Boundless 2026 Volume viii Unplugged

BOUNDLESS

Art & Lit Magazine, Volume VIII

Presentation High School

UNPLUGGED

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Presentation High School’ s Boundless is made to inspire creators and celebrate the artistic voices at Pres by showcasing art, literature, design, and photography. This year’s theme has the audience transition through different areas of modern life, from the digital world to the tranquil outdoors. We invite you to view a spectrum of virtual scenes and tangible media. We wanted the theme to reflect the modern issue of technology addiction, which takes away from creativity and the pursuit of art. Through these pages, we aspire to have viewers reflect on their presence in a world distorted by technology. Welcome to Unplugged.

Your directors, Hoai-Trang Hoang, Stella Pham, and Felix Nanayakkara

** All images and writing are the property of each artist and may not be reproduced or copied without permission. **

how do we find peace...

in a digital world?

un•plugged /ʌnˈplʌɡd/ “to be unreachable through electronic means and not part of the collective digital conscience, as a method of reconnecting with oneself and the world outside.”

ALUMNI JURORS

These are Presentation alumni involved in creative fields who have donated their time to review our student artwork. After viewing the selected pieces from each category, they have chosen pieces that they consider to embody a unique and creative perspective. Look out for the cursor icons that hover over these pieces!

Alyssa Repetti

graduated from Presentation in 2020, majoring in English at the University of Portland. She served on the Writers Literary and Arts Magazine for two years before becoming one of the two Senior Editors, amplifying the voices of poets, writers, and artists at her school. Currently the Associate Admissions Director at Presentation, she is excited to be involved in the Arts again, especially while highlighting the talented young women in the Bay Area.

Lynnea Jeung is a spatial graphic designer currently working at a studio in San Francisco. She specializes in working within the architecture realm, from installation graphics to signage programs. After graduating from Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, she returned to the Bay Area to work on local projects and help shape the area’ s future.

Maddie Luscher is

a photographer and digital marketing professional who graduated from Presentation in 2019 and the University of Redlands in 2023. She has experience capturing sports, schools, weddings, and live events, as well as managing social media accounts. She will be joining the Walnut Creek Crawdads this summer working in their photography department and managing media for San Jose State University rugby in the fall, continuing to expand her focus on sports and live-event media production. She is passionate about increasing representation of women in sports and empowering students to pursue their creative passions.

CHAPTER ONE DIGITALISM

Glass Pieces

Sarina Seps, glass

For the blue piece, it took precise cutting work and measuring to know how they could all fit together. I had to play around with the individual pieces in order for them to all fit together. Overall, I love how the product came out; even the air pockets add a bit of ocean affect, in my eyes.

a Sip?

Untitled 1

Charlotte Cameron, photography

Reflection Anonymous, acrylic paint on canvas paper

Hearst Castle

Siena Zuffi, graphic design

Hearst Castle was built from 1919-1947 for Hearst, his family, and friends to live in luxury. The castle is an architectural marvel, with its intricate carvings, lavish gardens, towering buildings, and the Greek Pool. I decided to design Hearst Castle in primary colors to capture the awe of seeing it in person, as well as displaying a coastal vibe with the sun highlighting the trees and buildings.

this cannot be the intended experience

Ananya Raman, poetry

i attempted normal behavior and failed gracefully

i walked into a room and forgot what my face is supposed to do so i tried nothing, which somehow looked worse someone said hi and i responded like i was buffering the pause felt longer than socially recommended

i sat down too confidently, like i had a clearance the chair did not agree but it allowed it anyway my hands kept trying to behave like they had tasks they did not, so they just hovered in public i laughed at the wrong time, then committed to it so it would feel intentional it did not feel intentional

there is a version of me that knows how to exist smoothly she did not show up today, scheduling conflict maybe i kept going anyway, because stopping would require explanation and i was not prepared to provide documentation

Nail Art

Sophia Fuller, GelX

Every Artist Was Once an Amateur

Trisha Shetty, photography

I wanted this piece to highlight my growth through Photography I and II. I incorporated some of my pieces I am most proud of into a collage, along with a picture of myself to define my growth through images.

