Parsons First Year Journal: Issue Two - Nature/Nurture
Outside, New York moves at its relentless pace, a current of voices, car horns, hurried footsteps, a city that never sleeps. Even the streetlights seem impatient, blinking from red to green with a thirst for movement. But inside, I wait. Inside, I am nothing but breath and heartbeat...
— Jui Deshpande from Wh pers of Time
Madrigal, oil on canvas, Eva Zhang
First Year Journal Team
Editor - Maya Samat
Editor - Brie Bouslaugh
Designer - Rodger Stevens
Director - Jess Irish
Associate Dean of First Year Program - John Roach
Director of First Year Program - Juanli Carrión
Associate Director of First Year Program - Jess Irish
Associate Director of Operations - Luke Davis
First Year Program Admin trator - Mikayla Makle
Printer - Conveyor Studio
Cover Image - Future of HK, Isabelle Fu
Parsons School of Design
New York, NY
Spring 2025
Every fall, Parsons opens its doors to students who bring with them the things of home, ready to be set alight by the inspirations of a new semester. The so black of graphite is sharpened, new brushes are plunged into pots of red, cobalt, and magenta, and the fresh spines of notebooks are cracked, laying bare the white space where creativity will take its hold. It is in this rst year of study that the push and pull between what is familiar and what is new reveals itself through writing and making. This interplay between words and art, between language and the visual, is the bedrock of the First Year Program.
This year’s theme of Nature / Nurture explores the tension between what is formed and forged within us and the impact of exposing that self to the world. The work appearing between these pages approaches this tension from numerous perspectives, both wri en and visual. In one instance, we see the natural world oppressed and sti ed on a roo op garden in Guangzhou. In another, we are given a candy bowl of memories that never goes empty. We are graced with the big bright colors of a Stuyvesant Park tree and the deliberate black lines of a kakemono. And in the middle of it all is a short essay that asks how to explain the end of life to a child who is just beginning it. What words and images mean, what they conceal and reveal.
“All that you touch, you change. All that you change, changes you,” author Octavia Butler wrote. “The only lasting truth is Change.” So, we invite you to crack this spine and interact with the words and images on these pages as readers, artists, thinkers, and friends of the First Year Program.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Brie Bouslaugh and Maya Samat
Contents
Madrigal Eva Zhang
Keys to Memory
Chelsea Dimanche
Finding Peace Universe Chen
Duo Mary Ying
Inv ible Cities Evelynn Yijia Chen
The Oppression of My Roo op Garden Krista Han
A Tale of Two Selves Justina Lauzan
Sticks and Stones Kelly Layden
Tree in Stuyvesant Park Coral Song
Foreign Blood Sophia Cavalluzzi
Para el World (Excerpt) Rebecca Xue
Plunged Hwajong Koh
The Unful ment Necklace Gianna Goere hie Lu
Friday at Beverly’s Marcella Carter
Chow Family’s Road Trip Chloe Chow
An Eternity Syrinx Ada Chu
In Your Head Alex Waterman
Self Portrait (A That I’m Made Of) Madhu Unnikrishnan
Them Bones Eunyu Oh
Astoria Fiona Xiong
Roundabout Summer Zhao
11 v 11 Ike Kadis
Scro s of Light and Nature Ava Cho
Root, Self Portrait Yuxin Liu
Waqt ki Baatein (Wh pers of Time) Jui Deshpande
Keys to Memory, acrylic on canvas, Chelsea Dimanche
Home: A Piano Painting of Warmth and Memory
Chelsea Dimanche
Home is more than just a physical location; it’s a place where love, warmth, and tradition come together. The room that always felt like home is my family’s living room. It’s more than just a room; it’s the heart of our home, where the memories and moments that de ne us as a family take place. On movie nights, we ll the room with the smell of fresh popcorn and the sounds of laughter as my siblings and I dance around for our parents like we’re in a dance show. On other nights, we gather under blankets on the big, cozy couch while my mom plays the piano. And every year, under the warm lights of Christmas morning, we create an ideal sense of belonging. With all the music, love, and a ection, this is where I feel the most at home.
To capture this feeling, I created a painting inspired by the piano in our living room. The piano is more than just an instrument to me; it is a symbol of the connection and memories my family and I have created together. To enrich this idea, I looked into work that would serve as inspiration for my work. This led me to concentrate on artistic and historical depictions of both pianos and comfortable se ings.
