IMAGO, Winter 2023

Winter 2023

IMAGO

IMAGO WINTER 2023

Lakeside School’s Arts & Literary Magazine Issue 38

IMAGO Editors-in-Chief

Eliot A. ’24 Angelina P. ’24

Editors

Imelda R. ’25

Design Chief

Cailyn C. ’26

Designers

Betsmona A. ’25 Angelique G. ’24

Advisors

Lindsay Aegerter Jim Collins

Cover: “Spartan Girl”

Ava L. ’25

Imago: A Tatler publication Printed by Minuteman Press, North Seattle Winter 2023, Issue 38

WINTER 2023 ART Sonya H. ’24, Revolutions

7

Mia L. ’24, Studies of the Mundane

10

Caileen W. ’27, Late-Night Snack

14

Daniel W. ’24, Veil

16

William F. ’24, Fiery Dragon

22

Max S. ’24, Death and Destruction

23

Sonya H. ’24, Dimensions

26

Angelina P. ’24, The Story of Rapunzel

28

Khalil W. ’24, The Market

31

Alex Z. ’24, Chained Inside

34

Rishi L. ’24, Faceless

36

Sonya H. ’24, Two-Faced

37

Brady L. ’26, Sun/Flower

39

Ben S. ’24, Morphed Mirror

40

Sophie B. ’24, Seasonal Reflections

43

P O E T RY/ P R O S E Iris O. ’24, Western Liberal

8

Emerson K. ’27, Obsession

13

Vivian A. ’24, MAYBE SYLVIA PLATH GENUINELY

15

BELIEVED THE OVEN WAS OFF Anonymous, Mademoiselle

17

Olivia K. ’24, The Damned and the Divine

24

Reagan R. ’25, The Kindness of Prometheus

27

With the World’s Creation Adnan M. ’24, Melted

29

Eliot A. ’24, Drip Impact

32

Brady L. ’26, Villain of Narcissus

35

Iris O. ’24, Uncertainty

38

Emmy T. ’26, For I Will Consider My Mother Degy

41

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS There exists a common narrative that faith and fiction only find a way to survive between the cracks of modern life.

Indeed, with the global eye trained on new advances in science and technology, we seem to propel ourselves at a faster and faster rate toward complete understanding of the world, scouring away the last traces of ambiguity.

Yet as individuals, it sometimes feels that we have turned a corner back into the opposite. The world is complexifying beyond our capacity to fully conceptualize it: every move rests on growing stacks of written law, webs of source code, webs of interaction. Any one of us is left almost overwhelmingly ignorant. What we are grappling with are not new questions, but age-old ones dressed in innovation.

Their mystery is familiar. They remind us that the world is not just a place to be understood, but also to marvel at and continuously interrogate.

At times, in the face of the unknown, we turn to the certainty of the unknowable.

With stories of Prometheus and Narcissus, dragons, Rapunzel, the Damned and the Divine, and traditions as time-honored as Caileen W. ’27’s “Late-Night Snack,” it is our privilege to share with you a collection of work that explores the theme of myths, rituals, and omens — experimenting with the confluence of the natural and supernatural, real and surreal, life and legend. These are the stories that ground us, reminding us where we come from and, perhaps, hinting at what lies ahead.

Sincerely, Eliot Aguera y Arcas ’24, Angelina Pimkina ’24 Imelda Ramirez ’25

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.

Sonya H. ’24

REVOLUTIONS

Konya, Istanbul, August 2022

Winter 2023 | 7

Iris O. ’24

WESTERN LIBERAL My mom, a blonde Turkish woman, came to the States for opportunities — a red-white-and-blue firework with a lit fuse, destined to succeed.

Turkey is a sensible country of family, culture, and character. Half of it is located in Europe and the other half in Asia, a biracial child of the world.

My mother grew up in Büyükçekmece, a region renowned as European. On forms, she would select “White” only to be corrected: Choose “Other,” please.

Being Turkish is not white, Miss. The American dream is a suspended moment, a fleeting memory. My biological father bragging about his Spanish and Italian heritage and being the “spicy” Spaniard, is also chased down by an official — as one would chase a stray pencil rolling away. A child proud of an unearned title? Corrected.

