Parsons Senior Publication 2023: Overgrown

Overgr

own

Parsons Illustration Class of 2023

Dance Dance Revolution Brittney Allotey

A day and 12 hours after my birthday, I went to the local arcade for the first time. A new day, a new age. It’s ok, I’m still young. But 21 is only 10 years apart from 31 and 11 was 10 years before. See how fast it took to grow into myself? I stopped and stared in the mirror this morning, anticipating that my eyeballs would glide up and down my body and send easy feedback to my brain, telling me exactly who I am. Especially now that I’m a real adult. Or maybe tell me that turning 21 didn’t change my brain at all. I feel neither wiser nor less juvenile. I feel nothing.

I remember the time my father denied me a game for my birthday when I was younger. Was it Street Fighter? It was like the buzzwords were all he was attuned to. That must be why he refused to buy me a Gameboy, as if it was clearly built for the hands of boys. Thus my brother was more deserving of it. I wasn’t allowed to play with many consoles either.

My stubborn side never forgets even after all these years. I think about the console I now own and the games that live in it. Turns out I enjoy fighting games a lot more than I thought. Games are for leisure, thinking, and fun. Contrary to my father ’s words, this arcade was for all people and I was determined to get lost and stay lost for hours. The journey there was so frigid I eventually just let the snot seep onto my lip before wiping it away with my sleeve. That month, the city welcomed the wind that stinged my nostrils. The walk to the arcade felt criminally numbing, so I decided to personify the song playing in my head. Trying to get rid of myself through songs has been a strange habit of mine. The mental playlist hops through various genres: scattered squishy bobbing beats, monotonous scratchy voices against violin and sax, a facile rhythm promising forever and ever and ever. Alternative music it is. Shoegaze quickly manifested itself into my limbs just when I started crossing the asphalt.

Suddenly, the warm echoing buzz of the guitar pedal interfered with my ability to walk. So many cars with judgmental eyes were permeating through my coat and ribs. I took a step, another, and another, almost to the point where it felt robotic. All while looking down at my shoes. I’m a couple feet away from the arcade and I already sensed overload in my ears. The glittery sound of machines and excited laughter nearby pissed me off. There better be games open and waiting for me. It better be my turn to laugh. On top of that, the sign was so flashy, shifting different hues so quickly that it could induce a migraine. I pushed the entrance open, the little bell above marking the start of some sort of moderate awakening.

It felt like time reversal took place the moment the door closed. The narrow room was lined with various machines and glass screens with pixels rummaging around in the competitive gamer’s eyes. There were people playing ATV driving games, throwing basketballs into mini hoops, or trying their luck at some sort of Russian roulette machine for more tickets and prizes.

I crouched and inserted a gold coin in the first game I saw in the corner. I decided it was time to go crazy. Soon after getting up, I noticed two men in the other corner scampering around. Or maybe it was dancing. The man on the right took each step easily, his body effortlessly in rhythm with the beat, while the man on the left looked exhausted. His left foot tried to reach for the back arrow, which evidently caused him to miss the next set of arrows. His hands gripped the bar behind his back, which did not help. And I couldn’t stop myself. I ditched my game and walked over to the dancing men. The song they danced to had just ended and the title page’s booming music encouraged more playtime for the small price of two coins. I had 3 left.

“Can I hop on?” Both of the men twisted their necks to look at me. The good dancer, who looked like the average NYU student, smiled and nodded. “All yours!” he said. I

remember that I stepped on the platform, not sure how my anxiety ceased to exist. “Unless you wanna do two players?” I agreed and the young man stepped on the other side. I wasn’t sure what song to choose so I picked the third one I saw. “I’m good with Basic!” I lied. I’ve never touched this shit in my life. I turned to see him jogging in place as the screen loaded. “Nice choice!” He planted his feet firmly on the platform and so I did too. The arrows came in faster than I expected. I tried my best and evidently bombed. Round One was graded an astounding “D.” But for some reason I couldn’t quell the fury in my chest. I inserted another coin and looked up at the stranger. “Down to play another round?”

