stone-cutters
Harvard-Westlake School 2015
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Grace Kotick ’15 Go Figure Acrylic on illustration board 15 x 20 in.
Cover Artist Statement I created Caesar Salad at the beginning of my senior year for my Drawing and Painting class. I used black mat board to keep it simple and oil pastel because I wanted to experiment with this new medium. Despite being initially wary of it, the oil pastel proved to be an advantage. It blended well and allowed the darkness of the background to come through. The contrasting shades of red and blue really highlight the frustration I felt at the beginning of senior year—a stressful time that many students are familiar with (or will be!). These colors, combined with the stoic and serious faces of Roman classical busts, were inspired by one of the central ideas of Dada, where an artist makes fun of classicism and supposedly “set” establishments. Thanks to all the time and energy I spent on this piece, I started to enjoy where I was in the year and in my life. Perren Carrillo ’15 Caesar Salad Oil pastel on board 31 x 18 in.
Back Cover: Jesse Halpern ’15 New York Acrylic and collage on paper 16 x 10 in.
stone-cutters
Literary Editor Kacey Bae ’15 Web Editor Melanie Krassel ’15 Visual Editor Danielle Stolz ’15
Art Selection Committee Danielle Stolz ’15, Diana Kim ’15, Jesse Halpern ’15, Perren Carrillo ’15, Sacha Lin ’16, Jessica Brandon ’16, Aria Sarnoff ’16, Ryan DoyLoo ’17 Literature Selection Committee Kacey Bae ’15, Melanie Krassel ’15, Sam Schlesinger ’15, Jensen Davis ’16, Ryan Bae ’17, Will Dickerman ’17, Sabrina de Brito ’17, Marcella Park ’15, Jack Li ’17, Danielle Kaye ’17, Emma Kofman ’16, Ethan Weinstein ’15, Elizabeth Kim ’17 Production Chasia Jeffries ’17, Andrew Beyer ’17, Maddy Ulloa ’17, Maddy Harbert ’17, Liz Kim ’17, Cameron Stine ’17, Ashley Frey ’17, Lexi Scher ’17, Jenny Lange ’17, Marley Fair ’17, Paige Howard ’17, Megan Barnum ’17, Haley Perrin ’17, Alexa Nourafchan ’17, Pearl Acord ’17, Keon Niknejad ’17, Marina Weidmann ’17, Natalie Jones ’17, Rachel Madhogaria ’17, Adam Sraberg ’17 Faculty Advisers Cheri Gaulke, Amber Caron, Jen Bladen
stone-cutters was printed at Southern California Graphics in Culver City on 70# dull enamel paper stock in Adobe Caslon Pro Typeface. The production staff used ten of the school’s Dell PC’s. 750 copies were distributed for free at Harvard-Westlake School . Harvard-Westlake School 3700 Coldwater Canyon Studio City, CA 91604 Phone: (818) 980 - 6692 www.hw.com
To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated 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. Dear Readers, We are incredibly proud and privileged to present this year’s issue of stone-cutters! There are two important additions to the magazine this year, including a statement from our cover artist, and this letter where we can direct a special message to those who venture into the words and images on the next pages. We hope you appreciate these efforts as much as we cherish your readership. Our magazine title is inspired by Robinson Jeffers’ poem, which likens the work of the poet to that of a stonecutter. Both seek to leave behind something permanent during the fleeting period of the human life. The writers and artists of this magazine are challengers of time as well. They carefully construct words and art to form poignant, deliberate messages that will remain intact and alive. Long after they’ve ventured beyond our community, their art remains here, in these pages. While some literary magazines choose to organize the work around a central theme, it’s variety we celebrate, and we hope this variety represents our larger artistic community at Harvard-Westlake. In fact, we were drawn to this year’s cover image due to the three faces and swirling colors that seemed to represent the ever-shifting human mind and soul. Our cover artist, Perren Carrillo (‘15), states that his Caesar Salad, which was inspired by the anger and frustrations of early senior year, played with the “stoic and serious faces of Roman classical busts.” Perren thus successfully challenges time, manipulating marble that dates back to classical antiquity to resurface in his 21st century painting. We wish to always be a place of preservation for such stone-cutters. Your Editors, Kacey Bae ’15, Melanie Krassel ’15, Danielle Stolz ’15
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Literary
Visual Arts
Danielle Stolz ’15 Stone-cutter Icons: Sculptor, Painter, Writer Pen on paper 5 x 3 in.
