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S TA F F E D I T O R S - I N - C H I E F E l i o t I n g e r s o l l ‘ 2 0 , Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0

E D I T O R

O F

D E S I G N

Maia Sporn ‘21

E D I T O R E

D

I

T

O F

L I T E R A T U R E

Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1

O

R

O

F

Te s s W h i t m a n ‘ 2 1

P R O D U C T I O N

A

R

T

S T A F F

Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 , Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0 , Kat e G ro v e s ‘ 2 0 , S o p h i a M o o re ‘ 2 0 , O l i v i a S a l v a g e ‘ 2 0 , A b i g a i l W i tt e r ‘ 2 0 , A r i a n a Ko u re p e n o s ‘ 2 1 , J u l i a S i d o r s ky ‘ 2 2 , Th e o A p p l e b a u m ‘ 2 2 , C h e r i e C h u n g ‘ 2 3 , M a y a Kat z i v e ‘ 2 3 , D e l i n d a U ra ‘ 2 3

F A C U L T Y

A D V I S O R S

J e ff re y E d w a rd s B e t s y Fi e l d s

J o s h u a M e r ro w


MISSION STATEMENT Founded in 1981, Impressions is Riverdale Country School’s independent, student-run art and literary magazine. Over the past 38 years, Impressions has cultivated the visual and literary arts of the RCS

community,

providing

both

students and faculty with the opportunity to engage in the arts and tegral

bringing

together

branches

of

the

two

in-

school.


LETTER

FROM THE

EDITORS

Art and literature are tools we use to convey the way we see the world. Requiring empathy, art forces its viewer to step into someone else’s shoes and see the world from a different perspective. In an age where facts are construed as subjective, misinformation is circulated regularly, and truth is easily mystified, art reaches a critical importance. Art and literature allow us to study and critique the nature of reality and develop new ways of seeing. This year, the Impressions team decided to focus on a theme of transparency. Creativity presupposes empathy, and as a platform for creative expression, our goal for this year was to present art as a search for truth and honesty.

E L I O T

T E J A S R I

I N G E R S O L L

V I J AYA K U M A R

‘ 2 0

‘ 2 0


TABLE

OF

CONTENTS

Look Again Celine Chung ‘20

1

Still Life Nicole van Brugge ‘21

5

Settignano Sunrise Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

6

Untitled Tess Whitman ‘21

8

Frozen CC Katz ‘20

9

Euterpe Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

10

Tony Kushner Katie Dorfman ‘20

12

Pablo Neruda Katie Dorfman ‘20

13

Mirage Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 14 Erota Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20 15 Growing Pains Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 16 i wish i called her mom, mama, or mother

Awa Diop ‘22

18

Below the Chaos Sophia Jacobs ‘21 19 Freshly Glazed Emily Chudy ‘20 20 Just Around the Corner Emily Chudy ‘20

21

Human Figure Maddy Davis ‘21 22 Flower Power Maddy Davis ‘21 23


Throne Maddy Davis ‘21 24 Untitled Maddy Davis ‘21 25 A New Year in Motion Emily Chudy ‘20 26 Jellies Kaitlin Russo ‘21 27 Grand Central Station Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20 28 Oculus Andrea Dammert Duenas ‘20 29 To Be an Artist Katie Dorfman ‘20

30

Warmth Jacob Shufro ‘20 33 On Feminity Anonymous

34

Coney’s Cones Ariana Kourepenos ‘21

35

Travel Celine Chung ‘20 36 Tractor Maddy Davis ‘21 37 Twisted Kaitlin Russo ‘21 38 Clockwise Rachel Horne ‘20 39 Pyramids Royale Katie Dorfman ‘20 40 Sonnet #1 Julia Starck ‘22 41 Silhouette at Night Estelle Anderson ‘22 42 A Case Study on Radical Empathy

Gabrielle Shammash ‘20

43

Horangi Celine Chung ‘20 45 Quiet Jacob Shufro ‘20 46


Attention Problems Katie Dorfman ‘20

48

Sleeping Lion Jennifer Frank ‘20

49

C. R. D. Maddy Davis ‘21

50

Freddi Nora Sherman ‘20

51

Apartment Living Room Maddy Davis ‘21

52

The Peter Jay Sharp Boathouse

Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

53

Atrophy Eliot Ingersoll ‘20

54

Dad Tess Whitman ‘21

55

Super Cupid Asya Reznikov, Faculty

56

To Follow Like Sheep Emily Chudy ‘20

58

A Grazing Mist Emily Chudy ‘20

59

Lake Scenery Brianna Hernandez ‘23

60

Ripple CC Katz ‘20

61

Portrait of the Artist Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

62

Central Park Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

63

Sunshine at 231st Street

Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

63

Stand Off Rachel Horne ‘20

64

Clarity Emily Chudy ‘20

65

Trapped Kaitlin Russo ‘21 66


Oranges Emily Chudy ‘20

67

Haikus Various Writers

68

Lumps Kayley McGonagle, Faculty

70

Untitled Theo Appelbaum ‘20

71

Bust in Paris’ Room Ailyn Burbano ‘20

72

Bubbling Up Jennifer Frank ‘20 73 Grass Anonymous 74 Glance Ella Keinan ‘20 76 They Ask If I’m an Artist Katie Dorfman ‘20

