reality. plaid magazine vol. 54 2011
plaid reality. vol. 54 2011 winchester thurston school
“Everything you can imagine is real.” –Pablo Picasso No one experiences reality in the same way. The way we experience the world around us is based on our own thoughts, ideas, and imaginings. Art is how we take these personal realities– this combination of the real and the imagined– and turn them into something concrete. plaid reality aims to take the artistic visions of each of us and express them as something real.
table of contents.
4 Imagination by Madeline Dressen 24 The Piano Room by Maya Muenzer 36 The War Against Plumbing by Penelope Smith 42 No Manmade Light by Themba Searles 50 Boshi by Nathan Siegel 53 Wooden Deck by Jess Block 57 Chatting with the Artist: Interview with Blaine Siegel by Melissa Rostek 62 Diver by Drea Ortiz +XPDQ&RQĂ LFWLQWKH=RPELH$SRFDO\SVHE\%HQ*UDQGLV 3OD\LQJ*RGE\0HOLVVD5RVWHN 77 Master Wei by Charles Lehman 78 Returned by Alli Kunkle
Rush by Elizabeth Friedman 7 1RW*RGE\6DP5XVVHOO Who Is Her Kind? by Alli Kunkle 10 %HDXW\E\$OH[=XNRII Nice Car by Jess Block 15 Not to Be Confused by DeVaughn Robinson 16 7KH8OWLPDWH3HDFHE\=RH=LVVX The Watergun Fight by Antonia Dâ€™Emilio 20 WYEPâ€™s Wednesday Evening Mix with Tania by Jess Block 27 Beach Chair Poetry by Jess Block 28 0\%URWKHUWKH$UWLVWDW6HYHQWHHQE\'DLV\=KX All Ages by Brendan Agnew 32 6XUHO\1DWXUH0HDQG<RX E\$OH[=XNRII Rabbit/Death by Ramsey Daniels 38 5HYHOE\$OH[=XNRII Extended Day by Ramsey Daniels 41 6RPH3HRSOH7HOO0HÂ´*HWD/LIHÂľE\$UL6FKXPDQ An Actor Remembers Lincoln by Charles Lehman 46 5HĂ HFWLQJ8SRQ'LVDVWHUE\6DPDQWKD:DQNR *OREVRIWKH8QLYHUVHE\%HQ*UDQGLV *XOOLYHUÂˇV7UDYHOVSWE\$UL6FKXPDQ +RZ7R6WDONLQD0DWLVVH*DOOHU\E\-HVV%ORFN Hermit Crab by Lisa Fierstein 68 6QRZ$QJHOE\*UDFH+DPLOWRQ9DUJR Music by Rina Petek 72 2FWREHU&DPSĂ€UHVE\0HOLVVD5RVWHN
photography. Swirling Light by Camille Petricola 5 6XQÁRZHUE\&DPLOOH3HWULFROD Gate by Lisa Fierstein 9 Women by Camille Petricola 10 Inside Flower by Josh Loevner 13 Beads of Light by Benjamin Chait 14 Lily by Aaren Barge 19 0LFURSKRQHE\0LFKDHO&XUU\
1 Marbilized Paper by Lisa Fierstein 2 Fantasy Drawings by Tori Hirata 17 Skeleton by Josh Loevner 20 Watergun Photograms by Melissa Rostek 22 Designs by Carly Heywood 22 Designs by Tori Hirata 24 Flower by Blake Uretsky 25 Spoon Bracelet by Tori Hirata 25 Piano by Lisa Fierstein *UDIÀWLE\%ODNH8UHWVN\ 34 Mosaic by Melissa Rostek 39 Dotted Pot by Blake Uretsky 45 Portrait by Josh Loevner 54 Mask Collage by Alli Kunkle 58 Woman by Carly Heywood 0DWLVVH&XWRXWE\/LVD)LHUVWHLQ 71 Charcoal Woman by Josh Loevner
Rowboat by Kaila Yallum 29 Honey Bee by Josh Loevnver 31 Faucet by Lisa Fierstein 37 Bright Light by Benjamin Chait 40 Firework by Rick Thompson 43 Actor by Ari Schuman 47 In Rememberance by Aaren Barge 48 Paper Cranes by Lisa Fierstein 51 Lantern by Ally Bartlett 52 7KH(QVXLQJ$IWHUE\/LVD)LHUVWHLQ 'LYLQJ3HQJXLQE\$OO\%DUWOHWW +RUURU0RYLH7UHHVE\%HQMDPLQ&KDLW +RUURU0RYLH:RPDQE\%HQMDPLQ&KDLW 3RODURLG3KRWRVE\1RDK9LWR &UDEE\5LFN7KRPSVRQ Drummer by Elizabeth Friedman 73 Wood and Newspaper After a Fire by Aaren Barge 74 0RQNH\E\$UL6FKXPDQ Returning Boy by Camille Petricola 79
I MAGINATI ON by Madeline Dressen
What if it was possible to expand upon reality in a forcefully exclusive atmosphere, limiting the unrealistic behaviors that want our thoughts to run wild? What if as we aged we were able to explore the undeveloped nature of our beings, like children with imaginary friends who they can only seeâ€“ exploring ideas that one would not think possible, except the few? What if we were able to go above normality and force us, the human race, to visualize animals in clouds, frogs doing yoga, or like many young children, makebelieve characters perhaps by the name Bob? The difference between realistic and unrealistic, learning and developing, seeing and believing, are what disable us from growth in our imagination. Not learning, but beginning to imagine developing a new intellectual capacity, which will allow one to exceed the basics, and explore the obscurities through creativity.
Digital Photo by Camille Petricola
Digital Photo by Camille Petricola
by Elizabeth Friedman
It came in a wave, like the icy cold saltwater of a splash in July greeted by the burning hot sand, the warm sea breezes, and the love and relaxation that I pack up, take to the beach house, and bask in for two effortless weeks. Thatâ€™s how I recognized it, the rush of nostalgia that overcame me the day that I dragged my emotional suitcase through the long corridors, paint-splattered art rooms, and memories of good times passed.
Not God E\6DP5XVVHOO I looked up and down at your arms. ,WULHGÃ€QGLQJVRPHZD\WRH[SUHVV 7KHIHHOLQJV,IHHODQGKDYHQHYHUIHOWEHIRUH 7KHUHZHUHDWWDFNVDOORYHU 6RPHGUDJRQKDGEUHDWKHGLWVÃ€HU\EUHDWKWKHUH <RXUGRJZHQWDOLWWOHZLOG ,WULHGWRÃ€QGQHZUHDVRQVWRH[SODLQLWDOO :LWKLQWKHVSOLWVHFRQGEHWZHHQUHYHDODQGH[SODQDWLRQ Â´,EXUQP\VHOIDQG,GRQÂ·WNQRZKRZWRVWRSÂµ 6RPHWKLQJQHZVZHOOHGLQVLGHPH 7KLVZDVQRRXWVLGHDQWDJRQLVW The woman had affected the woman. ,WULHGWRKHOSDVEHVW,FRXOG 7KDQN\RXIRUJHWWLQJKHOS
Her kind goes into the woods to seek peace, <HWÃ€QGVWKDWSHDFHGRHVQRWOLQJHUWKHUH 6KHORRNVIRUUHGHPSWLRQ <HWWKHWRUPHQWGRHVQRWFHDVHÂ² 7HUURUKRUURUDQGSDLQÃ€OOWKHDLU 6KHLVOHIWEHKLQGDQRXWFDVWVKHOLYHVDORQH :KRLVVKHWRVD\WKDWKHOOLVQÂ·WUHDO"
Her kind is a headache and a stomachache and a heartache. Her kind faces a never-ending winter. +HUNLQGLVNLFNHGDQGKLWDQGIRUFHGWRKHUNQHHVRQWKHKDUGVWRQHĂ RRU Her kind uses her sewing thread time and time again to stitch her scars. Her kind will always put the needs of others above those of her own. Her kind faces a battle. +HUNLQGZRQGHUVZKHQZLOOWKHFHDVHĂ€UHFRPH" I have been her kind. We have been her kind.
