Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

 - Class of 1969

Page 1 of 128

 

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Cover
Cover



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Text from Pages 1 - 128 of the 1969 volume:

W7 51135 'J 'w!'3 'E -"V "F F 'L L ' " '-'17 ,V if ' r 1 ' Q42 bis: .M Jw, ,Ll .. A 1, , 5 Mg,-' -.4 mx V . "fa: i 2, - ' ,w , J 4 :gr , 4 , - W- , 1 if 41 f ' . . X 1 , ' " 41- Q ,Jim W Ir 1 gm I x xi Q ll w LiQi,Q ' 'Q CFJGMJ WTS O!!! bwwjyjwpaywxwjy j wfpwgQfj,f6,fwjj5f'?fQ!flQUWfWif00pfyyQjffM l iffy? My J W ww K ,Sv ,WM MWW1 P0hU!aM mfiffifkffw if W M hm Wkffjiwww My df Wyjfftoyo F-'WC fffjv Q'yifTBWfQw1f6M pffw jW JJ by ,cw MJ . ox WO' ,xxfx U 5 ' ,viijgjyijijiv ij FMQMU M P' M 5536 JP W w WNW WW W hh JT. . 'f . A1 I-a prisrri, a crystal honey comb made to catch, imprism and turn itto rainbows. Suri's light By night I am a jeweled prison to capture, the rapturous moon's light, in the closed eye of night. Lani Nlysak ART STAFF Mr. Richard Johnson. Faculty Art Adviser. Karen Pikanowski, Marlene Kaplan, Lynn Kudelka, Art Direc- tors. Marlene Arnaiz, Valerie Mele, George Hom, Associate Art Directors. STAFF: Daniel Haskett, Warren Westbo, Martin Golding, George Moy, Matthew Rosenzweig, Roni Eisenberg, Hedy Wolfe, George Abagnalo, Tom Kostro, Don Ellison, Stephen Marchesi, Claudia Schwalb, PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Anthony Armato, Sharon Newborn, .Iill Pulis, Helene Grossman, Denis Fay, David Lopez. COVER DESIGN: Barbara Silverman LITERARY STAFF Daisy Aldan, Faculty Literary Adviser. Adele Geraghty, Editor-in Chief. STAFF: Alexandra Reyes, Sandy Greenberg, Leona Seutert, Brenda Branch, Helene Grossman, Marci Compton, Lani Mysak, Tina Ladas, Judith Pfetfer, Dierdre Wolownick, Roxanne Rivera, Lorraine Brooks, Miriam Jiminez, Hope Singer, Gail Debel, Carolyn McComl3s, Caryn Ward, Daniel Haskett, Mario Sotolongo. CONTRIBUTORS: Beth Irwin, Vicki Nanos, Bill Mantlo, Jo Amy Shulman, Claudia Schwalb, Barbara Escoffery, Lance Lovelace, Glor Brown, Ellen LaSpalluto. THE BOARD OF EDUCATION OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK HIGH SCHOOL OF ART AND DESIGN 1075 SECOND AVENUE NEW YORK, N.Y. 10022 Mr. Jacob H. Raphael, Principal 2 Mr. Walter Welsh, Acting Principal ' il W SEM HIGH SCHOOL UF ART AND DESIGN 1959 CONTENTS Administration 6 LITERARY REFLECTIONS Faculty 8 Dimensions of Our Spectrum SENIORS Prism 3a The Mask 5a Architecture 20 Characterizations 7a Cartooning 24 Emotions lla COSU-Ime Design 23 Concrete Poems 13a Fashion Illustration 34 Fable 133 illustration and Advertising Art 38 The city 283 PGCIKGEC Design 50 The "B" Poems 29a Phofogfavhv 52 The Bridge aaa Modding 56 The Seasons 38a Theatre Arts 58 Advertising Production Workshop 60 To the Graduating Class of i969 Dear Girls and Boys: A prism is a transparent, optical instrument, usually of glass, triangular in shape, having two refracting surfaces, and making an angle with one another. When sunlight passes through the prism, the rays of light so retracted produce the beautiful band of rainbow colors called the solar spectrum. - The rainbow itself presents a panoramic view of the spectrum when the sunlight is broken up into spectral bands of color by drops of rain in the sky, which act as tiny prisms. The spectroscope is a sophisticated form of prism and is widely used in science and in Industry for determining the purity of metals, for identify- ing the composition of unknown obiects, for conducting research into outer space. Perhaps it would be fruitful to view life itself as a prism, breaking up the rays of the sun from Infra-red to ultra-violet, determining purity, identifying the unknown, proiecting our visions and ideas beyond the tangible and the material. lt is my hope and prayer that the prism of life will diffuse the sunshine into brilliant, radiant colors for each of you, and that athwart the inevitable defeats and tragedies that must afflict all of us at times, there will always arch the rain- bow of God's eternal promise. I commend to your thought on this graduation day the words of the poet: "High is our calling, Friend- Creative Art fWhether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal huesl Demands the service ofa mind and heart Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part Heroically fashloned." Your friend and principal, Jacob Howard Raphael June 23, l969. MR. WALTER WELSH Acting Principal-Spring Term MRS. EDNA STONE Acting Assistant Principal MR. SOL STILLMAN Assistant Principal MISS PAULINE CIVARELLI Grade Adviser MR. WILLIAM RYAN Dean MR. JACOB BIEGELEISEN Chairman, Art Department MR. JACK SOME G. O.Adviser MRS. BETTY BASKIN Guidance Counselor MR. BENJAMIN CLEMENTS MRS. HISAKO GLICKSMAN Chairman, Art Department Acting Chairman, Art Department MR. SAMUEL SCHAEFFER Grade Adviser 6 MR. CHARLES ALLEN Acting Chairman, Art Department i ANLC ,,v. f If 6 , 4 f' 25' f 5, O f , 4. f ff "5 X, if 'I -fwfr .' , f 4 ff f f A Y , Q. t f f M .' s 3 Z .4 DR. ADOLPH STONE RS Social Studies, Langvoge MRS. BERNICE EINSTEIN College Adviser MR. LEON KANTOR Supervisor, G.O. Store 4 f . I 'il 1 MR. CHARLES COLES Program Supervisor -f -i-- . ., riii l I MRS. MILDRED BRussEL-SMITH - - I A Acting Chairman, Social Studies, Language MR. DAVID UMLAS Attendance Director . M Q wr . ggi 5 tx? Eg . xv t I ' gg P ,xx Q wa bl X' 8 1 A. . 