77

Reflection Katie Dorfman ‘20 78 Nude Figure Reclining Ailyn Burbano ‘20 79 Fascination Kaitlin Russo ‘21 80 Tortoise in Galapagos

Ariana Kourepenos ‘21 81

Ode to Levain Bakery Ava Ledes ‘21 82 Polished Sasha Mamaysky ‘22 85 Solitude Theo Appelbaum ‘22

86

Sleep Karlo Antalan ‘21

87

Shaped for the Hand

Elizabeth Pillsbury, Faculty

88

Azucar Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 90


Out of Place Jonah Stockwell ‘23 91 Delicious Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 92 Atrophy Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 93 Sterling Memorial Library Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20 94

Poetry X Mash-Up Sophie Neugarten ‘20, Antonia

Green ‘20, Chiara Schmidt ‘20

95

Limbo Ella Keinan ‘20 96 The Loeb Boathouse Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20

97

Outside Uris Hall Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20 97 Figure Study Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 98 Villanelle Olivia Salvage ‘20 99 Crawl Erxi Lu ‘20 100 Fall Stream Lila King ‘21 101 Massai Women in Meadow

Estelle Anderson ‘22 102

Somehwere Between PS1 and Court Square

Tejasri Vijayakumar ‘20 103

Cold Cheeks and Nostalgia Erxi Lu ‘20 104 Dusk Jacob Shufro ‘20 105 Black Hole Katie Dorfman ‘20 106


The Small Magellanic Tovi Sonnenberg ‘20 109 Winter’s Tale Ariana Kourepenos ‘21 110 Mourning Katie Dorfman ‘20 111 Edge Ella Keinan ‘20 113 Lincoln’s Liberty Katie Dorfman ‘20 114 Ode to My Father’s Unwritten Immigration Story

Mariam Fofana ‘23

115

Waves Lila King ‘21 118 Balance Ella Keinan ‘20 119 The North American Nebula

Tovi Sonnenberg ‘20

120

Moonlight Jeffrey Edwards, Faculty 121 Blueprint Celine Chung ‘20 122 Decompose Kaitlin Russo ‘21 123 Slurp Erxi Lu ‘20 124 Holding Up Elizabeth Pillsbury, Faculty 125 Tarantula Tovi Sonnenberg ‘20 126 Carina Tovi Sonnenberg ‘20 126 IC 2944 Tovi Sonnenberg ‘20 127 Pastoral Ariana Kourepenos ‘21 128 Brynn Kayley McGonagle, Faculty 129


Fleeting Goodbye Erxi Lu ‘20 130 Orchids Sophia Ader ‘23 131 Mountains Lila King ‘21 132 Reach Safiya Patel ‘21 133 To Haunt Erxi Lu ‘20 134 Instinct Celine Chung ‘20 135 Beginnings Ariana Kourepenos ‘21 136 Untitled Killian Chou ‘21 137 Three Faced Celine Chung ‘20 138 A Glass Fantasy Safiya Patel ‘21 139 to be Black is to wonder

Madisyn Cunningham ‘23 140

And That Was the Place In Between

Betsy Fields, Faculty 141

Still Movement Sophia Jacobs ‘21 142 Water Algae Theo Appelbaum ‘22 143 Oranges: Orbs of Vitamin C

Michelle Wen ‘21 144

Gloria’s Windowsill Safiya Patel ‘21 145 Boy Wonder: A Silhouette

Mike Powers, Faculty 146


L

O

O

K

A

G

A

I

N

If you search up “the most famous paintings” on Google, you’ll get a long list of examples. Here are the first eight. It may not seem obvious at first glance, but all of these works do have one thing in common. All of the artists are men from European descent. According to the Tate Museum in London, England, only 5% of museums in London represent an equal number of male and female artists. A 2018 survey of permanent collections in 18 prominent art museums in the U.S. revealed that out of over 10,000 artists, 87% of them are male and 85% are white. Why does this discrepancy matter? Why, out of all things, does the art we see matter? Viewing artwork, whether it is a painting, sculpture, video, etc, help us to analyze and then translate to others what we see. An artist’s work may also be a reflection of the time period, speak to a par-