Front cover Caesar Salad by Perren Carrillo ’15 Inside cover Go Figure by Grace Kotick ’15 Back cover New York by Jesse Halpern ’15
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Rorschach by Emma Kofman ’16 Couch Potato by Paige Yoo ’16 Forbidden Fruit by Trevor Tatham ’15 Scream Cycles by Scarlett Wildasin ’16 52-Hertz by Elizabeth Kim ’17 Ants by Emma Kofman ’16 Seasonal by Clare Chou ’15 What Am I Supposed to Say by Jensen Davis ’16 Evening Falls on Earth by Jack Li ’17 Jaden Smith and I by Sam Schlesinger ’15 1/20/15 12:09 AM by Ethan Weinstein ’15 Clamminess by Elizabeth Kim ’17 Flight 370, Malaysia Airlines by Jack Li ’17 Glitch Boy by Kacey Bae ’15 2:30 PM by Jared Gentile ’16 Dinner With My Family by Audrey King ’16 Red Car by Melanie Krassel ’15 Minutia by Jensen Davis ’16 Buttonwillow by Ethan Weinstein ’15
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Hardened by Aaron Drooks ’15 Loud by Audrey Chambers ’15 Constant (Self-Portrait) by Jacob Goodman ’15 #WIP by Perren Carrillo ’1 Station 78 by Emily Maynes ’15 Um by Alexandria Florent ’15 Front Lines by Grace Pan ’16, Augury by Cameron Wood ’15 Menorah by Ari Blut ’15 American Dream by Samantha Ho ’16 Lost in a Dream by Danielle Stolz ’15 Are You Ready by Clara McCarthy ’15 Boy Meets Big Foot by Audrey Wilson ’15 Eighty-five by Jacob Goodman ’15 Tomato: 168 Hours by Nico Lubkeman ’15 Raw by Katie Hohl ’15 Two Worlds by Nicole Araya ’16 Sandstone Form by Aaron Shih ’15 Self-Portrait by Xenia Viragh ’15 Head of the Boy by Vivian Lin ’16 Breathe by Whit Spain ’17 Touch by Clare Chou ’15 Hive by Koji Everard ’15 Self-Portrait by Chloe Zoller ’17 Chungja Tea Set by Diana Kim ’15 Mirror by Sarah McCallister ’15
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Rorschach and when we met our eyes across a mouth and traversed the valleys of her mind our hands in hasty clutches clawed at her, his. “this one?” “god” and this, factory. and her god was his and she, him. and our hands found no religion in and our eyes found no out Emma Kofman ’16
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Aaron Drooks ’15 Hardened Graphite pencil on paper 24 x 16 in.
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Couch Potato
I remember the time when you and I would run to the neighborhood pool in our flip-flops and try to see how long we could hold our breath underwater. After we got lightheaded from oxygen deficiency we’d go back to my house and drink pink lemonade while watching Twin Peaks. You sat on the couch in front of our TV so much that you made an indent in the leather. It’s still there and it misses you. Paige Yoo ’17
Audrey Chambers ’15 Loud Ink and acrylic paint on paper 20 x 25 in.
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Jacob Goodman ’15 Constant (Self-Portrait) Oil on mounted linoleum 5 x 3 ft.
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Perren Carrillo ’15 #WIP Acrylic on illustration board 10 x 15 in.
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Forbidden Fruit Some glass around, glass abound, I am found, in your arms, when I need you, Touching you all over, I confess, I believe, that my two hands are meant to feed you, I rub on thee, my face oily, like a tree, an apple falling very far, An apricot, one who dies, sometimes lies, in order to facilitate the legacy, Of Granny Smith, knitting a sweater, living forever, ignoring any powers that be. Fluorescent glows, blue and white, through the night, on my face, on my earlobes, How you are sleek, and such a beast, quite a feat, of fables told much past their time, Like a dime, your visage shines, brightens mine, if only for the time you stir me, Face aglow, white with snow, pale as though, the devil transformed into brightness. Bleep you say, and blop you say, I would have it no other way, Unless you vibrate noisily as I sleep in on Saturday, You touch and tease me even when you are not there at all, You crawl around my leg and up my thigh and down the hall, Skidding through the turns like a donkey in a strip mall. Take a bite, if you dare, of the flesh and blood of Granny, A sanguine woman, she’s viscous too, through and through, like the bullet that will end her, Splitting the core, of this whore, of a fruit, globs of goo becoming airborne, Innards blown, in the sky, raining down, bits of death, how tasty a precipitation, I catch them all, in my mouth, heading south, to the youth who haven’t risen, Speaking to them, of the torment, of the apple, so that they don’t all go to prison. Trevor Tatham ’15
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Emily Maynes ’15 Station 78 Inkjet print 54 x 54 in.
