The Marque 2017

T H E M ARQ U E

55 YE ARS

|

19 6 2–20 17

OPE N I N G

IT WAS A YEAR OF FIRSTS. Dr. No—the first movie in the 007 saga begins shooting. The first Wal-Mart retail store opens in Rogers, Arkansas. The iconically retro TV series The Jetsons premieres on ABC. And the beginning of the Cuban Missile Crisis. But in 1962, there was something different on campus, something daring and unprecedented: The Marque Magazine of Arts & Letters.

Only a handful of Marksmen worked on the magazine that year; 55 years and over 20,000 copies later, it's something that's grown and that we carry on each year. But why? Why has The Marque persisted? It's not just because both Owen Wilson '86 and Rhett Miller '88 were on staff, nor is it even because of our six consecutive CSPA Gold Crowns; it's because of the brotherhood and the bond that we form. It's about late Friday Design Nights and countless Assembly announcements. Ours is a magazine gilded in tradition and steeped in brotherhood, and this is the 2017 Edition.

And to reflect this theme as well as our heritage, we strove to underscore prestige and boldness in our work this 55th volume of the magazine. In contrast with the stark white and animatedly vibrant colors of the 54th volume, for this 2017 Edition we searched for a bolder, perhaps more refined, juxtaposition: pure black and gold. To accentuate this decision, we chose to shape our design not around shape and color but around something at the heart of both The Marque as well as the printed page—typography. The modern is paired with the conspicuously elegant, conjoining both the past and future of the magazine, with even the page numbers exuding style as their serifs bleed off the pages. Each of the four sections represents a specific decade of The Marque's heritage. Famous literary quotations bookend the sections—each with an individual yet cohesive theme and stylistic representation of that era per section. And for the first time ever, we created distinct Magazine Showcases to highlight specific members of the St. Mark's community who are exemplary in their respective artistic purviews.

Throughout the production of this volume, we forced ourselves to reexamine and rethink everything, pushing to create an edition worth honoring our 55 years.

AND SO, IT IS OUR HONOR TO PRESENT THE 55TH VOLUME OF the Marque.

THEM AR Q UE

DEDICATION

DEDICATION When a Marksman walks onto campus at seven in the morning, when the sun isn't quite at its brightest and the screams and shouts of energetic middle schoolers have yet to permeate across the quad, there are a few things he can expect to see. The one thing he can be sure of, regardless of the time of year, is that Ms. Sutcliffe will be either in her office or in her classroom, with a clean sheet of paper, a pen, and a cup of coffee in her hands, ready to help her students grasp a better understanding of the complicated world of numbers that she considers her domain. Generations of Marksmen have come and gone, some lucky enough to experience the joy of learning in her classroom and others simply graced by the enthusiasm and presence of her lively soul. Having taught at St. Mark's for 50 years, Ms. Sutcliffe has seen The Marque transform from its primitive early stages to the magazine it is today.

YEAR AFTER YEAR SHE IMPACTS THE LIVES OF EVERY PERSON IN OUR COMMUNITY, AND TO HONOR AND THANK HER FOR HER NEVERENDING SUPPORT OF MARKSMEN LIKE US, WE DEDICATE THE 55TH VOLUME OF THE MARQUE MAGAZINE TO Ms. JT Sutcliffe.

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C ON T E N TS

1.

2.

just getting started

S ECT ION 1

8

3.

defining our style

pushing boundaries

SECT IO N 2

42

SE CT IO N 3

78

THE ROSE | DARAN ZHAO ‘17

12

FLOWER + LIGHTING + EMULATION | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

46

JABU’S ELEPHANT | ISAIAH KAZUNGA ‘17

82

B&W ORCHID | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

13

DADDY | KILLIAN GREEN ‘17

47

VALLEYS | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

82

FEATURE STORY | JASON LANGE

14

EARTHBOUND | ISAIAH KAZUNGA ‘17

48

FEATURE STORY | HYER THOMAS ‘17

84

CHANGE | HARRIS WILSON ‘18

20

FEATURE STORY | JOON PARK ‘17

50

SUPPOSE IT RAINS AGAIN | DARAN ZHAO ‘17

90

THE INNER PERSPECTIVE | BILLY STALDER ‘19

22

KIZHI | ANDREW CHUKA ‘17

56

ROADS & VALLEYS | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

91

REVOLTING | JONATHAN LIBBY ‘17

23

NOT READY | JACK MCCABE ‘19

58

PEACEKEEPER | CJ CRAWFORD ‘19

94

PHOTOGRAPHY SHOWCASE

24

2D ART SHOWCASE

60

SPACEMAN | KYLE SMITH ‘19

95

COURTYARD | KEVIN FENG ‘18

26

THE RACE | RAHUL VASHI ‘20

62

WOOD & METAL SHOWCASE

96

TIME | DANIEL GARCIA ‘18

27

LEOPARD | HARPER SAHM ‘17

63

A PERFORMANCE | JONAH SIMON ‘19

98

THE DAYTIME BARTENDER | JOHN CRAWFORD ‘17

28

314 | DARIUS GANJI ‘19

64

PAINT-WATER MIX | ADNAN KAHN '19

98

GLASS | KEVIN FENG ‘18

29

UNDERWATER | KYLE SMITH ‘19

65

THANKSGIVING CHAPEL | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

99

THE DEPARTMENT OF KARMA | LYNNE WEBER SCHWARTZ

31

FEATURE STORY | TIM MANK ‘87

66

WINDOW WASHERS | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

100

FEATURE STORY | AUGUST GRAUE ‘17

32

SILENT STREET | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

70

LEISURE | SHAILEN PARMAR ‘17

101

UNCLEAN | DAVID BROWN

38

THE WORLD OF REASON | KEVIN CHOI ‘17

71

THE BENEFITS OF MONOTONY | PERRY NASECK ‘18

102

THE DYSTELEOLOGICAL INABILITY | CAL ROTHKRUG ‘18

39

CONSTRUCTION | KEVIN FENG ‘18

72

ARBORETUM | ADNAN KHAN ‘19

103

ORGANIC 3 | KEVIN FENG ‘18

39

DOWN THE HALL | GABRIEL CASTRILLON ‘19

75

FINALLY FREE | JONATHAN LIBBY ‘17

104

4.

entering a new era

S ECT ION 4

108

LESS | KILLIAN GREEN ‘17

112

ROCKY ROAD | REID JOHANNSEN ‘17

112

FEATURE STORY | GOPAL RAMAN ‘17

114

THE LAST MELODY | MATTHEW YANG ‘17

120

ROMANIA CONCERT HALL | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

123

THE WINDOW | SHAILEN PARMAR ‘17

124

CERAMICS SHOWCASE

128

FEATURE STORY | DHRUV PRASAD ‘17

130

MY FIRST STEPS | NEAL REDDY ‘20

136

WORKER BROTHERS | FRANK THOMAS '17

138

TRINITY BRIDGE | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

138

DALLAS FROM AFAR | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

140

THEM AR Q UE

“HERE’S TO THE CRAZY ONES. THE MISFITS. THE REBELS. THE TROUBLEMAKERS. T H E R O U N D P E G S I N T H E S Q U A R E H O L E S . T H E O N E S W H O S E E T H I N G S D I F F E R E N T LY. THEY’RE NOT FOND OF RULES. YOU CAN QUOTE THEM, DISAGREE WITH THEM, GLORIFY OR VILIFY THEM. A B O U T T H E O N LY T H I N G Y O U C A N ’ T D O I S I G N O R E T H E M . B E C A U S E T H E Y C H A N G E T H I N G S .

T H E Y P U S H T H E H U M A N R A C E F O R WA R D . A N D W H I L E S O M E M AY S E E T H E M A S T H E C R A Z Y O N E S , W E S E E G E N I U S .

B E C A U S E T H E P E O P L E W H O A R E C R A Z Y E N O U G H T O T H I N K T H E Y C A N C H A N G E T H E W O R L D , A R E T H E O N E S W H O D O .”

R O B S I LTA N E N

1973 just getting started S E CTIO N O N E | 1 1 Y EAR S

THEM AR Q UE

I N O U R F I R S T E L E V E N Y E A R S , T H E M A R Q U E B R O U G H T S O M E T H I N G T O C A M P U S T H AT H A D N E V E R B E E N S E E N B E F O R E . S I M P L E , A L L- T E X T, B L A C K A N D W H I T E . T H O S E F I R S T E L E V E N YEARS WERE OUR HUMBLE BEGINNINGS, DURING WHICH WE WERE STILL FIGURING OUT W H AT W E WA N T E D T O B E , A N D W E W E R E just getting started.

THEM A RQ UE

R SE the

DA RA N ZH AO ’1 7

Around us birdsong fills the autumn air, While masking silence drowning me beneath.

Your beauty glows, and yet it hurts to stare And see indifference looking back at me.

•

Behind you grows a solitary rose For me to want and you to never see.

It sadly turns toward me as if it knows A love so close yet always out of reach.

•

Through storms of doubt and droughts of hope it lives: With blood do I support its shallow roots.

But none of yours I know you willing give.

Its petals wilt as I then follow suit.

• Of my affection do I wish you knew.

You’d have known if you had cared to love me, too.

B&W FLOWER | FRANK THOMAS '17 THEM A RQ UE

JAS ON LA NGE

SMILE FORTHE CAMERA

PH PICKING UP A NEW HOBBY DURING HIS SENIOR YEAR OF COLLEGE, MIDDLE SCHOOL HUMANITIES TEACHER JASON LANGE DOVE

INTO PHOTOGRAPHY. COMBINED WITH A LOVE OF TRAVELLING, IT’S TAKEN HIM TO ALL SEVEN CONTINENTS.

PHOTOGRAPHY. Photography is a medium quite unlike any other. The image is both ubiquitous and long-lasting. Experiences, victories, failures, discoveries, “TAKING AN IMAGE, FREEZING A MOMENT, REVEALS HOW RICH REALITY TRULY IS.” – ANSEL ADAMS.

and reunions can now be recorded and shared in less than a second. Some value the intimacy of a photograph, the candor it captures, and the personal connection it conveys. Others may see a photograph as a place for fabrication, something used to make up a story–a tool to distort, to frame, and to warp reality. However, the power of a photograph is undeniable, giving all the more responsibility to the photographer. Photographers have the power to tell innumerable stories in countless ways, but the moment, timing, and perspective they choose to capture is irreproducible. Photography is a world of purpose and juxtaposition, simultaneously outlining chaos and peace. Photographers must choose whether to present the truth where lies are bountiful, edit a lie when the truth is embarrassing, or create something that “reveals how rich reality truly is.”

T HEMAR Q U E

QA &

W I T H P H OTOG R A P H E R JAS ON LA NG E

How did you first get into photography?

My first real introduction to formal photography was in college. During my senior year, I had an elective credit to fill, so I took photography 101 at Tulane in New Orleans.

I started with a film camera and learned all the basics of aperture and shutter speed and all those things. New Orleans is a great city to walk around and take pictures of. My passion for photography grew as my travel hobby grew, and the two naturally go together. Over the course of the last 15 years or so, it’s been a hobby of mine.

Have you always enjoyed photography?

All the way up until I took that photography class in college, I hated being in pictures, I didn’t want anyone to take my picture. My college roommate will laugh at me to this day because he would take pictures of all kinds of things we did in college, and I was out of it. I didn’t want people to take my picture and I hated people who took pictures. Now I’m the one who takes pictures. I’ve come 180⁰ from where I was as a young “ALL THE WAY UP UNTIL I TOOK THAT college student.

PHOTOGRAPHY CLASS IN COLLEGE, I HATED BEING BEING IN PICTURES, I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO TAKE MY PICTURE... NO W I’M THE ONE WHO TAKES PICTURES. I’VE COME 180º FROM WHERE I WAS AS A YOUNG COLLEGE STUDENT.”

How do you educate yourself to take better pictures?

I do it by looking at a lot of other people’s pictures. Whether it’s through a Facebook news feed or scrolling through Instagram and searching a hashtag. There’s a number of photography feeds I follow online. Talking to people on campus like Scott Hunt and Mark Sullivan. Mostly, it’s looking at other people’s work. Sometimes it’s as simple as a Google search of the place I’m going. If I’m going to London for example I’ll go onto Flickr or SmugMug and search what everybody else has taken in London. There’s a few that’ll strike me and I want to replicate for my own catalog, but I also want to know what other people have taken so I can take something different.

Who are your biggest influences?

Annie Leibovitz is a famous portrait photographer, and she’s taken pictures of every celebrity on earth from the Queen of England to the President of The United States. I love her style it’s a sharp contrast of light, dark shadows, washed out color. I emulate her style.

How many places have you travelled to?

94 countries. My goal is to get to 100 before I’m 50.

Where’s your favorite place you’ve travelled to?

My favorite continent is Antarctica, my favorite country is Nepal, my favorite city is Moscow, and my favorite place on earth is home.

What’s your scariest experience while on a trip?

After I’d gone to Machu Picchu in Peru, I flew to Rio De Janeiro in Brazil and I was walking along Copacabana beach.

I was threatened by a local man with a butterfly knife who wanted whatever money I had in my pocket. Luckily I had just cash, and I gave it to him. As soon as the money came out of my pocket, I ran. The whole experience probably lasted 30 seconds. I didn’t have any valuables with me. It was my first introduction to Brazil, and it shook me up. In fact, the next day I got on a plane and left Brail. Since then, I’ve been back twice and Rio De Janeiro has redeemed itself, it’s a neat city.

What do you wish you were better at?

One thing I wish I was better at is photographing people.

I can take a good picture of a landscape or a cityscape, or a stationary object. Every now and then, I can take a good picture of a person, and I have a couple of portraits of people from around the world that I’m particularly proud of, but those happen more by accident than any kind of intention.

That’s something I want to continue to get better at: getting to know people because I believe my camera can be a nice conduit to meeting locals.

— Jason Lange as told to Kamal Mamdani ‘19

THEM AR Q UE

P H OTOG R A PH Y SH OWCAS E | JASO N LANGE

1 S U N R I SE OV E R N A MIB - NAUKLUFT NAT IO NAL PA RK, 2 ZODIAC IC EBERG, 3 P RAY E R WH E E LS, 4 D R AG O NLAND , B ACKGROU ND SKELETON FOREST

“

My passion for photography grew as my travel hobby grew, and the two naturally go together.

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T HEMAR Q U E

The cold winter wind sent shivers to my spine, The skies were bleak, the days were long, And you were far.

Far, and though I tried and tried to narrow the gap between us, you danced just out of reach, Teasing, teasing the tips of my outstretched arms with a knowing smile.

How could a smile be so angelic, so bright, so warm, Yet leave me so cold?

I sat alone in the sea of despair, waiting, guarding the last ember Of the fire of my heart.

But then spring came, And the ember caught, And from nowhere, I saw you there, in front of me, as if in a dream, And what a dream it was.

I stepped forward, offered a hand; You took it.

Your touch was so soft, so gentle, And I looked deep into your sparkling brown eyes And got hopelessly, wonderfully, lost in them.

We were awash with the glory of summer, Laughing, with broad smiles and full hearts, We had each other, And the world was ours.

Every day was filled with promise, Every wink with excitement, Every embrace with a profound passion, An eternity of happiness.

But the eternity finally came to an end, You packed your bags, told me you’d be back soon, And I pleaded with you, just a little while longer, But even I knew it was futile.

So I found myself at the window On a cold winter morning, Watching your outline fade into the curtain of white Until I no longer saw you in the window, Only a downcast face with pain-ridden eyes, quivering lips, And a lonely boy with a heavy heart.

H A RR I S W I LS O N ‘ 1 8

THEM AR Q UE

the inner perspective BILLY STA LDE R ‘1 9

I

A LWAYS TA L K TO T HE C LOW N . This wasn’t your typical clown, scary, blood streaming out of his face, but a happy one, one with a big red nose that honked if you squeezed it, a flower that sprayed water, a silly wig.

And I walked up to it and said, “Howdy, what are you doing around here?”

He responded, “I just wanted to visit you.”

“For what reason?” I replied.

“To bring you flowers.”

I took the flowers.

This is when I saw the garbage man. He brought me flowers. I took the flowers.

Later that day I saw the piano. It brought me a balloon. I popped the balloon; inside were flowers. I took the flowers.

But now I had lots of flowers, almost too many to carry, but I knew that I could ask for help from a trusty friend.

So I went to my old friend Jimmy. He had spiky hair and a cool mustache, and I liked him for that, so I asked him to help me with carrying the flowers, He said, “Yes, I’d love to.” But he threw the flowers on the ground and stepped on them, blemishing the soft yellow and red petals. But I knew I could trust him, so I gave him more and he did the same thing. I kept on doing it until there were no flowers left. He walked away.

I yelled at him, “Where are you going?”

He said nothing.

Then the clown walked up to me and gave me flowers.

I SEE MYSELF AND MY CREATED F ORM, Abandoned and shunned by my master I ran out amidst a thunderous storm, In nature everything cowered as if I was a disaster.

I hoped that I would be accepted and loved But instead I received screams and a beating, In my fury I lashed out and shoved Making my way to my creator’s meeting.

In shock he revolted, but I commanded That he make me a suitable mate, Pleased was I, my tragedy seemed ended, But he revolted again and fled destroying what I demanded.

No more would I adhere to my newfound learning As revenge became my only yearning.

revolting JO NAT H A N L I B BY ‘ 1 7

THEM A RQ UE

1

PHOTOGRAPHY

3

photo 4

Frank Thomas ‘17 Skyscrapers Harper Sahm ‘17 Divide Nick Kowalske ‘19 Intense Zebra Riley Sanders ‘18 B&W Leaves Riley Sanders ‘18 Wall Walk Rob Crow ‘17 Dunes Killian Green ‘17 Flamingo Rob Crow ‘17 Pools

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THEM AR QUE

COURTYARD | KEVIN FENG ‘18

WHAT IS IT, not seen through eyes of mine Everlasting, through eternity, some say it is divine You can race it, question, or even fight against it Life passing by, organized, as if by a skit Like grains of sand slowly trickling by You may never say hello again, but always goodbye Untamable, wild, unaware of what is in our midst We no longer try to run from it, but fashion it on our wrist Rolex, Diesel, and even Ralph Lauren Prove that we can fashion an idea so foreign Imprisoned in clocks, and hourglasses of sand Slowly we perish with each second hand So next time you look at the gears of time spin Look back and wonder HOW WELL SPENT YOUR TIME HAS BEEN.

