INK: Issue 17, Spring 2017 by ink.

ink. Issue 17

pie

One Bad Day

Expiration Date DEAR HELEN,

Spring 1998

Art doesn’t transform. It just plain forms. -Roy Lichtenstein

No One Listens to a Thief ’s Confession

The Tired Bones of Truganini Fading Light

Aesthetics: A Legacy in Flames Solitude

Married Life 40

i am the missus to the great Smoky Mountains

queen Junie floats on the river throne, says girl, Im expecting that bird for supper and i laugh: she said the same thing this morning and Mama, its still gonna be right dead if i lay here a little while longer my man wears patches of scratchcanvas cloth on his arms to feed me(hes so good)and he only kills to help us breathe(i know it) he loves the sweet tomcat on the front porch but i know my poor scratchedup honey feels sour so i make him a tangleberry pie - see his sweet candy shine eyes light up and he’ll grin like he’s the cat that ate the damn canary when I tell him I been thinking about him, my Silers Bald prince he and I are fixin to move out to Melrose, be closer to his sad white pa who lives in a sad white plastershack box and he moves so damn small I dont know how to make this home and god help me— I cant do much but let his sins set still thick under my tongue (that brown seraph’ll send you straight to hell Mister Lambert)his old ears so shot he wouldnt hear a thing I says anyway. hasnt since the day he tipped his sad white hat and said pleasure to meet you pretty thing

pie Poem by Charlotte Buckles ’17

one day Im gonna paddle us both out on that water right where my Mamas throne has been since the last slash mark made on her skin went quiet and bruised ugly like I am. shes sit there since she learned how to be without a mountain lord like mine in a canvas cloth who kills for her to eat(only so she can eat she just know it) — since she learned she could sew herself right back up and smash the rouge on another day— and make another goddamned cherry pie just like her own good ma taught her she is my rise up Tennessee River queen, and my sad white Melrose shack still calls me i am the whore of the Cumberland Gap i am the missus of the great Smoky Mountains

Digital Photography James Li ’19

Film Photography Beckett Hornik â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

6 7

midnightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s radio tune to silence then nothing still music, somehow Haiku by Elisa Xu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

One Bad Day The static from the spacebar ends the song to a silent screeching halt Carly Rae Jepsen is shelved away in a “Feeling Good” playlist to make room for Eminem. Rain is dispensed from a water shaker in three locations Outside the window, inside a speaker, and the top of my soul A home is only good for one of them. Like two children that witnessed a suicide firsthand the irises cannot look in the only direction that demands to be seen However, the eyes cannot run home to mommy The only mommy they have is mother earth This is my beautiful dark fantasy It showcased the best of my abilities but never the truth nAmes can be changed words uses make good show PROPER WRITING GIVES CLARITY But that dream ends when I hear the hidden track of every song Who cares?

Anonymous Digital Photography Pete Assakul ’18

Expiration Date Poem by Alexandra Hubbard-Gourlay ’17

It was the gift love gave to me. When I could satiate his greed, it left a weight you could not see. My heartbeat falters, losing to apathy. Mine own warmth withered with his need. It was the gift love gave to me. A shadow beside my slumber, my plea for the courage to not concede. I held a weight you could not see. His musky scent of sensuality seized my ability to breathe. It was the gift love gave to me. Foolish fancies dreamt at age nineteen, haunt me, a lust no one could ease. It left a weight you could not see. My final choice, could brand a tragedy a shroud’s seduction, a solace? I secede. It was the gift love gave to me. I left the weight you could not see.