4 .-:9.a?4..,m DR. ERWIN MULLER Chairman, Architectural Arts MR. DAVID ROSENFELD Chairman, Photography Department MR. MARTIN SPENCER Acfing Chairman, Mafh, Science MRS. SONDRA NOBEL GradeAdviser MISS ROSE HOFFMAN School Treasurer L , . Q x 9? X X z X S I A S . 5 XX . fx X xxx Q Qs X . . MR. GEORGE DYSON Assisfani Dean MRS. ELIZABETH KLEIN Grade Adviser MR. CHARLES FERGUSON Grade Advlser ci! administration wp, ' X pl Wfiikdwlafmmwy MRS. MATILDA HOFFMAN Grade Adviser MRS. BARBARA CHRISTEN Chairman, English MRS. HARRIET ATKIN Grade Adviser gfizgffiii-v - - ' n HT .ffQ'YQ.-filli..-' ' ' J: U TP , ,fi . 1 Q K5 33 - Effa 513'-'f i gi.-il MR. JULIUS SAROFF Chairman, Healih Educafion, Music MISS EMILY MANNO Grade Adviser MRS. MINA COHEN Grade Adviser DR. WILLIAM FRIEDMAN School Physician f"" f V Za my A - Mr. Ansel L. Jacobi Mr. Domenic lJiBernardo Miss Gladys Gazarian Mrs. Virginia Trainor Mr. Arthur Granit Mr. Benedict Tatti Mrs. Shelby Schmidt Mrs. Helen Obey Miss Margaret Shea Mr. John Teppich Mr. Jay Lederman Mrs. Marjorie Mannion Miss Regina Adler Mr. Frank Eliscu Mr. Rudy DeZan Mr. Joseph DiGemma Mrs. Elizabeth McNally Miss Sheila Geist Miss Jean Fraser Mr. Andrew Planding Mrs. HarrietJacobs Mr. Nathan Teller Mr. Sam Weissman Mr. Seymore Snyder Miss Deirdre Dundon Mr. Albert Seymore Mrs. Hana Lieberman Miss Pearl Kleinberg Miss Rachel Fashena Mrs. Jacqueline Bodelin Mr.Joseph LiMarzi Mr. Alvin Hollingsworth Miss Daisy Aldan Mr. Abraham Switkin Mr. Donald Vogel Mr. Raymond DeSantis Mr. Harvey Richardt Mr. Harold Frater .William Shine .John Gaydos Mr Mr Miss Roslyn Schumer Miss Olga Petrolt Mr. Morris Greenbaum Miss Margy Trauerman Miss Rochelle Braunstein Mr. Melvin Saltzman Mrs. Ruth Rublowsky Miss Joyce Blake Mr. Aaron Spevak Mrs. Lily Bokhair Dr. Jerome Starr Mr. Albert Ireland Mr. Albert Vanier Mrs. Norma Rasumny l f , ll! ifni l Mrs. Helen Winkler fQ'fN'!'! xx if fi' 'R ' X 6, U f. Mrs.Sara Fuchs Q., N , My "'x lf! Xtfff V: lib!! Mr. Max Ginsburg Mr. Milton Whelpley Mr. Charles Lavigne Mr. Justin Mandelbaum Mrs. Lynette Schaye Mr. Erik Marcus Mr. Bernard Krigslein f QTZEMW l ' QJMVW7 ' X Q . X Nw Miss Marilyn Millikin Miss Olivia Sala Miss Marjorie Halprin Mr. Richard Taylor Mrs. Mabel Podolefsky Mr. Harold Toledo Mrs. Renee Spitz Mr. Edwin Doree Miss Bela Rosenkranz Mr. Martyn Kenton Mrs. Edna Margolis Mr. Anthony Masi Mr. Richard Johnson Miss Anne McGuire Mrs. Priscilla Farmer Mr. Jules Golden Mr, Umberto Gonzales Mr. Bert Lester Mr. Harold Krisel Mr. Milton Bellin Mr. Joseph Messina Miss Burmah Burris Mr. Gustave Bonadio Miss Edna Rose Mrs, Ellen Kagan Mr. Whitney Martin Mrs. Frances Marsina Mrs. Marie Gentile Mr. Harry Fiealt Mrs. Adele Mantay Mr. Herman Wernon Mrs. Jessie Blackston Mrs. Irene Egan Mrs, Alda Kolenik Mrs. Madeline Rhenos Mrs. Betty Catalano Mr. Eddie Neumers Mr. Clifton Pettie Mr. Peter Schiano Mr. Joaquin Uones Mrs. Lilia Lomoriello Mr. Max Friedman Mr. Thomas Naegele Mr. Myron Sosnow Mr. Myron Strauss Mrs. Mary Jean Clarence Miss Darol Lipson Mrs, Alyce Knight 1 1 'if' I - if ' X ' 4. - fi if ' x f V : H.. L faculty www! X fzf' i if-,f X , f 2 f ' .ff --Q ix 9 REFLECTIONS At the beginning, there was the Word. The Word, soft and melodious, sang into space and created the light. The light, beaming gloriously, shines upon a prism, there to be imprisoned and converted to soft yellow greens or shocking, bleeding reds. We are prisms. We talk, we act, we live and die, reflecting that heavenly light-glowing within us, and it is the intensity of our lives that deter- mines the colors of our rainbow. It is up to us to interpret the Divine message! To place on our young shoulders the most significant and heaviest load that can be offered,-the future of humanity! To slowly move up to the front lines and take the controls of our families, our society, our country-our world! To be responsible, through our knowledge, experience and strength, to guide our descendants and deliver them safely. This, if not the most responsible task, is certainly the most noble: for what nobler act could we do than to make this cynical world a Utopia, where truly all men are equal, all men can laugh freely, and all members of mankind can love one another! The world, society, and perhaps even our families, are found today under a strong decaying process-decadent and corruptive. On one side, men go to wars and slaughter one another, like savage beasts, without even knowing their opponents: they bomb innocent families, permit degradation and