Motley Staff 2015 Editors Katie Han Sophie Herdrich Gabe Magadieu John Wahlig Tanner Daniels Josh Foster Faculty Advisor Simon Adams
June 2015 Dear Readers, While there is never a specific theme to an issue of Motley, I have been surprised several times by the way student work seems to follow a kind of “collective conciousness” from year to year. The writing in the 2015 issue of our school literature magazine touches again and again on subjects of loss, and fear, and what seems like a frustration with society that, thanks to our current “Age of Information”, is striking our students at a younger and younger age. While angst is ubiquitous in the lives of adolescents, and we watch our students growing up faster and faster in a divided world, there is great hope and solace still to be found. And it can be found on these very pages. The act of artistic creation is in and of itself an act of defiance against the darkness that can feel overpowering. Regardless of the subject matter; writing, drawing, painting, composing poetry, are cathartic experiences that push back against the ills of the world. Singing, dancing, acting, sculpting; these creative moments give voice to our strongest and often hardest-to-articulate emotions. Each page of Motley, each drawing, each painting, each poem, represents a moment of emotional growth and artistic courage for our students. While some might look at our magazine and only see pages (or pixels) I see power. And passion. And great hope for us as people who can work through the dark and create our own lights and find our own voices. Lights which we will hold high and voices with which we will sing out loud for others to follow.
Simon Adams
Darkness
The black land, stretches out, in front of me, as I step, one, two, three, four. What should I do? What should I see? In a land that is oh, so, dark.
-Madeleine Belcher
Balloon by Sophie Matson
Ceramic Landscape by Unknown
Ceramic Landscape by Unknown
The Pool I kick, splash; the cold is refreshing. I wade, swish; the water’s to my knees. I step, resistance; to my wait it goes. I get ready; J U M P! The water surrounds me; I am under, silence; all I see is swimming bodies. I come up for air; Dripping wet; The towel surrounds me. Warmth -Annabel Rosenbaum
Paper Sculpture by Unknown
White River at Sharon by Ellie Rudnick
watercolor. All of these textures add contrast and movement to the piece and make the painting more interesting.
I chose to emulate White River at Sharon by Edward Hopper. The piece is a watercolor landscape. The artwork has many components including a forest background all the way to a river foreground. This piece was created in 1937 and was a view from a farm that Hopper and his wife were visiting in Vermont. The style that Edward Hopper was known for was strongly defned lighting, clearly defned lines, and cropped viewpoints. I choice to emulate this piece because of the many layers and depth to the piece. Also the piece has an interesting texture that adds quality to the painting over all. White River at Sharon shows space in many ways. There are many light and dark areas in the piece that create and sense of depth in the artwork. Space is also shown by the many layers of the piece. The background layer is the sky with clouds that spread across sky with a wind
There is also a tremendous amount of value shown in the artwork. Value is the difference between light and dark areas and the difference between light and dark shades of a color. This value creates a major contrast between the light and dark areas of the piece. The light and dark areas that are shown add depth to the painting making it seem all the more realistic. This is especially shown in the trees at the farther they go back the dark they get to show the aspect of distance. This value was one of the hardest parts of the painting to emulate properly. The value of light and dark is also shown around the rock to make the water and the white rock contrast against each other and make the white of the rock differ from the blue of the water. Overall, the value in the piece adds to the elegance of the art work. Edward Hopper was an artist from an early age. He was born in 1882 into a middle class family in New York. He originally studied illustration. After a few months he changed his study to fne art at the New York School of Art. After he graduated he used his experience in illustration and was an illustrator for a few years. He then took three international trips that would further infuence his work. Paris had a real infuence on him and he visited there with great interest. He visited Paris on all three of these trips. Hopper was known for clearly outlined forms in strongly defned lighting, cropped compositions, and a mood of eerie stillness. In 1923 he married the artist Josephine Verstille Nivison, and she became a major element in his art. She was the one that really encouraged Hopper to focus on the medium of watercolor. Every summer for almost twenty years was spent on a lake house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. This place infuenced many of his works. Some of the recurring themes in “Hoppers artwork were the tensions between people, the confict between tradition and progress in both rural and urban settings, and the moods brought on by various times of day.” Sadly Edward Hopper’s career came to an end when Hopper died in
blown look to them. One of the middle ground layers is a white rock with a tree, the tree goes from almost the bottom of the page all the way to the top and overlaps over the landscape behind. The foremost ground is of the river. The river is blue and textured to make the water look natural. Texture is a major element of art in the painting. Texture in technical terms is the way something feels to the touch. However, in art texture can also be the way something looks as if it feels. It helps the looker to be able to imagine what the are would feel like without touching it. There is texture in the river as mentioned above. This texture is created by small pencil lines made over the water colored blue area. The textured marks show a bit of a pattern but more create a sense of movement of the water. There is also texture upon the white rock, this is done by adding black areas on the rock to make the rock look as if it has areas that are higher than others and creates a more rock shaped texture than just a white space. The trees also have a almost smudged texture that was created by the
1967. A this point his wife gave the majority of his works to New York's Whitney Museum of Art. In 1980, the Whitney opened "Edward Hopper: The Art and the Artist," a groundbreaking exhibition. This celebrated both his life and his work. In working to recreate this magnifcent piece of art, I believe I have really learned not only about Hopper’s capability as an artist but also of mine. I really enjoyed working to get every bit of my painting to look as similar as possible to the original. While this was nearly impossible, I had a fun time trying. The hardest part of the piece was to get all of the dark colors
to stand out as every time I would paint a dark color it would blend into the light colors and disappear. To solve this I did a lot of painting, letting it dry, and then painting again. If I could change one thing about my piece I would have used the pencil aspect as Hopper did to create that surfeit amount of detail that was hard to accomplish with just watercolor. A connection between Edward Hopper and myself would be the use of everything in the world as a model. I am always noticing the little things in life and while Edward Hopper may have been portraying them on canvas this is a common trait that we share.
