Transcript
wo rdha
ndͻ
ͼͼ
AT CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
AND WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
A COLLABORATION BETWEEN
WRITING AND ART STUDENTS
AND
Funded by a generous grant from;WILLIAM T. COLVILLE MEMORIAL FOUNDATION
P.O.BOX 909 NESKOWIN OR 97 149
© 2013
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We thank the following:Dale Rawls and Virginia King, Catlin Gabel, and Christopher Shotola-Hardt and
Jay Rishel, Wilsonville High School, for their time and energy; this project was
added to their already busy lives, their full schedules. It necessitated monitoring,
collecting materials, documenting, and handling exchanges between eight pairs
of students – no small task.
Dardinelle Troen, who designed this catalogue, which constitutes the full
documentation of months of exchanges between the sixteen participants.
Steve Tilden, William T. Colville Foundation program coordinator, for bringing
this project to fruition.
Blackfish Gallery, for lending their space for the reception, during which each
student first met his/her collaborator.
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IntroductionIn 1999, Michele Glazer, Portland State University, and Steve Tilden
created a collaborative process they called Word&Hand. It was a
series of exchanges of creative work over a period of several months.
The notion was to give each collaborator many chances to provoke
the other, and to be provoked. They ‘spoke’ only with their respective
medium – Michele in poetry, Steve in sculpture.
They organized a W&H project with five additional writer/visual
artist pairs, exchanging work over ten months, with a catalogue
and an exhibit at the Autzen Gallery at Portland State University in
2000. This project was repeated a year later with some changes to
the participants, featuring a catalogue and an exhibit at the Littman
Gallery, Portland State University. Both projects were supported by
the Regional Arts and Culture Council.
In 2012, Steve joined the board of trustees of the William T. Colville
Foundation, and suggested that the W&H style of collaboration
might work well at the high school level. He invited Christopher
Shotola-Hardt, art faculty at Wilsonville High, and Dale Rawls, art
faculty at Catlin Gabel, to conduct a project supported by the Colville
Foundation. They, in turn, invited Jay Rishel and Virginia King to
supervise the writers.
The exchanges of creative work began in October 2012 and ended in
March 2013. This catalogue documents those exchanges. One of the
important dimensions of the W&H style of collaboration is the writer
and the visual artist need not know each other, and did not see each
other, during their collaboration. To ensure this, students at Catlin
Gabel were paired with students at Wilsonville.
The core concept of W&H collaboration is a conversation, not verbally
but via two different mediums. For example, the first collaborator
might ‘say’ something with a line of poetry; upon receiving that line,
the second collaborator might ‘reply’ with a splash of color on canvas.
Upon receiving that splash of color, the writer ‘replies’ with additional
lines, and so forth until each has completed their work – one or more
poems, and one or more paintings. The poetry has affected the
painting (or any other visual work), and vice versa.
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To foster this conversation, W&H collaborators are asked to follow three rules:* FIRST, no verbal communication between collaborators -- no
comments, no questions about what the fellow collaborator is
doing creatively; each must ‘speak’ only via his/her medium.
SECOND, complete the work in steps so that the collaborator has
opportunities to ‘reply’ – think of it as each creative step (that
line of poetry, that splash of color or 3-D shape) is like a sentence
in a conversation.
THIRD, each collaborator will keep a journal of thoughts, reactions,
questions, and ideas that come to mind as the exchanges
progress – things each collaborator might want to have said to
the other collaborator at each exchange during the process. This
journal is not shared until the process is completed. It forms
a running description of thinking and reactions during the
collaborative process.
*Applying rules to the creative process may seem oxymoronic, but oddly it can be
freeing. For example, Sol LeWitt (1967) used rules to explore the unpredictable
relationships between shape, shadow, and color, turning a repeated simple element
into a complex visual experience. In the W&H process, the ‘no talking’ rule presses the
collaborators to pour all their creative effort into their work rather than talking around it.
!e Faculty
Jay Rishel WRITING FACULTY | WILSONVILLE
Jay Rishel has taught English at Wilsonville High School since 2000 and currently serves on the board of the Oregon Council of Teachers of English. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Northeast Portland.
“The exploration, the wondering, the meaning-making have made Word & Hand a richly rewarding experience. I have thoroughly appreciated the students’ efforts to push an artistic conversation in a cogent and meaningful direction.”
Christopher Shotola-Hardt WILSONVILLE | ART FACULTY
I felt bad that I borrowed Steve Tilden’s catalogue from the first Word & Hand project and kept it for over two years.
I had wanted to partner up with one of the English teachers at my school and try it
with high school students.
When Steve told me that a William T. Colville Foundation grant could possibly
fund an exchange between my school and Catlin Gabel, I was ecstatic! The
most exciting days this year were when we brought the new batch of Catlin
poems and artworks to our Wilsonville group. Everybody could hardly wait to
see how their partner writer or artist had responded. It was like opening much
anticipated holiday gifts. And what gifts! To have another creative person look so
deeply into one’s work and respond to it in another creative form….
I have been teaching 26 years. This model of creative exchange is certainly a highlight
for me. I look forward to the next time Steve wants to initiate Word & Hand with
professional artists and writers. I’m in!
I belong to the same gallery as Steve: Blackfish Gallery in Portland, OR
I paint.
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Ginia KingCATLIN GABEL | WRITING FACULTY
Since 1982, Ginia King has been studying and/or teaching French, Italian, and
English literature. She particularly enjoys the company of dogs, adolescents, and
(mostly dead) poets. She believes people are happiest when they are making or
experiencing art; watching her students work though the Word and Hand project
has reinforced that conviction.
Dale RawlsART FACULTY | CATLIN GABEL
I discovered that using images was my first language in the 1970’s . I have taught visual art for quite sometime. I currently have taught at the Catlin Gabel School for the last 24 years. I work with mixed media, on paper, canvas and shaped panels. I work with Barbara Rawls at Riverhouse studio in Portland. She remains a key creative influence. In 1999 and 2001 I created work in response to poems by poet Paul Merchant for Word & Hand. I have appreciated so much how hard the high school visual artists have worked to maintain a creative connection to their own work while attempting to communicate with their unknown partner. I could not be more pleased.
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ͻ�EXCHANGE
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Patrick Flynn | ARTIST
WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
Patrick Flynn is a student at Wilsonville High School. He enjoys science, art,
and experimentation in each. He loves abstraction. He particularly enjoys
experimentation in abstract expressionism and chaotic beauty. He prefers the word
“alternative” to “hipster.”
WRITER | Lauren WuCATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Lauren Wu is a senior at Catlin Gabel. Her first poems written as a second grader involved dancing valentines. She draws her inspiration from nature, life stories, and music. She enjoys hiking, biking, swimming, photography, and all art forms. She plans to continue pursuing creative writing in college.
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Flynn | Wu | FIRST CYCLE
Patrick Flynn 10 NOV. 2012The piece began with a block of wood.
It was created during a point of time
in which I was attempting to create
raw, chaotic, saturated abstract color
pieces using cyan, yellow and magenta
tempera primarily (no pun intended).
I created several blocks, curious as to
which ones worked and which ones
did not. I was unsatisfied with the
composition so I took a palette knife
and created a thick layer of green--a
rather ugly green, too.
After applying a similar process of
creating saturated colors on another
piece, I put the painted surfaces
against each other. This created a
veiny imprint on the piece.
After it dried, I applied a blue wash
and yellow dry brush to accentuate the
grooves. Dark blue covered the areas
still showing under a layer of green.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝
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Lauren WuFIRST IMPRESSIONS A teacher remarked that it looks
like a plant cell, replete with cell
walls. I clearly see it and do agree.
I’ve been going through a trend of
writing science-y poems lately. The
terminology supplements and even
headlines imagery I have been trying
to percolate my poems with.
SECOND SITTING:Ginia, my creative writing teacher,
remarked that poetry captures a
moment in time. My earliest poems
had ruminated on abstract ideas, so
I am trying to gradually embrace this
new style of more imagistic poetry,
nothing quite like Pound or H.D., as I
find myself too verbose for that, but
definitely edging out descriptions for
images that represent, and replace.
I intend for this poem to keep with
this philosophy. It will need to
embody a process, but not describe
it. It will be a snapshot, and to spin
off more clichés, a poem worth a
thousand words.
I’ve decided.
That process will be cell division.
THIRD SITTING:Cell division is cell reproduction, so
I think I’ll run with that circle of life
idea. The main subject of the painting
looks like a leaf. I think I’ll zoom out
beyond the focus on the leaf, and
acknowledging the other concurrent
processes in the ecosystem. We as
a cohabiting species can be quite
anthropocentric at times, so I’d like
for this poem to subtly (and politely)
hold up a sign, without screaming
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MULTDIVIDE
As cells of kelpCollide—the deep sea bottomStands still, una!ected.
As duplicates of harbingers Divide—the internal ripplesDissipate, unnoticed.
As innocent clown "sh Reside—their predatorPreys, unsuspected.
As veins within stemsProvide—they silentlySustain, ungrati"ed.
Flynn | Wu | SECOND CYCLE
Patrick | ENTRY 2
As cells of kelp
Collide—the deep sea bottom
Stands still, unaffected.
As duplicates of harbingers
Divide—the internal ripples
Dissipate, unnoticed
As innocent clownfish
Reside—their predator
Preys, unsuspected
As veins within stems.
Provide--they silently
sustain, ungratified.
POEM ANALYSIS AND IDEAS organic texture observations as if
viewed from a scuba diver
add a black blue hand reaching out
flourishes of color are covered by kelp
color. sea atmosphere—sunbeams
through water? accentuate stems
I tried adding blobs of orange for
“clownfish.” It didn’t look very good
so I washed it off and the paint
disintegrated, exposing lower layers.
After brainstorming a little and
experimenting I decided I’d create
a sunbeam pass under it and catch
the light.
Next I’d add a three dimensional-
ish hand reaching into the “kelp” to
illustrate a first person view. I’m
unsure whether to make it dark
(like the black latex scuba suits) or
distorted, bright magenta-orange.
I’ll have to try both. I added the fish
and the hand. I gave the hand an
orange band to create parallelism
between the fish and the hand. I am
not completely satisfied with the way
it turned out but there’s not much I
can do about it. Overall I am satisfied;
I just feel some elements of form
could be changed a bit, specifically
the hand. I want to stop for the day
and I feel it is close enough to what I
wanted and that altering it too much
would push it away from that.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝
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LaurenFIRST IMPRESSIONS The introduction of the hand has a
menacing connotation. It definitely
doesn’t belong and is starkly
different, but the outreached hand
and similar coloring to the fish begs
environmental questions of similarities
between biodiversity of species,
and how although humans live in a
different dimension, they ultimately
share the same world and mutually
affect each other.
SECOND SITTINGThe painting has overall taken on a
deep, murky blue overtone. As if it’s
difficult to see beyond the obvious,
and the answers or appropriate
course of action isn’t just staring you
in the face, as such is life.
THIRD SITTINGGinia suggested I read Pablo Neruda,
adored by poets across time and
space. Befittingly, I found myself
dwelling on his poem, “Enigmas.” He
so beautifully paints a poetic picture
of the shore, the ocean, and his
relationship with the two. He does
this better than I’ve seen others do, or
what I could dream of doing.
FOURTH SITTINGI want to convey that divide and sense
of bridging the gap. There will need
to be a tension, as transcending the
divide is unconventionally against
society’s norms. What divide, you
ask? I am purposefully leaving this
abstract and open to interpretation.
But because I would like to encourage
my artist to break through the surface
of the underwater setting, I will have
to reverse the perspective and write
about breaking through the surface.
Symbolically, it will represent effort
on a human’s part to bridge the gap
of understanding and responsibility to
earth’s co-habitants.
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RENEGADE
I bared myselfin an exposé to a murky opaque viscous.
In visceral, ecstatic ripples from #uttering feetpropelled through endless poresof "sh, and species unde"ned.
Now surfaced, inundated in dry emptiness con"ned to one orientationself-proclaimed as upright.
Checked by brethren with shared physiquesbut eyes of ire dull with denialtheir superior humanity.
Proximity drains the #ushing edictbubbled from its sewage excretions.
Flynn | Wu | SECOND CYCLE
Patrick FlynnCYCLE 3 Got the piece back, and I realized
how little I like the fishes. The whole
piece seems lackluster, and it’s a
bit like visiting a weird cousin or
something. You’re glad to see them,
but you realize that they have issues.
Regardless I already have an idea of
what to do next. The poet responds
talking about sewage secretions
and stuff. Gonna try something with
that—some chemical, unnatural blobs.
Definitely getting rid of these fishes
and the hand.
Well I made the blobs, and this
sort of oily aurora. It’s kind of like
a cascade of nebulae in space and
water pollution, although it looks
pretty lackluster. It responds to the
sunbeams and the fish and hand
are completely covered—that’s
what I wanted. Realism isn’t my
thing, and the imagery was pretty
gimmicky. Although it isn’t polished
or developed nearly as much as I
want it to be, I have completely done
everything I set out to do this round.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON WOOD, 11˝ X 6-3/8˝
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Lauren WuFIRST IMPRESSIONS Yes! Anarchy! Red and orange and
yellow! Fire. Chaos. Had it coming?
Well, it is a beautiful painting with a
new palate, but no, I don’t suppose it’s
a good thing that Earth, which is now
what this kelp leaf has zoomed out
to—a view of Earth from space, or in a
picture in future history, take your pick—
has consequences catching up to it.
SECOND SITTING:I would like to instill a little optimism/
call to action/opportunity in my
poem. I don’t appreciate literature
that is all cynics and lamentation
(grief is a different story).