Charcoal Daniel Lee ’17

DEAR HELEN, Poem by Michael Carter

There are four shades of green before we even reach the field spring sprung in grasses the dogs leap through, furred porpoises chasing sticks. For two weeks, I’ve been weeding and transplanting, tearing tufts of sod cut for the new beds. A trill of daffodils startles the post-snowmelt landscape buoyed by work and the winter compacted promise lush underneath, now unfolding—poppies’ lurid sails, tasseled corn. There’s a Shinto temple in Japan that’s dismantled and rebuilt every twenty years, eight years to rebuild. Then it’s the same, but completely different. What lasts anyway, Helen? Against the tectonic afternoon I pushed the (yes, red) wheelbarrow up then down the hill, carting weeds and grasses, branches that didn’t winter, until I found a bald baby squirrel crawling across the road. Is this nature’s course? A doomed tiny creature shivering with effort to live; the course of nature, the mouth of the fox, owl’s claws, kits and owlettes, the swerving car. Don’t be afraid: shear it all down like the wild geraniums and watch it all come back. Helen, this is all supposition, metaphor, these troublesome bodies. What is eternal lasts, right? Nothing is ever the same, and then it comes right on back. Soon, soon the lilacs, the mock orange, and then the wind chattering their empty branches collecting snow. Helen—the sound of your name—she died in her sleep— do you remember the thing itself or just a description?

Film Photography Elliot Wilson ’17

Nothing is ever the same. Soon the lilacs, then the mock orange and then the wind chattering their empty branches. Helen—she died in her sleep—do you remember?

No One Listens to a Thief’s Confession Story by Ken Wu ’17

Digital Photography Edward Guo ’19

21 Dad,

he floor of the dingy room is a war zone of freshly laundered clothes stacked or strewn and solitary shoes scattered. The pungent aroma of detergent, the slightly burned smell of ironed cotton fail to impart their usual sense of order, subsumed obscured by the general atmosphere of the room, which is chaotic, caught somewhere between anxiety and tension. “Sarah, did you see the t-shirt with the smiley face on it?” queries Julia, her voice charged with accusation. “No. I haven’t seen it. And w-why the hell are you saying it as if I-I-I’m the one who stole it? W-why would I take that ugly thing?” stammers Sarah, who’s now drawing circles with her toes over the carpet’s static-y whorls, her hands tucked in the pockets of her ripped jeans. “Okay. Sorry about that. I just really wish I didn’t lose that shirt. You know that my dad bought it for me on my eighteenth birthday; you know how much I love it. His birthday is in two days,” offers Julia, embracing something like victimhood. “I know,” Sarah mutters, still looking down on the ground and now somehow even more withdrawn. Julia doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about Sarah’s behavior, desperately wants to believe in normalcy and so sees it even in the most unlikely places, and soon manages to summon a lively smile The girls embrace one last time before their separate ways for the holidays. It will be another month and a half before they see each other again. Julia assembles the attire dispersed on the floor, unpacked for the sole purpose of locating the precious t-shirt. Next thing, she’s sitting in the backseat of the car that will transport her to the train station. Julia buckles her seatbelt then waves up at Sarah gleefully, as she stands in the window of their room. Sarah does not wave back, but rather stands in languid silence, her back turned on the pitch-black interior, a dark hole that’s on the brink of swallowing everything around her, including her. Registering the bitter rejection, Julia gradually lowers her extended right arm, suspends the gesture her roommate’s response has made perfunctory, regrettable. VooRRR, vooRRR, vooRRRR, roars the engine, and off she goes. Upstairs, in the pitch-dark room, Sarah is swathed in loneliness. Perched on the window sill, her frail hands embracing the slightly trembling knees, she gazes out the window for clues to her salvation. The enflamed, ornery countenance of a moment ago is now supplanted by a listless, hangdog expression-a palpable manifestation of wounds inscribed within. Outside, the orb-shaped, silver moon hangs in the lonely sky. And inside the room, the gleaming moonlight steals the velvet-black shadows from the wall; it seems to strip away Sarah’s vestiges as well, for the emptiness in her soul matches the spiritless sky and the insensate darkness. She moves reluctantly, barely dragging her burdensome body, toward her desk; and under a pile of books, she pulls out a fabric-bound, auburn-colored diary. With a pencil in her pale hands, she writes:

Today, I lied again. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I just can’t seem to restrain myself from doing it. That t-shirt her father bought her is so pretty. Everyone loves it and everyone compliments her. When she wears it, she smiles and looks like an angel. If only you were here to see, dad. You’d know what I‘m saying. Aunt Marley told me to smile, so I did. Now everyone seems to believe that I am happy. I post pictures of myself, laughing. I go out to dinner; I walk the empty streets; I look up at the moon. I see pretty things and I take them only because they are pretty. And if I have pretty stuff, people will believe that I am happy. You made me promise that I‘d be happy, Dad. Still, it is hard. I must admit. It is hard to fake a laugh when inside I’m broken and crying and screaming for help. It is hard to realize every day, every morning, every time I look into the mirror, every time I comb my hair, every time I breathe the air, and you are not here. It is hard to see the light, for in the dark, even your own shadow abandons you. I miss you, dad. I wish you were still here. Christmas is here. Remember that Christmas Eve, when you got me the sweater? Back then, I didn’t know parting was so desolate, that bidding farewell requires so much strength. They say that the only positive side of growing up is that you won’t have much to lose anymore, because you’ve already lost so much. Well, I’ve already lost all I ever had. The other day, I found the sweater again. It’s old and wrinkled. But it smells just like you, and when I put it on I feel your presence. At least you are with me, in that moment, in some way. I don’t know if I can handle this anymore, Dad. The more I try to forget, the more I remember. Your little girl, Always, Xxxxxxx P.S. If anyone sees this, please help me. I am so lost and so scared.

When the calendar marks the date of a new year, the order of human activity swiftly returns to its original mode from the hectic holidays schedule. Before anyone realizes, the second semester resumes, and the campus is again brimming with ebullient chatter-almost-always-turned-into laughter. The students resume learning; the teachers resume teaching. The conduct of things has never been so identical, so mechanical. The only salient difference is Sarah’s absence. Rumor has it that she is dead––that an accident happened over break. Others believe that her endless acts of deliberate thievery contributed to her dismissal. Regardless of the rationale behind her sudden disappearance, the universal consensus seems to be that her loss will strengthen the community by meeting these issues head-on in the future. Sarah was never heard of again. She vanished entirely when the barbarous winter carried the merciless wind that signified an imminent end. Her diary was later discovered and delivered to her former roommate, Julia, some twenty years after her disappearance. It was apparently locked in a closet in the school basement; the dust on the cover suggesting its long neglect. No one bothered to read the diary, this chronicle of theft and mute remorse. Although her dreadful story could easily engender sympathy from anyone who has eyes to see, ears to listen––a pounding heart that feels––such a despairing situation may never happen again. In the end, people are less susceptible to prejudice now. Human beings have progressed from being merely blind believers of our own oblivious eyes.

If you believe that, you will believe anything.

The Tired Bones of Truganini Story by James Fitzgerald ’17

Cold fog hangs over Hobart, penetrating its every edifice. Tackle shops, marinas, taverns, a derelict record shop--the wet enters them all, whittling their floorboards and shingles with wind and caustic spray. As fishing vessels ply the grey waters, my feet plod across dank, furrowed planks. Decades of poundingv surf have eroded their growth rings, but shreds of memory remain in the worn grain. If the record store were open, the wood would surely speak through one of the dusty turntables that lie scattered behind the shop’s misted windows. But I hear something on the wind, an imprint, a haunting remnant, that draws me onto a ferry bound for Bruny Island, Lunnawannalonna, the final redoubt of the Palawa aborigines. Crab traps and trawling nets lie strewn across the deck. As we traverse Storm Bay, I watch the island’s pencil pines and rocky shores assemble from inchoate shreds into a continuous form. But then a chill southern wind, born in the Roaring Forties, carries rain clouds into the channel and obscures the coast. Cold rain douses the mainland first, then pursues us out to sea: the same darkness that followed the Palawa into this desolate archipelago of the Southern Ocean. The boat docks at Lunnawannalonna just as freezing rain strikes. Through the chaotic, frigid drops, I see nothing but the pier below me, its wood so corroded that it genuflects into the sea. I follow the example of this primeval timber and yield to the wind, staggering towards a wall of dense, sodden conifers close to shore. Most are King Billy pines, named in memory of the last full-blood Palawa man--the only memory, for never in their five hundred years have the dissectors of the Royal College of Surgeons used their