Work Cited "Click Here To Play: Edward Hopper: Great American Painter." Edward Hopper: Great American Painter. N.p., n.d. Web. 28 Nov. 2014. "Edward Hopper." - Paintings, Biography, Quotes of. N.p., n.d. Web. 26 Nov. 2014. "Edward Hopper." Highlights from the Smithsonian American Art Museum. Smithsonian American Art Museum, n.d. Web. 28 Nov. 2014. Murphy, Jessica. "Edward Hopper (1882–1967)". In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000–. http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/hopp/hd_hopp.htm (June 2007)
Squid by Carson James
Self Portrait by Mackenzie Pizzo
Self Portrait by Kassidy Castillo
Self Portrait by Catherine Morrissette
Self Portrait by George Norris
The Writer Poe sits, The ominous white page waits, The pendulum swings, the raven taps. Every moment a thousand years, Every beat of his heart an echoing thump In the darkness. Words form on the page, Images form in his mind, Forming, fading, creating a story, An abyss of emotions, Black and white, Now blue, now red, now green. The sweet smell of a summer breeze, The bitter biting steel of a winter storm; He sits, alone with a fantastic fantasy That no one will notice, no one will feel, Until the words form. They curl like smoke in the air, Spilling on to the page from his pen As easily as if he were speaking them directly to the parchment. In the garden of thoughts he walks, Picking fruits of imagination, planting seeds. From this he conspires against reality, Creates a world with his mind for every soul to read. The feather falls, the darkness closes in, amazing , In a second the world will fall into the abyss of death, In a moment the writer writes nevermore. Colors fade, Shadows close in, the writer lays on the snow, Doomed to write nothing more than his own epitaph.
But a light there is still as one’s person fies over himself, Or in the clouds of imagination Anew is the storm that was brewing. A new thought appears, new words form on the page, Without despair, grief as before. Silver tinkling of ice falling to Baltimore ground, Men yelling, shouting in fear, a warm bed. One thought, “Lord help my soul”, The page is empty. Works Cited http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/edgar-allan-poe http://www.biography.com/people/edgar-allan-poe-9443160#mysterious-death https://www.poemuseum.org/life.php http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/edgar-allan-poe
illustration by Stella Bean
Clara Tolley
Rose Riversmith
Rose Lynch
Maddie Labbe
A Love Forgotten A lucid recollection of times past Lonely and mellow just like a white dove On its fnal fight– meeting end at last Vague are the days of our great, blissful love Elusive is the passion of our lust For its gentle glow seems just out of grasp Our affection now seems lost in the dust Regret churns when I think of your last gasp Great happiness – all though now concluded Obstructs me from the true meaning of life Toward our end we may have seemed unsuited Though once I wanted to make you my wife Eons may elapse but despite its gleam Nostalgia is none but a futile dream. -Ben Potter
Silkscreen by Abigail Farmer
Extended Lunch – An Argument
would nearly split in half. A survey of seventh
by Sam Pausman
grade students shows that over sixty percent of seventh graders feel the need for an increase of time between classes due to the stress that it
Lunch time! Students race down the
places on kids.
halls into the cafeteria and excitedly wait in line to claim their food. They fnd their friends at a
In the seventh grade, lunch is one of the
table and sit down to start eating, ffteen minutes
few times during the day when you can calm
later children are dismissed without enough time
down, talk with your friends and forget all about
to eat their food in a healthy way. All over the
the school day. But what if your lunch is only
nation short break times are a problem for
ffteen minutes long? At FMS we have a twenty
students in public schools. This is no different in
minute scheduled lunch, but once students get
FMS. Because of this problem, student’s schedule
their food, and sit down, they only have about
must include extended study halls, lunches, and
ffteen minutes. You could say that instead of
time between classes because it prevents stress, it
increasing lunch time we could increase the
is a healthier option, and it keeps students
periods that “matter” like classes. Although that
organized.
sounds logical, it obviously will not help students at all. It will only hurt them. If class times are
If you ask anyone who is in middle
extended and lunch times remain the same,
school, or has ever been in middle school about
students will not have enough energy to actively
stress, they will say is was a very stressful time.
participate in class, and teachers will become
Maybe it was the small, cramped hallways, or
agitated because no work is being completed. It
the lockers, though it’s likely it was the short
is nice that Falmouth is trying to get healthier
period of time between classes. As a result of
food at the cafeteria, but they overlooked the
this, school schedules need to change. In fact,
most important piece. Time. If a student has less
according to a survey, one hundred percent of
time to eat, out of instinct they will eat faster.
seventh grade students are stressed due to short
According to Nanci Hellmich of USA TODAY,
study halls. Also, the average period of time
“Studies show that when a person eats quickly
between classes at FMS is two to three minutes.
they consume more calories, enjoy the meal less,
That does not give kids a lot of time to get from
and causes them to get hungrier sooner than
one end of the building to another. Teachers are
later.” According to a survey of seventh grade
never pleased when a student shows up late, and
students, eighty percent of FMS students feel the
that is understandable, but if the student’s
need for longer lunches so they do not feel
schedule had carved in more time to get to the
stressed about wolfng down a meal in ffteen
class, the amount of students that show up late
minutes.
