Opus 2014

Herman Lam OIL PASSAGES

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The Opus Team Teacher Sponsors Mrs. O'Connor Ms. Jacobs Mrs. van Rijn Editor in Chief Parker Nann Lead Staff Jack Wang - Layout Director Kenneth Huang - Layout Director Steven Hao - Literary Director Spencer Quong - Artistic Director Selections Team Aidan Chan Alvin Tsuei Arjun Mehta Curtis Ho Davis Zhu Duncan Stothers Harmanjot Uppal Jason Qu John Yu Josh Tsang Kaiz Bhatia Kevin Tian Oscar Hong Tony Li Ty Zhang Zen Ngam

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Introduction A Passage is an access, a channel, an opening that allows one the freedom to shift, change and to be in motion. It bears significance in how we move and explore the world around us. It describes the execution of a work of art. It is the process of being in one instance and morphing through to another point. A passage can be as simple as several sentences, a paragraph, or a verse of written text.

The Opus 2014 summons you to explore Passages, your lead-in to flip through and to be in motion with the creative inspirations of various art forms. We students who pass through the halls of St. George’s School are talented with words, adept with our hands and adroit with the lens and light. This book is a collection of visual and literary passages that will ensnare and entertain as you discover the passion of the authors and artists among us.

Without the support and contributions of numerous people, Opus: Passages would not have been achievable. Firstly, thank you to the dedicated teachers, Mrs. van Rijn, Mrs. O’Connor and Ms. Jacobs for their legacy of supporting the publication that you are holding in your hands.

Secondly, thank you to the entire team of students, especially Spencer, Steven, Kenneth and Jack for curating the contents of this book with pride, thoughtfulness and great care. Your commitment to the quality of The Opus is affirmed by the pages ahead. Finally, kudos to everyone who contributed work to Opus: Passages. Your artistry is what truly creates The Opus and I appreciate you sharing your creative expressions with us all.

As you explore the pages of The Opus, pause and take the time to appreciate the passion which flows through this publication. It is my hope that by the time you arrive at the last page you will feel as though you have journeyed through a rich and moving array of passages.

- Parker Nann, Editor in Chief

PASSAGES

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PASSAGES

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OPUS 2014

PASSAGES

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Jeff Lam PAINTING

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A Fortress of Old TIMOTHY KWAN

In a spring so long ago, There was a fragile root.

As the spring turned into summer...

It became a sprouting shoot.

Up it grew towards the skies, Over the months and years, As men were born and grown and aged...

And loved, died and shed tears.

Soon it was mighty, a castle for all, With a long-extending arm, To it there came nothing but respect and awe...

And never any harm.

But many winters had taken their toll, And it had started to fall.

It once was a giant, a hero for some...

But Death began to call.

The men became unloving, uncaring, With their axes and their saws, They happened upon our precious tree... ...and now it is gone, in Death’s great jaws.

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Stillborn ALASTAIR PITTS

I cannot see, the world is black, why must I have love to lack; I only wished to cross the line, to sense and feel this thing called time.

I am robbed of life its true, yet I know not of what to rue, I will not touch nor see nor taste, nor feel the wind across my face.

Why me, what wrong did I commit, inside this tether I did sit, hoping I could leave the womb, not knowing it would be my tomb.

I heard the world pass by each day, a laugh, a cheer, a kid at play.

No longer now, the string is cut, the gates of life’s long road are shut.

No rage, no fear, I do not feel, I only wonder who did steal from me the chance to live and grow, perhaps one day a life to sow.

My arms and legs I thought grew fine, I kicked and shoved when it was time, yet somewhere something would not start, so from this world I must depart.

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Ben Tam PASTEL & CRAYON PASSAGES

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And even though I cannot see, I sense the light that flees from me, and even as my heart turns cold, I cry, for I will not grow old.

Don’t grieve for me, my mother dear, when I am gone don’t shed a tear, for though my life is short of breath, I’ve solved that riddle you call death.

Gabriel Atkinson SILKSCREEN 10 | OPUS

Nick Garbuz CERAMICS PASSAGES

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James Lin ACRYLIC

Happiness and Sadness BRIAN RIBACK

An endless road is twisting ahead As the rooster croaks and strays from Like a cat on a sofa wasting its days As complicated as rats in a maze.

its

bed

The pride of accomplishment like a squirrel’s treasured acorn Withers into defeat like an elephant’s absent tusk Terror turns to excitement like a weasel escaping a fox But, again I cannot win; like Khan’s beloved hawk.

My life is an attraction Like a circus tent of lions Waltzing among foes Like a swan in defiance.

Trying to get by Like a salmon against the tide Free, but in control Like a horse on a ride.

Enter a world of madness and lust.

Like Pandora’s box filled with hope and disgust.

Life is too short for unwanted change.

Like a butterscotch candy Savour each moment of joy and pain.

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Joseph Woolley CERAMICS

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Stanley Cho CERAMICS

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The Calm & The Chaos RAYMOND WANG

Blazing sun is rising Like a glowing metal sphere On flatlands and deserts and mountains and all That will soon disappear.

But the missile is in its launcher Like ice cream in its cone.

And the mine on the rocky ground Like a teacup on its saucer.

And the flag flies in the air Like an eagle soars in the sky.

And the marks dot the strategic map Like brushstrokes on a canvas.

Scorching day has intensified Like a fountain spewing lava On the angry skies Of the clamorous noon.

But the grenades flash at the front lines Like cameras at a stadium.

The projectiles penetrate the dusty debris Like raindrops on a foggy day.

The tanks tread the stormy sands Like whales cruise the wavy ocean.

Shards of ruby litter the scene Like displays in a jewelry store.

The heavens give way to darkness Like the world has gone asleep — Yesterday and Tomorrow Are as far as stars in the sky.

But the muteness of the night Like a singer without song.

And the waves of the wind Like ripples on a lake.

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Such a day — The strong willed men Have lost their spirits.

A crow calls.

The brave soldiers Lie cold and motionless Like rocks in a pit.

Curtis Ho PHOTOGRAPHY PASSAGES

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Darkness HARRY DUAN

Let me tell you a story, Of a blind man I once knew.

