CLUB


Lakeside School’s Arts & Literary Magazine
We recognize that Lakeside stands on Duwamish land, and that this land was and continues to be of extreme importance to the Duwamish people. We recognize their continued cultural, social and physical relationship with their native homelands. These peoples were here before us and will continue to be here after we are gone. We understand and accept our position as foreigners of these lands.
Editors-in-Chief
Design Chief
Staff Members
Betsmona A. ’25
Imelda R. ’25
Cailyn C. ’26
Allie B. ’26
Gresham C. ’26
Liz E. ’26
Evie C. ’27
Henry A. ’27
Chloe Z. ’28
Matthew K. ’28
Advisors Outdoors Club Leaders
Cover: “World’s End”
Imago: A Tatler publication
Lindsay Aegerter
Jim Collins
Bella G. ’26
Yona P. ’26
Ebenezer L. ’26
Wayland M.-F. ’26
Lucy C. ’26
Timothy D. ’27
Printed by Minuteman Press, North Seattle
Spring 2025, Issue 41
Otto A. ’26, The Door of No Return
Timothy D. ’27, Leaving Cottonwood Canyon
Timothy D. ’27, Mile Nine
Amber P. ’27, Summit
Otto A. ’26, The Watcher of the Waves
Lingying S. ’28, To Be Seen
Cailyn C. ’26, Sea Lamprey
Daniel W. ’25, Rust
Daniel W. ’25, On the Road to Hana
Grace L. ’28, A Golden Gift Across the Stars
Grace L. ’28, Where Wonder Begins
Efe E. ’25, The South
Karson X. ’27, Stars and Clouds
Bennet B. ’27, Red Sunset Cailyn C. ’26,
Shepard S. ’25, Embracing the Unexpected
Angelina S. ’26, Fleeting Moments
Mason D. ’25, Waves Crashing
Lael G. ’25, Pearls
Gresham C. ’26, Sea Snail
Elinor C. ’25, Metamorphosis
Mary Y. ’25, April 16
Ava L. ’25, The Piggy Bank
Alice M. ’27, Sand
Imelda R. ’25, Artist Statment (Greater Together)
As global citizens, we carry a responsibility to explore. There is no set path; each journey unfolds in its own way, tailored to you, and in that unpredictably lies the beauty of discovery. In the rush of daily life — whether it’s the whirlwind schedule of a student or the preoccupied mind of an overworked teacher — curiosity often slips quietly into the background. But when we make space to pause, to wonder, and engage beyond the familiar, we rediscover the power of exploration. Taking the time to explore nature, engaging in new and unfamiliar practices, learning and growing from a kaleidoscope of perspectives and cultures — both similar to and vastly different from what we know — reveals an essential truth: the power of our collective strength and humanity.
Through this Outdoor Club X IMAGO collaboration, we hope to bring awareness to the importance of discovery and exploration, and we implore you to do the same. From Timothy D. ’27’s poignant traveling photography to the sound of “Waves Crashing” in Mason D. ’25’s GSL French Polynesia poetry, we are excited to see this special issue inspire your love of — and perhaps a personal connection to — our world.
Read a book. Travel the globe. Take a hike to somewhere new or somewhere familiar. Appreciate local art. Make new art. Learn a new language. Camp in the sun. Backpack through mountains. Fish in rivers. Strike up a conversation with a stranger. Seek a new perspective by whatever means you are able. Do whatever you can do to discover and explore our world.
With love and curiosity, Bella G. ’26, Yona P. ’26, Ebenezer L. ’26, Wayland M.-F. ’26, Lucy C. ’26 Outdoors Club Leaders
Otto A. ’26
Digital photograph, Gorée Island, Senegal, July 2024
Spring 2025 | 7
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2025 GSL Ecology Studies trip.
