ISSUE 16
ink
“The only thing I have learned from life is to endure it, never to question it, and to burn up the longing generated by this in writing.” –Karl Ove Knausgård “If I could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.” –Edward Hopper
Cover art by Daniel Lee ’17
2
05 Reflections on Howth: August 3rd Brian Lim ’17 08 She Theodore Schrader ’17 11 corduroy Charlotte Buckles ’17 12 John Doe Elisa Xu ’17 16 When you get back and I can hug you Elliot Wilson ’17 20 The Beach Annabelle Burns ’18 26 Fallingwater Clark Otterson ’17 28 Rei Kawakubo Alex Xu ’19 30 Programming Beauty Thunder Keck ’17 36 Californian Rain Chris Park ’18 38 We are more than just... James Li ’19 39 Where I Find Myself James Herring ’19
3
4
Reflections on Howth: August 3rd
The world melts away as my group slowly advances up the fading concrete road. Worn, gray homes, once a milky white, clash violently against our colorful clothes. It’s day three of my one-week literature camp excursion to Ireland. The only words of wisdom in the past couple days have come from bygones like Joyce. And Wilde. Notably, Yeats. I try reciting some lines from The Lake Isle of Innisfree as both my mind and feet wander off to strange places. I’m not very successful. I stare down at the hills lush with vegetation. There’s an incredible variety, from the stereotypical fern to tortuous bushes that can pass for disturbing, miniature trees. I chuckle. My gaze moves upwards. I meet a few cliff faces, a good distance away from my own. They’re a muddy brown, and I think I see streaks of rust in the seams of weathered rock. I squint my eyes. It looks like rust, but if I look away for a moment or close my eyes a second longer than I usually would— A particularly strong wave breaks through the even darker rocks down by the shallows. The water drenches the one cliff face I’ve been eyeing, the wetness forming a haunting, ephemeral visage. Combined with its roar, the sea is daring me to believe what my morbid mind is thinking the rust could possibly be. I shake my head, and look forward once more. By the time I turn away, I’ve already forgotten what it looked like. As I continue my journey on the tight dirt road, delightfully cold sprinkles pepper my immediate vicinity, giving off pleasant, oh-so-light taps as they make contact with my backpack, the ferns, the haunting bushes. The constancy of the drops are soothing. I find solace in the ambience as I run a hand through my jet black hair. The rain gods have answered my calls of desperation, I think to myself, the corners of my eyes wrinkling slightly in amusement. I spread my arms as I go, reveling in the freshness, the smell, the sensation of it all. My face breaks out into a rare, genuine smile. I suddenly realize the group has stopped to enjoy the view. As they chat minimally in hushed tones so as to not disturb the peace and quiet, I notice a minuscule strip of land that juts out from the main trail. My intuition takes over, and I’m suddenly a step away from a precarious drop, some hundreds of feet from the black rocks poking out of the sea floor.
5
Surprisingly, no one tells me to back off. My stolid, midnight black pools meet the mouth of the abyss. An indescribable feeling fills me. I recognize the sheer vastness, but also my humbling transience. Out in the sea, far away from where I stand, the cloudy weather is further emphasized by curtains of what I imagine are torrential downpours, creating outlines that run over some great, invisible entity. Cataracts, I ponder. Of the sky. Or maybe drops of water to some other thing. If not, what does one call something smaller than a drop of water? The bleakness of the day means there’s no sun, but I’ve never felt more at peace. It fills me, conveys a sense of being complete and satisfied and… There’s no better way to put it. I turn to my friends. The sudden change in my normally slouched posture surprises them, for they know me as the pensive, metaphorically tired one. “I could die here right now and I wouldn’t mind at all.” When I say those words, I don’t shudder. So I know I mean it. The grey-blue waters continue shifting. They never rest.