inhumanity to grow, for their own comfort and benefit. On the other hand, the movements to stop this insanity, behave iust as demented by falling into the same inhuman abyss. They search for something better-if that's what they truly want-with fires, lootings, riots, rocks, and heckling, never stopping to realize that fire is not fought with gasoline, that hatred is fought with love, war with peace, and lunacy with rationality. These two confronting sides are iust as blasphemous and culpable under God's eyes, who teaches us peace and love! The life ofa prism is to reflect the light and so too, should our lives. We should be the instrument through which God walks on earth, the light upon the stone. It is up to us to keep ever present in mind Martin Luther King, Robert Ken- nedy, Mahatma Gandhi and all the great men before us: not to forget what they stood for: what God stands for! lt is up to us to remember the Divine teachings! 'DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOUl' 'WE ARE ALL SONS OF GOD: THEREFORE EQUAL UNDER HIS EYESI' It is up to us, as both hope and future, to keep ourselves above the crowd, closer to our destiny, not to putrify in the spider's web. To realize that we have at our disposal, the master key that could open the door to heaven, to a paradise on earth. We have the power to make men free, to turn enemies into friends, war into peace, hatred into love, slums into resorts! We possess this key, iust as the ones before us had it. Let us, therefore, not follow in their footsteps but let us transform, like the worthy prism, and light our own paths, roads, highways and let them all lead to love, humanity and peace. MARIO SOTOLONGO MESSAGE FROM THE SENIOR CLASS PRESIDENT Fellow Graduates, An Artist is the innovator, social critic, idealistic wave of the future, holder ot golden impulses leading mankind away from "dreary cities" to Life. As our arrival becomes reality, we see imprinted on our still academic soul, the key to the future as unity of Science with Imagination. We see the distant Artist in our selves that can, perhaps, carry a little life in this manner. The rainbow hued spangle is stretched before us, there is an Angel at the end. This is the Artist- unbound but bound to Truth, This is the pot of gold: yellow-light, inspirationp orange-flame, red-love: purple-future, science, indigo-depth, silence, blue-soul, green-health, balance. Reach- ing to achieve a spectrum within our selves, to arrive at the Angel, we learn to emerge slowly, to be patient, to be honest, to be human. We, united, like light to enter the prism of high school, now shatter gleaming, friend, and "Face Forward, Voyager!" Lynn Jarvis President Back: Pedro Lopez, President: Mr. Somers Coordinator of Student Activities Front: Ellen LaSpalluto, Secretary, Jeanne Van Slckel Vice President Rosemarie Tortorello, Treasurer X if ' " dd- .bi We, the Graduates of 1969, being of sound body and mlnd f???j, do hereby bequeath the following heirlooms to our dearly beloved mentors, in this, our LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. MR. DiGEMMA: Fifty new blazor rades MRS. KAGIN: El Exige'nte MR. KRIGSTEIN: A new phonograph MR. KANTOR: A bankruptcy at the G.O. store MR. IRELAND: The right to declare World War Ill MISS LEDERMAN: A clean locker room and one class that follows instructions MRS. ROSENKRANTZ: Gildenstern MRS. WINKLER: A ten cent coupon on a box of Nicoban MR. MARCUS: A primer in Freudian psychology MR. BIEGELEISEN: Best wishes for a successful new-type face book MR. FERGUSON: A fresh supply of rubber cement and an ideal official class MR. DOREE: A first class guided tour of a Cretan labryinth MR. NAEGELE: A lifetime membership to the Na- tional Wildlife Club and American Audubon Society MRS. BASKIN: A waiting room and private secre- tary MR. WERNON2 A welcome mat MR. BERNADIO: A fireproof hat MR. SCHAEFFER: All our problems...unsolved MISS BRAUNSTEIN: A Maxi skirt MRS. BRUSSEL-SMITH: Escargots MR. DYSON: A reserved seat at the White Tower MRS. ASHLEY: The Bridge of San Luis Rey MISS SCHNEIDER: Half of Mrs. Winkler's Nicoban ..- ,,,,-f-P-?'--""' ' , P-f.. ...Y Cx- ..,- E .L-uilql ' f .ull- MRS. KASSON: A can of 'liquid paper' MRS. KELLY: AMini skit MRS. McNALLY: A Pan-Am Mexican flight ticket MRS. LANCE: A Mini parachute MR. KENTON: The Botanical Gardens MR. HOFFMAN: Sandie Greenberg and many others MR. HOLLINGSWORTH: '...some other reason- able charityl' MR. GINSBERG: Beethoven, Bach, and Dylan MR. RICHARDT: A pre-recorded cafeteria an- nouncement MISS SHEA: A shamrockg and skilled library help MISS ALDAN: A Eurythmy class of her very own MRS. SCHMIDT: A pair of Jeffersonian boots MR. SWITKIN: Lorraine Craig MR. SHINE: Seventy-six trombones MR. SORETSKY: A iar of 'white paint' so he can always 'make things beautiful' MR. LAVIGNE: Weight watcher's praise on a iob well done! MRS. CLARENCE: A field of cabbages in Key THE FACULTY: 