The Marque | Volume 57 (2018–2019)

The Marque

Volume 57 2019 Our Celebration of Creative Marksmen

“Senses,” A Journey into the Mind of Senior Chad Kim Take a Trip to India with Sophomore Aayan Khasgiwala

“On Adhering to the Form” A Young Shakespeare: Senior Jonah Simon Can Put It in Words

Senior Kyle Smith Takes You to the Front lines of a Political Rally 79

Title

The Marque Literary Magazine

Origin

St. Mark’s School of Texas

Location

10600 Preston Road Dallas TX, 75230

Website

www.smtexas.org

Phone

214-346-8000

1

Dedication:

2

Michele Santosuosso From engaging in discussion about world history in terms only St. Mark’s upper schoolers will understand to planning countless events with her countless clubs, Ms. Santosuosso has made it her mission to help propel her students forward in their careers with grace and patience. It means a lot to us for her to take us seriously when most adults wouldn’t and to be goofy with us when we need it most. The Marque thanks Ms. Santosuosso for her understatedly strong acts of respect and kindness and hopes she continues to change lives--one class, and many clubs at a time.

The difference between “teacher” and “mentor” is respect.

From the moment we enter the classroom, there is an implied agreement between student and instructor. We show up, listen, and ask questions. Hopefully, we take what’s presented to us and truly learn something new, but that’s not always the case. Most of the time, it feels like that distance grows larger by the class, but Ms. Santosuosso is different. Looking into her eyes, you know she’s been in your shoes, in a classroom, looking into the eyes of her teachers. It’s a recognition, an agreement stronger than the contract binding her class roster. It’s an understanding.

To honor and thank this teacher for her profound support of Marksmen like us, we dedicate the 57th volume of The Marque to Mrs. Michele Santosuosso.

3

“Strip away all distractions, the names and the faces, and what remains is what must really be.”

Artist

The Marque Staff

Title

The Marque Literary Magazine

Origin

St. Mark’s School of Texas

Date

2019

4

All about the theme Description: To learn, you must first be willing to accept the idea that you have something to gain.

We Marksmen are surrounded by a beautiful, lively campus environment, the traditions of a hundred-year-old school, and the expectation that we will always strive to be at the top of our game.

The sedative, intoxicating aroma of pride hovers over the boys playing frisbee on the picturesque green quad and lingers in the hallways where students solve Rubik’s Cube for fun.

But a Marksman must be more than that.

A Marksman never makes the mistake of overestimating or applauding his own intelligence. No matter how many A grades he gets on tests, no matter how many SPC titles his team wins, no matter how many college acceptances he receives, a Marksman continually restrains his pride and his ego at the beginning of each new learning opportunity.

This magazine is an expression of that humility, dedication, and openness to learning.

Ego Death.

Why it looks the way it does and what exactly it looks like:

The 57th edition of The Marque is comprised of student literature, art, photography, and etc. Works are given full titles and as much space of their own on the page where possible and are never transgressed by overlaying editorial information. They are also centered to the margin, which is off-center in order to give maximum deference to the gutter, and likewise maximum respect to the art featured. Typography and images are digitally aligned, and normally spaced 3/4 inches apart.

The two spot colors, the tan and dark grey, are meant as a more humble counterpart to the school colors, blue and gold.

In order to emphasize the discipline of each artist’s endeavors in perfecting a single form, pieces in series and collections are emphasized heavily.

Overall, the editing choices and aesthetic are meant to reflect the death of the ego. The title font, Helvetica Neue, is basic and black, the titles are all similar and repeating visual elements are equally humble. In this edition, the students’ work speaks for itself.

References: Modern art museums and galleries.

British street magazines.

Grotesque font styles.

Psychedelic hip-hop.

Buddhism.

What we are:

“Students” 5

Ego Death.

Table of Contents

8

Cover 1 12-17 18-19 20 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32-33 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 42

Kyle Smith ’19 Fritz Hesse ’21 Kyle Smith ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Aaron Weiser ’20 Aaron Weiser ’20 Jonah Simon ’19 Max Palys ’21 Luke Voorheis ’21 Ryan Warner ’19 Davis Yoo ’19 Chad Kim ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Chad Kim ’19 Chad Kim ’19 Chad Kim ’19 Mason Westkaemper ’21 Kyle Smith ’19 Jim Stalder CJ Crawford ’19 Madden Smith ’19 Matthew Coleman ’19 Anthony Andrews ’20 Blake Hudspeth ’21 Paul Sullivan ’20 Seth Weprin ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Seth Weprin ’19 Seth Weprin ’19

43 43 44-47 46 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

Seth Weprin ’19 Seth Weprin ’19 Billy Stalder ’19 Davis Yoo ’19 Chase Honaker ’19 Romil Mathur ’20 Ruoming Fan ’19 Ben Hao ’19 Adnan Khan ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Adnan Khan ’19 Aaron Weiser ’20 Adnan Khan ’19 Adnan Khan ’19 Colin Katz ’21 Cristian Pereira ’21 Kyle Smith ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Benjamin Hao ’20

Cover, Jonah Simon Falling Cloud White Sheet Series Fiddling While Rome Burns Sorry, I thought I was Finished Compressed Colored Masks Glue Port. 7 Upright Chair Chapel Chair Boxes Portrait, Chad Kim Light Attention Birth Tunnels Elevated Cooking Club Event Review, Tuscan Texan Paranoia 1 and 2 Birdhouse Mansion The Quad—My Home House Milk Blakely, Georgia Slightly Drunk, Near the Bridge Center Portrait, Seth Weprin Brandy, 99 Cent Store Tired Heads, Lavandería on Alpha Owned by the Angry Lady Brandy’s Dogs Blue, Cadiz St Near the Bridge Center Jae’s Peaches Pollution Inside Jokes Balance Staying up Really, Really, Late Lights 635 to 75 Highway Portrait, Adnan Khan Bus Station Days in The Park Circuit Board Rooftop Quadric Power Lines Cathedral Rock A Story about a Cricket Self Suddenly Clock 9

63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72-74 75 76 77 77 78 78 79 79 80 81 82-83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91

Portrait, Benjamin Hao Bird The Butterfly There is Peace in Quiet Egg Miscellaneous Sketchbook Pages Peculiar Balance Portrait, Jonah Simon Sun Cover Story: On Adhering to the Form Elephant Man Toothless Bone Lenny Bruce Beach Church Post Mortem Storm on the Plain Cruise Brighter Day Childhood Obsession Flower Paintings Living Alone Portrait, Jerry Zhao Head of the House Daily Village Life Desert on an Overcast Evening Fading Away Bittersweet Portrait, Nicholas Cerny

Kyle Smith ’19 Benjamin Hao ’20 Ruoming Fan ’19 Max Palys ’21 Benjamin Hao ’20 Matthew Coleman ’19 William Haga ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Jonah Simon ’19 Sai Thirunagari ’21 Jonah Simon ’19 Jonah Simon ’19 Matthew Coleman ’19 Jonah Simon ’19 Nick Kowalske ’20 Jonah Simon ’19 Jonah Simon ’19 Antonio Quinoñes ’21 Tim Weigman ’21 Ayush Saha ’19 Ayush Saha ’19 Jerry Zhao ’21 Kyle Smith ’19 Jerry Zhao ’21 Jerry Zhao ’21 Creston Brooks ’19 Jerry Zhao ’21 Nicholas Cerny ’20 Kyle Smith ’19

10

92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107, 111 108-113 112 114 115 116-121

Nicholas Cerny ’20 Charlie Hubbard ’19 Nicholas Cerny ’20 Nicholas Cerny ’20 Paul Sullivan ’20 Blake Broom ’20 Mustafa Latif ’21 JD McClain ’20 Michael Then ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Michael Then ’19 Michael Then ’19 Max Palys ’21 Ryan McCord ’20 Kyle Smith ’19 Matthew Ho ’21 Siddhartha Sinha ’21 Austin Nadalini ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Andy Crowe ’19 Sam Goldfarb ’20

Miscellaneous Haikus, #1-5 Hand Rocking Chairs Scintillating Strumming Personal Essay Earth Rocket Man Space Ware Talk Portrait, Michael Then Safe Alone Kingfisher One Portrait, Matthew Ho Video, Matthew Ho Story: A Dance on Ice Waves Red Hand Tweed’s Hands Crown Vic

117 118 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129-135

Wyatt Awtrey ’20 Wyatt Awtrey ’20 JD McClain ’20 Mujin Kwun ’19 Landon Wood ’19 Matthew Coleman ’19 Ayush Saha ’19 Nick Walsh ’19 Aayan Khasgiwala ’21 Aayan Khasgiwala ’19

Coast of Lake Cypress Spring Sunset Landscape Grueby Recreation Audition Marianas Snare Waves Great Souled Man The Hunt Cooking For Hundreds A Trip to India

11

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

White Sheet Series #9 12

White Sheet Series Artist

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by senior Kyle Smith.

Kyle Smith ’19

Collection Title

White Sheet Series

Pieces

White Sheet Series #9, pg. 12 White Sheet Series #31, pg. 14 White Sheet Series #43, pg. 15 White Sheet Series #13, pg. 16 White Sheet Series #14, pg. 17

Medium

Scanner Photography

13

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

White Sheet Series #31 14

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

White Sheet Series #43 15

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

White Sheet Series #13 16

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

White Sheet Series #14 17

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

Fiddling While Rome Burns #1

18

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

Fiddling While Rome Burns #2

19

Artist

Aaron Weiser ’20

Title (Left)

Sorry, I Thought I was Finished

Title (Right)

Compressed

20

Colored Masks Author

Jonah Simon ’19 a mask, in simplest terms, is bottled love, (or hate, or fear, or perhaps something more); or, in other words, symbolic of emotions that a living face once wore. they’re fleeting––wild emotions flit and fly their loose caprices ‘cross a mellow mind and leave their prints (as faces) as they die and vanish, banished, leaving us behind… ingenious, here, the mask reveals its worth in baiting, hooking, reeling in ethereal dreams like those which perish swiftly from the earth as comes and goes their brief material transit. the mask, though, well-preserves their form––with wood, with paint, with cogent curves.

21

Author

Max Palys ’21

Title

Glue

Glue binds things together, time drives them apart.

Glue smolders frets to necks and strings to pegs, coiled tightly, alluvion of energy. Fingers guide along edges, at first with care, press and release, sound leaps or is trapped under misplaced nails.

Back to the wood and back to the wood, rain and light and nights and else always reflected in the pool of you or me. back to the wood and back to the wood, Metals ring and voices sing, bells and hells and shells of war—what appears between Sapele tops and rosewood sides and back for five-hundred, ninety-nine Is for you and me.

The wood is brine and joy or safe and cruel—grey Hewn grain cut with steel for you and me.

22

Artist

Luke Voorheis ’21

Title

Port. 7

23

Artist

Ryan Warner ’19

Title

Upright Chair

24

Artist

Davis Yoo ’19

Title

Chapel Chair

25

Artist

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by senior Chad Kim. Chad Kim ’19

Collection Title

Senses

Pieces

Boxes, pg. 26 Light, pg. 28 Attention, pg. 29 Birth, pg. 30

Medium

Pen and Ink on Paper 26

Senses 27

28

29

Artist

Chad Kim ’19

Title

Birth

30

Tunnels Author

Mason Westkaemper ’21

The tunnels stretch on: loops and crossroads infinite miles, kilometers, inches, micrometers: relativity is liquid torches line the mossy, wet walls, flickering with desperation: hope I don’t know when it became so dark, so cold, so fragile it’s changed since my old infinity I once roamed its smooth, lit corridors: dry and warm but now? I run.

Others roam the halls with me strange creatures, eldritch automatons I've seen them extinguishing the torches levying the darkness writhing in the cracks some, bright as seraphim, set their light upon the dark burrows but they seem fewer now I fear what they’ve become These shafts were once mine: property, owned I made them, loved them, walked them, felt them but now I cannot stay: The aberrations have begun to run too I hear it, a mere yottameter away: collapse my legs can’t swing quick enough my feet are supersaturated with pain my eyes barely recognize the weak flickering of hope: few photons remain the ground is slippery. And hard.

