The Renaissance

The Renaissance: Shades of Blue

Shades of Blue
By Samantha Nobles ’22

“How do you describe the color blue?”
By Grace Wilson ’23

Blue is known to evoke melancholy. Yet I find no sadness in it.
Blue extends beyond rainy days and Mondays; goodbyes and endings.
It is your first breath, welcoming, vulnerable.
Driving open-roaded, rolled-down windows, volume full of music,
Free and uninhibited.
Blue is an evening twilight
When the cerulean sky dissolves into a midnight hue.
It is the silent hour of the indigo night,
When I am awake while the rest of the world is asleep.
It is that moment when the sun looms through a cloudy day
And I feel the warmth of its rays on my neck to my knees,
From my teeth to my tongue. To my lungs.
Blue is a loyal friend to whom I shout, “Hello!”
And who assures me that everything will be alright.
Don’t you see? Blue isn’t always rooted in perpetual gloom.
It is a color overflowing with wonder and hope.

The Renaissance: White Sun (Prose) & Desert Sunflowers (Painting)

Desert Sunflowers by Katelin Lopez ’25

White Sun by Chikamso Agina ’22

In the month of her birth, the sun hides behind clouds of ash, like it’s afraid of the rain and how it pours and of the screeching thunder that chases after bolts of lightning, striking the rumbling earth. Of course, this can’t be any further than the truth. Somehow, within the midst of a tempest, it almost seems afraid of her. She treads the paths of the universe so carefully and sparingly as the child of stars and comets, favored by Hephastus and Athena who bestow upon her the golden laced gift of artful wisdom, but in the wake of Jupiter, ruler of storm and rain, she finds herself afraid. Her body falls weak, draped with the translucent cloak of fear towards her slowly depleting youth. Something within her begins to stir.

She finds herself scrambling for paint, hurriedly mixing and spewing it against her palms so that as the rain pours, she can pour all that she feels against the porcelain pillars of her home. It doesn’t take long for vibrant colors to be spilled against the floors or for her hands to be stained with marmalade and scraping against stone. To be lost in her own craft– eyes, and mind blurred with indigo and sage while the only thing she can seem to wrap her brain around is the very fact that she is on the brink of losing the remnants of her adolescence as the day of her birth is drawing near (tormented with the desire to never grow old, to chase after the fading age of seventeen). She doesn’t even notice how her tongue begins to burn with the bitterness of rotten cherries and melted stars as the tips of her fingers flush red. She’s rubbing into stone with lavender all whilst aching for the comfort of white sunshine. Her knuckles begin to bruise.

From porcelain pillars to stone canvases of sage and marmalade, arraying milky moons and yellow suns that beam down upon villages of mice who nibble on indigo mushrooms and magenta puffs of dandelion. It’s something made of dreams. Her breathing, which had grown heavy, begins to calm once she notices that every single one of her twelve pillars has lost its pristine whiteness, now cursed with her panicked passion. With patches of dried paint scattered across her body, she slumps to the floor, fatigue washing over her as her eyes remain fixed upon her creation. Her back hits the wall, the clouds outside spread apart, and the raindrops cease for the first time in days.

Warm sunshine falls upon her figure like petals against skin, and her lips tear apart into a smile that turns her eyes into crescents while her heart swells with pride. With the world as her canvas and the sun as her muse, her worries of youth are nothing more but rivers of paint against stone.

The Renaissance: My Greek Orthodox Easter / Photo of Nature

My Greek Orthodox Easter by Aryetta Koutsogiannis ’23

Growing up Greek Orthodox, my mother often stressed the importance of Lent. She believed that we can strengthen our relationship with God through fasting. Maybe I was too young to truly see how this could be, but as the time passes, you stray away from the path. Lent helps us to get back onto that path. In Orthodoxy, we fast for 40 days from meat and dairy, starting on the first day of Lent. It is only until the clock hits 12:00 on Easter morning that we can indulge in that which we restricted ourselves from, especially lamb.

An Easter tradition in my family is going to my grandmother’s house late at night. We wait there until around 11:45 and then walk to the church right around the corner from her
house. With us, we bring our ”lambadas,” a Greek term for a candle gifted to you from your godfather and godmother. As 12:00 strikes, the priests chant “Christ Has Risen” (in Greek, of course), and the people recite back, “Truly He Has Risen,” all while passing around the “fos” or “light” from candle to candle. When we get back to her house, my grandmother has lamb stew ready. My family and I then enjoy a late-night meal, finally breaking our fasts together.

Photo of Nature by Emma Hutzel ’23

The Faults of Man

Artwork by Angelina Scalice ’23

Poem by William Hegarty ’23

The pounding sound of dread in my head,
The dumbfounded counting of hours, the dazzling showers,
Flying like sand in the wind through the sky.
Trying and failing with all of our lies,
We’ll never reach the promised land while
Sinning and watching with bystander’s eyes.
Repent, or you’ll be damned,
With your sins, you will be slammed.
This, men do not understand as they fly
through the gates of Hell and land in regret,
staring at the red sky of the damned forever.

Reflection

Above:
The Monster Within
by Samantha Nobles, ’22

Reflection
by Angelina Scalice ’23

Such… horror. Such monstrosity. I begged myself to avert my eyes, yet I could not. The terror, it held my gaze.

Before me, I saw such a—wretch. Filthy, abhorrent. Feral were its eyes, glowing with— not a flame of passion, but of desperation, the only source of light among the void it stood a part of. Its claws were long, having been sharpened on the stone of avarice. It must have been one to love punishing its prey, or something just as primitive and evil. In entirety, its figure was ghastly, gaunt— dead.

