ORIENT EXPRESS
9TH
BRUNSWICKSCHOOL.ORG | 203-486-3670
100 MAHER AVE, GREENWICH, CT
ABOUT / This year’s staff consists of 7 students and 2 faculty advisors from Brunswick School. Each student contributor is tasked with certain parts of the magazine, such as editing literary pieces and formatting. Students and faculty work virtually on editing and modifying The Orient Express literary magazine. The magazine is based at Brunswick School, Greenwich, CT 06878.
COLOPHON / The 2025 staff of The Orient Express literary magazine created Edition 9 using Adobe InDesign on Apple computers. Size-16 Inter font was used for the body of the text. Volumes 1-9 were published in electronic and print format and can be viewed on computers and other devices. The magazine has 48 pages. The theme selected for the magazine is “Horizons”. The magazine can be viewed at brunswickschool.org .
EDITORIAL POLICY / The Orient Express, a Brunswick School literary magazine, presents the works of students from Brunswick’s Upper School. The literary editors reviewed each article to check for accuracy. Articles were then selected based on accuracy and general quality. Art and literature were paired together according to relevance. The content of The Orient Express literary magazine is protected by applicable copyright laws. Images from outside sources are credited where sources can be found / are applicable.
SPECIAL THANKS / The chief faculty adviser, Ms. Mimi Melkonian, wishes to thank first and foremost, Mr. Thomas W. Philip, head of Brunswick School and principal of Brunswick Upper School, for his gracious permission to launch The Orient Express literary magazine. We also give thanks to Mrs. Erin Withstandley and Sr. Jaime Gonzalez-Ocaña for their unwavering encouragement and promotion of the literary magazine.
HORIZON noun
1. The line at which the earth’s surface and the sky appear to meet.
2. The limit of a person’s mental perception, experience, or interest.
EDITION Nº NINE
MEET THE TEAM
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, PRESIDENT, DESIGN HEAD / Sayah Trahanas ’25
CO-VICE PRESIDENTS / Finn O’Sullivan ’26, Justin Guo ’ 26
JUNIOR EDITOR-IN-CHIEF / Ryan Kaseta ’27
LITERARY REVIEW HEAD / James Lynch ’25
FOREIGN EXPLORATION HEAD / Leo Gazal ’25
JUNIOR LITERARY SECRETARY / Henry Wise ’25
FACULTY ADVISOR / Ms. Mimi Melkonian
FACULTY ART ADVISOR / Mr. Andrew Hall
CONTRIBUTOR / Kevin Ryan ’28
CONTRIBUTOR / Leo Gazal ’25
CONTRIBUTOR / Sayah Trahanas ’25
CONTRIBUTOR / Henry Wise ’26
CONTRIBUTOR / Marco Leao ’27
CONTRIBUTOR / Pierce Crosby ’26
CONTRIBUTOR / Anna Leventon ’25
CONTRIBUTOR / Volodymyr Dombrovskyi ’26
CONTRIBUTOR / Karina Layman ’25
CONTRIBUTOR / Shriya Gupta ’26
CONTRIBUTOR / Armaan Lakhani ’27
CONTRIBUTOR / Freddie Parkin ’25
PROLOGUE
In the natural world, Horizons represent change. They are the place where two worlds seem to collide but not mix, an infinitely sharp line that divides the sky and the ground. Trees seem to halt; clouds stretch onward. Clouds stop; gradients of blue sky begin.
Our changing world is full of challenges, but those challenges represent horizons to be conquered. As people, we are filled with an innate desire to push on no matter the circumstances — to seek truth, to seek justice, to seek understanding.
This spirit is infused in the Orient Express’s ninth edition. For almost a decade, this magazine has served to look toward the places where different worlds meet to bring them together. After all, cultural horizons can be the most cleanly-cut of all — but the most exciting and promising to bridge.
SAYAH TRAHANAS, PRESIDENT & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
PHOTOGRAPHY BY SAYAH TRAHANAS ’25
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. NARRATIVES
PERSONAL STORIES AND EXPOSITIONS THAT INSPIRE
I AM FROM / Kevin Ryan ’28 / 10
ON GRATITUDE / Henry Wise ’26 / 12
MEMORIES / Volodymyr Dombrovskyi ’26 / 16
THE BLUE MACAW / Marco Leao ’27 / 18
A GOLDEN CULTURE / Freddie Parkin ’25 / 20
COMING FROM INDIA / Armaan Lakhani ’27 / 22
II. REFLECTIONS
CREATIVE NARRATIVES INTERTWINED DEEPLY WITH CULTURE PINCOTECA DE SAO PAULO / Leo Gazal ’25 / 28
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE / Shriya Gupta ’26 / 30 OF SMOKE AND MIRRORS / Pierce Crosby ’26 / 32 PROCESSIONS / Karina Layman ’25 / 36 SINGULARITY / Anna Leventon ’25 / 38 HEROES / James Lynch ’25 / 40 HOUSTON & BOWERY / Sayah Trahanas ’25 / 42
I. NARRATIVES
I AM FROM
BY KEVIN RYAN ’28 / ARTWORK: NATHANIEL LEE ’26
I am from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Pink Floyd, Elton John, Billy Joel, and the Rolling Stones. But I am also from Mac DeMarco, Tame Impala, and The Smiths.
