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BOOK 4
Iris: Art + Lit
St. Paul Academy and Summit School
1712 Randolph Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55105
651-698-2451
irisartlit.spa@gmail.com
Dear Reader,
When it finally comes to an end, we emerge winners and losers, believing either that we have the luck of the draw or that the cards were stacked against us. There will always be another game, another test of chance or skill. Is it time to tuck the cards back into their sleeve or shuffle them one more time?
The literature and visual arts within the suit of clubs represent intellect, energy, the mind, youth and communication. The moving speech “Don’t You?” by Rahul Dev (p. 12) shows the power of the young mind.
ACE IN THE HOLE
4 - Long Remembered - Ben Atmore - Ink and Watercolor
6 - Ski - Kate Thomas - Photo
7 - The Journey to New York - Sameer Bijwadia - Poem
8 - The Eyes of a Black Man - Arie Walker - Poem
9 - Funky Town - Marlo Graham - Acrylic
10 - Thomas - Jane Brunell - Acrylic
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- Untitled - Martha Slaven - Poem
12 - Don’t You? - Rahul Dev - Speech
13 - Say More - Annabelle Bond - Acrylic
17 - Hide and Seek - Lucia Granja - Photo
18 - Save the Whales - Eric Quillopa - Clay
18 - The Reel Thought - Noah Rice - Poem
20 - Basketball - William Yuheng Zhao - Photo
21 - The Apocalypse - William Yuheng Zhao - Poem
22 - A Promise - Muriel Lang - Acrylic
23 - Untitled - Ananya Narayan - Poem
24 - Assemblage - Mina Mandic - Clay
25 - Holden on Gatsby - Ashley Jallen - Imitation
26 - A Worthless Framing - Lizzie Kristal - Art Book
28 - Do Not Enter - Katie Schlinger - Wire, Wood and Plaster
31 - Left Behind - Drew Fawcett - Short Film
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“Long Remembered”
5
Atmore
Ben
Kate Thomas “Ski”
The Journey to New York
By Sameer Bijwadia
Stars are jewels, Although Roger never went to New York. To see those who dressed differently than him As he passes those on his way there, He levitates over their aura.
If he never makes it there, green plants will wilt. He watches the storefronts as they pass, The ants under him can feel his warmth. Roger can see his goal in the distance, But trips on his own lack of verisimilitude, Catching a whiff of the air on his way down. People will never understand, until they earn their rainfall. The ground spits on the man, Throwing up thoughtful rocks into the air. These rocks will become the centerpiece of daily life.
Is what he should be thinking.
The urban folk people can see the tensions rising. Sameer appreciates the next action, As the man gets up and continues on his way to Detroit, Not fazed by the surrounding mumbles of his peers.
“Oh my goodness gracious, That man must feel pain like a warm brownie in the oven.”
Tasting the man’s feelings is all they can do, As the man finally makes it to where he is going. Exotic and diverse.
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The Eyes of a Black Man
By Arie Walker
Art Classes taught me about the values of color.
How white signifies purity and light.
How white is the main source and reflection of all colors.
While black, absorbs all the color without an output; creating darkness
Color is my reality.
The color my skin dictates everything about my life, where I work, where I live, where i’m safe, where i’m vulnerable.
The color of my skin automatically makes me a threat.
Hood on i’m a black man, hood off…. I’m dangerous, i’m a killer.
I am you and you are me but you choose to fear me.
You choose to shield me from what could’ve been real
You choose to set your boundaries
You choose to limit your trust in me
You choose to never change, instead you settle
Settle for what is now and will stay
My eyes see color as a culture, as swag, and authenticity.
While your eyes change the perception and truth
Making me feel small
Less than
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“Funky Town”
Unwelcomed
You judge me and judge me regardless if i’m your neighbor, your co-worker, your chauffeur, or even your friend.
The cycle does not end.
Red goes to orange, orange goes to yellow, yellow goes to green, and so on until it restarts, replays, and continues once again.
The color of my skin does not mean I rep gangs or sell on a corner, It doesn’t mean I’m illiterate or have no class, It doesn’t mean I steal or cheat or lie or murder
It just means I’m black, you’re white. I was born with it and I will die with it.
Marlo Graham
“Thomas”
Recipe
By Martha Slaven
The pie is my bed in winter.
The confetti left to join the circus, So it’s just us now.
Paris has nothing on us and
The air smells golden, like family. But the table smells of home and The pie is my bed in winter.
