Impressions 2014

IMPRESSIONS 2014

Riverdale Country School 5250 Fieldston Road Bronx, NY 10471

M i s s i o n s tat e m e n t This year, the focus of Impressions is simplicity and modernity. The fairly consistent layouts displayed throughout the publication give it a clean and professional feel. We used different weights and variations of one sans serif font, Helvetica Neue, to further promote the progressive character of Impressions. By adding features such as a colophon (a statement giving the reader an explanation about the printing of the work), we were able to heighten the legitimacy of our publication as well as to expose more of the technical aspects of the publishing process to the reader. The contemporary aesthetic we were able to accomplish allows the reader’s eye to focus on the content. We hope that you, the reader, will appreciate and enjoy the subtleties of this year’s edition of Impressions.

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Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s

C r o u c h i n g F i g u r e : Cole Jorissen ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 M i d n i g h t ’ s s h a d o w : Elias Gabriel ‘17. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

S e a s o n s O f G r i e f : Casey McConville. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 P h o t o g r a p h : Madeleine Goldberg ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 P r i n t : Emilie Kern ’16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 D r a w i n g : Gwyneth Haidar ‘16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 F i g u r e S k e tc h e s : Cole Jorissen ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 P r i n t : Sashie Israel ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 T h e B o d y : Cate PAsquarelli ‘16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 P o l k a - D o t s : Miranda Hoyt-Disick ‘15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 P h o t o g r a p h : Brian Swift ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 T h a n e o f Sc o n e L i v e T w e e t s : Nicholas Cline ‘16. . . . . . . 18 2 w a y s o f s e e i n g D e s s e r t : Monique Reichenstein ‘14. . . . 20 St a n d O u t : Patrick Murray ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 P h o t o g r a p h : Brianna Fernandez ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 H a pp y : Jack Tien-Dana ’16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 M a r l o w e : Miranda Hoyt-Disick ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 C e r a m i c : Kimberly Ha ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 W a t e r f a l l S u n s e t : Alec Donelian ‘15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 H o r i z o n : Mia Shlovsky ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 5 3 ’ ’ w o o d e n k n i f e : Cole Jorissen ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 P h o t o g r a p h : Benny Kesslen ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 H o m e f r o m F a r AW a y : Robbie webster ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 2

P r i n t : Alessandra Mistri ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 P a i n t i n g : Stella Marren ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 UN T I T LE D : Alec Donelian ’15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 T h e r e i s N o F o r e v e r f o r M e : Jack Carlos Mindich ‘17 . . 44 C AL C ULU s : Jack Tien-Dana ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 P h o t o g r a p h : Laura Geary ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 C o l l a g e : Forrest Simpson ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 D r a w i n g : Gwyneth Haidar ‘16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 P a i n t i n g : Gwyneth Haidar ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 P a i n t i n g : Dorian Dreyfuss ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 A f r i c a S a y s : Fahima Ali ‘17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 UpWA r d n o i s e : Maria Carrasco ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 P h o t o g r a p h : Brian Swift ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 P h o t o g r a p h : Brian Swift ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 T r a n s l a t i o n s : Miranda Hoyt-disick ‘15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 D r a w i n g : Gwen Haidar ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 P h o t o g r a p h : Brian Swift ‘14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 T h e V a g a b o n d : Maria Carrasco ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 u n t i t l e d : Monique Reichenstein ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 P h o t o g r a p h : Sarah Brandow ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 P h o t o g r a p h : Madeleine Goldberg ‘16. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 p h o t o g r a p h : Margaret Corn ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 3

P h o t o g r a p h : Benny Keslen ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 s h o r t M e m o i r s : Berk Pearlstein ‘15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 S h o r t m e m o i r : Bill Pahlka . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 s h o r t m e m o i r : Kent Kildahl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 s h o r t m e m o i r Jeffrey Edwards. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68 C e r a m i c : Kimberly Ha ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 T h e B e a c h : Maria Carrasco ‘14. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 P r i n t : Timothy Mentor ‘16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 C O l o p h o n : Impressions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74

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Thank you, Impressions staff, for your dedication, hard work and creativity. Though we may have encountered a few challenges (mostly InDesign related) we were able to overcome them thanks to our enthusiasm. Thank you for maintaining an attitude which allowed us to create something truly special. From making layouts to creating a cohesive art and literary publication, this year has been amazing.

Thank you, to the Art Department, the artwork your students have produced is fantastic. We know that they could not have achieved these results without your patience, guidance and skill. Thank you for encouraging Riverdale’s artistic spirit. We would not have gotten many of the art pieces we did if not for you.

Thank you, Impressions’ editors, for imparting your wisdom and experience. Your extensive understanding of the work that goes into creating a magazine of this caliber was invaluable to the success of this year’s edition. We look forward to using the expertise we have gained this year in future editions of Impressions.

Thank you, to the English Department, for supporting such gifted writers and sharing their work with us. The literary pieces submitted to us reveal not only the skills of the student body, but also the high caliber of the English Department faculty. Thank you for aiding us in our efforts of presenting our community’s talent.

Thank you, Mr. Edwards, for your everlasting zeal. We could always rely on you for an amusing story involving your various family members (canine and otherwise). The exuberance you radiate, however, has never overshadowed your priceless counsel.

Your insightful comments and suggestions have helped shape this year’s edition of Impressions to match our vision.

Thank you, Riverdale students, it takes courage to submit your work and allow it to be published, exposing it to public scrutiny. Everything that was submitted this year was beautiful, and we’d like to thank you for sharing your work with us. Because of your bravery, this magazine is able to showcase your talent.

Thank you, Mr. Dagony-Clark, without you this magazine could not have been created. Your insight into the workings of InDesign have been essential to the execution of this publication. Thank you for motivating us to continue working diligently and efficiently. Your guidance has allowed our creativity to flourish without sacrificing the integrity or quality of our finished product.

