ink. Issue 22
I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness –– e e cummings, I Will Wade Out
Erasure
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Date Night
8 10 13
Moonlight 3 AM
Mandatory Relaxation 16
Passage
18 20
Rules for Wandering 22 23
24 27
Mourning Self-Portrait
learning to breathe–
“No More Toaster” Credits: 33
36 41
Blue
Easy
chap 长城脚下
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Musings on the History of Brake Systems,
and other unexpected thoughts on globalization and cultural exchange from Beihai, Beijing.
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Walking the Hutong
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Erasure I was old, maybe five hundred years in the midst of history. trying to explain something. The only words we knew were Pivo-beer and Dobro-good. Perhaps he was twenty-five. When the waiter bought our Brains in a bag, lamb brains cooked in a paper bag. We recalled how the waiter made a circle, then knocked his forehead. music from the street, a warm breeze smelling of foliage and the dust of a thousand years. the constant clatter of silverware on dishes. The waiter dead now. Killed by those casual laughers Scattered, scattered. into the dark, perhaps glittering Somewhere it still moves. creatures that love and slaughter.
Poem by Albert Zhang ’19 Photos by Edward Guo ’19
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Date Night Prose by Maura Thompson ’20 Art by Serena Zhou ’20
He smiles, confident and shy at the same time, teeth too white from bleaching, hair slightly disheveled like when we first met, but my heart isn’t racing like it did then, I wonder if he notices, my shoulder brushes his every time the cab jostles, no sparks though, maybe after tonight there will be, maybe we won’t be shivering, tired and uncertain, not talking, our breaths steady, heads turned towards the windows so we don’t have to look at each other, too afraid to face what we’ve become, broken, the car is slowing, we keep moving, barreling forward and we can’t stop, ignoring anything wrong but everything’s wrong, maybe we were always wrong, hoping, praying to find something right, to find something better, that’s what he tells me, he likes to think everything will be better, but it’s hollow, he doesn’t mean everything, not the car or the house or the kitchen, he holds onto better like a child, it’s safer than a promise, empty and infinite at the same time, but I guess that’s us, stuck in limbo, we can’t change, like his hair or the house or my wedding ring, fixed in life and in this cab, the silence awkward and comfortable, better than anything we could say or have said, there I go again, using that word, better, I don’t even know what it means anymore, but it fills the hole in my chest and I need it, I need it like the cold air in this cab or our date tonight, I shift closer, wanting his arm draped over my shoulder, warm and comforting, but he doesn’t move, continues to look out the window, street lights blurring as we drive to the restaurant, I can’t see the stars in the sky and I’m tired of maybes, but maybes are better than nothing, better than knowing it will end, crashing and burning, and nothing was there to begin with.
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Moonlight 3 AM yellow lantern, light my bitter pen, my hand to a better pill, a two-bit ticket to sleep: drawn birds, quarter curtain, no clock.
Poem by Alex Xu ’19 Photo by Dear Liu ’19
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Mandatory Relaxation Poem by Dominic Bellido ’20 Photo by Dear Liu ’19
We got our bags out of the trunk and headed towards the white sand for our day of rest and relief in this summer sweltering heat Mandatory relaxation, i called it, since i scheduled it just for you Let me do that for you, i’ll hold that bag its too heavy, here, don’t worry i got this and i realized that we left our sunscreen at the house but you told me it was fine so it’s fine We picked a spot and set up shop in the back of the beach since this place was crowded as hell and a group of college guys started blasting music on their speakers and a baby right next to us started crying and i realized that we should probably move our stuff as to not disturb the baby with our noise but you said it was fine so it’s fine We donned our bathing suits (you insisted on matching colors (blue looks cute on you)) and headed off into the freezing water where the shore was rocky and i cut my foot and i was pretty sure i saw a lone shark in the distance and i realized that we left our stuff unattended and that those college guys were probably waiting for the opportune moment to snatch our stuff but you laughed and said it was fine so it’s fine and as we splashed and played in the cold water A flock of seagulls began picking at our unprotected lunch and as i ran and tripped trying to defend our feast from those feathered fiends i saw you laughing and grinning and There’s nothing better than that in this world. and as clouds came in and i felt a drop of rain hit my head (probably seagull poop), As we sat, talking and laughing and looking at the sunset and as i tried to apologize for screwing everything up you laughed and rested your head on my shoulder and squeezed my hand and i understood that it was going to be fine after all
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Art by Albert Zhang ’19
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Blue