In the end, four pieces in uenced me and shaped this painting. First, the “Grand Piano (1827)” by John Broadwood & Sons exempli es the emotional resonance and artistic quality of pianos, making it one of my key inspirations. The piano was a gi to Beethoven, and it demonstrates the profound personal importance that an instrument may have. Its elaborate design and historical signi cance seemed to resonate with my feelings toward my mother’s piano.
The second was Degas’ painting, “The Dancing Class,” which depicts grace and uidity. I wanted my painting to have the same sensation of vitality as the dancers’ owing lines, an aliveness I’ve always felt in this instrument that adds melody and vibrancy to our house. One of the girls in the picture is connecting with the music and experiencing its ow. I felt I could relate to it; it looked so much like my siblings and I when we act like ballerinas, we nd rhythm in the music, dancing much like the girls in the painting.
My third inspiration came from the NYPL Picture Collection entitled “Still Life with Musical Instruments” by Pieter Claesz. I was drawn to the image because it re ected the rich, warm tones and welcoming ambiance of my family’s home. The hues are bright, which reminds me of the joy that my family feels when dancing to the music my mom plays. The way Claesz uses light and shadow to give objects life was intriguing and made me want to use this strategy to highlight the piano’s emotional signi cance and make it the main subject of my piece.
Finally, I spoke with family and friends, using them as sources to understand outside perspectives and how others viewed the two subjects of my piece: family and pianos. What I learned was illuminating: people linked pianos to feelings of serenity, classical music, and unique experiences such as dancing with loved ones or celebrating Christmas, much like my own experience. Similarly, the responses I received concerning family were lled with sentiments about support, love, and stability. These discussions rea rmed my choice to make these two elements the focal point of my piece.
My understanding of the signi cance of this piece has deepened through my research and re ection. It focuses on honoring the piano’s role in my life and my family’s history, rather than simply creating art. By combining ideas from historical documents, my personal memories, and insights from others, I was able to produce a project that truly represents the feeling of home. This process has shown me that art serves as a bridge between personal memories and collective stories, allowing me to honor the past while creating something deeply meaningful for the present.
References
Grand Piano by John Broadwood & Sons, 1827, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Edgar Degas, The Dance Cl s, 1874, Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
New York Public Library Picture Collection, folder: Living Rooms.
Pieter Claesz, Sti Life with M ical Instruments, 1623, Mauritshuis, The Hague.
The Japanese dry garden provides a great example of how monks symbolize rivers and the sea using sand. Originally, these gardens were designed to protect buildings from moisture, but their creation also became a religious practice, allowing monks to experience peace and re ection.
This idea is truly stunning, especially when compared to the way people today constantly argue over meaningless things— ghting for resources, for things that seem valuable but aren’t even real or necessary. In contrast, the dry garden stands still, peaceful and quiet, representing nature without competition.
Duo, oil on canvas, Mary Ying
Inv ible Cities, ink on paper, Evelynn Yijia Chen
Inv ible Cities
Evelynn Yijia Chen
Walking down the bumpy brick path, you are enveloped by the aroma of freshly brewed tea. The so wind delicately rustles the bushes, and a frog emerges. It hops and hops. You follow it into the garden: the vine chair swings back and forth, a cacophony of plants dances. You notice the pile of miscellaneous seashells collected over the years. It’s exactly the same as it’s always been. Every piece of rock embellished in the ground, every strand of vine climbing the wall, every video game you’ve ever played si ing in the sunroom of your mind.
The Oppression of My Roo op Garden
Krista Han
I hate the roo op garden at the apartment complex in Guangzhou, China. Its sense of oppression has a ected me since I moved there when I was six years old, and it still does, even today.
The garden is located at the center of the apartment area on the 5th oor, surrounded by four buildings with average heights of forty levels. The garden houses a greenhouse top at the center that acts as a ceiling for the swimming pool on the 4th oor, four passways around the square, and four “closed” areas below each apartment building. Its existence is meant to provide a piece of nature in the center of this megacity.
I moved to this big apartment from an old house when I was six. At that time, I started walking my two dogs twice every day in the roo op garden. I love dogs, but I hated waking up at 6 am every morning and ge ing up at 10 pm, hurrying to the garden, juggling two retractable leashes with a water bo le and newspaper in my tiny hands. I never went to the garden except when I was walking them, two times a day and that’s it. I felt my body was torn in half in the rush.
