Emerge
(a publication of the artistic community of North Yarmouth Academy)
2013-2014
ARTISTS ages 5-65
multi-media multi-genre works
Cover art &design by Izzy Munro ‘15
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Editorial Staff~2013-2014 Jesse Catir-2015 Maddie Cutten-2015 Hannah Hungerford-2015 Gabby Linscott-2017 Izzy Munro-2015 Jake Rasch-2016 Melanie Regan-2015 Brad Rockey-2016 Milla Rosenfeld-2017 Marina Stam-2015 Alexandra Wahlstrom-2016
Faculty Advisor, Heidi Grant 2
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Piles of Sketches from Drawing Class paper and ink by Charlotte Eisenberg‘15
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publication (a of the artistic community of North Yarmouth Academy)
sculpture and clay
pain%ng
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“What’s Inside?” ~Markus Bilodeau ‘16
“Snowy Night” ~Ira Li ‘14
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“Street ReflecIons” ~Ira Li ‘14 UnItled” 39 “~Ark Lu ‘20 “The Dalek” ~Lea Webster ‘18
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graphic story “Becoming the LiVle Girl Again” ~Sohyun Jeon ‘14
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photography
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“Broken Stories” ~Sarah Grill ‘17
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“Musical Staff” ~Ark Lu ‘20
“Frog, Sun, and SIllness” ~ Irene Marchenay
“The Road Close to Sunset” ~Ben Claytor, Alumni ‘13
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“Trafalgar Square, London” ~Jen Elkins “Speaking Scars” ~Milla Rosenfeld ‘17
17 “Sunrise” ~Nathan Cook ‘23
“Wood nymph” ~Jen Elkins
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“Andrew Goldsworthy Study” ~Emerge Student Editors “Stone Spirit” ~Jen Elkins
collage
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”Purple Rain” ~Isabelle See ’17 ”Piles of Sketches From Drawing Class” ~CharloVe Eisenberg ‘15
2-‐3
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colored pencil, ink, graphite, and oil on paper
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“Piles of Sketches” ~ CharloVe Eisenberg‘15
9 21 31 poetry
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Black Out Poetry ~ Olivia Madore ‘14
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“Defining Extraordinary” ~ Libby Sevigny ‘19 “An Organized Mess” ~ Jonny Snell ‘16
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“Falling Snow” ~ Jack Lent ‘19 “September 1st” ~ Lena Rich ‘16
“Photograph of an Old Man and a LiVle Asain Girl” ~Linnea Hull ‘16
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“Fashion and Mood” ~ Lily Dearing ‘14
“Cara Delevigne” ~Hannah Hungerford ‘15
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“Two Tears” ~Amelia Demetropoulos ‘17
“Guardian” ~ Colby Myer, U.S. Art Teacher
“Verge of Rain” ~Morganne Elkins ‘16 “Supernova” ~ Colby Myer
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“The Pieces” ~ Acacia Bright ‘16
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“Cartoon” ~ Griffin Cady ‘15
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“Where it Began” ~ Sohyon Jeon ‘14
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37 “Flying Man” ~ Colby Myer, U. S. Art Teacher 30 “Stereotypical American” ~ Sonia Lin ‘16
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“Remember When” ~ Sonia Lin ‘16
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“SomeImes” ~Jen Elkins Black Out Poetry ~Kayla Rose ‘14
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“Autumn Leaf Red” ~Mila Rosenfield ‘17 “Figh Avenue” ~Jen Elkins
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short fic%on
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“The Guardian” ~Maddie CuVen ‘15
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“Going Back” ~ Morganne Elkins ‘16
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“The Dance of the Fog” ~ Xander Bartone ‘17
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“Unspoken Stories” ~ Jake MacLennan ‘17
“A Different Web” ~Elora Griswold-‐Crag ‘19
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by Olivia Madore‘14
by Kayla Rose‘14 6
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Purple Rain paint and collage by Isabelle See‘17
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Cara Delevigne colored pencil on paper by Hannah Hungerford ‘15
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Fashion and Mood Colored pencil on paper by Lily Dearing ‘14
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The Guardian fiction by Maddie Cutten ‘15
