN. SHATTERED— THAT COULD NO LONGER HOLD TIME.

A LIE.

PIECES OF A SHATTERED CLOCK. AND I ASK MYSELF, HOW DO I MOVE ON?

domina lunaea

NEVER CHANGING,

Domina Lunae

GREW LOUDER,

13

Girl With A Pearl Earr BY SOPHIE BRUTON

14

l

ring 15

HOPE

By Anonymous

The situations repeat themselves endlessly.

Two brothers speak under the stars, their voices are full of sparks and their eyes full of dreams, they see beyond the sky and through time, hope dancing between their words, the sand is irregular under their bodies and the gusts, salty, makes them feel alive.

Elsewhere, two sisters speak under the bombs, their voices are full of fire and their eyes full of nightmares, mud and soot decorate their bodies, they see beyond the smoke and through time, hope runs through their prayers, the burst of the fire and the rips in the sky make them feel alive.

Before, two lovers sing by the fire, their alcoholic breath repels mosquitoes and their laughter is filled with childhood, they see beyond words and through time, hope vibrates through their eyes, their hands seek their bodies, the crackling of embers and the cricket in the grass make them feel alive.

Afterwards, the elder looks at the world from atop a tower, speechless and his eyes overflowing with memories, he sees the essential and through time, hope holds his hand, his body vibrates with the blowing wind and the sparkling lights of the cities make him feel alive, he remembers all its stories as unique, as universal, as sudden than timeless.

16

ESPOIR Par Inconnu

Les situations se répètent sans fin.

Deux frères parlent sous les étoiles, voix sont pleines d’étincelles et les yeux remplis de rêves, ils voient au delà du ciel et à travers le temps, l’espoir dansant entre leur mots, le sable est irrégulier sous leur corps et les bourrasques salées les font sentir vivant.

Ailleurs deux sœurs parlent sous les bombes, leurs voix sont pleines d’incendie et leurs yeux remplis de cauchemar, la terre et la suie décore leur corp, elles voient au delà de la fumée et à travers le temps, l’espoir court à travers leur prières, les crachats de feu et les fissures dans le ciel les font se sentir vivantes.

Avant, deux amants chantent au bord du feu, leur haleines alcoolisées repoussent les moustiques et leur rires sont remplis d’enfance, ils voient au delà des paroles et à travers le temps, l’espoir vibre à travers leurs regards, leurs mains cherchent leurs corps, les craquement des braises et le criquet au loin les font se sentir vivant.

Après, l’ancien regarde le monde depuis une tour, sans voix et les yeux débordant de souvenirs, il voit l’essentiel et à travers le temps, l’espoir lui tient la main, son corp qui vibre au vent soufflant et les lumières de la villes qui scintillent le font se sentir vivant, il se rappelle de toutes ses histoires aussi uniques, qu’universelles, aussi subites qu’imperissables.

17

Untitled Louise-Blaise Reniva

Every moment with you has felt so painfully fleeting.

Akin to snowflakes that land on my skin, I attempt to fit everything about you—your eyes, your breath, your skin— into one moment, but as soon as I think I've done so, the chance passes.

The simple thought of you ignites within a greed so consuming that I ought to step into the door of the divine and demand time without bargain.

Oh, the things I would do if time surrendered to me, to us.

I would undress every layer of my body, give my soul to you as if it was your right from the day you were born.

The act of loving you is a process so constant that it is as if everything in this world, even time itself, feels like an interruption.

18

oF

Springs

Past

The cold paints the night in deep blue growing richer with the depths of winter; barren branches taunt the absence of sun And twinkling with snowfall, the angels sink in my palm– but let the season pass!

Return the hush and silk of rain to me; Have those silvers of home descend on soil Who give rise to stems and crown them; blanketing fields again with the youth We can only remember

Xyza Yuting

delight me with a walk into that memory when the photos grow too faint for the past is not kind enough To delight us with a visit

19

SnowStop T

his art piece I've created is related to the theme of Timeless in many aspects. This art piece is designed to show the emotion that I feel when out in a snowy forest. Nothing but the cold awareness of myself and the light glow of electronics. Time feels slow, It's peaceful and quiet.

