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Published by , 2018-07-27 13:56:16

inSPIREd final.compressed

inSPIREd final.compressed


The Spire School Art and Literary Magazine

2017 - 2018

Emily Baker

Special thanks to the Spire students, artists and writers
who have generously shared their work with us.

Riley Aguas Patrick Lion
Anonymous (4) Ethan Krumlauf
Jordan Malkiel
Emily Baker Michaela Martino
Tatum Belloli Tommy McKay
Christie Cahill Noelle Mullen
Peter Casey
Rita Raleigh
Lucy Cass Grace Shattuck
Nicole Gasparrini
Ali Sheehan
Katya Harris Jessie Tarzia
Sinclaire Higgins Jacob Trepner
Annelise Lentz
Kim Zaia

Thank you to Christie Cahill for her help at the start of this publication,
to Lysi LeComte for taking photos, and to Barbara Stolarik for teaching Creative Writing,

and inspiring our students to write.

Cover illustration Ali Sheehan

We are very excited to present this 2017-18 edition of InSPIREd -- a showcase
of our students' incredible talents and artistic interests. I have always been impressed
by the ability of our students to combine raw talent, learned techniques and artistic
passions to create masterful pieces of art. I have great respect not only for our Spire
students' impressive array of creative skills, but also for their fortitude, dedication and
spirit as they pour their hearts and souls into their creative works. Many thanks to the
artistic guidance and passion of our very own, Ms. Nan Lenore, who is so genuine in
her support of students' self-expression and a true believer in the healing power of the
arts. I know Ms. Lenore was eager to compile student work to make this publication
possible, and we are so glad she persevered!
Tammy Moscrip PhD, LCSW
Executive Director, Chief Administrator
The Spire School

Christie Cahill

Nicole Gasparrini

The Seven Ages of Man Nicole Gasparrini

INFANT: From the moment they were born, Chris and Carmen were
complete opposites; Chris came into the world with a frown upon his face,
“WAAH!” Carmen came content and smiling. The terrible twos hit Chris like a
bus, while they seemed to have completely skipped Carmen. The babysitter would
always have to keep an extra close eye on Chris, with the occasional help from
Carmen to calm her twin. It was soon discovered a stuffed turtle solved the
problem. Their parents thought; “It’s just a phase, he’ll get over it.”

SCHOOLBOY: By the time the twins were toddlers, their parents sent them
off to preschool with a kiss goodbye. From Chris’s reaction, one would think they
were sending them off to be slaughtered. “I don’t wanna go!” Chris cried. Carmen
took her brother by the hand to console him, “It’s okay Chris, school will be fun.”
As the years passed, the school pictures said it all; Chris didn’t smile in a single
one, Carmen looked as content as could be. While Carmen completed high school
and attained her diploma, Chris dropped out at 18, still in the 9th grade.

LOVER: When Carmen got her first boyfriend, she loved him, and only
him, with the entirety of her heart. She stayed with him over the course of four
years, before their mutual agreement to end the relationship. Chris on the other
hand went through girls as often as some people change their clothes. He used them
for his pleasure and disposed of them like trash.

SOLDIER: The day they moved out from home, the parents wept at the
door, fearing for their son, yet not at all concerned about their daughter. Little did
they know, it was Carmen for whom they should be worrying. Leaving home is
what Chris needed to develop his new-found independence. He rationed his money
carefully, made smart life decisions, and overall took good care of himself. Being
on her own proved to be Carmen’s downfall. She didn’t make it a month before
returning home, begging her parents for a place to stay and a meal to eat.

JUSTICE: “It’s a boy!” The doctor exclaimed. The doctor swaddled their
new bundle of joy as snug as a bug in a rug. The first night home was rough, hours
of incessant crying. Running up to the attic, Chris recalled his own sleepless nights
as a child. Tearing through boxes like a tornado, he finally found what he was
looking for. He ran downstairs, taking them two at a time, and into the nursery of
his baby. Seconds after handing his son what used to always calm him down, the
baby was out cold. What was the secret? A stuffed turtle. Chris made the wise
decision to attain a degree in mechanics, to provide for himself and his growing
family. By the age of forty, he was living comfortably, enjoying the benefits that
come with hard work. He could afford to take a week off as he pleased to spend
quality time with his family. Carmen often came to visit, having no stability of her
own. Chris vowed to never let his twin struggle and was more than willing to take
her into his home. Carmen had no interest in living with her brother, denying the
fact that she simply could not make it on her own.