The happiest man I ever knew, Hopelessly, Helplessly, Never wondered why, Even when consumed by darkness, A smile was all he had That was all he needed How is it possible that a man, Who lives his entire life in darkness Can be so content?

How is it, that an unfortunate soul, Who is visionless be so undisturbed?

How is it that he lived with no fear?

Could there be more in darkness?

Could there be peace?

Happiness?

Hope?

Let me tell you a story, Of a blind man I once knew, Covered and consumed by darkness, In this sightless world, A smile was all he had, A smile which no ordinary man contained, He was a man, Who had found peace in the darkness that consumed him He was blind But he saw peace without sight

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Sajin Parmar CERAMICS

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You are nothing more than the rapid oxidation of a material; The release of light and heat in the process of combustion; But no! Fire, You are the forever leaping, glowing spirit of happiness.

You are the eternal angel of annihilation.

The mere visible portion of you, The mere mixture of heated gas and solids: Flame, Is the dancer in the darkness, Is the blade lusting for blood, waiting to kill.

Fire, oh look: We had desperate need of you, Yet we hold unspeakable fear for you. *** You are the torment of hell.

You are the agony that one could not bear.

You roar, dance, flood Through the forest of green; You roar, dance, flood Through the forest of grey.

Oh, how you snarl at plants, animals, men! With a grin!

How you devour them whole, leaving them screaming! While you dance away!

Oh Fire! Witness the black that once was a living thing!

But my dearest friend, my deadliest foe, Behold, There upon the ashes, trees grow!

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Matthew Boroditsky CERAMICS PASSAGES

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Luke Dowling GRAPHITE

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PASSAGES

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jack guo PAINTING

Davis 24 | OPUSZhu GRAPHITE & WATER

Face of Fear DANIEL ZHANG

The first time my eyes found you on that day I knew your face would be forever marked In my memory; the moment that sparked That awful feeling has not gone away.

Your face was the only part visible And for that gift, I thank the gods with grace.

It was as if someone had turned your face Inside out; it was that despicable.

Your face looms out of your body; a raw Jumble of flesh and bone juts gruesomely Where regular graceful features should be Neither Death nor Satan could fight or claw For the place that you now hold true in me The face from which I will never be free.

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Daniel Wise CERAMICS

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Herman Lam OIL

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God of Nightmares JOE GOETZ

I am the god of nightmares, I slumber during day I cause terror at the whisper of night It is when you are solitary, When no one else is near I prey on weakness, I am the origin of dreadful fear.

I lurk in the corners of your brain I am the poison that kills your sweet dreams I am the hideous, foul beast that’s concealed so carefully In your closet, only to attack at the pinnacle of panic It is this moment, when the thick, Malicious blackness swallows you whole That you know I am the fright that targets you so.

I live in my own world, one crafted by greed, A place that you can’t escape with ease I might call it hell, But you should decide, because you’re suffering In my prison fabricated from fear, terror, evil, and more I am the chain from which you can’t break free I will hold you here forevermore, For an eternity of endless pain Or maybe one second, it depends, Do you get scared easy?

I am the god of nightmares, I am king of illusions That make you shudder, tremble, shiver, In restless, troublesome sleep.

I have powers beyond human imagination I carry enormous mountains with a mere finger I create knives out of nowhere, To plunge into your pulsating, trembling heart.

I could be as tiny as a mouse, I could tower like a grand house, It would make you afraid, because no one person Is the same, so see me now, See me never, I could toy with you forever,

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Why not kill you? I could do it!

You would rise up in your bed, not harmed and not dead, Still weighted with sickening dread Hail to me my friend, Hail to the god of nightmares.

Konrad Swic PHOTOGRAPHY

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For Me COLIN MITCHELL

He sat there, thinking. No particular reason for doing anything else. His back rested against the hard wooden pews, dried after decades of neglect. The fine shoes upon his feet were now in tatters, exposing lacerated and bruised limbs.

The wind blew quietly across the deserted landscape.

Through the broken windows and cracks in the wood the dust blew against his face. He didn’t care. There was very little to care about anymore.

He stood up and walked into the aisle. This church was very different now, very different from what he’d remembered. Decades ago it had been so vibrant, so colourful. Now it lay to waste, cruelly suffering the murderous transformation of time. It was nothing but a wreck. It was a degeneracy. It was a ruin.

The old man could remember this very scene decades ago.

The pews filled with finely dressed men, women and children, the sun was shining through the alluring stained glass window, and flowers were adorning the aisles. He felt a pang in his chest as he thought about it. There were too many painful memories. It brought tears to his eyes to think about them.

Step by step he made his way to the altar. Old scars and wounds throbbed. It was here it began, and it was here it would end.

Final rays of sunlight shone into the church, slicing through the dilapidated windows and holes in the walls. The sun-bleached planks of wood sucked all life out of the sun, like a rainstorm on a summer’s day. The old man smiled a bitter smile. This was it. His final moments. His life had been up, down, left and right, but now it was coming to a stop.

He lowered himself onto the steps of the altar. His bones creaked and protested with age, not arguing with his ultimate fate.

A chuckle escaped his throat. It wouldn’t matter in a few seconds.

Nothing would.

Out of his pocket he pulled his pistol. Black, sleek, shiny, chamber fully loaded. There was no going back.

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He raised it to his head, drawing in his final breath.

Scene after scene began playing as his eyes drew shut, the anthology of his life splayed out across his vision. A green field, and a bright sun stretched out before him, beckoning for his mortality‌

Leo Chang ACRYLIC PASSAGES

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George Wen INK

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Jamie Mackay CERAMICS

PASSAGES

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Jack Pan CHARCOAL

jordan bi | PHOTOGRAPHY 34 | OPUS

Hamlet’s Soliloquy Parody ROY WEI

O that this too too hard Calculus would burn, Recall, and drain my brain into an “A”, Or that my teacher had not fixed His rules against scale-prohibition. Oh God, God How boring, tiring insipid and humdrum Seem to me all the chapters of this course!

My notes are an overflowing trashcan, That grows more rotten, things tedious and irritating in textbook Possess it merely. That I should come to Calculus!