I am from freshly cooked pasta, medium rare steak, mashed potatoes, crunchy pizza, ravioli, and tortellini.
But I am also from strawberries, grapes, bananas, and delicious kiwis.
I am from “Winners never quit and quitters never win,” and “Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard.”
But I am also from “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” and “Let go let God.”
I am from a middle-class town, with union workers and teachers. From the Jefferson Valley Mall and the suburbs of the Hudson Valley. But I am also from the sandy beaches of Ocean City, Maryland, where I surf the waves with my summertime friends.
ON GRATITUDE
THIS past winter, I traveled to Africa with my family for a twoweek trip. I spent the bulk of my time there in Tanzania and Kenya. In these places, I saw a life entirely unknown to me. Although I had seen photos and videos across the internet, nothing could have prepared me for the magic experience of cultural embrace and existentialism my experience gifted me.
After touchdown in Africa, we took a van to a village in Tanzania, where we were set to tour a school that we endorsed from home. The ride over was eye opening. The long streets slalomed with people dressed in long-hanging garments, carrying baskets and other objects I hadn’t seen in the states. Already, life was starkly different from anything I had seen in the U.S. Although I knew we were going to go on a special safari in the treasured Serengeti, I was as excited to meet the people of Africa and experience their culture as I was to see the majestic beasts that roamed the hot grassland of Africa.
Getting to the school, I expected to get the chance to get to tour it and nothing more. I had been told there would be a couple of kids there. Given that there wasn’t any school in session that day, the idea of meeting just a couple of kids sounded great. As we pulled in, over thirty smiles flooded through the window I gazed through. I got off the bus and met every single kid.
Names, hugs, handshakes. I had never met such genuine and content people in my life. With emptier stomachs, they still managed to carry more positive energy than anyone I know.
More so than a sense of guilt and shame for these children’s unfortunate circumstances, I felt a burning need to help. At first, I thought money was the only way, but I found things to be simpler. Beyond money, which not everyone in this world can give, I’ve found one of the greatest things we can give is our presence and care — two characteristics at the core of humanity.
Even as a sixteen year old kid, I felt that I was able to make that difference. And in person is truly the best way to have this impact. In the few hours I had at the school, we played board games which my family and I had brought from home and the kids loved it. Not a single complaint or argument transpired across the hours of play and every kid got along with a friendly, charming spirit.
Stepping into this parallel world, I was astonished. Broken families, hungry stomachs, dreams burning to get off the ground surrounded me in all directions. In spite of their unfortunate hand of cards, these kids played like the cards they were given had no restrictions. Not only do they hold hope for themselves, but they project a new light to me that I hope others can experience as well.
BY HENRY WISE
“...WITH EMPTIER STOMACHS, THEY STILL MANAGED TO CARRY MORE POSITIVE ENERGY THAN ANYONE I KNOW...”
Another story on my trip that blessed me with a new perspective occurred with a visit outside of this school in Tanzania. My family and I were led by our guide to a village where we were brought to the home of a woman. In her eighties, the woman was in rough shape physically and it was easy to see why without even having to hear about her lifestyle. Her house was dilapidated and falling apart with hardly any solid walls or roof. She had no heating system and fed off leaves she picked in the forest. She was malnourished and had no one.
We talked to her and gathered information on her life story. Her husband abandoned her and took away her children. She was alone in the forests of Tanzania in a village which could not support her. She had no charity, as she seemed to survive only off a will to live. We got her food and a share of financial aid, but something still felt off. I asked myself how could some people have it this much harder than others — a lofty question to answer for a teenager. Although the existential piece of it was impossible to answer without sounding overarchingly religious or radically theoretical, I saw it as part of my duty to understand and give as much as I could.
In all these experiences, I gained an understanding of a culture and lifestyle so far detached from what I am used to – living in a nice area where simple things like food and shelter are not an issue. With that being said, I suggest visiting countries where those have less than you, for it provides gratitude, knowledge, and a purpose of giving that cannot be found in quite the same way while staying in the boxes of life at home.
“...IN SPITE OF THEIR UNFORTUNATE HAND OF CARDS, THESE KIDS PLAYED LIKE THE CARDS THEY WERE GIVEN HAD NO RESTRICTIONS...”
MY childhood can be described as unique and eventful, as from an early age, I dedicated myself to tennis. So, most of my memories are connected with tournaments and training, traveling to different countries, and, of course, with my friends on the court. Tennis became not just a sport for me — it’s a way of life that filled my days with bright and unforgettable moments.
One of my childhood memories is connected with the Ukrainian Tennis Federation’s training base, located 15 miles from Kyiv, the capital where I was born and raised. It became my second home, where I spent countless hours training and playing in tournaments. It was here that I experienced both my greatest victories and bitter defeats and met true friends, with whom I grew and developed. I enjoyed meeting players on my home courts who came from all over Europe for international tournaments. We not only competed but spent time together: running through the pine forest surrounding the tennis center, relaxing between matches, and sharing our joys and concerns. These moments of friendship, rivalry, fun, and support are my childhood memories.