Thank you, Mr. Randolf and Ms. Nicholson-Flynn, for sponsoring Impressions this year. It really would not have been possible without you. Your steadfast belief in the artistic and literary talents of the student body has helped not only establish, but also elevate, this publication. Thank you for the unwavering support and encouragement that has allowed us to highlight the abilities of our fellow students as well as our own.

Thank you, Ms. Paris, for reminding us that this publication is a piece of art in and of itself. By reiterating this concept you encouraged us to introduce our own artistic views into the layouts and overall aesthetics of Impressions. Your insight has helped us balance our vision with the intent of the various authors and artists featured in our publication.

Thank you, Steve Friedman and Catskill Mountain Printing Service, for your flexibility. You have helped us bring our ideas to life and create Impressions. Your patience throughout this often hectic process, year after year, has been invaluable and your promptness is always appreciated.

Without Her cunning husband.

As I wither away in Solitude.

Come home Odysseus, I beg.

War cannot hold you any longer When your family is drowning in your absence.

Drop your weapon.

Return.

Madeleine Goldberg ‘16

Seasons Of Grief Casey McConville ’16

A swift, winter wind whips through your orchard, The leafless branches of your apple trees rattle discordantly, Calling out for their master, Odysseus, Odysseus, come home, They whisper in somber tones.

And my limbs shake despite the warm furs wrapped tightly around my shoulders, As I silently admonish those trees for their impotent impatience, I remind them, You will return.

It’s only been five years since your departure.

There is no need for concern.

The wind settles and so do my shudders, And I walk on, holding you in my mind.

The subtle signs of spring are evident everywhere I glance, Yet you are not present to take part in the rebirth.

Where are you, I ask, As your son navigates the path to manhood, Alone.

As your wife attempts to deter her insatiable suitors 8

The sweet scent of summer perfumes the breeze, The unbearable heat hinders much activity, Leaving me parched after even the smallest of motions.

It doesn’t help that I’ve lost so much liquid in the tears I’ve wept for You, Odysseus, Longing for that day of your return, Hating that I can do nothing to speed the process.

Son, you see, I now fear that more than just a battle against the Trojans holds you back.

Despite the crippling physical impediments that old age has dealt, I have at least retained my mind, And the whispered inklings of your struggle have not Escaped me.

And I cannot help but plead, Please Odysseus, overcome your strife and come home.

I am sorry but I can do Nothing to help you.

These seemingly endless years have rendered me Weak, Incapable.

If only I could protect you, If only I could fight alongside you, My one and only son.

Fall’s fresh fragrance has overtaken your orchard, A myriad of orange, red and yellow hues greets me each time I step outside.

Yet, to my eyes, everything is tainted by the 9

Dull.

Gray Knowledge that You, Odysseus, Will never return.

These trees, this orchard, the sunshine no longer gives me joy, When you are not here to share them with me.

Despair has seeped into every facet of my being.

The monotonous void of hopelessness is My entire existence.

Endless Perpetual Everlasting Agony.

Who is Odysseus, I ask myself.

I barely remember.

Where is your son, I question.

What son?

I have no son, no tangible one anyway.

That boy has faded into a distant memory, a barely perceptible figment, a speck on the horizon.

But still his face is all I can see, His godlike figure branded into my mind, The words, Odysseus, come home, Forever on the tip of my tongue.

Winter’s soft snowflakes slowly shroud the orchard, Freezing out the torment of your absence with a chilled anesthesia.

I can only pray that the gods have sent You, Odysseus, To some safer, warmer, happier place.

After all, what more can a father ask for For his one and only son, Who was whipped away some twenty-five years ago, By some cruel winter wind.

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Gwyneth Haidar ‘16

Cole Jorissen ‘14

The Body

C at e PA s q u a r e l l i ‘ 1 6

Sashie Israel ‘16

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She has a name. It’s her grandmother’s name. Her grandmother died the day she was born.

She is a vegetarian, but only because she doesn’t like the taste of meat.

Sometimes she sings, but quietly so no one can hear. It’s always the same song.

She has intestines, a liver, blood, and a pimple on her right cheek.

It is quite big and red. She also has a uterus that works well.

She has a piano in her living room that has never been played.

She has thoughts, sexual thoughts.

She also has a girlfriend.

She has boring, brown eyes and she wears lots of make-up to distract from them.

She has a perfect body; she has breasts, curves... She also has a brain.

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Polka-Dots

M i r a n d a H o y t- D i s i c k ‘ 1 5

It was difficult to dig my fingers into the knots, inciting a crude army of fibers to cling persistently to my nails.

No, the bikini’s size stayed the same, the polka dots giggling as they squeezed me together, turning me into the kind of girl I occasionally wish I could be.

The sun burned my toes, reflecting itself on the stone steps, and the dark, dry mosquito bites surrendered when I scratched them.

Scabs fell to the ground and floated on the soil. Splotches of red bled through the cream-colored strap.

There was no way to stop it from bleeding, out in the sunlight, the beams hissing lullabies to me, the tunes sweet and empty.

Eyes were closed.

Daydreams.

I dreamed that a pair of glasses-clad eyes gazed down disapprovingly.

I imagined someone tall and comfortingly indignant leading me by the hand back into the labrador-scented coolness of the house, where goose bumps sprung up around the bites, like virginal offerings.

Just a blurry specter shielding my pale body with his shadow.

Grudgingly allowing the polka-dotted fabric to remain–the bows murmuring hushed secrets he couldn’t hear.

A vacant phantom heeding my whim.

Letting me wear it as long as I made a promise to sit with him.

Out of the sun.