Cartoon by Julia Lee
Take notes, study hard, and turn in assignment
their locker. Also, if study halls are longer
on time are a few of the many ways to do well
students can complete homework neatly and have
and succeed in middle school. While all of these
enough time to pack up and not leave anything at
may seem important the most important one is
the study hall.
obviously to stay organised. The majority of
If Falmouth Middle School provides
middle school lockers are messy. If students are
extended break times throughout the school day,
allowed more time between classes they will have
kids will be healthier, more organized, and will
time to neatly put away their books and binders,
not be as stressed. Next time you create the
and replace it with the one they need for their
schedule, FMS, take into consideration what is
next class instead of shoving their materials into
good for the students, not just what looks good on paper.
Devin Quinn
Cameron Birks
Emma Cole
Abstract Speed
rhythm. In this, there are repetitive lines and
by
designs. Rhythm means recurring lines, colors or forms and in the painting there are colors being
Caroline Spencer
repeated in different layers helping to unify the
Giacomo Balla was an Italian man known for his outstanding abstract paintings. He was born July 18, 1871 in Turin, Italy. In his art he uses a visual portrayal of light, movement and
painting as a whole but also separate it. Also there is a frequent cross hatching type pattern and “hills� in the painting which are part of forms and lines.
speed. Balla spent the later years of his life as an art teacher. When he was 42 years old he made a abstract painting called Abstract Speed - The Car Has Passed. This outstanding piece of art was created using oil pastels and clearly shows the element of art space. With the different colors and overlapping of the colors it makes the painting look like there are 3 layers with different lines going through each layer. I chose this painting because of my love of abstract art and how everything comes together to makes a cohesive piece of art. In this piece of art there is many important elements and principles of although
one
clear
one
would
be
art, line.
Stella Deltergo
Throughout the whole painting there are lines going in every direction going through each layer.
Giacomo Balla was born in Turin Italy
These lines overlap and are different colors to
July 18, 1871. He is mostly commonly known for
create rhythm and space. Space is portrayed
his exceptional abstract art. In Balla’s painting
through the lines because each line helps in
Abstract Speed - The Car Has Passed he used oil
showing the clear 3 layers of space, background,
pastels as his medium which helped to blend the
middleground and foreground, but also defeating
lines but also keep them singular and separate
it because of how some lines go through all layers
from the rest if the painting. Giacomo Balla
but are still apart of each.
practiced futurism art, a style of the fne arts
The painting shows the principle of art
developed originally by a group of Italian artists about 1910 in which forms were used to
represent rapid movement and dynamic motion. Giacomo Balla was an extraordinary artist who specializes in abstract work. While making this painting myself I realized that his choice of oil pastels was very wise. I chose water colors which didn’t work out as planned but I didn't mind the fnish product. Also, throughout the process I really began to realize how much
thought actually goes into making these pieces of art. There are all these tedious lines and patterns that unify the work but you really have to plan ahead. Art is not just paint on a canvas, art is the expression or application of human creative skill and
imagination
producing
works
to
be
appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
Works Cited "Giacomo Balla." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 30 Nov. 2014. Web. 02 Dec. 2014. Whitford, Frank. Understanding Abstract Art. New York: E.P. Dutton, 1987. Print. The Editors of EncyclopĂŚdia Britannica. "Giacomo Balla (Italian Artist)."Encyclopedia Britannica Online. Encyclopedia Britannica, n.d. Web. 02 Dec. 2014. "Giacomo Balla." - WikiArt.org. N.p., n.d. Web. 02 Dec. 2014.
New England Cotton Tail by Caitlyn Bull
City by Viviana Griffin
City by Elena Parr
Thank you You've always been there, making sure that I was o.k. The one that helped me be the kind of person I am today. I'll never be able to repay you, for all that you have done for me. Knowing that I'd need someone, when I'd fall and scrape my knee. You are my big brother, one that I admire most. I will always be thankful, having a brother like you makes me boast. You understand me, like only a brother can. And when I'm upset and not talking, you always just give me a hand. Now you’re going to college and your career will soon begin. But I will always come to you, whenever I feel sad within. So this is my attempt, at thanking you for what you've done. Because in my book you'll always be, my brother; number one! -Nick Langdon
Self-Portrait by Delaney Irwin
Self-Portrait by Ethan Livingood
Self-Portrait by Mitchell Kelley
Self-Portrait by Sophie Herdrich
Music Music is everywhere can’t you see? Music is anything so beautiful and free. Music is the rivers, ponds, and streams. Music is your thoughts and wildest dreams. Let its sound fow into your ears. Jazz Classical Pop Mind suddenly clears. You start to sing. You start to dance. This is your time. This is your chance to be happy and free. -Natalie Haug-Pavlak
Teapot by Libby Danielson
Teapot by Unknown
Kayaking by Matt Arnoldo Marco peered out the car window as little birds and tumbleweeds passed by in a rush. His father patted his shoulder and smiled. This was the frst time together since the divorce and Marco never wanted it to end. Before his father left, for his 8th birthday he asked for a kayaking trip down in the Grand Canyon. His parents discussed it and said he must wait until he was ten. Marco had been counting down the days til the day he would ride the currents with his dad. He imagined the envy in his classmates faces as he would tell them his adventure. A couple months after his birthday celebration, his mom started arguing with his dad more than usual. It turned into fghts that lasted long through the night. Sometimes his mother stormed off and didn’t return for days. Marco would sit at his window looking out, waiting for her to come back. When she did, she would hug him and apologize about the fght. It would seem fne and he would settle back into his family life. But the next day it would happen again. Marco got so upset about the fghts that he went to his friends’ houses just to see a happy family household. His family fell apart again one night and there were many harsh words thrown. His father packed his things and slammed the door without a goodbye. Marco cried for days and days. His wish for kayaking was smashed under the many wishes of his father’s return. After he got used to being the man of the house, his interest of kayaking came back. He studied the sport and longed to kayak. The whole trip was a plan to spend more time with his father. “You excited?” asked his Dad taking a long sip of his coffee. “Yes!” replied Marco taking a bite out of his turkey sandwich. His father looked out the window and said, “Yes, we are taking a very hard route today.” Marco raised his eyebrows. “A very hard route? Is it dangerous?” His dad shook his head.