Story by Brian Lim ’17 Photography by Edward Guo ’19
6
7
She
Story by Theodore Schrader ’17
Uncle Mikhail was for the most part a pretty normal guy, considering the circumstances, but even a dope could tell that there was something a bit strange about him. As per mama’s request you would ask him How are you liking the borscht Uncle Mikhail and he would say Just fine. And in accordance with the wishes of papa you would prompt How are you liking the strapping and patriarchal jacket that Papa bought you this Christmas dinner with money he has shucked from the great American capitalist ear, he would laugh, nod, and say Just fine, thanks. And when in the spirit of your wacko piano teacher you would ask How does it feel to have created arguably the deadliest weapon in human history that did and continues to slaughter countless millions and is the most efficient machine of wholesale murder besides maybe the A-bomb and 8
has been produced in higher quantities than the next ten most popular firearms combined and is possibly the most iconic emblem of death in our modern age he would say, I, I sleep well. Then father would “save him the breath” and go into the song and dance that you would’ve heard a million times before like: the rifle is a weapon of defense pounding the table and Uncle Mikhail was defending the fatherland waving his hands and the Pope was O.K. with it it was just a tool people kill either way blah-blah blah, blah. blah? blah “blah blah” blah! while you would gnash silently away at the ever cooling pelmeni. But occasionally the dissembling grin of holiday cheer he wore would slip away as he’d see you roll your eyes or tongue your cheek, and his face would revert, for an instant, into that classic model of Soviet distrust and discomfort you would know so well from the movies. You would shift in your seat and look away. In family tradition, as soon as dinner was officially declared over, you and your horde would overrun the tree and, with savage glee, demolish the presents, the adults having already opened theirs. After finding, amidst other disappointments, a BB gun that would be used to engage in some friendly postprandial skirmishing, a hand would appear on the back of your neck and you would be gently guided out to the barn by your uncle (not the one that owned the farm). You would understand the atmosphere, sitting on the hay bales, watching the fireflies through the barn door, and moderate your energy to a more suitable level. He would explain to you, in a surprisingly explosive tone, his desire to write poetry as a child, his enchantment at that age with agriculture, and his dream of one day writing a great green volume extolling the sacrifices of the agrarian people. But you would then see the young Russian soldiers, torn apart, lying helpless in bronzed hospital beds, biting down on cotton swabs, too late for redemption, still pleading for anything that could allow their comrades to defend themselves from the German machine. He would remember the intent, the singleness of purpose he felt in his candle-lit workshop that night, where before he had only tinkered and deconstructed, something in his gut pushed him ever onwards, humming the 1812 overture to himself. Somewhere
in his gut he knew exactly what he was doing. He would say When I was younger I told self all life is entropic. You know? Losing heat, never will find it again. Moving, like time, to chaos, irrevocably. And so Mikhail Kalashnikov, whether he invents lawnmower or semi-automatic gas operated machine gun, pushes mankind, and all kind, to doom, regardless. Just by existing, even. The hay, rubbing against the back of your knees and legs, would itch horribly, but you would stay still as a monk. Life comes always to finish. He would strike a match and light up a cigarette, a third beacon of light amongst the stars and the bugs. You can speed it up, like I did, or you can try and slow down, to stagnate, draw out the suffering. You would be seized, for an instant, watching the smoke unfurl, with an image of the hay burning, the whole barn consumed by a soaring blaze, but it wouldn’t happen. Of course, not as if human agriculture is really so good for environment long term anyways. He would pause for a while. The chill air, a gentle breeze tasting vaguely of leaves. Then. My boy, it really isn’t so different from poetry, a good poetry reading. It spits, shouts, and every performance is felt, if not in body direct, then in fluttering of heart, shaking of limbs. He would arise. And to create is driven by always the same human impulses, you know. His piss would sizzle, a thick cord rushing to the earth. Were there really two paths, for me? You would catch a glimpse of thick, graying hair as he would pull his jeans back up. No, I couldn’t truly change my trajectory. His speech would imply a statement, but his eyes, still a question. I was the bullet, not the gun. Ha-ha! Is that, what you say, cliché? He would rub your hair awkwardly and depart. You would stay there for a while, remaining in place, watching the moon, and then you would get back to the house just in time to miss the last pastila. The funny thing about dreams you have as a kid is that the day after, you won’t remember them at all, but years later, sitting in your comfy chair at the firm daydreaming like the dope you are some random detail will trigger you to remember the whole thing again in vivid, grotesque detail, and wonder Was it all really just that (a dream) but more importantly Which path did I take? 9