scalpels to carve a headstone. I glimpse a small, inscribed rock, partly covered by tree fern fronds. THIS MEMORIAL IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF TRUGANINI 1812-1876 I read the mossy letters again, then look beneath the fern frond, certain that I have missed some explanation. The leaf conceals nothing but smooth, weathered granite: no mention of the Black Wars that pitted spear-wielding Pala-

wa against muskets, germs, and bloodhounds, leaving Truganini one of the last of her kind, no mention of her campaign to unify a fragmented people in the face of bureaucrats, blizzards, and violent surf, all of which conspired to beach her remaining family on a bitter rock surrounded by churning ocean, where, after years of attrition, she perished and followed King Billy’s footsteps to London for corporeal evaluation. The Return of Truganini has been a fragmented process. A trickle of skin, hair, and bone stretching from 1976 to 2002, when the College repatriated her final shreds for burial at this ambiguous monument.

On the unyielding stone of Port Arthur penitentiary, some forgotten soul engraved: “The blood of blackfellas is on these walls”. A more fitting epitaph than the one before me? Perhaps, but none can say, now that the planks of Hobart pier have sunk beneath the waves. Truganini tells us that we operate on an assumption of superiority and linear progression, and that in reality, we move (not progress) in momentary, overlapping bursts of wonder, horror, and ambivalence. We transform, then realize that our underlying nature is immutable, and that we can only add to an essence that is neither good nor purely wicked, but twisted, furtive, ambiguous, seemingly apparent one instant and utterly incomprehensible the next. When the First Fleet landed at Botany Bay, the aborigines welcomed the newcomers, speared them, then welcomed them again, then found themselves outcasts, banished to the dusty outback by men with muzzleloaders. Those same men were outcasts themselves, banished not because of their color, but because they had stolen cabbages and, in one case, an encyclopedia of toadstools. They preached Christian virtue while maintaining a steady campaign of terror and suppression. That hypocrisy slashed and pummeled Truganini’s people to extinction. Should we beg to be reincarnated as the fish that nibble at our toes, if only to avoid the horror that arises from ambiguity, and lose the bursts of exquisite wonder that punctuate existence? Not even the grooves of Hobart pier have an answer. I know, for I asked. Collage, Mixed Media Dear Liu ’19

mahogany gull of the sea, no knees slurring whipping scrunching a singular leaf croons sweetly its fragile contentment eggs (of quail), wool (reddish -brown), & red Russian; uncommonly Addy -esque exuberant & uncanny inaudible bottles clink

clink clink

a blind giant, chews the

Spring 1998 Poem by Dear Liu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

Film Photograph Beckett Hornik â&#x20AC;&#x2122;20

watery blues

Wan Lin Qin â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Ink

28 The color of the sky began to turn orange and the warmth of the day settled down to bring the chilly breeze back into the air, marking the start of the evening. The wind chilled my bones as I ran back and forth to gain more runs in our cricket game. The voices of the children playing in the afternoon sun were slowly fading away. In the near distance, the reverberance of the sea was a rippling blanket of light blue that glistened upon the moonlight. The salt from the sea perfused through the air and the wind blew gently across my body, longing to play with my hair. I looked out towards the horizon line above the sea, where the stars began to form in the evening sky, and where my reality blended into the darkness of the night. And thoughts of deep seclusion swarmed in my mind as the silence of the night echoed in the rippling waves of the sea.

