Mandala 2016

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Mandala 2016

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The Arts Magazine of Northfield Mount Hermon

Transcript of Mandala 2016

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Mandala

2016

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Mandala:An Art and Literary Magazine

May, 2016Northfield Mount Hermon School

Mount Hermon, MA 01354

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Table of Contents

Predators ........................................................... Pablo Borra Paley ........................Cover

Wild Cherry Sprigs ........................................... Peter Weis ............................................. 1Photograph ........................................................ Emma Lindale ...................................... 3Sin Título .......................................................... Ángela Oñate Gómez ......................... 4Untitled ............................................................. Ángela Oñate Gómez ......................... 5Drawing ............................................................ Kye Nguyen .......................................... 6Ceramic Vase .................................................... Luis Trujillo Bornios ........................... 7Closed Eyes to the Alhambra ............................ Yuna Kim .............................................. 9Weed ................................................................. Mark Yates .......................................... 10Drawing ............................................................ Bonney Couper-Kiablick .................. 11Playing Cards .................................................... Lauren Downes ................................. 13The Secrets of Ants ........................................... Isabella DeHerdt ............................... 15Oil Pastel .......................................................... Yenlin Lee ........................................... 16Abstract Self-Portrait ........................................ Adora Webb ....................................... 17For Those Two Seconds ...................................... Sophia Glazer ..................................... 18Drawing ............................................................ Zitong Xu ........................................... 20Chapel ............................................................... Maggie Dunbar .................................. 21Landing Strip .................................................... Simon van Baaren .............................. 22Mixed Media .................................................... Olivia Cleary ....................................... 26Drawing ............................................................ Kye Nguyen ........................................ 27The Night of the Last Stars ............................... A. Edwards ......................................... 29Clearing ............................................................. William Roberts ................................. 30Salvador, Brazil ................................................ Emily Miller ........................................ 31Forgiveness ......................................................... Peter Weis ........................................... 33Photograph ........................................................ Claire Fishman ................................... 34Scratchboard Drawing ....................................... Ashlyn Koh ........................................ 35

Acknowledgement ............................................................................................................. 39Editorial Staff .................................................................................................................. 41

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I dream of painting and then, I paint my dream.

Vincent van Gogh

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Wild Cherry Sprigs for Harry Kemp x’06

It’s probably beenyears since anyone thoughtof you and your century-old saunterings aboutthat place you so desperately sought to leave to marginnotes in that ramblingnarrative you always kept so handy for guestsinvited and otherwise. But on the way intoProvincetown for somebusiness and pleasure, comingdown Conwell – surely youremember Conwell – I nearlydrove off the road when I saw thesign. They’d named a streetfor you. I might’ve guessed it.I suppose that once you’d set your feet there, a tramp like you wouldfind it to your liking, theshacks providing just thesort of romance you alwayscultivated. You’d likely bedisappointed that youaren’t more famous thanthat, but a street is, afterall, a street. And the wildcherry sprigs that litterthe roadside call yourname as surely asany street sign.

Peter WeisProvincetown2015 June 30 – 2016 January 17

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El tiempo pasa,no muy lentosegundos y horasno es momento.

El tiempo pasa, prefiero asíquedarme en pausay luego huir.

Escapar de esoque daño hará;correr rápidono regresar.

¿Para qué buscar?¿Por qué apresurar?Da tiempo al tiempoél solo vendrá.

Ángela Oñate Gómez

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The time passesnot really fastminutes and hoursbut not the last.

The time passes,better that waykeep it in pausethen run away.

Flee from that,which will hurt;run so fast,no revert.

Why are you searching?Why are you rushing?Give time some timeAnd It’ll solely arrive.

Ángela Oñate Gómez

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Closed Eyes to the Alhambra

the bamboos.i reach out, hands trembling from the kind attempti am not used to.gently turn the reeds away from meAs I, a sinner,Gaze and walk into the holy garden.

the pond of lilies.i see the wavering stems in the waterthe gentle roots medicine and a delicacy-I cannot escape worldly thoughtsFor I am a sinnerShedding my skin in the holy garden.

