Silent Voices, Volume XXXV

Volume XXXV

Silent Voices Woodward Academy Literary Arts Magazine

A

our scent cells are renewed every 28 days

B

visual recall is 50% after three months

C

our eyes can see a galaxy 2.6 million light years away

D

our hearing range is commonly said to be between 20-20,000 Hz

E

we remember smells with 65% accuracy after a year

F

our hands have the most bones out of all the body parts

G

people can detect at least one trillion distinct scents

H

bone mass in our skeleton reaches maximum density around age 30

I

we have 270 bones at birth but only 206 by adulthood

J

the hypothalamus releases dopamine into thebody, causing feelings of love and excitment

Woodward Academy 1600 Rugby Avenue College Park GA, 30337 404.765.4000 WAstpress@gmail.com Woodwardacademy.edu Cover photo: Collaboration between Jessica Vass ‘15 and Gracie Demarest ‘15 Title: the angles of our anatomy

Silent Voices Woodward Academy 2015

Purpose

Silent Voices is a venue for the artists, poets, writers, and sometimes scientists of Woodward Academy. It is a place to celebrate creativity and the creation of art while also making connections to other subjects. Students submit their creative efforts to the Silent Voices staff throughout the year, whereupon the submission is reviewed by a team of their peers and, ideally, granted entrance into the magazine.

The title comes from Tennyson’s poem of the same name: Brings the Dreams about my bed, Call me not so often back, Silent Voices of the dead, Toward the lowland ways behind me, And the sunlight that is gone!

Call me rather, silent voices, Forward to the starry track Glimmering up the heights beyond me On, and always on! (1892)

The literary and visual arts are the silent voices tapping into emotions, experimenting with the tools given, and questioning (or observing) the world around us.

2014 Awards

CSPA Gold Crown CSPA Gold Medalist critique NSPA 2nd Place Best in Show Washington, DC NSPA All American with Marks of Distinction in Content; Writing and Editing; Photography, Art, Graphics and Typography; and Concept SIPA Superior rating NCTE Highest Award

Hypothesis Is art a science?

Is science an art?

To answer, it is essential to establish what is art and what is science. Everyone has their own interpretation and perception of art, but it is understood that art can be in several forms: photography, painting, sculpture, poetry, hymns, music and so much more.

Science consists of questions, answers, math and experiments, but doesn’t art consist of the same? Art might not always provide answers as obviously as science does, but some scientific theories are never proven, and questions are not always answered to their fullest. Often times, pieces of art leave people in shock, driving them to ask questions and explore various ways of interpretation.

In this year’s issue of Silent Voices, you will find a variety of art compiled in order to provoke thought, curiosity and interest about the artists’ and authors’ inspirations and reasonings for creating certain pieces. We want to challenge you, the reader, to follow your own path of analysis and perception as you read and contemplate our lab report.

So...is art a science? What do you think?

We do not wish to hypothesize the answer this question for you, but rather give you the data we have collected so that you can make your own decisions. Please enjoy our trials as we dig deeper into the difference and similarities between science and art through the study of relationships, physical properties and process.

Materials Head Phone Actor Nick Johnson ’15 8 the missing piece Aaron Neal ’15 9 Cat- Caller Satire Caroline Citarella ‘15 10,11 lens Morgan Watson ‘16 10,11 Generations Vanilla Parthiban ‘15 12,13,14 inner light Dominique Cornitcher ‘16 14,15 i only feel safe in the palm of your hand Gracie Demarest ‘15 16 Great Sadness- Mamman Joon Nava Almalfard ‘15 17 Big Brother Dannah Gottlieb ‘15 18 The Heart of Syrian Refugees Noor Kabakibou ’18 19 Bucolic Grace Brown ‘ 16 20,21 My Most Southern Essay Andrew Gray ‘15 22,23 Walk with me Erica Brown ’15 24 but i love you Riley Schatz ‘15 25 Adventures in the Versailles Gardens Jessica Vass ’15 24,25 a dedication to the children whose stories were Never told Gracie Demarest ‘15 26, 27 Ripley Annabel Reed ‘15 28, 29 September Aliyah Daley ’15 30

prince 1999 Mia Gill ‘15 31 out of a frame Lexi Claugus ‘15 31 Rewind Zach Orig ‘16 34 continue Morgan Watson ‘16 35 message in a bottle Gracie Demarest ‘15 36, 37 Fish Pot Charlie Paine ‘15 36 the last night in january Julia Watson ‘15 38 Seasons of Sense Hannah Waters ‘15 39 gossamer Anderson Cheney ‘15 39 empathy Cameron Carmen ’17 42, 43 let the flowers grow Nicole Hofland ‘16 44 Age of Innocence Kate Chartier ‘16 45 Eye Break the Frame Arden Frank ‘15 46,47 Emerging Vanilla Parthiban ‘15 48 Being a Satanist in the 3rd Grade Julia Watson ’15 49, 50, 51 temptations Dannah Gottlieb ’15 52 my mind is running away from me Gracie Demarest ‘15 53 King’s Lake Trail Zach Orig ‘16 54, 55, 56 Alice Emily Little ’15 57 Support Daniel Oberti ‘15 58

Who is the Man? Kawan Prather ‘15 59 Geometric Will Romero ‘16 59 You Olivia Jones ‘16 60 panic cord Dannah Gottlieb ‘15 60 the way fire falls for everything she touches Gracie Demarest ‘15 61 How to Wing your eyeliner Erica Brown ‘15 62, 63 Echo Amphitheater Garrett Snyder ’16 64, 65 Seven Riley Schatz ‘15 66 Out of Reach Oscar Dow ‘15 67 Penthouse suite Nic Huey ‘16 70 dehydration Haley Hasen ‘15 72, 73 Ode to Netflix Sydney Sumrall ‘15 72, 73 Elements Remain Olivia Jones ‘16 76 Gracie Garrett Snyder ‘16 76, 77 Reclaimed Sydney Warren ‘15 78, 79 Her Skin Riley Schatz ‘15 80 tender heart Alex Patrick ‘15 81 Witchcraft Facade Elevation Joseph Rabun ‘15 82, 83

Enlightened Dominique Cornitcher ‘16 84 Contemporary Sydney Sumrall ‘15 85 Babylon Overture Kevin Brown ‘15 86, 87 Sincerely September Sydney Sumrall ’15 88 Shrouded Rachel Zager ‘15 89 She holds the Stars Jessica Vass ‘15 90, 91 Change Olivia Jones ‘16 90 veins of the earth longing for blood Gracie Demarest ‘15 91 The Lonely Chair Nic Huey ‘16 92 Katrina Narrative Alli Gordon ‘15 93 bloodworth Mia Gill ‘15 94, 95 Just Paint Mia Gill ‘15 96 Depth Brielle Hentz ‘15 97 Shades Evan Duffy ‘15 98 hidden Zach Orig ‘16 99 Deceiving Jessica Vass ‘15 100, 101

Trial 1: Relationships

The chemistry of love is intriguing and magical. Are feelings science? Is there

a reason why someone loves someone else? Or were they meant to be loved all along?

Some relationships do not last for one reason or another...but why? Studying love, lust, friendship and affection helps people notice the way that others feel and act depending on their romantic or deep feelings for another person.

Hundreds of different emotions and attributes, such as anger, bliss, fear,

ignorance, depression, excitement and dependence, can arise from a single feeling of affection toward another human being. Our vulnerablility to another person when we fall in love is either dangerous or exhilarating. We become intoxicated and enamored by the alluring soul whom we are attracted to. ​

When writing or creating art, people are able to thoroughly study and consider

the numerous sensations that can arise within the heart, soul and/or body of a love or friend and the mysterious reasons behind these sensitive reactions. Are we as humans aware of the positive or negative repercussions that we may experience when loving someone else, or are we entirely oblivious and brainwashed by the tender dedication and fragile passion?

Trial 1: Relationships

Head Phone Actor It will always be with him, that music in his ears, Headphones that are loud and surround as he leaves school Drowning out the other sounds for the rest of his years.

They don’t think he sees them, those looks from his peers, Who gather together, so that they may be cruel.

“It will always be with him, that music in his ears.”

He turns down the volume so that they may be clear “He never takes them off he is such a tool, Drowning out the rest of his sounds from his peers.”

Closer and closer he becomes their passing nears “He can never hear anything he’s like a ghoul.

It will always be with him that music in his ears.”

As he passes them by he can hear their snickers and sneers He is such an idiot why does he act so cool Drowning out the sounds for the rest of his years.”

When he turns the volume back up the group disappears And the sound floods him like water in a pool.

It will always be with him, that music in his ears, Drowning out the other sounds for the rest of his years.”

Nick Johnson ‘15

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fig. I.i

the missing piece chiseling on stone Aaron Neal ‘15

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Cat-Caller Satire

fig. I.ii

lens

Are you uncomfortable talking to women like they are actual people?

Having trouble attracting the ladies because of your poor self-confidence?

Do you need to objectify women to feel manly?

Well look no further!

Here at Cat-Calling Industries, we can solve all of your deep-seated, love life problems with just the push of a button. Our worthless company, consisting of only the finest arrogant men, invented the patent-pending Cat-Caller. Now, it is easier than ever to pick up that “hottie” on the side of the street and make her “wifey material.” Our Cat-Caller features a loud speaker with powerful audio performance and a special red button, which speaks endearing, misogynistic phrases for you. The new and improved device will comment on any lady’s behind with ease. Just press the button and out comes lewd, offensive comments like “Damn Shorty.” Our Top 3 phrases include “Smile for me, Baby,” “Hey Sexy,” and the Wert Whirl Whistle. All of this can be yours for the low price of just 3 payments of $19.95! (shipping and handling not included)

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Women want to be bothered walking down the street and find it flattering. Just ask Dr. Ow-ow, a dubious sexpert and woman whisperer. He claims that “the female’s entire purpose of going outside, walking to work, or simply sitting in the park is just to be so rudely yelled at: “Hey there pretty lady.’” In an observational study, researchers discovered that 9 out of 10 women find men cat-calling more attractive than gentlemen respectfully pulling out chairs and holding doors. Not only do experts approve, but also people like you are satisfied with their Cat-Callers. The now wife of a happy customer, Alice McCall from New Mexico, glows, “I really wanted to marry a man who would whistle at me from his car. Because of Cat-Caller, I have found the man of my dreams.”

A professional sidewalk loiterer from Vermont, Blake Hotchkiss, claims, “The Cat-Caller makes my job and life so much easier. Now I don’t have to think of creative ways to verbally harass women! I tell all of my buddies to go out and get the Cat-Caller.”

