SOLSTICE
Mission Statement Solstice is Hinsdale Central’s showcase of original student literature and artwork. Pieces are anonymously submitted to be reviewed, critiqued, and selected by a student staff. Works are admitted based on cogency and style, followed by a democratic consensus. No edits are made without the author’s consent. Solstice is a communication of ideas and experiences as interpreted by your peers in an extracurricular setting. The design theme for this year’s magazine is layers. The template, layout, and cover reflect this theme through vellum transparencies and overlapping design elements. While students’ submissions are not required to embrace this theme, we invite the reader to explore connections between layers, the art, and the writing.
1
Jasmine Cerezo | Honors Study | Acrylic | 18x24
Table of Contents
4
Supernova Robin Owens
6
Temper Tom Janas
10
2007 Reagan Brownell
12
How to Get into College Anika Arvanitis
14
16
18
20
22
24
28
30
34
38
Don’t Forget Meghan Dietrich
Autumn Skin Stuart Burkhart
Knotted Up Kunal Jobanputra
The day the world ended.
Fall
Chloe Bassett
Joy
Evan TalboTT-Swain
Utopia Reagan Brownwell
Courage Sarah Shawaker
Nikolai Kowalchuk
32
Ashes, Ashes Elizabeth Hamilton
33 Cold
Craig Smith
On Turning 18 nicolE EichElman
A Thin Glass Window Kunal Jobanputra
40
The Process of Elimination
44
A Dull Shine Cagan Hawthorne
Anushka Nair
46
Daylight Robot, Midnight Dreamer Cagan Hawthorne
49
50
52
56
58
62
Ethereality Craig Smith
Stargazing Eric Chang
A Love Poem Anika Arvanitis
The Florist Cagan Hawthorne
Back to the Sea Cagan Hawthorne
Rush Hour Emma VanMeter Stapleton
48
Welcome to America Sachin Shiva
54
Ode to Calculus Anika Arvanitis
Julia Baroni | Focus | 18x24 | Mixed Media
4
| Solstice
Supernova (All at Once) You don’t really think about it, but stars… It’s like Schrödinger’s cat. They’re so far away we can’t tell if they’re alive or dead. They’re like glittering little time machines, Light years ahead of us and we’re stuck in their past Like a lover left behind when our older, better half graduates from our life. Sparks that are so far away, and they could literally Explode and stop Existing. Those lights could Combust and expand and collapse and implode And we wouldn’t know. It could be eons before Millions of years before I might be dead before… Right now a star could be born or it could supernova; In the case of the former, we’d mix up the time. We’d stamp the birth certificate eons late. Name it something from the completely wrong era, Like calling a rotary phone cellular, Or Internet dial up. And in the case of the latter all we see is a perpetual middle. Some people age that way— hit a year they like, settle down, never leave until one day they’re removed in a body bag. These stars live on a timeline we can’t draw. Not because we don’t know the data (which we don’t) But because we’d have to plot data on top of data, dots overlapping like stars cross, simultaneous and blurry. Fuzzy and momentous. Hazy around the edges like galactic math problems. What to do with stars— dying and burning, and being born, but not living. Reach for them, they say,
BY
ROBIN OWENS
2015-2016 |
Not become them. Reach for them, they say. But we act like them, like we have no expiration date And then we supernova too, Realizing our best years are gone, We’ll never burn as bright or as loud or as fast Or at all, really, and anyways, who’s here to see, Until everything’s Two Steps Ahead. We stop wearing short skirts two years after we should’ve, Break off relationships because they’re hard And there’s always, always, always Another Chance. So we supernova in the middle of the realization that Everything Is almost Entirely Over. All at once. And our memories are like a star’s middle Hovering in limbo until we accept They’re Really gone. They were gone a long time ago, But we figure that out All at once.
5
6
| Solstice
Temper
BY
TOM JANAS
Long have I envied those with heads held high, and smiles so long and taut, Their minds focused and their hearts cast in brilliant Gold. I tried to ignite my chest of Coal, mimicking the beautiful shining of the reflective souls I have seen. Alas, no glow but that of sadness shall come to this furnace of doubt, yet I realize that Gold is a simple element, forged from its very birth to its dying breath. I, however, have pressed on my heart of Coal for some time now, and through the art of Tempering, it has become a shimmering Diamond.
Ellen Jiang | Contemplation
15x21 | Watercolor
Yasmeen Najjar | #Selfie | 22x11 | Charcoal
Lisa Buhelos | In Preperation | 25x19 | Pastel
18x24 | Drawing Allison Graeger | They Can’t Hear You
8
| Solstice
Life in the Day
BY
SHANNON SMOOT
2015-2016 |
9
ACRYLIC | 48X22
10 | Solstice
2007
BY
REAGAN BROWNELL
Baby girl
Baby boy,
too small to hold her tears.
mama spends all her time with you.
They seep from red eyes
Daddy’s worries are all here for you.
like raindrops.
You are the center of their
Seven years old and all grown up.
world because they fear
Tainted with adulthood
that yours might not go on much longer.
and names of medicines that will forever be remembered
Have you forgotten your sister’s face
as the words that kept her brother alive.
despite being her best friend?
She is a rock
Do you miss her?
keeping her parents
Has this sickness become a wall
and her strength
an ocean
from floating away.
an abyss between you and the girl who shares your eyes?
Baby boy holds on.
Baby girl
Through the beeping of the machines
and baby boy.
and the pinches of the needles
One sick
and the tubes
but both broken.
and the pills and the forced smiles. The reassurances and tears shed for him. Four years old in a hospital bed far too big. Baby girl, there are hospital walls in between you and your family. You rely on casseroles and cookies from the neighbors so you don’t starve. Your daddy doesn’t smile, he doesn’t laugh. But his hugs are still everything and you still get lost in them. And mama still loves you even though she’s forgotten your freckles and your birthday.
2015-2016 | 11
12x12 | Acrylic
Jillian Cai | Suspense
12 | Solstice
How to Get into College does.
