Peruvian artist Cecilia Paredes is the subject of her own richly patterned photographs, yet her figure is often difficult to locate at first! For each portrait she hangs boldly printed fabrics as the backdrop, which she then matches either with her painted skin, custom clothing, or both. Her torso, arms, and face fade into the background, as the curvature of her body and brown hair become some of the only indicators of her presence turning her into a true wallflower!
The Cross Of Snow
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face -- the face of one long dead --
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.
Congratulations to Artist of the Month, Lillian Valliquette! You can check out Lillian's artwork in person on the Artist of the Month bulletin board in the library, on our school TV’s, and of course, right here on the Literary Magazine website!
Stan Lee initially broke into comics at just 17 year old. Before long he took over as an interim editor and the rest is history! From 1941 on, Lee served in several editorial roles before rising to Editor-in-Chief and eventually succeeding Goodman as publisher of Marvel in 1972.
Along with comic icons like Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko, Lee helped build and shape the superhero as we know it today! Stan Lee passed away yesterday at the age of 95.
Today in 1918, the United Press erroneously reported that the WWI Armistice had been signed. The Armistice - an agreement to stop fighting - was signed between France, Britain, and Germany, bringing four years of fighting in the First World War to an end.
Poetry of WWI
BY CARL SANDBURG
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work—
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
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