1


ticular detail about society, and offer a glimpse of what goes on inside the artist’s mind. Thus, if most of the artwork put out there is from the perspective of heterosexual, white males, then that is the perspective that most viewers will be fed. Women are the focus of many famous artworks throughout history. The Mona Lisa, The Birth of Venus, Girl with a Pearl Earring, just to name of few. The naked woman is the primary subject of figure study. The female nude, a woman’s face, her clothing and so on are all popular themes. As the English writer, painter, and art critic John Burger put it: “in art, men act, and women appear.” The human experience is so diverse. How can one better capture the flavor of an experience than through different materials, color, shape, and/or movement? For those of us with the ability to see, there is immense power behind the visual. Most of what we perceive is through sight–we rely heavily on our eyes and to

2


some extent, seeing is believing. So it’s an issue then, when according to the National Museum of Women in the Arts, more women earn Bachelors of Fine Arts, 70% of students. Yet women make up less than half of the number of working artists at 46%. And of course, we cannot forget the lack of representation those who identify outside the binary. Most art is made by men. And I do not mean undermine the talent of male artists. There are so many works by male artists that all of us know, like those of Da Vinci, Pollack, Van Gogh, Picasso, Warhol, that I find fascinating and ingenious. And it’d be amazing if I could just take whatever I make and hammer my work onto any museum wall to help represent people like me, but it’s not that easy. And it’s not enough to just hand out opportunities and call it a day; that’s not genuine, that’s not respectful of the person’s talent and hard work. 3


There are of course the obvious, and frankly horrid, acts of hate and disrespect towards marginalized groups. But there are also ones that are subtle and difficult to point out, yet still equally dangerous. The art world is not immune to this subtlety. I understand my limitations as a young person; I myself have to catch myself before attaching certain connotations to characteristics that people cannot change so simply, such as race and sexuality. Nor did I realize that beautiful paintings can at times have sexist underbellies. Which is why I want to contribute by pushing others, as well as myself, to take time to question what we see. After you walk out of an exhibition, ask yourself: whose works did you see? Who might be missing from the picture? Why might that be the case? And how might we have gotten to this point? President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the National Endowment for the Arts with the idea that “Art is a nation’s most precious heritage. For it is in our works of art that we reveal to ourselves,

4


and to others, the inner vision which guides us as a nation. And where there is no vision, the people perish.” If art really is for everyone, then we should help one another make it that way. Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0

S T I L L L I F E Nicole van Brugge ‘21 C h a rc o a l o n p a p e r 5


SETTIGNANO SUNRISE Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on unprimed canvas

6


7


UNTITLED Te s s W h i t m a n ‘ 2 1 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y


FROZEN CC Kat z ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

9


10


EUTERPE Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on violin


TONY KUSHNER Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n b o a rd 12


PA B LO N E R U DA Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n b o a rd 13


MIRAGE Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 Digital painting 14


E R OTA Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on lace 15


G R O W I N G PA I N S Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 E p ox y c l a y, h u m a n h a i r, l i q u i d l at ex , a c r y l i c p a i n t , t i l e , a n d s t e e l w i re

16


17


I WISH I CALLED HER MOM, MAMA, OR MOTHER Aw a D i o p ‘ 2 2

Her ass is striped with claw marks. A visible contrast in the color of the flesh seeps through. She’s smart. Not book smart, she was robbed of that opportunity. But the most meaningful intelligence is there in her tarnished, used brain. Someone’s always taking from her. She encountered pain from her own blood, yet her beauty remains purified and true. I’ve never encountered someone as beautiful as her. Two slashes decorate right by her eyes. Legend has it that without the family mark, she would turn out blind. Her skin is deep, deep umber. It glows in the dark, a near blue.

18


Her eyes were once ignited. A near black, soul searching pair. She’s tired, they repeat. She can’t take it anymore. Why she still fights? For her kids. Because if somebody is always taking, she must be giving.

BELOW THE CHAOS S o p h i a Ja c o b s ‘ 2 1 Pe n c i l o n p a p e r 19


F R E S H LY G L A Z E D Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on primed paper

20


JUST AROUND THE CORNER Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on primed paper 21


HUMAN FIGURE Maddy Davis ‘21 Oil on canvas

22


FLOWER POWER Maddy Davis ‘21 Oil on canvas

23


THRONE Maddy Davis ‘21 Oil on canvas 24


UNTITLED Maddy Davis ‘21 Oil on canvas 25


A NEW YEAR IN MOTION Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on primed paper

26


JELLIES Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1 Polymer plate intaglio print with Gamsol on paper

27


G R A N D C E N T R A L STAT I O N Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Pe n c i l o n p a p e r

28


OCULUS A n d rea D a m m e rt D u e n a s ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

29


T O

B E

A N

A R T I S T

The youngest 92 year old you’ve ever seen His hands splotchy with paint An accidental jackson pollock. Grandfather didn’t paint worlds, He created them. And when all I saw was black abyss He always saw the next sunrise. Grandfather’s freckles were burnt sienna, His eyes cobalt blue under snowy eyebrows just bushy enough to make You laugh. His own chuckle a mix of Adele and Pavarotti a tune you can’t help but sing along to. And when I saw an ugly scar on my left index finger, 30