This constant trial and error, coin inserting and dancing steadily improved my skills. When I scored higher than the last round, I was graciously rewarded with a high five from my dancing partner and another round. I was having so much fun that the sting of breathing didn’t bother me. The tremble of my fingers was simply a sign of advancement. I barely noticed the noises of people winding down and the sunlight fading from the dirty windows. Me, merely perfecting my craft, didn’t feel the need to even take a water break. It would take the building burning down to get me to stop.

Suddenly, the screen glitched, followed by sparks and smoke coming from the wires behind. The employees yelled to evacuate but I slowly backed away beside the man. We continued backwards until we bumped against the glass door. Neither of us attempted to move or open the door. I turned to the nameless man, smoke creeping up my nose and watering my eyes. “What’s your name, by the way?” I asked between coughs. “Can I tell you something I just thought of?” he said. I forgot he never answered my question. “You can take the dance out of revolution, but you can never take the revolution out of dance. Get it?” I did not.

Illustration on facing page: Gaelin Zhao

Solace in the Mundane Joy Baik

I find myself overcomplicating life, rushing through the days to grow up a bit faster, start my day a bit sooner, feel a little bit better. But despite it all, I am grounded in the small things. How the sky looks when I open my eyes. How the breeze feels across my face through the blinds of my window. How a car wash looks like a watercolor painting. The way the sunlight melts into my backyard. It’s comforting to know that I am alive in time. Time has been a fear of mine. I always feel it slipping through my fingers like sand or a melting ice cream cone. No matter how quickly I try to grab ahold of it, it still passes.

Time moves forward with or without me. I am learning, though. I’m learning to take in each second and to miss the world only by a blink. Let time flow and do its thing. Don’t worry about it. It’s not your job to panic and run in a race that has no end. I was running full speed ahead and I just forgot. I forgot the direction I was going and why I was running so fast when all I needed in life was

exactly in front of me. I had everything I needed at that point in time.

So, no rush. Life will take its course. Let yourself feel for once, sit in heartbreak, culminate feelings for that new someone, laugh as hard as you can, live without judgment - be happy. To be happy. I want to be happy. And... I will be.

So, no rush. If you’re toiling over a past lover, just let it happen. Cry when you need to. Talk to someone when you’re missing them. Feeling down is not going to be easy. Nothing really is.

As the days pass and you live on, you’ll realize that fresh breakup was a month ago, two or maybe even three.

Sometime down the line, maybe you’ll find a new special someone. Not everything works out even when you want it to, but it’s okay. You’ll be okay.

Don’t be afraid of new love. I get it. You’ve been broken before, why would you do it again? Maybe out of all the crap and shitty situations you’ve been through, someone comes along and makes all of that worth it. At least that’s what we can hope for. A girl can dream, can’t she? If I could change my past self, I wouldn’t. I loved as hard as I could. I gave it my all and I wouldn’t do it any other way. I don’t regret loving the person who I spent part of my life with. They deserved my time during that moment in my life. They made me happy but fear got in the way. Even loved ones can hurt you. Maybe even hurt you the most.

I’m sorry if I hurt you.

We grew while we were together but the world showed us different paths. Our growth came to an end. If anything, we were just growing apart holding each other by the thread of denial. It was bound to end even if we hated to admit it. And that’s okay.

We can’t always have an ideal situation of being friends again – maybe if more time passes you’ll understand why I left the way I did. I still loved you when I left but I understood that you needed your own time without me. It was difficult for me to bear the weight of the friendship on my shoulders. I hope you’re doing well. It’s always nice to see you’re smiling. It’ll be okay, okay?

The Resurgence of Nature in Apocalypse TV Stella Bellow

In the post-pandemic age, a certain kind of apocalypse genre has risen in popularity. The Last of Us, a TV show about humans being ravaged by a contagious cordyceps fungus, has the classic moaning zombie with which we’re all familiar. But many, like Station Eleven, a similar post-apocalyptic TV show, illustrate a counterattack of nature. Industrial structures like train cars and gas stations being eaten from the inside out by brambles and vines, and buildings with forests bursting through their floors. These shows portray nature in the process of healing, breaking out of the harsh and man-made, and instinctively creating a world on its own.

The beauty of these shows is that they empathize with the suffering in an apocalypse, while simultaneously showing the upsides of human devastation. They ask the question, what would happen if there was less human activity? Would nature restore itself?

