Parsons Illustration Class of 2024
L
I N G E R
WRITING
Illustration: Ruijia Diao
on the theme of LINGER
marlena borscheid
The last leaf lingers on a lone tree branch before the coming of the cold. Gentle light lingers before dusk coats the sky. Stagnant puddles linger, take time seeping into the ground long after rain.
A wanting hand near another, hoping to be grasped. Warm bodies under the covers, unwilling to face a harsh day. Saying goodbye, a loving touch left on a warm shoulder. A longing gaze after the parting, hoping to be met. To linger is to be hopeful. To wait patiently, awkwardly, for a desire to be fulfilled.
Linger = desire.
The unspoken manifests as the linger.
The linger occurs before the change, and after the main event. The linger is an in-between place. The linger is a moment frozen. It is a word on the tip of a tongue, but it is also an old growth, something nearly eternal, forgotten. Life left behind.
Pain lingers. Linger is purgatory.
The linger lies between the ticking of the clock hand. The Lingerer is slow.
The Lingerer is waiting.
Linger = undesire.
The Lingerer is stubborn and scared. The Lingerer clings to the now, hesitates, in fear of what lies ahead. It is afraid to confront the turnover of time. The Lingerer is unwilling to move forward, to take action. The Lingerer denies inevitable change. The Lingerer does not want to believe in the former and the latter; it is between them, beside them, without them. The Lingerer is against the coming moments. The Lingerer wants then to be now. The Lingerer is obsessed.
Linger = fear.
On a young sweetgum tree, seed pods have clung to their branches for months without falling. I wonder why they are unwilling.
Linger = hesitance, unspoken, hope, slow, clinging, fear, stubborn, desire, undesire, time, decomposing, reverberation.
Illustration (Overleaf): Marlena Borscheid
olivia callender
Diversion
I’m tired of pushing dirt underneath my fingernails to make it look like I’ve done something. Pretending like I had tended to the garden when all I had done was fill the pail with water. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you that the weeds still sat in the flowerbeds. I tried to hide that from you. The weeds grew and grew and grew. Until they overtook the ill-tended, mute color flowers. I would grab your arm and drag you from the window. I would kiss you until your focus was on my hands and not the overgrown patches of land. My dirty fingernails dancing along your side. I would let you take me, and let you think of the pretty flowers.
Illustration: Ana Sofía Navia Lópezlucas cufre
And if the sun finds you
On a distant shore
Where distant waves
Crash on distant beaches
And a distant lover grazes your cheek. If such a place exists
where
Water flows backwards
Over those familiar hands, And beams of summer-kissed Sun
Don’t scorch soft skin.
Where needles of glass
Don’t slice the lips of honest mouths and sea-salt water
Doesn’t fill young lungs.
Where old floral shirts Are hung out to soak And hollowed hearts
Whisper silken truths, Take me to that place
Where you and I Stare at the same sun.
Illustration: Tianchen Gong
daniella d. donatelle 3d
Manhattan
I spilled Manhattan on my pants
And now I'm stuck sitting in it
Smelling of it—
Of piss and prayers, Of drunk walks up flights of stairs, Of swampy summers spewing solitude from sewers —To sit on empty wooden chairs.
I spilled Manhattan on my pants
And now I can't get up— Head submerged between comforter and bed. Where I can't find comfort, I'll find dreams instead.
I spilled Manhattan on my pants
And now I'm not sure
If Tide sticks are meant for these kinds of things; If they can cut through deep enough
To tie up loose ends
And patch up and fill these dents and dings.
I spilled Manhattan on my pants
And now, after all this wallowing in it, I've grown quite amicable, Quite calm and comfortable
With how warm it's grown around me, Oh how it's grown on me.
Illustration: Angela (Yutong) Lengalexandra frans-kohn
Inspired by Nietzsche’s “The Gay Science” Section 341 and “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”. Quotes used from both works.
She sat in bed; her loneliness was absolute. The night was deep and time was slow. Tears dripped down her chin, soaking the neck of her shirt. The bare branches outside the window cast faint shadows on her comforter. She wondered how pain can be proven; she wanted an explanation, a justification for loss she could understand.
This will pass, she thought. I feel the pain now because it exists now, in me, but I cannot feel pain that has been sealed in the past. Remembrance will not cause me to re-experience it. She clutched her knees to her chest and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. A voice spoke from the darkness at the foot of her bed; it was nothing more than a gathering of shadows; formless.