Story by Sophie Ahmed ’18

“It’s time to go home now.” My mother unexpectedly put her hand on my shoulder. It was nine o’clock. The cricket stumps were gone. My mother and I were some of the last ones standing on the sand as the others had started walking back towards their cars. Then it was our go. We turned around and began walking towards the parking lot. I could still hear the waves crashing onto the shore as my feet dragged on the concrete. We reached the car. My hand lingered on the handle. The sea salt french fries, the last rays shining on the monkey bars, the few laughters of the beach goers. They were all calling me. Still. The chaos was fading, but its grace never did. It never let me go. My hand lingered for a little longer, and then I pulled the handle and got into the car. My mom turned the key and we drove off. Yet -- somehow expectedly -- the fries, the sunlight, and the laughter all travelled with me, as if I had never left. I never let it go.

A Fading Light

he sea salt French fries, the sunset bouncing off of the monkey bars, the indelible laugh of the cricket players. It was a trifecta of sorts, all surrounding me as I sat on the dock of the bay. Balmoral had a distinctive aura, one that asked you to just be -- to live in the romantic beauty and breathe in the busy tranquility. It was a gorgeous disarray. The fries, the sunlight, the laughs. It was peaceful, too. That aura drew you in, tossed around your senses so that seeing hearing touching smelling all blended into one feeling of pure exultation, and then it wouldn’t let you go. And you didn’t want to be let go. I didn’t want to be let go. Because never was there a dull moment breathing on that beach. The quiet sand tasting the heat of the sun, soon to be stomped on by the loud children throwing their frisbees. The still boogie boards gliding on the shoreline, quickly flipped and turned by the fearsome force of the waves. The aura drew me in, time and time again, and it kept me there, engaged in the gracious air, the smooth ripples, and the swings which called for a blissful ride. Noah suddenly shoved a cricket bat in my face, shifting my vision. It was seven o’clock. We set up the stumps and drew a small ten-meter rectangle in the sand. My brother then told me where to stand, and we got ready to play another not-so-friendly sibling game on an already crowded beachfront. This time I was the batter. I got myself into position, knees bent, back straight, eyes piercing, and then tapped the ground twice. Noah then swinged his arm behind his body, over his head, and released the ball straight towards me. A fearsome bowl. As the ball shot towards me, I bent my elbows back as I lifted my shoulders towards the sky. It had a slight side spin, so I adjusted my hands accordingly, eyes still piercing. Knees bent, shoulders swinging through the plane, I striked. Making contact with the ball, I ran to the other side and back to where I started. Two runs. And we kept playing.

Film Photography Elliot Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

’m sitting here in April on a mild, rainy

day. Alone, in the library. I chose this seat because it is next to the round window that feels generous and the overhead lights are three quarters broken. I plod along and do my homework, and without noticing I question the brick decoration at the bottom of the arches outside the window. And then I remember that I am still waiting, just not now, but recently. It seems like I’m on the outskirts of Basel and I know that we are moving back to London in a maximum of four years and we have English licence plates that we are trying to fix. We don’t speak the language and the paperwork is long and the crusty middle aged man with a weedy mustache has been working for 13 years and needs a promotion. The Kurdish woman next to us speaks fluent Swiss German with that lilt, and she feels the injustice of it all when my mom starts begging for an exception in her shiny purple Moncler jacket with the fur hood. My brother and I wear our matching Papa D’Ango sweaters, slumped in the waiting room chairs, playing with a hollow yellow egg and its contents: a red, blue, and white piece of poorly constructed plastic that won’t fit together. Our fingers are smeared with light brown chocolate. The man calls his boss, who talks to my mom through the phone. I bang the backs of my knees against the plastic edge of the chair and run my finger along the