A man bustles through the streets of Chicago, weaving his way through an onslaught of pedestrian traffic. A train gurgles as it spews steam, engulfing the people below as their faces become lost in a muddled haze. He leans against a cement column, a cigareVe buV protruding from his lips, eyes driging over the crowd. He’s young, rugged and dark, with a lean body. The dirt wedged into the creases of his hands suggests he’s a hard worker. From the east, dismal clouds roll in, sending newspapers and hats flying rampant through the air. The train cries out, warning of its imminent departure. The staIon grows empty as passengers board, leaving only a lost, lone few. Quick breaths and the sound of shiging bags are barely audible above the slow chug of the engine. A woman scurries by, her bags disheveled and falling around her, and her red hair pulled back into a messy bun, just as he remembered. Seeing her, he straightens, alert and aVenIve. The conductor waits idly in the door frame as she rummages through her pockets for her Icket. She’s franIc, “Oh I know I just saw it!” She sighs. The conductor grumbles something under his breath and shigs his weight. Resigned, her shoulders droop, “Oh please . . . I swear I just had it. I really need to get on this train. I need to leave and-‐-‐” The conductor holds his hands up in rebuff. “No Icket. No entry.” “But-‐-‐” “Ma’am, I’m sorry. You’ll have to catch the next one.” The conductor turns and just as the door is about to shut, the young man walks up, holding two Ickets between his fingers. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I have an extra Icket if you want.” “Oh! That’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t take it. I have no money to repay you; I spent the last of it on that damn Icket.” “It’s free . . . take it.” He pushes it towards her. “Oh, I don’t know. Are you sure?” “Just take the damn thing,” he persists. She eyes the Icket once more, only briefly before gingerly taking it. “Thank-‐you,” she whispers. The two board, and the train lurches into moIon before he even has both feet off the ground. She drops her bags to the floor and cups her face in her hands. The man stands silent, looking out at the world through rain streaked windows, his fingers moving restlessly over a small band concealed inside his pocket.
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Trafalgar Square, London
photography by Jen Elkins, Lower School staff and parent
Timidly, the woman begins to speak, “I just wanted to say thank-‐ you again. That was really kind of you.” He nods his head in response. “Are you from Chicago?” “No.” “Me either. I’m originally from Maine; actually, that’s where I’m heading now.” The man conInues to stare out the window, an inaudible grumble the only indicaIon he’s listening. Timidly she adds, “Well, I guess I’m going to go look for a seat. Portland’s a long trip! But thank you again.” She pauses. “My name’s Autumn by the way.” “Nolan.” “Sorry, what?” “My name’s Nolan.” “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Nolan.” Autumn begins to make her way through loaded cars, dodging passengers both siqng and standing. Only ager passing through six cars, clumsily swaying, does she noIce the figure behind her. It’s Nolan. He carries no luggage; he just stands paIently, his hands resIng in the pockets of his coat. He does not make eye contact, but every so ogen his eyes drig to the slight limp in her walk. She finds a vacant seat in the far corner of one of the cars. Autumn bites her lip, “There’s only one. Why don’t you take it? You’ve been so kind to me already, I insist.” “I like to stand, keeps me sharp. Besides, you got a preVy nasty limp there. “Oh it’s no big deal. I just slipped the other day while I was out running.” She hesitates, keeping her back to him (con+nued)
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“You should really be more careful.” His voice is tense and falls flat. Nolan knows it is a cover, and it pains him to see her sIll impaired, living with shrapnel sIll imbedded in her calf. Timidly she takes an available seat while Nolan takes a place against the wall a few feet away. “We’ll take turns,” she murmurs. Nolan acts as if he hears nothing and lights another cigareVe. The two are quiet while their conversaIon seVles into a passive lull. CigareVe smoke drigs in the space between. Autumn shivers and pulls her sweater Ighter. Seeing this, Nolan pulls of his jacket and holds it out in front of her. “Here.” “Wow, I really owe . . . first the Icket, then the bags, and now a jacket! You’re quite the gentleman.” There’s a pause. “So how long do I get to keep this jacket?” “What?” “I mean, when or where are you geqng off?” “Last stop, I guess.” “Hey that’s Portland! Are you meeIng anyone there?” “Not anyone I haven’t already met.” “Are you from there?” “I was.” Two rows ahead a man, thick and burly, in a leather jacket rises. He fumbles past the other seats and begins to make his way down the aisle towards the back of the car where the two sit. He stops and looms over Nolan who ignores the sudden presence and conInues to stare at the ground. “Hey, buddy, ya mind?” Nolan brings the cigareVe to his mouth and sets it between parted lips, “Not at all, smoking helps ease the mind.” “Look, smart ass, put it out.” “I don’t see anywhere that says I have to.” “I’m not asking, I’m telling, so put it out before I put you out.” Autumn is rigid in her seat, her eyes