“...IT BECAME MY SECOND HOME, WHERE I SPENT COUNTLESS HOURS TRAINING AND PLAYING IN TOURNAMENTS...”
I remember the little things that created a special atmosphere on the courts. The spotted red cat that was always nearby, as if it were our loyal fan, and the small reception area where we would hide from the rain while waiting for our matches. Time seemed to slow down there, and we eagerly anticipated our chance to get back on the court. And, of course, I remember the taste of the hot paninis they made at the reception. These memories of growing up taught me how to face challenges, work as a team, and, most importantly, to never give up.
But on April 19, 2022, everything changed. Russian forces carried out an airstrike on our training base, and it was destroyed. I was in shock. The place that symbolized my achievements and hopes was gone. It felt like my memories and dreams for the future had disappeared along with it.
However, I realized that time cannot erase the memories that are important to you. I often return to them in my thoughts, to those days when we were all full of hope and ambition. I know that this has served as an additional push for me and helped me understand that we must be stronger than the circumstances, keep moving forward, and never give up. My memories and feelings will forever remain in my heart.
I sincerely believe that one day this tennis center will be rebuilt, and I imagine new young tennis players, just like I once was, training and competing on those same courts. They will be filled with energy, just as we were, and will create their own unforgettable memories.
MEMORIES
BY VOLODYMYR DOMBROVSKYI ’26 / ARTWORK: MAC AHERN ’26
THE BLUE MACAW
BY MARCO LEAO ’27 / ARTWORK: HARRISON HANTMAN ’27
HAVE you ever watched the movie Rio?
Rio is a fictional story about a Blue Macaw, also known as Spix’s Macaw, who travels to Brazil, his native country, to mate with a second Blue Macaw, Jewel, to save the Blue Macaw species. The themes seen throughout the film are freedom and conservation of wildlife, and the film emphasizes the negative effects of habitat destruction and illegal bird trade. The Blue Macaw was declared extinct in the year 2000 due to deforestation and trapping, and at the time, there was little hope for the species. There was a small population in captivity, and efforts were made to restore the species in the wild. In 2022, 20 Blue Macaws were released in the wild, hoping to revive the species, and progress was made. A batch of chicks hatched naturally in the wild for the first time in decades. A parrot conservationist called it the most carefully planned and executed reintroduction of a parrot he had ever seen. Unfortunately, in June of 2024, the contract with the Brazilian Government and the German breeding center that held the macaws ended without renewal, so these bird’s futures are uncertain. However, with any luck, this species will receive the support it needs to grow once again.
A GOLDEN CULTURE
BY FREDDIE PARKIN ’25 / ARTWORK: HENRY NASH ’27
DID you know that Myanmar, a country many have never heard of, once produced a third of the world’s rice? Nestled between India and Bangladesh to the west, Thailand to the east, and China to the north, Myanmar’s strategic location has shaped it into one of Earth’s most culturally diverse nations. My visit to this remarkable country revealed its extensive agriculture and prominent Buddhist traditions that drastically contrasted with my experiences in the United States.
When I arrived, I first noticed the strong Buddhist culture. People would gather at massive temple complexes at the end of their workdays. The focal point of these complexes was a towering golden, cone-shaped temple surrounded by many other packed worship areas. The golden temple was almost blinding as the sun reflected off the metal walls into my eyes. When entering the complex, you felt an immediate sense of peace. This came from the pleasant aromas of the candles and the incense scattered across the area. Besides the peaceful smells, there was a stillness accompanied by soft prayers and breathing. The ground was also so immaculate that people walked around the complex barefoot. The bottoms of their feet would remain spotless when their religious visit was over. The people of this culture intentionally kept this place clean, since it helps them feel a sense of purity when going. Seeing all of this at once was one of the most fascinating experiences I’ve ever had — it felt so different from the United States, where it’s almost impossible to imagine such a large proportion of the population coming together and leaving the bustling city every evening to practice their religion. In this Buddhist culture, it was clear that many people went to these religious worship sites to escape their busy lives in the enormous city of Yangon .
“...THE GOLDEN TEMPLE WAS ALMOST BLINDING AS THE SUN REFLECTED OFF THE METAL WALLS INTO MY EYES...”
Once I left the central city of Yangon, it became clear that Myanmar is a predominantly agricultural country. The entire six-hour drive to the western part of the country, near the Bay of Bengal, was filled with sprawling farms and occasional bustling towns. While there were many farms, they mainly produced rice and sugarcane, both requiring enormous amounts of water. This was very noticeable since, many of the time, there were shallow water lakes for the crops as we drove due to Myanmar’s tropical environment. The one main road running east to west was packed with cars, with drivers constantly honking their horns to signal they were overtaking. Passing large trucks and vehicles on this narrow, semi-dirt, semi-asphalt road was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. Cars came at such speeds that it seemed impossible to pass safely, but this was normal for the locals. Despite the apparent chaos, I didn’t see a single crash during the journey. Everyone seemed rushed, but it made me realize maybe the United States is slow-moving. The term traffic didn’t exist in this country as everyone knew what they were doing and how traffic on this one small road could ruin their day and affect their lives drastically.