THIRD SITTING:I think volcanoes will serve as great
imagery. This documentary I’m watching
inspires vivid visuals. However, I’m not
intending to draw upon the out-of-
our-control aspect of volcanoes, but
rather, the natural beauty of them, while
pointing out the animate qualities of
destruction they possess.
Parallelism and personification, anyone?
Again, the personification isn’t to play
the blame game on humankind, but
to say, “hey man (pun intended), you
should know that if you keep doing
what you’re doing, things aren’t gonna
end well for you, or anyone else (as an
afterthought).”
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CYCLICAL UNKNOWN
She retaliated with the majestic force of ubiquitous sails,charging toward your territory lined withsteel obstructions, defenseless.
Reparations, sacri"ces of crimson, blood orange,to mark the be"tting crimes.
Invisible activity beneath the surface—Paradoxical bubbling volatile mercury of destruction and creation.
A lava tube sucks another house through.
Who will triumphin the War between Water and Fire?
Neighborhoods ravished by "reunder Nature’s furyInundated with turbulent rains.
$e optimist survivors prevail through the "ssures of deathsputtering streams of "rework colored sparks.
Merciless, treacherous
burning… and gone in the time it took to read thisconsuming wooden structures as ifthey were toothpicks, or a house of cards.
Alas, her center empties of magmaevery entity from stone, soil, sand, self,extinct...
Will the unsound surfacecave in on itself?
Flynn | Wu | THIRD CYCLE
Patrick FlynnGot this piece of junk back. Immediately, I realize that
it just lacks. Doing stuff for the standard art class and
coming back to this red headed stepchild of a piece is
painful. I want to start something new, but I would hate to
end it just right here; I’ve got to finish what I started. It’s a
hard knock life. Here’s the poem, and my notes.
She retaliates with the majestic force of ubiquitous sails
charging toward your territory lined with steel obstructions,
defenseless.
Chaos chaos chaos chaos,
good, my point is getting across
Reparations, sacrifices of crimson, blood orange, mark the
befitting crimes.
Red is my favorite color, so vibrant and violent.
Man this poet knows what I like it’s like feudal
Chinese law
Invisible activity brims beneath the surface— Paradoxical
bubbling volatile mercury of destruction and creation
it’s clear that I have to really emphasize my willingness
to create and destroy recklessly and yet I need to find a
way to do that in an appealing way
A lava tube sucks another house through.
Fire ravishes neighborhoods under Nature’s fury inundated
with turbulent rains
Fantastic imagery. Why did a lazy artist like me have to
get paired with such a smart poet?
The optimist survivors prevail
through fissures of death,
sputtering streams of firework colored sparks.
The life is carried on through a persona of death.
Color is emphasized
Merciless, treacherous burning… and gone in the time it
took to read this; consuming wooden structures as if
they were toothpicks, a house of cards.
Visceral cruelness
Her center empties of magma
every entity from stone, soil, sand, self, extinct—
The weakness of the piece compared to
the power of the artist.
It’s clear that the artist is describing what I wanted to do all
along: chaotic beauty. Although I got the chaotic portion
of it, not so sure about the beauty portion.
In order to respond I washed more paint off. This gave the
piece less form and more textural color, which is what I
wanted. The aurora has been deformed and distressed and
the sunbeams are dead fragments of yellow.
In an impulse of sickness for the piece I created, I started a
new one using a sort of turquoise. Looking at it I realized
it wasn’t going anywhere and it would be inefficient with
everyone’s time to start over. So using the second piece,
in a similar way this piece was created, I took the washed
out piece and placed it against the wet blue surface. This
created blue streaks at the higher points in the texture
(literal high points, not figurative). I finally feel this piece is
close to being resolved.
ENTRY 5I got the piece back from the last exchange. There will be
no more. I’m not sure if ol’ Shotola-Hardt said there was a
poem to go with it. I think I remember he said something
about my partner usually being late with poetry. Either way,
the piece will go under some changes. Looking at it now all
I can say is that I want it to be better, but I feel like it’s stuck.
I’m not stuck, the piece is just stuck in the past: a time when
I was different as an artist, less experienced. I hope C-1
understands...
It’s truly remarkable how much I’ve changed since the
beginning of this project, a mere three or four months ago.
I would like to share my final thoughts on the project; they’ll
be brief, I assure you.
It was a great idea, but I wasn’t ready. Art for me, although
an intellectual and stimulating experience, is purely
recreational. I didn’t want to wake up an hour early, do
extra work or invest my best effort in something that I
didn’t take seriously. I ended up creating something that
will likely end up subpar because I didn’t enjoy making it.
Oh well, maybe I’ll get it right next time.
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Untit
led, A
CR
YL
IC O
N W
OO
D, 1
1˝ X
6-3
/8˝
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Flynn | Wu | FINAL CYCLE
Lauren WuCYCLE 4 | FIRST IMPRESSIONS Have to say, this is my favorite piece
of the four. The softer, mossier
palate is gorgeous, especially the
turquoise (my favorite color) as a
border. I love the different textures
as well, including smooth, flaky, and
bumpy. Generally a hodgepodge, but
everything seems to fit.
I think it can be interpreted as both or
either ugly or beautiful. It could be the
unsettling aftermath of disaster, or not.
SECOND SITTINGI’ve decided to look at this piece as a
separate entity from the trajectory I’ve
been following from the previous three
cycles. I like the hodgepodge idea,
and believe it fitting of our country.
My school recently held its annual
diversity conference, and its theme,
Kaleidoscope, reflects the art here.
A teacher who co-led a workshop on
culture shock for the conference talked
about the respective melting pot and
tossed salad phenomena of the U.S.
and Canada. In the U.S. newcomers
or minorities are expected to work to
assimilate to the mainstream, while in
Canada, people distinguish themselves
in cultural enclaves. I would like to
explore an illustration of this, whatever
amalgamation it may be, in my poem.
THIRD SITTINGSince I’m more familiar with the
environment of the United States, I’ll
stick to that.
I imagine this child, on the brink of a
melting pot. He or she is brought to
America not of his or her own volition,
but of his or her parents’. He or she is
leaving behind their known comforts,
friends, family, and identity. Now, he
or she is expected to assimilate. I see
the orange streaks in the painting as
this child.
In the painting, I see the colors on the
edge as immigrants and foreign-born
citizens, returning expats, minorities,
marginalized people in general. They
are trying to fit in, but are at times
treated like infiltrators.
Whether social or ecological,
environments should be minded and
adequately attended to, which may
require change within ourselves,
within our shared environment.
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SOLVENT CHILDHOOD
In this thicket of roses,I am a budding thornto them.
In this decaying foliage,I rustle the fallen leaves.$ere aren’t any more for me to catch.
I gather the leaves in my arms.My arms aren’t long enoughto carry more.
I release my armswith the utmost strength I can muster.
My wrist hits a branch,springs open,streams red.
$e wind carriesthe remnants,the pain.
I lift my chin,walk to the next tree,look for the bloom.
ͻ�EXCHANGE
two
two
WRITER | Elise $ompsonCATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Elise Thompson, junior at Catlin Gabel, I love tea, fireplaces, steep mountains, pistachio ice cream, wide windows and long car rides.
When I write, I try to step into a new identity and explore life through a new perspective. Try on rugged boots, ankle-twisting heels, thin-soled sneakers, that sort of thing. If I find myself immersed in my new character, I’ve been successful.
Going into this project, I was mainly just excited by the idea of participating in a dialogue in which communication between partners would be strictly through art—I wondered to what level the communication would play out, and whether I would feel a connection with my partner.
Throughout the project, I noticed my pieces developing in ways they hadn’t before—I found myself writing with the purpose of eliciting a strong, specific reaction from my partner, rather than simply writing for writing’s sake alone.
Doone Williams | ARTIST
WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
I was born in Bend, Oregon in 1995. I was raised in Central Oregon, parts of
Southern and Northern California, Arizona, and now most recently, the Portland
Metro Area, I feel that I have grasped onto inspiration of the world around me at a
very early age. Being raised in a family of musicians and artists has provoked my artistic energy since day one—which in fact led to my first art show as a 1-year-
old baby. Art is a way of living, and it has become my way of life. People ask me,
“Are you going to be an artist when you grow up?” I simply respond with,”Are you going to have eyes when you grow up?” I
am Doone Williams, The Artist.
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Williams | $ompson | FIRST CYCLE
Doone WilliamsTHE BEGINNING
10: 26PMTonight I am listening to nothing but
Oscar Peterson and old Stan Getz
albums—spinning on the record
player. Ready to open my new gold
paint, which I am dying to use, and am
about to. Nothing but wood, mud and
acrylic paint. Every note on the piano
and every hit of the drum I see walls,
rich accents of glamour, elegance but
raw structure. Not sure if this should
be perceived as mystery or perhaps
completely recognizable. Empty
room, but walls of energy.
11:57PMChandelier.
Gold
On $
e Ceil
ing, A
CR
YL
IC &
PL
AS
TE
R O
N W
OO
D 2
1˝ X
48
˝
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Elise $ompson20 NOVEMBER 2012 - Received first painting.
Last night I grabbed it and ran to the
car. All I could think about was that
the art was heavy and dark. I was kind
of terrified to begin responding.
Now I see a hall (ballroom?), colossal
chandelier (does it drip?), ash walls
and floor.
An eerie vibe, like something
happened—something bad—and
now the room has been left to decay.
The gold along the arches and the
ceiling, and such make the room look
like a magnificent palace or mansion
that once teemed with energy and
happiness, but all that glory has been
sucked out.
All that’s left is a dying, dust-filled
skeleton. Something happened to the
owner. Something tragic, but maybe
they had it coming.
They deserved it? Like King Ludwig
and Neuschwanstein, how he ordered
that stunningly exquisite rooms be
built, but then mysteriously drowned
before the castle was finished. So
the grandeur he dreamed of never
became a complete reality.
23 NOVEMBER 2012 – Interpreting...
Each time I look up again at that
painting I notice the dripping all over,
like melting. Ooze, seep, dribble,
bleed.
Was this hall constructed for parties
and life, or just as a formality?
Was it meant to be sad, or did that
happen over time?
If I walked under the gold arches,
would I enter a tunnel or just another
room?
I think a tunnel. But where does it
lead?
Could this all be underground?
This becomes so much harder when
I realize how many different ways I
could take this.
26 NOVEMBER 2012 –
I know what to write about.
A man’s atrophy.19
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his "ngertips fumble, numb as they struggle to lift the red glow between his parched lips.
grey eyes exhale wide eyes watch stuttering smoke stumble out his throat.the rise and fall beneath his chin does not belong to him.ink’s parade across his chest turned mundane, forgotten years ago.a pale crescent patch behind his ear whispers scars to his deaf drum.an empty four-chambered cage, #ecked with gold, buried in soot, rattles.
he faces a square window.outside, the sunset succumbed to the su!ocating dust of dusk, and the trees have become nothing more than jagged spindles traced across an electrocardiogram monitor.the line jumps:up, down up.
a nightmare previews across the widescreen of his closed eyelids:attempting deliberate steps, he limps to the sill, presses his forehead to the frosted glass.
somebody chalked spider webs across the pane.pillows of breath balloon before nostrils, ashes, invisible in the grey light, jump to the #oor.bones start to melt, like candles dripping wax.the walls around him fall away, wind hugs his side, coaxes leathery #akes from the wrapping he used to call Skin, little fragments swirl away,join the jagged spindles asleep in the black.
his eyes, "rst frightened, now teem with calm, and he slowly sinks to the ground.
melli#uous #ecks of gold would glimmer if there were light to catch their dance.
simmering in a pool of honey, the cigarette’s eternal glow pulses.it beats.
Williams | $ompson | SECOND CYCLE
Doone WilliamsRESPONSE #1Wow. Completely unexpected but I
am excited. This poem brought much
more melancholy yet very curious
intentions. I am seeing more use of
architecture and structure to capture
this emotion and tone.
Thick, BAROQUE, statements.
Line vs. meaning vs. mood
I want to embrace this “dark figure”—a
boy, a man? Lonely and afraid. But
enclosed and protected in these walls.
KEEPING THE GOLD. The gold is key;
makes this exciting and professional.
But this poem is dark and whoa…
powerful. Should I show the body? Or
keep it as an open ended figure… ghost?
Windows, ACRYLIC & PLASTER ON WOOD 31˝ X 13-3/4˝
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Elise $ompson5 DECEMBER 2012 –
Received second painting.
I’m sort of lost—can’t quite figure out
what they’re trying to say…
17 DECEMBER 2012 –
Interpreting… Facing large windows,
I look to the golden outside (is the
sun rising? in that moment where
windows let in a sort of orange glow
and I always think a light is on but
when I go to turn it off its just the
sun..?). The chandeliers have some
gold in them, now. I think they were
just white before – or whiter than
now, at least. One’s roped higher
than the other – whys that? Further
dilapidation?
Is this a mansion or a church?
I love the candle on the far left. And
how it’s so much bigger than the
rest of the painting. Was that simply
meant because of perspective, like I’m
holding the candle and looking out
the windows, or is the candle bigger
because it’s more important and the
artist wants me to really notice it?
24 DECEMBER 2012 –
More interpreting… Jacob thought
there’s a person standing in the
bottom far left window but I’m not
sure. Even if there isn’t I kind of like
that idea, though. Someone standing
there. They stand apart from the
candle.
Why is the candle still lit? If there are
chandeliers hanging and a golden hue
coming from outside, there’s no need
for candles, anymore.
It should be snuffed out.
5 JANUARY 1013 2012 –
Decision.
He will talk.