First Do No Harm

Lillian Jones, ink and alcohol markers

Untitled

The Grave Keeper

Lowen Green, short story

The pelting rain feels like bullets where it hits my face, as though it is not water but sharp pebbles pounding relentlessly into my skin. The droplets slide down my body, leaving chilling trails in their wake, dripping all the way down to where the hard dirt cuts into my knees. The air is so cold that it is painful to inhale and ice grows in my lungs. The roughness of the gravestone is soothing as I run my hands along it. It makes me forget that I am cold, wet, and tired. It brings me company.

Under my touch, the gravestone shudders and a cool gray mist seeps up from the ground beneath it. The mist pulses and gathers, twisting until it creates the vague shape of a woman. Though the wind is determined to scatter her, Isidore’s form will remain together as long as I am touching her gravestone.

She would have been a beautiful woman, with soft glowing skin and long curling hair, but death has reduced her light to a faint flicker, and her presence brings a sense of foreboding to the air. The hair on my arms raises as she looks at me.

Isidore is a treacherous ghost to wake. She is temperamental, never constant in her appraisal of me. On some nights she is glad for the company, on others she is furious to be torn from her endless slumber. Tonight her voice meets my ears as a vicious slap, Only you would call on an old woman during a rainstorm.

“You are merely dead, not old.” I may have died young, but I have been around for decades. My heart is heavy and my mind is cold. She spreads her skirts and sits atop her own gravestone.

“Maybe so, but my heart is so light it might fly away, and my mind is so warm it will catch flame if I am not careful.”

Why are you here?

I had known she would ask me this. She always does. While she was alive, Isidore stood only for reason and never for rhyme. Though I am ashamed to admit it, I am grateful that she died long before I was created. She does not seem like a very kind woman, if the other graveyard residents are to be

believed.

She repeats her words in a sickening rhythm. Lirael. Why are you here? Her voice is so mocking that it has grown sharp teeth which bite.

“Is it so wrong to seek company on a night when I am lonely?”I put an edge on the words to cover my hurt. Ghosts do not feel. Their consciousness may follow them into the afterlife, but their hearts do not. This makes them difficult to befriend, but easy to maintain for I can trust that they will not betray me, unlike the living.

Isidore’s gaze is cold. She sighs, her chest rising and falling even though her body needs no oxygen. The only thing she needs in order to remain here is my hand on her gravestone. I have many neighbors that you could seek out instead. Why must you choose me?

Because I know she is lonely too. As lonely as a ghost can be. The others have memories of family and love to keep their graves warm, but Isidore led a plain and isolated life, and she died an unremarkable death. Like I have, and like I will. I would never dare to tell her this, for she would refuse to speak to me again. She likes to believe that she is mysterious and deceptive, but in truth her bitterness makes her the easiest of my ghosts to understand.

I wonder sometimes at my own lineage, and if there is the possibility that she could be my ancestor. It might explain the many similarities between us. Or perhaps we are just two similar women who are living—or, rather, lived— two similar lives. I do seem to become more like my ghosts the more time I spend with them.

“Would you like me to go?”Explanations are worthless to Isidore. I have learned to not waste the little breath I have.

Please do. Go call on some other poor soul. She stares out toward the distant fields, waiting for me to release her back into blissful death.

Her unhesitating dismissal fires a small arrow into my chest. I expected it, as I always do, and yet her coldness still hurts. But I let her go anyway, and as her misty form fades back into the earth I turn my face up to the rain.

I will stay here until morning comes and the rain has stopped. As soon as the sunlight touches my face, skin turns to stone and my limbs become solid, my eyes unseeing. I will remain frozen until night falls again. Then I will seek another gravestone, another ghost to keep company.