BY
ANIKA ARVANITIS
Get straight As in all AP classes. If your school doesn’t offer APs, we’ll tell you it doesn’t matter. But it
Write kick-ass essays. Show your voice. Edit. Tell the truth, but make it interesting, make it sound like you. When we reject you, tell yourself you didn’t want to come here anyway. Tell yourself that we’re missing out, that you’re too good for us. Know in your heart that you’re not too good for us. Ask for teacher recs. Pick teachers who love you. Pick teachers from junior year. Pick teachers who write well, who know you well. Pick one STEM teacher and one liberal arts teacher. Pick them before anyone else does. Choose wisely. Start an NGO that makes schools for kids in Africa or builds water wells or gives them instruments. Ignore the pain nearby. It’s more impressive to help the starving African children than the starving children in Chicago. Win a Nobel Prize. Be in at least five clubs that you joined freshman year. One should be academic. One should require public speaking. You should’ve founded one of these clubs. You must be president of all five. Play in orchestra or band. Pick an instrument we want. Make sure you are first chair. Be well-rounded. Be interesting. Be more than straight As, 36, 2400, 5, 5, 5. Be more than your extracurriculars, your NGOs, your Nobel Prize. We’re building a class. We want you for you. But… we probably don’t want you. And remember: be healthy. Get at least nine hours of sleep per night. Don’t do drugs, even if you’re stressed. Don’t have depression. Don’t have anxiety. Don’t be stressed don’t be stressed don’t be stressed. Be you. We don’t want you. Be you anyway.
Chloe Langhorn | All Tied Up 16x20 | Pencil, Charcoal, Pen
2015-2016 | 13
Anushka Nair | On the Periphery
18x24 | Acrylic
Anushka Nair | Settled on a Parpate
18x24 | Acrylic
14 | Solstice
Don’t Forget
BY
MEGHAN DIETRICH
don’t forget the only blades that won’t cut you the grass the liquid that fuels your existence the water the hydrogen, the oxygen the atoms that you cursed in chemistry the same atoms that flow in and out and in and out of your lungs to form those curses life the trees life the bees life the sun life the love life the love of life don’t forget the loves of your life the nurse in second grade who gave you a band-aid and a lollipop when you scraped your knee love the girl who ran after you in the hallway with that five dollar bill you dropped love the employee at the grocery store who told you “good afternoon” love the people, the parents, who gave you life years ago love the people, the friends, who give you life today love the friends love the enemies love the cousins love the loves of your life the life of your life don’t forget
Anastasia Sakkas | Too Faced
Athan Arhos | Untitled
8x11 | Water Color
25x32 | Watercolor, Pen and Ink
Emily Anderson | Untitled
18x24 | Acrylic
2015-2016 | 15
16 | Solstice
Knotted Up Shoelace A Child’s Knot At the ripe age of seven, I still couldn’t tie my shoes. After one failed attempt, I quickly ran over to my sister, who was casually reading Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and asked her to tie them for me. In seconds, my sister had taken my laces in her hands and tied the shoes. They were perfectly tied: the loops evenly shaped, the ends not too short or too long. Since I wondered if I had to ever match this perfection, I asked her if I would ever have to stand on stage in front of thousands of people and show them all that these shoes were tied by me and not by her. “No, of course not, silly!” she responded. “Don’t worry, I can always help you.” She said it so sweetly and then planted a kiss on my chubby cheek. Because I struggled so much with such a simple task, I eventually just left them tied. It’s not that anyone cared I hadn’t done it myself. Even she didn’t care if I took credit for something she had clearly done for me. But I did. It made me a fraud. To be completely honest, I could have learned it with enough concentration. “ I t m a de me But there was a certain thrill to a f rau d .” the whole situation, as if being a fraud and not knowing how to tie my shoes allowed me to tie myself more intimately to her.
Noose A Private Knot Nooses start out as private knots when people mentally loathe themselves. It only becomes a public knot when others find a hanging dead body. But for me, it truly was a private knot, as I never hung a rope around my neck. The farthest I come was imagining the noose hanging from the ceiling fan during the silent tantrums I had in my room. All my successes didn’t seem to be mine. My sister had pushed me to read and become smarter.
BY
KUNAL JOBANPUTRA
My sister had pushed me to play tennis and become more athletic. My sister had pushed me to succeed and become happier. As much as she wanted it for me, I couldn’t be happy because I couldn’t truly take ownership of anything. My tantrums forced me to realize a personal truth; if I wanted to be my own person, I’d have to tie my own knots.
Necktie A Public Knot This was just a fancy-looking noose I had designed myself. The outside world was oblivious to the battle going on inside of me. For all they knew, the Double Windsor knot around my neck was a way to intimidate others at the Forensics tournament I was competing at that day. I was a boy in a suit with a knot around his neck, pretending to be a man. I wanted to believe this was all me. I had won numerous tournaments, but I still couldn’t accredit myself. Every speech I had given, every award I had received was all because my sister had given me the opportunity to do so when she introduced me to the activity. People saw me as a self-made man. As I was walking up to the stage to accept my firstplace prize later that day, I felt a sweating, itching, irritating sensation in my neck, as if the tie was choking me. I didn’t dare allow my hand to even inch towards loosening the knot because I knew everyone was looking.
Tutting My Knot Over my sister’s senior-year summer, she started a dance company called “BollyBeats.” She wanted to “pass it down” to me. I didn’t accept it. I wanted to start my own thing, not a passeddown item. I wanted to be the newest phone on the market, not the one sold on eBay for half the price. My sister had been my first dance teacher, starting with Bollywood dancing. As I started to
2015-2016 | 17
sprout out on my own, I experimented with different dance forms. I fell in love with tutting. In case you’re over thirty and don’t know what tutting is, it’s a form of dance where you use finger distortions to make intricate shapes. One moment my hands could concoct a statue of Medusa’s hair and then crash together like two huge tidal waves. The next it could braid into a tight hair-knot and then flow into the calm waves of the Mediterranean Sea. As my hands became more comfortable with hip-hop beats, I became more relaxed with the art form. It was not a joy my sister had ever taught me. It was my own.
when I needed to depend on someone. The second time I read the note it read more as a statement saying that I couldn’t be independent no matter how much I tried. I threw the letter on the ground and let out a scream. Who was she to say that I couldn’t be the ray of sunshine for the family? Who was she to say that I couldn’t get the grades I needed on my own? She was my sister. And she loved me to the extent that she never wanted me to be miserable. This time, however, her showering love couldn’t give me satisfaction in the fact that I was one thing: knotted up.
I saw a beauty in tutting, and others marveled when they saw it. When exiting a dance studio one day, I looked at myself in the mirror one last time and saw a change. My knots seemed a bit looser.
“ O n e o f t he s a d de s t d ay s i n my l i fe h a d a r r ive d .”
