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Page 1: vox populi - switzerland.tasis.comswitzerland.tasis.com/.../VOX_POPULI_MAGAZINE_2012.pdf · vox populi. vox populi spring 2012. 4 table of contents Cover photograph: Kate Robinson

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vox

populi

Page 2: vox populi - switzerland.tasis.comswitzerland.tasis.com/.../VOX_POPULI_MAGAZINE_2012.pdf · vox populi. vox populi spring 2012. 4 table of contents Cover photograph: Kate Robinson
Page 3: vox populi - switzerland.tasis.comswitzerland.tasis.com/.../VOX_POPULI_MAGAZINE_2012.pdf · vox populi. vox populi spring 2012. 4 table of contents Cover photograph: Kate Robinson

vox

populi

spring 2012

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table of contents

Cover photograph: Kate Robinson.

6 Kim Nelson, photograph

7 Aleksandar Antelj, “What is Treasure?”

8 Aleksa Ilic, “Trouble in Wonderland”

9 Cathrine Hansen, watercolors and ink on paper

10-11 Alisher Tashpulatov, “Ode to British English”

12 Yulia Gusarova, photograph

13 Todd Matthew, “Service”

14-16 Andrew Bone, “The Rime of the Amorous Banker”

17 Alejandro Avila Gasperin, oil pastels and acrylic paints on handmade paper

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18 Orianna Sibada, “Finally”

19 Beatriz Pardo Otero, photograph

20 Ekaterina Ikonomova, poster paints and stencil print on paper

21 Pia Wyler, “Ayesha”

22 Vincent Huntenburg, “Underground Whisper”

23 Michael Davis, solder wire

24 Sina Mueller, acrylics on canvas

25-26 Max Lehman, “Prose”

27 Anna Fujii, pencil and graphite powder on paper

28-29 Aleksa Ilic, “Black and Red”

30 Lisa Krikun, acrylics on canvas board

31 Sofya Guguberidze, oil pastels on paper

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EndlessKim Nelson. Photograph.

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Not all treasure is silver or gold,nor is it gems and rubies.

What do we think of treasure?Is it something we cherish or something we need to exist?

A treasure can be something as family and friends,or something like a beautiful view of the rising sun over a snowy mountaintop.

What is Treasure?Aleksandar Antelj.

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Her majesty cried out, “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!”Her favourite sentence, which everyone dreads

Each day of the year, a few heads would roll,But today there’s a problem, one rather droll

The Queen’s roses were painted again, you see,While she was enjoying her afternoon tea

When the culprit was found, the headsman complained,For it was the headless horseman, tied up and chained

“How can I make his head fall off and roll,If he has no head, no head at all?”

All of Wonderland was shocked, I’ll tell you that,Just like when the Mad Hatter misplaced his hat

Everyone thought what to do; they needed a plan,And the best came from the little gingerbread man

The horseman had to wash all the roses clean,And wash them he did, all five thousand fourteen

He worked for days, and he was tired, dead,At this point he wished they killed him instead

So don’t mess with the Queen’s roses, please,She’ll have your head, if you have one, that is.

Trouble in WonderlandAleksa Ilic.

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MontagnolaCathrine Hansen. Watercolors and Ink on Paper.

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I was missing English one day; British English as some might call it. On the other side, I just call it English, because it comes from England of course. Posh and elegant, yet the hooligans of Manchester and Liverpool use it in the dirtiest way a language can be used.

No copy is ever better than the original. Yankees with their rapid ruthless and irregular pronunciation of the letter ‘R’, Australians with their over usage of the word “Moolah,” well, they are prisoners after all, and the Scottish, well that’s a whole different story. I miss the occasional “fella,” “chap,” “mate,” or even “sir” which Americans throw around as if it were a dude or guy, because, well you know, they are all knights.

I miss the English in which simply by hearing one’s speech you know where and what type of family he is from. The English used by Shakespeare, Dickens, Attenborough, Carroll, and the Queen. British English is the Old Testament, the original trilogy, The Pierce James Bond’s for God’s sake! All others see is the Queen, Monty Python, “would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Bean,” Little Britain, some hot tea? But it is not all about walking around with a monocle talking about the languishing efforts of that numpty Herefordshire

Ode to British EnglishAlisher Tashpulatov.

continued on next page

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chap who tries to seem like he is not a grammar school fella. Nobody seems to know about the booze, birds and the bastards from Bristol.

