stone-cutters Harvard-Westlake School Winter 20-21
Dear Readers, As 2020 draws to a close, we reflect on how unexpected and oftentimes difficult this year has been—nevertheless, we approach the next year with hearts full of hope and optimism. That is in no small part thanks to the flood of incredible submissions we received for this issue. We have been and continue to be uplifted by the outpouring of creativity from our HW artist community. In these times more than ever, your creativity is necessary to reflect on our current times. We would like to thank everyone who submitted work to our publication. Please keep finding it within yourselves to share your stories and art with the world, and hopefully next year we will be able to be together again. Until then, keep on keeping on. To The Stone-Cutters 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 die, 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.
Cover: Just Relax Chiara Umekubo ‘23, digital, 898 by 1447 pixels
Staff Nicole Austen ‘21 Maya Doyle ‘21 Santi Salazar ‘21 Athalia Meron ‘21 Katherine Kihiczak ‘21 Izzy Welsh ‘22 Elise Chen ‘22 Joie Zhang ‘22 Alexa Druyanoff ‘22 Frances Ross ‘22 Maddie Morrison ‘22 Carina Villalona ‘22 Ari Ogden ‘22 Milla Ben-Ezra ‘22 Joy Ho ‘22 Anika Iyer ‘23 Chiara Umekubo ‘23 Lily Lee ‘23 Aiko Offner ‘23 Juliet Katz ‘23 Natalie Cosgrove ‘23 Max Thompson ‘23 Sophia Evans ‘23 Izzy Daum ‘23 Faculty Advisors Jesse Chehak ‘97 Lucas Gonzalez @stonecutterscollective
the plastic pink clock Grace Belgrader ‘23 It’ll be a wonder if we make it out alive I figure somebody swallowed the map when I wasn’t looking and I’m telling the pale girl in the mirror don’t wonder so far, and I’m trying but she’s been hurting my feelings you left me alone, for too many hours it’s been sixteen years now and my eyesight’s getting worse for every tick, tock, of the plastic pink clock my mom says she lost when we ran away from the apartment with no windows I imagine when I earn my driver’s license I’ll finally be able to remember my own name, I know that I know nothing about you but maybe one day I’ll know which music waters down your eyest on Thursday nights in stuffy bedrooms, and you could remember how I take my coffee or of course, the pink clock could fall off the stained wrecked wall I’ll be fine to tell stories about too much cologne, ‘n one day maybe you’ll catch a hint of blue hair, and feel the tug of a memory you can’t quite place I’m not sure highschool ever really ends I can’t stay for too long just make sure they’re all in bed in time to cry on chilly Sunday afternoons promise it to me because it’s been taking a dozen or two little lies to get my teeth brushed or my bed made the goddamn linens are so clean and white but I’m laughing because they turned to gray ashes weeks ago, when getting out of bed hurt my head too much sorry I can’t make it, they need me here
I’m stuck in my imagination again and I’ve stopped trying to escape it’s warm here and out there somewhere somehow the world slowed to a bitter stop and my dirty yellow school bus sits idle in a parking lot with other girls dirty yellow school buses at least I hope there’s others with her, the California winter can be harsher than the weather I would know, stories sit frozen still until they forgive and forget what it’s like to have a life off the screen I’ve been hearing screams and I wish I could help her but when I look down my fists are all torn up and bloody I bang on the glass door bang bang bang bang nobody’s around to hear what if this is my last chance to make it out alive
Conglomerate Lana Lim ‘22, digital art, 3024 x 4032 pixels
Unknown Grant Caverly ‘21, ceramics, 11” x 6” x 6”
Lovesick Sarcophagus Izzy Welsh ‘22
I eulogize what was, what is, and what will be as my eyes twitch in their waltz looking for auroras. I paddle in the river with my dress on for feeling. Ukulele strums and static tiptoe in my ears. Their hollow cavities waiting in intermission. I mourn sudden embraces and quick pinches And polite betraying smiles.
Memories imitate the glow like the fluorescent bulbs of gas stations at twilight. Leathered hands reach inside of me and crack open my chest cavity like an apple. My eyes wince in anticipation of a light but only ashes puff up like cigarette smoke. Please Creator. Baptize me with milk And cream Before I’m embalmed lifelessly in linoleum.
modern greek student falls in love with ancient greek student Jamie Kim-Worthington ‘22
you ask me why i study modern greek and not ancient, not the antiquity which you kiss the knees of. you ask me what antiquity is to me: there are a hundred words for antiquityantiquity is cobwebs under fingernails, honey-soaked vision, and i lapse into my greek tongue, going from synonyms to spilling words like philia and eros and all the other names for love used by the old geezers who you study. ancient greek is so closely entwined with my idea of you, that every word for classicism ends with your name, and every hated phrase of plato turns into a proclamation of love. you learn about radiometric dating, about the bones of a mother long gone and turned into the bones of the earth. you pull the spine of gaia and analyze the atoms that have been aging in it, you do the calculations with sigma and lambda, the letters that we know so intimately, and i pass you a note that says radiometric dating more like radiometric date-me scrawled in the same blue pen i use to sketch the shades of blue of mykonos, and you smile! teeth like clay, lips like blood orange- and i want to say i will give you blood oranges, i will offer you my segment of clementine, i want to share this with you.