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Scream Cycles There are days when your head becomes a school fire drill, and all is shrill and rushed and beyond your control. Your thoughts are forming crowds around each other and all pushing you towards an eventual gathering place, where the sun coils around your chest and squeezes, and all your synapses are moping and sweating and shifting uncomfortably between crossed legs and stretched ones. On those days, when you are overwhelmed by the claustrophobia of your thoughts, you can think of nothing better to do than sound your own alarm, scream like some half chewed head with maggot eyes has just fallen out of your medicine cabinet—but this isn’t one of those movies. The only horror is your life and its cycles and the way that you’re always holding your toothbrush with the same hand, and your stomach always grumbles at four o’ clock (though it hasn’t deserved filling since your paranoid eighth grade eating habits) and you’re always reading the same books, and the fucking weather will never be anything but perfect.
You find that you can’t remember Tuesday from Thursday from January from June, because it’s always the
same overly saturated photograph that came with the frame. You lust after interruption, but you will never be the source. You don’t scream, do not disrupt the asphyxiating calm, cannot dissolve the careful precision of a practiced mood. You bite your tongue as you always have (say mother in the airport, mom is too close to bomb, cover your bruises, tell the neighbors your parents have gone out to dinner not drinks). Do not allow any blemishes to the portrait of normal. Retouch, retouch. Internalize the scream, breathe heavily instead. You huff over your mother’s shoulder while she does the taxes, give her the opportunity to ask what’s wrong, and yourself to reply, “nothing” or “everything!” or “why do you care?” Your parents, jokers set aside from the rest of the deck, are removed from and oblivious to the game, and each night the question is yours to ask and answer: “Friends or enemies? Sulk or smile?” The consequences of each response are calculated and constant: sulk = lecture, smile demands mindless reports of the events of your day, the same story you told the night before last, and the three before that one, and back and back and bored.
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You dream lazily about kidnappings. You leave passages by your bedside such as this one: “I see myself in a mangled heap, wrapped about the front tires of a big orange bus. The driver, a heavy marsupial with tired eyes, will stare at my crunching limbs with premature horror. She’ll spend the rest of her days watching jeopardy with a bucket of mayonnaise between her thighs and stale presliced wheat loaves at finger’s length, never leaving her one bathroom half bedroom again. I fall asleep in a pile of cracker crumbs. The reverie expires, my death tastes stale.” You wake up on a clean couch untransformed. Your heart rate is steady, but you are hardly alive. You do not really want these things. You want to want these things. You want to be the kind of person who is unfazed by haircuts, comfortable with menus, unscheduled. You want to show up to the movie after the trailers, stop scripting your conversations, be anything but fine. Cleanse yourself of hesitations, cancel reservations, dirty your hands, spill food, open your mouth in the shower, fall asleep in public, fight. Defend what you haven’t yet found, forget what you’re looking for. Interrupt yourself. Start your fire and wait for the screams. Scarlett Wildasin ’16
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52-hertz somewhere, a whale
groans seas of aching and we close our eyes, pained
and deaf.
mountains break open on his spine and a moon trails languidly over his empty bones, water soothing his sides the way mist relaxes into graveyards. here is alaska, listen; i want to taste a waiting on your lips, a coastline drenched in salt and petrichor and i want collarbones undressed and i want the splitting clash of antlers rocking - see how desire can drive you to fractures and the ocean says i want to love you, but the waves have whittled me fine. as if no one can hear - quietly
roll a haunted story off the lone whale’s tongue. where is the man who bares his neck to the moon’s sultry descend, the whale (you are
still screaming. Elizabeth Kim ’17
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Alexandria Florent ’15 Um Oil paint in box 13 x 12 in.