The cultural discussions from The Last of Us prompted scientists to write op-ed pieces about the cordyceps theory, in which – hypothetically – if temperatures warmed enough, the contagious fungus could take over and alter our brains, rendering us brain-dead zombies. As humans, we love to get emotional about a threat to our existence. Yet, I watched Station Eleven in the wake of the pandemic, and I found it quite poignant - the destruction of our society could give way to a more advanced civilization, nature herself.

Illustration overleaf: Maizi Huang

Overgrown Baby Kayla Berry

I am a big baby. A baby in Doc Martens, a baby who wears lipstick occasionally and, maybe, smokes a roll up every now and then. I am crawling and stomping, wide eyed and curious, absolutely clueless and inevitably heading for danger. There’s no safetyproof corners in life, no soft rubber barrier stopping my head from smashing straight into a sharp edge. Blood, bruises, a brutal truth. Let me indulge in fairy tales my whole child life. Let me believe in heroes and princes and true love, then teach me feminist theory in college. Prince Charming is a swipe on my screen, swearing he’s 6ft and I, for the first time, understand the villain.

I am a two decade old toddler. I cry more than a normal toddler because my pain is worse than a grazed knee or a raised voice. I’m a toddler who has strong political beliefs and a hopeless perception of love and an airfryer. I have an airfryer. Those pre-adulthood songs I’d listen to, looking out the window on the way to school whilst romanticizing life outside, safety proof corners. I’d be the girl, in a city, who did politics and pessimism and cooking. I thought I knew everything then but, I know I know nothing now. Nothing about politics or love or how to use an oven.

I am a fetus in a new womb. A womb with dating apps, accountability and responsibility. I am a fetus who must feed themself through an umbilical cord of experience and mistakes and air-fried food. I’ll cry in the stomach of a city, kicking the walls of a suffocated apartment and float into thoughts I’ve never had before. Thoughts of predictable uncertainty, potential failure and what the fuck do I do now. Thinking back to if I was too loud, too quiet, too upfront, a bit rude. Worse, I’m starting to get forehead wrinkles and I need to moisturize more often because princesses don’t have dry skin.

But this isn’t a fairy tale, this is adulthood. The knowing of knowing nothing. You’re pushed out the vagina of reality, forced to start anew all over again. I am a big baby. A big baby in a city with no safety proof corners heading straight for a head injury. I’m going to fall and I’m going to bleed this time. Welcome to the world — it’s dangerous!

Illustration overleaf: Josie O’Neal-Odom

Owi Lee

Name: Date:

In the year JUNKTHOUSAND love requires more bravery. I protect and maintain the Sandbox as always. I maintain my facilities. YES.

I want all of life again and again in multiple excellent swishes. At age 65, when I’m over being a Mr., I will live in the jungle to hide from neo domesticated micro-plastic-sapiens.

If they encroach with their noxious numbing gasses, with the slim chance they pass over the microplastic eating worms, I will be but a gorilla to them. A Gorilla Terrorizer. I’ll wickedly protect myself and the wordless musicians I’ve become acquainted with.

To the ones I love, I will be virtually unreachable. My world will buzz-about the same size (be my triumph against abandon, and tortured forgetful pirouettes). I’ll have a great life but I’ll miss pruning the best hands in the world.

I’ll make documentaries for you and big large moss paintings for my mom.

And when I’m dying old I’ll recross Blender Ocean plant my toe in your grave and leave my best drawings in library books.

Notes on Overgrown Juliet Montana

overgrown

is there a limit? where is the line between grown and overgrown?

i can’t stop it— the growing over of barren skin and barren land.

i want to be clean.

i will keep going, shaving and razing in relentless perpetuity.

i’m burned by the blade—

from my lips to my collarbones to my toes, from cracked concrete and dirt pressed dry, red bumps and fragile flora rise.

it hurts.

it hurts in a way that makes me panic until i realize

it doesn’t really matter.

what would happen if i finally let it go? if i let the stubble grass grow?

would it turn to flowers or weeds?

perhaps i can be beautiful either way— more important than that, i will learn to love myself either way.

ZOMBANT Gaelin Zhao

Illustration on preceding page: Shiqi Chen

IN THE BEGINNING, IT WAS THIS QUIET INCEPTION OF THE MIND. YOU BARELY FELT IT.