corduroy november tenth, so here is big girls’ world but big brother pulls hair flicks flesh and gaptooth grins not quite yet, mosquito bite i am pale itch skin and small ripple sinew pulled tight for shelter not as mine as sure as daddy’s cleanwashed corduroy cave when we pass the man with clinking tinhopecan and 1-2-3 yellow bones poke melted gums, sorrybaby you had to see that princess but tin man seems alright today, and i decide to keep my little white hands locked deviltight in tiny prayer and today perhaps i will even ask daddy for a sticky new hampshire quarter dug from lint and quikstop whiskey receipts and then ask if i may fit in his pocket instead because oldman does not have little hands and it looks warm in there. he likes to joke that marybeth don’t worry ‘cause god knows he’ll never get that damn thing past the knuckle so forget about ms. malone next door! ain’t that a kick so long as he may live and lie and so long as i say okay just like i whine please for mr. tinman it’s thundering and daddy sighs and says baby no. november tenth again, no more insect bites but my hands will never swell like he does now and i am beginning to believe there may as well be no difference but oldman hums girl you are beautiful make a fine mama one day, his own ms. malone and this one won’t tell anyone he keeps the gold on the whole ugly time. this one is no rapunzel, rapunzel! shaved damn blonde sucker for boyness and ran when found oldman never read princess stories and makes them up for you instead and you seethe november tenth, i am not a big girl.
Poem by Charlotte Buckles ’17 Photograph by Daniel Lee ’17
11
John Doe i
i
fall into Van Gogh -eyed
starry
stand
under lone street light fluorescent flickering fazed
signs like
Tired & Lonely i need a
punch fist or fruit
HUG ME hollow air matter
drunk man chews on night matter ur
my tobaccoOoceanNexar “drink up� wet lips booze like ur kiss
12
like flower blossoms laced bosom poison mmmm...
woman, THESE . . . . are ur stars
i: ur woed-man
touch me with light as
i creep
Poem by Elisa Xu ’17
13
Artwork by Wan Lin Qin ’17
15
When you get back
Artwork by Amy Li ’18
16
and I can hug you You tell us that you went to the doctor, a routine check-up. It’s around seven on a school night, and we sit down to a couscous and carrot mixture. The words hang before us, waiting to be pushed into direction. You had tests taken to make sure you are healthy. I don’t know why you are telling us. Dad is silent, watching you. Towering above sprawling valleys, the lodgepole pine stands proud. Robust boughs tether it in equilibrium. It’s uppermost branches wave to the wind but its trunk sits firm. Wind, snow, and rain pummel it through the eight months of winter, but the pine is unyielding. Nothing can take it down but fire and lightning. You have appointments a lot. You return from the hospital, and I ask, How were the tests? Did the tests say anything? We don’t know yet. I worry. On the days that I know you are having tests done, I focus on the lingering marker smudge on the whiteboard that no one erased, and the ant that makes its way across my desk, and the scratching of that hedge against the window, and the way the poster that says “Math Counts” curls at the corner because the tape has fallen off. My thoughts become tuned to a frequency between two channels, and like hot gas a static blur fills every space in my mind. My eyes stay on the ground, and I don’t talk much. My grades slip and tumble. It’s winter and the cold keeps me inside, stuffy and constraining. Days blur and it all feels like yesterday.
17
The mountain pine beetle is smaller than a grain of rice. It has a flimsy exoskeleton, and six spindly legs. We talked briefly about them in class, about how it’s a real problem because they're so invasive. They attack the pines. Normally, they target the old and weak trees, but when there is an outbreak, they attack any and all they find. It crawls up the bark aimlessly, seemingly without purpose. The beetle starts by burrowing its way into the bark and laying eggs. They implant a fungus, which prevents the pine from releasing sap to flush out the parasites. But then the tests say something bad. Sometimes, like a drop of milk into tea, fear and hurt and uncertainty explode in obscurity. You have an early stage of breast cancer called ductal carcinoma in situ. Dad says it means that the cancer hasn’t been able to spread, that it’s good news. But nothing is certain, really, and I’m scared. Cancer makes you bald and weak. I’m scared for you, I’m scared that you will become like this and of what could happen. I don’t know. Maren begins to cry. Dad tells us it’s not invasive, that they’ve caught it early, that there is a good chance it will be completely fine, but it isn’t fine.