A generation later, I came to the States. Nationalistic to a fault from having lived in various regions of Turkey throughout my childhood. A tasting menu of memories and homes: The spicy essence of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, the wafting sweetness of Bodrum magenta flowers, the thick accents of Ankara … When I came to the States — My favorite color is red because of the Turkish flag. No, I hate coffee, but we have many great teas in Turkey — a one-note song: hyperspecific, predictable, comedic. Today, whiteness is guilt, no longer a ticket to an exclusive club. The cigarettes of the world, from fashionable to deadly.

You are white. The contradiction of it all tickled me, a swab up my nose.

IMAGO | 8

This is not my history. This is not my story: I come from the Barbarians of the Ottoman Empire, Valiant Gladiators, Passionate Spaniards, the Genius of Genghis Khan, and Pondering Greek Architects.

A fusion of culture, revolutionaries, and dreamers.

I will carry my education in politics and American history, but I will not associate with it; a comfort theme in my arsenal rehearsed and combat-ready from years of training in daily discussions. I am unique — unbounded by the categorized and self-imposed limits of the modern world — an ever-expanding universe.

Winter 2023 | 9

Mia L. ’24

STUDIES OF THE MUNDANE Normandy Park, Washington, 2023, 9.9" x 10.4" (all)

Konya, Istanbul, August, 2022

IMAGO | 10

Winter 2023 | 11

IMAGO | 12

Emerson K. ’27

OBSESSION night came to pass echo observed him in the muted calls of chirping bats, of rotten trees sinking in the vale. sometimes she wafted beside him, lingering in the plip of pebbles, in the lap of clear cold water and wished she couldn’t see his gaunt curve of a smile, cadaverous winter-tree hands clutching at the mirage of his rippling face. high in the mountains, soaring on the flute whistle of winter winds, she watched his red chiton billow, and wished it was not fabric but a pool of fluttering blood. she had once wanted her voice, but now she only wanted her body. she was nothing, but she could still see his ribs when he sang soft songs to the river rocks she was nothing, but she could still feel the gasp of his heart when his breath shuddered through his failing lungs she was nothing, but soon they would be nothing together.

Winter 2023 | 13

Caileen W. ’27

L AT E - N I G H T S N AC K

2023, digital

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Vivian A. ’24

M AY B E S Y LV I A P L AT H G E N U I N E LY BELIEVED THE OVEN WAS OFF lately it feels like / an almond tastes not like an almond but / more like the inside of my mouth / isn’t it bizarre

the way / summer bleeds into fall until / fall is left

thicker and bluer than / you seem to remember

they added a new speed bump to

that residential street you used to take every day / but / you don’t know when / it changed / because you stopped taking that street / so / it could have changed / back in may / and you just never knew / until today / and / after you pass the bump you keep driving 15 for 20 more minutes

doesn’t fire look so gentle sometimes /

if you put your hand in / it would probably just / melt like paraffin wax

all the pills are starting to look

the same / it’s hard to tell whether you’re taking iron or / advil or / the ones from the bottle with the extra tiny text / but / does it really matter to make you feel worse / anyway

they all seem

jesus the river is

so fucking loud / yesterday it sounded like the / crunching of infant bones / but / tonight it sounds like the / clattering of adult teeth

there’s a difference between / the

shine of a moonlit lake / and / the shine of a glossed lip / and / the shine of a silver spoon / but / when you’re dizzy / everything looks like

the shine of a gun

lately

it feels like / my reflection looks not like me but / more like the wing of a moth

Winter 2023 | 15

Daniel W. ’25

VEIL

Amherst, Massachusetts, July 2023

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Anonymous

MADEMOISELLE Based on Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë Mademoiselle had forgotten me again. I should not have been much surprised, nor disappointed; dull as I am, I too had come to understand that Mr. Rochester should not like for me to approach them. Professeur had said so, when I was made to stand — I had been a burden to my benefactor, so was sent away. Monsieur had wanted to take her to the moon; I had objected, so he had settled for Ferndean and I was no longer welcome.

I would return to school next dawn, and had left it the prior evening, but though Mademoiselle had sent for me, Mademoiselle had not much seen me. She had been there when I arrived, smiling, and beckoned me into her arms, smelling of parchment and books, but then Monsieur had called and the baby had cried and I was made to loiter on the grounds in the meantime.

