Twenty­one performing arts students from Play Production and ten Intermediate Theatre Arts students visited the Hickory Museum of Art to witness Photojournalist Steve McCurry's exhibit ­ Unexpected Beauty. Several students had never been to an art museum before so I was honored to take them. The exhibit which included one of the world's most iconic images ­ Afghan Girl ­ was breath­taking. Sixty­eight photographs and all struck me deeply. So theatrical, so stage­worthy and each character personally spoke to me.

The visit was two­fold. One to give my students an opportunity to see art up close and personal outside of the classroom walls in order to present Twenty­first­century learning in which my students can master content while producing, synthesizing, and evaluating information from a wide variety of subjects and sources with an understanding of and respect for diverse cultures. Globalization. The other was to challenge them with using Mr. McCurry's photography as a springboard into their own original creative work.

The Project: Students chose one photograph to either do a solo or work in small collaborative groups to create performance art based on their chosen image. Students deeply researched and dug deep to understand the history and culture of their chosen photograph. Once they understood the history of the photographer and image, they created an original piece ­ poem, spoken word, monologue, or other creative art form. Play Production performed their walk­through show on October 25th 2015 at 2:30pm. to an audience of around 75 community members. http://hickoryart.org/ The show garnered much acclaim. Visit our blog for more on the process and performance with critique and to see our performance video on our website: http://www.catawbaschools.net/Page/6150 Educator/Director Molly Rice

Lauren K. on Steve McCurry’s Shaolin Monks in Training

Shaolin Monks in Training The most real state is the state of nothing Do not let this frighten the fragile soul From nothing comes the intransiently void mind Nothingness contains the universe like a child's glass jar with the many dancing twinkles of light All that we are is the result of what we have thought. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain follows him. If a man speaks or acts with a pure thought, happiness follows him, like a shadow that never leaves him. Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shaped. Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten. Hands pushed in symmetry Keeping the 7 spinal lights bright Breathe Inhale the beauty of life and become one with it Teach this simple truth to all: a generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are things which renew humanity. Keep hearts unlatched Minds sublime And words affable Beauty beyond measure Still cannot reach a Higher state. Meditate. Love purely. Be quiet. Do your work with mastery. Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine. Namaste. Lauren Kent 12th Grade

Alice G. on Steve McCurry’s Red Boy

Red Boy Aapki saphalta ke liye shubhkamnaye When winter melts into spring the warmth color brings speaks in volumes much louder than a body can fall. But when warmth ends in a burn, a rash, a scar, that is the day Holika burned. On this day the streets filled, to its very brim, with bursting color configuring a kaleidoscope. That color swirls on ends of white cotton, staining eyelashes as they blink away midnights ash, every stare pulling at dawn. This is the day when the world is in full swing of beauty. Aapki saphalta ke liye shubhkamnaye And they do it for him, spray showers of powder so that the vitality in green consumes whatever doubt he ever had in the Lord, haldi yellow soothes and heals like the spring sunshine. And they do it for her. Blue , like our swinging ocean that separates us, the color of Lord Krishna, or pomegranate palmed with red hibiscus flowers to purify the very soul. This joy comes back around when you least expect it, singing through days when our souls are empty. It’s why they dance in the first place, and it couldn’t bring anymore warmth to my eyes But that’s when I saw him... His name, something I can’t pull into constellations, but it dances on the tip of my tongue. The red swallows me like a pill on God's tongue. Takes me to remembrance. Aapki saphalta ke liye shubhkamnaye I swear I’ve seen those eyes before, those eyes that stare fiery. A bite in the color black as the glass clicks in his direction, it clicks in my mind as if the world’s color palette can be captured on this day.. And I want to see the world in it’s full color and not this grey that humbles the way I exist in melancholy. But today tie dyed palms bless bodies in search of prosperity. A sting behind painted fingertips that melt into souls and music flows out windows until morning's light.. Aapki saphalta ke liye shubhkamnaye I wish you all the best. Alice G. 12th Grade

Olivia H. on Steve McCurry’s Woman at a Polling Booth Eloquence of the Eye: Woman at a Polling Booth The female form. In Arab culture, women are viewed as subordinate. They are only indulgent mothers, sisters and wives who perform household tasks. The female form. As times have changed, men and women now have rights to themselves, but women are still not equal to the man. As her female form is shrouded by her burqa, her eyes are the only thing shown. Her eyes say a thousand words and they are witnessed by a thousand other eyes and are stolen into this world that she must live in. Eloquence­fluent or persuasive speaking or writing. How is she persuading us? What is she trying to say? "Help me?" "Save me?"