And yet, it stared. A cold, icy stare. Murderous, I say. I should have feared for my life.

It outstretched a long, cloaked arm, cocking its wrist and pointing directly at me. Square between the eyes. A millimeter away, and yet it dared not touch me. Why?—Nevermind. It had its ways to penetrate me, regardless. A chill like no other went through me, like the harsh bite of frost on steel.

We held a contest, it seemed. Who would give way: I, in fear, shrink away? Or it, in boredom (or perhaps mercy) decide not to prey on what lay before it? Not that this demon could have a conscience. It may have eyes, flesh, and bone, but to give this thing the consideration of beating, human heart, or of intelligent, conscious mind? What absurdity.

It spoke to me. I could hear it internally, yet so distantly too. Its voice (dare I personify the beast) was strangely familiar, as if I once knew the speaker. With how it shook me, one might even say this one was once dear to me. I defer.

It not only spoke, but weeped. Whispered, begged— I almost pitied it. A trick of the mind, surely— and yet, I found myself understanding it. This cryptid, in all beastiality and nature, was suffering. Suffering, suffering—it was on Death’s doorstep, perhaps of its own volition.

It grasped me without contact. For these moments, we were bound by emotion. The creature had a sickly grace, now that I observed it. Much like a phantom of memory, or of dreams. But like all dreams, it had to depart.

Flashing its wide, almost manic grin, it beckoned me to follow it into the shadows of its background. I found myself longing to hand myself over to it, to become limp in the tendrils of the serene mystery, the velvety unknown, that lay beyond—

I blinked. Hard. Shaking my head, I scolded myself. I need to stop looking in the mirror so often.

Starry Night

“Sky and Stars” by Juan Montes ’22 (above)

“Starry Night” by Grace Wilson ’23

Starry Night

My phone reads 7:11 PM as I’m boarding the train to Long Island. Just on time, I think to myself, relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend the night in a hotel here in New York City. A few moments prior, I was making my way through a Barnes & Noble in search of a new book to delve into. The “Bargain Book” table is undoubtedly my favorite section. Two months ago, I had promised myself I would finish all the books on the table. I already adventured into The Complete Collection of Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. Each book branded its own unique impression upon me. Glancing at all the hardcovers, paperbacks, and Flexibounds, I found myself gravitating towards The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. The book seemed to smile at me as I extended my arm to pick it up. “This is the one,” I whispered under my breath.

The hissing and screeching of the brakes on the track wake me from my daydream. Just three more stops to go until I can nestle into bed to say farewell to the day. I reach for my shopping bag that’s resting between my backpack and the side of the train. As I open up the front cover, a symphony of crackling sounds emerges. The first page reads, “‘The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible’ – from Nature.”

I look out the window, and beyond the glare of the fluorescent lights, I see an infinite sky of dark splattered with stars of light. I focus my attention on one star in particular, its pulsating glow in sync with the beating of my heart. I can feel its radiating warmth travel through the veins in my body. Alone with the stars, I am at peace.

The star-lit sky is my map. Every star represents a fault, an accomplishment, a wish, a failure, a truth, a lesson learned. Each constellation represents another chapter of my story. Every night, the stars put on a performance in their dome theatre, the moon being their spotlight. I am the spectator, though I never knew I was. I remember wishing upon stars as a child. I remember always trying to find the Little and Big Dipper. I remember thinking that angels communicated with each other through the flickering of stars after watching It’s a Wonderful Life. I became blind to the gifts of nature around me. I wore a disguise that concealed my youthful heart. I found what I had lost at that moment.

The train halts. I step onto the platform with my book clutched in my hand. I take a deep breath and, once again, look up at the sky on this starry night.

Red Scarf in Winter

Red Riding Hood (above) by Katelyn Takes ’23
Red Scarf in Winter (below) by Erin O’Connor ’25

On the first snow day,
I wore a bright red scarf in the snow.
I left it on the tire swing,
And forgot to take it inside.
All winter it stayed there,
Through cold and wind and blizzard.
And when I saw it,
Each time I thought,
“I’ll get it next time.”
So now it has sat
There in the tire,
Through rain, and thunder, and heat.
Dirt is covering it,
And weeds are attached to it.
And now when I see it,
I don’t want to remove it from its home.

Persevere

Candle of the Mind by Samantha Nobles ’22

Persevere by Angelina Scalice ’23

“Make this choice!” “No, this!” they cry; I can hardly think ahead.
“Take this path!” “Go here instead!” I try and try, but still, I dread
Moving forward. It’s so hard, with all this shouting, misdirection;
This confusion, such delusion, chronic fear of great rejection;
And as the panic settles in, waves of pain invade my head.

Am I here? Is this real? What does this hazy veil conceal,
For I feel crazed, strange and dazed, as if in a dream; unreal.
There is darkness, and now light; do my eyes betray my sight?
Do they too betray my mind, convincing me that nothing’s right?
My thoughts are raving, full of fright, and they now begin to reel.

Helpless, hopeless, great despair; what’s this I see standing there?
A door? A friend? A hope? An end? Will this help me; will it dare?
It extends a hand so warmly, smiles kindly, and then tells me:
“You are not alone, you see. I am here, and so we’ll be
On this journey, not forever, but for the time we are, together.”

It finally disappears, the fear that crept in, stayed, and reared
Its ghastly head of mere illusion, and in its place then appeared
An ally on this winding road, to help me through and through; and so
I know you are by my side, you will not leave me alone.
Together we will fight and challenge, overcome the dark and feared,
Now the battle’s fought and won, and in my heart, I truly know

Together we have persevered.