PANTALOON: As the twins approached their senior years, their lives could
not have been more different. Chris was placed into a wonderful senior center, and
Carmen resorted to the only shelter that would take her. Chris’s children came often
to spend precious time with their father, while Carmen sat alone for days on end.
Chris lived his golden years in joy, while Carmen spent her days secluded and

SECOND CHILDHOOD: The day finally came where the twins’ bodies
began to shut down. Their days were numbered, and each day was a gift. As Chris
took his final breath, he was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him. A
single tear escaped his hazy eyes when his son laid his stuffed turtle over his heart.
Carmen was not as lucky, having no one beside her during such a frightening time.
Steam pouring from her deafened ears. The twins left this world reversed of how
they entered: Chris content with a smile upon his face, and Carmen crying, her face

adorned with a scowl.

Tommy McKay

The Seven Ages of Man Peter Casey

The Universe is mostly nothing, and it’s still getting emptier
Stars paint a canvas of light across its horizon,
Dazzling colors seared into the uncaring void
A wet ball of boiling mud and hissing geysers forms
A massive congregation of cosmic dust gathered together by forces it cannot understand
On that small insignificant speck, a click, in the waters
Thus the First Age was ended, as a slinking cell set off on the journey to Godliness
Unfeeling microbes, still rooted in the fundamental forces of the Universe
No purpose or thought
Slow and Steady in their impatient consumption and blind reproduction
The struggle of life against both the Universe and Itself was a silent war
The massive ball of fire an immeasurable distance away, burned Life with its blazing

Tommy McKay

The Dealer Jessie Tarzia

There are so many fish swimming rimming the top of the bowl that it makes me
wish we could be that solid steady rock on the hill, a roofie, where you see the will of
rock that tumbles and rolls where you find all that's going on when you starve in that
desert trying to hard to make it rain in the absurd plain but you scare me with those
pearly whites that bite oh so gently on these lips between my hips, but that cigarette
smoke is harsh on your breath...

You stretch on your way, your face is red but not because of love. It’s because up
above you been working hard making your god happy when you see him resting you
work harder to see if what you know is true. It’s odd how I hate you even though we
share the sickness of bad decisions. You’re the body, I'm the drug and I make you go
faster you don’t stop yourself and as your hair grows who knows where we'll be in ten
years walking down these city streets thinking we could change these things in our lives
that maybe aren’t so strange...

I’m repressing all the thoughts that pound in surround sound inside my head that
lead to me to see you clear that you aren’t someone that you know. In a bag you carry me
safely protecting me with your life though it's a trifle little thing that can sting you when
you see that the hands that seal its cap are calloused and cold and crap. You love my pale
complexion and would die for my sensation but this isn’t why you need me, you lay me
down I’m exposed to those who can feel their toes tingling with excitement,
enlightenment but that solid knife you pull, it’s dull like the life that’s taken from what
little is left of your soul...

You crushed me into pieces opening up all of my diseases like love and lust and
trust and must you see that I see that what can't be seen isn’t through me. I’m not a clear
glass window so stop trying to see right through me. I’m not an ocean wave so stop
trying to ride me. We both fit together but the feeling is only good for you, like peanut
butter chocolate you may as well call me Reese’s Pieces Jesus has eaten pieces of you
and your bloodshot eyes. But it’s when I cry you show interest because it’s like Pinterest
you choose what you want to read then leave me until you’ve done your deed, to seed
that plant you grow in slow motion into a potion of electricity, missing me showing me
the past present and future...