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Ants There are ants all over me I hear them tracing tiny trails through dotted lines I rip into pieces of skin floating in wells separated from our material a new kind They’re talking about you as I press my ear to the wet planted as they pass through my arms to the core of us and the thoughts of you palms on my sides breathing in burning fires the smell of bodies purifying I welcome them in And as they cut inside me and push their flavors through my skull They tell me of your dreams and of our sinking Emma Kofman ’16
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Grace Pan ’16 Front Lines Inkjet print 8 x 10 in.
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Seasonal The hands of the clock are ticking, with more speed than before. Runners on the ground their feet pound on the earth, bones creaking next to the yellows of the flowers nearby, yellows in their skin, sallow hands wearing down to their bones and others only demand more. Packing on pound after pound, falling to the ground, lying on the ground. Are we nearing the end? The tree yellows, winter rains pound on our outstretched hands and we yearn for more. It seeps to our bones, the bones that lie bare on the ground, surrounded no more by greens or reds or yellows, only a sea of white. Figures, whose hands and arms hang bare, feel the pound in every beat of spirit, the pound that shakes them to their bones. It grabs their hands and lifts them from the ground. It plucks the yellows from a closed daffodil, gives more
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sparkle to the rivers. More beings awaken, their paws pound under the warm yellows of the sun. Growing bodies and bones tremble as they stand on the ground with once again tender hands. Flushing with yellows and pinks, more raised hands stretch towards the sky. Every pound drops from our bones, stays in the ground. Clare Chou ’15
Cameron Wood ’15 Augury Oil pastel on paper 18 x 22 in.
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What Am I Supposed to Say For a few minutes we looked at, but didn’t watch, the sunset on Sunset, going one mile above the speed limit while you talked about fish trapped in aquariums and the crunch of stepping on dead leaves over the sound of a Ritalin bottle colliding with unprotected CD’s in the glove compartment of your mom’s old station wagon and while I pressed my hands against the heated passenger seat and under the bend of my knees to stop myself from biting my already bleeding nails you left the windows wide open so the wind bounced over the edge of the glass in pervasive thumps, filling the air like the presence of a third passenger and you kept smiling to yourself, with yourself an unpredictable, lipless half smile and your hands curled into fists, nestled in the sleeves of your fleece, while my goose bumps grew goose bumps but I couldn’t ask for your jacket Jensen Davis ’16
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Ari Blut ’15 Menorah Glass 10 x 8 x 1 in.
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Samantha Ho ’16 American Dream Colored pencil on illustration board 15 x 20 in.
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Evening Falls on Earth Upon leaving a museum When the sun slips off its pearly throne, and broods below the sea, oysters glimmer, their tiny suns illuminate the dusty boughs of almond trees. A man leans on an axe as he watches a lady astride a dapplegray horse, sip her tea. Its fragrance billows and diffuses, ghastly and argent, curls and shrouds the three. Below, stagnant waves lap at bare crags, embedded with debris; exhaust, like splintered ivory, veils the delicate moondancer. Without electricity, the night is worn darker than the tires of used cars, while above, faltering stars utter millenniumold stories. The darkness sags with prehistoric flora and fauna. Industrial plants cough, lorries smoke heavy cigars. Lights pollute the sky as I drive down Fifth Avenue, as streetside lamps flicker—I can’t see the stars. Jack Li ’17
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Danielle Stolz ’15 Lost in a Dream Acrylic on illustration board 15 x 27.5 in.
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Jaden Smith and I 1. Jaden Smith and I are walking to the park, and he stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Just Wait,” he says. He’s frozen, mid-stride, like a philosopher lost in thought, or maybe a cardboard cutout of himself, but then he shakes himself out, and we continue on our way. 2. Jaden Smith and I are out at an Italian restaurant. The waiter offers to grind pepper for his caesar salad, but Jaden declines. “I Am Not One For Elaboration,” he explains. 3. Jaden Smith and Willow Smith and I are going to Jamba Juice. “I’ll drive,” I offer, and Jaden seems grateful. “Your Vehicle Is Quaint,” he remarks about my Jetta. “Thank you,” I say. He plugs the aux cord into his iPhone and we listen to Cool Tape Vol. 2 all the way there. Msfts run the city, Msfts run the city Yeah the Msfts run the city, yeah the Msfts run the city Msfts run the city, Msfts run the city Gotta tear it all down cause the Msfts run the city 4. Jaden Smith and I are relaxing, poolside. We dangle our feet in the water and lay parallel to one another. “I like your sunglasses,” I say to him. “Thanks. They’re Mirrored,” he replies, and I giggle. “But how can mirrors be real if our eyes aren’t real?” I quip. He does not look over. “Actually, That Was Supposed To Be About Identity,” he says, and I wait for him to continue, but he has nothing more to say.
