The Marque | Vol. 51 | 2013

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a r q u e

M a g a z i n e

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A r t s

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Volume 51

L e t t e r s 2013

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Bo ok

St. Mark’s School of Texas 10600 Preston Road Dallas, Texas 75230 www.smtexas.org (214) 346-8000

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Marque Magazine

Dear

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s designers and authors, we, Robbey Orth and Niccolo Lazzara, developed during the creation of the 2011 and 2012 Marque Magazines. Reviewing those editions this year, we felt that a magazine’s grouping pieces into unrelated thematic categories was unjust to those pieces’ authors. Such arbitrary categorization added unintented overtones to each piece. Our goal this year was to prevent the magazine from influencing its readers’ perception of its content. To avoid doing so, we defined the role of a magazine as a provider of a medium of expression for authors and artists; a magazine’s secondary role is to organize and provide context(s) for each piece. Discarding thematic constraints lets the magazine more clearly showcase each of its pieces. The design of a magazine should not subtract nor add to the perception of its contents; a magazine should be a faithful and uncorrupting means of exhibition. eading magazines from decades past, we discovered the true title of our magazine, somehow forgotten in years past: Marque: Magazine of Arts & Letters.

This discovery reminded us that the Arts have changed drastically over the past decade. The development and spread of digital media has affected every artistic process and redefined art and artistry. Many more processes and media are included in twenty-first century art. Therefore, the responsibilities of an arts magazine have increased. A magazine must now present more content in an ever-more-artistic and visually appealing way. This realization led us to a central question that, through this edition, we hope to answer: In what new ways can a literary magazine both showcase talent

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Reader, and provide a stimulating experience? Our answer was to include things that are normally unusual in a literary magazine.

Each section break presents a quote from an artist explaining the importance of and reason for his choice of medium. Our cover is textured. Throughout our careers, we have observed many artists using texture to make their art tactilely, as well as visually, stimulating and wanted to incorporate such a stimulus in this year’s edition. fter perusing recent editions, of Marque, we decided that our magazine and its purpose were in need of updating. Just as the computer displays information without any artifacts or aberrations, so too should our magazine unobtrusively and faithfully present its contents. However, design itself has become an art form, and so our mission became one of tactfully balancing the elements on each page to ensure that the reader experiences the design as an enhancement of the content rather than as a distraction from it. Creating this year’s magazine has been both challenging and entertaining, and there truly is no greater satisfaction than seeing, feeling, and using one’s artistic creation. We sincerely hope that you enjoy reading this edition as much as we enjoyed creating it.

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Nic Lazzara

Robbey Orth

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contents

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“Dear Reader” | Nic Lazzara & Robbey Orth

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Poetr y Interlude

8 8 10 11 12 13 19

Love Sonnet | Henry Woram Quinn by the Lake | Nick Brodsky Skies Above Half Dome | Reid Stein To Dream | Jonathan Ng Sacred Trail | Halbert Bai Salvation of Two | Noah Yonack Brothers | Kevin Bass

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Ceramics Interlude

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I, MacBeth | Mitch Lee Scotland Cliffs | Otto Clark-Martinek HaKotel: The Wall | Kobi Naseck Cathedral | Halbert Bai How to See | Jonathan Ng Oblivion | Halbert Bai Showcase: Ceramics

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Prose Interlude

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Glow-In-The-Dark Stars | Noah Yonack Tattoo | Alden James Shamble | Henry Woram Spirit’s Reprieve | Alden James Fahrenheit 451 | Reid Stein Allegory of Hope | Rachit Mohan Misty Morning | Halbert Bai

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Photography Interlude

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Scarlet Wind | Riley Graham White Roses Unloved | Forest Cummings-Taylor Quinn in Window | Nick Brodsky Permit Days | Brent Weisberg Sands of Time | Riley Graham Moving Forward | Halbert Bai Showcase: Photography

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2-Dimensional Art Interlude

56 58 58 61 62 63 64 64 64 66

Showcase: Graphite Finding Heart | Halbert Bai Urban Coastline | Reid Stein Stranded | Mason Smith Fragmented | Charles Thompson Corduroy | Henry Woram Smolder | Henry Woram Rubber | Henry Woram Lonely Cul-de-Sac | Max Naseck Showcase: Acrylic

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Industrial Arts Interlude

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Ambition’s Threat | Mitch Lee Wisdom | Mason Smith Spinning Table | Harrison Lin Rust & Marble | Oliver De La Croix-Vabuois Seafoam | Oliver De La Croix-Vabuois Broken Clouds | Oliver de la Croix-Vabuois The Degradation of Art | Rajat Mittal Showcase: Woodworking

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Film Interlude

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Refreshment | Cole Gerthoffer Bubbles | Hansen Kuo Manly Dancing | Rajat Mittal Cambodia | Halbert Bai Nothing To Know | Luke Williams Geometry | Michael Gilliland

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Staff Page

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Colophon

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Special Thanks

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POETRY

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Half a Post-It

’ve always thought that we inhabit our mother tongues.

We think, dream, speak, write, curse, chant, and pray in them. And I think that the things that baffle us in life

can be often un-baffled by just finding the right word. That’s where poets come in. Poets know their mother tongues well enough be able to navigate the vast, churning sea of words and convert language into artful expression. When you think of it that way, poetry is so basic. I mean, it’s the only art form that you can scrawl on a bar napkin or gouge into the dirt.

Words are the tune and the poet’s mind is the composer. No orchestra, canvas, or clay is necessary. I think that’s why I love writing. It forces me to clear the foggy haze of thought in my mind. I think Japanese haikus may be one of the simplest examples of why I love poetry and writing. Though small enough to fit on half a post-it note, they are someone’s ancient declaration of being alive. When I read a haiku written by a Japanese noble in the 11th century and feel transported to the stream or the castle or the mountainside where the poem came to be, its mission is accomplished. Reader and writer, mind and mind, heart and heart are united in that tiny collection of words.

—Henry Woram

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Henry Woram ’13

Love Sonnet Sunk into the side of your car, I nestle my hands around your curved waist, and you fall -tilting from the curb where my toes rustle blades of grass, hushed by the breeze that calms all.

The soil, still sun-warmed, brings warmth from toes to spine as your forehead fits beneath my nose. We blend our forms, not just the sum of our bodies, but all around -- these leaves, the paved road, even the stark colors of your car yield to the tableau, which blankets us with warm blue as dusk slowly soughs to night. Even crickets and dogs are silenced.

We kiss, and the warmth without and within peaks in hushed adagio -- the scene hangs from our joined lips. Past your shoulder, a grin shapes from the yellow light of my house.

And we, since we are in love, make our banns ‘till the night beckons you home with indigo hands.

Quinn by the Lake Nick Brodsky ’14

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Skies Above Half Dome Reid Stein ’14 “My mom and I stumbled upon this giant rock that looked out across to Half Dome, miles from where we were. Climbing over that rock, I felt truly connected with nature.”

To Dream

Jonathan Ng ‘14

hite clouds, lucid and clear, Rise from the steaming city Like cotton balls attached to string.

I look up from my ledge On the knoll, My knees dangling toward the sky, And I watch them parade about my vision.

Sometimes, they look like gumdrops.

Sometimes, I can smell their wetness.

That reminds me of those days When I could float on grass.

Sometimes, I can hear the rush Of the world against my skin, And I listen as if I had invented it: The amethyst sky, stars shining Like gold on the horizon.

