The Ivy | #14 | April 2018

THE IVY ISSUE XIV | Princeton High School

THE

ISSUE

The Ivy began in the 1960s,

IVY

XIV

but its serialization began in 2014.

Editors’ Letter Dear Reader, We are excited to present this year’s second issue of The Ivy! The Ivy is an extracurricular organization dedicated to promoting student work. In your hands is our annual black-and-white issue—back by popular request. This issue brings a range of art and literature submissions, and consequently a beautiful balance among various genres. We are very grateful for all your submissions, and we hope that our presentation does them justice.

As with past issues, we’ve paired together pieces that are different in theme and style to create a nuanced union of art and writing. Following our mission of diversifying published content, we hope to provide a space for a variety of voices and opinions. We’d like to thank our team members for their time and commitment—without you, such a beautiful compilation of works would never exist! Thank you for your support—if you’d like to get in touch with us, email us at theivy.phs@gmail.com.

Cheers,

Maya Pophardtopronounce & Leslie L

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Table of Contents RAVEN, Sarah Rackowski

6-7

UNTITLED, Alan Wo

WANDERLUST, Leah Williamson

8-9

INTELLECTUAL ROADMAP FOR A HANDSOME INTERNET POEM, Anonymous

NO PAIN, NO GAIN 10-11 Conor Heaney HIEMS (WINTER), Ruth Schultz 12-13

HOPE, Alice Feng

idk, Anonymous 14-15 SERENITY, Anya Sachdev 16-17

CLEOPATRA, Amelia Wright

18-19 LET THEM SING, Lydia McGrath LOUD TEETH, LOSING OUR TOUCH, Anjana Iyer Maya Pophristic 20-21 22-23 UNTITLED, Sydney Rubin STELLA, Nina Li 24-25 INK HEARTS, Abby de Riel REFLECTIVE ELVIS, Valeria Torres-Olivares 26-27 SPIRITS, Christopher Wang UNTITLED, Jingyi Zhang 28-29 GRIEF’S REQUIEM, Orie Bolitho AWAKENED, Elaina Phillips 30-31 THE ALLEGORY OF THE WELL, Hamza Nishtar THIRD-DEGREE BURN 32-33 Anna Wood

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RAVEN, Sarah R photography

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ack

kowsk i

UNTITLED, Alan Wo The right side of the universal serial bus Is found during the third thrust.

Rectus latus universae compositae geruli Est invenitur inter tertium impressionem.

THE IVY | XIV | 7

WANDERLUST, Leah Williamson

pen

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INTELLECTUAL ROADMAP FOR A HANDSOME INTERNET POEM, Anonymous Cigarette tears scars destruction decay urban longing angels devils sin sex scotch whiskey ice rocks sea wild howl moon city gala gathering pricey luxury gold greed avarice love life relationships problems breaking broken typewriter vintage low fidelity trust loss faith worship addiction cigarette

THE IVY | XIV | 9

10 |

NO PAIN, NO GAIN Conor Heaney photography

THE IVY | XIV | 11

HIEMS (WINTER), Ruth Schultz HIEMS Artum vestimentum claudit Digiti et digiti pedis congelatus Aurorae et solis occasus committit.

WINTER

Close clothes close in Fingers and toes frozen Days and nights closen.

HOPE, Alice Feng photography 12 |

THE IVY | XIV | 13

idk, Anonymous If I were to define it It would be the feeling when you want closer The one you get where everything is so happy and so good and so right That you tear up The feeling you get when you stop yourself To take a step back To see what is happening from the outside And remember this moment.

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SERENITY, Anya Sachdev photography

art’s medium

It’s being terrified of losing them because the thought drives you crazy because you don’t remember what it was before them and you don’t want to.

If I were to define it It would be the comfort and the purity and the want and the hope and the fear It’d be everything.

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LOUD TEETH (I),

My mother says my personality is exactly like my voice, three thousand decibels louder than the average person’s and constantly craving attention. She says it affectionately, and if there is one constant about me it is that I will always do too much, and I will always crave attention. The beginning of attention… well, there was no beginning. But this attention spills into affection, and I was borne into a body and soul made to love every human, and boys were no exception.

I didn’t need to know what dating was in order to know what love was.

Every boy I met, I would fall in love with, for at least a second. It was a constant trip over my feet, onto the floor. For my entire time at elementary school, I was in love with one boy; I was devoted. My undying affection toward one individual, I didn’t understand secrecy. I would tell him every day I was in love with him—even the teachers knew.