I remember one day clearly though— my mom brought me to the garden for the third time of the day. It was late a ernoon. We bathed in the a ernoon sunlight and walked calmly through each pathway, looking down through the glass windows to the turquoise swimming pool, smelling a mixture of disinfectant and dirt. We stopped at one of the passways, and I realized that behind the owering shrubs was a horrendous skyline view of the city of Guangzhou. My sight reached countless tall concrete and glass buildings on the edge of the sunset.
I slowed down my breathing, and I found that this place hadn’t changed for ten years. I heard a duet of birds chipping and the sound of friction between the car tires and the asphalt road. I touched the thorny plants and the smooth surface of the greenhouse glass top that had been warmed by the sun all day. I felt the pain and the warmth of this emotionless city at the same time. I used to always look down to supervise my dogs, but that day I looked up— vertically straight up to the sky— and felt brie y imprisoned by the four 40-level apartment buildings. I was small, anxious, insigni cant.
I have since le the apartment in Guangzhou and moved to New York City, but I can still envision the oppression of the roo op garden, and I don’t know why.
A Tale of Two Selves, graphite and color pencils on paper
Justina Lauzan
A Tale of Two Selves
Justina Lauzan
In this self-portrait, I use se ing as the primary focus to explore my identity. My present and younger selves are depicted wearing the same dress, symbolizing the continuity of self — however, both the environment and space become key elements in di erentiating these two very di erent stages of life.
On the composition’s right side, I re ect on my childhood perspective. This is represented through a fairytale-like environment with bright, clean colors that are meant to evoke a sense of fantasy and wonder. The young girl in the drawing inhabits this whimsical world, lled with things I once innocently xated on.
In contrast, the le side portrays my current self — a teenager, grounded in the reality of my physical space, New York City. The architectural and environmental elements here are literal, yet they twist and bend, re ecting the chaotic thoughts and emotions that accompany my current perspective. One element that remains purposefully the same is the dress.
While the New York se ing is a direct re ection of my current surroundings, the fairytale landscape serves as a metaphor for my inner child’s perspective. The piece seeks to visualize the external world and how our thoughts and beliefs evolve, becoming distorted as we grow.
As a child, I believed in fairytales and cherished small, magical moments, blind to a broader reality.
Now, I perceive the world more neutrally, yet my thoughts and feelings still mingle with reality. A Tale of Two Selves is a re ection of this duality, demonstrating how childhood wonder and adult clarity can coexist.
Reference: Inner Child Journey by Be y Moore-Ha er
Sticks and Stones
Kelly Layden
“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” What a lie. This statement means that I will never let hurtful words impact me. Words are just words, a collection of le ers with di erent made-up meanings. In the past, when I thought of hateful words, I thought of words like ugly, mean, annoying, or fat. But recently, I realized there are words that can do damage. The word I want to focus on today is the “C” word, which holds so much weight that people will say anything but the actual word. I am ge ing so tired of it. Say it, tell me it’s cancer.
The word cancer has the power to make your heart sink. Silently, I read the word on my iPhone screen a er Googling “What is leukemia?” Why wouldn’t my mom tell me that Grandma has cancer? Why was it “Grandma was diagnosed with leukemia?” The negativity that surrounds the word cancer saps people of their courage to just say it. By not saying it, people feel be er about the situation.
It’s funny to me how the most common metaphor surrounding cancer is war. She is strong. She is ghting hard. She is a survivor, and we must be strong for her. I question if that’s any be er. Is it be er to be realistic or to keep labeling by using terms that would also be applied to veterans? My grandmother’s father was a war veteran, and so was her ex-husband, but she never went to war. She is not a survivor yet and will likely never wear that badge. But we will keep calling her strong while her strength is that of a small child trying to stay awake for the rest of the movie because they want to know what happens next.
At some point, I know, that child will need to rest her eyes, and when this inevitably happens, the movie will keep playing without her. I watched my best friend experience this with her dad, and so I dread knowing what is ahead.
All through high school, my best friend Annie watched her dad ba le cancer and, as a result, started grieving him before he was even gone. One day, she showed up at my door in tears; her father, James, had a stroke and was in an ambulance heading to the hospital. She used the time with me to collect herself, but not long a er she le , I got her text. James rested his eyes that February, and Annie’s movie kept playing. She never got a chance to tell him about ge ing into university, let alone her reach school; he never saw her walk across the stage at a high school graduation, and he never got to say goodbye when she le for school. I knew James before the “C” word; he had always been so kind-hearted, and he would be so proud of Annie.
