stone-cutters 2018
stone-cutters Harvard-Westlake School 2018 Volume XXIV
Front cover:
a family
ESTHER GROVER
Colored pencil, marker, and ink on paper 5.5 in. x 8.5 in.
Cover Artist Statement I feel like I’ve grown a lot this past year—I’ve learned a lot about myself and what I want to do with my life—or rather, that I want to do a lot of things, none of which I’m dead-set on. It actually feels pretty lonely and isolating to know that while I’m still just a kid in high school, especially as a junior. I want to be some sort of artist, and maintaining that through the college process, which more or less is meant to set us on a career path, has felt really disheartening. I’m afraid of being a failure or a disappointment, as the things I love to do the most aren’t exactly considered “useful.” Sometimes I dream of running away or fast-forwarding to some sort of time or place where I can express myself freely. I guess that’s what I was thinking about when I drew this—there are so many different lives and people I can imagine myself assuming and becoming. I’m both scared and comforted by the uncertainty of adulthood and the change that I, along with my classmates, am on the verge of—all I can do is just hold onto what I know is true and important for me, and not let myself be crushed beneath my fear of failure. - Esther Grover
The editors and contributors gratefully acknowledge those in the Harvard-Westlake community who have helped to make this publication possible, in particular the members of the Visual Arts and English departments, and all the teachers, mentors, friends, and family who support our creative development.
stone-cutters Harvard-Westlake School 2018 Volume XXIV
To the Stone-cutters Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you fore defeated Challengers of oblivion Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well Builds his monument mockingly: For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth dies, the brave sun Die blind, and blacken to the heart: Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found The honey of peace in old poems. ROBINSON JEFFERS
Dear Readers, It is our pleasure to present to you the 2018 print issue of Stone-Cutters. This year, we received a flood of artwork from sophomores, juniors, and seniors alike—in fact, that flood was a little under 210 submissions large. Thanks to the help of our staff and faculty advisors, we are able to invite you to dive into 43 of those pieces. The literary and visual works that fill these pages show the true expanse of our student body’s creativity and imagination. Each comma, each brush stroke, each camera shutter came together to “form the honey of peace” Jeffers described in our namesake, “To the Stone-cutters.” We decided to forego a theme once again this year, in hopes that our community’s vibrant art and poignant literature would flourish. And if you ask us, it did. We are honored to publish the work of the very best artists Harvard-Westlake has to offer, immortalizing them in our pages. We hope you enjoy this magazine as much as we enjoyed putting it together. Sincerely, Your editors, Iman Akram and Sarah Conway 2
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Visual Arts 4 Touch Me by Arianna Shooshani ’18 7 Dream by Hui Nan Eunice Kiang ’20 8 Dancing, a Few Summers Ago by Anja Clark ’19 11 Faces by Anja Clark ’19 12 Adolescent Reflection by Jadene Meyer ’18 14 Pail of Jubilee by Karina Guo ’18 16 Seema and Vinay by Maddy Daum ’18 17 Signal Flare by Esther Grover ’19 18 Bee Pot by Tierni Kaufman ’19 21 I Even Learned to Swim by Mila Fejzo ’19 22 The Thoughts of Others and Our Own by Vivian Lu ’18 25 Collages by London Alexander ’18 Front cover a family by Esther Grover ’19 Literary 5 6 steps to get rid of cellulite, stretch marks, and other worldly problems by Jenny Yoon ’19 6 But by Ben Pimstone ’18 9 Heartbeat by Sydney Hogan ’20 10 My Grandmother, East Orange by Meera Sastry ’19 12 Claustrophobia by Alexandria Ankai ’19 15 You’re a Narcissist (And That’s OK) by Jarett Malouf ’18 19 The Power of the Honeybee by Avery Keare ’19 20 Vecher by Máté Major ’18 23 Wilder and the Art of Yeezus by Wilder Short ’18
27 Remembrance by Anna Gong ’18 28 Fused Glass Vase by Sara Kangaslahti ’19 30 Pale Church by Anja Clark ’19 31 Golab by Sophie Levy ’18 32 Beneath the Dining Room Table by Haley Levin ’20 36 El Dios de La Frontera by Kat Swander ’19 37 Elephant by Sarah Conway ’18 38 Party by Esther Grover ’19 41 Lonely by Hui Nan Eunice Kiang ’20 42 Infancy by Jack Cohen ’18 45 Lonely Surfer, Lonely Wave by Cole Heine ’19 48 Don’t Moon Me by Vanessa Payne ’19
26 Hope and Other Words by Ben Pimstone ’18 29 Saltwater by George Grube ’20 33 Why Doesn’t She Come to Sit at the Dining Table? by Hui Nan Eunice Kiang ’20
34 i am not a feminist, I AM NOT A FEMINIST. by Saba Nia ’19 39 Extracurriculars by Meera Sastry ’19 40 Nameless Empire by Jakob Klein ’18 43 (i miss you) by Iman Akram ’18 44 Brothers on the Beach by Jarett Malouf ’18 3
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6 steps to get rid of cellulite, stretch marks, and other worldly problems i. fill an ointment tub to the brim with wax of melted candles, the ones from grandma’s attic in that lake house in Wyoming where the floorboards creak just enough for you to feel slippery. and when you slather the liquid wax onto your inner thighs, feel the sting. let it cocoon you, and once it’s hard peel it off like orange rinds & burn the flakes of translucent film. ii. tiger stripes and lightning scars are all what they’re called. you’re wonderful, you’re incredible, you’re zeus’s weapon and shield, aphrodite’s body and glory; ares’s war and thunder. tear the words down like his did to your soul—stretch out the t’s, the apostrophes, the ellipsis where letters should’ve sprouted, the interjecting epiphany to your footnote, and wind it around your stomach and chest. pull the strings tighter until you can’t breathe, tighter until your face gleams hellish blue. tighter until you forget.