18
Slowly, more and more beetles infest the tree. The tree fights them, but they insist. The tree becomes fragile, crippled by the incessant beetles. In some cases, the beetles only make it onto one branch of the tree. With time, surely, the beetles will encroach, spreading their disease and larvae to the rest of the tree. The pine notices, though, and deprives the infected branch of nutrients. The branch dies and falls, a sacrifice necessary to the life of the pine. A small mark is left, remnants of the lost branch, coated in sap that seals the wound. Faced with more treatment, you decide to get surgery. A big operation at Yale-New Haven. Your doctors reassure you, and you are confident. You have to spend the night at the hospital with Dad so Maren and I stay home. The house creaks and groans that night with hollow echoes. Maren and I exchange a few hollow words, words that bounce off each other because they don’t matter. We return only to a message from Dad saying it went well. A fleeting glimmer of ease melts away because I don’t believe him until next morning, when you get back and I can hug you. Story by Elliot Wilson ’17
19
The Beach I wouldn’t be surprised if this has happened to you: We’d always go to the beach in February (it’s the off-season! my father would say joyfully, as he booked half price lodging), when the sky looked fit to vomit, and the sand was a clammy grey silt-clay mixture that tugged at your toes in a harassing, malevolent way. Walking left your sneakers ruined, encrusted in a thick layer of cement frosting on the sides and bottom of the sole. Either that or the sand didn’t exist at all and instead the ocean was lined with large, pointed rocks that crippled you when playing tag. Your expectations of silky, golden sand were always drowned by the boiling asphalt sea. It was always grey. We would drive up to the coast, having stayed in a tiny cottage (where the landlord lived in an adjacent shed and watched the Arsenal‐Man City game all night long), and park the car in an all-but-abandoned lot. If we were lucky, the groundskeeper would be there and ask for a donation to “preserve the beauty of this historic site,” probably referring to the shack that he sat in all day long with a tin of licorice allsorts. My father would fish out a £2 coin and put it in the rusted can of donations in which lay a paper clip and a gum wrapper. Listen up kids, my father would say, this may be the last chance for a loo break, so I suggest we all go now. I don’t need to go!, my brother would exclaim cheerfully, and would pull out a shard of wood he had collected yesterday evening. Watch me! I have a mustache, he would announce to the shack through scrunched lips, balancing the rotting yellow and grey splinter under his nose by puckering his lips. My mother would glance nervously to the groundskeeper, whose upper lip sprouted sparse, wiry silver hairs, but who was preoccupied with fixing the fly of his dark corduroys. We would wait for my father to return from the toilet. Nice day, my mom would say. I’ve seen better, the groundskeeper would reply, without looking up from his zipper. A flushing sound, and then a fumble with the fake metal door handle, and my father would appear, buckling the little backpack straps around his waist. Daddy, I would say, you forgot to do the top buckle, pointing at the two straps hanging from the backpack near his chest. I don’t really need those straps right now, he would answer me, they don’t fit very well. Don’t worry!, I would tell him, I can do it, and I would reach up to fasten the straps. No, my dad would say, brushing my hands away from his red woolen quarter zip sweater, it’s quite all right.