A minute can feel like hours when you just watch the snow fall. I find peace within it and get lost inside the feeling. Time feels meaningless when you can enjoy the soft glow of a light, as you avoid modern society by simply relaxing in the cold winter frost.

CIRSTEN AYOTTE

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Tim

a te

s s e l e

T

he Victorian tea cup represents a moment in history– an era of status and refinement, captured by the delicate porcelain cup and saucer. It is still used and appreciated by tea enthusiasts and collectors who appreciate its timeless beauty AVA SKILLING 21

Autumn Fog

BROOKE HENDERSON

On a foggy, autumn night, a chilly breeze startles Jessica. She had justt previously left her house to go on a walk to clear her mind. Jessica stumbled upon a path that led to a couple of branched trees with no leaves. She hears a noise. Jessica turns around and sees....... Nothing, She decides to stay on that little path. She looks at the fog until she remembers why she went on this walk in the first place. She stares until she remembers. Right, she went on a walk to clear her mind.

WHAM. Jessica jumped, she saw a branch fall from a broken bird watching stand.. The stand was halfway up the tree, it looked like t was rusted from the weather conditions. She noticed a puddle and some garbage.

"Why did I even come here?" Jessica had asked herself multiple times. Her mind was not clear. Jessica started to climb up the tree to get on the stand, once she got there...... She felt peace. She felt like her mind had been cleared, until one of the wood planks she was standing on fell out from underneath her feet.

22

Autumn Fog

BROOKE HENDERSON

She holds on to the tree. A hand suddenly grabs onto her foot, she screams, again and again. She looked down and nobody was there.

Her mind is not clear.

Jessica keeps saying that exact same sentence over and over again. She heard a loud bang, or did she actually? She can't really tell. All she can hear is the voice in her head talking.

Her mind is not clear.

Jessica decides to go home. She has had enough of this eerie feeling. She starts walking until she realizes she doesn’t know which way to go. The foggy sky is taking over, and she doesn’t know which way is home. She can't even remember if she has a home. She feels pain, she can’t remember what happened. But she knows that this awful feeling is painful All of a sudden, none of her senses worked. Her hearing, taste, smell, none of it is how they normally would be….

She wakes up and is back in her warm bed. What had all just happened? Jessica doesn't know. Was it real or fake? Was the foggy autumn night really real?

Was it all just a dream? Her mind could not process all these emotions.In the end, her mind was never really clear.

23

CLASSIC CADENCE MILLER

“

When I think timeless, I think fashion. Specifically, Dior's New Look with

Something about the style transcends time too. .

voluminous skirts and offthe-shoulder collars.

“

It's elegant and refined; and if you chose to wear it, you'd be just as sophisticated today as you would have been 70 years ago

This piece was inspired by fashion sketches of the 1950s.

24

The

Time Loop Hat

-Shayla King

A wearable piece of art made from recycled materials. A reflection of industry, games, and fashion from the ages. Made by a young woman with an old soul and a creative spirit.

25

From Storms

Sunshine

to

K. Erler

The storm had passed by the time I had arrived at the river. A few people had already returned to the beach on the sand bar when I sat down to take off my shoes, happy to wade along the cool river on a hot day. The riverbed was rocky under my tender feet. I noticed a pale smooth cream patch under the water and tentatively slid my foot over it. Ahhh, silky soft clay. It felt luxurious as I added my second foot to the creamy slick, but trying to stand on wet packed clay in a river was like trying to stand on a surfboard in a hurricane. I quickly began sliding downstream with billowing clouds of silty clay floating up around my feet. Fortunately, the patch was small so I didn’t get far before regaining my grip.