Passage of Time Mia Karathanasis ‘22, acrylic paint on bristol paper, 17” x 14”
Karaoke Night Garrett Ingman ‘21, oil on canvas, 36” x 36”
Drinks at the Gate House Alexa Druyanoff ‘22, oil paint, 20” x 16”
Pandora Kieran Chung ‘23 Start with her feet. Carve them out of a stone block, creating curves and lines where there were none, chipping at the lifelessness of the stone until it gives way to form. Make sure to leave a subtle arch between the thick pad of her sole and her heel. Draw in tendons; sand them down until they appear as a second layer, taut underneath her granite skin. Etch the outline of toenails into her feet. Clean out the dust in between her toes. Use marble for her legs, more lovely than granite, more precious. These will be looked at, admired, and so they must be flawless; but they must also be strong, for dancing and footraces down the Mediterranean coast, and later, for the weight of a child in her arms. Shape the bones, the muscles, everything that will bring her honor and glory. Make her an object to be desired. Model her hips out of clay, and her bodice from strips of balsa wood. Place her lungs within her chest; nestle her heart in between. Protect them with ribs of ivory. (They will do nothing to shield her from heartbreak.) Watch her heart begin to beat, slowly at first, then faster, pumping life through her veins. Listen to its steady cadence, feel her lungs move in time. Let it comfort you. Then layer balsa wood over her open chest and fasten it with tree sap. Break off two branches from the nearby olive tree. Fix them to her sides and start to whittle, removing long strips of wood that curl like ribbons, finding the shape of two shoulders and slight crooks for elbows. Move in closer now for the finer details, the outline of muscles, the dips on the insides of her elbows, the veins running down the length of her forearm. Give her treeclimbing arms and elbows she can scrape on cliffs and bones that will not fracture until she grows out of her fearlessness and retreats into her duty at home. Make her an object to be tamed. Use twigs for her fingers, delicate and nimble, perfect for weaving and playing the lyre. Arrange them at her wrists and tie them together with gossamer strings. Snip off the ends as closely as possible, lest they get tangled in her fingers or the six strings of her lyre. Leave one thread hanging from her wrist for her husband to hold.
Shape her head from porcelain. Be careful, be precise. Give her high cheekbones and lips that curve like the grip of a bow, an acute nose and eyes that are slightly too clever. Scrape out ears to hear what is hidden and a mouth to stifle words that offend, that abrade, that are ugly. Do not allow your hand to tremble, your knife to stray. A wrinkle here, an odd mark there, could leave her abandoned on a mountainside. String yarn from her head, silky strands of auburn and golden brown. Hang them carefully, without letting them tangle or knot together. While she is young, the wind will have its way with her hair, tossing together streaks of color in a joyful celebration, changing the pattern every few seconds so no artist will be able to capture it just right. When she is older, she will bind it up with clasps and laurel wreaths and it will tug at her scalp as she sits perfectly still, sophisticated, the most beautiful woman in the world. Pour walnuts into her eyes, soft with a subdued keenness. Scatter the stars in her irises. Her eyes must have the ability to entice, to woo, to intrigue. (They do not have the ability to see into closed boxes.) Paint her lips crystalline red, the shade of red that promises a kiss from the other side of the forum, that will teach her not to refuse the boys who come calling. Make her an object to be collected. Give her insatiable curiosity and a box that must never be opened. Fill her head with dreams. Show her visions of the stars. Then cast her down from the heavens into a world that is blind to the dreams of women, that seeks to suck the stars from her eyes. She will play her part. You’ll see.
Men In Love Kate Hassett ‘22, oil on canvas, 12” x 12”
autorretrato Santiago Salazar ‘21, black and white film photography, 8” x 12”
Moth - A Set of Delusions Masquerading as Poetry Anika Iyer ‘23
A Moment of Silence for the Queen of Hearts Aiko Offner ‘23 It started with a cigarette butt a loose wire, too. The hoarse ground and air flaking warmth carried flames arching above car hoods, crawling across sidewalks, gobbling each home. It eats to live; it eats only while it lives. We were spared that time, thought we were spared forever, counted our blessings looked up at the starry sky and thanked the twinkles in the night. We were spared that timeThen lightning struck hot lightning, they called it, shot into the ground it erupted in a ring. We were split that time, our house of cards burnt down built on lies and fake laughs. The hardwood floor burnt in a ring; we were very comfortable on opposite skies. I walked away unscathed, layers of ash sitting in my chest. looked up at the starry sky, saw a shooting star and cussed. Standing on a bare patch of soot, cinder, broken glass, dull pixie dust, I saw a broken queen of hearts, laying blackened on the dusty ground. She just smiled and said You let me burn down
Illuminated Bronwen Roosa ‘22, oil and acrylic, 12” x 17”
Vision Julianna Ross ‘22, metal and resin, 6” x 12”