20
We would walk through wet brambles on a path past a motorway, as I’m sure you’ve done, and would reach the beach. I would sigh internally, seeing the cold, barren coastal town of Fattings in the distance, or maybe externally, as my mom would quickly say, this is spectacular, David, let’s get the Green Guide out so we can read a little bit about this place. My father would rummage in the sack after unclipping both chest and waist straps of the backpack (I had fastened the top ones while he had given me a piggyback ride over a puddle about three minutes ago, and was sad to see my sneaky work undone), and pulled out a soggy guidebook. My mom would flip through the curling pages, and would begin to read. “Before starting this scenic walk, take a moment to orient yourself. To the left of the motorway, you can see a hill upon which Lord Hattiesfield built his house in 1691 while in exile, but which was torn down a decade later by warring…” I don’t know about you, but I remember feeling my brain turning to static every time words from that book were uttered. Wait, Mom? I would ask, can I read it myself? My brother and I would team up and push her arms down while pulling the book up and away. All right, let’s see, I would say, oooh! This one has THREE stars, Mummy, and our spot only has one! We should go there, I would proclaim, pointing to a chocolate factory located two hours away. No, goosie, she would say, and with a deft swipe would regain control of the book. Ugh, fine, my brother would say, but now we get to PLAY! He would run away, as far down the beach as his stubby legs would take him. But Mum, I would protest, it’s not that far away! Look, you just--and I would reach up to trace the route along the A3, but before I could, my mother would lift the book high, high up into the air where my arms couldn’t go. And then we would continue on, as you did too, and I would watch my dad’s hiking boots sucking through the sand, and then slapping the cement on the way back to the car. Then comes the moment that must always arrive during your childhood, when you witness life meld with death, and your fears are confirmed, and your father’s heavy, size eleven men’s foot comes down on top of an unsuspecting snail. You can picture the giant’s foot smashing your head in, and you feel the injustice of it all. Dad! you howl, and he wipes his foot on the ground. You must examine the gruesome aftermath, the splintered shell, the iridescent slime, the darkish maroon smears. It is on that sort of day that you understand life. And you would pile back into the teal Volvo that had finally gotten new licence plates, and strap yourself into tan leather seats crusted with receipts, popcorn and orange peels. You would hope the metal car roof could withstand a giant’s foot.
Story by Annabelle Burns ’18
21
Artwork by Bill Gao ’17
22
23
24
Artwork by Carolyn Ren ’19
25
Fallingwater
D
eep in the expansive forests of southwestern Pennsylvania a small stream flows through lush greenery, the water’s urgency belying the tranquility of its surroundings. Bear Run, as this stream is locally known, transits quickly alongside a worn dirt path, stumbling around rocks and tripping off small ledges, filling the air with a pleasant, burbling music. Only the ephemeral sound of footfalls distracts at all from the intensifying concert of water. With each splash of the cascading water the sounds of my progress deferentially diminish as my presence is obscured by the gentle attrition of the stream. A small falls, gently accentuating a harsh stone ledge, abruptly ends the smooth flow of the river with a visual and audible point of focus. The white water sprays into shadow under the bulk of a warmly lit building hugging the stony shore. This peculiar building, fondly referred to as Fallingwater, was built in 1937 as the vacation home for the Kaufmann family. Its architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, wanted to create a space that would allow the Kaufmanns to escape from the smog of early 1900’s Pittsburgh and truly embrace the wonder of a natural environment. The building appears to sprout from the stone itself, and looms over the ledges of the waterfall below, simultaneously mirroring and dominating its surroundings. Many who study Fallingwater and its influence on architecture draw similar conclusions about Frank Lloyd Wright’s mastery of space and Fallingwater’s seemingly effortless cooperation with its natural surroundings. However, as I approach the preserved residence I recall with apprehension the mundane, repetitive exultations of far too many “critics.” As I stand within Fallingwater, I breathe in deeply, and wait for the moment of appreciation described by so many to strike. Many breaths follow as I sit and ponder my surroundings. I walk through the cramped entryway, past the expansive windows of the main living area, and something begins to gnaw at the back of my mind. I traverse the tastefully appointed personal living spaces and studies of the Kaufmanns yet my mind continues to wander from my physical surroundings. The home, the local stonework, the permeating horizontality of each room, the intricacies and the purposeful continuity of the house all appeal to me. Even through all this uncertainty I feel compelled to explore the inspiration of Wright’s vision. I walk out onto one of the many low terraces and a strangely familiar indolence infects my stride. Subtle and yet so very obvious, the stream lurks over the low-cut edge before me, and I reach a point of realization.