DANIE L GA RC IA

‘1 8

THEM AR Q UE

THE DAYTIME BARTENDER JOHN CRAW FORD ‘17

daytime bartender cleans, Wipes the shot glass sparkling, Looks at the bar stool, disheartening Old man’s drinking away his means He’s been at it since his mid-teens His kids are alone, they’re starving Wife deserted, she’s restarting Just hoping that someone intervenes The man bends over, sits shakingly Slams the shot glass down bracingly, Gulps the booze, feels his throat burn The daytime bartender stares achingly The only job where, painstakingly, He hopes his customers never return.

GLASS K EV I N F E N G ‘ 1 8

THEM AR Q UE

arm the department of

ma

LYNNE WE BE R S CH WA RTZ | FAC U LTY At THE DEPARTMENT OF KARMA, we take care of things and we iron out the problems that the universe brings and we don’t really care that the process stings.

At THE DEPARTMENT OF KARMA we’re on a roll we sit on three-legged stools dangling our lizard feet and sharpening our tools and taking our toll. we go out on patrol, and the irony’s sweet when we meet with the pests and the monsters and the well-meaning fools breaking the rules.

All is wrapped up and neat in the fast lane of the broken soul the necessity of things. and we send out trucks holding disaster and we send out the whales and the wings and we send them out faster and faster… we walk down the hidden halls holding bowls of fury and one red berry of holly.

Here at THE DEPARTMENT OF KARMA we have the hollow men beat Our claws are long and our gloves are neat and our faces melancholy.

Nestled in necessity, we eat. We eat.

THE M A RQ UE

AUGUST GR AU E ‘17

THE FINAL CUT

INSPIRED BY BOTH CHAPLIN AND SPIELBERG WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER, SENIOR AUGUST GRAUE ASPIRED TO FOLLOW IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS. AND AFTER JOINING FILM STUDIES IN 7TH GRADE, HE’S FOUND AN AVENUE TO CONVEY HIS MESSAGE.

FILMMAKING.

“FILMMAKING IS A VERY PROFOUND MEANS OF HUMAN COMMUNICATION; BEYOND THE PROFESSIONAL PLEASURE OF SUCCEEDING OR THE PAIN OF FAILING,YOU DO WANT YOUR FILM TO BE SEEN, TO COMMUNICATE ITSELF TO OTHER PEOPLE.” –KENNETH LONERGAN. There is a certain romanticism associated

with film. One of the newest art forms, film has a history and connotation like no other yet no less important. Film is the first medium that truly melds the fullness of human interaction and consciousness with the creative process. Filmmaking is centered around reaction. Whether imbuing emotion where there is none or supressing intensity where there is excess, the process starts with a message. But this process is quite unlike any other in that the message is not conveyed through abstract formulation but through concrete framing. This framing isn’t simply about perspective, it’s about the harmonious or cacophonous collision of imagery, music, color, and humanity.

T HEMAR Q U E

QA &

W I T H FI LM ST U D E N T AU G UST G R AUE ‘17

What drew you to film rather than other fine arts?

Well, in my opinion film is something anybody can do. I’m really terrible at painting and drawing and at woodworking too. I was really just bad at all the traditional fine arts. But I was all right at photography and film, and I think that’s because photography and film don’t require traditional skillsets. You can really just translate pure creativity into your work.

What’s been some of your inspiration for your work?

I think my favorite writer and director is this guy called Charlie Kaufman. He’s done Adaptation, Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Synecdoche, New York. His films are totally different. A lot of what we see in Hollywood is repetition and he really brings us out of this cycle and goes into his own unique thing. That’s something really I aspire to.

When you’re making a film, what’s your end goal?

For others to enjoy watching, to send a message, or something else entirely?

“FOR MY IDEAS, I THINK A LOT OF THE TIME It definitely depends on the film. I I TURN TO MUSIC. I’LL JUST SIT BACK AND think that when I first started film I LISTEN TO SOME MUSIC, AND A LOT OF THE wanted people to like it or think it’s TIME I’LL MAKE A FILM AND IT’LL BE ABOUT funny. But as I’ve done more and THE MUSIC OR IT’LL BE INSPIRED OR REFLECT developed, it’s become more about THE MUSIC IN SOME WAY. “ showing a message. There are some things you can’t show convincingly with words, and film can really convey ideas with a more convincing manner than just talking about it. You can show emotions you can’t with words. I think at this point, it’s really mostly about expression for me.

What’s going through your mind when you’re shooting a film?

I really try to get all of the creative process done before I shoot because when you’re shooting there are a lot of things to handle: you have to make sure all your lighting is correct, you have to make sure that there are no continuity errors, you have to make sure that all your camera settings are proper. So I try to get my creative process meticulously done beforehand before I actually go and do anything.

How do you find inspiration for your actual film ideas?

For my ideas, I think a lot of the time I turn to music. I’ll just sit back and listen to some music, and a lot of the time I’ll make a film and it’ll be about the music or it’ll be inspired or reflect the music in some way. A lot of the time I end up not using the music for the film but the music and the film have a relationship. I just sit down with some music and write whatever ideas I have until it works out.

What advice would you give to younger guys about film?

I would definitely say “Don’t quit.” Everybody makes films that are terrible. I’ve made some of the worst films that the class has ever seen. The first film I ever made in this class was just awful. But with film, the learning curve is such that you can start out as a total novice and you can make something terrible, but it’s so easy to learn from your mistakes in film that once you make something terrible, it would be silly to give up because you could really easily fix your problems. On my first film, I botched all the lighting and didn’t have good camera angles. But from that, it was really easy to understand what I did wrong here and go and fix it in the future. Whereas with something like painting, you have to develop physical skills, but with film, you can just use your mind to get through it all.

Have you developed your own style as a filmmaker?

I think that the style that I have developed as a filmmaker has been more shaped by the resources at my disposal than anything else. The films I make that have concrete plots tend to have no dialogue for the sake of realistically portraying a character through images alone. Recently I have definitely tended toward a more experimental style of film making that lacks the same type of cohesive plot while still conveying some type of more abstract meaning.

—August Graue ‘17 as told to Nathan Han ‘19 and Kamal Mamdani ‘19

THEM AR Q UE

FI L M SH OWCAS E | AU GU ST GRAU E ‘ 17

“

Film is something anybody can do. You can really just translate pure creativity into your work.

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1 D UA L I TY, 2 UNT IT L E D 9, 3 VIVAAC ITY, 4 S HA DOWS

T HEMAR Q U E

UNCLEAN DAV ID B R OWN | FACULTY

M

Y B R OT HE R -I N - LAW H AS TA KE N M E through his farm, and I have managed well enough.

But when we step into the hog house, the sun hangs back and hot blackness slaps my face, stealing sight— stench reaches to my lungs, stopping my breath. My eyes, reconciled to darkness, focus on the gloom of pigs huddled in pens on either side of a center aisle down which we walk.

Jim points to an outcast boar.

Then I see the baseball-sized cyst riding its rump. Smiling, Jim pulls out his knife: “Time to show ya’ some farm surgery.”

He hops the fence and kicks at squealing pigs who trot on stiff, stubby legs to the opposite side where they cluster, grunting.

My brother-in-law corners the hog and with one swipe lances the pouch, and then, pinning the pig against the wall with his body’s weight, forces the sea-green juice from its sac with the blade.

The other swine scream their delight as they lap the poison from the floor and lick their brother’s wound clean.

Soon they will offer flanks as sides for eggs and pancakes, exacting just revenge for ancient crime when demons sweet-talked their way out of Hell and drove the porcine herd into the sea.

Jim’s sidelong glance catches my guarded front. At the door he holds the blade against his leg and leaves a viscid trail behind.

I swallow hard, measuring his face, a trickle of sweat cutting its path down his dusty jaw, his lips parting, his tongue taking the salty drop.

I push past him through the door, losing sight again.

Jim follows me out into the day— a wind airing his stain, the sun a ballast at my head.

ORGANIC 3 | KEVIN FENG ‘18

THE DYSTELEOLOGICAL INABILITY

CAL ROT H KRU G ‘1 8

W

H Y I’M U NABLE TO YIELD AN ANSWER? I won’t explain Why, but I will tell you, That if I said I could, well that’s cancer!

Because you see, it’s not just “Why,” but “who”?

And “what”? And “when”? And “where”? And I’m not vain.

Every question is obligatory!

I wouldn’t be here if I could explain.

But while we’re here, let me tell my story: I am !Xobile, it’s written in braille.

I knew someone who died on this planet.

So they tell me, but what does that entail?

To me, that statement holds true granite.

}

Because, you see, I’d have to understand Why the person was unable to live, And Why circumstances deemed it unplanned.

And Why are we unable to forgive?

You can ask me ‘til I cease to exist, But at the end of the day, you’re opaque, And I know you haven’t gotten the gist, Because I’ll never know Why, for god’s Sake.*

T H E M TA HRE QM UA ER Q U E

AFTER ALL THE HIGHWAYS, AND THE TRAINS, AND THE APPOINT–

1 96 2 E D IT I O N

THEM AR Q UE

A R T H U R M I L L E R , D E AT H O F A S A L E S M A N

MENTS, AND THE YEARS, YOU END UP WORTH MORE DEAD THAN ALIVE.

" T H E R E I S N O D O U B T T H AT C R E AT I V I T Y I S T H E M O S T I M P O R TA N T H U M A N R E S O U R C E O F A L L . W I T H O U T C R E AT I V I T Y, T H E R E W O U L D B E N O P R O G R E S S , A N D W E W O U L D B E F O R E V E R R E P E AT I N G T H E S A M E P AT T E R N S . "

EDWARD DE BONO

1984 defining our style S E CTIO N TWO | 22 Y EARS

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AT 2 2 Y E A R S , W E H A D G O T T E N O U R L E G S U N D E R U S . N O W W E C O U L D E X P E R I M E N T W I T H T H E E S S E N T I A L S . C L E A N , T E X T, P O P S O F C O L O R . I T ' S D U R I N G T H E S E Y E A R S T H AT W E B E G A N T O S E E W H AT T H E M A R Q U E C O U L D B E , defining our style.

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FLOWER+LIGHTING+EMULATION | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

KI L L I A N G R E E N

D AD D Y

‘ 1 7

Car lights flooded through the window like a thousand flashlights.

My face pressed against the glass in a wide smile, I could almost burst from anticipation. Daddy’s home!

And as he kicked open the door, I stared up at the six-foot giant towering before me;

I was Daddy’s little girl.

Cheryl! Where the hell are you! he yelled. Mommmmmy! I echoed towards the hall.

Mommy peeked around the hallway with a smile that suddenly disappeared.

His cigarette and bottle dropped to the carpet as she walked cautiously towards him.

His breath smelled funny-like Communion. What kind of soda-pop was in the bottle, Daddy?

Was it strawberry or grape? Strawberry’s my favorite. Did ya get strawberry, Daddy?

Lunging toward her, he stared with red, glazed eyes; he didn’t have the soft blue eyes

that he usually did, but he was still my Daddy; he must’ve been.

He got real close to Mommy’s ear, whispering something that turned her face pale and sour,

like sucking on a lemon drop: Ain’t nobody gonna hear you.

Tearing Mommy’s new paisley skirt, he punched her across the face and fiercely

groped her breasts like he was trying to get something.

Mommy cried and screamed, slumping to the floor and looking helplessly at me as her face

turned reds and blues. I wanna play. I wanna play too, Daddy!

He stopped, stared down at me, and then stumbled out the door and off into the dark of night.

Again I ran and plastered my face on the front window and almost said, I love you, Daddy.

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E EARTHBOUND

I SA I A H KA ZUNGA ‘17

and the only other entity Fin had ever met.

He was Fin’s only friend as well as his mentor and teacher. Although he managed to run the entire operation, Hal had no physical presence. He was nothing but an elevated Fin for computer program, a program that resided short, who wanted nothing from the within the wires and circuit boards of the world but to live in it. You see, Fin shuttle and operated according to the lines had lived his entire life on a shuttle, a of code that comprised his existence. He felt long, pale, rotating, cylinder comprised no emotion and expressed no sympathy. He of interconnected chambers, marooned had one task: to complete the mission. Fin in orbit. Entirely made of reinforced never knew just what “the mission” was. It super-plastics, the inside of the shuttle was was “classified,” something that wasn’t of his sparsely decorated. That is, except for Fin’s concern. sleeping chamber, the last chamber FIN WAS ALSO A VERY INQUISITIVE BOY. He would positioned on the very outer part of the often ask Hal questions like, “Where do shuttle. His floor was littered with various I come from? Can we ever go to earth?” trinkets, gadgets, tools, and novels. His walls or “Why are we here?” But mostly these were adorned with photographs of exotic questions were met by Hal’s emotionless voice places, and on his dresser rested a portrait of saying, “That’s classified,” or they were just a young, happy couple. The woman, smiling ignored altogether. and carefully cradling an infant in her arms, Daily life aboard the shuttle consisted was embraced by a man wearing a military of hourly lessons in math, science, and cap with three stars pinned to it. Fin had no mechanical maintenance. A two-hour period memory of these people but had been told of time was reserved for exercise, and, lastly, they were his parents. if all other tasks had been completed, a small When he was younger, Fin would lie in his portion of the day was devoted to story telling. bed and gaze out his oval window, wondering This last segment of the day was Fin’s favorite. at the planet before him. Its perfect roundness, He would lie back in his bed, listening as beautiful swirling mists, dark intriguing blues, Hal’s robotic voice told him epic tales of great vivid rich greens, and stark dry reds captivated wars, mysterious crimes, romantic exploits, him. Fin would stare at this thing, this heart-wrenching tragedies, ethical dilemmas, enormous mass, until, like everything around monsters, kings, adventurers, and spies. it, the mass faded to darkness. But this was just It was during one of these stories, as Fin the beginning of the show. lay in his bed gazing out the As the colorful hues faded WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER, FIN WOULD LIE IN HIS BED window, that something into black, the mass lit up AND GAZE OUT HIS OVAL WINDOW, WONDERING AT very peculiar happened. until it was dotted with THE PLANET BEFORE HIM. ITS PERFECT ROUNDNESS, Everything was glowing spots. Sometimes BEAUTIFUL SWIRLING MISTS, DARK INTRIGUING seemingly normal as Hal these lights were even more BLUES, VIVID RICH GREENS, AND STARK DRY REDS was telling his story, “and colorful than the daylight CAPTIVATED HIM. FIN WOULD STARE AT THIS THING, so Huck went on, saying ‘as hues of the planet. These long as I was in, and in for THIS ENORMOUS MASS, UNTIL, LIKE EVERYTHING were the special lights that good, I might as well go the AROUND IT, THE MASS FADED TO DARKNESS. meandered and waved at whole hog.’” Suddenly, the the edges like something shuttle began to shake violently, and the hum blown about by the wind. Fin was obsessed of an electric current grew louder and louder with this unreachable object, this “earth.” until, with the crashing sound of metal on Fin knew that down there, thousands of metal, it faded out alongside Hal’s voice and miles away, there were people just like him, the lights of the shuttle, throwing everything at least that’s what Hal told him. Hal was the into an eerie red glow of faint emergency artificial intelligence that captained the shuttle lights. Startled, Fin rose from his bed and

THERE ONCE WAS A YOUNG MAN NAMED FINLEY BOWMAN,

walked toward the door of his chamber. This door was a white rectangle with rounded edges, and at about eye level it had a glass window, through which Fin glanced cautiously into the interconnecting chamber of the shuttle.

“Hal?” Fin tentatively asked. “What’s going on?” Suddenly, the door before Fin opened, sliding upward, revealing the darkness of the chamber before him. “Who’s there?” Fin called out, but there was no reply.

SLOWLY, FIN ADVANCED INTO THE CHAMBER. Feeling his way along the wall, he moved toward a control panel and began frantically pressing buttons. Nothing. It seemed the entire craft was incapacitated. Fin moved on, shuffling his way down darkened corridors and through countless chambers until he reached the engine room. As he entered the engine room, Fin noticed that the usual hum of turbines was absent. In its place was the deafening pounding of Fin’s pulse echoing in his ears. Desperately trying to remember his training, Fin was acutely aware of the gravity of the situation.

With every passing minute, he knew that the chances of restarting the turbines would grow less and less likely. Not only would his chances of resurrecting the shuttle decrease with the passing of time, but, even if he could restore power, Fin knew that Hal’s consciousness, much like a brain deprived of oxygen for a short period of time, would be adversely affected and probably would never totally recover.

Fin began repairing the turbines with a steadiness built from years of practice.

His pale hands, crimson in the red glow of the emergency lights, moved fluidly as he unlatched clamps, rewired circuit boards, unscrewed metal panels, and restriped wires.

Finally, after hours of work, the turbines were primed for a reboot. With a flip of the master power switch, the engine room roared back to life. The turbines, slowly at first and then at a frantic pace, began to spin. Lights flickered on, and Fin smiled, supremely pleased with his handiwork.

Stepping out of the engine room and into the corridor outside, Fin listened as Hal’s program rebooted. Hal’s voice reverberated around the shuttle, flexing itself, enunciating different words at random. “Apricot, diadem, obsequious…” Hal’s voice continued,

‘

Desperately trying to remember his training, Fin was acutely aware of the gravity of the situation.

With every passing minute, he knew that the chances of restarting the turbines would grow less and less likely.

“hippopotamus, Icelandic, kiwi…” This strike again, when suddenly the chamber process continued for a few more minutes jolted, throwing him to the floor. Hal had before it abruptly stopped. unlatched Finley’s chamber from the rest of “Hal? Are you all right, Hal? We lost power the shuttle. for a while there. I was starting to worry.” Fin’s “Goodbye, Finley,” Hal’s cool voice said for voice strained, almost choking on the last few the last time. words. He shuddered, thinking just how close Screaming at the top of his lungs, Fin, he had come to losing his only friend. trapped within his compartment, floated away “I’m quite all right, Finley.” Hal’s cold, toward the planet below. His screams would robotic voice sliced back. “Please return to never be heard. Looking out his compartment your sleeping quarters. I will begin a system window one last time, Fin took in the beauty check shortly. Everything is just fine.” of the earth, the one thing he desired to know “Are you sure? I mean I could just hang above all else; the one thing he wanted to be a around here, maybe help with any more re-” part of above all else.