"Look at me and see what is happening to me?" I wish I could help her. Maybe she can't be saved. Women during 1997 in Yemen were finally gaining a right to vote. Unfortunately, when this occurred over 400 women had died from these events known as "honor killings" which were the killings of young girls and women to cleanse their "soiled honor". At the actual polling booth, no men were around to stop McCurry from taking pictures. Almost 20 years have passed since this picture was taken, and there are still many miles to be travelled for women's rights in the Middle East. Let your mind think of a world you can never imagine. Let yourself listen without hearing. Let her unexpected beauty enter your eyes and show you something new. Olivia H. 11th Grade

Amelia H. on Steve McCurry’s Children Playing on an Anti­Aircraft Gun Children Playing on an Anti­Aircraft Gun A bright, blue sky Contrasts the rusty, orange sand Divided by the broken buildings Below the hill. Rising through the dust, A monster of a machine Sits idle, But not completely alone. The children, trying to hide their pain, Are entertained by this machine, This gun, This monster that once fired at enemy aircraft.

Littered at the monster’s feet Lie the shells of forgotten toys, Having been used once And chucked aside. With the ever­burning turmoil, The children are pained, Yet there they are Continuing to play. Amelia H. 10th Grade

Daryion R., Jackson S., & Jake U. on Steve McCurry’s Boys in the Boot of a Taxi Boys in the Boot of a Taxi (Dariyon) Look at these children (Jackson) Centuries of pain packed into the back of a trunk like a spare tire (Dariyon) Are they okay? (Jackson) Are they safe? (Dariyon) Where are they going? (Dariyon) While we are worried about what IS FOR dinner, they are worried if there IS dinner (Jackson ) While we are worried about when the new nikes are dropping, they are worried if they’ll make it to class without their shoes falling apart (Dariyon) Falling apart… falling apart like the system of government that supposedly protects their religion and beliefs (Jackson) Protected ? It’s a joke, it’s a fable like aesop ­ It doesn’t exist it’s more of a lie then telling these kids they have the same chance as everyone else. (Dariyon) Why should these people duck their heads in fear because of their beliefs? because they believe in a different god than you (Jackson) Kabul, Afghanistan 1992. (Dariyon) No they are not safe.

(Jackson) Safe… Safe like the idea of a society that treats them with integrity. (Dariyon) So they squeeze their families into few cars. And Travel. (Jackson) Because that’s... (Jackson and Dariyon) the best thing they can do. Once again I'm asked to climb into the trunk of my dad's 1956 Lada. He is one of the only people around with a working vehicle. He doesn't tell us where we are going and I don't ask. I feel like I never know what's going on anymore. Im helpless. I’m told we are persecuted because of our religion, whatever that means. All I know is i'm treated differently. Whats wrong with me. But here I am, in the back of his trunk again. Some people considered this abuse, but it wasn’t cruel and it's all we knew to do in such terrible times. My dad screamed for us to hold each other tightly. So we do. I clench my brothers hands as the wave of arms try to remove us from the safety of our trunk. I squeeze his hand until our knuckles turn white from the pressure, because the pressure my people face is suffocating me, not this trunk I'm placed in. (Unison) When you drive to our town the sign will say welcome to Bamiyan, come back to reality the sign really says welcome to hell. Jackson S. 11th Grade Dariyon R. 10th Grade Jake U. 12th Grade