“Not really, but it does have many currents that could fip your boat, and I can’t have that happen.” Currents were rough, and if not skilled, someone could get seriously hurt or killed. Marco wasn’t really thinking about that though, he was only thinking about the time he was going to spend with his father. This trip was going to be very exciting and risky. Marco liked that. Their little stationwagon rolled up in a cloud of dust. Marco helped unhitch the kayaks from the top of the rusted car. While his dad unpacked the supplies, Marco peered slowly over the cliff. The sound of rushing water was overwhelming and the currents were seriously strong. He gulped and walked shakily over to his father. “Saw the river?” asked his father grinning. “Yes. Are you sure that that’s the one? That’s the one that we’re gonna ride?” “Uh huh. I have planned an extra trip too down to one of my friend’s house down river. It will be fun visiting them!” If we get there without dying, thought Marco. So many things could go wrong. He carried up the heavy boats to the access trail. He tripped over tough sharp rocks multiple times. Little scaly lizards skittered across the sun beaten cliffs. They reached the point where they were supposed to start. There was a little time to rest before they launched. As his dad anchored the kayaks, Marco took a bite out of a powerbar and looked at the guide book carefully. It seemed that everything would be fne with the right skills. “Lets get going son!” yelled his father over the roaring water’s sound. When Marco stepped into the wobbly boat he sat steadily in the seat and looked at the supplies in his kayak. He spotted a weapon-like object tucked in a corner of the raft. “Hey dad! What’s this for?” he asked. He held up the object and handed it to him. “Ah… I remember this. It was from my last trip down the river. We got stuck in a logjam and had to fre this fare. Please don’t play with it, it could burn you.” His father handed him the paddle and
by Abbie Ryer
by Abbie Ryer by Sophie Blier
took one for himself. “Ready?” asked his father excitedly. “Oh yeah,” he yelled and plunged his paddle into the crystal clear water. They jerked forward and all of a sudden he wished he hadn’t eaten that powerbar. The butterfies in his stomach futtered up to his throat and he wanted to throw up. He wasn’t about to lose his brave appearance and toss his cookies all over his kayak. They hit many waves that could have fipped their boats but with educated skill, they didn’t. “Are we near the campsite?” he screamed at his dad. He slowed and paddled over to him. “No Marco, we still have a long way to go. There is a big current up ahead around that cliff,” he pointed to a huge cliff to the left that was in the water and rose up, burned red from the harsh sun. “The campsite is a couple miles after that.” He craned his neck to see past the cliff. All you have to do is get past that cliff, he told himself. The camp was right past it! He took a deep breath.
Phoenix by Parker Thibodeau
“Let’s go,” he said. He paddled with ease and bravery. His heart was pounding and he felt courage fowing through his veins. It felt like he was fying with no fears. But when he rushed around the sharp cliff, all his fears came back. Those currents up ahead were the steepest, dangerous and raging waters! As he hit the frst wave all of his lunch threatened to leap out of his throat. He blinked the dripping water out of his eyes and surged forward. His paddle hit a huge slippery rock and his boat jerked sideways. Supplies spilled out of his kayak. “No!” he yelled as he watched the fare, guidebook, and medical supplies fall and disappear under the roaring waves. He had no time to react and grab them because his dad slammed into him. Water splashed into his open boat ruining dry supplies. Sitting in a pool of water rushing through a river was not his favorite thing to do, so he tried to bail the water quickly out of his boat. He put the paddle down on his lap pouring water out his boat with his leather hat. He hit another rock and the yellow paddle few off his lap into the water.
“Dad! Help!” he yelled over to him. He didn’t even have time to hear his reply because his kayak fipped over! Water swallowed his boat under the waves. He foated slowly around and his breath was running out. He started to panic and waved his arms around trying to right the waterlogged kayak. It was no use. He started seeing sparks around his sight and he fought desperately to get to the surface. Suddenly the kayak started to turn sidewards and he looked upwards through the murky waters. As his head broke through the surface, he gulped air as fast as he could. He never had swallowed so much water in his life. It had felt like he had a gallon of it sloshing around in stomach. “Are you okay? Marco, answer me!” asked his dad with fear painted all around his eyes. He didn’t answer, he knew it was wrong to keep his dad worrying, but he needed his breath to breathe not talk. “Marco? You fne son? I need to know, do you need medical attention?” he said again. He looked around seeing where they were. They were off in a little pool away from the currents. Desert Landscape by Eban Daniels
“Y-yes,” He stammered slowly as if he needed to relearn how to speak. “A little dazed bud?” said his father holding his shoulder. He nodded and took a deep breath. He really needed to eat something. “C-can I have a drink please? Some of that orange juice maybe,” he asked. “Son, all of our supplies are gone. I trusted that you would keep them safe, but…” he looked at him with pity. Marco spit in the water. He had never felt so low in my life. He couldn’t look at his father so he aimed his eyes at a little water bug crawling up his kayaks side. “I’m really sorry dad, I am! I guess I expected the current to be less violent,” he looked at the ground. “It’s fne son, it was an honest mistake,” he turned his boat around and beckoned him to follow. “C’mon Marco, we’re almost to our campsite anyway. We’ll just have to do without our supplies.” He paddled slowly after him. He was careful to not capsize as they went to their camping site. They ate apples that they found on a tree nearby. He ate fve of them and stopped after he saw a wiggly worm in one of them.