I didn’t mind so; the towering pillars and gates and the web of trees were amusing enough — through their interknit branches I would sing and pretend I too was a fairy and be swept away like Mademoiselle. Outside Ferndean’s mossy walls was a dark forest, like witches’ haunts of stories. I did long for a fellow actor, though, for I was tired of playing the witch and should have liked to don the role of a princess meeting a clandestine suitor, or even that of a loyal friend. I was sure Mademoiselle would have agreed if I had asked. But I must not ask, as she had Monsieur to care for, and her new son besides. Professeur always said I was quite obnoxious. I should refrain from vexing Mademoiselle, Winter 2023 | 17

whom I liked.

Soon it would be noon, and the pale autumn sunlight would strengthen and wash the glumness away in a coat of gold. I liked watching the dappled light dance in trickles on the carpet of leaves on prior occasions and marveled at how its touch could make brilliant again the colours of dead leaves decaying on the forest floor, seeing vivid oranges and yellows flare up into a river of molten fire. Once, I thought it might do the same for me, make me shine like a jewel, brighter than they could overlook. I would be the héroïne, as Maman once said, dancing upon my stage of gold. But Maman had gone to the Holy Virgin, and so nothing could keep the light from dimming, the colors from fading, and the leaves — and me — from reverting back to their original states.

Professeur said no one would like me as I was.

Professeur said I should resolve to be quiet, each word a betrayal of my coarseness.

Professeur had said such Maman’s dances and songs were unbecoming of a proper English lady.

Mademoiselle agreed.

“You are tuneful enough,” she had said finally upon my last performance. But it had pained her to hear such mature phrases from a childish tongue. Would it not serve better in other settings? Mr. Rochester, Mademoiselle professed, would be amenable to have me as a pupil for his English songs.

Mademoiselle is kind to me. I must not displease Mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle had been there, however, when I had entered Monsieur’s haunt in the library that morning, the lesson having been arranged. But evidently, she had not IMAGO | 18

mentioned that, for Monsieur appeared unaware. At my arrival his huge head turned, his cloudy eye fixated, and presently he called for my removal, speaking briefly of their preoccupation and my obligation to leave them and seek fresher environs. “Make away with you in haste; no doubt that school of yours has been lacking in hale country air,” he had said. “The woods shall be your haunt until lunch — nature, I am sure, will do good for you.”

And Mademoiselle, who had been reading a book aloud to him, had been quite excited and had moved closer to inspect his eye, which had grown so well as to spot me across the length of the room.

I was not much missed, I do not think. A hunger had gnawed inside me regardless, making my limbs linger; but there was no further mention of the lesson. Instead, she queried him on the range of his sight, exhilarant over its improvement, and his reply drifted through the oaken door: “So it is; I dare say I should make do with greater dignity thereafter, though it was no pleasure to see — even glimpse!

— that face again. The picture of her mother: was that velvet on her? What developing coquetry, showered with my coin; but let us not concern ourselves further over the creation the Varens have foisted upon me.”

My frock shone, its cloth thick and dense — suffocating — as I fled.

The dress was now packed back in the box, to be quietly returned after supper; the shoes and stockings, too, ironed as best I could. When I had gone out it was a simple black frock that I wore, the plainest I owned. Monsieur had given me the velvet, but it was not mine, nor, as Professeur liked to say, should I have imposed it at the onset in asking Winter 2023 | 19

for it. Once Mademoiselle might have defended me, but she had said nothing, and I knew she agreed, for when I returned at noon for lunch she looked approving, her hands clasped upon her own plain dress, and kissed me on the cheek.

I was quite relieved, for I had thought the worst; but Mademoiselle thus far still seemed fond, and Monsieur tolerated my presence well enough. Still, when I sought to sit next to Mademoiselle, he seemed to bristle. I knew well enough by then to retreat. Mary welcomed me to the servants’ quarters warmly enough, but I doubted she had any fondness for me, whom she did not know. Not like Mademoiselle.

But even Mary would get up to fetch things for Monsieur, who already had Mademoiselle. Even Pilot, his shaggy fur grayed with age, curled up on Monsieur’s feet under the table. There was no one near as I ate my bread, and I almost longed to return to school; but I must not, for Mademoiselle had been kind in bringing me here and I should not complain. It was through no fault of hers that I was always distant.

In keeping her from my company Monsieur was quite miserly — no, I should not say that, for Mademoiselle no more belonged to me than the velvet dress, but she must have belonged to him, and he was undoubtedly hers. Again I was the only outsider, and so I could not begrudge either.

Their profound generosity, Professeur always said, kept me fed, clothed, and alive. I should not be ungrateful.