cool metal of its legs. The lady checks her Nokia and sees her nephew was hurt in a workplace accident last night. She rearranges her scarf, fusses in her bag pulling out a dainty clementine, and plops back, brow furrowed. She’ll be there for a while. My mom smiles her overly-wide, thankyou-for-treating-me-well smile, and shakes the man’s hand, passing back the phone. The bill will come in the mail (the late fees will be waived). We drive back and I feel sick, the smell of rotted oranges and popcorn and vomit soaked permanently into our old Volvo. I press my hand against the window pane, leaving a steamy outline. I write H E L P backwards, but the p looks like a q. My knuckles itch and I think of all the bug bites I had had over the summer (34, a new record). I scratch at a scab until a shiny, new layer of pink skin is exposed. My feet tap a rhythm on the floor. Someone once told me you spend a year of your life stuck in traffic. We get home and my mom starts making pasta, cacio e pepe. It’s her new favourite, but she doesn’t season it properly, so it’s just limp, oily spaghetti. I’m too hungry. I try to start memorizing five new French words (le chou, la salade, la carotte, un panier, des oignons), but vocabulary blurs into translucent purple waves, and I sit at the counter next to the stove and stare at my mom sautéeing garlic. The big silver

pot stares back, taunting me. I have to look away. Waiting. Nothing to do. Drum your fingers. Try to fit those pieces together, red, blue, white, even if the edges are bent in a way that makes them irregular and useless. Feel the seconds dropping by with light thuds that accelerate your heart as you think of where you could have been at this moment, had the plane not been delayed, had you filled your car with gas yesterday, had you not dropped your notecards across the floor. Anger simmers within; it feels like a fuzzy TV screen in your chest, sending shocks of fury to your temple. You feel sweat dripping slowly, clogging your pores. You breathe, and wait, then think about waiting. (But you won’t remember this bit.)

Pen on Paper Willa Neubauer ’18

Story by Annabelle Burns ’18

Aesthetics:

A Legacy in Flames

Collage, Mixed Media Dear Liu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19

usic videos always had an advertising element incorporated within. A song’s popularity could be determined by a potential meme, controversy, or pure entertainment. With the view counts of official music videos on YouTube now being factored into calculating Billboard’s Hot 100, the significance of this medium in an economic perspective is clearer than ever. This image then questions the artistic value of music videos. Should they be considered equally important as the song, or should they be treated as a distraction from the music? Let’s take a recent hit that has a music video which has a resemblance to its corresponding song: Lukas Graham’s “7 Years”. From the first scene, there is a burning book gliding through the sky. The very next image is Lukas Graham’s lead singer, Lukas Graham, sitting in a theatre and writing in another book while pages filled with words fall around him. Then, scenes containing landmarks and names appear before the video returns to Graham and his blank book that he’s writing on. With only the first 20 seconds, the viewer can already see the theme of a story. This scene of a book being thrown in the air is then repeated twice more– once in the middle of the video and once more right before the very end. Combining this idea with three books thrown in the air and Graham’s lyrics that mention his parents, himself, and his future children signals the books as a representation of each generation’s story. Furthermore, the first book most likely is a symbol for Graham’s father; a New York Times article shows that the song is about Graham’s deceased father. That information explains why the first book is the only one that is burning, as the man’s story in those pieces of paper has ended. Until this point, the metaphor fits Graham’s message adequately, but one major flaw ruins this symbol: Lukas Graham. The second time a book is in the air, presumably representing Graham himself, is followed by Graham walking away from an explosion that occurs where the books is dropped (Note: The video doesn’t explicitly show that the book was part of that explosion, but its cuts implies it). Not only would this mean that Graham is dead–which is definitely not true–but it also makes the focus centered on him. Graham’s book produces a spectacular explosion while his father’s book only has a flame. Those scenes are not the only time that Graham’s steals the spotlight from the man who raised him. There is a moment when Graham and an older gentleman, once again representing his father, singing together, perhaps implying how Graham was influenced by his father’s ad-