Out of everything that scares me it’s the uncertainty of you. The way you switch
from hot to cold has left me nothing but a fire that burns and hurts whenever I see her
name. Though you claim to be free, not hypnotized, by her twisted lies and fallen back
like an angel in the gray cloudy skies. You trust me, but only when you need me. I’m not
the god you break your back and neck to serve as your one true love from that which you
say you see from up above. But what I see is the devil in your eyes. He seduces me. I’m
hypnotized by his lies and crushed by the highs that you promised would lead to my
redemption the safety and control has unfolded that you colored in different shades of

Jessie Tarzia

Like a whirlpool I’m trapped in your tides and from the side I see you... you’re
crying. But as the tears fall from your cheeks they poison the ground beneath me and
leave only tragedy. Broke the curse, of your hold upon me the loving way I thought you
could provide, has left me and now I’m inside my own mind only left to find crimes of
my own. I will accept my faults as they are, and take each slash of the whip that I shall
endure as it allows me to breathe healing into my lungs. It’s a torture I need to see. Your
nose is bleeding. I can wipe the red away but that just leaves you in a misty fog of blue
and gray, that falls down your chest and with this, you smile a gritty smile...

It lasts 10 kilometers before the golden sunset in your eyes fades to black of night
and I look through your sight to see the stars but earth's lights is too vibrant. You won’t
show the stars of the beautiful sky because to you there is nothing but the empty space.
From the dirt I have been able to forgive you and I have found the love and comfort I
have desired from a higher version of my person...

I hope you find that inner strength in length of what you need, I don't wish pain or
pleasure for you but I wish you to experience the life you lead fully. A mechanic with a
dream that is sewn with a silk seam, the wheels you turn you learn the world can look
like a rundown car as far as you can repair and change. It’s unlike you to say you’ve
failed and wail but you run from the master who said from this disaster you can contract
the cure from something so pure without destroying the life it has inside...

With each turn of your wrench I hope the machine you control operates like a
magnet, bring to you the life you want but the life you can’t hold or touch without
becoming corrupt. May each pulley succeed and let the light shine down from the tree
blinding you by the truth of the fruit you ate state all the cuts you might not feel and help
you to know what golden love really feels like and I hope if all else fails, you find your
forgiveness in your life and in strife and pain of adoration, may you find your god.

InSPIREd Doors Spire Spruce Up

Students really were motivated to work with staff and design, paint, and complete
a variety of doors throughout the Spire community. Each door successfully reflects the
personal style of the artist, the subject, and the combined effort of students and staff
to create a very powerful and pleasing image. InSPIREd doors have beautified our
school community and inspired us all to see the merits of creativity and collaboration.

Jessie Tarzia Jessie Tarzia

Jessie Tarzia

Kim Zaia Michaela Martino

Grace Shattuck Jessie Tarzia

Ethan Krumlauf

Sinclaire Higgins

Nicole Gasparrini

Katya Harris

Anonymous Katya Harris

Paintings and Calligraphy Jacob Trepner

Noelle Mullen Noelle Mullen

Sinclaire Higgins Jessie Tarzia

Nicole Gasparrini Nicole Gasparrini

Jacob Trepner Patrick Lion

Uncanny Valley Rita Raleigh

I couldn’t help but be a bit creeped out when my mother told me what was in my recently
deceased sister’s will.

“Mom, do we really have to do that? The whole idea of it is so creepy and I would rather have
a gravestone to visit or something.”
Chills ran down my spine even talking about it. Every hair on my body was standing on end. Not only
did I have to deal with my sister being cremated, her body turned into dust, but she wanted her remains
put in a doll?

“Tyler, it’s what Dabria wanted, so it’s what we’re going to do. There’s no debating this.”
I shrugged and tugged on the bowtie that was strangling me.

My mother and I stepped out of the car, our classy shoes crunching on the gravel. We were
greeted by a chubby man with a receding hairline and a moustache. He actually looked like the
Monopoly Man who had gone through a rough divorce, lost most of his money to child support, and
surviving on just enough. He brushed off his suit- I’m not sure why because there wasn’t any dirt or
anything- and approached us with a wide smile that made him seem a little too cheerful to be a funeral

“Hello, I’m Mr. Downer, but you can just call me Jerry.” I nodded, although I didn’t feel like
answering at all. Doesn’t he know we’re here to burn the lifeless body of a person we loved? Or did
he not get that memo?