Sometimes, I reach out To pluck one from the sky And come tumbling back To the world.

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The Salvation of Two Noah Yonack ‘13

Sacred Trail Halbert Bai ‘14

“Looking across the sacred lands of the Navajo people, I wanted to capture a sense of the sublime by depicting the sacred nature of Monument Valley. ”

hey had raised him like a dying snake: some water, food scraps, what archaic medicine they could conjure from the roots of trees that looked like explosions. And even though he was innocent and vulnerable—mentally askew with such intensity that he could embody two people at once—he was still a snake in the tribesmen’s eyes.

Everyone pitched in their time and ef-

fort to make sure he had not wandered off to mutilate Tamarins or consume leaves from the poisonous Strychnos stalks, but it was simply a way of being for the hunter-gatherers of the underdeveloped Tipu tribe. Everyone helped, yet no one cared. It was an indifferent duty.

Eventually, he had to be expelled from the tribe that was simply too isolated a com-

Marque Magazine

munity—too buried in the verdure trolling his body from the core of of the Amazon—to care for him. a being he didn’t know. But this The schizophrenic native was sim- wasn’t new. At this point in his life, schizophrenia controlled his body ply too much of a physical and psychological burden weighing on an robotically, deliberately failing to already burdensome tribal life. The filter right from wrong in a seemtribesman voted him out at dusk. ingly mutinous attempt to destroy his very self. It was as if natural seAnd so he was gone, galloping like lection were tearing him apart from a disconcerted horse through the unmarked trails of the Amazonian the inside. He was broken, in need of salvation. rainforest, purposely running no*** where, emotional, yet stoic, crying, yet laughing, one personality, yet is body twitched, another. A spectacled weaving itself owl drooled confithrough the ornate Like a jaguar he dently from the canand prickly plant barreled wildly opy of trees above stalks of the forest. through uncharted as if it were waiting When his mental conterritories of the for the man to drop dition inflamed, the rainforest. dead; there was simman was no longer ply no way he could himself; he was only survive, and even the animals could a body and a mystical, omnipresent tell. force that disfigured his conscience

His body defied his mind, and warped his emotions. The florid groveling over fecund soil next to toucans and howler monkeys curitrees he couldn’t name, absorbing ously observed him like an enigma: the calls of mating birds he couldn’t interested, concerned, and most of recognize. His snake-like upbringall, perplexed. ing had not prepared him for the Like a jaguar he barreled world outside of the watchful eye wildly through uncharted territoof his tribe. He was alone, tangled ries of the rainforest. But he wasn’t in the roots of both the Strangler fig lost. Not yet. There was smoke tree and his mental incapacity. ahead, coming from a meager, di His emotions raged, con- lapidated village planted within the

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grasp of monstrous trees that resembled towering and intimidating silos. He approached.

A fire crunched through mountain soursop leaves and spat thick, choking smoke into the air.

The surrounding trees caught the smolder in their awnings. If it weren’t for the sick fire, the man would have thought the village empty. The village’s idiosyncratic nature both repelled him and drew him closer.

He tiptoed precariously over splintered branches of wood on a path to the center of the village.

Mindlessly approaching the fire that groaned at the focal point of the circle of huts, his foot punched through the top of a rotten log.

Scorpions sprinted up his leg, so he yawped and hurried to the nearest hut, as if shelter could have repelled the creatures.

Inside, the entire community had gathered to sit in a circle and communicate with each other, for this group of mentally deranged villagers—each one similar to the man who had just hurtled through their entrance—simply had nothing better to do. Each one was an outcast from his or her respective tribe.

Each one was lost in the dense in-

tertwining of his or her respective mind. They merely sat, seemingly unconsciously, and disinterestedly blabbering gibberish to their neighbors. A lethargic air suffocated them.

They did not move when the man broke into their meeting; they only watched as he swatted the miniature beasts off his leg and through the cracks of wooden floor. The villagers knew why he was here. They could always tell. It was like a sixth sense.

“Sit down,” an elder mumbled, motioning to his left shoulder.

“Right next to Caio. He is two-natured. Just like you. Stop squirming and sit down. Right there.”

“How do you know I—,” the man stumbled over his words, confused.

“Sit down,” the elder groaned.

“It’s why you came here, isn’t it? You knew you would find solace here, in this village. That’s why you came.

Yes?” “No. I had to leave my tribe.

They couldn’t take care of me any more. Bad crop yield, I think. I just happened to run here. I found you by chance.”

The circle of villagers chuckled. Their faces brightened.

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“It was certainly not by chance,” the elder replied. “Your body forced you here, even if you didn’t know it.”

“You’re wrong,” the man stated flatly. Though nothing had provoked him, he could feel his cheeks starting to warm, his fists tightening, and his heart jogging. His emotions had flared at less. They had minds of their own.

“My name is Diego,” the elder calmly stated, demonstrating monk-like patience. “You came here because we try to help people like you, patch you up like a splintered Samuama and send you back on your way. You do want help, right?

We can make you one again. Well, maybe.”

He finally took his seat. “Yes,” he responded. “Fix me.”

“It’s a battle,” the elder began, “that few can win. You must triumph over yourself. It’s an art not even we know much about. That is why we still sit in these circles; for some, there’s no escape. For you, maybe. You must be tough. Certainty. Destroy your dual-nature. When would you like to start? How about now? Yes? Good.”

The elder rummaged through a sack to his left, extracting

a psilocybin mushroom—one that could distort reality so immensely that anyone who consumed it would have no logical place to turn but inward.

“Oh. Yes. I almost forgot,” Diego pressed his palm to his forehead in surprise. “You need to drink from the sap of the trees across the river—the towering trees in your subconscious. There, everything is one with itself. Just cross the river.

Make a boat. Just cross it. Ok?” “Wait. What riv—,” before the man could even complete his sentence, the elderly leader of the tribe had shoved six grams of the drug down the man’s gullet. Time stopped. *** he man returned to what he assumed was consciousness to find his legs dangling in a bottomless river that flowed upwards. It wasn’t hard to miss each peculiar aspect of his surroundings—the gravity-defying river, the pink, stagnant mist hovering in the dome-like sky, and the mutated, slimy monsters that sifted throughout the viscous liquid beneath him. This was certainly not the Amazon. That, he knew.

“Just cross the river.” The

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elderly man’s voice echoed like ith one heave of his rippling a catch-phrase throughout the back muscles, Diego dragged sky. Just build a canoe and cross the unconscious man out of the rivit. What’s so hard about that? He er, his hand confidently clenched turned his back to the river, jauntily around the circumference of the venturing into the cluster of trees man’s ankle. He was not surprised behind him to gather fallen maple at the turn of events; Diego had logs. After fashioning a basket out seen worse situations. So he placed of strands of bark, only one thing the not-yet-conscious man on a cawas evident: his sheltered upbring- noe of his own, pushed him in the ing had again failed him, for his direction of the shore, and returned hole-ridden canoe to his hiding place. had begun to sink Everybody gets one.

He began to feel into the goop that He chuckled to himimmense pressure was the river of his self. Just one. in his head as sound own being.

