The Ivy | #9 | November 2016

THE IVY

ISSUE NO. 9 | PHS

CHINESE POLYGRAPH, EDDIE CAI

THE IVY

The Ivy began in the 1960s,

ISSUE N . 9 O

but its serialization began in 2014.

THE IVY

The Ivy began in the 1960s,

ISSUE N . 9 O

but its serialization began in 2014.

We all know the onslaught of work that comes at the beginning of the school year: college essays, studying for tests, and more homework than can be can physically stuffed into a backpack. On top of all of that, we had to take on the responsibility of Editors-in-Chief. The worst, however, is the emails, always accompanied with that annoying little “bing”. There were the boring school related emails and the mass-college emails (will they ever stop?), but then there was the occasional saving light: Ivy submission emails. We got every visual and literary art submission sent right to our phones and each email meant a thirty-second break from life; a quick lull in the hallways, or during class, to admire the incredible art and daydream for a moment about how much fun it would be to format a spread with these works.

We hope this issue has the same effect on all of you as it did on us.

Deciding on which pieces to accept was difficult, and we had to decline many stunning pieces. However, we believe that this issue serves as a sampler of the different styles and voices that the PHS community has to offer.

Our goal as a magazine is not only to provide a gateway between the wonderful artists—both visual and literary—at PHS, but also to inspire everyone to get creative and show their own thoughts and feelings through the wonderful medium of art. We are really excited for this issue, with pieces that are political, relatable, and just beautiful. So without further delay, enjoy Issue 9!

Stefan Pophristic & Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heinz

Editors-in-Chief

4|

UNTITLED, Clara Bourquelot

CONTENTS 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

UNTITLED | Clara Bourquelot SPOTTED OWL | Amy Lin OWLS | Marc Roberge-Pika WORDS | Margaret Evered A TRIP DOWN TIME’S RABBIT HOLE | Keri Zhang COLLEGE APPLICATION SEASON | Darya Tahvildar-Zadeh CALMNESS | Mildred Ouyang, 3:30 AM | Anonymous C’EST LA VIE | Kathryn Tsui VOLCANIC | Jasper Scott NATURAL | Jasmine Xu FRESH OFF THE BOAT | Leslie Liu UNTITLED | Kate Li WHEN THEY BUILT THE WALL | Anonymous UNTITLED | Laura Liu THE OCEAN, THE SKY, AND THE INBETWEENER | Maya Pophristic, BALLET DANCER | Jingyi Zhang INSOMNIA | Emily Wang COTTON | Katy Faas WHERE I’M FROM | Grace Forrest ENAMELED ARMOR | Valeria Torres-Olivares SIMPLICITY | Shira Chuang YEAR | Hannah Davies PARASITE | Amelia Wright UNTITLED | Nicole Ng SATURDAY WINDOW | Brenna Kennedy-Moore

|5

We all know the onslaught of work that comes at the beginning of the school year: college essays, studying for tests, and more homework than can be can physically stuffed into a backpack. On top of all of that, we had to take on the responsibility of Editors-in-Chief. The worst, however, is the emails, always accompanied with that annoying little “bing”. There were the boring school related emails and the mass-college emails (will they ever stop?), but then there was the occasional saving light: Ivy submission emails. We got every visual and literary art submission sent right to our phones and each email meant a thirty-second break from life; a quick lull in the hallways, or during class, to admire the incredible art and daydream for a moment about how much fun it would be to format a spread with these works.

We hope this issue has the same effect on all of you as it did on us.

Deciding on which pieces to accept was difficult, and we had to decline many stunning pieces. However, we believe that this issue serves as a sampler of the different styles and voices that the PHS community has to offer.

Our goal as a magazine is not only to provide a gateway between the wonderful artists—both visual and literary—at PHS, but also to inspire everyone to get creative and show their own thoughts and feelings through the wonderful medium of art. We are really excited for this issue, with pieces that are political, relatable, and just beautiful. So without further delay, enjoy Issue 9!