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Brian Swift ‘15

T h a n e o f S c o n e L i v e T w e e ts

ThaneofScone @TheLadyScone can you take a hint? @LadyMacbeth is running the show. #beguilewithstyle #justcantwaittobeking 1/7/14, 7:55pm

ThaneofScone @ThaneofScone Just walked into the theater to see Mac… the Scottish play. #watchyomouth 1/7/14, 7:01pm

ThaneofScone @Macbeth can you make a decision already? #YOLO #surceasethepeace 1/7/14, 8:09pm

ThaneofScone @ThaneofScone Creepy stage setup… @3witches just appeared out of nowhere. Lightning. Thunder.

Damn.

1/7/14, 7:03pm

ThaneofScone @LadyMacbeth is planning to frame the soldiers. I say go for it. #soldiersetup 1/7/14, 8:15pm

N i c h o l a s Cl i n e ‘ 1 6

ThaneofScone @Macbeth watch out @3witches are looking for you!

1/7/14, 7:07pm

ThaneofScone @Macbeth thx for stepping up.

1/7/14, 8:16pm

ThaneofScone @3witches just gave their prophecy to @Macbeth. #Thechosenone #ThaneofCawdor #shortlivetheking. Kind of jealous, how can I find these witches?

1/7/14, 7:25pm ThaneofScone @Banquo just got jelly. #procreantofkings 1/7/14, 7:26pm ThaneofScone @3witches prophecies be true. @Ross thanks for bringing the news.

Good for you @Macbeth! #hailtheharbinger #newthanenewpain 1/7/14, 7:31pm ThaneofScone @LadyMacbeth just got @Macbeth’s letter. She’s feisty, you go girl. @TheLadyScone help me out. #demonsgetatme #compunctiondisjunction 1/7/14, 7:44pm ThaneofScone @LadyMacbeth just had her Barmitzvah because now she’s a man. #unsexmehere 1/7/14, 7:46pm ThaneofScone @LadyMacbeth just got real. She does not want Duncan to leave because @Macbeth should be king. #thesunneverrises #DuncanDonutsclosed 1/7/14, 7:51pm

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Monique Reichenstein ‘14 My time with you is the best part of my day. To be honest, you’re all I can think about sometimes. You can be unexpected and mysterious, yet you always manage to have an alluring smell and a pleasing appearance, no matter where you’ve been. You can get me out of any bad mood—what can I say? You know how to lift my spirits. I remember coming home once from a grueling day of school and a draining practice.

I was exhausted, burnt out; all I wanted to do was sleep for three days. But after dinner you just showed up! There you were, irresistible as usual, just sitting there. You rejuvenated my energy, brought my smoldering glow back to a flame. Since then, I’ve known that I could always count on you to brighten my day.

But our relationship can be bittersweet. I thought that my love for you was pure. I thought that you made me genuinely happy, but you seem to create only an illusion of happiness. You’re like a drug dealer easing my pain by shooting me up. My high when I’m with you only covers up how I really feel—and you never fail to make me want more. I wait for you all day. You’re the only person I want to see, and while you make me feel good when you’re around, you also remind me of what I have to return to the minute that you’re gone—the grim, cold desk, the dreadful homework.

You know what you mean to me. You know that I’d rather spend my time with you than with anybody else. I would drop everything for you, so when you tempt me, lure me away from the important things I should be doing, I wish that you could at least be loyal to me. I’ve shared you for too long. I keep telling myself that what we have is special. So I let you off your leash a bit. I trust you, but you’ve let me down too many times. Remember that time I walked in on you and Chef Paul? You told me it wouldn’t happen again, that you’d be faithful to me, to us, and you were so sweet that I forgave you. Maybe our relationship won’t last, but maybe we were meant to be because whenever I see you with someone else, all I can think about is how I wish you were with me instead.

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T w o w ay s o f s e e i n g D e s s e r t

Brianna Fernandez ‘16

S ta n d O u t

P a t r i c k M u rr a y ‘ 1 5

He said “stand out,” But I spaced out, Because I wanted out.

Don’t look down, Don’t look back, Look at me, See my face, See my eyes, Please look.

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Happy

Jack Tien-Dana ’16

She wasn’t like my other grandmother, my mother’s mother, a fleet hummingbird of a woman whose swiftly agitating wings continually whir out a loop of I-love-you and Charlie-honey-eat-more-chicken and remember-to-wear-a-jacket.

If she were a bird at all, it would be a bird of greater stillness. Not a swan (too regally vicious) or an owl (too smug and iconic). More a wren, perhaps; a wren, injured by a neighborhood cat and found in the woods by two children, say, a brother and a sister, who took it home–Please, Mom, can we keep it, please!–and put it in an elaborate brass cage that their father had brought home from a business trip to India. Yes, an unlikely pet wren: well-fed but systematically starving itself, shifting on its perch from one trembling foot to another, eyes darting from window to wall, tense and watchful, always afraid.

“Birds,” she once said, “are filth.”

Her name was Hortense Carnegie Clay. The Carnegie was from her greatgreat grandfather, Andrew Carnegie, the Clay was from a distant uncle, Henry Clay Frick, and the Hortense was just plain mean. Three weeks after her birth, according to family lore, a nursemaid deemed the name Hortense too big for such smallness and suggested, “Let’s just call her Happy.” And so they did. That turned out to be a mistake, too, but by then, no one was paying attention.

She was born in New York City in 1931 or 1932 or 1935; to her mind, a woman’s age was fungible. When she was one year old, the financial market collapsed and in despair, her father killed himself in an upstairs room of their apartment, a shotgun to the head. “No one stays, Char-Char,” she told me when I was young. “Don’t ever expect anyone to stay.”