I continued to meander up the river, leisurely enjoying the heat of the day and the beautiful surroundings. Sun, rocks, waterfalls, sand, and cliffs. I pondered how this place had been here forever, rich with human and natural history. I wandered past a lump of dark clay lying in the current (it must have tumbled down from the cliff across the river in the storm). I scooped it up and turned it in my hands. It had beautiful striations of slightly different grey coloured clays, undoubtedly laid down through thousands of storms. Tiny particles swept downstream in a timeless cycle of storm and sunshine. Where had these layers come from? How far had they traveled? How long have they laid here, compressed by the years? Awestruck by the thought of holding so many years– so many places in the palm of my hand, I felt compelled to move the clay into a form on my pottery wheel at home. I wanted to preserve it, create an ode to its timeless nature.

Immortalize its transformations over time, from the river, the storms, and the sun. Thus it fell into my pocket, and I continued my and its journey.

26

Eventually, the clay and I made it home into my little garage studio where I cleaned out the bits of sand and gravel, and marveled even more at its beauty. Its age and timelessness.

I plunked the silky grey lumps onto my wheel and spun two pieces into tiny little tea cups. How sweet it would be to sip from the earth! The dark grey dried to light grey, and then emerged from the hot belly of the kiln as a warm, soft brown. Clearly, the dark clay was rich in iron which now showed in its rusty hue.

In order to drink out of the tea cups, I would have to glaze the cups and fire them again, at an even hotter temperature than before….1200oc to be exact. Yet clay found in the wild is anything but exact; it’s a bit of guesswork. So I guessed, and into the fire they went. A glaze kiln needs 24 hours to heat and cool before its surprises can be revealed. The anticipation of opening the lid similar to a Christmas morning…what joyful surprises will be found? But on this day, there was no joy. To my horror, I opened the lid to find two large molten puddles entrapping my various creations on the kiln shelf. In fact, fusing mugs and bowls to the shelf itself! What happened? Slowly, I realized the fate of the two little tea cups. 1200oC was more than a wee bit too hot for them, and they returned to their original state– a molten mass of iron and silica particles born from deep within the earth. The timeless, original state of the clay winning out over my desire to preserve and savor the weight of thousands of years of storms and sunshine.

In my melancholy I picked through the remains of the kiln contents, cutting my fingers on the glassy shards. Blood stained the molten, iron like substance. Carefully, I removed a black mug from the grips of the now solid mass. Fused into the glossy black was an almost honeycomb-like texture of the melted river clay– interesting. Has it left me a gift? I plugged in the Dremel tool, whisked away the sharp edges, and to my surprise and delight, I found a usable mug with a protective coat of iron armour cast around its base. Though transformed, the river clay had remained timeless, still leaving me with a little gift, and a sweet cup for tea.

27

ANONYMOUS

“

“

I believed I could illustrate the timeless character of nature compared to human creations. Given climate change and the poor choices the world has made and continues to make, I believe it's a really significant topic these days.

28

29

the

Gamemaster 263 days. 263 days that we’ve been stuck in this mess. I can't remember who I am or why I am here, nobody can. All I know is that I have to survive his evil games, his games of life or death. The TV flickers: it’s him, the ‘Gamemaster’.

He’s the one that keeps us here, he’s the one who makes us play these death games. All the other contestants and I ran to the TV to see what death games he has planned for us next.

“Hello contestants, long time no see! I’m surprised you’ve all made it this far, luckily we have another game to play!” The crowd sighs, we’re all exhausted.

We’ve been doing this too long, we’ve been here too long. But we all know that he will keep playing these games till there's only one person left. There is only one prize, something they took away from us. Our memory.

The T.V. flickers again.

“Don’t whine! We’ll get started soon. In fact, let's start right now! We’ll play hide and seek, simple enough! I assume you all know how this game works. I will give you 2 minutes to hide and if I, and by “I” I mean my henchman, find you, you get eliminated. If you aren’t hidden by the end of the 2 minutes, you will also be eliminated! The last one to be found will win the grand prize, good luck!”