But four days of term break – nay not so much, not fourSo excellent a break, that was to this Respite to a drowsy boy, so loving to my mind That I might not beteem the winds of formulas Visit my mind too roughly – heaven and earth, Must I remember? Why, I would hang on it As if appetite for rest had grown By what it fed on, and yet within one week – Let me not think on’t; misery, thy name is Calculus – A small break, or ere this laptop was old With which I played the League of Legends Like Dyrus , all games, why I, even I – O God, an Asian who wants time for entertainment Would be forced to take Calculus – back to Calculus BC Calculus AB’s brother, but no more like AB Than I to Pascal – within a term Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in my bloodshot eyes, I attended, Oh most wicked speed, to distribute With such dexterity a surprise test.

It is not, nor it cannot come to good.

But calm, my brain, for I must do my test.

1. League of Legends: A famous Video Game 2. Dyrus: A pro-gamer

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Do not be happy, do not be sad HARRY DUAN

Some say Happiness is like sunlight that Enlightens the soul to glow Then I pray Sadness be like the darkness that Teaches the soul to grow For Without trying discomfort of sadness No one would Treasure the soothing luxury of happiness Just like Without the absence of light No one would Learn the significance of light Some say Happiness is like the key that Opens an imprisoned heart Then I pray Sadness be like the chain that Gently holds on to the distressed heart For Without sadness Wild happiness May turn into painful emptiness Just like Without the restricting chain A liberated heart May naively run into another trap Happiness and sadness are like Light and darkness Light is not seen If darkness does not blind

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Happiness and sadness are like Key and chain A key is not needed If there is no chain So Do not be glad When you are happy Do not be depressed When you are sad For happiness and sadness Are only complete in union

Spencer Quong CHARCOAL

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With a Hint of America JUSTIN LOW

“Here you leave today, and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy.” These were the words inscribed upon a timeless threshold, once spoken by a man with a vision, an imagination, and an American Dream. “ここでは、今日のままにして、昨日、明日とファン タジーの世界に入る。” ... read the plaque above a small fountain, tucked away from the roaring crowds of the morning. I quickly punched the phrase into Google Translate. “...yesterday, tomorrow and fantasy... hmm...” I was in a whole new world; with new people, and a completely new language. Somehow, though, I was home.

I floated through an ocean of kimonos, to find myself in the 1900s, in a small American town. My eyes panned through the various barber shops, penny arcades and emporiums, only to stop at another building in the distance; a Japanese temple. Though both from the same time era, completely different cultures and countries collided into a whole new world. I nearly missed the neon sign looming above; “Welcome to Tokyo... wait what?” It couldn’t be. The little world I had known so well, merged with that unique, oriental flare. I was torn to pieces, literally. My half Japanese, half American heritage, taking sides, in an epic battle of confusion. “Could this be... Tokyo Disneyland?”

I walked down to the opening of a massive plaza. Around the circular hub stood gateways to Fantasyland, Adventureland, and Tomorrowland. In the center of it all stood Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse, gazing upon their magical kingdom, their faces etched in bronze. This was my first time alone. Though somehow Walt’s animated, familiar face made me feel like home, in such a foreign world.

Throughout the day, surprises welcomed me around every corner - creative, fantastic fusions of Japanese and American culture.

Further down the road, I approached the “Main Street Diner”, only to be offered spring rolls and ramen bowls. Needless to say, It was an amazing meal, best complemented with the sweet sound of classical ragtime music playing from an old Toshiba radio.

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Jack Guo PHOTOGRAPHY

anthony hui | GRAPHITE

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In the evening, I treated myself to FrontierLand, a tribute to the Californian gold rush back in the late 1800s. The succulent curry-rice slid down my throat, thawing out my chilled body.

What better view to see, other than the egg-yolk sun, melting behind the rising peaks of Big Thunder Mountain. It’s remarkable, what the Land of the Rising Sun has to offer.

That night, festivities erupted from the park’s plaza into a nighttime spectacular, featuring fireworks, traditional music and artistry. I stood awestruck and marveled at the Japanese kites soaring above, while Lion Dancers pummeled the grounds, scaring off evil spirits and welcoming the new year. In the center of the cultural blender, danced Mickey and Minnie Mouse, taking part in the festivities and welcoming guests. I stood off to the side, wishing I was more involved. Though, as if on cue, I spotted the store where everyone was purchasing the Ukatas. (simplified kimonos) Before I knew it, I was dancing along with everyone else, in a special choreographed dance. People of all nations were here on Main Street. I realized then, why DisneyLand was the perfect place for this event. At DisneyLand, It didn’t matter where you came from, there were no ethnic or social barriers. That night, it was the happiest place on earth. It had the perfect recipe: Just a little Japanese, with a hint of America.

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Spencer Quong ACRYLIC

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I AM NATHAN FONG

I am a shadow in the background, not seen but there.

I am the light that shows you the way.

I am your hope when all seems lost.

I am.

I am a burst of adrenaline when you lay drowsy and dead.

I am the power that you never knew you had.

I am your strength when you’re about to give up.

I am.

I am a hero who takes away your fear.

I am the roots you dig into when you forget who you are.

I am your protector when the world knocks you down.

I am.

I am a whisper who calms your storms.

I am the shout of victory when your enemies give in.

I am your voice when you cannot speak up.

I always was, and always will be.

I am.

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Michael Jung MIXED MEDIA PASSAGES

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Blake Hayward CERAMICS

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Thomas Yang CERAMICS

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Innocence JASON QU

Wherefore art thou, my star in the night sky?

Where liest thou, amidst the starred faรงade?

A canvas of light, dazzling ever so high, Numbing my mind; and yet I still feel flawed.

How can I ever hope to seek and find Among these stars, the one which shines for me?

In this cloudy abyss, one of a kind, Whose masked cry seems to be in vanity?

But Hark! Your light will bridge this bleak chasm, And our love will strike all that can fathom.

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Leo Chang PHOTOGRAPHY

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Hunter Will PHOTOGRAPHY

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What If? JEREMY YUEN

Love is a jerk, It never goes away Surrounding your thoughts each and every day.