'Love...Hope...Thanksl' Editors: Adele Geraghty Leona Seufert I Q - -A :I 1' L ' ." I-' 1" . E- .,,,,,2 fr. D --I. - 'I al H lg' fi-, ,Qt ' ' -" ' 'I' "" 94' I If "i 'K ' i gf - "...AND THE DARKNESS COMPREHENDETH IT NOT." Man has burst forth from His womb, im- posing himself upon his galaxy, claiming the uni- verse as his birthright. "ln the beginning there was..." nothing. From the infinite reaches of time came, a dim memory...Man is born. His skeleton raises him above his contemporaries. His opposing thumb liberates him from the earth. "ln the beginning was the Word, and Word was in God, and the Word was God." Man found his God. He looked to the sky, for a God must reign from above all men, iust beyond his reach... He looked, but he did not see: he searched, but remained unfulfilled. "The light shineth in darkness: and the darkness comprehendeth it not." lf only he could reach into the unreachable domains of the birdsl Maybe then he would find what he sought. And man tried, and failed, and tried again. And again, his intellect liberated him from the earth, to soar, and to search. But as man reached further, his God became more elusive. Still, iust beyond his reach...He looked, but he did not see: he searched, but remained unfilled. "The light shineth in darkness: and the darkness comprehendeth it not." If only he could scour the stars, bombard the heavens, conquer the celestial barriers... Man's spirit struggled once more. Again he sought to loose himself from his shackling earth. He tried, and failed, and tried again. "And God saw that it was good." Again triumphant, man soared to the hea- vens, challenging the suns. ln his infinitesimal anger, he dared the universe to reiect him. Man progressed, and man reached: and his God be- came more elusive. Man learned, and sought even harder... "The light shineth in darkness: and the darkness comprehendeth it not." Perhaps it is his purgatory, this eternal search .... or his hell. Perhaps man will find his God. But then, what could he want more? Most likely, he will try, and fail, and try again...Futilely? ...God knows: is it for us to know also? "The light shineth in darkness: and the darkness comprehendeth it not." John 1:5 DIERDRE woLowNlcK FACETS We dare not speak our hearts and minds for fear of exposing ourselves, - to ourselves. We often fail to listen to our own advice to others. Live by the "next times", and not the "if onlysf' CHRISTINE ENG The independent man says that ten fingers are your own two hands. The dependent man doesn't know. HARVEY FIERSTEIN Faith is but the truth and knowledge of oneself. He who sees life as hopeless is blind. He should look no further than himself. ELLEN LASPALUTTO He who only regards the traffic light, but not the traffic, will one day feel the sting of wheels. LANCE LOVELACE A fool imitates but a wise man innovates. LEONA SEUFEHT Knowledge is not attained by the desire to gain it, but by the patience to achieve it. LANI MYSAK YEAR BOOK LITERARY STAFF YEAR BOOK ART STAFF YEAR BOOK PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF SENIOR EXECUTIVE COUNCIL ART STAFF Chari Dean Sharpton Valerie Mele LITERARY STAFF Alexandra Reyes Roni Eisenberg On Floor: Caryn Ward Back ROW: Karen Pikanowski Matthew Rosensweig BUCK ROWS Carolyn McCombs Paul Greenwald George Abagnalo Steve Marchesi Martin Golding Tom Kostro Donald Ellison Warren Westbo George Reeder Steven Jones John Meriave Daniel Haskett Robert Hom Sal Rodriguez Denise Ferrari Marlene Kaplan Alexandrina Reyes Marci Compton Hedy Wolfe Marlene Arnaiz Lorraine Brooks Mr. Johnson Seated: Despina Peratzakis Sara Gutierrez Marie De Oro Brenda Branch Alan Spivack Tom Dula Victor Quinones Mario Sotolongo George Moy PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Peter Wong Helene Grossman Anthony Armato Mario Sotolongo Felix Carrion Miriam Jimenez Brenda Branch Gail Debel Tina Ladas Sandie Greenberg Front Row: Hope Singer Dierdre Wolownick Daniel Haskett Leona Seufert Sheryl Weiss Lorraine Brooks Adele Geraghty Marci Compton Helene Grossman Center: Miss Daisy Aldan Roxanne Rivera SENIOR EXECUTIVE COUNCIL Standing: Renee Drucker Jill Pulis Miss Gail Lederman lChairman, Senior Activitiesl Adele Geraghty Sandra Kaplan David Lopez Lynn Jarvis fSenior Presidentj Betty Hom Naomi Rosado Sharon Newborn Jose Gonzales lSenior Vice Presidentj Lynn Kudelka Karen Ward Denis Fay Mrs. Edna Margolis lFaculty Adviserj THE RIGHT TO DISSENT The right to dissent is a direct offspring of the gift of thinking. Man is endowed with the ability of logic and reason. Through this ability, he is able to weigh and iudge situations as they stand. And if he finds the status quo an evil, or the "unacceptable" is good, he has the right to voice his opinion, to attempt to sway public opinion, to bring about change. To debate and reason is a birthright that no one should have the power to give or take away. Some, however, feel that this right extends beyond peaceful