When she was six, she learned to ride her bike on the broad expanses of East 72nd and 79th Streets. When she was eight, she collected—as all her friends did—trading cards of English royalty: King Edward, King George, Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. When she was ten, a boy stole her prized card collection in Central Park and 70 years later, she could still summon the sting of rage. “That horrid boy!” she exclaimed. “And he had such dirty shoes.”

I liked the idea that here was a young girl, robbed in broad daylight, and her take-away from the experience was the perfidy of dirty shoes.

When she was twelve, she was gazing out the window of her grandparents’ apartment building on Park Avenue when, much to her astonishment, she saw her grandfather plummet from above onto a large garden terrace ten floors down. He was falling sideways and beginning to flail, she said, as if someone had pushed a rolled-up Persian rug off the roof and it was slowly unfurling. “Don’t do it, Mr. Clay!” she heard Eddie, the building handyman shout from below where 24

he was sweeping the sidewalk. “Don’t do it!” She watched, fascinated, as her grandfather, now a collection of unnatural angles, painfully dragged himself to the terrace ledge, eased himself over a low wall and dropped again, all the way down this time, to Eddie’s feet. She pressed her face against the window to see if Eddie would sweep away her grandfather, too, but the garden terrace blocked her view.

No one stays.

“People shouldn’t have garden terraces, Charles,” she would declare imperiously to me. “They’re way stations for vermin and city grime.” City grime terrified her–“It creeps in through the cracks of your apartment windows and eats you alive.”

Eating also terrified her. “Donuts are the devil’s baked good, “ she said passionately. “One should never touch them. Don’t do it, Charles. Don’t do it.”

Don’t do it, Mr. Clay. Don’t do it.

She was particularly terrified of change, probably because, throughout her childhood, she had been shuttled through a fistful of schools: Birch Wathen, Dalton, Spence, Sidwell Friends in Washington, D.C. during the war after her mother remarried, Farmington and then, of course, Vassar. She met her first husband, my grandfather, Charles, or Chip, as he was called, at a Vassar/Yale mixer and married him her sophomore year. They moved to a pocket of serious Anglo-Saxonage in Connecticut where they built a house in which she fretted and he drank.

They had four children together; the youngest was my father.

“I thought that if I had a baby, Chip would stop drinking,” she explained.

“He’d stop for a bit but then he’d start again, so I’d have another baby. After four children, I decided it was time for him to leave.”

Don’t ever expect anyone to stay.

Her unexpected status as a divorcee—quite the scandal in mid-century Anglo-Saxonia—allowed her to nurture a whole new crop of fears. She was afraid of almost everything: fire, electricity, strangers, traffic, sun, storm, snow, dark of night. It was like the post office motto run amok.

On electricity: “Never put your book bag next to an electrical socket, because a spark might fly out of the socket and set it on fire.”

On lightning: “Never talk on a phone during a thunderstorm because lightning could come through the headset and kill you.”

On snow: “Never walk under trees when it’s snowing because a branch could collapse and crush you.”

There was even a surprise appearance by wallpaper: “It’s a magnet for 25

grime and looks like pajamas on the walls.”

So acute was her fear of fire that she ordered a dozen Scandinavian handmade rope and maple ladders to keep–Mark Twain-style—by the windows of her second-floor bedrooms. Granted, in the event of a real fire, these gorgeous, flammable, blond contraptions would probably be the first to go, but they leavened her anxiety nonetheless. So fearful was she of strangers, she kept a post office box in town to eliminate scary mailmen, and took her own trash to the local dump to avoid potentially felonious garbage men. Her driveway was ten miles long and her house was surrounded by twenty acres of Saxonia’s finest woods and fields.

The world was too frightening; she fought to keep it at bay.

Let’s just call her Happy.

In total, she had five children, the fifth from a second husband who was so accomplished, he could drink, steal and womanize, all at the same time; he disappeared $20 million dollars later. (“Charles—do you remember what I said about people staying?”) She had eleven grandchildren including me. I never saw her cry and I never saw her laugh, either. She was not a loving, communicative mother or grandmother, but I didn’t take it personally. She simply hadn’t learned how to love anyone, even herself. It took all she had to swim in her personal, internal roiling sea.

The conversation will be tight at first but, with cocktail certainty, it will become looser and then downright unhinged. Invariably, my most craven uncle will launch into his familiar grave-dancing dissertation on estate planning and I will laugh as he talks, laugh in his face, because doesn’t he see? Is he is too much the fool to realize that Hortense Carnegie Clay won’t ever die, because you can’t die when life has already killed you?

Later in the night, post-prandial brown liquids will be poured and the guests will get sleepy and the crowd will thin. And while it could not happen because of the clenched Carnegie dictum that true feeling should be kept caged—preferably in an elaborate brass cage brought home from a business trip to India–I would like to imagine that at that moment, my father and I, we men who love our mothers with neither intent nor fail, might walk over to my grandmother and stand together in front of her and grasp her hands, hands curled and knotted like the claws of a wren. And we would lean in and say, We will stay. Expect us to stay.

Funnily, she always claimed she couldn’t swim, childhood summers in Quogue notwithstanding; my father said it was really that she refused to wear bathing suits in public.

Still, despite her emotional absentia, her progeny were dutiful. Her three daughters soothed and snapped as they attended to her phalanx of phobias. Her two sons maintained more distance but loved her without cease. I would look at my father’s face and see—in his creased brow, his set jaw, his taut throat–the pain of that love, the resentment and devotion, fury and faith. From the map on his face, I charted the route to one of life’s givens: sons must love their mothers.

Just as I love my own mother, come sweet or brine, laughter or brimstone, so did my father and so will my son. It is nature’s wonderful curse, its brilliant mistake.

Next month, Happy Carnegie Clay will turn eighty-mystery-number and her children are planning a birthday party for her. Mind you, she’s still very much alive.