Beauty by Alex Zukoff
Beauty is ÀQGLQJVHUHQLW\ LQVLPSOLFLW\ OLNHPRPHQWV WLPHÁHHWLQJ H\HVORFNHG OLSVPDWFKHG ,ÀQG P\ZRUULHV WHQGWR VOLSDZD\ HDVLO\ZLWK XQDEUD]R XQEHVR XQRPiV Á\LQJWULS VPLOHVK\ NLVVFRQÀGHQW ÀQGEHDXW\ LQORYH
Digital Photo by Josh Loevner
Digital Photo by Benjamin Chait
Nice Car by Jess Block
Yelling nice car to the beat-up BMW while stranded at the coffeeshop chain smoking cigarettes and getting the date in May wrong. Balancing on one leg while staring at street signs. Blind Pedestrian Crossing. And pulling the hair away from a sweaty neck. Noticing the Venezuela t-shirt behind the city trash can. Deserted because suddenly Venezuela wasnâ€™t as appealing as it was when that shirt proudly advertised it across someoneâ€™s chest.
Not to Be Confused by DeVaughn Robinson
Donâ€™t confuse black with relationship Because we still lack the common sense And havenâ€™t made no sense. You think I donâ€™t need this, you really need to stop it %XW,ÂˇPVD\LQJSURĂ€W Ever see my pocket. Thatâ€™s real. Donâ€™t confuse yacht with slaveship â€œAw, why you got to be racist?â€? Prejudice. Because Iâ€™m in the midst of it They got Latino groups that kill blacks for the hell of it. Donâ€™t confuse the 9 to 5 with slavery Still goes on you see Youâ€™re in it, probably. Probability for living males is down Either we locked up Or gunned down. I would like these words to be profound, be heard, be trusted, and real. Donâ€™t confuse sports with foolery Thatâ€™s all the little kids wanna be We just looking for the fame today Live tomorrow because thereâ€™s no dreaming today. The little kids say â€œI wanna be in the NBA and my mom named me Lebron because she said I can jump too And thatâ€™s all Iâ€™m going to do and amount toâ€? Ima teach you all black perspective This should be a school elective. We have a long way to go, yes Be we shall not be Americaâ€™s guest We are the people We are next 5HPHPEHUVWD\Ă \VWD\IUHVK From the young Mos Def.
Drawing by Josh Loevner
The Ultimate Peace by ZoĂŤ Zissu
Solitude is only preparation )RUWKHĂ€QDOPRPHQWRIOLIH The most intense separation. We are the most alone No matter how hard we try to not be In this resolution Which emphasizes our singularity. :KHQZHUHDFKLWZHDUHJRQH /RVWIRUHYHURU (WHUQDOO\IRXQG :HDUHDOODFTXDLQWHGZLWKVROLGDULW\ :KHWKHULWEHKDXQWLQJRUJUDWLI\LQJ :HUHFRJQL]HLWE\LWVODFNRIFODULW\ :KHWKHUDVDIULHQGRUDVDIRH We well enough know We cannot in the least 5HPRYHWKHXOWLPDWHSHDFH
Digital Photo by Aaren Barge
Digital Photo by Aaren Barge
The Watergun Fight by Antonia Dâ€™Emilio
,WVWDUWHGRXWDVDZDWHUJXQĂ€JKW +DUPOHVVFKLOGLVKIXQ Jim was the slyest of the four, his ten-year-old boy bottom swiftly darting WKURXJKWKHIRUHVWWKDWLVWKH3UDWWÂˇVEDFN\DUG 6WHOODZDVWKHROGHVW She was just like her mother, Loud, bold, and in charge, demonstrating that personality while mercilessly blasting her sister and brothers with WKHFRROVXPPHUWUHDWRIK\GUDWLRQ At least, Lily treated it as such, as she opened her mouth wide, longing to quench her thirst that sheâ€™d worked up chasing Joe, little Joe, DURXQGWKH\DUG +HIHOO +HFULHG +HLPPHGLDWHO\EODPHGKLVEURWKHUDQGVLVWHUV I sat with him, kissing his bruised knees GU\LQJKLVDQJU\H\HVZLWKWKHEDFNRIP\GLUWVWDLQHGKDQG 6WHOODFDPHĂ€UVW her motherly instincts kicking in as she nursed Joeâ€™s emotions, DOOZKLOHFXUVLQJKHU\RXQJHUVLVWHU Jim, like a rabbit popping out of its hole, SRNHGKLVKHDGRXWIURPEHKLQGDWUHH
Photograms by Melissa Rostek
He slowly approached the crowd, kneeing in a grass patch next to the one the three of us sat on, looking at his baby brother with sympathetic eyes. Finally, Lily the culprit, the wrong-doer, the criminal, attempted to comfort her brother. “Joe, I’m sorry I pushed you,” she said as her voice grew soft, eyes planted to the grass, one toe behind her drawing summer doodles in the child-made mud. “It’s okay…” was the barely audible response from the victim. Hugging ensued, play resumed, and love went unsaid, but not unfelt $VWKHZDWHUJXQÀJKWFRQWLQXHG
Design by Tori Hirata
Design by Carly Heywood
Design by Tori Hirata
Design by Carly Heywood
The Piano Room
The shape of the room is perfect for this piano. The EDE\JUDQGÂˇÂˇÂˇĂ€WVWKHFXUYHVRIWKHVSDFHVHDPOHVVO\ ZLWKMXVWHQRXJKURRPIRUVOLPĂ€JXUHVWRPRYHEDFN The heavy sliding door retracts into the wall. An and forth around its body. A bust of Mozart sees and HFKRUHVRQDWHVDQGSLHUFHVDOOHDUVRQDOOĂ RRUV hears all that goes on near the piano: smiling, laughing, of the house when the weight of the door slams singing; doubting, crying, thinking. The music sounded against the solid wall. Moving from the entry- E\WKHLQVWUXPHQWUHĂ HFWVWKHFRQVFLRXVDQGXQFRQway to the living room, my feet can feel the chill scious thoughts and feelings of the musician. An anitile give way to warmer wood. The simultane- mated piece becomes tranquil. A livid piece becomes ous click-click of the push-in light switches cre- loving. An airy piece becomes heavy. The piano puts ates a dull orange glow. The glow permeates the all emotions on display, exhibiting them for listeners room from the far left corner, drawing my eye to critique. The space is acoustic; open and resonant, to the sleek brown instrument that sits there. the room is the epitome of household sound systems. by Maya Muenzer
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spin around at t choices and pre
WYEP’s Wednesday Evening Mix with Tania by Jess Block
the song etend to dance.
I wish I could listen to you on the radio, your voice coming in waves into my room, smiling while I fold my dirty shirts– because they don’t smell like smoke yet– spin around at the song choices and pretend to dance.