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Solemnity. Standing, solemn, sullen, sound. Scrawling what is left of my not so dignified march onwards- the trees, I hope, will remember. Standing, solemn, sullen, sound. I hope the trees will remember. Because it’s good. To remember. I’d like to think it’s a kind of funeral march, a kind of ceremonious serendipity of leaves, falling, but now it’s hard to imagine anything so crimson- a drop at the bottom of a bowl, a drop, clinging to my mouth. Words, words, words. I’d rather hear the hummmmmm of oak and say farewell without teeth getting in my way. But I can’t. I’m too human not to say goodbye. And perhaps it’s the folly in me to believe that I’ve been changed, perhaps these ruminations won’t strip themselves from this all too hollow frame- perhaps sorrow manifests in merely a fanciful declaration of self, perhaps there’s too much romance in my lungs- but I’d like to believe I have been changed. I’d like to believe my skin, touched, has molded into more than melted metal, more than solid flesh. I’d like to believe I’m more human because of this place, because of those trees, standing, solemn, sullen, sounding their great big waves. Like ancient creatures, whispering through calloused roots and wooden joints, blistering like the bones of old, tired men, full of knowing, full of life. Akin to some kind of glowing. Some nod to some solemnity. And I go peacefully- whispering words of remembrance, buried deep at the bottom of the lake. But then, the sky turns from green to blue. I taste beetles and bottles of blood. Bottles of blueness, dripping in blots, too big to believe in. The water is too cold this time of year, but sometimes I pretend- pushing a red wheelbarrow or pulling an olive branchthat I dip myself into the big blue sea, toes first, twinkling like the time I thought I had. The water feels like paint, cold and goopy and good for me, like dirt, dark and new- I emerge, covered in blueness to match my organs- my liver, my heart. I emerge, covered in what I imagine time looks like, covered in what I imagine this place would be if blue was not a color and fear was not a sound. Languidly we move towards an ending, a culminating moment of goodness, but o! how vain it is to want a good end. O! how mindlessly we waste time. How earnestly we spend these things called hours- these syllables, dissipating, like leaves of long, lanky grass, whistling in the wind. A falsified vivacity, I’d say- for in this sleep of death, what dreams may come? Mere reveries. Yellow chins and blueberry pie and afternoons spent doing what we think is good. I like to borrow time. I like keeping what I do not own.
Prose by Sage Molasky ’18 Photo by Pete Assakul ’18
18 Amir stood behind a low long table. The noon train had dropped off the usual one hundred people. One hundred lucky people given the chance to escape. One hundred lucky people given the chance to start over. One hundred lucky people who would be safe from bombs and bullets in the middle of the night. Some of the refugees were old, some young, but the majority were families, mothers and fathers herding frightened children through the station. In total, the screening process took about an hour. Amir worked at the end of the security line, inspecting the bags of immigrants. He would check their luggage for any dangerous weapons, and then he would weigh it. Any more than four kilograms and the bag would not be allowed on the train. The plane they would board at the next station could only carry so much weight. “Next!” he called. A short, older man hobbled towards him. Over his back, he carried a dirty white sack. The man dropped the sack on the table, and Amir could see that it was, in fact, a bedsheet which had been sewn together. Dumping the contents out onto the table, three large books toppled from the sack, held together with string and pieces of leather. Amir reached for the first book, slowly flipping through the pages to check for any concealed weaponry. The books had passed through the metal detector, so this was more of a routine scan. Skimming the pages, Amir could see that the book had been filled with poetry. Handwritten poems of every size filled the pages. The neat script flowed across the sheets. He grabbed the second book. This book had been damaged the most, yet it too was covered in poems. The old, yellow paper had begun to flake, and the words close to the edge of the pages were impossible to decipher. Compared to the first two, the last book remained in relatively good condition. Amir wished he had time to read the words. What was so important about these poems that this man chose to bring them and nothing else? Money and clothes. Everyone brought money and clothes. They weigh next to nothing, and they are practical. With his three massive books, this man risked exceeding the four-kilogram weight limit. Suddenly, Amir stopped turning the pages of the third book. The poems had ended. The last stanza of black ink sat in the middle of a page: The train is long and crowded. I watch my broken city disappear. I have been selected. I have been saved. Why do I feel this way? I know why. Because I will only see that street in my books. That market, that shop, Aisha, Trapped within the pages. I try to find them, but they are fading, And I am not going back. Amir closed the book and set it down gently on the scale. He placed the two other books on the scale as well. Five kilograms. Laying them into the sack, he handed the books back to the man. “Follow the sign. The next train will leave in about an hour. Good luck. Peace.” “Thank you, sir.” Amir paused for a second. He smiled. Then, he turned back towards the mounting crowd. “Next!”