Irvin M. on Steve McCurry’s Portrait Photographer

Portrait Photographer Capturing more than just faces, he preserves a moment in time. The moment before sons, husbands, and brothers head for battlefields where rockets rain like ashes they leave behind. The time when a boy converts into a man after fifteen lunar years. With his timber image box, he’s permitted to imprint souls on gloss through decades before warfare and despair. Mothers thank him for eternalizing their loved ones, children cherish him for keeping the image of hope alive. Stills of stoic countenances line his wall, framed in perfect poses over his hazel backdrop. Sitting. Fulfilled with few, he waits for those who are ready to become deathless. Faced with another like him settles a smirk on his smile. Never before captured. Never made perpetual. Igniting incarnations of mortals, snapshots into his lens. His craft. His calling. Irvin M. 12th Grade

Eevee B. on Steve McCurry’s Hindi Man Participates in Holi Festival Hindi man participates in Holi festival The color frees the skin for there is vitality in ‘santi rakho To ana mata.’ Warmth comes from those around you and bitterness can cloud your judgment, but here there is no judgment for this is no place to assume that you can manufacture this feeling you hold inside. Free it! Let it fly with the colors of your vitality, let yourself take this in as if it were rain on your skin ‘santi rakho To ana mata.’ Be as free as the color on his skin and as loose as the flow of their dress ‘santi rakho To ana mata.’ Free yourself and colors will run wild with the anticipation of palms and crystal skin kissed by the sun and a soul saved by the gods. Wings spread like that of a butterfly, thoughts crashing like waves on a sandy shore, but never stop growing like ivy up a wall, do not hide yourself and all that you are, give back! Give back this feeling that you harbor inside do not yet dock your boat when there is so much to be said. You are the gold leaf spread upon a plane, valuable like all the riches in the ground. Your heart is like the changing of the seasons, running with change and embracing it because it is part of you and all that you are, but it’s not enough.

Evil still holds on like a plague and spreads like a rumor, in one ear and out the other like sand through your fingers you slip. Your faith to yourself goes elsewhere and you’re lost. Lost in the pit of emotions that do not define you. You are no one but yourself, do not let the evil in this world veer you away from your faith and who you are. Do not get lost in the ways of evil, no matter the beauty you see in that that is evil, it’s not! It’s just not, beauty is pure and captivates the white rays of heat on a cold day and makes the most of it. Beauty is not evil, beauty is a sunflower that blooms late and still shines bright, brighter than a sun on a cloudy day that peeks through walls of dark skies. It wells in palms of blue skies and burst with shallow waters. Find your purity, your red that lifts you up like a bird taking its first flight because you may fall but you will always fly. Green, red, black, vitality, purity, evil; these things do not define you. You define them, let go, be free, for there is vitality in green. Eevee B. 10th Grade

Morgan F. & Michaela F. on Steve McCurry’s Shipbreaker

Shipbreaker Show me the picture of the adolescent groaning in frustration because his charger doesn’t reach the bed. No, here you see the picture of a young man hoping today will not be his last Show me the picture of the adolescent faking a fever to enjoy a day off of school. No, here you see the picture of him hoping his pain is temporary and he can just get back to work Show me the picture of the adolescent, who emotions are slipping and cracking his fingers at the sight of homework. No, here you see the picture of him, hoping the crack he just heard was a ship breaking and not his friends’ bones Show me the picture of the adolescent that works just as hard as the boys in the shipyard, tearing apart wood like termites. Watching bodies be chucked in a pile like the spare parts of a ship When has a pile of wood become so comparable to a young boy Why does a cracked phone screen seem just as fragile as the cracked bones of a ship breaker When is the beach no longer relaxing When has the beach become so different for the two worlds Youthful bodies running to the shore eager to feel the ocean breeze and sand between their toes While another boy on a different beach feel suffocation from the debris and the lack of hope, Splinters and wood felt between his toes instead of sand Wouldn’t it be nice to finally feel the ocean calling him to freedom Crashing its waves past the wall of wood and uncertainty Wouldn’t it be nice for him to only worry about homework and not if he will make it home alive tonight Homework will not be the death of you Homework will not leave you wondering if you will still be alive for another day But a shipyard will take away your hope faster than a first world adolescent can post a new selfie. Morgan F. & Michaela F. 12th Grade & 10th Grade