Visiting this unique country gave me a new perspective on how different other parts of the world are from the one I know. It was an eye-opening experience I never could have gained otherwise.
COMINGFROMINDIA
BY ARMAAN LAKHANI ’27 / ARTWORK: MATHIAS DEBONO ’26
MY grandmother, Zarintaj Lakhani, is a woman who embodies resilience, selflessness, and determination. Her story is one of courage, hope, and sacrifice, which shaped the lives of her kids and future generations.
Her journey begins as a young woman who immigrated from Pakistan to Canada in the 1970s, with her husband, Mahmood and her one year old child, Mayur, my dad. With her family’s blessing, Zarin embarked on this challenging uncertain journey. Habiba, her younger sister, gave Zarin a glimpse of life in Canada as she moved a few years prior, but nothing could prepare her for future challenges emerging her way.
This journey took place around the same time as new laws that were passed in Canada and America which opened the door for more immigrants into the country. One such law was called the Immigration and Naturalization Act of 1965. These policies allowed families like my grandparents to seek opportunities overseas. However, these opportunities came with struggles as well. Zarin spoke little English and had no formal education. Mahmood was an electrical engineer in Pakistan, whose engineering license became invalid upon moving to Canada. Because of this, my grandfather found himself in grueling manual labor jobs, due to the slow economy and influx of immigrants. These grueling jobs consisted of farming, construction, factory jobs, and coal mining.
This made it difficult for immigrants to find higher quality jobs because American and Canadian-born workers who were better educated and could communicate better were more likely to get the better jobs. Mahmood had to endure many long tiring hours of laborious work to support the family.
“...MY GRANDFATHER FOUND HIMSELF IN GRUELING MANUAL LABOR JOBS, DUE TO THE SLOW ECONOMY AND INFLUX OF IMMIGRANTS...”
My grandmother recalls when she saw my grandfather come home shivering from the cold. He trudged through the snow in below-freezing temperatures to work and back after working long hours at his job. They couldn’t afford transportation, let alone necessities like a warm coat. They barely scraped by with every penny to support their growing family. This was especially challenging for them because supporting a family was very expensive in Canada.
Adjusting to life in Canada wasn’t only a financial challenge, but a cultural and personal one as well. Zarin lived in a traditional home in India, where the role of the mother was to take care of their children. In Canada, she gave her kids to a caretaker and was forced to leave her son in search of work. This broke her heart, as it was very challenging to separate from her child and be cared for by someone else. Despite this, she persevered, and through her resilience and selflessness, she sacrificed her cultural values to embrace and support her family.
Through Zarin’s sacrifices, she began to realize the opportunities that she didn’t realize existed. In Pakistan, Zarin was uneducated and didn’t have any knowledge of the opportunities in America, and later realized that there is so much more a woman can learn and become. This was a part of the reason why she wanted to immigrate so she could give her daughter and granddaughter those opportunities.
After a while, my grandparents reached financial stability and in fact, slowly started to grow in wealth. Both of her children, my dad and aunt, pursued higher education in America and achieved success, through their careers. Learning about the life of my grandparents, the rest of Zarin’s family followed her to Canada.
“...ADJUSTING TO LIFE IN CANADA WASN’T ONLY A FINANCIAL CHALLENGE, BUT A CULTURAL AND PERSONAL ONE AS WELL...”
Today, when I reflect on my grandmother’s story, I’m amazed by the numerous struggles she overcame and the sacrifices she made. From pushing through freezing winters to accepting new cultural norms and letting go of her old life, Zarin demonstrates the ideals of the American Dream, and how perseverance and selflessness can lead to a future of success. Her struggles and resilience helped pave the way for my sister and me to live a life of opportunity that she had once dreamed about as a young girl in Pakistan.
Zarin’s ultimate sacrifice to travel across the world reminds me to hold the values in which she lived by close to my heart: selflessness and resilience, and to cherish the opportunities I’ve been given. Zarintaj Lakhani’s legacy is a testament to the power of will and sacrifice, and it is an endless source of inspiration for our family to continue to live by these very words.
II. REFLECTIONS
ARTWORK: MAX STABINSKY ’27
IN the Pinacoteca de São Paulo, Jose Bento’s Caminho de Guare transformed the Octagon into a living environment. I could smell the scent of the wood chips filling the air and creating an artificial forest, a stark contrast to the bustling streets of Sao Paulo. I felt transferred back in time, as if I had been immersed in the traditional Brazilian agriculture life made up of wood and beans. It felt like I was looking down on the creation of Brazil, with each mound of timber representing each region in Brazil and the stack of beans in the middle, the core pillar of Brazil. Every breath carried the faintest hint of the forests that once thrived, making the urban outside feel unearthly and bland. One elderly man stopped before me, looking at the artwork, and simply smiled. He reached out, closing his eyes in a way that tried to go back into the past, a simpler life, and escape from the polluted and hectic city. To me, it seemed he was no longer in the museum or even in the town but instead in the countryside, listening to the distant clatter of horses, the whisper of voices, and the sound of the wind through the trees. I imagined the old man’s mind going farther and farther back in time, and I wondered back to when Indigenous people roamed and embraced the jungle and beauty of Brazil. While everyone around him in the museum was taking photos or on their phone, he was simply embracing the artwork and living the present. I realized that those who had walked through the piece left with a piece of the journey in their hearts.