“We need to talk about some changes to the schedule tomorrow.” Oh no. It was our last full day in Mo’orea. Tomorrow we would take the ferry back to Tahiti before boarding an hour-long boat ride to Tetiaroa. If all went according to plan, we could be a little more lenient with the 20 kg weight limit imposed at the beginning of the trip (most of us had exceeded it by now with the various gifts from our host families). If not, and we had to take the plane, we would have to choose what in our luggage we could live without until our final return to Tahiti. We held our breath and waited for the leaders to announce our fate. “The boat to Tetiaroa was cancelled. We’ll have to take the plane.” With the chorus of “NOOOOOO” that sounded after this news, you would have thought we had just received news of our imminent demise. And there was more. “There isn’t enough room for all of us on the plane tomorrow, so half of you will leave on Friday, and half on Saturday.” This was the last thing any of us expected, especially the day before our departure. We weren’t sure what to make of it. However, a bright side soon presented itself. Instead of waking up at 4 AM after staying up past 10 PM after our final performance, I slept in till 9. I also got to spend Friday morning with my host family, including a delicious seaside lunch. And in the end, we all made it to Tetiaroa safely.
Digital photograph, Cottonwood Canyon, February 2025
There’s this fleeting moment when it is warm enough to not have any puffy, the sky is a deep dark blue, the snow with it, the lodgepole pines nothing but shadows. It’s fleeting because you look down at your computer (perhaps to write this very poem) then back up to see dark. Yes, Orion’s there, Sirius is there, the Lion is too, as is Perseus, Cepheus, Pleiades, and the Twins. There’s the Bull, the Charioteer, Casiopea, and of course the Big Dipper. This won’t change for a while. They’ll be there for you. Look to them for guidance.
What feels farther than them is home.
Yes, HMI has become a home but home feels like a ways away. Home has mom’s 30-minute-long chats during car rides home where she rants, then I rant, then she rants, then I rant. Home has Thy’s boy problems. Home has Khang telling us stories from a concert. Home has Khoi playing Osu into the night. Home has dad cooking up the best pot of pho anyone could ask for.
In Seattle, Lizzy and Fisher are dueting an acoustic cover of “Not Like Us” at the team sleepover. In Seattle, Dionnah is getting better and better at volleyball, working toward her college dreams. In Seattle, Alexa is getting accepted in SYA, meaning this past fall was your last semester together.
Don’t dwell too much though, there’s so much happening in the here and the now that you are missing.
There’s this fleeting moment when it is warm enough to not have a big puffy, everyone is gathered around the gritchen, the sun is setting a staggering orange, the lodgepole pines losing definition. It’s fleeting because before you know it you’ll be sitting in circle (perhaps to give a gratitude for this very moment) in the dark. Yes, Ellery’s there, Amelia is there, Charge is too, as is Julia, Tessa, Kate S., and the Lucies. There’s Maddie, Emma, John, and of course Lou. This won’t change for a while. They’ll be here for you. Look to them for guidance.
What may feel like forever away is HMI. The HMI where Kate G. is making Shmoop dance before the cabin goes to bed. The HMI where cookies bring teens more joy than you could imagine. The HMI where
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you are laughing so hard at an inside joke you have with Estella about the one and only Triangle. The HMI where everyone coexists on the AB porch, all immersed in our own tasks but still enjoying the company. The HMI where Sarah is giving you a much-needed hug on an all too eventful day.
In Leadville, people are singing “Dancing Queen” to the birthday person. In Leadville, people are whizzing by on skis attached to horses.
In Leadville, there is a Casino Night to attend. In Leadville, there is a cupcake decorating contest where you will help recreate the dreaded bucket with two sticks.
In Leadville, you are learning about what the sticks mean. In Leadville, you are learning about the snow right outside the door.
In Leadville, cabin 5 is joking with Raffi for over an hour about cabin inspection, everyone’s favorite color, and other things I wish I remembered.
In Leadville, cabin 1 is slowly losing their minds together, on day 5 of 6 days of quarantine.
Right now, stay in Leadville. Stay at HMI. Home and Seattle are waiting for you when you get back.
As the waves crash against the hot grainy glimmery sand
As fish weave in and out of narrow coral caves
As they desperately search for anything that resembles land
As I sit, (watching them) from that hot hot sand
As we close our eyes and try, desperately to hear them crash and cry We take a breath. We open our eyes. We stand.
Otto A. ’26
Digital photograph, Toubab Dialaw, Senegal, July 2024
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2025 GSL Ecology Studies trip.