Stefan Pophristic & Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heinz

Editors-in-Chief

4|

UNTITLED, Clara Bourquelot

CONTENTS 4 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

UNTITLED | Clara Bourquelot SPOTTED OWL | Amy Lin OWLS | Marc Roberge-Pika WORDS | Margaret Evered A TRIP DOWN TIME’S RABBIT HOLE | Keri Zhang COLLEGE APPLICATION SEASON | Darya Tahvildar-Zadeh CALMNESS | Mildred Ouyang, 3:30 AM | Anonymous C’EST LA VIE | Kathryn Tsui VOLCANIC | Jasper Scott NATURAL | Jasmine Xu FRESH OFF THE BOAT | Leslie Liu UNTITLED | Kate Li WHEN THEY BUILT THE WALL | Anonymous UNTITLED | Laura Liu THE OCEAN, THE SKY, AND THE INBETWEENER | Maya Pophristic, BALLET DANCER | Jingyi Zhang INSOMNIA | Emily Wang COTTON | Katy Faas WHERE I’M FROM | Grace Forrest ENAMELED ARMOR | Valeria Torres-Olivares SIMPLICITY | Shira Chuang YEAR | Hannah Davies PARASITE | Amelia Wright UNTITLED | Nicole Ng SATURDAY WINDOW | Brenna Kennedy-Moore

|5

SPOTTED OWL, Amy Lin

colored pencil

OWLS, Marc Roberge-Pika

An owl in the treetops alights on a branch as her mate sits across the sidewalk on a telephone-pole pedestal.

They—one hidden by leaves, the other a silhouette against summer twilight— chirp—or coo?—and glance uncertainly down on me— round heads dark against the waning light: Devoid of feature, yet expressive.

I’d dare not characterize mutualistic instinctual relationships in terms of the intricacies and intimacies of human emotion— but there’s a certain tentative affection between these two, as I stand between and beneath, gazing up: a familiar charm to their awkward owl aloofness.

6|

|7

SPOTTED OWL, Amy Lin

colored pencil

OWLS, Marc Roberge-Pika

An owl in the treetops alights on a branch as her mate sits across the sidewalk on a telephone-pole pedestal.

They—one hidden by leaves, the other a silhouette against summer twilight— chirp—or coo?—and glance uncertainly down on me— round heads dark against the waning light: Devoid of feature, yet expressive.

I’d dare not characterize mutualistic instinctual relationships in terms of the intricacies and intimacies of human emotion— but there’s a certain tentative affection between these two, as I stand between and beneath, gazing up: a familiar charm to their awkward owl aloofness.

6|

|7

Words either bounce off or stick, and the words I like best are the sticky ones.

Words that wrap themselves around your neck until you listen and then crawl away, But if you were to look in the mirror the next morning, you would see The residue in your eyes, in the lines of your face, and hiding behind your ears.

I like the words you can’t wash out with $1.99 soap and facial cream from CVS, The words that come to stay and bring suitcases and fancy hats and steal silverware from your cupboards.

Words that only cease to sting when they have left a mark, Passionate, vivacious, and stabbing until you make them your best friends.

Our faces would be empty and uniform without words, urging the corners of the mouth down, adding a twinkle to the otherwise dull eye.

Humans are words, Stacks and stacks of words upon words.

8|

A TRIPDOWN TIME’S RABBIT HOLE, Keri Zhang

Margaret Evered

altered book, gouache, watercolor, oil pastel, plastic, permanent marker, thread, and glue

WORDS,

|9

Words either bounce off or stick, and the words I like best are the sticky ones.

Words that wrap themselves around your neck until you listen and then crawl away, But if you were to look in the mirror the next morning, you would see The residue in your eyes, in the lines of your face, and hiding behind your ears.

I like the words you can’t wash out with $1.99 soap and facial cream from CVS, The words that come to stay and bring suitcases and fancy hats and steal silverware from your cupboards.

Words that only cease to sting when they have left a mark, Passionate, vivacious, and stabbing until you make them your best friends.

Our faces would be empty and uniform without words, urging the corners of the mouth down, adding a twinkle to the otherwise dull eye.

Humans are words, Stacks and stacks of words upon words.