Jane Brunell
The tablecloth has a teeny tear my fingernail catches. The warmth of the air leaves a taste on the tip of my tongue.
No cloth covers the table.
Why so many chairs?
It’s just you and me because
The confetti left to join the circus
Kale’s not real and
If the soup stays, there will be an upheaval. Nobody wants an upheaval, take the soup.
The sight of melted is drawing.
She spills the nutmeg, the sound ricochets. But it’s just us now,
The confetti left to join the circus
And not my circus, not my monkeys.
Nope, I’m here, steeping tea.
Feathers as ruffled as a cat, In a sunbeam.
The pie is my bed in winter, Martha certainly won’t bother you.
Too soon everything will be my monkeys, but for now
The confetti left to join the circus. Everyone will be at the plate one day, but for now The confetti left to join the circus and The pie is my bed in winter.
The rock-hard chaos can melt, blur. And the times are changing but change runs out of time, every time.
And the air smells golden like hygge because the Pie, soup, cat, tea are my bed in winter. The blankets nestle down and the fire closes its eyes.
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Don’t you?
By Rahul Dev
“Frat houses in the South know what they’re doing when they drug and rape as many women as possible.”
These are the disgusting words of a screen-shotted conversation that flooded my phone. While the view of this person does not correlate with almost everyone, people like this still exist. This shows that we, as an American population, are not getting closer to eliminating sexual assault.
Who am I? I’m a seventeen year old boy who doesn’t know much about the world that I’m about to enter. While I am excited, I am also scared. Why? I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m scared about going to college, where I know nobody, or maybe it’s that I am scared about the rigor.
For half of you, I’ve probably mentioned your greatest fears for the next four to five years after high-school. While these fears are completely legitimate, they are short-term and can be overcome. However, for the other half, there’s probably a fear I haven’t stated: sexual assault.
One out of every four women is sexually assaulted as an undergraduate student. Unlike the fears I listed above, responding to sexual assault is a lifelong process and isn’t something that can be overcome overnight, if ever.
I can confidently say that there is no way I would sexually assault anyone. I think all of us in this room would hope to say the same, would want to believe they could safely say the same thing, but in order to believe you won’t be a rapist, you have to know what it means to not be one. So why does it still happen?
I have been close with a girl through our families since I was young. One night this summer, she divulged her story to me; it has changed my view on sexual assault forever. For the sake of this speech, I will call her Sarah. She told me she is okay with me sharing her experience. Sarah
“In order to believe you won’t be a rapist, you have to know what it means not to be one.”
was at a high school party where there was alcohol. She went with her friends without any intentions of getting with any guy at the party. She remembers drinking, waking up next to a guy she didn’t know, and that’s all. What? How did at least eight hours get skipped over so fast? I asked her, as ignorant as I was, whether she thinks she consented to him or not. She told me she wasn’t sure, but that she knew that she acted normal when she was intoxicated, so it was unlikely that he knew how drunk she really was. I’ve had time to reflect on what she told me and I can’t imagine the pain she goes through every day, knowing her body was completely violated.
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Annabelle Bond “Say
More”
Yet I’ve had enough conversations with adults to realize that it didn’t matter how much she had to drink; it was sexual assault.
We go to a school of 400 powerful, impactful individuals and each one of you can begin this change. Each one of us will have friends in college. Telling one friend that the girl he wants to have sex with isn’t in a good place to do so may seem like nothing, but it takes one person to start a chain reaction. It doesn’t matter if he says “Can you chill out? I know what I’m doing,” or “Relax she’s fine,” you don’t let him do it. If he is a good friend, he will thank you in the morning, because getting a friend laid isn’t worth years of pain for the victim. Intervening is what it means to be a good friend.
It is important that you set these guidelines with your friends as soon as you get to college so that when or if this situation arises, you all know how to respond. And just like that, you have saved years of pain for an innocent person with a 45 second conversation.
I can’t make it more clear than this: If there is any doubt about whether you have consent, then you don't have it and need to stop. Alcohol complicates this, both in terms of the consent of your partner and your judgment about whether you have consent. If you suspect that you might not have consent if your partner hadn't used alcohol, then you don't have consent. If alcohol has impaired your ability to determine whether you have consent, then you don't have consent.
“What about married couples or people that have been together for a long time?” some have wondered. Consent is always required. How it's given might evolve over the course of a long, intimate relationship but it's always required.
Saying yes in one moment applies only to that moment and can be revoked at any time for any reason, and that must be respected.
