ISSUE 14
The purpose of literature is to turn blood into
ink. —T.S. Eliot
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ink is changing. In tending towards compositions that are by nature more personal, we have embarked on a process of self-reflection, reassessing our design principles in an effort to better represent the prose, the poetry, the art, the photography. While this issue marks the start of a new direction, we are nonetheless committed to what we have always stood for. We at ink are committed to providing you and the community with an avenue for expression, an avenue that is free of judgement or condemnation. We hope you enjoy this issue.
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Passenger 08 I grew up with Smoke in my eyes 10 [Untitled] 15 An Alleyway 16 Sleuths, Deerstalkers, and Intrigue 18 Speculation 20 From Eden 22 Dancing in the Moment 28 The Demise of the Creative Process 30 Taillights 32 Senior Musings 36 1403 38 But Do Not Forget/Pero No Olvidemos 06
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Passenger
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Halfway to your destination, the tracks fade. Established rhythm can’t accommodate the blur. In the midst of losing senses to sameness, you heave an evoking thought. (The beginning and the end are duplicate entities.) Where have you been? What have you seen? Behind golden rays, cherry specks dab rolling green hills, a sparrow’s hop interrupted by the emptied Coke tin scintillating between tracks, and the pale-faced student staringtime pulls you backwards and onwards. A missing perspective, unanswered. Like a glance shared with a stranger, moving away as quickly as you engaged. Moments later you wonder if it happened at all or have you forgotten already? An onlooker sees only an outline of the moving train, you fill in the blank with a familiar shape seconds ago, at an earlier time, We’ve only just made acquaintance.
Poem by Elisa Xu ’17 Photography by Virginia Thornton ’16
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I grew up with Smoke in my eyes
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When I was four I saw the most beautiful golden bowl in the hands of a young bald man with a brown and yellow piece of cloth intricately wrapped around him. I pulled on my mother’s shirt to ask her for his identity. He was a monk, my mother told me. The bowl inside his hand looked sturdy and bore a dull golden sheen; his facial expression expressed humility and mellowed joy; his movement demonstrated nimbleness and sophistication; his overall aura was utterly different from all the other adults I had known before. When I was six my mother took me to a grand and ancient pagoda whose stone walls were rough and freckled. In between their crevices a massive banyan grew, its roots sprawling the earth before plunging underground, its branches covered in thin and dangly earthy strands, its leaves abundant and evergreen. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to feel the parched coating of the tree, to take the tree into my embrace, to slide down its bumpy surface. But I was cooped up under my mother’s
vigilance, to stay inside the massive hall, to kneel, to bow, to chant in unison with the other believers, and to admire the significance of Buddha. When I was thirteen we moved to a new house that was big enough for a religious altar. Every night my mother insisted that we must climb up four and a half flights of stairs to light some incense sticks, ring the bell, and say our prayers. As the room doused itself in eye-watering haze, resonant reverberation, and eloquent mantras, my gaze stayed fixated on the wooden floor in front of me. Every month, when the silver moon swells up to the size of a tennis ball hung against the velvety night sky, warm bodies float in through the main gate and situate themselves in front of the copper-coated Gods, whose eyes were distant and soulless, whose lips fell in flat lines, whose fingers arched with poise and undivided focus. Together they chanted. Though the content and language were forbiddingly foreign to me, the incantation’s rhythm was extraordinarily poetic to my ears. The rhymes, the rise and fall of respectful silence, the perceivable passion in the believers’ voices all contributed to a transcendentally melodious wholeness. With the
disfiguration of gravity by the curtains of smoke, the statues of Buddha gave the illusion that they were riding on clouds by their divine intervention, sprinkling blessings from a height. The scent of lilies and cinnamon sticks swirled in the air, hesitantly leading each other through a dance, refusing to integrate. Whilst solemn voices trickled into my ears and the lumbering breeze brushed past my closed eyelids, I let the unusually intriguing combination of aroma take me over. The odour lingered on my hair, clothes and mind for days afterwards. All my childhood years I spent under the hazy safe haven of Buddhism. Countless full moons have passed and countless ceremonies have taken place, during which countless incense sticks have been frittered and countless lilies have blossomed and wilted. Yet, every month, though it fails to evoke in me the power of faith, the floating silver plate in the night sky still reminds me of the multi-dimensional and timeless aesthetics of Buddhism.