26
As understated as the beating of my own heart, the water’s constant sound fades to the background of my sensual awareness the longer I remain in the building. How ironic that extended time in Fallingwater so diminishes my appreciation of this liquid melody. The house absorbs the water and encloses it. Turn one way and confront the bold constructs of Wright’s personal style and genius, turn another and see only the natural beauty of this unique site. All at once surrounding me and hidden from view the aqueous song fell from the forefront of my mind much as the at first steady river falls from the stone below me. Now I recall fully the wonder of my first approach as I listen to water spilling through the deft hands of stone musicians, strumming strings that reverberate without a beginning or end. Initially, I recoil from the nature of my realization as I step back from the precarious edge, back into the more physical embrace of Fallingwater itself. How ridiculous that my moment of insight comes from such a glaringly obvious source? The building is called Fallingwater and its purposeful relationship to the waterfall is well stated by many as the most obvious feature of the iconic building. The house itself disappears with my successful reconnection with the falling of the water. As quickly as thoughts of failure spring to my mind they seem to drift away as the fresh water below once again clears my thoughts. I imagine myself as one of the Kaufmanns, standing on the threshold of their home, yet oblivious of the white noise of the water that constantly pervades their lives. Time erodes their perception of what is beautiful and they begin to take for granted the foundations of the beauty around them. I wonder if Wright loved the house more than the Kaufmanns did. How powerful was my first impression of the river and the falls! As it is with all beauty the first glimpse burns in the mind with the most intensity. My own expectation to find eternal beauty in a single place inspired lethargy in my pursuit of it. The intrigue of Frank Lloyd’s Wright work may come from simple sources but it took concerted effort for me to be truly aware of the water’s effect on the house. I leave behind Fallingwater and continue back along the riverbank, fighting the powerful draw of the water I can once again perceive with clarity. I leave the waters that have shaped the lives of many as subtly as the surrounding stone. The house disappears behind the river’s ceaseless babbling trek. Like the stream I continue on.
Essay by Clark Otterson ’17
27
Rei Kawakubo Essay by Alex Xu ’19 Artwork by Olivia Gee ’18
Today, Rei Kawakubo and her cultural juggernaut of a brand, Comme des Garçons, are seen as stable fixtures in the fashion establishment. Although Kawakubo’s standard collection showcases eccentric styles of dark monochromaticity and unconventional distressing, she still manages to boast a loyal legion of fans comparable to those of Saint Laurent, Gucci, and other luxury designers. Kawakubo’s shows are some of the industry’s most highly anticipated, consistently featuring pieces that confront the standard conventions of fashion. But Kawakubo’s infamous international debut show at the 1981 Paris Fashion Week did not receive the sterling recognition that they so often do today. In fact, the-then fashion industry was pumping out pieces and styles that so arrogantly focused on the glorification of excessive materialism and austerity that fashion critics went so far as to tag Kawakubo and her brand as “post-atomic” or “post-war”. In a scene so used to homogeneity in design, Kawakubo’s peculiar approach intimidated the fashion press in thinking that the Comme Des Garçons lines were used to call into question or even deprecate the established fashion order. Kawakubo’s debut line fiercely clashed with its contemporaries. Rather than utilizing colorful, flowery, expensive fabrics on equally attractive models, the Japanese designer sent her models out in ensembles of dark synthetic blends reinforced with asymmetric, dismantled, oversized, seamless styles that were an overall slap in the face to the traditional idea that women be compelled to dress in styles that complemented a tight and thin body frame. Not only did Kawakubo defy the popular materialistic styles of the 1980s, but also she challenged the notion that garments were allegedly to be worn alongside the center of the figure. Kawakubo pulled, dragged, stretched, and sewed her garments in such a way that separated her from her contemporaries while unknowingly initiating an evolution in fashion that has inspired contemporary designers such as Rick Owens, Ann Demeulemeester and Raf Simons. The 21st century has seen Kawakubo and Comme des Garçons “go mainstream,” and while her collections do sell successfully, the old shock isn’t really there anymore. Comme des Garçons has also gone from being the dark horse in the industry to a fully-fledged brand proper with a turnover in the hundreds and millions of dollars. Although the creativity still remains intact courtesy of Kawakubo herself along with her three prominent protéges and designers, Junya Watanabe, Kei Ninomiya, and Tao Kurihara, the “edge” that she once held from being an outsider to a rather oppressive fashion regime is mostly gone. That is not to say that Kawakubo’s efforts as a designer are discredited today. Her releases continue to be feverishly followed while she remains to persist in innovation and challenging long-held aesthetic principles in design, both for men and women. It’s arguable that Kawakubo’s current influence over the international fashion scene is capable of not only shifting the direction of fashion but also in calling into question the perceptions of masculinity and femininity in clothing. Comme des Garçons is still going strong, pumping out collections, lines, and accessories, and probably will for decades to come. Much like the old fashion European designers such as Chanel and Balmain, it looks like Rei Kawakubo and Comme des Garçons are here and here to stay.