Its starts with that crush The one which makes my heart rush However, there is a type of love which is especially hard to confess.

I wish I can let it out, But my urge is blocked by my consciousness.

I’m a guy and he’s my best friend He has a girlfriend already, he’ll never say yes.

So why should I do this?

Isn’t this dumb?

I’ve managed to hide this for years, Ever since the moment I met him.

But now, it’s time he realizes the truth.

But what may happen?

Our friendship ruined?

What if he never talks?

Never looks me in the eye?

Afraid of me........?

Sometimes I wish I never met him We’ve laughed, we’ve hung out But now and then, I sometimes feel nervous around him.

It’s like I’m talking to a girl.

How can I be afraid of my best friend?

I always wonder, what if?

A million possibilities flow through my mind Should I let my heart open a can of worms?

Why take the risk?

I can’t let this takeover my life It’s too late now, there’s no turning back.

I wait as he reads Almost complete.

I look up to him, With tears rushing down my face.

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Hunter Murphy CERAMICS

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Jamie Mackay CERAMICS

PASSAGES

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Harmanjot Uppal ACRYLIC

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My Collective Bad KEVIN LEE This World does not sleep.

It blossoms with people and technology and romance and I sample its petals.

This World feeds off of desire.

It gorges itself full of greed and lust and sin and I take it all in.

This World is full of tragedy.

I witness and live in This World that tears itself apart with- Wars fought with words and arguments debated with bombs, Earthquakes in the East and tsunamis in the West, Children holding guns instead of books.

This World has heroes.

A black orator who has a dream, A single mother with a penchant for Twitter.

An anti-apartheid president jailed for twenty and seven years.

They come in all shapes and sizes and they stitch and tape this bleeding world like one would put a Band-Aid on a missing limb and yet they do it anyways and are peerless in their efforts and I admire them.

I tread carefully through This World, becauseI might leave an online footprint, I might offend a demographic, I might break the law.

I weave myself through This World and sometimes I come upon a gem.

I find a story so perfect or an insight so profound that This World stops and only starts when I notice it again. I discover a song that nourishes my soul or a poem that just asks to be read aloud with gusto.

But works from the likes of Coupland and Hofstadter are like patches of sunlight in a dense forest and the Don McLeans and Yates’ of this world are few and far between.

When I find these intangible objects of nonpareil in This World, I take them with me back to My World. They decorate the halls in My World and give me comfort when This World becomes too much to bear.

My World is a library. I’ve only read through a fragment of its literature.

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Some dusty books sit on the shelves of My World, crinkled half-forgotten memories from another age. Some have been read recently. They stand on the shelves and the tables and have creases and folds in them, marking cherished moments and important lessons. The rest have spines that have never been bent and empty pages and I can only wonder where they will take me.

I have a book open in front of me now.

I clutch it with passion and eagerness and my hands as I scribe my life onto its pages.

I give thanks once a year and I enter tryptophan-induced sleep I expect gifts on certain days and I expect to be pampered I favor metallic beasts that run on black gold instead of ambulating when I move and when I move I tend to always move with a purpose and in This World there isn’t ever time for self-reflection no time to pause and take it all in no moment that I can stop and no place that I belong to no body to hold on to no belief to calm no inner peace no passion no me NO. I ammy self, my beliefs, my own temple, my postulations, I speak my thoughts, I root for the underdog, I vote for the lesser evil, I celebrate the small victories, I depart with a destination in mind, but I also take the time to pause to think, to reflect, to record my recollections into my book, and to archive my book into the library that is my life, and I understand my contemporaries and I relate to my peers, and I know turkey-eating doesn’t make me drowsy during Thanksgiving, and I know My World amounts to nothing more than one drop in an endless ocean.

Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops? KL

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George Wen MIXED MEDIA

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Paul Wang & Harris Mak ACRYLIC

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Jorden Lo ACRYLIC

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Time JOHN WANG T

i m e s e e m s t o s t o p .

A s s e c o n d s m e l t i n t o h o u r s , I l o o k a r o u n d f o r t h e l a s t t i m e : u n f u l f i l l e d g o a l s , r e g r e t s , w r o n g d e c i s i o n s , m i s t a k e s ; things that still haunt my dreams.

I b l i n k there’s something in the distance.

Looking for a mirage of hope, a miracle, an oasis.

T h e y e l u d e m e .

I rub m y ey es a n d s ea rc h a g a in : pieces of shiny granite blind my eyes when I look at the ground.

Rays of light bathe my face when I stare at the sky.

The more I discover about my life the deeper and deeper I go.

Sinking further and further, my life is upside down.

Hoping that someone can turn it around.

Hoping that someone can turn it around, my life is upside down.

Sinking further and further.

The deeper and deeper I go, the more I discover about my life.

When I stare at the sky rays of light bathe my face.

When I look at the ground pieces of shiny granite blind my eyes.

I rub my eyes and search again, t h e y e l u d e m e looking for a mirage of hope, a miracle, an oasis.

There’s something in the distance, I b l i n k .

Things that still haunt my dreams: w r o n g d e c i s i o n s , m i s t a k e s u n f u l f i l l e d g o a l s , r e g r e t s .

I l o o k a r o u n d f o r t h e l a s t t i m e : a s s e c o n d s m e l t i n t o h o u r s , t i m e s e e m s t o s t o p .

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Oscar Hong PHOTOGRAPHY

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Portrait of a Homeless Man KENNETH NG

Blaring horns of the angry cars that have woken up before the sun act as an alarm, reminding him that his nightmares and reality are no different at all.

Hurried footsteps, quick, judging glances; a few suggesting pity, but most accompanied by a disgusted frown of the brow, as if they are the kings and he, the peasant.

His stomach, a relentless and vicious lion, continually roaring while it scours the floors of the concrete jungle, looking for anything left behind by the heartless animals passing by.

Hope, depleting by the day like the money in his pocket, creating an everlasting expression of exhaustion on his rugged face.

Smells of the littered streets, the pureness of the icy air, his torn-up clothes that protect him through the dark, endless night, combine into one, overwhelming stench that surrounds him.

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Harris Mak ACRYLIC PASSAGES

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Why does he fight through the meaningless days to live when he has reached the point where life is his greatest luxury?