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5. Jaden Smith and I are at the art museum. People attempt to surreptitiously photograph Jaden, and he pretends not to notice. “Hey Jaden, which Instagram filter should I use on this picture?” I ask, swiping through the options. He lets out a long, sweeping sigh. “Oh, right,” I say. “I forgot. Instagram depresses you.” He nods sullenly. “It’s that picture of us at the beach,” I say. This turns his head. He takes my phone, studies the picture, and hands it back. Then, without facing me “Valencia.” 6. Jaden Smith and I are on acid and his bedroom walls squirm around our peripherals. “Jaden, do you believe in God?” He is very quiet, sitting cross-legged in front of me. “I Believe In Energy,” he says at last. I stare at his forehead for several minutes. The wrinkles undulate like sine waves. 7. Jaden Smith and I are playing Mario Party 8. We are selecting our characters and Jaden says, “Oh.” “What is it?” I ask, and he looks sheepish. “It’s Nothing. I Just... I Wanted To Be Yoshi, That’s All.” I switch my character to Luigi and he stares at his feet. “Thanks,” he says to me. “It’s okay,” I say. “I kinda like Luigi more, anyway.” He hides it, and it’s hard to tell, but I think I can see the faintest trace of a smile.
8. Jaden Smith is in his bedroom. The front door was unlocked. I knock twice on his bedroom door. “Open,” he says, and I peer in to see him laying across his desk. He is rubbing his eyes, hard. “Is now a bad time?” I ask, even though he invited me over half an hour ago. “Solitude Is A Time For Philosophers.” When I am silent, he offers more: “I Am Attempting To See Ultimate Visions.” He rubs his eyes again, and I stand over him and watch. After a minute, he opens them. They’re misty and dilated, and little tears glide out of the corners like party streamers. His expression is that of stone. I look him in the eyes, those pools of chocolate syrup. I could hardly fathom the intense and recondite palette of emotion he had Seen, this sixteen year old debutant sprawled out before me.
9. Jaden Smith and I are making breakfast in bed for Willow. It is her birthday. “Should we use a cookbook?” I ask. “Cookbooks Are The Distraction Of Society,” he answers. He sprays pancake mix from a can onto the stove. It sizzles. 10. Jaden Smith and I are wearing footie pajamas (custom produced from his own clothing/lifestyle brand, MSFTSrep) and it is Christmas morning. “Merry Christmas,” I say to Jaden, and I hand him a box that I did my best to wrap. He holds it and scowls, motionless. “Something wrong?” I ask. “If I Don’t Open This It Can Be Anything,” he says. He reflects on this for a moment, but then opens it anyway. Inside is a scarf I knit for him myself, and Jaden Smith smiles. He is pleased for the first time. Sam Schlesinger ’15
Clara McCarthy ’15 Are You Ready Ink on paper 16 x 16 in.
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Audrey Wilson ’15 Boy Meets Big Foot Silver gelatin print 8 x 10 in.
Jacob Goodman ’15 Eightyfive Oil paint on linoleum panel 24 x 18 in.
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1/20/15 12:09 AM i stepped on every crack in the pavement and thought about 3D printing my own skull and whether it would be microwavable and could i use it as a bowl to eat leftovers from i held out my arm and picked the leaves off the trees and crumpled them into tiny globes so i could know what the scents were like inside a living thing i drove home on the wrong side of the road and listened to noise pop and thought about death but when i saw headlights in the distance i crossed back over to my side of the street which i think is a sign of progress
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Ethan Weinstein ’15
Nico Lubkeman ’15 Tomato: 168 hours Inkjet print 13 x 20 in.
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Clamminess my lower lip likens to a watery rose, bruised from the way you offer up december on your tongue, to me it tastes of a stranger’s death tucked in the roof of your mouth, like roosting bats i hold them against the painful line of your shoulders watch you slump forward to shadow the ecstasy of a white sky some touches are hollow and i wonder why (i am so sad for you) Elizabeth Kim ’17
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Katie Hohl ’15 Raw Oil on canvas 28 x 24 in.