The TV turns dark, a timer appears on the screen. We all scramble to find hiding spots. 2 minutes may sound like a lot of time to hide but this place is huge! I run, I don’t stop running till I find a spot. I am running so fast, that I keep tripping over my feet. I can’t lose this, I need to know who I am. I can’t die without knowing my true identity.

“20.. 19.. 18..”

It’s the timer. I scramble to find a spot. I find a box, yes it's obvious but if I don’t find a spot it will be guaranteed death. I go under the box and cover my mouth to slow down my breathing.

“3..2..1..”.

Everything went quiet. 1 gunshot goes off, nothing. Then another, and another, until I hear footsteps. They are right next to me. I hold my breath hoping, praying that the gun doesn’t go off. A BANG and the bullet hits my leg. I hold my breath trying not to scream, it hurts so bad.

“Clear,” the man says. He didn’t find me. HE DIDN’T FIND ME! “Times up!” The Gamemaster says. I get out of my box and stumble my way over to the TV. “I see you’re the only one left! Congratulations, you win! As I promised, your prize.”

“I win, I WIN” I say, then everything goes black.

30

Beep, beep, beep.

“He’s waking up, get a doctor!” says a female voice. I wake up, and I'm in a hospital bed.

“What happened?” I ask the nurse right next to my bed.

“You got in a plane crash and ended up in a coma, do you remember?”.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back to me. I remember, I know who I am.

“Yes,” I say to the nurse, “I do, But I have a question.”

“Of course,” says the nurse.

“What happened to the other passengers?” I ask.

“Right, you were the only survivor.”

Maybe it was just a weird coincidence that they were all in that game with me. But I had to know, how long I was in a coma. I look around, I see a calendar. Day 263. I’ve been in a coma for 263 days. I try to brush it off again as a strange coincidence, but I can’t shake the feeling that it was all real. I get up to turn on the TV, I need to know.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t get up, you might-” The nurse stops in the middle of her sentence. My leg.. is gone. The lights and TV start flickering.

“You win.” The TV says in a distorted voice. The nurse is shocked by what’s happening, I am too. Suddenly, everything went back to normal.

“That was… unusual,” says the nurse.

Knock knock, the door gently opens and the doctor walks in.

“Hello Mr. Rodriguez, we’re just going to perform some check ups. Don’t worry, we’ve informed your wife and kids that you’ve woken up. They should be arriving soon.”

I can’t believe what I'm seeing.

It’s him.

The Gamemaster.

31

If time was like water, It would

Drip Drip Drip

Out of thunderous clouds, and onto your face, It would flow through your body, Through your brain, In a never ending cycle of normalcy.

Just like everyone else.

You'd need it, You'd crave it, You'd want it to desperately return, to fill you, to complete you, Save you from life's constant headache.

If time was like water, You would be born with it, You'd need more as you get older, But you will never have enough.

If we knew how much was left, We would ration, Fear, Prepare for the worst, In case we ever run out.

If time was like water, We would need it to survive, But it would have different effects on everyone, Everyone would have different experiences with it.

was Like

if Time

Water

Maybe time is like water.

LOGAN LEHMAN

32

t c i c a t t C

c a

English version:

Tictac, tictac, hurry up, time passes, I'm running out of breath, my steps tread the pavement, the snow splashes, the grass crushes, the leaves slide. Always late for! Damn, I missed the bus… How long does it take to cook? What time is it?

I don't have time.

The hands turn, I hurry, I check the watch, I manage the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Time, my companion, my mentor, my enemy.

I am told to cherish it, to take care of it, not to waste it, that it slips away, that it passes quickly, that its value is inestimable. It is omnipresent, in the corner of my head, my own obsession.

This concept is relative and yet it reigns over my world, over my days, my years, my thoughts. We constantly compare it to money, it has a value that can be spent, but if money separates us and stupefies us, wouldn't time do it too?

My quest is to forget it, to forget these thoughts which tell me that I should run instead of walk, that the dates go by too quickly or too slowly. I am constantly looking for these moments of peace, where time disappears, where the moment seems to freeze and I can finally breathe. When I finally see the beauty of things, or my mind is calm or I feel good, peaceful; like a river that never stops flowing, calmer than the leaves that swirl in autumn.