Where the very idea of death does not send shivers down the spine, but rather, uplifts the mind?

No family to alleviate the loneliness, no shelter to protect from the harsh cold, no money, no chance at redemption.

But he lives on.

Kelvin Zhu PHOTOGRAPHY 62 | OPUS

Harmanjot Uppal ACRYLIC

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The World Below RAYMOND WANG

The bright, sparkling rays of the sun penetrate the crashing, monstrous waves of the rolling sea, brightening the heavens of the world below the surface. Crisp shades of aquamarine define the calm horizon. The waterways, bustling with traffic, teem with aquatic life; colorful fish, large and small, fill the view, crisscrossing each other’s paths. Sending a sudden shockwave through the water, a shark rams through the scene like an oncoming missile, obliterating its prey by the thousands. In its place, swarms of courageous fish sweep through to fill the path of destruction, resiliently standing their ground against the oppression of the predators.

In the distance lies an ocean trench, where the land disappears into a dark, mysterious void. Below, the warmth of the sea turns to a bone-freezing chill, and colors disappear into an immense black hole that seems devoid of life. Across from the dark stretches of the trench lies only a steady string of bubbles that blows from the hydrovents below, expanding ever larger as they rise towards the surface, like helium balloons. Yet hidden deep within the abyss, anglerfish dance to the rhythms of their torchlights, exploring the depths of the ocean.

On the sea floor, the clams open and close their giant, menacing mouths, guarding their treasures against alien thieves. Vast, green expanses of kelp stretch for miles across the ocean bottom, snapping like giant whips with the current, threatening to entangle all trespassers who dare to cross their paths. In this sanctuary, the jewels of the ocean desperately cling to the vegetation; the clusters of orange, translucent eggs that are the ocean’s future patiently await their awakening. Not too far away, dull outlines of skeletons protrude through the ground, like a pile of white needles against the solemn sand. Yet, the dolphins’ sonorous melody emanates from afar, reminding the ocean that not all is lost.

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Steven Ren ACRYLIC

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A current sweeps through the entire scene, washing away the empty shells of mussels that litter the ocean floor. The force of the water sends starfish spinning like discs, crisply cutting through the sea.

Particles of sand, shocked by the disturbance, stir violently into the ocean, painting cloudy shades of grey like smoke on a summer day.

At last, the debris, drifting softly like snowflakes in the sky, kisses the ground to complete nature’s transformation. With the passing storm, the crabs quietly creep out from their humble shelters under the rocks. Following their lead, families of horsefish swing their curved bodies out from the swaying seagrass. Together, the fauna of the sea peer out curiously into the renewed world, now only a wide span of blue, as blank as a slate.

Like the world above, this largely unexplored wonderland is a cycle of powerful, yet delicate changes that balance new and old, busyness and emptiness. It is a land of existence and expiration, of trash and treasure, and of optimism and pessimism; after all, none would exist without the other.

66 | OPUS

Kevin Jin CERAMICS PASSAGES

67

William Ma ACRYLIC 68 | OPUS

PASSAGES

69

Steven Ren ACRYLIC 70 | OPUS

Rebirth QAASIM KARIM

A bundle of life, someone’s last whim, blows through the wind, Down it fall, quick and fast, smashing into the ground, Hard the wind blows, coating it with grime, pushing in further down, It finally awakes, and it grows a leg, awakening it even more, It awakens even more, causing a sprig of green, The sprig smashes out of the ground, giving it a view of the sky, It grows higher and higher, wanting to see where it had came, It grow more and more legs, trying to steady itself, It grows arms, to help push it higher still, pulling from the light, It grows its head, wanting to see its world, The legs take all they can from the earth, The arms pull as hard as they can, The head bursts open, unfurling its glory, The think that gave it life, try to kill it away, But it blows new life towards it, A whim, a dream, from another of its kind, It takes it and puts it with his, starting to destroy himself, Its beauty falls away; yellow to white, and it grows hundreds of itself, The tempest comes back, displeased with its work, blowing as hard as it can, It tries, but fulfills it last wish, as its hopes fly away on the wind, As it looks at itself, hundreds flying away, it smiles and gives a last laugh, It does that before it finally falls away, and goes back to who nurtured it.

A bundle of life, someone’s last whim, blows through the wind…

PASSAGES

71

Jordan Liu ACRYLIC

72 | OPUS

Marshall Mak CERAMICS

PASSAGES

73

Sand TONY CHEN

This is my end. The kevlar didn’t work. And for once, in my life, I was free. Free from decisions. Apart from one, I suppose. I kept my eyes open and watched. There wasn’t much to see. There wasn’t much to see apart from the empty space in my chest that runs like a tap, washing away the thin grains of sand off my shirt, the urine off my trousers, and the Desert abyss I drifted away from.

The red syrup flowed and drizzled, imprinting 21 on the cake. I’m sitting with my family. I’m being deployed tomorrow. Cuts were made and slices were passed, tears were shed and hugs exchanged. I don’t think about tomorrow. I don’t think about the car ride, the cargo plane, or my destination. I don’t think I understand. But I had to think, and so I thought. Of other things, things of today. My hair is out of regulation, it has to be shaved. I thought about my barber, the leather seat, and the razor. I thought about the soft hum that will threaten my scalp, but only to reveal it.

I have thought long and hard, yet now I’m here, waiting for the barber to begin my career. The recruit in the seat is bald, so the barber signals me to come near. I’m nervous and confused, but I think I understand.

The next month of training will be hard, so I’ll think about tomorrow to forget today. The day drives through me, and I find myself at a table. I ignore my plate and focus my attention at the cup, filled with tap water that probably tastes like ambrosia. Thats what they taught me today, “combat dehydrates, so what are you gonna do?”

Thats what they taught me at least, I don’t know if its true. Thats what they taught me at least, I don’t care if its true. So I take the bottle from my vest but my three eyes stay open. You have to do your part, you can’t get selfish. Your men rely on you, you need to have their back.

How mad would you be, if you were crept up from the back? The patrol’s been 5 hours, but the firefight’s only been 1. The warm water is drained, but I can still taste plastic. The bottle hugs the Sand to be caressed by time. The fire rages on. The humvee was carrying gas, and is roasting a Marine.