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intenIonally fixated on the floor. “Nolan, please put it out,” she whispers. Nolan noIces the distress in her voice. He shigs his eyes to look at her; the color has drained from her face and her body trembles slightly under his bulky coat. His eyes dart to the stranger before him and his body goes tense. The man’s features are severe, with intense black eyes contrasted against sickly pale skin. His head is bare, and where hair should be is an elaborate paVern of ink, forming the body of a spider. The spindly legs hang down behind his ears while the grievous fangs are poised above his eyes. The spider triggers her memories of experimentaIon and confinement, a side effect, a nightmare. “Well how bout that, a liVle lady with some sense, and ain’t she preVy, too. Hey darlin’, what’s a girl like you doing with a bastard like him?” Nolan shigs his weight towards Autumn, cuqng off the man’s view. “I believe you and I were having a conversaIon, and I’d appreciate if you leg her out of it.” “You know I’ve had just about enough of you. When I talk to you, you beVer answer, but when I’m talking to a lovely lady, I expect you to shut the hell up.” With this, he takes his hands and forcibly shoves Nolan against the wall, sending the cigareVe to the ground. Immediately, Nolan regains composure and thrusts two fingers into the base of the man’s neck. The burly body goes limp but remains upright, and Nolan draws his face close to his own. “Next Ime I tell you to leave her out of it, I expect you to.” He eases the pressure and then all at once throws the man back, sending him into a fit of spuVers and coughs. Nolan reaches into his breast pocket and takes out another cigareVe. “Sorry about that.” “No, no . . . Uhm, thank you. Not a huge fan of spiders or sleazy men, but I think I need some water.” Quickly she gets up and hurries past him, navigaIng her way through aisles and chairs once she reaches the food car. Her fingers explore the inside of the jacket’s pockets, rummaging for dollars and coins. She pulls out a small, metallic object and cups it in her hand. It is a simple silver ring aside from the few words engraved on the inside. Ad scien+am, non est sacrificium. Autumn rereads the words over and over. Her mind thumps and swells while the air around her grows thick, and she can’t breathe. Memories and emoIons flash through her mind, imprisoning her in her own subconscious. She closes her eyes and tries to force them out, but they’re closing in, about to overwhelm her. The ring claVers to the floor as she races to the corner of the car to try to escape the voices circling in her mind. Two hands seize her shoulders, but the voice that follows is sog and gentle. It’s him, Nolan. “Autumn, we need to go.”
graphite on paper by Amelia Demetropoulos ‘17
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Snowy Night oil on canvas by Ira Li ‘14 12
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Street Reflections oil on canvas by Ira Li ‘14
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Unspoken Stories
fiction by Jake MacLennan ‘17
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graphite on paper by Sonia Lin ‘16
Remember When
She shuffled into class bundled in clothes. On top she wore a fleece jacket covering up a very preVy t-‐shirt, and she wore sweatpants on the boVom. Every day she shuffled into school like this, even though it was the middle of spring. She sat in the back of the class, as always, and put her head on the desk. She acted as if she wasn't paying aVenIon so she wouldn’t be picked on, even though she heard every word. Her beauIful brown hair cascaded in front of her face covering her sog brown eyes and pale red lips. Melinda was beauIful, even though she didn't believe it. The teacher spoke up, "Melinda!" Melinda’s head shot up and scanned the class that was staring at her. "Why is Romeo trying to talk to Juliet?" From underneath her fleece jacket the slightest murmur could be heard. She slapped her arm down upon the other. She hated Romeo and Juliet. The story and the characters were confusing so she had a hard Ime following them. "Ummm, because he loves her?" she half answered, half guessed. The teacher seemed impressed. "Good job, Melinda. It’s funny, your test grade doesn't reflect your class knowledge." The murmur grew slightly louder as if another had been added to it. Melinda's hand shot up. "May I go to the bathroom?" "If you must," the teacher replied. She walked out of the class, but as soon as the door shut behind her she ran to the bathroom. Melinda yanked her sleeves up to reveal scars running up and down her arms. Two of them were especially red. The source of the murmur was found: the scars. The first scar whispered, “Because of the bad test grade," over and over again. The second one was just as insistent. "For looking foolish in front of the class." She splashed water over them but they wouldn't stop. She sat,
took a few deep breaths, and relaxed as the scars sogened their repeIIve sounds. They finally became quiet and pale. She rolled her sleeves down and walked back to class. Lunch Ime came and Melinda grabbed an empty table at the end of cafeteria. Here she didn't mind as much if her scars talked. It was so loud that no one could hear them. A few of the cheerleaders prowled by, snickering, "Oh no, Melinda's siIng alone. Maybe we should sit with her?" At that moment another girl slammed a carton of milk next to Melinda, and it went flying all over her. A couple of scars on her legs started to talk. The repeIIve speak was muffled by the sweatpants, but the scars could sIll be heard going off about the cheerleaders. She got up and started to walk towards the bathroom when she was blindsided with a pudding cup. "Oh God, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to do that!" The whole leg side of Melinda was covered in the sweet chocolate substance. Ager a few seconds of silence, the cafeteria erupted into laughter. Melinda