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! If you order your Cat-Caller within the next 3 seconds, you also get a free keychain sized version for on the go hooting, whistling, and objectifying women when you’re cruising the strip. Call now at 1-800-CAT-CALLR, or order online at www.verbalharassment.com. Must be 18 years or older to order. Recommended for all boys ages 3 and up. Buy now! (Disclaimer: Cat-Caller is a registered trademark of Cat-Calling Industries. The replication of these products is prohibited by law. We are not responsible for any punches to the throat, backhanded slaps, witty comebacks, or insults to your intelligence caused by angered women. Results may vary.)

Caroline Citarella ‘15

sketches Morgan Watson ‘16 Silent Voices 11

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previous page:

Generations

fig. I. iii 59. 57. 44. 18.

Age is simply a number.

No stories. No history.

I’ve always thought of hands as the most telling aspects of people.

Blisters and calluses. The embedded lines, traveling and intersecting.

Generations spanning.

Vanilla Parthiban ‘15

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fig. I. iv

Dominique Cornitcher ‘16

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inner light

For this piece, I put 35mm B&W analog prints into jars of olive oil, giving the photos a magnified look. This was probably one of my most important pieces of art because I wanted it to be special by relating to my faith.

In the quaker religion, we believe that everyone has an inner light, or inner goodness in them. I named the piece inner light because although the picture was black and white, the paint on the model is illuminated by the oil.

It shows ones inner light in an external way. The Latin word “science” translates to be knowledge: a building and organization of knowledge that will eventually give you an outcome. I believe that art is a science because you learn every time you try something new in the world of the arts, just like I did with this project. Whether it is a technique, or internal realization, you learn and build on prior knowledge to create new pieces.

Gracie Demarest ‘15

B&W 35mm double exposure print on 55 Polaroid film

i only feel safe in the Palm Of Your Hand

fig. I. v

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Great Sadness- Mamman Joon I slowly lean over and give my grandma a good night kiss. Every year since I can remember, my dad’s mom spends three to four months in America, splitting time at my cousin’s house and ours. We are as different as they come.

She’s a devout, 5-times-a-day praying Muslim.

I’m an agnostic bordering on atheist. She proudly wears her headscarf in public and dislikes my wardrobe choices, particularly my scandalous Nike shorts. She makes comments about my face and my body, topics I hate discussing. When I was young, it bothered me, but now I’ve learned to laugh about it.

She despises softball. It made my legs too muscular, but more importantly it caused my back problem, something she’s dealt with for most of her life. After numerous surgeries, one of which entailed medical malpractice in which the surgeon permanently damaged nerves in her back, my grandma’s chances of ever walking independently are next to nothing. She takes over twelve pills a day, has lived with excruciating pain for over 30 years, and remains a pillar of strength and the head matriarch of our family. We never agree on much, but the deep love we have for one another has bonded us despite the odds. I ask her about the old days in Iran when there wasn’t electricity and bathrooms were outside. I ask her how the food tasted in those days, how hard it was raising seven kids, and how hard my dad was as a child. I try extra hard to make her laugh and avoid conversations about looks, religion, and politics.

When my mom left for three months to take care of her dying dad in Iran, my grandma, with her bent back and beloved cane, cooked food for us everyday. To me, my mom, dad, uncle, aunt, grandma have always looked the same. They never age. But tonight when

I leaned over to kiss my grandma goodnight I spot a few more wrinkles than I remember.

Her green, hazel eyes look more tired. Her body more weak. I try to stop my mind from thinking, but it’s too late. I do my best to hold my composure as I leave her room and run up the dark stairs to my own. I feel the warm, salty tears on my cheek. She’s going to die. She’s going to die one day. One day soon. One year, she won’t come to my house. I won’t have any more conservations to avoid. I won’t have anyone I want to make laugh. I was sixteen when I had this realization, and the idea of death and losing a loved one had always seemed so far away and distant. Now, it felt like a reality, a sad, tragic, unavoidable reality. I felt overwhelmed and instantly ran towards the light shining in my parent’s bathroom. I burst through the bathroom doors. My mom stops midway brushing her teeth, a look of concern on her face spotting my tears. “What’s wrong, Nava? “Mom, Mamman Joon’s going to die. One day I won’t see her anymore.” My heart swells as my mom pulls me close into her arms, and a flood of new tears come.

My mom talked to me a long time before I calmed down. At eighty-five, my grandma can no longer make the over twentyfour hour trip to visit us in America. She saw my brother and my two cousins graduate high school, but she won’t see me do the same. I Skype her now and again. There isn’t much to talk about, but the joy she gets in just seeing me is enough. My goal this summer is to surprise her by visiting her in Iran unannounced. Just to sit in her house, listen to her reminisce, eat sour cherries and Persian pizza, watch my stresses fade away, and time stop in its tracks.

Nava Amalfard ‘15 Silent Voices 17

Dannah Gottlieb ‘15

35mm B&W analog print

Big Brother fig. I. vi

Trial 1: Relationships

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The Heart of Syrian Refugees My heart sinks as I see a sweet child As they flow through the refugee camps hurt Making their journey that is beguiled And then as the despot stares, they avert My tough, strong body cries as I observe The eye of bane harshly ruling their veins As they, for brutal years to come, conserve Somber as they lament through the harsh pains My eyes start to flood by the living death As I watch them cripple by starvation, Or even try to speak in their last breath Preserving the tears as if were ration’d I name these brave hearts, looking up above, the ‫ بح‬or which we like to call our love

Noor Kabakibou ‘18

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Bucolic

fig. I. vii

For this piece, I did a Van-Dyke process over a Cyanotype. I let the Cyanotype expose a little longer than normal so I could make sure the blue would show through the brown Van-Dyke chemicals.

I learned that when doing this certain process, it is better to let the piece air dry; otherwise, the colors could change under the heat of a blow dryer (the way I usually dry my photos). The process itself took a little bit of trial and error, as any experiment would. Although I have yet to perfect it, the mistakes are sometimes what makes the piece beautiful. My inspiration for the photo itself just sort of came to me. I really like how bodies shaped in various ways can express emotion without having to say anything at all. I had my sister, who is the model in this photo, lie down on the fence and just drape her body across it as if she was a piece of clothing. I love the abstractness and simplicity in the shape of her body, making the viewer interpret the piece however they would like.

Grace Brown ‘16

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My Most Southern Essay

When I was 12 years old, my father and his father entrusted me with one task: slaughtering a hog. Every year around wintertime, my grandfather kills a hog for his family to consume during the colder months. When my grandfather got a little older or did not feel like killing the hog, he sent my father to do it. In the winter of 2009, I volunteered to do the honor. It was something they both had to do at an early age, and now, they did not think much of it... but I did. It was a right-of-passage ceremony in the earlier generations of my family, and I wanted to prove to my dad and grandpa that I could be just as “country” as they are. Nothing can prepare you for slaughtering a hog, trust me; if there was something to prepare me for what I was about to do, I would have done it.

During the Christmas time, my family and I travel to Arkansas to visit my grandparents, but the trip in 2009 had me on edge. I was about to kill my first hog, and I was not ready. I was just a kid from Lithonia, Georgia who had no business being out on the farm trying to kill a pig for my grandfather. I was a kid trying to prove a point, and now I had to follow up on my word. I spent every minute of that eight hour car ride thinking of how I was going to stalk a monster hog through the forest all alone and send one bullet clean through his skull. When we pulled into the gravel driveway in front of my grandparent’s house, I could not focus on anything else other than killing that animal. I opened the heavy iron storm door to the house, walked inside, grabbed my .22 rifle from its hiding place behind a closet in the hallway and went right back outside for some target practice. About 20 yards to the left of my grandparent’s house is a bayou full of snakes. I used those snakes to zero in my shot until it was impeccable. I kept practicing until sunset, and when I finished, I was sure my aim was so good that I could shoot the lights out.

Daybreak the next morning was the moment of truth; this is where the men were separated from the boys. I got up, threw on my camouflage pants, slipped on my long sleeve camouflage shirt and jacket, and put on my old dirty camouflage boots. I walked to the kitchen and confronted my father and grandpa, fully ready to conquer the challenge at hand; however I was met with a bewildered look from them. They both chuckled at me then told me to follow them outside. The frigid December air whipped against my face as I trailed behind them around the house to a makeshift pen. Inside that pen was the biggest disappointment I had witnessed; a hog. Here I was ready to go out on the hunt of my life in the freezing Arkansas weather to kill a pig for them, and they already had one locked up

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for me to slaughter. They told me what I had to do and then departed without another word. Now I was thinking to myself that this was not a fair fight at all,; the thing was locked up and had no chance! I was feeling very sympathetic for that poor pig but not sympathetic enough not to shoot it. I went back inside the house to grab my dads pistol since the rifle I had before would not be necessary anymore. When I returned to the cage, I took my sweet time approaching the animal and even more time to line up my shot perfectly. I turned my head away and pulled the trigger but right before I did, I felt the hog move. I had missed its temple and shot its ear instead. There is one thing that hogs are notorious for: being mean, very mean. As soon as the bullet was shot, that pig took off. Since I did not expect him to survive our little encounter, I did not close the gate to the pen. He ran straight for a group of tall trees across from my grandparent’s house and did not turn back. So now, I had a decision “It was a right of to make: should I go face an angry pig or my passage ceremony in the earlier angry father? I decided to take my chances with the pig; I rounded up two of my favorite hunting generations of the family and I dogs from their kennel and went in hot pursuit wanted to prove to my dad and of that hog. It only took about 25 minutes for grandpa that I could be just as the dogs to find him and back him up against a freezing patch of muddy water. This time I country as they are.” had my eyes locked on him and they would not move. I could barely hear myself think over the cacophony of the dogs barking. He was about 20 feet away from me, and all I carried was my pistol to put him down. I was waiting for what seemed like an hour for the perfect opportunity to finally end this battle. Then there was a moment when the hog and I locked eyes, and that’s when I took the shot.

The bullet landed right above his eyes and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

I stumbled down to his lifeless body, tied his two hind legs together, and dragged him back across the road to the house. I was bone tired from the struggle but I had a feeling of accomplishment from what I had done. I had finally proved to my family that I’m not just some city boy who cannot handle the country. My dad met me at the big iron door and asked me how it went with a slight smile on his face. By looking at that smile, I can tell he was proud of me, and in his eyes, I had become a man.

Andrew Gray ‘15

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Trial 1: Relationships

Walk with me “Walk with me” of course I will but only if we walk slow.