Digital Photo by Michael Curry
Beach Chair Poetry by Jess Block
By the sea, by the sea in the morning midday or afternoon, can’t uncap a pen or eliminate pronouns. Messing around with salt water words, hands holding hard onto commas and shell, beach, glass, beer, bottles, cut my feet. Hide behind the waves of capital letters and the fortresses of sandcastles, don’t forget the moats. Ears hear pel-i-cans LQWKHFRQÀQHVRIWKHEHDFK
Digital Photo by Kaila Yallum
My Brother, the Artist, at Seventeen Inspired by “My Brother, the Artist, at Seven” by Phillip Levine by Daisy Zhu
As what a teenager would do to show off the energy and power blossoming from youth, he placed his one foot on a long board skating through another street of glittering solitude. By no means would he care about the neighbor’s crazy cat or his parents’ worries over his future. He passed by everything like sirocco– Mr. Golevski’s grocery store, Auntie Lee’s backyard, Allspring High School, Buffalo Cinema, Dr. Petcash’s dentistry, Rock Stone Art Museum, his girlfriend’s house. How much can matter to a man who’s almost grown up? Everything, yet nothing. The whole world, as he put it, was “escaping from his fetch.” He was tired of chasing. He once imagined himself running on a narrow bridge made of grapevines between two cliffs. With eyes closed, he saw himself hiding behind tall grass and pretending to be a warrior. The sun was spinning around his sword; he wore the moon as a French beret and ate burnt corn like a grizzly bear. 1RWKLQJFRXOGVWRSKLPIURPNLVVLQJDÀHOG of daffodils. Then he opened his eyes and saw the long board beneath his Converse, scarlet like a drop of tear from memory. Under a cherry tree, he got off the long board to smell a tulip. The air slipping from his nose blew away some pollen and his melancholy, while the sunset dyed his hair gold as if a crown.
by Elizabeth Friedman
Digital Photo by Josh Loevner
All Ages by Brendan Agnew
I. We celebrate ourselves A few bold characters Lingering beneath the bright marquee As their smoke lingers around us As does the applause Of two bit shoe soles That converse with concrete And us, framed in a doorway Red-handed, hands clutching tickets That push anxiously through our hands As we push our way through the doors To create room for us
II. Inside, 6PRNHDFKHVIURPDFKLQJÀQJHUV Towards the creaking rafters Steam heat, From an external combustion engine A performance piece
III. The body, the blood pressure, The buildup, the feedback of speakers is The Holy Ghost in the room Screaming out towards heaven’s face Only to see particles gathering Around plastic light Plastic heat
IV. The Bands leave, the crowd clears And leads itself Out into the night And we all wait For the next turn of the wheels For the next spin of a record For some revolution
Mosaic by Melissa Rostek
Surely Nature (Me and You) Song Lyrics by Alex Zukoff
Love is like an open wound 3ODQWWKDWĂ RZHUZDWFKLWEORRP )HHOLWKHDOLWGRQ WFRQFHDO 7KHEORRGWKDWWLHVXSPHDQG\RX Make a picture with your scars 3DLQWXSSHUIHFWPHWDSKRUV 6SDFH\VSDWWHUVFRXOGQ WGR $WKLQJWREUHDNXSPHDQG\RX
<RXÂˇYHEHHQUXQQLQJWKURXJKP\PLQG 'ULYHPHFUD]\DOOWKHWLPH ,WÂˇVFOHDUWRPHWKDW\RXFDQÂˇWVHH The sleepless nights that have ensued Gentle child of the earth Surely nature blessed your birth Âś&DXVHQLJKWZRQÂˇWOHWPHVOXPEHUGXH To Mother Natureâ€™s faith in you
5LJKW, PWULWH, GQHYHUĂ€JKW 7KHXUJHWRWDNHWKDWPDWFKDQGOLJKW The candle burning in our hearts :DUPLQJRXUORYHZLWKIRUWLWXGH +HOOLW VVZHOO, GULQJDEHOO (DFKWLPHDQDQJHOVRDUHGRUIHOO Âś&DXVHZKHQ\RXJRW\RXUZLQJVDQGĂ HZ ,VDQJDORXGDQGIHOOIRU\RX
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The War Against 3OXPELQJ E\3HQHORSH6PLWK
In the winter of 2009 I fought a war. The drippy faucet in my bathroom was trying to conquer my sanity, and on the third night of drip-induced insomnia we IRXJKWRXUÀUVWEDWWOH8VLQJZKDW,UHmembered of freshman physics, I fashLRQHGDOHYHURXWRIP\KDLUEUXVKWKH IXOFUXPZDVLPSURYLVHGZLWKWKHNQREV RI WKH VLQN , SXOOHG DQG , \DQNHG RQ WKDWWKLQJIRUKRXUVEXWLWVWLOOGULSSHG RQ,GHFLGHGWKHSUREOHPZDVLQWHUQDO *RLQJGRZQWRWKHJDUDJH,ÀOOHGDPLON FUDWH ZLWK ZKDWHYHU WRROV , WKRXJKW , ZRXOGQHHG²ZUHQFKHVRIYDU\LQJVL]HV D FURZEDU VHYHUDO VFUHZGULYHUV DQG D KDPPHU 7KH KDPPHU ZDV P\ ODVW UHVRUW $IWHU DOO P\ FRDFK KDV WDXJKW PH D YDOXDEOH OHVVRQ ZKHQ DOO HOVH IDLOV KLW WKH WKLQJ DV KDUG DV \RX FDQ ,W PD\ QRW ZRUN EXW LW ZLOO PDNH \RX IHHOEHWWHU%\PLGPRUQLQJ,KDGWDNHQWKHVLQNDSDUWSXWLWEDFNWRJHWKHU DQGVKHGPDQ\WHDUVEXWP\QREOHHIIRUWVRQO\SURYHGWRPDNHWKHSUREOHP ZRUVH 7KH IDXFHW KDG ZRQ RXU ÀUVW WZRHQFRXQWHUV0\ODFNRIVOHHSKD]LQJ P\ MXGJPHQW , WRRN WKH IDFW WKDW LWGULSSHGRQDVDQLQVXOWWRP\KRQRU
:LWKUHQHZHGYLJRU,PDUFKHGGRZQstairs to my parents’ bathroom, to a SHUIHFW H[DPSOH RI D ZRUNLQJ IDXFHW $UPHG ZLWK P\ PLON FUDWH RI YDULRXV WRROV , DWWDFNHG WKLQNLQJ WKDW SHUKDSV LI,WRRNLWDSDUW,FRXOGÀQGRXWZK\LW didn’t drip. In hindsight this was a misWDNH$Q KRXU ODWHU WKHLU IDXFHW VWRRG OHDNLQJ ,Q P\ GHOXVLRQDO PLQG WKH VROXWLRQ ZDV WR UHSHDW WKH SURFHVV %\ QRRQ,ZDVDFU\LQJKHDSRQWKHÁRRU ZLWK WKUHH VFUHZV RI WKH VDPH VL]H LQ P\ KDQG REYLRXVO\ , QHHGHG WR WDNH DQRWKHUORRNDWP\RZQVLQN7KRXJK, KDGKRSHGLWZRXOGJLYHPHWKHNQRZOHGJH,ZDVODFNLQJWKLVRQO\SURYHGWR DGG WR P\ FROOHFWLRQ RI VFUHZV 1RZ ZLWKVHYHQVFUHZVRIXQNQRZQRULJLQ, DWWDFNHG ZLWK UHQHZHG GHWHUPLQDWLRQ 7KH GHÀQLWLRQ RI LQVDQLW\ LV GRLQJ WKH VDPHWKLQJRYHUDQGRYHUDJDLQDQGH[SHFWLQJ D GLIIHUHQW UHVXOW RQ WKLV FROG Saturday I was embodiment of that defLQLWLRQ6HYHUDOKRXUVODWHU,KDGPDQDJHG WR À[ WKH IDXFHW LQ P\ SDUHQWV· URRP$IWHU,KDGSXWLWEDFNWRJHWKHU for the umpteenth time, the drip had VWRSSHG,KDYHQHYHUIHOWPRUHDFFRPSOLVKHGLQP\OLIH,WGLGQ·WPDWWHUWKDW ,FRXOGQ·WWHOO\RXZK\LWKDGVWRSSHG WKRXJK,KDYHVHYHUDOWKHRULHV$OOWKDW mattered was that I had won. Armed ZLWKWKHSULGHWKDW,FRXOGLQIDFWFRQquer a faucet, I went upstairs to the URRWRIWKHSUREOHP,WZDVOLNHDVFHQH IURPDQROGZDUPRYLH,VWRRGDFURVV IURP P\ QHPHVLV² ZUHQFK LQ KDQG² staring it down with determination.