For that is the eternal role of the grave keeper. 21

Vertical Dreams

Longing

Chelsea Milligan, photography

CHAPTER TWO CYBER REALM

The Girl and the Umbrella

Miriam Solnit, photography

Water Girl

Eva Anil, photography

I was able to create this piece by projecting an image of water onto Asha’s face. This image was inspired by one of the elements of Earth.

Day at the Lake

Alina Siudzinski, photography

Bus Sketch

Kristelle T. Mateu. digital painting

This is a sketch I drew on a 6-hour bus ride home after a Confirmation retreat. It is one of two characters on the same canvas; my friend doodled the other one out of frame. I always enjoy looking back on this piece because it reminds me of my memories with friends during retreat.

Childlike Wonder

Micaela Akers,

UNTITLED

Naina Konda, photography

My theme for this series was emotion. The model is wrapping her arms around her head, portraying sadness and distress.

Vibrant Moment

Mary Le, acrylic paint on canvas

The Starving Forest

Lowen Green, short story

There was once a girl with a coat the color of the sunset. The villagers called her Marisol.

Marisol grew up in a small village in the middle of a forest. From a young age, she had been fascinated with the woods, but not in the way that anoth er child might have been. Though the birds and butterflies were interesting, and the flowers were quite pretty, it was rather the darkness and solitude that she yearned for. The village routine and culture felt dull, while the mystery of the forest drew her in. There was something among the trees which called to her, and the voice with which it spoke sounded like home.

There was once a wolf with fur the color of the night. The villagers called him evil.

The wolf lived and breathed in time with the forest. He ran weightless through the brush, chasing shadows and howling to the moon. But he was so awfully hungry. He had known since he was a young pup that his purpose was to feed the forest, but he didn’t understand how he could do such a thing when there was nothing to hunt. He knew that death would nurture the trees, and that he was the tool which would bring it about. The lack of anything to chase drove him mad. Hunger defined him, a bottomless pit in his heart that cried for company, for food.

One day, the urge to venture into the forest overwhelmed Marisol and she finally gave in. She gathered some bread and fruit into a basket and slipped on her red coat. She was not afraid as she walked across the tree line, nor as the shadows descended upon her. Branches grabbed at her clothes and thorns scratched her legs, yet she felt more safe than she ever had before.

The wolf had sensed Marisol’s presence as soon as she stepped foot in the woods. She was easy to find, for her red hood flashed brightly against the abyss of trees. He followed her silently, both curious and predatory. He was at war with his own soul, his heart desperate to keep her, his stomache desperate to feed on her.

Unaware of the creature lurking behind her, Marisol reveled in her freedom. She delighted in the way her feet sank into the leaves that littered the ground, and she danced her fingers along the thick leaves as she passed them. She had never felt so light, so boundless. She felt as though she could lift off the earth and fly away.

When the wolf burst from the bushes, she just about did fly away.

The wolf had been expecting more of a chase, so he was surprised when the girl merely stumbled and fell to the ground, her hood falling back and her basket tumbling from her hands, forgotten. He stopped and stood panting in front of her, waiting for her to turn and run while also hoping she wouldn’t. Her eyes were clear as she eyed him, not clouded with fear. She was fascinating, this girl.

Marisol wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be scared. The wolf was large, with sharp teeth and glinting yellow eyes, but it didn’t seem menacing. It seemed uncertain, tentative. She half expected it to pounce on her and begin feasting, for that was what she had been told wolves did, but she also knew it wouldn’t.

“Hello,”her voice bridged the silence.

The wolf stared in wonder.“Hello,”he said. “Are you going to eat me?”

The wolf hesitated. If he was honest, would she run?“I promise to do it slowly.”It came out as more of a question, as though he was asking for her approval on the idea.

Marisol watched the wolf, fear still a distant stranger. His voice was the same one which had called to her for so long, the one that made her feel like she was home.“Will it hurt?”