Like really slow just enough for me to see the physics of the world around me. maybe just enough for me to touch the usually jittery air particles, one by one, Or maybe just enough for me to see the carbon dioxide move through the leaves.

Or is it possible for you to slow down enough to let me catch the light rays as they try to bounce off my hand?

I want to walk slow enough to feel the neurons in my brain spark when you speak to me, I want to be able to feel the skin cells jump from my hand to yours when we accidently brush fingers.

Slow down enough for me to feel my pupils dilate when you crack a crooked smile.

Let’s go slow enough for me to feel the results of depletion of blood my body experiences when my heart skips a beat. so, yes, I will walk with you, but only if we walk slow.

Please, There’s no need to rush.

Erica Brown ‘15

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Impossible Film Polaroids

but i love you but i love you i love you love

Jessica Vass ‘15

why does that word invoke so much emotion so much pain and joy and love?

fig. I. viii

Adventures in the Versailles Gardens

to love is, by definition, to feel an attachment to.

So if I said that I loved you, If you said you loved me back, does that mean we’re attached?

Legend has it that a red string is tied around the ankle of one and that it travels underfoot and over fences to another, where it is tied as well but i guess the string can break i hope that mine is a vibrant scarlet and that it is strong and flexible and that red string will lead me to the person that i can say i love you to and hear i love you too stated honestly because to love to love would be a great adventure.

Riley Schatz ‘15

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a dedication to the children whose stories were Never told

fig. I. ix

I love to study the human body and its abstract formations. It is so fascinating to me how similar parts of the human body are to the earth that they walk upon and the nature they live through. Who knew a bare spine could resemble a towering, barren tree in the midst of winter? What about long, bony fingers acting as the tree’s empty, skeletal branches? And bulging veins striking down a neck like lightning piercing into the damp ground?

Acknowledging the mysterious figure sparks interest in my study of anatomy and the way the body functions. I am in absolute awe of the numerous phenomenons of the human body, and by capturing the different components of such an important subject in the form of a photograph, I am able to help better the understanding and plant a sense of curiosity about the body in those around me.

Many of my photographs look so abstract that it is hard to tell what the subject actually is; I purposefully make them difficult to decipher in order to provoke my audience to interpret the piece as they please, hopefully noticing something that would normally be overlooked in their minds. By exploring the many mysteries and secrets of anatomy, I have taken my deep interest of the human figure to the next level by challenging myself to challenge others through the esoteric perception of my photographs.

For this piece, I draped a sheet over my friend and took analog photos as she moved creepily around, creating creases and motions within the sheet. Then, I used this negative to create an alternative process using Palladium, which is “the chemical element of atomic number 46, a rare silvery-white metal resembling platinum.”

Gracie Demarest ‘15

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Ripley perform - a duty to fulfill.

You had only gotten home around

Fifteen minutes later and your an hour ago. You’d thrown your keys noisily existence at that company no longer existed into the faded green basket where they live, in their books. The years spent working there, angrily ripped off your tie, and sat down on the a complete farce. You could hardly take in the sofa. Putting your head in your hands, you just absurdity of the event. You could hardly believe sat for a moment before grabbing the remote that those four men sitting at that conference and channel surfing. Without thinking about table could take your hopes and aspirations it, you ended up somewhere on HBO where and crush them right in front of your eyes. You movies were shown in a constant stream. You got into your car and didn’t feel anything. As just wanted some background noise to distract you drove home on the highway, you felt the you from the black, squalid reality that had just lead weight of your depression sinking in and become yours. sensed your foot pushing on the accelerator

When you went into work this with the same force. You couldn’t find it in morning, you were ecstatic. For the past several yourself to worry about getting a ticket today. months, you’d been working harder, trying Nothing that could happen in this day could to move your way up the ladder, trying to compare to the crushing devastation you’d just get a promotion. You’d spent hours with your experienced. Not your seven breakups, your regional manager, collaborating on issues broken collarbone in the ninth grade, the loss facing the company, spending hours you could of your father; you felt guilty for feeling this have spent at home working long nights in way. This, this job, was something you’d worked the office. And today, today was your meeting towards forever. It was the pipe-dream. It’s with the suits. The suits, gone. who were the promise “You could hardly believe that As you sit on of a new opportunity, the couch, you graze those four men sitting at that your forehead with of a new road ahead, of new great things fingers and feel conference table could take your to come. You entered a dampness. Suddenly the meeting with your your hopes and aspirations you recall that, while at a head held high, with the gas station, you rammed whiskers on your cheeks and crush them right in front your head into the pump. barely there due to the of your eyes.”

At first it was hardly extensive care you’d noticeable; you had just taken with your razor this morning, with your had your head resting on the thing, and then hair parted and styled just so it reached that gave yourself a slight bump. Then another. perfect 90 degree angle you’ve grown to like so You kept on going, hitting harder and harder, much. You could feel it in the air as soon as you until a red patch appeared on the cheap white walked into the room. These suits, these grown plastic. You heard a gasp coming opposite men, gaunt and greyed, were not smiling. They from you and were startled; embarrassed. You were not eager to be there: They had a job to looked around the pylons and saw a minivan -

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a typical soccer mom car - and a woman. She wore a pink polo shirt and a white visor. She didn’t move; she just looked at you. You heard the click indicating that her car’s tank had been filled, and watched as she took it out of the car while trying to keep her eyes on you. It was like watching a deer as you pass it in your car. You searched to find who she was protecting, and found a boy no older than eight with his greasy nose pressed against her window.

You quickly took out the nozzle and drove off.

You’re brought back into the current reality when you hear an announcement from the HBO man that Alien is coming on next.

You remember watching that movie with your dad when he was still around, back when you were a kid. You remember being terrified by it, terrified by the slimy, black monsters that crept through your dreams after seeing it. You’re about to change the channel when you hear the name “Ripley” come through the speakers.

Suddenly you feel this urge to relive a part of your childhood; perhaps, maybe even to scare yourself. Maybe if you watch this tonight, you can get over your fear of the Alien.

Far into the movie, as you watch this strong, empowered woman fight her way to survival aboard the USCSS Nostromo, you’re somehow inspired. Obviously, the circumstances in Alien are not entirely applicable to real life, but… maybe this is the thing you needed. And maybe you’re taking it all wrong, but you feel that, for right now, you need your own version of Ripley.

You go into your liquor closet and pull out bourbon. You’d love to have a finely crafted, pure-cut cube of ice to go with it, but the best you have is your refrigerator’s pre-made slivers.

You pour yourself a small cup and sip, teeth

bared, inhaling the scent. You revel in the way it burns the back of your throat. This is what you need. You leave the cup on your nice coffee table, where you know it will leave rings.

Stepping up the ladder to your attic, you try to remember where you stored your father’s shotgun when you had received it in his will. At the time, you were convinced you would never have a use for it. In fact, you were convinced of this until today. In the back corner, where almost no light hits, you see a long, burgundy sheath. You step over to retrieve it, and then unzip the case. You take it back downstairs, and the light shines bluntly off of the black metal of the barrel. On the top shelf of your pantry, covered by oatmeal and soup cans past their expiry dates, exists a single carton of buckshot. You’ve never fired a gun before. You’ve never loaded a shotgun before. But, you’ve seen movies. You load a single shell into the single barrel, and cock the slide with some difficulty. You think of testing the trigger before remembering that guns have safeties. Turning that off, you grab three more shells and tuck them into your pants pocket.

You get in your car.

You drive back to work.

You enter the conference room where

the four men sit calmly; unaware.

You fight for your survival.

Silent Voices 29

Annabel Reed ‘15

Trial 1: Relationships

September I see so much of myself in shadows. I almost live there.

I walk so much of my lines in circles and stay straight when the coast is clear.

I speak so much of my thoughts in silence and seduce myself back to sanity and pretend to enjoy a movie and greet my mirror like a line up and wrap my hair and wallow there with my unbuttoned composure, because who’s too fragile for the night Nowadays I can’t tell if you remind me of someone or if I’ve been imagining you my whole life Specifically today I can’t tell if i should iron the creases out of my shirt people say come as you are they never mean it You told me to fall back you’d catch me and even though I didn’t for the first time I believed it I most likely imagined you and I still walk in circles but for the first time I meant to And i still speak in silence and see in shadows but if anyone should ask I would describe you as a last chance A familiar love song A september night when a pair of lovers were at the mercy of a final phone call Who’s too assured for the night I can’t find a way to say I love you I feel like I’ve been rehearsing my whole life I have packed enough confessions to fill a page and read the scripture to find your name The words in that verse were as nostalgic as the childhood I tried so hard to get out of And passion for kissing a boy who might remember the ring to my name, first and last It was simple then And I laughed more.

And your crooked smile gave me more security than I ever thank you for Truth is, I am too calloused for the night I can’t tell if you remind me of someone or if I’ve been imagining you my whole life

Aliyah Daley ‘15

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Trial 1: Relationships

Mia Gill ‘15

Silent Voices 31

fig. I. x

prince 1999 acrylic painting with mixed media

Trial 1: Relationships

fig. I. xi

I created this piece for the assignment “out of a frame.” The process of this piece was unexpected, but I am happy with how it ended up. I started with the styrofoam head which I thought was a really cool element. For the frame, I smashed a mirror that I originally bought from Goodwill and reshaped the broken pieces as an eye to give the viewer’s reflection. I then added the mesh over the head which gave a trapped feeling. Then, I built the geometric frame around the head and created a webbing for it to be caught in. The main struggle with this piece was getting the angles correct on the wood so they all fit together perfectly.

Lexi Claugus ‘15

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expectations

Silent Voices 33

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Rewind Play.> It’s so easy to say That you care That you want to see me That you want to help me Rewind.< Help me.

I feel like it’s all lies People say that words stab-> But your actions spin /// Rewind.< Your actions spin Did you stop to think -what am I doingYou’re -unpredictableLike a -tornadoRewind.< Like a tornado Of chaos?

Of doubt?

Of hope?

Of confusion?

Rewind.< Of confusion.

I can’t I can’t see Who are Where do I g Rewind.<

feel you o

Where do I go?

They say there’s always light at the end of the tunnel But what if you’re stuck?

At the end of the tunnel Sometimes there isn’t light I’m forced into the storm Rewind.< Into the storm?

Nothing’s there Darkness Repeat.