The hole in the mountain, pierced by a spear, glimmers for all to see
But only after Fa’aroa’s hike is it seen most clearly
From the boat taking us snorkeling, drifting side to side, fast to slow
Can we spot the dock where the ferry dropped us off a week ago
In 206, we studied the blacktip reef shark many a time
The black tips are evasive, but best spotted on two in a line
The lyrics to our music seemed so daunting when all written out
But now, somehow, they come forth from our mouths without a second doubt
Through the days, we’d hear the name of one woman wherever we’d go
Now she’s finally come and explained all to us, this Hinano
Now, these new pearl necklaces around our necks from our host mother
Take their place as new, intriguing discoveries, among others
Spring 2025 | 19
I only see you once you’ve gone, but many of you still stand strong.
You’re so absurd, but that’s okay:
Planted like a rock, lounging the day away.
You’re just a snail cast out to sea, but have no fear; that’s enough for me.
A shell so gorgeous, A circling cone,
A shell so great, A shell for a home.
A tooth of titanium: A diamond in the rough
To keep you planted. You’re more than enough.
Some people will tell you that you’re just a snail,
But for you, oh limpet, I have the pride of a whale.
Daniel W. ’25
Digital photograph, Hawaii, June 2024
Four years ago, you stood
At the edge of everything you’d ever known
Somewhere between the soft, lush meadows of childhood
And the mysterious, mountainous paths of adulthood You turned to look back at the child you used to be
And now, I turn to look back at you
From this threshold where I can glimpse
The next unknowable horizon
I know you cannot see me
You feel like your bones are cracking
And your soul has shriveled up like a blossom in winter And hope makes every breath hurt
But you are finally ready to
Unearth your mind and soul
Tearing up the darkness, the weeds, the poison
Shedding the withered leaves and cleaning the rot
Making space for something beautiful to bloom
I know grief fills every cavity
Lily or a daffodil on the windowsill
Ticking clock eroding your mind like constant drops of water
Summer heat and too-fast heartbeat
To grey winter clouds and the weight of nothingness
And back again
I know you’re trying to fit broken pieces of yourself Back together, the same as they used to be
But maybe their refraction is the light you need to see yourself by You were never meant to be symmetrical
You’re meant to be a buttercup blinking the drops of a spring rain You’re meant to be a thread of music, sound spinning in ethereal arcs You’re meant to be a flame flinging golden sparks
You’re meant to be a mosaic, not a masterpiece You have just begun to find yourself
And you will keep finding yourself; Among kindred souls you have yet to know; In doctors’ offices and on auditorium stages; In rain-slick cobbled streets across the sea; In a classroom where you claim your joy and self-love;
In the electric rush of fiddle music; Digging up grit at a steady jog on a path lined with russet leaves;
Under the scattered stars at the edge of the world, while the dark ocean’s roar lulls you to sleep
Let every battle and storm be your compass
Be toughened by thorny thickets, yet softened by the glow of every dawn and dusk Let laughter tumble from your lips
Let dark fire fill your eyes
And poetry fill your heart
Just as you reached back to hold the child you used to be, I am reaching back to you, I am holding you.
Let’s take that mountainous path together
Let’s climb those golden horizons together
Digital art, 2024
Acrylic, 10 x 20 inches, 2024
Mary
Y. ’25
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2025 GSL Ecology Studies trip.
I’ve never been a fan of chilly weather; however, the clouds that loomed over Moorea towards the end of our stay gifted me something irreplaceable enough to finally win me over. They gave me time.
The rough waves of the ocean and the dreary look of the sky meant that the ferry traveling from Tahiti to Tetiaroa wouldn’t be an option for our group’s trip. This also meant splitting up, with half of us heading out Friday afternoon and the rest following early Saturday morning. Our reaction to this news was admittedly comical; there were gasps from the students who weren’t sure if they were over the smaller Tetiaroa flight’s baggage weight limit and whispers of delight from those of us who were excited to dress up. It was only after our chatter had died down that I realized, having been put in the second group, that what I thought was my last night in Moorea wasn’t so anymore.
Waking up that next extra day on Friday at the luxurious time of nine o’clock, I was greeted by Nicole and my host parents, Vaite and Tere, and one of Vaite’s grandkids, Matira, who had come to spend our last day with us. Having met Matira before, I gave her a tight hug, and she sat down with Nicole and me as we had our late breakfast. We laughed over chocolate milk as we recounted what’d been happening since we’d last seen each other and decided upon a loose plan for our day. Matira was most excited to take us shell searching, something she was exceptionally skilled at, so Nicole and I hurriedly changed, and we shot out the door.