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Nicole Araya ’16 Two Worlds Acrylic and oil on canvas 18 x 24 in.
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Aaron Shih ’15 Sandstone Form Foam 12 x 4 x 3 in.
Flight 370, Malaysia Airlines Delivery MAS 370 Good Morning
Three Seven Zero maintaining level three-five-zero
The bride Norli is swathed with wedding silks, lustrous gold like the vitamins she swallows.
The wings shudder, meal carts barrel through the aisles pounding at passenger seats.
Gifts are spread on the ground, bound with ribbon—she draws her husband closer, to loosen the knot at his throat.
The plane tilts, plunging owl-like for scampering prey, while the ocean’s jowls salivate brine.
Petite Norli dons a hijab but nothing can hide her pale crescent laugh, or the family’s excitement at their first flight. Norli laughs as she fastens her seat belt “click” the empty rattle of forged security. Afternoon rays broil the window illuminating torn, marked magazines. The family has decided to visit the land of many, become royalty in the Forbidden City, scale the Great Wall lined with willows weeping for its laborers who died young, interred in their final project. Half an hour before she left for the airport, Norli lowered the curtains— they don’t want her to go: the cat snuggles into her battered leather suitcase, the dog drags away her wedding gown.
They say you fall in love. Norli laces her fingers with her husband’s, strands of ribbon forever tied, forever hidden. Contact Ho Chi Minh City, 120.9 The plane plummets. Alarms are lost through billowing vapors. It is too dark for thought. They grope in blindness, They remember the aisles full of flowers, declarations of love at an altar, veiled with sweet airy champagne. The couple closes their eyes and breathes— Our Father, who art in heaven, dimuliakanlah nama-Mu… Jack Li ’17
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Xenia Viragh ’15 Self-Portrait Inkjet print 8 x 11 in.
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Vivian Lin ’16 Head of the Boy Acrylic on cardboard 13.6 x 19.7 ft.
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Glitch Boy He waits in the dark coolness trapped in by birch white doors. Blocks of black crack and dissolve into colored static, stretching from the corners of the television set. Feather shadows and stacked fabric threaten to topple, meant to drown the constant tinging of the globular clock. Spider-leg fingers rest on the worn-down rubber of the control pad. Scraggly pixel text glints against the soft light radiating from the rounded surface of the screen. The words bob rhythmically to the beat of a heart calmed by the familiar sight of two words and a question: GAME OVER or CONTINUE? He sits and picks at the carpet with his nails – discolored slices of the crescent moon – and rests one pale cheek upon scarred knees, haphazard plasters slapped on stinging peroxide wounds. He’ll idle the time away, with paced breaths and the search for flowers blooming behind eyelids Until the peeling paint slides open and he startles at the sound. His sallow face turns to, his bleary eyes stare at the approaching figure cautiously entering his domain. The thin lines of his mouth rip open into a smile, a gaping wound. His arms extend like sleeves of lace, ready for play with the newcomer’s sun-bathed hands.
Kacey Bae ’15
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2:30 PM With each step, like a drinking bird, the boy lurched forward to the water. It was just out of reach, he could feel that, and his mouth salivated in anticipation. His vision narrowed with singular determination as the hair on the back of his neck stood at a ninety-degree angle from his skin, and he figured once he got to the ocean he could drink as much as he wanted. His left leg was noticeably longer than the other. As he pursued his mindset like a rabbit chasing a carrot on a stick, he crashed forward into reality amidst the broken concrete sidewalk with his right foot and was immediately lifted up as if on a stilt by his left leg, to peer out at his final destination from the palm trees. Within his cyclical framework of angelic ascension stunted by return to purgatory, he could feel his other self, the one that ran unhindered alongside him, cheering him onward. From it his mind gazed at his physical body, imperfect and ephemeral, like an omniscient camera tracking its shot. The dewy air clung to his hair with its moisture, promising more to come. While he careened down the sidewalk, he noticed for a split second a ticketmobile, used in affluent areas to bring in parking enforcement quotas.
Whit Spain ’17 Breathe Inkjet print 36 x 24 in.