Zach Orig ‘16 Silent Voices 34

continue

fig. I. xii

Trial 1: Relationships

paint and charcoal over photograph Morgan Watson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

Silent Voices 35

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message in a

Fish Pot

fig. I. xiii

bottle

ceramic vase Charlie Paine ‘15

hello and hi i wanted you to know a few things. i have been thinking a lot lately about how much my life has changed since you have floated on by. and i wanted to make you some promises just in case anything were to ever happen. you know, ‘cause things happen. and on that rare occasion of something scary actually happening, i want you to promise me something in return. yes, you must promise me that you will save this letter somewhere, & if anything were to happen, you will come straight here and immerse yourself in my sincere words in order to remind yourself that lips are shaped as hearts for a reason. now, now...do not be concerned, as i do not write here today on behalf of anything or anyone. i write this letter to you because i love you, and you have made me who i am right now.... a breathing little ball of delusion. and i want to thank you for forming me into this shapeless idea that i am, which i will spend an eternity trying to piece together. i invite you to do the same. i want to make our lives the best they can possibly be. together, i want to create new methods of art, explore undiscovered lands, soar with the wingless birds, swim through the sky, experiment with our bodies, sing melodies that come straight from our hearts.....and we can. we can do these things. as your best friend and lover, i am devoted and determined (by choice) to elevate your mind state above all else. i will shrink you down to a little teeny size and hold you in my hands. i will show you good times and i will show you bad. i will put you in my pocket when you are tired so you can rest. and when you want to fly, i will open my palms and give you your wings. a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow isn’t really how i like to imagine it. the curve of a rainbow even, its all bullshit to me. the colors in the light spectrum are not meant to be formed in such a neat curve. hell, i’d know.... i’ve taken numerous visits inside your mind. the amalgamation of colors is ineffable. i will forever be in awe of the way you function, the sunshine you find in the middle of a tornado, the fractals that jump off your tongue when you speak, the soundwaves i can see bouncing off your body when you dance. your body is an amazement to me and touching it sends fireworks down my throat. anyway, those promises. yeah, yes. here they are. don’t forget what i said earlier.

•i promise that i will always be warmer when you are cold. please do not hesitate to wrap me around you like a blanket; i will serve to protect your fragile little goosebumps.

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Trial 1: Relationships

•i promise that my chest and stomach will always be softer than any pillow you may have. when i am looking down at your heavy cranium slowly moving up and down with my lungs, my fingers will dance through your hair as if they are children swimming in the ocean for the first time.

•i promise that nothing lasts forever except love. change is a constant. the only thing we are sure of is that things are never sure. yeah, except for love. it’s weird. i don’t really understand it. but, at least you know that the broken glass will be removed from your heart by me eventually.

•i promise that you are a ray of light. i know this because even at my saddest points, somehow you have shown up in my mind and made the rain clouds go away. so i guess this is also a sort of thankyou-note thing. thank you for defying the weatherman.

•i promise that you don’t know everything. also, you will never know everything. you probably will know just as much as the tree outside your window. be like him, he takes in all his information by observation. use this as a tool to keep you hunting carefully for knowledge, as well as one to cause you to question your own brain sometimes. be careful however: do not chase knowledge, for he may indeed outrun you.

•i promise you that darkness loves you. so does silence. embrace night time; you will find that the ghosts of the prayers you said as a child still linger. they don’t want to haunt you, they just want to see how you’re holding up. let them in… this isn’t survival of the fittest. dance with them. show them how you put on your favorite shirt. share a glass of wine with them. (spend time in solitude; it’s healthy.)

•i promise you that i will always love you better. not more, i’m not sure if i will always love you more than you love me. i probably won’t. but i can absolutely guarantee you that i will always love you better. sometime way out in the unknown, sixty four years from now, look for my love. it’s different. you’ll feel it; i promise. i will always love you better. and i leave it at that, my love. never forget that there is absolutely no being on this 75% liquid ball of mass floating through the universe who is even remotely like you. i want you to always be yourself, no matter how uncomfortable it feels or in whatever situation. please, for me. the original is who i adore and whisper to every night before i fall asleep. the stars are shining for you. chase them.

Gracie Demarest ‘15

Silent Voices 37

Trial 1: Relationships

the last night in january The rainy nights were my fortune tellers as i drip from your grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clock.

With air biting my taste buds, I release myself from the black hands. pupils wide, I imagine the figure the woman between the shadows of our two lips--cracked and scarred sewn back together by time and patience.

The discolored loop clutching my fingers upon my left hand felt a surge of familiarity, a longing for two years past.

But lay it, remaining naked across my skin.

We dreamt of Egyptian Goddesses and sung of emptiness in a crowd full of lovers, for one full night.

We watched the walls drip and linger, as letters fall off the page, and create something beautiful.

But a decade of hours took us blind, back to a cold ground without beauty, without depth, without life.

And we parted as the sun yawned, leaving me in a shower iced and dull.

And you on a road moving on.

My tongue sizzles at the memory and begs for another dose.

And I bleed at the thought of another rainy night.

Julia Watson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Silent Voices 38

Trial 1: Relationships

Seasons of Sense I fear the Wintersin, of wanting to be warmed by you I fear the Summersound, of you calling my name so sweetly I fear the Springclaim, as you grab me to you, calling me yours I fear the Fallforce, of myself breaking as I fall for you What’s the matter with me?

Hannah Waters ‘ 15

gossamer

palladium process on watercolor paper

fig. I. xiv

Anderson Cheney ‘15

Silent Voices 39

Trial 2: Physical

Think back to when we learned about the five senses in school as a child. Touch.

Smell. Sight. Sound. Taste. These senses enable us to live and experience our surroundings. As human beings, we are constantly and unknowingly observing and studying occurrences in the atmosphere: watching the stars at night, trying a new food for the first time, cuddling your dog, planting a bed of a flowers.

The physical property of an object is defined as â&#x20AC;&#x153;any property that is

measurable whose value describes a state of a physical system. The changes in the physical properties of a system can be used to describe its transformations or evolutions between its momentary states.â&#x20AC;?

By considering and examining the growth and development of objects around

us, we are able to perceive, cultivate and theorize, which enables us to create beautiful things. Writing and art blooms from the minds of those who pursue the unknown around them. Although it might not be obvious at the time, things we do and say today are often based off of the experiences we had yesterday and the day before.

We live in an evolving world that uses observation to develop ideas and to promote curiosity about the way things work within the cycle of life.

Trial 2: Physical

empathy

Silent Voices 42

Trial 2: Physcial

//empathy, I abhor thee the feeling and emotions of fellow inhabitants imbued in me can I perceive my own? am I a body or a vast collection of borrowed sentiments? am I a mind or an apparatus designed to await itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own destruction? can those of light be as contagious as worries? as fears? as sorrow?

I lie here numb to myself hypersensitive to the world around me lying beside me, you sit one hand clenching the world and the other, my throat

Cameron Carmen â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

Silent Voices 43

Trial 2: Physical

let the flowers grow let the flowers grow in every crevice of your being let the blood flow through your veins and fill your toes with warmth don’t let the world strip you of your laughter because it’s always been the rain that makes the grass grow tall always search for the sunset among the trees and tall buildings and let the sun warm your back until you think you’ll never be cold again let the boy you love borrow your copy of your favorite book even if he returns it with crumpled pages, remember he read it for you forget your umbrella every now and then and listen to the song that the rain drops play on your skin most of all never forget that you have the power of the sea and beauty of the stars

Nicole Hofland ‘16

Silent Voices 44

Trial 2: Physcial

35mm B&W analog print with hand-coloring details Kate Chartier â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

fig. II.i

Age of Innocence

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“Eye Break The Frame” was inspired by an idea of “breaking the frame.” The majority of the piece, as in the main platform and borders, is composed of wood. Other parts are made from plaster, caged wire and paint.

All pieces I make start with one focal point and expand from there.

This particular piece began with the casting of the three eyes in plaster; what happened next was all spontaneous. When I make art, my ideas constantly evolve. I always have to change what I am doing because my formulas for success cannot always be executed.

Also, I often find that what I thought might work together has no chemistry at all. Ultimately, my pieces are a creative trial-and-error process like any scientist might encounter when pioneering untraveled territory.

Arden Frank ‘15

Silent Voices 46

Trial 2: Physcial

fig. II.ii

Eye Break the Frame

Silent Voices 47

Trial 2: Physcial

Vanilla Parthiban â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Silent Voices 48

fig. II.iii

Emerging

35mm B&W analog print

Trial 2: Physcial

Being a Satanist in the 3rd Grade

Walking into the messy art room, I smelled the pungent stench of ripe paint as the crinkles of papers and laughing classmates filled my pink ears. I proudly wore my sticker that the dentist gave me earlier that morning for not crying like I usually did whenever I saw him. My dad even let me have Chick-Fil-A after the cleaning, erasing any dental excellence my mother paid for just an hour beforehand. Palms still a tad greasy from the nuggets I consumed earlier, I raced into the art room to brag about how awesome the Chick-Fil-A was compared to the school’s lunches. My friends were jealous— mission accomplished.

The rather rotund teacher came my way and informed me what assignment the class started. I couldn’t see much behind her protruding double chin that seemed to hang steep, probably low enough for my small arms to pinch.

Apparently the assignment given focused on painting something larger than life, something grandiose, per say, the biggest thing I could think of.

“That’s easy,” I said, “Skyscrapers are tall.”

“Someone’s already taken that, Julia.”

“What about elephants? They’re big?”

“That’s taken too.”

“What about God. He’s supposedta be huge, right?”

“Someone’s already painting God,” she said, pointing to my classmate David, who I knew came from a very devout Christian household. They didn’t even celebrate Halloween.

“You’ll just have to be a bit more creative than everyone else, I’m afraid,” she said patting my back and handing me a large paper canvas to draw upon. Well alright, I thought, I

guess my good luck today ran out. You can’t have Chick-Fil-A and chose your first idea to paint. What is something big—something bigger than everything I can imagine?

I looked at David, who painted pale blue skies, the same color you see on balloons congratulating mothers for having a son. But, staring at David’s pious painting, an idea finally came to me.

I ran over to the paints, grabbing tons of reds, oranges, and blacks, and rushed back to my chair, scooting in tight so I could focus on my painting.

About ten minutes in, my friend Kent came over to me.

Gazing at my painting for a good five seconds, he commented, “Woah…that is big… and scary.”

“I’m just tryna do it justice,” I said. I heard my dad drop that phrase occasionally.

I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but I felt pretty mature saying it— like the week I used “keen” over twenty times in one day and got tons of compliments for being so smart.

That Friday, it was time to present our paintings. I barely finished it that period; however, the art could stand on its own without lots of detail, in my opinion.

When I presented it, the reaction was not the one I expected. My classmates looked disturbed and scared. I looked at my teacher for reassurance, but her puffy face mimicked the children.