8|

A TRIPDOWN TIME’S RABBIT HOLE, Keri Zhang

Margaret Evered

altered book, gouache, watercolor, oil pastel, plastic, permanent marker, thread, and glue

WORDS,

|9

COLLEGE APPLICATION SEASON, Darya Tahvildar-Zadeh

this is how it starts. one day you fall down the stairs and nearly break your skull and you think, hey, this’ll be a great thing to write my college essay about! the future still seems like a distant daydream—it’s a point on a map

you can prod with your finger, but all the paths leading there still look like squiggles (and you don’t even have your driver’s license yet, so, no rush.) but suddenly, if anyone speaks the word “college” at family gatherings it feels like a confrontation. and then your friends stop eating lunch so they can write essays, and everyone starts falling asleep in the library, and in class, and in gym, and break looks like a bunch of arguing zombies struggling to hold each other up. everyone is engaged in serious introspection. what should i do with the next four years of my life? the next six? the next twenty? everyone is engaged in serious regret. why didn’t i take that class? or get better grades? do more community service? play more sports? write more articles? possess better qualities as a person? we question every decision, because every decision is like building a

road that’s infinitely narrowing. and it’s up to us to not fall off the road. and i think about how i used to not be the driver, but now i am the driver, and i’m scared.

10 |

3:30 A.M., Anonymous Dear Teachers, I love your class. I really do!

But, I care for sleep too...

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oil on canvas

COLLEGE APPLICATION SEASON, Darya Tahvildar-Zadeh

this is how it starts. one day you fall down the stairs and nearly break your skull and you think, hey, this’ll be a great thing to write my college essay about! the future still seems like a distant daydream—it’s a point on a map

you can prod with your finger, but all the paths leading there still look like squiggles (and you don’t even have your driver’s license yet, so, no rush.) but suddenly, if anyone speaks the word “college” at family gatherings it feels like a confrontation. and then your friends stop eating lunch so they can write essays, and everyone starts falling asleep in the library, and in class, and in gym, and break looks like a bunch of arguing zombies struggling to hold each other up. everyone is engaged in serious introspection. what should i do with the next four years of my life? the next six? the next twenty? everyone is engaged in serious regret. why didn’t i take that class? or get better grades? do more community service? play more sports? write more articles? possess better qualities as a person? we question every decision, because every decision is like building a

road that’s infinitely narrowing. and it’s up to us to not fall off the road. and i think about how i used to not be the driver, but now i am the driver, and i’m scared.

10 |

3:30 A.M., Anonymous Dear Teachers, I love your class. I really do!

But, I care for sleep too...

ng

,

SS NE

Mildred

a uy

O

LM

CA

oil on canvas

C’EST LA VIE, Kathryn Tsui

Sunset to sunrise, An avalanche of feet Climbing up the hill.

Lines walking up the trail, Right, left, right, left.

Guns held high, Pointed to the sky.

Graves being dug, For the ones long gone.

Never looking back, Always moving on.

The line moves forward, never wavering, Warily watching out.

Flames dance brightly As smoke blocks eyesight, But neither fear nor resolve has disappeared, Hail the dying flames.

Lips pursed, Heads bent low, Honor for you, Your country, And your family.

La vie c’est très bon, non?

cott

, Jasper S C I N A C VOL

photography

C’EST LA VIE, Kathryn Tsui

Sunset to sunrise, An avalanche of feet Climbing up the hill.

Lines walking up the trail, Right, left, right, left.

Guns held high, Pointed to the sky.

Graves being dug, For the ones long gone.

Never looking back, Always moving on.

The line moves forward, never wavering, Warily watching out.

Flames dance brightly As smoke blocks eyesight, But neither fear nor resolve has disappeared, Hail the dying flames.

Lips pursed, Heads bent low, Honor for you, Your country, And your family.

La vie c’est très bon, non?

cott

, Jasper S C I N A C VOL

photography

NATURAL, Jasmine Xu FRESH OFF THE BOAT, Leslie Liu

’ve heard that you bleed red, white and blue, with streaks of valor running down your eyes. You have what the Romans call amor patriae, and you grew up with animals and a real sensitivity towards freedom.