A gateway approaches: my pain has become void Is this what I want? At what cost?

No, no, anything but this. I refuse the last torch remains in its holder: a fire remains I could take it: pull it from its holster face the army of terror, panic, horror, un-sanity Prometheus become mortal: a legion of falcons and so what? costless compared to the portal.

And so the choice remains immortality for annihilation perception for martyrdom all I have to do is move.

31

An Art You Can Taste

Photographer

Head Chef Sous-Chefs

Kyle Smith ’19

This spread constitues a culinary demonstration prepared by Senior Darius Ganji’s Elevated Cooking Club for a group of parents.

Darius Ganji ’19 Colton Barber ’19 Keeton Brewster ’19 Will Hunt ’19 Kyle Smith ’19 Jack Katz ’19 Billy Stalder ’19 32

Join the Elevated Cooking Club as we guide you through a culinary fusion experience.

T UT ES XCAAN N Antipasti: Burrata alla Caprese in Stile Texano Creamy Buratta topped with Pecan Pesto and served with Toasted Jalapeño-Cheddar Bread and Roasted Cherry Tomatoes Paired with chilled 2017 Pinot Grigio Delle Venezie

Primi: Pici all’Aglione con Peperoncini Texani Pici served with a spicy Tuscan tomato sauce infused with Texan chilies Paired with 2016 Monrosso Tuscan Red

TT Secondi:

Bistecca alla Fiorentina A thick cut Porterhouse served sliced with the bone alongside balsamic glazed roasted carrots Paired with 2016 Monrosso Tuscan Red

Dolce:

Tiramisu and Coffee Followed by chilled Limoncello

All recipes designed and paired by Chef Darius Ganji

Reviewer

Jim Stalder

The meal prepared by the Elevated Cooking Club as their offering for the Senior Auction proved to be great fun with great food. Chef Darius and his team planned a wonderful menu under a “Tuscan Texan” theme for the parents who purchased the item. A beautifully set table was surrounded by hungry parents, anxious to enjoy the dishes presented on the menu. The antipasti featured Burrata alla Caprese in Stile Texano, featuring jalapeño-cheddar bread, pecan pesto and roasted cherry tomatoes, still on the vine, ready to be popped into your mouth as part of the experience. The primi was Pici all’Anlione, pasta with big garlic flavor and an infusion of Texan chilies. The secondi served up a thick cut Porterhouse Steak, tenderized with sous vide cooking and made flavorful with grilling, accompanied by balsamic glazed roasted carrots. The meal came to a sweet end with tiramisu, coffee and Limoncello. The excellent wine was expertly paired to every course, service was exceptional, laughter was frequent, and the evening was a success.

33

Paranoia Author

CJ Crawford ’19

I.

II.

Ticking time bomb, I’m in deadlock.

Sweat drips stop — carpet-dried ink drops.

There’s a feelin’ when the sky crawls like my skin when I think of pullin’ it back To reveal flesh.

Peelin’. Bleedin’ light.

Sun-dried palms.

In all black like a sunspot.

Heartbeat on pit stop.

Say what I can, or what I’m willing to.

Interpret my fears like Rorsach blots.

What’s it to you?

The sky has eyes like mine When I think of a future that could be kind...

If only I take the jump.

Its gaze seizes my heart as my mind Takes flight — no plans along the line.

Improvisin’ and succeedin’.

Like Icarus — victories, misleadin’.

And those eyes are awfully close.

Soon my good luck won’t be as strong a dose.

Nothing but adrenaline takes hold And I’m not wise enough to stop fightin’.

My mind, invisible, feels the heat of those eyes tryna see that piece of mine.

The precious mettle of my self is in a Fleshy crucible.

It’s a shame I’m not invincible.

34

Artist

Madden Smith ’19

Title

Birdhouse Mansion

35

Artist

Matthew Coleman ’19

Title

The Quad—My Home

Date

2018

Medium

Acrylic on Canvas

Style

Plein Air Landscape

36

Author

Anthony Andrews ’20

Title

House

I sometimes dream of a house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird’s nest A home that is standing in a golden age, a larger and more populous house A home that I spent countless hours on to make it special I will marvel in my success of a home for every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection A home that will allow me to withdraw farther in my shell to enjoy the simplicity of life

37

Artist

Blake Hudspeth ’21

Title

Milk

38

Blakely, Georgia Author

Paul Sullivan ’20

Medium

Personal Essay

My great grandpa was born into slavery. My grandpa could see the stars through the holes in his roof.

I was tired, but those thoughts shocked me wide awake, learning for the first time some of the struggles that my family had faced living in America. I didn’t want to stay up late to write an English paper, which seemed like an unbearable task, but I had to find a topic for my family-history assignment. So, I asked my dad for some help. He pointed to an autobiography that my grandpa had written. Desperate, I scoured the pages thinking that I wouldn’t find that much. What I found surprised me. It opened my eyes to the fact that life hadn’t been so easy as I thought it was for my grandpa, who grew up in southern Georgia.

When my grandpa was a kid, members of the Ku Klux Klan walked the streets midday.

My grandpa’s own dad was shot in the chest by a neighbor who had been paid by white men.

My grandpa didn’t get depressed by the racism, though. It kept him motivated to be the best and smartest person he could be, so in the future, his family wouldn’t be subjected to the things he had seen. He was salutatorian of his high school, graduated summa cum laude from Morehouse College, became a doctor, created Morehouse School of Medicine, and then became Secretary of Health and Human Services under President George Bush.

If not for that family history assignment for English class, I never would’ve learned about those stories, and what worries me is that I’m sure there are many more parts to my family’s history that I haven’t uncovered and never will be able to. But with the little history about my family’s past that I do know, I can say for certain that it is absolutely necessary to try to preserve a family’s legacy and that we should never forget where we come from.

With family history, you do not only learn where you come from, but what you are capable of achieving. For me, it kind of gives me a sense of responsibility to carry on my family’s legacy and not let their high hopes for me down. With all the things that I have that my grandpa didn’t, it now seems like it should be nearly impossible to not achieve my highest hopes and dreams.

With my newfound knowledge of my family history, I began to gain more perspective.

I live in the top 5%. I have a big house. I go to one of the best schools in country. I’m going to college. Staying up late to write an essay is a cake-walk compared to what my family has struggled through.

39

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by senior Seth Weprin.

Artist

Seth Weprin ’19

Collection Title

Dallas’s Overlooked

Pieces

Slightly Drunk, Near the Bridge Center, pg. 40 Brandy, 99 Cent Store, pg. 42 (top) Tired Heads, Lavandería on Alpha Owned by the Angry Lady, pg. 42 (bottom) Brandy’s Dogs, pg. 43 (top) Blue, Cadiz St Near the Bridge Center, pg. 43 (bottom)

Medium

Photography

40

Dallas’s Overlooked 41

42

43

Jae’s Peaches Author

Billy Stalder ’19

Title

Jae’s Peaches

My alarm clock was the touch of warmth from the sun piercing the thin atmosphere, laying its thin fingers upon my skin with a deep tingle.

I blinked once, and as my sleep-drenched vision wore away, shadows of stacks of trailer homes and shattered skyscrapers partially covered the massive sun. A brown hazy fog covered the city like a dirty pillow, light and fluffy, but filled with fumes that only bring sickness and death. Focusing on a smudge on the window, my eyes fell into a deep trance; nothing encapsulating my mind for a solid minute until I snapped out of it and decided it was time to get up. The old springs of my mattress squealed with age as I sat up, I glanced over my small home, scarcely furnished, containing only the recessed bed I sat in and some partially opened cabinets, shielded in dust like fog in a window. Rubbing the tiredness out of my eyes, I pulled on my shorts, a synthetic pair with a small white check at the bottom, and squeezed into my shirt, a blemished cotton t-shirt, once white, but now covered in holes and stains. Dropping from the recessed bed, slinging my empty dark green satchel over my shoulder, I stumbled to the door, and with a hard tug, swung the door open – with it came the rancid smells of piss and disease. Glancing down on the street, I saw a familiar person sitting across the alley.

“Morning,” the man said, looking up with a closed-lip smile.

“Hey, Dwight,” I responded as I started the climb down the grimy ladder.

“Got any food?” he asked.

“I’m starving, just like you.” We both laughed at our ritual joke as I stepped onto the cracked cement of the dirty alleyway. His skin was shallow from starvation, cheeks sunken so far into his face that I wondered how he could even talk. Nevertheless, he bellowed out a laugh, revealing his decaying yellow teeth. I smiled and made my way down the tall alley, his laugh echoing close behind me. As his laughter died out, violent coughs replaced it.

It took me ten minutes to walk to the beach, and as I got closer, the smell of the salty sea spray, tinged with an acidic rotten smell, overwhelmed my nose. I scrunched my nostrils, but after a few whiffs, I became accustomed to the odor, and my mind turned from the smell to the sight of the beach. Covered in an array of colors, the waves oscillated in motion, dragged down by the countless plastic bags that littered it. Huge rocks rose 44

from the sea like fists breaking through a multicolor wall. I stood on the edge of a cliff. Looking down I saw sharp rocks and waves crashing into them creating a thick brown foam filled with small colored plastics and bottles. I was jolted forward by a push from behind, and my brain froze as I imagined falling hundreds of meters to the sea below, losing myself in the trash forever, but I was held in place by a boy’s bony hands.

“Damnit, Jae,” I screamed. “That scared me the hell out of me; you know how much I hate the sea.”

Hollering with laughter, the golden-skinned boy fell to the ground, yelling, “I gotcha good, I gotcha so good!”

“Okay, you got me; now, let’s get to work; I’m so hungry,” I irritably responded.

Eyes red from the tears of laughter, he squinted up at me, smiling, and said, “Okay, grumpy pants, don’t lie, I gotcha good, you have to admit.”

“Fine, you got me good, now get up so we can find something to eat; I think I saw some birds flying from this cliff.”

“Sure, how about you start tying the ropes cause I still need to recover from the sight of your face after scaring you so bad.” He took the ropes slung from his shoulders and tossed them to me.

Grabbing the ropes, I tied a sturdy knot around a nearby tree, tugging on it to make sure it would hold. After tying the familiar knots around my waist, I lowered myself down the cliff; Jae followed close behind in silent focus. After a couple of minutes, he broke the silence, saying, “Where are we headed? I don’t see any birds.”

“They came from over there,” I responded, pointing towards a small recess about thirty feet below us. We continued to climb down the sandstone cliff, and as we reached the the recess, he saw a dark hole about the size of a gallon container. Carefully reaching my hand into the hole, I felt the warm shells of a few eggs. Softly placing the three eggs one by one into my satchel, I shouted to Jae, “I got a good find; three eggs in this one.”

About twenty feet away, he looked over and disappointedly yelled back, “None over here; let’s move to the left.” We continued to search like this for a couple of hours and ended up with twelve eggs. I found seven; Jae found five. The wind picked up, and the salty spray stung my eyes and wet the surface of the rocks, the handholds of our lives. Agreeing to head back up, we scaled the towering cliff; as we pulled our bodies over the edge and lay with our skinny legs dangling over the tall overhang, I took a heavy breath of relief. Standing up, Jae, untying the rope from his waist, signaled that it was time to go. Rubbing my red hands covered in cuts and calluses, I stood up, slipping the rope off.

“Not a bad day,” I said as we walked to the marketplace. “We can get a bunch of food with these eggs.”

“I’m definitely going to rip someone off today; I’m feeling it, the special Jae sweet-talk,” he replied.

“Yeah, sure, with your sweet-talk, you’ll probably end up trading all your eggs for a bag of trash. I’m about to win us a crate of strawberries or a whole fish.”

“Oh okay, Mr. Bigshot; well, I’m going to get us a mansion with electricity and a butler,” he snapped back, sarcasm infused in his sentence.

