Impressions 2009

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Impressions has published the visual art and creative writing of students in the Upper School for almost 30 years. Past Editorial Boards have sought diversity, experimentation, imagination, and honesty in personal expression in soliciting poems, short stories, essays, paintings, graphics, photographs, sculpture, and mixed media submissions.

Transcript of Impressions 2009

  • art and literary publication2009

  • the editors

    The Realist painter Gustave Courbet noted in his manifesto that one cannot paint subject matter outside of ones experience. The verity of this statement became clear to us as we sorted through our submissions. We noticed that our strongest pieces were the ones that were most genuine; writing that was born of personal experience and art that sought to convey the emotions of the artist. The beauty of each piece of work stems from a sense of nakedness, the viewer is afforded a glance into the artists or authors thoughts and experiences.

    In this years Impressions, we focused on simplicity and continuity. As we began laying out the pages of the magazine, we learned an important lesson; less is more. With each layout we crafted, we focused on producing a subtle sense of balance that complimented the nuances within each submission. By stripping the design to its bare elements, we mimicked the sense of exposure in our submissions.

    Cover: Ian Sullivan 11

    Opposite: Cyrus Jalai 10

    Riverdale Country School5250 Fieldston Road,

    Bronx NY 10471

  • I m p r e s s i o n s 2009

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  • Art

    Photograph Danya Contreras 4Photograph Owen Barrett 5

    Painting Daisy Hackett 9Photograph Danya Contreras - 11

    Photograph Owen Barrett 12Photograph Owen Barrett 16

    Painting Jianna Lieberman 18Painting Lily Adler 19

    Painting Daisy Hackett 25Photograph Clio Massey 28

    Photograph Clio Massey 31Painting Jonathan Desnick 32

    Photograph Isabel Borish 34Drawing Jianna Lieberman 36

    Photograph Ali Kokot 37Painting Cyrus Jalai 45

    Photograph Owen Barrett 47Painting Ben Kaplan 49

    Photograph Juliana Bernstein 51Painting Fahmina Ahmed 52

    Painting Margaret Arias 55Painting Daisy Hackett 57

    Drawing Charlotte Simons 59Photograph Alyson Klinow 60

    Photograph Juliana Bernstein 62Drawing Jianna Lieberman 63

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  • Literature

    from Serial Poem 12/14 - Manuel Abreu - 4Sixteen - Margaret Arias - 6-8The Singlemost - Manuel Abreu - 13-15D-M-T - Samuel Hodak - 17Wings - Stephen Rosen - 18Weeds - Margaret Arias - 20-24Rollercoaster - Anonymous 26Zoe - Lovia Gyarkye 29-30More Than She - Emma Horwitz 33Caul - Kelly Baltazar 35from Serial Poem 12/12 - Manuel Abreu 37Neem - Fahmina Ahmed 38-44Arcade - Zachary Schwinder 46Portrait of an Artist - Jianna Lieberman 48-49Absent Glance - Emily Keating 50Villanelles - Gabrielle Hoyt-Disick 52-53Beat Up - Isabella Jorrisen 54Short Story - Sophia Yapalater 56-58Haiku - Carla Diaz 59Our Collective Heel - Stephen Rosen 61Drawn - Anonymous 62Contemplation - Sophia Yapalater 64

    Table of Contents

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  • 4Defer the tiny eye of a treeyelling in distances, the blondness of smell for which dewis a paperclip or rubberbandlike the smallness of mountains

    ondness of smell for which dewbecomes a small droplet of ananimal like rain on a carswindow. Proof of motion is still. This todays handshake

    yelling in distances, the blades of yet-sharpened grassesserrating the rocky surfaceof the water for which everything is a mirror, and the f

    like the smallness of mountainschanging names, or the smallnessof a person on a census, whichcomes to an end as a bowl of cereal spells a well-liked word.

    is a paperclip or rubberbandfor a maw of papers like braces for unruly children, likespaces between things becomingcoin-faces that pass mute hands,

    Manuel Abreu 09Danya Contreras 09

    from Serial Poem 12/14

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  • 5Owen Barrett 11

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  • 6 Ive said it before and I will say it again. Memory is a funny thing. But then again, so are humans. We see our faces change. We see our feelings change. We see ourselves change. Not every day, of course. But someday, we stand above our reflectionthat comes in many dif-ferent forms: mirrors, pictures, daughtersand

    realize that we arent the same as before. And what we carry with us, the proof of our journey, the evidence of our struggle, is memory. Except, as I said, thats a funny thing.