vice. Nevertheless, the next cut happens in the middle of a line and presents the father figure being silent even though the verse has not ended. Then, the next scene shows Graham finishing that verse by himself. Keep in mind, that those last two cuts occur in the time span on one part of a line. If the scene with the two men singing together could represent a parallel between father and son, why would the father suddenly stop talking? Could it be death? Possibly, but no. That entire verse starts with the lines “My woman brought children for me”. This line does not apply to Graham as his girlfriend is currently pregnant with their first child. As such, if those lines would come from the other person in the video, the father, why would he be silent while giving his own life advice? Why, even, is Graham the only one singing the last line? This scene and the potential metaphor with the books are the only parts of the video that have a meaningful connection with Graham’s father, and that all summed up to one minute of a four minute video. What do the other three-quarters contain? Graham, of course. From seeing him shirtless with his band, performing in an a sold-out theatre, and re-enacting a song from the Lonely Island, almost every other scene is solely focused on him. The music video even ends with his band, instead of a last moment with Graham remembering his father. That does not only confuse the viewer, but ruins the purpose of the song being a tribute to the man that raised him. For a popular music video that did a much better job, one can go to Adele’s “Someone Like You”. This song is centered around the break-up with an ex-boyfriend, and the lyrics portray Adele’s attempt to accept her reality. The video further enforces this focus by having most of the video be a long shot on Adele walking without any other person in the background. That action gives the viewer more insight of how the singer feels in her situation: she’s alone. Her loneliness then intensifies the pain she feels when seeing her ex with another significant other and makes her resolve in the chorus a sign of personal growth. Right now, this article only applies to songs that have a personal motivation behind their creation. Most current EDM have minimal or no lyrics, thus making a video that reflects the song’s narrative very difficult. Other songs may be written by professional songwriters, which do not necessarily have a story behind them. However, to the songs on the radio that try to capture a piece of an artist in less than 4 minutes, maybe a visual representation could add another element to the tale, instead of unnecessary explosions.

Essay by Chris Park ’18

Oil on Canvas, 1893 Thomas Alexander Harrison

Solitude Essay by Jennifer Liu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

there unable to draw where the trees meet the water. The blackness envelops all there is in his eyes, creating a vortex in which existence is reduced to a single mass of green and black impressions; one as indistinguishable as the other, as if God had spilled ink onto a canvas, passionately swirling life in natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stunning madness. Yet, he stands there, completely unaware of the moonlight that shines off his ivory skin, creating the shimmering illusion of an ephemeral being in the midst of wavering chaos. He is wholly within his solitude, ignorant of the silent watchful painter, me, and you. Upon closer observation, I become suspicious in myself. The contouring slopes of the body suggest it may be a woman, but the subject faces away from the painting, leaving room for personal perspective to fill. In many ways, it does not matter whether she is a man or a woman, as she is in this moment perpetually singular. While the curious scene draws the attention of many passersby and observers, she will never turn her head to meet their eyes. She is at the end of a boat at the end of a lonely world. Her soft feet lie flat against the splintering, fading wood, and the water rocks her gently, reminding her of conscious days full of companions when arms encircled her in loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s consoling embrace. The cold air now fills their vacant space, submerging her, and as she breathes black and green paint into her lungs, it quietly seeps into her blood. Yet, even in this chilly solitude at the end of a boat at the end of a lonely world, she is not lonely, but rather careless. We, the observer, see a figure abandoned in the center of figure stands

a painting, and sympathetically, we perceive her loneliness, oblivious that it is in fact our own loneliness which we feel, surrounded in this strange place by faceless strangers. From the moment we are pushed and cut into life, we are cursed, learning to speak and laugh with others, entities forever separate from ourselves. While we are not alone, we are lonely, constantly craving for the addictive comfort of others. We learn to build relationships, like solid furniture, so that we can rest, fighting to sit for one breath of a second in a ruthless game of musical chairs. Yet, we never learn silence, a place absent of more than just sound. It leaves us with only ourselves, to face only our thoughts, so we fear silence. We especially flee from physically isolated silence, kicking up sleeping dust in our empty silhouettes. And finally, when we are sweating and panting and aching and cursing, we find ourselves, the observer, far away from the horrors of solitude, but never quite far enough. From this safe distance, we observe silence, so that if we squint hard enough, we see not what she is but what we hid. In her black and green isolation, she forgets past sorrows and future happiness. She forgets her body, her skin. She forgets meaning and purpose, and she forgets us. The painting whispers to us reverberations of silent desire, tempting us to join this exquisite state of absolute solitude. All the while, she is in her weightless soul, carelessly floating through thick pigmented chaos, eternally unaware of the painter across the lake, me across the painting, and you across these words.