Passage
Prose by Tucker Briglin ’20 Photo by JJ Hellerman ’19
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Rules for Wandering 1. You don’t find your destination. Your destination finds you. 2. When an old woman stops you to ask for help crossing a river or a bridge or a road, remember your manners. 3. Trust sparingly: Decline all gifts, apples and pomegranates especially. Eat only what you can buy or make with your own two hands. 4. Wander as far as you can without losing sight of home. When losing sight is inevitable, carve the roads you take on the inside of your palm. 5. Do not leave a trail behind you. You do not know what creatures are hungry for breadcrumbs. You do not know what follows you in the night. 6. Sleep with one eye open. 7. Above all else, if you hope to ever find your way back, remember your name, the taste of it like blood on your tongue, metallic and true.
Prose by Abby Sim ’20 Art by Olya Sukonrat ’21
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Rising with the season of the day, morning checkered light on the empty street, robins on the road dismantled worms. White houses tucked among pastured hills furrow their brows. It should be dusk. The birds should stop singing. You are reduced, dying in Sharon hospital, but the neighbors bring yellow eggs baked, chicks cremated in yolk, a quiche for your death day.
Mourning Poem by Zoe Wilson ’19 Art by Liz Ostermeyer ’18
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Self-Portrait Forgive the part of yourself that desires to be hidden You know who you are You are familiar with your body The skin behind your knees The birthmark at the end of your spine The places hair demands to be seen You are familiar with your history The yellow bruise faded on your inner thigh The mark on your lips that wasn’t there before The talus worn down over time You are familiar with your actions The bodies of water you’ve crossed The dirt you pick under your nails The quiet tap tap tap of your foot
Poem by Anonymous Art by Asher Duford ’20
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learning to breathe– there is never enough air in a room, doesn’t matter how open the space is or how big the windows appear or how alone you are, there are always four walls too many, lace yourself through beds and chairs and windows, your feet planted again, the same roof, hands up, and even God has not felt this much air all at once, fear and freedom smell the same, or maybe being this high in the atmosphere has affected your sense of smell, don’t be stupid, you’re not that high up, no point in being afraid now, do you think birds are afraid, how do they even know where to fly anyway, you peer to the skies in hope of stars to guide you, but there are only clouds, and even they look unsure of where they are headed, you think they are going one way and then another, and then a storm unfolds before your eyes, they are spinning orbits around your head but perhaps that’s the narcissism speaking, honey, you can’t be at the center of everything, but if you could, why the center of a storm, there is no glory in destruction
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Prose by Margot Ngo ’19 Art by Grace Li ‘21
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“No More Toaster” Credits: Alexa
Putting a vanilla cupcake topped with frosting in the toaster.
Jacob
Stuffing his sandwich with excessive cheese that melted in the toaster. Smoke came out of the toaster and the fire alarm rang. Students had to be evacuated from the dining hall.
Chef Moore
The hockey boys
Everyone else
Cooking and attempting to feed students strange foods like dumplings stuffed with cream cheese. Refusing to eat the hotline food including the cream cheese dumplings and crowding in front of the toaster to make quesadillas, which resulted in an increase in food waste and a decrease in Chef Moore’s self-esteem. Forbidden to use the toaster.