James’s death was a wake-up call for me and taught me that grief does not go away. Sometimes I see my father break down in tears with the memory of his mother, the grandmother I never got to meet. The “C” word also got to her; she breathed it in as a poisonous fog that engulfed her lungs. Because of her, I promised I would never smoke. And I have kept that promise because back then, seeing the tears on his cheeks as he bent down to meet my eyes, I knew it wasn’t worth it. If smoking kills and a ects everyone around you, then what’s the point? Though we never met, her memory stays with me. I wonder what she was like and if she watches me now. I o en wish that I had go en the chance to meet her, and I am constantly reminded of her whenever I smell smoke.
All these experiences have led me to ask the question: How can we explain death to a child? When a person is young, death can have a signi cant impact on them and their developing brain, and the actions and decisions surrounding a child will a ect how they learn to process emotions and approach sensitive situations. I believe the best way to talk about death is to explain it in an organic way, by being straightforward and direct and supplying answers as a way to make the child feel secure. Euphemisms and vague expressions only leave room for uncertainty and confusing emotions.
As outlined in The Grieving Process in Children by Clarissa A.Willis, confusion is a common sign of grief in young children. Willis explains that given a lack of understanding surrounding death,
children, unlike adults, o en experience confusing emotions and mood swings. These emotions can lead to the child having outbursts of bad behavior. However, being direct with the realities of death can eliminate many of the uncertainties a child may face while grieving.1
This is relatable to my situation. The way my mother broke the news to me would have done numbers to a child’s mind; thank God I was seventeen. My mother is a victim of euphemisms. She will constantly explain things vaguely to protect her own emotions; she is not ready to lose her mother. However, vague language may severely impact a young child because it is confusing. It can spark a fear of death or cause profoundly rooted anxiety and suppressed emotions. Pu ing a funny and comforting twist on the situation or saying, “Don’t worry, it will all be okay,” can come across as invalidating for a child. We should worry; it is okay to worry, and it’s okay to be sad.
In 2023, European researchers released their ndings on how we teach death in early childhood education. A er testing various biological explanations, euphemisms, and forms of religious comfort, their ndings showed that biological explanations are the most e ective means of introducing death to a child. Open communication encourages open discussion, and it is the best foundation for teaching di erent points of view about death from around the world. Understanding science before a belief system can encourage children to develop their own perspective.
This does not mean that if asked, one should not share their beliefs; it is, in fact, crucial. Understanding that many people believe di erent things and that disagreement is okay can bene t the child when encountering others dealing with grief. Grief must be celebrated in all environments because to grieve is to love.2
In a chapter from Cognitive Psycholo , Virginia Slaughter and Michelle Lyons speak about a study from 2002 that “investigated the development of vitalistic reasoning in young children’s concepts of life, the human body and death.” Slaughter and Lyons point out that during the rst interviews, researchers
found that young children who naturally talked about how living things work, using ideas like needing air, food, or water to stay alive, be er understood death and what it means when parts of the body stop functioning. This is a strong marker that the best approach to teaching children about death is through explanations rooted in biology.3
Talking About Death and Bereavement in School by Ann Chadwick discusses bereavement,speci cally in an educational se ing, and speaks to my situation with Annie. When I got her text and rushed to tell my mother, I didn’t know what to say or how to act. I will never forget the lesson my mother taught me that day. She told me that Annie would soon learn who her friends are, through and through; it is one thing to wish condolences and something completely di erent to “be there.” A er taking time o from school, she eventually decided it was time to return; time keeps moving.