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a door cracks; she peers in.she hasn’t seen him move all night,but still,the candle in her hand shakes, echoing the terror resonating through her limbs.in the #ickering light, herround cheeks materialize andthey emit a gasp as her footsteps ebb.slowly, silently, they return and she knocks.
the marble man blinks, sends soot leaping from eyelashes, inhales, and a school of sawdust swims down larynx,gags.
rusty hues bloom from iron bars, glass is speckled with rain,and "nally, marble ripples,
its dark twists turn taut, and brittle, they shatter –
a "ngertip scratches behind an ear,a man emerges. under a cable-knit brow,his pupils are foggy, slightly stale, as if raked from a tavern #oor.he sees the hazy "gure.she tremors in hiding,each shiver sends tsunami waves tumbling.she begins to approach.eyes locked in hers,his lips move.
“I blinked and it came into focus and I saw a maple, its trunk slim, "ngers small.But its branches were heavy – heavy with blood,like they would collapse if I let my breath go.”
soon at his side, "ngertips reach, touch an armshocks reel down both spines.
hers quivered and he thought she looked beautiful, when scared.
“When I said blood, I meant the leaves were red.I wasn’t describing the actual blood.It was trickling so thin no one saw it – no one except me and the boy hiding in the fork of the tree
- we were young, like you.He cradled his knee in one hand and a salt shaker in the other.”
Williams | $ompson | THIRD CYCLE
Doone WilliamsRESPONSE #2SPOT ON. I feel like I should change
the style to perhaps steer this in a
different direction to capture the
meaning. This woman. A candle. Is it
still lit? Is it still flaming or flickering or
completely burnt out? No more gold.
For the tone is cold now. Flat.
$e Woman, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS 12˝ X 12˝
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Elise $ompson6 FEBRUARY 2013 –
Received third painting.
I don’t know what to think, really.
When I was writing my last poem, I
was trying to push my artist to try
out a completely different landscape
or palate by changing the point of
view of the narrator and inserting an
image of a bleeding maple. ...now, this
girl, with the black mouth, confuses
me. I can see that there’s a candle on
her right, but what else is there in the
white? Are those windows behind her?
7 FEBRUARY 2013 – Interpreting…
The girl in the painting looks far older
and more experienced—haunted?—
than I intended to illustrate. Mine was
meant to be young, innocent, naïve,
but this one looks like she’s been
abused, silenced (hence the black
lips?), and carries some heavy burden
– she’s depressed, she’s exhausted.
Maybe this is what the girl feels inside.
10 FEBRUARY 2013 – More
interpreting…
Maybe now it’s time to turn to first-
person narration, tell the story from
the girl’s perspective. Or maybe not
even mention the scene from before,
but instead tell about her past in a way
that offers insight to the scenes I’ve
already written.
She
has never met other kids
lives alone
with the man - he’s her grandpa
she doesn’t know concepts of normal
childhood
is forced to conform hers
to care for and protect him
from his mind.
11 FEBRUARY 2013 – Changed my mind.
Nah we don’t want to hear her voice.
She’s not even real, anyway.
13 FEBRUARY 2013 – Decision.
We need a change of scenery.
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eachsquare centimeter of bark is covered in hundreds of lenses.splinters, shed by the sun, leak from sweaty cloudsand pierce these microscopic sequins with breaking news.
once it told the boy it could see.his eyes scrunched and weight shifted."nally he informed it, authoritatively scribbling in a leather-bound notebook,
“Your branches stretch ten meters wide, and if SA=4%r2, you’ve got approximately 125,663.71 square centimeters of di!erent angles of vision.”
the maple didn’t understand,so it sighed, and instead focused on the tingle of warm legs dangling across its scarred, sappy body, the reassuring prods of plump toes squirming against its arms.
but now,partially hidden behind mottled panes,the boy grasps knobby "ngers to a blotchy, withering scalp and secrets sting his hoarse throat as he yanks them forth,whispers for the chandelier.
he chokes on his last syllableand winces,terror rippling across his facelike he has just seen a ghost suddenly appearor perhaps disappear.
his soles gingerly meet #oorboards, and slowly, he hugs the air and begins to waltz.
Williams | $ompson | FINAL CYCLE
Doone WilliamsRESPONSE #3 [FINAL]Favorite one yet. It’s time to end the
story, with how it started?
This poem gives me the chills! When
painting the first painting I left the
whole space empty, but I envisioned
spirits, ghosts, elements of memories
or lost memories—this poem, being
the last as well, completely tied it all
together, and I felt like we really wrote
a story. This is poetry. This is art.
Because this is not only a mystery
but a memory, I want the face to
disappear, but I want to still be able
to see it. I don’t how I will do that yet.
I feel like it will match the message.
Back to the original style. Tie it
together. Sad it’s over.
Woman in the Window with Gold, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS 12˝ X 12˝
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Elise $ompson24 MARCH 2013
Finished final response.
I decided to respond with a prose
poem because I changed the voice to
first person (the man’s point of view),
and so I wanted to incorporate a
slightly different tone. I’m still unsure
about the mathematical reference I
used, but entwining the man’s love
for math with the couple’s dance
seemed too good an opportunity to
pass up (the equation he mentions,
r=9cos8t–3, describes the curve of
the polar plot below).
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your rough breath skids. like velvet stroked backwards, it tears my chapped skin. coils round my neck. venom trickles down my spine. i clutch your waist tighter. we spin.
“You are beautiful.” i say this while falling. splat! i shriek to myself, but continue to plummet. we spin. i glimpse my corpse, splayed on the ground. we spin. “r=9cos8t–3.” we spin. “We’re carving a polar plot, darling,” i explain.
“Shh, Robert, just dance.” frazzled soles scrub away at #oorboards. we spin. we spin. spin. spin.
ͻ�EXCHANGE
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Chris Reimann | WRITER
CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Ever since my first “Bob Book” I have loved to read. However, throughout high
school, I have focused my creativity on woodworking, music, and ceramics. This
year I started taking a creative writing class and found yet another outlet for my
passions. Most of my work revolves around my love for the mountains and rivers of the
Northwest. My dream is to one day become a certified American Mountain Guide
Association professional guide and give back to the Cheley Children’s Burn Camp,
which has provided me with so much.
ARTIST | Lauren Salgado WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
As a senior at Wilsonville High School, I’ve enjoyed every minute of these past four years, but also cannot wait to start college at Oregon State next fall. I’d love to go into graphic design or textile design and work with combining colors and patterns. It’s a little contrary to the work shown in this project, but the artwork displayed did offer exciting challenges that I’ve never had to face. I hope that I’ve not only created successful works for this program, but also raised thought-provoking questions.
I am putting the final pieces together for my Advanced Placement Studio Art portfolio, which entails sending 24 completed works to the College Board for grading. This, along with a pre-college program down at OSU during the summer, will complete my senior year, hopefully with success.
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Reimann | Salgado | FIRST CYCLE
Chris ReimannJOURNAL ENTRY 1:Writing my first poem is very hard.
I want to make sure I can create
something that my counterpart feels
inspired by. It is hard not to tell myself
the poem isn’t good enough. This
project is incredibly open ended,
which simultaneously excites me and
scares me. I think it is safe to say,
though, that the parts that excite me
and scare me are one and the same.
For that reason I’m plowing forward
full bore hoping things end up well.
The poem has been fun to write.
Fishing is something I hold incredibly
close to my heart. I have fond
memories of fishing with my grandpa
and cousins when I was young, and
some of my favorite books revolve
around fishing. Therefore writing the
poem was by no means hard and
something that I have wanted to do
for some time now. Can’t wait to see
what happens next.
A TROUT JUMPED
A clear line will always cut the airblack against any background.You will stand on the same bank that the lightning struck midnight navy blue and orange and yellow:
the only sign, that thousand splinteredtrunk, leans over the edge.
Your long arm, your cast will cut the air,will cut the sky,dichotomizing the irregular heavensuntil it falls #y "rst against the current searching for the trout’s mouth.
How often does mist provide a clear picture?How often can not seeing the other side be a good thing?Where do you "nd all that matters is within ten feet of your unsure footing?
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Lauren Salgado11/16/12 After reading the first poem: Fishing,
Fishing... all I can think of is fishing...
taking a chance? Sending out for a
catch, not knowing what you’ll end
up with in the end. Cutting the air, not
knowing what you’ll hit.
I like this stanza. A lot. (in reference to
the last stanza in the poem) It makes
the poem more understandable for
me. “How often can not seeing the
other side be a good thing?” haha,
that’s definitely in reference to me...
I like the “unsure footing”
“It’s so true —it’s how I feel. How am
I supposed to respond easily to this
and know it’s a good enough answer?
I imagine a cloudy overcast Oregon
day where you’re walking down a road
and can’t really see in front of you,
but you trust that a brick wall won’t
suddenly show up.
I want to use the midnight navy blue
and orange and yellow (sketches
drawn) Dichotomizing--> to divide or
separate into two parts, kinds etc.
“cut the sky, divide the heavens.”
“you will stand on the same bank” -->
river bank? Plus fishing.
11/20/12
It’s like they’re telling me, hello,
but more in the sense of, well, who
knows if this conversation will go
well; it’s a once in a lifetime chance,
but that doesn’t mean it’s going to
be cheery.....“Splintering trunk” that’s
been struck by lightning isn’t exactly
a pleasant thing, ... it’s death. Who
says this is all going to be good?
(crossed out sketches shown)
Plus notes
-use of “happy color” designs, give
them the sense of comfort and that
“it’s okay”
but cover the designs with mist, the
outcome is still unknown.
(more first idea sketches plus notes)
Okay, so now...
what signals a “happy” design?
-organic
-swirls
-free flowing
-nothing too rigid or geometric
-keep it loose, mix paints, have happy
accidents.
11/24/13*New idea* -Tea stain the note, crinkle
it, make it look old...
(drawing of a box)
-inside is blue, painted,
-rocks on bottom
-message in a bottle
(drawing of a bottle with a cork)
“sometimes taking chances is a good
thing”
Only problem:
What am I giving them to say back?
...from a writer’s standpoint...
Message in a bottle=
someone throws one out for another
to find, usually it’s important,
meaningful. Personal. It’s a chance
that you find it too.
Handwriting is vital.
(writes “sometimes taking chances is
a good thing” over and over)
‘
11/30/12 I hope they get it... A message in a
bottle is so personal... yet so distant.
It’s literally from a stranger, and what
you put inside means everything.
It’s the core of the piece and I hope
they don’t think that they can’t open
the box... Though that’s kinda taking
a chance too, whether or not it’s
empty....
So essentially it’s a wooden box,
pretty sturdy, painted grey on the
outside. --> grey= the unknown. But
you have to enter the unknown to
know it... if that makes sense... So
on the inside it’s painted blue, mixes
of different shades and what not,
made to look “current” like. Kinda
resembling a river... as well as I could.
then there are rocks covering the
bottom, completely. Making the box
really heavy. Small river rocks... Then
nestled on top, a message in a bottle.
Note is tea stained to look worn.
Has written in black ink, “sometimes
taking chances is a good thing.” B/C
I feel as if they were taking a chance
with me, and really didn’t feel like
I was a good sort of chance. I’m
reaffirming that I won’t bite. :)
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Reimann | Salgado | FIRST CYCLE
Message in a Bottle, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝
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Chris ReimannJOURNAL ENTRY 2:Well of all the things I was expecting a
box was not among them. That being
said it is a really cool piece of art and I
really enjoyed writing about it. When I
first got the box I was very confused.
It was completely black on the outside
and I thought that’s all it was. When I
picked it up though I almost dropped
it because of the weight inside. Upon
opening I was struck by the deep
blue my counterpart created. It had
incredible depth which was really cool
to look at. The stones were awesome
and the little bottle was really
intriguing. It took me a long time to
get the poem out though. While the
piece was awesome, I wanted to take
us in a different direction. I decided to
focus on the dark exterior as opposed
to the interior. I spent a lot of time
thinking about it and decided to focus
on my fear of the dark when I was
little. It was fun to look back on myself
and look at a somewhat irrational
feeling. Something I realized though
was that I’m not 100% over it yet. That
was something of a shock, which I
hope shows a bit in the poem. Until
next time then...
DARKBOX
$e darkness is smeared across the outside.
Inside, I walk, my mirrorjumping me panel to paneland the broken oneshatters my image bleedingswirly blue. I watch it runsmoothly to the bottom again.
I can smell the bottle that I threw in one of my obscene "ts,burnt rage.It cuts my feet.
And the darkness persists into the murky gloom ahead.I sometimes peek over the edge, watch it expand faster as the blue in my world curls into the bottleI threw and blew whole again.
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Reimann | Salgado | SECOND CYCLE
Lauren Salgado12/17/12Annotations: HEY. NOT COOL. (in reference to the fact that
they broke my bottle)
-peak.....peek?
-blue and blew?
...why burnt rage? it cuts your feet? why are you angry?
-why is it Darkbox and not Dark Box....?
12/23
So, it’s like they entered my box, and are stuck inside...looking
at themselves in the mirror on every side...one side is broken
and it shatters their image (I see it like a movie where the
main character is going insane)
“Bleeding swirly blue” - They uh, definitely warped my image
of a river bed.
They can smell the bottle...(MY BOTTLE) that they threw...it
reminds them of the smell of blood and salty metal rust tears
“cuts my feet” -the broken glass....sad :(
OBSCENE (according to dictionary.com)
1.offensive to morality or decency; indecent; depraved:
obscene language
2.causing uncontrolled sexual desire---> Really?
3.abominable; disgusting; repulsive
**darkness persists into murky gloom ahead
yikes... what the hell did I do? Did they even read the message
within the bottle?
