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

ͻͻ

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.

ͼͼ

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.

ͻͻ

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.

2

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

3

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

ͻ�EXCHANGE

11

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.

5

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

6

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

7

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

8

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

9

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

10

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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).”

11

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

12

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Untit

led, A

CR

YL

IC O

N W

OO

D, 1

1˝ X

6-3

/8˝

13

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

14

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

15

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

17

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

˝

18

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

20

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

21

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

22

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

23

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

24

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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).

25

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

33

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.

27

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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?

28

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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. :)

29

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Reimann | Salgado | FIRST CYCLE

Message in a Bottle, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝

30

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

31

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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...

32

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Darkbox, MIXED-MEDIA 12˝X 8-1/2˝X 4˝

33

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

34

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

35

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

36

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

37

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

39

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

40

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

41

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

42

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

43

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

44

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

45

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

46

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

47

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

ͻ�EXCHANGE

55

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.

49

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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?

50

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

51

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

52

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Big Diamonds, Little Diamonds, All Types of Diamonds, MIXED MEDIA ON PAPER, 86˝ X 36˝

53

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

54

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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?

55

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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 .̋

56

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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!

57

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

58

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

59

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

61

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

62

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

63

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

65

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

66

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

67

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

68

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Dean | Noonan | SECOND CYCLE

Untitled, CUT PAPER COLLAGE, 5˝ X 8˝

70

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

71

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

72

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Winking at Strangers, MIXED MEDIA AND COLLAGE, 18˝ X 24˝

73

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

74

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

75

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

77

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

78

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

79

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

80

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

81

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

83

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

84

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

85

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

87

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Hurst | Oporta | FIRST CYCLE

Stran

ger, IN

K O

N P

AP

ER

, 11˝

X 8

1/2

˝

88

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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.

89

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Hurst | Oporta | SECOND CYCLE

Kelsey Hurst

1. I’m surprised with where the poet is

taking my art, and I like it.

Stran

ger, IN

K O

N P

AP

ER

, 11˝

X 8

1/2

˝

90

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

91

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

Hurst | Oporta | THIRD CYCLE

Kelsey Hurst 2.I enjoy the darkness they read from

my drawing.

Stran

ger, IN

K O

N P

AP

ER

, 11˝

X 8

1/2

˝

92

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

93

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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˝

94

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

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

95

20

13

| w

ord

& h

an

d |

C

atlin

Gab

el H

igh

Scho

ol /

Wils

onvi

lle H

igh

Scho

ol

© 2013

WILLIAM T. COLVILLE MEMORIAL FOUNDATIONP.O.BOX 909 NESKOWIN OR 97 149