Essay and art by Ivy Nguyen ’16 9
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stars and moon like a dark inverted kiwi scattered across the sky
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the ancient turtle in my garden— is a Mohammedan angel
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I realized I was a book— I felt its pulse in my finger
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all my friends are dead dead poets
Haikus by Victor Skarstedt ’17
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sky is big blue fish— wet cotton clouds puffing into Eternity
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mescaline is something I have never done
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Photography by Kate Shiber ’1613
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An Alleyway He knew the ghoul was close. It was late into the night, an unusual time for lone men to be wandering. Jim turned another corner to find the end of the maze of backstreets. It was a grotesque sight: the demon had been busy. A bloodbath of bodies filled the alley; corpses lay on top of each other, forming naked hills; others were embedded deeply into the brick walls. Blood was everywhere; under the moonlight a crimson carpet covered the floor. Red lines flowed down from the alley’s walls onto the floor where it leaked into the rain gutter’s thin lines. Jim grimaced as the dead’s rancid smell crept into his nose; he drew and clenched his rifle with both hands. The radio on his hip buzzed for a report but he shut it off; this would be his kill. Rip, rip, rip. The ghoul was still occupied with its feeding. How sad, thought Jim as he saw how young the ghoul was; merely a child with its dark hazel hair and boyish face. However, the ghoul’s true appearance was revealed through its bright red eyes and smile, as it hunched over its live, writhing victim. The ghoul raised the girl over its head and crushed her inwards between its hands, blood splattering all over its outstretched tongue. Time to end this, Jim thought to himself. He walked towards the ghoul and cocked his gun. The sudden clicking noise froze Tensu in his place. The puddle at his feet rippled as he took a step to stand up. Slowly, Tensu slowly became aware of the corpses and flesh strewn around him. He gripped his head and collapsed on the concrete, screaming as he realized what he had done. Never did he mean to hurt anybody. He turned around to see the source of the sound. A man stood at the other end of the alley. His face was hidden by a strange metal mask, and in his right hand he held a long, silver object. Help me, please I beg you, Tensu cried out to the man but the man replied by continuing to walk closer. I know you may not believe it but I’m human; I’m begging you, please help me, Tensu screamed with his eyes clenched shut. The cold barrel pressed down against Tensu’s temple. Was this it? Tensu questioned, was this to be the ending of my life; to die in this dark, dark place? I deserve this. I’m a murderer. I’m a monster. Bang. ...Rip, Rip, Rip.
Story by Max Li ’17 Photography by Kate Shiber ’16
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Sleuths, Deerstalkers, an
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A review of Sherlock, the movie
nd Intrigue The game is on. Welcome to the Baker Street of carriages, hansom cabs, cravats, and top hats. On January first, the Sherlock Christmas special The Abominable Bride aired in both the U.S. and the U.K., reintroducing Sherlock fans to the Holmes of 1895. For the length of Sherlock’s previous three seasons, co-writers Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat have modernized the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle into a fresh, incisive portrayal of a present-day Holmesian world. The show has crafted Holmes and Watson into contemporary figures who integrate flawlessly into twenty-first century life. Therefore, the announcement that the recent special would be set in 1895 came as a surprise to many fans. Would a show so rooted in the present be able to make this transition away from modernity? As it happens, The Abominable Bride does not stray fully from the timeline of the first three seasons. Over the course of its ninety-minute running time, the episode links past and present, examining the influence of time on perspective. Some of the most interesting products of these dual timeframes are the new aliases of familiar characters. Benedict Cumberbatch’s Holmes portrayal seems more withdrawn, and Martin Freeman plays John Watson with renewed, though nondescript, brilliance. This is an excellent means of character development but also a source of humor. Mycroft Holmes (Mark Gatiss) becomes a decadent, morbidly obese gentleman. Molly Hooper (Louise Brealey) takes a leaf out of The Merchant of Venice and dons a suit and fake mustache. These new personas reveal how each character conforms to 19th century norms. Explaining these changes, Mr. Gatiss said, “What we initially
did was to come up with modern equivalents for all the Victorian things, so in this we go back to the original. The texting is sending telegrams. We just reverse engineered it to how Conan Doyle did it.” Although initially comedic, Molly’s disguise reflects one of the episode’s darkest themes--the subjugation of women during the Victorian era. More than any other Sherlock episode, The Abominable Bride makes a powerful social statement. Molly’s subterfuge is a necessity for anyone seeking to advance in her society, where any woman with ambition must reinvent herself to succeed. Similarly, the reanimated corpse of Emilia Ricoletti prowls the hedgerows in search of vengeance for years of subjugation. In the words of Amanda Abbington, who plays Mary Watson, the episode is a “Proper Gothic horror.” The Abominable Bride’s plot strays almost entirely from the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. As Mr. Gatiss confirmed in a BBC interview, the script is essentially an original story. However, it draws on a single line in “The Adventure Of The Musgrave Ritual,” a Conan Doyle short story. In the story, Holmes references the “full account of Ricoletti of the club foot and his abominable wife.” Rest assured that despite its tenuous connection to Conan Doyle, the episode retains the spirit of his works from start to finish. Fans who are still consumed with the thrill of the chase can anticipate a full three-part season in the winter of 2016.