negotiations. They will tread upon the rights of others to have their opinions dominate. They will harm and abuse those who stand in their way. They will not allow for dis- sention on their views, once they have won their battle. These are the haters of the world, the dictators, the totalitarians. Once violence is employed, the entire con- cept of dissent becomes warped and twisted. The use of logic is tossed aside in favor of power. The "might makes right" ideology, which may become popular, is a dangerous one. If the powers that be, whether they are political, social, literary or economic, prove to be impractical, irrational or archaic, the public, maiority or minority, has the right to attempt to alter them. But with this change must go the knowledge that the substitute must be superior in order to succeed. HOPE SINGER THE WIND WILL BREAK THOSE WHO CANNOT BEND We are each a flower growing in a garden whose future comfort and happiness depend only upon the suppleness of our stems, and Na- ture's whims. And the wind will break those who cannot bend. Those with hard, brittle bodies will crack at the first sign of a storm, unable to keep up with its growing momentum. Those who are flex- ible and mellow, will gracefully sway, and adapt themseleves to Nature's many faces. The man who cannot compromise, who cannot forgive, who cannot adiust himself to each day's problems, will surely break with the effort of standing so tall and straight. If we were meant always to be upright, we would not have joints. Jo AMY si-IULMAN HOURGLASS My entire life, up to this point, has been a iigsaw puzzle of images and people. I am still trying to put all of these puzzle pieces together so that I can understand each sequence, each face, because I know that each small detail has been but a layer added to the moulding of my being. My entire existence has been destroyed and rebuilt. Destroyed and rebuilt like the needle- work of man's own existence. I find myself an- alyzing that person inside of me like a stranger is probed with suspicion by villagers. My art and my poetry are my mirrors re- flecting outward. But the storm of confusion with- in me erupts continually and clouds my line of aesthetic thoughts. I have been swept along with the tides of worldly exasperations and delusions. I am now beginning to grasp the moulding clay of my life and have now become the sculptor and the critic. BRENDA BRANCH AWARENESS To be aware is to be alive. This statement expresses a definite necessity of life. Aware- nessl A person must be conscious of all that goes on in the world, in order to be alive. Otherwise, he is only existing, a vegetable that goes on day to day, interested only in his minute section of life. Knowledge of many subiects broadens a person's outlook on life and enables him to live it more fully. Being aware of others' feelings, faults, and attributes provides a basis for meet- ing people from many walks of lite. Those people who are not conscious of the world and its people, become very shallow and are to be pitiedp pitied because they do not have The maturity to look at the world with searching eyes, and to forget about themselves. The sad part of this philosophy is that those who follow it are in the minority, and Tend to be shut out of The world of The unaware. These people have now become The observers. VICKI NANOS ON RESPONSIBILITY One cannot take full credit for one's ac- complishments in lite unless one also takes the blame for one's failures. It is always easy to label one's foibles neuroses caused by a neglecttul parent or an unsympathetic teacher. But it would then follow that any good that came of one's life was a result of valuable training or assis- tance by a parent or teacher. Thus the individual dwindles to a passive instrument of his environ- ment and the people he comes in contact with, unless he assumes responsibility for all of his actions. BETH IRWIN THROUGH A STAINED GLASS WINDOW Welcome, Students and Faculty of the H.S. of Art and Design...So you're a Freshman...Late- nesses are not excused...It's like a long drink of water...you walk to the seventh floor...that's two doors left from the gym after you have made a right Turn...Only on Friday...if you pay your dues...The escalators might work today...No. They only go up...What? Your T-square is caught in the...leaking water fountain on the seventh floor...If only we had air...The terrace is now open...No we don't have student lounges...Would you like to buy a ticket tothe eight floor pool? Welcome back...No we do not give psy- chiatric counseling...go see the dean...What? You're a Soph?... I OOCX, ...Saw Rosenkranz is alive and well... in Bio test tubes you...don'T drop him ...Sil.95 for a portfoliol...Who's Charly?...A- portfolio...What?...He rides a bike to school... only when it rains it leaks...A special assembly on drugs will be held... when the G.O. store opens ...next Fall. So now you're a Junior...Where