don’t worry. just drink water. check out a book on greek poetry from your local library and tape the fragments of greek poetry to your forehead. iii. claw at them while sitting on your couch, the sweat making your legs stick to the leather. if you dig hard enough you can see the fractals fissuring between the chasms. love them because the people will be too busy admiring the pink fingers of dawn and the pulsing topography of your waist to peer at what’s underneath the layer of liquid life. iv. when the summer heat stretches out your days like taffy, walk the streets of your city, the skyscrapers spiraling up and up, collapsing into itself. there will come a day when a girl with copper hair and steadfast eyes will see you there. offer her a drink and note how warm her hand feels
against your palm. you forget about the lines on your thighs and belly, swollen with honey tea and brunch. your dresses get shorter and shirts get smaller. you have your arm around her hip as you both skip down the sidewalks, beaming. v. before the doorbell rings, stand in front of the mirror, raise your hands and undulate side to side. like you’re wiping windows, clearing your way for a tomorrow you can finally see. when you hear the ding, you forget the worries. let her kiss them gently, every inch of skin you’ve grown to neglect. you’ll forget about the souls adrift outside. you love her, you love her: vi. she lets you love yourself. JENNY YOON
Touch Me
ARIANNA SHOOSHANI Digital inkjet print 34 in. x 23.5 in.
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But I want to be an and Sometimes but I think I’m a but When I want you, it is always, Yes but And I am tired of it Tired of your semicolons Tired of your lies and Your sparse use of italics Because I’d like to think I’m Bold enough to deserve some quotation marks But your pupils are often periods As opposed to windows And when I look at you, I just see myself You are an and Perfect and deceiving and unattainable and As I looked into those end stopped eyes yesterday, I realized I didn’t want to write our story anymore But I smiled at you anyway And I guess I am okay with being a but BEN PIMSTONE 6
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Dream
HUI NAN EUNICE KIANG Pastel on paper 15 in. x 20 in.
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Dancing, a Few Summers Ago ANJA CLARK Oil on canvas 24 in. x 36 in.
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Heartbeat Blood coursing through our veins flowing down streets through dark alleys. Free flying above the clouds stopping to rest only for a Coke. Night sky lit up for us like a Van Gogh painting or a disco. We are Everywhere. In the sighs of old lovers sitting calmly by the roaring brook, in the movie theater on a Friday night, the pulsing of the ocean waves crashing on the shore, the jarring notes of today’s pop music. Beautiful StruggleCan you feel it? Grasp it? If you can hold onto it or it will fade into Oblivion Heartbeat by Heartbeat. SYDNEY HOGAN
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My Grandmother, East Orange As we drive away I take a picture of you through the window. You are fixing your sweater. He is helping you fix your sweater. The sky is brilliant. Clear & razor-sharp. There are fruit trees in your backyard. The blinds are crooked in the front window but other than that there is no indication that anything has ever been wrong. Anything has ever been wrong. His car is parked in the driveway & there are oranges on the license plate. He drove it to the pool by the alligator river & we sat by the pool & you ate raspberries. Did you always like them? I had to look up where raspberries are from but I guess you could have grown them in your garden in your front yard during the last World War. I want to know what you remember of your father & your sister Carol who lives in Kansas. I want to know if we took you back to your kitchen in Bombay where it’s hot all year long like here. If you would remember where every spice was & how to dice every vegetable I can’t bear to eat. Recipes from a family that could have been your own. I want to know where it all goes. All that care you had. All that salt melted on our tongues. Don’t you know. You know. MEERA SASTRY
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Faces
ANJA CLARK
35 mm film (compiled test strips), digital inkjet print 11 in. x 17 in.