I cut off a slice from the carcass roasting on the bonfire. Venison laid on the paper plate, about to be stabbed with my Wal-Mart fork. I’m delighted, I’m sixteen today, and the sea laps hungrily at the Sand. I’m also worried, what are the limitations on public festivities again? Were we

74 | OPUS

Leo Chang ACRYLIC

PASSAGES

75

suppose to inform someone? Tell the neighbours maybe? But did I really care? Because the liquor sure told me I didn’t. The Sand beneath my feet remembers the brightness of the day, but the waves bring me back to reality. And so I lie down, and run my fingers through the grain.

The Sand rubbed across my wounds, and reminded me of my vain.

How mad would I be, if I was crept up from the back? Well to be honest, I’m not very sad, so I’m not sure why they tell us that. I need to get new trousers, but the supply depot can cover that. Now I feel the boots surround me, and familiar teenagers telling me I’ll be alright. “You’ve had a rough night buddy, but you’ll be fine.” A bullet is in my chest, and its only the afternoon. So I said hello to the rising Afghan moon, and stand up to finally return Home, from the barber shop, from the training, and of course from the smouldering Sand.

For the kevlar didn’t work, and this is my end.

Seth Book CERAMICS 76 | OPUS

Mac Shepard ACRYLIC

PASSAGES

77

Shawn Guo OIL

78 | OPUS

The Soldier NICHOLAS GOETZ

The hockey player is like a soldier Standing in the worn face-off circle Like the soldier who stands on the much-tread front line of War. He shoots the beaten puck With the significance and power Of a soldier’s ice cold bullet, Skating until he is out of time to fight.

PASSAGES

79

To Live or Not to Live TONY LI

To live or not to live? that is the question.

Many grow up having dreams filled with of hope and determination.

Don’t lie; we all looked up to our own superman with admiration.

We want to succeed, become and strive with perfection!

But something soon happens to us, at a point of intersection.

We shrink into miniscule cowards in the face of society’s expectations.

So frightened, and with trembling fear, “What will happen to my reputation?”

And once we fail, we lose all aspiration.

We question the reason of education, We fail our loved ones with lack of communication…

Separation…

There is no feeling more disappointing, more heart wrenching than failure when we put in work and devotion!

However, once we take a moment of calm metacognition, With deep introspection, In our reflections, we can make the connection, That life is not a game of playful expedition.

It is in times of our darkest hours In isolation!

When we realize that if things were easy, that there would be no competition.

In order to live, we need to chase our dreams and accept challenges with confrontation.

We need to stop being mediocre and throw away moderation.

Exploring and failing will lead to success and evolution.

To live or not to live! That is the question.

80 | OPUS

Konrad Swic PHOTOGRAPHY

PASSAGES

81

82 | OPUS

Jason Liu PHOTOGRAPHY PASSAGES

83

Marshall Mak CERAMICS

84 | OPUS

Josh Tsang CERAMICS

PASSAGES

85

Unrequited Love ANONYMOUS

When I looked out the window at the dark sky, I had only two things on my mind: Abby, the subject of my unrequited love, and the short story I was assigned.

I sat at my old decrepit desk, which matched the rest of my salvaged furniture, surrounded by books layered in dust, clicking away at the keys on my typewriter as I write my story.

Click! Click! Click!

My typewriter jammed. I decided to take a break from the struggle of writing a story of my life. I look at the clock on the wall: 8:05 pm. Time for some dinner. I looked inside my fridge; it was empty. My only consolation was the fact that I am a terrible cook anyway. Luckily the campus dining halls are always open, so I headed to the cafeteria for a bite to eat.

As soon as I had my foot through the door of my apartment building, I began to hear the sounds of the city. I heard the pitterpatter of the rain drops hitting the fire escape with a vengeance.

Each impact an explosion to be followed by thousands of others.

The branches of the old Cedar creaked in the wind; they sounded like a poorly oiled machine. The wind buffeted me; its cold fingers grasped the bare skin of my neck. It was relentless. As I continued on my journey, I heard more. In the distance, I heard the whine of a siren. As I passed by buildings, dogs could be heard barking and babies could be heard crying. The sights and sounds were intoxicating.

When I reached my destination, I crossed the threshold while taking off my scarf, finally escaping the cold bitter grasp of the winter wind. I hung my jacket and sweater along with my scarf, and slowly rubbed my hands together to create some warmth. I made my way across the dining hall, picked up a tray, and started piling food onto it. Soon enough, I had amassed a miniature Mount Vesuvius of entrees. As I absentmindedly scanned the dining hall for a place to sit and break bread, I noticed a seat by the window.

As I sat alone at that table, soggy sandwich in hand, masticating, mulling my musings, a strange yet familiar face sat down next to me. I knew I had seen this person before, yet I could not recall her name. She asked me why I was sitting alone at such a

86 | OPUS

Ray Chang ACRYLIC

PASSAGES

87

late hour. I didn’t know who she was, or why she was here, but I felt strangely obligated to tell her my story, or at least part of it. She told me her name was Jen, and that she wanted to hear a story. And tell her a story, I did.

I told her as much of my life’s story as I was willing to reveal to an almost complete stranger. Of course details were left out, but I tried to be as descriptive as possible. She took the time to listen, so I took the time to tell her a proper story.

So I started my story from the beginning of my journey.

I recounted my childhood, my adolescence, and my college years: everything that had led up to this point. But there was one story that I was unwilling to tell then and there, the story of Abby. As much as I trusted Jennifer, it was a story that I was not willing to tell. It was a story meant for another day. As I glanced at my watch, I realized that I had been storytelling for far too long. I thanked Jennifer for her time, and prepared to make the trek back to my dinghy second floor apartment. I was not excited to be lashed by the wind’s cat o’ nine tails, but alas, it was a journey I had to make. As I bundled up for the task at hand, I bid Jennifer farewell, and stepped out the door. When I stepped out into the darkness from the light of the dining hall, I had only one thing on my mind: the short story I had been assigned.