In her book, Chadwick discusses reintegration into school and daily life. While Annie had just turned eighteen, the students Chadwick focuses on are ages four to eleven, but I see parallels between the two. At this age, teachers and fellow students play a far larger role regarding the impact of death. The hardest part of this process is balancing moving forward as a class while simultaneously re ecting on and acknowledging those who have been lost. When a death impacts a single student more than others, it can a ect their schoolwork. While Chadwick discusses di erent ways to handle this obstacle, the most important thing is not to single out the child from their peers. However, acknowledgment in the rst few days is crucial. Preparing the rest of the class and other school faculty for the tragedy is important when creating a safe space for the returning child.4
In an article entitled “From a Crisis Management Tool to Proactive Death Education in Swedish Preschools,” Tünde Puskás, Anita Andersson, and Virginia Slaughter examine how Swedish preschools handle teaching young children about death and grief. In their article, they discuss the didactics of death and when it should be implemented into the curriculum and also ask:
Should death be taught as a curricular subject or only as needed? Regardless of the answer, what is clear is that death should be taught using straightforward explanations. This process not only bene ts the grieving process but is also bene cial to the child’s education and understanding of the concept.5
Lastly, when it comes to loss and the causes of death, the separation of issues is essential. In my case, I have been running on the belief that smoking is what killed my grandmother and what makes my father cry when, in reality, it wasn’t just one cigare e. What killed her was the chain smoking, the addiction, and neglecting her health. But I also don’t know for sure if the smoking was the root of her sickness or was just a partner in crime, speeding up the process. For all I know, her cancer was unavoidable, and the smoking would have made no di erence. As a child, what I knew to be true was that my grandmother had died from smoking, but was that the truth? My grandmother died of lung cancer, but the way it was delivered to me made me paint the nicotine as the only culprit. It makes me wonder at this point if I still believe smoking is what killed her or if I am just trying to place blame on the only factor I can really control and combat. Chadwick emphasizes separating unrelated issues. She recounts meeting a nine-year-old boy who recently lost his father. The boy believed his father would still be alive if he had walked him to school that morning. These feelings of guilt can negatively impact a child if unaddressed and uncorrected.6
A er reviewing several personal experiences and independent research, I can say that death and grief education is necessary for a child’s development and is o en overlooked. The e ects of grief at a young age can stay with a person for life and shape the way they see and communicate with the world. Considering several teaching approaches, the straightforward biological approach is the best for understanding loss. The “C” word, while being blunt, can be broken down enough for a child to understand. Providing euphemisms and vague answers to questions will lead the child into confusion and uncertainty. While the word cancer holds a lot of power, we have the means and methods to break it down. To quote Sir Francis Bacon, “Knowledge is power.”
Citations
1 Willis, Clarissa A. “The Grieving Process in Children: Strategies for Understanding, Educating, and Reconciling Children’s Perceptions of Death.” Early Childhood Education Journal 29, no. 4 (Summer 2002): 221–226.
2 Puskás, Tünde, Anita Andersson, and Virginia Slaughter. “From a Crisis Management Tool to Proactive Death Education in Swedish Preschools.” Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood, April 19, 2024.
3 Slaughter, Virginia, T. Gri ths, and M. P. P. Johnson. “Conceptualizing Death in Early Childhood: Understanding Biological and Religious Explanations.” Cognition 84, no. 3 (2002): 203–232.
4 Chadwick, Ann. Talking About Death and Bereavement in School: How to Help Children Aged 4 to 11 to Feel Supported and Understood. London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2012.
5 Puskás, Tünde, Anita Andersson, and Virginia Slaughter. “From a Crisis Management Tool to Proactive Death Education in Swedish Preschools.” Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood, April 19, 2024.
6 Chadwick, Ann. Talking About Death and Bereavement in School: How to Help Children Aged 4 to 11 to Feel Supported and Understood. London: Jessica
References
Beckler, Hal. “Explaining Cancer to Your Kids.” MedPage Today, May 2, 2019.
h ps://www.medpagetoday.com/special-reportsapatientsjourney/79229.
Chen, Yvonne. “I Told My Kids I Have Cancer. Here’s What Happened.” Today, March 21, 2023.
h ps://www.today.com/parents/essay/told-kids-cancer-rcna72971.
Miller, Kate. “How to Explain Death to Children | Child Psychology.” YouTube Video. Published by Psych2Go, November 7, 2018.
h ps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_u_TswLQ4ws.
Tree in Stuyvesant Park, oil pastel, Coral Song
Foreign Blood
Sophia Cavalluzzi
I recall Mary Rue e’s prose poem “I remember, I remember” and think of my own life. My mother cut open twice, trading pain for love. My brother crying for a month straight, preferring being grown within her.
But I was born dry, heated under a bright light to cure the yellow on my skin, jaundice. Now the right amount of yellow remains. Half-Vietnamese and given my grandma’s name, Hoang Lan, yellow orchid. I begin to remember as they take the incubator goggles o , her and the smell of her house.