Digital Photo by Lisa Fierstein
Rabbit/Death by Ramsey Daniels
Inspired by the painting Trophy of the Hunt by William M. Harnett
I am so sorry, little bunny. You have reached the expiration date that God planted on your butt. The men in the woods shot you, dear bunny, with a bullet the size of your little bunny poo. They pinned you upside down on the door. Your furry frame makes a bee-line towards hell. ,QKHOOWKHFDUURWVDUHPDGHRIĂ€UH Just warning you. They pinned you up on a green door, green like the grass you lived your life in. At least you were put to rest on a door painted green, a poor imitation of nature. Your ears are perked upwards and alert, listening for the footsteps of a friend who never came to save you. Alas, you were extremely late for a very important date. Is there any hope for you, drifting, homeless rabbit soul? Only time will tell.
Revel by Alex Zukoff
By jamming my heart out I’ve reveled in negative emotion and thereby have lessened the pain. However, this paroxysm of angst and sorrowful ecstasy has ripped off the protective sheath of denial in which I have cloaked myself until now on this dizzying joke of a day in this strange mechanism called “Life.”
Ceramics Piece by Blake Uretsky
Digital Photo by Benjamin Chait
Extended Day by Ramsey Daniels
A little olive-skinned kid I play with every day In Extended Day We are setting up chess pieces He lifts the majestic, dark knight up to his miniscule ear It is hollow, and he declares â€œI can hear the ocean!â€?
No Manmade Light by Themba Searles
Millions of lights crowded the night sky. It was an ideal night, clearer than any Iâ€™d ever seen. The shores of Tortugero were spotted with hundreds of green sea turtles, laying their eggs in deep holes in the sand, unaware of the small tour of seventh graders who were watching from a safe distance. The only sounds we heard were WKH RFFDVLRQDO VKXIĂ LQJ RI WKHLU ODUJH VWRQ\ Ă LSSHUV As our group passed along the beach, the darkness played tricks on our eyes, many stepping in large holes or tripping over driftwood. No manmade light was allowed in the surrounding few miles except for the red light of the JXLGHÂˇV VSHFLDO Ă DVKOLJKW ZKLFK ZDV QRW EULJKW HQRXJK WR prevent many of us from falling over the invisible obstacles. My naivetĂŠ and frustration drew my attention away from the miracle of birth scattered across this tropical shore. In my frustration with the lack of light, I refused to move from where I stood; in a desperate plea for light I tilted my head upwards looking for the moon or any other form of brightness. I was stricken with the brilliance of the night sky above me. Coming from the city I had never seen so many stars. It seemed as if every star in the galaxy lay in front of me, scattered along a deep navy blue blanket. The stars made me feel small, like I wasnâ€™t the only thing that mattered. It gave me a sense of perspective that in the larger scheme of things, whatever problems I was having werenâ€™t so bad. Since then, the thought of the Costa Rican night sky has always been a comfort to me and has helped me to understand that there is much more than just myself.
Digital Photo by Rick Thompson
Some People Tell Me “Get a Life” by Ari Schuman
On a shelf in my room, next to the ferns which are watered by a timer, I have a jar.
For now, she will stay in the terrarium and laugh at night with the astronauts and divers
In this jar, I have a tiny little life.
while my life watches from a desk in the jar, with a shelf on top, and a terrarium to its side.
It is not the kind of life which invigorates— no, it is not energy,
I am just waiting for the day when I put a cap and a gown on top of the ferns by the side of the jar and unscrew the lid, just maybe, and my little life will scramble up the sides,
instead, it is all of my jokes and all of my laughter bundled up into one little smile of a man who is occasionally let out
and he will run to the mermaid, yawping out her name,
LQWRDWHUUDULXPZKLFK,NHHSRQWKHÁRRU by the side of the shelf where I keep the jar, where there is water and food and little toy astronauts and divers for him to play with.
and then bang at the walls of the terrarium until they shatter and the mermaid comes out
I have been considering, for a while, putting a mermaid into the jar where I keep my life.
and they gasp into each other’s arms and laugh and cry into the night.
Drawing by Josh Loevner
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Digital Photos by Aaren Barge
by Nathan Siegel
â€œSo guess what?â€? my older brother said to me from across the table, moving the large roll of paper towels that Dâ€™s Hot Dog Shoppe puts on each table instead of napkins to the side so that we could see each other. â€œToday I found out that boshi means â€œhatâ€? in Japanese.â€? I looked across the table at him, my face widening in astonishment. â€œI never realized our elementary school Japanese class would have such a lasting effect,â€? I chuckled. But it did. Starting about ten years ago, the word boshi, which for years we had thought was entirely made up, worked its way into our dialect, having the meaning â€œhat.â€? The word evolved as we got older, later taking on the meanings â€œheadâ€? and â€œhouseâ€? as well. About two years ago, as we continued to use the word, the long E sound at the end dropped itself organically and boshi became the shortened bosh. It has become a unique feature in our relationship; we use it, without thinking about it, practically every time we have a conversation.
RXURULJLQDOGHĂ€QLWLRQVKRZHGWKDWDWVRPHSRLQW between the songs and dried beans, the word boshi stuck in our boshes. :H VDW LQ 'ÂˇV +RW 'RJ 6KRSSH ORQJ DIWHU Ă€QLVKing our food, discussing just when and how boshi entered our dialect. We discussed its evolution, the morph of its meaning, its spread into the dialects of our friends. We discussed the connection of its three meanings, â€œhat,â€? â€œhead,â€? and â€œhouse.â€? The way boshi had slowly changed as we aged, the way it revealed the inherent similarities between a house and a head, pushed my interest in linguistics forward. `
My brother had registered for a linguistics course at his college, and in anticipation of the coming semester, he pursued random aspects of the English language. His enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and we spent hours together investigating linguistics in books and online, learning interesting factsâ€“ like, for example, that â€œcouldâ€? is the past tense, conditional tense, and past subjunctive of â€œcanâ€?â€“ that English Recently returned from a study abroad summer speakers use daily, hardly ever realizing it. And at program in Spain, we had a larger understanding Dâ€™s, a restaurant we frequented this past summer, of the Spanish language and a newly found interest ZHGLVFXVVHGRXUĂ€QGLQJV in linguistics, inspiring us to search for the origin of boshi. The morning of that lunch at Dâ€™s, my brother When my brother returned to college in the fall had some faint memory that boshi was connected and began his linguistics course, his interest only into our elementary school Japanese class, which had creased, and we now often talk on the phone about consisted mainly of singing songs about colors and his class. Once, his professor presented the fact moving dried beans from one plate to another us- that, when people invent new words, like our boshi, LQJFKRSVWLFNV+HFRQĂ€UPHGKLVVXVSLFLRQWKURXJK they never make up prepositions, only other parts the power of Google Translate, and the fact that he of speech. So, of course, we are currently thinking found the Japanese meaning of boshi to be exactly up our own preposition.