If I write about her in the past tense, it is only because she’s never seemed very present in my life—she was myth, hearsay, a character in a book on a high shelf that I occasionally caught glimpses of. All twenty-one members of her family will put on clean shoes and avoid walking under snow-cloaked trees and convene in Manhattan, at the Knickerbocker Club, to celebrate eight decades of her life. My grandmother’s face will look determinedly Happy, if not happy, and she will ask the waiters to snuff out every decorative candle on the tables. There will be bad food and not enough of it, and alcohol in abundance.

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Marlowe

M i r a n d a H o y t- D i s i c k ‘ 1 5

Marlowe’s boots were weathered. deep grooves marred their brass buckles, forming ancient words he could not read.

He walked with a salt-soaked pirate’s gruff nonchalance, his steps echoing across the hall as his library called him Out to sea, those books murmuring their flirtatious introductions, waiting and wanting him, buzzing in his ears, Drawing him towards their leather-bound waves. His hands sailed across them, long fingers tickling their spines as they hissed beneath his touch— between two bulky volumes, the small, scarlet journal.

Marlowe reached into the cavern, powdering his hand with dust, the book pulsing its musky sweetness and he held on, entranced, sweeping away the worn bookmark from its place and setting sail, again,

K i m b e r ly H a ‘ 1 4

from the beginning.

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W at e r f a l l S u n s e t A l e c D o n e l i a n ‘ 15

Dust danced in cascading strands, awakened by the drawing of the blinds.

Sunlight poured into the cluttered room, yellow rays settling comfortably on the old desk, on the stacked books, on that special drawer. I pulled the handles, the subtle scrape of wood transporting me to a different time. Inside I found what I came for, my old artwork, paintings of the past, relics. I gathered the massive collection, cleared a space on the worn-out mahogany desk, and placed the stack carefully. Colors ran wild, undefined, no lines to color within, no limitations. In the watercolor sunset the reds and oranges and yellows bled carelessly onto one another, creating a tantalizing and warm mixture. The beach pastel drawing still had visible pencil marks from the boundaries I had drawn, yet the smooth colors ran wildly across the page. Water trickled, colored pencils zigged and zagged, paint spattered. I stood rigid, a container full of swirling reminiscent colors. Capped, never to be let out. I envisioned the art teacher’s disapproving stare, burning through me as I remember it now, my indifference to critiques long gone. My infamous “Rendition of a Tree,” a mass of swirling greens and browns, slivers of red and orange, splatters of blue for the sky. A sensible masterpiece, an insane abomination. My mother’s scolding voice echoed in my ears.

“Why can’t you just do what you’re told? She’s the teacher; she knows what she’s talking about. You need to listen to her, or I’ll pull you out of that class!” Paint in the lines. Go slowly. Follow the instructions. Stagnant, still, static, bland, rule follower. I remember the day I was expelled from art class. Teacher took over my painting, correcting all my “errors.” Stay in the lines, follow the directions. I decided to make corrections of my own, pouring water on the painting and smudging it. A swirl of gentle watercolor. A perversion of art that made me unfit to continue classes.

A masterpiece. I stroked the paper, wavy and wrinkled from water, each curve and bump a sensation of ancient vibrancy and color. In the bottom right of every painting was inscribed my name and the date in neat, tiny cursive letters. I stood silently, browsing through the art collection that was said to be impressive for a child.

I was atop the charcoal palace; I was resting beside the rainbow river; I was floating in the green and red clouds; I was sailing away into the Caribbean sunset.

White and blue waves of paint surrounded me, splashing my face. The watercolor sunset spilling into the ocean. The mast of the boat illuminated by the setting sun’s orange gale. The unevenly drawn palm trees surrendering slender leaves to the whistling wind. As I approached the warm pastel sun, a voice shattered my vision.

“No! Trees must all be same size. No! No dripping watercolors. No! The sky must be one color. No! The ocean must be calmer.” The sun finally set, depriving the room of blackening the painting. I lit a candle, gently collecting the artwork and placing 30

it back into its special drawer. The drawer that contained dreams. The drawer that contained the world. My world. I would be back, back to draw the blinds, back to open the drawer, back to gaze, to feel, back to light the candle once more. I blew out the candle. Smothered the flame that illuminated my world. Long ago and tonight.

I would be back one day, back to sail the white-blue ocean, back to caress uneven palm trees, back to let the orange gale carry me into the waterfall sunset.

Mia Shlovsky ‘14

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5 3 ’’ w o o d e n k n i f e C o l e J o r i ss e n ‘ 1 4

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Benny Kesslen ‘14

H o m e f r o m Fa r A W ay

Early every morning, I set out and walked without aim or purpose through the streets of the inner city. It had been thirty years since the original war had broken out. I had the task of accompanying my friend, Henry Farnsworth, to the wreckage of the neighborhood of his youth. I had met Farnsworth many times before, sometimes on purpose and sometimes by accident. Our relationship began when we were members of a deep-sea expedition exploring the destroyed hulk of the great ship USS Intrepid, sunk in New York Harbor in the opening salvoes of the war. We kept in contact only intermittently over the years until I received a call late one evening in early October. Farnsworth asked me to accompany him for a stroll in the streets he had walked as a child to help him recognize his home, lost amongst the remains of the former gleaming city.

We set out after staying in a new hotel on the Palisades, designed for observing the devastated city, initiating our journey on a rickety bus with other men and women looking to rediscover the past. A tall, lean man with flowing blond hair that always seemed unkempt, Farnsworth tended to be, at times, the most loquacious and, at times, the most reserved of men. To those whom he knew, Farnsworth could go on for hours about his specialty in architectural history, but to strangers, he only uttered a few words, making the extraction of information nearly impossible for anyone who desired it. As we walked through the skeletons of broken buildings of that shining beacon that had been New York, he noticed only the foulness and cruelty that the war had brought his former childhood home. Over coffee at our chance second meeting on Throgmorton Street in London, he had told me how he had been suddenly sent away from his home at age six, a victim of the bloody struggle that had begun all those years ago. A child of foster care and orphanages around the United States, Farnsworth failed to attain anything that he truly desired, mired as he was in uncertainties about his past. He had never experienced the unequivocal love of his real parents. He felt broken inside and without a home, a self, or even a semblance of care or desire, and seemed to be a drifter, living an itinerant life, distracted by his unsuccessful attempts to find himself.