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The officer rested inside, his portly frame distraught over the lack of violators in the residential area that afternoon. Contemplating his unexercised supreme authority like God fallen from Heaven, he looked out from his chariot at the boy lunging down the street and met his eyes as he passed. Whether it was due to prolonged lack of movement or momentary lack of judgment, the ticket officer’s eyes lit up as though he’d discerned a speeding car and could tax the boy’s long left leg in just the same way. However, the moment passed, and his eyes shifted to that of slight disappointment, followed by immediate shock. The boy had, unknowingly, catapulted into the path of a speeding car while crossing the street and met his tunnel vision with two tons of unsympathetic steel. The driver, having been blinded by the mist in the air, sped away from his folly wiping the blood off his windshield with the moisture. The boy lay crumpled in the street, the grieving mist forming condensation on his skin and mingling with his blood. The parking enforcement officer’s grayed black mustache bristled and shone like a handcuff as he darted off in pursuit of the hit-and-run driver, horrified and emboldened with a duty to justice.
Travelling as fast as three wheels could carry him, the ticket cop chased after the son-of-a-bitch who thought he could get away with it. Burning rubber, he thought of his cousin, who’d been killed by a drunk driver when he was only fourteen. And his old friend from high school who got run over one night after a school dance, and how he never laughed as hard since then. And he thought of his goddamned stepbrother who constantly upstaged him, who had brought him and his family to a party to meet the mayor. He remembered how he’d had no stories to tell, absolutely nothing interesting to say. How his wife had stared at him like she’d forgotten his name. Not any more. Now he had hellfire behind his pupils; he would get justice, and so much more. Rocketing down the street through a busy shopping district, the ticket policeman’s head was filled with swirling smoke of long forgotten victims, obligations, and promises of future glory. As he shot through an intersection in his ticketmobile, scraping the bottom on pavement, he blew up a large gust of wind, which tussled the shirttails of a man standing on the corner ready to cross. The man had just gotten his afternoon coffee up the street, when he perceived the tails of his shirt gently rising and fluttering in the wind. Soon he saw black ink pour into the corners of the shirt like veins, and the white cotton transfigure itself into shuffling paper sheets that danced and taunted him out of reach. His heart beat and echoed out of his bone-white teeth that lay in a neat row for his fingers to manipulate. His frenzied mind raced between pitches, tuning itself to the whispers and rustlings of the orchestra. The conductor gave him his cue, and the concert pianist turned to the audience who had gathered to hear his newest composition. The stage lights veiled their identities, sequestering the pianist in a world of his own. He turned to his instrument, and filled the world with life. The notes wafted into the audience from the stage, filling every person’s nostrils with sweet smells and recollections of the past. The music washed over them, leaving valuable gifts in their minds. But there was one person in the audience who was convinced the music was meant only for her. A botanical gardener, she accepted the notes that came her way as tokens of her natural artistic flavor, and prided herself in thinking she and the pianist were much the same. She decided to take his creative genius
as inspiration to fuel her own artistic endeavors, and her face became smug as she thought that she too was a master of her craft. The city had chosen her to design the new botanical garden, she reminded herself. With the musicians’ tact and hunger for the fantastical, she set out to transform the city block given to her into a refuge for those beautiful souls who desired an escape from the drudgery of their workaday lives. Beautiful souls like herself, she thought. Arranging, organizing, and calculating, she bent the budget given to her into various levels and classifications of tropical plants from the Caribbean, towering trees from the Amazon, and densely colorful shrubs from Australia. She tried not to think of the divorce papers waiting for her at home, or the children currently out of her custody. Instead she commanded the planters and movers, constructing a block out of the prehistoric chapters of Earth’s life. Before its unveiling, she meticulously adjusted the position of every plant in the garden in an effort at perfection. Arriving at a cluster of yellow jasmine, she spotted a blue dragonfly sapping water from the surface of one of the flowers. Frowning, she shook the vine to dislocate unwanted beauty from the scene. Shooting high into the air, the pristine blue of the dragonfly’s body shone against the misty atmosphere. However, the dragonfly was unhappy with the focus resting on it, and desperately it tried to outmaneuver and shake off the concentration now fixated on its transparent wings and multifaceted eyes. Faster than the speed of light, faster than the expansion of the universe, the dragonfly burnt the sky in the wake of its zigzagged, sporadic path. And yet still it was unable to escape the unrelenting observation. Defeated, the dragonfly finally landed on the forehead of the aforementioned dead boy. His sticky blood held its legs there, and only after a moment was the dragonfly able to pull away. The dead boy, realizing it wasn’t all over after all, began to sit up and look around for his counterparts, only to find they’d all gone. Confused and covered in his own blood, he ambled off into the misty afternoon, leaving only a pool of blood behind. Jared Gentile ’15
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Clare Chou ’15 Touch Watercolor on watercolor paper 18 x 24 in.