We grew silent as we approached the marketplace; it was a loud, crowded frenzy in the middle of the city. Although neither Jae nor I will ever admit it, the market always intimidated us, the thousands of voices yelling and shouting, the armed Feds looking down on the square to prevent riots, the side alleys with people begging for any scraps that vendors might give them at the end of the day. Hurried people rushed each and every way.

I filed in with the horde, navigating the chaos. Jae yelled over the noise, “Meet you in the spot; bet I’ll…” saying something else after, drowned out in the uproar. Faces streaming in and out of my vision, I closed my eyes and listened for a voice that would give me a good deal. Like an endless river of bodies surging over the narrow streets, the crowd was a living entity. I had learned from an early age how to avoid being trampled in the haste of the movement, stopping to see what a vendor has to offer and moving on if they are overpriced. My uncle taught me how to speak deeper and with more confidence, to learn the chaos like a book, even though nothing about the marketplace was scholarly. He said it was a place of tricksters and fools and

His skin was shallow from starvation, cheeks sunken so far into his face that I wondered how he could even talk.

45

Artist

Davis Yoo ’19

Title

Pollution

46

that I had to be a trickster myself to benefit from the market.

After the third pitch from a young salesman, I made a deal – three eggs for three bottles of water – convincing him that the eggs would hatch in a few days, giving him live birds to eat. I walked away with a happy disappointment, glad that I could get so much water, but discontented knowing he would be mad after the eggs never hatched. With the other three eggs, I was able to get a can of peaches, something I knew Jae would appreciate. Escaping down a small alleyway, I sat against the slick brick wall and waited for Jae to arrive. After a few minutes, sweaty and breathing heavily in exhaustion, Jae stumbled out of the busy commons. With a radiant smile on his face, he pulled a large loaf of bread from his pocket. On the verge of yelling with happiness, he exclaimed, “I totally convinced this guy I was selling real chicken eggs, and it only took four eggs to get this, only four eggs!”

“Nice find; that should last us for the day, but I got something better,” I said, revealing the peaches.

“No way! Peaches! I haven’t had those in years,” Jae yelled, a smile stretching across his face.

“Peaches? Can I have some peaches?” a low voice said at the end of the alleyway. A shirtless man, ribs and rashes exposed on his narrow chest, stood a body length away. A small boy wearing a baggy tan shirt that went past his kneecaps stood next to him, eyes deeply sunken. With rashes covering his face and neck, the boy looked like he didn’t have much time before sickness would kill him.

Startled, I stuttered and managed to respond, “You…you have anything to trade?”

“Can I have some peaches?” he repeated, “It’s for my son; he is starving.”

I looked at Jae’s skinny arms, muscles atrophied from hunger, and I said, “I can give you a piece of bread, but we have to eat too.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, it was a kitchen knife, the steel rusted and dulled with age, a chunk of plastic missing from the handle.

He asked again, this time menacingly, “Can I have some peaches, and I’ll take the bread, too.” He approached us slowly, his arms shaking with fear just as ours were. A pang of fear and hunger passed through my body up to my mind and, out of instinct, I grabbed Jae’s arm and pulled him behind me as I started to run. Stumbling behind in his frozen state of fear, Jae was caught, and the knife plunged through his back. Releasing a gasp of air, Jae screamed in pain, falling to the ground. Letting go of his arm, I ran down the dark alleyway. Looking back, I saw the life draining out of Jae’s eyes and the horror on the man’s face. The ragged boy stood behind him, crying and screaming, clenching his fists wanting to hold onto his father for comfort, but scared of him at the same time. I ran and ran and ran, tears streaming down my face; I ran until I didn’t know where I was. It felt as if the world had sped up and time was flying by. After I laid on the floor of an alleyway and exhausted my tears, I looked at the sun and decided to go back. Maybe Jae was still alive; maybe some nice person had stopped and helped him… maybe.

Looking around to get my bearings, I noticed that several hours were still left in the day. I followed the roar of the marketplace and found the alleyway. I stood staring at the dark pathway that led to Jae. Trembling with fear, I sluggishly approached the entrance and looked down the alley; Jae’s unresponsive eyes stared me down as I walked to his bloody side. Sitting next to his body, I gently closed his eyelids with my thumb and index finger, pulling the can of peaches out of my satchel and placing it next to his dead body.

47

Inside Jokes Author

Chase Honaker ’19

In the middle of a street, a group laughs uncontrollably, Like a pack of hyenas, arguing that Liebniz invented calculus with the help of Isaac Nootnoot While two elephants sat in a bathtub Saying, “No soap, radio.”

One of the men barked and demanded a belly rub While another yelled at those pesky kids, “Get off Milan!”

Some think this group of guys belongs in a mental asylum, Insane, and in need of immediate assistance and probably containment.

But they don’t understand.

How could they?

A hand reaches to the other side of the bottom While a voice argues that if a flower is a planet, Then so are pogo sticks, but if pogo sticks are planets, Then that same flower could never be a planet.

Troubled onlookers may feel an urge to call the police, Report the crazed people in front of them, They’ve probably even convinced themselves its for the good of the “insane” ones.

Yet their tirades continue, and they suddenly slouch way backwards While denying ever having eaten cereal from a cereal bowl.

Suddenly, they start taunting the crowd, Yelling, “Touch my butt!,” “Pofta Buna Baieti,” and “Buna Dimineata.”

Appalled by the ridiculousness of the scene, The onlookers pull out their phones, ready to call 911, When suddenly one of them remembers a fond memory And the whole group starts laughing about Mr. Turke.

Soon, another group of onlookers passes by and sees Not only one, but two groups of asylum escapees, Laughing at what seems like nonsense.

Laughing at an inside joke.

48

Artist

Romil Mathur ’20

Title

Balance

49

Staying Up Really, Really, Late Author

Ruoming Fan ’19

Title

Staying up Really, Really, Late

Where went you, Muse? To where have you resigned?

My mind and might, the mettle which I find Myself demanding in this intimate fight Fades. Both eyes droop to tempting pull of night, Seducing me to taste tonight’s delights: The wants, the needs, and hazards of the mind.

There comes a point when you don’t think in words.

Your ears will ring, your teeth will shake and sour, You’ll yawn a lot, then start to stop to yawn.

Your mind will grunt, your yawns—is that sunlight?

Oh grace, curse the assay! Curse the hour!

Curse the neighbor’s awoken dog! Curse the dawn!

Save me! Curse the rested, chirping blackbird.

Sorry. I digress. Do not fear my fright: Yeah, there came a point when I stopped thinking In words. Incoherent gobbledygook.

I still am thinking, but, like, in pictures.

I have thoughts, but they’re like a coloring book.

50

Artist

Benjamin Hao ’20

Title

Lights

51

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by senior Adnan Khan.

Artist

Adnan Khan ’19

Collection Title

Ascension

Pieces

635 to 75 Highway, pg. 52 Bus Station, pg. 54 Circuit Board Rooftop, pg. 56 Quadric Power Lines, pg. 57

Why is your art the way it is?

Medium

To me, the purpose of anything in life is to help us grow.

The purpose of my art is to help me grow. Whether it’s an abstract conceptual photo or a scenic asthetically pleasing one, there’s always something I can learn about my photo that helps me progress with my life. There’s no true strategy to my photos; often, I’ll take it in a very different direction than I first imagined. When I’m honest with myself and feel genuinely passionate about the photo, I produce my best work and grow.

Drone, Aerial Photography 52

Ascension 53

Artist

Adnan Khan ’19

Title

Bus Station

54

Days in The Park Aaron Weiser ’20

Author

teacher always gets mad but she gives him one of her extra pencils anyways. It’s always a bad one though because she only gives the good ones to people who help clean up after recess.”

“Do you help clean up after recess?” I asked, wondering what a good pencil looked like.

“Yeah, we get to stay outside for two extra minutes.

And sometimes, if we finish early, I like to look at the trees next to our swing set before we go inside. The leaves look like a bunch of little people waving hello!”

She smiled, and her upper body started imitating her legs. Her eyes moved up to the trees on the other side of the park, the one all the parents stood under, and mine followed.

“Heh, they really do!” I smiled without forcing it this time. “So are the smaller leaves the children of the bigger ones?” Some small kids were trying to jump up and hit the lowest clusters.

“Yeah, mm-hmm, and the different color ones are for when you have two different parents. Or like, when they aren’t from the same place.” She looked over to see if I understood.

I was staring at a small group of leaves near the bottom, and had stopped paying attention to what she was saying. I sensed her glance over at me, waiting for me to continue, but I didn’t look. I watched, intensely. Everything else in the park became faded out of sight, lost in the back of my mind.

A bigger kid came over and ripped the whole branch down. His parents yelled at him, but he ran away. It wasn’t his fault—breaking things was fun. I forced a smile and turned back to the girl. She was looking at the tree, wondering if I too had just finished cleaning something up.

“What are the animals then?” I struggled to ask.

“Like the birds and squirrels and bugs,” I wanted to know.

She had stopped kicking. “They’re what the little people are waving at, just for them to enjoy. Except for the bugs. They’re gross.”

How could I have included bugs I thought? Right as she finished, a voice from the bottom of the big slide yelled her name. She pushed both her hands against the bench and threw her feet to the concrete path a little ways away. She turned around and held her hand out to shake mine. I laughed and lifted my hand up to hers. She and the boy walked over to the tree together.

I looked past the girl, past the swing set, past the parents. I imagined all the animals passing by that tree and all the other trees like it, all the little people waving, and all the animals that weren’t greeted in the winter. I look down and smiled. I pushed off the bench, adjusted my tie, and headed home. Now I had something else to think about. Now I had a reason to enjoy my days in the park again.

ri C e se

”

“

“Hey, Mister,” a girl said.

She snapped me out of my daydream, which was good, I guess. Staring at the families strolling by usually made things worse; plus the sun always made me tired. I turned toward her, lifting my chest up and smiling, trying to seem a little more presentable. Her hair was brushed back tightly into a pony-tail, but most of the hairs had escaped and become frizzy, probably from playing in the heat all day.

“Hello,” I returned.

Some tension escaped her, like my response had assured her that I wasn’t dangerous. She sat down on the other side of the bench, touching it first to make sure it wasn’t too hot. She stayed fixated on me, scanning up and down like in the Nancy Drew books I still hadn’t let go. They were still on my bedside table, waiting to be used again.

“What’s with the tie, Mister?” she blurted out. I looked back at her.

“I have to wear it to work,” I said. I held the tie up, examining it with her. I hadn’t put much thought into my outfits recently.

“Why?” she asked, still in awe of the normal, grey patterns.

“Well, I don’t really know.” I laughed a little. “I guess it’s good to look nice around other people.”

“My mom says that I need to look nice before we leave the house, but I don’t like it.”

She looked proud of her wardrobe. It fit her. She looked in charge. Her entire outfit was purple except for a blue scrunchie peeking out from under her hair bow, but she didn’t seem to mind it.

“I’m sorry you don’t like that.” I didn’t know what to say, but talking was a nice change. “Is purple your favorite color?” I asked, hoping for an in-depth explanation.

She put her hands over her eyes, squinted, and looked out at the other kids on the playground. Her legs dangled just above the grass “No. It’s cerise,” she said nonchalantly, knowing that I didn’t understand what “cerise” meant. “But purple is pretty too,” she added. She sounded afraid to hurt my feelings.

I looked down, smiled, and waited for her to get up and leave. The bottoms of my pant legs were stained green—I hadn’t washed them for a couple of months.

My shoes were in a nicer condition than I imagined. Kids waited their turn for the swing set and slides, and every once in a while, parents glanced up, panning from side to side. The park didn’t use to feel that crowded.

“My name is Anne Louise, but my friends call me Anne,” she said decisively. Her rehearsed words made me smile.

“Nice to meet you, Anne.” Her legs started kicking back and forth. “I’m James.”