Grandfather saw art. Our bodies are a mosaic, he said, a painting of our past My scar stitched in it a lesson, Not to slam doors when angry. Grandfather never was angry, An infinite sunscape, To cool down hot tempered Dorfman women, he said. Grandfather went to war, sailing seas, But he never forgot the girl he met ice skating that purple streaked night, When clouds were cotton candy, and her smile, the feeling of dandelions in summer. She waited, knowing no man like him. Grandfather loved making you laugh He felt it his job to hear the song in each soul 31


To listen and find, perhaps, that hearts all beat in the exact same rhythm. I began to see strangers on the F train, Not as strangers at all But altered reflections of my own face. Grandfather liked imperfections Cracked wall paint and messy hair Scabby knees and scars. In them he saw our humanity. He was a speaker to the stars, Central park’s loudest poet, A man who never needed a cane, He was my grandfather, And now you know him to.

Kat i e D o r f m a n , ‘ 2 0

32


WARMTH Ja c o b S h u f ro ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

33


ON FEMININITY Anonymous Acrylic on canvas

34


CONEY ISLAND A r i a n a Ko u r p e n o s ‘ 2 1 G ra p h i t e o n p a p e r


TRAVEL Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c a n d d e h y d rat e d j e l l y o n c a n v a s

36


TRACTOR Maddy Davis ‘21 Acrylic on canvas

37


TWISTED Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1 C h a rc o a l a n d g o u a c h e o n p a p e r 38


CLOCKWISE Ra c h e l H o r n e ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

39


PY R A M I D S R OYA L E Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n b o a rd

40


S

O

N

N

E

T

#

1

And when I tell you, will you understand? Like the reader who believes the poet? But, for something which you have never planned, The dull, blackened pain, can it ever fit? If I just told you the story, the fact, You would try and try to see it my way. It would sneak up on you, it would attack. It is impossible to feel that day. So what if instead, I told you a tale, One of great sorrow, of great love, and loss. I led you down, down a fictional trail, An imaginary bridge, you would cross. Only then could you see into my heart With words that will transport you to the start. J u l i a St a rc k ‘ 2 2

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S I L H O U E T T E AT N I G H T Estelle Anderson ‘22 D i g i t a l P h o t o g ra p h y

42


A CASE STUDY IN RADICAL EMPATHY I am the product of an experimental living. I am writing the history of my neighborhood on an index card, and I’m recalling each experiment of living in my life. Co-op City begins these experiments. I woke up and didn’t have to turn the lights on. The windows looked eastward, so we got the first rays of the sun. They were beautiful rays. I could see the dusk floating in the air, displaced by my moving of the covers. I loved this experiment in living, but it was a bittersweet apartment. In this apartment, my family went from three to two. Then came my next experiment in living. I attended a Connecticut boarding school worlds away from the former ground of Freedomland. Here one always needed to turn the lights on. With a dorm winter facing the southwest, I no longer saw the sun in the morning. Now I stumbled out of bed, like every other teenager wanting to remain asleep. There was plenty of dusk in the air, but I could no longer see it. I no longer observed its morning dance. This was the dorm room of late-night snacking. The room I left to hear Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven” for the first time. It was colder than the one-bedroom in Co-op city. But I loved it in its own right. College was an experiment in living. Here my basement dorm and later apartment faced west. 43


Despite what I thought, I couldn’t see the sunset. Each evening it was blocked by another building long before the sky became an aggregate of warm colors like a nation of states. So the lights remained on as I learned to read academic writing, first stumbling and standing in the muck of complex-compound sentences. Soon I learn to waddle my way through, swearing my students would never right this way. How I was to be disappointed. Returning to boarding school was an experiment in living. My apartment faced North. I only had to turn the lights on after dusk. I woke up with more energy than my previous time at boarding school. The roles had reversed. My experiment in living was no longer a desk and bed but an apartment. It was a loud apartment, full of teenagers eyeing the oven for chocolate chip cookies. One can only live in a fishbowl for so long. I have had quite a few experiments of living in my life. My favorite was returning to Co-op City. I returned to the same neighborhood in a different apartment with the same eastward view. I can see the rays of the sun again. They come from over my head in my sleep and hit the wall in front of me. I wake up to my faint outline on the wall with dancing dust to either side. I still read unwieldy sentences, now written by my students, but in the natural light. Gabrielle Shammash ‘20 44


HORANGI Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 Ink on paper

5


QUIET Ja c o b S h u f ro ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y 46


47


AT T E N T I O N P R O B L E M S Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0

I don’t have attention problems; you just haven’t caught my attention. A dyslexic world lets you speak all languages and none at all. A topsy turvy land Where n becomes u, And U become lost. I’d read faster, But zigzags tell me to skip words Just for the fun of it And the confusion of my giggling classmates. ‘Cause they can’t see how letters dance If you look at them sideways.