I talked to you once, but you seemed so distant and untouchable. And so I considered you an acquaintance; I could never know you.

I

I saw you once, when it was around eight p.m., and I swear that for just a moment the image of you shifted.

Underneath the colors, I saw a great expanse of red with gold studded into your forehead. It was the face of another you left behind the summer you were born. I asked you about it and you told me that you didn’t like it all that much—that you left it in the sand to be washed away by the ocean.

Yeah, I guess yellow isn’t that pretty of a color. But when I got home and stood in front of a canvas, paintbrush in hand, I painted a self-portrait with the primary colors.

acrylic on canvas

| 15

NATURAL, Jasmine Xu FRESH OFF THE BOAT, Leslie Liu

’ve heard that you bleed red, white and blue, with streaks of valor running down your eyes. You have what the Romans call amor patriae, and you grew up with animals and a real sensitivity towards freedom.

I talked to you once, but you seemed so distant and untouchable. And so I considered you an acquaintance; I could never know you.

I

I saw you once, when it was around eight p.m., and I swear that for just a moment the image of you shifted.

Underneath the colors, I saw a great expanse of red with gold studded into your forehead. It was the face of another you left behind the summer you were born. I asked you about it and you told me that you didn’t like it all that much—that you left it in the sand to be washed away by the ocean.

Yeah, I guess yellow isn’t that pretty of a color. But when I got home and stood in front of a canvas, paintbrush in hand, I painted a self-portrait with the primary colors.

acrylic on canvas

| 15

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WHEN THEY BUILT THE WALL,

Anonymous

UNTITLED, Laura Liu

We watched it go up Ever taller, snatching at the sky Stretching longer than pride And as it rose we became enclosed But more vulnerable.

This is your fault.

For on that day When the blood boiled up to the / two-seven-zero And the dollar drifted to the ground We were doomed.

We were doomed, Because you didn’t think it would happen.

So today, each brick in the wall Adds to the weight of our burden As we are sorted by color, shape, and sex Crammed into boxes to fill all the orders That are shipped centuries from our / preferred destination And air-dropped into the ocean On a kamikaze mission That the pilots weren’t aware of.. photography

18 |

You were supposed to protect us.

If we were born some years earlier We would have done it ourselves.

But you were too beat Missed the deadlines Got caught up in something else…

Because you didn’t care And took it all for granted.

Chose turning in early over your children.

It’s too late for us.

Our huge world has been squashed Under the foot of the elephant That trumpeted too loud The one everyone hurled peanuts at To get it to shut up But maybe someday We can turn this around…

If only we could go back. | 19

WHEN THEY BUILT THE WALL,

Anonymous

UNTITLED, Laura Liu

We watched it go up Ever taller, snatching at the sky Stretching longer than pride And as it rose we became enclosed But more vulnerable.

This is your fault.

For on that day When the blood boiled up to the / two-seven-zero And the dollar drifted to the ground We were doomed.

We were doomed, Because you didn’t think it would happen.

So today, each brick in the wall Adds to the weight of our burden As we are sorted by color, shape, and sex Crammed into boxes to fill all the orders That are shipped centuries from our / preferred destination And air-dropped into the ocean On a kamikaze mission That the pilots weren’t aware of.. photography

18 |

You were supposed to protect us.

If we were born some years earlier We would have done it ourselves.

But you were too beat Missed the deadlines Got caught up in something else…

Because you didn’t care And took it all for granted.

Chose turning in early over your children.

It’s too late for us.

Our huge world has been squashed Under the foot of the elephant That trumpeted too loud The one everyone hurled peanuts at To get it to shut up But maybe someday We can turn this around…

If only we could go back. | 19

THE OCEAN, THE SKY, AND THE INBETWEENER Maya Pophristic

pen

When I die, I shall awake as a tree. Tall and vast. Big, oh-so big. Fingertips always searching for the sky, trying to graze a star. Feel its power flow through my vines that I wear like armor. Make my make–believe armor tremor. Tall and mysterious and old, and risingrisingrising, never ever ending.