He led us through a hallway with the ugliest green and yellow patterned carpeting and off-white
paint peeling from the walls. I expected the place to have the stench of death, but the only death I’ve
ever experienced was with my hamster, Chewy, and his lifeless body smelled like wood chips. Instead,
the scent was more like decaying roses, which I guess is also another type of death. Mr. Downer led us
through the funeral home, and I couldn’t help but be curious. What do they even do in this place? “

I have to use the bathroom,” I stated, as soon as I saw the sign for the men’s room. “Okay,” my
mom replied. “Do you want us to wait for you?” I shook my head. “That’s alright, I think I’ll be okay.”
Mr. Downer, or Jerry, smiled again, wayyy too happy to be a funeral home owner. “Okay, well we’ll be
down the hall to the right. Meet us there when you’re done.” I faked a smile and walked into the
bathroom, I didn’t actually have to go, I just needed to feed into my curiosity. I stepped in and glanced
at my reflection in the tall mirror. Sometimes I really just hated seeing myself. I’ll look at my dark
brown eyes and brown hair and just think to myself,

“I don’t want to be you anymore.”

As soon as my mother and Jerry left the hallway, I crept out of the bathroom and walked as lightly as
I possibly could on the green and yellow damask carpet that had various stains of unknown fluids.
I poked my head into a room with an empty casket, a couple rows of about a dozen chairs, and flowers
that smelled like your grandmother’s perfume, which you’re pretty sure gave you some sort of lung
infection. I poked my head in the next room and it was the same thing, except this time there was a
body in the casket. Turns out I did need to use the bathroom after all. I ran back into the bathroom and
couldn’t even make it to the toilet, I wound up throwing up into a urinal. I cringed at the sight, I was so
ready to leave this place. The sink water was cool on my face and calmed me down a lot, so I left the
bathroom and met my mother down the hallway. I opened the dark green door to the room Jerry told
me about, and I was yet again shocked when I opened the door.


Various dolls, all big enough to make you uncomfortable, were in a small line.
“This isn’t a common request, so we only have a few dolls to choose from.” Jerry sighed, I could tell he
was uncomfortable. Chills ran down my spine, tingling the skin and what felt like my bones. Every hair
on my body seemed to stand on end.

“Uncanny Valley” I whispered to myself, not meaning to say it out loud.
“What?” My mom seemed so concerned.
“Huh? Oh, nothing.” I didn’t want to scare her or make her uncomfortable.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand why we had to put my dead sister’s remains inside of a doll.
Uncanny Valley is a feeling most humans get when there is something that looks almost human,
but isn’t. That’s why lots of people are scared of dolls or mannequins or wax figures.
My mom didn’t seem too happy about putting my sister’s remains in a doll either, but it’s what my
sister wanted. I really wished we could’ve buried her instead.
“That one.” My mother said, pointing at the doll with milky skin, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair
in braids tied with blue ribbons.
The dolls blue eyes stared expressionlessly, but it really felt like it was staring at me.

After a week I still hadn’t gotten used to the doll. It was the most uncomfortable feeling to walk
down the hallway and see the doll staring blankly at me from its chair.
An electronic beep emanated from the warm thermometer that lay underneath my tongue.
“100.5, honey, you have to stay home.” My mother blatantly said to me, and I could tell there was
no way of getting out of it. But, there was also no way I was going to stay home alone with the doll.
“Really, mom, I’m fine I can go to school I-”
“Tyler, no, you’re staying home. If you went to school you would just get more sick and miss more
school so you’re staying home. That’s final.”
My mother grabbed her purse, put on her small beige high heels, and was off to work.
I really did feel like crap. But if I was at school I would be a lot less uncomfortable.
I stayed sitting up in bed, playing The Sims 4 on my laptop. It was a good distraction from the
fact that a few feet from outside my door was the doll, and I was home alone. I continued playing the
video game while munching on some dry Cheerios when I heard an unusual sound, like crinkling paper.
A note that had been slipped under my bedroom door caught my eye. I closed my laptop shut and stared
at the folded piece of paper that lay on the ground, too afraid to get up and see what it said. No one was
home. I hadn’t heard any sounds before the paper either. It would probably seem crazy to anyone other
than myself, but my brain went straight to the doll with no doubt.
After taking some slow, shaky breaths, I carefully lifted the bed covers off my body and crept out
of my bed. I walked slowly and cautiously towards the folded piece of paper before quickly snatching it
off the floor. I gingerly unfolded the note to reveal the words:

You don’t know the truth.

It wasn’t written in red, or anything, like in horror movies. It didn’t take much inspection to know that it
was written in blue ballpoint pen. The writing wasn’t messy either, it was just neat, normal handwriting.

I shoved the note in my pajama pants’ pocket and opened my door.
There was nothing. No one. I walked downstairs to see the doll in its chair, as usual, but this time it was
different. This time it had a blue ballpoint pen in its hand.

Little Story Anonymous

He walked into the grand double door entrance, excited for a new day. Studying
Political Science hadn’t been easy, but it was always worth it for him. Stepping into his
new class, just on time as always, the professor started asking everyone their names for
the first day. This was always the worst part.

“It’s pronounced ‘Zilks’,” he mumbled. Of course, everyone in his program turned
to look at him for a moment. It was nothing new, but still a hassle. With that out of the
way, the class moved on. Zylx felt at home.

Then he had to actually go home. Making sure he was out of sight, he opened the
portal and stepped through. “Your father is going to want a word with you, sweetie.” He
rolled his eyes before being whisked away again.

“Where the heck were you?! You had a torturing at 3, corrupting the souls of mortals
at 5, and… look, the point is this is all going to be yours someday--”

“Dad, you’re the immortal embodiment of evil, I’m never going to take over. Also,
you don’t have to say ‘heck’ around me anymore, I’m an adult and this is literally hell.”

“That kind of thinking is never going to get you anywhere. Look around you, look
what you have access to.” He looked over his throne at the lakes of fire and tormented
spirits. “And you’re just squandering it at some kind of… mages’ college…”

“It’s not a mages’ college. Those don’t exist anymore. I go to Columbia, it’s kind of
a big deal.”

“Why can’t you just enjoy subjecting people to eternal torment?”
Zylx stomped off, ignoring his father’s yells. He needed to get away from all of this
for a while, but he had been assigned a paper on the founding fathers’ motivations. He
wrote a few runes in the sweltering air and found himself next to Thomas Jefferson,
whose punishment was picking cotton and being whipped for all of eternity. Afterlives
were always based on a person’s greatest sin, and everyone ended up down here, so it
was really only people who had never done anything mean at all that got the lighter
punishments at the top floors. For people like slave owners, though, it was pretty bad.

He had come to Jefferson for help all the time, and had actually developed a bit of
a rapport. “Hey, Tommy, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow. Can I have a minute?” He
groaned in pain, and Zylx brought up a chair to take some notes.

Portrait Drawings in Line Tatum Belloli

Sinclaire Higgins Katya Harris

Christie by Michaela Martino

Annelise Lentz
Nicole Gasparrini

Emily Baker
Lucy Cass

Who Am I? Emily Baker (Text and Image)

Allow me to introduce the person in this piece of art, me. My name is Emily
Baker. I am 15 years old, turning 16 on August 8th. I am the middle child, between my
older brother, Aj, 18, and my little sister Grace, 11. I’m currently a sophomore at the
Spire school in Stamford. I had just recently switched schools about two months ago.

I previously attended New Canaan High School, and took all art classes as my
electives. I became interested in Art when I was very little. I was always interested in
eyes, and began to draw them whenever I had time. As my skills in drawing eyes
increased, I started to draw whole faces, and I actually became pretty talented at that as
well. I’ve been through a lot during my 15 years of life, and drawing has really been an
escape for me. I feel like all my worries are washed out of my brain when I draw. I
always find myself being very mindful and focused. Whether I am in the middle of a loud
room, or alone in my room, I am fascinatingly never distracted while I am drawing.