AND BY THE TIME IT HIT,YOU WERE TOO HELPLESS, TOO LATE TO DO ANYTHING, IT CHANGED AND MORPHED, SLICING, SEVERING, DECIMATING THE STILLNESS THAT HAD DEVOURED YOUR MIND FOR SO LONG. IT HAD AN EDGE THAT YOU ENJOYED. FINALLY! NOISE! SHUDDERING AND SHAKING TO A GROSS GYRATION. YOU WRITHED IN THE GLORY OF IT, CHASING IT AS IT CHASED THE STILLNESS.

LOVE! THIS WAS LOVE!

HOUR AFTER HOUR, IT SPREAD. A CRUEL INTERLOPER SLIPPING INTO YOU. LANCING YOUR FLESH AND TEARING IT OPEN. ANCHORING IN YOUR SKULL AND ARCING ABOVE, YOU WERE ENAMORED WITH IT. AS THE FEELING DESTROYED YOU, IT WAS A SALVATION TOO. THE STILLNESS WAS GONE, REPLACED WITH EUPHORIA.

HOW COULD IT BE ANYTHING ELSE?

BUT HOW SHAMEFUL IT WAS. YOUR FLESH RENDERED UNRECOGNIZABLE, PROTRUDING AND UGLY, DRIVEN THROUGH WITH COUNTLESS SPIRES, IT PARALYZED YOU AND LEFT YOU TO ROT. AND YET YOU WERE STILL CAPTIVATED BY IT.

HOW COULD I NOT BE!

OH GOD, THESE HORRIBLE SPIRES! YOU CAUSED THEM WITH YOUR GROSS UNDYING LOVE! WHAT AWFUL DESIRES INSCRIBED UPON YOU LIKE A PLAGUE OF SORES. DISGUSTING!

YOU LACK THE POWER AND THE DRIVE TO RID YOURSELF OF IT, EXPLODING THROUGH YOUR OUTER CRUST, REACHING FOR THE SALVATION THAT WILL INCEPT ANOTHER. YOU JUST STAND HERE, CLUTCHED AND STUPID, ENAMORED AND DUMB.

I MUST BE! I HAVE TO BE!

IN THE REPULSIVE NATURE OF YOURSELF, YOU WILL FIND THE ROOT OF REASONABLE DOUBT, AND FINALLY, YOU WILL SEE.

Christmas Tree Yi Du Zhao

There’s a forest in my apartment building that I’ll always call home.

I built it from the ground up with crayons and soft hands

From lego blocks to plastic twigs spawned my little kingdom

An oasis of a memory I keep under my pillow

A photograph my dad keeps in his wallet

There was an array of cactuses by my window that I called my desert. I was never tall enough to see all the potted plants, but the sunlight from the window beamed at my forehead like a kiss every morning.

I fell asleep to the moonlight hitting the sheer curtains every night, and it was as if the sun had never set.

In my memory, the lovebirds on my balcony never died. They sang love songs as they nibbled on each other’s feathers with affection

I would watch them from the living room, idealizing a life where the food bowl was always full and the water was always fresh

Where love was plentiful, and every word rang like a sweet melody

I would gaze at the aquarium like I was in the ocean, I would sit under the Christmas tree like I was in the woods

