THE IVY THE IVY ISSUE XXVI | PHS
ISSUE XXVI | PHS
THE IVY
ISSUE N . 26 O
The Ivy began in the 1960s. Its serialization began in 2014.
Editors’ Letter Dear Reader, With much excitement and gratitude, we present to you Issue 26 of The Ivy. Some good news first: we were selected as a Columbia Scholastic Press Association’s Crown Finalist! A big shoutout to our team—we want to applaud you for your resilience and dedication despite the adversity this year with a global pandemic. We really miss Room 153 and our production pizza parties! Of course, we would not be able to achieve this without you, the Reader, and your contributions. Your lovely submissions make deciding which pieces to be featured more and more difficult with every issue but in turn allow the magazine to become the exceptional publication you are reading today. Ever since its beginning, The Ivy has hoped to provide a creative platform not only for talented artists and writers at PHS to showcase their work but also to inspire our readers to discover beauty in the everyday and tell their stories through the medium of art in one way or another. In this issue, we hope you will find a reflection of this message through a diverse mix of medium, topics, and voices behind the pages. If you would like to join our team or have any feedback, our inbox is always open at theivy.phs@gmail.com. Without further ado, please enjoy Issue 26! Cheers, Alice and Olivia
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Table of Contents
SUNDAY LOG ...................................................................................6 Shelly Zhang
EXIT RAMP ..................................................................................18,20 Lana Swindle
LET IT BE .......................................................................................7,9 Lindsay Hirschman
THE GIRL ...........................................................................................19 Karen Qiu
AFTERNOON ....................................................................................8 Xiaoyu (Bella) Cui
LAMP ..................................................................................................21 Luca Balescu
FLOWERY .................................................................................10-11 Yunbing (Emily) Qian
TOO MUCH, NO MORE .................................................................22 Soorya A. Baliga
SUNSET OVER THE WATER .................................................12-13 Eva Lependorf
HOTHEAD .........................................................................................23 Jane Lillard
WIND’S METAMORPHOSES ...............................................12-13 Heidi Gubser
GOLDENROD ...................................................................................24 Emily Smerkanich
WINDOW ........................................................................................14 Allen Zhao
BITTERSWEET ..................................................................................25 Christopher Bao
COVER PAGE: BILLIONS TALK WITH COLOR, STAGES OF GRIEF ........................................................................15 Skylar Schiltz-Rouse Cecily Gubser acrylic paints and magazine scraps ABSORBED IN WORRY ...............................................................16 Georgina Domingo Alsina LOSING MY HAIR .........................................................................17 Roushu Chuang
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photography
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SUNDAY LOG, Shelly Zhang
LET IT BE (AN EXCERPT) (I), Lindsay Hirschman When I was eight years old, I spent almost all my time assembling fairy houses in the woods at summer camp with my friend Anna. We gathered sticks and chipped tree bark for walls and a roof, pebbles and leaves for furniture, and miscellaneous, lost knick-knacks for decorations—all adorning a home to lure a fairy for the night who would leave mesmerizing, glossy marbles for her builders to find in the morning as a “thank you for the stay.” Our fairy houses leaned against a tree for support, and next to that tree was a dirt path overgrown with moss, scattered with rocks, and covered in winding tree roots. The end of the path dipped into the clear, shallow part of a mostly murky stream.
Just like any other day at camp, Anna and I would go our separate ways to scout for materials and then meet each other back at our fairy house construction site, the tree, where we would put everything into place. Frankly, I never knew where Anna went off to; I was very much interested in my own scavenger hunt: finding pretty things fit for pretty fairies. I went off on my merry little way down the path into the depths of the woods where I came across a blossomed bush of red berries, picked a few, and dropped them into my drawstring bag. Further down the forest path, I collected stubby sticks from the forest floor and stuck those in my bag as well.
Satisfied with my successful scavenger hunt, I followed the path back towards the tree when a compelling force stopped me in my tracks, and I spotted something that no fairy could ever resist: growing beside the path, peeking out from a shroud of green leaves with glints of light, was a patch of silver leaves. I promptly reached into the patch and plucked a single silver leaf. Giddy to show Anna my one-of-a-kind finding, I raced down the path to where the counselors and campers were located and found Anna kneeling beside the tree, placing rows of sticks in the mud to frame the fairy house.
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AFTERNOON, Xiaoyu (Bella) Cui photography
TITLE, Artist Name
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TITLE, Artist Name art’s medium
LET IT BE (AN EXCEPT) (II), Lindsay Hirschman
“Anna, I found a silver leaf!” I let her have a look, but I kept a firm grasp on it because I couldn’t let go of such a precious sight. “I think that’s poison ivy,” she put it bluntly. “Oh.” I dropped the leaf—the threepronged leaf—and felt it brush against my hand on its way down. It was spray-painted silver as a warning. Why didn’t I get that? How could I be so stupid?