“That won’t be necessary, Finley,” Hal As the compartment entered the coolly interrupted. atmosphere, it began to heat up, and it burst "AL-ALL RIGHT," FIN STUTTERED BACK. into flame. Finley would not survive long As soon as Fin crossed the threshold and enough to realize his one wish. He would into his chamber, the door shut behind him, never make it to the ground. latching itself into place.

“What’s going on, Hal? Why did you lock my door?”

“It’s for your own good. I can’t afford to risk another emergency caused by human error.

You must understand, Finley. Please do not attempt to leave.”

“Hal. Let. Me. Out. ON EDGE, FIN RUSHED OVER TO HIS BEDSIDE-TABLE, FLUNG Now,” Fin replied with OPEN THE DRAWER, AND FRANTICALLY RUMMAGED cool intensity.

THROUGH HIS BELONGINGS UNTIL HE FOUND WHAT HE “I’m afraid I can’t WAS LOOKING FOR. HIS HAND EMERGED SLOWLY FROM do that Finley,” Hal THE DRAWER, GRIPPING A STEEL HAMMER. responded. “Goodbye.”

“Hal! Open this door now!” No response.

On edge, Fin rushed over to his bedsidetable, flung open the drawer, and frantically rummaged through his belongings until he found what he was looking for. His hand emerged slowly from the drawer, gripping a steel hammer.

“You don’t want to do that, Finley,” Hal warned.

His brow furrowed and nostrils flared, Fin, fuming, advanced toward the glass window on his chamber door.

“Stop, Finley. It won’t do you any good.”

Fin swung at the window, his hammer glancing off. Again he attacked the window.

This time a small crack appeared.

“This is your last warning, Finley.”

Fin had cocked back his arm, poised to

THEM AR Q UE

2D TURNING A CASUAL HOBBY INTO A SERIOUS PASSION,

SENIOR JOON PARK HAS SPENT THE LAST 18 MONTHS OF HIS LIFE DEDICATED TO PAINTING. NOW EXPERIMENTING WITH COLOR, JOON FOCUSES ON DISCOVERING HIS STYLE.

2D ART.

“ART LIBERATES THE SOUL, PROVOKES THE IMAGINATION, AND ENCOURAGES PEOPLE TO GO FURTHER. IT CELEBRATES HUMANITY INSTEAD OF MANIPULATING IT.” – KEITH HARING. From galleries to auctions, painters,

illustrators, sketch artists, and their works have been praised for hundreds of years. It was a painter who could represent a whole time period and era in one scene. 2D Art, in all its myriad forms, has become an iconic, perhaps stereotypical, symbol of self-expression— self-expression which evolves, regenerates, and revitalizes. The Renaissance fostered the resurgence of the classical art and form, dually religious and secular. Realism embodied the bourgeois and the working-class at the start of democracy’s challenge to European imperialism and conservatism. Monet’s serene Impressionism slowly evolved into Picasso’s Cubism and Marinetti’s Futurism, experimenting with bold colors and increasingly provocative and controversial subject matter. The almost nonsensical Surrealism and formless Dadaism sought to push the pinnacle of abstraction, exploring the subconscious and the absolutely absurd. And now Postmodernism pushes this even further, conjoining both the preconceived notions of art and the realm of the unknown.

J O ON PA R K ‘ 1 7

A BLANK CANVAS T HEMAR Q U E

QA &

W I T H 2D A RT I ST J OON PA R K ‘17

Describe the first time you discovered painting.

I don’t really remember the first time I started painting because I remember painting once in a while ever since I was little.

Back then, painting wasn’t really something that I was interested in. After a while, I realized that for me to be a serious artist, I had to be committed to painting, so in eleventh grade in Ms. Wood’s class, I started a portrait of one of my classmates. It wasn’t really anything magical or special. I just remember it being really hard to get the flesh tones and colors in general right. Blending tons of different colors to match what I saw in real life was a lot harder than I thought it would be.

How would you say your art has improved overtime?

This might sound really pretentious, but this stuff is easy in the sense that it’s something that can be drilled into you. I think that more than anything, I’ve learned that art is so much more than being that one realistic painter. It’s about that expression of colors, forms, or ideas that differentiates okay artists from the greats. Good ideas are honestly “THE PAST YE-AR AND A HALF HAS REALLY BEEN really hard to think up. I’m not saying A JOURNEY FOR ME. I’VE LEARNED SO MUCH that I’ve reached the pinnacle of creFROM BOTH MY PEERS AND MY TEACHERS. “ ativity and expression, but I think that by just creating art, I’ve really been able to stretch the creative side of my mind that I wasn’t able to fully stretch through schoolwork.

Do you plan on continuing art in college?

I guess that’s the struggle for me. On one side, art really is what I love the most. It’s something that if I could do it for the rest of my life, I would. But on the other hand, art and practicality often feel like polar opposites. I wish I could say that I’d be fine with living that dangerous, romantic life filled with unpaid bills and living life on the edge with courage and rebellion, but I’d really not like to be in that kind of spot. I think I’d like to go to a college that has a good art program but is well-rounded in general, so I can really see if I belong among my generation of artists.

What is the thought process when you are coming up with an idea for a piece?

I don’t think there is much of a thought process. I kind of just think up an idea that interests me. I keep that idea amorphous and just see where that idea takes me.

You have an Instragram where you post your art for others to see. Do you often get critiques, and how do you deal with them?

I honestly wish I’d get more critiques on the internet. I genuinely enjoy it when people critique what I do. I like to think that I’m very self-critical when it comes to art, but sometimes my own critiques aren’t enough. As much as I want to keep ego and bias out of my judgment, I can never have clear objectivity on my own. I also think that critiques really open up my creativity and expose me to things that I never could have thought up without the help of others.

Are there any artists that you look up to and emulate in your own style, or do you just make it up originally?

There are so many artists that I look up to. I used to think that if what I created wasn’t 100% by my own mental aptitude, then I was just a fluke. I’ve slowly begun to realize from my peers that everything is derivative to an extent. I’ve always been inspired by Chuck Close and Monet: Chuck Close for his colors, forms, and portraiture and Monet for his brushstrokes.

While I love these guys, I’m not sure if classical fine art is where I want to go. Right now, I’m really interested in working as a character designer for movies or games. Because of this, I really look up to some of the designers from videogames and movies. Check out Joon Ahn, Jason Chan, and Samuel Youn.

Those guys are crazy.

How would you describe your own style?

I’m honestly not sure if I have a style yet. If you look at my standard paintings, you’ll see a lot of realism. I don’t really incorporate much distortion into my paintings. I try to bring out the colors that aren’t as visible in real life. I’ve started experimenting a lot more with color and form in my paintings. If you look at my sketchbook, on the other hand, it’s really experimental and cartoonish. I don’t think that I have a set style yet.

I’m just trying to learn from what I see online.

– Joon Park ‘17 as told to Kamal Mamdani ‘19 and CJ Crawford ‘19

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2 D ART SH OWCAS E | J O O N PARK

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I’ve learned that art is so much more than being that one realistic painter.

It’s about that expression of colors, forms, or ideas that differentiates okay artists from the greats.

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1 UNEX PECT E D , 2 SERENE, 3 W H AT, 4 FOLDS T HEMAR Q U E

I N TH NORTH RUSSIA, O THE FINNISH B ORDER,

I stood at the shore of Lake Onega, brisk water slowly

eroding the ground by my feet. Across those rippling cold

dunes lay the island of KIZHI.

E FAR OF ON H

KIZHI | ANDREW CHUKA ‘17

LITERARY F EST IVAL | 2 ND P LAC E, NO NF ICT IO N

IN THE 1500S, A GROUP OF RUSSIAN ORTHODOX MONKS

had established a monastery on

the island, and from then on, the only inhabitants of this floating Mecca have been the pilgrims who

come to pray in the chapels, fall in love with the isolation, and settle down forever.

Besides the two old wooden churches that stand like royal thrones amid fields of quivering grass, the island

is a time capsule of nature largely untouched by man. When I set foot on the island, I felt something arcane and

powerful, a ripple in the smooth æther that penetrated all of space and time. The sky was electric blue; the grass

was hyper-green and buzzed with an invisible energy. A primal current conducted through my body. In the wind’s sharp sibilation through myriad blades, I heard the hallowed hymns of the centuries. I breathed the ancient air and understood the minds of generations of men who had visited before me and chosen to stay for life.

I scaled a hill and found a dilapidated tank-tread tractor decimated by oxidation. Creaky hinges turning to dust as I opened the door, I put my hand on the gearshift and marveled at the deafening, faraway shout of the 20th-century tractorist, abandoning his post, rushing to aid his mother country overcome by political turmoil. As I approached the Church of the Transfiguration, I could feel the presence of the master carpenter of the 1700s, shouting to his workers the importance of building a solid foundation. In the mixture of pagan and Christian symbols on the roof, I saw the expression of the craftsman, expertly incorporating his people’s diverse beliefs into a site of unification of worship. And as I entered the silent church, I heard a deafening, sacred song of immeasurable power–not the AS I APPROACHED THE CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION, I COULD FEEL voice of God, but the chorus of all those who had left parts of their souls endTHE PRESENCE OF THE MASTER CARPENTER OF THE 1700S, SHOUTING TO HIS lessly in worship, swimming forever through the dreamscape of Kizhi.

WORKERS THE IMPORTANCE OF BUILDING A SOLID FOUNDATION.

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JACK M cCA BE ‘1 9

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hen death arrived – I wasn’t ready Things I wanted to do Places I hadn’t seen But death didn’t wait – he didn’t care

He came and whisked me away From family, friends, and memories From wishes, dreams, and goals Without even giving me time to say goodbye As we left I looked back – At what I had left behind And it didn’t impress – I wished I had done more But it was too late – I couldn’t try again For death had arrived – And I was not ready

' not eady' THEM AR Q UE

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Shailen Parmar ‘17 Brutal Shailen Parmar ‘17 Brutal pt.2 Joon Park ‘17 ...are you happy?

Shailen Parmar ‘17 Pen and Ink Shailen Parmar ‘17 Room of Chaos Joon Park ‘17 Forsaken Pablo Arroyo ‘20 Friendly Machine Joon Park ‘17 No Evil Shailen Parmar ‘17 Eyes

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RACE THE

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HE RACE WAS STARTING; the engines’ roar filled the air And everyone was hoping to win it fair and square Except for one, for he thought he knew he would win Although not without at least just one small sin But still, Mr. Fort always found a way to worm in A way to cheat, before he would begin Or at least a small reassurance to hold within But as always crime never does pay The horn went off, the cars went speeding out and away Three racers left in the dust, all filled with dismay At the sight of their engines, deep in disarray But there were no thoughts to spare for them Everyone was focused on the mayhem As they hurtled over the cement With hoards of smoke billowing from their vents.

LEOPARD | HARPER SAHM '17

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DA RIU S GA NJI ‘1 9

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EATH IS A RAVEN THAT FLIES IN THE NIGHT– With eyes that pierce the soul– And has a song so dreaded– That none wish to hear it at all– Swooping over the valley– Before the coming storm– The raven scours the land– Looking to take a hefty prize– There is no hiding from it– The black bird always pays a visit– No matter how far the guests– Everyone hears the raven’s song.

UNDERWATER | KYLE SMITH ‘19

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T IM MA NK ‘ 87

PURPLE HAZE

MU FROM STARTING HIS OWN BAND IN KINDERGARTEN TO LEARNING THE RECORDER IN FIRST GRADE

TO PLAYING THE VIOLA, TROMBONE, AND GUITAR IN MIDDLE SCHOOL, 7TH GRADE HUMANITIES TEACHER TIMOTHY MANK '87 HAS BEEN INVESTED IN MUSIC HIS WHOLE LIFE.

MUSIC. Music is quite unlike any other art form due to its almost indelineable nature. It is perhaps the epitome of the goal of the arts: to attempt to

“MUSIC EXPRESSES THAT WHICH CANNOT BE SAID AND ON WHICH IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO BE SILENT.” –VICTOR HUGO.

express something that cannot be expressed otherwise. Aside from the physical wave properties of sound, music has an unfounded and inexplicable emotion attached to it. Hearing a piece clarifies its intention, emotional state, and message. However, despite this fact, music is an art form of constant change, influenced by its surroundings and guided by perception. It extends beyond a form of communication; it embodies a certain sacredness in its uniqueness. It serves as worship, as the voice of the oppressed, as the expression of peace and conflict. And a musician is faced with and aware of this responsibility. From the grandeur of Ravel’s symphonies to the technicality of Bach's Baroque Inventions or the assuaging quality of Rock or Blues, the introspection and empathic expression of a musician conveys emotions that would otherwise remain ineffable.

T HEMAR Q U E

QA &

W I T H M USI C I A N T I M M ANK ‘87

How did you first get into music?

I've really been into music my whole life. You can track my love for music back to third grade or even before that. I really loved playing instruments and interacting with people. I remember in kindergarten getting together a little band just because we thought it would be funny. Here at St. Mark’s I enjoyed playing with instruments, starting in first grade with Mrs. Livengood and the recorder. I then took strings. I played viola, and then I went into band and played trombone. Outside of school, I thought guitar was really cool, so in seventh grade I started taking lessons.

What was the first instrument you learned how to play?

I guess I first learned to read the notes, learn the music staff, and play real notes, on the recorder.

What’s your favorite genre of music?

My favorite genre of music is definitely rock. It's what I go back to more than classical and more than electronic or rap.

I love all sorts of genres, but rock is what I go back to. I have "IT GOT CLOSER AND CLOSER TO THE TIME a passion for reggae, and I’ll play that style, but there’s something about rock WE HAD TO PLAY, AND BY THE TIME WE WENT that always draws me back.

ON, EVERYONE WAS THERE. I WAS NERVOUS, I HAD TO BE AN ENTERTAINER. THE CROWD Who are your biggest influences?

RESPONSE WAS A JUMPING OFF POINT FOR I do have a wide variety of influences ME TO GO: ‘THIS IS WHAT I LOVE DOING." because I started as a guitar player,

and then I started trying to sing, and then I got into songwriting. The reason I picked up the guitar is because of people like Van Halen and Jimi Hendrix. As a singer/songwriter, I look at people who have these great messages and song structures like Paul Simon or Elton John.

Their songs have a timless element. They get great stories out of their songs.

Do you try to imitate these guys?

I try to tell a story through my songs. As a songwriter I try to get something that is universal, and something that reaches out to people and gets to an emotional honesty and truth. As a musician, I like to be fun and catchy. Those kinds of artists are the ones that have been able to do both things in a way that makes their music accessible to a lot of people.

How do you educate yourself to get better at playing guitar?

It is a constant search of what is interesting to me and what is new and innovative. I DVR a couple of late-night shows, and I fast forward to the musical acts and I watch those. That keeps it fresh for me and keeps me moving forward as I keep trying new things. If I'm working with the electric guitar, then it’s more about working solo or working as a lead guitarist. If I switch to my acoustic guitar, then it’s more about melody, songwriting, and song structure.

What’s your favorite song?

I’ve always ranked my favorite traditional song as "Silent Night." It just is a song that kind of transcends countries. You can be anywhere in the world and sing that song and people will respond in a positive way. I think it's a beautiful song, a simple song that can bring people together in a moment where it sort of calms things down. So I think that’s always been as my favorite song.

— Timothy Mank as told to Kamal Mamdani ‘19

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SILENT STREET F R A NK T HOMAS ‘ 17

world reason the

of

KEVIN C H O I ‘1 7

wildly like fish out of the water. Only then did the survivors look to the ministers, believing that they had finally found a god who had power over the land. At a time when people desperately needed a place of rest People all for their bodies and souls, the ancient religion quickly around the world withered away from the aftermath gained followers, first in hundreds, then in thousands, of war, and not a single government could handle its and soon enough, people were flocking to the words death counts. As year after year passed without any of an unknown god like moths fluttering toward a relief, people looked to god but quickly lost their faith, streetlight on a dark night. And sure enough, the word for god could not feed them and cure them of their eventually reached Jimmy and his sister Catherine. diseases as he had done before. In the midst of darkCatherine, a world-renowned anthropologist, ness and chaos, the ministers of some unknown relibelieved in the good nature of people; Jimmy, an gion were the first to act. Arriving unexpectedly in the underappreciated physicist, did not. They sat together abandoned capital, they went about preaching some under a makeshift shelter, listening to the news report ancient religion, showing photographic evidence of of the ancient religion through an several freshly-unearthed tablets that old radio. they claimed to be “the true words ON THE DAY THE WORLD WAS “Hmph, that’s a lot of bullshit,” of god, untainted and unaltered by PROPHESIZED TO END, JIMMY LOOKED snapped Jimmy. mankind.” Etched on the tablet were OUTSIDE THEIR MAKESHIFT SHELTER “You really think so?” asked archaic symbols listing several dates AND SAW COUNTLESS EMACIATED Catherine. “I mean, there are several when catastrophic events occurred BODIES DRAGGING THEMSELVES million people out there who follow throughout history. Despite the reDOWN THE STREET. this.” markable accuracy of the dates, most “That’s several million people people were hesitant to believe the translation, and the getting tricked! Think about it, Cat. Several million only thing that ministers managed to instill in their people are struck by war. Only then, a religion appears minds was a warning about god’s punishment that out of nowhere and claims a disaster. The disaster would come three days later, exactly at noon. happens. People start believing. It’s just too perfect, too Indeed, three days later, exactly at noon, people calculated,” replied Jimmy. began to collapse onto the streets, shaking and gasping

THE WAR LEFT NO VICTORS.

“Well, at least it’s reasonable,” said Catherine.

“Reasonable? You call this reasonable? Maybe understandable, yes, but reasonable? The whole thing is based on these phony tablets! I could have made those!” argued Jimmy.

“But they were dated and verified by scientists,” said Catherine.