Am i to be poetic.Wise, or just pleasing to the ear.as these traditional stringspluck away at the feathers of my life,My pride and plumage slowly flutter off into the wind.one by one.But i am not hurt.

Now have you ever heard of a winged serpent?

i look as the clear pond quivers and trickles-Ah, I am sorry, for I bring pain.Ah that lovely sound, that-beautiful, serenity.

the porch a wooden earthThat i bless and I sully with my innocent footstepsMy presence embraced, but I know,i am not there.And i will never be.

but

the bamboo reeds still whistle.

Yuna Kim

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-The Secrets of Ants-

Empty yourself, she saidPlacing my lungs on a sterling tray to the side of my open chest Empty yourself of person, she murmured Removing my bones like twigs, breaking them under her foot as she went She used sanitized instruments and wore plastic glovesGrabbing for flesh and for blood Empty yourself of unhappiness, she whispered She was getting softerThe operating room dissolving, the vast landscape shrinkingOr was it I? Shrinking, until I could hear the ants whisper their secrets And feel each particle of land shake with approaching steps Empty yourself of need, she screamed Ripping out my brain God’s finest work? Thrown across the universe until it hits the wall of understanding Empty yourself she wailed, tears falling from her eyesInto me, and I can feel them I can feel her painAnd in that moment I know For her I will be a husk of a man For her I will be void of breath and thought And I will empty myself again and again A gutted fruit, seeds falling from a child’s plate to the grass

In that grass The ants make their way underground Carrying the fallen seeds on back

And I lie, arms outstretched, eyes closed, breath soft

She places her hand in mine.

Isabella DeHerdt

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For Those Two Seconds

Inspired by the poem “Blind Curse” by Simon J. Ortiz

For those two seconds before the boy bumped his fruit cart into me I thought he wouldn’tHe couldn’tnot with a face so heedlessBut he didI was sure he saw us We were there.

His fruits stayed in the cart. Nicely packedstacked and layered by the thousandsbut one fruit slid off the cart and rolledI wanted to follow it. But I just stood thereSaw mom’s mouth moving fastSaw words but didn’t hear themWords flew away, tumbling invisibly Words between mom and boy with cart. I was focused on the fruitrolling farther and farther from me, sayingYou just might be significantbut you might not be anythingSuddenly I couldn’t see the fruit any more. Saw sandalslooked upsurrounded by not just the boy with the cartbut many boysopen mouthsshouting words

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fierce eyesfingers pointing on and on, forever Boys my age but notBoys’ faces contorted in pure rageAs faces got closer all I could think was: yellow fruit Would the fruit survive the boys’ fury? Just when I pictured yellow seeds seeping into sun hot cementMy father arrived. Boys scattered.They left behind my perfect yellow fruit on the groundI turned around.One boy apologizing. If my father had not walked up at that space of split timewould my fruit still be yellow orcrushed into the sidewalk?

Sophia Glazer

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Landing Strip I used to have dreams when I was a kid that I’d go running down the street and jump up in the air and go flying and just fly through the air all by myself. That’s what weightlessness feels like.

-Robert Gibson

After a long long period of vacancy, I am suddenly aware. Still not entirely lucid, but at least aware. Something in my head feels fuzzy. Maybe... The sand is thicker than I thought, and it takes a moment to shake off what new dust has gathered steadily tonight.

What the hell I am doing in front of the cloudy bathroom mirror at 2:00 in the morning? As usual, the stained plaster walls are silent. They slowly warp outwards, away from me.Red-tinged eyes stare blankly through the sea of white splotches that divide us, loosely focused

on a select patch of the grainy wallpaper behind me. Make your move, I command through the haze, but nothing changes. Lips curl slightly, and the phantom sneer washes over like lukewarm water. It’s not much of a jolt, but it’s enough to offset me, and when the glass bottles in the corner pull me further, I slip. The red-eyed heckler watches lonesomely through the mirror as I lose my balance. But as I fall, a hand shoots out, my hand, and grabs the stained countertop for support. The rogue limb clings to the countertop, hoists me back up, and steadies me against the wall. For a moment the mirror-man becomes worried that the action, however slight, might be enough to end tonight’s session. But then I stabilize, our eyes meet once more through the mirror, and his worry vanishes.