Film Photo by Lisa Fierstein
Digital Photo by Ally Bartlett
Wooden Deck by Jess Block
My brother says itâ€™s cheating to wish on all of the shooting stars that we see sitting on the sunset deck with his multi-hundred-dollar telescope that I am not allowed to touchâ€“ I can only put my nervous right side of my face up to the eye piece and look at the Lagoon Nebula in awe. Nervous because, â€œWhat if I donâ€™t see what my brother is talking about?â€? Or, â€œWhat if I break the telescope?â€? or â€œWhat if we donâ€™t make the best of our time on the sunset deck?â€? It is 11:30 on Thursday night and possible to see more than a hundred shooting stars per hour. â€œJust put your head back and stare upwardâ€? is my brotherâ€™s advice for seeing the maximum number of shooting starsâ€“ and thus getting in the maximum number of wishes.When I close my eyes to make my wish after I see a shooting star, my brothHU ORRNV RYHU DQG Ă LFNV P\ DUP reprimanding me. â€œYouâ€™ll miss the next star if youâ€™re too busy wishing, and technically, itâ€™s not fair to
wish on so many stars. What about the people who might have never seen a shooting star? We have an unfair advantage, you and I. There are four meteor showers going on right now and weâ€™re right in the middle of it. There are two coming from over there,â€? he says, pointing to my cousinâ€™s side of the lake, â€œand two coming from over there,â€? he says, pointing to where the sun sets over Lake Michigan. â€œSo, you canâ€™t just wish on all of them. Save some wishes for other people. What do you wish for anyways? How do you come up with so many wishes?â€? He now decides to adjust his telescope so we can look at some different nebula or maybe the Milky Way again. â€œI donâ€™t, and Iâ€™m not going to tell you, or else they wonâ€™t come true,â€? I say. My brother shakes his head at me, his silly sister, like he normally does when heâ€™s lost an argument to lack-of-reason. Donâ€™t tell my brother, but Iâ€™ve been wishing for the same thing with each shooting star.
Multimedia Piece by Alli Kunkle
There is something surreal beyond all measure 6RPHWKLQJWKDWGHÀHVEHOLHIRUFRPSUHKHQVLRQ And yet so strangely natural About watching paint move. %HDXWLIXOJOREVRIWKHXQLYHUVH &RORUVRIWKHUDLQERZ Floating slowly across secret walls; Where mystery compels the stains; 7RWDNHRQDOLIHRIWKHLURZQ Where the Reds and Yellows clumsily waltz To the music’s command; Which moves the Blues To tear and bleed. %XWWKHZDOOVIHHOQRSDLQ From these vibrant scars. Only serenity resides 8QGHUWKHOD\HUVRILPDJLQHGH[LVWHQFH :KHUHVKHHWVRIJODVV &DWFKWKHOLJKWRI*UHHQV $VWKH\VZLPRIIWKHVKRUHVRIORVWFRDVWV Where the Reds and Yellows Now stumble into an unexpected tango.
Mixed media piece by Alli Kunkle
Chatting with the Artist:
An Interview with Blaine Siegel Interview by Melissa Rostek
Film Photo by Lisa Fierstein
Blaine Siegel is an artist based in Pittsburgh who works in experimental sculpture and other forms of urban art. Recently, he came to WT to work with students on an art installation called The Ensuing After 0DGH XS RI LQĂ DWDEOH sculptures of plastic bags which Ă€OOHG WKH URRP DQG H[SDQGHG when someone entered the installation, the piece spoke to the lasting effect that humans have on our environment and the natural world.
Where do you get ideas for your work? What inspires you? My ideas come from everyday life. I pay attention to the world around me and never turn down a chance to experience something new. I am inspired by inGHSHQGHQW FRPLFV PRYLHV Ă€OP music, amusement park rides and other artists.
:KHQGLG\RXĂ€UVWEHFRPHLQWHUested in art? Iâ€™ve wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember. Whenever asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always responded â€œI want to be an artLVWÂľ,QĂ€IWKJUDGH,ZDVVHOHFWHG along with 5 other students, to work with a guest painter every day for a month. I got to leave school after lunch and go to the artistâ€™s studio. This experience made a lasting impression on me. He treated us as more than just children. He never talked down to us and explained his work to us in a way that was direct, simple and very moving.
What pieces are you currently working on? I have recently been creating small meditation Mandalas using childrenâ€™s stickers. I am attempting to obtain a buffalo head from a buffalo farm in Edinborough, PA. I will work with a taxidermist and incorporate the head into an inĂ DWDEOHVFXOSWXUH
What other artists inspire you? I am inspired by Tim Hawkinson, Andrea Zittel, Stanley Kubrik Ă€OPV -DFN .LUE\ FRPLF ERRNV Wassily Kandinsky and Bill Viola just to name a few artists that immediately come to mind.
Any advice to aspiring artists? Perseverance. You are embarking on a career in which most people will not hit their peak until much later in life.You need to have conĂ€GHQFH LQ \RXU YLVLRQ DQG ZRUN work, work.
Drawing by Carly Heywood
Gulliverâ€™s Travels, pt. 2 by Ari Schuman
as the shell implies too much protection. so then, the shell fell off and the little boy slimed along the sidewalk until he couldnâ€™t anymore, held up by the friction of pavement against slug, and
her shapely silhouette of angelic cotton and sea-blue denim laughed in front of a table covered with cups for lilliputian men.
as he stopped he seemed to grow legs and horns and little boy fur until he was a little gazelle, running from the silhouette which had formed
a little boy walked by, his little heart making little jumps, and as he saw her his stomach collapsed into a little black hole: a singularity
a mane and a tail and silhouette fur, pouncing along the pavement after the little boy gazelle
in his system which pulled in his brain and his heart.
who ran until he was out of breath and gasped and stood up,
e felt his legs recede into it, his arms grasp and try to escape, but they inevitably fell inside
a little boy again, out of sight of the house with the table for lilliputian men and the silhouette of cotton and denim.