Prose by Yitong Wu ’20 Photo by Quinn Carlisle ’19
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A rush of hot air smacked me across the face. I stepped gingerly on the ramp, hauling a large duffel bag after me. I hobbled stiffly out of the train into a starched white hall, each step a chorus of creaks and cries from my joints. The dark industrial steel of handrails gleamed under the soft morning sun, the thin veneer of condensation fading away as travellers brushed past, one by one. The humidity settled around me like a winter blanket, a suffocatingly warm embrace that spares no space nor affection. A car skidded around the corner, the rush of air seemingly cutting through the omnipresent force that clung to each patch of my skin. The constant drone of noise suddenly came into focus. The whirring engines, gasping throttles of cars, and frenzied honking of annoyed taxi drivers all clashed together in a jarring, dissonant symphony. A tram came to a screeching halt, the harsh metallic scraping sending shivers down my spine. The hum of conversation throbbed to the beat of the streetlights, a whirlwind of similar yet distinct conversations and murmurs that faded into the background. I could catch the lingering scent of golden, buttery, egg waffles drifting from around the corner. The mild aroma of roasted chestnuts came from a small rusted cart leaning against a lampost, while a sharp whiff of soy sauce, sesame oil and spices came from a hawker just across the street. I looked up at the dense jungle of chrome and glass, the harsh, looming towers of ivory and gold piercing through the small fluffy clouds that line edges of heaven. A stranger brushed past my shoulder briskly. And another. And another. I was home.
Prose by Nick Hsu ’20 Photo by Alex Xu ’19
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Photos by Daniel Pai ’19
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Photo by Elise Nam ’20
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Easy the moon is out i mean the white light between the shy of curtains is
all you
this and the awakening tractors
so talk to me in your dialect of the south and my god the music
finds me now and i bet you’re sleeping on (sleep on
Poem and Photo by Anonymous
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CHAP 2018
The China Hotchkiss Art Program brought ten students to Beijing, all of whom stayed near the Central Academy of Fine Arts and explored the emerging Chinese contemporary art scene by visiting gallery exhibitions, studio spaces, museums, and more. The following are reflections from a few participants. Film photography taken by Dear Liu ’19 over the course of the two weeks serves as a narration of the experience as a whole.
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长城脚下 葛叔说最厉害的武林高手 都是无门无派 他的厨艺也是如此 “不信你尝尝我的栗子烧肉。” 听到“门派”二字她就笑了 那个无门无派的女人 一段被敌人占领的长城的悲哀 一段从未被敌人占领的长城的悲哀
Poem by Lei Pan
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On The Bus
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Musings on the History of Brake Systems, and other unexpected thoughts on globalization and cultural exchange from Beihai, Beijing. Prose by Liz Ostermeyer ’18
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In traveling, I’ve found great joy in beauty simply stumbled upon in the betweens, where life is lived for its own sake. Such surprises are particularly abundant in China, where even the mundane glimmers with an element of the absurd: a lab-jacketed local setting up his plein air barbershop; a man in business casual jogging in place, that place being the middle of the sidewalk; a zealous photographer cooing to a toddler modeling the latest line of Peppa the Pig x Gucci. These are the sights that decorate Beijing. In the hopes of finding a few, the destination of the day is the quotidian. As a way to cover more ground, we’ve turned to the bicycle. Perhaps the idea of a leisurely bike tour better suits the country. The average city cyclist has a job, to which they would presumably like to get. On time. Making meandering difficult. In order to keep in line with the flow of traffic, my field of vision has been compressed to the 4 inch strip of Beijing rolling out directly underneath the back wheel to my front. I let my eyes wander to a colorfully adorned storefront for a moment, but am nearly blindsided by a man on a hoverboard. It may have been my most local experience yet. So bikes are maybe an imperfect mode of transportation. Travelers who really care about curating a fruitful experience, though, will glean cultural insight from even the biggest flops. This brief break at Beihai seems best as any to start spinning some observational gold! But I’m distracted. I’ve been distracted from the minute we received our bikes and I discovered that brake systems on Chinese bikes are reversed; the right-hand brake controls the front wheel and left-hand, the back. Well great, there goes thirteen years of muscle memorized mastery! I try to go on, embarrassed by my willingness to let conditioning define right and wrong, normal and abnormal. As we begin to bike, I notice the thoughtless adaptation of American signaling standards contradicts the Chinese brake system. In America, a biker is always to signal with her left arm. This allows for her right hand to be on the back break–the preferred brake for safe stops–at all times. As we bike now, however, we have to take our hand off the brake to signal for everything, including a brake. Which means we cannot punctually alert traffic of our braking. It may seem inconsequential, but it’s exactly the sort of thing I tend to fixate on, and frankly, it’s pissing me off. Because, while there is no hiding my being an American in China, I shiver at the thought of revealing myself to be a stupid American! Why don’t we just make the obvious adjustment and signal with our right hands? Are we really so stuck in our own ways?