He pondered her question for a moment.“I don’t know. I’ve never been eaten before.”

She giggled. The wolf brightened at the sound, the way it bubbled through the air and tickled his fur.“Well obviously, otherwise you’d be dead.”

He attempted a smile.“Will you stay with me?”

She nodded, moving to stand up.“Yes. Even though you have to eat me.”

Marisol and the wolf walked through the forest together. As the day passed, they became friends. Neither was afraid, though the wolf’s hunger still cried inside his chest.

By sunset, they had reached the cave which the wolf called his home. Inside, Marisol created a bed for herself, fashioned of moss and leaves. She laid down and the wolf sat nearby. They watched each other until the light faded and they could no longer see.

Though she could not see his face, Marisol was comforted by the knowledge that the wolf was there. The tales which the villagers had told of monstrous beasts and blood-thirsty predators faded from her mind, and she was filled entirely with a strange love for this wolf. For her wolf.

The wolf was overcome with a similar feeling as he listened to her steady breath.

Every day, Marisol and the wolf explored the woods. They played together, ran together, and laughed together. Marisol would sing as they walked, delighting the wolf. He showed her the forest, taught her how to live and thrive there. They bounded through meadows and across streams, free from all restraint and belonging only to each other. If ever they got separated, the wolf would search for Marisol’s red hood, waiting to see a dash of red through the trees so he could go to her.

The wolf found that his desire for a friend was fulfilled. But even though he tried to resist it, his stomach still growled, and each day it grew more insistent. It clawed inside him, tearing at his heart and causing his teeth to chatter whenever he looked at Marisol’s soft flesh.

Eventually, he could no longer ignore it.

That night, while Marisol was sleeping, he crept nearer to her and started to chew gently on her little finger. By morning, it was entirely gone, a small nub of bone the only thing left. Marisol noticed its absence, but because it did not hurt, she did not mind.

It became a nightly routine. Under the drug of sleep, Marisol could not feel the pain of being eaten. But ever so slowly, her fingers disappeared. Then her toes. Then brought him closer to the day his friend would be gone. her nose and her ears. With each meal, the wolf wept, bitterly aware that each bite brought him closer to the day his friend would be gone.

They never spoke about it. Marisol knew that the wolf’s hunger was not due to a lack of love for her, but rather a duty to himself and to the forest. The wolf’s hunger was dulled during the day, but he still could not help himself when night fell.

One day, Marisol and the wolf sat together in a sunny meadow.

“What will you do once I am all gone?”Marisol asked. By then, her right hand and most of her left arm were missing.

The wolf raised his head to the sky.“You’ll never be all gone.”

“But soon there will be none of my body left to feed you. What will you eat?”

He looked at her then.“Nothing. My debt to the forest will be fulfilled, and I will have no purpose. I shall starve myself and reunite with you.”

Marisol leaned into him, inhaling his musty fur and woodish scent.“How long will I have to wait for you?”

He smiled, but pain and hunger gleamed in his eyes.“I don’t know. I’ve never starved before.”

Months passed, and Marisol could no longer walk in the forest with the wolf, for she had no arms or legs with which to carry herself. Much of her torso was gone too, and she lay still on her bed where the leaves caressed her skin, held by her old red coat. She drifted in and out of sleep, and the wolf never left her side.

By night his instinct took over, and he continued to eat her slowly. Her flesh was sweet, her blood hot and metallic. She satisfied his hunger in a way that nothing else could. He relished the taste of her, and had to restrain himself from eating more than was absolutely necessary to keep himself alive.

But try as he might to preserve her, Marisol died. She passed during the day, and he pulled the ragged remains of her body outside of the cave so that the sun could kiss her face one last time.