and his little boy back became a shell and his little boy body became a snailâ€” or rather not a snail,
Paper Cutout by Lisa Fierstein
How To: StalkforinLisa aFierstein MatiSSe Gallery by Jess Block
two girls stalked old man in matiSSe gallery (is what the headlines should have read) she with a l wondered what he had to say about jeanette (iv) and she with a j liked the glasses he was wearing, how the bottom half PDJQLÀHGKLVH\HV matiSSe would have befriended him, he could have given constructive criticism to his still lives– he didn’t need to depend on cezanne ZLWKKLVXVHRIFRORU they cold have had absinthe by the seine and talked about how this painting would have hung or the proportions in that ÀJXUHVWXG\ dearest henri, when did you get back from morocco? dearest henri, I understand you’re having an identity crisis, but pretending to be jan dandsz de heem won’t make you any more KHQULPDWL66H he would have put his ear up close for the response, KHZDVROG WKDWZDVEHQHÀFLDOWRWKHWZRJLUOV following him– to listen to him tell his uptight “not good enough for him” wife about the brush strokes and the texture DQGKRZWKHDSSOHVORRNHGRQWKHÁRRU² because he couldn’t hear their whispers about how much they liked to listen WRKLVOLVWOHVVWKRXJKWV “oh it’s you again” “hello again!” ´SVVW,WKLQNKH·VRQWRXV«µ
Diver by Drea Ortiz
The normal process goes something like this: People hurt themselves, recover, and go on with their lives. However, sometimes, as in my case, a trauma strengthens a person; it serves as an awakening shock, forcing him or her to realize what they have, and how easily a person could lose everything. It went like this: I grabbed onto the railing with my left hand and climbed up the ladder to reach the seafoam green diving board. I felt the slip-resistant surface against the bottom of my wet feet.The feeling was a familiar one, since it was my second year of diving in high school. My friends were around me, cracking jokes; I, of course, was cracking jokes with them. I looked down and saw the water from my bathing suit form little droplets and roll down P\ OHJ SDVW P\ DQNOHV DQG Ă€OO WKH MDJJHG FUHDVHV of the board. I remember her exact words: â€œHey, Ms. Diver, remember that the goal is to jump OFF of the board without hitting it.â€? I was laughing to myself. I found humor in her sarcastic remarks, but kept walking towards the end of the board.
I was soaring; jumping up and down, kind of like I was on a trampoline, except the springboard was wet, and I was having too much fun laughing with my friends. Pause and rewind: I was being stupid, but who cares, because nothing bad could happen to me; after all, I am only a teenager, right? Play: My next move came from nowhere. Jumping up and down, higher and higher, watching as the VSULQJERDUGĂ HZXSRQFHP\ZHLJKWVSUXQJRIIRILW I threw my body backwards off of the diving board and disobeyed the diverâ€™s second most important rule: never close your eyes while diving. Eyes closed, soaring through the air, sounds like a dream does it not? It was not, actually. Closing my eyes caused me to lose my sense of location. I was somewhere above the diving board. That was all I knew.
Pause: It was like some sort of slow motion effect; everything slowed down. Then, somehow, I Pause: You know those occasions where you think regained some sense of intelligence, and opened to yourself, â€œYeah right! That would never happen my eyes. Right as I did, I saw the green springboard to me.â€? Well, it happened to me. As a sophomore, LQFKLQJXSDV,ZDVVORZO\Ă \LQJGRZQWRZDUGVLW I could have lost everything I had. There was nothing left for me to do. What felt like Play: I walked towards the end of the board, turned minutes on a ticking clock happened like a slidearound, and left just enough room so that my feet show. The board crept up towards my forehead. I were still on the board. I had disobeyed the diverâ€™s was a prisoner in Platoâ€™s cave; I was helpless, blind. Ă€UVW UXOH QHYHU MXPS RII RI WKH ERDUG EDFNZDUGV until your feet are so far off that your toes are Play: BOOM next sound heard, along with keeping your balance. My mistake: my feet, heel to frantic screaming from my crowd of friends. toe, were on the board, but I was too busy laughing The force that hit the middle of my forehead, right above my eyes, was actually unrealistic. and joking around to prevent the next step.
Digital Photo by Ally Bartlett
Pause: This is where the shock kicked in and things Pause: This next part got blurry. was being fast-forwarded. Play: I smacked the water; a feeling that normally irritates me felt like nothing. I started to sink, deeper and deeper. The only thing I felt: numbness. I see nothing but red water all around me. The kind of red you see on Shark Week after a Great White attacks its prey.
Play: People started pulling me out of the water. Their frantic yelling sounded like a foreign language to me, mysterious and bothersome. Somehow, I got up and ran into the bathroom, blinded by the blood dripping down my face. I faced a mirror. What I saw, P\UHﾃ？FWLRQPDGHPHWKHKDSSLHVWSHUVRQLQWKH world. How? Why? I was alive; I was breathing.
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MAN: (Dumbfounded) That’s what you woke me for? To ask– WOMAN: (Interrupting) Just answer the question. MAN: (Sighs) I know where this is going… WOMAN: (Starts to cry) Then why did you ask me? Why did you put me in a corner like that? I made a stupid mistake, you should’ve just let it go. (Cries harder) MAN: (Slowly crosses stage and hugs WOMAN) Shh. It’s okay. WOMAN: (Stops crying after a few moments) Tell me you love me. MAN: (Pulls back from her) You know I can’t do that. WOMAN: And why not? Am I that hideous that you can’t even lower yourself to the last woman on Earth?! MAN:You know it’s not like that. WOMAN: (Hysterical) Then what is it like? I don’t get you. You’ve been saving my life for the past month and yet you ask nothing of PH,SUDFWLFDOO\WKUHZP\VHOIDW\RXDQG\RXWXUQHGPHGRZQÁDW I was a model before this shit happened! Men would kill for me and here you are treating me like dirt. All because you’re a coward and can’t accept that they’re dead! MAN: (Furiously) Shut up! (Begins to pace angrily back and forth) WOMAN: Your wife’s dead! Your son’s dead! Your whole family is dead! I guarantee you their train never even made it past the border.Yeah, they’re probably out there now, foaming at the mouth and screaming like the rest of them, or worse– MAN: (Stops and roars at WOMAN) GET OUT! WOMAN: (Shocked) W-what? MAN: You heard me! GET OUT! (He grabs her by the arm and drags her to the door. WOMAN falls on the ground, sobbing and pleading.) WOMAN: (Stammering) P-p-please! I’m sorry, I-I overreacted. I don’t know what came over me, what I said I was horrible– MAN: (Picks WOMAN up in his arms and tosses her out the door, then slams it) AND DON’T COME BACK! WOMAN (Off-stage): Oh God no! They’ll kill me! Please don’t do this to me! I’M SORRY! (MAN ignores her pleas and goes over to couch. He sits on it, buries his face in his hands, and weeps.) WOMAN: I love you… I know you love me too. Please, open the door. 0$1+HJHWVXSDQGSLFNVXSDVVRUWHGREMHFWVRIIWKHÁRRUDQG begins to toss them into a duffel bag. He then goes over to the gun rack and takes a pistol off of it and puts it into the bag as well. He goes to the door and opens it. WOMAN comes in but he holds up his hand to stop her. He hands her the bag.) Here’s everything you need to survive out there. Now go. (He goes over to couch and curls up under the blanket while WOMAN stands in the doorway.) WOMAN: (Pause) You killed me. You saved me, then you killed me. And the worst part? I’ll never know why. (Exits) (End of Scene)
Digital Photos by Benjamin Chait
by Melissa Rostek
Iâ€™ve gotten used to being the weird one with the camera, the one who captures every moment and has them up within the hour, a frozen slice of time for everyone to devour, laugh DWRUPXOORYHUEHIRUHĂ LSSLQJWRWKHQH[WVOLFH and immediately forgetting about the last one. The world looks better through a lens, in my opinion. Some people claim itâ€™s hiding behind it, but I prefer to think of it as living through it, where I can zoom in on the details, pause and rewind. I try to piece the slices back together later, but there are always gaps where the VOLFHV GRQÂˇW TXLWH Ă€W DQG P\ PHPRU\ IDLOV PH Iâ€™ve never been sure if thatâ€™s what I do it for, or LILWÂˇVWKHGDUNURRP7KHĂ€UVWWLPH,ZDVWKHUHD friend brought me in, said he wanted to show me something. â€œHold this,â€? he ordered, and I carefully held the paper by the edges, shiny side up, as he brought the image into focus, and adjusted the light above him. I watched with fascinated eyes as he gently shook it in a bath of odd-smelling chemicals and the image came to life again. It wasnâ€™t long before I was in the darkroom myself. There is something soothing about locking the door and shutting off the lights, pulling the black curtain shut behind me, and blocking out the rest of the world for a little while. I guess you could say itâ€™s my personal therapy. I live life in the soft glow of red lights dangling precariously above my head, blasting old Queen albums through my headphones and into my skull as I take each moPHQWDQGIRFXVLWZDWFKLWVORZO\IDGHLQWRH[LVtence. But maybe itâ€™s not the therapy of it. Maybe itâ€™s because I get to play God for a little while, hold the negatives up to the light, squint and choose which moments to bring to life, create something real and recognizable out of what was
RQFHDEODQNH[SDQVHRIZKLWH0D\EHLWÂˇVKRZLW lets me make my own little world where the only WKLQJVWKDWH[LVWDUHWKHEODFNFXUWDLQWKHVWRS bath, the broken clock radio, Freddie Mercury, and me. Maybe itâ€™s the way that the scent of the chemicals sticks to my hands, and later when I reach up to pull my hair back, I can smell the room again, close my eyes and inhale and pretend Iâ€™m still blasting music in the dark with the trickling sound of the sink in the background. Or maybe itâ€™s those moments Iâ€™m recreating, the ones appearing in front of my eyes as I shift the photo back and forth in the developer, another slice of my life permanently imbedded in the paper.