Every Monday I’m dropped o while my brother is at school, and I am fed peeled fruits. Apples without skin. I see her loose skin. She’s scared of choking, She’s scared of the pool. My father taught me to not ever be scared. He taught me to do everything I ever wanted. So I run and bike and swim, and I teach the old yellow orchid to grow. Kick your feet, Ba Ngoai. Reluctantly she does, and she smiles. She’s no longer afraid of water. She makes it to the deep end. First her, next my mother, then me.
I recall reading “I remember, I remember” over Scarle ’s shoulder and crying. I see her wipe her eyes dry too. We’re connected by tears. It’s what keeps us close in the distance. It’s the same with Diver. That red sun I chased from the east coast to the west, watching it sink into the ocean from behind her shoulder. I see her wiping her eyes dry too.
The morning is fast and frightening. I see the sun rise without knowing the evening will be slow; I say goodbye knowing it will be a life of disappearing red suns. My grandmother and her daughter. My father and his son. My family of foreign blood— thank you.
Para el World (Excerpt)
Rebecca Xue
The evolutionary process of living beings resembles a tree, and humans, as the luckiest species, have stumbled upon the key of “fate” to unlock the door of wisdom. Human civilization appears to have a long history, but if we were to condense the timeline from the birth of the Earth to the present into a 60-second lm, our existence would only ash by in the last two seconds. No one knows what transpired before that; we are like a special speck of dust, inadvertently pushed onto this unique planet by the waves of the long evolution of the universe, where we took root.
We study light, we delve into self-consciousness, and we examine everything that originates from this planet. But what lies beyond it? What exists outside this universe? I nd time to be particularly perplexing. Some people lament their youth and the major mistakes they made; others believe that the only way to save others is to erase their own existence from the future, while some come to understand the true meaning of their lives in old age. Yet, time is merciless to humankind; it never returns, much like a rushing river owing into the sea. Time serves as a measure for humans, marking each of our actions, but what is its signi cance? Is there truly a parallel universe where we lead entirely di erent lives and perhaps even inhabit di erent bodies? But would we still be ourselves?
If we consider time from the birth of life, what, then, is time? I believe it represents cause and e ect; it is not linear but encompasses everything in the world, lled with countless possibilities. It forms the tree of life, with continuous branches that ourish, evolve into everything, and then swi ly wither away. Ultimately, a rushing river will evaporate into gas a er reaching the sea, yet that single molecule of water among thousands of clouds will one day return to its place of origin, even a er eons.
Since the current concept of parallel space-time is merely a human conjecture regarding the nature of time, life is eeting, and there are many things we cannot change. Our minds have become a refuge, constructing a hypocritical utopia within.
Plunged, acrylic paint, Hwajong Koh
The Unful ment Necklace, steel wire, jump rings, black and white freshwater pearls, Gianna Goere hie Lu
The Unful ment Necklace
Gianna Goere hie Lu
One half gleams an elegant white, each and every pearl delicately re ecting light onto everything it touches, illuminating like the moon in a dark sky. The other half, polished and shiny, yet dark and cold to the touch — it swallows the light whole, engul ng everything it meets.
In between intersects endless voids of di erent sizes, de ned by a single word: empty. Light cannot exist without darkness. Everything in nature is a balance. Without balance, the scale will tip.
So as the nature around us, the inevitable nature of human beings: duality, opposition, and the cruel outcome of forever wanting more. Together yet not quite whole, we will never reach equilibrium. Thus: Unful llment.
Friday at Beverly’s, paint on glass with candy and photo lm, Marcella Carter
Friday at Beverly’s Marcella Carter
My great grandmother died before I was born. She had lung cancer from her countless years of smoking, but my family would always tell me they were surprised it wasn’t her sugar consumption that took her out. She was notoriously known for her insatiable sweet tooth. I would ask my mum about her when I ate a bowl of ice cream late at night, and shewould tell me again about how Beverly Jean Edwards would, without fail, have a bowl of ice cream every night before bed. If you were visiting Beverly’s house, this was expected of you as well. A bowl lled with candy also graced each tabletop, o ering bits of sweetness to her and her loved ones throughout the day.
This piece is an ode to the loving nature of Beverly Jean Edwards, whose house was bustling every Friday night, thanks to the good music, her infectious energy, and, of course, her bowls of candy. Each piece of candy in this bowl is wrapped in a collage of photographs I received from those who knew Beverly, along with memories from my own childhood. The guestbook features those included in the piece and provides a base for the over owing candy bowl. The pink roses painted on the glass bowl are directly based on the roses hand painted on my childhood tea set that Beverly made.