Untying the Knot One of the saddest days in my life had arrived. My sister was leaving for college. To be blunt, I cried. A lot. All the memories we had as kids were something I could only reminisce about with her over the phone, not in person. Breaks from homework were no longer going over to my sister’s room. It was empty. With all this, the only consolation I could obtain was that it was the final step to untying the knot of dependency. As I went to my room upstairs after saying bye to my sister, I saw a letter folded neatly on my desk. When I opened the letter, I immediately recognized my sister’s handwriting. It was the sweetest note she could have written, speaking of how she’d miss me and that she’s always there to help me, whether it was school, family, or anything I needed help with. But then I realized my consolation prize didn’t exist. The knot my sister had tied on me as a child was not a single knot as I had originally thought, but a double one that insures she’d always help me
Jillian Cai | Woven
11x13 | Mixed-Media
18 | Solstice
Fall
BY
CHLOE BASSETT
What was the snare that held the moon and the night and the sun and the rain Birds’ wings striking a windowpane A sickly summer night’s dream in a dreary heat Look to the children, stamping their feet A ripple in silence, wheat sliced by a scythe A crumpled up letter that reeks of goodbyes Slices of life that you try to craft and make Bending over the moon, like a bone in your back about to break Sewing with finger needles, stitching in smiles Within the trees, the night, it shrieks of serenity and whispers of chaos and trails, throwing back to you a hollow shadow that sits beside you There, you wonder where Where nighttime under the stars feels like a lifetime Life, a series of contradictions Blurry pink silence that smothers the sky, And twisted up roots and bones knotted together Mummify the past and throw it to the pumpkin moon A cryptic curse that holds and foretold times of new and old Celebrate the death of leaves, because our world becomes a fire, filled to the brim with stillness, and running, and splatter the streets with northern air Oh what a dance! A ruckus of illusions, and the forest, it lives until the whole world falls silent
2015-2016 | 19
18 x 24| Pen & Ink, Watercolor
18x25 | Image Transfer/Silkscreen
Gabriella Seo | Bleeding Carnations
Jillian Cai | Sunrise
20 | Solstice
Utopia
BY REAGAN BROWNELL
In which life is nothing but what we make of it. In which those who cry are champions. In which those who are betrayed are not broken and beasts battle with words instead of horns and fists. In which little girls can go outside without fear and fathers don’t have to teach self-defense. In which misogyny never existed but neither did feminism because we were all equal from the start. In which men give 50% and women give 50% and there are no disputes over whose skirt was too short and whose eyes wandered a little too much. In which “patriarchy” is a foreign word. In which deeprooted hatred is not still prevalent today and the color of your skin does not determine your success. In which the levels of melanin in someone’s skin do not determine their right to live. In which the rainbow flag is raised high, right next to every single one of its counterparts and who someone sleeps with or loves is nobody’s business but their own. In which we sing from the rooftops and shout into the night. In which our differences only bring us closer and we are all good, and we are all free.
Grace Zhou| Bittersweet Nostalgia
18x24 | Oil
Size | Medium
Qianfan Song | The Theory of Everything | 12x18 | Oil Painting
Donna Dimitrova | My Only Friends | 18x24 | Oil Painting
Angela Han | The Imitation Game | 12x18 | Oil Painting
Marina Naborowski | Fishbowl | 8.5x12 | Watercolor
2015-2016 | 21
22 | Solstice
Autumn Skin
BY
STUART BURKHART
This breeze I feel it in my blood although it merely touches skin Whispers words into my ear The kind only psychotics dare to hear Smells of past things leaving Imparts on me a kind of grieving Makes me need to stay inside Whispers words into my ear The kind only psychotics dare to hear Makes me just glad I’m still alive This breeze Makes me just glad I’m still alive Nicholas Seda | West Loop 5x4 | Digital
Laura Diggs | Cabin Fever
18x24 | Marker
2015-2016 | 23
Kamila Syzmacha | There’s Magic in the Arts
17x11 | Digital
24 | Solstice
The day the world ended.
BY
NIKOLAI KOWALCHUK
There was an old man with a long, white beard who lived in a beautiful old Victorian house. It was growing old. Every day, this same man would go into his house, at 8 past 1, and make himself a sandwich. It was always white bread with ham, sharp white cheddar, mustard, and mayo. After finishing his sandwich, he would look around to make sure nobody was watching and walk to the stairs. Under the stairs was a little cupboard. He would open the cupboard, reach in, and pull out a large glass jar. Written on the side of the jar, in flowery, flowing script, was the word “Earth.� Every day, he would open that jar, look into it, and nod to himself. He did this exact routine, without any change, every day, ever since the world was created. Until, one day, he looked into the jar and frowned. His eyebrows came together, and his face turned red. He threw the jar on the ground, and it shattered, shards of glass flying everywhere. That was the day the world ended.
Wendy Li | Canopy House
20x16 | Watercolor
2015-2016 | 25 Daniel Trimble | Wheels
Sarah Rocha | Raw
5x3 | Jewelry
16x16 | Acrylic
Neha 16x20 | Charcoal
26 | Solstice
Shells
15x20| Charcoal, Graphite, & Powdered Graphite
2015-2016 | 27
Ellen Jiang
Resting
9x12 | Watercolor
11x14 | Watercolor
Memories of Music
28 | Solstice
Joy
BY
EVAN TALBOTT-SWAIN
There’s a certain feeling you get Like yellow butterflies Tapping the inside of your stomach Like warm blankets on cold sin Bright starts over dirty country roads Sleeping bags on floors And crosses on necks Uncapped pens and white, tempting paper Warm hands holding old books The butterflies flutter faster Your fingers twitch and tap a beat On that rusted, folding card table. Cool autumn days that paint Your cheeks and nose red like strawberries The giggles of little girls And delicate fingers softly strumming a guitar It’s the feeling you get In the top bunk in the corner Of that warm, stuffy room in Virginia On Maurice’s roof And when you dance in the rain This is the feeling I get And this is the feeling I love.
18X24 | Acrylic
18x24 | Pastel
Donna Dimitrova | The Crisp Air
Alex Lithgow | Laughter in the Light
2015-2016 | 29
30 | Solstice
Courage
BY
SARAH SHAWAKER
That day was dry, dull, and desolate. The sun was veiled by the overbearing clouds That screened all dripping colors. The sun had concluded that today, She was not going to come out To dart her radiance down to the Woeful land. Midafternoon, the sun peered out from behind The arrogant clouds To gaze down upon the world. She halted when she spotted a girl. The girl was hiking through a forest And clearly unhappy about the clouds’ intrusion of gray. Her friends tried to make her lungs burst open with Fluttering bliss, But the grayness of the air penetrated her eyes And kept her soul clamped shut. Courageously, the sun flaunted her beams Out from underneath the clouds. Soon enough, she had taken her sky back, And shimmering euphoria permeated the heavens. As the sun gazed at her artistry, She looked back down to the girl Who now wore a magnificent grin That was melting up to her ears.