sprinted to the bathroom, weaving in and out of lunch tables. So many scars were talking know that not even the clothing barrier could contain the whispering. It could be heard by some as she went by them. A few of the scars were screaming. The embarrassment was too much. She hid in a closet for a few minutes just sobbing, leqng a liVle bit of the pressure out. The volume of the scars’ chaVer slowly sogened with every sob. In the final minutes of the day, she was emptying her locker when a very handsome boy with emerald green eyes and dark black hair walked up to her. "Hello, Melinda," he said. "Hi, James," she nervously replied. "Hey, I heard a rumor going around you know somebody who likes me?" he said with a liVle twinkle in his eye and a slight smile. She froze. Fear swelled over her but the scars stayed silent. The only thing that could be heard was her breathing. (con+nued)
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"Ahhh, I might," she barely choked out. "Why? And who told you?" "It doesn't maVer who told me, but I just want to know," he said with the same smirk as before. "Um… who do you think likes you?" "Someone who I also have a huge crush on." The smirk turned into a huge toothy grin "I don't know, James." Melinda started to blush and crossed her arms over her chest. Her beauIful hair cascaded down her face, and the slightest flash of white teeth could be seen. "Come on, Melinda, could you just tell me if Ashley likes me, please?" Melinda's heart sank, and her grin disappeared. Her body began to shake. An explosion of noise came from underneath Melinda’s clothes. Her face became red, tears formed in her eyes. "What in the hell is that?" The shocked, dark hair boy with the emerald green eyes backed away from Melinda by a few steps and looked her up and down. "I'm so sorry!" Melinda cried out between the tears, and she ran down the hall and around the corner with the voices of her scars sIll repeaIng and repeaIng. Later that night she was lying in bed doing homework, trying to process the day. She decided to take off her socks. The leg one slipped off her foot with ease while the right was a struggle. Each toe felt the air between them as they wiggled. Siqng there staring at her feet, she took off her fleece. The scars on her arms were revealed. The older scars were pale and faded. The light in her room allowed them to shine like streaking shooIng stars in the sky. The newer ones were red and dark. Time had not been able to heal the emoIonal or physical part of these scars. However, that’s why they are scars; they never quite heal all the way. Then she took off her sweat pants. The same marks lay upon her legs. The beauIful smooth skin she once had was now rugged and hard from the abuse. She looked all over her body, seeing and feeling the scars. She closed her eyes and followed them. The scars took her on a long and twisted journey, every few seconds changing paths. She started to feel her chest Ighten, her throat plug with what felt like a coVon ball, and her eyes water. The tsunami of emoIons finally hit home. One tear ran down her face, then two, then three, and as the third one ran down her cheek and fell from her face, she broke. The loud sobs and tears that had been held in were released. The pressure of it all crashed through the gates. Waves of sadness, anger, and loneliness traveled through her. First a few scars started to begin the repeIIve wails of sadness. Then her arms buzzed of repeIIous speak. The story behind each of them, never frequented by her memory, was shoved into her consciousness. Then the scars on her legs began to shout. The inflamed streaks of red all along her body were yelling, as if each one wanted their story heard. From outside the bedroom door the beauIful, brown haired girl with brown eyes and pale red lips couldn’t be heard. All that emerged were the wails of the scars.
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Speaking Scars photo and ink by Milla Rosenfeld ‘17
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Classroom Doodle colored marker by Libby Sevigny ’19
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Defining Extraordinary poetry by Libby Sevigny ‘19
She stands as one rose in a field of daisies: black hair versus blonde, green eyes versus blue, dark skin versus light, solitude versus company, longing to be wanted. Blindfolded, she aimlessly tries to find the voice that is calling her. She becomes the new puppet. Everyone races to grab the marionette. They can’t see the refined details etched in the birch wood design, the fine strings, soft like spider silk, or the vivid paints used to bring her to life. They just want her to be like them. Handling her life by her strings, they find a single “flaw" and drop her in disgust, leaving her tangled and broken. Yet, when she’s alone, she sees herself in the mirror and faces the duplicate of herself. She finally opens her eyes and sees: She isn’t a flawed puppet. She is not just different, She is extraordinary.
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Going Back nonfiction by Morganne Elkins ‘16
M
oonlight bounces off the ocean like high beam hitting a telephone wire. My feet are tucked into my sweatpants, and sand fleas leap around me in flurries because I pushed aside a nest of seaweed when I went to sit beside the rock.