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Maya Pophristic

Throughout the year I am one version of myself. Unrecognizable to my summer version, as the sun warms the cracks I fill to the brim of a slightly altered me. My craving for attention shows itself in different ways; throughout the year my attention comes from textbooks and friends, and no boys. But in the summer all the affection goes spilling over and there is a newly bloomed idea in my head every day.

There was a group of boys I grew up grappling with; we went from playing chicken in the middle of the highways to sneaking onto the roof of the school to going out to the beach in the darkest parts of the night, where all the beautiful people would stay and laugh and laugh at nothing until 4 a.m. I don’t think I can remember a definite point of change; there was no sudden pivot that made my friends into what they were.

CLEOPATRA, Amelia Wright art’s medium

photography

THE IVY | XIV | 17

LET THEM SING, Lydia McGrath ink

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LOUD TEETH (II), It was a change that was never really a change, just a slight shift to the left, one quick step. They just changed their clothes, one piece at a time. The jokes started early, that one of the core boys was in love with me. It was funny. I laughed and my lip curled and my emotions waxed and waned, for in the summer I was a different me and left boys trailing in my wake. I did not deny his attention. I loved it, loved and love.

I was not beautiful growing up, but as their clothes changed, so did my body.

Maya Pophristic

I became a young woman, but I claimed myself to be a goddess—and when you yell it on the top of your lungs, people really don’t care to look for the truth. I would flirt back; I would flirt with each of those boys. I loved attention. I fed off of it. For someone to want me was for me to have succeeded. Then, that summer, the jokes grew crass. They edged from love to lust, but attention was attention.

I continued to grow with my boys, continued to stay out until the sun was rising.

THE IVY | XIV | 19

LOUD TEETH (III),

Maya Pophristic

One of them told me one night that no matter which way I turned, my eyes always managed to catch whatever light there was, no matter where it was hidden. I laughed and said thank you and let my heart soar, not because he had told me—but because a boy had told me. That is why when my emotions only began to wane, it wasn’t their fault, it was mine. I was the one who wanted attention, so why did I not want it then?

Their jokes began to pivot with them, slight shift to the left, one quick step. My skin began to crawl, as their attention turned vulgar. I laughed their jokes off, but my laughter—which used to spill onto the streets—was quiet.

They began to edge closer to me, began to steal things that they shouldn’t steal.

They would hold our friendship high above my head. If I didn’t do this why should I be able to smile with them? Didn’t I like the attention? For a person who craves attention, to be told it would be taken away from them was a nightmare. But we always laughed it off. For someone who loves boys so much, you don’t like us touching you. Their jokes became rougher. Not to say that I did not bite back.

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acrylic THE IVY | XIV | 21

LOSING OUR TOUCH, Anjana Iyer

LOUD TEETH (IV), I grew up with teeth sharper than a wolf, and I made it clear when I growled back.

But there is something different when it is not only physical, but mental as well. When there are whispers in your ears as you grow older, from both them and yourself—that they grew up with you, that you want attention. You want attention, why do you not want this?

I grew older, my body grew fuller, and new boys came to our group. There were two new boys. The older one kept eyeing me.

I loved it; it gave me a thrill. He had a smoker’s voice; it was as deep as voices could go.

His hands spanned larger than my thighs.

His younger brother wanted everything his brother had, his hands were fast. He took after my friends: if you like the smoker—why don’t you like us? He saw my discomfort and his viper eyes became venom. There is a dream I have, of his hands and his tongue, and my wolf teeth that someone keeps dulling down. It is tiring to run after someone and deliver their judgement, and watch them to slip away unharmed. It is tiring when every time you shove them off, there is an accompanying chorus of shouts of protest from everyone. It is tiring to be told that you’re the wrong one, for not laughing and

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Maya Pophristic

allowing it. It is tiring to be told, to think yourself, you want attention—why don’t you want it now? There is no way to describe the thought process behind a hand in your pants and your childhood friends laughing and egging it on. Telling him when your back is turned so he can go and do it again. It is so tiring when even the girls are laughing, and you keep saying stop stop stop. It is so tiring when you tell yourself every night to just stay home, but you have no better options. A summer alone is not a summer at all.