were you during the strike?...in the infirmary...You must take the PSAT...Don't forget to take home your dirty socks...From A to Z in the cafeteria...The deadline is tomorrow...l don't care if you were asleep...go back for a pass...List your shop... O.K. Who has the radio playing?...Now don't for- get to anchor your bandages by...pulling the arms up...or you get into shock and your body...will need a portfolio to graduate...Do I hear any vol- unteers?...As of today you are suspended... What? Hamburgers againl...rows nine and one ...no you can't wear shorts...Report to Mrs. Ein- stein...your transcripts show that you lack...a T-Square...And now the Star Spangled Banner will be sung by. Your Senior president would like to have a word...That's great...You're a Senior...Senior dues?...a 23" T-square...H.A.?...It's a course for Seniors...to play hooky at least once during school...puts you in the 90th percentiIe...Due to the heavy snowfall...the cafeteria..is closed.. Paints..Palettes..please pose and hold still... don't sneeze on the camera..because you failed your twelfth year Math...5Ol class rank...who's number one?...number two?...tried harder... SAT...when's Senior Day?...at the end of the Prom...two months to the deadline...one month ...four days..."You extend your right hand, dum- my"...Regents?...What a yearl...We are gathered here...No more schooll...Diplomas are now being disTributed...Good Luck...Made itl LEONA SEUFERT Q- Hom 4' , ,, 7. 'i 11 b y 13113 C 1 llflemorie we 'll never forget when: 9th YEAR- We took our entrance exams for A8-D. We met our first friend. We bought a ticket for the swimming pool on the seventh floor. An escalator stopped while we were riding on it We collided "Up the Down Staircase." We ate our first delicious, well-balanced cafeteria lunch. We did exercises in the Girl's Gym to the tune of Chicken Fat. We indulged in Friday "socials" between the boys and girls in the gym. We held conversations on the desk tops. 10th YEAR- The Transit strike. We sat in the gym listening to Peter Yarrow sing. Murray the K and his K girls visited our school. Mr. Shine's symphony orchestra performed during the snow storm in the auditorium. Mr. Marcus and Mrs. Lance performed as Batman and Robin. Rain gently fell upon our head from the cafeteria ceiling. Harvey screaming through the halls. White Tower was off-limits because of kids cutting classes. We turned into a screaming mob of kids when Oleg Cassini and Igor visited our school. The setting of trends for men's fashions by the Beatles. We were excused for being late due to a stalled train we were not on. iS Y r ' EQ FQ' ' Our sorrow at the death of Yolanda Cross. XS .711 . ft iUm."3o"Ii I fl xl '-L li . 'I kb 3 is J W. lg n al ,N The assassination of Martin Luther King. The assassination of Robert Kennedy. Sadie Hawkins Day broke loose in A81D. The girl's victory to wear pants in school. Boys were being thrown out of school for wearing long hair. Some friends of ours were busted for smoking maraiuana in the Boy's room. Harvey went screaming through the halls again. Pedro made his famous unauthorized speech for G.O. president. James Boyle ran across the stage dressed as a girl during the l968 Spring Festival. The members of ballet company stuck their tongues out at the A8fD audience. Roddy McDowell, Roy Doty, and Betsy Johnson visited A8.D. The Charlie Brown Christmas production was performed by the graduates of 1968. The girls' locker room was flooded. The unfortunate death of Rosendo Bello. i ll lx K-f A T , I sq ' 12th YEAR- mm 4' QW The teacher strike K W S The fuel strike "f L W' A8-D students held demonstrations against the 45 fforty-fivel minute extension day. Harvey is screaming through the halls. Our sorrow at the loss of Roland Jones. We received our college acceptance letters. Our graduation from the High School of Art 8. Design. SENIOR DAY I'll never forget my fellow artists and friends of A 8- D. HELENE GROSSMAN swwu ci Tx 2 Xb ' X':- :S Diff Dt' Seated: Adele Geraghty, Judith Daniel, Tish Mulcay, Pat Cleveland, Nancy Friedlander, Valerie Tryon, Phyllis Marano Standing: Pedro Lopez, James Boyle, Val Ramirez, Sergio Arena, Harvey Fierstein. A Prism Parade of Images MOST POPULAR GIRLS Phyllis Marono, Nancy Friedlander .....togetherp you give the colors needed to form a rainbow of unity Pedro Lopez MOST POPULAR BOY .....Like a storm emerging, in the calm ofa tranquil sea Valerie Tryon MOST ORIGINALLY DRESSED GIRL Your clothes are woven from mirrors reflecting inward Mgrggre1'CQi0IQ BEST LOOKING GIRL .....And so, like magic, your beauty transcends: the collage is complete Val Ramirez BEST DRESSED BOY .....And you, Val, are like the infinite prism, your clothes are a complement to your soul Tish Mulcay BEST AcTREss .....And like a chameleon, the actress plays a myriad role in the sequence James Boyle BEST ACTOR .....What powers do you possess that capture audiences ata second's glance? Adele