Once the sun set, he finished what was left of her, leaving behind only a glistening skull. He brought out her red hood and wrapped it around her. Under the light of the moon, he laid down and curled up, cradling her skull. As he fell asleep, he pictured her flying through the trees, her laughter bubbling and red hood flashing as she danced. The wolf drifted off slowly, knowing that his Marisol was waiting for him just a breath away. 33

daisy

Colorful Selfie

Oracle Park, San Francisco

Audrey Kang, graphic design

I made this piece in Digital Arts II and I love this piece because baseball and softball have always been a part of my life. I created this piece by using two different photos: one of the stadium and one of the sky.

Verbena Dress

Avery Swanson, polyester crepe back satin and chiffon and rhinestones

color outside the lines

Jimena, photography

Just a little vintage!

Fiona Brashear, photography

CHAPTER THREE ANALOG

Erosion in Color

Jeanelle Dao, ceramics

When constructing this piece, I focused on ensuring the platter was constructed as evenly and as smoothly as possible on the walls and on creating deep, pronounced textures. This was to prepare for the glazing, where I hoped to choose a combination of glazes that especially accentuated the texture while reacting to create a beautiful array of colors. In the end, I believe I succeeded by using layers of Iron Lustre (PC-33), Textured Turquoise (PC-25), and Oatmeal (PC-31). The colors came out beautifully, with the blues, greens, and purples beautifully complimenting the brown around the rim and texture.

Old Money

Sophia Ngo, graphite and colored pencil on paper

When picking the items to use for this still life, I picked objects that gave off a luxurious, chic, and old money vibe. To literally give the old money vibe, I crumbled a one dollar bill and placed it in front of the other objects, tying the piece together.

Serenity of Reading

Elna

Poostpasand, photography

Escape

Jiya Jagani, digital painting

This piece is based on the myth of Apollo and Daphne.

The Price of Flight

C.C, poetry

This is a poem about a young boy named Kuuya, whose only dream was to fly, even if it cost him everything. This poem is meant to represent people’s drive for their dreams, even if it means losing everyone and everything that ever loved them. To me this piece is a part of myself, who wants to reach their dreams more than anything but is afraid of losing everyone around me in the process. So, essentially, what is worth more: Success or Love?

There once was a boy who wanted to fly. He wanted to soar in the sky.

Everyone he loved said,

“No, Kuuya, you can’t fly.”

So the boy began to cry.

He begged the sky,

“Please, Sky, all I want is to fly.”

The sky heard his cries and sent down a bird to Kuuya.

The bird asked gently,

“Kuuya, why do you cry?”

“All I want is to fly,”

Kuuya said, his eyes burning with tears.

The bird sighed.

“Are you...sure you want to fly?”

Kuuya nodded, blinking tearfully.

And the sky whispered into the bird’ s ear— to let the boy fly.

So the bird obliged,

ripping off its wings, handing them to Kuuya, And collapsing into the earth.

And so it came to pass: Kuuya could finally fly. He soared across the sky, as if the ground scorched beneath him. When he landed, everything was quiet.

Kuuya went back home, only to find his brother had died. He screamed at the sky,

“Why did you take him from me?”

The sky sent down another bird.

“Kuuya, why do you cry?”

“Because my brother was lost to YOU,” Kuuya shouted.

“Well...you wanted to fly,”the bird said coldly.

“Do you no longer wish to cry?”

Kuuya nodded, smearing his tears away. And the bird reached over— clawing his eyes out.

“There. No more tears tonight.”

Kuuya could fly... but all he wanted now was to die.

Toxic Beauty

Himani Vaidya, photography

“Toxic Beauty”is a piece in a series inspired by my artist inspiration, Ingrid Weyland, and it explores the theme of environmental pollution. My work reflects environmental activism by raising awareness about human impact and the presence of trash in nature.

As Ingrid Weyland expressed,“a wrinkled piece of paper can never regain its original shape; the trace persists. In the same way, nature which is disrespectfully invaded is forever broken, and many times unrecoverable.” I hope my work helps viewers understand this message.