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You’re a Narcissist (And That’s OK) The things for which we fight the hardest will always be the things we need the most. That’s just the way things are. It’s not that we don’t also fight for things which benefit others--I’m not trying to be a cynic--but as a race we are inherently selfish. An old Chinese guy once said there is no such thing as a selfless act, and I couldn’t agree more. In the same way that a negligible amount of carbon monoxide in the air can still cause carbon monoxide poisoning, and how no matter how many times you divide a number by two it will never equal zero, any small fraction of something is still something. If there is even a detectable hint of selfishness in an act, the act is not wholly selfless. The acts we hear about as being praiseworthy and selfless are most likely charitable contributions, or aiding the poor and unfortunate, or doing something else that could land you on CNN. Or maybe those little acts of kindness that you’re doing and you’re thinking to yourself, “Wow, I am the hallmark of integrity--I’m doing something great even though nobody’s watching,” and then it takes every ounce of restraint in you to not immediately share your noble deed with your friend in a text or on social media. Just saved a bird from choking to death on a piece on plastic! Well, yeah, I’m really glad that you saved that bird from choking to death on a piece of plastic because if you hadn’t, you would have successfully watched a fucking bird choke to death on a piece of plastic, and you’d be a pretty despicable person now, wouldn’t you? And if you see a woman getting harassed by her husband in public, and you go over to intervene, you’re absolutely lying to me if you tell me that that doesn’t make you feel like some sort of goddamn hero in front of all those bystanders. Or better yet, tell me truthfully that some part of you is hoping upon hope that the husband doesn’t turn to you after a few seconds of screaming with
a “Hey man, relax, relax, it’s a social experiment. You’re going to be on YouTube, congratulations!” and then he gives you a big high-five and his fake wife gives you a huge hug and the girls who were watching the whole scene unfold all simultaneously drop their pants and ask you what you’re up to for the rest of the evening. I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist. And realistically, there is no objective way to accomplish a feat of selflessness because as humans, we thrive on feeling good--and doing good things make us feel pretty good. We are programmed to act in ways that will reward us. This phenomenon occurs on all levels. The chemical dopamine controls our pleasure centers, and rushes of dopamine let us feel joy and excitement. The act of handing out money and food to the homeless allows us to tell ourselves that we are truly upstanding, empathetic citizens--which, in turn, allows us to feel a similar joy and excitement. Continuing this whole invalidation of the notion of selflessness, I’m willing to launch this claim: every act of selflessness is actually an act of selfishness. I believe that we are driven to do good not by how it will affect others, but how the act’s effect on others will consequently affect us. So, in other words, altruism is a scam and the most self-aware people are the most overtly, unabashedly selfish. Now, the takeaway from this thesis isn’t to stop doing things because you now see that any move you make is automatically motivated by your own solipsism, and that truth seems shameful. Rather, all I want you to take out into the world with you is this: live selfishly and do everything for yourself. If we’re not lying to ourselves at this point--which I hope we’re not--we have to acknowledge that we don’t really have a choice. J A R E T T M A LO U F
Pail of Jubilee KARINA GUO
Found objects 36 in. x 24 in. x 8 in.
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Claustrophobia The lights turned off on the subway and I saw your face among others just like you on seats just like yours. We’d all heard the rumble come to a stop Felt the feeling of floating in air become solid when giant Weightless Hands placed us gently back down to earth And we felt the seats again And they were grimy.
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While the Air betrayed me Let me fall and pushed me down with newfound WEIGHT in that small, dark crate You were going to be late to work I could tell by the way the bags under Your eyes dragged themselves down your cheeks like soft putty Time is money and plain shirts and faded jeans are missed paychecks, You don’t have a glamorous life.
While I imagined all the worst things that could happen to a girl during a power outage underground I was getting shot in the neck and trying to play dead while You were thinking of all the extra hours being alive in the real world where there’s too much space to keep control and the Air gives up and leaves You to stay grounded in the same dreary spot of earth You will work so hard for only to have it bury You in the end.
Closer to the underground subway Where you were once stuck with me when it broke down And we were stranded and God, I wanted to live. But if I died then, How romantic it would have been to die with you. ALEXANDRIA ANKAI
Adolescent Reflection JADENE MEYER Digital inkjet print 7.9 in. x 18.4 in.
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Seema and Vinay MADDY DAUM
Digital inkjet print 6 in. x 4 in.
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Signal Flare
ESTHER GROVER
Ink on paper, digitally colored and printed on paper 14.25 in. x 11.25 in.
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Bee Pot
TIERNI KAUFMAN
Glazed stoneware 5 in. x 5 in. x 5 in.
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The Power of the Honeybee Time is our constant. We latch on to its uniform tick because it takes control, and that’s comforting. Our existence depends on time. Time is the honeybee that carries us to our own special hexagon. Now, we can be sticky and orderly and stable. Time places me in Boston on April 15, 2013. I give my mom a hug. She’s sweaty, with the happy kind of sweat that bathes in the euphoria of 26.2 miles. 3,600 ticks later, I load my fork with a hearty bite of grasshopper pie. What does it have to do with grasshoppers anyway? The sweet mint runs over my tongue. My eyes lose focus, and the television becomes a warm swirl of blurry outlines. Even through the blobs, I feel the panic radiate through the screen, eyes sharpen like a knife, the Smiling News Lady is not smiling— Explosion. The icy mint stabs my tongue. The cool edges of the plate press into my lap, now ten times heavier. Three killed, two hundred sixty four wounded. They were sweaty, with the miserable kind of sweat that accompanies
opaque grief. Goodbye goals, hello misfortune. All because the honeybees filed them in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Time arranges our blind dates. These chance encounters are only by chance because time put us at that point, at that moment. What if 7,200 ticks before, a honeybee called in sick? Maybe my mom was too exhilarated from the crowds. Maybe she lost her footing. Maybe she limped the last five miles. Maybe it took more time. Uncontrollable, confining time. Honeybees file us away into the next sharp hexagon. Time is the difference between life and death. But time is more than that. It ticks on, and carries us forward, forcing us to pick ourselves up from the ashes. Honeybees will always drag us to new hexagons. We can’t dwell, and we mustn’t. Time is our propelling force. AVERY KEARE
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Vecher The eaves of my veins drip gently, And the night oozes around the ankles Of those vexed and valiant gentry Who tread the river water with rancor. For there are those who resent the starlight And the wispy neon of the street, Champions of the sun, whose hard might Melts in the dark, swirling, star-spotted sea. M AT E M A J O R
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I Even Learned to Swim MILA FEJZO Oil on canvas 11 in. x 14 in.