Geraghty CLASS POET .....The writer as poet transforms the beauty of the mind into a vocal Renaissance Sergio Arena BEST LOOKING BOY .....The soul has a beauty, threefold, that of the physical image Beth Irwin BEST DANCER .....Dance the songs of your soul Dancer....in the beginning God created the Dancer Harvey Fierstein CLASS PROPHET .....And what do prophets do when the fortune cards reverse their vengeance? Elaine Jasper BEST SINGER .....the voice of the singer is the music of the prism, exploding MOST LIKELY TO SUCCEED Pat Cleveland, Judith Danielle .....The reign of success is infinite...and beautiful Harvey Fierstein CLASS COMEDIAN .....The iester is an intrinsic part of the prism when the iester leaves, the prism dies BRENDA BRANCH-Editor FB ECtU hit FC 3 3 lm.. za, ARCHITECTURE is: organization. An idea made three dimensional lt's a slide rule. An adiustable triangle. A t-square. A friendly word of advice. lt's the knowledge of yesterday. Experiments for tomorrow. A search for a better tomorrow. lt's a floor plan. A blue print. An idea that iustmight work. lt's thinking. Discussing. lt's understanding people. Architecture is the future. Francisco Acevedo Gayle MichelleAllsop f if Mitchel L. Azzolin Z0 Lxdfjff Stanley Chin Barberro Robert P. Castaldi i012 Patricia Kay Fields Laurie Friedman John Galindez David Goldman William G. Hudson Jr. Nevenka Jurcic James Klovach Kalervo M. Laine ll Tommy if Joseph Luis Gonzalez Jim Lee WWMMWVW Gif Harry Leopold Leora Yael Lewin Raymond Lopez Enzo Vito Marchetta George John Marino Richard Ong Thomas Leslie Reed Jaime A- Rivera Jerry G. Servito Steve Follett Smith Kai C. Tong Beniamin Velez Pablo Emilio Vengoechea 22 T 4,6 f -H X Xa gh :A f ,ij :Lf I 4 "" 1 liwivf -' 1 Ami ".'fi.'fG!i1 I lim" twlub ,Z Zi.. v W x ' XN4' , NV 5 ne. K S- fuedw Oil 0 rt ,Q C3 fi CARTOONING is: the meeting ofthe imagination and pencil. It's a laugh, a chuckle, or maybe iust a grin. It's a funny little figure. A character with an irregular nose. It's a creation. The imagination. It's odd-shaped people. A daydream set on paper. It's lite made simple. It's living in an animated world. Hope your characters are accepted. It's' becoming a new Walt Disney. It's creating your own Miss Peach. . X .Mark Steven Agoado Adele Celeste Geraghty Daniel Karppinen Lorraine Cheryl Brooks Freddie Burris Gary Stephen Dorlman Feliks Andrew Gailitis Martin Garth Golding Samuel Gonzalez Daniel Andrew Haskett Steven Eric Jones Robert N. LOSapi0 Louis Marek Ralph Montalvo Michael Nix ew Rosenzweig USEN4 G SPQUEJ SPX I OR O DEICE PN ! 4, 'Q 'W' 5' I Q U15 UEGQDEU- mijmmdd' QCD-EEQE IEE It f Q ' X EE an I SEQ? EETCQ Q E E ISU . EEE HQ H I LJ E DV E+- E34 EEEE U MMM EEEEE M i2 des B In COStU N3 CD COSTUME DESIGN is: a world of colors, fabrics and silhouettes. It's trying to make that distorted figure like a human. It's forever glancing through Woman's Wear Daily. A constant search for ideas. It's understanding why people dress the way they do. Analyzing the modes of dress. It's the proud, raise-your-head-high feeling you get when your work is complimented. It's frustration. It's inspiration. 4 6 X ' ' 4,1 f , 4 u xg Janice Carol Chin llana Adelstein Patrice Elaine Alexander Charlene Avellino Susan Joy ,ec 045 ff aw ,. ' X 1- , ri 7143! l r' Andrea Bodnar Yolan Boncher NJ 7 K Doris Alicia Cordero Emil R. Delgado Boni Lynne Fine Johnniedean Bracy Dawnette Branson i Patricia Ann Cleveland Wilma Clark Francis Patricia Louise Fraser fLyw 29 il ,ubu 7 is Qlerwle Vickie Gail Goodson Sandra Gilman Patricia Griffin Fern Suzanne Grossman Wanda Hagans oy James Hanley Lydia Harris Beatrice Heller Carole Marie Hinkley Elaine Huang Esther Huie Cynthia Anne Jones Susan Jung Gail Kenney Melissa Jay Kessler Ellen Jane Laspalluto Debbie Agnes Letai Carolyn S. McCombs JOHIHI Milano Elba lris Montero 30 Doris Frieda Neubauer Pat Polk Jacqueline Veronica Sanguy Marita Anita Neumann Catherine Anne Rebstock Leona Margaret Seufert Carolyn Stella Michele Storch Starzetta Diniticia Newsome Marie Yvonne Parke Judith Ptefter Amy Joyce Rosenberg Melinda Phyllis Rosenzwelg Erica Rose Sajowitz Karin S. Sollich Helayne Robin Spivak Lisa Suri Steinberg Rita Tilas Nancy Ann Tom Ann Marie Torres Arlene Tygar Sharon Bonnie Wohl CAMERA SHY Janet Marie Wagner Sheri Weiss Lauralee Wrckens Adrrane Wrrshborn Rosie Wolecki Ellen Barbara Yankowitz Marina Youssrs Susanne Glock George Ahagnalo John D. Arlequin Gloria Brown Regina E. Cooper Robert Fall Ruth Celeste Felix -" 0 i-1. ii lv' I 32 I. A lim Linda Flake Ricardo M. Gomez George Gotsis Batshevah lrwin Rinaldo lturrino Mark Kotowski LaVon Denise Leak Beth London Anthony Maniscalco Nora T. Mendez Belinda C. Morris James Panyko Jaen Doris Patton Toni Raben Valentin Ramirez Linda Lorraine Rodriguez Andrea R. Schwartz Jo Amy Shulman Maria Elena Vasquez Inez Vasquez Elizabeth Mary Ward Dorothy Anne Welsh F f,,.-v-1f 'fl' , --',,... 