The most crushing part of these fast hands and venomous tongues was realizing that all their soft spoken words and shouts were enough to drown out a tongue that has never been silenced, a voice that has never been less than three thousand decibels too loud. It is enough of a blow to fold oneself up into themselves, that they let this occur to them. That they were not strong enough to stop it. But my teeth were still wolf teeth, no matter how dull. And, finally, once they bit down hard and the snake remained in its grip. And, finally, my teeth tore into every friend there, and there are those who scampered off, and those who have stayed—with scars on their skin to remind them of what to never be again.

photography

UNTITLED, Sydney Rubin THE IVY | XIV | 23

STELLA, Nina Li watercolor

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INK HEARTS, Abby de Riel Little ink hearts pop up like weeds between the lines of my paper, while it grows like a red ivy-covered skyscraper in my brain until it pierces my skull and cascades in leafy wings like a halo that illuminates my cheekbones and snips the strings that tie the tips of my mouth into a downward crescent

Because it makes me see the world in filters of fluorescent inks and dyes that saturate gum wrappers and drain pipes, commonplace objects, and yet I beg for the world to return to browns and greys, comfortable dialects since I can’t purify my lungs with an all-reaching scream that tells the world how deliciously vibrant it seems And maybe I can’t because I am instinctively scared Scared of the world splitting my ink hearts on mine bared, Bared to a milieu of uncertain clarity But pulsing with dread because of the polarity between us.

THE IVY | XIV | 25

photography

REFLECTIVE ELVIS, Valeria Torres-Olivares

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THE IVY | XIV | 27

acrylic

SPIRITS, Christopher Wang

UNTITLED, Jingyi Zhang charcoal

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GRIEF’S REQUIEM, Orie Bolitho My father died when he was most alive, His heart stopped; still, his love flowed on and on.

The medic thought he really would survive: But Death’s cold hand led him from me, his son.

The harsh fist of grief dug my mother’s grave; Sadness, like waves, slapped the shore of her soul.

The stranger said that I must just be brave, I tried and tried but never will feel whole.

But Grief did not tell me that she was done— She hid so well deep in the dark of the night: When all was gone she came and stole my son, The ghost she left me with gave me a fright.

And now as time tells me my fate is near, I know that now there is nothing to fear.

THE IVY | XIV | 29

AWAKENED, Elaina Phillips unglazed clay

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I had once sat down an uncovered and pe

n with my back against the wall of d well. The wall was smooth erfectly black; absorbing all light, it was indistinguishable from empty space, except by touch. I had only existed in the well, yet I was instinctively drawn to the well’s opening, a daylit star in my night sky.

I covered my eyes, turned to face the light and saw pure darkness. I then removed my hands but kept my eyelids shut, setting aglow that very darkness which consumed my entire visual field.

Delighted, I stood up; neck still craned toward the sky, I began to dance.

To this day, I dance. While dancing, I cannot perceive the walls—it is as if I am dancing on the surface. I have learned to escape the well; I have learned to live.

THE ALLEGORY OF THE WELL, Hamza Nishtar

THE IVY | XIV | 31

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THIRD-DEGREE BURN, Anna Wood photography

THE IVY | XIV | 33

STAFF LIST ADVISORS

Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muรงa

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Leslie Liu Maya Milica Pophristic

MANAGING EDITORS

Ashley Wang Aileen Wu Emily Han

BUSINESS

Lisa Mishra (manager) Matt Karns

Amelia Wright Valeria Torres-Olivares

SECRETARY

SPREAD DESIGNERS

Anya Sachdev Mayowa Ayodele Pia LaPlaca Skai Reynolds Taarika Bala Ruby Wright Subha Sivakumar Nina Li

Grace Zhang John Liang Cecily Gubser Jane Lillard Lydia McGrath-Manuilskiy

PUBLIC RELATIONS

Angel Musyimi (manager) Jingyi Zhang Leah Williamson Han Jiang Alice Feng Siena Moran Clara Bourquelot

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COPY EDITORS

Shane Spring

GENERAL STAFF

COLOPHON 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 but 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-toliterature ratio.

Three hundred and fifty copies of the magazine were distributed to students in Princeton High School.

FONTS COVER AND TITLE PAGE| Baskerville regular 60pt, 12pt CONTENTS | Open Sans semibold 14pt, Lora italic 14pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 13pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 24pt COLOPHON | Open Sans bold 24pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 12pt, Lora italic 12pt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing, 2018 regular 14pt

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UPON THE HILL, Han Jiang

photography