The man’s waves reverberated

“Swim for the body lay splayed at off the dome-like shore”, he thought. the recognizable beatmosphere like Diego’s words slashed ginning of a narrow pinballs. through the mystical dirt road that led reality like knives; straight to the towit was as if the elderly man was ering trees of the subconscious. right there with him, omnipresent The man awoke this time to find his yet hidden. There are the tower- skin inflamed and tender, burnt by ing trees that can cure my mental the caustic river that had just endisease, he thought. And then he veloped him. Struggling, he turned thought no more, for the river had around to view his surroundings, swallowed him whole and released only to realize that the precarious an enormous air bubble to signify and contradictory river that he had its triumph. The man disappeared tried so hard to conquer was in fact into the bottomless river. He was behind him. He did not know how gone. he had managed to cross the river, *** but he had. He had, and that was all that mattered.

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But the mentally impaired villagers who had given him that magical mushroom knew what had happened. For it was the same force that had guided the man’s body to the village that had lifted him out of the river and carried him across.

With this force, Diego had entered the man’s consciousness observed his being, and helped him from afar. But it was his battle and his battle alone. Diego could only help the man so much in his quest for oneness. So he had to walk alone.

But he wasn’t without impediments. Deep in his subconscious, his schizophrenia raged like never before. He began to feel immense pressure in his head as sound waves reverberated off the dome-like atmosphere like pinballs.

These sounds became visible, and jolts of fiery red and electric yellow shot past him, blinding his view and buckling his knees to the ground.

The sound was deafening, and he writhed in pain. In a small puddle of sap runoff to his left, the man could see his reflection literally separate into two separate images. The cosmic weight of duality crushed his bones and pressed him to the sharp grass beneath him. But he had to push on. His disease was splitting

him at the core.

Yet an omnipresent force continued to prod him toward the schizophrenia-curing sap of the trees in his subconscious—the same force that had led him to the village and the same force that had pulled him out of the acidic, deathly lake.

So he walked, blinded by sound and fury, yet motivated by something intangible. Diego watched him with admiration.

He approached a crack in the ground and stared into the abyss of his being. It was just out of jumping distance. There was no way to cross it. He could hear the obscure echoes of pure duality reverberate off the walls. He chose to stay away.

But he couldn’t turn around.

The trees were too close. Oh, to have come so far and to have failed was the greatest catastrophe. His volatile emotions raged. He could feel the fibers of his bones literally splitting as his body tried to regress into duality. He convulsed on the dirt path leading up to the abyss, his mind aflame with emotion and rage and confusion and sadness.

Diego frowned, so the omnipresent force picked him up. It led him backwards a few steps and then hurtled him forward. His legs

spread. His eyes clamped. His body sprang forward and cleared the abyss. He was free.

He approached the trees, tears welling in his eyes. Acknowledging his approach, sap began to flow from the trees themselves. And so he drank, absorbing unity in such great quantities that he could feel his mental disease drain from his body. Unchained from the depths of duality, his emotions normalized and the deafening sound dissipated.

After a precarious journey throughout himself, the man had cured himself of schizophrenia. ***

Brothers Kevin Bass ’13

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e had not known how he had managed to get there, but he had. He had, and that was all that mattered. Maybe it was Diego.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He was cured now. Free.

He entered his old village a new, unified, and independent man, no longer the dependent idiot who had received special care his entire life. Now, he was no longer schizophrenic; he was no longer chained to two selves; he was no longer the man who couldn’t cross the threshold of his being.

No, now he was much different. He was free.

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here are an infinite number of possibilities when it comes to crafting with clay. Clay is mud extracted from the earth and can be molded and formed

into almost any shape. Clay is a ceramicist’s imaginative playground. Whether it is wheel work or hand-built work, the art of ceramics is inspiring and has been practiced for thousands of years. While being exposed to the world of

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ceramics my freshman year, I would lie in bed at night and dream about potential artwork I could make. Ceramics to me is not a mere elective but a core discipline. I have spent more time in the ceramics room than in any other room on campus. Throwing clay on the wheel, I have learned patience, craftsmanship, and a love of excellence.

—Kevin Bass

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Ceramics

Marque Magazine

I, Macbeth

by Mitch Lee ‘13

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he glint that flashes off the kingly crown Enthralls my eyes and dyes my restless bones A shade of green more vibrant than the down Beneath the crimson blood we shed for thrones.

I quivered with prodigious joy and fear When witches dealt my card: a downturned knight.

I thought transparent hands would swing the stroke And spare me guilt’s acidic, vengeful bite.

But now the sickle twitches in my hands, As understanding nibbles at my mind.

For I must reap the harvest of my plans And pray the Furies leave their wrath behind.

I must become a mantis in a rose And strike from petals feigning sweet repose.

Scotland Cliffs Otto Clark-Martinek ’13

HaKotel: The Wall Kobi Naseck ’14

2013 Literary Festival Winner for Nonfiction

“But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief.”

—Annie Dillard

Cathedral Halbert Bai ‘13

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quickly approached the wall and mercilessly crammed in my little note. Wedged in between the corner of a rock and a hundred other scraps of paper, it fit right in, but I immediately questioned its significance. After all, I had scribbled it on a ripped piece of wide-ruled paper while lounging on the bus two minutes before, and amid thousands of other prayers drenched by sporadic rain and frozen stiff by the sun, how could my two-sentence message be notable? Some of my friends had even hoarded fifteen notes and stuck them all in the same spot as if they could stake out a section of a two thousand-year-old bastion of holiness for each of their families. Though I did not want to, I had returned to the Old City of Jerusalem on the last day of my teen group’s summer trip, spanning the

Marque Magazine Czech Republic, Poland, and all of Israel. he first time we had seen the Western Wall, on our first day in Jerusalem, at least I had an excuse.

In such an unfamiliar environment, I wasn’t the only one confused. I gingerly approached the wall, tried to pray, thought about how hot it was, and then complied with tradition by pacing backwards a few steps so as not to turn my back to the Western Wall immediately. I was not deeply affected and neither were many of my friends. We left to explore side chambers of ancient synagogues.

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ho could fault me for not feeling satisfied next to a divine stack of rocks? I initially thought that I was oversaturated from every historical sight built from the same camel-colored stones but quickly dismissed the idea as an excuse.

Although my experience was not spiritual, and I did not make peace with the wall, one boy in our group took to wearing a yarmulke daily after his visit. “You don’t have to just pray at the wall, ya know?” he announced. “It can be like anywhere and anytime.” Clearly he found a spiritual connection. I didn’t exactly wish I had a similar awakening,

though I was jealous. It seemed as if the wall had no intimate or religious moments to spare for me.

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n this last day as I plodded toward the shabby monolith, my friends passed me their iPhones asking for pictures of them wearing discounted tefillin they borrowed from young orthodox entrepreneurs, pictures next to a bearded man, and pictures of them with their eyes shut. They relished every second spent at the wall and felt sorrow for our evening departure the following day. Then, I could procrastinate no more; it was my turn. The belief that I had been cheated and handed an empty experience made me stay at the wall longer the second time.

A quiet wave of resident black hats whispered and bowed and sighed and kissed the wall and looked up and cried, and I found myself devoid of all emotion. Even close to these men, these perennial icons of faith, I stood half-paralyzed—as stoic as the old stone I was facing.