That rock used to be part of the bank, Mum tells me, when I was growing up. She says it’s because of erosion that it shifted down the beach, disembarked from the wild rose and strip of mud full of raccoon prints. I say, Okay, Mum, and believe her because that is what I am supposed to do. I can’t climb up its granite side on my own. Using my six-year-old-logic, I reason that if I can’t beat the rock on my own, I have no right to question its origins. Nine years have passed, and I only have to jump a little to settle at its top. My knees curl to my chest, and cold air tucks my hair behind my ear. When my room is empty and it’s two in the morning, the rock’s where you’ll find me. I don’t want to share my world with anyone else. Sitting in shadows cast by the moon, the bank is a foot behind me and the forest is looming and dark. Voices from Grimm’s fairytales and monsters from Parker’s nightmares sing to catch my attention. The broken down chimney of my neighbor’s cabin is illuminated; stars catch the slate and brick. ~ There was a fire, Mum says, and once when I was nine we put on thick wool socks and Bean boots and winter gloves and walked the fire’s ruins. The ocean is silver. Bioluminescence catches light like stars reflected a thousand times and set in the water. It’s lighter in a strip down the center, almost as if a carpet stems from our cabin’s deck, down the stairs that have been cut into the soil, across the sliver of High Tide Beach, through the ocean, and right up to the ghost of sand fringing Heart’s Island. She and I (though I am sure that it was really just her) found broken shards of a pitcher, fired butter yellow with a baby blue checkered pattern and cracks in the glaze. She and I (though I know it was only her) glued it back together, and somehow all the pieces were there. I keep pens in that pitcher now, and it sits on my great-grandmother’s desk in my room beside a pink lamp I once ago coveted.
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~ It’s called the sandbar, Mum tells me, swiping her paddle through the ocean. I am seven and it’s my first time alone in a kayak, my first time gliding over the sandbar. When I was little, I would walk from our beach to Heart at dead low. I want to ask if I, too, can try, but I close my mouth and revise my question. When I ask, the word that appears is when? Mum tells me during our trip next night when we go back to the sandbar after Dad and Parker fall asleep. The water is freezing. We don’t make it all the way to the island, but I find a sand dollar, velvet and black, in the ocean. Mum picks up a crab that’s as big as my fist and whisks it away before I fully notice.
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Now she’s asleep and the beach and the ocean and the island are mine. Memories come flooding back of nights when I swore I never wanted to share this moon with anyone else. I’m fifteen and I’m hoping I’ll hear a splash and look over and see my mother, her back to me, skipping the flat stones in seven perfect arcs from where the beach meets the forest. Now I don’t know how to ask her to come back with me, or if I can close my mouth and have the right words appear instead.
by Sarah Grill ‘17
digital photo
Broken Stories
Now I don’t know if I can ask to go back.
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Photograph of an Old Man and a Little Asian Girl
poetry by Linnea Hull ‘16
On a hard wood floor, my feet are cold. My bottom hurts. Sifting through a box full of Kodak envelopes filled to the brim with the unforgotten past, my eyes land on one photo taken in North Carolina when I was six years old. In the center of the photo on a blue and white striped chair, a little Asian girl smiles on the lap of an old man. She wears a bright yellow and pink striped dress. Her bangs cover the top of her forehead. She has no eyes. It is seven past ten according the small brass clock, ancient and worn. It sits silently by the old man’s right hand. A black pole of a lamp stands behind the clock and in front of a corner of a white sheeted bed and pillow where every night he sleeps silently, growing older every minute. The old man, my Granddaddy, sits on the chair, clad in blue jeans and a plaid blue and green shirt. His limbs ache, his brain is fuzzed, his hair is grayed, and his joints creak in a body that is not getting younger. He is aged by the wars, engineering, a family of a wife and two sons, death, a dog, a cat, a house on a lake built by hand, fish trespassers, drowning, two marriages, empty nesters, and an empty house. On Death’s doorstep he smiles for his little black eyed beauty perched on his lap. He was the third to leave town and never come back. 20 Emerge
Verge of Rain
charcoal on paper by Morganne Elkins ‘16
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An Organized Mess
poetry by Jonny Snell, ‘16
Orange walls surround a tan carpet cloaked with clothes unfolded, left in a pile, and assigned as “clean.” Dirty laundry over<lows, and bureau drawers remain open. Wrappers and cups scatter on the <loor like leaves on a lonely path Midday, sitting at the large glass desk, my bag is unopened and I think about what to do next. Weighing options: practice soccer or study for the bio test? A l o n g 30 seconds and the choice is made: soccer. Darkness descends. Smirking, tomorrow slams open my door. Papers empty, books left at home, labs undone— cramming it all in at Break. Grabbing my bag, torn like a worn soccer ball pulling away from its seams, I carry the disordered mess on my back. Papers are everywhere, Folded and crushed. Books are thrown every which way. Some important-‐-‐some not—who really knows? And yet, when I enter the locker room it all feels right: A brand new wooden locker organized to perfection with skates neatly placed on holders and gloves close by. A helmet is centered between the two. A towel is folded underneath. Chest pads hang on the side. Everything in its place—perfect. 22