I sometimes PEAK ---> shouldn’t it be peek? peak of a
mountain? peek over edge of box?
“As the blue in my world curls into the bottle,
I threw and blew whole again.”
-threw the bottle?
-blue--> sadness/sorrow
-blew....broke the bottle and made them whole again?
-This whole poem includes shattering and cutting, breaking.
-Them becoming whole is a good thing though, yes?
....self esteem issue? what in my box triggered this?
LATER DURING 12/23/12I imagine the poem played out like a movie, very surreal
and weird and kinda doesn’t really make sense until you
look deeper into it. So it’s like the guy or gal writing to me
got trapped in my box, and my box is mirrors on the inside,
showing their reflection, and as their eyes jump from panel
to panel with a vision of themselves; it’s like they go insane
and find a mirror shattered at one point.... just had a little
revelation. Freaking mirrors, reflection of the water....duh.
Okay, anyways, one of the panels is shattered. They go into
an insanity rage and throw my bottle and break it. Something
tells me they think something’s wrong with themselves....
1/7I feel like within my box they’re seeing a reflection of
themselves, somehow, some way...
So, do I give them a mirror? A reflection of themselves?
...but that’s what they just shattered right? HAH. They gave
themselves 7 years of bad luck. Maybe I mention that.
All I’m thinking of is making a gateway to hell.
Dark.
Especially for me.
Drawing of boxes, with 7 years of bad luck written on the
insides...
-black hole into darkness. yay.
-color the outside black, inside red/orange
-is that good enough? BLEH. I feel like I need something
more impressive....
1/19/13I’m a little late writing about this.... sorry. lots to do.
So, what I ended up doing was:
-First I sprayed it black, and beat it up and tortured the box.
It actually broke and I had to have it screwed back together
and nailed. (kind of a representation of my anger and
emotion)
-I drilled in a hole at the top, on the lid, I played with the pun
of “threw and blew whole again.” b/c I don’t really think
that they’ve been whole after being broken so much.
-I also painted a peak on the inside, playing with peak and
peek
-I broke my message in a bottle and ripped apart my
message...
-stained the bits that had the wood showing through
-made scratches
-scratched in “whole” next to the hole and “peak” next to
the mountain.
-added back in the broken bottle, some rocks, message and
cork.
...it looks quite distressed.
-I hope they understand I’m a little angry they broke my
bottle...
-I hope things make more sense with the next poem...
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Darkbox, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝
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Reimann | Salgado | THIRD CYCLE
Chris ReimannJOURNAL ENTRY 3It’s been an interesting couple weeks.
I went on a research binge for my
mountaineering exploits this summer
and have also been watching a couple
climbing movies. How lucky I was
that inside the box I got back had a
beautiful mountain inside it. When
I got the box I was a little confused
because the box looked very similar.
When I opened it though it was really
cool. This made the poem writing
super fun. I had just watched a movie
about Meru, the mountain considered
by many Hindi to be the center of the
earth, so when I saw the mountain in
the box I almost immediately knew
what I would write about and after
going through three or four drafts I
felt it was ready to go. The last couple
weeks of school, it’s been hard to
focus. This is mostly because I have
started climbing outdoors again and
therefore I’m getting distracted. Now
after this poem I have been able to
focus again.
MERU
$e center of the world,mountain of my dreams,pull me in,I will wait patientlyfor razor arêtesand clear blue icethat gives me passage;be aware of the cold.
Fragility is unacceptableat the frigid future headwatersof the surging holy lifeline;reminder of a world mapped;a "nal western reverie.
Where granite waves are enveloped by skywe become conquistadors of uselessness.
She doesn’t care, her cold beautyCalls me all the same.
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Lauren Salgado2/17Yeah I know. I’m late with this
response...I’ve been busy, I’m sorry.
Anyways Googled “Meru”...
In Hindu and Buddhist cosmology,
Mount Meru is considered to be
the center of all the physical,
metaphysical and spiritual universes.
84,000 “yojan” high, or 672,000
miles... 82 times the earth’s diameter.
“Having the sun along with all its
planets in the Solar System revolve
around it as one unit.”
“difficult to find”/technically it doesn’t
exist, but whatever.
... “like I need bad music”... like, this
mountain is a reminder of what’s
good...? I don’t know....
“granite waves enveloped by sky....”
Drawing of a box, inside view,
mountains lining all sides, one large
peak with solar system surrounding it.
green bottom, like a valley.
-Include compass.....map?
2/22Just the paintings were done on the
box and the inside, outside painted
brown and compass and mossy stuff
added later.
So, essentially, I hope, I took them to
Meru, the mountain that “pulled them
in” Although, Meru is also a city ( In
France apparently) -And is this the
Meru that they were referring to?
I’m kinda sad this project only has one
more round. it would be better to go
on for much longer. So that each pair
of students can get more in depth.
Journey to Meru, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝
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Reimann | Salgado | FINAL CYCLE
Chris ReimannJOURNAL ENTRY 4Well here is the last poem. I’m pretty
bummed that it is ending. It has been
incredibly interesting to play off of my
counterpart. I’ve learned a lot about
my writing and the way it functions on
its own. I started this project hoping
to improve my poem writing and it has
made incredible leaps and bounds.
When I first started writing I couldn’t
comprehend writing about climbing,
my absolute passion. After seeing the
second box with the mountain drawn
on the inside, I immediately knew
what I would write about. The poem
came easier than almost I’d ever
written before. Since then it’s almost
the only thing I have written about.
The process was incredibly difficult at
times. I found myself angry because I
couldn’t transform the piece in front
of me into words. One day I sat down
in front of the box I had gotten and
just wrote down words for almost
an hour. Afterwards I had nothing I
wanted to use. The project taught me
so much and I’m super excited to see
what the finished product looks like.
ORBIT
Wind snakes through rock "eldsbuilding transient tones that wrap spindly "ngers around my ankle.I rest on my laurels,waiting for the music to meld into silenceof a valley and its protective peaks.
Resting on cold granite,enveloped in the warmth of cold waiting for one sun to dip below the horizon and another to rise, blue.
Below, the yellow tent beckons,but the white peak screams thousands of feet abovedemanding the attention of every cell,every pulse;o!ering (only once) a glimpse at an atmosphereand all its orbiting wonders.
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Lauren SalgadoPOEM NUMERO 4: ORBITGot a poem Friday, basically telling me
that this mountain they’re staring up
at is majestic and wonderful. And that
although their yellow tent is tempting,
they’re not gonna leave their spot on
the rock looking at Mother Nature’s
creation.
So, I decided I’m gonna do one last
fancy schmancy portrait of a mountain.
-Sunset/nighttime goodiness
-on the lid of the box...
-add in little yellow tent.
-add in moss and rocks and stuff to
make it coherent with the last one.
Writer, whoever you are, this is a great
last poem... a good ending I think.
Thanks for being my partner :)
Mount Meru, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 1-1/4˝
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ͻ�EXCHANGE
fourfour
Layla Entrikin | WRITER
CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
My name is Layla Entrikin, I am 18 years old and I am currently a senior at Catlin Gabel School. This my first year taking a creative
writing class. I was drawn to the Word and Hand project for several reasons, but
mostly because I thought it would be a good chance to expand my horizons, and to push myself creatively and artistically. I’ve always been slightly enamored with letters, and the whole correspondence
piece of Word and Hand felt like a similar form of communication; a sort of call and
response, but hopefully with a twist.
ARTIST | Stephanie PettroWILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
I am a senior at Wilsonville High School. Realism is my favorite style of art. Acrylic paint is my favorite medium. Although I have no intention of pursuing a career in art, it has become a very important aspect of my life and has brought along many opportunities for me.
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Entrikin | Pettro | FIRST CYCLE
Layla Entrikin C-410 NOVEMBER 2012I’ve been thinking a lot lately about
letters. When we write letters and
whom we write them to. Love letters
in particular. It’s hard to define what
exactly I like about them or why
everyone finds them so romantic.
I want to write a poem that is sort
of like those letters, but with more
depth than just romance: something
desperate, something fleeting or futile.
EPISTLE: PART ONE
I’ve been waiting on this porchfor a while, now and youstill haven’t arrived so I’ve taken to counting the number ofinstances that certain sparrow#ies overheadShe dips and turns and percheslistlessly on the branches ofthe cherry blossom tree shivering in the chill of Marchwaiting to bloom
EPISTLE: PART TWO
Pink pocks the skyline Now as all the blossoms have #oweredthe air breathes green life into the rocky hillsides andYou haven’t written to me yetbut I know you must have somesort of reason, because I know youknow how long I’ve been perched outhere on this wooden bench on my porch just watching the sky
EPISTLE: PART THREE
$e blossoms have fallen $e sun warms the treesand the leaves and my faceand makes everything look awful and too colorfulI haven’t seen that sparrowin weeks now
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Stephanie PettroJOURNAL 1, EXCHANGE 1:This poem seems so heavy with dark
thoughts. The woman knows the
person she cares about the most
has sent her a letter, but it seems
to have gotten lost. There are many
mentions of time passing by and even
seasons changing. It feels so cold
and depressing; it’s fitting that I do
something in the winter. Maybe about
the letter that never came.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 10˝ X 10˝
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Entrikin | Pettro | SECOND CYCLE
Layla Entrikin C-49 DECEMBER 2012 I was extremely nervous to receive
back the artwork in response to my
poem. I was worried my partner
wouldn’t have enough to go off of,
and that it would end up being sort
of disconnected with the poem.
But whoever it was did a fabulous
piece that gives me a lot of space
to interpret. It’s a torn letter, which
means I could continue that theme,
but it is also on a bed of clouds which
sort of makes me want to take it into
a much more ethereal realm than
I have before. I still want to maybe
incorporate the tear or letter, even if it
isn’t as concrete as it was before.
TEAR
And she waited. She staredout at the sky, watching cloudsshift from one nebulous shape to another, tumble, undulate, a vastwhiteness hugging the landscapeto its chest, breathing in andout as one, permanently changingtogether, ephemeral lovers whoexpect the unexpected.
$e slivers of anguish prickduring separation, the unannounced sweetness of solitude surprises. She watched as he tore everything she ever gave him, and her eyes on the shredded portions of light crumpled upon the hearth as he turned into a black point on the horizon, his backhunched to the cold. She gathered the pieces and turnedto the door, dusting her handson her dress. She left the windowopen.
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Stephanie PettroJOURNAL 2, EXCHANGE 2:I don’t know what I did wrong, now
I’m being yelled at in writing form or
at least my character is. All of these
ripped shreds of paper. Maybe I
should send an apology letter—that
would be ironic.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 10˝ X 10˝
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Entrikin | Pettro | THIRD CYCLE
Layla Entrikin C-410 DECEMBER 2012I’ve been thinking more about
continuing with the romance, but
moving the perspective to third person
as opposed to first person. I spend
a lot of time in first person so I was
thinking it might be a fun challenge for
me. I’ve also decided I definitely want
to got off the tear, but I can probably
incorporate some cloud imagery.
Even so, I really need to give them
something more to go on visually so
that they aren’t grasping for straws.
COURTROOM APOLOGIA
I’m sitting at this table. It’s big and sturdyand wooden (oak, perhaps)and protectingme from your stare. I amcon"dent, boisterous, almostinsolent at this table.
I can bang my "sts, shout. Sometimes, I think you #inch, but mostly I just thinkyou are cold.Maybe tired.Maybe desperate.
You are sitting at thattable. A spider webof glass, so threadbare. It probably can’t even hold upthe weight of your palm,face up, pleading.
Your mouth makes nowords now. I silent scream,and you watch.
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Stephanie PettroJOURNAL 3, EXCHANGE 3:Now I am being taken to court. I feel
like this relationship is messed up. My
character has done something really
wrong and I don’t think their apology
was taken well. One image that really
captivates me is that of the spider. This
whole thing seems like a mess which
could be illustrated in a tangled web.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 12˝ X 9˝
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Entrikin | Pettro | FINAL CYCLE
Layla Entrikin C-415 JANUARY 2013I’m not sure where to go from here.
There isn’t much to go off.
25 JANUARY 2013I think I’m just going to focus on the
apology. I want to move away from
anything I’ve done before, the woman,
the man, that could all play a part, but
this natural space, the house. I want to
move on.
NEGATIVE SPACE
It started with touching.A hallelujah, a whispering of skinupon skin.
You drew my namefrom tendrils of amberlight.
Absence turned permanent, a gaping hole, and you turneda stranger.
Space was only #itting wings, soft enough todisappear.
I wanted the #ame and youwanted the night.
Illuminate the dark, yousaid. See if you can see me, you said. You taunted.
Knuckles bleeding Ididn’t beg. You stoppedto breathe.
Someone pinched outthe blaze,
but both of us fell and there was never anythingto catch us.
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Stephanie PettroJOURNAL 4, FINALThis poem seems like it is taking some
elements from the others but almost
like it is moving in a different direction
past that of the previous poems. Not
resolving the problem between our
characters but explaining the issues;
I wanted the dark and they yearned
for the light. I feel like the problem is
slowly fading away and we can move
on, though unresolved.
Untitled, ACRYLIC ON CANVAS PANEL 12˝ X 9˝
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ͻ�EXCHANGE
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ARTIST | Zoe SchlangerCATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Turning the intangible into a tangible piece of art feels good, that is why I create. Nothing is more thrilling than filling a canvas, carving an image into a block, or molding a slab of clay. Nothing is more satisfying than taking nothing and turning it into something completely your own. Word & Hand opened me up to the possibilities of collaboration. I am thrilled that I took part in this process of creating a shared visual and written experience with another artist.