“This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more;” She squinted into the darkness but found no source. The voice continued, “and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence.”
She saw it in flashes; holding wrists, light blue veins beneath skin; light glowing through orange curtains; the pressure of a hand held in hers; the cold air of winter piquing her tongue. A kiss in the hollow of her ear where her neck met her jaw, snow building on a fire escape, the back of a neck, a human shape before her in the darkness; the salt of a tear that was not her own. The heat of summer and the susurration of dry grasses; a river at night, light shining white on undulating waves; stepping over puddles clogged with leaves and onto sidewalks, rain pulling goosebumps from her skin.
The pain of everything; the beauty of it all. She wanted to throw herself down and gnash her teeth and curse the voice that spoke thus; yet she had experienced tremendous moments; She knew the enormity of feeling, of loving.
So she answered, “You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.” “For all joy wants—eternity.” Illustration:
Alexandra Frans-Kohn Hello H,It’s been so long that for a time I was at a loss for where even to start from. I have written and rewritten this letter many a time, and maybe I’ll continue to do so. 19 years is hard to contextualize into a single letter, but I know I owe you a reply and anyway, I wanted to get it off my chest.
It’s hard to believe—given how little I was—but I do remember you because you were practically an aunt to me. I remember your old dog and the cream cheese sandwiches you would make for me when I would refuse to eat anything else. The other day I found your letter in the photo album while I was deep-cleaning my closet. Reading it brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t understand how you could give someone who wasn’t even your own kid (or even family) that much love.
I’m graduating college by the way, art college of all things, who knows, maybe you had seen it coming. Not to mention, our family has grown, after all these years, you probably haven’t met all of your nieces and nephews, but you would have loved them as they would have loved you. We’re all doing well, I’d like to say, but I wonder how you are. I wonder if you got married, or had kids of your own. Maybe you make cream cheese sandwiches for them. I would have dedicated a paragraph to maintaining your health, but I’m sure
lauren kim
as somebody who studied medicine you must have got it right. Hopefully, you weren’t terribly affected by COVID-19. I often wonder what you look like now, after 19 years. Will you recognize me if we pass each other on the street? Sometimes in this big city, I pass a stranger with some resemblance to my memory of you, and at other times a familiar fragrance wafts through a door that makes me pause and look back.
Sometimes on a quiet day, when I’m spending six dollars on a coffee (isn’t that insane?) at a pleasant cafe, I find myself imagining what it would be like if you walked through the door. I suppose we would hug each other for the longest time, and then finally, I would get a better look at you. We would probably talk for hours on end. I know you must be a good listener if you managed to watch over me when I was five, but it would be my turn to listen, to get to know how you have been, to learn what you’ve been up to. We would laugh, and I would cancel all my plans, skip a class even, and maybe we would get dinner (after all our family does like to eat!) and I think I would tell you that that’s what you are to me—family. We would eventually part, but not before making plans and promises to meet again.
Right now, it’s as if there’s a sunbleached spot on a wall where your picture would have been. Even now I wonder if you think of me as often as I think of you, if the memory lingers. I hope for the best for you. For us. Take care of yourself, H.
With Love, your niece
Lauren Overleaf: Yuqi Liu
aabha sewak
Dirty Laundry
I open the windows to dry some laundry winds rush in dillying dallying I hang up sheets in each corner of my room Linens float from ceiling to floor the stench of detergent forever stays as I dress my cushions in violet pillowcases
I never have space to hang them dry they remain damp no matter what I try
My apartment in New York is really small
With miniature figurines that seem too tall
With bathrooms so snug
My washing machine takes up all the space In every nook and cranny of my apartment It spins around chock full of dirty fabric,
My apartment spins with it
The paper thin walls and the stone floors shake
Tumbling, stumbling and fumbling
I light a candle
near my washing machine
To give it company
The flame flickers
fourteen hundred turns a minute
With every somersault
That my laundry takes
Washing itself raw
Leaching itself of all signs of life
Leaping, twisting and turning
Every week starts off with an earthquake
My washing machine only knows to berate
With a grumble and a shake
It talks of the lingering calm after the storm
The calm of a basket
full of fresh laundry
Of lavender soap and everything ordinary
Of a very dreary winter
And of naked trees
Of days when you misplace your house keys
And of all the days that you put off doing your laundry
Illustration: Sarah Amaro
Overleaf: Sammi Shen
ana sofía navia lópez
Helado de lulo
Un jueves por la tarde vi su mensaje, corto y conciso. —¿Querés ir por un helado?