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SLEEPING LION J e n n i f e r Fra n k ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

49


50

C . R . D. Maddy Davis ‘21 A c r y l i c o n w at e rc o l o r p a p e r


FREDDI N o ra S h e r m a n ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y


A PA R T M E N T L I V I N G R O O M Maddy Davis ‘21 Acrylic on bristol paper 52


T H E P E T E R J AY S H A R P B O AT H O U S E Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on canvas

53


AT R O P H Y Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 Digital painting 54


DAD Te s s W h i t m a n ‘ 2 1 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y 55


SUPER CUPID A s y a Re z n i ko v, Fa c u l t y D y e s u b l i m at i o n m e t a l p r i n t


TO FOLLOW LIKE SHEEP Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on canvas

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A GRAZING MIST Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on canvas

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LAKE SCENERY Brianna Hernandez ‘23 Acrylic on canvas


RIPPLE CC Kat z ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

61


PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n N e w Yo r k C i t y M e t ro Ca rd 62


C E N T R A L PA R K Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n N e w Yo r k C i t y M e t ro Ca rd

S U N S H I N E AT 2 3 1 s t ST R E E T Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n N e w Yo r k C i t y M e t ro Ca rd 63


S TA N D O F F Ra c h e l H o r n e ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

64


CLARITY Emily Chudy ‘20 Pe n c i l o n p a p e r

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TRAPPED Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1 S c re e n p r i n t o n p a p e r

66


ORANGES Emily Chudy ‘20 Acrylic on paper

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HAIKUS Va r i o u s Wr i t e r s

Downed limbs Gathered by the armful Kindling Rain Safely held away from me Lying under glass

Parting fog Shake the busy blue sky Until they coalesce

Spring rain Soaks the Earth Roots extend and flowers bud

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Haikus are awesome But sometimes they don’t make sense Flibbertigibbet A wet road Black puddles glisten at night Under street lights’ glows

The song I had sung Grounded in deafening sound Forces me silent Morning a wet mist Covers the quiet, still lake Slow sunrise intrudes

69


LUMPS Ka y l e y M c G o n a g l e , Fa c u l t y D i g i t a l d ra w i n g 70


UNTITLED Th e o A p p l e b a u m ‘ 2 2 Acrylic on canvas 71


B U S T I N PA R I S ’ R O O M Ailyn Burbano ‘20 G ra p h i t e o n p a p e r


BUBBLING UP J e n n i f e r Fra n k ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

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GRASS Anonymous D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

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GLANCE E l l a Ke i n a n ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y 76


THEY ASK IF I’M AN ARTIST Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0

Animals in the deep create their own light; they bioluminesce.  We are like that  All take part in a piece of art— constantly curving, breathing, shifting, seen only by airplane passengers looking below Or astronauts above.  We worker bees— An unconscious, accidental masterpiece Obsessed with subway buzz and taxi hum,  Each car snaking down a highway  With red tail lights beaming Each little boy’s night light  And gas station window paint the art of my city;  a grid of flickering fireflies.  So, when they ask me if I am an artist, I only smile. Because they do not know they are one too. 

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REFLECTION Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on canvas

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NUDE FIGURE RECLINING Ailyn Burbano ‘20 C h a rc o a l o n p a p e r 79


FA S C I N AT I O N Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1 Co p p e r p l at e a q u at i n t p r i n t o n p a p e r

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TO R TO I S E I N G A L A PAG O S A r i a n a Ko u re p e n o s ‘ 2 1 A c r y l i c o n c a rd b o a rd

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O D E

T O

L E V A I N

B A K E R Y

What is a treat? What can one get from it? Oh, but a reward! One that you ease into, A comforting reminder that you are human. For one to resist this dessert would be for one to deny the very air in which we sit. It is the sweet closure to every bite that came before it. But there is one treat. One mighty treat. One that takes the cake! And yet, it is not even a cake. It is superior in every regard. This cookie, a sweet sweet delicacy, gives its audience everything they desire every damn time. It provides promise of the upcoming bites, each better than the last

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A variety of flavors- but one, just one, has shown me what real love is. Love is the chewiest golden inside that remains this way in due time. It knows no staleness. Love is the peanut butter chips that take you by surprise. They work in unison with their surroundings to provide a soft escape. The home your taste buds never knew they needed. It is like finding a warm bath in the middle of a blizzard... a classmate offering a piece of gum... a day of no school for a holiday you don’t even celebrate... a friend reminding you how special you are for no reason at all...All the entities and events you never knew you needed but could never have gone on without

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The source of these confections is none other than Levain A companion of sorts It

has

remained

constant

and

stable

throughout my years Levain does me no wrong When I crave a pick-me-up and no one seems to be around, without fail, it calls to me One could say I wouldn’t be the soul I am today without this Godsent place This is the absolute treat. I owe it all to you, Levain. Av a Le d e s ‘ 2 1