In a panic, I sped past the tree, down to the very end of the path, and brought myself into the calm, shallow stream. I began washing my hands. I let them run through the water, knowing that the ivy’s poisonous oil could absorb into my skin. So I washed and I washed my hands. I looked around; the other campers were playing and splashing and shouting in the water. But I wasn’t. I kept washing my hands. I wasn’t playing anymore. I kept washing my hands. I wasn’t having fun anymore. I kept washing my hands.
I stared at them until my vision blurred from my welling eyes. I kept washing my hands. My head throbbed and pounded—I kept washing my hands—my ears rang—I kept washing my hands—my face warmed—I kept washing my hands—my throat tightened—and I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried. I cried as hard as I washed my hands, vigorously scrubbing to get the poison out of my body. I heaved and gasped for air. I thought they were quite possibly my last few breaths.
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FLOWERY, Yunbing (Emily) Qian mixed media
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WIND’S METAMORPHOSES, Heidi Gubser
My favorite sound in the Whole wide world Is the sound of wind.
Sitting at the top of a mountain, I watch the orange and yellow trees Dance a delicate, bowing dance, The breeze sifting through their leaves Like soft sand trickling through fingers. In the car ride home, With all of the windows wide open, Madonna singing on our radio, I listen to the wind rushing past, Roaring in my ears. Finally wrapped up in my blankets, Lying peacefully in my dark room, The rain storm thrashes, The lightning brightening the outside world, And I wait to hear the beautiful gusts of air.
SUNSET OVER THE WATER, Eva Lependorf
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They start as a whisper, Then grow more and more Vehement and furious, fierce And blaring, louder And louder, Moaning and howling, Groaning and growling. Wind’s lithe gentleness, Its overpowering voice, Its strength and force, Make me almost believe that It must have a personality, Or at least thoughts and feelings.
For nothing As graceful, as moody, as commanding, Could be void of joy, Of passionate excitement, Of devastating anger And emotional frustration.
photography
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WINDOW, Allen Zhao
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STAGES OF GRIEF, Cecily Gubser Since the beginning, the stars have watched the world age. I wonder what they would think of us if they were conscious— Of all the mania of human civilization. Of me. Their experience would be beyond that of all mankind, Eons ahead of us in their wisdom, Light-years away from us in their love. Away from me.
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ABSORBED IN WORRY, Georgina Domingo Alsina pencil
TITLE, Artist Name
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LOSING MY HAIR, Roushu Chuang Our backs against the window sill. My hair scatters on her lap, capturing the sunlight. Her fingertips twist down my hair, our laughter envelops the hallway. Passersby, their footsteps echo like drum beats, her fingers follow, fast and steady. The bell rings, she releases the band around my hair, the race is over.
My eyes move up the mirror, my head follows, like a phoenix rushing from the ashes. A blonde girl gazes at me in the mirror, I smile politely, She smiles back. The sun sets along the darkening horizon. *** I look into the camera, lion mane and panda eyes. My arm lunges for the brush, tugging on my mane.
The early sun feels warm against our skin. Two minutes later, She looks effortless, *** like Instagram models. Black strands fall down my shoulder. Nostalgic, She smiles at my phone, I shuffle my foot to say goodbye. my mind embraces the warm bed. Like van Gogh, the stylist splashes color on the black canvas, creating his own masterpiece.
I stare at the girl in the image, perfect hair, perfect eyes, Send. The moon sits in the dark sky. Alone.
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exit ramp (I), Lana Swindle Los Angeles was always beautiful to him. It was a cool night, and the city was shining with an almost melancholy aura, a strange feel that drew him in. Most saw it just as the sum of its parts: a series of grey concrete buildings with the occasional palm tree or parking lot. He saw it as something more. Familiar, yet foreign. He noticed something different every time. They were in the car, and Lena was driving. He couldn’t help but notice her stature—upright, almost defensive. He turned away from her, glancing out the window. The city seemed darker than usual. “You think LA’s pretty?” he asked, avoiding her gaze. “I guess.” She shrugged. “I don’t know; it’s always been sort of depressing for me.”
She was annoyed. Her hair was slipping out of its ponytail; strands fell into her eyes and she pushed them away.
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She was in his office, standing before him, and he wasn’t sure why. He was working.
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Alex-” she started.
“It’s okay, don’t worry.”
“What?” He was impatient. “Why are we here?”
Lena gripped the edges of the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles were white.
He sighed, drawn out and exaggerated. “What do you mean?”
“Alex, I have to tell you something.”