Spring 2025 | 27
As we combed the beach’s shores for shells of all sizes and colors, Nicole and I sang songs from our performance the day before and marveled at Matira’s ability to find plenty of hidden, gorgeous treasures. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky, finding only the odd baby shell or misleading coral rock, but Matira was endlessly encouraging, oohing and aahing over my tiny finds. Finally, when we had filled the small bucket Matira carried with her, we plopped on the ground near the dryer sand and just talked. While my shoddy French wouldn’t have allowed for much conversation, Matira was amazing at plenty of languages, and we let the flow of conversation take us everywhere from our dreams in life to our favorite desserts. We ran back home around one o’clock, hungry but satisfied. As we waited around, Nicole, Matira, and I played plenty of card games and made friendship bracelets that we exchanged with one another. This chill time was cut short by the arrival of my host cousins, Ranihei and Mahotea, who had spent the last couple of days with us after they got home from their classes. It’d been an absolute delight getting to know them, and we were all grateful for the extended time we had been granted together. At my request, all of us went on a walk, visiting the Rotui local fruit juice factory where our host father worked. There, we got to see what his day looked like. On our way back, we chatted about the plants we saw before us and the memories we were going to be leaving behind here. When we made it back home, we all cleaned up, excited for the restaurant that we were going to be eating at for dinner. The house was lively, filled with girls of all ages and the cutest little kids that Vaite took care of. Piling into two cars, Tere and Vaite drove us over to the restaurant. Its cozy, warm environment was mirrored by the soft music playing
throughout the establishment and complemented by Tere greeting and being greeted by practically everyone we saw. A round of steak frites and tuna carpaccio with curry sauce awaited us all, and we laughed, reminisced, and cried a little over our last meal together.
When it was time to head back home, the mood sobered a little. The bond we had created in our time seemed almost unfeasible, and preparing emotionally to say goodbye to my host family and the home that they had provided Nicole and me had felt too familiar after leaving Seattle just two weeks ago. With promises to keep in contact with each other and gifts passed around in both directions, we all prepared to sleep for our early morning, knowing it would bring with it another round of tearful goodbyes, but assured that connection truly transcends language, culture, and our most strong sense of self.
Digital photograph, Atlanta, Georgia, February 2025
Spring 2025 | 31
Alba wants to stop at the piggy bank on the side of Interstate 80.
“It’s one of those roadside tourist attractions,” she tells me, directing me to an exit. I’ve never understood exactly why people decided to build these colossuses that have become such a quintessential part of the American road trip experience, but I do feel a sense of awe as we approach the pig. Alba laughs and bursts out of the sunroof of our rental car, glowing with the light tan she’s developed from lounging beneath the blazing Nevada sun and an unmistakable joy. I get out of the driver’s side — the normal way — while Alba clambers down from the top of the car and runs toward the staggering bovine.
“Gabriel, take my picture!” she shouts. I fiddle around in my backpack for the digital camera my brother sent me for my birthday last summer. When I turn around, I chuckle and see that Alba’s arms can’t even fit around the pig’s stout leg, which she’s trying to hug. With her sunglasses hanging from her neck by a beaded glasses strap, her chipped front tooth as she smiles for the camera, I’m reminded why I’m in love with this woman. “It’s so big!”
“Yes, it really is.”
We walk around the piggy bank for about twenty minutes, marveling. It has no practical purpose, which should bother me, but it doesn’t. It’s simply art existing for the sake of filling space. Everything is so much larger in America: the statues, the buildings, the cars. Even the open spaces are bigger, hence the need for these ridiculous monuments.
I’m a respectable 1.86 meters tall, but in the shadow of this roadside anomaly, I feel miniature. Insignificant. That’s what America does to a person.
I wrap an arm around Alba, who is still grinning and admiring the pig, undaunted.
“Let’s get some food before we go, yeah?”