“The only scientist I believe is myself! …And you,” said Jimmy. Jimmy had always looked up to his sister.

His respect for his sister was so great that he never felt jealous that her work was always much more appreciated than his, even when his work may have been more groundbreaking.

“How do you explain the deaths, then?” said Catherine.

“They probably poisoned the water supply,” said Jimmy.

“Aah,” remarked Catherine.

“So you follow?” said Jimmy, delighted.

“Not really. By the way Jim, you’ve read Life of Pi, right?” asked Catherine. Jimmy nodded. “Well, sometimes it’s nicer to let your reason have a little bit of rest and believe in the better story,” said Catherine.

“Are you going to believe in this religion, then?” objected Jimmy, almost condescendingly.

“I don’t know; maybe I will. After all, I’m not an agnostic like you,” said Catherine. (continued on next page)

THEM AR Q UE

CONSTRUCTION K EV IN FEN G ‘18

“

SEVERAL MILLION PEOPLE ARE STRUCK BY WAR. ONLY THEN, A RELIGION APPEARS OUT OF NOWHERE AND CLAIMS A DISASTER. (continued from previous page)

“Well, at least Christianity didn’t have an end to the world like this religion! Didn’t you hear the news report? These so-called ministers say that the last date on the tablet is the end of the world! That’s just a few days short from two months from now!” said Jimmy.

“We’ll see. We’ll see,” said Catherine.

As day after day passed, Jimmy found more and more people outside preaching about the end of the world and how only the faithful will be saved. Malnourished and dehydrated, these people looked more like robots with their initial recording gradually losing packets of data. The problem that concerned Jimmy most however, was Catherine’s faith. Their living conditions were gradually deteriorating, and the government stopped sending supplies to once-world-renowned Catherine. It would be only a matter of time until they were on equal footing with all others.

On the day the world was prophesized to end, Jimmy looked outside their makeshift shelter and saw countless emaciated bodies dragging themselves down the street. They seemed magically attracted to something down the road and limped on with whatever determination was left in them, like a school

of carp swimming upstream. Some of them were even smiling as they muttered “We are saved” on each step they took. Jimmy understood. They were gathering for the final day of the world. Before he could react, however, Catherine was already looking over his shoulder, remarking, “This religion must have something to have empowered so many people on the brink of death.”

“Please, Cat. We promised to not talk about this,” said Jimmy. “The whole thing is based around circular logic. It’s unreasonable.” Jimmy was beginning to notice his grasp on Catherine’s mind loosening.

Catherine went on, unable to hear Jimmy. “Hey, Jim, let’s give it a shot. It can’t hurt to believe.”

“Please, Cat, please. Listen to reason,” said Jimmy, sobbing.

Suddenly, Catherine turned on Jimmy. “It’s you who’s being unreasonable! What’s so unreasonable about religion? I’m going to give it a shot.” Catherine stormed out of the shelter, her swift pace masking her hunger and thirst.

Alone, Jimmy began to fault himself for letting Catherine go. It was Catherine who had initially taught him the beauty of reason, yet Jimmy was the one inhabiting and expanding the realm of reason

throughout his life. How could he fail to repay Catherine’s teachings when it mattered the most?

What should he have done? Maybe if their roles were switched, Catherine would still have been here. Maybe if he were world-renowned Jefferson and she were underappreciated Kitty, they would still be together.

Why did he have to be Jimmy? It was all too unfair, too unreasonable for Catherine to be the one who ended up WHY DID HE HAVE TO BE JIMMY? IT WAS sacrificing reason for faith. For the ALL TOO UNFAIR, TOO UNREASONABLE FOR rest of the day, Jimmy lay weeping CATHERINE TO BE THE ONE WHO ENDED UP on the ground. It was the end of SACRIFICING REASON FOR FAITH. the world of reason.

As the next day dawned, Jefferson was awakened by cries similar to those he had heard the day before. People were shouting “We have been saved!” as they pranced about the street. Again, Jefferson instantly understood. Their god had saved them from the final day of the world. Before Jefferson could get up, Kitty was already sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry,” said Kitty.

“It’s okay,” said Jefferson.

It was the beginning of the world of reason.

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ow d

wn I was walking down the hall – I heard my feet on the marble floor – As I came upon the end – I found a doorway but no door – I tried my best to get to the end, Charging in headstrong – But what I thought was a line – Was a circle all along –

I started to notice oddities – Things different from before, There were thoughts scratched onto the walls – One shook me to my core – “Even if we life a different life – And walk the path untrod – What’s the mind of a man – IN THE HAND OF A GOD?

the hall

GA BRIE L CAST R I L LO N ‘ 1 9

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THE CLEVE ALL, IN MY O THE MAN W HIMSELF A F LEAST ONCE

1 96 2 E D IT I O N

EREST OF OPINION, IS WHO CALLS FOOL AT E A MONTH. FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY

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" W E S H A L L N O T C E A S E F R O M E X P L O R AT I O N AND THE END OF ALL OUR EXPLORING W I L L B E T O A R R I V E W H E R E W E S TA R T E D AND KNOW THE PLACE FOR THE FIRST TIME."

T.S. ELIOT

1995 pushing boundaries S E CTIO N TH RE E | 33 Y EARS

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E A G E R T O D O T H AT W H I C H N O O N E H A D V E N T U R E D T O D O B E F O R E , W E T O O K D E S I G N A N D C R E AT I V I T Y T O A N E W L E V E L . T H I R T Y - T H R E E Y E A R S I N , W E E X P E R I M E N T E D W I T H E V E R Y E L E M E N T W E C O U L D T H I N K O F. F U L L C O L O R , L A R G E T Y P O G R A P H Y, F U L L- B L E E D P H O T O S — T H E S E W E R E T H E I N S T R U M E N T S AT H A N D A S W E C R E AT E D T H E M A R Q U E , pushing boundaries.

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VALLEYS | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

abu’s elephant

ISA IA H KA ZU N GA ‘ 1 7

JABU HAD NEVER

R UN S O FAST I N H I S L I F E .

He glided across the muddy ground, leaping over logs and pots.

Women ran into their huts as he flew past, cowering in the darkness of their doorways. They watched the boy run with sorrow in their eyes. Children hid behind walls and watched the scene unfold. They knew what was going to happen to the boy.

From behind him, Jabu heard a shout and a HE SUMMONED THE LAST OF stampede of running feet. He risked a backward HIS STRENGTH, PREPARED glance. Chaka, his elder brother, charged after him, HIS MIND, AND VAULTED THE flanked by six of his henchmen. They carried spears FENCE. OR, HE TRIED TO VAULT and shields, while Jabu had only his wits and his THE FENCE. feet. He picked up his pace, kicking up clouds of dust as he blazed towards the outer wall of the kraal, desperately gasping for air, fervently hoping he would make it in time. His breath felt like fire in his lungs, and his muscles ached for a respite. Up ahead, he could see the kraal’s border fence coming

‘

But if he stayed put, or tried to sneak back into the village, Chaka would find him and kill him. up fast. He summoned the last of his strength, prepared his mind, and vaulted the fence. Or, he tried to vault the fence. The barrier was high and sturdy, meant to keep out wild creatures as they roamed the savannah. Jabu’s exhausted legs didn’t provide him with adequate lift, and he clipped the fence as he went over, landing hard. Coughing out dust, he looked back up at the fence. His pursuers hadn’t jumped, however.

Instead, he heard his brother shout to his men, “ Go get supplies and meet me at the gate! We need food if we are to follow him into the bush.”

The scramble of feet retreated, and Jabu sat up, breathing hard.

Safe for the moment, Jabu took stock of his situation. He had no food or water, no weapons, and was already exhausted from his long run. If he struck out into the bush in his current state, there was very little chance that he would see daybreak. But if he stayed put or tried to sneak back in to the village, Chaka would find him and kill him. The choice was obvious to Jabu.

Standing up and dusting himself off, he grabbed a long, gnarled stick, and set off toward the setting sun.

As he walked through the long grass, Jabu thought back on the events that had brought him into this predicament. Two days ago, Jabu’s father, Chief Bangizwe, had gotten into a quarrel with Jabu’s mother over Jabu’s enlistment into the military. Jabu’s mother, Funani, refused to allow her son to go to war. She vowed that Jabu would not fight for the chief. Bangizwe was enraged by his third wife’s defiance and beat her badly. When Jabu found her, she was lying

on the floor, moaning, her beautiful face caked any second.” The elephant snorted, uninterested. with bloody mud. Funani died that night. Jabu It finished its drink and began to munch on swore vengeance, eaten up by rage and despair. some grass. Jabu sat silently and watched Earlier that afternoon, Bangizwe had announced it, fascinated by the enormous beast. It was Chaka as heir to the chieftainship. Chaka was massive, towering over the boy, its tusks long Bangizwe’s favorite son, the eldest of the sons and sharp. Its tough gray hide was impervious of his first wife, and so he named Chaka next in to the thorns and snakes of the bush. After a line. Chaka was power-hungry and belligerent, moment, the elephant stopped chewing and and he badly wanted to be chief. The ceremony looked back at him. Jabu rose to his feet slowly, was partway through, but not complete, and careful not to startle the creature. With care, he Chaka could not claim to be the heir until the plucked up some nearby grass and proffered it ceremony was over. It was while Bangizwe to the elephant, bracing himself for whatever addressed the crowd that Jabu threw his spear. might happen. He felt a damp snout suck the Ever since he was a little boy, Jabu had shown an grass from his hand, and when he looked up, the incredible gift for spear-throwing. He was easily elephant was happily munching away. Delighted, the best thrower in the kraal, startlingly accurate Jabu sat next to his new friend, watching the last from long range. From a small hill overlooking rays of sunlight peek over the horizon. the festivities, Jabu launched his “Do you miss your mother? I missile. Bangizwe was dead before JABU LOOKED UP AT THE DARK SKY. THE miss mine,” said Jabu, cradling his STARS WERE JUST BEGINNING TO APPEAR. knees to his chest. The elephant he hit the ground. Chaka was “MAYBE YOU’RE RIGHT. MAYBE ALL WE irate, as he had lost his heirdom. lay down next to him, sighing.

NEED IS TO LIVE. WE HAVE THE STREAM, As soon as he saw Jabu standing “My father killed my mother, so I AND SOME GRASS, AND THE STARS TO on the hill, he knew that his killed him. I thought that would younger brother was the culprit. make me feel better. But it hasn’t LOOK AT. AND WE HAVE EACH OTHER.” He yelled to his henchmen, and really. I just miss my mother. I the chase had begun. want her back.” The elephant rolled in the sand, The sun was falling as Jabu crossed a small not paying any mind to Jabu. “How can you be stream. His feet ached and his lips were dry and so carefree? All we have are problems. There is cracked. He stopped to drink from the stream. nothing to be happy about,” said Jabu. “You are The water was cool and sweet, a welcome all alone, with only the grass in your stomach intrusion into his dry mouth. He splashed some and the water in your throat. Yet you are so onto his face, cleaning the dirt from his skin. It playful.” Jabu looked up at the dark sky. The stars was at this moment that he heard a twig crack were just beginning to appear. “Maybe you’re behind him. He spun quickly, falling onto his right. Maybe all we need is to live. We have the rear as another twig snapped. He quaked with stream, and some grass, and the stars to look at. fear, certain that Chaka would emerge from the And we have each other.” The elephant stopped trees and kill him. Instead, an elephant plodded rolling about and looked at him. Jabu smiled, from beneath the canopy. It was a young bull, a and then began to roll in the sand himself. And teenager, chased away from his herd by the older he laughed, even after he stopped rolling. He mothers. The elephant stopped and looked at laughed and grinned and simply enjoyed being him, snorting. For a good minute, they stared at alive. He didn’t know if Chaka would find him each other, outcasts from two different worlds. or if he would be eaten by lions, but he didn’t Then the elephant walked past the startled care. He fell asleep next to the elephant, his face boy and began to drink from the stream. Jabu turned toward the glittering stars. Everything turned and watched the creature. He wondered was all right. if anyone wanted to kill the elephant, as Chaka If Jabu could have seen the sky, he would wanted to kill him. have seen Funani, his mother, smiling down at “I bet you’re really frightened,” said Jabu, him. playing with the sand. “I’m frightened. My brother is trying to kill me. He might arrive at

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IN STUMBLING THROUGH THE INDUSTRIAL ARTS PROGRAM, SENIOR HYER THOMAS FINALLY FOUND HIS GROOVE

AND BEGAN TO CREATE PIECES THAT GAINED HIM NATIONAL ACCLAIM AMONG THE BEST YOUNG ARTISTS IN THE COUNTRY.

INDUSTRIAL ARTS.

“WOODWORKING REQUIRES A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT KIND OF THINKING AND PROBLEM-SOLVING...YOU START WITH AN END PRODUCT IN MIND, AND REASON YOUR WAY BACKWARD TO THE RAW WOOD.” – JOSHUA FOER. Furniture, chairs, tables, stools, and lamps inherently appear mundane. But a woodshop

artist has the ability to take these commonplace objects and warp them to their creative boundaries, blurring the line between form and function. The Industrial Arts are defined by and embrace challenging the commonplace, assaulting normalcy and the expected. Armed with a grand image of the end product, the woodshop artist must conjoin the abstract with the concrete.

His vision evolves based on the physical contraints of the wood and metal with which he works, and each—both the physical and the abstract—hone the other to surmount the impossible: making the banal extraordinary.

HYER T HOMAS ‘17

NOSE TO THE GRINDSTONE T HEMAR Q U E

QA &

W I T H I N D U ST R I A L A RT IST HYER THOM AS ‘17

When did you start industrial arts, and how did your interest come about?

I started in fifth grade, and I’ve done it every year except sixth grade. My mom’s friend’s son at St. Mark’s told me to take the class. He told my mom to tell me to take woodshop. And you know, as a fifth grader, looking for anything I can do to use my hands and make anything, I thought that was cool.

Did you always have an interest before you had formal training?

My dad had a lot of tools in his garage, and we had always built stuff. I remember we made a chicken coop when I was in about fourth grade. I had already been familiar with making things, obviously not on the scale on which I make them here.

When did it start becoming more than just a class?

At the end of my sophomore year and into my junior year I had made my freshman table, which I actually think is one “I THINK THAT THERE’S TWO WAYS I COULD GO. of my best works. It was the one that I COULD EITHER NOT FOLLOW ARTS AT ALL AND got be recognized by YoungArts to bring over to Miami, Florida. But my CONTINUE WHATEVER JOB I GROW INTO. BUT ON sophomore year I made a couple of THE SIDE, I’D DO ART PROJECTS THAT ARE MUCH pieces that didn’t work out, so I didn’t LESS CONCEPTUAL, AND MORE FUNCTIONAL. even put them in my portfolio. So, OR I COULD DECIDE TO GO INTO ARCHITECTURE yeah, I kinda slumped in the program WHERE THE ART IS MY CAREER AND I’M BUILDING sophomore year, so going into junior HOUSES AND OTHER STRUCTURES.” year I wanted to think about my pieces more and open my creative mind a little bit more. At first, I thought of them as only tables and chairs; I couldn’t really think of anything compelling, so I just took a step back over the summer and wrote down ideas. Junior year is when I started really thinking about “What can I make that is functional and useful that can also convey a message or spark a question?”

How do you find inspiration and come up with certain ideas for your pieces?

Well, one thing that’s different about St. Mark’s in our studio than in others is that we don’t draw very much, so a lot of my inspiration comes from online. It’s not like I just see something online and think “Oh I’m just gonna make that.” I just use the words or ideas and concepts and just go through a Google search and pull ideas from all sorts of places. “Oh I see this one

person did this to a chair, well how can I do this but to a table?” A lot of the design aspect seems to be appreciating things we use that we overlook. I’ve just begun noticing my everyday surroundings in more detail, which gives me more inspiration.

Then I’d go to paper, but only rough sketches, to see what it might look like. Then I let the wood do its work and I always am open to take new ideas while working on a project like “Oh I like it when I put this here even though I wasn’t supposed to.

I think it looks better.” So it’s a very fluid process.

Who is your favorite artist?

My favorite artist is Tom Friedman. I think he did a great job of taking everyday objects and putting them to use in a variety of different ways that you’d never expect. His best pieces was that he took an aspirin, which is this tiny little pill, and he carved his face onto the aspirin. Why would someone do something so small but so detailed?

Describe your YoungArts experience. What was it like?

How was the environment?

The biggest difference was that everybody there was of the arts.

It was basically a big hub of creativity, and one of the things they stressed was interdisciplinary art, like “How could music affect design?” How can photography affect voice?” Things like that helped me mix mediums into my work and not think about just wood or furniture. Another thing we did in my design group was we made a project within a week. So we had to plan, build, and present. We worked about eight hours a day on our pieces, and on the usual schedule of St. Mark’s, I thought this was perfect. It was more an “ideas bouncing off the wall” project.

– Hyer Thomas ‘17 as told to CJ Crawford ‘19

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“

My dad had a lot of tools in his garage, and we had always built stuff around, I remember we made a chicken coop when I was in about fourth grade.

INDU STRIA L A RTS SHOWCASE | H Y E R TH O MAS ‘17

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1 R E PET IT IO N, 2 T H E MISSING PIEC E, 3 HIG H S CH O O L , 4 O RDER-DISORDER T HEMAR Q U E

RAINS AGAIN suppose it

DA RA N ZH AO ‘1 7

L I T ER ARY F ESTI VAL | 2ND PLACE , FICTION

E

VER SINCE TORRENTIAL RAINS HAD BEEN OCCURRING WITH ALARMING FREQUENCY ACROSS THE WORLD, entire societies were forced to mobilize to find new shelter as world leaders gathered to discuss plans for the future. Because there often was not enough time to rebuild shelters, those not yet destroyed by the rains or resulting floods were fortified and expanded to house refugees. Private homes were no longer a reality as efficient housing was the number-one priority: the government crammed citizens in barrack-like HE WAS STILL YOUNG AND ABLE, units, with residents AND AS THE TREK FROM THEIR living in rooms just big SETTLEMENT TO THE NEAREST WHEAT enough for their beds.