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t was just half past four, and I stood sweating from both frustration and heat. I had even said the Sh’ma in an attempt to lure some amazing enlightenment from an unforgiving exterior or to discover something

I could at least tell my grandparents about. Then I heard a startling sound. A lilting chant echoed, and I almost started laughing. The Islamic Call to Prayer sprung from the Dome of the Rock and filled both the crevices of the ancient stones and my vacant bones. Standing before the Wailing Wall, the last remaining piece of the Second Temple, a principal symbol of Judaism, I was able to relate to a completely foreign song from the other side of the wall. It flowed through the partition separating the men and women’s sections and all the quarters of the Old City. Minarets all across the land of milk and honey joined in chorus, and Israel lay exposed in its splendor and ignominy. Though it was easier to hear the call than see it, the wall could not restrict its message. Such a tenuous scale rested on that wall with weights in favor of neither side. It was a golden amalgam of Zionist hope. It was part of the al-Aqsa Mosque com-

plex. It expressed and unified all the aspirations and dreams of a divided country and simultaneously condemned them. It became a tangible no-man’s-land long before any international demilitarized zones had materialized. It reflected a thousand pilgrims’ prayers for peace, but it was in no way pragmatic.

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raised my arm to touch the wall one last time, and then took a few steps back. While it was still in reach, I swiftly plucked my note from its niche and stashed it in my pocket. The wall already had one of my wishes, and now I could show it another one. I continued my slow, linear dance backwards, but it did not take long to stop backpedaling and relinquish both my disdain and reverence for the Western Wall. A wall is a wall, and after two thousand years and thirty-six amazing days of summer, it was time to move on.

Minarets all across the land of milk and honey joined in chorus, and Israel lay exposed in its splendor and ignominy.

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Marque Magazine

How to See

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by Jonathan Ng ’14

blind man struts in the corner of your vision. His walking stick clacks against the brick, like shoes on linoleum. You can’t look away.

But you can’t get up, as if your legs have sprouted from the ground. You take a minute to pause at the people around you: the single mother, the worried businessman, the smiling children. Your eyes come back to his wandering frame, a tempting hypnotic pendulum. You can’t help but notice his dark shades on the cloudy day. You avert your eyes because your parents have told you long ago that it is rude to stare. But it’s annoying; a welling content crackles. You feel the leaves falling. The night caresses the sun. You see the blind man’s face, weathered and beaten. You see his hands, spotted and speckled. But all you do is stare at his blindness. You want to ask him if he’s seen the colors of the rainbow, the cover of a magazine, a Ferris wheel twirling with bright lights. You want to ask him as if he has seen them through a different lens, a more refined iris, or some wiser viewpoint. But your legs are rooted in position. The night creeps forth. And now, you must close your eyes to see beyond the darkness.

Oblivion Halbert Bai ’13 “To suggest the dichotomy of the ego and id, I stood on the edge of a metaphorical moral cliff looking into the depths of darkness.”

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Showcase: Ceramics

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Showcase of works by Oliver de la Croix-Vaubois ’13 (Pieces 01 - 05) and Kevin Bass ’13 (Pieces 06 - 09)

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01 Criss-Cross

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02 Cerise Jars 03 Onyx 04 Iridescence 05 Alien Death Mask

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Sepulchre 06 Makoto 07 Immolation 08 Triton 09

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Prose

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riting defines an author’s life. Writing a novel unfetters creativity, leading to an exploration of areas of an otherwise silent, dormant, un-

used mind. Through countless hours of daydreaming during meals, during Chapel, during class, I craft people from the actions and interactions of my friends, building a universe reflective of my life. That is the glory of writing—to synthesize personal experiences into a compelling, original narrative.

Each novel contains a particular perspective. A wonderful vehicle for building a universe, prose converts images in the mind into words on the page. I have written in other forms, but in my opinion, they cannot express the multitude of emotions, feelings, and thoughts that a novel can communicate.

Every page of a book tells a story, a history of developing thoughts, unfolding with each individual word.

—Sam Libby

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ne hundred thirty-nine plastic, glow-in-thedark stars condensed to a rectangle on the wall across my bed, each held by a square inch of sticky-note-like adhesive. In an attempt to rekindle my child-like illusions of space, mystery, and wonder, I plastered star-shaped pieces of phosphorescent plastic to the baby blue of my wall. In lieu of common artwork, I filled the space above my shelves with child-like decorations, creating a piece of art so fundamental to my understanding of the universe with the use of just one element: light. That night, in an attempt to escape their unstable energy levels, electrons tore out of these stars and into the surrounding darkness like bullets, only faster. They teemed out of each star like madmen, as if in a hurry—a controlled haste at the speed of light.

I watched the stars’ collective tendency to radiate light and then dim, leaving only faint hints of their presence.

For it was much more than a modest glowing that amused me; it wasn’t the nostalgia of my childhood spent stargazing that drew me to the rectangle above my shelf. This network of glow-in-the-dark stars, a form of art so mediocre and ostensibly insignificant, gave me ground in a groundless universe.

The way in which I understood my place in the universe relative to the massive bodies of gas and rock floating throughout space itself was inexplicable. All I knew was that I was here, and they were there, hurling through space yet remaining still.

Glow-in-the-Dark Stars Noah Yonack ’13

Tattoo Alden James ’16 “I saw this as an interesting, gritty night shot. The seated group of people gives it a strange mood since they don’t look like people who would be at a tattoo parlor.”

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Shamble

by Henry Woram ‘13

Divine Janus, as this day follows the night, help me start life anew.

As the shore is scoured by the tide, let me be cleansed.

And as the sea becomes the flower, let me be reborn. — Pagan Chant

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hat year the oxen idled in fallowed fields. Plows jutted out from the ground like the crooked arms of dead husbandmen reaching out from their graves. The village’s Bible, bound in red-stained leather and inscribed with gold leaf, was left sprawled on the preacher’s pulpit in the chapel — a page describing the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah faced upward, gathering dust. ownstream, toward the homes and inn, wolves scoured the dirt paths and pawed at the ground unbothered. Fences were left un-mended, and all the livestock not slaughtered by their owners or wolves twisted cuds in their mouths. Nature ran her course through the village as the affairs of men waned, subsided and finally halted over the years; hay bales scattered in diffuse patterns, wagon wheels morphed and splintered, and scarecrows slumped, bowing to the pagan gods of death. ut Godfrey survived. He had tried not to on a few occasions; first he dove into the river and floated downstream in search of either death by drowning or hope in the form of another village, but instead fell unconscious and awoke caught in a bundle of logs at a ford. The rushing of water over his mouth and face woke him up, and he stared at the stars, waiting

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for a sign. He found none, or maybe objects just to see if they would renothingness was the intended sign. lease some secret he was missing.

He heard the howls, and over the He gradually became accustomed to course of three days and nights ran the silence; noises coming from his back to his village, foraging to keep mouth that were not in the key of his pangs of hunger subdued. The the wild startled him. second and more painful time, he n a particularly cold day, he tried to kill a bull for its meat and sat staring at the rafters as was gored, left bleeding in a mead- the smoke built up and eventualow, eyes wide open and blinking ly seeped out through the holes in through hot tears. It was only when the roof. He counted and re-counted the birds started circling above him the number of days the stores in the that he decided life was village granary would preferable to death, Scarecrows keep him alive. Four. and he dragged himodfrey had promslumped, bowself to the river where ised himself he he splashed his wound ing to the pawould never lay a and covered it with finger on the village mud, then swooned gan gods of Bible. He had once on the riverbank. The death. as a young boy, and wound festered and learned never to touch brought fever, but Godfrey survived. it again. Staring at it from the pews — back when they still creaked unhe last to die was Anne. She was younger than he — the illness der the weight of the village’s inhabitants — he was transfixed. The took the oldest and youngest first, volume held so many stories and so leaving the healthiest to die last. much knowledge, but only one man For a month, the two of them lived could convey them. Young Godfrey as the last of the village. Anne talked envied the priest’s ability to run his of God’s wrath and the need to refinger along the pigments on the pent for sins, but at nights she drew page and channel God’s words, as close to Godfrey and they knew each other in this way. But one day, the the bowstring of a violin caresses notes from strings. He would stare sores came, and Godfrey knew. He and stare, swinging his feet from the burned her corpse. hat winter he moved into the pews, until one day he snapped from the tension and fired from his seat church and burned fires in the nave for warmth. In the beginning, like an arrow. His mother reached he would talk to himself in hushed out to grab him and shrieked as he scampered down the pew and into tones and have tantrums and throw