Essay by James FitzGerald ’17
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Speculation If I am to give myself to love, I demand a softening of myself. Now I am Picasso’s geometric edge, de Kooning’s dissembled parts. Sometimes, unable to stop, I watch my severed hands dance epilepsy, frantic finds in the bottom right for my left breast ripped, my kneecaps rolled like dice, my teeth torn to some far corner, my maddened heart nowhere on this canvas.
An ugly thing.
Lover, if you want me, touch me with Renoir’s stroke. Keep the blood under my skin but raise it warmly to the surface with your lips, your hands holding mine still from trembling. Don’t drink from me dry, drunk. Fill my cup; we may sip together. Know my body whole, not by pieces for play, but fleshy full and wanting you the same. Teach me how to love an artist of an unknown name.
Poem by Sylvie Robinson ’16 Art by Elaine Wang ’16
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From
Eden
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The cobblestone streets of Jerusalem are empty, the usual hoards of tourists now sitting down to a dinner of mezza platters. The winding alleyways tumble endlessly as the sunlight fades, leaving just me and my father and the clack of our shoes bouncing off of boarded storefronts. The signs are all written three times, once for the Quran, once for the Torah, and once in letters I recognize. We descend deeper into the labyrinth, losing ourselves in our search throughout the ancient veins of the city. Everything is grey to me: the waning sky, the uneven stones set in the street, and the layer of dust coating the air and lining my lungs. A dark-skinned man with dark hair and dark eyes leans against a building facade. “Masa’ el-kheir.” “Masa’ an-noor.” My father reciprocates the familiar greeting. I can only understand the basics of the following conversation: Can you take us to the mosque? Are you Muslim? Yes. And her? Of course. He turns to me and strange guttural noises punctuated by rolling riffs flow out of his mouth and fail to reach my brain. He sees the panic flooding my eyes, and he switches to broken English. “Sister, you good Muslim?” I think about sitting in pews in yellow dresses on Easter mornings. “Yes.” “Sister, you know Quran?” I think about the heavy book filled with thin paper that sits in Pastor John’s hands, the weight of it I have yet to feel in my own. “Yes.” “Sister, you know prayer?” I think about the words I mumble with the congregation, phrases memorized out of necessity, their meaning forgotten. I can hear the blood rushing to my ears and my palms are sweating. He knows I’m lying. “Yes.” That’s all he needs. He slips into the space between the two sandstone buildings and emerges from the darkness with a green floral hijab and a black striped long skirt. I put them on, knowing I look ridiculous. He leads us through the maze swiftly; I have to pick up my skirt to keep pace, always looking down at the stones to keep my footing. The guard scrutinizes me from afar, my disguise failing me. Our guide whispers in his ear, then nods
to us. We cross the threshold, my eyes stealing side-glances through the slit in my veil as I take off my shoes. As I enter the Mosque’s enclosure, the pale sky opens up, revealing the fading pinks of the sunset clinging to the horizon, and the first stars glimmering overhead. My skin is still hot from the Mediterranean sun, yet the cold chill of the smooth marble floor seeps through the cracked soles of my bare feet as I pad across the courtyard. The plane of stone stretches vastly, contained by a high wall. I can feel the city’s bustle vibrate beyond those walls, but the air here is still. Perfectly dropped in the center of the courtyard towers a building so exquisite the breath is stolen from my lips. Facets of multicolored stone surround the base of the octagonal building. Stone columns stretch upward and are met by vivid blue and green tiles, covered with intricate designs painstakingly crafted by weathered hands. Arabic calligraphy scrawls across the walls, text and art becoming one. My eyes are drawn in by the deep blue of the tiles, but are quickly diverted upwards to the crowning feature: a magnificent gold dome. Through the arched doorway, I can barely make out bodies crowded into a dimly lit interior. I greedily take in the scene, trying to sear the memory into my brain. I inhale and time stops. Suddenly, the stillness is shattered by the cry of the minaret, a man’s voice reverberating throughout the