Laura Payne | WRITER
WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
Ever since she first learned how to read, the written word has been a lifelong
passion for Laura. She dabbles in both prose and poetry in her free time—poetry
in particular has become a favorite medium for channeling her whimsical,
strange, and mile a minute thoughts, as well as a quick escape from the fabric of reality. She gleans inspiration from
anywhere and everywhere and likes to emphasize the emotion and the story
behind everything in her writing. Every person, moment, and object has a back
story and those stories are the medium to describe the wonder of everyday life. The
wonder that may easily be forgotten. As a senior in high school, she hopes to attend college in the fall and master the skills of writing in pursuit of publishing a stack of
novels. After college, she aspires to be an author with a shelf full of books and a cat
named Gatsby.
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Payne | Schlanger | FIRST CYCLE
Laura PayneNOVEMBER 11, 2012— And I’m here.
The Word and Hand project, I’m actually here! I was hoping
beyond anything that I could actually be a part of this and
there was always a part of me that kept saying it would
never happen…
But that part of me is forever silenced because I’m here!
The author in a team of author and artist, two characters
working together in something amazing: in creating pieces
of art. The creative process really is amazing, isn’t it?
Creating something beautiful that didn’t exist before; and
you came up with it. Your own mark on the world. And this
mark will be especially unique since it combines the minds
of two creative people.
To start this unique mark, it looks like I’ll be starting the
conversation between myself and the artist. I have a few
ideas floating around at the moment and I’m just trying
to grasp the right one. Then again, maybe the pure idea is
exactly what I need to start with. That way the conversation
can start with something and then go anywhere. That
should be fun! But who am I kidding, all of this is going to be
fun! I’m excited so let’s get started!
How does one start a conversation? They introduce
themselves. I think that might be an excellent place to start.
Not in a poem that would be interpreted as narcissistic
though I hope. I don’t think it would be interpreted in that
way though unless it was intentional. Writers have created
characters based on themselves before and artists have
done self portraits…
But saying all this, it seems that I’m missing the idea. I need
to stop worrying and just write. Write what feels natural. If I
over think before I even start then I’ll really be in trouble.
NOVEMBER 13, 2012I think 18 is the poem I’ll send in first. There’s some nice
images in it and it flows well. It’s also open to interpretation;
I think the artist can work with this.
I wrote the rough draft of this before I was a part of the
Word and Hand on a day I can’t remember. But I do
remember how frantic and distressed I was feeling. I was
hating growing up, hating being eighteen—I still hate
growing up. But looking over this again with the revisions
I’ve made, this poem has turned in to more than that.
You’re shouting at the moon—a seemingly enchanted and
magical thing—to take you someplace where you don’t
have to change. Because as you grow and get older more is
suddenly expected of you whether you’re ready for it or not;
and if you’re not ready then you’re in for some ride. More
than anything, you’re afraid of conforming, getting caught
up in something and losing yourself and everything else that
matters to you.
You stand at a crossroad where you need to decide what
to do or if you can somehow escape. But you can’t escape
because you can’t stop time from ticking on the clock; the
passage of time, the turning of the years. So you find a
key—not to escape but to wind up the clock counting your
years and keep it in good care. Then you break whatever
chain or doubt might be holding you down and you fly into
the stars to make your own life. Your own life however you
want it to be. And maybe in the end, getting older isn’t
such a bad thing.
The threshold, the crossroad, the place you decide your
future. Just make sure it’s yours.
NOVEMBER 14, 201218
Shouting at the moonlight,
“Away! Come Away!”…
NOVEMBER 15, 2012I have the final draft of my first poem! I just finished typing
it up and I’m happy with the way it turned out. Who could
know that one moment of feeling totally stressed and
constricted and alone could create the first draft of this?
The idea for this poem I wrote before I became a part of
Word and Hand. I’ve learned that some of my best poems
come from my darkest moments and this poem—or rather
the idea of it—came into existence during one of those
moments. I was scared of college and growing up and all
I could think about was that Peter Pan was a genius for
running away to Neverland and I just wanted to live my life.
So to blow off steam, I wrote what I couldn’t say to anyone
at the time.
That’s what some of my greatest works are: my emotions.
Thoughts I can’t speak or thoughts that gnaw at me. That’s
what began this poem and now the final draft is the version
for my friend, the Artist.
I hope I’ve given the Artist enough freedom to contribute
new thoughts to this. My biggest fear with this one is that
it might be too complete; that the Artist will only be able
to illustrate what I’ve written because I’ve boxed them
in. But that could be the challenge, couldn’t it? Whatever
thoughts the Artist gives me to work with, I may not
expect. And so in turn the Artist could challenge me as I
might have just done to them. I’m just hope I’m not wrong
and really have boxed in the Artist’s creativity!
I’ll be bursting until I receive a reply. I can’t wait to see the
Artist’s voice. We’ve just now begun a great and perilous
conversation. Let’s see exactly where it takes us, shall we?
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18
Shouting at the moonlight “Away! Come away!”Let me escape Where I can be free!Time’s ticking byBut I stand unchanged$e World scowlingBent on beating me grey
Hop on the windSprout wings and #yEscapeBefore the ground swallows me aliveWhy must I change? Be absorbed in a mass?Chained to a desk From now until death?Search for the key—"nd the way out!Find the way out!Clock’s counting up
$e diamond hiddenShining below$e heart still pure But wise even so$e sun in the #owers$e #avor of lifeImagined escapeAnd call of solo #ight
Cry out in the moonlight“Away! Come away!” $e way is mineWind the clockBreak the chainFly to the stars
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Payne | Schlanger | FIRST CYCLE
Zoe Schlanger11/20/2012Read the first poem from W5. It is titled 18. From the rest of
the poem I gather that the author is writing about the next
stage of her life (Yes, I have decided my partner is a she).
Well, lamenting the next stages (desk work, ya know) and
then choosing to break free from the binding duties of our
generation (of every generation). I suppose that is how I
would sum up “how the poem means” to me.
11/21/2012I started my “response” piece and have decided to focus
on one image from the poem presented in the opening
of the third stanza. I went into the studio yesterday to
start a piece. While there I found a large sheet of brown
(somewhat wrinkled) paper and huge rubber sheets for
block printing. So focusing on the lines “The diamond
hidden/ Shining below” I decided to start carving away
lines to form diamonds. Big diamonds, fat diamonds, skinny
diamonds, all kinds of diamonds, I don’t discriminate.
Very little planning was carried out before I started carving
away with those nice little shavers. It feels so smooth like
cutting into butter with those guys—they could take whole
hunks of flesh off of you, the width of the wound depending
on which size instrument you choose. Okay, back to the
piece now (that was a weird little serial killer moment). I
finished the block and printed five black, silver, and yellow
images onto the paper before I left the studio. I vaguely
decided on printing 13 more to make 18 identical images
on the paper to honor the title of the poem—may not stick
with this idea because I am not sure how it conveys what I
am trying to say back to the poet.
Which brings me to what I am having a difficult time
discerning: why I chose to respond in the way I am. I turn
18 in 4 days and am trying to understand how all of that fits
in to all of this. 18 prints? Is there any significance? I am a
strong believer that no significance is necessary in a piece,
only an idea and a process. I think that this is where my
partner and I differ. Her poem is all about the “meaning”
and I just decided to carve some rubber and cover it in ink
and slap (literally, I was slapping the block print) it on a big
piece of wrinkled paper.
I had hoped to just have a conversation with my partner
about who we are. Although I have already learned a bit
about the poet I wished for more of a unique one-on-one
conversation about our inner/outer/every part of us selves
through our work. I guess I have gathered already that
my partner values her individuality and is, at this point
in her life, unwilling to compromise her individualism for
capitalism (In no way am I saying that for sure, 100%, I
know for a fact what my partner was trying to say in her
poem, or that she is a female radical individual—super sorry
if you are a boy. Not my intention to reinforce social ideas
of gender/sex).
I don’t really know what I am saying about myself other
than that I am hasty and not one to reply directly to a
prompt. Mostly I want to see what she will do next. I want
to broaden the spectrum, the realm of possibilities with my
response. Perhaps I will decide to add more to my piece
in addition to the prints. Perhaps I will conceal a piece of
myself, reveal a snippet (a true, earnestly felt part of me)
on the paper—a piece of me independent of what she will
already gather from the work (that I too am independent/
un-restrict-able) something more than that in the hope
that she will catch my drift and confront a more real, more
simple, more difficult idea: who are you?
Pardon my awful writing.
I am just getting down my thoughts.
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Big Diamonds, Little Diamonds, All Types of Diamonds, MIXED MEDIA ON PAPER, 86˝ X 36˝
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Payne | Schlanger | SECOND CYCLE
Laura Payne DECEMBER 3, 2012I’ve received my first reply! I can easily say that the piece I
have is one of the biggest out of the art we’ve all received.
Bigger than most pieces I’ve ever seen.
Any worries I’ve had about possibly confining the Artist
have been shattered. I can see easily how the Artist
gleaned from my poem while still moving in their own
direction.
The piece reminds me somewhat of a mural or graffiti. A
found piece with an anonymous message that might have
been painted on an otherwise bland surface. The paper
and sharpness to the image really help me get this picture.
The top of the piece has the words,
Listen: Animal Collective
What would I want?
Sky
Fall be kind
Everyone told me that this is the name of a band, a song,
and an album. I looked it up and listened to the song. My
first impressions were that it had a very similar feeling
to my poem but it also reminded me of the piece. It’s
repetitive and technical and has a slight feeling of just
floating back in to something.
The piece comes off as rough and purely a design but has
many different levels to it. A subtle imprint, message.
-urban
-a song unique and created by many
-“You’re not the only”
-“What is the right way”
-freedom, youth
-“Is everything all right? You feeling lonely? You feeling
stormy?”
-“New order blinking”
-“Should be floating but I’m weighted by thinking”
-experimenting with sound like an abstract painting
-intense sensory perception
-euphoria?
-Moany, lonely, stormy, phony
-“You’re not the only”
-“Clouds stop and move above me”
-“Grey is where the color should be”
-“And the sky gets filled up too fast”
-“I’m a fly on the river that’ll make me some change”
-“Taking it lightly and so I hurry. I start to worry”
“You’re not the only” really makes me think about history—
about how it tends to repeat itself. I’m also thinking about
the quote from my poem: “The diamond hidden, shining
below”. I’m finding so many things in this piece that relate
to that. More than just the diamonds though—repetition,
hidden, a found message. I think of messages written and
art created by survivors of various disasters. Messages to
people in the future as reminders that whatever happened
to them could happen again. If someone feels lonely, phony,
stormy, guess what, you’re not the only.
DECEMBER 11, 2012Scars in the stone
Scorch on the soil
What’s left when the dust settles?
Count the stones that you’ve obtained
Clumsily I’ve written a color here
Leaning upright at the wall of stone
Boxed
Barred
The spoils of sky kept
Just out of reach
A million colors
Shout the same
Some falling
Some fading
At the misting rain
What’s left when a mark is
Scrubbed from stone?
What results
When one listens?
When one doesn’t?
When one faded color bleeds
Into the next?
Exchange round two!
Remnant
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DECEMBER 11, 2012 (CONT.)
This one’s about dreams. And history.
People scratch a dream in stone
hoping it can break a wall down. Or
they scratch a message to carry on
after they’re gone. Something to say
they were here and they experienced
this. But what happens when someone
forgets their dream? Or when an event
that could repeat is ignored? What
results when one color bleeds into
the next? When the events of one
generation repeat themselves?
REMNANT
Clumsily I’ve scratched a color hereStaggered upright at the wall of stone$e spoils of soil Now traded for the sky
A million colors Shout the sameSome fallSome fadeAt the misting rain
What’s left when a markIs scrubbed from stone?What results
When one listens?When one doesn’t?When one faded color Bleeds into the next?
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Payne | Schlanger | SECOND CYCLE
Zoe Schlanger 01/02/2013New Year! New poem! Woot. Okay, lets
get down to it. Green paper is a nice
touch. No detectable meaning behind
the color of the paper. Do wonder if
she listened to What Would I Want?
Sky though. I see some adventurous
formatting decisions. Wonder if it is
meant to mirror my careless printing……
If it is then this person funny, I like their
style. Okay, anyways, to content. Uno
Momento. Okay. She does do a nice job
responding to my work (Oh my god, I am
so sorry again, if you are a boy). Well I
suppose they listened to it because of
the lines about the sky and the poetic
questions, and the part about “When
one listens/ When one doesn’t”. God,
this song I am listening to right now is
so good. Music. Jeeze. But anyways.
I am deciding to take off from those
lines I just quoted and not listen to the
poet. So I started painting this portrait
of my friend from middle school, Mara.
She’s awesome. Anyways I’m using a
sick reference photo with the colors all
inverted. The picture is very religious.
Like she is Christ-like. Anyways, I have
wanted to paint it for a long time and now
I am. I am just going at it right on top of
the big brown paper that I printed on. I
left a border of diamonds but trimmed
some of the paper away, rolled some
gesso in a rectangle in the middle, laid
down a few layers of black acrylic after
that and got out the oils. I really like the
skin color she has going right now. I have
been working a lot in warms recently and
I am excited to cool things down. So,
yeah, that is where I am at right now.
01/07/13Damn, she looks good in gold
Date unknown: have moved on to
glazing my head that I made last year.
Such a cool process. I felt my face and
molded the clay to feel like what I felt. No
mirrors. It was awesome. Want a better
explanation? Ask me. I am better at
articulating in-person.
Date unknown: Sending back my final
artwork. Man with two noses. I love him.
He is my lover.
Religiously Mara-"ed, MIXED MEDIA ON PAPER, 86˝ X 36 .̋
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Laura Payne JANUARY 15, 2013I think the Artist and I are really on to something.