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the aisle, sprinting to the pulpit. The priest halted his reading and lifted his hand from the tome, staring bewildered at the young Godfrey. As Godfrey paused and stared up at the pulpit, the priest looked down. “Go back to your seat, child,” the priest whispered. But Godfrey refused to obey. Not yet tall enough to reach the book on the pulpit, he grabbed hold of the wood itself and shook the book from its towering height like a coconut from a palm tree. t this, the whole congregation gasped, and Godfrey’s father vaulted from his seat, hand raised to strike. The priest, at first startled and now insulted, yelled, “Control yourself! Return to your seat, boy!” and laid a closed fist on Godfrey’s stubborn, blond-streaked pate — but Godfrey’s fixation with the book would not be sated yet. Godfrey finally shook it loose, let the book fall, and opened it upside down.

He pressed his sweaty, tiny hand to the lines, waiting for the words to come to him. The swirling patterns of the character on the page and the controlled flourishes of each word were more bewitching to him than anything he had seen before; how could anyone want to taint them by

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Spirit’s Reprieve Alden James ‘15 “Shooting this picture, I liked the juxtaposition of the simple Marksman and the ornate window.”

speaking them? All sight and sound halted — the only two things in the world were Godfrey and the Bible, as the rest of the congregation writhed in useless agony. ut his father’s grip pierced the moment. He slung the boy over his shoulders and He counted and marched down the re-counted the aisle, exiting number of days the chapel the stores in the so that he could dis- village granary cipline his would keep him boy in a alive. more temporal setting. Godfrey, slung over his father’s shoulders, bobbed up and down with each of his father’s steps. He dangled his head backward, and blood flooded his brain as he focused on rays of twisted light filtering all the way up from the stained glass windows to the floor. odfrey again stared at the Bible, except this time, the chapel wasn’t teeming with the living.

Eyes fixed on the Bible and hands clenched, he marched down the aisle. He snatched the book violently from the pulpit and faced the pews. In his outstretched arm, he held the book by its pages like a conqueror clenching the hair of a severed head. He ripped page after page from the spine in a slow, controlled fury. Soon, the floor was lit-

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tered with dismembered pages, and e emerged from the chapel door, Godfrey rolled in them like a hog in his clothing still ablaze, and a sty, his eyes frozen black. waded through waist-high snow, e did not realize initially that a marring the snowy landscape that fire in the nave had spread to the now blanketed the village green. pews. But the dried oak caught flame And then he fell, extinguished by quickly, and soon a whole row was overwhelming white. Heat evapoablaze, then a whole section. Rising rated from his skin as the elements mixed, spinning and spinning tofrom his cathartic ravings, Godfrey watched as the flames hemmed him ward the center. in. The high stained glass windows plintered and snow-strewn fencfogged with steam, and the chapes in the village stretched to reel lurched with black smoke while couple; the scaled lines of sediment wood snapped, popped and hissed accumulated on the tavern walls as the fire lashed at it. The scene be- smiled; the fire in the chapel waned. fore him distorted he blackened and congealed like Godfrey — smolhot wax.

Come, Devil, for dering in a puddle odfrey tremof melted snow and to thee this world bled. His knees flesh — opened his quaked, his noseyes and, staring is given! trils constricted, his with sparkling eyes palms moistened. His eyes remained at the blue sky and steaming like a black. In the burning belly of the newborn lamb freshly slipped from chapel, he cried out, “Come, Devil, its mother’s womb, resolved to live. for to thee this world is given!” e fell forward but caught himself by shooting out a leg. Then another. And in tumbling succession, he ran forward into the tempestuous flames, shutting his black eyes.

The flames scorched and scourged Fahrenheit 451 his skin and hair, and he screamed Reid Stein ‘14 in agony. His heart raced, and his feet propelled him out of the chapel.

Now he was no longer flesh, he was no longer man, he was no longer alive or dead; he was all spirit.

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Marque Magazine Rachit Mohan ’13

The Allegory of Hope

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ope takes the form of wings.

It attaches itself to your back and tells you to fly.

It tells you and you believe and because there’s no alternative you trust your wings.

Anything has to be better than this cage in which you find yourself.

And with you, your heart soars.

You leap out, flying into the sky so bright.

Even if there is no door or key to your cage, you break out to see the sky.

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The sky is hope.

It poses a challenge and a promise that there’s something else.

But hope is infinite, just as there is no end to the sky.

You fly upward, up and up and up, and suddenly find that you can’t do it.

There is nothing beyond the sky.

Your wings are broken by the strain of hope.

There’s nothing left.

You fall back to the cage, which suddenly seems so dark.

The cage lacks hope.

The cage is safety.

There is no safety in hope.

But after flying, the cage is not a home, but a prison.

The hole is still in the ceiling where you first flew.

It is there to remind you of what you once had and of how foolish you were to believe.

But hope is worth it.

Is it not better to fly so high, even if you know the fall comes after?

The ground is hard; it hurts when you crash.

The dark room you are in hurts.

The bright sky you fell from burns.

The hole is still there, an invitation.

The hole is hope.

It is there because no matter how much it hurts, you still wish to fly.

The hole proves you can fly.

So like a fool, you pick yourself up and leap to the sky again.

But this time, don’t try for beyond; you fly because it feels good.

Because when you fly, everything goes away.

Floating with the wind, the world is that much brighter.

The dark cage is no longer a factor.

It never existed in the first place; you’ve been flying all along.

Your wings are hope; The sky you fly in is hope; The hole in the cage is hope; Just flying is worth everything.

The sky always beckons.

You can always answer the call.

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Misty Morning Halbert Bai ‘14 “On a promontory overlooking a dramatic scene of mist and light, I captured the subdued atmosphere of the scene.”

Marque Magazine

M Luck of the Draw

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eeing a masterpiece in 1/60th of a second, one shutter release, is always a thrill, and I don’t know if I could find that anywhere else. Although photog-

raphy allows for both completely accurate visual reproductions and synthetic fabrications of the world, I am drawn to the former. There is also a certain element of luck in photography not found in any other art discipline. The more I practice photography, the better I become at channeling this

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luck, capturing life’s evanescent details. My love for photography began with a love of technology. With the proliferation of digital cameras and their increasing availability, there will be more captivating photos. Every photo has the opportunity to surprise us with a detail we would otherwise have lost to time.

—Michael Gilliland ’13 —Michael Gilliland

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PHOTOGRAPHY

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Scarlet Wind Riley Graham ’14 “I was trying to illustrate the chaos that occurs when the sun sets. The spinning red object contributes to the continuous motion that never ceases. ”

Marque Magazine

White Roses Unloved Forest Cummings-Taylor ‘15

“Wherefore art thou winter?”

Dreams of summer taint its hazy glory, Thoughts of golden brown suppress its quiet beauty.

Elegance passes by unnoticed, 48

For want of self-regret and pity.