How can you explain to a foreigner that Yorkshire Pudding is actually a piece of dough or what a Shandy is, or try explaining to an American what a Spotted-Dick is without making him giggle? “The sun never sets on the British Empire,” they said, but as I admire the West-Midlands sunset during supper, I enjoy what is left of the Great British Empire and realize that our Prime Minister is a spliff-smoking, smooth talking Whitney, it suddenly makes sense. The House of Commons is filled with Chester chapel chavs. How is England still considered posh? We are runner-ups at sports that we invented: cricket fourth, rugby sixth, football is out of the question. Well at least we are still champions at fives. Our ladies? Oh our ladies, the noble royalty of the highest sort, are now nothing but birds or as Attenborough would say, “Makeupious Ridicolus of the Avialae species.”

I am still a great lover of England, but I am waiting for the day when England’s Craig period will be over and we will get back the Sean Connery years, that is when the Union Jack will billow above the Parliament instead of being on the cover of girls’ iPhone cases.

continued on next page

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Young BloodYulia Gusarova. Photograph. grand

prize

photo contest

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grand priz

e

Their names, we have long since forgotten four.Inspired by thoughts of equal civil rights,They sat and ordered coffee is the lore.

A peaceful protest swelled to various sitesIn Greensboro, Nashville, Winston-Salem too.The people sat not knowing future fights.

Bewildered Woolworth knew not what to do.Support and harmony their only tools,And soon the scope and numbers grew and grew.

Museums hold the counters and the stools.The halcyon grievance altered all the rules.

ServiceTodd Matthew.

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The Pirate Queen spoke in cheery spiteTo her crew and kidnappees,‘It’s been a period of low growth,A time for austerities,

‘When there’s ships all ripe for plunder,From sea to brimming sea,The little fish hold breath in wonderFor a pirate’s net tax free,

‘But the tide has turned on easy gain,The sun has set all round,Our roving life begins to wane,No off-shore wealth be found.

‘When the market’s rich and growing,Pirates profit well from thee,If not, well there’s no prize in knowingDeath’s an eager path and free.’

The captured men cry in lament,They berate their luck austere,They turn to a man that heaven sent,Whom they beg to allay their fear.

The learnéd man toned in psalmy voice,Trumping with celestial claim,Nor beast nor man had any choice,When death so bestial came.

And the pirates sing:‘For those of you who emfest a creed

In a cosmos slung for trade,For those the faithful, lost, weak-kneed,For you are the slings and arrows made.’

One by one, to the cheering crew, The passengers plead their last,But each appeal brings nothing new,For such is their die cast.

The crew joyed in on the screams,On the fears and agonies,Sometimes in ones, a-times in teams,They bring the faithful to their knees.

The banker stood in easy poseThe banker bade his timeThe banker smiled sweetly at the crimeHis face the while composed.

The wheel broke keels on the rack,The bones did croak to crack,The banker looked down as souls sailed on,Ne’er once did courage tack.

The pirate queen amazed at him,The pirate queen was grim:‘I’ll save you for the last, my friendA torture foul your end.’The banker spoke his easy terms

To the queen and company:“I look at your ship and I like what I see,Especially when I look at thee,I do not fear your deathly call,For soon I’ll be the captain of you all.”

The Rime of the Amorous BankerAndrew Bone.

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“For I share the love of piratry,For a gamble, a throw of the dice,We take heart from law’s a’versity,Ne’er shun a profitable vice,

“Twixt us there be no differing,We answer the same creed’s call,Set me a test, the test of a king,And I’ll be the captain of you all.”

The banker’s words found good rejoice,For chance was the pirate’s leisure,Not one did pause to sound the choice,They pacted this transient pleasure.

The queen mused: ‘Where be your treasure now?To which wind do you turn your bow?We’ll haul you across your own keel of advice,And chance you now to the throw of the dice, We’ll set you a task on which all must fall,For you’ll never be captain of us all.

‘For my friend, there be plank enough for the walking,And sea enough for your bones,You can talk of your love of economies,While the sturgeon come nibble your knees.’

‘You choose a bronze bright day in which to die,The nickel-tipped waves, the copper green lie,The golden orb on glittery sea,Wave on the souls that we set free.

‘The silver sea is our braided yarn,Rolled out from sky to sky,

Emboldened epitaths to dusk and dawn,Golden epaulettes to the watchman’s eye.‘Tell us, my would-be king,Who plies the accountancy,In all the sea-long hunting,Which metal keeps us free?

‘Not all treasure is silver and gold,Aurum et argentum are but a passing test,If all that’s value can be bought and sold,Which is the metal we love the best?’

The banker heard what they did ask,And considered good the task,“I’ll wager the wage of a banker’s life,The metal I gauge wins you my wife,When I answer this by judicial call,I’ll be the captain of you all.