If you say you want to go to a party at 2 p.m., but then decide at 6 p.m. you don’t want to, are you still obliged to? Of course not. The laws in this country didn't always see consent that way and that is in part what we are up against in trying to
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change this culture to a culture of mutual, affirmative consent. Furthermore, consent can have different meanings depending on the person, and it is necessary that you follow their definition in addition to the law. Questioning this cannot be an option anymore. It took 17 years for this to be nailed in my head, but I want to ensure that it takes no longer than that for anyone else. This speech has been talking to the men, about the men, and for the men. We need to elicit this change so that we, men, can be our best selves.
We need to change in order for all people to be recognized as autonomous individuals whose bodies, decisions and selves are afforded respect and dignity.
I am giving this speech for all the women. I want you all to know that this is something men think about, and it’s something we should talk about more as guys.
Last week, I attended a sexual assault workshop at SPA, and I was astounded by the concern and hope to learn that came from all the gentlemen in the room. As college gets closer, I get more and more scared for my sisters, my girlfriend, and all my female-identifying peers. I want to help. I want to make sure sexual assault doesn’t happen to anyone. If you care about a woman, which I’m sure all of you do, then you need to do your part.
It can be as small as preventing a friend from hooking up with that drunk girl or just making sure the women you care for and love are in bed safely.
In your mind, does it really mean yes if they are unconscious? Does it mean yes if you aren’t sure if they would say the same if sober? Does it really mean yes if she was pressured by her or your friends? Is one night of sex, where only one of you truly knows what is happening, worth the countless years of pain for the victim and the people who know and love the victim? The answer has to be no.
It has to be no if we respect the dignity and privacy and autonomy of everyone to make their own decisions and feel safe in doing so.
“Consent is always required. How it’s given might evolve... but it’s always required.”
Teenage boys are ignorant. We think that this won’t happen to us and we won’t rape anyone. But for too many of us, the lines between right and wrong are blurry.
I’m standing here because I’m not afraid to say boys, as a general population, don’t know what consent really means. I’m standing here because not knowing the laws can’t be an excuse anymore. I wish it hadn’t taken me knowing a victim to learn about consent and I don’t want that to be the case for anyone else.
I am scared for college. I am scared for my classes and I am scared about leaving Minnesota, a place I have called home my entire life.
But I, too, am scared for the women in this room. I will never forget when I came home from my sex-ed class in seventh grade, and I asked my dad about girls and he responded “Always treat women how you want your sister to be treated.” It has taken time for these words to sink in, but they might as well be some of the best advice my dad has ever given me.
No matter whether you have a sister or not in your life, every single one of you has a female-identifying peer that you care about, and if you don’t feel the need to change for your own morals, do it for their safety. If you change, the people around you will change as well, whether it happens immediately or if it takes a little while, it will happen. This problem cannot be solved overnight, but I am confident we, have the capacity to make that change soon. We all have an obligation to respect women and their autonomy and to do something when we see someone who might violate it.
I am a 17 year old named Rahul Dev and I want to protect my sisters, my girlfriend, and every girl, don’t you?
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“Is one night of sex...worth countless years of pain? The answer has to be no.”
Lucia Granja
“Hide and Seek”
Eric Quillopa
The Reel Thought
By Noah Rice
Iam an artist with a head full of ideas.
To the tune of Harriet, I smell the warmth of the water.
While I search for an answer I sink into my bed of weeds.
Save the Whales 3x9x9
The relaxing hum of the sand cuts the skin between my toes Brings me to a place where I am at peace. I cast my line in search of archaeological remains. These fish are dinosaurs, altogether alien.
My brain bleeds with pus that has built up from a long week at school, And slowly it drips into the lake. A late afternoon breeze blows my thoughts around Making more and more sense with every swirl.
Pop, pop, pop
My body twists and jerks.
Pop, pop, pop
A fish flies through water’s glass surface, And chaos floods my mind, causing hurricanes to brew. But this time it is different.
This time it is my reel screaming and not my mind.
The sound is as peaceful as war, And with every pull, my body loosens
Until once again I am making art with every turn of the reel. It is the anticipation of movement that is so unexpected
Noah catches fish with both hands
Makes art with all his body
And along the road finds cathartic release
Oh, how the Herring Gulls sing.
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William Yuheng Zhao
“Basketball”
The Apocalypse
William Yuheng Zhao
Ishe the guy that killed my mother?”
“Yes, he is the one that killed your mother.”
If he throws a used paper to the ground
the earth will collapse, rough like a severed rock.
