A typical art publication made by teenagers comes off a Xerox machine, is bound by a Swingline and has an alternating blank page for every page of off-toned black and white print. When Amy Biehl High School students Mikala Sterling and Sofia Resnik took an elective class freshman year, their teachers encouraged them to aim for a more professional and focused aesthetic.
Words are a weapon. But how often does language achieve such widespread devastation that it rivals the Ebola virus? And how can words themselves be the physically debilitating instruments—rather than merely the foundations—of war? That's the premise of Ben Marcus' The Flame Alphabet, a novel in which language isn't just a worthy adversary, but a biological-weapon-grade plague.
It makes sense to showcase an exhibit on artistic and religious preservation in a state steeped so historically in those traditions. And since that exhibit involves work that took 13 years to complete—and is rooted in an order that's been synonymous with preservation for more than a millennia—it’s fitting that the minds behind that display would extend its run.