PINACOTECA DE SAO PAULO
BY LEO GAZAL ’25 / ARTWORK: MAX LANSON ’26 PHOTO OF BENTO’S ARTWORK FROM ALMEIDA & DALE
ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE
BY SHRIYA GUPTA ’26 / ARTWORK: HENRY NASH ’26
A girl sitting up against a tree. Long brown hair melting into the cracks of the bark. He can’t tell where it begins and she ends. Did he know, seeing her then, for the first time, how their story would end? Seeing her, the sun filtering down onto her face, could he have seen, for a second, a flash of the future? The last tim e he turned toward her, swallowed up by darkness, mouth in the shape of a horrified “o”. She looked at him now, lips sealed, a slight, sly, knowing smile on her face. Did she know? She couldn’t have.
Would she still have sat up and invited him into her life, let him slip a thin, tarnished gold band around her ring finger, knowing her wedding day would also be her funeral? Whether the wind howled a warning of her fate or not, she called out to him. He moved toward her, not sure if she was real or some spirit of the woods calling him toward his doom. With one exchange of names, “Orpheus” and “Eurydice”, she struck a match and lit herself on fire. They spoke, rich, heavy words filling space between them until there was none left. If they knew they didn’t care. If they didn’t, did they regret it?
PHOTO OF RENI’S ARTWORK FROM HAPPYPRINTS
SHE strode briskly up the stairs and, sliding the key smoothly into the lock, opened the door. As she entered her modest studio apartment, she paused. Although small, the space was well decorated and clean. Sunlight flowed through the open windows and seemed to hover motionless in the air, illuminating the space so completely that she ignored the light switch, preferring not to mar the peaceful bliss with artificial fluorescence. A cool summer breeze interacted softly with her long blond hair. She inhaled deeply, savoring the taste of the fresh air, before continuing.
In the center of the room lay a large easel propping up the beginnings of a painting. Several tubes of paint and paintbrushes of varying sizes sat on the surrounding floor, next to a palette, a few spare canvases, and some paper for sketching. A faintly blue couch faced the easel, as if the easel filled the absence of a television i n the apartment.
She passed by the easel and couch and arrived at the fridge, which upon opening, displayed an array of ingredients: aside from painting, cooking was her favorite hobby. However, she opted for a Perrier and sat on the couch. She leaned forward intently, studying the primarily empty canvas on the easel. She envisioned her painting, a self portrait that could precisely capture her immense beauty. She was not vain by nature, but understood the extent of her beauty and saw a challenge in transferring it to canvas. When she was studying in Paris, more than a few aspiring artists sought the chance to paint her, but their displays were always dull in comparison to reality.
She stood, suddenly inspired, and squeezed some paint onto the palette. She grabbed a paintbrush but hesitated, a craving itching at the back of her mind. She set the palette and brush down carefully and reached for a drawer in the small table beside her couch. Inside resided a pack of Marlboro Reds and some matches, remnants of an old habit she had picked up in Paris. She quickly pulled out a cigarette and lit it before returning to the easel. She looked around for
an ashtray, but anxious to start painting before her inspiration dwindled, she placed an extra canvas at her feet and let the ashes fall there. A wave of relief overcame her as the smoke filled her chest. Finally able to focus, she began to paint. “I’ll quit,” she promised as the ashes piled up below her.
OF SMOKE AND MIRRORS
BY PIERCE CROSBY ’26 / ARTWORK: HENRY NASH ’27
ORIGINAL PHOTO OF DALI’S ARTWORK
She tiredly climbed the steps to her door while fidgeting with the keys in her jacket pocket. When she reached the top, she slowly removed the keys and raised her arm to open the door. Passing into the apartment, she quickly flipped on the lights and made her way to the window to shut it, cursing herself for allowing the frigid autumn air to pervade the room. It was getting colder. She knew she would have to start paying more for heat and picking up more shifts at the grocery store this week.
She opened the fridge, which contained some leftovers, frozen dinners, and beers. She grabbed a beer and fell onto the couch. She lit a cigarette and dug out her ashtray canvas from under some blankets and a pizza box on the ground. She stared at the painting on the easel, which had not changed much in the past few years. Annoyed, she forced herself up and pushed the easel to the corner of the room, revealing a TV now mounted on the wall, the sole positive impact her ex-boyfriend had made on her life.
She sat back down and sipped her crisp beer as the ashes from her cigarette wavered in the air before landing on the canvas. She turned on the TV and listlessly flipped through the channels as she worried about money. Finishing her beer, she rose for another but, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she instead made for the bathroom.
Her exhaustion only slightly masked her beauty; her face still radiated a more mature but no less alluring charm than it had during Paris. Her hair had darkened marginally and she haddded a few, almost imperceptible pounds. She longed for a break, for Paris. A few weeks away would easily restore her previous vibrance.