Splendor waits for recognition, But withers like white roses unloved.

Like the rose it scatters in the breeze, And in its place is grown a lily.

Weather warms a heavy heart, And backs are turned to greatness.

Quinn in Window Nick Brodsky ’14

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Permit Days

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by Brent Weisberg ’16

Marque Magazine

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t’s a stop sign.

Still only halfway down the street; No need to brake yet.

Mirrors look fine.

Feet positioned correctly.

To the side, green lawns, Still a little wet.

Children are playing ball off to the side.

“Slow and have caution,” says mother.

You know that driving is not about pride.

Across the intersection, cars parked, Stop sign coming up clearly marked.

Rear-view sights another Coming up, a few blocks down.

Red stripes, green paint like sedge Iridescent in the noontime sun.

Quite out of place on this last test run, It banks out of sight behind a hedge.

Eyes swivel to the road.

Two seconds have passed.

The stop sign has passed.

You have not.

Sands of Time Riley Graham ‘14 “I caught this biker cruising down the sand just after sundown and used a long exposure to show his speed in the context of what was a very slow, gloomy scene.”

Moving Forward Halbert Bai ‘14 “To illustrate a sense of movement and discovery, I made an arrow out of PostIt notes and placed a toy stealth plane to signify exploration. I utilized significant white space to suggest curiosity, providing a more complete outlook on adventure.”

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01

Showcase: Photography Showcase of works by Michael Gilliland ’13

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01-06 The Dish (Series) The proliferation of satellite dishes has made them an unignorable feature on many American houses. In this series, I convey just how much of a dominant motif—albeit an eyesore—the satellite dish is and how it interrupts the architecture of houses.

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2-D Art

M Vehicles of my Expression

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here is something so intense and intriguing about being able to capture a moment, to tell a story through drawing and painting, and to twist reality

with your own voice and imagination. Drawing allows both the creator and the viewer to clearly see and interpret the “big picture” of certain truths and realities of humanity. A person’s drawing or painting reflects his or her mood, emotions, and expressions of themselves and the world through a wide variety of lines, colors, and shapes, the artistic language. A silent form of art, drawing reveals quieter, more concealed parts of the self, which always exist within the artist’s being. While we can easily convey literal and concrete realities through written and spoken language, we can depict more complex, abstract ideas through colors and forms. I find that I can speak with a louder voice through the power of a pencil or brush, both of which are vehicles of my expression. Drawing and painting provide me with the colors and forms of life and character—they give me the courage to express.

—Purujit Chatterjee

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Marque Magazine 01

Showcase: Graphite Showcase of works by Purujit Chatterjee ’15

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01 Venus

In this graphite study, I learned a lot about the anatomy and value of the human face.

02 Venus, Deconstructed

A common exercise for draftsmen is to draw a bust that has been broken into planes. This exercise always helps me understand how light and shadow play upon surfaces as complex as the human head.

03 Jared, Deconstructed (Opposite)

By rendering multiple busts divided into planes, I have learned to be extremely meticulous in articulating tonal values and contours. Here, I have recreated a 3/4 profile.

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Finding Heart Halbert Bai ‘14

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Urban Coastline Reid Stein ’14

hin wispy clouds gathered over the ocean every spring morning. Mild morning sunshowers awakened us from our sweet dreams. The cool rain licked the lethargy from our bodies and enriched our souls with happiness. We savored this season of fertility, love, and life. We enjoyed our time outside while taking care of our responsibilities. Even the children sensed the fresh warmth of each spring day and frolicked on the sand ditches by the sea.

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still remember that day as if it sipated. People arriving at the scene were yesterday. The morning of shouted, “Run!” But it was too late.

March eleventh was clear and sunhe wooden planks on the dock ny. While waves glistened under loosened. Water swirling with the rising sun, my people began to debris circled around our feet, but hustle and bustle about our rustic even as the tide rose, we stood steadvillage like any other day. Children fast. We could not step away from began racing toward the sandbanks, the families that had always been a and tourists began flocking to the part of our lives. Everyone watched village shops. Our canoes, along as the water lifted their bodies from with an old frigate, began oscillatthe deck, enveloping them in its ing with the sea current. I rushed outside and found my people begin- wrath and carrying them into the ning to gather around the dock. No depths of the sea. Yet the parents and children kept their heads upone dared to step onto the gnarled right, relentless in wooden deck except their efforts to confor a few wild chilPeople arrivquer fear. I rememdren who walked ber how their facacross the dock ing at the scene es glowed and how with a nonchalant their eyes sparkled gait. We began to shouted, “Run!” underneath the wahear thunder growl- Yet, it was too ter, encouraging us ing from afar and to have hope. late. the raging wind striking against the hen the waves began to latch sandy shores. Suddenly, a spontaonto our feet and drag us into neous wave overturned one of our the deepening water, we began to canoes. The parents of the wild follow the quickly eroding beach children rushed across the woodtoward our homes. I returned to the en deck. Under sparks of lightning, whistling sound of the teakettle and a wave not far from the dock rose the cool Moso bamboo floor. The above the wooden deck and clawed thunderclouds moved rapidly and the sandbank. I looked at the famshrouded my village in near darkilies stranded on the dock. They were frozen; their faces told the ness. I could see the tide rising and the waves devouring homes along story of the tragedy that plagues the coast. The wind was shockingly my people to this day. The parents fierce. Terracotta tiles ripped loose embraced their children, and the from our homes and circled the air heavens began releasing pellets of like a vortex preparing for landfall. ice that crackled as they struck the I could stretch out my arms and feel ground. The wave dashed across debris colliding against my skin. the sea like a lion rushing after its For a moment, I stood resolute and prey. The gusts of wind were cold, closed my eyes. Murky seawater beand the warmth of the sand had dis-

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gan to inundate my home and engulf my feet. Then, I felt heat running through my blood and into my bones. I ran. I ran like lightning, my body racing with spontaneity. I ran for my life, my family, and most importantly, my people.

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t has been a year since the destruction terrorized our island.

Our stories, hopes, and dreams are now known all over the world. Yet no one can distinguish my people from the rest of the country. Until a year ago, we had never heard of the World Cup, nuclear fission, or Fukushima. We had always lived on our pastoral grounds raising cattle, growing rice, and picking tea leaves.

Occasionally we went overseas, past a narrow strait over an underwater abyss to the mainland to sell our goods and hear news of the last samurai. Although my people are no longer unified, we continue to remember the simple, bucolic lives we once had. I returned to the desolate lands of my people last winter. The sandbanks, littered with items of our past life, remain under the whim of the sea. From the wreckage, I discovered a heart symbol etched on a jagged wooden plank. I remember looking back towards the sea and imagining the families with their eyes alight with love and hope.

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now live in America, the land of opportunity. Sometimes I feel like

a transgressor from a far away planet seeking to learn the customs of an alien species. Here, people obsess over their toys and gadgets. Every day I see parents walking alongside their children who have earbuds trapped deep inside their heads; girls are glued to their keypads, and boys are engulfed in a world of imaginary military missions. I long for the rustic life I once had. I now awaken to the sounds of a screeching alarm clock and a buzzing cellular phone instead of the even patter of the soft morning rains. The soft, cool sand has become rock-hard asphalt that burns my soft skin. My favorite day of the year is American Football Day—the day when everyone oggles plastic screens and moving pictures. This is the day I traverse for hours over rough asphalt to reach a sandy beach far from civilization. I allow my body to sink into the cool sand while the saline water lapses over my skin, licking away my pains and worries. That wooden plank is always near my heart—the center of hope and inspiration. I strive to keep my eyes open and focused on the future. When I return to my new home, I have renewed hopes of finding light where there is darkness and of seeking love where there is emptiness.