2015-2016 | 31
Daniel Trimble | Swagger
Rachael Han | Goat Vase
1x1x6 | Metals
14x6x6 | Ceramics
Jimmy Antonelli | Who wood you be?
12x18x6 | Wood
32 | Solstice
Ashes, Ashes
BY
ELIZABETH HAMILTON
My brother was smart. He was always smart, even when his teachers told him he was stupid. Eventually, of course, his teachers realized that they were the stupid ones and Sammy was sent to a school for child prodigies until we moved to Hinsdale. But he was always smart, in the way that at age ten he taught me the Latin names for every sea creature we ever saw on our annual vacation to Florida, in the way that he could explain algebra better than my later teachers would, in the way that while he taught me I would giggle and laugh and steal his round Harry Potter glasses and the lesson would end early as he chased me to get them back. He was smart in the way that I can still remember that the Latin name for seagull is laridae and that geckos love slightly rotting fruit but hate fresh fruit with a passion. If every single moment, every single lesson before my brother started high school were compressed into the hours “ . . . s t a r s we ave d of a day they’d be the night ones. When it’s safe and the i n t o t he s o f t dark covers and protects b la n ke t . . .” everyone. When the sun leaves and the moon tucks you in and there are stars weaved into the soft blanket you are wrapped in. But high school came; the day broke. And so did my brother.
sunrise comes, when the day breaks into a million little pieces, into scattered fragments everywhere.
I’ve always liked machines for what they can create but I’ve never liked lighters because all they do is burn – even though Sam says they amount to the same thing. Sam, wanna go to the park? Sorry, Liz. English essay. The gas hisses when I click down on the button. Once more and it’s a detention, Mr. Hamilton. Next is the flint. Congratulations on making varsity, Sammy! A grimace instead of a smile- he won’t get home before dinner anymore. The flint’s on the wheel and as you turn it – Lizzie, don’t tell mom and dad but I’m going out tonight and I won’t be back till tomorrow. Promise you won’t tell? – the lighter sparks and turns into a flaming torch. Sam, are you sure you’re okay? A shrug of the shoulders releases the flame with a sudden whoosh, because all of a sudden what I was waiting to ignite had already burned to ashes.
But that Sammy, the one who taught me things and told me stories and could love me was long gone from me now, and I barely saw him anymore. From afar, as I watched the ends of his Marlboros break off, I saw my brother fall to pieces. High school came the way daybreak does, the way a lighter starts and ends: burning, blinding, and cruel.
Because he had changed, he changed from the young skinny boy with Harry Potter glasses and bucked teeth, the one who would happily tell me, verbatim, about all he had read in his encyclopedia of prehistoric life forms. He changed the way the
He changed into muscles, white smiles, and contacts. He changed into sneaking out to parties, because he needed the blaring lights to make it harder to see what was in front of him, because he needed to hear the loud thrum of the music to remember that his heart was still beating too, because he needed the touch “...burning of someone else’s skin on his to remind him that he wasn’t all alone, in his and he needed the burning in his lu n g s . . .” lungs and nose and the taste of something sharp to blur it all together and make it easier to forget in the morning. But when he got home, on the nights when my mom was out campaigning for her elections and my dad was on a business trip and I was alone, he’d come into my room and whisper to me stories again. When my parents told me stories they were about how I’d always find someone to rescue me, but when my brother told me stories they were about how I’d rescue myself. And I feverishly picked up these stories, these little scraps of charred memories of who my brother used to be, and held them fast to my chest. And I’ve never let go.
2015-2016 | 33
Cold
BY
CRAIG SMITH
I sit by the lake, the cold air frigid, tame, speckles and droplets of currents, frozen in ice, frozen in time. It is a white-out chilly lake, no current, but boundless blank white powder drapes its oceanic magnitude. Another thing, a different thing, an ocean of frigidity, with the atmosphere of fragility, it speaks. “Here I stand, let me hold you,” the monolith whispers with each brisk breath, “hear my words.” But there were no words, only wisps of the algid gusts running down the snow-covered mountaintops. Only silence. The snow is heavy, like white clouds swaying back and forth in the wind, swooping and coating me like a cloak. Like a jumpsuit made of thick cloth, heavy like a winter jacket, wintry, yet warming. When the sun rises in the springtime, the moments cascade away, the cold and the quiet replaced with the sounds of flowers birthing, with the calls of the pride taking their first steps back home. It holds its place, but for now, that place exists only in the future, and I sit, ensconced in the polar past. The winter field, the snow, the cold cushion, it sits below me, as my vision gazes long and wide across the horizon, the grey clouds no more than a silhouette, the canvas for my painting eyes. For hours, I lay awake, encased in ice and deeper entranced. “Here I stand, let me hold you, hear my words.”
Ellen Jiang | A Hidden World
9x12 | Pen
Here I sit, listening, waiting.
34 | Solstice
On Turning 18
BY
NICOLE EICHELMAN
Written in the model of “On Turning Ten” By Billy Collins
Understanding this age makes me feel like I’m fresh off the cutting block and scraped from the knife blade by an index finger, onto new sidewalk with a small map of a big world— a new slice of life, a fuller embodiment, a mature encounter. This is the chance for a restart, is how I see it, because this small map begins with me. There is a pleasant laziness in being shown the rules of the road but there is also a captivating rush in blackening them out with a Sharpie and scripting one’s risky new graffiti before moving to the map’s next stop. Agatha Kraruski | Untitled
The world of eighteen sounds like a big sphere of unknowns; fascination and exhilaration of knowing only what I like, but not exactly knowing what to do with it. Like inked lines of interstate, ideas are pulsing up and down this map ingraining permanence and power and direction. It seems only yesterday I had it sketched out as they say you should but tomorrow I will see that of a child’s coloring book drawing. What a seventeen-year time bomb: to formulate the direction of my life by the time adulthood knocks and the map is still creaseless.