courtyard. The muezzin sings the call to prayer, his voice projected by a loudspeaker meant to reach all of Jerusalem. His voice is liquid, rolling over each note with pain and care, caressing each word until the very last drop of breath is squeezed from his lungs, wavering like the warble of a songbird. It is the ultimate expression of faith. A bolt of ice shoots straight through my spine, and I close my eyes to listen to the eerie sound cut through the dusty air. My heels feel grounded, as if I am tied to the stone beneath me. I see men and women respond to his call, flocking to the mosque. “Do you want to go inside, Sister?” I shake my head no. My father glares at me. “Are you sure?” “Yes. I want to leave now.” I have already overstayed my welcome in this place far too sacred for me. Story by Chloe Onbargi ’16 Photography by Kate Shiber ’16
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Dancing in the Moment
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Most people leave a dance performance either feeling confused about the message the choreographer and dancers were attempting to convey or claiming to have gained some kind of clear understanding. Despite being a dancer and choreographer, I have honestly never experienced the latter. To me, true movement expresses those emotions that humans feel but cannot describe with words. Not every step or gesture is meant to be analyzed for some deep metaphorical meaning, but a series of movements in harmony with music connects every person in the room through a shared experience of raw, human emotion. Those are the moments that I look for most, moments where an unexpected turn caused me to instinctively hold my breath or my pulse to quicken. Yes, on the surface, there may have been a life lesson or a narrative that progressed in the piece, but the best dancers make the audience feel, not think. Maybe that is why I am so passionate about dance. There are an infinite number of ways that one can choose to move next, but the idea that the succession of each movement, chosen out of infinity, can become something so powerful confounds me. Ironically, for most of my life I hated dancing. I dreaded going to dance class every week to simply stand in front of an enormous mirror, which mocked my deepest insecurities. All the while, my teacher stood in the corner with a permanent scowl across her face, which only changed to yell at me for skipping a count or misplacing an arm. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I kept going. When most kids were going to the movies on Friday nights or sleeping in on Saturday mornings, I was spending anywhere from two to thirteen hours in the dance studio. On the outside, pointe shoes were every little girl’s dream, but beneath the façade of pretty pink ribbons were scars from countless blisters, cuts, and bruises. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when dance became my
passion but somewhere in those hazy early years, I latched onto dance as an escape from friends, school, the confines of my small town, and even myself. As a child who was consumed by an endless train of thoughts, the only time I ever seemed to stop thinking was while I was dancing. I focused all of my energy into the present, attempting to embody technique, elegance, artistry, and emotion all at once. Eventually, something that I once hated doing became something that I cannot imagine myself without. When I think about dance, I feel a mixture of comfort, joy, wistfulness, and fear. The mirror I once hated is now a familiar friend that I rely on to improve. Those criticisms my teacher told me so harshly back then I now see as cherished signs of care and concern. I have hated dance. I have loved it, and I still do love it. But as with every passion, there comes a moment when one must choose whether or not to follow through. A part of me, the rational side, wants to dance as much as I can before I am forced to move on with my life, yet the other perpetual part of me, the dancer, wants to sacrifice all of that rationality to pursue my passion. In the midst of my self-created paradox, I remember one of the most important lessons that dance has taught me, to not overthink but experience all in the present. While I still do not know which part of me I should listen to, during these times, I cannot help but think of a phrase that somebody once told me: “There are too many people in this world who want to be lawyers and doctors, which means that some people are meant to pursue their true passions.”