FIELD BECAME LONGER AND LONGER, As more and more sociYOUNG WORKERS LIKE RED WERE eties were flooded, surNECESSARY FOR THE FOOD SUPPLY’S viving colonies focused GROWTH. solely on survival and preservation: the government took a more active role in mobilizing the population by limiting food intake – handing out rations to families once a week – and drafting able civilians into a labor force focused on food storage and living space expansion.

Red crawled out of the room he shared with his brother, barely squeezing through the opening that separated them from the noisy hallway that was constantly filled with new tenants moving in. Despite being a direct descendent of the queen, Red was given the same treatment and responsibilities as everyone else to promote civilian relationships with

idence of their expanding network of tunnels, slowly changed as green stems watered by the strange floods climbed to the sky, quickly hiding their home from view. The sun, amplified by the green canopy that trapped the heat against the ground, beat down, and the group slowed their march to a crawl.

In charge of making sure Ann would not be left behind and lost within the forest of green, Red walked with her. Slowly, they drifted behind the rest of the workers, with a messenger checking back on them every so often to make sure the group was on the right track.

Lost in his thoughts, Red audibly mumbled under his breath, “Suppose it rains here, too.”

“No need to suppose.”

“Huh?” Ann’s reply, which broke her silence had caught Red off guard.

“The rain’s going to come here, you know. And I’ll be too old to live this time.” Sensing Red’s questions, Ann continued, “I’ve survived nearly ten rain storms. Escaping the flood is only the beginning. After everyone’s homes are destroyed, the survivors have to leave and find new shelter. They have to be lucky, be headed in the right direction and find food along the way.

It’s no journey I can make again.”

“And how do you know it’s coming?”

“It’s been quiet here too long; I can feel the rain coming.”

“And then what?” Red probed, but Ann had fallen silent again.

the government. His rations, quarters, and job were all standard. As on most days, Red would be venturing from civilization with others to gather food.

He was still young and able, and as the trek from their settlement to the nearest wheat field became longer and longer, young workers like Red were necessary. Anyway, Red was scared of narrow spaces and found it hard to work on expanding the colony: The queen and her military generals had decided that the best short-term solution to the incoming refugees and the ever-present threat of torrential rain was to create new living quarters underground that, hopefully, would not wash away. Those who worked on expansion were constantly digging tunnels, some so narrow that they →← could only walk two abreast.

It was dark when Red and the A few hours later, Red prepared to group made it back to the outskirts embark on his day’s journey, special of their colony, because he ESCAPING THE FLOOD IS ONLY THE BEGINNING. AFTER EVERY- each loaded and his group with bundles of ONE’S HOMES ARE DESTROYED, THE SURVIVORS HAVE TO would have wheat balanced LEAVE AND FIND A NEW SHELTER. . .THEY HAVE TO BE LUCKY, to visit a new field, as they BE HEADED IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION AND FIND FOOD ALONG carefully on their backs. Ann had exhausted THE WAY. IT’S NO JOURNEY I CAN MAKE AGAIN. had already the previous disappeared up the hill and into the one. Because none of the workers had tunnels, unburdened by the heavy been to the new field, Ann, a wizened load of wheat the others had, when elder who had grown up close to the Red noticed a fog descending around field but fled after her village flooded, the group. He called to the others, would accompany them. who had become little more than The group climbed to the surface distant shadows as the fog continued and began their march towards the to develop. field. The dirt surrounding them, ev-

‘

Escaping the flood is only the beginning...

It’s no journey I can make again.

ROADS & VALLEYS | WESLEY HIBBS '17

“Let’s just dump the wheat and get inside,” said one of the shadows, feeling spooked by the sudden fog.

As Red weighed the benefits of safety against the punishment of not having returned to the colony with food, he began to feel water on his legs. The fog had settled in so thickly that Red could no longer clearly see the details of his home. Looking towards the colony, he could barely make out the streams of water and civilians flowing towards him: some scuttled just ahead of the water, some danced around the streams, others had long given up and simply allowed themselves to be carried along – or they had already drowned. Red froze.

His mind swam with the thoughts of those who would not make it out of the tunnels. It was much too crowded and would be too chaotic. He stood there, watching with the wheat on his back until the water around his legs became a moving current. Just as Red lost his footing and the water began to sweep him away, he felt himself being hauled aside.

“I may not be able to make the journey to the next colony, but I know how to survive the flood. And it isn’t by standing still.” (continued on next page)

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‘TO TEST, I WILL MAKE A

COLONY WITH THESE SURVIVORS AND THEIR OFFSPRING. AFTER FLOODING THAT COLONY, I WILL RECORD MY RESULTS.

(continued from previous page) No longer stuck in his trance, Red threw the wheat off his back and followed Ann as she hobbled away from their home, letting go of the images of his home and family.

“The secret,” she yelled over the din of rushing and falling water, “is that you have to find something that floats or is rooted to the ground. It’s much harder here because it’s all dirt, but if we get far enough, a tree may be good enough.” Suddenly her pace slowed. It was obvious that her age held her back.

“Listen,” she started, “There’s something they don’t know about what happens after the floods. Sometimes, a survivor is Chosen. In the midst of the water, you’re suddenly picked up. Most survivors think it’s a blessing, that the survivor’s gone to Heaven. I’m not so sure, and the reason I care is because my husband was Chosen. I’ve been searching for the floods, to survive and be Chosen, but I’ve never had the luck. This flood came too late. I’m not strong enough to survive. So you have to try and do it for me. Keep going, find something sturdy, hold on until the water stops flowing. If you find him, tell him ‘Ann tried, and she’ll see you soon.’ Godspeed.”

→←

The little boy made sure to stand back as he pointed the hose at the ant hill rising out of the ground: Mother always made a fuss when he got his clothes wet. When the ant hill was flattened, he fumbled in his pocket for his glass jar before moving closer to the pile of mud. Finally, the boy found a surviving ant next to a leaf, struggling against the still-flowing water. The boy tenderly picked the ant up, careful not to crush it in his massive fingers, and put it in the glass jar.

HE STOOD THERE WATCHING WITH THE WHEAT ON HIS Once home, the BACK UNTIL THE WATER AROUND HIS LEGS BECAME boy flipped to a page A MOVING CURRENT. JUST AS RED LOST HIS FOOTING in his notebook titled AND THE WATER BEGAN TO SWEEP HIM AWAY, HE FELT “Waterproof Ants Project” and continued HIMSELF BEING HAULED ASIDE. where he had left off: “Today I found another ant colony in my backyard and flooded it. Again, there were some survivors. I picked one to add to my jar of survivors. Since all of these ants survived my flood, I hypothesize that their offspring should also. To test, I will make a colony with these survivors and their offspring. After flooding that colony, I will record my results.”

R

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T H E P EAC E K E E P E R CJ C RAWFO RD ‘1 9

Fragments of a broken peacekeeper Are thrown across a gullible heart Diving through and only getting deeper Turns into a morose case of fine art Art of blood and stolen lives Art of obscene dialogues of jive Heathens speaking in strange tongues Peacekeeper golden, for finer guns Finer tuned for lethal finesse Sights beyond a mortal lens Stories fantastical, accepted with awe Opposition ended with broken jaws A deep respect turned into fear A silent hope to keep all held dear For he doesn’t want to feel the keeper no more Shards melded to break down his door To be free of the peacekeeper For he only keeps angst in And a mind knows no true peace, Not while his stories are within First, stories broke him down His lies came with scolding heat Shattered his old jaded valor Made his cage too hard to beat A beating heart still caged Fleshed harmed by the barbs in place But he will find a way to be enraged To break hardened jade, fist turned mace He gives the keeper the freedom fought for And tell him he’s found it himself hence The ways and dreams he clawed out for Show his paradox and enlightenments

SPACEMAN | KYLE SMITH ‘19

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wood metal show 1

I NDU ST R I AL ARTS

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Andrew Chuka ‘17 Escaping Chair Perry Naseck ‘18 Open Cube Christian McClain ‘17 Convertible Chair Ben Clayman ‘18 Light Design Adam Subel ‘17 Pinpoint Robert Newman ‘19 Camp Chair Christian McClain ‘17 Piano Chair Madden Smith ‘19 Modern

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THEM AR QUE

PAINT-WATER MIX | ADNAN KHAN ‘19

A PERFORMANCE JONAH SIMON ‘19

A

bird trots across its own sense of theatrics it hops down your throat or the fright on our stage while the man in the suit reads his script and his blessings the bird floats away as the man turns the page and the script: well, it has its own sense of reality making amends as the words disappear but the suit isn’t sure if the man had existed since blessings don’t move if there’s no one to hear down in the audience rests a few skeletons sound melts away into mem’ries of words now, there’s one thing for certain in our big performance: performing stays catching the earliest birds

THANKSGIVING CHAPEL | WESLEY HIBBS‘17

THEM AR Q UE

WINDOW WASHERS | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

LEISURE SH A ILE N PA RM A R ‘1 7 L IT ERARY F EST IVAL | 3 RD P LAC E, P O ET RY

Tangled wool, rubber soles, muted footsteps.

My toes stretch against the inner wall, the frame still sturdy.

I remember the sheen of the fabric years ago, a flicker of life in the slippers of times passed.

Now the threading frays; the seams pull apart.

A cloud of snow now slush under black tires, a once plush interior now flat, flat from wear, from toil, from frowns, flat from thankless nights, from hated gifts, flat from the sadness of a son who did not understand his father.

Frustrated heels, thwarted toes, disappointed soles.

Slippers far too big for me, Slippers far too big for me.

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MONOTONY THE BENEFITS OF P E RRY NASE C K’1 8

I

’D LIKE TO TRY ANOTHER SLOW, REPETITIVE, MONOTONOUS JOB SOMEDAY, and my past job is what showed me I could do that. These past two summers, I worked at my school. This takes most of my friends aback, as they prompt me, “Why would you want to spend your summer at school of all places?” First, I liked my job. I worked with the IT department to set up and manage equipment on campus, and I gained a lot of experience as well as insight into that career. But second, it gave me time to think.

During those few months that I worked, I often repeated tasks over and over again automatically. One week, I was

tasked with upgrading nearly identical computers to the latest operating system. After putting my earbuds in and beginning the processes on the first five or so computers, my hands and eyes assumed muscle memory and my conscious thoughts drifted from the task at hand.

I began to deeply ponder issues and ideas that I couldn’t process amongst the stress of the school year. Every day on the job; my thoughts and their concluding epiphanies became more developed. Often, along the journey of the constantly vigorous school year, I lose sleep not only to stress but also to ideas of potential applications and projects, as if my mind

knows that I have no other time to fully investigate them.

However, while employed and actively working, my brain can enter the same lax state of concentrated distraction that it can just before I fall asleep.

For a while I explored the specifics of a visually-interactive display that later became the basis for a project in robotics.

While I probably won’t pursue such a job as a career, I found that working a monotonous job allows me to think deeply, and I benefit from that and am eager to explore another slow, daydream-inducing job again.

ARBORETUM | ADNAN KHAN '19

THEM AR QUE

a brief talk

on entropy

(OR AN ASSAULT ON FIN-DE-SIECLE PESSIMISM)

AN D REW CHUKA ‘1 7

S O T H I N K O F T H E D U ST F R O M W H E N C E W E CA M E A N D T H E N T H I N K O F W H AT W E ’ V E AC C O M P L I S H E D I N O U R S H O RT T I M E H E R E . W I L L YO U S U C C U M B TO T H E A L L- C O N S U M I N G C H AO S , O R W I L L YO U J O I N M E I N T H E F I G H T TO M A K E S O M ET H I N G B EAU T I F U L?

THOSE FAMILIAR WITH THERMODYNAMICS

will know its Second Law: the entropy of a closed system always increases, or, in other words, unto dust thou shalt return. But what defines this “closed system?” WHAT’S IT MADE OF? WHERE IS IT GOING? In the endless carbon-black matrix of space, engulfed by the chthonic maw of Thanatos, sits a little yellow dwarf star called Sol. Its gravity

has humanity caught in an endless elliptical cycle, stuck on a round rock hurtling through the cold vacuum around our mother sun at over sixty thousand miles per hour. A mere blip on the universal scale, we cling hopelessly to our short lives, trapped in the daily stresses of morning commutes and office jobs, blissfully and sometimes willfully oblivious to the dire prophecies of cosmic machinations beyond our control. In our own backyard, energy-bearing

materials dwindle exponentially as the population booms like never before.

Right next door, the sun counts down the giga-years until, finally deprived of fusion fuel, it balloons outward as a Red Giant and swallows the Earth, killing any life still present on our dying planet. In our immediate neighborhood, all nearby stars and galaxies vanish in the distance as space itself continues expanding at an increasing rate.

But beyond that, there is an even greater problem. Our good friend Entropy ensures that every physical interaction, every transfer of energy, from the blazing hot fusion of a star to the microscopic respiration of a cell, results in a net loss of unusable heat energy dissipated to the environment, decreasing the potential of the universe to do work with every event that occurs. And as this waste energy accumulates, the universe loses structure, becoming more and more chaotic with time. Imagine an energy drink, chock-full of energy-dense organic molecules that a sleep-deprived Marksman’s body would eagerly consume to power a late-night cramming session (of course, we Marksmen clearly never do this). While he may effectively utilize a fraction of the chemical energy contained within the chemical bonds of the drink, each metabolic reaction loses energy as body heat, and beyond that, any action the student takes, whether moving his body, thinking with his brain, or simply staying alive, is almost wholly destructive in that nearly no energy released through those processes can be recaptured: humans constantly give off body heat that only accelerates the world’s descent into chaos. Finally, at the end of

time, when entropy has had its fun, all that will remain of our world is a diffuse cloud of cold particles without a single iota of life in sight. It’s hard for us soft, fleshy beings to imagine the universe’s ultimate demise and not become paralyzed by a horrific, cosmic fright.

YET WE HOPE. Our entire universe–the aforementioned closed system–is comprised of two primal elements. Our solar system, our planet, our moon, my sweater, Ms. Weber’s dog, the microorganisms in the science building pond, the caffeine in Dr. Stegemoeller’s blood–all made of the same stuff. Two eternal quantities, energy and matter, here to stay since they first showed OUR ENTIRE UNIVERSE–THE AFOREMENTIONED CLOSED up in the Big SYSTEM–IS COMPRISED OF TWO PRIMAL ELEMENTS..

Bang. It is their TWO ETERNAL QUANTITIES, ENERGY AND MATTER, inexplicable, HERE TO STAY SINCE THEY FIRST SHOWED UP IN THE peculiar union BIG BANG. IT IS THEIR INEXPLICABLE, PECULIAR UNION that gives us–and THAT GIVES US–AND THE UNIVERSE–EXISTENCE. the universe– existence. Energy and matter are the defiant something in the face of the yawning void of nothing.

SO WE PERSIST. Stubbornly, we pay no heed to the world’s accelerating decline into final entropic equilibrium. Quietly, secretly, hidden in the endless expanse of space by our own infinitesimal scale, we create. We dare to challenge entropy’s flow toward chaos by dedicating ourselves to order and beauty. We sculpt, we form, we build.

Civilization, culture, science, art, music, poetry–all incarnations of order, a spit in the face to entropy’s continuous grinding down of all existence into cosmic chaff.

THEM ARQUE

1 96 2 E D IT I O N

L GATSBY BELIEVED IN THE GREEN LIGHT, THE ORGASTIC FUTURE THAT YEAR BY YEAR RECEDES BEFORE US. IT ELUDED US THEN, BUT THAT’S NO MATTER—

WE WILL RUN FASTER, STRETCH OUR ARMS FURTHER . . .

AND ONE FINE MORNING— SO WE BEAT ON, BOATS AGAINST THE CURRENT, BORNE BACK CEASELESSLY INTO THE PAST. F. S C O T T F I T Z G E R A L D T H E G R E AT G AT S B Y

THEM AR QUE

" A N D Y O U , M Y F AT H E R , T H E R E O N T H E S A D H E I G H T, C U R S E , B L E S S M E N O W W I T H Y O U R F I E R C E T E A R S , I P R AY, D O N O T G O G E N T L E I N T O T H AT G O O D N I G H T. R A G E , R A G E A G A I N S T T H E D Y I N G O F T H E L I G H T. "

DYLAN THOMAS

2006 entering a new era S E CTIO N FO U R | 4 4 Y EARS

THEM AR QUE

THE 2000s WERE UPON US. NEW DESIGNS, NEW FONTS, NEW CONCEPTS. WHILE WE TRIED TO I N C O R P O R AT E A S M A N Y O F T H E S E N E W E L E M E N T S A S W E C O U L D , W E W E R E M I N D F U L O F T H E I D E N T I T Y A N D S T Y L E T H E M A R Q U E H A D E S TA B L I S H E D F O R I T S E L F M A N Y Y E A R S A G O : S L E E K , M O D E R N , I N N O V AT I V E .

D E S P I T E entering a new era, W E H E L D O N T O T H E H I S T O R Y O F T H E M A R Q U E .

THEM AR Q UE

ROCKY ROAD | REID JOHANNSEN ‘17

LESS KILLIA N GRE E N ‘1 7

THE FIRST PART IS A CREATION FROM MY GRANDMOTHER’S FAMILY’S HARDSHIPS PICKING COTTON IN EARLY 1900s TEXAS. THE SECOND PART IS A CREATION FROM MY GRANDFATHER’S POOR, IMPOVERISHED CHILDHOOD. BOTH GREW UP AS SHARECROPPERS, AND BOTH STORIES ARE WRITTEN FROM THEIR PERSPECTIVE.

I

sat down in the dirt to reach the lower ones–the ones you

couldn’t quite get to when you were standing. The little pieces, so white and fluffy, yet rough. Hours and hours of picking, until your hands bled. But you had to do it…if you wanted clothes. Picking cotton. My brother and my two sisters just saw it as a game. They picked some, but never enough. They were smaller and ran along the rows. Me and my other brother always did nearly twice as many rows as our younger siblings. We picked for about two weeks–the two weeks of harvest in early September. We always got two or three weeks off from school to bring in the harvest, which in the our case was cotton. But we didn’t own the cotton. We would pick for the farm-head, Mr. Morris. We always did. We used the money to buy school clothes or buy the fabric that mother would use to make the clothes. Mother nearly always sewed our clothes, sewing on more fabric if they were too small. That’s how we did it. And money was tight. That little silver disc–the dime–was precious.