9x12 | Acrylic
Riley Knapp | Eclipsing
18x18 | Acrylic
16x20 | Acrylic/Tin
Junyi Wang | Nise
2015-2016 | 35
36 | Solstice
Donna Dimitrova | Birthday Cake
24x12 | Mixed Media
2015-2016 | 37
Julia Baroni | Maghand
Nicholas Lucaccioni | Bloom Series
6x4 | 3D Digital
Nicholas Lucaccioni | Fractured
8x5 | Watercolor and Pen
17x11 | 3D Digital
38 | Solstice
A Thin Glass Window At a height of 5-foot-7 inches, I could see a lot more than when I was, say, 4-foot-11 inches. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing. India is the place the rest of the world sees as the quintessence of poverty. My initial definition of India, however, was the opposite: My first trips showed me the immense riches of the land. Perhaps, the windows in the apartment were too high off the ground for me to catch a glimpse of the outside world. As I rested my head on the third-floor window of my family’s apartment, the view out of the window allowed me to see onto filthy streets, while the view into the apartment allowed me to see into a rich lifestyle. As I turned my head to the spacious flat, I saw what had always been home to me in Mumbai: the golden tables, the golden floors, and even the water rushing down so wastefully from the golden faucets. Being tall enough now, I unwillingly peered out to the side of Mumbai that was foreign to me. Poverty glared back at me. Poverty was a disabled man across the street selling Coca-Cola, not stopping for even one second. Poverty was a little boy squatting in a pot while his mother poured water over his body to shower him. Poverty was a father slaving on a scorching day selling newspapers to cars whose drivers followed the unspoken cultural rule of avoiding eye contact with their inferiors. As I started to look away, one girl in particular caught my eye. Her feet brushed against the dirty road, while she munched on a small, filthy piece of bread. She looked up, staring me in the eyes. I stared back “ on e g i r l . . . and compared our attire; her, a halfc au g ht torn shirt; me, an expensive polo. my e ye .” Basic necessities were something we, who resided on my side of the glass window, took for granted; however, it was this little girl’s daily struggle.
BY
KUNAL JOBANPUTRA
The disparity was undeniable. While the people inside my house enjoyed all the riches, there were those just outside the building dressed in rags and working all day as if fighting “ by a t h i n a losing battle against the harsh realities of life. I observed how laye r o f different we were on either side g la s s .” of the glass window. It was as if we lived in two completely disconnected worlds divided by the Himalayan Mountains. Yet, in reality, we were separated only by a thin layer of glass. It was strange how I didn’t process this before now. Perhaps I wasn’t tall enough to look through this window. I didn’t want to take responsibility to notice these things, as my family lived such a different lifestyle. But why hadn’t my parents lifted me up to see this? They had lifted me to see Mickey Mouse at Disney World. They had lifted me to see the dolphin show at SeaWorld. But not for this… It knocked the innocence right out of me. As much as I wanted to deny it, it’s not like I hadn’t seen poverty before. I had been on that dirty street; it was just that I couldn’t see it in front of my eyes. But it was not until I stared out of that rich apartment window at a distance that I realized the severity of the imbalance. We deny harsh truths since we are dissatisfied with it. I needed a thin glass window to see it for myself.
2015-2016 | 39
Grace Zhou | What I Have Seen
11X11 | Ink/Colored Pencil
40 | Solstice
The Process of Elimination
BY
ANUSHKA NAIR
The process of elimination is an evil one. Founded on the desire to enhance judgment, On the need to fasten a label on all that takes up space— The judged are limited to just that: merely an entity taking up space. Too often absent is the desire to stop and truly listen; Too often wanting is the desire for a backstory Essential to perceive and fathom the full three dimensions. Too often ignored is the process of trying on shoes, the process of bringing to life That which appears lifeless, appears alien, appears obscure To the extent that perception is skewed, distorted— A three-dimensional composition of a most meticulous nature Appears as a disoriented line drawing to the viewer who has no desire To question, connect, consider. Too ready are judges to take the quickest route to understand, Quick and meaningless as the drugs taken to temporarily evade conflict, Limited in view of the inevitably degenerative qualities of the consequences: Degeneration resulting in passiveness, in alienation, in obscurity, Food for the negative and pessimistic soul. Such food, shared between one judge to another, and then another, Bound to have adverse effects on wellbeing, Breeds the widespread effort to fasten labels on all perceived as mere presences, Leads to overlooking the details of meticulous compositions. Such food continues the cycle of the need for quick fixes, for immediate understanding, Culminating in the ceaseless legitimization for the process of elimination.
Agatha Krasuski | Efflorescent | 9x12 | Acrylic
Jillian Cai | Nostalgia| 16x20 | Acrylic
42 | Solstice
2015-2016 | 43
Jillian Cai | Old Impression | 16x20 | Acrylic
Gabriella Seo | Manhatten Corner | 12x14 | Ink/Watercolor
44 | Solstice
A Dull Shine
BY
CAGAN HAWTHORNE
I live on a planet made of diamonds you’re stuck on a globe of stone I’ll trade you, rock for rock then we’ll both head home alone. In a world dull as yours, you could use a little shine but I could use a little dull in a home as bright as mine Ellen Jiang | Precision
18x16 | Watercolor
18x24 | Acrylic
Anushka Nair | She Confronts and Fathoms
2015-2016 | 45
46 | Solstice
Daylight Robot, Midnight Dreamer
BY CAGAN HAWTHORNE
I am asleep when I’m awake And awake when I’m asleep My days are monotonous My actions robotic My mood constant A thinly veiled depression That covers all I do The brief moments of happiness Forgotten the next morning When I wake up and remember I must endure another day I waste away the hours As a sleepwalking shell Until I can finally go to sleep I wait for my dreams And their wild adventures My only escape From this dreary reality
Helen Hu | A Musement
14x20 | Watercolor
2015-2016 | 47
Ruoqi Wei | Self Protrait
16x22| Acrylic and Ink
48 | Solstice
Welcome to America The air lacked the scent of sandalwood and diesel. The streets lacked the kind vendors trucking around a cart of ripe vegetables from house to house. There were no bulbous coconuts for sale, and stray animals didn’t roam the city scouring for their next meal. Life itself was missing. However, the one thing that consistently asserted its dominance was the pungent odor of Febreze, always penetrating my nose and forcing it to submit. The smell of Febreze haunted me.
BY
SACHIN SHIVA
At home, my family moved like a hamster on a wheel, conditioned to move faster and faster in a society that could never stop to breathe. America was supposed to be the land of opportunity. America was supposed to be the melting pot of cultures. No, America was the land of the conformed. I cried that day because although I could handle the taunting glares and lack of life, all I could smell was Febreze, with its horrid method of chemically perfecting the air we breathe. I hated the smell of Febreze.