Essay by Jenny Liu ’17 Art by Narisa Buranasiri ’16
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Photography by Annabelle Von Weise ’17
Photography by Harry Roepers ’19
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Kate Shiber ’16
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The Demise o f th e
Creative Process
“I got two gold keys and an honorable mention this year.” These terms are increasingly associated with artistic brilliance as competitions like the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards garner more public attention and prestige. The Scholastic Awards competition was founded in 1923 with the purpose of “[identifying] students with exceptional artistic and literary talent and [presenting] their remarkable work to the world.” The question is, what is the definition of exceptional artwork, especially considering that art is, by nature, a subjective craft? Scholastic never specifically outlines how they set about reviewing artistic submissions. Their description of the necessary criteria is as follows: “Panelists look for works that best exemplify originality, technical skill, and the emergence of a personal voice or vision.” Such ambiguity suggests that the works are often judged based on their general excellence, preventing artists from identifying and pursuing specific ways to improve their work. Students are not looking to submit pieces that pursue their own vision of what might be interesting or unconventional art, but pieces that are generally pleasing to the eye. Additionally, the main competition does not provide an opportunity for students to explain their work in the form of prose. What results is a one-dimensional competition that judges submissions ambiguously. In 2015, the Scholastic Art competition received over 300,000 submissions nationwide. Most of the submissions were from the Northeastern United States, with the West Coast a close second. Artwork in the state of Connecticut is digitally submitted, judged within a span of three days; judges spent roughly thirty seconds on each piece. The systematic mass-judgement of these submissions combined with the highly ambiguous criteria for selection resulted in a fairly arbitrary selection. Some categories, especially drawing, received so many submissions that the submissions were selected or essentially disregarded on the basis of a single glance. To offer such little consideration to submissions that may have complex conceptual and technical nuances is disrespectful to the young artists who participate. Additionally, the submissions are digitally submitted and judged. The original works of art are only required once the pieces are awarded. Digitally, students can manipulate the piece to their liking: heightening contrast,
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increasing color vibrance, fixing technical issues with their piece - to a certain extent - all of which serves to compromise the integrity of the submission. Regarding integrity, no system exists that can accurately filter the work of an art teacher or art professional in place of the student. Students often seek professionals to help elevate the technical sophistication of their artwork. However, a competition that promotes technical brilliance over individual voice and integrity only encourages such practices. Furthermore, the prizes issued, once the decisions are made, often fail to reflect a specific or unique quality in the work. I doubt any art teacher would be able to comprehensively distinguish the difference between a gold key, a silver key, and an honorable mention. Because of the prizes’ arbitrary nature, the sense of validation one might feel after winning a prestigious award is non-existent: the awards feel artificial. Some of these issues may be alleviated with a required increase in the time spent with each submission, an examination of the original work, and the development of more transparent guidelines as to how the pieces are judged and what the awards mean. Nonetheless, such issues are indicative of a fundamental problem that exists with national art competitions as a whole: they inhibit artistic creativity and take away from the artistic process . The most serious issue with these art competitions is not the premise, but the means by which art students attempt to fabricate success in these competitions and the false sense of validity that the competition fosters. The Scholastic Art competition, and many other national art competitions, damage the artistic process. Art students, who remain concerned with the false sense of validity that these supposedly “prestigious” competitions instill, cater their artwork to the judges, abandoning ingenuity and the risk of unorthodox ideas in the hopes of fitting the mold of a successful submission. These competitions create a sense of insecurity within artists and give them the impression that they have to justify their artwork by collecting prizes that only reflect a subjective, arbitrary, and frankly generic conception of what good art is. These competitions limit artistic improvement and constrain the creative process. Students should concentrate instead on developing work within their art class that is meaningful to them. Relying on intimate art critiques and an involved artistic process instead of national recognition, while submitting to regional competitions that give submissions their due attention, will prove most beneficial to the aspiring artist.