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POLISHED S a s h a M a m a y s ky ‘ 2 2 Acrylic on paper

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SOLITUDE Th e o A p p l e b a u m ‘ 2 2 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

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SLEEP Ka r l o A n t a l a n ‘ 2 1

As my eyes begin to close, my mind enters free-fall, Down a rabbit-hole, into a tunnel of memories and nightmares. Vivid hues transport me to times past as feelings Of love, hate, and wonder drown me in a flurry of emotions. My brain is a bundled mess of nerves

And suddenly the tunnel flips upside down, Flipping me back towards the void I fell from. I jolt up and my eyes struggle to take in my surroundings, Of darkness, of boredom, of nothingness. I fall back against a cloud of softness And as my psyche drifts once more, I am transported back to the tunnel Of weirdness, of wonders and of comfort.

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SHAPED FOR THE HAND E l i z a b e t h Pi l l s b u r y, Fa c u l t y Po rc e l a i n c l a y a n d g l a z e


AZUCAR Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 D i g i t a l d ra w i n g

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91

OUT OF PLACE J o n a h St o c k w e l l ‘ 2 3 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y


DELICIOUS Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 Oil on canvas 92


AT R O P H Y Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 D i g i t a l d ra w i n g 93


STERLING MEMORIAL LIBRARY Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Pe n o n p a p e r

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POETRY X MASHUP S o p h i e N e u g a rt e n ‘ 2 0 , A n t o n i a G re e n ‘ 2 0 , C h i a ra S c h m i d t ‘ 2 0

I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,¹ The master mistress of my passion - ² I thought.³4 For love of her, and all in vain ;, Lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 5 Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;,6 O darkness! O in vain!, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,7 And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste., I, like an usurp’d town8 Never shall be free, Alas! I have nor hope nor health,9 Nor peace within nor calm around,1 0 O Death in Life, the days that are no more!,, ¹Bradstreet, A letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment, 286. ²Shakespeare, Sonnet 20, 171. ³Dickinson, 359, page 724. 4

Browning, Porphyria’s Lover, 642.

5

Shakespeare, Sonnet 129, 177.

6

Whitman, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Walking, 694.

7

Shakespeare, Sonnet 30, 172.

8

Donne, 14, 208.

9

Bysshe shelley, Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples, 541.

10

Tennyson, Tears, Idle Tears, 632.

95


LIMBO E l l a Ke i n a n ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

96


T H E LO E B B OAT H O U S E Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Pe n a n d c h a rc o a l o n p a p e r

OUTSIDE URIS HALL Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Pe n o n p a p e r

97


FIGURE STUDY Eliot Ingersoll ‘20 i Pa d d ra w i n g 98


VILLANELLE Olivia Salvage ‘20

All the kids have gone to sleep. Accept the age, and don’t feel sad When the stories hide under, buried deep. They still have secrets left to keep When silence sets in and there’s nothing to add. All the kids have gone to sleep.

99


CRAWL E r x i Lu ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on paper


FA L L ST R E A M Lila King ‘21 Acrylic on paper

101


MASSAI WOMEN IN MEADOW Estelle Anderson ‘22 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

102


SOMEHWERE BETWEEN PS1 AND COURT SQUARE Te j a s r i Vi j a y a ku m a r ‘ 2 0 Oil on canvas 103


C O L D C H E E K S A N D N O S TA LG I A E r x i Lu ‘ 2 0 O i l o n Ca n v a s

104


DUSK Ja c o b S h u f ro ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y


B

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Mother’s scream sits at C sharp, piercing, shattering my earbuds so many times they have become shards of glass. It was a last period science class when I discovered musicians are architects of sound. My friend shut down her MacBook Air; the familiar chord F sharp flooded my ears. That day we learned black holes are 250 million light years away, never to be seen by the naked eye. But my classmates are deaf to the sight of sound, for black holes hum at a B flat. 57 octaves below mother’s middle C, Too low for them to hear but just low enough for glass earbuds to catch. Black holes became my faceless duet partners; they are shy singers,

106


isolated musical geniuses, born only when a star collapses in on itself, composing its first and last supernova. NASA assures us black holes can’t consume Earth; they are too far away. If only they’d put down telescopes and listen, they would hear in Earth’s soil the faint rhythm of a B flat. They would know Earth has been a black hole for centuries. Our societies collapse in the dark, falling into one another in world wars, composing the first human supernova: a bloody concerto of howling blind men. If I could compose, I would remodel Earth’s crust, as any good architect would. So that my classmates could hear beach waves like I do: as echoes of our own heartbeats. So that they could hear a the harmonizing trees shriek as we cut them down, 107


a song we ignore as silence, or rustling leaves. I long for the night they realize black holes are not the ones in the dark. If you sliced me open, would you find a black hole where my heart used to be? Until I collapse, a dying star on the beat of its last song. will I too float in the black oblivion of an infinite B flat? Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0