Josh K. on Steve McCurry’s The Afghan Girl

The Afghan Girl

When we look at a person’s face, what’s the first thing that grabs our attention the most and pulls us in? The eyes. Take the eyes of the Afghan girl who stares us right in the face with her glossy, spherical organs. Each having an Iris with color filled up of a peaceful sea­green­wonder and the black­piercing­pupils that strikes and captivates the hearts and minds of anyone who beholds them. The eyes that haunt, and over time begin to taunt. An expression that tells the story of anger and suffering from her experience, which is the cause of the weariness. A Soviet invasion that lasted twenty­three years in Afghanistan. Millions of people dead by bombing like cockroaches being terminated by aerosol explosives and millions more, fleeing to the Nasir Bagh refugee camps in Pakistan, allowing Mujahidin, the “holy warriors” to guide them within their souls. The sheltered refugee homes, cramped and restless, having no privacy, and living at the mercy of their peers, a price paid for trying to evade the encroachment of their neighboring home. These are the courageous eyes of Sharbat Gula, still speaking after seventeen years. Refugee camps and the past behind her, appearances rough and aged while the youthful eyes still gaze, the same expression that strikes and captivates the hearts and minds of anyone who beholds them. Josh K. 10th Grade

Julia P. on Steve McCurry’s Monk

Monk Monk he down to Jokhang. Sacred spirits send old men to tombs. Tibetan tradition, two brides for one temple. He translates hieroglyphics with Wrinkles of his cheeks. Sitting on her heart, In the house of the Buddha, Her evil aura his pillow case. Tibet. Living and breathing. But leading a life for chinese to bleed, Dry like Timbuktu. China craves control but Monk he down to Jokhang. And here, On the heart of Tibet, He finds himself in the house of the Buddha. Finds himself in srin ma. Julia P. 12th Grade

Peyton B. on Steve McCurry’s Girl with Green Shawl

Girl with Green Shawl Like forget­me­nots flowering in spring, The first born blue stems from her eyes. Those blue eyes were as if left from a wave after the foam has washed away Silken strings of raven hair flowing behind the green grass of the shawl hanging from her chiseled shoulder. True beauty. Her face hand­carved by the very angels themselves. A red gown peek­a­booing from under the modest shade of the green shawl. Would she say see me as a child, a child born without the burden of beauty? Peyton B. 9th Grade

Julia P. on Steve McCurry’s Young Boy

Young Boy

Home of fantasies Where mango trees Are myths, And rain showers Feel like sand storms. Dusting children like chores. Young boys become ghostly. Water begins tasting like Graveyards. Drought lasting 24 trips Around the sun And we are losing him To the relay. How can he rely on The 15 thousand eyes Staring back at him. The rebel flag Sitting on the Spine of his swing set Sailing him southward. Rolling rocks between his Baby teeth, buries them deep Within footsteps in the sand. Quickly covered by hoove prints And young boys wearing it Like war paint. White face rather. Empty like the Niger River, Dirty like the decades before. All the way out in Timbuktu. We metaphor Mali. We fairytale Tin Abutut.

Julia P.

12th Grade

Peyton B. on Steve McCurry’s Woman at the Festival of the Horse Woman at the Festival of the Horse Weather, warm­lit sunshine and lightly color­kissed leaves unready to fall unready to be second­handed crushed and sorted with the soil beneath the changing trees. Horses parading in rings coached to boast performing without effort The Khamas, professing the ambitions of mares Ancestors meet

kick up their feet in song and dance Women in memorable robes painting roses on their cheeks blooming from their winter­born skin Tied bells, a jingled noise riding the wind passing around joy like an offering plate all belonging to the hour of festival. Peyton B. 9th Grade

Julia P. on Steve McCurry’s Coal Miner

Coal Miner His eyes stay speckled. Freckled with gold. He holds hopes Under his fingernails, In his wrinkled brow. Trying to evade the invasion, Sons with peppered hair. The same cracked spirit Under crow's feet. His widow’s peak Hanging like a noose. His black lung White washed by The warm wind Of a light at the end of a tunnel. The cave And mine. His ash, stars to his Night­masked eyes. Speckled by dust and Fallen futures. Freckled with gold. Holding onto hopes May three generations Of war remain religious. Rather than background Noise for his boys to curl up In caven wonders Of mine. Of coal. Julia Parham 12th Grade