And in these moments I imagine it, time. I want to tell it to leave me alone, to fly in this soap bubble, which never bursts, timeless. I imagine him, time, as a person; a man, tall, linear, fine, with a porcelain skin, well-groomed black hair and an English mustache. He looks great, in a suit completely tailored to his size, black streaked with white lines. He would be standing straight under a street lamp, illuminated by a warm yellow light, it would be snowing. The snow flakes almost miraculously would not settle on his clothes, avoiding his body and dancing around his thin frame. His face would be neutral but serious, not a smile, not a frown, not a shiver from the cold. I will approach slowly, afraid and curious about this invention of my mind, but which makes sense, logical. I ask him a simple question.

How can I forget you?

34

T I

ac tict a Ct

TI

French version

Tictac, Tictac, presse-toi, le temps passe, je m'essouffle, mes pas foulent le pavé, la neige éclabousse, l’herbe s'écrase, les feuilles glissent.

Toujours en retard celle là ! Mince, j’ai raté le bus… Combien de temps de cuisson ? Il est quelle heure ?

J’ai pas le temps.

Les aiguilles tournent, je presse le pas, je guette la montre, je gère les heures, les minutes, les secondes.

Le temps, mon compagnon, mon mentor, mon ennemi.

On me dit de le chérir, d’en prendre soin, de ne pas le gaspiller, qu’il file, qu’il passe vite, que sa valeur est inestimable. Il est omniprésent, dans le coin de ma tête, ma propre obsession.

Ce concept est relatif et pourtant il règne sur mon monde, sur mes journées, mes années, mes pensées. On le compare constamment à l'argent, a une valeur qui se dépense, mais si l‘argent nous sépare et nous abrutit, le temps ne le ferait-il pas aussi ?

Ma quête c’est de l’oublier, de les oublier ses pensées qui me disent que je devrais courir a la place de marcher, que les dates défilent trop vite ou trop lentement. Moi je pars constamment en quête de ces moments de paix, ou le temps disparaît, ou l’instant semble se figer et que je me sens enfin respirer. Ou je vois enfin la beauté des choses, ou mon esprit est calme ou je me sens bien, apaisée comme rivière qui ne cesse de couler, plus calme que les feuilles qui tourbillonnent en automne.

Et dans ces moments-là je l’imagine, le temps, j'ai envie de lui dire de me laisser tranquille, de voler dans cette bulle de savon, qui ne s'éclate jamais, intemporelle. Je l’imagine, le temps, comme une personne, un homme, grand, linaire, fin, un teint de porcelaine, des cheveux noir bien coiffee et avec une moustache anglaise. Il tire a quatre epingle, dans un costume totalement a sa taille, noir zebree de lignes blanches. Il se tiendrait droit en dessous d’un lampadaire, illuminée d’une lumiére jaune, chaude, il neigerait. Les flocons presque miraculeusement ne se déposaient pas sur ses vêtements, évitant son corps et dansant autour.

Son visage serait neutre mais sérieux, pas un sourire, pas un froncement de sourcil, pas un frisson à cause du froid. Je m’approcherai doucement, apeurée et curieuse de cette invention de mon esprit, mais qui fait sens, logique. Je lui pose une question, simple.

Comment puis-je t'oublier ?

35

c

The Team

Executives Editor-In-Chief

Chelsea Jenkins

Head of Design

Louise-Blaise Reniva

Co-Head of Design

Sophie Bruton

Head of Public Relations

Matthew Lynn

Editorial Team Leader

Sam Wilson

Staff Facilitator

Leo Lottering

Managing Editor

Logan Lehman

Teams Editorial Team

Darcy Scott Estelle Hathaway Logan Lehman

Design Team

Archy Mishra Matthew Lynn

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January 2025

LE PAPILLON MAGAZINE Edition 4: Timeless