Polaroid Photos by Noah Vito
Hermit Crab by Lisa Fierstein
Being alone is not unmanageable. All must face the bleakness of lonesomeness; Some may be tarnished by solitariness.
Feeling detached is natural; accepting the bitter silent air is possible. Being alone is not unmanageable.
Aim focus on the rise and fall of lungs, or replace dead space of mind with memories. Being alone is not unmanageable.
Iâ€™ve been disconnected from consciousness for A while nowâ€“ nothing seems to register. All I have is my shell: my retreat from fear.
,FDQQRZOLVWHQWRWKHFUHDNVLQWKHĂ RRU or piano sonatas for hoursâ€“ for they are my company, while Iâ€™m alone.
Nights are a comfortâ€“ the rest of the cosmos experience the same stillness. All is muted, time hovers, light fades, and now being alone is not unmanageable.
by Elizabeth Friedman
It came in a wave, Like the icy cold saltwater of a splash in July Greeted by the burning hot sand, the warm sea breezes, and the love and relaxation that I pack up, take to the beach house, and bask in for two effortless weeks. Thatâ€™s how I recognized it, The rush of nostalgia that overcame me the day that I dragged my emotional suitcase through the long corridors, paint-splattered art rooms, and memories of good times passed.
Digital Photo by Rick Thompson
Snow Angel by Grace Hamilton-Vargo
Carefully crafted ice crystals form a sphere within her hands. She pauses, inspecting her product for any imperfection. )LQGLQJQRQHVKHOHWVLWĂ \DQGIRUDPRPHQW it soars, arcing through the air, aimed at a nearby streetlight. You missed, I tell her. I know, she says. 7KHUHPQDQWVRIKHUĂ \LQJPDFKLQH scatter through the scarred street as she explains her coat is too constricting; her arms cannot move correctly. She says nothing of the wings that cannot grow. Besides, she says, I didnâ€™t want it to explode in your face. 6KHĂ DVKHVWHHWKDQGIRUJHVRQ DQG\HW,VHHVKHPDNHVQRQHZDWWHPSWWRĂ \ Her hands stay harmless in her pockets. She says nothing of the nuclear wars sheâ€™s had to bear on her own. Thanks, I say. I stay a few steps behind, wistfully watching, waiting for her hands to revile their restraints and build herself a pair of wings from snowy, frozen feathers. ,VD\QRWKLQJRIKRZVXFKEUDYHĂ LJKW would melt come spring and drop her back into the thawing banks. I almost wish sheâ€™d try 6R,FRXOGVHHKHUĂ \
Drawing by Josh Loevner
by Rina Petek
I like the vastness of music. The way that whoever one happens to be, There is something out there for him or her, Whether that be jazz, pop, or rock n’ roll. I like the beat of any type of music. The thumping of the rhythm beating through my body Encouraging me to sway, dance, sing, or do all of it at once. Listening to different timbresIndentifying each instrument like In a childhood game of “I Spy” with my ears– Is a relief from the monotony of everyday sounds. Unraveling the different parts of one melody Becomes a process that one can get lost in. I pick apart my favorite song to listen to one bass line, One soul singing its own story. Two ears, One mind, ,QÀQLWHSRVVLELOLWLHV
Digital Photo by Elizabeth Friedman
Digital Photo by Aaren Barge
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Digital Photo by Ari Schuman
Master Wei by Charles Lehman
Master Wei and the Key to Enlightenment
One of Master Weiâ€™s disciples approached him one discovered that he was the same as before; day and said, â€œMaster Wei, I wish to become enlight- Master Weiâ€™s magic did not appear to be workHQHG&DQ\RXVKRZPHWKHZD\WRHQOLJKWPHQW"Âľ ing. Upset, he returned to Master Wei and demanded to know why he was not enlightened. Master Wei beckoned the disciple to him and Regarding him with a pensive eye, Master Wei retapped him lightly on the head, â€œYou are now sponded, â€œYou believed that enlightenment can enlightened. Go out and do great things.â€? be attained by my touch. Enlightenment, young RQH FRPHV IURP QR KDQG EXW \RXU RZQÂľ 7KH 7KH GLVFLSOH REYLRXVO\ WKULOOHG KXUULHG RII WR EH- disciple thought on this and was enlightened. gin spreading wisdom. Yet, as time passed, he
Master Wei was meditating in his home when one of his young disciples approached him. â€œMaster Wei,â€? said the disciple, â€œI have been thinking, and there is something which confuses me greatly. I happened XSRQWZREXWWHUĂ LHVLQWKHJDUGHQDQGLWFDPHWR me in an odd way that perhaps there were not two EXWWHUĂ LHVLQWKDWJDUGHQEXWRQH7KDWSHUKDSVDOO WKHVLQJOHEXWWHUĂ LHVWKDWZHVHHDUHLQGHHGDKXQGUHGEXWWHUĂ LHVWKDWDOORIWKHEXWWHUĂ LHVDUHQRWDOO RQHEXWWHUĂ \EXWPDQ\EXWWHUĂ LHV+RZGRZHNQRZ WKDWDOOWKDWZHVHHLVQRWDKXQGUHGEXWWHUĂ LHV"Âľ
Master Wei nodded, and thought on this for a PRPHQW 7KHQ KH ODLG RXW D KDQG LQ the long grass, upon which, after severDO PLQXWHV RI ZDLWLQJ D EXWWHUĂ \ DOLJKWHG Â´/RRN KHUH DW WKLV EXWWHUĂ \Âľ VDLG 0DVWHU :HL â€œDo we have, in all of the land, any evidence to suggest that it is not one hundred butterĂ LHV DQG WKDW RXU H\HV DUH SOD\LQJ WULFNV RQ XV" 7KHGLVFLSOHVKRRNKLVKHDGÂ´$QGÂľVDLG0DVWHU:HL Â´GRHVWKDWPHDQWKDWLWLVRQHKXQGUHGEXWWHUĂ LHV"Âľ 7KHGLVFLSOHWKRXJKWRQWKLVDQGZDVHQOLJKWHQHG
Master Wei was one day sitting upon his D GUDJRQÂˇ +H LPDJLQHG WKH GUDJRQ ZLWK LWV JUHDW mountain when a man came stumbling up long tail and its big shiny, scales and its terrible, the path and fell, prostrate, before him. WHUULEOH ZLQJV$QG RQH GD\ WKH GRW VWDUWHG JHWWLQJELJJHU$QGELJJHU$QGELJJHU8QWLOVXGGHQO\ â€œMaster Wei!â€? he declared. â€œI am greatly afraid that D NLQJĂ€VKHU VZRRSHG RXW RI WKH VN\ DQG DWH WKH my wife is cheating on me. She leaves our house at Ă€VKZKROHÂľ0DVWHU:HLFORVHGKLVH\HVDQGQRGall hours of the night, she is always out with friends GHGÂ´6RPHWLPHV D NLQJĂ€VKHU LV D GUDJRQ 6RPHor at work, and I see her often in the market with WLPHV D NLQJĂ€VKHU LV D NLQJĂ€VKHU %XW LI \RX MXVW RWKHUPHQ7HOOPH0DVWHU:HLZKDWVKRXOG,GR"Âľ sit there and watch, it will eat you either way.â€? 7KH PDQ WKRXJKW RQ WKLV DQG ZDV HQOLJKWHQHG Master Wei paused and thought for a moment beIRUHUHVSRQGLQJÂ´2QFHWKHUHZDVDOLWWOHĂ€VK(DFK day, he would look up in the sky and see a great EODFNGRWDQGWKLQNÂś7KDWJUHDWEODFNGRWPXVWEH