After a two month stay in India during the summer of 4th grade, I was back in America for my first day of 5th grade. On the way to school, I noticed several businessmen heading to the train station. The figures moved in perfect unison, marching in their black dress shoes hurriedly yet confidently amidst the background of trees and tall houses. Their freshly ironed blazers acted only as veils for these cutthroat zombies stomping on one another to get to the top of the social order. After entering the classroom and going through the standard pleasantries, my teacher began to take attendance. When she called out my name, I proclaimed, “Illide… uh I mean uh here!” Flustered with having answered in Kannada, I glanced around to see the other kids gaping at me with amusement and slight disgust, as if I were a foreign circus act that only existed to bring a bit of humor into their miserably ordinary lives. In the hallways, everyone maintained a strict sense of personal space, trapped in their bubbles of individualism. No one hugged. No one yelled in joy. No one stepped out of line. And if you did, they would tauntingly yell in unison, “No butts, no cuts, no coconuts.” The row of smug faces pleaded with me to fight back, desperately seeking to fire back at me with a cheesy retort. At lunch, they served us a hot meal of butter pasta and chicken nuggets. The meaty goo that called itself chicken nuggets flailed under the weight of my fingers, and when I grasped one with my hands, oil seeped out of it like soap from a sponge. The butter pasta sought to start a war with Italy, with its fill of butter and salt, simply a heart attack in disguise. The food was tasteless, lacking the refreshing taste of spices and fresh made masalas.
Ellen Jiang | Laundry at Dusk
9x10 | Marker and Pen
2015-2016 | 49
Ethereality Sometimes I tempt myself with the softness of her palms, the brisk nature of giggles and laughter and the overriding sensibility of lust and together, paired like wine. Moments like those are edgy and crisp, like the sweetness of good Champagne or the driving accusations of understanding and comprehension. Sometimes the mind is its own divinity, the raunchiness of youthful intellect and unknowing, the innocence of preservation and the wistful graciousness of insensibility. For the palms are more than hands but rather the token of gratitude, an entrance into the bounty of deities more graceful than the everlasting figures of what controls the fragility of night and day. Instead of hands, they act as their own subordinates, the fine controls to a beautiful machine called ‘the body.’ With hers in mine there’s a chain-like movement, a serenade of sensibility and trust that overrides the fear and anxiety that creeps like vermin in the back of the human conscious. Within the small grip, lies the great brevity of care and compassion. There’s a word for this overbearing ethereality. A fine sense grounded between psychological insanity and the greatest surreal bliss. More dangerous and untamed than the Island “A fine sense or Doctor Moreau and g ro u n de d yet more careful than b e t we e n the strongest glass, p s yc h o lo g ic a l more protective than insanity and bulletproof and weaker t he g re a te s t than the tiniest rope, s u r re a l b l i s s .” halfway between crazy and wonderful, the brevity of compassion and trust for the opposite lies within one frequency, one fine-tuned comprehension of the greatest sense that exists between the neurons and cavities of the human brain, a single-felt emotion with more raw spirit than the animalistic nature of the human conscious. Together, with hands held high, hands held tight and soft palms embracing with kisses and compassion and the truest sense of wanting to be with one another, together that dangerous, untamed spirit runs rampant and becomes the greatest brevity sharper than cut steel and warmer than a kitten’s purr, the ultimatum for what represents the ideals and hopes and dreams of what she gives and feels for me, and what I cannot explain in words how I feel for her, one word, one
BY
CRAIG SMITH
phrase that encompasses the realest form of the human experience, one that I don’t understand, and never wish to: true, undying, peaceful love.
Jillian Cai | Alter Ego
6x8 | Print
50 | Solstice
A Love Poem
BY
ANIKA ARVANITIS
By a girl who has never been in love but did take music theory last year
You are my key center, the perfect authentic cadence after two deceptive ones Though I may modulate to new keys, you’re my main melody, and when the recapitulation comes around, I’ll always return to you. In a world filled with pop songs, you are smooth jazz
30x18 | Painting
In a world full of 12 bar blues, you’re, like, 16 bar blues. You’re that special. You may be my first choice, but like a 4th or 5th, you are perfect. You are my tuner, because when life hits a bad chord you show me how to make the waves disappear. In a minor key, you’re my Picardy third Everything ends okay when you’re near. Sometimes, my life seems kinda grey, like a 12 tone piece or some post-modernist tone poem. you bring color back into my world. Your smile could make two flutes play in tune At your request, I’d practice marching, in full uniform, at high noon My thoughts are leading tones that always lead me to you You’re never a blues scale; you’re always something new. I’d walk for 3 hours in a phrygid snowstorm
Anushka Nair | Ganesha
But then I see you and like a dominant 7th
And climb 6 tall mountains to get to your home 8.5x11 | Ink
I’d knock for days on a dore just to see your 2 eyes I’ll always come back to you like a dominant 5 I’ll chase you forever; you’re worth the run
Xinru Li | Violin Music
My tonic, my key center, my only 1.
Ruoqi Wei | On Fetishization of an Asian Female
22x22 | Pencil/Colored Pencil
16x16 | Acrylic
Sarah Rocha | The Vulnerability
2015-2016 | 51
52 | Solstice
Back to the Sea
BY
CAGAN HAWTHORNE
I know not this place
12x18 | Acryllic
I’m stranded in with these buildings that stretch to the sky.
I know not this place where I now stand this place where
I know not this place so crowded and tall with no nature to be seen.
Donna Dimitrova | Wake
nobody flies.
8x6 | Pen & Ink
I know not this place this city of steel I must get back
Gabriella Seo | Afternoon in Philly
to the sea.