I’ve known the mirror-man for a long time. He likes to hide between the flecks of toothpaste and grime. He never talks, but I can tell what he’s thinking by the way his eyes glisten in the incandescent glow. I don’t think he’s human, though he could pass for one. There’s something in him that’s remote, too cold to be more than some outdated mechanism, or a program on a faulty computer. The artificial program cannot answer such complex questions as why am I always tired. But it can calculate its airspeed velocity, and regurgitate altitudes and wind speeds with a stomach sickening effortlessness. It can fly.

I’ve always been fascinated by planes. I remember when I was six years old, my older brother brought home a thick, hardback guidebook, only a little bit dirty. It was 370 pages-- more than I could ever hope to memorize, though I did try-- of so many jets you could fill the space between yourself and the sky. Sprawling across the front was a Boeing far too large for the cover, barely tucked beneath the smooth photograph. I was sure that I looked away for a moment it would burst free and fly away. But every time I cautiously returned to the book it remained, waiting. Perhaps it stayed grounded because the little red ribbon in the corner told it to. It’s funny, really, that I loved that little ribbon almost as much as what was actually in the book. An ultimatum, as real as anything could be in the world, dripping with prestige; “Smithsonian.” A name like that demands respect. You can’t put that name on just anyone. I didn’t ask my brother where he stole it from. We both knew it was something that had hap-pened, and left it alone. Besides, I was too busy soaring through the skies with the Red Baron. Do you ever feel so twisted inside that all you can do is stare up at the ceiling and make promises til the pain goes away? All I knew was that the average jetliner has a takeoff velocity of 130~155 knots, varying on mass and aerodynamics. The Smithsonian said so.

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I read it through from front to back, and then from back to front, every day of my life. “Why you always reading that book?” my friends asked. They wanted to play basketball. I told them that an A320’s fly-by-wire controls provide a total flight envelope and airframe struc-

tural protection for improved safety. “Man, you’re no fun anymore.”They always ran off towards the courts to shoot free throws, half of which would go wide and

end up rolling across the road into the ditch. Every five minutes, someone had to run over to get the ball. It was always raining, so more likely than not whoever had to go got their shoes wet on the grass-- perhaps the worst feeling in the world. Sometimes the ball was covered in mud. More often than not someone got angry, proclaimed they weren’t going anywhere, that the system was rigged. Basketball was a shady casino, the type you didn’t trust because your gut kept telling you deserved to be a winner this time around, and you knew it was right.

“Wasn’t my fault! Get the damn ball yourself.”There was more not-basketball being played than anything, sometimes by a margin of five to

one. Someone would have a bad day and push James out of the way and he’d call foul but nobody would care, so James would get mad and check Thomas when he went for a layup, because why not, and then Thomas would keep throwing the ball at Eric too hard to hurt his hands from the catches, so Eric would get fed up and let a pass go wide, and the ball would roll across the gravel with a sickening crunch over to the ditch.

Maxime Guillaume invented the axial-flow turbojet back in 1921, but none of them cared.

I held onto that book for as long as I could. Took it with me everywhere, hardcover tome wear-ing a hole in the corner of my dull red backpack. People taunted me, sometimes even my friends. You wan-na fly bird-boy? You even seen a real plane? Still, it felt wrong to ever put it down, felt like I was leaving a part of myself behind. At night I kept it under my pillow in case someone tried to take it while I was sleeping.

I’ve seen the scene unfold in my dreams at least a dozen times: Police burst in, just knock the door straight to the ground. We’re watching TV, my brother and I, one of his shows since he doesn’t get to relax too often. The police lock eyes with me, and right away I’m guilty. Someone once told me they can see it in your eyes, and mine are beacons. They march right over and take it, just rip the book from my hands like a band-aid, too fast. The handcuffs come out, and we’re carted off to the station to the gaudy tune of a commercial.

Open wounds get dirty when left alone, blackening as they collect dirt and dust. Sand can get stuck in there too, and if you don’t treat the wound fast you wind up with an infection.

I don’t know how I lost it. I just remember sitting in my room one day, watching the trees dance in the autumn wind. The realization approached slowly, climbing through the window on the tail of a cool breeze. It crouched beside me, just inches away, but I couldn’t look. Sweating, I began to study the wallpaper.