Once I was home and in the warmth, I changed my mind. The story of Abby was not meant for another day; it was meant for another place. It was not right to tell it in the dining hall, but here at my desk in front of my freshly unjammed typewriter, it was so right. My fingers flew across the keyboard, hitting the keys with vicious ferocity. I hear music from one suite that spurs me on; I hear the voice of a women breaking up with her significant other; I hear the sniffles of the weeping person sitting at my desk, me. Soon I have recounted the tale that has haunted me so.

It all started when I met her. I saw her from across the room.

From the moment I first set eyes on her, I knew she was special. And the first time I heard her speak, the first time I heard the voice that sounds like music carried by the wind, I was hooked. I remember saying in a barely audible voice, “Goddamn, aren’t you something else.”

Days, weeks, months went by. Every minute of every day, I found myself thinking about her. At this point, I only knew her face. But eventually we became fast friends. I quickly found myself infatuated with this girl. Our friendship was strong, but I could never shake the feeling that

88 | OPUS

Jordan Liu CERAMICS

PASSAGES

89

Cyrus Aquilini GRAPHITE 90 | OPUS

there could be something more, and I knew I wanted more.

But my determination for more than a friendship led to an eight month hiatus. That was the most painful stretch of time in my life. I knew she was the one I wanted. She was the one to end the hiatus and I took that action to mean more than it actually did. I thought that I meant that she was ready and willing to have something more than what we already had. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The cycle had begun anew. Once again, I had fallen in love with a girl who could never love me. And yet I was too blind to see that. Perhaps able but unwilling to see that.

One day, I decided that it was time for us to take the next step in our relationship. I wanted more than a friendship, and I needed to know how she felt. So I took a leap of faith, and told Abby how I felt.

The result was definitely what I was hoping for, but admittedly it could have been worse. Abby had always been a fickle girl. She had always been complicated. Nothing between us had even been simple. When she didn’t answer, I was worried that I had upset her somehow. My only reassurance that I hadn’t done so was a text message telling me that unfortunately she didn’t feel the same way. She told me that she wasn’t looking for anything serious before she was at a different stage in her life. She told me that she would only be able to reciprocate friendship.

I had a decision to make. I could either cut my losses and leave or I could stay and continue to be her friend. I decided that even if I couldn’t be with her, I wanted to be her friend. I came to the conclusion that she meant too much to me to give up on again. And I stayed. We remained friends until we went off to our respective universities. I went off to study in Manhattan, and she stayed in Canada. We remained in contact, but our friendship was tangibly different from the day I told her how I felt. As time progressed, our friendship digressed until it eventually flamed out.

I think about her every day, and I miss her.

Ring! Ring! Ring!

It’s her.

When I looked out the window at the dark sky, I had only two things on my mind: Abby, the subject of my unrequited love, and the short story I was assigned.

PASSAGES

91

Harmanjot Uppal

92 | OPUS

ACRYLIC

PASSAGES

93

A Long Way Gone ANONYMOUS

“For king and country!” Lord Kitchener seemed to stare out at every corner, casually mocking me for simply being there and acknowledging the pamphlet’s existence. I receive the same condescending look from elderly ladies, for doing nothing except strolling across London. Although the words of “Your brothers are at the front, and where are you?” have never been spoken, I know they cross the mind of every passerby. I, once again, bring my dilemma to my father, who still walks with a cane to this day due to his injuries, and hangs his hussar’s sabre proudly in his study.

I still remember his words clearly as I stepped into the enlistment office the following day.

That was a year and a half ago. Throughout all the horrors, my father’s words have never left me. In addition to my kit, I only carry a worn-torn piece of paper with his message still etched on it from trench to trench.

“Now son, you have a duty and obligation to your nation, but don’t you ever forget what you are fighting for. War is not a trifle thing to mess around with, so you better have a damn good idea why you are there. Son, we don’t need a hero, just get home safely.”

I had risen quickly through the ranks, for once I got over the initial shock of combat, I found a selfless courage that I never knew existed. Just several days prior receiving that letter, I’d saved a soul from certain death, one much younger then mine. I could never forget his look of absolute gratitude, for the wounded man had simply given up all hope. They gave me a medal in place of the wound that I sustained, but all I could see was another piece of metal. But, I learned a much more valuable lesson, and I etched another line into my bible.

“Never forget what it means to be human, never give up hope.”

Yet, neither him nor I ever mentioned how his buddy bled out beside him as I lifted and carried him to safety.

It had been exactly 13 days since I received that coffee-colored letter, inevitably ripped due to its long journey from home. The letter began with trademark military harshness, a sense of animosity to mask the stench of bad news.

“Please accept my deepest heartfelt sympathy. We regret to inform

94 | OPUS

Josh Tsang CERAMICS

PASSAGES

95

you that...”

I crashed to my knees, praying that it was some devilish trick, that my eyes were deceiving me, anything. The pieces of the letter flutter to the ground in millions of tiny pieces, yet, even that futile act couldn’t mask the grief contained in the lines. I didn’t even get the opportunity to mull over and mourn, for we were to go over the top. Being the superior officer when we broke through their lines, I was tasked with the well-being of the enemy prisoners. In their uncertain, beady eyes, I saw the same fear, the same despair, the same terror that was in that soldier’s eyes...

In my parents’ eyes.

I put a round hole between those very eyes. And the next. And the next. Until I got to the last one.

“Please...I have a family. A wife. I’ll do anything.” he mumbled incoherently on his knees, pleading for his life.

“These are the same bastards that killed my parents.” I let my hate overtake me and I silenced him with one last bang. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said to myself. “It is done.”

“Yes...it is...” a voice from beyond whispered back.

I open my eyes in shock, to reorientate myself. In front of me, row on row, an unmarked white cross stood among thousands.

The judge’s emotionless verdict rang through my head: “Sergeant Howard A. Smith, you have been found guilty by the jury for crimes against humanity...” I was no different, no, worst, then the very people that took my parents’ lives in a brutal air raid, but violence does not solve violence, war does not end war.

“Is this what you were referring to father?” I cried, for my second time in my adulthood. I knelt at the base of the cross, seemingly trying to obtain a response that was not there, that I did not deserve.