Destinie C. and Jacey P. on Steve McCurry’s Woman and Child at Car Window Woman and Child at Car Window

I was looking back at the photos from my travels I came across a split second photo of a mother and child who stood at my taxi window, rain trailing down their faces, like tears. They peered in at me begging for money. I wonder what they were thinking in that moment. What they thought of me while I rode away leaving them behind clothes soaked from the rain. It was monsoon season. Yet there they were, standing, nothing to keep them warm. Nothing to protect them from the tears of heaven that once fell as bombs. So many lives were lost in the destruction. How scared she must have been for her child's life, for her own life. I wish I would have satisfied her begging. Gave her something, anything. I wonder what they were thinking in that moment. I peer into your taxi window gaining the courage to beg from a strange white man.You look me in the eyes so I know you can see me, see my child. Barefoot in old clothing. Yet you give us no money. We have no coats to protect us from the rain and the roads are beginning to flood. Soon walking down the street will feel like swimming upstream. Grabbing anything and everything to stay above the water. Please step from your taxi. Follow me to the market and buy us some

food. Please be generous. Let the rupees fall from your hands like the 13 bombs that once fell from the skies. I wish I could have talked to you, learned your story. I wish I could help ease your worry, ease your pain I wish I could give you food, money, anything you need I wish you would help my child I wish I would have helped you both But we are from two different worlds and it was never meant to be. Destinie C. 12th Grade Jacey P. 9th Grade

Addie O. & Kariey S. on Steve McCurry’s Children of the Omo Valley in Ethiopia. Accepting Beauty Beauty

comes in different forms, varying from different cultures and walks of life. People ignoring other cultures thinking it's uncivilized just because they see the world differently, but when will we be able to live in a world where we seek to find the beauty in the unexpected places and to expand our thoughts and expectations of the term "beautiful". Training to be a warrior while still learning the ways of the world, fighting donga and scarring skin, marking another victory to show off like a new trophy with hope to inspire the future warriors to come. To become an example for those who have not yet experienced the ritual of going from tegay to rora.

Beauty

In every smile shared, As The Suri paint their skin with white and yellow in preparation for ceremonies as we hide our true faces and alter our look, they bring out the natural beauty in themselves

Assertive and independent, leaving the reliance of their mother to begin learning the working of the world.

In the breath held before cutting a new trophy into their skin in every blink of every war struck eye beauty resides in the ray of sun, kissing the land at the start of each day In every smile shared with pride and honor for their tribe In every sigh with a passing moment

Beauty

As we use the cosmetic products tested on the animals that The Suri Tribe respect and protect as they worship the sky and the God who resides there.

Tuma, protector of the living and keeper of child laughter releasing beauty into the world below in the raindrops that give life to crops and water to the cattle

Be kissed by the rain and the sun widening our eyes to accept the beauty in every breath, every smile, every laugh. Beauty comes in moments it's up to us to catch it by its tail for it will come and go Addie O. & Kariey S. 11th Grade

Coleson B. on Steve McCurry’s Work Crews Begin to Clear Wreckage from Collapse of the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers Work Crews Begin to Clear Wreckage from Collapse of the World Trade Center’s Twin Towers The devil found New York City that day. This day that significantly changed everyone's lives forever; I know it did mine. I remember the day as clear as glass in a window, I was sitting reading the ­ and suddenly I heard the most devastating crash I had ever heard. I was concerned, not scared. I walked outside looking left, right, then up. That’s when the fear hit. It consumed me like a giant tsunami filling up the city. I ran back inside the fire station and within seconds the fire alarm went off. I pulled on my suit and ran back outside with my best friend Ryan, the second head captain fireman, by my side. White papers, I remember white papers flying everywhere like a snowstorm. I looked at my watch ­ 9:03. Suddenly Ryan whispered, “Oh, God!” He was looking up. Suddenly all I heard was the sound of shattering glass, falling metal, and screams. Frozen. I was frozen in time. I couldn't believe my eyes, for the first I could see death, I could see pain. I was crying and I didn’t even know it. “Don’t break, you’re not glass, be mighty!” I told myself. It had only been three minutes which felt like a lifetime to me. Suddenly I was back, back with the world, I could hear again. I could move again. Suddenly, all