He almost threw up after that. The rocks were sharp and could easily get into a hull of a weak boat. He looked up at the rocky cliffs edges and watched an eagle perch on top of it, looking around with its noble look. “Time to hit the sack, Marco,” said his father laying out the sleeping bags and got out a small deck of cards. They were worn out and faded with age.
cup and looked at the brilliant sky. He spilled the rest in a dirt hole and then took a long swim in a shallow pool. His dad got out the guidebook and started to look in it, scanning each page. It looked like this trip would be as interesting as watching Buster King pick his nose with his pencil. Marco shuddered even thinking about it. Then the guidebook his father was holding dropped down to the ground. “I don’t think that the way we took was the right way…” said his dad. Marco stood up, surprised.
Scissors by Dominic Severino “Play cards?” he asked him holding them up. He reached out and took half and started playing a game of poker. It sort of got his mind off the fact that they had almost no food, extra clothes, and daily necessities. Marco won two of the games and ate a half of a peach before he settled down to sleep. Right before he slipped into sleep mode, Marco heard his dad say, “Watch out for those scorpions.” He opened his eyes after a long sleep. He remembered vaguely a moment in his dream where a scorpion stung him. He had woken up and checked under his blanket to check. He shook his dad awake and they ate stale biscuits and coffee. “That was a tough ride yesterday, wasn’t it Marco?” asked his dad. “Yeah, but I can ride better today! I swear! I had a bad day!” he said fearing that his dad would quit the trip and they would leave. “We aren't leaving are we?” His dad looked him straight in the eye. “I would never quit on a trip I planned for my son that I promised to do, and don’t think you're not allowed to make mistakes.” He smiled, and rose up, stretching. Marco took a sip out of his
Erase by Matisse Moser “What?” he looked at his dad with sheer confusion. His dad didn’t usually get messed up on a something like that. He was very skilled with maps. “I think that the route I took was an incorrect one,” he admitted. He looked around. It looked like the right place, but he couldn’t tell that, he wasn’t experienced enough to tell. “Now what?” he asked discouraged. His father scanned the river, and said, “I don’t know. I think we are going to have to go up and see if there is a way out.” “Are you sure? Are we going to abandon our trip?” Marco said, anger starting to rise. It threatened to spill out. Uneasily, his father said, “I guess we’ll just have to fnd our way through this.”
Mask by Mary Kate Bayer
Mask by Chloe Jacquet
After The Mushroom Cloud Lyrics by Baker McMahon The red, white and blue fags, are on fre They tell you its alright, but they are all liars. We ran through the jungles. Fought through the fear. I fgured out pretty quick there's no way out of here. We bled through the blitzkrieg. And howled at the pearly gates. Lost every loved one cause we're a disgrace Lost all the living when the world became ground zero. I’m telling you there aren’t any heroes You know how to remember and how to forget. But will you be proud after the mushroom cloud. No you know you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud. Think of every time you’ve hid from the hatred. And imagine all the pain from the screaming, black napalm. The innocent life burn into the blood red sky. There are six of us left and seven about to die. We could tell ourselves there's hope but, its really just a lie. You know how to remember and how to forget. But will you be proud after the mushroom cloud. No you know you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud. Remember all the hate there is in Ferguson. And don’t forget about Baltimore, Maryland The love and understanding reverberate all the same. But, it never will ever beat out the hate and pain. You will say goodbye when there's no one to save. You won’t be laughing when the whole world's in a grave.
Love by Clara Tolley
You know how to remember and how to forget. But will you be proud after the mushroom cloud. No you know you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud. The militias run from their own crosshairs. You know they own the wasted land. The fres rage, over bloodied bodies. The blue-blooded senators burn in the distance. Their precious money is just ink on paper. The four-star generals are all just unknown soldiers. Even the president is a long gone abandoner. You know how to remember and how to forget. But will you be proud after the mushroom cloud. No you know you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud. Think of all the pain in any town, everywhere. And remember all of the world is exploding. The violence is vast. The death machine is unloading. The fres burn free, there is no chance of stopping. There is no chance of escape. You know it’s just the same old place. You can hear the planes soar. There is nowhere left to explore. It is all just a battle-zone. Raging the winner-less war. You know how to remember and how to forget. But will you be proud after the mushroom cloud. No you know you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud. No, no, no, no you won’t be proud, after the mushroom cloud.
The Old Guitarist by Kade Kelley The piece I chose to recreate is “The Old Guitarist.” Using oil paint on panel, Pablo Picasso made it during 1903. It was created during his Blue Period(1901-1904), in which his friend committed suicide in Paris, enveloping him in sorrow and causing many of his pieces to be about tragic, sad, and sorrowful subjects. This oil painting shows a poor blind man in an abandoned room, playing the guitar, the only thing that keeps him happy. The blind man with an inner vision presented in this piece shows some of the symbolized work he made during the Blue Period. I chose this piece to represent space because I felt like there was a great dimension that I could exaggerate.The arms stuck out to me like it was the only “living” part of him left and the guitar was the only piece that wasn’t a shade of blue making it really stick out due to contrast.
paintings. Many of his paintings during this time contained tragedy, poverty, and disability. This was especially important in making my piece because I had to recreate the mood. The element of color could be seen in my piece by just it’s color(hue), but I also had to attempt to perfect the exact value, intensity, and tint of the blue. Just having the color blue was the frst half that added to my piece. It refects the gloom shown in the original painting. However, if I did the same blue for all of his skin, clothing, and background, it’d look like someone from the Blue Man Group swimming in water. However, the different shades, tints, and tones add a new depth that makes the piece of art captivating, engaging, and 3D. Color is extremely important in artwork, especially one like this where almost the whole piece is the same.