I must’ve imagined it, but for a second, I thought I could hear the laughter of children, pure and untouched by the world around it, and it was then, and only then, that I realized what I was fighting for. I scratched another creed onto my code, my last.

“So the horror of war doesn’t touch everyone. Lest we forget.”

I placed my paper at the base of the cross, where the tiniest daisy was blooming out of the graveyard soil.

96 | OPUS

Mac Shepard ACRYLIC

PASSAGES

97

paul wang CERAMICS 98 | OPUS

Curtis Ho INK

PASSAGES

99

The Cemetery KEVIN YU

It is dawn, and sundry slabs of stone stand silently in the modest courtyard. As the first traces of light stretch across the horizon, long looming shadows suddenly surface on the ground. The fresh sheet of frost that lies delicately on the grass is perfectly undisturbed, and not a single footstep appears on the winding path that twists itself around the site. Up above, a raven circles the perimeter and closely observes a black cat that wanders its way around to the middle of the courtyard. There, a miniature fountain is no longer running, and only a few silver coins lie in the shallow puddle that remains. Among the graves, scattered bouquets of withered flowers can be found, along with remnants of burned out candles and various good luck charms. The tombstones themselves are erratically tilted in every direction, and, due to years of deterioration, one can only barely make out the Hebrew words engraved on them. Aside from the typical presence of death, the sacred grounds possess a cryptic serenity, which is protected by white marble statues resembling people frozen by the frigid air, their whole bodies ossified and stopped in time. Every day, they watchfully guard the maze of tombstones and the layers upon layers of buried bodies below.

On this particular morning, the spirits of the dead seem to rise and hover, casting a blanket of mist. Shrouded by the fog, surrounded by high concrete walls, and protected by a chained rusty gate, the cemetery begs to be ignored. Concealed between dark alleyways, behind neighbourhood shops, and away from the bustling city, it is hidden, but not forgotten.

Here, each tombstone tells a story. But the stories are all the same.

100 | OPUS

Tavis Jamieson CERAMICS PASSAGES

101

The End KENNETH NG

The end is near.

With nothing left to do, we sit patiently, entranced by the beauty of the burning sky.

As far as the eye can see, thick, ominous smoke rises from the scorched Earth while flames dance menacingly through the air.

In the lethargic faces of those around me, a sense of hopelessness lingers as I gaze at each and every one of them.

We are incredulous of what is happening.

We are speechless, using our eyes to communicate.

We desperately want to wake up, stuck in this horrific nightmare.

We will not remain long enough to see it.

How it will happen does not matter; soon, we will all vanish.

Soon, we will all vanish.

How it will happen does not matter; We will not remain long enough to see it.

Stuck in this horrific nightmare, we desperately want to wake up.

Using our eyes to communicate, we are utterly speechless.

We are incredulous of what is happening.

As I gaze at each and every one of them, a sense of hopelessness lingers in the lethargic faces of those around me.

While flames dance menacingly through the air from the scorched Earth, thick, ominous smoke rises as far as the eye can see.

102 | OPUS

Entranced by the beauty of the burning sky, we sit patiently with nothing left to do.

The end is near.

Josh Tsang CERAMICS

PASSAGES

103

104 | OPUS

Tavis Jamieson CERAMICS

Curtis Ho ACRYLIC PASSAGES

105

My Magnolia PAUL REDELMEIER

I cried the day My Magnolia was downed.

The day before, I’d thrown my two arm’s round Her trunk. My hands held on tightly to a past Infused in each fibre of that tree’s mast.

You see, even if she couldn’t be found In the days that dinosaurs did abound, At least, back then, her ancients were around.

I lacked links to that time: she was the last.

My Magnolia.

When she finally clattered ‘gainst the ground, From her countless rings escaped one last sound: Not a bang, nor a whimper, but a rasp!

She exhaled entire eras in that gasp!

To those periods of the past, I am bound,

By My Magnolia.

106 | OPUS

Steven Ren ACRYLIC PASSAGES

107

108 | OPUS

Spencer Quong CHARCOAL

PASSAGES

109

Index

Anonymous - 86, 94 Alastair Pitts - 8 Ben Tam - 9 Blake Hayward - 44 Brian Riback - 13 Colin Mitchell - 30 Curtis Ho - 17, 98, 104 Cyrus Aquilini - 90 Daniel Wise - 26 Daniel Zhang - 25 Davis Zhu - 24 Gabriel Atkinson - 10 George Wen - 32, 55 Harmanjot Uppal - 52, 63, 92 Harris Mak - 56, 61 Harry Duan - 18, 36 Herman Lam - 1, 27 Hunter Murphy - 50 Hunter Will - 48 Jack Guo - 39 Jack Pan - 34 James Lin - 12 Jamie Mackay - 33, 51 Jason Liu - 82 Jason Qu - 46 Jeff Lam - 6 Jeremy Yuen - 49 John Wang - 58 Jordan Liu - 72, 89 Joe Goetz - 28 Jorden Lo - 57 Joseph Woolley - 14 Josh Tsang - 85, 95, 103 Justin Low - 38

110 | OPUS

Kelvin Zhu - 62 Kenneth Ng - 60, 102 Kevin Jin - 67 Kevin Lee - 53 Kevin Yu - 100 Konrad Swic - 29, 81 Leo Chang - 31, 46, 75 Luke Dowling - 22 Mac Shepard - 77, 97 Marshall Mak - 73, 84 Matthew Boroditsky - 21 Michael Jung - 43 Nathan Fong - 42 Nicholas Goetz - 79 Nick Garbuz - 11 Oscar Hong - 59 Paul Redelmeier - 106 Paul Wang - 56 Qaasim Karim - 71 Ray Chang - 87 Raymond Wang - 16, 64 Roy Wei - 35 Sajin Parmar - 19 Seth Book - 76 Shawn Guo - 78 Spencer Quong - 37, 41, 108 Stanley Cho - 15 Steven Ren - 65, 70, 107 Tavis Jamieson - 101, 105 Thomas Yang - 45 Timothy Kwan - 7 Tony Chen - 74 Tony Li - 80 William Ma - 68 PASSAGES

111