Like a fingerprint, I was a tree stump

Like the files of human memory, I was a photograph

Forever, my core remains childish

and so my forest grows

Emely Acevedo Arias

emely.nilaa@gmail.com

emelyacevedo.com

Instagram: @messymoon_

Brittney Allotey

Brittneyallotey21@gmail.com

brittneyalloteyart.weebly.com

Instagram:@classicsocks99

emmasalosi@gmail.com

emmaalosi.com

Instagram: @lemon.emma.art

Owen Andrejco

owenandrejco@gmail.com

owenandrejco.wixsite.com/portfolio

Instagram: @owenandrejcoart

Lauryn Arce

laurynarce@gmail.com

laurynarce.com

Instagram: @l.artce

Joy Baik

beggarrabbit@gmail.com

joybaik.com

Instagram: @the.dailyrabbit

Patrycia Baran

patrycia.baran@yahoo.com

patryciabaran.com

Stella Bellow

bells190@newschool.edu

Instagram: @stellabellow

Kayla Berry

Kaylaberry2001@gmail.com

Instagram: @kaylasberrys

Jaewon Byeon

gudqn12345@gmail.com

Instagram: @spicyjjaejjae

Ashley Chang

ashleymireechang@gmail.com

changashley.com

Instagram: @ashleymchang

Angela Chen

angelachen52001.wixsite.com/portfolio

Instagram: @angelachen_illustration

Shiqi Chen

wendychen0311@gmail.com

shiqixm.com

Instagram: @xm_wendychen_art

Urim Choi

urimchoi8@gmail.com urimchoi.com

Helen Criaco

Sheenam Das

uskinaamsheenamdas@gmail.com

Instagram: @sheenam_das

Isabella Davila

davii449@newschool.edu

Mariah Davis

riahdavi@gmail.com

Instagram: @luxury.momo

Michela Delillo

Delillo.michela@Gmail.com

Instagram: @micheladart

Sofia Demas

sdemas16@gmail.com

Instagram: @wolffcatt

Eva Douwes

ejdouwes@gmail.com

Instagram: @doovdles

Sadie Rose du Vigneaud

SadieRose.duVigneaud@gmail.com

sadieroseduvigneaudart.weebly.com

Instagram: @sadieillustrates

caitlindu622@gmail.com

caitlindu.com

Instagram: @Phantalism

Sam Fuchs

sam.fuchsie@gmail.com samfuchs.co

Carter Gill

gill.gallery

Instagram: @cartergiii

Tamina Green

tamina.green17@gmail.com

animatedbytamina.com

Instagram: @minaa.lisa

Instagram: @animat_ed

Maizi Huang

huangmaizi6@gmail.com

Instagram: @Mai_acct_01

Maxine Ibanez

maxine.ibanez@gmail.com

Instagram: @mountchillimanjaro

Marian Kao

mar08kyc@gmail.com

Instagram: @drawmepancake

Kade Kenny

Kfkenny6@gmail.com

Coconutcarebear.com

Instagram: @Coconutcarebear

Samuel Keshishian

samkeshishians@gmail.com

samkeshishian.me

Instagram: @samkeshishian

Kim Hyo Eun

stellakimhyoeun@gmail.com

stellamakearthe.com

Elin Kuo

Instagram: @kuoe000

Dawn Lee

dawnlee0101@gmail.com

dawnleeportfolio.com

Instagram: @dawn_lee_art

Hyo Lee

leehyojin0122@gmail.com

Instagram: @dlhyowls

Jaeyoon Lee

jaeyoonlee210@gmail.com

Instagram: @jjaen__archive

Juliette Lee

jl4045623@gmail.com

Instagram: @s4woll

Owi Lee

Crystal Li

crystalli.org

Instagram: @miikan19

Rulan Li

lir900@newschool.edu

rulanli.com

Sarah Lushaj

lushs655@newschool.edu

sarahlushaj.com

Instagram: @looshland

Noel Madland

noelmadland@gmail.com

linktr.ee/anniehayworth

Instagram: @merida22

julietlazarusart@gmail.com

julietlazarus.com

Instagram: @jul.lazarus

Emma Mora

Instagram: @emmamora99

Cris Muniz Torres

crismtorres17@gmail.com

Instagram: @cris_muniz_torres

SwanSwan Myint

swanswan.art@gmail.com

swanswan.art

Instagram: @swanswan.art

Christina Nap

Katharine Nie

katharinennie@gmail.com

katharinenie.myportfolio.com

Instagram: @kniellust

Josie O’Neal-Odom

pheenydoodles@gmail.com

josiepheeny.com

Instagram: @pheenydoodles

Xiaohan Pei

yuexiaohanart@gmail.com

yuexiaohan.com

Instagram: @yuexiaohan_art

Charlotte.a.pelissier@gmail.com