“There’s this kid in my class, his name is James too, and he always forgets to bring pencils to class so my

55

56

57

Artist

Collin Katz ’21

Title

Cathedral Rock 58

Author

Cristian Pereira ’21

Title

A Story about a Cricket

As the creeks runs slow, Pushing its way through an early spring collection of melting ice, a chirping cricket with a distant mind finds himself engulfed in rapids.

He squirms his legs and inches his body and finds himself edging towards the bank, whose flowers, yellow, pink, and purple, were starting to bloom.

What luck, for a tsunami of sporadic creek-water has thrown him over, and now the cricket is drying his wings.

From the sky he feels hunger overcome his instincts.

Lucky for him, he’s got the eye of a hawk, and spots a green, greener than grass.

A shadow creeps over its body, along its legs, still wet and yet it doesn’t matter.

A shiny beak clamps down and shuts.

It’s not enough.

A red-shouldered hawk needs more than that.

As a squirrel nears the ground it finds itself on a ride in the sky.

A good meal is never shared, so up the mountain the predator goes.

From yellow, pink, and purple, To white-covered green, it finds a spot.

Is it dead?

Its body sinks in the snow.

Its eyes are rolling back into its head.

A satisfied beak pecks at the brown fur; there’s a meal within.

The red-shouldered hawk finds himself at the end of the day in two different places.

First, in a dark, lifeless, cavity.

Second, on the whiskers of an old mountain cat.

59

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

Self

60

Suddenly Another casual conversation eclipsed by a fast approaching curfew Polite and cha os br ain n ot Aware what is going on because I am both afraid and confused.

I knew we were hit. The same explosion and ringing in my ears from a time before.

The orange striped shape swaddled in white gauze. The fear of the light that flashes at impact, the fear of the left lane, the frozen moment of hitting the broken prosecuted wall. The wall on death row, the replicable concrete depressed every night. A fear of blank stares and routine gestures. A fear of my calm collected nature, the fear of my fearless visage, of closed hands tightly gripping, holding on for balance, goggles of cause, shock. The impact of shock, the impenetrable invincible shield of denial. “I’m fine.”

I’m surrounded by suites dead eyes and kevlar press on my back “help her” I’m standing in the middle of a concrete gridiron I’m too afraid to speak at all My mind is wrapped in distressed film Low fidelity memories Sounds trapped by Philips light leaks framed by Muybridge an orange burst placed on the back of my eye lids by the Angel of Uncertainty.

Author

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

Suddenly

61

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by junior Benjamin Hao.

Artist

Benjamin Hao ’20

Collection Title

Form

Pieces

Clock, pg. 62 Bird, pg. 68 Egg, pg. 71

Why is your art the way it is?

Medium

My art highlights the form of the object. The lack of color and pointed focus on the subject really shows the innate beauty that it naturally has.

My art reflects how intriguing I find the glossedover things in life and figuring out why everything is what it is.

Photography 62

Form 63

Artist

Benjamin Hao ’20

Title

Bird

64

The Butterfly Author

Ruoming Fan ’19

Date

October 27th, 2018

Early decision college application deadline

November 1st, 2018

In a fit of frustration, My notebook of ideas Was ripped up and discarded Without ceremony Or any remorse whatsoever.

I knew her once But now no longer do.

Looking back at it, It was like tearing the wings off a butterfly.

65

There is no Peace in Quiet Author

Max Palys ’21

There is no peace in quiet just a reminder of times past dancing through the desert.

There is no silence in this sorrow for silence is a weapon that stabs the unwary and martyrs the innocent.

There is no love in this house just malice. love is merely ignored, frowning and alone.

There is no calm in this storm just a blustery squall headed by burgeoning belts of grey grapes sown with electric stinging stems.

There are no thorns in this rose but razor petals, lovers from afar, toxic to the touch.

66

Artist

Benjamin Hao ’20

Title

Egg

67

Artist

Matthew Coleman ’19

Title

Miscellaneous Sketchbook Pages

68

Artist

William Haga ’19

Title

Peculiar Balance

69

70

Title

Sun

I slake the fields of yarrow with an open, taciturn expanse of dawn: my tender rays—velour-tipped arrows—glancing low, slip slowly through the verdant blades; the slender, fervent shade of morn-aurora, pearly, hazy, perfect-laid atop the grass and stems. With heat, those earthen ways of early day I wake; that lazy, cozy mass of black I hem; that pitch I break; that flat and frozen sheet of dark I rend, I snap, I smelt; that night I end. The cockcrows that portend my rise now cease, I hear, the yapping of the shepherd-dogs now still. My birth complete, my infant light—I fill the earth.

Author

Jonah Simon ’19 71

On Adhering to the Form Author

The following pages constitute the cover story as well as a collection of pieces by senior Jonah Simon.

Jonah Simon ’19

Pieces

Sun, pg. 71 Elephant Man, pg. 75 Toothless, pg. 76 Lenny Bruce, pg. 77 Post Mortem, pg. 78 Storm on the Plain, pg. 79

Medium

Acting, Shakespearean Sonnets

72

Interviewer

Sai Thirunagari ’21

Subject

Jonah Simon ’19

“On the shores of Gitche Gumee, Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood Nokomis, the old woman, Pointing with her finger westward O’er the water pointing westward, To the purple clouds of sunset.”

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Song of Hiawatha: Hiawatha and the Pearl Feather With a few lines that he had to memorize in first grade from “The Song of Hiawatha” — still one of his favorite poems — senior Jonah Simon began his passion for the art of poetry. Having always had an affinity for language, Simon’s favorite subjects in school have always been English and Spanish.

“Poetry felt like a natural creative outlet for that love,” Simon said. “If words and language are the building blocks, then poetry is like architecture.

It’s the beautiful aspect of that sort of thing.”

In addition to the various ways he immerses himself in poetry, Simon acted in the St. Mark’s-Hockaday fall play.

Slicked back hair. A brown suit. A white apron.

As the curtains opened the first night, Oct. 26, the audience saw the butler cleaning a glass cup with a table napkin and confidently addressing the other characters with a heavy British accent. Simon convinced viewers he was the innocent Mr. Rogers in Agatha Christie’s murder mystery comedy And Then There Were None.

Simon sees poetry as a performance art, the “utmost expression of human emotion.” “[Poetry] is built on speech and language,” Simon said. “It’s meant to be spoken and meant to be shared. The best way to share it is to tell it, to read it, to say it. If you’ve ever seen a slam poet do what they do, it’s an art form unlike anything else. It’s performance, and it’s language, and it’s bombastic, and it’s beautiful.”

Simon is the annual emcee of “Poetry Out Loud,” a national recitation contest, held during Upper School assembly.

During this year’s competition, he introduced the contestants with poise and supplied the assembly with additional information about each student’s chosen poem— the profound way he analyzed significant verses each poem made his intellectual interest apparent — along with the occasional pun or joke.

For the past two years, Simon has participated in senior Ayush Saha’s Festival of Illustrated Literature, a charity event that matches poets and writers with artists. Simon is also the president of Poetry Club, which he joined his sophomore year.

In the club, students bring and read poems they have written or found. “[Poetry Club] is all about the analysis and discussion of poetry and the artistic word,” Simon said. “Sometimes we look at classic poetry, and other times we look at lyrics — a Kendrick Lamar song, or something like that. It’s really collaborative in the way we look at poetry.”

When the club members dissect a poem, they casually comment on the author, language, structure, and significance, speaking to a question or idea that’s arisen and exchanging feedback.

Simon sees poetry as a performance art, the “utmost expression of human emotion.”

73

Even though he has not submitted to official contests, Simon continually writes poems, having composed approximately 50 original pieces. He claims 15 to 20 of them are “pretty good” and five to 10 of them are “really good,” but he doesn’t think his poems are “good enough” for professional publications yet. However, he won a prize for his poetry in the Literary Festival Writing Contest.

Despite the classic stress of senior year — college applications looming, rigorous classes, and sleep-deprived weeks — Simon spends hours of his free time reading, writing, rewriting, editing and sharing poems with others for feedback. Every week, he makes an effort to read poems online, revisit classics on his bookshelf, or peruse new releases at bookstores.

“Reading poetry helps me learn how to think about the world, how to think about people, how to appreciate things,” Simon said. “See something and think about the ways in which it is beautiful, in which it is cruel, in which it is agonizing, in which it is clever.”

To begin a poem, Simon will write about a physical object, express a vague image or idea, build around a certain phrase or compose the beginning and middle based on a punchline at the end of the poem.

Although he spends a lot of time revising, Simon is never quite “finished” with a poem.

“It’s just sort of abandoned — you just think okay I’m not going to work on this anymore,” Simon said. “I almost never think this poem can’t be improved. Whenever I’m done working on a poem, I’m just done working on it.”

He enjoys toying with the way he can use words, whether it’s through a made-up vocabulary or a subtle metaphor. For example, littered with invented words like “frumious” and “vorpal,” Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” stands out to Simon. “[The poem] relies on the quality of those words — the sort of onomatopoeic effects that those words possess to paint the picture of this guy in this jungle with this monster,” Simon said.

When he writes a poem, Simon’s ultimate goal is to evoke an emotion that the reader hasn’t felt in a long time or hasn’t experienced in quite the same way.

“Whether that’s a happy feeling or sort of an uncomfortable thing, good poetry elicits some sort of response,” Simon said. “It can do that through really descriptive and beautiful language, a simple but very powerful image or something that’s seemingly innocuous but has a strangely personal effect.”

For Simon, writing poetry is a hobby that he wants to continue lifelong, and he encourages others to read and explore poetry even if they don’t consider themselves avid writers.

“Let some poetry into your life,” Simon said. “If you’ve ever heard a speech or watched a TV show that’s really tugged at your heartstrings, I guarantee there’s some poetry out there that’s going to do that in an even purer, stronger and more personal way. It can teach you to appreciate the little things that are a part of our world. I promise that you will be rewarded for it.”

Simon spends hours of his free time reading, writing, rewriting, editing and sharing poems with others for feedback.

74

Author

Jonah Simon ’21

Title

Elephant Man

Concerning the letter from Mrs. Leila Maturin, friend of Dr. Frederick Treves, to the latter’s most famous patient.

His head, too large to lie and rest for even wrinkles in a wretched night, reclined upon a stack of feathered mats, naïve–– to think a normal sleep would soothe the mind of such a beast. “the elephant,” they called him; christian name long-banished to the drawer beside his hospice bed, wherein (recalled the mangled soul, within whose mien there moored a heart intact, a psyche pure) a scrawled calligraphy there lay, an envelope whose tender, looping script he, if at all, would look upon alone. that maudlin hope to which he clung sustained his fallow years–– no rest, no love, no trunk to suit his ears.

75

Toothless Artist

Jonah Simon ’19 Unwittingly, I’d always subscribed to the notion that beauty is the goal; ignore it and become a pariah, an alien, a less-than.

According to that logic, I’m the less-than.

I’m less-than in number-of-teeth, sure, but that doesn’t make me any less deserving of the respect and estimation that society affords the beautiful. While I understand the appeal of chasing societal notions of beauty, I’ve been chasing something much more fulfilling: myself. That toothless smile, that blemished face––they aren’t “beautiful,” but they’re unabashedly me. When I finally get my permanent teeth, what I’ll be gaining in beauty, I’ll likely be losing in faithfulness to my true self.

I’ll never, though, lose sight of what I truly am: imperfect and proud of it.

So much of the image-obsessed mania a human presents to the world lay on a false foundation of suffering and snake oil: cover your unsightly birthmark, bleach your melanous skin, and, most importantly, straighten your teeth. I beg to differ––lack of flawless teeth isn’t a lack of taste, or of means, or of societal ineptitude. A lack of flawless teeth is a statement, and it goes like this: humanity is beautiful, warts and all, and to wish those imperfections away is to excise a bit of humanity itself. Within this humanity, I have found unmistakable, genuine beauty. In an eye twitch, in a port-wine stain, and in the most idiosyncratic of qualities there lies a beauty that no product or procedure could touch.

Soon, I’ll look in the mirror, curl my lips back, and gaze at them. I’ll be happy with my teeth, sure, but I can’t imagine I’d be less happy with the (albeit two fewer) teeth I have now.

