Green Club x Imago

Spring 2024

GREEN CLUB X IMAGO

GREEN CLUB X IMAGO

Editors-in-Chief

Eliot A. ’24

Angelina P. ’24

Editors

Imelda R. ’25

Betsmona A. ’25

Design Chief

Cailyn C. ’26

Designers

Betsmona A. ’25

Advisors

Lindsay Aegerter

Jim Collins

Cover

Bryan C. ’24

Imago: A Tatler publication

Green Club Leaders

Khalil W. ’24

Anni Y. ’24

Nicole G. ’25

Demri C. ’26

Bella G. ’26

Green Club Faculty Advisor

Ian Siadak

Printed by Minuteman Press, North Seattle

Spring 2024, Issue 39

A LETTER FROM GREEN CLUB

Our planet is at a crossroads: the climate crisis is an issue that can no longer be ignored. It’s becoming urgently apparent that we’ve taken our planet for granted, whether seen through melting glaciers or charred stumps that were once a luscious forest. We’ve run out of time to avoid dealing with this crisis—a crisis that unites us all.

Through this Green Club X IMAGO collaboration, we hope to utilize the power of art and storytelling to both bring awareness to the dire state of our environment and show gratitude for the parts of it that remain. The artwork in this issue speaks to themes as small as the beauty of a bird in your backyard and as large as the worldwide impact of the climate crisis. In the same vein, we hope that this issue will both be a small space to share gratitude for the planet and simultaneously something as big as taking a step toward greater sustainability and climate awareness in the Lakeside community.

The climate crisis is incredibly daunting and entirely universal. This affects us all. Although it can feel impossible to deal with such a large-scale issue, through this collaboration, we hope to foster more conscious thought about the environment—whether that’s gratitude, inspiration, or something else—and emphasize that your individual actions truly do matter for the sake of the planet we call home.

Green Club Leaders

Khalil W. ’24, Anni Y. ’24, Nicole G. ’25, Demri C. ’26, Bella G. ’26

We recognize that Lakeside stands on Duwamish land, and that this land was and continues to be of extreme importance to the Duwamish people.

We recognize their continued cultural, social and physical relationship with their native homelands. These peoples were here before us and will continue to be here after we are gone. We understand and accept our position as foreigners of these lands.

OUT OF CONTROL

Max S. ’24

Big Ben, London, UK, July 2022

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Cardboard, 1″ x 1" x 1", July 2023

Evie C. ’27

THE BOY AND THE TREE

The boy loved the tree

He loved the gentle rose colored petals

The sturdy sable trunk

He admired her beauty

Day after day

But soon spring turned to autumn

And the once delicate tree had become jagged

He had fallen for the beauty of her flowers

So when she revealed her true self

He no longer recognized his beloved tree

He believed that she had been stolen away

Replaced by an imposter

So he traveled away

Searching for his tree

Little did he know

His pretty petals and raw bark

Were waiting for him to return

Day after day

Sonya H. ’24

Iris O. ’24

FIVE WAYS OF LOOKING AT A TREE

I

Trees in the spring:

Smooth branches of erupting magnolias

Connections and memories

—Expanding in the bright canvas of your mind, blooming Shapes of soft pinks, feathery to the touch.

II

Snow gently landing on pine needles

Coating the evergreen in a cloud of puffy marshmallows

—The abundance of sugary frosting on a four-layer cake.

A family of chickadees bundled up against each other

The warmth of love outweighing the frigid temperatures.

III

Crying into its roots,

The willow’s gentle sway rests

A trail of leaves delicately on your shoulder.

IV

Water gushing, wind racing, sun peaks

And crashes back to the horizon.

In the eye of the chaos that constitutes the world’s glory, A tree, stuck in time. A white wall.

The crooked branches,

And wrinkled knobs:

Face of a grandmother,

Face of a grandfather,

Face of a tree,

The memory of a face

Now gone—stabbed by those it was helping,

Now facing the consequences of our actions.

Angelina P. ’24

Watercolor painting, 8.5″ x 11″, 2023

Green Club X IMAGO |

Wayland M.-F. ’26

INNER NATURE

Inspired by “The Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka.

Phillip Walters raised his hand to itch his head once again, the eleventh time in the few minutes he had been sitting in front of the television. His phone pinged and as he looked down, he noticed his arms were covered with leafy wrinkles. He looked at the clock on the television and realized that it had been much longer than a few minutes. More than a half hour had passed since he’d gotten home from work. Wondering what could have happened, he assumed he must have been asleep. Untroubled by such a strange dream, he gazed back to the white plaster wall above the television, which he had been staring at just before.