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Becoming the Little Girl Again graphic story Sohyun Jeon ‘14 Emerge
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A Different Web
fiction by Elora Griswold-Craft ‘19
The cold, ash-‐grey floor presses against my knees. The white sunlight hits the white wall, piercing my eyes. The room is almost empty, and it is just as sterile any other room in my community. But I’ve found something remarkable, something no other has found before. I peer down at the game, as it is called in the instrucIon manual. In fact, the instrucIon manual is the only familiar thing in the whole box. It almost seems as if this object has been blown in from another land. Bright colors, unlike any colors I have ever seen, intricately cover the box. Ager reading through the instrucIon manual several Imes, I realize that board games are actually quite compeIIve. This aspect of the game makes it seem less alien to me as my world is a web of compeIIon. The smartest rise up, and the losers descend. CompeIIon rules my world and dictates who holds what power. Although the box’s coloring is strange, I bend down to examine the game more closely. I learn that the players of this game are required to be compeIIve, but there is another layer to this game. I reach into the corners of my brain, like searching for a dusty box in an aqc, and I find the infrequently used word that describes the game: entertainment. I do a quick computaIon and realize that the box must be at least 150 years old. Entertainment was outlawed many years ago because it distracts people from their crucial need for a strong academic foundaIon. Of course, only the smartest get the best jobs, so entertainment is unnecessary. I wonder about a society that would waste so much Ime simply indulging in entertainment. The need for answers expands to all corners of my mind. What type of society would allow for such foolishness? Of course, my brain chip tells me: “Society was once much different than current day. OEen, kids and adults would spend more +me playing games such as this board game than studying and storing knowledge. Popular games include…” I turn off my brain chip and look down at the strange, thin wooden box. I have a literal computer in my head with a web of all the data and informaIon I will ever need. My job is to use the chip as much as possible every day to store up more informaIon than my peers. On my 21st birthday, the chip will be removed, and I will have to rely on the data I’ve downloaded into my brain. Normally, I would let my brain chip conInue extending and enhancing my knowledge, but the same curiosity that drives me to learn drives me to temporarily defy my upbringing and logic and to turn the chip off. Something new, something other than my head, tells me to think on my own. Perhaps, as foolish the thought may be, it is my heart? If my teachers or parents knew I was thinking on my own, without the guidance of my brain chip, I would be in for strong lecture. We live by the brain, not the heart. That’s set in stone. But for some reason, looking at this board game filled with vibrant and unusual colors, I realize something. I don’t care about the consequences. I need to understand this game, and without the instrucIon of my brain chip. 28
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I look back down at the box fixedly. I first try to figure out what the world was like when this game was common. The first thing that triggers my mind is the game’s colors. My eyes linger on the strange neon and rosy hues. What was the world like when colors like these were prevalent? Maybe people where more talkaIve and cared more for each other. When I see these colors, I feel a warmth course through my enIre body. My heart almost skips a beat, and I am startled by the emoIonal reacIon to these colors. Considerably large and unrealisIc shapes and objects cover the box. The shapes are so vivid and new they almost seem to erupt onto my face. These bright colors seem explosive compared to the color scheme I see each day in my life. I live in a world of black, white, and grey. Some eaIng halls may have a painIng with a drizzle of a pale pastel color, but ogen this is not the case. However, this box explodes with dizzying color. The color seems to light a flame in me. Perhaps I am the only child to ever fully experienced color such as this in the last 50 years. Even outside, the grass is a dulled grayish green. The sky is ashen with acid rain and polluIon driging amongst the land. Everything is the same: black and grey metal. Even our lockers are this color, although I have a small dull blue stone in hiding in the corner of my locker. I can’t seem to discard it because of its color. Looking down at the miraculous journey of color, I realize something I had never before: the world is lacking this gig of color. I know that this idea is not part of my brain chip’s data; the idea is all mine. My logical brain tells me to bring this game to the Human Study Department, as we have been instructed to do with anything new or different. Yet, I shudder at the fact that if I give this away, I will feel an empIness that I don’t understand. Years later I may even forget the colors, forget the feeling it gave me. A new idea starts to grow and form in my brain. As I touch the cover of the box, I realize that I am in a world filled with people who are intellectually developed, but who, in a zombie-‐like way, are mindless. I sigh out loud, something that would be frowned upon by my parents, and think of a world with color and games. I place the lid back on the game and yearn for my 21st birthday when my chip is removed and I can think as much as I want about the spiraling, dizzying, and incredible colors before me.