29
P r o g r a m m i n g B e a u t y
Although beauty is commonly referenced as subjective or abstract, philosophers and scientists have been studying its more concrete attributes for many years. The ancient Greeks created the idea of a golden rectangle, which became the base of modern aesthetics. A golden rectangle appears in many recurring geometric sequences and is characterized by having side lengths that are in the golden ratio, which is approximately 1 to 1.618. The golden ratio is found nearly everywhere in geometry, nature, and art. Even the Fibonacci Sequence, which can be used to model the growth of plants, implements the ratio.
The golden ratio can be found in virtually all categories of art. For instance, paintings that use golden rectangles are generally thought to be more beautiful. Also, sculptures and buildings with more golden prisms appear sleeker. Even music with frequencies in the golden ratio is judged as more pleasant. Interestingly, people who are thought to be more attractive, generally have more golden ratios in their body proportions. While there is always room for personal opinion, there is strong evidence for beauty being a concept that can be expressed through mathematics. Upon learning about this concept, I set out to see if I could make a computer judge whether something was beautiful. After all, since a computer is not able to formulate an opinion about what it observes, its judgments must be purely logical. I wrote a small program that used recursion to create trees with random side lengths, branch angles, and colors. Originally, the program created a tree and stored information such as its branch lengths and angles, then created another tree and evaluated which was more beautiful based on how closely their data matched the golden ratio. Upon seeing that the program often chose the tree that appeared to be more natural looking, I decided to take a different approach.
“For this reason, it seems that beauty is a measurement of how natural something appears.” With the idea of natural selection being my biggest inspiration, I modified the program to create a large set of trees, break them up into groups of three, pick the two most beautiful trees, merge them into one new supertree, and repeat the whole process with the new set of supertrees. This way, the less “ideal” trees were thrown out and the final tree was made up of the most beautiful trees. Like this, I ended up with a family tree of trees. In many ways, I accomplished my goal of mirroring natural selection. The interesting part about the program was not only that the tree produced was far more beautiful than the rejected trees, but also it looked much more realistic. For this reason, it seems that beauty is a measurement of how natural something appears.
Essay and Artwork by Thunder Keck ’17
31
Photograph by Harry Roepers ’18
Photograph by Harry Roepers ’18
Californian Rain
36
The grey rim that surrounded my neck started to darken, and just like spilled ink, the color spread towards the letters A and F at the center of my shirt, protecting the boarding pass to hand in at LAX tomorrow. My mandatory exit ticket for this exchange program. I’m standing in the rain, and I don’t get a comforting hug from a cute girl? Damn you, Hollywood. Droplets of rain fell on the cars, barely reflecting the moonlight in the silent parking lot. Slowly, the water dragged everything towards the ground, and the campus of the Chadwick School appeared before my eyes. My throat lost all of its capabilities, exactly like the first time I saw the view. The sun illuminated the lush, green grass covering an ecosystem full of benches, hummingbirds, and too many kinds of people. The buildings, only a story or two tall, were embellished with pillars and tilted brick roofs that could put to shame the grey buildings back home in Korea, printed out of a 3D template. No more of that, I guess. Shame. The history classroom was pretty small inside. Khaki-colored walls surrounded about a dozen students, all seated in blue plastic chairs, a strange desk apparatus jutting out from each. That was the end of universal similarities within that room. The girl sitting to my right was clicking her laptop’s trackpad so fiercely I first thought she was trying to catch a mosquito on it. My ears also caught attention to a miniature symphony of foot taps, head scratches, and quick, soft breathing. Well, at least there was breathing. Here was one difference between the two schools of my life: back home, practices were only an hour long; Chadwick School’s were twice as long. The water gave me cold joy while relaxing my skin with the surprising lack of excessive chlorine. However, nothing really prepared me for the setlist that was hanging on to the pool wall for dear life. I barely read half of it when I heard a blowing whistle and splashing water. Splashing. Whistle. Mere seconds of gasping before another whistle. Splash. Splash. Splash. No more whistle. My arms inched further away from the water. My legs were slowly escaping submersion. My head just barely rested on the stone edge heated by the California heat, like a discount sauna made specifically for my right cheek. Definitely great while it lasted. The sound of the rain seemed syncopated in comparison to the drops I see falling in slow motion. My Abercrombie shirt and jeans absorbed their last memento of California, treasuring whatever they could before the Korean laundry machine would confiscate them. My glasses mirrored my eyes as drops clung on the bottom of the lenses. “What are you doing in the rain? Come back!” I heard in the midst of liquid static. I don’t know when I will.