I heard was this woman screaming right next to me. Shut up, suit up, please just shut up! In it all, I didn’t realize that I was screaming too, everyone was. I knew I had to do something other then just stand there. I ran to the firetruck and got in. Silence hung in the air of the dark red truck, I had to break this suffocating silence that consumed us all. “So… what do we do?” I asked. Everyone looked at me as if I had just committed a crime. The captain looked at the road, looked at me, and looked back at the road again. “Try to live.” he said quietly. His words gave me goosebumps all over. We got to Ground Zero and the truck stopped. We all sat still for a moment and let the fear consume us once again. “Alright, let's get to work”, captain said. That was last time I heard him talk, that was the last time I would see him alive. I got out of the truck and walked slowly to the north tower entrance, I stood still for a moment and then entered. It was empty, deserted, silent. Suddenly all I heard was screams and someone saying “It’s coming down!” then all I saw was ash. I stood helplessly in the blinding dust for a moment and then a piece of metal the size of a car came barreling down at me. The pain, oh, God the pain! I laid flat, my arms crushed, my legs broken. I closed my eyes and saw a warm white light coming towards me and then I was gone, gone from the world seduced in a coma for a year. I remember Thom, another fireman, came to me and told me that the Captain and Ryan were dead. In that moment, I knew the devil had found New York City that day. Coleson B. 9th Grade

Director Molly Rice on Steve McCurry’s Two Hazara Women Mourn at a Grave Two Hazara Women Mourn at a Grave

The two gathered in blue weeping at the tomb

The universal why

cratered by grief the Persian tongue on the slab needs no translation Sorrow travels Transatlantic with heavy baggage.

Nato turns a blind eye to the genocide

the universal why

Grief ­ the sucker punch. Grief ­ the almighty stand still. Grief ­ the body breaker, the mind stealer.

Why do we love at all if it hurts?

Life the terrible beauty. Death the big brother of sleep.

The two gathered in blue will soon be away

and two angels with solid black eyes a shoulder span measured in miles carrying large hammers will appear and prop the deceased soul upright in the grave and ask three questions.

What will he’ll say? Molly Rice Director: Tractor Shed Theatre St. Stephens High School

Seth F. on Steve McCurry’s Band­i­amir Band­i­amir The nature­made lake reflected the beauty of Afghanistan’s first national park. Tourists were taking in the sight of angelic landscape as a horse dust by them. The rays of the sun suffuse the darkness in their hearts, bringing to mind better days leaving them craving something new.

Something, that would elicit their kaleidoscope mind Something that they possessed in their innocence. And as the horse faded from view, so did the memories so did their peace of mind. Seth F. 9th Grade

Carson G. on Steve McCurry’s Geisha in the Subway

Geisha in the Subway 適切です。丁寧であること。優雅です。強度が。美しいです。 Be proper. Be polite. Be graceful. Be strong. Be beautiful. This is what a geisha must be. Simple, right? Yes, it is simple to wear a kimono, to paint your face white, and to smile. It is also simple to sign with perfect pitch, to dance without a trip, and to entertain at the snap of a finger. It is simple to eat without a drop, to drink without a spill, and to walk in platforms and never fall. Yes, all of this is simple with a lifetime of training. Like walking up steps, a geisha must go through training. From shikomi, to minari, to maiko, to geiko. The stages of a geisha are strenuous, painful, grueling, and simple. Simple, when it is your life. So, you want to put on a floral robe, throw up your hair, cover up your face, and call yourself a “geisha girl”? It’s not that simple. 適切です。丁寧であること。優雅です。強度が。美しいです。 Carson G. 11th Grade