“Iron shapes well the pike and the bore, The ball, the sword, and the sheath,But many have found when they slip to the neaths,It makes for a sorrowful wreath.

“Stamped is the face of a man far away,Coined for our toil each day,Through his parting our joys do we earn,Then sweat for his speedy return.

“Does he laugh at our toils, this man far away?For pirates and bankers we?In the cutting throat life of the boardroom sea,Where nobody is master but thee?

continued on page 16

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“We ride and fall to the market surge,Pray to the winds our scourge,When the sails flap fast feel the boards the chase,When the wind blows out we’re the chaste of chaseds,

“For the ship of ruin sails an icey sea,The wave-drummed hull beats a sorrowful last, Sales flap down round an unmanned mast,And ticker a stream of such misery.

“Bronze rings bells to the budding day,As sweet as cold seaspray,Cannon that win bad arguments old,And monkeys that warn of the cold.

“The masts are a brass-tipped forest, The rigging our lovers’ nest,The sails a cast-wide canopy,In our vast cathedral sea,“Our ships ride coppery to the sun,Beam unto beam do we fly,Clouds hang red like surgical swabs,In an alabaster sky,

“We two follow commodities,As they cut and vear and tack,The metals that rule our atrocitiesSpike keener than cat-tails the back.”

The queen enraptured called: ‘There be no differing it would seem,Twixt us when our greed has its head,So which is the metal of which we dream,Flash silver, bold gold, or base lead?’

The banker replied: “I can be in accountancy,A pirate as bold as at sea,For my answer I must then settle,Nothing competes with our own hardy mettle.

“I knew that you were seeking a gold,That matches a pirate’s hard soul,It can only be this mettle bold,That scores in this highly set goal.”

As the Banker thus triumphed in his kingly cause,Deafened was he by applause,We see him cheered on shoulders ride,Till united he stood with his bride.

If uncloaked in a night’s mist dream,By lover’s craft you’re caught,You’ll soon discover a sturdy beam,On the vessel that docks your port.

For our lifely voyage begins with a slap on the hull,We pew fish-mouthed as we grow,Before bankers and pirates our senses dullThere’s something we all should know,

Aurum et argentum are but teasing play,Light to porpoises in love’s bay Not all that’s value can be bought and sold,Not all that’s treasure is silver and gold.

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Mackerel StudyAlejandro Avila Gasperin. Oil pastels and acrylic paints on handmade paper.

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I see nothing but tall trees,the cold wind within the bird’s calling,they appear in my thoughts, it’s winter.

Am I lost, or am I just hallucinating?

Sensing their care, I believe it’s love.I realize I was never alone.

Once again, I am home.

FinallyOrianna Sibada.

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PatternsBeatriz Pardo Otero. Photograph.

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PaysageEkaterina Ikonomova. Poster paints and stencil print on paper.

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Ayesha is a veiled Cinderella, Rocking stolen promises of schoolyards and playgrounds to sleepIn the corner of a black and broken balcony,Withdrawing ever further into the hole her childhood was meant to fill,Tucking herself into castoff crescents and creases Of elbows and knees now overused by hands much bigger then her own.White cement walls and barred gates that never openFill this eight-year-old adult with dreams of a far off treasure.Not all treasure is silver and gold, and behind her sunkenCinderella eyes, she plays memories of flying kites and little sistersFloating on a much kinder Himalaya breeze.She rocks herself to sleep with few memoriesNot yet made sour by the hundreds of times her no longer tender handsHave washed, scrubbed, carried, struggled, mended, and then end Limp at her sides as this baby Cinderella shudders from the cold Himalaya breeze upon which her deaf Allah rides.

AyeshaPia Wyler.

grand priz

e

poetry contest

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Walking down this empty roadRain, dirt, neon lights.I have no place to goBut a thousand thoughts on my mind

Cigarette smell, whiskey tastegamblin’ man, All in, just one chance to win will I become what I desire?Leave this road? Or get eaten by an inner fire?

Faces pass, they’re all the samemy power I suddenly regainthere will come change, there is hopemy only drive it is hope.

Underground WhisperVincent Huntenburg.

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JaguarMichael Davis. Solder wire.

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Live!Sina Mueller. Acrylics on canvas.