Story by Chris Park ’18 Artwork by Shania Zhu ’18
37
We are more than just... They talk about how meaning is constantly deferred in an endless loop of signs pointing to signs to other signs And us, trapped in that ceaselessly spinning wheel in endless pursuit of the absolute. They speak about clarity with such conviction, as though you spend all your life waiting for that precious millisecond, for waves of truth to wash over you – To be born again in a burst of wisdom, purified and glorified and all-knowing. Dare I say I know better / their voices are loud but Our lives are not rental shop movies With painted skies and orange sunsets that burn through closed eyelids. Our days are nothing more than a struggle to keep ourselves from going under, from being swallowed by the vicissitudes of life. If among these murky depths we chance across a stray gem of wisdom We call ourselves blessed but are no less ignorant. These gems are often too little too late – one flickering light will never sustain life. or perhaps i think there is no meaning a terrifying thought; perhaps signs point to signs to other signs and there is no end, there never is one We spend our lives scrabbling through the dirt On hands and knees Mining for jewels with no tools. Not because we truly seek them, But to keep our hands busy lest they wrap around our throats and squeeze ’til a black curtain falls over the world, But to keep our feet anchored lest in our sleep they carry us over the edge and straight into the abyss.
38
Poem by James Li ’19
Where I Find Myself I stand tentative, silent, breathless I am at the edge of a precipice I gaze into the misty depths I peer as far as the eye can see, but find absolutely nothing. I run from the nothing, I feel unfamiliar and cold I retreat to the land of light and warmth, I try to forget about the misty ambiguity. I ignore, I reject I’m afraid of what I’ve seen I have a cancer now in the back of my mind I can feel it no matter what I do. I watch in horror as the world begins to fade. I am frozen, cannot move, and I am faced with only one realityA bottomless void. I cannot feel the ground anymore, I am floating with no sight of land. I reach for something to grab, but There is nothing left. I no longer have a body, I have no features at all. I notice my heart’s not beating, I only hear my thoughts. I have nothing left My thoughts are null My very mind has begun to fade from existence... I am nothing, I am gone… Like an orchestra playing tutti, With a sudden burst of light Bright color emerges And strikes down the night. A warm and gentle stranger, a new voice in my mind. Powerful and terrifying, yet altogether kind. Giving me life and light that I never knew existed. It grabs my hand with its strong right arm Lifts me into the world of beauty and love It’s a wondrous sensation to feel again, To make your home in heaven above.
Poem by James Herring ’19
39
40
Artwork by Willa Neubauer ’18
41
Artwork by Daniel Lee ’17
42
ink ISSUE 16 Fall/Winter 2016
Editor-in-Chief Jesse Godine ’17
Managing Editors Mariah Bell ’17 James Fitzgerald ’17 Max Li ’17 Club Advisors Brad Faus Elizabeth Buckles Design Editors Pete Assakul ’18 Emma Franklin ’17 Edward Guo ’19 Grace Matthews ’17 Krishna Sivakumar ’18 Writing Editors Charlotte Buckles ’17 Christopher Hemm ’17 Katie Kang ’18 Matthew Kim ’19 Henry Newton ’17 Chris Park ’18 Elisa Xu ’17 Artistic Director Daniel Lee ’17 Marketing Director Katherine Spencer ’17 Social Media and Communications Miley Xiao ’17 Website Director Jennifer Liu ’17
Back Cover artwork by Dear Liu ’19
43
See more on our website: http://hotchkissinkredible.wixsite.com/inkredible
Create. Share. Inspire.