Digital Photography Elliot Wilson ’17

Married Life Importance of Musical Themes In Pixar’s Films

ixar’s ability

to tap into our most complex feelings remains a mystery to us. Especially after the release of UP in 2009, audiences often ask, “how did computer-animated films pluck our heartstrings so easily?” Most viewers would point at the relatability in its narratives while others would point at the simultaneous shifts between sadness and happiness. However, what most viewers may not pay attention to is a component that weaves and carries all of these complex feelings together: music. UP depicts a story of retired balloon salesman, Fredricksen, who attaches thousands of balloons to his house to fly away on an adventure. Although the audience loves the film for Fredricksen’s colorful balloons and his love-hate relationship with Russell, the wilderness explorer, one scene in particular, sprinkled with sacrifice and sorrow, stayed in the audience's hearts. To explain Fredricksen’s childish yearning for adventure, Pixar needed to come up with a backstory. They poured its treasury of storytelling techniques, topped with a pint of sadness, to make this background. As nine-years-old Fredricksen makes his way home on the weed-covered pavement, he encounters a young girl named Ellie in an abandoned house. Although their personalities differ, a common spirit for adventure binds them together. He promises Ellie that one day, they would place their house on top of Paradise Falls, Venezuela. Eventually, they got married and lived mostly a happy life. However, miscarriage, financial pressure, and Ellie’s sickness bars them from fulfilling their promise. As Ellie’s trembling hands pass on her adventure book to Fredricksen, his passion comes to an end. Interestingly, Pixar

condenses this whole kaleidoscope of emotions in under five minutes. Although thick layers of excitement and remorse lay over this short story, there is no dialogue; the whole sequence is carried only by visuals and a single score: Married Life. To unify the range of emotions, Michael Giacchino, the composer, created a single melody for Married Life that is uplifting, but has “a tinge of sadness.” He came up with a melody that runs on F major 7. The chord is not quite C Major which can represent happiness and also not quite F Major which represents sorrow; it is both. A playfully orchestrated ballad plays over montages of joy, while a slower tempo piano solo shadows over moments of pain. Due to its repetition under different emotions, the melody weaves its way into the viewers. By the time Fredricksen kisses Ellie’s forehead for the last time on her deathbed, the theme that embodies sacrifice and Ellie’s love for adventure is already registered in our hearts. The theme remains important even though its character is no longer there. When Fredricksen seems to have given up on everything, opening Ellie’s adventure book reminds him about the sacrifices he has made for her. At the end of the movie, when Fredricksen passes on the Ellie Badge to Russell, he passes on her spirit of adventure as well. At both crucial moments in the film, Married Life plays softly in the background to remind audience about the message that is introduced in the opening scene. Life will never go the way we want it to be, but that’s okay. In it, we will not be able to do everything we want to, and that’s okay too. The sacrifices we make and the time we spend with our loved ones are already the best adventures of our lifetime. Essay by Pete Assakul ’18

ink. ISSUE 17 Spring 2017

Writing Director Annabelle Burns ’18 Art Director Pete Assakul ’18 Coordinating Director Chris Park ’18 Club Advisors Brad Faus Elizabeth Buckles Editorial Head Alex Xu ’19 Design Head Edward Guo ’19 Marketing Head Matt Kim ’19 Outreach Manager Dear Liu ’19

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Cover by Wan Lin Qin ’17

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