This middle-of-nowhere pocket of Nevada isn’t home to much, but I’m able to track down a diner that shouldn’t make us too sick. It has a tall, neon sign at the edge of the parking lot, the corners stretching out over the road. Bobby’s Burgers & Diner, it reads, burgers bolded and in capital letters. Like the pig, the sign is too big to be ignored. The building itself is a shiny silver metal that glints beneath the sun. Alba puts on her sunglasses as we get close, the diner blinding us with its reflected light. There are bells attached to the top of the door, and they jingle as Alba walks in, announcing: “I’m here!”
A young woman with bangs and a piercing that threads between her nostrils — not dissimilar to cattle — seats us in a booth toward the back of the diner. I take note of her uniform, a red and yellow candy-striped apron, and a name, Jessie, etched into a matching red name clip. It looks like a costume for a bubbly waitress, but only that. The bored look in her eyes betrays the fact that she is uninterested in playing the role. The laminated menus she offers us feel slippery in my hands, leaving a sticky residue on my fingers. Alba orders the lone salad on the menu. I decide to get a burger, honoring the restaurant’s namesake.
“The statue is so fun,” Alba says, grinning and setting her sunglasses on the table. “I’ve never seen something quite like it.”
“I would hardly call it a statue. It’s awfully ugly.” My teeth catch on the ice as I take a sip of water. The word statue implies artistry, and there is no skill, craft, or intention behind the pig. At least, this is my view of it. Alba’s smile fades at my remarks and guilt hardens at the base of my stomach.
At least that’s until I see the devious glint in her eye.
“I think that you only feel this way because you are not fun, Gabriel.”
We both chuckle. I am not so serious, although it can seem that way. Rather, my realism seems harsh and unforgiving, contrasted with Alba’s unrelenting optimism. I don’t mind being the boring one. Not so long as Alba takes me along with her, brown hair floating behind her as she races through the world, eager to soak up as much of it as possible while we are still young. The piggy bank is her idea. The road trip is her idea. Still, I enjoy taking photos of her at every rest stop and stupid attraction, I enjoy the boredom and crackly radio of the car rides, and I enjoy basking in her presence, secretly hoping that her way of seeing the world will rub off on me.
The waitress returns with our plates, balanced on a black circular tray. The food is bad. There’s no need to sugarcoat it; not even halfway through my meal, I can already feel the fry grease excising itself from my body via my pores. I joke that I’ll be fat by the time we leave this country, and a heavyset man in the booth next to us shoots a scathing glare. Alba stifles a giggle, utterly failing and releasing a sputtering laugh that echoes throughout the diner. Now, I pay the check with a smile and let Alba drag me outside by the hand. Even in the inhospitable desert heat, there are rebellious patches of flowers that crop up on the edge of the
sidewalks. I pick one, a purple and white specimen, and tuck it behind her ear, covertly hoping that she will direct another one of those magical, radiant smiles in my direction.
Our feet tap along the pavement, two of her steps for each one of mine. When we reach the parking lot, Alba slides back into the passenger seat. She is satisfied with our excursion. And even if I feel slightly unnerved by the garish behemoth of the piggy bank disappearing behind me as we get back on the highway, Alba’s soft, steady breathing soothes me as we continue on, westward bound.
Spring 2025
Digital photograph, 2024
Alice M. ’27
Floating; floating in an infinite life; bobbing in a vast expanse of sand. Ocean, but sand; desert, but liquid like the sea. Chained, not moving, but bobbing, floating, though anchored by unmovable bindings. I feel them around my wrists and ankles; I am floating in a sea, but I cannot swim. Floating in sand. Sand in my ears, sand between my toes, sand under my knees. Anything could be under there. Monsters could be under the sand, and I would not know, nor would I be able to know. Nor would I be able to look, for there is sand in my eyes. Nor would I be able to scream, for there is sand in my mouth. The sand controls me, and I am powerless, bobbing in this ocean that is not an ocean that is not a liquid but it is quicksand, though I am floating. The only thing I am safe from is drowning — no, not even that. Sometime, my body could just give out and, still trapped by chains by ropes by anchors, I’d drift down to wherever the bottom is. Maybe eaten by a monster on the way. Who knows. I can’t kill myself, nothing to do it with. I don’t have the courage to hold my breath. Maybe I could just stop fighting, maybe I could drown “by accident.” But, no, something holds me back. Some grain of sand, grain of notsand not-hope deep in my rock-hard-heart that prevents me from dying on the spot. I float, helplessly, as the waves roil and boil around me, the sand hot under my back, no clothes on my back to my name to my body. I wonder what the chains are made of, if they will ever dissolve under the force of the sand. Maybe I will dissolve. Is that possible? Could the sand wear away at me and erode my and chip at my rock-hard-heart until there is nothing left but sand?