Granted, I won’t be able to make it as a movie star, much less a role as Dracula, but at least I’d be 100% me, no false teeth added. I know this for sure: I’m human, and because of it, I’m beautiful––with canine teeth or without.

“Well, you’ll never be a vampire,” my dentist declared upon reviewing my newly minted X-ray.

“You’re missing your adult canines.”

“What do you mean, ‘missing?’” my mother, faithfully, demanded. A manicured smile means education and civilization, and no son of hers would be missing a tooth (let alone two) without further interrogation of the man who, judging by her tone, might as well have burgled the incisors himself.

The DDS, MVP of the 411, turned to face her. “I mean, they just aren’t there! It’s congenital––he was born without them. If he wants teeth, implants are the way to go. That, or dentures.”

Mom weighed the options. On one hand, dental work is an expensive undertaking, rife with tedium and hassle. On the other, though, consider the world in which we live: few aspects of life are more essential than image. To reject beauty is to renounce social standing; to remain canine-less is to say “sayonara” to normality; to come up short in the world’s aesthetic appraisal is to be held in cultural contempt of court.

I’m sure you can guess what my mother chose.

Over the course of years filled with all manner of dental theatrics (such as the introduction of a retainer, complete with plastic faux-canines, which granted me both a dreamboat smile and an unfortunate lisp), I’ve endured many a reassuring aide or earnest relative’s attempts at assuaging the fears I must have battled regularly, as if to say, “perhaps this saccharine banality about how ‘it’s not so bad’ will plant these teeth right in your jaw where the universe failed to sow them!” My oral odyssey has sown in me, though, more than a couple of enamel rocks designed to make me look purdy––it’s also sealed into my consciousness a chilling realization about my own relationship with beauty.

76

Artist

Matthew Coleman ’19

Title

Bone

Author

Jonah Simon ’21

Title

Lenny Bruce

with newports and dutch cleanser i will explicate the life and times of lenny bruce, comedian. he was, in all respects, an honest man: the son of migrant jews, he served a year in navy blue before returning to new york (where he was born) to try his hand at comedy, performing his “unnatural act” on stage. in forty-seven, brooklyn gigs paid plates of free spaghetti, all he had to feed his daughter (born by honey b, a stripper he had dearly loved). in sixty-six, in hollywood, he died. “my life,” he’d roughly slurred one night, “my second-best four-letter word.”

77

Artist

Nick Kowalske ’20

Title

Beach Church

Author

Jonah Simon ’21

Title

Post Mortem

At life’s conclusion lies a granite hunk That marks a man interred. His lowly flesh, Once bright and buoyant, now besotted, sunk Beneath the gray and wizened earth: soul threshed From man, the former, off in some translucent Paradise, the latter’s sorry shell Devoid of fire––extinguished by the noose Or bullet––glowering in hollow hell.

His poor condition, though, remains withheld From living eyes. A stone, rough-hewn with runes Of little import, hides away the swelled Remains; protects from blighted light of moon Those poor, poor bones. The grave, the man below: Two halves of death conjoined in wilted woe.

78

Author

Jonah Simon ’21

Title

Storm on The Plain

blinking shards above the heath and underneath a mass of muddled haze negotiate the way between. sharp cuts of thunder, huddled with their kindred bolts, approach the rime upon the earth, the chaparral. the heavens’ stroke, assured to clear the darkness from the turf, shall scorch the scurf and shall, without exemption, torch the brume and stark. a drumkit in the cheat grass, rolling, ripping air in twain, the gloom asunder torn convulses, thrashes––till the lightning, dipping sound in wan and pearly blaze, adorns the turbid scene in black and white: the dire and freezing storm, the dust, the fog, the fire.

Artist

Antonio Quinoñes ’21

Title

Cruise

79

Brighter Day Author

Tim Weigman ’21

The sun stoops low, the trees blot out the final rays of light. A frigid breeze and fog add to the haze of night. I cannot see the land, but hear the sea.

I hear the salty surge and daylight never comes.

I start to fight the urge To stay right here. The sun Seems far. But near, the ebb Has trapped me in its web.

The pressing journey calls me to the edge of land.

The crashing water falls like music on the sand.

The tide grabs on to me and pulls back out to sea.

The surge drags me below the surface. Though I try escaping it, I know its worthless. Still my eyes see black. The dark and deep propel me into sleep.

A bright ray hits my face, And light waves break my trance.

Now in a foreign place, I gaze at the expanse Of blue surrounding my tiny island in the sky.

I hope this message reaches beyond the blue and brine, to those on distant beaches whose light ceases to shine, to help show them the way into a brighter day.

80

Artist

Ayush Saha ’19

Title

Childhood Obsession

81

Artist

Ayush Saha ’19

Title

Blue Poppy pg. 82 (Top) Red Poppy pg. 82 (Bottom) White Rose pg. 83 (Top) Magnolia pg. 83 (Bottom)

82

83

Artist

Jerry Zhao ’21

Collection Title

Yunnan

Pieces

Living Alone, pg. 84 Head of the House, pg. 86 Daily Village Life, pg. 87 Fading Away, pg. 89

Medium

Photography

84

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by sophomore Jerry Zhao.

Yunnan 85

86

87

Author

Creston Brooks ’19

Title

Desert on an Overcast Evening

A blizzard canopy dances, evaporates, falls gently, Hanging in jagged, kaleidoscoping lull.

Melted nighttime over parched quiet.

Rolling sands tremble under vibrant winds: xanthic yellow zealots.

88

Artist

Jerry Zhao ’19

Title

Fading Away

89

Bittersweet Author

Nicholas Cerny ’21

After a long day of the academic grind, I arrive home, exhausted, craving an extended nap and a stress-free homework night. I finish my homework at 8:00, maybe 9:00, depending on whether I have activities after school or rehearsals in the evening. But my day is far from over – – I have yet to begin my practice. For two to three hours I become the slave of the violin; I bear the relentless tick—tock—tock—tock tick—tock—tock—tock tick—tock—tock—tock of the metronome until the repetitiveness drives me beyond my point of insanity. I trudge up the stairs, knees and shoulders aching from hours of standing in such an unnatural position and get ready for bed. I set my alarm for 5:45 a.m. for the following day, prepared to wake up and practice yet another hour of violin in the morning. I fall asleep immediately, groaning at the thought of waking up so early.

Eat. Sleep. Practice. Repeat. My daily routine, 24/7, 365 days a year.

So, are the aches, bruises, and tears worth it?

I remember hearing the violin for the first time—Jascha Heifetz playing Max Bruch's Violin Concerto in G minor. The sound distinctly spoke out to me: the crickle crackle of the LP recording, the luscious rich tone of the lower register, and the jolly high pitched, sprightly sound of the high register, filled with laughter and gaiety. Enamored by the sound, I asked for my first instrument at the age of five—a 1/16th size, smaller than a loaf of bread with a scratchy, coarse sound.

Despite loving the instrument, I despised practicing and could barely hold my attention span for fifteen minutes. Musicians strive for perfection, and by no means is it an attainable goal, even at the professional level.

Thus, emotions run high and tempers flare. It took over seven years before I found practicing a relatively enjoyable experience.

Despite this, I stuck with the instrument.

Music has such an alluring quality—the ability to seamlessly capture emotion and to express one's thoughts clearly. The violin has aided my growing up—the discipline of learning a musical instrument has translated into other academic and social areas. More importantly, music has allowed me to connect with other people across the globe through a common goal: to create beautiful art. I've come to realize that yes, the stress and the strain is worth it; in fact, it fuels my passion. As houses change, family members become deceased, and years pass by, my passion for music is resolute, ever unchanging.

Artist

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by junior Nicholas Cerny.

Nicholas Cerny ’20

Collection Title

Rehearsals

Pieces

Bittersweet, pg. 90 Miscellaneous Haikus, pg. 92 Rocking Chairs, pg. 94 Scintillating Strumming, pg. 95

Medium

Personal Essay, Haiku

90

Rehearsals 91

Miscellaneous Haikus # 1-5 Author

Nicholas Cerny ’21

Metronome blinking the endless concentration just a few more hours

Conductor waving Beethoven, Schumann, Mozart tempests of rich sound

In the giant hall the sounds venture far and wide bringers of calm bliss

Rehearsals, concerts the life of a musician busy as can be

Songs without a word, melody and harmony– a conversation

92

Artist

Charlie Hubbard ’19

Title

Hand 93

Rocking Chairs Author

Nicholas Cerny ’21

“Meaning came out of living. Meaning could come only from his choices and actions. Meaning was made not discovered. He saw that he alone could make Hawke’s death meaningful by choosing what Hawke had chosen, the company. The things he’d wanted before—power, prestige—now seemed empty, and their pursuit endless.”

—Karl Marlantes, Matterhorn charmed life, but I never really believed her.”

He spoke of the struggle he had, living in the deep South as a broad-minded, intelligent young man, and of being ostracized by his peers for his abhorrence of racial discrimination. In particular, he recounted the time when the University of Mississippi named him valedictorian of his graduating class but then “accidentally” left his name off the graduation program after several students complained to the Dean that he supported African-American causes. He told me about the difficult personalities he encountered while serving in the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, and later, when he was as a university professor, while living in fear of violence and tear gas attacks on the UC Berkeley campus during the Free Speech Movement.

He then went on to describe his positive life experiences, especially the international friendships and connections he had made over his years as a nuclear chemist and as a professor. He also described how fortunate he was to have had job stability, never having to leave Berkeley to progress in his career.

With a small nod, he acknowledged, “Maybe Mother was right, after all.”

My grandfather’s facial expression had relaxed: his typical furrowed brow eased gradually, and his serious expression transformed quickly into a distinct whisper of a smile. Releasing the tension in his arms and legs, he sunk into his chair, allowing the sturdy oak legs to bear the entirety of his weight. He breathed slowly and steadily through his nose, matching his respiration pattern to the rhythm of the rocking of his chair. He lay motionless, soaking in his surroundings with fresh eyes and with an optimistic perspective. The opportunity to reflect and to share his life experience with me had helped my grandfather create new meaning in his life. Over the two months I spent with living with him, we rocked in those same oak chairs every summer night, and as he shared deep memories, we developed a close bond that has served to create more meaning in both of our lives.

We sat in the oak chairs of the sunroom of 860 Keeler Avenue, gazing at the awe-inspiring San Francisco skyline in the distance. The color of the San Francisco Bay shone a brilliant magenta, an unusual effect of the extraordinary blood orange sunset that day. His face displayed a mixture of emotions, diverse in appearance like colors popping from the easel of a Jackson Pollock painting. He spoke with tranquil confidence, sipping his evening coffee with a dash of lukewarm milk, the combination a product of years of experience as an avid coffee enthusiast. Making sure not to spill a single drop on his starched, crisp blue shirt, he rocked his chair back and forward to the rhythm of the wind buffeting the tall redwood trees. As the sun melted into the horizon, his ocean-blue eyes glistened, and he spoke with deliberate contemplation.

He mused on his fear of sudden death and on his fear of the unknown, but most of all, he remarked that his fear of dying without having made a meaningful contribution to the world transcended all his other worries and concerns.

My grandfather and I had just watched The Seventh Seal together, a movie in which the protagonist, Antonius Block, a knight who participates in the Crusades, arrives back to his homeland, only to find that the bubonic plague has eradicated most of the population. Block soon meets Death on the beach and is devastated: he understands that Death’s visit means his time on Earth must be coming to end. Block realizes that the Crusades have made him miserable and that the campaigns he endured inhibited him from making his life meaningful; thus, he challenges Death to a game of chess. While he knows that he will surely lose, he uses the game as a way to search for a way to make a meaningful contribution to his community. In the process of the chess match, he distracts Death, thereby allowing the people of his homeland to escape persecution and the plague.

I asked him, “How are you gonna know that, before you die, you’ll’ve lived a meaningful, fulfilling life?”