Hacía un bochorno infernal. La humedad me pegaba al colchón del pequeño cuarto en el que crecí. Mis muñecas observando desde hileras e hileras de repisas, el polvo esparciéndose y reposando en mis pulmones.
Hacía un año que no sabía de Nicolás. Me dejó una lluviosa tarde de abril con un tiquete de avión y el pretexto de que iba en busca de sí mismo, realmente encontrando a una tal Valeria en el camino.
La heladería estaba a la vuelta de la esquina y mamá no estaba en casa. Ignoré el pote de helado en la nevera y dije que sí, casi emocionada.
No reconocí su rostro entre la multitud. Sus ojos no me buscaron, al menos no los mismos que alguna vez había amado. Solían encontrarse con los míos en pura quietud, animándome a esquivar la mirada, mis mejillas en llamas. No hubo ni saludo, ni caricia, meramente narraciones de sus viajes y noticias recalcando así su avanzada edad de 24 años.
Fueron las dos horas más largas que pasamos juntos. Ni siquiera nuestro
primer café pareció tan largo, tan sediento, incluso cuando mi helado goteó y sus amigos llamaron. Sentí la puñalada de resentimiento en su disculpa entre dientes, emanando un hedor amargo y falso. De repente, las largas horas esperando por él se derritieron. Ya no me quería y no hubo dolor ni herida. Esa noche encajé en mi cama de niñita y sollocé hasta quedarme seca. La ciudad me esperaba y con ella, cien años de soledad.
El tiempo pasó y lo que alguna vez hirió, se transfirió al papel. Usé tres diarios ese año y quizás unos 10 lápices, violentamente presionados hasta romper.
Mis amigos aún me llamaban. Compartíamos nuestras desgracias románticas en un simposio internacional, sin saber cuál de nosotros la tenía peor y en qué parte del mundo. Concluimos que con certeza, a ninguno le iba bien, pero que se llevaban los premios y festejos mis amigos geis en busca de amores erectos y derechos.
Los primeros días fueron difíciles, lentos. La ciudad me tragó de un bocado, sin masticar. Caminé la misma cuadra por un mes con miedo a aventurarme a la siguiente, como si no proviniese de una sucursal en el cielo donde pasos salseros enredan con cizaña cada segundo viernes del mes, cuando hay quincenas recién pagadas y desespero universitario. Quizás muerte por baile, quizás solo muerte.
Pero la noche pronto se volvió mañana y observé con morriña mi lejano rostro en mi espejo de bolsillo. Era mi primer día de clases y ni las numerosas capas de ropa me podrían abrigar del frío.
En el pequeño salón de clase, sonó distante una salsa, eterna y romántica. Estaba vacío con las luces apagadas pero juré ver a mi abuela bailando. Parecía domingo, día de limpieza y el sol apenas se asomaba. Tomé asiento y me encogí en la vieja chaqueta de mi padre.
Minutos después la luz estéril me despertó de golpe y observé a mis compañeros ingresar al salón en absoluto silencio. Sentí el impulso latino de saludar pero lo contuve con vergüenza, inmóvil. Entre el aire gringo y espeso, escuché un suspiro en castellano, distante pero de inmediato cercano.
poppy tingley
It was 2003. The local funfair was being held on the green near home. I attended in the hope of a good time. Instead I received a candy floss and hot-dog-induced stomachache and a desperate need to change my panties. The balloons I collected had popped on my way home. I kept the deflated, taut, rubber bits underneath my pillow.
Pliés and pirouettes, spinning past the brunettes. Always Rose: rose sparkle barkle, with a tight bun. Never Sabina – the ranga: gingerbread, carrot top, freckle face, firecrotch, orange fucker. Only until nearly one minute into Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake did her hair light up and burn through the frolicking tutus on the stage. Cries and screams of little girls’ dreams echoed as she claimed the role of the ugly duckling.