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Koji Everard ’15 Hive Stoneware clay 9.5 x 9 x 9 in. 46
Dinner With My Family The ominous orange lanterns danced around in the summer’s night heat, giggling a dirty secret In the pitch black escape over my shoulder the tiny spheres illuminate a path like down the rabbit hole, when the table is so repulsing, I slightly dose off to the orange brick road dark, and unsteady I discover his problem masked by the dark The ominous lit Sunday dinner cloaks everyone’s problems so bad, like a 6th grade boy who’s dog ate his homework I’ve figured out all the ice cream sweetened squabbles, I just don’t understand how he’s his dad now Above the ominous fog of turkey and angst I hear him yelling for a fourth piece of toast and marmalade while hitting me with a pillow Audrey King ’16
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Chloe Zoller ’17 Self Portrait Inkjet Print 36 x 24 in.
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Red Car Red car Parked on the weed covered grass Covered in dirt and bird shit Forlorn Red car Out in the rain The dirt washed off But the interior was still stained The inside marked With drops of blood, Throbbing with every journey Its essence clearly scarred Black leather, once sleek, Scratched and beaten The crimson stains, Like the mark of a black widow To sell it for some trifles An attempt was made A couple bucks were better Than these shoddy remains They couldn’t hide the blood They couldn’t hide the stains They realized then that some marks Simply could never fade To the dump then it was taken Their attempts to sell were shaken And no tears were shed this time For the love there was denied No goodbyes were said To the car painted in red Melanie Krassel ’15
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Diana Kim ’15 Chungja Tea Set Stoneware, Celadon glaze Dimensions variable
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Minutia We sat crisscross applesauce maybe an hour too long so our legs stung like ocean water on a fresh, open cut we forgot to blink for two minutes at a time so our eyes grew heavy and the periphery grew blurry then eventually melted away you didn’t want to go home so we talked in past tense about the minutia of everyday, and sat still until it made sense
Jensen Davis ’15
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Sarah McAllister ’15 Mirror Cast lead crystal 22 in. x 11 in. x 4 in.
Buttonwillow Driving down Wilshire again, into the sun. It is still hot, and congested, and the hills are too far away to hide in. The car to my right is laughing, the backseat’s viewfinder trained on an unremarkable building. Light glints off the driver’s sunglasses up against his forehead. It is silent and I can’t decide what to listen to. Whether my windows should be up or down. I don’t have a destination in mind, I just know I have to get far from you. These same leather seats squeaked and burned under our bodies earlier, and I turned the A/C on high. It was the hottest day of the summer, and the August sun corroded any shape or form we once mutually had. My vision was still swimming with masks. You asked for the name of the song we were listening to, and I told you, but I’m certain you forgot it. When I see you in two months, I’m afraid I won’t remember how to be alone with you. How to talk to my feet and get you to hear. We will always watch similar films, but our thoughts, I worry, will begin to intersect at different angles, colored by different cities and time zones, and we’ll never communicate the way we used to. The way we always have. I don’t know why I asked who you were texting this afternoon. I already knew who it was. “As long as you’re driving up north,” you smiled down at me, “there’s a tiny town called Buttonwillow that my grandpa always likes to stop in.” You smiled, but your eyes were full of sadness. “You should stop there and get gas, at least.” I said nothing, just squinted at the granite floors and watched the shadows pass over my shoes, dusty, tired, and worn down with age. This winter you will be entrenched in snow, in your new life, a middle of the world away. You’ll give up on your irony and drink corporate coffee for the warmth. You will change your face while I’m not looking, and when I turn back, pretend nothing has happened. And I should just go fill up my tank in Buttonwillow while you let someone else fold your blankets. LA sometimes seems empty and raw, a pot boiled over and too hot to touch, and ringing with the sound of a million popping bubbles. Cars pass by in both directions, tunneling homewards facelessly through the residual steam. The sun is hot and my chest is weak, and I wait for a space to slice through them and join. Windows up, I have decided, A/C on again, and no music yet. Now is time for silence. My turn signal instead just clicks and clicks and clicks. Ethan Weinstein ’15
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