Through this project, I reignited my memories of my greatgrandmother and I discovered how much it means to people to have their loved ones represented in art. My grandmother, Melinda, was in the hospital when I told her about this piece. Her joy in being able to talk about her mother with me was palpable.
Chow Family’s Road Trip, oil on panel, Chloe Chow
An Eternity Syrinx, yarn, wire, copper tape, bristol board, paint, ableton, speakers, playtronica, Ada Chu
In Your Head, clay, Alex Waterman
Self Portrait (A That I’m Made Of), mixed media collage, Madhu Unnikrishnan
A That I’m Made Of
Madhu Unnikrishnan
Cultural symbols, objects from my childhood, and images from family photo albums come together in this self portrait. In this collage, I a empt to grapple with the anxiety that governs my identity while questioning themes of genetic predisposition versus upbringing. I begin with a distorted nude portrait of myself with a severed nger (symbolizing a loss of control), two crows (culturally representing my ancestors), and a pile of heavy coins in a turtle shaped box.
This last image is inspired by the money my younger self would save for fear of running out (one of my earliest memories of anxiety causing irrational behavior). Thus, while the piece is seemingly a traditional self-portrait in that my face is clearly depicted, my true “self” is all of these elements and their interactions coalescing together.
Them Bones, newspaper, plaster, spray paint, metal sheet, fake pearls, surgical steel chains, antique brooch, Eunyu Oh
Working on a project while researching an artist/designer is like having a compass while sailing. I discovered the two key themes that encapsulate the artist Jose Leonilson’s life and work are transience and pathos. Leonilson passed away in 1993 at the age of thirty-six due to AIDS. As his health deteriorated, he shi ed his focus from painting to create li le embroideries on pockets, purses, and scraps of canvas. His nal pieces were mostly abstract mixed-media self-portraits that dealt with the AIDS virus’s destruction of his body.
Leonilson o en challenged traditional gender norms by assigning the wrong gender to things. His exploration of embroidery, which deepened a er his diagnosis, re ects a pursuit of a cra o en seen as feminine, characterized by its delicate and decorative qualities,yet disrupted by stitched messages about transient experiences, blood, and coronary arteries.
Studying Leonilson’s work inspired me to create a project that symbolizes the elusive, invisible passage of time. I chose to design a clock using embroidery threads and lace, measuring 24cm x 24cm in a round shape. The numbers on the clock are stitched with a punch embroidery pen, leaving the threads loose and easy to pull out. I then added a lace pa ern around the clock to serve as a frame. While lace is typically used for coasters, I repurposed it by a aching the clock, transforming the “useless” lace into something functional.
Tensile Sculpture, steel wire, embroidery thread, wood, arti cial moss,
Ike Kadis
v 11
Ike Kadis
Soccer is a game of shapes, lines, and numbers. The geometric tension and compression that supports this structure are emblematic of the balance between the players in their positions and the relationships between the ball, the goals, and the boundaries of the eld. Creating a model for a large-scale sculpture required a kind of reimaging I hadn’t encountered before.
My only constraints were tension and compression, allowing for a wide range of materials and approaches. I chose to focus on the game of soccer to represent the years of my life that I spent practicing a skill that was ultimately squeezed out of my agenda for newfound fascinations with my studies, my projects, and my art. But soccer played an integral role in my formative years. I belonged to a league, a club, a school team, or a weekly kickaround from four to eighteen years old. But it was in 2014, watching the World Cup play out in Brazil, that I found my passion.
The materials represent the experiences of being on the eld, and the colors, shapes, and textures represent the elements of the game. The rigidity of the metal poles provides a frame for the delicate, tightly strung net, while the stark black and white contrast of a ball rolls atop the perfect green grass. Not all the elds were perfect, nor were they all green. Some came with sticks, some with rocks. Some nets came with holes or weren’t strung the same. The ascending circles of this structure represent the varying sizes of the balls. The base is shaped like a triangle, the most commonly used shape for player positioning and relativity during plays on the eld. With the supporting threads at each corner of the base, its shape resembles a cup, a winner’s trophy in glorious stage light, the dream for any player who wants to be the greatest.
I’ve played less in the last six months since moving to New York than in any other six-month period I can remember. My cleats are under my bed, right next to my spare wood, foam core, wire, and plastic. I’m not done with it; I know there is still much to learn from this beautiful game.