An hour passed and he heard a car rumble into the driveway. He awoke from his daze with a start, realizing he’d forgotten to make dinner. Rising from the couch, he felt a vicious itch in his head. What has happened to me? he wondered. Across his body, waving vines sprouted, almost a foot in length, now weaving their way across his vision. He peered through the jade tangle and saw that his legs formed two twisted brown trunks splitting through the floor. Phillip noticed a sepia-colored cut across his right leg, with a resin-like substance coming out. He was now slanted to the right, his disordered bushy arm squashed against the couch, supporting him.

Hearing the knock on the door, he remembered his wife had pulled into the driveway. He lurched toward the door but stopped as a creak from his torn right leg sounded. He tried to speak, but the only sound was the squeak of the opening door, a strange rustling sound coming from

his face, and the shout that followed: “Phillip, why is there a plant on the couch? It’s getting it all dirty!”

He watched as his wife walked over to the couch, but he could barely focus as his mind swirled, wondering what had transpired to change him to his current state. Phillip ran through the day in his mind. It had been quite a normal day. He worked as the floor supervisor for one of the Sun Lumber Company’s many factories. He’d arrived at his office early, like always, and gone through the day’s mail. Phillip had called up some suppliers to order more logs. One of the laborers had come to him with an unusual grievance and teary eyes. But as Phillip tried to recall what the grievance had been, his wife Laurence came to stand in front of the couch, tears welling up, shaking and shuddering as she recognized the ragged remains of his work uniform stuck in his twigs. A cry of anguish and sorrow erupted as she fled to their room.

He was aghast. It was all his fault. Phillip’s thoughts shifted back to the day and he recollected what the laborer had said. He blamed the factory for his daughter’s death, saying that due to the Sun Lumber company, his daughter had gotten chemical poisoning while she was wading in the river. Coupled with low wages and long working hours, the single dad was unable to pay for adequate care.

Phillip was sorry, of course he was. But Phillip didn’t do much else besides shoo him out of his office and give him his final paycheck. Complaints were just a part of his job and he’d never done anything about them. But this incident was unlike the others he’d faced; it was unlike the conflicts with environmental groups, or the lumber unions. That the man’s story had, without him directly realizing, been nagging him throughout the day. For some reason it was Green

still agonizing him, even when, as he gazed down toward his twisted legs, he clearly had much bigger problems.

He did not see his wife until morning. She came in with an armada of supplies, and after cleaning up his torn clothes, she set about tying him and shoring up his right leg so he was no longer resting on the couch. He tried to communicate all the while, but it was to no avail. Phillip wanted to make amends for all the loose ends, all the wrongdoings and mistakes he’d ignored or pushed away, both at work and at home. He wished now that he’d compensated that worker who had come in earlier that day, or that he’d made reforms at his facility. Phillip waved his vines around trying to spell out some sort of word, but all he managed to achieve was a look of confusion from his wife, and she left.

She came back a few minutes later, after a large ruckus that he heard from the shed, with a pair of shears and asked, “Is this what you wanted?” He shook his head no, but with all of the foliage it must have looked like he’d nodded, for she took up her prunes and began to trim him. He expected it to be painful, for she was cutting off branches of himself. But he found it to be quite soothing, and he closed his eyes. The gnarled and tangled branches fell around him and he was comforted by her human touch. With every snip of the shears, he forgot more and more about this immobile self he had become, with each cut his human self was revitalized in his mind.

Almost a half hour passed and Phillip fell asleep in his wife’s diligent care. It was the first restful sleep he’d had since he was a young boy. But eventually, the vines stopped falling from him, and he woke. His wife had left, presumably to go to bed, for he could sense that the sun

had been down for quite a while. He felt devastated.

That day he looked forward eagerly to his wife’s coming home, hoping to have his branches pruned again. As the day went on he became quite overgrown. His warped legs were now tearing apart the foundation of the house, and he could no longer see much, as his vision was simply filled with dark green leaves. He was beginning to sag to the left, the weight of his viney branches causing him excruciating pain in his right leg. To Phillip’s surprise, when his wife returned, she trotted through the front door carrying a room partition screen which she proceeded to set up around him.

Max S. ’24

Seoul, South Korea, August 2023

Adi D. ’27 WATER UNDER THE BRIDGE

Slingachan, Scotland, 22 August 2023

Angelina P. ’24

DARK PLACES

Inspired by the Bulgarian folklore tale of the Samodiva, a wicked woman who died and is stuck between heaven and hell, inhabiting a third reality. Similar to water nymphs and sirens, Samodivas reside in lakes and ravines, luring and drowning their victims (often ex-lovers) at night, forcing them to inhabit the same liminal space.

At first, it was no more than a soft stir. As I walked across the earth littered with the craters of bombs and miscellaneous fires, the dancing shadows of dusk seemed to contain some premonition. In the muted calls of lost children and burning trees, I could only hear the gaseous voice of running water.

