ART STYLE YOUTH SPIRIT
IT IS AN ECLECTIC ASSORTMENT AND AND EXPRESSION EXPRESSION OF OFTHE THEARTS. ARTS. IT IS AN APPRECIATION FOR ALL THINGS THINGS BEAUTIFUL. BEAUTIFUL. - KARSTIN HALE
Alexis Maldonado & Nikki Deitz
‘Last Ones Standing’ 14
photographed by Pranaya Soeraadiningrat
The Art of Mark Hay34
Where the Painters Paint
a gallery of self expression created by Mission Viejo High Shool Students
Behind the Mask 50 ‘The Dream Team’
A Tuff (and a panther)
a poem by Joe Martin
ternal Suns & Dusty Meadows
Models: Daniella Sanchez & Michael Vielma
ISSUE 01. ISSUE 01.
Style Citizens Photographs by Taylor Sato & Pranaya Soeraadiningrat
HOW DID YOU FIRST BECOME INTERESTED IN FASHION/STYLE AND WHY DO YOU THINK ITS IMPORTANT?
FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING OR ACCESSORY IN YOUR WARDROBE?
WHERE ARE YOUR FAVORITE PLACES TO SHOP?
DO YOU SPEND LOADS OF MONEY ON CLOTHES OR NO?
Nikki Deitz WHEN DID YOU FIRST BECOME INTERESTED IN FASHION?
DP YOU HAVE A FAVORITE DESIGNER OR PLACES TO SHOP?
WHAT DO YOU THINK IS THE MOST RECENT TREND TO APPEAR/REAPPEAR AND WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON THEM?
WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO SOMEONE SEEKING FASHION ADVISE?
A T S S E N O LAST
G N I D AN
Photographers: Set Directors:
Models & Stylists:
Pranaya SoeraadiningratSpencer Durhams Karstin Hale Taylor Sato Seamus Hodnett Chace Wallace Mckenna Miller Marissa Galvez Maddie Schulte Allie James Ryan Opel Spencer Durhams Robby Farrand Eddie Aye Jacob Koransky
by an anonymous writer The color slips away, Fades with the wind, Flows through the forest, And warms a lonely street. But I can no longer see, The red of my passion, Or the yellow shade of courage. I see shapes, yet no color, and no certainty. What was once a splatter of paint, Is now a blank white canvas. Ribbons of grey fall from the sky, From the pure blue sky, To the cold dark earth. I watch as this grey, Sneaks into peoples minds, And shadows what is true. They put on a mask of smoke, And let the grey consume them. When some color starts to leak from the tips of their fingers, They smear it onto the wall, And stare at the streaks, That flood onto the floor. I collect the fallen color, And paint it onto my skin. Upon the encounter of color, The grey slithers away, To turn another heart to stone. But I protect my heart, By painting it. It is under the blanket of the night, When the grey seems inviting It beckons to me, When colors seem distant. But I cannot accept the grey, And wash away the shades that make me whole
t h e e r e h W
Intrview: Karstin Hale Photographs: Pranaya Soeraadiningrat
The art of
How do you feel when you are painting or drawing?
What advise would you give to an aspiring artist?
Visit mvhsforcreation.tumblr.com/markhay for more art by Mark Hay
Sterling Pounds the musician. the writer. and the former con-artist photos by Spencer Durhams
Its Slumber Awakening by Characters of Deery- lou I sometimes think there is something behind the scenes dictating me. Forcing me. Because with all honesty I say it is not me. I can feel it under my skin as it takes its place. Slowly sneaking into my mold. My hands are its hands. My mind becoming its mind. Having complete control, it awakens me. the soul. the life. My life. In the depths of the night, when my thoughts should exhaust I feel the watts spark. In the soul I scream with life. soon after my blood. Its blood, drowning the small bits of me left. And to finish the process of possession it creeps into every thought thats ever been thought. NO! But also every feeling thats ever been felt. the pain. the love. the light. It eats me alive. From the insides then slowly out. Oh I’ve forgotten how it hurts. Sleepless nights. And hazy sunday mornings. The pain causes an echo inside whats left of my mind is mine to keep. Grasping tight. My mind. My sanity. It pains. Then there! WATCH IT! There I go. There it goes. WATCH IT! I cannot catch it. Because it just goes. It grows inside me. Without a word. without a flashing red light that I’d run from. only to calm the nerves from its arrival. WATCH IT! NO! Its control. Its power. Its possession. Heavy steps now. Loud thoughts. Ready. I’m still here. Steady now… FIGHT IT! No. Its come too strong. its conquered. NO! Steady now… ready. FIGHT IT! GO! FIGHT IT! NO! FIGHT IT! but gone I’ve gone. I’ve fought. I’ve lost. I watch from above. As down below my eyes are blank white. My arms cutting through the air and my wooden tools in hand. and hues scatter my desk. I watch from above. As down below my body is dictated. Is worn. Is used. I watch from above. As down below my soul is at my feet. All kicked and bruised. I watch from above. Livid. As whats down below was stolen. Cheated. Used. Robbed. The light shines in. Blinds me. I trip over my breath and there I lie. Sweetly tucked in. Feet covered and warm. Head gently placed in my pillow. As every mornings are. I focus my eyes and drag myself to my desk. Livid again. I slowly leaned over to take a closer look. It was divine. My creation. Its creation. Yet I still felt cheated to truly enjoy it. But somewhere deep below the surface I was proud of it. this curse. This burden. I took my finger and ran it right across the canvas. A smudged line followed and my finger tip wet. paint. dark blue. I took a long good look. And walked. But of course it followed. That curse that linger behind those creations. That curse dictating me behind the scenes. It followed. Because later that day I was mugged yet again.