“Julia, you painted Satan?”

“Well yeah…,” I started, “He’s big, right? And, everyone took my other ideas so.”

I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my painting: I drew the devil, surrounded by roaring flames and coal brimstone, since

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Trial 2: Physcial

“Hell hath no wrath like that’s what Hell’s supposed to an upset look like after all, bright red, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and I gave him a sharp, black goatee, along with some muttonchops on the sides. His teeth I drew as triangles and I painted his tongue black, like my dog’s. His head was marginally bigger than the rest of his body, which I drew a bit scrawny by no intention, and his stick-like hands raised above his head with small, fingers spread wide like snowflakes. I’ll admit it: it was not my best piece of work, but nothing to look so disturbed by.

I took my painting down, and turned it into the teacher, who looked extremely uncomfortable.

After class, she pulled me aside to talk.

“Julia?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do you parents talk to you a lot about the thing you drew?”

“No…not really. Sometimes, I’ll hear him in the Bible study my Grandma makes me go to when I go up to Tennessee. My parents don’t go to church,” I added in.

Her eyes widened.

When I scurried back into my classroom, the air shifted. My friends turned away from me. David looked like his eyes were going to burst from his head.

No one really talked to me for the rest of the day. I didn’t understand why.

When my dad picked me up, his face was crimson. I entered the car with extreme caution. My dad was never mad—I didn’t want to witness it for the first time.

“So, I got a call from the principal today, Julia,” he said, his voice strained.

“What’d she say?”

“She told me about what you painted today in art.”

“I don’t get it! Why is everyone so upset about it?”

“Julia, did you paint the devil?” He said, his face clenched and eyes watering.

I nodded, guilt dripping down my face.

He bursted out laughing. He laughed the entire ride home. He went on and on about the over-concerned and hovering teachers.

He told me they questioned him on what he taught me while we were at home. They even asked him if he himself was a praiser of the devil—A Satanist, he called it.

“This is almost as funny as a few years ago,” he stuttered through his intense laughter.

“Huh?”

“When they called and told me you spit on a classmate.” His laughter intensified with that memory.

“I was trying to hold the water in my mouth as long as I could,” I said.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. That school really misunderstands you.”

I nodded my head.

The next Monday, David came up to me with a steady stance.

He coughed a bit before he said, “My parents said I can’t talk to you anymore.” I frowned at this, but he walked away before I could protest.

During art class that period, we all received our paintings from the previous week.

“We’re going to put them up outside the room for visitors to see at Open House this weekend,” my art teacher said as she handed

parent.”

Silent Voices 50

Trial 2: Physcial

out our art.

“I didn’t get mine,” I told her after all the kids received their paintings and scurried around the hallway picking the place they wanted to display their work.

My art teacher bent down to my level, her hanging second chin touching her chest.

“Julia, we can’t display yours. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

I huffed, “But that’s not fair! I worked hard on it.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Julia.”

Disappointment shattered across my face. My work wasn’t good enough to show the prospective families visiting.

“Mr. McCollum will see these paintings, and we don’t want to set a bad image for ourselves.”

“He’s nice!” I protested. I first met him when he stood with me in the cold at the College Park Marta Station when my bus driver forgot I was on the bus and made me wait for the next bus to transport me to the Lower School. He really was nice.

“He’d like it,” I said.

“I don’t think so, Julia.”

She left to help put up other students paintings while I stood there, defeated.

“Can I at least have my painting back?” I asked her after I slumped over towards her and the rest of the students.

“I’m afraid not,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

I told my dad later that day and he called the principal and demanded my painting be hung up alongside all the rest of them.

“Hell hath no wrath like an upset parent,” he said as he hung up the telephone.

So I waited. I waited for the distance from my classmates and the awkward encounters from my art teacher.

The students acted mostly the same, especially David, who avoided me like I was the devil himself; however, my art teacher was a lot nicer to me and let me hang up my painting next to David’s.

Later that week, we got a personal note from the principal saying Mr. McCollum loved the colors I used in my painting.

Julia Watson ‘15

Silent Voices 51

fig. II.iv

temptations

Trial 2: Physcial

35mm B&W analog print

Silent Voices 52

Dannah Gottlieb â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Trial 2: Physcial

my mind is running away from me things that remind me of you the brightest star in the sky the moon’s curved spine the tallest skyscraper the quick and mercurial motions of the clouds the dancing of long bony fingers on a piano the sound of children’s laughter the sighs i exhale before i sleep the sound of turning book pages the scorching water outlining my body in the shower the thunder yelling at me to go to sleep the lightning whispering to me to stay awake the crackling of fire the sound of a stranger’s smile the human body and its hows the shifting of shapes of the future the novels on my bookshelf the way the ocean hugs the sand the dancing of smoke from my incense the flaps of butterflies’ wings the white flowers blooming in the lawn next door the beat of a drum (your heartbeat) the unknown the blood flowing through my veins the effects of noise on man the way a circle never ends the flaws in humanity the love in humanity the water cycle the secrets of the earth the ability to see through glass the mysteries of the color black the way the sun kisses the horizon goodnight the falling leaves the echoes of the night the dead flowers in my garden the

Gracie Demarest ‘15

Silent Voices 53

Trial 2: Physcial

previous page:

King’s Lake Trail

fig. II.v

I took this photograph when I was backpacking with my brother and sister-in-law in Colorado. We had already camped the night before and were only a few miles from our next campsite at the Bob and Betty Lakes. We were taking a break after hiking through elevation at a large rock right by a river. I had already taken a few photographs of my brother and sister-in-law by the river, but when I saw that the river dropped off a cliff and all you could see was this beautiful landscape of mountainous terrain, my attention shifted completely. I was elated to see such a beautiful Colorado landscape and was happy I was able to document it because not long after I took the photograph, a storm rolled in. We ended up hiking through strong winds and hail until we reached our next campsite. Despite that storm, I’ll always see the photograph as a sort of “calm before the storm.” It was an amazing sight and if I had the opportunity to return to photograph it as the storm was happening, I have no doubt it would be just as amazing as it was before the storm.

Zach Orig ‘16

Silent Voices 56

Trial 2: Physcial

Alice

fig. II.vi

I titled this piece “Alice” because my original inspiration was the bright, colorful mushroom garden that is described in the story “Alice in Wonderland.” I created this piece by making each mushroom unique and creating a miniature environment as seen in the movie. It is painted almost entirely with underglaze with a few reacting glazes for a different texture and effect. The most difficult part of making this piece was making sure every little corner was painted and the original clay color could not be seen. I had a lot of fun making this piece- none of it was drawn out beforehand and I just went with the flow.

Emily Little ‘15

Silent Voices 57

Support

fig. II.vii

Trial 2: Physcial

Daniel Oberti â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

mixed media sculpture

Silent Voices 58

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Who is the Man? Who is the man you speak of The one only seen at night Casting shadows upon your darkness Keeping your little heart bright Is he the man of your dreams or a vision from the desert sands Somehow warmest in the winter Winds chiseling cracks in his hands Who is the man you heard from Grey vines before rusty eyes Rain climbing down his face On a blue and cloudless sky Is he a man of your land Or a wandering soul from elsewhere Is he a victim of the circumstances Or did he lose the will to care Who is the man you’ve seen His treasures stemming from the road Songs of joy and despair Still standing by the strength of his own

fig. II.viii

Is he a man who was exiled By all those one in the same Or is he brandishing his freedom Breaking free from the paper chains

Kawan Prather ‘15

Geometric

Who is the man you speak of Is he friend or is he foe So many different stories to choose from The world may never know

rusted steel sculpture Will Romero ‘16 Silent Voices 59

Trial 2: Physcial

You

you and the place where Ghastliness and Gorgeousness meet. my relationship with you possesses powers. {spoiler alert: a kind heart, a portrait of love; I relish what makes it unravel.

Olivia Jones â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

panic cord fig. II.ix 35mm B&W analog print Dannah Gottlieb â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15 Silent Voices 60

Trial 2: Physcial

Gracie Demarest â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

the way fire falls for everything she touches

fig. II.x

Silent Voices 61

Impossible Film Polaroid

Trial 2: Physcial

How to Wing

I would like to preface this segment by acknowledging the fact that winged eyeliner is not for the weak at heart. It is, in fact, quite the opposite. Winged eyeliner marks the faces of the silver-tongued teenager, the arsonist ex-girlfriend, the witty professional, the stylish 20-somethingyear-old. It marks the faces of women (or even men) who aren’t afraid of a second glance. Personally, I’m not particularly eccentric or unique, but I do love some winged eyeliner. I’ve been extending my eyeliner everyday since I started wearing make-up, and I now feel more uncomfortable with a blunt edge than a pointed one. I’ve found that this make-up trick enhances “. . . the whole point of not only my face, but also my confidence. So I guess I can rename this makeup is to make this how-to from “How to Wing Your you feel like a more Eyeliner” to “How to Feel Better Than powerful you.”

Everyone Around You.”

Step one in feeling better than everyone around you: draw a line starting from the middle of your eyelid to its outer edge, being sure to keep the line as close to your lash line as possible. Once you reach the edge of your lid, its now up to you to decide the style that you’re going for. You could decide on the “My-Ex-Just-Changed-the-Netflix-Password” flip or maybe the “My-Favorite-Show-Was-Just-Cancelled” curve if you’re going for something mild. If you’re feeling a little more bold than usual, you could chose the “My-Boyfriend-Just-Cheated-On-Me” contour or the “The-IRS-Just-Repossessed-My-House” point for something more extreme.

The design you choose will definitely vary, but what’s really important is the execution.

Step two: fill in the line. Its time to decide how thick you want

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Your Eyeliner your lines to be. Typically, I decide this day-to-day by reflecting the intensity of my teen angst in the moment. It’s different for every person, for everyone has different daily inspiration. For you, it might be the size of your wallet or maybe your sheer mood; whatever it is, take it and run with it. Thick or thin, your line must be clean because, just like anything in life, there’s no point in doing it if it is sloppily done. A good tip is to use your fingernail dipped in water to rub away any straying eyeliner. Remember, the whole point of this makeup is to make you feel like a more powerful you, and do powerful people go in public with stains on their shirt and smudges in their eyeliner? No they do not. May God grace you a steady hand, friends.

Step three, possibly the most important step, is to point your wing.

This step is what separates winged eyeliner from its tear-smudged-cousin.

The goal is to make your point sharp enough to cut a boy’s ego in half.