Scro s of Light and Nature, paper, wood, ink pen, ribbon, Hanji paper, Ava Cho
A Journey Through Memory and Spirit
Ava Cho
This project was primarily inspired by Kim Hong-do, also known by his pen name Danwon, a prominent Korean artist during the Joseon dynasty. Kim’s work is celebrated for his detailed, humorous, and empathetic portrayals of daily life. His brushwork is expressive yet controlled, capturing movement and atmosphere with elegance.
In my previous house, my parents created a Japanese-style room with a tatami oor, wooden desk, and hanging scroll. It was a uniquely calm atmosphere. There I would o en enjoy teatime with my family or gather with friends, making it one of my favorite spaces and full of the most cherished memories from that home. The simplicity and tranquility of the room’s design made it a comforting place, and those moments spent there continue to hold special meaning for me.
Recreating the hanging scroll from that room, I drew on the Buddhist themes that resonate with my family’s background and my personal memories. This piece is not only inspired by my family’s scroll but also by the artwork in the Asian Art section at the MET, where I felt connected to the spirituality re ected in the art. Since my dad believes in Buddhism, I grew up with a sense of reverence for Buddhist principles and o en accompanied my family to temples, where I experienced the calmness and clarity of those visits.
A goal I had for this project was to incorporate that “freshness” of Buddhism—its sense of peace and presence—by illustrating and inscribing the scroll on thick paper, using paint to capture both the personal and spiritual layers of the work.
I found motivation in the memory of the temple my family and I would visit and the big pine tree there. Inspired by this, I painted that pine tree on one of the hanging scrolls. For the other scroll, I wrote the Buddhist Mantra of Light that my dad taught me.
Root, Self Portrait, charcoal on paper, Yuxin Liu
Waqt ki Baatein (Wh pers of Time)
Jui Deshpande
The dryers hum, a so , mechanical sigh, breathing warmth into the stillness of this in-between hour. Their rhythm is hypnotic, like waves crashing into themselves, but the only tide here is fabric caught in a quiet storm, shirts and sheets rising, falling, spinning, waiting an ocean with no shore, a dance with no end.
I sit at the lone table, elbows pressed into the laminate surface, watching the minutes icker on the screen like re ies, numbers ashing and disappearing like a rhythm
A sock lies beside me, orphaned, abandoned, its other half lost in the relentless cycle of turning, tumbling, forge ing. I wonder if it knows it has been le behind, or if, like me, it nds comfort in this con ned space, in the stillness between movements, in the waiting between destinations.
Have you ever w hed you could press pa e on life? Not to stretch a moment but to step outside of it, to se le into the spaces where time slows, where silence is not empty but full, where the whirring of machines and the sound of fabric against metal become a kind of symphony, a language only understood by those who know how to listen.
Aahatein.
A word that does not se le, does not rest. Sound, footsteps, con ict— the noise of the mind, the endless shu ing of thoughts, like papers tossed in the wind, never landing in order. No one hears them unless we make a sound, unless we name the storm inside us.
Outside, New York moves at its relentless pace, a current of voices, car horns, hurried footsteps, a city that never sleeps. Even the streetlights seem impatient, blinking from red to green with a thirst for movement. But inside, I wait.
Inside, I am nothing but breath and heartbeat, the quiet weight of my own presence pressing into the walls.
And then—Aa aab. The Local Train hums through my ears, threading melody into memory, each chord dissolving into my skin, wrapping around my skin, reminding me of something I had forgo en— the way belief feels when it is whole.
(Standing again lost in the silent crowd Who knows whether you are here or lost somewhere)
How can anyone else know where I am when I cannot even nd myself in the static? When my thoughts move like shadow puppets on the walls of my mind, never se ling long enough to take shape? The night stretches long, quiet and unhurried, and I wonder if this is all there is—this moment, this hum, this waiting.
(When every hour h p sed, now there no morning of th night Make sure you see, the sun hiding here somewhere)
Isn’t that always the fear?
That the night will swallow the morning, that the sun has disappeared instead of merely hidden? But Aa aab is never truly gone— it lingers, unseen, behind the heavy curtains of doubt, a re y ickering in the dark, waiting for me to notice.
Maybe that is enough. Maybe the world does not always need to rush forward. Maybe, for now, it is enough to sit in the glow of uorescent light, to listen to the rhythm of something greater than myself, to believe that the sun, though unseen, is still there—waiting, just like me.
(Believe) The morning will come. But tonight, let me rest in the comfort of the waiting.