Please don’t let me end.

I once read, “if I were a tree, I would have no reason to love a human.” I wish it were true–how much I wish I could hate these wretched humans. But I shall always have reasons to love humans. Brains. People. Ideas. Painted lips.

Hooded eyes. Hands splayed across random things, moving–wonderful, wonderful–elegant hands. Hands twisting hair–free hairsilky strands in complicated twists and turns like water constantly flowing down.

Laughter that tinkles, laughter that booms.

Thoughts that are corrupted, and so plainly written on your face.

Your lips are sealed but there is a grin of mischief that quickens my heart; you are always quiet until the incorrect moments and it fascinates me.

Understand me. I beg of you, understand me like the sky and the water understand me. I want to live another life as a tree, for today I am water. And yesterday I was the sky. When I die, I shall be the inbetweens. You are the inbetweens, understand my native language; I try and speak, but whenever I part my lips, seawater seeps out, and no words can make their way through.

Sink me. I beg of you, drown me into the depths of blueblueblue water. A salty blue, where I can feel my tongue drying without any water making contact with it. Push me down until I must gasp and the sea is pulled into me by not only my mouth but my pores as well, until my lungs are collapsing into themselves because of it. Because there is a fire in my lungs that won’t stop burning, and it is so livid that it will swallow the sea without a second thought and lick its lips afterward.

“When I die, I shall be the inbetweens...”

I am contradictions, and fear should strike in your heart like a lightning bolt when you think you know me, because you do not. I can guarantee you. The layer you see is a second skin to a second skin to a second skin. I am water, crashing and dangerous and calm about it–but I am also fire.

I am loudness in my head, in my heart, in my lungs. I am the ocean rushing, I am the flap of wings and runny clouds that seep into each other, I am the canopy of green and the rush of life and silence that only exists within a forest. I am the water, I was the sky, and I shall again awaken as the inbetweener. I shall awake, tall and vast–and still out of your reach.

BALLET DANCER, Jingyi Zhang 20 |

| 21

THE OCEAN, THE SKY, AND THE INBETWEENER Maya Pophristic

pen

When I die, I shall awake as a tree. Tall and vast. Big, oh-so big. Fingertips always searching for the sky, trying to graze a star. Feel its power flow through my vines that I wear like armor. Make my make–believe armor tremor. Tall and mysterious and old, and risingrisingrising, never ever ending.

Please don’t let me end.

I once read, “if I were a tree, I would have no reason to love a human.” I wish it were true–how much I wish I could hate these wretched humans. But I shall always have reasons to love humans. Brains. People. Ideas. Painted lips.

Hooded eyes. Hands splayed across random things, moving–wonderful, wonderful–elegant hands. Hands twisting hair–free hairsilky strands in complicated twists and turns like water constantly flowing down.

Laughter that tinkles, laughter that booms.

Thoughts that are corrupted, and so plainly written on your face.

Your lips are sealed but there is a grin of mischief that quickens my heart; you are always quiet until the incorrect moments and it fascinates me.

Understand me. I beg of you, understand me like the sky and the water understand me. I want to live another life as a tree, for today I am water. And yesterday I was the sky. When I die, I shall be the inbetweens. You are the inbetweens, understand my native language; I try and speak, but whenever I part my lips, seawater seeps out, and no words can make their way through.

Sink me. I beg of you, drown me into the depths of blueblueblue water. A salty blue, where I can feel my tongue drying without any water making contact with it. Push me down until I must gasp and the sea is pulled into me by not only my mouth but my pores as well, until my lungs are collapsing into themselves because of it. Because there is a fire in my lungs that won’t stop burning, and it is so livid that it will swallow the sea without a second thought and lick its lips afterward.

“When I die, I shall be the inbetweens...”

I am contradictions, and fear should strike in your heart like a lightning bolt when you think you know me, because you do not. I can guarantee you. The layer you see is a second skin to a second skin to a second skin. I am water, crashing and dangerous and calm about it–but I am also fire.