He is as delighted as a demon.
If he throws a plastic bag to the sky
The day will darken, dim like a frigid night.
He is as delighted as a demon.
The flower smells like sadness
The grass weeps like a child
He is as delighted as a demon.
He is the Apocalypse.
The world will perish because of him.
The world will fill with trash and stink like a cesspool, silent like death.
He is as delighted as a demon
He is ¨man¨on the earth, he cannot destroy the world
But millions of him can do anything.
He has to stop throwing garbage to know how garbage he is.
¨Is he the guy that will kill my mama?”
“Yes, he is the one that will kill your mama.”
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Muriel Lang
“A Promise”
Untitled
By Ananya Narayan 23
My mind is a hurricane, there is no rest
No calm at the eye of the storm
My thoughts evaporate in my sea of a brain
My mind wanders to that place that everyone leaves in their shoes
I feel a gentle breeze, and my jacket shivers But it does little to comfort me
The smell of salt water invades my nose
I see my past mistakes and my regrets, which will eventually catch up to me As they cloud my vision
I taste my salty tears that have settled on my face
I hear the voices in my head but they’re all my own
The sound of the waves smells like my grandmother’s house and her dreaming roof
People say New York never sleeps But neither do I
There is a brief calm at the eye of the storm
I think of my younger days And all of the things I could have done I keep a tenacious grip on my memories
If I continue lamenting, I will fly
“Let go of that balloon” I hear ringing through my head
I closed my eyes, and breathed The fresh air filled my lungs
I was as agitated as a Yogini
I leapt into the water, and skipped on the waves
Thoughts of fear leaving my mind
She left her body and her spirit behind as she soared
Om Shanti, Shanti Om
She watched the destruction in her wake
Assemblage 9x9x7
Mina Mandic
Holden on Gatsby
By Ashley Jallen [an
imitation]
Iwasjust laying there thinking about old Jane, thinking I’d maybe give her a buzz to see if she was home yet and all, but I wasn’t in the mood. What I decided to do instead, I decided to read a goddam book. I’m sort of illiterate, but I read a lot. I really do. I went in old Phoebe’s room and sat on her bed with this book I was reading. I don’t know why but I felt so damn happy whenever I was in her room, even when she wasn’t there.
The book I was reading was The Great Gatsby. You probably heard of it. It was a very good book. I read it before, but there were parts I wanted to read over again. I loved the goddam book. Old Gatsby, calling people “Old sport.” That killed me. When I was all done reading it for the first time I wanted to call up old F. Scott Fitzgerald on the phone, sort of like he was a terrific friend of mine. But he was dead and all so I couldn’t. What really knocked me out was the goddam ending. Old Daisy wouldn’t tell anyone she killed Myrtle driving Gatsby’s goddam car. So Gatsby, old sport, got shot by Myrtle’s bastard husband. It drives me crazy when somebody gets killed and it’s somebody else’s fault. His death, that was Daisy’s fault. It drove me mad. I mean, Gatsby was about the only guy in the whole book who wasn’t a phony. Those bastards Tom and Daisy Buchanan, they were phonies. God, I hate that.
Those bastards Tom and Daisy didn’t die, but old Gatsby did. It depressed holy hell out of me. So did Nick Carraway. He was always sore and all, naturally. But he wasn’t a phony. Old Nick went sort of crazy at the end because he knew everything. That poor bastard. What made it even more depressing, everyone was always oiled up in Gatsby. All those damn parties Gatsby was throwing. People always had highballs in their hand back then, if you want to know the truth.
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Lizzy Kristal “A Worthless Framing”
Anyway, I was reading the part when Daisy and Gatsby kissed for the first time and how she “blossomed” and all. That killed me. It made me think of old Jane. When I was kissing her all over, but not on her mouth and all. Thinking about Jane made me think about that sexy bastard Stradlater when he took her out. Probably tried to give her the time. That made me so damn nervous. God, I hate that. I tried to keep thinking about Jane and not Stradlater. I couldn’t do it without remembering Stradlater and his damn good build trying to giver Jane the time, so I sort of just went back to reading.