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It’s not so simple. Just as it does in America, traffic in China runs on the right side. If we signal with our right hand, we’ll be communicating to nothing but the gutter. Use your left arm and forego your timely access to the brake; use your right arm and hide your signals from the commuters to your back. I’m hardly an expert on the history of brake systems, so I’m still hopeful there is a reason for the Chinese orientation of brakes, despite its causing the conundrum I’ve identified. But for all I know, it’s an unaccounted for error, resulting from the lazy marriage of two standards. I travel keeping my mind open. I feel that, as a young American, it is my obligation to accept difference. This mindset is built on a belief that, if I simply give them enough time, I will be able to justify the practices, standards, and societal sensibilities the world comprises in a way that is compatible with my own beliefs–my own practices, standards, and sensibilities. The error of the bikes results from an inability, somewhere along the way, to take time to achieve this compatibility, representing exactly the reckless globalism I attempt to avoid. Yet, perhaps there is no compatibility to be found in using so many standards, rooted in multiple traditions. Maybe solving the bike conundrum requires accepting one set of standards over the other in totality. I feel as disillusioned as ever. Allowing one set of traditions to dominate the other out of existence feels anti-global. Underneath my crusade of global understanding creeps a bit of cowardice. I resist admitting that my own beliefs are sometimes incompatible with the traditions of other cultures. In a way, culture is the lived form of a society’s values, and there will be times when those values conflict directly. Condemning dangerous practices is not closed-minded; it is critical to protecting my values and my society’s values. Readiness to criticize what is different can be counterproductive and misguided, but unwillingness to do so can be just as dangerous. My travels have exposed me to new perspectives and broadened my ability to relate to others, an opportunity I would have lost if I were too resistant to difference. But at times, I have been exposed to practices I can’t help but feel are, on a fundamental level, wrong. I am ashamed to admit I sometimes have met such practices with, at best, ambivalence and, at worst, blatant apology. I have done so in part to avoid being labeled ignorant, but also to avoid really thinking about what I stood for. Perhaps it’s time I weren’t so afraid to challenge what I see. Luckily, today, it’s only bikes.
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Xu Bing
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Walking the Hutong
Art and Poem by Charlie Noyes
Just beyond your doorstep There is a lion waiting If you choose to find it. Wander and wonder As you explore the narrow, living Hutong. Exercise kindness and respect When you encounter the unfamiliar and the unknown. One turn follows the next. And the next. Do not worry About retracing your steps. For there is a lion waiting Just beyond your doorstep. And when you find it You will be home.
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Our Host Mr. Ge
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The Great Wall
ink. ISSUE 22 Summer 2018
Writing Director Alex Xu ’19 Art Director Dear Liu ’19 Design Director Edward Guo ’19
Club Advisors Brad Faus Charlie Frankenbach Editorial Margot Ngo ’19 Shine Lee ’20 Abby Sim ’20 Layout + Visual Jiahua Chen ’20 Beckett Hornik ’20 Jacqui Rice ’20 Outreach Quinn Carlisle ’19 Covers by Dear Liu ’19 Inside Covers by JJ Hellerman ’19 Follow us on Instagram @ink.hotchkiss If you wish to submit artwork, photography, writing, and/or video/audio work for our next issue, please contact Alex Xu (gxu@hotchkiss.org) Dear Liu (wliu2@hotchkiss.org)
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