To do this, you put your liner to the edge of where you ended and gently draw a line up at the angle you wish. If you make any mistakes, the fingernail is, again, always a reliable and exact eraser.

Once you have completed all three steps, you have (hopefully) created a winged eye or two. By now, I assume you have a little less pep and a little more deliberacy in your step. I hope now that you can use your new edge to stab that voice in your head constantly exclaiming your “faults” or “shortcomings.” I hope that now you have the confidence to put your number on that cute waiter’s receipt. I hope you now feel sassy enough to blast your music (full volume and bass) out of your rolled-down windows. I hope you now feel the same confidence the average boy does walking down the street because guess what? You can now slay these sweaty boys and catty girls with the tip of your eyeliner.

Erica Brown ‘15

Silent Voices 63

Echo Amphitheatre

Trial 2: Physcial

fig. II.xii

Garrett Snyder â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

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This is a New Mexico-inspired piece with a Georgia O’Keeffe style. I chose the color scheme based on many native tribal colors. The piece is actually a landscape representation of the Echo Amphitheater in New Mexico, hence the name of the piece, “Echo Amphitheater.” This piece is composed strictly of acrylic paints with a little charcoal and white chalk. I intentionally separated the piece into three separate canvases in order to represent my emotional connection to the beauty of the landscape in New Mexico that I admired on the Woodward Academy Art Trip this year. The three canvases accomplish this by providing consistency throughout the work, while still maintaining a sense of separation. This alludes to not only my separation and departure from New Mexico, but my allowance to remember and embrace the landscape as an artistic natural wonder.

That is why I felt it was very important to provide the location as the title of my piece.

This piece is one of my personal favorites.

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Seven When i curl up my fingers in Rage and plot my revenge And strike blindly, feverishly at Those who have done me wrong, Have yet to feel my Growing inside of me as Ripe as a rotten fruit, an Evil that makes men do Erroneous things, that Damned, wretched Sleep is my savior, a drug, i’m Lazy, horrendously so, draped Over a couch with no will To move what so ever my eyes Heavy with Perhaps you inferior ones don’t Realize that i, in fact, I am better that you could Dare to be, but don’t bruise my Ego, don’t bruise my Love is consuming, a fire burning, Undulating inside of me, Searing my insides and fueling me To pursue you, such uncontrollable Everything that you have that i do Not i crave, i want, and i wish Very much that I could be just like You, and I’m practically green with Give me more, please I would Like to fill myself Up to the brim, expanding my Tummy, feeding my untrainable desire To eat everything in my path, my mind is Obese with the want of the taste, and it’s Not that I need it, it’s that I can’t stop, You know, the feeling of

Riley Schatz ‘15

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fig. II.xiii

Out of Reach

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sculpture Oscar Dow â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Penthouse suite

fig. II.xiv previous page:

Nic Huey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 I took this photo on a trip to Alabama in the summer of 2014. Several friends and I made a weekend trip over to Birmingham with the goal of photographing several abandoned buildings, factories and spaces.

This particular image was taken in the Leer Tower, a 1929, Spanish Revival, 19-story hotel. With no working elevators (obviously).

We took the stairs to the top, lugging several pounds of photo gear with us. I took this image on the 19th floor, in what must have been one of the penthouse suites. The shot attracted my attention mostly due to the peeling wall paper and light from the window. I setup my camera, composed, and took my exposure. I later edited the photo in Adobe Lightroom to bring some detail back into the window light and contrast to the peeling wallpaper.

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fig. II.xv The process I used for this photo is called a Polaroid Lift. First, I got a pan and filled it up with water. I let the water boil, and while it heated up I cut the edges off my Polaroid image. I then put my image in the steaming water. The heat in the water causes the image to lift off the plastic background of the Polaroid. Usually, when doing a Polaroid Lift, you wait until the entire image has lifted off of the plastic. However, for this Lift, I only let it boil in water for a few minutes to get only half of the image off of the plastic.

Then I manipulated the image with my hands to get the effect I wanted.

dehydration

Haley Hasen â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15 Silent Voices 71

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Whispers and the heavy creaks of stairs comprise the soft buzz to my senses No sound can I make or move to leave my nest pads the echoes so no one can hear Wrapped in down blankets and darkness, sheets carry essences of lavender scents The street lights dim the crescent moon orange fluorescent lights shine in, a comforting pseudo star The bright screen illuminates the room, a sun I am happy to orbit Eventually I will hear the crackles of day, squirrels cracking nuts and birds singing their songs But now as I snuggle in, I can pretend that dawn will never shove me away

Sydney Sumrall â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Ode to Netflix

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Some of the best ideas come from thinking outside of the box. Humans are

constantly thinking and questioning ideas. So why not break some boundaries, even if they seem small? Take the longer scenic route home. Put extra sugar in your coffee. Walk all three of your dogs at the same time. Challenge yourself; you will feel accomplished.

In more extreme measures, both scientists and artists experiment in hundreds

of magical ways. Whether a chemist is working with a reactive chemical, or a writer is breaking the normal grammatical rules, or an artist is adding elements not associated to their craft to create a mixed media piece, experimenting with oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s craft is necessary to grow in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s field. If we take risks, we will discover new talents and ideas that arise within us. The precision and accuracy we follow when experimenting allows us to make important decisions that will determine the outcome of our piece or the conclusion of our study.

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Elements Remain i no longer feel myself, i have seen maelstroms eternal, star-steeped seas, sun-speckled sweetgums Truth havens, pearl skies-your cerulean eyes droop like willows. my memories are dusted with fine gold and my moon weeps a rose color. the sky is a hell-red: old waves kiss new shores smile upon beautiful lips, in the dark glade where our thin arms once Entwined--dropping pollen like Flowers embroidered with black moss and soft little shivers of a transient voice but endless;

Olivia Jones â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

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Gracie Garrett Snyder â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 acrylic painting fig. III.i

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Sydney Warren â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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fig. III.ii

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Reclaimed

I took this photo with a disposable camera that I ran under freezing cold water for five minutes.

After getting the pictures developed, I decided to collage many of the photos from the roll together. This photo is actually two pictures mounted together. When mounting the pictures, I considered the colors and subjects that I thought complimented each other best.

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Her Skin With carefully-placed clothes (scarves worn just so, sleeves tugged down) She hid not scars, But words.

The fabric of her clothes Like the cover of a book, Her skin the pages beneath, Dark like the night sky With constellations of Silvery words freckled about.

Sentences scrawled down her shins, Thoughts typed on her thighs, Notes on her neck and nose, Words wrapped and wrapped around her waist.

These were her thoughts That she hid from the world, Secrets in ink-like patterns Across her paper skin.

Riley Schatz â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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tender heart Oh tender heart how much you bend and break in lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grasp To keep me sane I long to complete you For my heart is destined to move mountains But I am weak, only a vessel to wander and roam these silent valleys and hills I thirst, I hunger, I tire, I will die.

But who is left to push on when I have departed?

Who gives me life, you who never sleeps?

Oh move me my tinder, my fire, Move me my deepest desires Give me strength and guide me swiftly, on this unforgiving path.

You whose strength seems never ending Push me Onward towards vast horizons Where the dawn is bright and days are brighter still.

Take me on any grand adventure.

Make me live for second chances Keep me warm, keep me sober, Keep me on this frozen path.

You who symbolize my emotions With nothing but my wits and mettle Shelter me not from love For when the sky parts its clouds I shall find her in the sunshine.

Move me my tinder, my fire Move me my deepest desires, For mine eyes have wept the colors of the night.

Keep me warm my fire, my light Send me out toward vast horizons For my heart is destined to move those mountains All of this I ask of you, to keep me sane, to keep me true.

How much you change my tender heart.

Alex Patrick â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Witchcraft Facade Elevation

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fig. III.iii

For the entrance of ‘Raven’s Halloween Haven XII: Witchcraft’, I wanted to have an ancient, Celtic-style, stone hut for guests to enter. Drawn with a scale and then layered with colored textures, I was able to visualize exactly how I wanted the facade to look and how it was to be built.

The facade’s stone was created with carved foam painted to look like stone and then green mosses were added for the terrain portion.

This is definitely a testament that science is often used to create artwork.

Joseph Rabun ‘15

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Dominique Cornitcher â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

burned 35mm B&W analog print

Enlightened

fig. III.iv

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Contemporary The horse lie in the backyard, but the circling vultures now hunt other flesh, perfume redolent of worms and decay vanishing within them.

The skin was first to go then ligaments and muscles stripped bones, their frames left to collapse from the wind’s first caress. funny how she had to scrub off earth to compare each piece to diagrams Sketches by editors’ manicured hands.

“They’re art,” she said while painting them so they look like silver candlesticks if you look from far away.

The others gallop with blood still in their veins, and sometimes I think they look over wondering if they’ll be art someday.

Sydney Sumrall ‘15

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fig. III.v

Babylon Overture pages 1 and 2 of a 33 page composition

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Kevin Brown â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Sincerely September Pumpkin spice lattes, scary movies giant sweaters, superman and the mad hatter: just a few of my least favorite things; why cherish the month of the dead?

October only dries fighting leaves that lose their green, as winter chases.

Orange and brown clutter the ground along with fake bones and plastic crowns.

Perhaps the old sheets adorned by the shrieking children who take candy from strangers on dark streets portend their deserved young deaths.

Oh, but still all fail to see their astounding fortune to have me: the final guardian of spring, where summer last lingers.

So next time remember Show your deference to december and leave the tacky altar of the first little freeze to those fools with their candy.

Sydney Sumrall â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Shrouded

fig. III.vi

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cyanotype process with watercolors Rachel Zager â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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fig. III.vii

She holds the Stars

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Polaroid 669 transfers Jessica Vass â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

Change suddenly change treated the body with respect for its intricacies. life, passing out flyers, tried to account for the prettifications aimed at reminding the realm how the star they lived on was in a constant state of fear

Olivia Jones â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16 Silent Voices 90

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veins of the earth longing for blood antlers of a frostbitten deer sulking through a blanket of white creases in her palms attempting to tell the future but unable to stop thinking of where his fingers used to interlock barren tree branches helplessly reaching to the sun for light lightning in a storm trying to outrun the aggressive pulse of thunder hunting it down ridges on tree trunks crumbling at the sight of axes tentacles of a dried up jellyfish washed up on the shore vines tangled in the jungle searching for a trunk to grab onto for any form of support

Gracie Demarest â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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analog photograph: Tri-X pushed to 800

fig. III.viii

The Lonely Chair

Nic Huey â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;16

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Katrina Narrative When most people think about their hometown, they conjure up images. They remember the gym where they had their first prom, the shady trees under which they sold lemonade, or â&#x20AC;&#x153;the best breakfast place in the world.â&#x20AC;?