Beginning our walk through the city’s desolate streets on 82nd and Fifth, Farnsworth and I stopped in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, once a marvel of high Beaux-Arts style, now a cavernous wreck filled with only rats, insects, and men of ill repute. Feeling a familiar tie to the destroyed edifice, Farnsworth walked up the long, wide stairs to the main door, cracked open only slightly.

Awed by the cavernous interior gallery now partly open to the sky, Farnsworth exclaimed, “We must explore, for the gods have granted us access.”

I nodded to Farnsworth, giving him approval to explore to his heart’s content.

We wandered through the destroyed museum with Farnsworth staring in wonder at the works of art, an exhibition for us and the thousands of rats, who poked their filthy heads out of small holes in the floor and crawled with impunity over lovingly created paintings left on the floor, detached from their fragmented frames.

Finally, as we crossed underneath a large open archway, we saw a painting that struck a chord in Farnsworth’s heart and compelled him to plant himself before it for nearly ten minutes, staring into the brushwork and contemplating the content of Washington Crossing the Delaware.

Breaking the tangible silence he had preserved since we entered the museum, Farnsworth began a garrulous description, recalling his early days as a schoolboy before the gods had stripped him of all that he had loved and cherished. Farnsworth spilled every piece of information about his first alma mater that he could possibly remember from the uniform to the strictness of the masters. However, Farnsworth turned quickly back to the painting and shed a clear tear, the result of the nostalgic reminiscences that had gushed forth from his distant memory onto the painting, its bright colors and heroic scene tarnished by the blood and filth left by both looters and soldiers alike. I encouraged him to keep moving, and we found our way out of the labyrinth that was the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “I was shown that painting once as a schoolboy. It reminds me of my earliest stirrings of patriotism.”

“Is it possible to see the school where you were shown the painting?” I replied.

“Why, yes,” Farnsworth responded, “It is not far from here.”

He had attended St. Bernard’s School, a short walk up ravaged Fifth Avenue from the museum. He began to reminisce about sitting in a chair that now came up no higher than his knee. When he was five, his teacher had shown him a picture of the painting.

Farnsworth and I, buried in conversation about the war and the destruction it had wrought, began our long walk toward 98th Street just off Fifth Avenue where saw the remains of that once great school. With great hunks of the red brick facade carved out, the building still stood as it once had but with a torn and shredded American flag flying from a rusty iron pole.

Wandering inside, Farnsworth explained the significance of the place: “This was my home away from home, as I remember. I only felt happiness when I was here so long ago.”

We trudged up the long central staircase lined with pictures of headmasters past, finally arriving at the top of the stairs, at a towering image of Stuart Johnson, the last headmaster before the war. At this shrine to the once great man of learning, Farnsworth stopped for a while, eyes fixed on the domineering stare combined with serenity in the old master’s face.

“This was the man who led St. Bernard’s for more than thirty years with both

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R o bb i e w e b s t e r ‘ 1 4

great rigor and great kindness,” said Farnsworth. “Everyone loved him. How I miss him.”

Farnsworth and I began a long silence that lasted for what seemed to be the better part of the hour as he moved about the school in a state of deep sorrow.

Eventually, I offered my sympathies, and Farnsworth said that he had always wanted a friend like me who understood him in both intellectual and emotional matters. He thanked me for our friendship, and we changed direction and walked down the staircase slowly, with each step more forceful than the last, as memories flooded his psyche and helped him to relive scenes from his youth. Finally, after we meandered out of the ruined building, we walked toward another landmark down Fifth Avenue.

Our pace slowed as we found the remains of the once famed Church of the Heavenly Rest. Struck by a volley of artillery shells, the ceiling had collapsed, and only the four walls stood as testaments to the enduring hope of this house of God. The stained glass windows lay shattered on the floor, remnants of scenes from the Bible still discernable. Anchored to the ground by steel rivets, a large gold cross remained visible, not portable enough for the looters. It stood as a symbol that the world had not ended and that life would continue. Farnsworth told me that he had found religion as a young boy when his mother would take him to church, but he had since lost his faith in God and man when war had ravaged his life. Now, he approached the altar and began to pray for a new tomorrow in a world that would allow children to know their surroundings, their parents, and themselves.

Farnsworth and I left the city the same way we had come. In the midst of the postwar shattering silence that permeated the old and rusted bus, Farnsworth said nothing for the rest of the trip back to the hotel. I decided to read the crusty old book, T.S Eliot’s Wasteland, that I had carried and reflected on what the day had brought.

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Cole Jorissen ‘14

Midnight’s shadow Elias gabriel ‘17

Glowing and tranquil, hidden by shadow, Shielded by darkness, distant and remote.

A lunar eclipse, a celestial show, Weightless and placid, adrift and afloat.

How nice it would be to be far away, Far from the chaos, relieved by the space.

Instead I am stuck with no words to say, I question myself, my heart starts to race.

Shyness can freeze the voice trapped in my throat.

Anxious and nervous, I’m scared to connect.

The habit of silence has now become rote.

Unsafe to reach out, I only protect.

But covered and safe, the moon’s all alone, Those that must hide risk never being known.