Essay by Chris Hemm ’17
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Taillights The humming fluorescence of the 7-11 sign cast a green glow into the night. The distinct odor of gasoline mingled with that of stale, acrid tobacco. Four girls were loitering around the convenience store’s graphitized wall, needing to look sexy but feeling decidedly unsexy. They were evenly spread throughout the block, pretending not to know each other. And that was what they hoped. A solitary lamp down the street flicked on and off, until it finally gave up in one last feeble attempt at illumination. Ripped fishnets and kitten heels littered the uneven sidewalk as a dilapidated El Camino pulled alongside the curb. The passenger window rolled down, and a singular girl stumbled forward, dropping her cigarette. About nineteen, she disappeared into the beat-up sedan as it drove off. The still-burning butt fell into the dirty gutter, the orange dot of its lit toxins fading until it became indiscernible among the crunched Pepsi cans and fallen leaves. The red taillights became smaller and smaller, until they eventually disappeared around the corner. The three others felt a wash of relief and pity, though they maintained an unfaltering air of confidence. This act was all due to the surveying presence of Conrad. He was posted up against a Laundromat across the street, rigidly juxtaposed between a dented stop sign and a utility pole. The girls were exceedingly aware of his company, for it brought about the most repugnant combination of self-loathing and desire to prove themselves. Conrad was a big guy with a tough exterior, though all the girls knew his heart softened just for them. No one else could make him feel the way they did; he didn’t care for the other girls like he did for her. Twenty minutes passed and the car returned, skidding to a halt in front of the corner. No one looked up; the three didn’t seem to register the girl’s return as she staggered out of the car, noticeably more disheveled. Her previously pin-straight hair stuck up at the back a bit as she approached Conrad; his furtive glances had beckoned her towards him. He quickly struck up an intense conversation with her, voices hushed yet still barely audible. Conrad was visibly displeased, talking at her aggressively. The girls were careful to keep the pair just in the corner of their periphery. Suddenly, Conrad hit her. And not a flirtatious tap on the arm- a full on blow to the face. She started crying. Instead of feeling pity and relief like they had earlier, this time the trio was just disdainful. How could someone hurt her baby like that? Who does she think she is? Just as suddenly, however, Conrad tenderly brushed the tears off of her face with his thumb. He lifted her chin, staring into her eyes, watching watery mascara trickle down her cheeks. He muttered something under his breath, and she let out a small smile. Conrad turned, opening the passenger door of his black Acura. Exchanging one last meaningful look with the remaining three, he got in his car. The girls all thought in their head how pathetic the girl was, simultaneously noting how cute Conrad was to take her home after her embarrassing outburst. They were done for the night.
Story by Katie Smith ’17 Art by Maddie Carroll ’16
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Senior Musings Hotchkiss is a tough place. Winter can get dull at times, the college process is a drag, campus life is usually taxing, and we are never completely free of obligations. Amidst all this stress, it’s so easy to complain and assume a cynical attitude. The Class of 2016 can certainly attest to the challenges that all of us must overcome before stepping onto that lawn on graduation day. I’d be lying if I said Hotchkiss was perfect, or that Hotchkiss is home. Nonetheless, I am not lying when I say that Hotchkiss is nearly perfect, that it has become almost as dear as home and that even memories of sleep-deprivation and existential crises now seem almost lovable. So in the small hope that I may give courage to lowerclassmen and the rising seniors who must continue their march, I’d like to share a few excerpts from my journal entries chronicling my Hotchkiss experience. Some are fiction and others are everyday musings, but they have one thing in common: the place that inspired them all.
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September 23rd, 2013 (Lower-Mid Fall) The beeps of my alarm clock rudely and mercilessly pierce through fragments of my valiant feat. I hang mid air, the friction of the wind still fresh against my ear and the cold seeping through my garments. A loud thump. I wince. The back of my neck throbs. There was a parachute involved, and somehow I was saving the world by jumping off that hundred-story building. I lie on my room floor, my hands numb from the tight grip and wet from the sweaty thrill. But the adrenaline is gone from my bloodstream, and I no longer feel powerful and heroic. My eyelids are heavier than the tectonic plates I had just moved. Confused and frustrated, I try to piece together the bits of my perfect and irresistible imagination. Eyes half closed, I climb onto my mattress, now conflicted about the smell of shampoo from my shower caddy I knocked over. Shock overcomes every cell in my system as I frantically grab the silver handle and turn it left. Brrrrrrr. The icy bullets piercing my skin fade into a spring drizzle. Goosebumps go away, but the alertness stays. Enriched by the resonance of Memorial dormitory shower stalls, my vocal chords ring in an excited artistic pursuit, worthy of the majestic stage of Carnegie Hall. The soap, bubbles and the warmth beg me to stay longer, but I dutifully finish so that the next performer can commence. I feel the goosebumps again—the morning air is brisk. I notice how loud my stomach can growl, louder than the bustle of my floormates preparing for the morning. October 3rd, 2014 (Upper-Mid Fall) what was it that i saw we left our backs turned away walked our own paths met the pinnacle sharp and penetrating against the high, blue indifference for the hopeful man it was the green light on daisy’s dock for the dissident it was the expanses of the meadows November 30th, 2013 (Lower-mid Fall) Umbrella It’s a thin long stick that transforms into a round cloth shield, with flexible metal branches holding the cloth and the handle together. Kids draw it like a mushroom. It silently hovers between the gray sky and the busily moving street. Its job is to get wet, sometimes gently knocked on by a soft drizzle, other times pounded viciously by a deluge, all for someone else to stay dry and warm. You might find one outside in the hands of a forgetful dad who sneakily took it from his workplace, having forgotten to bring one of his own. Moments later, you could look under his couch to find it carelessly slipped underneath, because with the smell of delicious dinner cooking, and the relief from finally being home, the umbrella is the last thing on his mind. Nor would he give an appreciative thought about how he was able to come home dry and warm.