Illustration: Béa Ancil
Overleaf: Hao Zhou
ILLUSTRATION SENIOR THESIS class of 2024
Illustration: Alana Gerry
sarah amaro
sarah3lixabeth@gmail.com
sarah3lixabeth.wixsite.com/bysarahamaro
Instagram: @bysarahamaro
béa anctil
bayuhmarieiwanowsky@gmail.com
bayuhmarie.com
Instagram: @bayuhmarie
esther aryeetey
sthraryeetey@gmail.com odaakai.com
Instagram: @naaodaakai
marlena borscheid
patternfreaktattoo@gmail.com patternfreak.nyc
Instagram: @patternfreak
olivia callender
oliviacallenderart@gmail.com
oliviacallenderart.com
Instagram:@01ivi4i5c00l
anita chen fu
anita.chenfu@gmail.com
anitachenfu.wixsite.com/anita-chen-fu
Instagram: @just.a.colorful.mess
Instagram: @itsnotana.itsanita
roxie chen
ruoxiec15@gmail.com
Instagram: @uneko_rx
tiffany chen
Instagram: @tiffanycyx
crane cheung
qiaotonq@gmail.com
qtonq.weebly.com
Instagram: @qiaotonq
nina chung
eunivrzart@gmail.com
ninamchung3142fd17.myportfolio.com
Instagram: @eunivrz
Twitter: @eunivrze
henry coleman
henrycampcoleman@gmail.com
henrycoleman.art
Instagram: @hnrysart
charlice cuaresma
Ccuaresma1001@gmail.com
Instagram: @stupiduglybigtoe
Instagram: @stupidyuckybigtoe
lucas cufre
lucascufre@gmail.com
lucascufre.com
Instagram: @lucas.sketches
ruijia diao
yuqiao ding
yuqiao1017@gmail.com
Instagram: @dianad1017
jamie jung yun doh
dohjungyun@gmail.com
jamiedohart.com
Instagram: @jungyun_doh
lesli dominguez
leslihdominguez@gmail.com
leslidominguez.weebly.com
Instagram: @o0_leli_0o
daniella d. donatelle 3d
dddonatelle@gmail.com
dddonatelle.com
Instagram: @dddonatelle
john edwards
jontonsopa@gmail.com
jontonsopa.weebly.com
Instagram: @jontonsopa
alexandra frans-kohn
Allyfranskohn@gmail.com
Instagram: @saplingseance
alana gerry
gerrycalana@gmail.com
alanagerry.com
Instagram: @acgartaccount
brooke goldstein
brookeaerin@gmail.com
Brookeaerin.com
Instagram: @brookeaerinillustration
tianchen gong
tianchen_gong@outlook.com tianchen.art
Instagram: @tianchen.gong.1
Instagram: @gtcjournal
grace hwang
ghwangart1st@gmail.com
ghwangart1st.com (password on request)
joohee jen kim
jooheejenkim@gmail.com j3nkim.com
lauren eunna kim
artofeunna@gmail.com
Instagram: @artofeunna
chloe kittredge
ckittredge12@gmail.com
chloekittredge.cargo.site
Instagram: @chloe.kitsch
esther ko
kesther02@gmail.com
estherskollection.myportfolio.com
Instagram: @estherkoart
eunseo cindy ko
eunseocindyko1031@gmail.com
eunseocindyko.com
ana krent
anaekrent@gmail.com
Instagram: @ana.sketch
lauren lee
lelee5353@gmail.com
laurenleeillustration.com
Instagram: @laurensfairyland
angela yutong leng
lengyangela@gmail.com
Instagram: @angelasworkart
Instagram: @lengyt__angela
emily leung
Leune097@newschool.edu
Instagram: @kaleung.art
jordan leung
jordan.cb.leungz@gmail.com
Instagram: @jordanleungz
isabelle lewis
lewii354@newschool.edu
Instagram: @mums___basement____
jaclyn li
jaclyn0906li@gmail.com
yuqi liu
yuqiliu1269@gmail.com
yuqiliu.cargo.site
Instagram: @yuqianita
ziying li
liziying115@gmail.com
lisali-art.com
Instagram: @lisasil115
ken lo
Instagram: @kennynionn
cleo lynn
cleo.rebecklynn@gmail.com cleolynn.cargo.site
Instagram: @cleolynnn
Instagram: @novemberenvy
haocheng ma
lir900@newschool.edu rulanli.com
maria maldonado
maria1213maldonado@gmail.com
mariasbrainwrld.com
Instagram: @marias.brainwrld
aiko manzello
emailmeaiko@gmail.com
Instagram: @g4iko
kaimbayo117@gmail.com kai bae-mbayo
hmac
whatsgooditshmac@gmail.com
hmacstudios.myportfolio.com
Instagram: @hmacsauz