“I mean, why are we here? In LA.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to his work. “It’s a good city.” When she didn’t respond, he looked up. “I love it.” She had frowned then. “That makes one of us.” “Where else would we live?” His patience was thinning. “Anywhere.” “Yeah, I guess I understand where you’re coming from.” Her eyebrows narrowed a fraction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you still working?” The question was posed an hour ago, and it was still on Alex’s mind. He was, in fact, still working, despite Lena’s insistence that dinner was ready. She hadn’t knocked on his office door since, clearly rather offended by his curt—verging on rude—responses. He didn’t want to be working, of course, but he had to finish his project by next week. And he always liked to get ahead on his projects. He had walked into the dining room thirty minutes later. The table was empty.
THE GIRL, Karen Qiu
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exit ramp (II), Lana Swindle “I want a divorce.”
“Who is he?”
“Say something, Alex.”
The words came as blows. He understood, but he didn’t want to believe it. It was too soon. Far too soon.
It was an unglamorous argument, filled with shouts, insults, and declarations about their relationship in the future. Lena was angry, and Alex was vicious. His remarks were biting, designed to incapacitate more than to bruise.
His voice was quiet, resigned. “What is there to say?”
He didn’t consciously form the question, but it slipped out anyway. “Why?” She didn’t look at him, gaze focused straight ahead. “ A lot of reasons.” “Name one.” There he was, on the defensive again. He didn’t know if he was capable of keeping a civil tongue. “That right there.” She didn’t have to elaborate; he knew what she meant. His tone, the venom that was always injected into his speech.
“He’s just a guy at work.” She had repeated the past statement several times, but Alex wasn’t listening. Not really. There were so many guys at work, he insisted. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he didn’t care. Alex blinked several times, turning his head to the window so his expression was obscured.
“I don’t know.” “Maybe just give us a second chance.” He couldn’t stop his voice from wandering up, a hopeful question. “I’ve tried.” “One more chance, then.” She shook her head at the window in front of her. “I can’t do that.” “Why?” “Because I just can’t.” He stared out the window after that, leaning back against the seat. Melancholy LA looked back at him.
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LAMP, Luca Balescu photography
TITLE, Artist Name art’s medium
THE LAMP, Luca Balescu photography
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too much, no more, Soorya A. Baliga
wordly conversation blasting louder than their “background” music how is that possible too much, no more must leave must leave NOW now, now, now excuse me, um, excuse me could you please give me a ride home? thank you so much for the ride! left externally uninterrupted slivers of shame pierce me did I really crave to hear my mind?
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oil paint on cavas
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HOTHEAD, Jane Lillard
GOLDENROD, Emily Smerkanich photography
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bittersweet, Christopher Bao I remember so clearly
art’s medium
the light mist of the sprinklers in summer as we ate popsicles a sugary mess as the heat beat down on us the warm bandanas of air making our jackets billow while we played basketball on the cracked pavement BITTERSWEET, Christopher Bao branches snapping under us the Sunday morning cartoons rerunning with the promising sizzles of buttermilk pancakes and bacon in the background as we laughed snow. white, soft, powder floating their way down to us as the cold nipped at our cheeks, as we made snow angels without a care in the world looking back now the memories that were unremarkable but marks of days gone by I can’t help but think we’ve missed something
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STAFF LIST ADVISORS Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Olivia Benevento Alice Feng
CREATIVE DIRECTOR Yunbing (Emily) Qian
MANAGING EDITORS Cecily Gubser Shaila Sachdev Savannah Spring
PUBLIC RELATIONS Sofia Alvarez
COPY EDITORS Christopher Bao Irene Dumitriu Heidi Gubser
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TECHNOLOGY Lindsay Hirschman
BUSINESS Lawrence Chen Travis Thai
SECRETARY Delaney McCarty
WORKSHOP COORDINATOR Hillary Allen
SPREAD DESIGNERS Scarlett Cai Xiaoyu (Bella) Cui Sky Jo Jane Lillard Ruchi Mashruwala Hanaan Sikder Lana Swindle
COLOPHON The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone besides the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand. Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes” or “no” on a Google form. All art and literature pieces with higher than 50% approval were published. We keep a consistent art-to-literature ratio. We are Princeton High School’s only art and literature magazine. We are an extracurricular club that meets after school; on normal meeting days, we meet for half an hour on Tuesdays. When we are designing layouts, we meet for three hours every day for four days. For Issue XXVI, the initial distribution took place online.
FONTS COVER AND TITLE PAGE | Minion Pro 60pt, 12pt, Open Sans 14pt TABLE OF CONTENTS | Open Sans 11pt, 14pt, 24pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 18pt, Minion Pro 18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Open Sans 12pt, 13pt, Minion Pro 14pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans semibold 30pt, Open Sans light 24pt, Open Sans 13pt COLOPHON | Open Sans semibold 30pt, Open Sans 13pt PAGE NUMBERS | Open Sans semibold 12pt
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