Returned by Alli Kunkle
Every year, with each passing day after my sorrowful departure, the details of the house and my vacation fade until they are just brief outlines of my experiences. The décor is the same. It hasn’t been replaced or changed in my seventeen years of life, not even once. The same old, brown wicker furniture, the same 90’s television set, the same gray shag rug covered in sand and dog hair, the same jars of beach glass covering the shelves, the same fake, forPLGDEOH UHSOLFDV RI ÀVK P\ JUDQGSD KDG FDXJKW LQ KLV JROGHQ \HDUV FRYHULQJ the walls– it is obvious that this house belongs to my grandparents. The only thing that I have seen change in my seventeen years are the photographs; as we get older, my grandparents add more photos of me, my sister, my cousins, P\DXQWVDQGXQFOHV,EUHDWKHDVLJKRIUHOLHIEHFDXVH,KDYHÀQDOO\UHWXUQHG
Digital Photo by Camille Petricola
Itâ€™s been a long, weird year for Plaid, but it was worth every second. Plaid started out very differently this year than it has in the past. For one thing, our staff grew; two of our members graduated last year, but six new students joined. But aside from the growth, the attitude seemed to change. The energy was incredible. My co-editor Jess Block and I were faced with a very tight-knit, hyperactive, and GHĂ€QLWHO\XQLTXHJURXSRIVWXGHQWVDVDVWDII7KLVHQGHGXSEHWWHUIRU the magazine than we ever could have imagined. :HĂ€UVWVWDUWHGORRNLQJDWVXEPLVVLRQVLQHDUO\2FWREHUDQGZHZHUHDPD]HGE\WKHWDOHQWZHKDGLQ front of us. We had some of the mostâ€“ and the strongestâ€“ photography weâ€™d ever had, not to mention some beautiful drawings and 3-D art, which we often donâ€™t recieve much of in way of submissions. The TXDOLW\RIRXUZULWWHQVXEPLVVLRQVZDVHYHQPRUHLPSUHVVLYHIURPFROOHJHHVVD\VDQGSRHWU\WRVRQJO\Uics and scripts, we had an amazing body of work to choose from. Needless to say, choosing which submisVLRQVWRSODFHLQWKHPDJD]LQHZDVGLIĂ€FXOWWKLV\HDU7KLVJDYHXVRQHRIWKHORQJHVWDQGPRVWWDOHQWĂ€OOHG magazines weâ€™ve ever had, and we never could have done it without the many students who submitted. As we played with ideas for the theme of the magazine, two things came up over and over, both in our discussions and in the work we recieved: the ideas of surreality and imagination, of the unreal and the strange in art; and of the experiences that are shared through writing and art, how we take those memories and feelings we have and express them through creativity. But we couldnâ€™t think of a way to express WKHVHLGHDVLQZD\VRIDWKHPH,WZDVQÂˇWXQWLOZHGLVFRYHUHGWKH3DEOR3LFDVVRTXRWHÂ˛Â´(YHU\WKLQJ\RXFDQ imagine is realâ€?â€“ that plaid reality came to life as a concept. But it wasnâ€™t just the work we recieved and the theme that made this yearâ€™s magazine different. It was that new staff and the attitude that came with them. 2XUVWDIIZDVGHGLFDWHGHQHUJHWLFDQG exploding with ideas and creative insight. The closeness of the staff created an environment where we could generate endless ideas and give each other feedback, and their talent and creative genius allowed us to make some amazing layouts. And there was never a dull moment either; whether we were creating impromtu music videos or acting out the scripts that were submitted, we had way too much fun, which only served to add to the energy and closeness of the group. I canâ€™t thank any of the staff members enough for what theyâ€™ve done this year. This magazine is the culmination of all that energy and hard work. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it. 0HOLVVD5RVWHN6HQLRU(GLWRU
Melissa Rostek Jess Block Jill Kazmierczak Senior Editor Junior Editor Faculty Advisor
Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Reality was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and Adobe Photoshop CS3. All text was set in Gill Sans MT. Body text was set in font size 12, attributions were set in font size 11, and the font size of titles varied. Plaid is a free publication available to all students and faculty at Winchester Thurston School, both in its paper form and online. It is created entirely by its student staff. All Winchester students are encouraged to submit all forms of art and literature. Submissions are chosen by staff based on quality, length, and available space, while featuring as many pieces and students as possible. All non-digital art is either scanned into WKH FRPSXWHU DV D GLJLWDO Ă€OH RU SKRtographed digitally by staff. Plaid is an award-winning member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the American Scholastic Press Association, and the National Council of Teachers of English.
Plaid would like to thank everyone who submitted to the magazine and everyone who supports it. We would like to thank Mr. John Charney for his technical assistance. We would also like to thank Mr. Carl Jones for his creative insight and support of the magazine and its staff. We would especially like to thank our faculty advisor, Ms. Jill Kazmierczak. Her dedication, patience, and ideas help make this magazine what it is. $QGĂ€QDOO\ZHZRXOGOLNH0HUFXU\3ULQWLQJIRUPDNLQJWKH publication of this magazine a reality. Visit us online: www.issuu.com/PlaidMag
Plaid is meant to represent the rich creative capabilities of the students at Winchester Thurston School. It aims to celebrate student artistry in literature, visual arts, and everything in between. Plaid recieves many more submissions WKDQ Ă€W ZLWKLQ LWV SDJHV EXW DWWHPSWV to feature as many pieces as possible. Plaid is a forum for personal expression, discourse, and communication. It is a celebration of artistic visions and the imaginations that produce them.
winchester thurston school 555 morewood avenue pittsburgh, pa 15213 phone: (412) 578- 7500 fax: (412) 578- 7504 www.winchesterthurston.org