He pondered for a moment, and then spoke: “You know, Nicholas, my mother always said that I lived a

94

Scintillating Strumming Author

Nicholas Cerny ’21

“So, who here is willing to try?”

The Sammons Center orchestral hall — filled with one hundred twelve typically loquacious high schoolers — fell silent, until only the obnoxious revving of motorcycles belting down Harry Hines Freeway could be heard in the distance. Not a single student raised a hand; many actually averted their gaze from the conductor’s podium, fearing that their eye contact would indicate an ounce of inclination. Finally, after seemingly endless silence, I slowly raised my hand in trepidation; little did I know that with that one hesitant motion, I had committed myself to a unique challenge.

I had recently been selected to participate as a first violinist in the Greater Dallas Youth Orchestra, and our first concert consisted of a vast repertoire from all different eras of classical music. The GDYO was preparing to play Feste Romane, the magnum opus of the Italian composer Otterino Respighi. The symphonic poem called for an unusual instrumentation; most notably, Respighi incorporated an exposed solo in the third movement for classical mandolin to represent the love serenades of ancient Rome. After no one had dared to attempt to learn a new instrument in under three weeks, I had volunteered not only to learn how to play the mandolin but also to learn the fiendishly difficult piece of orientalstyle music.

Within two days, I had received the fabled instrument on loan; made from smooth oak and ebony and stored in a beautifully shaped leather case, the mandolin was intricately carved with designs from the Baroque era. Unlike the violin, this mandolin had eight strings, each to be plucked and strummed with a triangular pick the size of an American quarter. With nothing more than a few demonstration videos I found online, I eagerly began to learn the finger placement and strumming technique.

Within the next week, I met with Tom Deemer, a Dallas Symphony Orchestra violist who happened to have recorded the same mandolin solo with the DSO in 1977. He provided insightful feedback regarding efficient tone production and clean strumming technique. At the end of our lesson, he remarked, “the mandolin is an extremely special instrument, and unfortunately it’s rarely played today. I’m delighted you decided to pick it up.”

Before long, the much-anticipated concert day arrived. Sweating through my concert attire, I approached the concert stage with clammy, cold hands. In spite of my nerves, I maintained a tranquil demeanor, allowing my three weeks of diligent practice to result in a successful performance. As the audience of families and children applauded, I felt an overwhelming sense of exuberance and pride. I had challenged myself to learn a completely foreign instrument in less than three weeks and had successfully executed such a seemingly impossible task. To this day, the experience has been the highlight of my career as a musician. I’d like to pursue new interests and experiences outside of my comfort zone, and my experience learning the mandolin showed me I can do that.

95

Author

Paul Sullivan ’20

Title

Personal Essay “He knew that all of them were shadows: the chanters, the dead, the living. All shadows, moving across this landscape of mountains and valleys, changing the pattern of things as they moved but leaving nothing changed when they left. Only the shadows themselves could change.”

—Karl Marlantes, Matterhorn We all shared in the collective misery before the moose went its way and we went ours. By the end of the day, I realized that we did not have the world in our grasp, but rather that we were subject to the world’s every whim.

Days nine, ten, eleven and twelve were extremely humid, and that means mosquitoes. Each night in the tent I applied a more than liberal amount of “Afterbite”(antiitch ointment) to my skin to counter the brutal bites that my skin had sustained during the day. Then, as the itch of my bites soothed, I was able to think about what I could possibly do to make my camping experience a better one. On day twelve, it finally crossed my mind that the only way to survive nature would be to “roll with the punches” rather than to confront nature with an adversarial attitude. The days started to pass faster after that, and the day to hike Mount Katahdin soon came upon us. Waking up at 3:30 a.m to get to the peak in time, we were excited. We marched up the mountain in five hours, and at the top of Mount Katahdin, the view was beautiful. Looking at the magnificent landscape all around us, I realized that we could never conquer the trail, and if anything, the trail had conquered us in that it changed our attitude from that of dominating nature, something that could never be truly dominated in the first place, to that of co-existing and preserving it. I realized that the wildness of nature could never truly change (especially the Appalachian Trail, since it’s protected), but the people who walk through could and would change. As I gazed, I thought of how I would be indelibly changed, how I would be more flexible and adaptable to whatever pops up my way, whether storms in nature or to the sudden pop quizzes in school.

I then thought that I had probably had the capacity for adaptability my whole life, but that going through the crucible that was the Appalachian Trail helped to reveal an aspect of my inner self that had been lost in the construct of society. On the bus ride home, I could hardly feel the sudden lurches as I contemplated the idea that of the thousands of people who pass through the Appalachian Trail every year, all of them pass like shadows through the trees, the rivers, and the lakes, which inspire change in the shadows but are incapable of receiving change in return, causing the shadows to flicker and changing themselves, but never affecting the landscape.

The bus lurched back and forth over the barely trodden road. As the vehicle slowly came to stop at our destination, I carried within me numerous emotions.

The most significant was an overwhelming urge to dominate the challenge my buddies and I had been sent out to accomplish: hiking 200 miles of the Appalachian trail in 22 days. In the back of all of our minds, we were thinking about the pinnacle of the trip, hiking Mount Katahdin, the tallest mountain in Maine, but it seemed so far away in mileage that we put it out of our minds. My first step off the bus was an enthusiastic one, and it would be the first step of many with a 50-pound backpack perched on top of my soon-to-be raw shoulders. The hike to the first campsite was only four miles, and because it was so easy, I expected the rest of the trip to follow suit. But that was not the case, as the next couple of days increased significantly in difficulty. On day four, we woke up at 6:00 a.m. and then hiked continually up and down, through mountains and valleys, for seemingly an eternity. By the end of the day, we totaled fourteen miles, and by the time we finally got into camp at 6:30 p.m. and set up, I had lost all motor function in my knees and was reduced to miserably shuffling around camp. It was at that moment that I began to hold a sliver of doubt in my tummy as I started to think about how much power humans really had when away from civilization. The next couple of days were a little easier, but on day eight, our luck turned bad again as we woke up to the soft pitter-patter of rain.

At first I was enjoying the pleasant ambient noise, but I soon realized that if the rain did not stop, we would be forced to hike ten miles through awful weather. So what was first a pleasant reverie turned into a frantic prayer that the rain would stop. Unfortunately, God was nowhere to be seen that day as we packed up and set off on our trek. My rain jacket was useless, as it quickly soaked through and became drenched inside and out.

Even my waterproof boots became wet somehow; each step I took swirled cold water between my toes and made a characteristic “squish” sound. I proceeded to trudge along the trail unhappily with my head down for a couple of hours until the person in front of me stopped. I looked up. The path was blocked by a fully grown sevenfoot-tall moose. We stood our ground, and the moose stood his, with none of us being where we wanted to be.

96

Artist

Blake Broom ’21

Title

Earth 97

Artist

Mustafa Latif ’21

Title

Rocket Man (Clay)

98

Artist

JD McClain ’20

Title

Space Ware

Process

Throw the forms, Trim Attach extra clay Carve Slip and Underglaze Fire Glaze

99

Artist

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by senior Michael Then.

Michael Then ’19

Collection Title

Smiski Figure Investigation

Smiski Figure

Curious little creatures that love hiding in small spaces and corners of your room

Pieces

Talk, pg. 100 (Poplar Beach Plywood) Safe, pg. 102 (Plywood) Alone, pg. 103 (Plywood)

Medium

Sculpture, Mixed Materials 100

Smiski Figure Investigation 101

102

103

Kingfisher Author

Max Palys ’21

Title

Kingfisher

I pity the unwary swimming below twitching with abandon unknowing of the ruler up above on his oaken throne.

The pond is his kingdom, the branch his keep, from which he rules the waters deep.

Draped in robes of myriad tones he sits quietly, regally, alone.

Upon his breast lies a sunlit shirt woven of the finest thread as fine as the feathers upon his brow deep indigo hues mirror his hunting ground but he needs no hound to catch his prey.

His royal sword has no sheath but its crimson is sharp as any.

A solemn statue now, his precise eye spots a perch and he glides drawn into flight a spring uncoiled wings slicing water and air alike.

Primal, graceful, dangerous a tyrant without knowledge of regicide he emerges in triumph shaking off freshwater blood the Perch limp caught between the jaws of the victor Glorious in spoils he returns to his sacred seat satisfied with his skill.

104

Artist

Ryan McCord ’20

Title

One

105

106

Artist

Matthew Ho ’21 107

A Dance on Ice

The following pages constitute a story on the figure skating endeavors of sophomore Matthew Ho.

Artist

Matthew Ho ’21

Medium

Figure Skating

108

Interviewer

Siddhartha Sinha ’21

Subject

Matthew Ho ’21

It’s been a few weeks coming. The emails, back and forth between Matthew Ho and I, scheduling an interview, have just been a series of conflicting times, pointing to both of our busy Upper School schedules, mainly his. Balancing violin, figure skating, and courses normal sophomores take junior year, I’m shocked he had the time to sit down.

But it’s finally lined up. Fresh from his national competition in Detroit, Matthew has a little bit of time to unwind and open his doors to us.

We’re at the library. Brick exterior. Carpet interior. Passing through the double doors, covered by the seemingly embedded “No food or drinks in the Green Library” sign, I see him at a table upstairs. It’s the table in the corner above the reference books.

Normally, the kids who play games on their laptops sit up there because it’s as far as they can get from the circulation desk downstairs.

But this is a quiet time. Ninth period. There’s hardly anybody in the library, and the people who are in here are trying to get as much homework done as possible. With a quiet, “Hey, how’s it going” and a couple of pleasantries, we sit down across from one another in a couple of chairs, ready to dive into the questions. *** “I didn’t like heat, and in Texas, it gets really hot, so I figured figure skating was a good alternative to that.”

Matthew started figure skating before hitting double digits. When his mom took him to the Galleria to go shopping, she dropped him off at the mall’s trademark ice rink. For an hour or two, he would get a pair of junior-sized skates from the rental and join the mob of kids his age, tripping and floundering their way around the rink.

Already learning piano and violin at the time, Matthew didn’t really see

Three to five times a week, Matthew gets in a car right as the chapel bells signal the end of eighth period at 3:05 and drives half an hour to practice.

109

figure skating in his future as a passion, and neither did his parents. “They didn’t expect me to pursue it to this extent,” Matthew said. “They thought I’d quit in middle school or something like that.” But Matthew just kept going, from tripping in the Galleria to twirling high in the air.

“To me, it’s a little more complex. I guess you get used to spinning more than people think once you spend enough time.”

Ever since Matthew picked up figure skating as a real extracurricular, he’s been going to local rinks in the Metroplex, namely the Dr. Pepper Center in nearby Farmers Branch. Three to five times a week, Matthew gets in a car right as the chapel bells signal the end of eighth period at 3:05 and drives half an hour to practice.

Navigating the rush hour traffic on Interstate-635 West, Matthew warms up off the ice, practices for about two-and-a-half hours, and cools down before heading home, a twenty-minute drive north.

By the time he gets home, it’s already 6:30, the same time most of the other kids playing school sports get home and begin their nightly marathon, but it’s all worth it because figure skating has taught Matthew lessons he never could have learned elsewhere while also complementing his other interest, violin.

“It’s a constant challenge to yourself. That’s what inspires me. I also play the violin, and to be able to express the music factors into the ways I push myself and challenge myself all the time. That’s what motivates me.”

At this point, Matthew’s at a stage where he is opening the numerous doors of figure skating to reveal new moves, new techniques, and new routines. In his mind, Matthew finds himself undergoing a gradual transition.

Where he used to be content, he’s now hungry. Once he’s accomplished something, he’s thinking “Wow, I can do this. Why don’t I try more? Can I do that?”

And it’s this hunger, this passion, this child-like enthusiasm about discovery that pushed Matthew to Nationals this year, where he had one of the best experiences of his life. He doesn’t have a specific favorite memory.

A first jump, an amazing landing, nothing like that, but Nationals, in his words, is as close as it gets. “It was my first time at Nationals, and just being in that environment with so many other people that good was inspiring.” *** “In the past, I know my ankles were slightly weaker, and they started to do things they weren’t supposed to do. The other parts of your body have to take more than they should.”