I missed Sophie. But Sophie had been sent away when Monsieur first disposed of me; she must be happier now, in places I am not.

I returned to the room allotted to me after lunch.

IMAGO | 20

Mademoiselle did not like me to be away for too long. I had no book, nor could I sing, but I was quiet and sewed, mending an old frock — I would now need it: the more costly ones’ return would please Monsieur. Thus supper came and passed in much the same way, and finally, Mademoiselle sent for me in the evening (Monsieur, who might have complained, appeared asleep).

Mademoiselle opened her arms, and I sprang into them at once, like I had when she was still my governess, and I her charge.

“Madam—” I began to cry, and raised my head; under my gaze her countenance looked tighter, the narrow brows drew tighter, the thin lips seemed to purse, and I bit my tongue. I had forgotten — it was so easy to forget — Mademoiselle was no longer a mademoiselle. She was a Madame — but I must not speak French — Professeur said so — and she liked me to be English — she was Mrs. Rochester. I looked again and saw the trial, and my slow tongue unfurled around still-unfamiliar words.

“Mrs. Rochester,” I said, and she smiled, the only one who could still like me.

I should not test that fragile fondness.

I must not trouble it.

I cannot lose it.

I will not.

Winter 2023 | 21

William F. ’24

FIERY DRAGON

2023, paper, 8" x 6"

IMAGO | 22

Max S. ’24

D E AT H A N D D E S T RU C T I O N

Seattle, Washington, September 2023

Winter 2023 | 23

Olivia K. ’24

THE DAMNED AND THE DIVINE Inspired by “If We Must Die” by Claude McKay If we must fall Let us not fall silently Let us not act small And if so, let it be defiantly!

Their words they cut like knives, But we still stand, stronger than ever They know nix about our lives!

They have no right whatsoever Rise up, now stand Gather round ye, No longer banned Rise from your knees!

They say words like hell, they do not know of any hell They only know of power I know of strength too, But I don’t stand in my high tower I would never put someone through The hell they’ve inflicted upon others.

That is how power is guaranteed Someday they will fall Fall from their high tower

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Someday they will fall, On the ground, they might understand.

But that’s not today so, If they must fall Let us be merciful, Let us not hurt the hurt who hurt God will have his own principal We will not be the ones to desert And as I have said before The damned are damned The damned will fall But us, we are divine.

Winter 2023 | 25

Sonya H. ’24

DIMENSIONS

Karachi, Pakistan, January 2022

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Reagan R. ’25

THE KINDESS OF PROMETHEUS W I T H T H E WO R L D’ S C R E AT I O N I would like to give the clock a face That couldn’t ever cry I would like to give the chair stout legs To proudly walk on by I would like to give a shoe a tongue One not unlike my own And put the same tongue in a bell To speak on all that’s known I would like to give the piano teeth And the bottle a slender neck I would like to give the pitcher a lip To give others a gentle peck For what’s a country without a heart?

What’s a storm without an eye?

Except a nation that cannot feel And clouds that cannot cry I would like to make all objects human So maybe they’ll forget How cruel all living things can be And how lonely life can get.

Winter 2023 | 27

Angelina P. ’24

THE STORY OF RAPUNZEL

Sofia, Bulgaria, July 2023

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Adnaan M. ’24

M E LT E D It was the worst heat wave the town had seen in years.

Walking in the streets was impossible without heatresistant shoes. Tires melted on the asphalt, the power grid failed, and young children were becoming fatally ill. The people of Sholad gathered in the gymnasium of their local high school to discuss this problem.

“He is no longer content with farm animals and jewels.

We must return to human sacrifices. That is what our ancestors have done, and they prospered in their time. We cannot go on like this,” the newsman said.

The history teacher added, “We will not stoop to savagery and primitivism. We made a deal for a reason. It seems Yendor desires a renegotiation of terms. Perhaps he wants his tributes at a different time of year?”

“Negotiation? How are we going to get to him?” the plumber exclaimed.

“We’ll do it the way our ancestors did it,” the HOA board president said.

The newsman looked at the history teacher, and the rest of the townsfolk followed his lead. “Yeah? Well, how is that?” he exclaimed.

The history teacher explained, “There are no records of how communication between the dragon and our ancestors took place. Our only known mode of contact is through sacrifice.”

“There we go! Human sacrifices it is. We’ll take a vote! Who do we feed to the dragon?” the newsman asked.