I am loudness in my head, in my heart, in my lungs. I am the ocean rushing, I am the flap of wings and runny clouds that seep into each other, I am the canopy of green and the rush of life and silence that only exists within a forest. I am the water, I was the sky, and I shall again awaken as the inbetweener. I shall awake, tall and vast–and still out of your reach.

BALLET DANCER, Jingyi Zhang 20 |

| 21

oil on canvas

It’s really fear you want to address but the words cling to the insides of your head so you jeer at yourself

INSOMNIA, Emily Wang

with money, to eradicate the fear, and to ease the pain the pristine nightstand snickers, while the figure in a picture frame hung lopsided pities you, the snores drifting through the walls, and the scent of lavender so familiar and comforting but never enough, as the internal war rages within your head and all you can hear and feel is the sleepy silence filled with your fear and doubt.

22 |

painting is based on a photo by an anonymous artist

drifting slowly wrapped mentally in your tiredness and physically in a soft quilt, they call it a comforter as if comfort could be so easily bought

COTTON, Katy Faas

what are you but a coward you wake at 3 a.m. heartbeat thrumming thinking failure, fool, can’t sleep, can’t dream and you’re

oil on canvas

It’s really fear you want to address but the words cling to the insides of your head so you jeer at yourself

INSOMNIA, Emily Wang

with money, to eradicate the fear, and to ease the pain the pristine nightstand snickers, while the figure in a picture frame hung lopsided pities you, the snores drifting through the walls, and the scent of lavender so familiar and comforting but never enough, as the internal war rages within your head and all you can hear and feel is the sleepy silence filled with your fear and doubt.

22 |

painting is based on a photo by an anonymous artist

drifting slowly wrapped mentally in your tiredness and physically in a soft quilt, they call it a comforter as if comfort could be so easily bought

COTTON, Katy Faas

what are you but a coward you wake at 3 a.m. heartbeat thrumming thinking failure, fool, can’t sleep, can’t dream and you’re

I am from photographs and thrift shops, from black, white, and vivid watercolor.

I am from the shopping carts, the peanut brittle, and Judge Judy in carpeted discomfort.

I am from car seats and gospel beats, the Man I never understood.

I’m from come and go, tar and wood chips: a daily recipe.

It is hesitation I am from, and uncertainty too, that now set off chills throughout my mind, “It’s just a joke!” they said “You need to calm down,” they said snickering behind their metal smiles.

New beginnings called my name.

“You are from here!” they exclaimed.

“Where is my home?” they asked me, from the two spirits on unbalanced bones with shaking hands and stretched headbands, from acidic tears and “Don’t gain, my dear.”

I am from bad contemplations and rare safe havens, with “I’m sorry, please I’m sorry,” being my crumbling wall.

24 |

enameled glass shards and copper

WHERE I’M FROM, Grace Forrest

I am from “shhhh,” from papers and timesheets.

I am from the holly bush, And the thorns that slowly drew blood.

I am from contemporary light, that prevented me from sleeping.

I am from nightmares and loneliness, And the sounds that mocked my thoughts.

ENAMELED ARMOR, Valeria Torres-Olivares

I am from photographs and thrift shops, from black, white, and vivid watercolor.

I am from the shopping carts, the peanut brittle, and Judge Judy in carpeted discomfort.

I am from car seats and gospel beats, the Man I never understood.

I’m from come and go, tar and wood chips: a daily recipe.

It is hesitation I am from, and uncertainty too, that now set off chills throughout my mind, “It’s just a joke!” they said “You need to calm down,” they said snickering behind their metal smiles.

New beginnings called my name.

“You are from here!” they exclaimed.

“Where is my home?” they asked me, from the two spirits on unbalanced bones with shaking hands and stretched headbands, from acidic tears and “Don’t gain, my dear.”

I am from bad contemplations and rare safe havens, with “I’m sorry, please I’m sorry,” being my crumbling wall.

24 |

enameled glass shards and copper

WHERE I’M FROM, Grace Forrest

I am from “shhhh,” from papers and timesheets.

I am from the holly bush, And the thorns that slowly drew blood.

I am from contemporary light, that prevented me from sleeping.

I am from nightmares and loneliness, And the sounds that mocked my thoughts.