It hasn’t been all smooth sailing for Matthew since he took up figure skating. Coping with the demands of Upper School, Matthew found himself frustrated with his inability to compete at the same level as the stereotypical homeschooled kids who spend nearly five times the amount of time he does at the rink. It was a burnout, a collapse, a realization waiting to be made.

“I’m at this point in my life where school definitely still comes first,” Matthew said. “It’s school, then music because I also do quite a bit of violin outside of school.. Then, skating. That’s the difference between me and other skaters because a lot of the other skaters put skating first. They’ll sacrifice school and just homeschool, go to other schools that shorten the school day. I have other priorities I’m trying to deal with, so it’s been a process of trying to have a training regimen that works and also have coaches who are understanding of that process. It’s not easy, realizing you’re already at a disadvantage.”

For Matthew, who has consistently been at the top of his class in

The other parts of your body have to take more than they should.

110

111

Artist

Austin Nadalini ’19

Title

Waves

112

school, who has performed at Carnegie Hall in New York City, who has won violin competition after violin competition, understanding how to lose was the biggest challenge he faced. Losing solo competition after solo competition, his expectation of success ate into Matthew, and he needed a reset.

That reset? A change in mindset. “I was so sick and tired. I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that other people were going to beat me. What brought me back is figuring out how to try my hardest and live with the results.”

Returning to training, Matthew found himself rejuvenated mentally, and even though the physical tolls kept piling up, he dealt with them as speed bumps, not walls like before. “Coming to terms with the fact that pain is only temporary, that I can train through it, that lets me push myself and realize the pain goes away.” Like Matthew said. Just keep skating.

Also picking up skating in pairs, Matthew is at a stage where he’s having more fun with figure skating because “it brings someone else who is working as hard as you.”

Depending on someone else and having someone depend on him, Matthew enjoys the teamwork of pairs skating, especially the adrenaline of a perfectly executed lift and throw. “If you take the right training, if you do what you need to do, it’s not too bad. Some people think lifts and throws are super scary. It’s not a huge amount of risk. In my own experience, that hasn’t been too dangerous.”

For Matthew, figure skating has been a sport.

“It does require physical fitness.” His favorite example of figure skating’s defense as a sport is a meme he found online. With a grin surfacing, Matthew recollects, “The girl is up in the air, and the guy is ready to catch her, and it says something like, ‘Hmm, you guys catch footballs. How cute.’”

Returning to his standard expression of seriousness, Matthew continues, “I think that shows it’s definitely a sport, but there’s also an art component.

That’s the whole concept with the scoring. There are two guidelines, one for sports and one for aesthetics. Skating is a blend of both. It’s where they come together. That’s what’s so interesting about being able to put all those different things into a two-minute program. I realize it’s a lesser-known sport. It’s not commonly done, but still seeing the value in it is something I hope the St. Mark’s community can see through my experiences.”

Now training with “Coach Natalia,” who competed for the Russian National Team at the Olympics, Matthew has found the right balance of competition and acceptance, and he doesn’t plan to leave figure skating anytime soon, purely because of its significance and symbolism in to his life.

“It’s represented a lot of stuff I had to get over, to overcome,” Matthew said, his voice speeding up with enthusiasm. “I’m not the child who starts when he’s young and is told by everybody that he has so much talent. I’m not the child who becomes one of those great skaters. I’ve been one of those kids on the side falling over. One of those kids who’s been a little slower learning things. But because I’ve had the persistence, because I’ve put in the work, I’ve been able to keep it up and get to a competitive level.”

But even if that competitive level isn’t kind to Matthew, even if that work doesn’t yield victory, even if that persistence doesn’t bear fruit, he has one rule to lean on. Just keep skating.

There are two guidelines, one for sports and one for aesthetics.

Skating is a blend of both.

113

Artist

Kyle Smith ’19

Title

Red Hand

114

Tweed’s Hands Author

Andy Crowe ’19

Title

Tweed’s Hands

Tweed’s hands quickly felt around the room Everywhere he turned he was aggressively met Some antique clock or a piece of art stared back at him They dared him to pick them up You wouldn’t dare…I belong here The statues and lamps, the books and side tables, the chests and vases They had all learned long ago Stand up straight, look in his eyes, be unapologetic This is our room, he chooses to be in our room Tweed tripped over a stool and woke the others up They began moving around him A pack of wolves circling the entrapped hunter I too couldn’t move around much But my mind was free I didn’t see a mother in that stained mirror, a brother on the vintage bike “Why don’t you just get rid of it all?”

Tweed turned and looked up at me He seemed hurt “I have to take care of it. It’s all I have.”

115

Crown Vic Sam Goldfarb ’20

Author

Toyota Prius — A pathetically underpowered, oh-wow-look-at-mesaving-the-planet Japanese hybrid.

Honda Odyssey — the ultimate soccer mom mobile.

My pick — none of the above.

The two options sitting in the garage as my 16th birthday, my driver’s license, comes closer and closer.

Prius or the van? The guys will run me over in their lifted Jeeps if I roll up in the Prius.

My sister even named it Chad. We were going to get some dinner, Italian or something, Paesanos (may it rest in peace, the place has burned down since) maybe, and she asked my parents, “Are we taking Chad?”

Chad? Who the hell was Chad?

Then the realization set in.

Oh dear God she named the Prius Chad. I am not about to drive a Prius that my sister named Chad. I’d rather walk. Sorry Chad. …

But I make a list anyway. A wish list.

A Youtube-channels-and-Jalopnik-car-blogs-inspired list. Japanese pocket rocket Miatas and Mazdaspeed 3s. Older muscley ’90s Mustangs and Camaros. Sporty sedan BMW E33s and Audi S4s.

My pipe dream collection. But it’s all academic…

Until we realize we need a third car.

My sister’s set to be at school over the summer, my dad’s busy at work, and I’m starting to lifeguard.

Extra set of wheels — beyond necessary.

My dad and I (well, mostly my dad, since he controls the funding) are Craigslist auction site machines, prowling for new wheels every night after dinner.

My wants are irrelevant — and my dad loves to remind me. He humors me, showing me Mustangs and Corvettes and classic Porsches.

We both want a 70s 911, with the whale tail spoiler. It’s red. It’s sexy. It’s oh-so-German.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

My Golf GTIs fall by the wayside. Altimas, Camrys, and Suburbans fill our open tabs in Chrome. The most boring cars imaginable.

A few times a week, we see something that might be nice. A Legacy with a 2.4 liter— but it’s way overpriced. A Jeep Cherokee— but a rebuilt title. A 70s Jaguar — but it’s rusting. Mazda RX-8, but the transmission’s blown. Mazdaspeed 6! It was actually on my list— but bald tires. And in Euless. No way we’re driving home from Euless on bald tires.

So many reasons why not; never enough reasons why. ...

I’m checking my texts during lunch, standard operating procedure. My dad sends me more links to car sites of varying degrees of credibility.

The usual crop of Buicks and Nissans, a GMC 1500 SUV from

My Golf GTIs fall by the wayside.

Altimas, Camrys, and Suburbans fill our open tabs in Chrome.

The most boring cars imaginable.

116

1980something. Cool. Whatever.

“Look at the last one” slides into the conversation. I tap the link.

“Okay, neat. Another Crown Vic. Low enough miles. Looks nice.”

I pause for a moment.

“The auction is already over, though.”

“Look at the owner…” my dad replies.

No way. No effing way. BAMSG. The family acronym. My dad’s account.

It’s ours. The Vic is ours. The Vic is mine?!

NEXT A 2006 Crown Victoria Police Interceptor, Performance White paint.

So many questions.

Since when were we (well, my dad) actually bidding on these things?

Does it start? Does it have a back seat? Does it have the bulletproof Kevlar doors?

WAIT. Why would I even need bulletproof Kevlar doors?

Artist

Wyatt Awtrey ’20

Title

Coast of Lake Cypress Spring

Because they’re cool, that’s why. And you can say you have bulletproof doors. Duh. Cruise control? Two valve or three valve engine? How many miles again? 136k? Wow. Not bad. When will we pick it up? Or will they deliver her? Wowowow it’s a Crown Vic. A bona-fide Fort Worth PD Interceptor. My Interceptor.

When can I drive her? ...

Two Fridays later, most of my questions are answered. My dad picks her up.

She runs fine, great actually. No bulletproof doors. Has a plugged hole in the roof and three in the trunk where antennas used to be.

It rains on Saturday. The trunk isn’t watertight. Gotta get a new trunk or plug the holes somehow. We’ll get to that.

117

Sticker goop all over the sides of the poor girl. Should be an easy fix, but we gotta find the time. We’ll get to that.

The rear door locks don’t work, and there’s no door panels with handles and all that. Just smooth, flat sheet metal.

Makes sense — don’t need your rear passenger in a cop car opening the door. We’ll need to find new panels or replace the doors entirely.

Rims could use a respray. Gotta get the car up on a jack, take off the wheels and mask the tires. We’ll get to that.

Front bumper is hanging a bit. The supports are damaged. Be a bit of a pain in the ass to fix. We’ll get to that.

Big hole in the front dash panel where the cup holders should be, wires dangling inside. Cops put a radio cage there. Gotta find the new part. We’ll get to that.

I want a cold air intake. More vroom. More power. A Bluetooth radio

Artist

Wyatt Awtrey ’20

Title

Sunset Landscape

would be nice too. We’ll get to that. Maybe.

The goop was indeed an easy fix. Credit cards, WD-40, and patience took care of that problem.

The trunk, door panels, cupholder assembly will prove to be a whole nother problem. A trip to a junkyard in Grand Prairie sort of problem.

NEXT Tools. All the tools. An enormous plastic bin of all the tools. Into the trunk of the van.

Rear seats down, we’re gonna need all the room we can get.

I’ve got water polo games at three in Irving, an hour from the junkyard, itself 45 minutes away from my house. Let’s get a move on.

Highway driving. Texas is ugly. Safari. Check the wreck’s VIN number.

It’s Performance White. 2007. The parts should match.

118

Finally, we pulled in.

Parking? An unmarked patch of gravel. Transmissions piled high over there. Rear axles, differentials there. Exhaust pipes and mufflers there. No one’s speaking English.

This place is a dump. Well… it’s a junkyard.

Time to dive in. ...

It’s 95 out, and humid.

The yard is a mud pit. A shoe-sucking, evil-smelling, step-slowing mud pit.

There’s sad-eyed doggies running around lapping up the mudwater.

Poor pups. I would pet them but I don’t want the fleas.

And the wreck isn’t Performance White. It’s close, but more matte.

Screw you, Whatever County Police Department, for repainting your fleet. The interior matches, at least. That luxurious sun-faded, cigarettesmoke-stained gray.

Pull the trunk off. It’s not moving. Why isn’t it moving! A string of expletives. We can ask them to pull it. Costs extra. Damn. But it’s so hot out.

What about the doors? Just the panels? Take the whole door? Take the whole door. We don’t know if ours are missing the internals.

Cut the wires. Take the ratchet. God it’s hot. Balance the falling door on the random tire we found so it doesn’t get caught in the sludge.

It’s heavy. Must be bulletproofing on this one.

It’s heavy. It’s hot. It’s muddy. It’s still attached to the car. And it’s only one of two. We still have to carry them over to the front office.

Oh no.

I still have games in three hours.

Fifteen filthy minutes later, we have the doors at the office. Still have to get them into the van. That’ll be another battle.

Interior. Grab the cup holder assembly. Easy pull. Get the tabs under the dash with a flathead screwdriver.

I want a new backseat. Our backseat is ripped. This one is… ooooh, it’s in mint condition. Not a mark on it. The back seat is of utmost importance for any occasion.

Dad’s overheating. If I want the backseat, I can pull it myself.

I pull it myself.

Grab that dash trim piece too, just in case.

One hell of a day of picking.. and we haven’t even put anything on the Interceptor yet.