“...SHE LEANED FORWARD INTENTLY, STUDYING THE PRIMARILY EMPTY CANVAS ON
THE EASEL. SHE ENVISIONED HER PAINTING, A SELF PORTRAIT THAT COULD PRECISELY CAPTURE HER IMMENSE BEAUTY...”
She turned away and retreated to the couch. She struck a match and ignited another cigarette, allowing its warmth to permeate her body. The ashes created a thin film on the canvas.
She approached the steps and halted, procrastinating the daunting task. After a few seconds, she inched onward. With every step came a breathless wheezing. Halfway up she paused as a violent cough erupted. When she eventually arrived at the summit, she spotted a small paper on her door with “Eviction Notice” inscribed. She tore the paper down and lifted her keys with shaking hands. She used her left arm to steady her right and finally unlocked the door. Darkness enveloped her as she passed through the doorframe.
She instinctively toggled the light switch, but the darkness remained. Disappointed, she trudged across the room and tossed the eviction notice at a table with a stack of papers and letters, on top of which sat a bill from the hospital. Her cancer was operable after the first round of chemo, but she had not been able to scrape together the money for surgery yet. When the crumpled notice collided with the pile, some of the papers tumbled to the ground, revealing a letter from her mother in Phoenix. She continued slowly toward the fridge, ensuring to direct her gaze away from the bathroom to avoid seeing her wretched appearance. Her hair was only just starting to grow back after the chemo and at present was dark and patchy. Into her face were carved several indelible wrinkles. The vitality she once possessed had been completely expunged. She opened the fridge, knowing already that it was empty.
Confirming this fact, she turned to a cabinet and pushed around several empty bottles, looking for any miniscule drop of liquor. Dejected, she lowered herself onto the tattered couch and started into the deep black of the lifeless TV. She lit a cigarette and coughed as she sucked the smoke into her lungs. The painting in the corner caught her eye. She had long since given up on it; she had no beauty left to capture anyway. She had pawned her materials and the easel, but kept the half-complete painting as a reminder of her failure. She crushed the cigarette on the familiar ash canvas. She looked down at the small item and, curious, brushed off some of the ashes. Instantly she was stunned. On the canvas, detailed in ash, seemed a perfect depiction of her previous self. In disbelief, she dug a flashlight out of a drawer and shined it on the image. Indeed, her former beauty and energy emanated out of the ashes.
She felt tears well in her eyes and soon they were streaming down her face. She failed in art, and her failure drained her life, and yet in front of her was the completion of her youthful ambition. Life had shown mercy with a gift, her beauty immortalized on canvas.
P R O C E S S I O N S
IN ancient Greece, the court officials and members of a dying community were awaiting the arrival of the “barbarians.” The city was in decline, so the officials wore their biggest and brightest outfits to impress the barbarians and grant them and their city salvation. The barbarians were the glue of the city, keeping them strong and intimidating the other powers surrounding the city. The officials marched, beaming with pride, waiting for them. However, as night falls, the barbarians still have yet to arrive and grant the city proof of another victory. The people underneath the extravagant masks are small and weak. The shadow of their petite, unintimidating silhouettes grew darker and more prominent each minute the soldiers had not returned, revealing the true weakness and unraveling of the desperate community. Their inflated, powerful positions within the community (represented by the sheer size of their costumes) grew insignificant with time. The longer they waited, the faster their failing city would die. While the clergyman began to lose hope as nightfall arrived, his small stature clearly visible beneath the facade he wore, the industrialist led the parade - he was sure the barbarians would arrive. They could not have lost - they had worked too hard for their city to be invaded. When the barbarians arrive home, they will be impressed with their opulent clothes and extravagant parade, the industrialist thought. Except their parade had grown dull. The clothes were soaked with their sweat and the rain from the evening, the low light of the setting sun illuminating their insignificant figures. The barbarians would never be impressed- not even if they had ever made it back to the rubble of their forgotten city.
BY KARINA LAYMAN
’25 / ARTWORK: MAX STABINSKY ’27
PHOTO OF HOCKNEY’S ARTWORK FROM THE DAVID HOCKNEY FOUNDATION
S I N G U L A R I T Y
BY ANNA LEVENTON ’25 / ARTWORK: MARTIN ROBREDO ’27
PHOTO OF BONTECOU’S ARTWORK FROM MoMA
THERE were no lights; only a heavy presence of darkness. She could feel its yearning to strip her presence away forever. She could not tell if the others were alive. She could barely tell if she was. Her vision shifted so that she looked directly at the void. Her presence slowly faded and her thoughts became fuzzy. Immediately she snapped her eyes away from its pull. She was dangerously close to death, the pull of the void was too strong and the emptiness it left behind was gut wrenching.
Before she got here she was almost certain it was the year of 2380. But now with everything distorting around her, she didn’t know what time even was. A sliver of her memory from before remained. She was an explorer and she worked on a team. It was her mission to enter space and change the route of the black hole from absorbing Earth. She steered the ship too close and thought death grasped her, whisking her away from reality. But, no, she was still alive. Her body was missing and all that was left were thoughts. A constant chatter in her skull. There were no feelings, no pain, just emptiness. She needed to take a step back away from the darkness and propel herself away from the consuming emptiness of space and time.