108


THE SMALL MAGELLANIC To v i S o n n e n b e rg ‘ 2 0 A s t ro p h o t o g ra p h y

109


W I N T E R ’ S TA L E A r i a n a Ko u re p e n o s ‘ 2 1 Acrylic on paper

110


MOURNING Kat i e D o r f m a n ‘ 2 0

He releases her The cold side of the pillow Without his constant freezing she is frail Her muscles fracture, bones crack Skin flakes off stretching in Reverse hypothermia. He became her mirror Eyes reflecting her grayness in a way She’s never seen. Without him she forgets the shape of her Mouth And forgets to speak And forgets to breathe. She is only reminded of her lips When they touch his. She gives and gives Unaware of stitches around her eyes Blinders. Now she walks with a cane Just get up, friends tell her 111


But he stole her legs Only sea legs remain And He is the ocean. She looks into her new bedroom mirror But her greyness takes no shape He stole her colors. Every crook and bend She can no longer tell where her curves end and his begin. She tries screaming but lips refuse They don’t recognize their master . Stitches around her eyes unravel As her crumpled body mourns What once was hers.

112


EDGE E l l a Ke i n a n ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

113


LINCOLN’S LIBERTY K a t i e D o r f m a n ‘20 G ra p h i t e o n p a p e r

114


O D E TO M Y FAT H E R ’ S U N W R I T T E N IMMIGRANT STORY My father wants me to achieve the American dream And so naturally, my greatest fear is becoming another statistic So, let me be realistic: only 38% of black children live with both of their parents I am a part of the 62% who grew up with both parents I was raised to not be another teen dropout or success cop-out See, my father was born in Sierra Leone He was taught to chase after his studies and not women He was taught to respect his elders 1989, the rebel war took route in the land of diamonds Diamonds tainted by blood splatters of his late next door neighbors He savored those last breaths of air because they might have been his last 1992, my father fled to Gambia in fear of losing his life His worst fears only caught up to him when news that his father was ill reached him

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My father returned back to his home country to tend to the person he loved most in the world Only to see the limp body of his high school classmate The flies eating away at his flesh as if he was trash, garbage or something that didn’t have worth And see I would tell you the name of that classmate But names pertain to a body Body pertains to living Living means to be alive But they weren’t living, they were surviving 1997, his first daughter is brought into the world But how is he supposed to explain to his firstborn that she witnessed the sound of a bullet going through flesh before she experienced the holy sound a vowel could make before it turns into a word 1998, his second daughter is born and he realizes that in order to escape this tropical warzone, he must seek refuge in the land of opportunity 1999, my father left to America without his wife or children Thinking that if he had to struggle, he didn’t want his family to see it

116


And so, the bills picked and he fell below the poverty line The bills picked up so my father fell behind The bills picked up so he picked up two jobs Because he was convinced that we would make it Then would receive long-distance calls from his family and refuse to take it His heart was breaking And my heart is aching as I’m writing this poem Still, I think back to my 6-year-old self Whenever I showed him my high remarks I could hear him trying to hold back his tears for all the years he ignored my hard work because he was too busy trying to keep a roof over our heads So, forget your statistics, I am optimistic I continue to pick up the pieces of a broken dream because it seems to undermine my father’s worth But listen to my words because this is what it’s worth: To hell with the American dream because I am fulfilling his. M a r i a m Fo f a n a ‘ 2 3

117


WAVES Lila King ‘21 Acrylic on paper 118


BALANCE E l l a Ke i n a n ‘ 2 0 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y 119


THE NORTH AMERICAN NEBULA To v i S o n n e n b e rg ‘ 2 0 A s t ro p h o t o g ra p h y


Moonlight Pinched by a closing door A crack in the dark J e ff re y E d w a rd s , Fa c u l t y


BLUEPRINT Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c , i n k , a n d w at e rc o l o r o n w at e rc o l o r p a p e r

122


DECOMPOSE Ka i t l i n Ru s s o ‘ 2 1 G ra p h i t e , c h a rc o a l , a n d w at e rc o l o r o n p a p e r

123


SLURP E r x i Lu ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n c a rd b o a rd

124


HOLDING UP E l i z a b e t h Pi l l s b u r y, Fa c u l t y Po rc e l a i n w i t h c l ea r g l a z e

125


TA R A N T U L A To v i S o n n e n b e rg ‘ 2 0 A s t ro p h o t o g ra p h y

CARINA To v i S o n n e n b e rg ‘ 2 0 A s t ro p h o t o g ra p h y

126


IC 2944 To v i S o n n e n b e rg ‘ 2 0 A s t ro p h o t o g ra p h y

127


PA S TO R A L A r i a n a Ko u re p e n o s ‘ 2 1 A c r y l i c o n c a rd p a p e r