The Dalek block print by Lea Webster ‘18
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Graphite on paper by Colby Myer, Upper School Art Teacher
Flying Man Sometimes
poetry by Jen Elkins, Lower School staff and parent Sometimes I don’t know what to feel. The tide of life is gurgling up to strangle me and I don’t feel like leaving. From across the harbor I hear Akela yell barking out some unheard need. When you’re alone, a bird’s wing will whisper.
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Supernova
Guardian
graphite and oil on paper by Colby Myer, Upper School Art Teacher
oil and graphite on paper by Colby Myer, Upper School Art Teacher
Wood Nymph
photography by Jen Elkins, Lower School staff and parent
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Falling Snow poetry by Jack Lent ‘19
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I slowly walk to our house Where you are resIng A mild breeze washes over the fields whispering through the grass And the ash quietly falls to the ground ResIng on the streets as gently as snow, covering the Faces of the dead I stumble over a corpse. My hands rake the earth and my skin becomes raw, Scraping like rust on the ground I don’t look to see who it is, for it, like all the dead, will be forgoVen Their lives blow away with the cool April breeze that rustles through the fields I am finally home I walk through the lawn where our son would have climbed oak trees with his friends. The roof has collapsed, broken, limp, defeated, and caked in soot and debris Finally I collapse, lying on the ground like a destroyed pillar my limbs weak and weary I think I will see you soon Emerge
Where it Began
charcoal and pencil on paper by Sohyun Jeon ‘14 Emerge
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The Dance of the Fog magic realism by Xander Bartone ‘17
The stained wooden walls of the cabin groaned as the cold wind blew in off the sea. Thick curls of fog spun up from the impenetrable black surface and spread across the water, blurring the landscape like a steamy window. The mist roiled and twisted up—pulsaIng in the morning light. Rhe tendrils of smoke reached into the air like the thin, delicate legs of a dancer. The water Iptoed up to the edge of the cabin and lapped over the round rocks at its base, worn smooth from a life on the sea. A lone window gaped open over the water—the glass long gone from a hurricane, the square opening defenseless against the elements. Due to this, the oak insides of the cabin were faded, the former robust umbers dulled to a weak and uneven tan. The boards of the floor lay in perfect symmetry, only a paper-‐thin gap between them. Their birch hues seemed to creep up into the golden easel placed directly in front of the window, looking out like a dog waiIng for its master. It propped up a canvas with a gray portrait of the outside world painted in long strokes of watercolor. A dancing layer of fog blurred the clouds, trees, and water, all held together by the same slate hue. A man stood hunched over the easel. His long bony fingers shook as he held the brush to the paper. His thin, white t-‐shirt hung on his frail body, smudged with grey paint like a sidewalk ager a passing rain shower. His khaki pants cascaded down his fragile legs, held in place only by a pair of crossed black suspenders. He wore no jewelry, no rings, no watch, nothing to embellish his simple existence. A thin halo of white hair quivered atop his head and his grey eyes shiged carefully from the canvas to the window. Wrinkles tumbled down his face—beneath his eyes, they overlapped like a breaking wave, stumbling and falling into their own repeIIons. Besides his mouth though, the wrinkles seemed to lig his face into a half smile, a smile broken and rebuilt years before. The man put down his brush and stretched his aching arms. His eyes fell upon the black and white wedding picture nailed to the right of the windowsill. The edges of the photo were rounded and peeled away, and a spiderweb of creases split the picture into a thousand triangular secIons. A man and woman stood laughing together, in a cabin with one window that looked out over the sea. Their hands locked together, his suit and her dress looked out of place, from another world. Their heads thrown back, they smiled with half open eyes and wide mouths. The woman’s long dress billowed in the wind and blew over the man’s legs, obscuring them from the camera. The creases of the fabric were so pure and crisp in the photo, the man could almost feel it across his skin again. The sun glinted in from the window and reflected off the couples’ rings, a colorless glimmer in their leg hands.