Photographs by Pranaya Soeraadiningrat, Speancer Durhams, Chace Wallace, Ryan South.
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A Tuff (and a panther) by Joe Martin A tuff- what bliss it would be To be in a tuff. If only I could know the joy of being in a tuff, ࠢ࠶࠳ࡅ࠽࠼࠲࠳ࡀ࠼࠲࠾࠳࠱࠳࠽࠴࠹࠼࠽ࡅ࠷࠼࠵ࡂ࠶ࡂ࠺࠺ࡅ࠶࠷࠱࠶ࡂ࠳ࡀࡁ࠼࠲࠱࠺ࡅࡁࡅ࠷ࡂ࠶࠾࠼ࡂ࠶࠳ࡀ˽ࡁ࠾ࡅࡁࡂ࠶ࡀ࠽ࡃ࠵࠶ࡂ࠶࠳࠼࠷࠵࠶ࡂ under my skin Is a tuff- an arbitrary fly buzzing in my ear that would leave with a well placed swat, Or a day or two, Or by forgetting whatever small insignificant incident brought this fly to my ear. No! The panther does not leave, he sits silently and strikes swiftBiting the throat and breaking the neck And piercing the heart and tearing out the insides of his prey so they are empty. ࠏ࠼࠲ࡂ࠶࠳࠼࠶࠳࠲࠳ࡄ࠽ࡃࡀࡁࡂ࠶࠳࠾࠺࠳࠱ࡀ࠱ࡁࡁࡁ࠺࠽ࡅ࠺ࡇࡅ࠶࠷࠺࠳ࡂ࠶࠳࠾ࡃ࠺ࡁ࠳࠾ࡃ࠺ࡁ࠳ࡁࡂ࠷࠺࠺࠾ࡃ࠻࠾ࡁࡂ࠶ࡀ࠽ࡃ࠵࠶࠶࠷ࡁࡄ࠷࠱ࡂ࠷࠻˽ࡁࡄ࠳࠷࠼ࡁ as they turn slowly to black-slowly. And the others look on at the cold clammy carcass, And say I gave you shelter, I gave you board, I offer you opportunity and success and sacrifice all I have as yours. How ungrateful you must be to succumb to such a silly tuffYou are a toad, you are an infant tadpole who needs to be told what to do so you can become a frog who leaps and croaks about important things. And if you do not listen, you will become a toad- who is nothing. But alas! They do not see the scars and scrapes and ghastly holes where the love was supposed to be. They cannot see the dark black cloud which seeps through my skin and fogs in the light where the soul is supposed to shine. And the do not see the panther behind meWho is always waiting- who is always striking fearWho is always ready to pounce once more. And. It is not their fault as they sit and watch the glow of the sweat that the carcass spits out through the black fog during his fight with the killing cat, That they do not see the feline preying on his soulFor the glow is bright, and the panther is dark, And it is easy to see the scratches and bites as tuffs, tuffs caused by flies. But they are not flies, They are me, they are permanent marks on my skin and are my essence. And as I lay awake and feel them on my pale skin, I reach my hand out to the panther and it sniffs my fingertips and crawls into my bed. And I can sleep for now because at least it is soft and warm to my scarred skin and it will not bite tonightBut maybe tomorrow. So I live with the panther, and take it wherever I go because it is my panther. And I sometimes love, and have others who love me, and their love is warm and the cat purrs and the fog clears for a moment or fiveBut the panther is always there- hungry. And I never know when its jaws will widen and inject their foggy venom again into my soul.
WE THANK THE FOLLOWING not all are relevent nor did they have to be