Alessandra Mistri ‘14

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U NT I TLE D

Alec Donelian ’15

The eyes of God watched me as I ran Face stained with mascara and tears I cried for Tom Pearls flew, glowing balls illuminated by the headlights The windshield shattered, bloody splinters of glass showering the Rolls Royce As my body toppled over the hood, I glimpsed at the driver And my eyes, wet with grief and blood, met those perfect blue ones And my face, cut and bruised, passed that delicate white one And my hair, mangled and tarnished, soared past her flawless blonde locks Even though he gave me everything a girl could want And even though I was his He was never mine And when I die, he will shed a tear Yet he will sip champagne at the Plaza, kissing her Yet he will attend fancy parties, her hand in his He was my love, and he stole my heart But I was just a pet, only played with in private She killed me, that night on the road I lay sprawled on the street, bloody and contorted The rough pavement tore my skin The exhaust from the car burned my eyes Yet I felt no pain that night Because he killed me Long, long before

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Stella Marren ‘14

43

There is No Forever for Me

No one knows.

Best to leave that variable out of the human equation.

Nor do I wish there was There is nothing Not the dog’s bite The child’s cry Not even the dark, spiders or snakes That to this day throw preschoolers into hysterics More frightening than immortality.

A thought frightening in of itself, For if we prize life But live to die (or die to live) And fear the lack thereof Why fear Death at all?

Don’t idolize a dusty, outdated book.

For we base our choices on folktales Where is living at all?

Celebrate the front door, The back door, And the moonlit backyard beyond, Sprinkled with starlight, And maybe voices too?

jack carlos mindich ‘17

We fear ends by intuition, But is the absence of ends any better? Is it worse?

And if we fear life, Is death punishment?

A paradox so startlingly significant, That as Queen once proclaimed to a crowded, loud Detroit crowd.

“I sometimes wish I never was born at all.”

But for me or you or anyone, We need not worry much.

Death will take us, release will come.

As dependable as your childhood blanket Worn down to strips of apple juice soaked fabric by time and love.

Forever and infinity, do not exist At least in this context.

And nary do, Outside the world of hypotheticals, Repeating decimals And tasteless pi Nothing but reflections on the dark window that is life.

Too far out to reach.

And the world above, 44

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CALCULUS

J ac k t i e n - D a n a ‘ 1 6

I always thought that math was cold, clear fact, Unyielding truth which one could not redact or Change–clear black, clear white, precisely stacked– No glint of gray. Then you became a factor.

You. The indeterminate, uninomial, A fractal shrinking to the infintessimal, A chaos which begat a new binomial: See Euclid topple! Fermat lose his decimal!

For isn’t math our most base, primal side?

The lioness counts her cub, the stars above Instinctively subtract; cells subdivide.

My mother, father, I add up to love.

I always thought that 2 + 1 was three.

But now I know that 1 + 1 is we.

L au r a G e a r y ‘ 1 4

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Forrest Simpson ‘14

P#

Gwyneth Haidar ‘16

P#

Gwyneth Haidar ‘16

A f r i c a S ay s Fa h i m a A l i ‘ 1 7

Dorian Dreyfuss ‘15

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I am tired of war My oceans turned into blood My people ate me like an animal My forests are dry like a dam Bundles of people died My people took guns To kill their brothers I feel ashamed I was the mother of humanity But now I welcome confrontation Some people said Being African is like being burned My soul is shaken by their words I lost my aspiration I am the poorest continent Forced to relinquish Because of war My people feel pitiful Feel betrayed My children are sleeping on the roads Some of them are slaves I am mother without children My insides oppose each other Others run away from me And settle on the moon I’m trying to talk to them But they can’t hear me I don’t know the solution I’m wondering about My people and my future Waiting for my destination I am a mother Slowly finding hope

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B r i a n Sw i f t ‘ 1 4

UpWArd noise

maria carrasco ‘14

Swinging low like the notes of a jukebox in smoke filled hallways; thrumming with the familiar sound of heavy lipped screams.

Doors closed and mirrors coated with the sweat of a revived argument ending in silence. Again.

The smell of spills and sealed words seeping into shirts; getting lost in the darkness of their already tangled fabrics.

Thinking it’d be enough to remember the taste of crushed intentions, but wanting to be anywhere else. Again.

B r i a n Sw i f t ‘ 1 4

Louder this time; rising above the bathroom handles and painted ceilings of a crowded place.

Louder this time, so that the words are clear, so that they won’t regret it.

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T r a n s l at i o n s

M i r a n d a h o y t- d i s i c k ‘ 1 5

Seventeen-year-old boys in love are not often wired in like he was. Glued to a black swivel-chair, he analyzed the readings, the red and blue zig-zags climbing up and down. He was keeping a detailed log of her feelings, the meaning behind every quip and jab, trying to see what he could exploit. Such psychological warfare was required when the object of one’s desire was something of a mastermind. Lily enjoyed maiming him from afar, pulling him apart in her mind, her eyes mesmerizing as a deep blue cresting wave. A deep blue cresting wave that would probably kill him if it got a chance, that was.

All he wanted was to see her baby blues narrow in fury, the ultimate sign of surrender. He had nothing on her. She was enchanting and witty as she translated the Latin, the words far too transfixed to make any effort at hiding their meaning. Or perhaps he was just projecting. For he feared that he was spread out before her like a game of Operation, and that she could pluck out his heart whenever she saw fit.

There was one weapon in his arsenal, a weakness she had which he could use to his advantage. She was a virgin. He was not. This fact was not meaningful to him in any way, and did nothing to harness the wild, uncouth attraction he felt towards her. But it was a delicate layer of herself that she could not move or touch, as if to do so would cause immense discomfort and frustration. Pins and needles in one leg. When he alluded to it, he could see the shadow of her smirk fade away, and for a moment, she would lock her eyes with his. In that split second, the zig-zags spiked and he spun around in his swivel chair, and the completely erroneous scenario of her pushing him against the bookshelves and kissing him seemed almost like a reality.