Then suddenly the fear lunged forwards and was clawing at my back, ripping through the flesh like damp paper towels, digging past the thick layer of scar tissue so fast I couldn’t even think. What little solid substance it found as it sifted through the sand was ground and chopped, sliced into small pieces, and quickly extracted through the cavity in my back. I slumped back in my chair as it tunnelled through me, plumes of dust spraying wildly. The book was gone.

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For a long time, I sat there as my thoughts danced with the leaves. They were a very soothing orange, my second favorite color. Just watch them flutter, I whispered to myself, look at how they fly. The sand, no longer packed in where it had slowly accumulated, began to rustle around inside, and itched just below the surface. I scratched my chest, lightly.

It’s funny how worked up we get over things. I mean, my brother died roughly when I was eight, and this was at least, what, ten years later? Yeah, senior year I’m pretty sure. Some losses you just can’t take. You fill up the holes fast, as fast as you can, with whatever you can get your hands on. First there’s just a single pinprick on your arm, easily managed. But as soon as you fill the first, a second appears, then two more. They begin to expand, and suddenly you’re racing to close the gaps in your skin before they can get any bigger. It’s no use. Eventually a hole goes unnoticed, and carves you out from the inside. That’s the kind of void that fills up with sand, gives you the illusion you’re whole.

My ribs hurt something awful from the little grains. I tore the sheets from my bed, threw open every drawer, overturned the couches to check every

space. Pictures, posters, torn off the wall. Closet stripped bare, refrigerator cleaned out, shelves toppled. I rifled through the goddamn trash, just emptied it onto the kitchen floor.

In the event that the aircraft experiences a drop in pressure, oxygen masks will be dispensed from the compartments above you.

When something is no more than a memory, does it still stumble drunk into the house at midnight after a long day at the airfield, find you too scared again to get any sleep, and somehow find the courage to hide its pain when it tucks you into bed?

What am I doing? I’m awake, so awake I’ve slipped over into dream. A prophet of the past, that’s me. There’s so much dust, I could lose myself in the dunes. I can see them stretching on and on…

The lights in the cramped bathroom flicker, voicing their agreement. Rain beats lightly on the roof, but it should move on by morning-- at least, that’s what the newscaster said. I never noticed how much the rain sounds like a drum solo. The playing is haphazard, but heartfelt. The wind adds to the rhythm by singing along, wailing with soft insistence as the minutes tick by. I can feel the melody in my sandstone bones, and want so desperately to join the song, to run out into the night and let the rain flush me clean. But the mirror-man won’t let me go. I pick myself apart piece by piece. Raising my hand, the mirror-man points accusingly in turn at unkempt stubble on our chin, the layers of grime and sweat on our forehead, the fetid aftertaste of cheap liquor in our mouth. He points at my eyes, the only part of me still clean, and there we pause. Leaning close, I use the glass to peer into them, and can see another face through three points of reflection. It’s too dark and disjointed to see exactly what it looks like, but it feels sturdy, reliable, like good concrete. No need for a red ribbon. I want to look closer and find the next level down; five points, seven. I want to reach down and fill the holes with something tangible.

On December 17, 1903, Orville Wright piloted the first powered airplane 20 feet above a wind-swept beach in North Carolina.

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And then I hit my head on the glass. Dazed, I come to my senses for the fifth time that night and ask myself if this will really be the last time, or if we’ll play this game the rest of the night. My gut tells me I deserve to be a winner this time, and I know it’s right. I check my watch again, but it’s out of battery. The mirror-man does the same and I swear he has the time, but I can’t see what it is. He’s definitely smiling now, despite my slack-jawed fatigue. God, it feels late. How long have I been here? Something needs to happen right now, in this moment, before it slips through my fingers and joins the rest at the bottom of the hourglass. My hand swings sharply and connects with the side of our cheek, fist closed. For just a moment our piercing gazes falter, and we clutch at the side of our head. The sting is something awful, but just what I need. I have to act now.