When I think of my hometown, I see nothing. I hear everything.

I hear the rich, folksy music, reverberating from homes around the French quarter. I hear men hawking tickets outside the Superdome where my beloved Saints played.

I hear the children of the Ninth Ward shouting at ice cream trucks and skipping rope on the melting blacktops of their city.

Now, New Orleans has a different sound. The children playing outside have disappeared. The only shadow of their sound is the ghostly bathtub ring haunting my city. The only laughter here is strange and shrill, and it is quickly stifled.The vendors at the Superdome also turned invisible. In late August, they were replaced by the anguished cries of ten thousand people forgotten and abandoned. The people who proved that even when thousands band together in misery, they can still be ignored.

What disturbs me most is the cadence of jazz music from the French Quarter. The prized, precious halcyon of our great city seems out of place and foreign in this dystopic arena. To people not from New Orleans, the French Quarter is the entire city.

They believe all of the Big Easy is Mardi Gras, pricey beignets, and plantation style hotels. How wrong they are.

New Orleans was every crack in the shoddy infrastructure, brimming with wilted milkweed and honeysuckle. New Orleans was the heat of crowds leaving church on Sundays, the stagnant, thick heat of shiny patent leather, Elnett hairspray, and sweaty prayer books. New Orleans was the broad, smiling faces of my people singing behind deli counters, singing behind desks in school, singing on well worn doorsteps and open windows. Always singing.

Now, the singing comes from whiny radios. The only music is artificial, in the chain restaurants with air conditioned ambience and out of town populace. To an outsider looking at our situation, we lost our hope when the storm hit. To those who knew the city, felt the city, smelled and lived and loved in the city, the truth is harder to face.

When the storm hit, we may have lost some hope. But only when the levees broke did we lose our faith.

Alli Gordon â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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bloodworth

fig. III.ix

Mia Gill â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Our assignment for this piece was “brushstrokes,” so I started out just using each circle section to have different styles of brushstrokes. That evolved to a clear gesso overlay of thick messy brushstrokes around the whole painting. Unlike many other forms of art, painting is based on each stroke and how it relates to the next one. It’s much more about feeling and composition than a science. It’s hard to explain actually, but the painting speaks to me and almost tells me each next step to take.

It’s like a puzzle that needs to be solved.

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fig. III.x

Just Paint

Depth

mixed media painting

Water leaps from the surface While bursts of blue splashes and Tumultuous waves engulf.

Legs flail to grasp the last inch of life, And your body shakes.

Air is replaced by water, Filling your lungs.

Your heart’s in a race.

Hands crash on the surface.

Hands smack to stay afloat But you’re dead weight.

Pulling the water that seeps Through your fingers, You begin to lose hope, And in an instant, You sink.

Your screams are no longer heard, As you become suffocated By the flood pouring in.

Your eyes look up reflecting on how The space between you and the surface Enlarges, and deep blue pressure Forces you down.

Time slows as your body gradually submerges And you begin to lose consciousness.

Deep blue shades Surround you and rush above you, While gravity claws at your limbs Pulling you toward the dark abyss.

Brielle Hentz ‘15 Mia Gill ‘15 Silent Voices 97

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Shades Translucent fibers There they stand and wait For a simple breeze to sway A grumble precedes the leap To unveil the Milky Way Of the framed world They guard for eons From claws or smudgy hands And cast an egg white shadow On the brightness made by man They boast the faintest glow When at first they seemed so modest Not a peep of protest or one seam to show Till at once they are demolished.

Evan Duffy â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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hidden

fig. III.xii

35mm B&W analog print

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Zach Orig â&#x20AC;&#x2DC; 16

Deceiving

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fig. III.xii

While I was in Paris studying photography, I was given the assignment to take 15 photographs of an object from different perspectives. I made my way to a chair in the Luxembourg Gardens, where the sun casted a harsh shadow of the chair on the ground.

I was told that Paris is the most photogenic city in the world, but I found it quite difficult to take photographs that were unique and not touristy.

I challenged myself by engaging in street photography and looking at simple and ordinary objects we use everyday in an artistic way.

I brought my negatives back home, where I created a cyanotype with a gum print on top and added watercolor details. In order to create the materials for these processes, chemicals are mixed together. Cyanotype chemicals: Potassium ferricyanide and Ferric ammonium citrate are mixed with water separately and then equally mixed together.

A gum print is created after mixing an emulsion which includes gum arabic, A dichromate and a pigment with the color desired to cultivate.

I enjoy mixed media art and adding elements that are not normally associated with photography. This piece is meant for the audience to question what they are looking at and what direction the chair is naturally.

Jessica Vass â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;15

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Results/Discussion

In our studies, we have observed the wide variety of opinions about the

differences & similarities between art and science.

In our efforts to include collaboration between the entire student body and

faculty, we emailed teachers asking for their input and created a survey that was sent to every student in the Upper School asking for their comments. We have combined statements from teachers, students and respected collaborators of Silent Voices in order to give you other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s views so that you can think deeper into the subject. As you read through these discussions, continue to contemplate your own opinion.

Results/ Discussion

Is Art a Science?

Is Science an Art?

Total responses: 166

51.81%

NO

51.20%

48.19%

YES

48.80%

NO

YES

How do you see art primarily?

Technically (lines, shapes, process)

13.25%

Emotionally (the artist’s feelings, how it makes you feel)

42.17%

Inspirationally (motivates you to think or create)

35.54%

I don’t like/respond to ART.

9.04%

I believe art and science are two completely different things. Both are Important to society, but I believe they are representing different things. I think it is almost insulting to say that they are the same because it takes away from their individual and great characteristics.

Michael Adams ‘15 I don’t think art can be boiled down to having a right or wrong answer. It is something different to every person, so I don’t think it is a science. However, I think the way all the elements of the universe coexist and react to each other is beautiful, so I think science could be an art.

Leslie Fellwock ‘15 Art and Science both require a critical thinking process, and you must use creative thinking to achieve the outcome you want to see.

Alex Slaughter ‘18

The rules of math and science are employed and evident in many forms of art: architecture, music, painting, and sculpture often reflect and/or stretch scientific laws to express certain universal truths as understood by the artist.

Similarly, there is often a certain aesthetic to the mysteries of our scientific world the symmetry of DNA, the design of the galaxy, the movement of atoms - these are all works of art themselves.

Susan McGonigle (Parent) First I was inclined to answer No, art is not a science, but then I read the second question, and my answer was yes, science is an art. Upon further thought I do believe art is a science. It is a process of experimentation with materials and artistic methods to create a desired outcome or visual effect. When things do not work you make note and avoid problems using that data in the future.

Daniel Oberti ‘15

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Results/ Discussion In particular, architecture is one of the I believe art is a science because you are most impressive art forms, in that one can creating something out of a variety of begin with pencil and paper and end with pieces. You use just a certain amount a building where people work, live, and of this paint to create this color, or you interact. In the specifics of architecture, decide to use this certain length of many mathematical concepts are seen, wood in your sculpture. Artists are like such and the Fibonacci Series, the Golden scientists because they analyze each Ratio. The “perfect” ratio of width and material and combine certain items to height is what I consider to be beautiful create their piece. I believe science is art. an art also because a scientist uses Aaron Brown ‘17 their imagination to expand the field of science similar to how an artist uses their Art is full of science if you really think imagination to created pieces never seen about it. In film photography, all of before. the chemicals must be mixed just right Cheyenne Early ‘17 to get your film or prints to develop.

For alternative printing, the chemicals can be altered to get different results.

Photography is chemistry at the most basic sense. There is also a science behind what a person finds appealing in a painting or sculpture. It’s a delicate balance of trial and error to find what is beautiful. Science is also an art. A surgeon could be said to be an artist as he stitches up a patient to create a beautiful scar. He has to be delicate as he works around a body. One mistake could ruin his incision, or piece of art. Ideally he would be a minimalist in the work that he does.

Anna Lee ‘15

I think the difference between science and art is that in science, you lay out a set process and ideally, do not deviate from that; whereas in art, I think there is a lot more room for deviation from the normal way of doing things. You can leave out or change a part of your process, and it’s totally acceptable.

Evan Strat ‘17 I don’t see how either of them relate. Art involves a different thought process than science. Art can be interpreted, but for science, you just have to accept the facts.

Shreya Kanukunta ‘16 Art is not a science because there is no formula, no right or wrong way to express yourself through artistry.

Science is an art in the sense that it takes patience, passion, and mastery.

Erin Edwards ‘17

Art uses aspects of chemistry and physics to create a certain beauty that the biological neurotransmitters react to in order to create a feeling of happiness and tranquility. Every cell has its own beauty. Every star is a burning ball of gases which create magnificent sceneries that evoke emotions similar to how art evokes emotions, such as romantic ambiances or even relief. The human anatomy is a system of such wondrous dexterity in which it has the power to create and feel. Every curve of a joint or even the way someone’s eyes gleam in the light are a form of art in which an emotion is created from the viewer.

Darya Hosein ‘16 The definition of science is “a branch of knowledge or study dealing with a body of truths and facts.” I know that in art classes I have previously taken, there is a lot of technique. There are even facts about colors and paint. I believe science is not an art because there are no feelings or expressions in science.

Emily Sigman ‘18 Art is about portraying the emotions of a human story or experience in the world around you. Science, on the other hand, is about understanding the world around you through the use of hard facts and data. While art and science both aim to portray and understand the world, the way they go about their mission sets them apart.

Aditya Singh ‘16

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Results/ Discussion

Science is often viewed as an intellectual and practical activity encompassing the systematic study of the structure and behavior of the physical and natural world through observation and experimentation. Science produces a systematically organized body of knowledge on a particular subject in a disciplined field of inquiry.

Art, on the other hand, is often viewed as the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination producing works appreciated by most only for their beauty or emotional power. Art finds form in creative visual and performing activities such as painting, photography, sculpture, music, literature, and dance.

But these views are limited, focusing on the end state, “the product”, of art and science, without consideration of the process. Could this be why many think of art and science as polar opposites? Is science only the purview of technical introverts and entirely data driven? Is art just the realm of expressive eccentrics driven by emotion?

Both are human endeavors attempting to make sense of all that surrounds. The process matters. Artists and scientists discover and create means to comprehend, explain, and celebrate what is different, what is similar, and what matters. Artists and scientists are explorers of the undiscovered seeking answers to questions of universal scope.

Artists and scientists ask the same fundamental questions: What is true?