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Wilder and the Art of Yeezus “Start a Fight Club, Brad reputation” Kanye West’s Yeezus is in no way a perfect album. Sloppy verses with little regard for rhyme. Obnoxiously loud beats with no purpose but volume. A half baked, fully taped CD album cover. Lyrics so crude, the oilmen start digging. None of this fits the equation for a great album; in the magazines, it doesn’t rank anywhere near the White Album or Dark Side of the Moon. But Yeezus is from another planet. It’s the Trainspotting of hiphop albums: quick, loud, often times disgusting, yet held together by an immeasurable amount of openness and brutal honesty about life. Divisive among Ye fans and critics alike, Yeezus is my favorite Kanye West album, and probably my favorite hip-hop album of all time. “Four in the mornin’, and I’m zonin’/They say I’m possessed, it’s an omen” Alien beats, jarring industrial sounds, and minimalist sound compositions - for a kid like me, an appreciator of 80s deep cuts and a Beatles maniac, this was like discovering I was in my own kind of Truman Show bubble, living a music lie. The transition from kid-hood to teen-hood was about 4 months underway, and I was beginning to truly see the world around me. I certainly wasn’t questioning why there is still an Electoral College or debating the integrity of interest groups. The Political Science lover in me had yet to emerge. I also wasn’t completely daft, and had started to notice the changes a teenage boy undergoes. Don’t worry. This essay will not devolve into a reflection
of my 8th grade love life, or more aptly the lack of, but the thoughts inside this teenager’s mind are important contextually. “I don’t hear your phone/Ohhh I wanna phone home” As I entered my final year of middle school, I was discovering what it meant to be an individual. I began to explore and appreciate the autonomy that had largely gone unnoticed in elementary school. For instance, it was the year I learned I loved eggs. After 12 years of utter disgust towards the scrambled yellow mess on my plate, I finally succumbed to the beautiful image of a yolk melting into my buttery golden toast. I’ve slowly become a sunny-side up kind of guy. I’m not saying that’s because of Yeezus, but it’s also not just a coincidence. Again, I was not a hip-hop kid. The only song I played in the house was “Lose Yourself ” by Eminem (props for destroying Trump), but that’s a staple in many young boys’ playlists. If you didn’t pump yourself up with “Lose Yourself ” before an AYSO game, then something was amiss with your pre-game rituals. “Nobody had swag, man, we the Rat Pack” But this, this was something so different. It was loud and brash and eye-opening for a kid. The rush and excitement of listening to a “big boy” album was like watching an R-rated movie for the first time in theaters (another huge moment in my life, seeing Prisoners by Denis Villenueve on the big screen with my mom. That sparked my love for
The Thoughts of Others and Our Own V I V I A N LU
Acrylic, colored pencil, and pen on illustration board 19 in. x 15 in.
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film.) I couldn’t quite grasp the mixed themes of dealing with insecurities, realizing one’s ego and making the conscious decision to embrace the spotlight, but I could understand that it sounded dramatically different to what I was accustomed to. Good different. Like replacing ketchup (it’s a European thing passed on by my dad) with sriracha atop my pizza. “I just talked to Jesus/He said, ‘What up Yeezus?’” This is the album which encapsulates who Kanye is, in and out of the spotlight. He is the narcissist, he is the ladies’ man, he is the kind of guy to walk on stage during the Grammys and steal a winner’s spotlight. But this album showcases that with a loud discomfort, one where his insecurity regarding his fame and success is equally pleasant and painful to listen to. He is larger than life and he demands that to be known, swagger and all. It doesn’t matter that Yeezus might be his least technical record – I don’t know anything about production, despite being the child of two music industry types – but its profound effect on me is what matters. It allowed me to embrace something that was warped and anomalous in the vast world of music. Allowed for me to stray off the beaten path and discover my love for loud, experimental hip-hop beats. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!! (x4)” A memory that has always stuck with me since my middle school days involves Yeezus. Picture a thirteen year old blonde kid with round glasses, who, from afar, looks like Harry Potter. That was me. I’m in the backseat of a red Prius after my 8th grade graduation. The windows were down and the wind was tousling my curly, long hair. It was a beautiful day. We (parents and I) were on our way to a newly discovered breakfast joint, and I was salivating at the thought of Huevos Rancheros (my love for eggs had started recently). Static air filled the car, and through my parents’ discussion the 24 stone-cutters
question of what to play popped up. I immediately shot my hand towards the aux cord, plugging it into the iPod I held in my other hand. “Strange fruit hangin’ from the/poplar trees/Blood on the leaves” I was pumped, as any 8th grader was at this moment, and loving life. I needed the right music to reciprocate this feeling, and immediately shot to Kanye West’s artist page. My thumb hovered over the song “Blood on the Leaves,” one of the louder tracks on the album. Rackety trumpets come in over a Nina Simone “Strange Fruit” sample, creating a harsh cacophony of musical styles. The song is a haunting track about lost love, juxtaposed against Simone’s visceral take on American racism. It also just sounded otherworldly.