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One evening when she sees the sudden bright flickers outside her window, the prudent mother might succeed in spotting it underneath the couch. She would place it next to her son’s backpack for the morning, and remind him in the car to bring it back from the classroom. He’d still leave it anyway. She wouldn’t remember about it either, when she comes to pick him up after the sun starts shining in the afternoon. Forgotten again, in a different corner, under a different roof. It’s one of the many things in the world whose absence is just as inconspicuous as its presence. January 4, 2015 (Upper-mid Winter) He ate lunch each day with his colleagues and students. He was a true intellectual, they all said. He listened with sparkling interest and spoke with reasoned passion. Everyone remarked with admiration of his energetic disposition that added individuality to his intellectual insights. But rarely did he speak of his own opinions. It was a nearly impossible task, what he did successfully every day: mask the anomalies within most outwardly obvious aspect of a college professor—his speech. He spoke so earnestly about other’s thoughts that it was difficult to doubt he genuinely agreed with their opinions. More remarkable was his ability to conceal the fact that he never never referred to himself in his speech—not that he was imperious, referring to himself in third person, but that he never used words that affiliated himself to the external world. The confidence and fluidity of his speech masked its anomalies. He shined in the daylight: he possessed a dominating stage presence in the lecture hall and captivated the attention of his students and colleagues with speeches that encompassed the whole of society except himself. He was a demagogue, able to kindle rage and frenzy and love by manipulating group mentality, and he was able to do so with the most deliberate and complete detachment from personal opinion. He appeared human and genuine, with a hearty appetite for everything—knowledge, food, exercise… but not alcohol, which he also kept disguised. When he retreated home, he turned on all the lights of the house. He lived alone in a house with five bedrooms, a study and a very large living room, which at the very center was a bed much too large for one person. He walked into his study at the end of the corridor and sat behind his computer screen. The house was silent other than the sound of his fingers against the keyboard. The lights stayed on the whole night. Amidst the utter darkness of the night, with not even stars to be seen, the lights shining through his windows separated him from the rest of the world, just as he wished. September 20, 2015 (Senior Fall) Listen to Tim Minchin. “I said at the beginning of this ramble that life is meaningless. However, I am no nihilist. I am not even a cynic. I am, actually, rather romantic. And here’s my idea of romance: You will soon be dead. Life will sometimes seem long and tough and, god, it’s tiring. And you will sometimes be happy and sometimes sad. And then you’ll be old. And then you’ll be dead. There is only one sensible thing to do with this empty existence, and that is: fill it.”
Entries by Viola Lee ’16 Photography by Virginia Thornton ’16
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1403 Poem by Polina Solovyeva ’16
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This is the way it goes: the Hudson River is full of rotting green bananas that smell like dead fish. I want to put my feet into the river’s flesh and think about how his skin smells the strongest right under his bellybutton and how I press my ear against it listening to his insides. The Hudson River is full of rotten cigarette butts and stories that repeat over and over again. I want the sand on the bottom to know how it feels when he traces the holy cross over my body: my forehead below my stomach my right breast my left breast and then laughs about Jesus Christ. I whisper to the dead fishes of the Hudson river about how my teeth hurt when he kisses my waist from behind and how there are no excuses for craving to feel so wanted over and over again. This is the way it goes: the meat is raw the homeless men are burned down the Hudson river is fleshy. I want to fill my mouth with its sand, feel its dead water sucking my skin, and scream about the smell of his tongue.