Radiant Glitz

Taylor Mellin, fabric, yarn, beads, feather boas

This piece combines creative and technical work, using materials like beaded and yarn fringes as well as feather boas, while maintaining clean finishes and carefully hemmed edges to create a glamorous yet practical design built to last. Inspired by a 1920s showgirl, I layered textures and details to give the piece a show-worthy, dramatic quality.

Underwater Shoes

Grace Nguyen, acrylic paint on canvas

This piece represents me, as it shows my personality. The water is calm and peaceful, displaying a sense of serenity. Everything is a cool color to symbolize silence.

Untitled

Anonymous, acrylic paint and gold leaf on canvas

This is an abstract piece using vivid colors to show dimension in a human face. The purpose of the piece is to give a sense of chaos and energy to the viewer.

Vulture and the Moon

Fairy Tale

Ariana Pinedo-Jen, photography

Selfie

Built for the Moment

Brooke Sisto, photography

I love sports very much and appreciate any opportunity to attend sporting events, such as seeing Bay FC compete at PayPal Park. I took the opportunity for my photography portfolio to use the shutter speed priority setting to capture the complex movements of juggling a soccer ball as demonstrated in this photo. I felt that this photo really captured the ease at which this professional athlete juggles the soccer ball during Bay FC’s warm-up out on the pitch.

Panama

Micaela Akers, short story

The Tagalog word“pamana”translates to inheritance or heritage. This is the story of a Santo Niño, an icon of Baby Jesus common in Filipino Catholic households, that has been passed through three generations of a family slowly losing its heritage. The shelf was my home. My brothers, each one the same as me, littered with small imperfections, would abandon me. Taken by darkskinned women with children and men trailing behind them. Most came from the church next door, the Tagalog hymns and warm air following them into our small store. My woman, my family, came for me from afar. They came from a neighboring town, searching for a parting relic as they left our humble island in pursuit of the land of opportunity.

It was strange, when we made it to the far-off land, surrounded by light skin, light eyes, and words that were sharper and harsher and faster than what we knew. We had very little, but my woman made us everything we needed. She dressed me in robes of bright colors, colors that were constantly changing; vibrant green one day, deep red the next.

Each day someone would kneel before me, asking for strength and guidance, happiness, success. My favorite days were when my woman brought my girl. She was young and watched me with such excitement. When she came to see me, she would stay for hours, gazing and kneeling and occasionally reaching out to adjust my robes before bowing her head. Years later and my girl was much older, and then she was gone.

Years went by and everything kept changing. Except for my woman.

She stayed and prayed and made sure that my robes stayed nice and that I was cared for.

My woman said that nothing good lasts forever.

They said that it was sudden and that I would ensure that she was in a better place now. They crowded around me, their heads bent to hide tears. My usual bright robes replaced by dark ones of grief.

My girl returned. She looked just like my woman now. She took me into her arms when the crying strangers left and we traveled again. A new home welcomed me.

My girl took care of me. She was not as attentive as my woman once was. There were no new robes, but the ones my woman had made me were cared for, if not a bit faded. My altar was clean and my girl knelt before me each night, Tagalog and English prayers spilling from her lips.

My girl has a child. My child. Not that she would think of me with such fondness. My child has always been scared of me. I see the way she averts her gaze when she is in my room. She speaks English and I do not understand.

My girl gave me to my child as a gift. My child left me in the closet.

I still hear her sometimes, outside my door. My robes are moth-eaten and the color has long since disappeared. There are no prayers, no more adoring gazes.

Sometimes I dream of my woman and my girl, their voices, their prayers.

“Panginoong Hesus, Señor Santo Niño.”

Little Lady Chicago

Ainslie Tighe, watercolor and paper collage

For this piece, I cut out scraps of watercolor paper, which I painted and pasted onto another paper to create an image of a boat cruising through the Chicago River. I really enjoyed creating this piece because the process was really fun, and it made me think in a creative way.