The element of value, or the degree of lightness or darkness in a color, takes a major role in my piece. Value is the relative degree of lightness or darkness in a color. All of his skin tones are pale to dark blue. His clothes contains shades of dark blue and black. The different shades puts emphasis on his face, arms, and guitar. It brings out the most important pieces of the work by making it pop out through the contrast shapes when it’s surrounded by other colors or shapes. Emphasis, or special attention and importance, of the face is important in understanding the mood of the work as well as of the person. His arms and the guitar look more “alive” in comparison to the rest of the piece. The value, contrast, and emphasis is joined by my use of the different layers to promote space. “The Old Guitarist” was painted during Picasso’s Blue Period, this painting represents some of the grief he faced during that time. The reason it was called the Blue Period was not [only] because he was having the blues, it was because the color blue overwhelmed his
The Old Guitarist by Kade Kelley Pablo [Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y] Picasso was born in Màlaga, Spain,
October 25, 1881. He grew up addicted to art and was taught by his father at a very young age how to draw. This resulted in his frst word being lapiz, Spanish for pencil. When he was around 13 years old, he far surpassed his father’s talent. Not long after, he lost his desire for schoolwork and would spend his time doodling in his notebook. His family relocated twice, each time he started a new school he would skip classes and paint what he observed of the cities. This is when he dropped the idea of sticking to classical art and he began looking at innovation, interpretation, and experimenting. At the turn of the 20th century, before his Blue and Rose period, Picasso moved to France to set up his own studio. He once said, “God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant and the cat. He has no real style. He just keeps on trying other things.” My interpretation from this quote is that when he thought of an artist, he
thought of someone who didn’t stick to one thing, someone who tried new things and wasn’t afraid to get out of their safe zone. Picasso was a true artist. Although he mainly stuck to painting, he was not afraid to experiment with all kinds of styles and movements. One movement that inspired him was cubism. Cubism is shown in art by only using geometric shapes, interlocking planes, and sometimes collages. He tried surrealism, symbolism, and more. I’ve learned a lot through this project. I learned about the elements and principles. Not only what they are, but how they work. Each one has to come together to become a piece of art. Art is not one or two of these. It’s all of them, present or not, that work together. Value, color, contrast, and emphasis are all needed for the mood alone. Movement and balance enhances composition.
Works Cited "What Are Some Interesting Facts About Pablo Picasso?" YourDictionary. N.p., n.d. Web. 21 Nov. 2014. Bio.com. A&E Networks Television, n.d. Web. 21 Nov. 2014. "The Art Institute of Chicago." The Old Guitarist. N.p., n.d. Web. 21 Nov. 2014. "Pablo Picasso." The Old Guitarist by. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Nov. 2014.
Skyline by Stella Bean
Some Might Say Some might say that Mary-Lou-Allen lived on Pepperidge Farm or was it Naples? No matter the less her cat was sly, her father loving, and the mother was to not be spoken of. Days playing in the feld wouldn't last long, until little Mary had to help her father. The felds were hot dry too, but for her father anything. Beauty sleep was bogus and exercising stupid, but as Mary got older she realized that husked corn and fresh eggs were the last of what she needed. The day she asked was frightening and scary, for worried that her father would dis-agree with the idea. “Daddy…..can I change my name?” “Mary-Lou-Allen isn’t enough, I want something that sounds like royalty.”
“Oh honey name changing is is expensive, time consuming too. Your perfect and keep telling yourself that.” I knew it was coming, but that wouldn’t be last of those kinds question. Today my tea was too sweet, and lemons a bit too sour. Dad was in the rocking chair and I was exchanging glances with the pictures on the wall. The ones of my mother were tearjerkers. And we all knew that. But as my story comes to a close I’ll tell you the last bit. Fathers eyes shut and were never to be opened again. The thumping in his chest would come to a quick halt and the barn doors would close for good. -Annalise Rodrigue
Illustration by Sarah Greenlaw
Christina’s World by Emma Auer A woman sits alone in a barren feld and gazes towards a house in the distance that is framed by a cold blue sky. A gust of fall wind blows her hair and the dry stalks of grass around her. Andrew Wyeth painted this piece, called “Christina's World”, in 1948 using tempera paint. The painting features a woman named Christina Olson who was the subject of a series of Wyeth’s paintings. I chose this painting because it not only shows fascinating Maine scenery, but is intriguing and enigmatic in its display of Christina. This painting presents space and depth because the viewer is very close to Christina in the foreground. Then, in the middle ground, the felds slope upwards until at the top, the houses are very small in the distance. In “Christina’s World”, there are only a few main forms, or three dimensional shapes, including Christina, the buildings, and grass. These forms, while simple, are very important because they create unity and movement in the painting. The forms work together to create a diagonal line that draws the viewer from Christina, across the felds, and then fnally to the house. In other words, the forms bind the painting together.
Another important element in “Christina’s World” is color. The color of Christina’s dress creates emphasis, or special prominence, because Christina is set off from the brown stalks around her. The emphasis is important because the viewer’s eyes are drawn to the subject of the painting, and she takes precedence over the other parts of the piece. Andrew Wyeth was born in 1917 to an illustrator father. He was born in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania where many of his paintings were located. Wyeth also painted in Cushing, Maine, where “Christina’s World” took place. Wyeth painted representational pieces, meaning viewers could easily recognize what was depicted. He was part of the realist movement, and he painted with watercolor and tempera. Also, he used a limited color pallet. The emotional style of Wyeth’s paintings was infuenced greatly by his father’s death, mainly because his color palette became darker and less complex, and the subjects of his pieces were very dramatic. In recreating this piece, I enjoyed the 3D aspect, but I had a lot of trouble with blending paints and working quickly. If I could change something about my painting I would make Christina larger and the buildings smaller, thus creating the effect of space, as it is in the original painting. A similarity I discovered between myself and Andrew Wyeth is that his painting was not as crisp and defned as the work of other artists, which is what I enjoy painting.