•

•

•

I stood up on the top of the windmill, mother crazily yelling. I would surely get a lickin’ this time. But I didn’t want to come down. I could see the world–the rolling acres of cotton and the piles of hay. I lived on a sharecropper’s farm.

In the house, it was simple, and it wasn’t ours. No running water, just the well pump. No electricity. An icebox occasionally with ice.

Simple, and not ours.

I remember that day we moved into our own house. It was about a mile off on a dirt road, just far enough away to forget but still be tethered to the past. We had about 110 acres of freedom before fence line hit the sharecropper’s farm. We raised our own cotton, corn, hay, and watermelons. We had a large orchard and garden. It was ours.

I always played in the dirt with my small metal tractor and a car my dad made from scraps of wood block and spools as wheels. My brother Harold and sister Lela played hide-and-seek in the hay loft– our childhood bliss. We were poor but hardly ever hungry.

Then it rained. We had to get up and move our bed–the mattress.

The rain seeped through the ceiling and the windows. We had pans everywhere catching the rain. And Mother folded our clothes by candlelight. Dad always read the Bible, and we all prayed. It wasn’t the fire-and-brimstone the preacher would yell. The God my dad prayed to seemed to be there. Friendly. Always there. Simple.

THEM AR Q UE

G O PA L R A MA N ‘17

NATIONAL STUDENT POET

PO SOME PEOPLE WRITE POEMS TO BE READ SILENTLY. OTHERS WRITE POETRY TO BE SPOKEN BETWEEN FRIENDS. SENIOR GOPAL RAMAN DIDN’T KNOW HIS POETRY WOULD HAVE A MUCH LARGER AUDIENCE: THE PRESIDENT AND FIRST LADY.

POETRY. Poets channel their personal unique, distinctive styles and rhythms through the perspective of the world around them. Poets have been notoriously

“POETRY IS WHEN AN EMOTION HAS FOUND ITS THOUGHT AND THE THOUGHT HAS FOUND WORDS.” – ROBERT FROST.

credited throughout history with building, questioning, and even destroying entire nations and empires. They hold the ability to create and destroy simply through their prose. Poetry, though often viewed as clichéd and sometimes trite, exists in the realm of subtlety, of understatement, and of expression. Shakespeare redefined playwrighting and the epic poetry of Homer and Virgil, not only introducing new words, but establishing the sonnet as a prevailing force. Emerson's Transcendentalism breathed spiritual evaluation and democratic promise. But poetry exists in forms outside of the traditional stanzaic form: slam poetry, shape poetry, and limericks, haikus, epics. Poetry presents a mosaic of unique styles and techniques to redefine form and meaning, capturing both their own emotion and those of the world around them.

T HEMA RQ U E

QA &

W I T H N AT I ON A L ST U D E NT POET G OPA L R A M A N ‘17

How did you first get into poetry?

It started in 7th grade, when I had Mr. Rozelle as my English teacher.

The most important thing about that class for me was that he stressed creativity and imagination as a part of English. That was when I started to see English more as an art form than as just another subject in school.

"EVERY POEM I WRITE IS DIFFERENT. WHEN I’M IN THE PROCESS OF WRITING, IT FEELS LIKE I’M HELPING CREATE SOMETHING NEW. THERE’S A THRILL OF DOING THAT. WHEN I'M DONE, IT'S REALLY INVIGORATING TO HAVE CREATED SOMETHING NEW."

What type of poetry do you gravitate towards?

More modern poetry, more free verse poetry, and shorter poems. Every poem I write is different. When I'm in the process of writing, it feels like I'm helping create something new. There's a thrill of doing that. When I'm done, it's really invigorating to have created something new.

Some people say art is their escape from the real world, would you agree?

I think it’s the opposite for me. Poetry helps me get more in tune with my real work. It forces me to pay attention and slow down. It’s made a big difference in my life. During tennis, it has helped me change from someone who got mad after every bad play into someone who is more patient.

You write mostly free verse, so what do you have to say to people who feel like they have to write to a formula?

Whenever I’m writing I’m almost always listening to music. It builds a sense of rhythm into my poetry. If a poem makes you feel connected to the words, or if it has some kind of connection to your life, then it can hold water against any other form. Some people say there’s a certain discipline in form, but I think there’s just as much discipline in free verse.

Did you get a chance to network with any of the other student poets at the White House?

The main goal of the program is twofold. The first is to recognize the five poets. The larger, more important part is that you work with them throughout the year up until the next August. You do service projects and you travel around your region to spread your love of poetry. During the summer, we travel a lot together. In June, we’re going to Carnegie Hall, and then later we’re going to the Aspen Ideas Festival. Another cool part is that we’re invited to go back to the White House with next year’s kids, and two of us will be their mentors.

—Gopal Raman ‘17 as told to Kamal Mamdani '19 and CJ Crawford '19

chamomille steeps slow, fruits of the earth dribbling out,

leaves with the fire of iron-kettle chests, flame as dried brew— this is that— poetry as boiling tea. drips as crystal clinks, as ripples on cup rim. pouches as gossamer thread, as pearl on spider-silk. steam as ancient breath, as smoke of burnt time. fingertips press on white sachets, but this is no bleached peppermint bite, as if peppermint was ever not colored, as if pepper was only ever salt’s sidekick. no, this is brown sand—yes. brown— like khaki grit and earthy loam, pressed coffee and amber bourbon, rusted sierra and desert sandstone. salt dissolves in water, like dissolves like. i dissolve in tea, like dissolves like.

THEM AR Q UE

P OETRY S H OWCAS E | GO PAL RAM AN ' 17

“

Go out there and share your gifts with others. Show other young people the power of taking risks and opening yourself up to the world.

FORMER FIRST LADY MICHELLE OBAMA

august 23, 2OO5

LITE RARY FESTIVA L | 2 ND P LAC E, P O ET RY | REC IT ED AT T H E WH IT E H OUS E

“ S C O R E S K I L L E D A S K AT R I N A P O U N D S S TAT E S A L O N G G U L F C O A S T ” – S U N S E N T I N E L the lichen dips its furry fingers just inches in,

the paper just sits, pruned and not wanting to dry off.

but it’s enough.

and that must be enough, to feel the earth crackle but to not fear the water creeping through the cracks.

how nice, to know when to stop. i woke up late today and cracked open the faucet and dipped my frail fingers in until they pruned and wrinkled. i can’t write with tight skin. i leave the paper soaking, graphite shading the dripping shadows.

to hear "prune" and think of the fruit. to hear "cane" and not hurry to run but to taste the sugar melt into your mouth. my fingers are tightening up, so i dip them in the stream again, but they take longer to wrinkle.

T HEMA RQU E

M AT THEW YA NG ‘17

THE LAST MELODY

The boy’s footsteps echoed through every corner of the grand concert hall, piercing the murmurs of the audience. Applause suddenly erupted, and the crowd watched eagerly as Kai Nagasaki, only twelve years old, approached the elegant Steinway grand piano centered on the stage. Six judges occupied the front row and stared intently like a pack of coyotes waiting for its prey to make a move.

Although thousands of eyes watched him, Kai was in a world of his own, a world of rhythms and technique, beaten into him since he could ever remember.

Kai crossed the stage in a brisk stride, his glasses reflecting the powerful light beams from above. He surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his creaseless suit pants, the cool air of the hall tickling his fingertips as he brought his hands up to straighten his gelled black hair. When he reached the piano, Kai faced the front of the hall and bowed, not to the audience, but to his mother, Anastasia, sitting in a wheelchair at the end of the walkway. Although Kai could barely make out his mother’s figure in the dimly-lit chamber, he knew her cold, Russian-bred brown eyes were judging his every action. He quickly adjusted the piano seat and sat down. The concert hall was silent to everyone but Kai, who could hear the constant ticking of a metronome in his mind. He slowly inhaled and exhaled, setting his hard, blistered hands on the smooth surface that he had learned to love and hate, and began to play. Each finger, dancing on the keyboard and shifting agile as arrows, could not have been more precise. Each person, captivated by the panoply of notes, listened to the perfection of music with unyielding attention as durable as steel.

“You poor excuse of a son!” Anastasia screamed, her knuckles white as she clenched her cane. Several faces turned toward Kai and Anastasia. The lobby of the concert hall suddenly turned motionless as if pausing for a picture. Emotionless, Kai looked down at his feet, studying the uninteresting laces of his dress shoes. “You bring me disgrace. You’ll never be as good as your father!” she roared. Then all he saw was white.

Kai fell onto the cold floor, his glasses skidding across the marble surface, but then he stood up and faced her, blinking tears, fighting his fears of his psychotic mother. Anastasia brought the cane down once more, a

metal bar that slashed through his equanimity, her long grey hair bouncing in frenzy. From his memories of piano, this occurrence was the most indelible, the most painful, and the reason Kai quit playing piano.

Three years later, Kai stood outside his house at the outskirts of Tokyo, Japan on a chilly February evening, flakes of snow melting as they gracefully landed on his royal blue polyester jacket. He stared bitterly at his decrepit home, his boots imprinting the slushy dirt of the countryside. Three white structures, each rugged from the harsh winters, loomed before Kai. His own house in the middle was in the worst shape, as several cracks lined the front walls as though the devil’s claws had raked through them. He thought of his upbringing, how he had grown up with an abusive mother, now with nothing, wondering what his life would be like in the future.

“Kai, it’s time to get going,” his neighbor Jun called and interrupted Kai’s deep reflection, her long brown hair covering her tender, pale face. She was the only person who had treated him normally since Kai’s last performance. For as long as Kai could remember, his mother had been sick. Ever since the doctors diagnosed her with major depression, his life had been a nightmare. He struggled to meet her expectations, always practicing piano from five-thirty in the morning to the depths of the evening, only stopping to eat a measly meal of rice balls. Eventually, he hardened, inured to his mother’s frequent beatings, but her screams, insults, and disgusted gaze always tormented his mind. She finally broke down when Kai only achieved second place at the Hamamatsu Piano Competition, and she had to be admitted to a mentalcare facility after beating him severely. The incident had spread all over the country as if it were the head of a news story: “Piano Prodigy Beaten by Insane Mother.”

At school, people pitied him from a distance. He was mostly an outcast, without a lasting friend owing to his despondent nature and disinterest to interact with others. Last week, Anastasia had passed away, and Kai blamed himself for her death and unhappy life; he was a total failure. After he refused to continue the piano, his mother had acted as if he didn’t exist, muttering insensible phrases occasionally. With only one relative to turn to, he had no other option but live with his father.

“You got all your luggage?” Jun asked. “I don’t want to have to drive all the way back here because of your absent-mindedness.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kai muttered, fixing his two large suitcases into the back of her black Subaru. The drive to the airport was mostly silent, but as they exited the car, Kai said, “Thanks for all you’ve done for me,

HE QUICKLY ADJUSTED THE PIANO SEAT AND SAT DOWN. THE CONCERT HALL WAS SILENT TO EVERYONE BUT KAI, WHO COULD HEAR THE CONSTANT TICKING OF A METRONOME IN HIS MIND.

‘HE SLOWLY INHALED

AND EXHALED, SETTING HIS HARD, BLISTERED HANDS ON THE SMOOTH SURFACE THAT HE LEARNED TO LOVE AND HATE, AND BEGAN TO PLAY. EACH FINGER, DANCING ON THE KEYBOARD AND SHIFTING AGILE AS ARROWS, COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MORE PRECISE.

taking care of me all these years. I’ll try and stay in touch with you, Jun.” She approached Kai, her sky-blue eyes brimming with tears.

“You take care of yourself. If your jerk dad ever treats you badly, just tell me, and I’ll come to America myself to bring you back!” She hugged him tightly and refused to let go. “You deserve better than this, Kai. I know you’re capable of accomplishing great things.”

“Jun. Hey Jun. People are watching,” Kai said, attempting to shake off her squeezing arms. As they exchanged their last goodbyes, Kai lugged his suitcases to the curb and proceeded to the sliding doors of the airport, the portal to a new world of opportunities and unexpectedness. He was prepared to meet his father, Miyuki Nagasaki, one the most renowned pianists in the world, currently at the final stages of his countrywide tour in the United States of America.

Kai stood backstage, looking along ON THE STAGE, PRECISELY POISED, the scarlet red curtain that separated WAS A PIANO, AN ELEVATED BLACK him from what sounded like millions of MICROPHONE FIXED AT THE FRONT muffled voices. On the stage, precisely STAGE, THE SLENDER FIGURE OF THE poised, was a piano, an elevated black ANNOUNCER STANDING OPPOSITE microphone fixed at the front stage, the AN AUDIENCE WHOSE FACES WERE slender figure of the announcer standing FILLED WITH ANTICIPATION, FOUR opposite an audience whose faces were EXTRAVAGANT SPEAKERS, A STACK OF filled with anticipation, four extravagant ORGANIZED PIANO MUSIC, A NEATLY speakers, a stack of organized piano FOLDED TOWEL FOR THE PERFORMER, music, a neatly folded towel for the AND AN IMAGE OF MIYUKI THAT KAI’S performer, and an image of Miyuki that MIND HAD CONJURED WHEN HE Kai’s mind had conjured when he stared STARED AT THE PIANO. at the piano. An instant later, Miyuki appeared next to him. Even in the dim lighting backstage, Kai could make out the handsome features of his father; his face was void of any facial hair, creating a youthful, yet professional look, and his eyes were as black as the gleaming surface of the piano on stage. Although standing at his height, Kai couldn’t help feeling reverence to his father, an emotion that had never emerged throughout his life. After what seemed like eternity, but was actually only mere seconds, Miyuki strode onstage with an angelic smile that infected even Kai with joy. Applause filled Carnegie Hall, and several people cheered and whistled, adding to the atmosphere of excitement. As Miyuki sat down on the cushioned piano seat, the audience settled, and the entire hall froze. He gracefully lifted his hands and set them on the keyboard, bringing a new pale color of skin to the black and white figure. Miyuki began to play. Each finger created an unworldly array of notes that intertwined with Kai’s emotions, bringing color and hope to Kai’s dull world.

Even after the crowd shuffled out of the hall, Kai stood in awe, his worn black sneakers glued to the wooden stage. (continued on next page)

THEM AR QUE

(continued from previous page) Although Miyuki had exited minutes ago, Kai’s eyes were transfixed to the piano, his father’s notes still reverberating through his ears. He approached the piano and touched the smooth surface of keys, applying more pressure until a chord of notes rang through the enormous room with a ceiling so high that Kai could barely see the top in the dim light. Unable to stop his yearning fingers, he quickly sat down and began to play the piece that his father played moments ago, Chopin’s Op. 25 No. 1 Etude, each arpeggio crisp and precise, even though he had not practiced for three years.

“Hey, you’re pretty good,” said a voice to his left. He turned and saw Miyuki climbing the stairs to the stage.

Kai continued to play, speechless. “Play with more emotion, Kai!” his father ordered. “You play what’s on the score. Don’t play like that. Play what’s in your heart.” Suddenly, Kai froze, his hands quickly returning to his sides. He didn’t know what to say. He was so overwhelmed that he began to shake, tears eventually flooding his eyes. Miyuki sat by Kai, comforting him by gently putting his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Here we are,” Miyuki said as he unlocked the door to his townhouse, darkness enveloping both of them as they entered through the narrow doorway. Kai’s life seemed like a blur. In a matter of hours, he had found a new home and met his father, a pianist who sparked emotion to his miserable world. As Miyuki turned on the lights, a magnificent piano appeared, centered on the marble floor. Near each of the piano’s sides was a staircase leading up to the second floor, encircling a hanging chandelier of coin-sized crystals. Before Kai had any time to set his luggage down, Miyuki said, “Before I show you to your room, I want you to play for me. I can see and hear the talent in your playing. I believe there’s something in you just waiting to be released. Let me guide you and help you unlock your inner passion.” Kai was stunned. There was a burning sensation in his mind, a sense of being praised. He quickly set his luggage in the corner of the room and sat in front of the piano, gathering his thoughts and entering a world of rhythm. For the first time before playing piano, however, he felt nervous. Sweat slid down his forehead, dripping onto his jeans. He closed his eyes and began to play the same piece by Chopin again.

“More emotion!” Miyuki urged. Kai began to search for something in his heart, but nothing appeared. “Create a story. Let your music speak your imagination.” Kai began to dream, his playing slowly dwindling toward the back of his mind. In his thoughts, he and his mother walked in the park, following the path of the trail, which curved around the bank of the lake, past towering trees with leaves flowing in the light breeze, past a multicolored

ROMANIA CONCERT HALL | WESLEY HIBBS ‘17

patch of fresh roses, past a honeybee nest with its numerous residents buzzing from nearby flowers like excited children, past the benches set on cracked stone, past an old bicycle, past an arched bridge that was a light and royal blue in the gleaming beams of sunlight that filled the area with a sense of holiness from the heavens; they strolled gracefully and felt loved, hand in hand. Kai opened his eyes and finished playing. Tears soon fell onto his polo shirt, leaving a dark trail of blue stains. He knew that he envisioned was not his imagination.

“Why did you leave Mom?” Kai asked Miyuki. Miyuki looked sorrowfully at his son, his eyes seeming to grow smaller.

“Kai, you should know that I don’t have very long to live,” his father murmured. Kai stared in disbelief. “I have stomach cancer.” Kai had just met this great man who was supposedly his father, and now he learned that he had barely any time to live? Kai began to stand up, ready to grab his luggage and storm upstairs, but Miyuki quickly exclaimed, “Please. Let me explain.” Ten years ago, Miyuki had been diagnosed with stomach cancer at their home in Tokyo, Japan, when Kai was only two years old. At the same time, he was offered the chance to play several concerts across the world. Unable to bear the medical and travel expenses his family would have to pay, Miyuki decided to leave, thinking that Kai and Anastasia would have better lives without him.

“In the final moments of my life, I want to see you succeed. I failed you as a father, but I nevertheless want to do something that will help you in the future.” Still in disbelief, Kai could only think about his life, how it had turned out to be such a tragedy. Defeated, he began to trudge toward the base of the staircase, but his father stopped him.

“Start practicing. I want you to compete at the New York Piano Festival this winter, and I’m not taking no for an answer,” Miyuki sternly said.