    Its weird how our memory captures events. It holds them like a treasure and you dont understand why you remember this or that, you just do. Its as if the brain is selective. It closes its eyes as we flash images before it and grabs one

    randomly and hoards it. Forever. And sometimes, its fingertips graze over it just picking up the

    sense of it, but thats more than enough to leave an impact, to change an idea, to change a life.

    My dad remembers all the names of his high school friends, and yet sometimes he forgets my age. I know youre older than 13, I just dont know how much older. I tell him that he has Alzheimers. Now Ive learned that I shouldnt have done that. He uses it against me. If I say, Papi! You promised that you were going pay me for doing x, y, and z. His response is, I have Alzheimers.

    I hate The Home Depot, but normally I have no choice whether to go or not. Like now. My parents have to buy wood and they decide to drag me along. So I come, because I have no other choice, not because I want to. I have declared the bright orange cart mine. Its the type thats flat with something to drag it with, like

    an oversized, squarish scooter, which is exactly

    Sixteen

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  • 7what I was using it as. I looked up to see my dad moving his fingers in the air, taking huge

    dance-y steps to the music. The radio speakers are playing an old song that I used to know well. Its a man singing about his friend named Marvin. I push off and lift my foot off the concrete gray floor that makes the orange wheels

    look like polka dots that dont belong. As the oversized scooter rolls, I do my own mini-dance. He looks at me, a smile on his face, shaking his head as if to say, You have no shame. He has Alzheimers. He already forgot his own mini-spectacle five seconds before mine.

    U-Turn. Its something people do when they drive; its also something they do in life. My parents decided to move in the opposite direc-tion because they cant find the right sized wood,

    which happens a lot. Not finding what youre

    looking for, I mean. Sometimes its simple like wood. Other times its hard, like answers. Why

    do some memories last? Why do others perish, disappearing in scattered directions like blowing ashes into the wind? Why did my dad and I grow more distant? Answers Im still looking for.

    I scooter behind them, feeling like a little kid again. My dad laughs and says to my mom, Look at your little baby. My mom doesnt laugh as much as my dad does. She just looks at me and raises her eyebrows; all the things she needs to say are written on her face. My mom is a woman of few words and many expressions. My dad falls back and pulls the cart so that all I have to do is ride on top. We pass a security guard, who gives me a pointed smile. Once again, someone is replacing expressions for words. I hop off and obey her silent warning. I help drag the cart that now has wood on top.

    People say I look a lot like my dad. And even if I didnt, its easy to tell were related by

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  • 8the way we act, like dancing in the aisles of the Home Depot to Nightshift, by the Commo-dores. I had to grow up quickly, like him. We are both older siblings, who learned to take care of the younger ones and dealt with our heavy bur-den of responsibilities. Youre living proof that God answers prayers, he told me once. I could say the same about him.

    Sometimes I act like Im 20. But Im not. I need him to help me drag my orange cart over the gray floors we all travel. Except in real life,

    the floor isnt smooth. Its bumpy and difficult.

    But hes there to help me. The security guard is out of sight, and Im back on the oversized scooter cart. Though my dad forgets, Im six-teen. But hes never forgotten that I need him.

    Im going remember this. And if I dont remember it to exact detail, Ill remember the sense of it, like fingers grazing over a memory.

    A sense of happiness. Orange wheels on gray concrete floors. Rolling on oversized scooters

    behind security guards backs.

    Im 16. But sometimes I act 6.

    Maybe thats why sometimes my dad forgets my age.

    Margaret Arias 11

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  • 9Daisy Hackett 09

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  • 10

    Tomorrow night

    If I were to tell you everything tomorrow night, would it matter? What makes tomorrow night different from the next?

    Is it the fact that when I think about you I dont think about tomorrow, I think about NOW!

    I think about everything that should be now, Everything that shouldve been yesterday, Everything that shall be tomorrow.

    Tomorrow Night Is it I? Is it the fact that maybe I dont have it inside me to tell you

    To tell you the feelings thatve grown since the beginning, Since before the beginning, since before I knew you? Because even before I knew you, I had these feelings for you. I didnt need to know you to know that you would be there for me to catch Finally.

    Tomorrow Night

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  • 11

    So yes, it does matter if I tell you tomorrow night, because tomorrow night is too late, Because tonight is too late, now is too late, so here. Now. Finally.