stone-cutters Harvard-Westlake School 2018-2019 Volume XXV
Seraphilia
FELICITY PHELAN I think it would stand to reason that Angels take the Metro because if there’s anyone left on Earth who cares about an Armageddon hastened by carbon emissions it would have to be the servants of God. This theory’s only strengthened by the girl I saw coming back from Santa Monica Monday night I tried so hard to keep from craning my neck to steal another glance at her I have never in my life been baptized, but when she waved after she caught me staring I did feel truly confirmed. I do wonder, though, if there weren’t others— he was tall, bearded, with sunglasses at night and a Halo t-shirt on. (They do say that the Lord has a sense of humor.) Or maybe the woman with wings, black and massive beating skywards from the corners of either eye, oh, she was Abaddon; she destroyed me. And there was a little girl, parent trailing behind, who came up and said, “I like your skirt. Good things are going to happen to you.” So, I did meet messenger Gabriel. If nobody else.
Why Are You So Sad? CAPRI WOSS
Acrylic on canvas 30 in. x 24 in.
A Clock’s Pithy MAYA DOYLE
The first memory: watch store. 1947. He’s three years old and surrounded by time: time hanging from leather straps, time being struck out through cold metal prongs, time in the incessant tick, tick, time in the owner’s wrinkles hanging and sagging ever so slightly more with each passing moment, time, time, time. He breathes in. A second passes. His mother pats his head, three gone. His dad taps his foot impatiently for the owner to come help him. His mother drifts over there, and he is left alone, in his stroller, facing the wall full of swinging pendulums. Then and there he decides: he wants a wall of clocks when he’s old and when he’s rich—because he has decided that both of those scenarios are a when and not an if. He wants to be able to document every moment in shining glass and chrome and stained wood. And he will. The second: cold, cold air. His breaths are ghosts. He shivers slightly. The sky drifts grey, and it’s damp and wet and grey grey grey. His uniform itches because it doesn’t fit right: too tight at the neck and hanging loosely around his ankles. Too long. Things are always too long, too big for him. His mother told him he’s ‘a growing boy’ and that he ‘isn’t that short,’ and even though he’s seen all the other boys at the school—and how they all tower over him—he repeats this sort of mantra in his head. Not that short. Because he isn’t. Right? He straightens himself up and squares his shoulders just like his dad does before one of his important meetings. He can do this. He tugs his collar one last time, and one blissful gasp of air, and then it’s drowning from here on out. He wrenches the door open. He can do this. Time blurs; time slips and deteriorates—memories are the worst. They’re fickle beasts; they twist and shed skins until they’re entirely different than whatever actually happened. Time blurs, time slips, and all he can remember is darkness. Now, he’s in a closet. He knows that. The door’s been slammed shut, and outside the door he can hear giggles fading away and away. He wants to scream— in fact, he can feel the burst like a pipe under pressure building up—but instead he sits quietly, right next to the mop, the strings touching his hair. He sneezes. He’s allergic to dust.
The third: it’s silent. It shouldn’t be silent—they’re surrounded by people at their own tables, who should be talking and tinkling glasses and all that—but for some reason, it’s silent. His back pocket is weighed down, seemingly by all the should-be’s-that-aren’t. He can feel the heaviness of it. Every cut and shine and karat is pulling itself down to the earth. She isn’t looking at him. She’s swirling her spoon through her drink, tucking her hair back, reading the menu, and doing anything but look at him. The restaurant is a nice restaurant, and if he were anyone else, he wouldn’t have been able to get reservations so late before, but he is him, and now here they sit. Shining cutlery grace the table, stiff napkin swans perch on the plates, and crystal chandeliers float almost magically above—but right now, right now, everything is too bright and too shining and too perfect. He brings his hand to his pocket, then yanks it forward, then creeps back again, and slips his hand into the pocket, and touches the case. He marvels at its silkiness, its smallness –how could something so important fit into only that? One last caress, and then he places his hand on top of hers. She flinches--it’s just for one second, but he notices immediately. What’s wrong? he asks. She doesn’t reply. The box in his pocket sinks. The now: piano music plays out of speakers. His great mahogany piano sits untouched. He’s never played it. Behind him, clocks tick. He’s in a velvet chair, pillows surrounding him like attendants, their open faces a choir of time. He sits and waits. Shaking hands that he can’t remember when they got so… old-looking pick up his cup, and he sips tea. The clocks ticks. This is where he was now. This is the present. He never married. He doesn’t have children. He had a cat, once. He’s alone in his house right now. The clocks tick in unison—a death orchestra—repetitive and monotonous, and then they all ring. It’s 9:00. When the perfectly attuned hands hit 9:02:13, he is dead.
Halloween
ANNA KATZ Oil on canvas 11 in. x 14 in.
Physarum Polycephalum ANJA CLARK
Digital photograph 8 in. x 10 in.
One day tiny man, it’s a phthalo world. MILA FEJZO Oil on canvas 30 in. x 40 in.
Grapefruit
NINA NEUMANN She took a tumble As she tugged on her tight dress Belle yellow Crossed scoop back Taut Over her bubble gum tinted skin Yes, it was taxing But she never did put down The mug of peppermint tea. Even when her teal eyes teased the teddy Who just wanted some time To terrorize the children At least the kids had good tempers And didn’t take offense to the teddy’s temptation. The tempo sped up And she was terrible at dancing Her tentacles kept getting tangled But her toes tapped on. Covered with tassels But not at all tatty She took A whiff And the time went poof It tasted good she said.
Trypophobia
JASPER WONG Charcoal on paper 36 in. x 48 in.
Dance Pavillion Hybrid Drawing BRIAN HARTMAN 7 in. x 4 in.
Flowers in the Minefield CAITLIN BASKIN
They rip apart the woods: wild animals Bodies lithe and streamlined, unapologetic Glass explosives with dirty fingernails And golden ichor running through their veins They feel their fathers’ eyes in the trees In their quicksilver wit and tight laughs When their voices split an octave too sharp And they shed their clothes To dive into the stream, tumbling coins that Catch the light A tug in the navel pulls them towards each other Slippery brotherhood baptized by the Goosebumps that erupt on pale skin And a mutual hatred for things that are impossible to have But more importantly Things lost before the search ever began Gentle weeds stir the bowl of stars above their heads As their warm footprints harness the wind Callused skin kissing the familiar ground Too rough to bleed, too young to heal Tomorrow they will don itchy Sunday best And wink at each other between the pews But today the halfway ache Settles within their chests Heavy upon their bony shoulders They speak dissonant languages that will never be enough They spin directionless through night
Front cover:
Almost
EUNICE KIANG
Stone-Cutters is an arts collective supporting creativity and collaboration on the Harvard-Westlake campuses, and connecting, through the arts, with communities in Los Angeles and beyond.
24 in. x 18 in. Back cover:
Maekawa’s Devil GUY HARTSTEIN 8 cm. x 6.5 cm
Stone-Cutters 2018 Tabloid Staff: Nicole Austen ’21, Caitlin Baskin ’19, Davis Cook ’19, Maya Doyle ’21, Cole Heine ’19, Anna Katz ’20, Gabriela Martinez Celaya ’20, Saba Nia ’19, Emma Poveda ’20, Zoe Redlich ’20
Dune
COLE HEINE
Digital photograph 10 in. x 13.75 in.
Advisers: Darcy Buck, Jesse Chehak, Lucas Gonzalez Adviser Emeritus: Cheri Gaulke Special Thanks to Agnes Pierscieniak