Works Cited Corn, Wanda M. The Art of Andrew Wyeth. Greenwich, CT: Published for the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco by the New York Graphic Society, 1973. Print. "Andrew Wyeth." Biography. Present Www.AndrewWyeth.org, 2011. Web. 23 Nov. 2014. <http://www.andrewwyeth.org/biography.jsp>.
Possum by Emmett Hamilton
Snail by Natalie Grondin
Jaguar by Oceane Bowden
Arctic Fox by Clara Tolley
The Rose
It’s been awhile since I saw you, you ignore me every street, every time I approach you, you walk into the shadow, out of the heat, away, away you turn down an alleyway and disappear, away, away you leave at the alley corner with my fears. I wilt, like a rose, my petals disappear to soil, and working in the felds, you leave me to toil. You break my heart, when you go off like that, run through the whispering winds, away, away. When I approach you at the shore, you dash off, straight into the chuckling waves, away, away. I know that you’re still mad at me for what I’ve done, but I’m still your father, no matter what. -Henry Armstrong
Kevin Billington
Hero's Journey by Annabel Rosenblum “Ok class lets just fnish this last math problem and then you can go home and enjoy April vacation!” Mrs. Huckleberry said smiling, her fake smile as always. I looked over at Anna, my best friend, and she grinned a mischievous grin. We both raised our left hand at the same time and looked like we might pee our pants. “Mrs. H,?” I asked, “can we go to the bathroom because we really have to go.” “No, I know this trick just to get out of doing this last problem,” she said looking smug. I moaned and Anna got up and started hopping around. Even though we are in 8th grade, I crossed and uncrossed my legs. By now the whole class knew what we were doing. We had practiced the plan many times before. I looked over at my boyfriend, Noah, and he immediately understood and got up. “Hey! If my girlfriend needs to go to the bathroom, let her go!” His 6’0 tall body towered over mrs. H’s 5’5 self. “Yeah!” said Ivan, Anna’s boyfriend, standing behind Noah, he was shorter but defnitely stockier than his friend. “Ok, ok you are dismissed.” Yes! I thought. My plan had worked (as they always do). -just so you know whenever mrs. H says you are dismissed that means school is over and you are free to go to the bathroom. All the other kids ran out of the room screaming and joyfully getting their bags and things. I looked at the clock and smiled because I had successfully gotten my class dismissed ten minutes early. “C’mon, lets go,” I yelled to Anna, Ivan, and Noah, who had hung back with me and waited for the classroom to empty. “Anyone want to come to my house?” “Sorry,” Noah muttered, “I have lax practice.” “Yeah, me too,” said Ivan who was also
on the year round lacrosse team. “So sorry,” Anna moaned, “My mom needs me home to take care of Lindsay.” Lindsay was Anna’s baby sister. “Ok, thats cool.” I shrugged “Bye.” I tied my chest length, neon purple hair into a loose bun and grabbed my messenger bag. I calmly walked out the door, not knowing what was ahead of me. Something caught my eye as I forcefully closed the school door. It then occurred to me that I as the only person on the street. I heard footsteps on my right, I snapped my head towards the sound but there was nothing there. Something is chasing you! popped into my head! My only thought as I raced through town was that I needed to get home. Home was the only safe place from the black-robed men. They were always watching me, when I got out of school, when I went to get Mom something from the store, even when I went to the amusement park with Anna four hours away, but the second I ran through the door to my house they would disappear. I could see the house on the horizon it was easy to spot because it is the only castle like house in all of rural Wisconsin. I kept my focus on the house and didn't see the other tall men
Fungi by Billy Myers
standing just in front of me until I was in their arms, all of my muscular 14 year old self struggling to get away. Oh sauce. “Stop, stop! I’m not afraid of you! Put my cousin down now or you will be in deep trouble! I will rip out your motherboard, all of your motherboards!” Standing in the doorway of my house was a young woman, maybe 20, with her chocolate brown hair tied in a wet ponytail that swished whenever she talked. She was wearing a baby blue bathrobe and holding a lime green bar of soap, raising it in the air like it were a sword. The men were so surprised that they loosened their hold on me enough so I could wriggle free and run full sprint to the door. Once inside, the woman ran upstairs and in a few minutes she came down, fully dressed and holding an Iphone instead of a bar of soap. “Hi, I’m Shayna Rollet but you can call me Shayna. I’m your cousin and your Dad is letting me stay here because I need somewhere to stay and I am broke. I will stay out of your way unless you need saving or I need to use you hair brush.” said my so-said cousin. I looked at her suspiciously.Oh now I remember him saying a cousin would be coming! Say something nice so she doesn't hate you when you go through her stuff and see if there is anything valuable! I thought. “Ummm, hi i’m Annabelle Genevieve Rollet, um, and I’m 14 and, um nice to meet you.”