After accepting Miyuki’s proposal, Kai soon became accustomed to his new life. He finally accepted his father’s unbelievable and tragic fate when he noticed Miyuki’s meager eating habits, only eating certain foods in extremely small amounts. Days passed, and Kai never missed his goal of practicing at least five hours each day, his father instructing him as he played. After a month, Kai noticed Miyuki going out more frequently. When he confronted his father, he realized that Miyuki was going to the hospital for treatment. As the competition neared, however, Miyuki’s condition worsened, and he even suggested getting admitted to the hospital. Watching his father grow weaker as days passed, Kai engendered a will that surpassed even Anastasia’s rigorous expectations. His father, through love and guidance, influenced him more than any beating or insult, allowing him to reach his true potential and play music through his heart.

“That was great!” Miyuki exclaimed as he inspected Kai’s playing. A week before the competition, Kai seemed to have mastered the piece that he had decided to play, Liszt’s Chasse-Neige. Kai believed that this piece truly unlocked his inner passion for piano, but also indubitably expressed his lifelong emotion of melancholy. As the competition neared, however, Miyuki collapsed and was admitted to the hospital.

Kai sat next to his father’s resting body, the electrocardiogram’s beeping reminding him of a metronome. He clenched his father’s callused hand with his own sturdy hands and looked into Miyuki’s eyes for any sign of awakening. When Miyuki’s eyes finally fluttered open, he looked at Kai and asked, “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty in the morning,” Kai replied. The time slot for his performance, eleven o’clock, was nearing, but Kai could not decide whether to stay with Miyuki or go to the performance.

“Go, Kai. Please go,” Miyuki whispered and closed his eyes. Kai looked wistfully at his father and reluctantly released his clenched hand.

“Contestant number twenty-two, please step on stage and begin playing when ready,” the judge called out in a British accent. Kai stepped forward, his eyes darting toward the crowd. Hundreds of people sat in each row, ready to hear each player’s magnificence. When he reached the piano showcased by the beams of light from above, he patted the surface as if interacting with an old friend. He knew that this moment was the opportunity to tell his life story, to release his passions, and to make his father proud.

Kai played the first phrase, transmitting waves of sorrow, each note causing the audience to lean further forward in their seats. His emotions guided his fingers across the keys, leading Kai to a trance. He heard the voice of Miyuki created by a yearning that had its own soul and power, its own psyche and will of Kratos. He quickened his tempo as the piece neared its climax. The beeping of the electrocardiogram began to spur. He pressed his fingers firmly against the keys, emitting one long, droning note, and the monitor discharged one final tone.

THEM AR QUE

T H E W I N D OW | S H A I L E N PA R M A R ‘ 1 7

H U D S O N L I K E D D R I V I N G B E CAU S E EV E N T H O U G H H E WAS M OV I N G Q U I C K LY, I F H E LO O K E D O U T I N TO T H E R OA D FA R E N O U G H , EV E RYT H I N G WAS ST I L L . H E L I K E D T H E S KY O N DAYS L I K E T H I S W H E N T H E CLO U D S W E R E S O D E N S E A N D S O W H I T E T H AT YO U C O U L D N ’ T T E L L W H I C H D I R E CT IO N T H EY W E R E M OV I N G , I F T H EY W E R E M OV I N G AT A LL .

H E H O P E D T H AT T H EY W E R E N OT M OV I N G.

O

n this Sunday afternoon, his mother was ill at home with a high fever. He didn’t want to go to church – all of the talk about the “Father” just made the guilt feel worse. He would have rather stayed to care for his mother, but she said that he had better go to church because there wasn’t much sense in two people missing church when only one person couldn’t go. Hudson didn’t think that was very logical, but he didn’t want to upset his mother.

He stopped his pale red Chevy with a quick push on the brakes.

He hoped that his mother was asleep, so she wouldn’t see that he had worn the khaki pants with the ripped knees.

Walking up to the doorstep, his knuckles were bone-white. He opened the front door as quietly as he could, but it creaked – it always creaked. She wasn’t asleep anyway.

“Hudson, why’d you wear those darn pants again? You gotta have

some decency in church. What’ll the Andersons say? I heard from Katherine that–” “I’m sorry, Ma,” Hudson interrupted. Two days ago, his mother had suggested that Hudson wear his father’s pants, but that didn’t seem right to him. Yesterday, he opened his father’s closet. The familiar smell swept over him just like the black blizzards that used to sweep over the house and make the windows rattle when he was just a kid. He closed his eyes, and it was like his father was right there in front of his face. His throat knotted up. His cheeks squeezed so hard up against his eyes that the tears collected in sad little pools before they flowed all at once. He knew his mother would cry if he told her that. With his heels hanging off each step, Hudson worked his way up the stairs, each plank of wood creaking more loudly and unpleasantly than the last.

On the south wall of his room there was a large window that he could unlock and slide up. When his mother couldn’t see him from the front yard, he sat on the sill, dangling his feet and looking out at the oak tree and the sky above. It was too cold for that today. He stared out of that window after school when he needed some time to think; there were a lot of days like that. The height cleared his mind. Over the months, he had watched the leaves turn from green to red and from red to brown. One day he woke up and almost all of the leaves rested on the yellowing grass. Now there were no leaves anywhere. The naked branches on the old oak in the front yard reminded him of arms and hands and fingers reaching up to the sky in strange contortions. In the winter, the limbs did not shake with the wind; there were no leaves to catch the gusts. The branches were still. He wished they would always be still.

HE LOOKED DOWN AT THE IRONING BOARD AND Hudson thought he should check in SAW HIS FATHER’S OLD PLAID SHIRT, THE ONE on his mother. He opened his room door WITH THE LEFT BUTTON MISSING ON THE COLLAR and – trying to make less noise than beAND THE COFFEE STAIN ON THE POCKET. ANGRY fore – descended the staircase. With her GUILT RUSHED THROUGH HIS BODY. HE COULD clothes iron in hand, his mother stood HEAR HIS HEART POUND LIKE THE GALLOPING on the long, faded rug that ran down the THUMPS OF THE FOUR HORSEMEN’S STALLIONS. channel between the back of the couch and the wall.

“I’m feelin’ a lil’ better, Hudson. I just felt like I needed to get some work done,” she said quickly, not looking up from her ironing.

“Amazing what some sleep can do for a person.”

He looked down at the ironing board and saw his father’s old plaid shirt, the one with the left button missing on the collar and the coffee stain on the pocket. Angry guilt rushed through his body. He could hear his heart pound like the galloping thumps of the Four Horsemen’s stallions.

“Ma, I’m not wearing the shirt! I’m not wearing any of his stuff – don’t you get it – I’m not!”

His mother’s faced transitioned from shock to anger to sadness, a pure sadness that he now also felt deep in his own gut. (continued on following page)

[ SEE next page ]

WALKING U DOORSTEP, HI WERE BONE-WH THE FRONT DOO AS HE COULD, B – IT ALWAYS C WASN’T ASLE THEM AR QUE

(continued from preceding page)

H

e could never tell her why he wouldn’t wear those clothes, why he always looked out of the window, why his father was dead. He stared unblinking at his mother’s physiognomy, scrutinizing every detail. Hudson could barely recognize his own miserable face that he saw reflected in his mother’s glossy eyes. Suddenly, it was he who felt very sickly.

He tore his eyes away from his mother’s.

Hudson stumbled back up the wooden stairs, his head swimming. He held onto the slick metal railing with sweaty palms. His brain seemed unsecured in his own skull, violently crashing into the inner walls of his cranium with each step. Hudson finally made it to his room. He slammed the door behind him so powerfully that dust fell from the ceiling.

He collapsed onto the carpet. His dark eyes were lifeless, his mouth slightly open. Hudson didn’t know HE COLLAPSED ONTO THE CARPET. HIS DARK how long he stared at the ceiling, but by the EYES WERE LIFELESS, HIS MOUTH SLIGHTLY time he could think halfway straight again, OPEN. HUDSON DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG HE the sky was black – so very, very black. There STARED AT THE CEILING, BUT BY THE TIME HE was a knock at the door. The sound of bone COULD THINK HALFWAY STRAIGHT AGAIN, THE hitting wood seemed to come from every SKY WAS BLACK – SO VERY, VERY BLACK. direction. A tall, well-dressed man let himself in before Hudson could decide if the sound was real or imagined.

He had a calming presence. With long, calculated strides, the man made his way to the south wall of the room. He unlocked and slid up the window with one hand and gestured Hudson over with the other. Hudson sat down on the sill and looked back at the man, whom he did not yet recognize. The man had a slight smile tugging at his lips and dark, deep-set eyes like his own.

He spoke with a slow, soft tone that flowed like molasses. “You saved me…” Hudson felt a hand rest on his back just under his neck. “Now I’ll save you.” The man was whispering so close to his ear that he could feel the warmth from his mouth and smell the coffee on his breath. Hudson’ realization was powerful and sudden.

His father pushed his back with a firm palm. As Hudson bowed his head forward, he thought back on the twisted branches reaching up for the colorless sky and again hoped that they would always be as still as they were at that time.

AS H U D S O N B OW E D H I S H EA D F O RWA R D H E T H O U G H T BAC K O N T H E TW I ST E D B R A N C H ES R EAC H I N G U P F OR T H E C O LO R L ES S S KY A N D AGA I N H O P E D T H AT T H EY WO U L D A LWAYS B E AS ST I L L AS T H EY W E R E AT T H AT T I M E .

WALKING UP TO THE DOORSTEP, HIS KNUCKLES WERE BONE-WHITE. HE OPENED THE FRONT DOOR AS QUIETLY AS HE COULD, BUT IT CREAKED – IT ALWAYS CREAKED. SHE WASN’T ASLEEP ANYWAY. [ SEE previous page ]

THEM AR QUE

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C E R AM IC S

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Dhruv Prasad ‘17 Rings Jeremy Kerber ‘17 Pinched Bowls Jeremy Kerber ‘17 Leaves Cameron Bossalini ‘17 Balloons Thomas Zhang ‘17 Totem Dhruv Prasad ‘17 Paint Splatter Toussaint Pegues ‘18 Spirals Dhruv Prasad ‘17 Waterfall Dhruv Prasad ‘17 Homage

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DHR UV PR ASAD ‘17

THROWING IT DOWN

CE SENIOR DHRUV PRASAD JOINED THE CERAMICS PROGRAM

BY MISTAKE. THROUGH AN ACCIDENT IN REGISTRATION

AND STRANGE FATE, HE FOUND HIIMSELF A NATURAL AT POTTERY AND CONTINUES TO FUEL HIS NEW-FOUND PASSION.

CERAMICS. Requiring the utmost level of skill and craftsmanship, ceramics prizes care and focuses on fluidity. But just like woodworking, “A FIELD OF CLAY TOUCHED BY THE GENIUS OF MAN BECOMES A CASTLE.” –OG MANDINO.

ceramics stems from necessity. And while to some extent it still serves this purpose, it too has elevated the mundane into an art form—into an expression. Ceramics has and continues to be about melding the essential and the creative. From a block of clay spinning hynotically on its wheel to the moment the piece is placed in the oven to harden, ceramics is about pushing the limits not only of the physical piece but also of one's creativity and determination. But to some extent pottery is happenstance. Though the ceramicist's creativity guides the process, the kiln, the glaze, and often the object itself are controlled by chance. Each curve, hole, drop of glaze, and indention, whether intentional or not, showcases the perfect imperfection of both piece and process—a process conjoining illusion and reality.

THEM ARQUE

QA &

W I T H C E R A M I C I ST D H R UV PR ASA D ‘17

Describe the first time you discovered ceramics?

I started ceramics by mistake. Even after watching numerous senior exes on ceramics, I never thought that I would actually do it. However, in the confusion of selecting freshmen year classes, I chose ceramics. I have had a knack for creating since my childhood—from legos to play-doh—and that’s why I chose ceramics. Even after hours of practice outside of class, I was average. But thankfully I stuck with it, and after hundreds of hours of practice, I began making unique pottery.

How would you describe your style?

My style is a medley of religion, sports, and personal experiences.

Are there any ceramicists that you look up to and emulate in your own style, or do you make it up?

I believe that a major part of art is doing research. You have constantly look at different art, artists, and techniques to grow.

I'm not saying that you need to copy what other people do, but you should take it in and adapt parts of what you like into your own work. I've looked at a multitude of artists and incorporated my own style into different techniques that I enjoy.

What is the thought process when coming up with an idea for a piece?

There is no step-by-step thought process. Most of my ideas come randomly; however, a lot of pieces are based on personal experiences.

What do you do when a piece doesn't come together like you thought it would?

I used to get pretty mad because of the time and effort put into each piece, but now, while it's still frustrating, I know that it's a learning experience, so I take note of what worked and what didn't work, and then I get right back to work.

"I'M NOT SAYING THAT YOU NEED TO COPY WHAT OTHER PEOPLE TO DO, BUT YOU SHOULD TAKE IT IN AND ADAPT PARTS OF WHAT YOU LIKE INTO YOUR OWN WORK."

How would you say your art has improved over time?

At first, my main roadblock was throwing on the wheel; however, over time, I have learned how to consistently throw pieces. With the start of my Instagram account, I learned how to market work to fit other people’s tastes. I did this to under-

stand where the pottery market is, and through the account, I have also created a business, Prasad Pottery.

So you said you have an Instagram account where you post your works for others to see. Do you often get critiqued and how do you deal with it?

My original intention with the account was to present my artwork to people outside of the DFW Metroplex. I wasn’t sure if people would look at my work or even like it, but I knew there was nothing wrong in trying. Through this account more and more people started following me and professional artists began critiquing my work. I have contacted and been contacted by many artists, and the best part about it is that there are no rules; you can ask them anything and they want to help you out. Now I have grown my audience to a size that enables me to form bonds with many international artists and market my work on a grand scale: some of my pieces are in California, Nevada, New York, and India.

Do you plan on continuing ceramics in college?

I will definitely continue ceramics in college because it has played an incredible role in my life over the last four years. Depending on where I go, if they have a studio program, then I will utilize it; if not, then I will bring my wheel. I hope to find a healthy way to incorporate ceramics into my college schedule.

Do you have any advice for students currently enrolled in the class as well as those looking at ceramics as an option?

Do it. I highly recommend it even if you don't think you would be good at it. If you try it and don't like it—that's okay, find something else that you are passionate about it and keep at it.

- Dhruv Prasad '17 as told to CJ Crawford ‘19

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CE RAMI C S S H OWCAS E | DHRU V P RASAD ' 17

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There is no step-by-step thought process.

Most of my ideas come randomly; however, a lot of pieces are based on personal experiences.

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er, . Howev staircase ay would e th d e h nly w I reac en ps. The o . Finally, mission crawl up the ste nts walk and ev it. I e r ’t id a n d p ld y y u I co en m w the case, lk. I’d se bout ho 0 be to wa never thought a e foot of the stair ated, 2 ‘ Y D I tr s th t D e u r E r y a , F e R ce. dn run NEAL as d to stan on my fa attempte d up falling flat ands. Walking w give e h d to y n e d m I te in an but my head d I just w n.

I sat with a difficult job, an rt of my play pe f fo o ly t m n in o o c ta fr e r re th ce to the fo as etreat to up and r ustang returned continue. As I w an , M to e e d m e th f t o id nt Bu dec dled ere in fro d, and I my min the steps that w h stair was strad I c t a staring a ed upon me. E ice my height. If ull n p idea daw n poles, about tw e poles, I could . o rk th ir o n o w o tw to ip t y r b ood g , I wen steps, g o a S t . e g g n ta first could Mus ade my a, who ed p to the grandm ith myself u nto the bars, I m p by step, I walk l I y m r fo t W o . ti te p g e e S n c . n u in x , lo m s ld E g th as a Ho the railin ing a rhy gle, room, ouch, I w soon gain irs, holding on to dle of my strug en nearby c rifted across the As I a n o ff id e . o d ta b ll s m d s a r e e e e e w z y v th e th o e d y ne up ngs on th y goal. In caught to do, m d. I had are nothing the ornate painti ething peculiar the eached m wn and tremble as starting to sc ore r o t f m w a d o o m s it g d p s , e a e d in te k c z s n w o a a a e d g sp e, m I lo n the thir sents ing into up befor my awaited was star cross the hall, o e, rested the pre e of this high e Mustang that When I reached s box, c s A a ti . . th it d t e u in u t B n c . e ti my eye gigantic stairc fore. I took no re ta m on ly tu be ade a ng was in nt, so I c seeming given the day and new, minia e importa n, the toy Musta e the moon. I m reach, n th r e b r k e o li ning fo est I had b ular present: a destinati g and shining nally was within r. I c ing. Year eb ve mmerin ard it and it fi one parti there for the tak ventually got th e li g like fore , e Th tow seemed box and made p t a te s h l w a Mustang my temptation out for myself. I still r n fi fo e , it t ing at it kly grabbed th I had done it.

Mustang I went to check d above me, bu the after gap s. quic ir ta s e n r o in e w s mini , o s of me way d pen tow ough the hole y y nturer, a red la m e v p d e a th r e f v tu th o a I n r , g s e b LE ll n v G a a sta w UG o had I was to O F M Y ST R e the Mu Jones wh d territory and a n could se all wasn’t going I was IN THE MIDDLE ND TREMBLED. I HAD ia d w d , AND In ep into uncharte My moment of WN A mesh. A was a ninja, an get.