“Wait, wait just a minute,” the grocer said, jumping out of her seat. “Since you’re so eager to send people off to die, Winter 2023 | 29

why don’t you go?”

The townsfolks’ murmurs of agreement drowned out the newsman’s objections. Rising together like a great wave, they hoisted him aloft and began to march towards the exit. However, an authoritative shout abruptly halted their procession and silenced the commotion.

“Behave yourselves! You should all be ashamed! Do you not care for your fellow man, your fellow citizen? Alan has a family — three kids, and a wife who loves him. We gathered here today to discuss solutions to this problem. So what are we going to do?” the history teacher announced.

Dumbfounded, the HOA board president asked, “What if we all sacrificed ourselves? The dragon can’t eat all of us!”

The townsfolk, enraged by this suggestion, let the newsman down and carried the HOA board president toward the door, chanting and muffling any cries of objection.

“Wait! Wait! Fine, I’ll go myself! Do you hear? I volunteer!

I’ll try to speak with Yendor, I’ll show you all that he can be reasoned with. I’ll go to the bottom of the mountain myself. If you do not hear from me by Moon’s day, prepare my funeral,” the history teacher shouted. Silence followed.

The next day, the heatwave was replaced by refreshing, mildly chilly weather. The people of Sholad paraded in the streets and honored the bravery of the history teacher.

“Today, all car traffic on Main Street has been closed for a parade honoring Phillip Cardinal’s heroic sacrifice. Festivities remain positive, and hopeful for a quick return. The weather is cooler than we are used to this time of year, but it’s a satisfying reprieve from the past few days. This is Alan Scott from Channel 1 News, thank you for watching.”

IMAGO | 30

Khalil W. ’24

THE MARKET

Seattle, Washington, May, 2023 Winter 2023 | 31

Eliot A. ’24

DR IP IMPACT Threading the straight buzzing teeth of towers over rooftops, resounding with needly song, a message broadcasted to my mind: it says, something terrible is going to happen on the other side of this glass. But I wilt with bad news and I sleep in the daytime.

The swell-bellied cat sleeps stretched on the hem of shadow. In violet dawn it calls the hem of shadow, hem of light, hum of warm metal to the mouth of the machine. It eats and spits black seeds into the cupped palm. Tongue, nigella black eyes, breath running into the atmosphere: vacuumed up by heaven. Blood in the wool. He points the way with his arm, a slow slice, serrated knife through honey; the direction of wind from the fortress walls. Cane and cantaloupe blowing off the sea. The streets come coiled by choking distraction, smoke from the stoves where the horns turn to pillars of charcoal, pillars of salt. The moment before the drop, I anticipate nothing. It’s why the rain continues to be cast off from the awning, plucking strings through the air. To think that the symphony is winding down and the train will be leaving soon, that the chattering monkey is unspooling and its cymbal crashes will be scattered like a string of pearls unstrung, I would say, this tragic betrayal, the enormous waste! And still there is a little bite near the rind.

Even with another day or year of ripening IMAGO | 32

on the vine, it would not be half enough to quell this hunger. It begins as it ends, in a bowstring cough of sparks. With the world swinging fast enough to shake the bedroom, toss you like dice against the wall, in the foggy sea of afterdark the moon is a raw bulb, an anglerfish, sunk in oil and becoming bright as another day. And you can almost feel the underside of the earth, too, burning with it. The bitten rim of light, yellow underneath your nails, staining the cuticle. Isn’t it just quiet enough to hear a pin drop. An ocean that grovels on its knees for the lost earring.

A sea that encroaches on ancient walls, the dark that lays its silent siege, its wide open palms, its head pressed against the window.

Winter 2023 | 33

Alex Z. ’24

CHAINED INSIDE

2023, ink on paper

IMAGO | 34

Brady L. ’26

VILLAIN OF NARCISSUS Inspired by “Song of the Anti-Sisyphus” by Chen Chen I want to be a mirror, starved of worries, no eyes gazing upon me besides my own. A blanket of blank stares, reflecting the piercing gaze that others bring because I’m sick of worrying. Because people, always wearing a facade for others, are thirsty for the satisfactory verification of good enough whilst proceeding to judge others.

I want to know if reality really is all made up in the head, we’re not all always on stage because the obsessed are obsessed with themselves.

I want to go on stage, an amphitheater, millions of eyes staring at me.

I want to sweat, armpits clammy, forehead dripping in salty sludge until all I see is a shattered shock, wall of faces.