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But Do Not Forget December 6, 2015 A finger holds no power when raised naked; but stained purple, as broken in fight, dictates more than words from Red Hat. Never had I sung the words of my anthem in this way: Hunched, drowned in artificial light – the only portal which nears me to my land – quiet not to penetrate the wall and wake those who don’t care; little wet paths toward the chin, pushing with their weight the flaccid trunks rooted in cheek. I wonder if Landaeta predicted the red forthcomings of Venezuela and wrote: song for liberty. If he used Spain as metaphor for the communist yoke that today lost official power (under the fierce vote of a united people) over Teacher whose salary buys not textbooks and so teaches from memory, over Doctor who finds no paper for the prescription of a medicine that doesn’t exist,
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Pero No Olvidemos Diciembre 6, 2015 Un dedo solo nada puede si se levanta desnudo; pero manchado de morado, como en lucha quebrado, dicta más que las palabras de la Cachucha Roja. Nunca había cantado las palabras de mi himno de esta manera: Encorvado, inundado en luz artificial – el único portal que me acerca a mi tierra – callado para no penetrar la pared y despertar a quienes no le importa; caminillos mojados hacia la barbilla, empujando con su peso los troncos flácidos de raíces en mejilla. Me pregunto si Landaeta adivinó el futuro rojo de Venezuela y escribió: canto para la libertad; si usó a España como metáfora para el yugo comunista que hoy ha perdido poder oficial (bajo el voto bravo de un pueblo unido) sobre la Profesora que no tiene salario para comprar los libros de clase y enseña de memoria, sobre el Médico que no encuentra papel para el récipe de una medicina que ya no existe,
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over Farmer whose land was painted red and name erased from fence, over Girl whose hands dissolve with water from her eyes that falls with Brother, over Father who awaits the return of his Daughter from the march of 2014, over Us who tired. The thrice-striped mantle that refuges us in one, whose name is so holy that we simply call it flag – like the Jew who for love and fear of the purity and eminence of the eternal figure cannot formulate within his mouth the immortal name of his creator. Today returns to our hands that symbol manipulated by others for a futile destruction. Let us now take our flag and let us rise it to a star to outreach future ambition that raise arms to pull down to warm itself alone. Lift up the cups that remain – for the glasses rest scattered on the floor stained for lack of shoes – and toast for the democracy that we have not seen in seventeen years. Toast but do not forget.
Poem by Luis Gonzalez Kompalic ’16
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sobre el Granjero cuya tierra fue pintada de rojo y su nombre borrado de la reja, sobre la Niña que disuelve sus manos con el agua de sus ojos que cae con su Hermano, sobre el Padre que espera el regreso de su Hija de la marcha del 2014, sobre Nosotros que Nos cansamos. El manto tricolor nos refugia y nos une, cuyo nombre es tan sagrado que le llamamos simplemente bandera – como el judío, que por amor y temor a la grandeza y pureza de la figura eterna no puede formular en su boca el nombre inmortal de su creador. Hoy regresa a nuestras manos aquel símbolo manipulado por otras que fallaron al intentar destruirlo. Tomemos ahora nuestra bandera y elevémosla hasta convertirla en estrella para que no haya ambición que levante su brazo para arroparse con ella. Levantemos los cuencos que queden – las copas descansan esparcidas en suelo manchado por falta de zapatos – y brindemos por la democracia que no hemos visto en diecisiete años. Brindemos pero no olvidemos.
Poema por Luis Gonzalez Kompalic ’16
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ink Issue No. 14
Winter 2016
Chief Editors
Grace Cheng ’16 Elaine Wang ’16 Bobby Kwon ’16
Club Advisors
Brad Faus Elizabeth Buckles
Editorial Board
Jesse Godine ’17 Katherine Spencer ’17 Sophia Wang ’16 Viola Lee ’16 Victor Skarstedt ’17
Design Editors
Rebecca Li ’16 Emma Franklin ’17 Grace Matthews ’17 Mariah Bell ’17
Marketing Media and Communications Publishing and Sales
Sharon Cheng ’16 Narisa Buranasiri ’16 Carina Zhang ’16
Email: inkredible@hotchkiss.org Facebook: facebook.com/inkrediblehotchkiss Issuu: issuu.com/inkredible Inside Cover Photography by Max Li ‘16 Special Thanks to Daniel Lee ’17
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