James’s Crayon Anonymous

James was a seven year old boy who was just starting the second grade. He lived in
Pennsylvania, had an older sister, a dog, and an ordinary life when it came right down to it.
This summer, the fair was visiting his small town, a definite oddity, so he spent all the logic and
reason his brain was capable of mustering and convinced his parents to take him. He had always
wanted to go to a fair. He just knew it would be a place of wonder and magic, of thrills and
games. The night before, he got everything ready for his big day, and could barely go to sleep,
so of course while he was there he drifted off the entire time.

He woke up the next morning, as per usual, with his alarm going off and his dog at the foot
of his bed. He yawned, shut off the alarm clock, and heard a distinctly canine harrumph. Chester
was always sleepy, and even though it happened every day he seemed to greet the rise of the sun
and the obnoxious sound of the alarm with the same disapproving, mild surprise each time the as
though it were some curiosity. James cleared his eyes and looked around groggily. He saw a
purple crayon next to his alarm. This was interesting; James definitely didn’t have a purple
crayon the day before. He seemed to remember drawing, and his sister as well a few other kids
had all brought their pencils, but he had nothing. So the man in charge of the short workshop
offered him a special crayon, and he couldn’t remember much other than that. In any case, he
couldn’t remember anything else he thought worth mulling over. He seemed to remember a
giraffe dancing and an alien cooking dinner for his family. No, that couldn’t be right.

Regardless, the crayon was there. It wasn’t marked like a normal crayon. It didn’t even
look like a normal crayon. Instead of being wrapped in paper, the sides had a kind of glossy,
waxy finish. It had the air of an artist’s pencil about it, some kind of distant elegance, and yet it
was certainly a humorous shade of purple that screamed ‘silly’. It was definitely not a colored
pencil, either. Something about it was just adamant that it was a crayon, and whatever
contradictory evidence there may be would simply not do. It was a crayon. He picked it up,
looked around lazily for a piece of paper or something to write on, and without luck, peered
down at his own hand. It would have to do for now, if just to see how it wrote. It’s very
important how any kind of writing utensil actually appears when used. It doesn’t matter how
expensive, beautiful, or elegant it is if it leaves uneven marks or makes a scratchy sound.

James put it against his hand, pressed down, and moved it a bit in a vaguely circular
motion. Skin was always a disappointing medium for him, moving just at the same time as the
crayon and not actually giving off what his mind’s eye figured. It usually created a blurry mess
and a scolding from his mother. But this time there was something different. The crayon moved
smoothly along the back of his hand, forming a perfect circle. The purple was even and smooth,
and the overall result was that it looked as though someone had given James a rather
thoughtless, albeit well executed, tattoo. The morning had that air about it of being definitely
daytime but before everyone wakes up, like the whole world is just waiting and belongs to those
few who sit up in their beds and start their days early. His parents had drilled that into him, and
he naturally woke up at 5:30 every day now, even before his parents. Normally, James would
run down the stairs and gleefully show his parents, but he knew that wouldn’t be a good idea.

While he had been able to sleep in the car ride home from the fair, his father had chuckled and
pushed up his glasses before telling James that he would be sleeping in the next day. The fair
had taken a lot out of him. So the only solution was to keep testing the limits.

There was paper downstairs, of course, but it was sure to be air conditioned and be far too
chilly for his pyjamas. The bed’s warmth from having just woken up was still around, and
nothing could separate the boy from that right then and there. So he drew a perfect square, and
then the number six, and then the word ‘berry’. James loved the word berry. He had grown up
with a few bushes in his backyard, and could never see the word without thinking of the juicy
deliciousness that was a perfectly ripe, fresh-picked berry. It being summer and James having
just woken up only amplified that. In fact, he was in the mood for some right as soon as his
father made breakfast, which he was sure to do on a Tuesday. Eventually, the benefits of testing
out his interesting new crayon were less than the drawback of the inevitable lecture he would
receive. He forced himself out of bed, rubbed his eyes again, patted Chester on the head, and
found himself a good piece of paper.