The more I read, the more Daisy annoyed hell out of me. She wasn’t exactly a whore or anything, but what I really don’t understand too hot is why she kissed Gatsby in the first place. She was married and all. She acted all lousy when Gatsby wanted to run away with her. She made it seem like she was goddam
trying to be with him, but she wasn’t. She really wasn’t. And she didn’t even love Tom either. That killed me. Gatsby the old sport was practically crazy about Daisy. He was always throwing her parties and trying to “grasp” the green light and all. I guess he liked her more than me. He even died for her. I just don’t understand why, that’s all. Anyway, everything about goddam Gatsby was so bourgeois. I mean, seriously. Gatsby’s house, Gatsby’s car, Gatsby’s parties. What I thought he was, I thought he was better off without all that money he was so mad about. I mean really. Goddam money. It always ends up making you depressed as hell. It really did. I doubt very much if he didn’t have so much money that Daisy would want so much to do with him. Not that she really did when he had money, anyway. But maybe if he wasn’t bourgeois as hell he wouldn’t have died. I mean he wouldn’t have thrown all those parties or lived in that goddam house Daisy was so crazy about. I don’t care, I just hate how much money controls every phony in the goddam story. Boy, that book was depressing. At least, when you know how it ends.
I really did like the book, though. I was crazy about it. Gatsby wasn’t a phony. And almost everyone is a goddam phony. But not that old sport Gatsby. I sort of felt bad for the guy. Everything he wanted ruined him entirely. Poor bastard. All for that phony Daisy. What I liked about Gatsby, he didn’t give people a bunch of horse manure about what a great guy he was. He knocked people out and all, but he didn’t really care. All he cared about was Daisy. And she was a phony but that didn’t make him a phony. He wasn’t as cool and nonchalant as everyone thought he was. He sort of always needed reassurance. Especially from old Nick. That’s why Gatsby wasn’t a phony. He was nervous as hell. And I’m quite a nervous guy too.
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“Anyway, everything about Gatsby was so bourgeois.”
Katie Schlinger
Do Not Enter
2017-18
STAFF POLICY
Editor in Chief - Dianne Caravela Assistant Editor in Chief - Quinn Christensen
Will Christakos, Alessandra Costalonga, Emma Davies, Koji Gutzmann, Martha Slaven, Ashley Su, Garrett Small, Anna Snider, Griffin Thissen, Maggie Qin Youngdale
The mission of Iris: Art+Lit is to celebrate the diverse creative voices in our community and encourage engagement with the arts.
Poetry, prose, and artwork is submitted via event participation, teacher submissions of classroom work, and individual students.
Professional artists and authors jury the work. The art juror ranks the top 15 works in each medium: drawing and painting, ceramics, and photography. Staff members remove names from the literature submissions and the judge ranks these anonymous works on a 5 star scale.
Iris: Art + Lit is an open forum for student expression. The ideas presented in the work, as well as the copyright for each piece, belong to the author or artist who created it. However, the magazine staff reserves the right to deny publication to submissions. The staff may edit pieces for length, with the goal of maintaining the integrity of the original work.
COLOPHON
Iris: Art + Lit 2018 was printed by Ideal Printing in Saint Paul, MN. Each booklet is printed with 80# uncoated paper with a 80C smooth uncoated cover. The box is printed on 100# digital smooth paper, die cut, and glued.
Body text font is Garamond regular 10 pt. Titles and authors font is Book Antiqua. All graphic design was completed in Adobe CC on iMac computers with 27” monitors.
350 copies of the magazine were printed and distributed free of charge to the 9-12 student body, with the help of patron funding and the support of a publications budget for the magazine.
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JUROR BIOS
ARTWORK LITERATURE
Tia-Simone Gardner
Tia-Simone Gardner is an artist, Black feminist scholar, and educator. Gardner, a native of Birmingham, Alabama, received her BA in Art and Art History from the University of Alabama in Birmingham, and her MFA in Interdisciplinary Practices and Time-Based Media from the University of Pennsylvania. She has participated as Studio Fellow in the Whitney Independent Study Program, and held artists residencies at the Center for Photography at Woodstock, New York; IASPIS in Stockholm; and the Frank Mohr Institute of Art in the Netherlands. Gardner is currently completing her Ph.d. in Feminist Studies at the University of Minnesota.
Martha Polk
Martha Polk is a nonfiction writer based in Atlanta, Georgia who writes most about film, television, gender politics, and her parents. Among other print and online outlets, her work has appeared in/ on The Hairpin, Bitch Magazine, The Bitter Southerner, Hippocampus Magazine, Feministing.com, the MUBI Notebook, and The Chattahoochee Review, where her essay “Eulogy for Nonsense” was the runnerup for the Lamar York Prize for Nonfiction and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She was a lifer at SPA and graduated in 2004 before going on to Carleton College where she majored in History and Cinema Studies.
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