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The hardwood counter was finished and had stains from glasses set on it without a layer in between. The surface was dusted with crumbs of shortbreads, dust, and spilt ice. There was a man, who I couldn’t help notice, sitting a few chairs down. I did not notice him for his charm, but only because I happened to overhear his heinous opinions being thrown across the bar. “You know, when you really think about it, Presence is a much better album than Led Zeppelin II,” he arrogantly asserted to some hopeless woman sitting next to him. The blasphemous statement made me cringe. Sadly I was the only person to notice the garbage flowing from this hipster’s mouth. “They sang that song Stairway to Heaven, right?” The woman replied. She was blonde, and I noticed that she had some oriental characters tattooed on her lower back. The classy tramp stamp. I felt disgust for both of these people, and I started to wonder why I concerned myself with their stupid conversation. “Here you go Max, the steak’s coming right out,” I heard Rob tell me. “Thanks, Rob.” There was a large bowl of spring onion pasta steaming in front of me, flowing into my nostrils, purging all concern for the hipster and dumb blonde to my right. Rob had always been a friend since he opened his restaurant with his wife in my neighborhood. I was a frequent customer. He knew what I wanted when I sat down at the bar; a bowl of salted, fried shishitos, a large portion of his spring onion spaghetti, and a hanger steak. I sat in glory eating my dinner. Frankly I couldn’t care less what the tacky duo next to me were talking about. Even if the guy started about how he was going

ProseMax Lehman.

continued on next page

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to use his trust fund to open up a vegan restaurant that only played records no one else but him, and the band that made it (probably his own), knew of. I could stomach Rob’s pasta over any circumstance, no matter how tacky, or how socially offensive. The two had left, and I had not noticed. It was just another woman sitting alone at the end of the bar, and me. I had finished my pasta, and boxed the rest of my steak to re-use in the morning. Rob had brought me a portion of his wife Allie’s shortbread cookies, and I pained myself to continue eating them. I attempted to brush off the buttery crumbs and sugar off my fingers, and wiped the rest on my pants. I stood up to use the can, and walked passed the woman at the end of the bar. I stood there standing, stupefied at what was on the back of her shirt. The album cover for London Calling had locked eyes with me, and I stumbled to open the door to the bathroom because I was paying no attention to it. I broke my gaze and returned to my task at hand. My hand had been missing the doorknob entirely, and had been aimlessly trying to turn a handle. I thought to myself damn…leave it alone, and continued on my current objective, which was to take a leak and go home.

continued from prior page

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Self PortraitAnna Fujii. Pencil and graphite powder on paper.

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The Sun is setting, escaping behind the sleepy hills,The wind is singing, rhythmically carrying the pink petals,All over that field so green, so peaceful.Two men are approaching very slowly,They look each other dead in the eye.

On their backs, banners proudly fly,And their armours shine, one black, the other red,While terrible horned helms adorn their heads,Brave and determined postures, paces synchronized,There they meet, in the middle of the field.

They bow to one another, without uttering a word,They look at each other, carefully, but very briefly,When cold steel so gleaming flashed from the scabbards,And the two men began comparing power, like tigers,In a dance followed by the song of blades.

Rapid are their paces, but their hearts beat slowly,Blades whistle furiously, but their minds peaceful,And cold sweat already caresses their stone faces,Behind masks static, but so terrifying,In this game of life and death.

Black and RedAleksa Ilic

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All around them, cherry blossoms fly helplessTo resist the roaring wind,And the Sun in the distance, willingly stopped,To gaze at this scene, just for a moment,It was a clash of furious dragons.

The red warrior falls, his back hugged by grass,His opponent approaches, to finally end it all,And with a loud victorious roar, he bends over him,Raising his weapon, ready to deal the final blow,When the black warrior felt pain.

And everything stopped, even the wind that raged before.The hero in black falls on his knees, gazing into the distance,Utters the words of repentance, and falls forever, gripping his sword.And the victor rises, breathless, his armour seemed like melting.It is over.

The warrior headed home, slowly, glad to be alive,Sorrowful for having to kill a friend, a brother,Never, as long as he lives, will he forget that moment.When in the green field, all of nature carefully watchedThe dance of Knights of the rising Sun.

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Still LifeLisa Krikun. Acrylics on canvas board.

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Self Portrait in a Shiny BaubleSofya Guguberidze. Oil pastels on paper

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Liudmila Andreeva

Isabella Broggini

Anastasia Chavdia

Caro Galbiati

Zoe Hunter

Aleksa Ilic

Elizaveta Krikun

Maria Mikulina

Maria Pankowska

Bella Samaniego-Clark

Tali Sandel

Natasha Watson

Lauren Stephanson, Editor

Todd Matthew, advisor

[email protected]

2011-2012 Vox Populi art

and literary board

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Vox Populi, the TASIS Art and Literary Magazine, encourages creativity and appreciation of both art and literature and seeks to publish work from its community of students, teachers, administrators, and staff. The magazine strives to balance excellence

and diversity in a wide variety of media.

THE AMERICAN SCHOOL IN SWITZERLANDwww.tasis.ch