The last piece I got has come back modified.
- The border is gone
- More open, more vulnerable
-“Listen” is now in a bottom corner, more likely to be
unnoticed?
- The cut around the edge of the image isn’t
completely straight
- Rough around the edges
- Small paint splatters; black. One gold stain on the back.
- A negative of Jesus, the face is unclear
- All that’s left is faith
- Sits on a gold square, seems to be a different paint
than the diamonds were painted in
- He holds something in His left hand, the other hand
comes forward, maybe reaching out to the viewer?
- Gold paint over black foundation
- Halo sits between black and gold
Overall, everything seems to be straightforward but at
the same time, certain elements seem unclear or as if they
could be missed if one didn’t want to see them.
- Negatives have to be developed
- Faith has to be developed?
Faith can be all you have left when you lose everything, so
what happens when you lose even that?
Some gravel stones slipped
O’er the chipped painted stand
A gold support
A comforting hand
As she stepped her feet lightly
From where the stones fell
She poised herself
Balanced
Suspended as well
Somewhere between the hand and the air
She stared straight down
At the rushing black below. She gulped
Up her arms
The past stains were branded
Easily ignored
But still
Stains
And scars
They seemed to rub off
At the slightest foreign touch
She’d always pull back then
Another now stained
It seemed she was covered
At least in her eyes
The stains were all she dared to see
And perched somewhere
Up there
Between the hand and the air
She dropped her last possession
With the fall of the stones
Determined to follow
Or wash away the stains
She saw herself empty
But in truth could be saved
But as her feet slipped
As her hands let go
She fell with the gravel stones
And her faith
To the water below
JANUARY 17, 2013I can simplify this; it would probably be better if I did
simplify it. I’ve come up with a good symbol to build the
poem around—the stone falling off the bridge. Faith is
described as a rock and the person on the bridge has lost
their faith along with everything else. So the rock—out of
place among gravel—falls right before the person does. I
think the stone would be a good symbol to play around
with. I’m probably going to cut the part about stains
entirely. Stains are so clichéd now that I think about it. The
stone is a much stronger symbol I think.
Much later
At last! A result!
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Payne | Schlanger | THIRD CYCLE
END UNTITLED
BalancedPerched on a perilous railSomewhere between $e blackAnd the gold.As a blankA negative I hold in my hand A thing unknown A part of me?
It seems to me PaperOr glass close to shatter But they tell me it’s solid StoneOr diamondOr perhaps a foundationMaybe I don’t hold it Maybe it holds meBut I still shakeUnbalanced.
HeavyAnd stained What I hold has been CoveredSplatteredBy words. Words of others Apart. Distant and guiding$ey stained it with wordsNo resonance striking. Not one song heard.For me$ere is Nothing.In their wordsNothing.
Maybe somethingLies beneathBut it’s too badly stained.$e limit, I let goIt fallsSolid for sure. And I followBehind itSolid as well.But emptyNothing It’s all gone now.
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Zoe Schlanger DATE UNKNOWN— have moved
on to glazing my head that I made
last year. Such a cool process. I felt
my face and molded the clay to feel
like what I felt. No mirrors. It was
awesome. Want a better explanation?
Ask me. I am better at articulating in-
person.
Marika’s Adventure to Baconland, CERAMIC, 11˝ X 10˝
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Payne | Schlanger | THIRD CYCLE
Laura Payne FEBRUARY 23, 2013 I love my Artist.
The piece I’ve now received is something new from the
piece I’ve been received over the last few exchanges.
I now have sitting across from me, a most intriguing
sculpture. A bust. The tongue sticks from it the mouth and
the right eye. The head has been carved into a bowl.
It is empty and solid.
Something in its mannerism reminds me of death.
Another interesting point is that this is a contrast from the
previous piece. The last piece illustrated abstract ideas.
This one seems to do the same but the idea is pinned on
something that’s definitely human. This is one for the
typewriter.
*Bust solid but empty as well—head carved into a bowl
*A person’s identity carved out by the world
*Tongue in the right eye—the difference between what is
said and what is thought
*Inside the mouth darkened
*Eyes empty except for the tongue—the remnant of what
might have been?
*The bust is overall featureless, this could be anyone
*Someone who has been carved out, sculpted into whatever
and unknown force chooses, it is worn as well
*Identity stripped
*The Artist is bringing our conversation full circle, back to
the idea of identity. The first poem was someone beginning
the journey into life; I believe that this sculpture is someone
who has reached the end of their journey. And now they
are a carved out shell of their former self. They have
lost everything and now they are nothing except what a
sculptor has rendered. The head is carved, the dreams are
gone. This is a life gone.
What is it into life with us that we can lose so easily? We
know in the back of our minds—no matter how brave we
are—that there is a possibility of failing. We can be the
masters of our failure. So is the environment we allow to
influence us.
The ominous truth that is entirely changeable. Life can lift
you up or destroy you. The choice is yours.
Life’s Lament
They all believe in such high things,
Walk the road
So full of dreams.
The think themselves
Immune to it all.
And in fact they are
But they forget
Their poor memory is the Death of them.
Instead they allow
Demons to fill their minds
One by one
With each disappointment
They’re all the same.
The successful few
The happy fewer
They never know how close they are
I can’t tell them
So of course they hate me.
And my counterpart comes
Literal or figure
Sometimes welcomed
Sometimes invited
Always leading them to dust
But the worst is when
They allow my counterpart
To move though them
Their hand not their own
Rather those around them
Or self inflicted chains
If only they trusted me
If only I could speak
But that seems to be
All that I am
If only
If only
They all lament
And so do I
Their living death
2-27-13They know
They believe
In such high things
So full of dreams
Some sprouting wings
But so
It seems
They may be blind
And suddenly
A barrier
Within themselves
What does Life say when faced with a ruined soul?
Death’s often personified so I now want to do the same
with Life.
Life’s Lament
Like countless others, nothing’s left.
They’ve joined the ranks of the mass.
Empty eyes
Glazed over,
All remaining is a memory
Of their former color
But cruel irony.
Their downfall in memory lane.
They begin their road
Believing in such high things
Their dreams all they see
They think themselves immune.60
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And in truth, they are.
But they forget.
And soon they’re gone
A lifeless marionette.
Their hands are not theirs
As soon as they choose.
Their face now marble
A sculptor’s new muse.
They handed the pick
Their own demise.
And then it’s me that they despise.
What makes them choose
To live with Death?
And what makes them blind
To the chains on their wrists?
The barrier between
What they think
And say
What makes them choose
To be carved away?
MARCH 18, 2013Starched sharp collars
Bind their tongues
A seal of approval
Deforms their face
Shattered
Their face in remnants
Falling from the mind of 18
Their true selves shouting
But remaining inside
The two faced plague
A living Death
A life chosen wasted
Life’s lament
And the saddest part
The cruelest truth
Death repeats
And Life always ends
Or perhaps
Perhaps
It never began
I can’t believe this project is coming to an end! I thought
we might go all the way to the end of the school year. I’d
hoped that. But every project must be completed sometime
I suppose…I really will miss the thrill and the challenge.
But I can’t wait to meet my artist! Speaking of whom, I’ve
received my final piece! Another bust of curious nature!
There are a few key things to note I think I’ll incorporate into
the poem…
-There is no color to the bust. The color it is, is the color
of the clay it was created with I think (a sculptor’s new
muse! They’ve become the color and nature of the
sculptor?)
-There is no face, but the beginning of two. Two faces of
humanity…the people we are in public as opposed to
private?
-The “face” has been broken and pieced back together,
one piece is missing. No matter how bad the damage or
how good the repair, one id never the same afterwards?
Slowly falling apart?
- A collar or suggestion of clothing at the neck—society,
the seal of approval, the norm?
- A finger comes from one nose, the true self trying to
reveal itself? Desire and difference between thought
and action? This whole piece seems to be about the
physical, the last bust seemed more mental.
Mind vs. body
Mind vs. matter
-body language seems to suggest death again
Sacrificing self for the sake of gain! But is it really gain? No.
That’s what causes them to be carved away…
*The most interesting feature of this has to be a bite mark on
the side of the head (I have to remember to ask the artist
how exactly they accomplished that). The bite is right next
to the missing piece in the face…they’re being consumed?
Eaten away? But by what? Life? Death? Their own demise?
There could be some reason it’s next to the missing piece…
IRONY!
There’s a bite out of the shards that have been repaired, it’s
ironic! The piece was repaired only to be consumed (maybe
not quite the right word…).
*The illusion of reality that we perceive.
*Repair can be made but the damage is done
People are taken advantage of? People (sculptors?) may
repair others, but for personal gain. Sculpting in itself is a
medium of manipulation in a way. Ha! That’s genius!
People put on masks for personal gain. But not only does
that wear you down (and repair can only do so much) but
it’s possible that you’re a tool without you’re realizing.
Manupulation!
I can’t wait to start a poem about this one!
MARCH 20, 2013I’m thinking for my last poem, I’ll be continuing Life’s
Lament. That seems like the piece that could tie the others
together. In the last stanzas, I’d like to tie in images or
at least the titles from the other pieces and place those
alongside the themes I’m getting from this last art piece.
I think that would be the best way to tie it all together in
a way that can be presented. This is really the end of the
project…wow. I still can’t believe it.
So for the last part of Life’s Lament…I’ll expand on the
question posed at the end of the last stanza. I’ll go in to
another thought process. And then I’ll end it…how?
I think I have to sit down and think this through a bit more
before I start anything to permanent. One thing’s for sure,
this is going to be fun!
MARCH 21, 2013And so we’ve arrived at the last day.
The last piece, the last poem.
I finished Life’s Lament last night on my computer and sent
it off; all in all, I’m really proud of how it turned out. It’s the
longest poem I’ve written out of all of the others—three
pages. But that’s appropriate I suppose; the last art piece
had a lot to say. I’m just hoping I tied the art and the poem
together all right.
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Payne | Schlanger | FINAL CYCLE
LIFE’S LAMENT
Like countless others, nothing’s left $ey’ve joined the ranks of the masses Empty eyesGlazed overAll remaining is a memoryOf their former colorBut cruel irony— $eir downfall in memory lane
$ey begin their roadBelieving in such high things$eir dreams all they see$ey think themselves immune And in fact they are But they forget And soon they’re goneLifeless marionettes
$eir hands are not theirsAs soon as they choose $eir faces now marbleA sculptor’s new muse $ey handed the pick$eir own demise And then it’s me that they despise
What makes them choose To live with Death?And what makes them blindTo the chains on their wrists? $e barrier betweenWhat they thinkAnd say
What makes them choose To be carved away?
Like countless others—Nothing unique— $ey wear two faces $eir own creationsStarched collars—sharpAnd bindingAnd frail A seal of approval is their Holy Grail
Words, oh words!$ey matter so much! $ose acted upon Most precious of all$ose sealed away$e saddest thingA soul’s hand imprisoned "ghting to be free
But when the battle scars begin to showApproval is goneAnd so are theyNo longer a soul No longer a lifeA stoneConsumedA chosen wasted Life
$ey shattered not so long agoWhen scratching a nameIn a wall of stone$eir pieces were found$eir pieces returned But one fell away And the damage is done
Life pieced togetherBy kind words, gentle wordsWords of nothing, no resonanceAll they do is bleachAll they do is burn—$e mouths soon demand$eir something in return $e limitWhen it’s reachedDrives the color awayA falling shell GoneNo need for more words
$eir own manipulation$eir own two faced plague A self contained puppet And the miserable thought
It repeats—Death It always doesAnd Life must endIf it ever wasPerhapsPerhaps It never wasPerhapsPerhapsIt never can be
But doubt, it seemsIs where it endsWithout failIt is the endDecide, decide
Eighteen remnants,A beginning And all that’s leftAn end untitled, Ultimate lossA "nal chord $rough the time bound air—$e clock still countsTicking everywhere—Color, and word, and stone, and handLife’s lament For the countless others Remember RememberWho speaks your wordsRememberRemember Who holds your handsRemember your feet and where you standRemember the way—the way is yoursRemember the wayAnd "nd the way outAnd choose, and choose,Find the way out.
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Zoe Schlanger
DATE UNKNOWNSending back my final artwork.
Man with two noses. I love him.
He is my lover.
$is i
s Wha
t Hap
pens if
You P
ick Yo
ur N
ose, C
ER
AM
IC, 1
2˝
X 1
0˝
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ͻ�EXCHANGE
sixsix
sixsix ARTIST | Fiona NoonanCATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
My name is Fiona, and I’m a senior at Catlin Gabel. I like dancing solo, I like baking, and I like details. Some would say I like details too much, even, but that’s what art is for, to me. Paradoxically, it’s an escape from other detail-oriented parts of my life; it’s a forum in which I can channel my neurotic tendencies into a relaxing and aesthetically pleasing purpose. And don’t think that my detail issue translates to perfection––it doesn’t. But if detail means losing myself in cutting shapes, or adjusting lines, or shading a leaf for hours, then that’s my jam. If it means slapping paint around until I’m happy, then I’m good with that too. –Fi
Word and Hand sort of fell into my lap: I was a substitute artist at the last minute, swapping in for another artist not long into the exchange. When I was asked to participate, I loved the idea of a conversation through images––both visual and written. I hoped I would form a relationship with my writer, and I was drawn to the possibility of knowing parts of someone impossible to perceive in a normal, face-to-face relationship. Abstract, detached friendship free of obligation is rare, and I was excited to try it out.
Perrin Dean | WRITER
WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
I’ve always loved to write, and poetry has always fascinated me. Writing is such a
great way to get all my emotions out and weave figurative language through each
line. I especially love to see how other people write. It’s so interesting how writers
can look at the same thing and see totally different things. And that’s probably what I
love most about writing.