NEXT I’ve driven the car maybe twice, three times since we finished working on it.

It’s all been the build.

The door panel swap took a day or two.

The trunk swap a good chunk of another day, but wiring up the cigarette lighter in the cupholder tray thing took forever. Sweating in the young summer’s heat on the stubby concrete driveway behind the garage.

The connectors weren’t the same. Why would Ford change the perfectly good connectors from one year to the next?

Just to mess with me. That’s why.

But she’s done, mostly. The doors all work. My friends can get in and out normally.

The windows roll down and up. The back seat looks great and ready for action. The trunk is no longer holey, but it doesn’t match the rest of my car.

Unholy indeed, the profane, godless not-Performance matte white. It’s already splintering off.

Tapedeck-to-aux adapter works well enough, though the connection is questionable at best. The radio isn’t bolted into the dash. Neat… I guess.

Slides right out.

Stereo actually isn’t terrible. Neat, for sure.

We got her registered. The plate reads DBY. Debby’s finally ready. Ready to drive.

And she drives like a dream.

The V8 has power. This thing goes. I could’ve been driving a Prius named CHAD. Instead, I have 250ish horsepower and power delivery I feel in my hips that comes from rear wheel drive.

I have spotlamps over my mirrors that work. I blind my friends when

Why would Ford change the perfectly good connectors from one year to the next?

Just to mess with me. That’s why.

119

I go to pick them up. They hate me a little for it, but they’re supportive enough to understand how much I love this car.

I have freedom. I can drive where I want and when, within reason.

Always have to check in with my parents, but I can stay late at my friends’ houses or leave early from tutoring or meetings when I need to.

I have seat covers, an Febreze air freshener clipped to the passengercenter AC vent, a 20 dollar center console from Walmart with a joke of a lock. Gotta have the cupholders.

Whatever works, you know?

I have abysmal gas mileage, 18 per gallon if I’m lucky. In the summer, running the air conditioning, I shoot for 16.

I have one rim that’s mismatched, fewer oval cutouts than all the rest.

I have lots of room in the backseat. Even more in the trunk.

I have growly exhaust.

I have vrooooom.

I have a car.

NEXT Debby and I have grown pretty tight. It’s crazy to think, but my car has borne witness to so much of my life.

Hanging my head after a failed Sutcliffe test or a blown promotion or a lost game.

Pounding the steering wheel and doors in anger and frustration at my parents, at myself, at my superiors and subordinates and coaches and teammates and editors.

But mostly myself.

Getting in the passenger seat to a confused, upset, occasionally angry father when I’ve messed up, gotten in trouble, and lost my privilege to drive.

But there’s also feeling the thrumming idle sitting in rush hour traffic on the way home.

Enjoying the cool evening breeze and Billy Joel on an empty-road Sunday-night trip home after a long day out with the guys playing Ultimate Frisbee.

Laughing with that pretty girl I’ll never be able to get with on the way to a concert in Deep Ellum.

Blasting up to 110 on the highway when no one’s on the road. 110!

Wow. that was fast. Never again. And Debby would’ve kept pulling, but she’s got bigger balls than I do.

4.6 liters of Ford Modular balls.

Debby’s a silent, loyal witness to my life and an extension of who I am.

She’s function over form, a mindset I’ve tried to embrace my whole life.

Forget the big brands, forget the trends. The car goes like hell and does all I need it to and more.

I take some ribbing about it. At a private school like this one, some students could buy eighty battered Interceptors interceptors to their one GT3 RS. No, she’s not so fancy, I know. No, she’s not as beautiful (or quick, I hate to admit) as your Lexus or Bimmer.yuum But my solace is beautiful and simple and perhaps just a touch irrational.

I don’t care. I love my car.

NEXT I’m running a bit late to school. 7:57. Pulling into the lot. First period journalism starts at eight.

All the spaces taken. Expletives. Driving up and down the rows.

7:58. Wait! There’s one. But it’s tight, my buddy’s Suburban on the left and not my buddy’s Audi Qsomething (ew) on the right. Gotta make this quick, but gotta be careful.

Slow down. Cut the wheel all the way. Keep cranking.

Am I gonna make it? I’m not so sure…

7:59.

I think I’ll make it.

Thump.

Oh. my. god. What! Have! I! DONE! Stop the car. Get out of the car. Check for damage. Is the Suburban okay? Hah, stupid question. The tank-bus Suburban couldn’t care less about the tap from the Vic. A fly landing on the bumper would’ve done more damage.

Oh. my. god. What!

Have! I! DONE! Stop the car. Get out of the car.

Check for damage.

Is the Suburban okay?

120

Check Debby. Is she okay? She looks okay. She’s fine. It’s fine. Crisis averted. Phew. No need to tell my parents, since nothing was damaged.

Everything’s good.

Park and sprint to class. I’m already rehearsing in my mind: Sorry Mr. Westbrook, I was just doing this thing, and traffic was really crazy today...

Thank God he doesn’t do tardies. If this was Spanish, I would’ve been dead meat. …

My dad and I go to work on the car a few weeks later. He sees then what I didn’t see before: the dent in my license plate and its holder, the splintering of the Performance White paint around it.

“What’s this, son?” he asks, not really upset.

Yikes. I don’t know how I did that. I’m really not sure. I’ve scraped it on the curb a bunch, but that wouldn’t have done so much.

“C’mon, son, just tell me what you hit.” I’m screwed. I really don’t remember.

“I really don’t remember!” I heatedly shoot back.

Now he’s angry. He thinks I’m lying. I’m racking my brain, trying to remember what I did. With a sinking feeling, I remember my buddy’s Suburban.

“I’m not lying! I really didn’t hit anything!”

Why did I double down? Why was I an absolute idiot? I still don’t know.

We’re at odds for two weeks. I’m not allowed to drive. I can’t use my computer. I absolutely can’t swallow my pride and admit that I lied. And that I hit someone.

But now it’s mostly that I lied.

Eventually I come clean. We argue again. I get the car back after a few days.

The front license plate is dented across the D in DBY. Debby’s name, my car’s name, my name. Dented.

I’m still trying to hammer out the damage.

NEXT There’s so much left on the to-do list.

Rims still need a respray.

Front bumper is hanging even worse.

Cold air intake hasn’t materialized.

Hole in the roof not fully patched.

The trunk still leaks.

The tapedeck-aux connection is even more staticky. No bluetooth radio yet.

And to top it all off, the front right suspension or brakes or something have started this creaking going over bumps while decelerating at low speed.

But she still drives like a dream.

It’s already so good.

But it can be better.

To get there it will take a lot of time. It’ll take a lot of care. It’ll take a lot of passion. Research. Dedication. Focus. Money. Hard work. Persistence.

Pestering parentals. Fighting with parentals. More hard work.

I could transform those 3,800 pounds of untapped potential into a nice car, a really nice car, the best version possible of itself.

I could transform these 165 pounds of untapped potential into a better man, a much better man, the best possible version of myself.

It’ll take 4.6 liters of balls.

I’m glad they’re parked right out front.

121

Artist

JD McClain ’20

Title

Grueby Recreation

122

It would be inappropriate to call those giant slabs of meat hands.

He sits there, clasping his 48 oz porterhouse steak-like hands on the mahogany table, equally as unforgiving and immovable as his glare.

Swallowing her nerves, she pirouettes through the air, frantically fluttering like a kite in a storm.

Author

Mujin Kwun ’19

Title

Audition

Audition 123

Marianas Snare

Author

Landon Wood ’19

A deep descent into the ocean Is not the journey they surmise.

Down below, in untold fathoms beneath what they choose to know, Only the mad ones walk where light has gone to die.

Abyssal depths of unrelenting blackness, The strangulation in being alone.

The structures of life pale in comparison To the cold stone monoliths of the deep.

Towers of bottomless fear, Spires of innumerable crimes.

Seven impaled on the stars, Seven garrotes hold the climb.

Ancient, terrible things rest In the sleeping city of the drowned.

Six maws sat agape at the sunken table, Only one of them would be crowned.

It awaits them at the bottom of the ocean.

They probe, timidly. Over time, confidence grows.

But it relishes the passing eons.

It is content to feast slowly.

Oh!–the horror, the terror.

The inhuman price they paid, I cannot write down.

No, not even at the bottom of the ocean, Not even here, which no one will ever read.

124

Artist

Matthew Coleman ’19

Title

Waves

Year

2018

Medium

Acrylic on Canvas

125

Artist

Ayush Saha ’19

Title

Great Souled Man

126

The Hunt Author

Nick Walsh ’19

Title

The Hunt I begin my hunt on just a hunch I heard a rumor about this consumer talking behind my back man that’s wack pull up to his spot carry in the glock I got backup in my friends this war will never end ride with the mob and do your job the Patriots way I could go on all day we start to breach and hear a screech from this leech there was an alliance it was just for science he was the test subject and now he’s a dead subject we pull out our weapons and pause for a second I start to spray and all there’s left to do is pray.

Technology Fire, Wheel, Sword, Gun Powder, Telegraph, Cars, Radio, Television, Computers, Cell Phones, Robots, Automation, Brain Chips, Teleportation, Control, Power, War, Destruction.

127

Artist

Aayan Khasgiwala ’21

Title

Cooking for Hundreds

128

Artist

Aayan Khasgiwala ’21

Title

Dough Making

A Trip to India Artist

The following pages constitute a collection of pieces by sophomore Aayan Khasgiwala.

Aayan Khasgiwala ’19

Collection Title

A Trip to India

Pieces

Cooking for Hundreds, pg. 128 Dough Making, pg. 129 Focus, pg. 130-131 Always Tired, pg. 132 (Top Left) Laundry, pg. 132 (Bottom Left) Shower on the Balcony, pg. 133 (Top Right) Party on the Roof, pg. 133 (Bottom Right) White Bandana, pg. 134 (Top Left) Chef, pg. 134 (Bottom Left) Hard at Work, pg. 135 (Top Right) On Guard, pg. 135 (Bottom Right)

Medium

Photography 129

130

131

132

133

134

135

Staff

136

(Front row, left to right): Mrs. Lynne Weber Schwartz (advisor), Alex Geng ’22 Neal Reddy ’20 (director), Kasen Roberson ’20 (director), Matthew Coleman ’19 (editor-in-chief), CJ Crawford ’19 (editor-in-chief), Sai Thirunagari ’21 (director), Sam Morgan ’21, Josh Mysore ’21, Maxwell Chuang ‘22, Mrs. GayMarie Vaughan (advisor).

(Back row, left to right): Ekansh Tambe ’22, , Paul Sullivan ’20, Mujin Kwun ’19, Jack Trahan ’20, Siddartha Sinha ’21, Toby Nwafor ’20, ‘21, Sid Vittamreddy ’20, Tamal Pilla ‘21, Metehan Punar ‘21, Ned Tagtmeier ‘21, Jamie Mahowald ’21.

137

Publication Details

138

Philosophy The Marque, established in 1962, serves as the yearly collection of the literary and artistic pieces created by Upper School students to summarize the academic year’s artistic expression.

Policy The Marque is an after-school extracurricular activity that works independent from the St. Mark’s journalism program. All written and visual content is welcomed and considered blindly and equally for publication. Throughout the year, literary works are submitted and selected for publication by our staff members. Artistic pieces are submitted both by students and faculty members within each respective discipline. This publication is submitted annually for evaluation to the Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA).

Colophon The Marque is printed by Digital 3 Printing. The cover is 120# Polar Bear Velvet Cover printed 4/4 in four color process inks plus overall soft touch aqueous. Foil stamped using brass dies in yellow pigment foil. Text is 100# Polar Bear Velvet Text printed 4/4 in four color process inks. Binding is PUR glue perfect binding. The Staff used Adobe InDesign, Illustrator, and Photoshop CC 2018 on 27-inch Retina 5K Display iMacs to design the spreads. Typefaces include Helvetica Neue (multiple weights and styles) for pagination, interview headers, credits, and assorted elements, and Arnhem Blonde for body text.

139

140