Effortfully, she managed to turn, and her peripheral vision captured the organic and beautiful shapes that surrounded the deep darkness. They were recognizable and familiar reflections of the shattered and deformed natural world she once inhabited: Earth. Unexpectedly, she was propelled backwards, away from the void that transfixed her only a few moments earlier.
Now, she could view the entirety of the black hole and it was breathtaking: a dark void with pieces of earth and scrap metal swirled around it. Paradoxically, everything seemed so balanced and unbalanced at the same time. Beauty and destruction worked hand in hand. She hovered millions of light years away from her lost home and understood that no matter what realm she was in, destruction was inevitable, but so was beauty.
Her ears rang with lack of oxygen and her suit blared urgently, noting the sharp decline in oxygen levels. As life left her eyes she truly understood that nothing lasts forever, but that was the beauty of the universe.
HEROES
BY JAMES LYNCH ’25 / ARTWORK: MAX STABINSKY ’27
PHOTO OF BUL’S ARTWORK AND NIKE SCULPTURE FROM ARTNET
LEE Bul’s Long Tail Halo, 2024, is a collection of four free standing statues. The statues that are situated closer to the door of the Met, CTCS 1 and CTC S 2, are made from stainless steel, ethylene-vinyl acetate, carbon fiber, paint, a nd polyurethane. The canine figures on the outside section, Secret Sharer II and III, are m ade from Stainless Steel, polycarbonate, acrylic, and polyurethane. The figures are temporarily displayed on the exterior façade of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Comparatively, the Winged Victory (Nike of Samothrace), 190 BCE, Hellenistic Greece, housed in the Louvre Museum, is also a free standing statue, constructed from marble. The artist is unknown. Lee Bul’s contemporary sculptures and Nike of Samothrace both are representations of guardian figures. They both show the evolution of guardian figures throughout time. Power and movement within these guardians are portrayed in different manners. Long Tail Halo takes an abstract, futuristic, approach to the central theme of guardianship, while Winged Victory is a classic, idealized depiction of protection and victory.
Together, these works show the shift from classical ideals of divine guardians to contemporary, fragmented and shifting forms of protection. The central themes of both Bul’s Long Tail Halo and Winged Victory: Nike of Samothrace are movement and guardianship; each artist chooses to display these themes differently, but they both succeed in suggesting power and protection. Long Tail Halo is composed of two humanlike sculptures, and two additional canine sculptures. Both human figures are abstractly displayed, and are made of fragmented pieces. Bul’s modern take on fragmented guardianship suggests ideals of community – specifically how guardianship is now, in contemporary times, composed of many different people or things. Furthermore, the canine statues on either side of the human figures act as “sid ekicks”, representing supportive companionship. In an interview, Bul says that she drew inspiration for these sidekicks from other modern depictions of guardianship and hero es. For example, so often in video games or stories, a hero always has a sidekick. The dynamic, twisting elements of the torso are another aspect of the commission that represents the shift to a modern representation of guardianship, drawing from other eras of art such as cubism.
In contrast, Nike is an example of classical guardianship and divine protection. Her posture is leaning forward, and the wind is pushing her clothing back. Her wings are extended, evoking a triumphant feeling through movement. Both of these works display victory and authority in their own unique ways. Focusing on the depiction of humans throughout time, these works both, again, represent a shift from the classical depiction, to a contemporary one. Bul’s sculptures are fragmented and abstract, and echo mechanical elements, which asks the question: What does a futuristic guardian look like? Is it synthetic or organic?
Nike is a clearly defined human form, with classical ideals of beauty, power, and unity. Her artist employed a wet drapery effect to further glorify Nike’s presence. Her appearance is majestic and idealized, while Bul’s figures are abstract. This shows the shift from a unified divine figure to the ambiguity of contemporary art. Another key difference is each artist’s approach to power and presence through their material choices and monumental qualities. Each time someone views Nike they see the same enduring representation of power, the same story. However, Bul’s work is contextual. Each time somebody views her work she wants them to have a different, changing feeling; whether it be raining, snowing or sunny. Bul uses industrial reflective materials to give her work an “architectural quality”, which is a representation of modern ingenuity, giving her work an aspect of stability. However, her work also has a sense of impermanence and adaptability, as she chose an ambiguous approa ch to her art. Nike, on the other hand, is made of the finest marble, its structure and presence giving the viewer a sense of permanence, but it also depicts stability in a different way than Bul’s figures through her strong pose and triumphant, idealized appearance. Nike’s classical permanence contrasts with Long Tail Halo’s transient industrial feel, representing the shift from timeless to a responsive, fragmented modern context. The depiction of power and movement has changed throughout time.