Gabriella Seo | Artic Fox
13x16 | Scratchboard
24x26 | Pastel
Jillian Cai | Glass
2015-2016 | 53
54 | Solstice
Ode to Calculus
BY
ANIKA ARVANITIS
When I was in middle school, I hated math I hated how sometimes the numbers flipped when I looked at them, how sometimes nines dressed up as sixes, fives as twos. I hated how there was one right answer and one right way to get it and I never seemed to get either. And one day, I came home from school and told my sister how I felt about algebra and she said to me: “Anika, you may not like math now, but calculus is magic.” And I didn’t believe her, for obvious reasons. The magic of math was lost in the mess of arithmetic that I could never do. Seven plus eight is thirteen. It seems like it should be thirteen. But then I got to calculus. I took my first derivative and I saw beauty, I saw symmetry. The variables aligned like the words in a rhyme and I saw what my sister saw: perfection. Calculus doesn’t lie; calculus makes sense There are as many right answers as terms in cosine’s Taylor series And as many ways to get those answers as there are ways to approach a limit in three-dimensional space. For the first time, there weren’t a bunch of word problems, real life applications And for the first time, no one in my class asked how they could use these skills in real life, because we all knew: this wasn’t about a job or a paycheck. This was about the Universe. We were learning to speak the language of the stars, translate their motion and light into numbers and we didn’t have to use the answers, just know what they were and know what they meant. Calculus isn’t a mess of formulas and rules; it’s a way of thinking, a way of seeing. Humans don’t need to seek out only useful knowledge Because all knowledge is beautiful And in the end, I learn calculus for the same reason I watch a sunset listen to a symphony or write a poem.
24 x 36 |Oil Stick
24x25 | Oil
Agatha Krasuski | Hands
Ruoqi Wei | Not Feet
2015-2016 | 55
56 | Solstice
Stargazing
BY
ERIC CHANG
My parents spend their days Looking up at the sky. A sky full of stars, Only two catch their eyes. My sister and I, We are their stars. And they continue their toil
In all of your years, Parents revolving around their son, As planets do to theirs? Generations of stars, All in their parents’ debt. But mom, dad don’t worry. Because of you, your son is set.
James Antonelli | Spiral Progression
Have you ever seen,
16x30 | Sculpture
So that we may go far.
2015-2016 | 57
18x18 | Pen
Grace Zhou | Embrace
58 | Solstice
The Florist The world, it seems, shares a collective distaste for false flowers. One can admire the beauty of such a blossom, true, and unlike the living variety, their beauty remains perfect and eternal. Even so, they remain, in people’s minds, but cheap imitations of nature’s creations. They lack the pure and wild imperfection of true flowers, after all; that, and the unique quality of releasing perfume. Yet in a certain bedroom of a certain girl resided a brilliant bouquet of such a sort that put nature to shame. Paper flowers, roses and lilies and lotus buds, arranged in a rainbow of colors and textures that drew in the eye and enchanted the viewer with their simple magnificence. Each bloom had been folded and positioned with an expert precision so as to achieve such an effect. It was not the beauty of these paper petals, however, that made these flowers so exceptional-their scent, rather, served to render them unique. The bouquet had evidently decided to ignore the way one supposed a flower ought to smell. Instead it filled the room with even sweeter perfumes: the smoky aroma of a crackling fire, for instance, or perhaps the fragrance of vanilla extract or cherry soap or some other sweet. The folded flowers excreted whatever scents the young girl loved most, serving her and her alone and doing as she dictated. The florist had created each one of them, meticulously folding each one, taking pains to make every blossom more elegant than the last. Then, as she alone could, she breathed “ . . . s he life into them, waking them from their inanimate slumber. b re a t he d l i fe Soon they became just as i n t o t he m .” alive as if Nature had formed them with her own guiding hand. As a thanks, the flowers served their florist as flowers do: they made themselves beautiful to look upon and intoxicating to inhale. No bloom on Earth could quite match them in splendidness. Any room would seem an inadequate home for the bouquet and its creator, but this one seemed especially humble. The ground, littered with crumpled papers and clothing articles which had escaped the hamper, seemed particularly ungroomed. A single window worked with a single lamp in an impressive effort to illuminate the chamber, but it seemed the corner bed was always just out of reach of their full strength. It was
BY
CAGAN HAWTHORNE
here, on the shadowed sheets, that the girl spent her afternoons, working with a fervent diligence on her secret undertakings. The only sound that infected the air was that of her breath; that, and the crumpling of paper. The florist had been wrestling with the same sheet of paper for nearly half of an hour. What was supposed to result in an elaborate origami structure was now a ball of unintelligible creases, unrecognizable as anything but a mistake. She accepted the inevitable with a heavy sigh, crumpling the paper in her fist before releasing it onto the floor. Another failure. The mess on her floor seemed to mock her defeats, just as the desk beside her stood proudly as a tribute to her successes. She walked over to the latter, as she often did when her work left her frustrated, to admire her collection. The vase of flowers itself rested on the center of the mahogany surface, surrounded by a menagerie of paper creatures. Her own miniature zoo, overflowing with her creations: little frogs that hopped merrily around tabletop, and delicate paper cranes who, when awoken, floated through the air, dodging furniture as they raced in circles. She grasped one now, a purple crane, and exhaled her life giving breath onto it. As she watched, the bird awoke, delicate and “ A s s he wa t c he d , fragile, as if from a short t he b i rd awo ke , nap. It looked up at the girl, its head in a curious tilt, de l ic a te a n d waiting for her command. f ra g i le . . .” Nodding at her whispered instruction, it took flight, soaring through the air around its master the way a moon revolves around its planet. The florist looked on in delight, spinning around, laughing, clapping. A childlike joy overtook her, filling her with the inspiration to start anew, to try one final time. The paper folder returned to her bed, selecting a new square sheet--this time, a fiery red-and flipping to the last page of her origami manual for the fourth time that day. Her other attempts at this particular design had been foiled by her impatience and incompetence, and, after a few folds, it appeared this venture would conclude as the rest. Until. Until, in a sudden moment of clarity, the impossible directions became decipherable.
2015-2016 | 59
Until, in this burst of inspiration, she understood that she could only progress if she questioned her way of thinking. Until, in this revelation, she knew she must accept nothing but what was. And now, her path finally clear in her mind, she began to fold, taking pains to ensure each crease lined up perfectly. When she reached those steps that had always caused such trouble, she opened her mind, she thought differently, and she understood. Soon, when all was done, the florist, the paper folder, the little girl, held in her small palms a tiny red paper dragon, whom she could not help but beam upon. She took a moment to admire him, with his pointed wings and tiny horns. Then, she brought her miniature creation to her lips, blowing into him that magical breath of life. He woke up slowly, unfurling his wings and stretching, as a cat does. His head strained around to look upon at the girl, the girl who had designed him and given him life, the girl who he therefore would serve without question. With a whispered command, he took flight, gliding out of her hand and around the room. And when the dragon began to cough out bits of joyous flame, why, the girl’s smile was Christmas.