Stranded

Mason Smith ’15

Marque Magazine Fragmented Charles Thompson ‘13

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C oHenry r du r o y Woram ‘13 The waiting drove me mad.

A siren’s charms all this lovesick body needs is an embrace, nothing more don’t know whether it’s impotence or fidelity but it keeps me from tasting her The waiting drives me mad.

I scream and tear until something is released we are nothing until we are brought to snap and in that moment, as tension is released, so are we, spilling out in whatever terrified or bristled state that the truth manifests.

The love that bites it the love I never expected.

Come home.

Godspeed, come home borne on wings before I am torn apart.

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Smolder One of those skies that’s filled with bold color — intensity and a fear that begs to be realized.

The color smolders in the sky while rain pats my windshield, and the fires in your eyes

slowly extinguish.

Your eyes slide shut and you sink

backwards, trusting.

While the city sleeps I stare, and watch

as the sun dies nobly and the rain taps softly.

Henry Woram ‘13

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Rubber

We are all victims of our own paralysis.

Wouldn’t it be good just to fly?

No nagging voices, no deadlines, no

alarm clocks.

Without judgement we lose form and what can be said for the virtues of elasticity? of the rubbery virtues — they never lose hold, wholly subject to currents and flows not to impositions and inquisitions.

Wherever rubber goes, our souls do follow.

Henry Woram ‘13

Lonely Cul-de-sac Max Naseck ‘13

Marque Magazine

Showcase: Acrylic Showcase of works by Robbey Orth ’13

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01-05 (Series) This series started out as a combination of El Greco’s portraitures and Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art. Through humor, I wanted the figures to actively engage with the viewer.

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M Engineering Art

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oodworking is unique because the finished product is tangible. Not only can people appreciate the aesthetic quali-

ties of a piece from an unlimited variety of angles, but they can also interact with the piece. I like to view woodworking as uniting form and function: only the best pieces manifest both. I work with a

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multitude of materials, including wood, steel, and plaster. These media are unique because they demand attention and skill. I must saw, sand, and varnish wood. I must plasma cut, weld, and grind steel. I must mix, pour, and shape plaster. Even after all this work, I may not be satisfied with the product. Parts may not fit together. Shapes may not be perfect. Surfaces may not be smooth. However, I have discovered that the engineering involved makes woodworking so interesting. The resolution of each puzzle and problem drives me.

During each project, I find myself delving deeper into the concrete mystery of art.

—Harrison Lin

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woodworking

Marque Magazine

Ambition’s Threat

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Mitch Lee ‘13

mbition sometimes is a reckless will

That strikes its victims when they’re least immune.

Inside it slowly conquers with a skill 70

That keeps hosts dancing madly to its tune.

Desire can leave a sky-starved garden bare, Sling outbursts from a mouth to no address.

A prince himself can trip its hidden snare, And choke on others’ diamonds of success.

Delusion commandeers true value’s place If popularity appraises life.

A family will assume a stranger’s face.

Regret will cut through hearts as if a knife.

Ambition swamps a boat that chases fame, And leaves a wake of empty, bitter shame.

Wisdom Mason Smith ‘15 “Amongst the many Cambodian merchants enticing us to try their food or buy their products, I happened to come across a little old lady who had no food, no money, and begged for my help, who put her hands together and prayed for my help.�

Marque Magazine

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Spinning Table Harrison Lin ‘14 “This was my first piece, and I wanted to make something that looked cool but was still usable. The piece ended up as an exploration of aesthetic relationships embodied in a functional form.”

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Rust & Marble Oliver de la Croix-Vaubois ’13 “I like these two textures together because one is almost metallic while the other is stony.”

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Seafoam Oliver de la Croix-Vaubois ’13 “The patina of the teal glaze suggests to me clear, tropical waters.”

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Broken Clouds Oliver de la Croix-Vaubois ‘13 “In this piece I contrasted the apparent motion of the lower finish with the solid, study-looking upper finish.”

The Degradation of Art Rajat Mittal ‘13

umbling with fonts and ungrammatical nonsense, Superficial children try to seem profound.

We live in an age when masterpieces are feces strewn on a canvas.

Where is the art in the world?

Random letters assembled together by insomniacs wearing hipster glasses, “It’s artsy” they exclaim.

They need a new prescription to see the crap in front of them.

Where is the art in the world?

There is order in disorder, unless it’s actually disorder.

There is beauty in chaos, unless it’s just chaos.

There is meaning in ambiguity, unless it’s only ambiguous.

Art isn’t a puzzle to solve; it is a man’s idea in its most beautiful form.

Where is the art in the world?

Mozart would laugh, Picasso would chuckle, Frost would cry, They worked with a concrete methodology, not superfluous, vague abstractions.

Where is the art in the world?

Put the pens down unless you have something to say.

Where is the art in the world?

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Marque Magazine 01

Showcase: Woodworking

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Showcase of works by various upper schoolers

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01 Vertigo Table George Lin ’15

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02 Three Peaks Luke Munson ’14 03 Vicegripped Surface Matthew Meadows ’15 04 Piping

Cameron Baxley ’14

05 Halfcircles

Cameron Baxley ‘14

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Bottle 06 Cameron Baxley ’14 Sutured Drawer 07 Winston Brewer ‘14 Bulletnest 08 Cameron Baxley ’14 Fight Night 09 Philip Osborne ’14

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FILMMAKING

M Film is a Window

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ll artists tell stories. Writers, painters, even those who hang tire pumps and plungers from ceilings (or whatever pass-

es as abstract art these days), are all storytellers.

The beauty of film is that it allows for the most direct and pure transmission of stories between artist and audience. Film is, after all, just a window: action unfolds before your eyes. Film offers a view into our heads, our world, and our stories.

These stories never stop. They’re floating around our world or springing from our own gray matter, and all it takes is a camera to capture them and put them on display. It’s like catching your first fish, frog, or firefly. When you collect something special, you have a giddy desire to show it off. The same is true for stories. My friends and I have made fictional films inspired by stories we caught unfolding around us. The stories are always there.

The world just needs a window. As filmmakers, our goal is to simply cut, polish, and assemble the glass.

—Cole Gerthoffer

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Marque Magazine

Refreshment Cole Gerthoffer ‘14, William Sydney ‘15, and Kunal Dixit ‘15

A blender rests alone on a counter…

CUE TITLE: REFRESHMENT FADE IN: INT. KITCHEN -DAY

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MAX (17) enters the kitchen, shuffling his feet. He’s wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt and long, baggy jeans. He reaches the fridge, bends down to grab a drink, and notices some pictures attached with magnets. The pictures show an eightyear-old Max, smiling, reading a book, building a puzzle, and playing with Legos. Max sighs; a slight smile creeps onto his face. He SLAMS the drink on the fridge shelf and sets off, determination in his eyes.

INT. BEDROOM -EVENING Max walks to a shelf, and grabs a handful of Legos.

INT. LIVING ROOM -EVENING He lifts a jigsaw puzzle off of the floor.

INT. OFFICE -EVENING Finds a childish pencil box, opens to find crayons.

INT. CLOSET -EVENING Pulls a colorful picture book off a shelf.

EXT. BACKYARD -EVENING Max walks outside into his backyard.