Disclaimer: Since then I recognize that they were not real trumpets. There is software designed to play these sounds. My apologies. “I am a god (x3)” But do I play it to my parents? Do I reveal the secret that was this record? A secret I had kept for so long? Listening on repeat. Well. The car was in motion, my body was relaxed, hair was in motion, and when the trumpets came on I couldn’t help but go crazy. I didn’t need to know if they approved,
because I knew that deep down Yeezus was the birth of my musical freedom. When I checked and saw smiles from mom and dad, that was the sunnyside up egg on the sriracha pizza. WILDER SHORT
Collage 1, 2, and 3
LO N D O N A L E XA N D E R Paper and gloss on wood 12 in. x 8 in.
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Hope and Other Words The dinghy on the green bog, wrought with sadness, grief, parched mosquitos perched on purple cattails, jiving with the buzz of the water hanging in the low light, softly swaying in the summer haze. Isn’t life a gainsboro grey peeling skiff licked by the waves, dancing in the jazz current on a dense Saturday evening? Love, a foxtrot fantasy, forgotten sambas stubbed toes bloody nose and perfection always one step away if only you took the time to rehearse the steps More carefully. BEN PIMSTONE
Remembrance ANNA GONG
Watercolor, watercolor pencil, and ink pen on paper 18 in. x 15 in.
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Fused Glass Vase
SARA KANGASLAHTI
Fused and slumped glass 8 in. x 7.5 in. x 7.7 in.
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Saltwater My day is so tir’ing and saddening Not even Netflix gives satisfaction But I need to keep drinking for something Time’s money, but the rates are a’changing: They must be; hours are worth less action My week’s been so tir’ing and saddening Television is a sea, but passing A wave hides all unsophistication And I need to keep drinking for something No matter Lost or Magic School Busing The telly makes passion lose its traction This year’s been so tir’ing and saddening That colorful modem is not pleasing Dissolving into many the faction And yet I am still drinking for something If a mensonge could describe its buying Thrice its power; rather, it’s pure fiction My life is too tir’ing and saddening I just can’t stop drinking for anything GEORGE GRUBE
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Pale Church
ANJA CLARK Oil on wood 24 in. x 16 in.
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Golab
SOPHIE LEVY
Acrylic, oil, and ink on panel 24 in. x 18 in.
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Beneath the Dining Room Table HALEY LEVIN Oil on canvas 48 in. x 36 in.
Why Doesn’t She Come to Sit at the Dining Table? Every time I hear the pot’s teeth chattering dozens of long toothpicks sliding down its mouth golden tofu cubes dancing on a pan crackling flames licking underneath There’s Mother, sleeves rolled up faded Hello Kitty apron dotted with oily dark stains hair held back by a hasty ponytail. Bent over the black counter eyebrows furrowed, pounding potatoes podding peas blender raging a tornado behind her. Steaming plates tickle my eager nose with roast lamb mashed potato
spinach and beef egg and tomato soup carrot and pea rice There’s Mother, sleeves rolled up loose pinkish rubber gloves covered with oily food crumbs hair sliding out of its hasty ponytail. Forehead shimmering slightly, pots and pans squeaking against sponge, elbow-deep in seas of detergent bubbles and scrubbing until sparkles shine. As we all grab our spoons Why doesn’t she come to sit at the dining table? HUI NAN EUNICE KIANG
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i am not a feminist, I AM NOT A FEMINIST. i am not a feminist, i. am. the. Past. I am every strand of unswept hair that Escaped the silk that my mother used to wrap around her head. Head Down. Not saying Anything when matrons try to paint me like some rococo piece, thinking they Could brush Away my Flaws, my Pores, my Scars. That they could tell Me who I am simplify my Secrets, My Thoughts, my Beauty into rosy colors vomited onto a Pure, clean canvas. Let the French couriers project their ideas of innocence onto Me while the old women hurl suggestions at my head: my future husband and the age i Should marry, and how many children i Should have, my ideal career, my best hairstyle my best color my face my dress my tone my manners my my, my My Life Glittering like a cool vase of Water before their wrinkled parched throats. Oh how they Strain for me, their
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elusive Past onto which they can live their futures. I am a disdainful Jewel before their Puritan fingers, a lost Rembrandt Uncovered in a webbed attic. and as they struggle to make sense of me, let the Rough surface of their shawls Rip against their taloned fingers as they try to beat off the Clinging cold that Never seems to thaw in the morning. That icy Barrier that Locks them into their wrinkled Prisons. Oh how they Long to unearth My Secrets, my Thoughts, my Dreams, my Fears In my Thick layers. Because for the half that want to be Me There are the silent half that want to Remember Me. The ones who still hum their lullabies and recall their youthful misadventures with Light in their eyes. Whose tell-tale Heart beats like a girl’s
during her first kiss. they are Afraid of an uncaged world. to return to their Girlhood reveries. I am the present – I am every surprised whisper when their predictions ring False. Every Hitched breath when my palms tell them less about when my prince will come and more about the dragons I have Battled. Every wink when I Break the rules, every phone call Goodbye because I am Leaving on the train and going to the Big city without you. I am every tampon offered every Unprompted, every stray necklace Found, every Easy smile offered in a room where you’re just the “new girl.” I am a biological coin toss done Right, the smell of an unopened book, the Thrill of tearing Down a freshly cut field with a soccer ball between your cleats. WE ARE THE FUTURE We are liars and truth-seekers and authentic and fake and beautifully simple paradoxes all the same. I am not a pristine masterpiece or an unfinished mess. I am not art or music or love or death or life. I am not a flower to blossom then fade. I am not a number or profile or sunset. Or a fierce lioness eager to hunt down all prey. Or an unhinged assassin committed to slaying her unfaithful lovers.