Maybe I would like that. But for now I would like to keep bobbing. Vast, miraculous, sand, it is. Sometimes I like the sand, but then I remember the monsters. Maybe there is a giant fish, like in oceans. But this is not an ocean, this is land (land?) so there must be worms. But the worms have more room, this desert being as deep as a sea, so they must be giant worms. So big I am only a snack to them, as krill is to a whale. I am like a lonely juvenile seagull just growing in its scrappy flight feathers, struggling to take off from the water as it paddles around, looking for crumbs to eat. It squawks, pointlessly, for it knows no one will hear, nor would they care to help. Would they care? Would anyone care if they could hear my sand-gritted cries? Would they hear how my vocal folds have sand deep in the creases? Even if I escape and I am away from this infinite life for fifty hundred years, I will still feel the sand in my feet in my legs in my ears creeping into my brain. How does anyone feel calm around sand? There is so much of it, more than trees, more than molecules, more than stars, more than anything, there is sand. People say differently, but no, I know there is so. much. sand. I am here. I am in the sand. I have counted every grain. If it took me a second to count each grain, I have lived a million years. I watch for the monsters through the back of my head. Giant worms, especially. I bob and float and sigh and relax, pretending I am at the beach. I am in the beach. I decide not to drown. I wonder when someone will hear my call and bring me water and clothes and how long has it been? How can I survive without water and clothes? Maybe the sand has nutrition. It is bigger than stars, after all. Stars are only twinkling specks in the sky, but sand is here. If I look a grain
of sand in the eye, it is miles bigger than the sun. Suns, I am surrounded by, enveloped by sunny desert beach sand.
I am floating in a sea but I cannot swim and it is sand. Maybe I will dissolve sand. Would they hear sand. I am sand.
Chained in the hidden in the trapped in the hidden in the floating in the scared in the sand.
18 x 24 inches, 2024
Ceramic pieces, 2024
Artist Statement
Sculpting has enabled me to explore the organic nature of my works to express the vulnerable moments of myself and to find appreciation in both the familiar and seemingly unusual.
The dark blue vessel was created during my sophomore year when external circumstances left me feeling bitter and uncertain about my future. I channeled these emotions to explore daydreams through contrasting glazed and unglazed surfaces — depicting those moments when we escape reality, only to be abruptly returned, leaving our thoughts incomplete. The middle sculpture marks a transition with its bluish undertones now layered with commanding brown hues and unglazed textural waves streaming out. The split-form vessel completes this journey with its golden-brown coloring and convoluted structure designed to appear “punched from the inside-out.” The transition from chaotic, unglazed textures erupting through ordered, glazed surfaces symbolizes how dissonance and harmony exist not as opponents but as essential counterparts in life.
Ultimately, these vessels transcend their individual narratives to create a unified statement that powerfully embodies the belief that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. This notion has been one I have struggled to fully grapple with (as it often means challenging conventional notions of what constitutes beauty and one’s worth), but now fully embrace.
FEATURING
OTTO ANICKER ’26
BENNET BOOTH ’27
CAILYN CHOI ’26
GRESHAM CRONE ’26
ELEANOR CUMMINGS ’25
MASON DAUBER ’25
TIMOTHY DONG ’27
EFE ELAIHO ’25
LAEL GEBREGZIABHER ’25
GRACE LI ’28
AVA LOOP ’25
ALICE MONSEN ’27
AMBER PENG ’27
IMELDA RAMIREZ ’25
LINGYING SHI ’28
ANGELINA SMITH ’26
SHEPARD SWANER ’25
DANIEL WANG ’25
KARSON XU ’27
MARY YACOB ’25
Imago edits, designs, and publishes a literary & arts magazine for Lakeside School to showcase and foster student arts culture.