James noted a few things, now that he was less limited in terms of design space. Firstly,
the lines were surprisingly crisp for a crayon. Every line was thin, but just thick enough.
Secondly, it was all perfect, to the degree that he could remember it. Of course, none of it was
really perfect but it all came out exactly to his satisfaction. If he saw it in his head, it came onto
the paper just like that. None of those wrong proportions, no smudging, no issues with shading,
and certainly no indecision about how best to portray his thoughts. It was just natural. He
scribbled swirls and edges, mazes and patterns, and all manner of experimentation with the
nature of shapes and lines. Afterwards, he was immensely satisfied with his work, looking down
on a grand tapestry. He reached for another piece of paper and became more ambitious. A dozen
brief vignettes popped into his head and went straight onto the paper, a tool through which he
channeled everything he could think into. A great battle between a knight and a dark wizard, a
sunset over a field of raspberry bushes, wispy and fluffy clouds looking down on the ocean, the
winning goal in a game of soccer, and himself, strolling through a great forest vista holding a
balloon, all across the page coming to life in that brilliant shade of purple that couldn’t failed his
imagination. He drew for what seemed like hours.

Eventually his parents woke up, and the bustle of the finely tuned machine that was
James’s home on a Tuesday morning started to gather momentum. The smells of coffee and
eggs, the crackling sound of bacon on a stove and the sip of a mug, the rustle of a newspaper
and the hurried, futile checking of hair in the mirror among tired conversation filled the small
suburban house. James continued to draw.

The day continued on, hazy as was typical for his small town, and eventually petered out to
a somewhat overcast but overall tolerable midday. James tugged at his mother’s blouse, offering
up his work. She glanced down from her makeup, gave her son the best smile she could come
up with, and said, “Great work, James. You’re very creative.” She went back to carefully doing
her eyelashes, and told him to go play outside. James grinned, and ran outside to pick some
berries. They would be ripe around this season, and by sunset he would be sure to have collected
enough to get a stomach ache.

Jacob Trepner

Greed Sinclaire Higgins

Three words that are in control
Our thoughts¨our actions¨
Two things that are consumed
Self- indulgent¨
One word to describe us all

Rita Raleigh

Jacob Trepner

Jessie by Jacob Trepner Jacob by Jessie Tarzia

Sinclaire Higgins Michaela Martino

Sinclaire Higgins
Sinclaire Higgins

Christie Cahill Nicole Gasparrini

Christie Cahill

Sinclaire Higgins

Tatum Belloli

Tatum Belloli

Rita Raleigh Jacob Trepner

Jessie Tarzia
Jessie Tarzia

Time slips away from me
I’ve forgotten
how I got here.
But you’re falling towards me,
but I’m near.
My life crumbles
under me,
yet I have nowhere to go,
so instead of being
by your side,
I’m all alone.

Jordan Malkiel

Jacob Trepner Rita Raleigh

Jacob Trepner

Jacob Trepner

Katya Harris Nicole Gasparrini

Grace Shattuck Tatum Belloli

Jacob Trepner Christie Cahill

Rita Raleigh

Katya Harris

Nicole Gasparrini

Lucy Cass
Emily Baker

Michaela Martino Rita Raleigh

Nicole Gasparrini Lucy Cass

Occasionally our students take classes outside of Spire to expand their experience.
Jacob has extensive ceramics training and in addition to his drawings and paintings,
he has produced a number of noteworthy sculptural pieces for his portfolio and eventual
admission to an art program in Maine. The work on this page is by Jacob Trepner.

Patrick Lion
Ali Sheehan

Lucy Cass Michaela Martino

Katya Harris

Michaela Martino

The Photography Club

This year, members of Spire's photography club gathered to sharpen their skills of
camera operation and image composition, as well as to offer constructive feedback
on one another's work. These photos taken by club members outside of school
reflect their talents behind the lens put into action!"
Lysi LeComte
Faculty Advisor

Riley Aguas

Photos by Riley Aguas

Photos by Christie Cahill

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