I want these faces to form into one, a million eyes inside of me, are me, a rippling reflection in a greasy pond. I want to be a narcissist, because I’m ready to be starved, ready to thirst for only the image of me no matter who loves, loathes, or laments me. A mirror as my shield I want to become a villain, changing the world in a new way, because an army of narcissists, each with a mirror, will never be sweating on a sweltering stage.

Winter 2023 | 35

Rishi L. ’24

FACELESS

Lakeside Photo Room, April 2023

IMAGO | 36

Sonya H. ’24

TWO-FACED

Digital photography, February 2023 Winter 2023 | 37

Iris O. ’24

U N C E R TA I N T Y A blank room, its walls making up a cube Without a speckle of paint out of place.

The air is still, encompassed by ice Frozen in time. Fearful to break the serenity Muscles tense up — an unmoving block Stuck in this moment without direction.

A haze, a step forward, a break.

Analyzing, senses stuck on a loop.

A déjà vu, an expanse of perfect Symmetry, an epitome of potential Building with the knowledge of its Passing. A tension tinted with fragments of regret. Pick one, face consequences.

Ice thaws, water flows. Footsteps echo.

IMAGO | 38

Brady L. ’26

SUN/FLOWER

Lakeside Dark Room, March 2023

Winter 2023 | 39

Ben S. ’24

MORPHED MIRROR

2023, ceramic and wood, 1'6" x 1'6"

IMAGO | 40

Emmy T. ’26

FOR I WILL CONSIDER MY MOTHER DEGY Inspired by “For I Will Consider My Boyfriend Jeffrey”

by Chen Chen For I will consider my mother Degy.

For she stands tall though she is 5’2”.

For she reads minds from one’s eyes.

For she feels guilty for sleeping two hours after work.

For she squints at the computer to fix her colleagues’ calculation mistakes.

For she enters a furniture store just to glance at the interior designs on display.

For she cooks brown or purple or yellow rice to maintain a healthy diet.

For she scrolls on FaceBook watching videos of life hacks.

For she dabs cinnamon on the palms of her hands & clasps her hands, rubbing them, like a birthday wish, she whispers into her palms instead of a cake.

For she mixes turmeric & aloe vera in a glass cup to produce a hydrating mask for herself.

For when she notices her state of distress she instantly calls family but she doesn’t speak of her troubles.

For she meticulously scans my countenance & notices my exhaustion.

For she heads over to her Buddhist shrine & prays in the comfort of her home, rather than a traditional church setting.

Winter 2023 | 41

For this she performs in seven steps.

For firstly she lights incense, careful not to burn her fingers.

For secondly her hands meet with a soft touch they lay flat against each other in unity.

For thirdly she wishes the impossible, the unthinkable.

For fourthly she spins the prayer wheel.

For fifthly she spins.

For sixthly she spins, then yells my Mongolian name to call me over.

For seventhly she explicates the number of times I needed to spin the wheel for my longings to come true.

For having prayed, she finally lets out an enormous breath she’s been keeping in since she’s seen my grimacing face.

For the tips of her fingers snatch a chocolate almond wobbling on her tippy-toes, to reach the sweets jar filled with sugar, spices, & spoonfuls of salt & she shouts “Choose a hand!”

For she jokingly scolds me for my indecisiveness.

For she slowly turns her hand over to reveal my erroneous choice.

For she embraces me with warmth & wonder & I find a comforting haven, flaws & all.

IMAGO | 42

Sophie B. ’24

SEASONAL REFLECTIONS

2022, acrylic on canvas, 31" x 25"

Winter 2023 | 43

F E AT U R I N G ELIOT AGUERA Y ARCAS ’24 VIVIAN ANDERSON ’24 SOPHIE BIERNACKI ’24 WILLIAM FENG ’24 SONYA HAM I D ’24 EMERSON KIM ’27 OLIVIA KWAN ’24 R I SH I L AK SHM I NAR AYANAN ’24 MIA LARHS ’24 AVA LOOP ’25 BR ADY LUND ’26 ADNAAN MOHAMUD ’24 IRIS OZKAN ’24 ANGELINA PIMKINA ’24 REAGAN RICKER ’25 BEN SCOTT ’24 MAX SIAUW ‘24 EMMY TSERENOCHIR ’26 CAILEEN WAN ’27 DANIEL WANG ’25 KHALIL WILKINSON ’24

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