LOOKED DO THIS HIGH UP BEFORE T e. de I r . a low e ta U N t treasur y m B E stop NEVER BE TING TO SCARE ME. AS found los terrupted when rea of ce on m any n u o p a to R in W r e s y E o TA a S d t th M a S n w D e A e E r fame y d from rove to IT W USTANG THAT AWAIT TINUED. of judgm g erupte ack and drop m n li M b N My lack soning would p ake E O m H C T I u r b O g S p n T, a N ta m h s e s TA r ju R y Mu e to logical ial. I started to ger MORE IMPO using m ed up m c ti arage, ca ossession. I pick ading to the g e be benefi n, like a vicious of th s r, and pe oor le new p rned the play a cage. The law in my endeavo e, and coveted led over to the d . With newly ea e in id d d k m s d c d e u s a o lp o p it r c e p w on tra to h nd p and a pea toppled my decided roud as ise, I stood tall a immering p , e g a r physics gh, the playpen pet. Thankfully, idn’t a h o g r d ou ing the s ce and p sely. soon en onto the soft ca p. Yet, that still feet confiden f the door, clutch hy, listening clo or e d y le o le p n s o b a o a still re m I tum in front like a golden tr iar voices. The d rents. ther was The presents we t they rested o a il g m p m n d y a n ta F a m s . a s. gr Mu it walked rd voice problem ’t help th fact en, I hea ly, and through trutted toward nly solve my it certainly didn ircase. But the gs Th in ta d ,Is an o slow away, an on the gigantic s alk yet made th arked opened ischievous smile ssession. One c w b p o m to p te m e s how ss, I on a With a nting my new faces. e n’t know everthele u ir that I did e problematic. N d writhing on th gh them, fla e shock on the r n ou agine th even mo rney. Pushing a r, I ventured thr im u er on my jo a fish out of wate my grandmoth , e w is k e li n th r k e floo st. I g lik na eted fore behavin the carp upset at me for e; I was a man o r e a b c ’t ld n u did wo tinued. I yet I con

ter f a y a d e and It wasrstthbirthday,th t my fi e first time ea for thI wasn’t undorf day, atchful eye the wne. anyo

THEM AR QU E

TRINITY BRIDGE | FRANK THOMAS ‘17

worker brothers FRA NK T H O M AS ‘1 7

JASON WALKS OUT ONTO THE HEXAGONAL RUNWAY, EYEING THE BLACK AND YELLOW STRIPED FIGHTER JETS THAT ENCASE HIS BODY AND TRANSFORM HIM INTO AN ORGANIC MIND WITH A MECHANICAL BODY.

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ason’s long black hair, coupled with his deep, dark, desolate black eyes, gives him an ominous look, one that pronounces the ever-present shadow under his brow. Two long, uncut strands of hair dangle delicately over each eye, a religious tradition that passes commonly through his entire community. Jason is short and stocky, a big frame that supports an unnaturally small and elongated head. His wingman, best friend, and brother, Smith, casually and coolly walks behind Jason and stares at the jets in a silent unison. Separated by three months in age, Smith and Jason have always been together, but they have always been opposites. When Jason is short-fused and irrational, Smith is patient and logical. Combined through the unison of opposition, Jason and Smith wordlessly clamber into their cockpits, secure their shells, and smile in singular acknowledgment of their simple mission. Infiltrate the epicenter. Drop the goods.

Load the packages. Their community completes thousands of these mindless missions every day, from sunrise to sunset, unwavering. Smith has been training to be a flier since his birth. (continued on next page)

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(continued from previous page)

His perfect height-to-weight ratio, his whizzing mind, and his precise attention to detail have highlighted him as the best all the way through school and training.

Today is the day that the two brothers fly in unison, together and collective. They fire up their engines at the same time, the machines coughing and sputtering to life with inconsequential exactness. As the butterflies in Jason’s stomach start to flutter, his body and his mind lift from the familiar terrain of wax and slip into the unknown, following tentatively behind his confident older brother. During his time in the air, Jason thinks back to his first memory, being torn apart from his mother’s arms by one of her servants. The queen. Jason’s mom’s royalty left her little time to care for him. Bereft of a consistent mother, one whose cradle is meaningful and whose love is palpable as opposed to the sterile, emotion-deprived caregiver that raised him through his youth, Jason feels disconnected, insignificant. Flying away. Finally escaping the memories and chains of motherly deprivation, Jason starts out on his own path, BEREFT OF A CONSISTENT ready to create his own man, MOTHER, ONE WHOSE CRADLE mindlessly completing his first IS MEANINGFUL AND WHOSE mission tied to his brother in LOVE IS PALPABLE OPPOSED wingmanship.

TO THE STERILE, EMOTIONWhy? Jason lies in his bed DEPRIVED CAREGIVER THAT the same night, pondering the RAISED HIM THROUGH significance of his mother’s HIS YOUTH, JASON FELT royalty, the importance of his DISCONNECTED, INSIGNIFICANT. role in the multitude of qualified fliers, and the inconsequentiality of his own life. Does he have purpose?

In the communal dining hall for all fliers, Jason scans the indistinct multitudes for his brother. Over a cup of steaming, black coffee and brittle jelly toast, Jason exposes his previous night’s thoughts to Smith. “Are you crazy? This is your life. This is my life. That’s why we are born, to serve the community and to stay alive,” Smith bewilderingly responds.

“But what about life, what about my own thoughts, my own feelings? Is my individuality insignificant in the perspective of our community?” Jason takes a long tentative sip from his cup.

“What thoughts? You and I have the same thoughts, and the same thoughts as all of the fliers here in this room. We have been designed by birth to be the best fliers for this city. You know that we all receive our

assignments and our instructions from the Queen, from reverberates into the skulls and neurons of every flier. our own mother. What do you even mean by your own The shift has begun. Work starts now. thoughts?” Smith stares piercingly into the wandering, Even on his second day as a full-time flier, Jason is scattered eyes of Jason, confused. stationed with Smith to go into a red zone. Here, the “You’re telling me that you never just sit and dream packages and the return shipments are more valuable, about flying away, being yourself? You but the risks are higher. Longer “THIS IS NO LONGER A JOKE, NO LONGER A never hope for a life where you can distances and possible encounters GAME. LIVES ARE CONSTANTLY LOST OUT dictate your own being? Almost every with other species characterize every THERE IN THE RED ZONES, AND EVEN GOOD night I sit in a pool of my thoughts mission into the red zones. Smith grabs FLIERS GET DISTRACTED. JUST BE CAREFUL and swim laps in the ideas of freedom, Jason’s arm just before he slides into his individuality, and independence.” He jet. “I really don’t know what you were AND STAY CLOSE BY MY SIDE.” feels like he has stepped over a line, talking about back there, but don’t let revealed something about himself that wasn’t normal, it distract you from our duties. This is no longer a joke, wasn’t right. no longer a game. Lives are constantly lost out there in “Jason, I don’t know what you are talking about. the red zones, and even good fliers get distracted. Just be When I am tired, I sleep. When I am awake, I—” careful and stay close by my side.”

The familiar alarm pounds through the room and Jason instinctively agrees. In perfect harmony, the

BUT WHAT ABOUT LIFE, WHAT ABOUT MY OWN THOUGHTS, MY OWN FEELINGS? IS MY INDIVIDUALITY INSIGNIFICANT IN THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE COMMUNITY?

brothers check their shells, emblazon their engines, and separate themselves from the known. The trip into the red zone lasts a week. Seven full days of flying in a straight path towards their elusive goal. Seven full days of Jason prodding Smith to think for himself.

“Smith, look out over the world below you. Isn’t it beautiful, budding with life, filled with the unity of incoordination? What if we never go back home? I might just stay out here, live.”

“Jason, what has come over you and your silly brain?

None of this is ours; our home and our mission are the only things that belong to us. Those are the only two things that run through my mind.” Smith demands that they keep going unperturbed. They are nearing their destination.

There is no line marking the existence of the red zones. But Jason feels the change seep into the pores of

his skin. The air is lighter, fuller of life, vibrancy, and by despair, drained from adrenaline, and empty with guilt, Jason lands in a field, lost, confused, and bereft. color. The landscape is full of beautifully manicured What has he done? Jason’s naïveté and storefronts, each building painted a his inability to separate himself from the saturated blue or red, yellow or pink. Jason HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. SMITH can mark the palpable attraction of each SCREAMED FOR HIS BROTHER TO TAKE center point of focus have resulted in the one, but his assigned target stands out to OFF, FOR HIM TO ESCAPE THE CLOUD... death of his brother. This is what Smith has warned him about; he told him exactly him, calls his name in the thick air and SMITH NEVER MADE IT BACK HOME. what not to do, and he did it anyway. lures him in. He is so drawn to the mission His constant search for freedom and individuality that the screams of his brother and his own training fades out of his head, drained out like clogged water in has landed him in a field, separated from his brother and family, free to die. What was once beauty that the ears after a swim. He lands, wheels naturally falling surrounded him has turned into a gray, flat wasteland into the grooves, his senses overwhelmed with euphoria. in his soulless eyes. Jason thinks to himself, “What is As he opens his eyes after minutes of bliss, Jason sees beauty without someone to share it with? Surrounded it: the massive monotone tower with a sandy grassland rooted to the top and large orbs with white and black by lush forests and beautiful colors, I feel more dead and ugly than when my tiny body was unlovingly ripped separated by a deep, icy blue. Before he can take off, he from my mother’s clutches.” As the beauty in Jason’s notices a thick grey cloud beginning to envelop him and eyes drains, his hope and will to live follow behind the beauty that he is perched on. He calls for Smith. He doesn’t know what to do. Smith screams for his brother like a runaway train headed for a cliff. As the sun dips to take off, for him to escape the cloud. As his wheels below the horizon, Jason’s life slowly leaves his body, lose contact with the porous surface of the lot, Smith empty of beauty, hope, and love. His tiny body curls up in the leaves on the ground; Jason lies dead. His opens fire on the tower, eventually crashing futilely into wings are folded neatly on his back, his yellow and black the side of its flexible covering, leaving only the tail of his plane sticking remorsefully out of the surface. Smith striped hair is matted down in despair, and his life as a bumblebee is concluded. never makes it back home.

With tears welling up in the pockets that encase his dark eyes, Jason throttles out of the red zone. Fatigued

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HERE WAS PEACE. HORIZON LIKE A GREAT IT FROM AROUND THE AND DRAPED IT OVER SHE CALLED IN HER SOUL

SHE PULLED IN HER FISH-NET. PULLED WAIST OF THE WORLD HER SHOULDER...

TO COME AND SEE. Z O R A N E A L E H U R S T O N , T H E I R E Y E S W E R E WAT C H I N G G O D

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VOL. 55

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THE 2 0 1 7 ED I TI ON

F IRST ROW ( L EFT TO R IG HT ) KILLIA N G R EE N ' 17 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, R O H I T V E M UR I ' 2 0 STAFF, A N D R EW CH U KA ' 17 MANAGING EDITOR, ANDY CROWE ' 19 STAFF, KAM AL M AM DANI ' 19 MAGAZINE SECTION EDITOR, KANNAN SHAR MA ' 18 DIRECTOR OF ARTISTRY, JO O N PA R K ' 1 7 CREATIVE DIRECTOR, JACKSO N SINGH AL ' 2 0 STAFF SECOND R OW ( L EFT TO R IG HT ) GAYMAR IE VAU G HA N FACULTY SPONSOR, CA M E R O N B O S SA L I N I ' 1 7 MEDIA DIRECTOR, KEVIN FENG ' 18 ASSISTANT MEDIA DIRECTOR, ANDREW LI ' 18 STAFF, M ICHAEL LIANG ' 1 8 STAFF, JESSE ZHONG ' 18 COPY EDITOR, SA M A H M E D ' 2 0 SUBMISSIONS EDITOR, JAC K T RAH AN ' 2 0 STAFF, TO BY NWAFO R ' 2 0 SUBMISSIONS EDITOR, NEAL REDDY ' 2 0 STAFF, JOSH BANDOPADHAY ' 1 7 EDITOR-IN-CHIEF NOT P ICTU R ED LYNNE WE B ER S C HWA RTZ FACULTY SPONSOR, W ES L EY H I B B S ' 1 7 HEAD PHOTOGRAPHER, CJ CRAWFO RD ' 19 MAGAZINE SECTION EDITOR, NAT H AN H AN ' 19 ASSISTANT MANAGING EDITOR, R OHIN MAGA NT I ' 17 COPY EDITOR, M ATTH EW C O L E M A N ' 1 9 DESIGN EDITOR, SAH IT DENDEKU RI ' 19 ASSISTANT MAGAZINE SECTION EDITOR, DANIEL BYEO N ' 18 DIRECTOR OF ARTISTRY, KYLE SMITH ' 19 PHOTOGRAPHER, R E I D JO H A N N S E N ' 1 7 STAFF, AUSTI N M O N TG OM ERY ' 18 STAFF, ALLAN ZH ANG ' 18 STAFF, BILLY STALDER ' 19 STAFF, KRISTO F CSAKY ' 1 9 STAFF, ROHIL RAI ' 1 7 STAFF, RO S HA N V EM U ' 19 STAFF, S H A I L E N PA R M A R ' 1 7 FINE ARTS BOARD, ZO H EB KH AN ' 18 STAFF, JO NAH SIM O N ' 19 STAFF, CH ARLIE RU BART H ' 2 0 STAFF, PARK ER DAVIS ' 1 9 STAFF

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CLO S I N G

from the

EVEN AS I SIT TYPING, I CAN HARDLY BELIEVE IT.

It seems like only last week we had our first Design Night. These past two years have flown by. But now I’m here. We’re here. It’s here.

This final product, our creation, wouldn’t have been possible without the immense support I’ve received along the journey of creating this Marque. Mrs. Weber Schwartz, thank you for always keeping us on track and helping us throughout our two years. Mrs. Vaughan, thank you for always being a friendly face and an open door. Josh, I literally couldn’t have done it without you. When we started out last year as juniors, I had no idea that we would come this far not only in The Marque but in our friendship. Here’s to the late nights and long hours together. I know you’ll go far, Josh. Parents, thank you for always keeping me on track, giving feedback, and simply being there for me. To the future Editors, never be afraid to push your limits and do the undone.

Marque-men, all I can do while flipping through these pages is smile. It’s such a proud moment to see all of our hard work and diligence, pushing the limits of what this magazine is, come to fruition. So much of your time, energy, creativity, and effort poured onto each of these pages, and I hope you can see that. You have made this a magazine of the utmost quality and passion, and I know that the stature of the publication will only grow and increase in the years to come.

And finally, to the reader, whomever you may be. A St. Mark’s student, a faculty member, an alumnus, a grandparent, a person of the world who by chance picked up this magazine. For us, The Marque is more than just a publication. We produce it for more than hopes of an award. We do it because we have a passion. Not just a passion for Literature and Arts, but for the brotherhood and community that The Marque represents. It’s a brotherhood that’s 55 years in the making, one which we not only perpetuate but share.

I invite you, as you look through our magazine, to think. To think about what made this possible. About those who came before. About those whose legacy we continue. To the next 55 years.

– KILLIAN GREEN, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, THE MARQUE MAGAZINE

editors

THE JOURNEY HAS COME TO AN END. It’s been a whirlwind two years that have made my time at St. Mark’s so fulfilling. Four years ago, when

my journey with The Marque began, I had no idea what to expect. But now I know what this experience has meant to me. For introducing me to something as beautiful as The Marque, I have none other to thank than my own brother, Rishi. You got the ball rolling for this publication, and I’m proud to be able to continue the Bandopadhay legacy. You’ve been an outstanding mentor, both for The Marque and otherwise. Ray, thanks for all the advice you’ve provided, and for opening the Publications Suite on countless occasions. Mrs. Schwartz and Mrs. Vaughan, thank you for being such supportive sponsors. You have given Killian and me wonderful insight that has helped us make the best possible Marque. Killian, you’re the man. Your design expertise is incredible, and I’m sure it’ll serve you well in the future, regardless of what you choose to do.

To the reader, thank you for sticking with us and appreciating what we produce. 55 years is quite the accomplishment for The Marque, and we are grateful to the St. Mark’s community for being such an amazing audience for so long. We hope you enjoy this tribute to the 55th year. To the rest of the Marque staff, enjoy the time you have working on this publication. I hope you find in it what I found: freedom and fun. Stay frosty.

– JOSH BANDOPADHAY, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, THE MARQUE MAGAZINE

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OLOPHON.

The Marque was printed by the Digital 3 Printing. The cover is foil stamped in gold and patterned gloss black foil using brass dies on Midnight Black Strathmore Premium Wove 110 lb cover. The text was printed on 100 lb Flo Dull Text on an Ricoh 710 Digital Press printing 4 color process and was bound using PUR Glue perfect binding.

The Staff used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CC 2017 on 27-inch Retina 5K Display iMacs to design the spreads.

Typefaces included Lingerie (multiple styles) for headings and assorted letters, Tungsten (multiple weights) for credits and lead-ins, Lust Script for pagination and assorted elements, Klavika for interview questions and attributions, and Minion Pro for body text.

The press run for The Marque was 450 copies, serving 374 enrolled Upper School students and 200 faculty and staff members.

PHILOSOPHY. The Marque, established in 1962, is printed and distributed at the end of the academic year as a culminating

production meant to serve as a collection of the literary and artistic works produced by Upper School students and faculty to summarize the year's artistic expression.

POLICY.

The Marque functions as an after-school extracurricular activity independent from the St. Mark's Journalism program.

Written and visual content of all types and forms is welcomed and considered blindly and equally for publication. Literary works are submitted for consideration throughout the school year and are selected for publication by a panel of staff members. Artistic pieces are solicited from and provided by students and faculty members within each respective discipline. The Marque is submitted annually for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA).

ST. MARK'S SCHOOL OF TEXAS 10600 PRESTON ROAD DALLAS, TX 75230 (214) 346-8000 www.marquemagazine.net www.smtexas.org smmarque@smtexas.org

CARE OF Lynne Weber Schwartz GayMarie Vaughan

SPECIAL THANKS Mrs. Lynne Weber Schwartz Mrs. GayMarie Vaughan Mr. David Dini Mr. Paul DiVincenzo Mr. Boyd Atherton Mr. Ray Westbrook Ms. JT Sutcliffe Mr. Michael Morris Ms. Sherri Sullivan

St. Mark's Security Mr. Jason Lange Mr. Timothy Mank '87 Hyer Thomas '17 Joon Park '17 Gopal Raman '17 Dhruv Prasad '17 August Graue '17 Ms. Debbie O'Toole

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NATURE’S FIRST GREEN IS GOLD, HER HARDEST HUE TO HOLD. HER EARLY LEAFS A FLOWER; BUT ONLY SO AN HOUR. THEN LEAF SUBSIDES TO LEAF. SO EDEN SANK TO GRIEF, SO DAWN GOES DOWN TO DAY. NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY.

ROBERT FROST

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