I grab the nearest object and hoist it aloft for all the world to see: toothpaste, extra-whitening, though really it doesn’t matter what it is. Power radiates from the tube and takes me to the skies, coast-ing at the top of the world at 500 knots. I turn it over and squeeze, squeeze the whole thing into the sink. Never mind that, I spray it all over the room. Gotta clean up this dusty old place. I work the tube over with my fingers, use every last drop. And when I’m out of toothpaste I grab the shampoo, the soap, the window cleaner, and spray until the aerosol hisses in protest. Streams of bright white and blue cover the floor, the walls, the shower. In the midst of the frenzy, I glimpse the mirror-man. He’s smiling. In fact, he seems happier than ever. He’s laughing. He’s… I rush him with a handful of shaving cream and begin to smear, rubbing as fast as I can, until he vanishes completely beneath the soft layer. When at last I am out of commodities, I finally allow myself to take in the colossal mess I have made. It’s something awful- how I managed to get hand soap on the ceiling is a mystery- and it’ll take hours to clean up. But I’d rather clean this mess every day for another twenty years than spend one more second tonight in this goddamn bathroom. I can’t help but laugh like a fool. Laugh like I had forgotten how to. It bubbles up from deep down like a hot spring, and I can feel just a little bit of the sand drift away. This whole situation makes no goddamn sense. Who ever heard of a grown man painting his life story on the bathroom wall at 3:48 in the morning? The laughter carries me out of the bathroom, down the hall, all the way to the warm em-brace of my estranged bed. I’m coasting on the warm thermals of tomorrow. My laughter has wings and turbines and seats 150 passengers plus one pilot and that’s me and I’m flying. God, I’m flying. I promise to be in bed by 8:00 next time, and feel the turbulence stabilize. Storm clouds are be-low me now, and I’m still rising, never coming down. God does 8:00 sound good! I just have to remember to clean up the bathroom before then. I’ve switched to water based products since last time, so it shouldn’t take nearly as long. Just a quick wipe down of the walls, the counter, the mirror… A glob of shaving cream slides off the lower right corner of the glass and falls to the ground with a sickening splat. The echo rolls through the dusty old house, and I could swear it sounds just like his voice.

Simon van Baaren

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The Night of the Last Stars

Let them range the darkened earth Beneath a Sienna burnt sky.

Two figures separate, where mirthA shattered mirror went awry.

Fatigue bruised the lamented wall,As light could not invite the dawn.Fractured sleep constrained a crawlThat realized all empathy was gone.

They believed the refuge was love.Too soon to melt into hate,

While luminous spheres aboveCollapsed under their own weight.

For Tartarus cost,A terrible beauty is lost.

A. Edwards

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Forgiveness

The pine-crowded road from train to schoolGave LeRoy LeClerc Time to think.He thought the way was opening for him.He thought they so kindly drove your trunk He walked the endless way though white pines tillHe thought the yellow pollen a dust storm fresh from MatemorasIt so clove to his skin, his lungs, his eyes.He thought to run.The other fellows looked away.One boy wiped white cloth across his jaundiced face.

Later he woke; remembered:

There were twelve times fifteen cows to milk each day.I drew the lot with fourteen others on the evening milking crew.Twelve Ayrshires were mineIncluding, you’ll remember, Rose Franklin,Who won the Secretary’s Cup In naught-six at the fair in Brattleboro.That’s a lot of milk to milkWe did it all by hand.We came in every day at fourGot into milking whites and set to. You had to be out by quarter to six,So you’d not be late to chapel. Fast, you had to be.It took a good ten minutes to milk each beauty;But you couldn’t screw up.Leave milk in an udder and the herdsman would chew you out for sure. I chuckle remembering once when boys didn’t show and I had to milk fifteen cows. What joy when I missed chapel, and had to write an excuse to Prof., and threw in Missing elocution on account of being “almost sick.” He forgave me everything.

Peter Weis

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The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.

Friedrich Nietzsche

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Acknowledgment

The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.

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Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts

Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.

Editorial Staff

Hyewon Kim ‘16

Anna Leckie ‘17

Isabella Lombino ‘18

Eve Pomazi ‘17

MC Robben ‘16

Hann-Yu Wu ‘17

Zitong Xu ‘19

Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor

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Mandala

2016