Weaving Connections

Chelsea Milligan, photography

CHAPTER FOUR OFFLINE

What Makes an Artist

Lori Ella Guioguio, digital painting

This is a drawing I made for my Digital Arts III film project. My focus for my video was the meaning of being an artist, which I believe is the intrinsic desire to create.

Adornment under Light

Aanya Kukkudapu, photography

Faceless

Say Hello To The Stars

Araceli Refstrup Alvear, poetry

The older you get, the more you start to recognize constellations in the sky.

Maybe it is just common knowledge collected over the years by living in the same spot, for over 80 years. Maybe it’s just being a geniusor remembering that one lesson in school. If you ask a child, they will name you one, maybe two, but if you ask an elder, they can name the sky.

What’s sad about it, is when a person dies, they become a star. That’s what my grandma believed, before she went to the stars. Maybe it’s just a nice thought we tell our kids, but really it breaks your heart when you see an 80 year old saying hello to the stars.

People often look at the stars while barely noticing them. But when I was a kid, I really loved looking at stars because of a family belief that when people die, they go to the stars. It is comforting to have people watching over you from the stars, but I wanted to take this thought further!

Beauty and the Beast Tile

Mia Bunney, ceramic

A California Sunset

Nikki Azimi, photography

This photo was taken in Capitola while I was walking around with my family. This piece is significant because it feels happy and peaceful. No one was stressed or unhappy despite the water being cold, everyone was happy to be there.

Waterberry

Upon A Shoe

Petition

Mimi, poetry

A god of love with all created in your likeness

But god, what do I do when it’s your love that makes me want to crawl out of my skin?

I’m a hypocrite, taking what you gave and turning a blessing into mortal sin

I walk by faith with you, my eyes closed, resigning to my belief my hands crossed in prayer as they seek your sanctuary, warm, and kind like a woman’s embrace, but I won’t look now, wouldn’t dare what I don’t acknowledge won’t hurt, ignorance is a bliss

oh lord, give me grace, forgive me for my heavenly disgrace but how was I supposed to know sacrilege ran through my veins, mistaking a blessing for a curse?

O, gracious God hear me, hear us, answer our prayers For why must believing in your love be my greatest sin?

7:00pm

Sneha Arun, photography

The picture was taken in Carmel as part of graduation photos. The shadows mingled with the glow of the lamplight to highlight her white dress and auburn hair. 71

Order of Malta Building

Mallory Fidrych, photography

Tropical Sun

Hoai-Trang Hoang, digital painting

Me, Myself and I

Pismo Beach

Andrea Sotelo, graphic design

W e l c o m e

MEET THE DEVELOPERS

Lead Directors

Hoai-Trang Hoang

Stella Pham

Felix Nanayakkara

Literature

Jurors

Lead: Joana Shinners

Shubkarman Kaur

Alexandria Becerra

Skye Dickey

Audrey Kang

Charlotte Cameron

Sophia Fuller

Araceli Restrup Alvear

Lead Editors

Charlotte Cameron

Art Jurors

Lead: Sophia Fuller

Lead: Audrey Kang

Lucy Penzel

Joana Shinners

Elna Poostpasand

Riley Ordonez

Zoe Theron

Felix Nanayakkara

Araceli Restrup Alvear

Photo Jurors

Lead: Sneha Arun

Lead: Charlotte Cameron

Lead: Felix Nanayakkara

Skye Dickey

Audrey Kang

Stella Pham

Naina Konda

Himani Vaidya

Elna Poostpasand

Alexandria Becerra

Advertising Publications

Lead: Audrey Kang

Himani Vaidya

Charlotte Cameron Shubkarman Kaur

Joana Shinners

Naina Konda

Srinjoyi Roy Chowdury

Riley Ordonez

Moderator

Katherine Deak

Presentation High School 2281 Plummer Avenue, San Jose, California 95111

Principal: Kristina Luscher

President: Holly Elkins

2026 SPRING