He read along as she flipped the pages, still as mesmerizing as a deep blue cresting wave. He watched the deep blue cresting wave as it parsed imperative verbs. Catullus. She translated, luckily too absorbed to hurl any sharpened oneliners in his direction.

Da mi basia mille. “Give me a thousand kisses” she read. He wanted to.

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Gwen Haidar ‘16

T h e Va g a b o n d

M a r i a C a r r a sc o ‘ 1 4

Come back down to the gods beneath your feet let your white unchafed soles become hard again with the melody of a dark place and your path cold again with the snow of a forgotten winter.

Come back down to the gods beneath your feet they’ve been waiting for you to tell them how it felt how you dug the crevasse in your chest and how you dipped your toes in the living dirt.

Rise up again to the demons of the skies let your time-stained feet tramp upon new ground and the chords of your memories vibrate to shattered dials.

Rise up again to the demons of the skies who trust you no longer, betrayer of lifetimes Come down fast but rise only like the pressure of tomorrow’s heart.

Stay for a while. No one’s left waiting for you.

Brian Swift ‘14

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untitled

Monique Reichenstein ‘14

Essays are meant to be done Deadlines are meant to be met

and I’ve yet started to write.

They say, “don’t hold back” They say, “it comes naturally” They say, “you have so much time”

but it’s due tomorrow?

I say, “time to bullshit” I say, “make a good lie”

and only then do I say, “Fuck! It’s been there the whole time!”

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61 Sarah Brandow ‘14

Madeleine Goldberg ‘16

Margaret Corn ‘15

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Benny Kes2len ‘14

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short Memoirs

Spent too little time responsible for nothing.

HS, BA, MA, PHD, MS.

Today I realized I am Frank Sinatra’s love child.

No one’s listening, I’m old hat.

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Berk Pearlstein ‘15

B i l l Pa h l k a

Kent Kildahl

Jeffrey Edwards

K i mb e r ly H a ‘ 1 4 69

The Beach

Maria Carrasco ‘14

She caught herself thinking that the New Jersey water wasn’t as blue. Not like the turquoise of Playa Rincon or the tinted green of the river a short walk away from her home. Her house back in Santiago had been yellow, on a block where the houses were splashed with colors she could not find here. Prima Suiz’s house had been neon pink: the plaster was coming off of the walls and her sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, and even grandkids, had slowly begun to move out of the house, so that the hum of conversation and the pounding of dancing feet could no longer be heard from across the street. Anna Lisa, however, could only remember the bright pink of the house and how it had looked out of the window as her uncle sped away, with her entire life tucked away in the back of his van. Anna scolded herself; she had to remember that home wasn’t home anymore and that she could no longer be who she once was.

She took a step back from the water, the spaces in between her toes now covered with moist sand, browner and colder than the rest of the shore. Her mother had called, probably needing help setting up their meal. Anna, in all her nostalgia was grateful to her parents for having brought her and her brother to the beach. As if they sensed how much she missed the smell of the ocean that had pervaded everything back home.

“Vete al caro, please. Deje la soda,” her mother asked as Anna Lisa approached the pile of towels belonging to her family. She wiped her feet off on a towel, slipping them into her gray flip-flops and running to the scorching parking lot to get the soda from the car. Anna let her eyes travel across the rest of the beach; she remembered watching movies as a child where perfect American families would have small picnics on the beach with lemonade and sandwiches.

It was so different from what her family did when they came to the beach. A towel was always laid out with various plastic containers making a full meal; one brimming with moro, another with pollo al horno and spaghetti.

“Where are Sammy and Papi?”

“Se fueron corriendo con una pelota.” Ana smiled at this; it was nice to see her brother and father spending time together. She and Sammy had barely gotten to see their dad recently. Before the move and before their father’s work had begun to drown him, he would come home early and bring them mangoes and bottled mavi. Humming an old bachata, he would drag their mother away from the kitchen into the living room where they would dance. Now on the nights when he did come home, he would eat dinner quickly and drag his feet to the bedroom, too tired to stop by the store and bring his children gifts or to wash the dishes for his wife.

Her mother had changed too, but in a different way. It had been her dream to come here. She had once put up a picture of the New York City skyline, had cut it out from the local newspaper and hung it up in the living room. Within 70

the first week of their move, she had bought tons of used, wooden-paneled furniture and what seemed like hundreds of books for her children. Anna had never seen her mother smile so much.

Anna kicked off her flip-flops and walked back down to the water. As she raised her hand to block her eyes from the sun, she saw her brother running on the edge of the sand and the water. He slowed his pace when he saw her and stopped so that they stood shoulder to shoulder facing the water.

“Don’t you miss it?” Anna asked her brother.

“It feels the same,” her brother said looking down at his feet. “The sand, I mean. And it all sounds the same. But yeah, I miss it.”

“She seems happy, though,” Anna said, looking at her mother.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Hey, maybe she knows something we don’t. She usually does, right?” he ventured, as they turned to join their parents for their very own picnic.

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Timothy Mentor ‘16

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COlophon P u b l i c a t i o n t i t l e : Impressions I s s u e o f f r e q u e n c y : Annually P r i n t e r : Catskill Mountain Printing by Steve Friedman C o v e r p a p e R : Mohawk Superfine White Eggshell Cover 80 P a g e p a p e r : Mohawk Superfine White Eggshell 100 Text B i n d : Perfect Bo d y T e x t l e a d i n g : 13 Bo d y T e x t T r a c k i n g : 12 A t t r i b u t i o n : Helvetica Neue Medium 11 T i t l e t e x t : Helvetica Neue Medium 11 Bo d y : Helvetica Neue Light 9.25 pt

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IMPRESSIONS 2014