Instagram: @whatsgooditshmac
roger mei
rogermei96@gmail.com
Instagram: @roger_mwl_
tyler moon
tylermoon116@gmail.com
tylermoon.myportfolio.com
Instagram: @tylmoo
abby morrell
amorrell01@gmail.com
Instagram: @art.work
Instagram: @badart.work
noah murphy
dahyun nam
namda98@gmail.com
Instagram: @___daroong
ana sofía navia lópez
anasnavia@gmail.com
anasnavia.com
Instagram: @anasnavia
khushboo parimoo
kparimoo@gmail.com
Instagram: @gardenghost9
lili price
designedbylili@gmail.com
lilipriceportfolio.com
Instagram: @designedbylili
yi qiu
sapphire ruan chillfall lyl
016brandy@gmail.com
Instagram: @chillfalllyl
Twitter: @ChillfallLYL
aabha sewak
aabhasewak02@gmail.com
aabhasewak.com
Instagram: @abadraws
Instagram: @aabhasewak
jiaang shen
shenj820@newschool.edu
sammi shen
sammisshen@gmail.com sammisshen.com
Instagram: @bysammisshen
vincent shi
vincentsshi@yahoo.com
Instagram: @th3b4mb00st1ck
Twitter: @thebamb00stick
jennifer shin
jennifershin105@gmail.com
jennifershin.org
denise son
deniseson8417@gmail.com
deniseson.org
Instagram: @sonday.s_wrk
luana tardy
music@petitmond.com petitmond.com
Instagram: @mon.petitmond
poppy tingley
poppytingley15@gmail.com
poppytingley.com
Instagram: @poppytingley
alysia to
illuminahearts@gmail.com
alysiato.carrd.co
Instagram: @illuminaartz
ting-en tsai
tetsai.tsai@gmail.com
tingentsai.com
Instagram: @tingentsai
jake ullman
jvkesvrt@gmail.com
Instagram: @jvkesvrt
daniel um
danielumart@gmail.com
danielumart.com
Instagram: @danielumi
kandice xu
kandicexu@gmail.com
kandicexu.com
Instagram: @kandice_xu
alice zhang
highcold.alice@gmail.com
hao zhou
2088394866@qq.com
Instagram: @cocoz233
lingying zou
Instagram: @__luclzzz__
Cover: Khushboo Parimoo
End Papers: Ana Krent
Title Page: Aabha Sewak
Illustration on facing page: Ting-en Tsai
Writing on facing page: Ana Krent
Design Team: Tianchen Gong, Yuqi Liu, Cat Morgan, Sammi Shen
This publication is typeset in Linger (designed by Sammi Shen) and Vollkorn Printed by Conveyor, Jersey City, NJ
Special thanks to all the amazing AMT staff who have supported the Illustration Program this year.
Senior Thesis Faculty: James Bascara, Amanda Bonaiuto, Carrie Hawks, Jordin Isip, Nora Krug, Catrin Morgan, Chang Park, Lauren Redniss, Qiaoyi Shi, R. Sikoryak.
Senior Thesis Teaching Assistants: Hannah Burns, Aditi Bhattacharjee, Kamel Giurgius, Javeria Hasnain, Eric Weck.
It feels like I’ve been lingering about for quite some time now. Sometimes I’ve felt that I was taking too long, moving too slowly. But I’ve realized that there is something beautiful about lingering. I’ve found that taking time is something to appreciate. I wouldn’t consider it stalling, more like dilly dallying, taking in all that is around me. My time here at Parsons was a very unusual period of my life, much different than I ever would have expected it to play out. Lots of events caused pause, and with each pause there was a feeling of disorientation, many moments of being thrown from expectation. These halts in time and experience were often frustrating, but they also showed me that disruption is required if we long for something better, something caring, something sustainable. These periods of slowness can be quite revolutionary if you think about it. Every time there is a pause that throws you off your track, it makes you think about why you’re on this track in the first place, that maybe you needed something different, something new.