I continued walking in the direction of the voice, drifting through forests and plains until I reached the sharp outline of a lake. As I gazed into the glassy water, I expected to see my own reflection, but to my astonishment, the surface was dark and perfectly opaque like obsidian. I leaned in a little bit closer, until my face was inches away from the water. For a moment, the mysterious voice paused, and I stared at the lake in silence. The world around me seemed to hush, as if nature itself held its breath.

Suddenly, the surface of the lake began to ripple, and the obsidian gave way to an intricate swirl of liquid colors. Pictures of majestic creatures and cities began to form in the water, reflecting an unexpected warmth and light. The places were unreal yet somehow vivid; there were people smiling, gathered around the golden stairwells of a towering terrace adorned with lush, green plants and babbling streams. I could almost

recognize the blurred faces of the people, but upon closer inspection I realized that I was mistaken.

Then, the wafty voice from before spoke once more.

“Come with me into the water, young traveler,” it urged. “I can take you to the city of your desires.”

The voice echoed and reverberated, drawing me deeper and deeper into its enchantment.

“How will you get me there?” I asked in a trance.

The watery voice responded, “Join me and I will take care of the rest.”

I hesitated for a moment, my heart torn between the warnings of the myths of the Samodiva and the irresistible city before me. I knelt by the shimmering water’s edge, my fingers trailing the surface as I whispered, “Take me there.”

The moment the words left my lips, the surface of the lake began to crackle, and an ashen, nymph-like woman emerged. She reached her hand out to me, grabbing my wrist with her slick, cool fingers. She pulled me deeper and deeper into the lake, until the water enveloped us both. I tugged on the Samodiva and gasped for breath, but she continued dragging me into the obsidian depths. Darkness and silence swallowed us, until I could no longer see or hear the Samodiva. I thrashed my arms and legs, trying to break through the water, but my efforts were pointless because there was no discernible surface. There was no light.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take the darkness anymore, the water began to clear, turning a transparent aquamarine. I struggled to the surface, gasping for air.

My first breath of fresh air in the new world was not

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as invigorating as I had hoped. The atmosphere was thick with a strange, metallic taste. The orange sun cast sickly shadows across the towering buildings lining the horizon. Where the gunshots had once been, an oppressive shroud lingered in the air, making me feel even more unsafe. I looked into the water once more for reassurance, but all I could see was the reflection of a strange girl. She stared back at me with vacant eyes and hollowed cheeks, and only later did I realize I was looking at myself.

Mia

Marek R. ’26

I WOULD LIKE TO BE

Inspired by “I Would Like” by Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

I would like to be

A newborn child

Aware that I have nothing to worry about And live each day thrilled

But not clueless I would like to

Be a stag

With extravagant interweaving antlers Hunted by those

Greedy for my beauty

While I graze in the long, wet grass

I would like to be a soldier

Taking my last stand

Feeling the life slowly drain from my body

Yet having a deep motivation

to keep myself awake just for a few more minutes.

Acrylic painting, 16″ x 20″, 2023

Izzy M. ’24

DO NOT WASTE YOUR PERFECT LIGHT

Do not waste your perfect light.

Through thick and thin, your life shines for all to see. Make sure to keep your flame bright.

Though life is long and is a painful fight.

At the end waits the person you were made to be. Do not waste your perfect light.

Fight for what you believe is right. And figure out your way through the debris.

Make sure to keep your flame bright.

Be successful and reach a new height.

There’s no one certain way or one certain key.

Do not waste your perfect light.

Have some fun, live a little, maybe have a party tonight. Because it’ll be good for you, I can guarantee! But make sure to keep your flame bright.

My son, I know life won’t always be polite. I’ll be here for you, to lean on like a tree.

Do not waste your perfect light, and make sure to keep your strong flame bright.

Mia L. ’24

Iris O. ’24

GREEN STROKES OF LIFE

Inspired by “Big Grass” by Louise Erdrich.

The brush of green. The delicate but certain strokes of an oil painting. A mossier shade at the stem that transforms into a lighter lime at the tips. It shines against the sun and varies in size. The effect creates a satisfying pattern, blowing across the wind like bells. You can almost hear their slight jingle against your ears, paired with the whistle of the warm breeze. Two inches tall. So small, but they are everywhere. Its edges stretch into a yellower shade to create a blade-like shape. Yet, it remains soft and flexible; a ribbon.