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Perrin Dean11/12Nervous. I want them to be able
to read and find something in it to
respond to. But there are so many
things to write about. So maybe
I’ll write about that. My fear and
hesitation. Questioning.
Out in the world
There are strangers
But how do we know
That they’re strange
I believe
That at least once
We should all
Wink at a stranger
11/13Unknown
Where this will lead
Where this will go
Unknown
What I should say
Should I say no
So unknown
How anybody would feel
If I
Winked at a stranger
Tonight
11/14Wink at a stranger
Only look with one eye
Maybe then
You’ll see
Not everything is dubious
Maybe everything is free
Notice, though
It’s still only a maybe
Future ideas/where it could go:
Question mark, dark/muted
colors, paths, decisions, mysteries,
unexpectedness, repetition.
Dean | Noonan | FIRST CYCLE
I I .
Unk now nW he re th i s w i l l l ea dW he re th i s w i l l goUnk now nW hat I shou l d sayS hou l d I say noS o unk now nHow anybody w ou l d fee lIf IW ink ed at a s t range rTonight
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Fiona Noonan19-30 NOVEMBER 2012This poem makes me feel empty
inside. The idea of unknown to me
connotes an amount of anxiety that
necessitates an instinctive response,
almost a protection mechanism.
Because of this I immediately thought
of a person curled into the fetal
position, naked, with no defenses
but closing their eyes to the outside
world. The three different panels,
though crudely rendered, represent
a bleak worldview, not being able to
escape from the world, and events
spiraling out of control, respectively.
There is an anger and sadness.
Fetal, GRAPHITE, OIL PASTEL, 8˝ X 8˝
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Dean | Noonan | SECOND CYCLE
Perrin Dean12/3The one in pencil is simple. Blank.
Sketched. The blue seems timid.
Reserved. The red seems to break out.
Though figure stays the same: fetal
position.
The figures also grow in size.
Lines coming off in blue/red. More
lines in red.
Three long tick marks on sketch and
blue. Marks are off by themselves.
On sketch, right bottom by le (sic).
On blue, top left by edge. On red,
incorporated in lines.
Lines fade as they get farther from
figure.
Woman. Hiding her face. Ashamed?
Journey of where she wants to be?
Who she wants to be?
Foot isn’t connected. Doesn’t know
where she’s going.
12/7Fetal position but legs are moving out.
Moving forward.
Growth.
Red looks a little like a bird.
Metamorphosis.
Blue has green in it. Growth-plants.
Fire. Burning growth?
Colors fill in body.
Lines out-connections multiplying.
Reaching out.
Three lines = three pieces?
Counting?
Getting stronger/getting stranger.
Who we are vs. how people see us?
Blank
They fill my spaces
The colors are wrong
So I’m still unknown
Blue
They think me timid
Reserved and so
I’m still unknown
Can’t you see
Me, I’ve grown
Still my feet
Find ground unknown
Fetal
Sitting in fire
Flames soaring higher
In position same
Though winning this game
I’m the only one who dared
Sit in the unknown of red
12/10You think me scared
But I’m just waiting
For my time
To stand in your unknown
Almost, I stand
You see me burning
I’m not
The fire is mine
Fetal
Sitting in fire
Flames soaring higher
In position same
Though winning this game
You think me scared
But I’m just waiting
For my time to stand in your unknown
I’m the only one who dared
Sit in the unknown of red
For my time to stand
I’m the only one
Who dared to sit
In the unknown of red
Red, Blank and Blue
Blank
They fill my spaces
The colors are wrong
I’m still unknown
Blue
They think me timid
Reserved and so
I’m still unknown
Can’t you see
Me, I’ve grown
Still my feet
Find ground unknown
Fetal
Sitting in fire
Flames soaring higher
In position same
Though winning this game
You think me scared
I’m just waiting
For my time to stand
I’m the only one 1,2,3, here I am
I’m the
one-alone
Who dared to sit
In the unknown of red
Fetal
Sitting in fire
Flames soaring higher
In position same
Though winning this game
You think me scared
I’m just waiting
For my time to stand
One, two, three, here I am
I’m the one-alone
Who dared to sit
In the unknown of red
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Fiona Noonan19-30 NOVEMBER 201221 December 2012-11 January 2013
This poem in some ways interpreted
my previous artwork quite literally.
The idea of flames and stark colors––
red, blank, and blue––made me think
of an escape. Somewhere there is a
desire to flee quickly, and to sharply
cut ties with a present situation. In
some ways I feel we are continuing
the dialogue from the previous art
and poetry. The anxiety and fear
remain, and the bird is supposed
to represent a flight from that. The
actual creation of the art, which
required an exacto knife, may link
more closely to my feelings about
the poem than the content of the art
itself. Regardless of the poem and my
response, I am also experimenting
with various media, which is part of
why I chose to do a paper cutout.
I I .(RED, BLANK , AND BLUE)
B l ank$ey "ll my spaces
$e colors are wrongI’m still unknown
Blue$ey think me timid
Reserved and soI’m still unknown
Can’t you seeMe, I’ve grown
Still my feetFind ground unknown
FetalSitting in "re
Flames soaring higherIn position same
$ough winning this game
You think me scaredI’m just waiting
For my time to standOne, two, three, here I am
I’m the one-aloneWho dared to sit
In the unknown of red 69
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Dean | Noonan | SECOND CYCLE
Untitled, CUT PAPER COLLAGE, 5˝ X 8˝
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Perrin Dean1/18Mockingbird? Hummingbird?
If you turn sideways, it’s a mask.
No feet
3 pieces of paper
Blue/green have seen before-in
middle portrait
Black-sketch
Peacock feather?
Lines still swooping out
Turn me sideways
To hide your eyes
I’ll turn sideways
To hide your eyes
Peacock feather: vanity, immortality,
nobility, pride, joy, wisdom.
“Eyes”, all seeing = mask?
Olive branch: peace, wisdom, light,
Christianity
1/25I’ll rip off your mask
I’ll take off my mask
When peacocks fly
I see eyes in you
That no one else sees
Unknown are
The eyes behind the mask
All is known
In the eyes distant from face
Wings have sprouted
Your wings sprouted
From the infant, fetal
Grown from the fetal infant
That held the rainbow inside
That held rainbow internal
The rainbow, internal
The colors have dimmed
The colors have dimmed
You’ve found your own
And merged to solid
With blue in tow
You’ve found your own
With blue in tow
No need for feet
If there’s flight
Not just hummings
Peacocks might
1/28Three’s the key
Wings have sprouted
Three’s the charm
Grown from the infant, fetal
Three shades to me
Like water and light
Three shades to warmth A
rainbow internal
Unknown are
The three’s I see
The wink, the stranger
Is all that could be
UNKNOWNAre the eyes behind the mask
All is known
In the eyes distant from face
The colors have dimmed
And merged to solid
You’ve found your own
With blue in tow
Wings have sprouted
Grown from the infant, fetal
Like water and light
A rainbow internal
No need for feet
If there’s flight
Not just hummings
Peacocks might
Three’s the key
Three’s the charm
Three shades to me
Three shades to warmth
Unknown are
The tree’s I see
The wink, the stranger
Is all that could be
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Dean | Noonan | THIRD CYCLE
Fiona Noonan19-30 NOVEMBER 2012January-February
The poet has taken the idea of escape
and flight, and even of fear, from
the bird cutout and put it into his or
her poem. The stanzas are quatrains
with no rhyme scheme or meter.
The themes of light, dark, colors,
and repetition have continued, so I
decided to incorporate those into
my artwork. I used a block print I
had made to put a silver and white
brocade pattern on a white paper
background. I then repeatedly wrote
“empty” down the side. In some ways
I felt emptiness in the poetry, which I
wanted to reflect in my piece. I hope
to expand on this piece if I get the
chance.
why I chose to do a paper cutout.
I I I . UNKNOWN
Are the eyes behind the maskAll is known
In the eyes distant from face
$e colors have dimmedAnd merged to solid
You’ve found your ownWith blue in tow
Wings have sproutedGrown from the infant, fetal
Like water and lightA rainbow internal
No need for feetIf there’s #ight
Not just hummingsPeacocks might
$ree’s the key$ree’s the charm
$ree shades to me$ree shades to warmth
Unknown are$e threes I see
$e wink, the strangerIs all that could be
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Winking at Strangers, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 18˝ X 24˝
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Dean | Noonan | FINAL CYCLE
Perrin Dean2/22Black/silver
No color
Spaces between “empty” gets bigger
VOID at bottom
Does empty lead to void or equal void?
Some overlap between black and silver
Fading
In pattern: wings, flowers?, arrow
Some patterns are the other way (reversed).
Empty spaces in silver, but there’s no black.
Some empty’s are hidden in the black.
“Empty’s hidden in black”
Treat empty like a person.
Empty’s hidden in black
She leaves her spaces there
VOID= empty space, not valid, vacant, blank
Void = avoid
2/25She doesn’t want people to know she’s empty sometimes
Sometimes she does
Sometimes it’s all she has
But it’s not true
Reversal
Empty’s hidden in black
She hides her spaces there
Empty has a lack
Of faces in the air
Sometimes it’s everywhere
Sometimes she tries to hide
Sometimes it’s all that’s there
Sometimes it’s a lie
2/26There’s always a black
And a white you can’t see
No colors to blur
Except for a sliver in between
She fades in places
As emptiness will
Sitting in spaces
Waiting until
Her spaces are gone
Colors appear
There all along
Fetal in fear
Sometimes it’s a lie
Sometimes it’s right there
Sometimes she hides
But always everywhere
IV.
Empty’s hidden in blackShe hides her spaces thereEmpty has a lackOf faces in the air
Sometimes it’s everywhereSometimes she tries to hideSometimes it’s all that’s thereSometimes it’s a lie
$ere’s always a blackAnd white you can’t seeNo colors to blurExcept for silver in between
She fades in placesAs emptiness willSitting in spacesWaiting until
Her spaces are goneColors appear$ere all alongFetal in fearSometimes it’s a lieSometimes it’s right thereSometimes she hidesBut always everywhere
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Fiona Noonan8 MARCH 2013-15 MARCH 2013The final poem I received responded
to several of my pieces, I think. There
were references to my first set of
drawings, but the majority was about
the most recent piece––a white paper
board with block prints in black and
silver. He or she expanded the limited
canvas into an exploration of color
and incompleteness, which I tried to
reflect using a face, parts of a face,
and colors. It was one of my more
literal responses, but I was happy to
continue using the same piece of art
this round.
I think the last couple of exchanges
have allowed us to have more of
a dialogue than we were at the
beginning, when the poems and
artworks didn’t really take us beyond
their own limited scopes. At the same
time, themes of emptiness, color,
fear, and escape have spanned the
project, and it’s cool to see how those
motifs have manifested themselves so
differently.
Winking at Strangers, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 18˝ X 24˝
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ͻ�EXCHANGE77
7 Hannah Rotwein | ARTIST
CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Art challenges me to express myself in a wordless, stationary medium. To accurately render an item, I must understand its place
in a specific environment, and art is thus a mode for me to come to terms with
situations around and in me. As an artist, I am interested in how variation in texture
and color can change how an artwork reads. Ideally, the work I create will remind
viewers of an experience of their own, and in this way, the artwork will provide
a ceaseless commentary on what informs the human experience. For this reason, I
was interested in participating in the Word and Hand project: I wanted to see how
another’s interpretation of my work would continually inform my own work. I wanted
to learn how my work would change in response to an outside impetus, rather
than solely my own whims.
WRITER | Anna Fernandez WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
This year I am a senior at Wilsonville High School, and my favorite class is AP English Literature. When I was young, Nancy Drew and Harry Potter sparked a love of reading and writing within me. I believe that all forms of writing are some of the most beneficial assets to society. Both are crucial mediums through which abstract and complicated ideas may be communicated. As a person and a writer, I aspire to create and spread progressive ideas through the tools provided by the English language.
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Rotwein| Fernandez | FIRST CYCLE
Hananh Rotwein
15/ NOVEMBER 2012 Round 1: And so it begins. Word and
Hand. Today I resurrected a piece I
stated in August. It’s a Prismacolor
marker and colored pencil rendering
of my flower headband (the one I
made at Free People with Abs). Per
usual, I thought it supremely awesome
when working on it, but then a little
meh afterwards. I do like it. Maybe
I’ll love it when I get it back. Maybe
I’ll see it in a new way. Right now I’m
curious to know how it will progress
and morph, because I can’t think
of many ways (at the mo) in which
it could go. We’ll see! Worked on it
for nearly three yours (listened to
three episodes of “This American
Life”--”Act V,” “Summer Camp,” and
“Babysitting”).
Demolition, COLOR PENCIL. 6˝ X 8˝
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Is this a part or a whole?A mere piece bit of chance captured into a moment and an idea?A beginning or all it will be?Aesthetically pleasing, but I can’t hear the words, yet,Can’t see the faces yet, the faces can’t see their future yet.Excitement and brightness contradict the fragility of the foundation upon which they are laid.Always.Concrete and shouting loudly, but misunderstood What else is new.
Anna Fernandez
#1 It’s all bright and beautiful – a
beginning. A concrete aesthetically
pleasing beginning that makes me
wonder where it will go. The color
and texture shouts from the page – a
message which is loud yet still unclear.
I guess most beginnings are, though.
I wonder about the flowers: one so
bright, and another small, yet with
a large presence. Then lastly, the
largest: so dark and strong on the
outside, while so delicate and pale
internally. Oh, there is a hint of green
in the background. Don’t we all have
a hint of green in the background –
there whether we like it or not, the
inescapable reminder of where we
came from.