Backpack by Alex Mazelsky
“Hi, Annabelle Genevieve Rollet, do you like to be called that or do you have a shorter name I could call you?” “Yeah, Annabelle is good.” “Ok, now that we have introduced ourselves, we need to get down to business. Do those men ever watch you or follow you?” “Umm, Yeah.” “Oh, this is worse than I thought! Ok, so I’m going to tell you some info that may just turn your world upside down.” “Ok, Tell me already!” “So, those men, they are not men at all,but robots for the S.S.O.M. or “secret society of men”--pretty cheesy name, right? They are trying to take over Wisconsin and then eventually the U.S. by kidnapping the worlds strongest and most famous people. Also no one-” “Wait, but they tried to kidnap me, and I'm not even important or famous or rich or anything!” I say, completely confused. “Let me fnish talking!” “Sheesh, lady, calm down!” “As I was saying, no one knows who the leader of this group is. Maybe you are important or famous to this person. Who knows at this point. Trust me, I know more about this than anyone that isn't in the S.S.O.M.” “How do I know you aren’t here to kidnap me!” I am now very worried that my life is in danger and I start backing up from my spot on the living room foor. “Oh no,honey, no I’m not part of them!” Shayna’s voice immediately changed to something much sweeter and kinder than her harsh voice before. “Have I said too much? Oh sweetie,, its ok, I wont hurt you, never, never will I hurt you oh darling Annabelle its alright.” “I’m 14 I don't need to be babied, but seriously, are you one of them? Tell me the truth!” She raised her chin and looked me in the eyes. “I would never… no I am not and don't plan to be one, ever.” “Now that that is solved why don't you tell me everything you know about these guys.” “Ok, well they have these beasts that….” Suddenly there was a deafening roar from near by. The ground shook, boom, boom, boom!
Unknown
GARGOYLES
Molly McDermott
Haley Stark
I looked out the window just to see a giant red and blood orange colored eye looking at me from the other side. I mean seriously this thing was huge! The eye itself was small compared to the body and that eye was as big as a monster truck wheel! Shayna and I screamed in unison and backed toward the basement in an odd crab walk. Then out of the blue a dog comes running up to the beast and barking at it. “No little doggy, no! go away don't mess with that beast! You’ll get killed!” I screamed at the dog, completely terrifed that it would get hurt, or worse. One thing you should know about me is that I love animals more than anything, even humans, my own species. “Its fne,its fne calm down! The dog is not even a dog, just watch!” Shayna said completely calm. I will be fne, just trust me! And suddenly I was calm as well.
Ceramic Landscape by Ryan Langston Then the dog started growing and growing until it was bigger that the horrid, ugly beast. They looked like twins except for the fact that the, well dog I guess I could call it that but it wasn't one anymore, was bigger and much more elegant than the slimy gray beast. My name is Argos. Please call me by my name, I thank you in advance. What was it with that voice, it was like it could read my mind and also deliver thoughts to me. It suddenly occurred to me that the dog might be Argos. Well any-who, the beast took a
mighty blow but didn't even make a dent in the armor of Argos. Then it was is his turn. the beast fell with a big, deep gash in its throat. I wanted to look but Shayna covered my eyes and I didn't fght her. … It only took a few minutes for Argos to over-power the beast and when he did it was fatal. Argos shrunk down to something that looked like a mix between a black bear and a tiger, and then back to being a German Shepherd. He then calmly pushed open the door and walked through. “Hello, I have not formally introduced myself to you,” he said to me, “I am Argos one of the 10 Andromeda on earth.” Argos said, cool as a cucumber. “Umm, pardon my asking but are you like a god or an alien or what, ‘cause i’m kind of confused.” “Oh, I thought you knew about Andromedas.” Shayna said. I shook my head “well this guy is here to protect you.” Everything just faded into black as I crumpled slowly to the ground. “Annabelle, Annabelle! Come on, wake up!” I hear my mom’s voice, maybe that was all a dream. Maybe there is no cousin Shayna, a beast defnitely did not just try to eat me, and the fact that I would be protected by anything is totally a dream. “I will meet you at breakfast,” I say to Mom. Then it hits me, Mom is dead. She died mysteriously coming home from work 6 months ago. No one knows how, but they found her car in a ditch, smoking, and her missing. My dad strangely didn't even want to acknowledge that she was missing. He said and I quote “I do not want you to go look for your mother in such a time of peril. Beware bad forces are among us, some of them seek to destroy you!” When he said that I had the feeling he didn't mean YOU as in people, he meant YOU as in ME. Ever since then I have had to take care of myself. But I thought nothing of it at the time. Remembering that my mom was dead, I instantly started crying. “Hush, hush, darling, everything is
alright. you fainted, do you know who I am? I’m Shayna, remember.” “Argos, Argos come here” Shayna forcefully whispered. I sat up groaning and looked around, confrming that this was no dream, Argos stood about ten feet away in his German Shepherd form. Outside the broken window was a big pile of ash, and if I looked hard enough I could see some of the men outside talking amongst themselves and gesturing to the house. I slumped back to the ground. “Come on! We need to get out of here! They
Egyptian Curtain by Abby Marley
are sending more beasts that are much worse.” Then, just on cue comes another roar and the whole forest erupts in the stomps and roars of 100s of beasts about a mile away. “That one that attacked frst must have been a baby” I say. “They always use a baby frst so that we think that’s how big they are, but adults are double the size.” We run upstairs into my room in the front most turret of the house and made a plan.
Which is Best? Can you hear the oaths or praise? For they are told on wasted breath. And those who speak them; are they crazed? Will we fnd out through life or death? Our oaths are made through fre and ice for they do melt or disappear This praise that is given will not suffce without a sound; without a tear. Truth and lie aren't night and day As far as we can tell for when we speak, Oh, none can say that all forever shall be well. Can you hear the oaths or praise? for we aren't all damned or blessed Do our kind live in such a daze? And truth or lie; Now, which is best? -Sam Morril
Chocolate.
He is so sweet and was a pleasure to meet. We became so close our friendship is quite deep My mother and father do not agree they think he is bad for me But I do not care care what they say he and I are here to stay.
through thick and thin and good times and bad chocolate never makes me sad.
-Lauryn Kidwell
Tree Tiles by Seventh Grade
Leaves by Katie Han
What e'er men do, or say, or think, or dream, Our Motley paper seizes for it's theme. -byline from The Tatler (Eng. 18t c.) -from Juvenal (Roman Satirist 2nd c.AD)