charlottepelissier.com

Kaikaikan09@gmail.com

kaikaikan.space

Instagram: @kaikaikan09

kaikaikan09

Liv Ratnavale

livratnavale@gmail.com

livrat.co

Instagram: @liv.rat

Madeleine Remy

m.remy.art@gmail.com

madeleine-remy.com

Instagram: @maddish.art

Chae Roh

2ndchae@gmail.com

chaesecond.com

Instagram: @chaesecond

Twitter: @chaesecond

Al Saker

Saker.illustration@gmail.com

Instagram: @squipplin

Ashley Setiawan

ashleysetiawann@gmail.com

ashleysetiawan.com

Instagram: @ashleysetiawan

Ethan Sim

ethansimyq@gmail.com

ethansim.art

Instagram: @ lovely_lamposts

Miriam Spalinski

miriam.spalinski@gmail.com

miriamspalinski.com

Instagram: @spalinski.art

Lydia Sposaro

lydiasposaro@gmail.com

lydiasposaro.com

Instagram: @akaLyddia

Ingrid Yu-Ju Tai

ingrid@ingridtai.com

ingridtai.com

Instagram: @ingridtai.c0m

Sydney Task

sydneytask@gmail.com

sydneytask.com

Instagram: @sydneytask

Yatong Tian MilkMilky

Instagram: @naimao_le

Ha Tran Clipber

cliiippper@gmail.com

Instagram: @clipber

Carlos Daniel Vargas

Clara Waldheim

clarawaldheimcomics@gmail.com

Instagram:@comicbook_clara

Isabella Wang

wangi809@newschool.edu

isabellawang.org

Jingyi Wang

jinnwoki@gmail.com

jingyiw.net

Instagram: @oki_citi

Hiijacked24@gmail.com

Instagram: @hiijack3d

Warren Wu

warrenwu1539@gmail.com

Instagram: @ a_myth_skywar1539

Morgan Wynter-Evans

morganwynterevans@gmail.com

wynter-evans.com

Instagram: @wynter.evans

Qiyuan Xiao

xxqiyuan@gmail.com

qiyuanxiao.com

Instagram: @qqmiemie_

Huan Yang

huanyang2021@gmail.com

huanyang.me

Instagram: @huan.art

Jiayao Yang

1824583750@qq.com

Chiho Ye

chihoye.visuals@gmail.com

chihoye.com

Instagram: @un_obliviate

Icey Yuan

iceyyuan0024@gmail.com

Instagram: @leporidaeee

Angela Zhang

Ruotan Zhang

zhangruotan@gmail.com

Instagram: @ruotanz

Damon Zhang

zhanz842@newschool.edu

damonzhang.com

Instagram: @_damonzhang

Instagram: @dats_true_art

Gaelin Zhao

gaelinzhao@gmail.com

gaelinzhao.com

Instagram: @gaelinzhao

Yi Du Zhao

YiduZhao@live.com

yiduzhao.com

Instagram: @yidux

Yiqian Zheng

zyq10750774@gmail.com

Instagram: @zyiqian1000

Puxuan Zhou

alexshundd0606@gmail.com

Instagram: @artbykidpablo

Instagram: @kidpabloz

Amo Zhou

amozhou.net

Instagram: @mintyktpillar

Instagram: @rawr.ink

Anastasia Zhukova

anastasiazhukova0904@gmail.com

Buberri.net

Instagram: @buberri

Instagram: @nastyazhukova0904

Angela Fang Zirbes

angelafangzirbes@gmail.com

angelafangzirbes.com

Instagram: @angfzir

Cover: Clipber

End Papers and Title Pages: Tamina Green

Opening Page and Credit Page: Carlos Daniel Vargas

Design: Catrin Morgan

Design Assistant: Gaelin Zhao

Typeface: Overgrown by Ingrid Tai

Editor: Helena Grande Vicente

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, Caitlin Craggs, Maëlle Doliveux, Carrie Hawks, Jordin Isip, Ben Katchor, Nora Krug, Catrin Morgan, Chang Park, Lauren Redniss, Qiaoyi Shi, R. Sikoryak.

Senior Thesis Teaching Assistants: Remie Arena, Sophie Brown, Will Faour

Helena Grande Vicente, Maria Llona Garcia, Stuart Pennebaker, Frannie Rooney.

I pause to revile a fake school I am failing. Now it’s quiet and I’m thinking: I want to apply myself True School in the future.

What if we Had a beautiful school: bungalows, reading and painting rooms, and asphalt. And a big, big tower for the janitor to rest and for some of us to smoke on top of away from the kids.

And we could all work, teach, learn, work teach learn, learn work learn work.

Leave!

Come back

Words: Owi Lee