We are not all young and stifled. Reckless and angry and wild. We are not all aged and aloof. Jealous and conniving and judgmental. I am not some sign-holding millennial. Did you see hear her newest album? SO inspirational. #feminism I am not some pop culture trend. Luxury brands unveil new “female empowered” collections. I am not some anarchic protestor. The twentieth century suffrage movement proved to be destructive due to its employment of physical violence, rioting, and disruption of civil order. I am not a Beloved or a Muse or a Dearest. I am not a Mrs. John Smith or a Kyle’s new girlfriend. I am not a hashtag or a fad. I am not an Object, whether Good or Bad. I am a woman. We Are a Force of Nature. We Are Strong. I defy all labels. I Am Me. And I Am ENOUGH. I AM NOT A FEMINIST. SABA NIA
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El Dios de La Frontera KAT S W A N D E R Digital inkjet print 18 in. x 28.5 in.
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Elephant
S A RA H CO N W AY
Glazed stoneware 7.25 in. x 4.75 in. x 9 in.
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Party
ESTHER GROVER
Ink on paper, digitally colored and printed on paper 8 in. x 7.5 in.
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Extracurriculars I started playing the piano at four, maybe five. Tripping fingers over ivory, binary. It persists to this day– I’ve been petrified by concert halls. There are so many girls in pretty dresses & I’m wary at applause. Once, though, there was a pause. It’s the closest I ever got to understanding. Someone told me real meditation is letting your mind go completely empty. I always imagined a white room with a tree, leaves flying. Turns out it’s a lot easier to find Mozart. He breaks it up–there’s an infinity of thoughtlessness between C tumbling to E, G, key change, F#– Forgive me. I was never much good at theory, even worse at practice. Like falling in first love, or swimming, it was all easier when I stopped underwater, clung to the blue. Slip the line between here & drowning. MEERA SASTRY
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Nameless Empire It is cold. There is no life in my courtyard. The fire has died out, making any exuberant colors fade to leave only the dull grey that seems to consume everything sacred. Only one white arch stands. In a world full of darkness, there is only one light. My empire is dying. And it is dying a cruel death. This is an injustice. I have been wronged. For all my hard work all I have gotten is hatred and rage and it has finally lashed out at me. This is unfair. I hate these people. They destroy everything good because it isn’t theirs. A blood-coated petal in the river gets picked up by the wind, which carries it swiftly to a resting point on the lone white arch. As soon as it so delicately lands, the white arch crumbles to the ground, leaving a pile of white rock with a red petal on top. I clench my fists. Nothing lasts. Every moment is different than any other and can never be seized again. I hate it. Why can’t I live in the moment where I sit on my throne and look at my once astonishing courtyard where many insects and birds flew around in joy as they found the most intricate treats for themselves to feast upon? The world owes me that. I deserve a peaceful moment that can last for eternity. I don’t deserve to watch my empire get torn apart. I always knew this day would come, but I didn’t think it to be as horrific as this. My home is destroyed. Every aspect about it that I loved no longer exists. I used to love to climb up the old family tree. It was wide with was a creamy brown color plastered on and it was so smooth that it felt more like processed wood more than rough bark. Its branches were strong, and carried many leaves and fluorescent purple flowers. The leaves were always red, and they made the flowers stand out even more. All that’s left now is a willowed up ten feet tall 40 stone-cutters
stick with most of branches gone, leaving only some to dangle and hold on for dear life. It is a dead black with piles of ash coursed around its base. No flowers or leaves are left, just a hollowing chill. I feel the wind pick up again and see the blood-coated petal take flight once more. It soars through the air gracefully like a bird that has just learned to fly, excited and full of energy thinking about all it can now do. It glides to my dead family tree and gradually falls down swaying from side to side in the wind. It lands on a skinny branch at the top of the burned tree and rests there finding safety amongst all the chaos. The branch breaks, plummeting to the ground along with the rest of the tree, making a pathetic crash as it scatters ash into nothingness. The petal falls to a pile of ash and settles down; feeling the softness of the cushion it has just graced itself with. Black dust rises. It fills the air, making a smoky cloud above my courtyard. It casts a shadow over the black grounds of the gardens, making everything dead unseen. A chill goes down my spine as a dark breeze hits my cheekbones, making them flush with color. I see my breath. The cold air is pushed out in front of me into the darkness that has won the battle against my courtyard and is lost in the dark smoky air. There is only one light. A red light. The blood-coated petal flies up through the smoke and dust and breaks the surface like a blade through flesh. The wind takes it under its arm and brings it to me, slowly. It reaches my hand and I let it sit there. I try to wipe off as much blood as I can, but it has left its mark. The petal is pink now; not the stunning white I always liked. It is ruined. They ruined it. JAKOB KLEIN
Lonely
HUI NAN EUNICE KIANG
Oil on canvas 12 in. x 12 in.