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The man turned back to his painIng and the white fog conInued to cascade from his brush onto the paper, flowing like the crisp fabric of a dress. His eyes darted from the canvas to the window, the natural world his photo reference. The fog seemed to be approaching and growing thicker, twisIng and gyraIng towards him. The grey water was barely visible now, only a faint smudge. His brush slid across the paper, and the haze grew thicker in the painIng as well. He glanced up again, and the landscape outside the window was completely gone. The thick layer of the dancing fog was all that remained. The mist swirled through his open window and into the cabin as fluidly as falling water, and as more poured into the cabin, the air grew thick with the dancing ribbons of smoke. As it darted around the cabin, the man could feel it Ickle his skin. He looked down, and the fog was fliqng around his ankles, shiging like a midnight river. The fog was no longer just water, as it flowed around the room, it became a saIn cloth that he could feel on his arms and legs, paper thin, teasing him with brief kisses. The long flowing dress danced around him, rubbing against his face like the hand of a ghost. The white fog twisted and danced around his body, and he could feel the sog fabric brush his old skin, as he once felt years ago, as thin as the hem of a wedding dress. His hand sIll gripped the brush, but the rough handle felt larger now, and warmer. It was as sog as the skin of youth—he now held a young hand, full of love and laughter. The cold crescent of a ring pressed against his young palm. Suddenly, the wind whistled rudely through the cracks between the boards, and the fog dissipated from the cabin in a young heartbeat. It sunk between the cracks in the floorboards and poured out the open window, like a movie in reverse. The man was leg alone once again. He smiled and liged his brush to kiss the paper as he had before. Outside, the turquoise sky gleamed, and the golden sun spun through the window. It glinted off the ring on his leg hand and threw its spot of light onto his painIng, where the fog seemed to crease and curl like the hem of a dress.
Musical Staff
light drawing photography by Ark Lu ‘20
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Fifth Avenue
poetry by Jen Elkins, Lower School staff and parent The city looks wonderful in the shadow of death. Tears are running down my breast. I’m 30 years old and I feel like hell. I can’t even spell “America”. I saw pain and affection cross the street without looking. We spoke of making war. Affection told me never to throw my arms around statues. Pain said “take what you can” A blind man saw the light and died on Fifth Avenue. A crowd of window shoppers stepped over his dead body. When you read this, Will you think I was talking about my life?
September 1st poetry by Lena Rich, ‘16
The Pieces
graphite on paper by Acacia Bright ‘16
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Faggot Homo Tranny. He scratched the tears off his cheek. It Doesn’t Bother me, he insisted. Different was plastered on his face. on his thighs-etched out in his baggy gym class shorts on his porcelain dolls, kidskin gloves, and collected scripture. Still, he wanted her body, that bathing suit his father refused to buy him after he was sent away to baseball camps. He wore the dress to school amidst whispers of his peers and concerned teachers, But what about that boy? In the girls’ bathroom he combed his long, tangled, autumn hair. His dress flowed out behind him as he bolted, gloriously down the hallway.
Stereotypical American Pen and ink by Sonia Lin ‘16
Cartoon
graphite on paper by Griffin Cady ‘15
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Andrew Goldsworthy Study photography by Emerge student editors
Autumn Leaf Red
poetry by Milla Rosenfeld, ‘17
What is it? It’s like dye in water Flowing through the forest, flying, dancing, As the wind blows the trees to the side. The leaves descend, their edges cracked. They’re wrinkled, they smile. The old men of the forest Falling into the water, breaking into Disappearing smiles.
Frog, Sun, and Stillness
photo by Irene Marchenay, Upper School French teacher
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Sunrise felt collage by Nathan Cook ‘23
What’s Inside? sculpture by Markus Bilodeau ‘16
Untitled
watercolor painting by Ark Lu ‘20
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“Jabberwocky” by Lewis Carroll
“Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Poetry
Through the Ages
“Thoughtless Cruelty” by Charles Lamb
Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Master's
“Sadie and Maud” by Gwendolyn Brooks
“Mingus at the Showplace” by William Matthews
April 25, 2014 Poetry Recitations At NYA
“The Properly Scholarly Attitude” by Adelaide Crapsey
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“Eagle Poem” by Joy Harjo
“The Snow-Man” by Marian Douglas
“The Paradox” by Paul Laurence Dunbar
“a song in the front yard” by Gwendolyn Brooks
“The End of Science Fiction” by Lisel Mueller
Original 5th Grade Thunder Poem
“The Boat” by Caroline Gilman
“The Butterfly” by Pavel Friedmann
Mary Oliver
“If” by Rudyard Kipling
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Stone Spirit
photography by Jen Elkins, Lower School staff and parent
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The Road Close to Sunset photography by Ben Claytor, alumni ‘13
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