It’s dusk and there’s very little sun left.

EXT. TREEHOUSE – EVENING As Max climbs up the ladder to his tree house, we pan over to a pile of leaves. Buried under leaves and twigs is a small stuffed lion. Max gently digs it out and brushes off the dirt.

INT. KITCHEN -DAY With all his materials, Max approaches the blender. He drops in the Legos. He dices the crayons, as if they were carrots, with a CHOP, and drops the diced crayons in as well. He crumbles in the puzzle pieces. After rolling a damp cloth over the picture book with a rolling pin, he squeezes the ink from the

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book into the blender — his final step. Max pushes BLEND. He stares at the blender longingly and hopefully. Pushing stop, he sees that the blender now contains a multicolor smoothie.

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CUT TO: An empty glass rests on a counter, and the purple smoothie, dropping from above, fills up the glass. Max lifts the glass to his lips, closes his eyes, and takes a drink. The glass SLAMS back down on the counter, and we slowly pan back up the arm.

An eight-year-old Max licks his lips, smiles, and runs off.

FADE OUT:Â THE END

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Bubbles Hansen Kuo’13 “The splashes were random, yet they had a synergy to them. The bubbles were inspired by Dyst.”

Marque Magazine

Rajat Mittal ‘13

Manly Dancing

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orced to surrender his armor that protects him from judgment, a man is most vulnerable when he dances; his true form is revealed. With his shields down, he is exposed and defenseless; without protection, he becomes insecure.

But I don’t. From a young age, I’ve happily thrown down my armor to dance to the music.

Of course, high school jeers and social repercussions are not a part of a toddler’s world, but still, the feeling of exposure exists. At the age of two, I twirled and spun to Barney & Friends whenever it came on the television. During the opening credits, I’d fill with excitement, manifesting in my uncontrollable, off-balance revolutions. As I grew older, too old for Barney, my dancing took to the streets when I listened to a local band with my family during a walk-in concert. The music, like Barney’s, was energizing, and I started dancing in front of the stage. My moves now involved randomly flailing my arms and uncoordinatedly kicking my feet, a significant advancement from spinning to Barney. But the band’s enlivening chords possessed me to dance this way, so I did.

To this day, the overflow of excitement from a galvanizing song is all it takes to energize me

into dance. ty; it’s suicide. The wall is death.

But some of my male coun- Life is about movement and the terparts repress the desire to dance; expression of emotions. Our first they feel the flood of exhilaration steps as toddlers are celebrated, not when they hear their favorite song ridiculed. By standing against the but hold back the instinct to ex- wall, my friends rob themselves of press their excitement even when those vital necessities of life; they it’s overwhelming. They stand awk- cripple themselves by standing still, wardly, fruit punch in hand, leaning suppressing the instinct inside of against the walls at school parties; them that wants to move. But still, their nonchalant façade becoming they’d rather be dead and unnoticed transparent. The convenient, almost than alive and ostracized, so they empty plastic cups of fruit punch stay. they sip from are their life buoys; So why do I dance? I elimthey reply, “I can’t join! I have a cup inated the choice between safety in my hand! If I did, and risk. I willingly I’d spill punch on evdance not because I’ve Life is about erybody!” to any inviconfronted and overtation onto the dance come insecurity but movement floor. But in between because I’ve never acand the ex- knowledged it. Maybe my moves, I see them bobbing their heads never acknowledging pression of to the beat and tapinsecurity stems from emotions... ping their toes to the never stopping to conrhythm. They feel that sider the social conseexcitement and galquences; or perhaps vanizing musical energy as I do. it’s a natural effect of growing up They want to join in and unshackle dancing. Regardless, when I dance, themselves from the wall and from I feel a surge of electrifying enertheir insecurity. They see the mass gy that eliminates superficial social of people—mostly girls—enjoying anxieties. I’ve sacrificed my armor the party and want to celebrate with and gained the empowering feeltheir friends. I try to pull them into ing of unabridged enjoyment. And the crowd, but they resist me and now, after I’ve realized the social suppress their urge to dance. To significance of dancing at parties, them, the wall is safe; it’s either the the choice isn’t between safety or wall or looking ridiculous in front risk; it’s between continuing that of girls. The choice seems obvious, tidal wave of triumph or leaning so they stay. against a wall. Dancing is the obvi But to me, the wall isn’t safeous choice.

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Marque Magazine

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c amb

Gateway into Shangri-la Halbert Bai’13

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o d i a

Marque Magazine

Luke Williams ‘14

to Know

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Are nanda?

Wakaritakunai.

Nandemo nai.

Over there, what’s that?

I don’t really want to know.

There is nothing there.

Michael

G e o m e t r y .

Gilliland

‘13

Marque Magazine

Robbey Orth | Editor-in-Chief

Nic Lazzara

Mitch Lee | Managing Editor Marta Napriorkowska The Staff: (From Left to Right) Brent Weisberg, Rajat Mittal, Matthew Co, Rachit Mohan, Purujit Chatterjee, Halbert Bai, Jeffery Wu, Grant Ubele, Hansen Kuo, Ryan Eichenwald, Luke Williams, Robbey Orth, Mitch Lee, Nic Lazzara, Stuart Montgomery, Jonathan Ng, William Su, Max Naseck, Will Jelsma, Zuyva Sevilla, Nic Buckenham, Alex Kim, Brody Ladd, Raymond Guo, Wesely Cha, and Mrs. Lynne Weber

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the crew editors-in-chief

managing editor copy editor submissions editor arts editor literature editor photography editors graphics editor

Nic Lazzara Robbey Orth Mitch Lee Rachit Mohan Jonathan Ng Noah Yonack Luke Williams Halbert Bai Max Naseck Hansen Kuo

copy team Ryan Eichenwald Rajat Mittal photography team Adam Merchant graphics team Purujit Chatterjee Zuyva Sevilla general staff Nic Buckenham Wesely Cha

Matthew Co Forrest Cummings-Taylor Raymond Guo Will Jelsma Alex Kim Shourya Kumar Brody Ladd Aidan Maurstad Stuart Montgomery Nabeel Muscatwalla

William Su Grant Ubele Brent Weisberg Jeffery Wu advisors Lynne Weber Marta Napiorkowska

colophon This year’s Marque Magazine of Arts and Letters was printed

by Etheridge Printing on Heidelberg Plates and bound using perfect binding. The magazine was printed on Endurance Silk Book and Finch Fine Cover papers with 4/4 color processing. The staff used Adobe InDesign, Photoshop, and Illustrator CS6 to produce the magazine. Typefaces used include the families of Colfax, Chift Text, and Chift Display. The press run for this year’s Marque was 450 copies.

purpose

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En

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The Marque Magazine of Arts and Letters is meant to serve as a collection of the literary and artistic works produced by students in St. Mark’s Upper School, comprised of grades 9 through 12, during the 2012-2013 school year. The Middle and Lower Schools students (Grades 1-8) have an arts and letters publication of their own: The Mini-Marque. Works of all types and forms are welcomed and considered equally for publication. The Marque is printed and distributed at the end of the school year, representing a culmination of the finest of the year’s creations.

Marque Magazine

contact 10600 Preston Road Dallas, Texas 75230 Care of: Lynne Weber Facebook: The Marque Website: www.smtexas.org

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special thanks Mrs. Lynne Weber Dr. Marta Napiorkowska Mr. Ray Westbrook Ms. Jenny Dial Ms. Debbie O’Toole Etheridge Printing

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