Why does it matter?

How can it be shown, explained, and demonstrated?

Their search for answers is filled with wandering deeply down many different paths to express and explain. In the scientist’s laboratory and the artist’s studio we find the last two places reserved for the process of open-ended inquiry. It is this process that matters most. It is this process that makes the artist and the scientist kindred spirits. In the lab and the studio failure is welcomed as necessary component of the process of discovery and creativity. In both, learning occurs during an intricate dance of a continuous feedback loop between thinking and doing. The scientist and the artist are both investigators - testing ideas and hypotheses, discovering and creating, failing and finding.

Art is a Science; Science is an Art. Partners. Collaborators. To define one as superior or subordinate to the other is to place limits on both.

John Lane Director of Campus Safety M.A. Stanford University, B.S. West Point (USMA)

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Results/ Discussion

Art came first. So it is difficult to say Art is Science.

Science and art are connected in that they involve process and critical thinking but Art is emotional, personal, individual, and intuitive.

Art is not Science.

Chris Greenway Visual Arts Department Chairman Teaches Advanced Painting, Advanced Photography, Photography I and II, Drawing & Painting and Painting I & II B.S. Visual Art/Painting Georgia Southern University, Advanced studies Georgia State, Rhode Island School of Design

I wouldn’t consider art a science, but they certainly converge on many occasions.

Andy Cunningham Teaches Ceramics, Sculpture, Drawing and Jewelry Design B.F.A. Georgia State University, M.F.A. Georgia State University

Is art a science? Good question. What is “science” and what is “art”? Sources say that science is a systematic and organized body of knowledge, while sources say art is the expression of human creativity. I contend you cannot have one without the other. For example, take the space program. Surely one would agree that the Mars Rover encompasses both “science” and “art” for the outward expression of the creativity has at its root, systems and knowledge. Consider a mound of clay or blank piece of paper, transformed into stunning beauty, leaving an indelible mark. It is only through the coordinated motions and placement of hands on clay and pencil on paper are these images revealed - and outward expression of the artist’s systematic body of knowledge.

So yes art is a science and science is an art. And when the two are married, magical and momentous, human feats are achieved.

Monica Kuhlman Teaches EP and AP Environmental Science B.S. Lawrence University, M.S. Old Dominion University, and M.A.T. Clark College

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Results/ Discussion

Rather than address whether or not art is a science (or whether science is an art), I will instead point out something they have deeply in common: the tension between symmetry and asymmetry, and between order and chaos. Art has manifestations of order all the way from the extreme order of mosaic tiling, to various kinds of abstract art, in which order is difficult (at least for the uninitiated) to discern. In between there is a vast range where a lot of interesting things can happen. In terms of symmetry, the most symmetrical thing possible is nothingness (or maybe a white sheet of paper), with a perfect circle or sphere running a close second, preserving radial symmetry, but still at least having a border, between what is, and isn’t in the circle. That’s the beginning of a creative act, to divide the void into parts (in Genesis, that act is separating the light from the darkness). Some degree of symmetry is aesthetically pleasing in appreciation of human beauty. Studies show that faces with left-right symmetry are more attractive than are asymmetrical ones. Yet, too much symmetry is just “boring”. The mind seeks information, and yet information that can be understood in patterns.

Science is much the same, perhaps in its approach - such as the use of Occam’s Razor, which is the principle that we should pick the simplest theory compatible with the observations - but also in what we have found, through science, about the universe. The universe is neither completely ordered (like all matter in one big ball, or one giant, orderly crystal throughout space), nor completely disordered, like a gas. Instead, it have many large scale symmetries, but these are “broken” hierarchically, into clusters, like galaxies, stars, planets, people, and molocules. The laws themselves have symmetry, but not too much. Conservation laws are deeply related to symmetry, and yet initial conditions seem contingent (didn’t “have to be that way”), yielding a universe which is fairly predictable, yet surprising. Our models of the ultimate structure of matter are described by “group theory,” which is all about different types of symmetry, and whether or not these are “broken.”

A unifying concept behind both art and science (and music, and probably many other human endeavors) is that of information. Information is deeply tied to energy (my computer’s fan is whirring away as I type this - for good reason), and to entropy (degree of disorder) and therefore to life. Life, in turn, is the universe’s paradoxical answer to the tide of chaos, from which, in some sense it springs, yet strives against.

OK, going a bit off the deep end here, but maybe art and science are both mainly about life! (And not just as an “imitation”).

Thomas Ehrensperger Teaches Physics EP, AP Physics, Astronomy EP, Meteorology EP B.S. and M.S. Georgia Institute of Technology

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Results/ Discussion

In looking at the scientific method, that is, the process by which scientists formulate, test and modify hypotheses through systematic observation, measurements, etc., there are inherent similarities to the process used in the creation of art. Josef Albers, a renowned painter and design instructor stated that “There is no difference between science and art when it comes to creativeness, productiveness, to come to conclusions and to formulations.” The difference lies in the rules that govern the two processes. Artists are able to take liberties in the process of creating work that scientists may not. In other words, art deemed to be valuable in aesthetics and meaning does not necessitate a clearly definable method. On the other hand, sound research is defined as such due to the validity of the process by which conclusions are drawn. Both processes require acute focus, rigor and depth to provide useful outcomes for the artist and scientist alike. But, for the artist, the process of revealing the work to an audience requires a particular vulnerability that sets it apart from science.

Jennifer Knox Teaches Drawing, Design, Ceramics and Photography B.F.A. University of North Carolina at Asheville

I’m not sure if Art is a Science, but I can assure you that Science is an Art ... Science definitely benefits greatly from Art. The very best medical doctors I know are creative, problem solvers who treat the science of medicine as an art form. They do not allow the boundaries of what is known to be true, to limit the possibilities of what could be true. They allow their creative passions to find what is possible rather than focus on the impossible.

Wikipedia defines Science as “a systematic enterprise that builds and organizes knowledge in the form of testable explanations and predictions about the universe.” I do not view Art in a systematic manner, nor do I see Art as predictable. I do however, believe strongly that the Arts are essential to developing critical thinkers and ethical problem solvers in any field or discipline. Art was doing “design thinking” way before it was cool, and Art embodied 21st century learning skills many centuries ago.

Chris Freer Vice President for Student Life, Upper School Principal Bachelor’s degree in political science from Davidson College Master’s degree in educational leadership from the University of Georgia Ph.D. in educational policy studies from Georgia State University.

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Results/ Discussion

I would rather not answer whether art is a science unless you give me a definition of both. Let me rephrase it in terms of creation and discovery. The common stereotype is that art is creation, and science is discovery. I think that is wrong; there is so much creation in science â&#x20AC;&#x201C; of new molecules and new ideas. And in art, there is much discovery of emotional truths, and of how to bring them to peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s senses of vision, sound, and touch.

Roald Hoffmann An accomplished poet and playwright Studied chemistry at Columbia and Harvard Universities (Ph.D. 1962) Now at Cornell University as the Frank H. T. Rhodes Professor of Humane Letters Emeritus Received many of the honors of his profession, including the 1981 Nobel Prize in Chemistry (shared with Kenichi Fukui)

Silent Voices 110

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ART AND SCIENCE. II. He thinks of the unique molecule friends in Moscow made, tin in the middle, linked to two niobiums, two chlorines.

Around tin, like carbon, there should be a rough tetrahedron, but that ancient figure opens an angle wide vs. the opposing one.

So he puzzles with a student who tweaks the supple molecule in the computer, gauging its resistance until from the electronsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; chanced clouds, inner space, the reason snaps clear.

So that one could kick oneself for not having seen how unexceptional it really is.

She takes the common, here young eucalyptus, and with neat saw-cuts sketches the aura of its absent leaves and trunk.

She hard-wires its give into a limber lattice-work of chambers partially open, the pliant mystery of shaped emptiness passing through emptiness, tough for simple space to bear.

A burl of the giving mind, out of the ordinary, no one like any other one.

Roald Hoffmann

Works Cited Editors: Gracie Demarest ‘15 and Jessica Vass ‘15 The editors serve as curators, art directors, and communicators to the Silent Voices staff and the rest of the Upper School. More than 200 hours were spent gathering submissions, working on the weekends, emailing teachers and students about art and science, and teaching staff members the process of creating a Literary Magazine.

Critique Staff: This group of volunteers followed a judging outline to critique submitted literature online and on paper. This process took more than two months. After more than 100 submissions, the editors reviewed the staff’s notes on each piece and were able to narrow the selections.

Mia Green ‘18 Rachel Erbrick ‘15 Olivia Jones ‘16 Nava Almalford ‘15 Avni Kulkanni ‘17 Dani Ben-Arie ‘17 Olivia Hehir ‘16 Mallory Wilson ‘16 Hannah Erbrick ‘17 Vanilla Parthiban ‘15 Design Staff: All layouts in the magazine were created by students on the design staff. After learning Indesign CC, the staff followed set guidlines to create a fluid minimalistic appearance of a lab report over the course of only a few weeks. The two main fonts used were Courier and Sukhumvit Set Thin, and all artwork in the magazine has been untouched and no boarders have been added.

Avni Kulkarnni ‘17 Mia Green ‘18 Rachel Erbrick ‘15 Aaron Brown ‘17 Olivia Jones ‘16 Additional Staff: Maya Mitchel ‘15 Molly Echols Special thanks to Rebekah Goode-Peoples, Dr. Chris Freer, John Lane, Jennifer Knox, Chris Greenway, Andy Cunningham, and Monica Kuhlman for their support and comments during our experiment.

Also, we would like to thank Roald Hoffman, a poet and Nobel Prize winner, for allowing us to use his poetry and insight.

Thank you to those students in the Upper School who responded to our survey and allowed us to use their opinions in our research.

Discontentment

Sarah Moreno â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;17

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ART AND SCIENCE.

It’s the land of the Slinky, warped mirrors, the seemingly misfit gears of eccentric motion. It’s the modern science museum.

You would have to drop a crowbar on a gong to hear it above decibels of ten-year old visitors. The masterpieces — Planck’s quantum hypothesis, the quinine synthesis — are missing.

Only the photos of the makers, the tangible, billboards explaining the mystery of common sense.

In the hushed temple of high art one is moved from the discreet space carved out by a Simone Martini to the Master of the Urbino Annunciation.

It’s the untouchable preserve of patrimony, cautiously labelled for the farsighted, all masterpieces, at least until deaccessioned.

But there it hangs, my Crivelli with a fly, in the palace of unique resolutions, once done waiting patiently to be done again, differently.

Roald Hoffmann

III.