128


BRYNN Ka y l e y M c G o n a g l e , Fa c u l t y C h a rc o a l o n p a p e r


FLEETING GOODBYE E r x i Lu ‘ 2 0 Oil on canvas

130


ORCHIDS Sophia Ader ‘23 Oil on canvas 131


M O U N TA I N S Lila King ‘21 Acrylic on paper


REACH S a f i y a Pat e l ‘ 2 1 C h a rc o a l , c o n t e , a n d w at e rc o l o r o n p a p e r

133


TO HAUNT E r x i Lu ‘ 2 0 Acrylic on canvas

134


INSTINCT Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 A c r y l i c o n p r i m e d w o o d e n b o a rd


BEGINNINGS A r i a n a Ko u re p e n o s ‘ 2 1 A c r y l i c o n c a rd b o a rd

136


UNTITLED Killian Chou ‘21 Sharpie and oil pastel on paper

137


T H R E E FAC E D Ce l i n e C h u n g ‘ 2 0 Clay with glaze 138


A G L A S S FA N AT SY S a f i y a Pat e l ‘ 2 1 Acrylic on canvas

127


TO BE BLACK IS TO WONDER when will it end? will i ever get to take a deep breath and relax? or will i continue to take my hoodie off every time i see a police car? or change my voice every time i have an interview? or scout out the crowd before i play the music i like? or keep my emotions in to prevent being “that” black girl? or being extra aware of my volume in the lunchroom? it’s like everyone wants to be us, but no one remembers this part. you say it’s not fair to pick and choose who can say a word, but it wasn’t a problem when my ancestors were picking your cotton, huh? you say we’re violating your first amendment rights, but my body was acknowledged as not being property by the thirteenth. and, honestly, if we’re being real, you and me both know slavery isn’t over. my people are disproportionately locked up in the prisons 140


that you own. truly, i don’t think it’ll end anytime soon, but i won’t stop fighting until we’ve at least taken a step in the right direction. Madisyn Cunningham ‘23

A N D T H AT W A S T H E P L AC E I N B E T W E E N B e t s y Fi e l d s , Fa c u l t y Oil on canvas

141


60

STILL MOVEMENT S o p h i a Ja c o b s ‘ 2 1 Pe n c i l o n p a p e r


W AT E R A LG A E Th e o A p p l e b a u m ‘ 2 2 D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y

143


O R A N G E S : O R B S O F V I TA M I N C M i c h e l l e We n ‘ 2 1 Acrylic on canvas

144


G LO R I A’ S W I N D O W S I L L S a f i y a Pat e l ‘ 2 1 C h a rc o a l o n p a p e r

145


BOY WONDER: A SILHOUETTE M i ke Po w e r s , Fa c u l t y D i g i t a l p h o t o g ra p h y


A B O U T T H E B O O K

Impressions , Volume XXXIX, was produced by the Impressions staff at Riverdale Country School in the Bronx, NY. Impressions was printed by Steve Friedman at Catskill Mountain Printing Services in Hunter, NY. Applied Colors included C = 0, M = 0, Y = 0, K = 70 and C = 45, M = 44, Y = 27, K = 1. The book was printed on recycled paper. All body copy was set in 12 pt Avenir Next, and all attributions, titles, and mediums were set in 10 pt Avenir Next. Impressions was produced using Adobe InDesign CS6 on iMac computers.


THANK YOU J

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Thank you, Mr. Edwards, for all your support. Your tireless efforts and boundless enthusiasm kept us on track and made us smil. We appreciate you both as an invaluable faculty advisor and a personal mentor.

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Thank you, Ms. Fields, for your visual art expertise and warm kindness. Your aesthetic contributions to the magazine were indispensable in producint this book. We are so grateful for all of the work you put into getting the book printed.

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H

Thank you, Mr. Ringh, for your technological savvy. Without your guidance, we would not have a book to distribute.

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Thank you, Steve, for your continued cooperation throughout the book-making process. Your help and counsel is indispensible.

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Thank you to all the talented Riverdale student and faculty members who submitted their work to the magazine and shared it with our community.

ART

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DEPARTMENTS

Thank you, Art and English Departments, for always encouraging your students to submit thei work.

D O M I N I C K E L L E Y

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R A N D O L P H

N I C H O L S O N - F L Y N N

Thank you, DAAR and KNF, for supporting the magazine, as well as the arts community at Riverdale.


VOLUME XXXIX RIVERDALE COUNTRY SCHOOL 5250 FIELDSTON ROAD BRONX, NY 10471

Profile for Riverdale Country School

Impressions (2020), Riverdale's student-run art and literary magazine  

Impressions (2020), Riverdale's student-run art and literary magazine  

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