ENAMELED ARMOR, Valeria Torres-Olivares

SIMPLICITY, Shira Chuang YEAR, Hannah Davies I were firecracker-bent on her last breath as if I were tucked into jeans— and tried to kiss the moving current to run my mouth from home, (I always thought words sounded better alone) but I forget hours of lilac and socks spent staring into new eyes so soon maybe I already left watercolor

SIMPLICITY, Shira Chuang YEAR, Hannah Davies I were firecracker-bent on her last breath as if I were tucked into jeans— and tried to kiss the moving current to run my mouth from home, (I always thought words sounded better alone) but I forget hours of lilac and socks spent staring into new eyes so soon maybe I already left watercolor

PARASITE, Amelia Wright

UNTITLED, Nicole Ng

e

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watercolor

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PARASITE, Amelia Wright

UNTITLED, Nicole Ng

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watercolor

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STAFF LIST

ADVISORS Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heintz Stefan Pophristic MANAGING EDITORS Eddie Cai Leslie Liu TECHNOLOGY Caroline Tan (Manager) Grace Zhang Jingyi Zhang SECRETARY Lourdes Lizeth Zamora

30 |

COLOPHON

COPY EDITORS Keri Zhang Michelle Wang BUSINESS Jackie Girouard (Manager) Alexander Blackwell Jasmine Xu PUBLIC RELATIONS Audrey Zhou (Manager) Claudia Orostizaga GENERAL STAFF Maya Pophristic, Amelia Wright, Shira Chuang, Valeria Torres-Olivares, Nicole Irizarry, Katy Faas, and Mayowa Ayodele

The Saturday Window, Brenna Kennedy-Moore

The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone besides the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand. Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes”, “no”, or not at all on a Google form. All art pieces with higher than 75% approval were published.

A few others with at least 60% were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts. The only exceptions were when a single artist submitted more than one piece with a rating higher than 75%. In these cases, the higher of the two was selected. For literature, the cutoff was lower, at 50%. We did this because fewer literature pieces were submitted, but we still wanted to maintain a healthy art-to-literature ratio.

photography

FONTS COVER | New Yorker regular 60pt, 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans semibold 13pt, Lora italic 14pt COLOPHON | Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 48pt, Lora italic 13pt, Lora regular 13pt PAGE 15 | SUBMISSION TITLE | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION AUTHOR | Open Sans light 14pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt SUBMISSION MEDIUM | Open Sans light 12pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing. 2016 regular 14pt

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STAFF LIST

ADVISORS Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heintz Stefan Pophristic MANAGING EDITORS Eddie Cai Leslie Liu TECHNOLOGY Caroline Tan (Manager) Grace Zhang Jingyi Zhang SECRETARY Lourdes Lizeth Zamora

30 |

COLOPHON

COPY EDITORS Keri Zhang Michelle Wang BUSINESS Jackie Girouard (Manager) Alexander Blackwell Jasmine Xu PUBLIC RELATIONS Audrey Zhou (Manager) Claudia Orostizaga GENERAL STAFF Maya Pophristic, Amelia Wright, Shira Chuang, Valeria Torres-Olivares, Nicole Irizarry, Katy Faas, and Mayowa Ayodele

The Saturday Window, Brenna Kennedy-Moore

The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone besides the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand. Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes”, “no”, or not at all on a Google form. All art pieces with higher than 75% approval were published.

A few others with at least 60% were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts. The only exceptions were when a single artist submitted more than one piece with a rating higher than 75%. In these cases, the higher of the two was selected. For literature, the cutoff was lower, at 50%. We did this because fewer literature pieces were submitted, but we still wanted to maintain a healthy art-to-literature ratio.

photography

FONTS COVER | New Yorker regular 60pt, 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans semibold 13pt, Lora italic 14pt COLOPHON | Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 48pt, Lora italic 13pt, Lora regular 13pt PAGE 15 | SUBMISSION TITLE | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION AUTHOR | Open Sans light 14pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt SUBMISSION MEDIUM | Open Sans light 12pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing. 2016 regular 14pt

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