Where will this go? Upon second
look it appears as if it may stand
on its own. Then again, isn’t that
how most beginnings are. The first
flowers, eagerly anticipated, so widely
celebrated, and eventually forgotten
as each one meets its inevitable
mortality. The inevitable mortality
we all try to escape – forever
unsuccessful, forever promising
forever.
I wonder why that one flower is pale
on the inside, or is it just that is the
only flower we can see inside of? It
is interesting that the palest flower
on the inside is the darkest on the
outside, strengthening that age
old cliché. I judge upon first glance
then realize the flower isn’t finished.
I do not believe I am alone in this
action, automatically comparing
the unfinished beginning to all of its
finished counterparts.
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Rotwein| Fernandez | SECOND CYCLE
Hananh Rotwein
13 DECEMBER 2012Round 2: Words. “Words” and words
as inspiration. Do I love my response?
Do I hate my response? Who knows.
“What else is new.”
Remodel, MIXED MEDIA COLLAGE, 18˝X 24˝
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THE WORDS ARE SUFFOCATING
Sometimes everything seems sloppily smothered,oppressed, with a pretense of being happy,just a hastily pasted enamel.
$oughts, ideas, and reality become unreadable.If any screams exist, they’re unheard,su!ocated and indecipherable beneath the putrid color of care that has faded. It’s awful,the helplessness and the questions and the yearning,but what are the words to do?
Anna Fernandez
#2The paper isn’t supposed to be
ignored – “it’s so thin I could blow my
nose in it”. The reason for the paper
is unclear – naturally, of course. I feel
like I have dissected the image, but
I guess during most beginnings the
first image is always analyzed and
over analyzed, but no matter how
many times the first image is analyzed
it can only provide so much insight
into what it will become. The image
is so bright and bold, yet it is set in
something within something so timid.
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Rotwein| Fernandez | THIRD CYCLE
Hananh Rotwein
31 JANUARY 2013Round 3: Sick of my painted newspaper and drawn flowers piece. Moved on to a
light bulb that I painted white and then attempted to cover in newsprint words
(ie not newspaper itself, but the ink that forms words. We’re on a words kick, my
poet and I. They seem to perhaps think I’m being cruel to words by covering
them in paint.
Untitled, LIGHT BULB AND MIXED MEDIA 4”X 3”82
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STILL YEARNING
Reversed and undetectable$ey hint at an ideaA glimmer in the clouds
Attempts to illuminate fail to shed clarityClouds still confusing the messageSparks still distracting the eyeWords still yearning for con"rmation
Anna Fernandez
#3No more beauty and brightness.
The happy bright – almost shallow
– quality of it is gone; it’s no longer
just something nice to look at. Now
it suggests more, perhaps something
deeper – well, maybe there was
something deeper to start out with
and I wasn’t picking up on it.
#4Wow, it is really cold in here. How
am I supposed to be inspired and
profound when my limbs are slowly
losing feeling? The piece now feels
full of contradictions: the pale, sick
looking yellow, the hastily wrapped
board, and the old newspaper versus
the bright beginning of the flowers.
The piece is a contradiction like so
many other things in life: a feminist
flaunting high heels patiently waiting
for a “gentleman” to open a door for
her, a “hipster” caring and conforming
so much with those of their image,
everyone out there who is trying
to change the world but cannot
change themselves – but aren’t we
all? This piece suggests the flaws and
contradictions in each of us.
#5I wonder what the significance of
the newspaper is. What is the artist
trying to say through the stories? I
can’t detect a pattern, so far. The
yellow reminds me of sickness – a
sickness smothering the news? The
words seem like they are suffocating
beneath the yellow and the flower,
which has been thrown on top.
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Rotwein| Fernandez | FINAL CYCLE
Hananh Rotwein
3 FEBRUARY 2013Round 4: Continued with the newspaper light bulb. We’re still on a words kick,
my poet and I. A specific line, “they hint at an idea,” influenced my work this
week. I more than hinted at an idea this time—I spelled it out on the light bulb.
It’s bolder than what I’ve previously done (and less aesthetically pleasing?).
We’ll see what the poet thinks.
Listen to the Twang, LIGHT BULB AND MIXED MEDIA 4˝X 3˝
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THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOG
Words have "nally spoken$e tiny fragments have collectedSimply asking to be heardListen to their way of speakingListen to all that could be thereHiding in the mistWalk the path
Whispering through the fog$ey are impossible to hear at "rst – Impossible to see at "rstListen with patienceLook with patienceWalk with patience$e journey of the braveUnknown to the rest$e obscured path will speak along the walkLouder than the promised words, residing at the end.
Anna Fernandez
#6This is completely unexpected. How
does the light bulb fit with the flowers
and the newspaper? What is the artist
trying to say? Light representing an
idea, perhaps? An idea of what? Also
the glitter must be addressed. The
glitter isn’t as sparkly as I would
typically consider glitter; the glue has
diluted it, dragged it into the mass. Now
only a skeleton of the original remains –
just enough to prove what it once was,
an identity that has been stolen.
#7Plugging in the light bulb didn’t provide
any additional insight. I also learned
that the words could have been put on
so that they would read normally, but
instead they are on backwards. This
morning I looked carefully again to try
and decipher any sentences but the
most I could identify were a few two
letter words.
#8“What are the words to do?” Perhaps
the artist is saying the words must start
over; they must spark – glitter? – into
something new. The light bulb is an idea
of what the words could do. They could
start over in a different form. What
does this mean though? What is the
underlying message the artist is trying
to convey with this?
It is also interesting how the yellow is
gone – unless the gold glitter counts.
The yellow seemed almost like a
sickness to the words, holding them
back, a part of the suffocation. Now
the yellow is gone so it could be a new
beginning, a new piece with a different
form, representing starting over. After
the words have been suffocated by
the sickness of the yellow and “hastily
pasted” over by the flower, they must
completely escape and take on a new
form. The future of the words and the
idea is still cloudy, backwards, and
enshrouded in white, but it is there.
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ͻ�EXCHANGE
eight
eight
eight
WRITER | Victor Oporta WILSONVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
I am junior at Wilsonville High School. I became involved with Word & Hand when Mr. Rishel introduced it to my AP English class in the fall. It struck me as very intriguing; I had never really heard of or imagined such an exchange and thought that it could produce some very interesting work and be a thought-provoking form of discourse. Throughout my life I have mostly written prose but have always loved poetic forms for their relative brevity and profundity. Word & Hand presented a way for me to expand my realm of experience in writing while also being able to create a thought process with another person through our respective media. Word & Hand has allowed me to learn about myself as a writer and as a person with the help of my partner. It is something that I will carry on with me for the rest of my life.
Kelsey Hurst | ARTIST
CATLIN GABEL HIGH SCHOOL
Kelsey once scoffed at the idea of art being a primary passion and had no confidence in her art nor hope for an art filled future.
She now considers herself a budding artist and knows that art will always be
her first and foremost interest. She is thankful to the Word and Hand project for
making her step outside of her comfort zone a little bit by making her follow her
partner’s direction and as it is her first time collaborating with another artist.
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Hurst | Oporta | FIRST CYCLE
Stran
ger, IN
K O
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AP
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, 11˝
X 8
1/2
˝
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RED (WO)MAN
$ere’s a "gure in the distanceA light mist hangs in the airIt scared me in this instanceI wasn’t prepared
A light mist hangs in the airI thought I was the only oneI wasn’t preparedFor you to ruin my fun
Victor Oporta11/20/12Obviously took time to cut out
and glue on paper. Androgynous
figure. Appears to be sitting/laying.
Discernable eyes. Dark circle in center
of throat, legs are lighter than torso,
arms also. Torso has elliptic pattern
on left side, patterned harder marks
on face. Red appears to be same
throughout. Appears to be done in
colored pencil, although I’m no expert
in art media.
11/27/12Phonetic intensives – words whose
sound is intrinsically related to their
meaning.
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Hurst | Oporta | SECOND CYCLE
Kelsey Hurst
1. I’m surprised with where the poet is
taking my art, and I like it.
Stran
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X 8
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Victor Oporta11/29/12Happy Birthday to me! But I digress…
Not that the figure has one hand
and one foot obscured. Crude
presentation, matted on printer paper.
Vast open space in comparison to
figure. Final presentation? Probably
not. Kind of rough, unrefined, lonely,
sad. Red still.
12/27/12Red figure is unchanged, so far as I
can tell. Looks like blanket draped
over the shoulders, but there’s
an animal head and an arm-like
protrusion. Animal head is connected
to blanket. It doesn’t seem to have
a body other than the blanket. More
circles in the throat area of the
animal, similar to the person. Arm-
like protrusion resembles branch,
but seems to function as arm, has
strings connected to it. Calling body
of animal “blanket” for lack of a better
term. Animal only has one visible eye
with the other shrouded—similar to
person. More of the same pattern
seen on the human’s head seems to
be falling out from under it animal
figure is black. Might as well mention
that. It has some red colored pencil
accent, some leftover pencil lines. The
strings connecting to the “blanket”
are red, but the animal is mostly black
ink. One arm of the animal is shrouded
similar to the arm and leg of the
person. Animal’s eye is much larger
and more pronounced than person’s.
Animal seems to be enveloping
person with “blanket.” In the Steve
Jobs speech that Deeder (AP Econ
teacher) had us watch, he said that
one can only connect dots backward,
so you must lay them down now.
That is what I must do with this piece.
Animal is definitely a mammal; you
can quote me on that. Elliptical shapes
don’t make another appearance from
the torso of the person. Possibly next
time? Take it as it comes.
RED (WO)MAN
$ere’s a "gure in the distanceA light mist hangs in the airIt scared me in this instanceI wasn’t prepared
A light mist hangs in the airI thought I was the only oneI wasn’t preparedFor you to ruin my fun
I thought I was the only one$e mist conspiresFor you to ruin my funSending it up like a pyre
$e mist conspiresColludes with your consciousness, only to Send it up like a pyreMind you
Colludes with your consciousness only toFurther confuseMind youYou should be amused
Further confused$e mist casts a veilYou should be amusedYour mind is not so frail
$e mist casts a veilBut only for a little whileYour mind is not so frailYou’re no longer beguiled
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Hurst | Oporta | THIRD CYCLE
Kelsey Hurst 2.I enjoy the darkness they read from
my drawing.
Stran
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1/2
˝
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Victor Oporta1/24/13The tree seems to be in the same vein of the animal: black pen, strings. I think
I’m going to continue finish my current poem and start another. I’ll leave it pretty
open on the second. I’m liking the mist, sort of a discovery motif, maybe I’ll stick
with it. Doesn’t seem like they are going to change the paper that it’s matted on.
I kind of like it. It’s like a really cool, extended doodle.
NATURAL PHENOMENA I
$ere’s a "gure in the distanceA light mist hangs in the airIt scared him in this instanceHe wasn’t prepared
A light mist hangs in the airHe thought he was the only oneHe wasn’t preparedFor his mind to be spun
He thought he was the only one$e mist conspiresFor his mind to be spunSending it up like a pyre
$e mist conspiresColludes with his consciousness, only to Send it up like a pyreMind you
Colludes with his consciousness only toFurther confuseMind youHe should be amused
Further confused$e mist casts a veilHe should be amusedHis mind is not so frail
$e mist casts a veilBut only for a little whileHis mind is not so frailHe’s no longer beguiled
But only for a little while Only so long can the mist confoundHe’s no longer beguiled$e mist settles down
Only so long can the mist confoundTo the "gure he draws near$e mist settles down$e area is clear
To the "gure he draws nearNear to what?$e area is clearAll this work for naught
NATURAL PHENOMENA I I
$e fog sits low in the morning
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Hurst | Oporta | FINAL CYCLE
Kelsey Hurst
3. Since I didn’t really have a conscious meaning behind what I was
drawing, I am having an easier time of weaving the words into my art,
but at the same time I am keeping it the way I like it and not obviously/
overtly depicting the poet’s imagery and trying to convey the feelings
instead (the dread, fear, etc..)
Rest, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 16˝ X 12˝
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Kelsey Hurst
4. I like how this piece, both the
poetry and my art ended.
Victor Oporta3/16/13New piece! I must admit that I don’t
think that it’s as cool as the last one,
but I still like it. The use of mixed
media is cool. Human figure is sort
of carried over from the last piece,
although all the limbs are visible this
time. Lighter colors, much lighter
mood than the last piece that looked
like a heavy metal album cover. Light
blue and white, figure is a little darker
colored, but still a little happier than
before. One thing that I get from this
is tumult. The person is lying down
and floating in this endless sea of
clouds, almost as if they have no
choice. I’ll run with that.
NATURAL PHENOMENA I I
$e fog sits low in the morningA cool breeze blows by as I take my morning co!ee$e air is ripe with clichésI "ll my lungs with the soupy air I’m out of breath
“$roughout time man has wondered…” who cares?Drinking co!ee doesn’t help$at’s a "rstI’m being su!ocatedBy lack of originality
$ere’s nothing I can do to stop itI drink more co!eeStill nothing
I look into my empty cupExpecting to see the words at the bottom$e words I’ve been looking for While staring out into the fogI should know they’re not there
I stare again into the fogMore co!ee can waitIt doesn’t help anyway
Sometimes (always)I wonder why I look into the fogDay after dayWeek after weekYear after year Platitude after platitude
$ere may be something out thereI’ ll tell you when I "nd itAs for nowI need more co!ee
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© 2013
WILLIAM T. COLVILLE MEMORIAL FOUNDATIONP.O.BOX 909 NESKOWIN OR 97 149
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