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(i miss you) i havent flossed in a while and ive stopped wearing my retainers but at least i brush my teeth every other day ive eaten take out every single night since and theres a styrofoam glacier in the middle of my room next to a mountain of dirty underwear i havent opened my curtains in a while theyre covered in fragile layer of dust but so is everything else to be perfectly honest im sorry i havent visited yet ive run out of tears my eyes are a desert and im afraid youll be an oasis IMAN AKRAM
Infancy
J AC K CO H E N
Medium format film photography, digital inkjet print 18 in. x 17 in.
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Brothers on the Beach We were never irresponsible. We played it smart, we played it safe. We were never too far out. We were never thoughtless, never clueless, never blind. We weren’t drunk, or high, or otherwise impaired. We weren’t out of our element, or tired, or underfed. We were in perfect health--our bones felt strong, our muscles loose, our eyes and ears sharp. What hit us wasn’t our imperfect preparation, or our childish stupidity, or our bombastic pride in conquering what could not possibly be challenged. What hit us was otherworldly. “Cowabunga!” Harrison joked, thumb and pinky extended like a surfer, leading me and three other friends deep into the salty blues of the Malibu tide. Shiny, sandy boogie-boards in hand, we ventured into a world that overlapped our own-a relative unknown which excited and no longer terrified us. An adolescent paradise, defined by its semi-dangerous allure as well as its comforting familiarity. The shallows dipped down beneath our ankles, and as waves drifted in all directions around us, they rose to kiss our stomachs and smack the backs of our heads. For minutes or hours or days we stayed out there, plunging our slim bodies in and out of the water. Splashing like infants, cursing like men, we found ourselves utterly naked to one another. We were the same, and nothing separated us. The water’s mood oscillated from amicable tranquility to violent frustration. The ocean that encircled us, that brushed up against our shoulders, legs, and arms, that poured itself into our bathing suits and squeezed between our toes, became the platform on which we discovered the subtle difference between friendship and love. And like the ever-changing tide, the ocean’s attitude toward us grew fickle. It had acted
Lonely Surfer, Lonely Wave
CO L E H E I N E
Medium format film photography, digital inkjet print 18 in. x 17 in.
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previously as a binding energy, one which served to unite us in a way we had never known before. We felt closest in those moments. The buoyant salt water coursed through our collective body as fervently as blood through capillaries. Then, in an instant, the flood ceased and the ocean fell stagnant.
We looked at each other, bewildered at the silence that encapsulated our surroundings. Before, the chuckles and murmurs and splashes provided our realm with a comfortable volume, one we knew and understood. Now, there was nothing. Left, right, and center, we stared, until behind us we saw a much darker shade of blue sky had risen from the
surface of the water. And in fact, it wasn’t so much as dark blue as it was pitch black--and not so much sky as it was purely water. An enormous volume of water resembling an obsidian skyscraper loomed over us, and as boys we saw no other option but to turn away and lay flatly upon our boards. We could have cried. We could have
screamed, and shrieked, and vomited, and bled, and swam to the bottom of the ocean to bury our heads deep within the sand. But beside one another, those options dissipated. Like soldiers, we faced imminent destruction and experienced tremendous fear, but stumbled upon a certain solace in the sheer knowledge that we weren’t alone. We reared ourselves against the wave, and shouted to one another a series of panicked phrases that we could not understand in the moment, but that we will never fail to recall. The unintelligible noise served as a final warning cry, a howl of fraternity--a rejection of the idea that we would die in the same silence that disrupted the greatest moments of our lives. The wave picked us up, and left a few of us go, like kids being dropped off at elementary school. Safe, serene, the wave traveling quietly into the distance. Some of us were pardoned from its wrath; I was not. I mounted the black breaker like a stallion, and found myself suspended a couple of stories off the ocean floor. Like an elevator in a rustic building, it raised me quickly until the cord snapped and I was launched back into the earth from which I was plucked. My stomach overturned on the way down, and my lungs collapsed into the back of my throat. My eyes bulged, my neck stiffened, and I braced for impact. Like a physics experiment, my board and I collided into the unforgiving sand at an astounding velocity, at a nearly perpendicular angle. The board bent nearly halfway to the ground, and it jerked out from beneath me. I tucked my head instinctively as the underwater current demanded I hold my breath. It dragged me by my ankles over thousands of innocent crustaceans, and then took hold of my head. It pulled my hair and tugged at my ears, and led my skull into a sandbar. In that moment, I was blind but not deaf. I could wear the swishing and whirling of aggravated seawater on all sides of me, and felt as if I were intruding in some way. Without the time to process my surroundings, I failed to see the sandbar coming, and my body proceeded in the direction it was being pulled while my head stayed perfectly still. My spine twisted and crunched 46 stone-cutters