You are sitting on a field. Grass strands brush against your fingertips, sending soft ripples of touch through your brain. You peer at an unusual sphere among these waves of green: a ladybug. You lean into it, as it flies away daringly—opposing the breeze and leaving its previously occupied strand swaying above the others. Swish. Within the blend of noises, you hear an irregular flurry of joy. You look up to see groups of kids running along the park. Some even roll down hills. Chuckling, you remember your six-year-old self. Lying on the ground—similar to your position now—watching the clouds after hours of playing. Their fluff makes the earth seem softer. You deeply inhale the fresh air, filling your lungs like balloons and slightly stinging your nostrils. Pause. Your sensory neurons translate the physical properties from the air into components perceptible to your brain: a whirlwind of smells. You can almost taste the moisture combined with the light smell of the grass. Like daisies. Ticklish, as the

summery air dances at the back of your throat. You shift your weight as rays of light catch your eye. The lingering scent of pollen floating like suspended specks of gold. Beams of sun envelop the park in glamor, accentuating the undertones of pollen and your surroundings. Layers of color. Bringing out the tinge of red in tree bark, the faint blue in Seattle’s Harry Potter–like black lake, and the pastels in the vibrant flowers. You lie back down into the hundreds of grass strands that lightly caress you. Their itch starts in your forearms, and then travels throughout your body, across all your exposed skin. The unpleasant ouch marks everywhere it touches—a reminder of its existence. The kisses, bittersweet, fill one’s mind with memories of childhood picnics, sports, games, and summers. Doing handstands, cartwheels, and flopping onto the uneven ground, giggles erupting from your core. Even using longer grass for crowns—endless imaginative possibilities.

Rustling gleefully in the wind. Playful. The greenery of hills bending in directions like ripples of energy. The blood that runs through nature. The tall grass is camouflage for lions, food for deer, the homes of ladybugs, and companions of plants. Each strand is only one sixteenth of an inch thick. However, together they are an eternity of green. Expanding into fields and popping out of all corners of the earth magically. Illustrating their persistence. Grass. The thread that weaves together the vast tapestry of earth. Surviving through humanity’s neverending surges of wrath. Ripping as we yank at its seams. Stretch. In every society, some people yearn for control—to be a god. In reality, godliness is not valued by our perceptions of power or by the gods that we

created, but by nature. Its presence. Similar to grass— minuscule, yet mighty. Bouncing back up against the weight of creatures. Growing out of cracks in cement and through the unconquerable barrier of sidewalks. That flicker of green sliding across your vision as you walk through the expanse of gray we created. Flash. When acknowledged, a suggestion of life and color. Continuing to grow regardless of human modifications.

Our drilling, mining, harvesting, and construction have altered 95% of the earth’s surface. We are the attentionseeking kids who have destroyed all the furniture for the sake of mastering scissors: the real animals. An interruption to life. Grass has been here since the beginning, fostering our growth on the planet. Strokes of green, changing shape across time, remain fundamentally the same. To support. The dinosaurs, homo sapiens, ancestors, and now to us. But our innovations were used to an extreme. Destroying the resources we share with plants and animals. Somehow, grass is still everywhere, widespread in rainy areas where the earth is cared for by nature. People still underappreciate it. Unbothered by the fate of what little of this miracle they have. Its spirit fighting for balance. The balance that once was a circle is now our power-hungry nature, against the wellbeing of all nature. A tug-of-war. You jerk out of your thoughts due to a raindrop landing on your nose. Splash. Tear-shaped crystals from the sky whose purpose is to feed the greenery surrounding you. Turning the grassy waves of energy into ocean currents. You drift out of the remainder of your thoughts, realizing that in your trance, you pulled a couple of strands free from the ground. You stare, studying it. This rampage of thoughts causes you to marvel at these simple strands. A smile crosses your face. You settle for the rubbery touch beneath your hands a moment more—and take a stand.

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Vivian A. ’24

This poem was written as part of a quartet inspired by phases of the moon.

on the 405, we look up at the Milky Way; moonless sky spilling out before us in a stippled sable tapestry. for a moment, I could swear we are the only souls on earth.

where are we going? this morning you spoke of deserts filled with vermillion sands, of forests crowded with lions’ manes standing as tall as redwoods, of islands consumed by tangling webs of coral skeletons, yet we seem to be racing only toward the horizon. perhaps that is where these lands are, hidden in that omnipresent line fracturing the sky from the earth. perhaps if we drive fast enough we can reach that line and pry the two worlds apart with our bare hands. perhaps there we will find the moon, sleeping quietly amongst the unknown, blanketing the cracked lands with her dazzling silver light.

you take a long drag of your cigarette—flame licking up the rough paper—and I can’t help but see galaxies in the smoke, planets and moons and ecosystems suspended in smoldering ash.

F E AT U R I N G

VIVIAN A . ’24

C A I LYN C . ’26

E V I E C . ’27

ADI D . ’27

SONYA H . ’24

M I A L . ’24

I Z Z Y M . ’24

WAYL AND M-F . ’26

S I ENNA O . ’27

I R I S O . ’24

SEPHINA P . ’24

ANGE L I NA P . ’24

MAR E K R . ’26

BEN S . ’24

MA X S . ’24

Imago edits, designs, and publishes a literary & arts magazine to showcase and foster student arts culture at Lakeside School.