Ellen Jiang | Florence
9x12 | Watercolor
60 | Solstice
Nature’s Shadow
BY
DONNA DIMITROVA
2015-2016 | 61
62 | Solstice
Rush Hour We were created, Born from mind and with mind And with hands, Hands that create, Hands with flesh that touch and feel, Grasping at something, anything, Minds grasping at something, anything, The need to be desired, the need to feel a part of something greater, So that in that something we can somehow prove ourselves to this world of people reaching for somethings, anythings. But those somethings have become more rushed. 365 days with 24 hours with 60 minutes and 60 seconds and everyone is rushing, Turning their noses, Towards their artificial clocks that keep their artificial time, Measured by seconds, Not accomplishments. We’re all timekeepers, Counting, counting, counting, Watching clocks, Spending precious time Listening for that ticking. Everything moves too fast, Rushing to fall in love, Rushing towards dreams, Skipping the steps it takes to reach them, Skipping the steps it takes to live, To do something, Make something. Each second is another thing we have to do. Time passed but not time spent Each second used but not lived. Now, I know this idea is overplayed, Like that one song on the radio you hate but can’t get out of your head. It’s an idea that sits brooding in the inner hatreds of your mind, This idea that your something, Might not really be anything, That some day none of this is even going to matter, All the stress on AP tests and grades,
BY
EMMA VANMETER STAPLETON Extracurricular and brains. We sit each day watching the minutes go by, And when asked how much sleep we got last night, We don’t even have the energy to lie. We are a generation of teens Too focused on the numbers, Knowing the questions you need right on an ACT But not the favorite colors of our mothers. Each day is filled with visual sound, Facebook and Pinterest screaming aloud Until your Facebook page is louder Than the lunch that you attend And your desk has so many piles that it’s turned into a den. We spend more time scrolling through Instagram, Than telling a girl she’s beautiful. And in health class, When the teacher asks if we know someone Who suffers from depression, We don’t even notice the boy by our side, who grimaces Because he’s one of them. And when we reach senior year, Sure, people shed a tear, For their great class, But do we really know more than half? Sure we’re all twitter friends. We favorite pictures of Beyoncé and Yeezy, But it hardly extends beyond that. We say we know each other Our majors, our schools, our futures, But in all that we’ve forgotten the past, All the missed connections, There are more than you think. There’s that gorgeous girl who missed your glance, Blocked by your hypnotic cell phone trance, Who is now laced with scars, Whose sadness is really ours. And there’s that boy, From health class, Who would be your best friend, If you’d taken the time to notice. But now he does all he can, Drugs, alcohol, — self harm,
2015-2016 | 63
Isabella Gutierrez | Lidless
Stop Watch Listen There is no silence No absence of audio, visual sound.
16x20 | Watercolor
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty too. And my snapchatted smiles block out my screams, As I can’t take the monotony of Too much work Too much pressure Too little sleep And each moment I take to myself, Feels like a waste Because I’m sitting soaking sun, When I should be writing papers and getting something done. “Something done”. A phrase we use so lightly, but it carries something oh so heavy, Because it’s wrapped up so tightly, With obligations, fears, needs, The rushed time we bleed. But why the need to be so productive, When enjoying ourselves is so seductive? Why resist the impulse to stop and love “the fam”, And spend minutes, seconds, hours, for one tiny point on an exam? 50 years… Will it matter? Just a spec on a highway going 90 miles an hour.
Wendy Li | What page are we on...?
So that he’s numb, To this world that’s out of focus.
31,536,000 seconds, and we wonder why each year goes rushing by.
18x24 | Acrylic
Art Index Anderson, Emily: 15 Antonelli, Jimmy: 31, 56 Arhos, Athan: 15 Baroni, Julia: 3, 37 Buhelos, Lisa: 7 Cai, Jillian: 11, 17, 19, 42, 43, 49, 53 Diggs, Laura: 23 Dimitrova, Donna: 21, 29, 36, 52, 60, 61 Graeger, Allison: 7 Gutierrez, Isabella: 63 Han, Angela: 21 Han, Rachael: 31 Hu, Helen: 46 Jiang, Ellen: 6, 26, 27, 33, 44, 48, 59 Knapp, Riley: 35 Krasuski, Agatha: 34, 41, 55 Langhorn, Chloe: 12 Li, Wendy: 24, 63 Li, Xinru: 50 Lithgow, Alex: 29 Lucaccioni, Nicholas: 37 Naborowski, Marina: 21 Nair, Anushka: 13, 45, 50 Najjar. Yasmeen: 7 Rocha, Sarah: 25, 51 Sakkas, Anastasia: 15 Seda, Nicholas: 22 Seo, Gabriella: 19, 43, 52, 53 Smoot, Shannon: 8, 9 Song, Qianfan: 21 Syzmacha, Kamila: 23 Trimble, Daniel: 25, 31 Wang, Junyi: 35 Wei, Ruoqi: 47, 51, 55 Zhou, Grace: 20, 39, 57
Colophon Computer Software & Equipment Adobe Photoshop CS6 | Adobe InDesign CS6 Adobe Illustrator CS6 | iMac Computers
Funding HCHS Activity Fee Subsidy
Paper Classic Crest | Avalanche White 100C (270g/m2) | Smooth House Gloss Text | White 100lb. (120g/m2) | Smooth
Printed by Lithoprint Inc. | www.lithoprint111.com
Quantity 1800 Magazines
Theme Layers
Typeface Body Cody Gotham | Book | 9pt. Titles AlexandriaFLF | Regular | 34pt. Gotham | Book | 14pt. Folios AlexandriaFLF | Bold | 8pt.
Solstice Literary & Art Magazine Hinsdale Central High School | 5500 S. Grant Hinsdale, IL 60521 | 530-570-8272
Contact solstice@hinsdale86.org jdidomen@hinsdale86.org ppotokar@hinsdale86.org
Web Presence central.hinsdale86.org
Student Body 2855 Cover: Bouchelion, Eugenia Vellum Pages: Keta, Sandra
Faculty 250
Chief Editors
Design
Literary
Nicholas Lucaccioni Erin Bruns Donna Dimitrova
Maria Harrast
Staff Design
Literary
Morgan Chisholm Liana Zogbi
Agatha Krasuski Anushka Nair Xiaohe Chen Tara Entezar Cagan Hawthorne Caroline Cheng Sanjanaa Shanmugam Grace Zhou Julia Baroni
Faculty Advisors Design
Pat Potokar
Literary Jim DiDomenico