Long Tail Halo’s abstract futuristic depiction of guardianship contrasts with the idealized Greek perfection of guardianship. Winged Victory (Nike of Samothrace) is a classical portrayal of divine protection and victory, while Bul’s portrayal is ambiguous and figurative. Together, these works show the shift from classical ideals of divine guardians to contemporary fragmented forms of protection. Nike’s classical unity clashes with the fragmented modernity of Bul’s Long Tail Halo. These works also show broader cultural shifts from the idealized divine to complex, multifaceted identities shaped by technology and the context in which they are viewed. These works are both monumental guardians in their own right, each embodying the cultural ideals and anxieties of their respective eras.
HOUSTON & BOWERY
BY SAYAH TRAHANAS ’25 / ARTWORK: MATHIAS DEBONO ’26
PHOTO OF WONG’S ARTWORK FROM MoMA
ON the corner of Houston Street and Bowery, a rusted metal door stood as a landmark amidst the rapidly shifting world around it. It was a memorial that commemorated what had been housed behind it. Four years ago, the door had guarded a bodega that sold counterfeit luxury goods. It was the place where countless people, young and old, had flocked from the East Village and Lower Manhattan to pick up pieces that allowed them access to the world of finery and jewels for sharply discounted prices. Tourists and native New Yorkers alike handed over their wads of cash in the thousands every day to live their dreams of gold and silver. It was a win-win situation; for the buyers, you couldn’t tell the difference between a fake Rolex and the real thing — at least not from a distance. For the family who lived above the store and ran it from nine to five every day, the profits were fat enough to get by in the world of high 1980s prices. And, they figured, the police had bigger problems to deal with than a family bodega that made money on the side selling fake Cartier bracelets. And every night, to protect their stock, the family pulled down that corrugated door, its clank echoing as it hit the ground — an auditory signal to the rest of the neighborhood that the work day was over.
“...TOURISTS
AND NATIVE NEW YORKERS ALIKE HANDED OVER THEIR WADS OF CASH IN THE THOUSANDS EVERY DAY TO LIVE THEIR DREAMS OF GOLD AND SILVER...”
At night, there was the occasional group of kids that ran through the neighborhood tagging various objects with spray-paint cans, and such a broad, gleaming surface like the metal door was an irresistible canvas. The father of the family would watch these teenage bandits leave their mark on his property late into the night every time it happened, and in the morning, before anyone else was up (including the sun), the father would grab his trusty bucket of diluted vinegar and a dishrag, and scrub at the saturated colors until the door gleamed once more. In his mind, he didn’t want the neighborhood to be associated with crime. Better to not give an excuse for anyone to look too closely into how the bodega made its money.
On a fateful spring day, the wrong person took that all-too-close look. When the mother and father saw the NYPD officer walk into the bodega for a cup of coffee, the metal door had just been rolled up, and no other customers were in the establishment. The officer didn’t have any trouble finding the gold-rimmed glass cases full of faux necklaces, jewels, and watches that could only be seen if you walked in. The secret was out; the jig was up.
“...IN HIS MIND, HE DIDN’T WANT THE NEIGHBORHOOD TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH CRIME. BETTER TO NOT GIVE AN EXCUSE FOR ANYONE TO LOOK TOO CLOSELY INTO HOW THE
BODEGA
MADE ITS MONEY...”
A few days later, the officer returned with a paper that ordered the family to stop selling counterfeits at the bodega. In a way, this was worse than an order to shut down the entire store. It was a prolonged death. For a while, the family tried to make ends meet, but while the father continued to scrub down the metal door when the vandals stopped by, the mother knew in her heart that it was in vain. Even if they started to sell their shoddily replicated luxury wares once again, there were new people moving into the neighborhood who didn’t have to buy the dupes — they owned the real thing. The mother had also heard whisperings that their landlord was desperate for them to not make their rent, so that he could evict the family and renovate the tiny abode to upmarket it to one of the new out-oftown couples. She knew it was time to go, and so did the children, who were growing older and could barely walk around the upstairs apartment without bumping into each other.
The last day the door came down was a late summer afternoon four years ago. Later that night, the last time the vandals stopped by, the father didn’t have it in him to scrub away their handiwork. Over the next year, the paint was layered on the door at a slower and slower rate. The vandals had little interest in the already-tagged surface of the door, and had preferred the constantly clean slate of years past. Rust and grime ate away at the paint until the door turned a mealy gray, and the landlord’s new tenants said they liked the “grit” of the look, so he kept it as it was. Now, in 1986, the door guarded a pocket of still air that hadn’t been touched in four years, since the family walked away. Guarding a crypt of a life that didn’t exist anymore, it had yet to be rolled up all those years.
EPILOGUE
The ninth edition of the Orient Express is devoted to the conce pt of horizons; the point where two things meet — sometimes a sharp contrast, other times a more nuanced gradient. Horizons are not always in view; there are often obstacles that stand in our way of seeing how things come together on a grand scale.
It is the responsibility of artists, writers, and creatives to bring horizons to the forefront, to help people understand their context. Without this practice, we lose sight of where we stand — and more importantly, where we’re going.
In an ever-changing world, venues like the Orient Express are crucial for understanding each others’ stories through cultural exchange. However small a role this magazine may play in bringing people together going into the future, it’s worth the time and effort poured into production if it helps even a few people continue to see new horizons.
SAYAH TRAHANAS, PRESIDENT & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