audibly, and my eyes burst open as a result of the pain. I saw sifting rocks and seaweed pass delicately by my eyes, as if in slow motion. I began to suffocate. I opened my mouth desperately to breathe, but then immediately reminded myself where I was. A new urgency flooded my heart, and emergency sirens screeched within the walls of my brain. The momentum of my body dug my head out of the sandbar, and I felt whole again. I regained control of myself, and I struggled to orient myself. I reached my hands out above me, hoping to feel cool air touch my fingers, but instead they were buried again in sand. I flipped myself upside-down, and found my footing, finally able to launch myself upward into life. I felt air flood my lungs before anything else. I inhaled the oxygen around me vigorously, selfishly, leaving none for those around me. I coughed to expel the water that snuck its way into the chambers of my torso, and wiped the hair that stuck to all parts of my face. I blinked and sneezed and slapped myself in the face to see if I had retained any feeling anywhere. A new fear inundated my senses, as I remembered the brutality that took place underwater. Teenage Boy at Zuma Beach Paralyzed by Rogue Wave. This newspaper headline printed itself darkly on the backs of my eyelids, and I imagined my friends talking to reporters on the shore, detailing what they saw of the tragedy. I touched my back, and felt a heavy soreness. My shoulders felt strained, my neck immobile. Unable to escape the ocean myself, I called despairingly to my friends, begging them to help me trudge into safety. Harrison and Hayden began to swim toward me, when another beast emerged from the water between us. It stood not as tall as the first, but felt just as menacing. The fear of being beaten again robbed me of my energy, and I sunk to the sand at my feet. I held my breath, and clenched my fists. I bit my lip to deal with the pain stemming from my back, and anxiously awaited the sounds that would accompany the wave’s crash. But that terrifying soundtrack was never played, and I was surrounded this time by only silence. I knew that the crabs were being scattered
around the sea floor, and the sand was being uprooted from its bed, and the foam was sliding through the thick patches of seaweed--I knew that it wasn’t truly silent. And yet, that amalgamation of noise which plagued my ears minutes before was reduced to nothing in that moment, and I was granted serenity. The second wave passed. I calmly planted my feet below me, and erected my back. Now waist-deep in the water, I saw my friends swimming toward me. Each of them took one of my arms, and raised me to stand taller than I was able to. I let out a painful sigh, and they lowered me down a couple of inches. Hurrying to the shore, I watched our legs create ripples in the glistening surface, distorting our reflections. Though their heads were stretched and their shoulders were widened, I recognized these shadowy figures as my best friends, and as my saviors. The neck brace that the paramedics strapped onto me constricted my frame of vision, and before I was leaned back onto the stretcher, the only thing I could see were the heads of my companions. I looked over, and hoped they could see that I was smiling at each of them. Regardless if they saw my face or not, they were smiling at me. The paramedics placed a wooden board up against my back, and counted down from three. My vision shifted upward, and I was surrounded by a crisp azure sky, hearing only the engine of the ambulance in the distance, and the fraternal howls of my brothers on the beach. J A R E T T M A LO U F
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Don’t Moon Me
V A N E S S A PA Y N E
Unglazed stoneware 8 in. x 8.5 in. x 7 in.
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Senior Literary Editor: Iman Akram ’18 Senior Visual Arts Editor: Sarah Conway ’18 Print Edition Editor: Brigid Cawley ’18 Photography Editor: Jack Cohen ’18 Promotions Director: Anna Gong ’18 Submission Solicitation Editor: Jakob Klein ’18 Online Edition Editor: Vivian Lu ’18 Social Media Editor: Alexa Zuriff ’18 Associate Literary Editor: Davis Cook ’19 Assistant Literary Editor: Caity Baskin ’19 Assistant Visual Arts Editor: Sophie Kim ’19 Literary Staff: Alex Ankai ’19 Ally Hong ’19 Anna Katz ’20 Luke Markinson ’19 Anusha Mathur ’20 Saba Nia ’19 Lauren Nehorai ’20 Emma Poveda ’20 Zoe Redlich ’20 Nikha Sylbert ’20
Visual Staff: Mila Fejzo ’19 Abe Kaye ’20 Anushka Mukhey ’19 Jasper Wong ’19 Faculty Advisors: Literary: Darcy Buck Visual Arts: Cheri Gaulke
The online edition of Stone-Cutters can be found at hwstonecutters.wordpress.com. Stone-Cutters is a Harvard-Westlake publication for literary and visual arts. The editorial staff meets as a student-run club. Its purpose and goal is to give an opportunity for the student body to publish their work and celebrate one another’s creativity. Submission of any literary or visual art is open to all students at the Harvard-Westlake Upper School via the magazine’s online website, www.stone-cutters.submittable.com. Submissions were reviewed by an all-student staff. Names and identifying factors were removed during the judging process, so each piece was critiqued without bias. All headlines and copy were printed in Adobe Caslon Pro Typeface and Source Sans Pro Typeface on 80# uncoated book paper stock. 1,000 copies of this 49-page book were printed by Southern California Graphics in Culver City and distributed for free at Harvard-Westlake School. The magazine was created using Adobe InDesign CC 2017 on an iMac. The 2017 edition of Stone-Cutters received a gold medal from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. Harvard-Westlake School // 3700 Coldwater Canyon // Studio City, CA 91604 // 818.980.6692 // www.hw.com 49