9 1 I W If Q f fffgf Or sf- 1" ,gm Wm X LW U tion T3 on illust Sh ta OD A FASHION ILLUSTRATION is: creating an emotion on illustration board. The look of Vogue, Bazaar, Elle. It's stylied rendering. lt is interpreting a pose or a photograph in your own way. It's the spirit in you...your imagination intertwined with the execution. It's informal critiques... interchange of ideas. It's penrlines, Japanese brush lines, charcoal pencils. It is weaving the real with fantasy. It's alive, vibrant, moving. It's today. It's tomorrow. Alexandrina Eleanor Barreiro Veronica Cilich Gail Ellen Debel Gloria Adams Helen Argenziano Marlene Mary Arnaiz Nora Beckerman Leslie Carol Bradley Yolanda Cedo Sue Chin Karen Yolanda Clarke Joanne Marie Corrado Linda Cortazzo Judith Maria Daniele 9 Joyce Lynn Doerrlamm Renee Drucker Celeste Sharon Ericsson Karen Farber AUX it D4 yi. Diane Lee Ganci Elizabeth Ann Gimpel Carmen Justina Gonzalez 1 Violene Diane Hall Betty Hom nf nl? Susan Hovnan Delcina Dorothy Jones Marlene R. Kaplan ?f3MQLXt5yn Susan Levitan 4 Kathie Sue Longariello M5 fdjbgfi ' Sandra Giovanna Victoria Mantovani Maria Kovacs Valerie Mele Ellen Joyce Pearlstein Despina Peratsakis Sharyn Pincus 435 Dianna Marie Popp Forest Ray -df ,L 6 36 rj O J Q aa W 3 fa J i P 5 Q se af rx Liisa Ingrid Ripatti Gerald L. Robinson Lourdes Rodriguez Arlene Schwartz James A. Salerno Maria Luisa Savino Patricia Ellen Singelton Barbara Stamatopoulos Rosemary Thomasine Steele Dolores A. Toto Valerie Tryon Tina Yvonne Utsey Caryn H. Wailxdix, In ucy Weitzman ,L XIX' l Y Mx' V - , USU' 1 9 ' Ml 1 X W . 4' 37 r vi U if Wifi' oval 'Z cu vertising ad nd El Oll li F3 Sl O0 I ADVERTISING ART is: a rare moment contemplating blank space. The weaving at minds and ideas. A deeply motivated desire to accomplish lt's heavy portfolios. Broken ink bottles staining your books. Empty pockets robbed by art supplies. The Monday to Friday mad dash to clean up. The banging of drawing board, clinking ot t-squares. lt's spilling paint. lt's a ruling pen with a mind all its own. lt's creation ot colors that span an age. lt's creating. lt's advertising Art. Vicci Abel Lois Sergio Alvarado Tom Austin Christopher Alexander Austopchuk Lisa Corinne Bacchus Helen Behar Agnes Berry Larraine Grace Bonomo f mf? Andrew James Anderson Curtis Myles Bailey Linda Annis N, Karena Bedrich James Aloysius Boyle Brenda Branch SL A 27' Dalton Brown f Bernhard Byer Margaret Caiola AI Joseph Camillo Jr. Andrew Caputo Jf r "0 qv' ., N sf RV JJ 95 x t ages Peter Rocco Carella Beverly Karen Crisciullo Mindy Davis 40 Bob Carlson ff lofi H h Karen Clemensen Barbara Ann Daley Angel M. Diaz Felix Carrion Salvatore Anthony Coppola Barbara Ellen Dametrick Felix L. Disla Robert l. Catalano Linda Chiariello K Rod Joseph Correa Jr. Gregory Lamonte Daniels Margaret Domini Laura Cosentino Allen Davis Stephanie Douglas Thomas Lowman Dula Roberta E. Edelson Donald Ellison Emily Emmi Christine Rebecca Eng Jack E. Fenn Angela Denise Ferrari Harvey Forbes Fierstein Harold James Finley Diane Fisher V Xfl Nanci Friedlander Vicki Friedlander ' Janet Fay Friedman Henry Galiano Virginia Louise Gee QMS oanrerJ.Geragmy Lisa Angela Ginnie Andrea s.RQQr5Qki9j , 'BMrdoGittingS navecrafencecrenn ' A l me , r l QM i ' QWMQW we e F L3 D MU Wfhfcfw Qi gyehlivkw 3 1 A 'ar QQ , 'ly -l V v i' .Q ,,- 'Y X-f l' ' f. -' V ,I ,f'--" ,iw Rosalind Leah Glick Sandie Aileen Greenberg Fred Harry Goldberg Lora Goldstein Sherry Goldstein Sylvia Greenhause Paul David Greenwald Madeline Grossman Gilda Grunbaum A Gary L. Gulston Freddie Gutierrez Carlos J. Guzman ldelle A. Hammond Jeanne A. Hank Allan Hayes Julio A. Hazim 42 t Janet Lynn Gordon Martha Anne Grossman Milena Haglich uel Hernandez A , L Elsie Helen Holmes George Hom Robert Hom Earl Brown Ingram Carl G. Jaeger l Douglas Richard Jetter Miriam E. Jimenez Irene Kai A ,X km, A x Q A ,G Lois Kasner Margaret Katona ' , rr ,- f, 1 r . 1 mas J. Kostro Susan Linda Kramer P' lf Erna L. Kevelier Paul Killian Lisa Klinghoffer , Tho WW Lynn Marie Kudelka Jane Lahie Christine Ladas Judith Anne Lee Madeline Lempert 4 M JVJ wr Z0 Y 004 v' 7 V 3 QW C My Andrea Marsha Levy William Timothy Mantlo Debra Anita Mayer Alex Mercado Yolanda Mercado John A. M. Meriave 44 C Lance Lovelace Eva Luise Stela Mandel Phyllis Marano Stephen.AF.T.lMarchesi James Mason . -A I - . fi l Cheryl E. Mayes fl La Carlos A. Maynard Russell McCollin Andrea Manning Michael Mastros Medrano Antonio McPherson Leo Anthony Minor Joan Regina Moniot Mary Muller Pamela S. Nadeau Kenneth James Pagliuca Claudio Alfred Montefiori Susan Moszenherg George Yun San Moy Tlsh Marie Mulcay Ernan Muniz Rosita Murray Melanie Mysak Daniel va WTRAnnette Nappi Mark F. Oliva Lynn Carol Olsen l 7 V a 1 ,f " , l f l C f. ITG Pallefmaflfx A John Paslawsky Hector Perez Barbara Nell Perrin Xx x Qual 45 N lllujw Qi y 5 Q ,Lfbf illu- Chris Emil Peterson Ainsworth Phillips Sophie Prentoulis Karon Reiter Alan George Rodriquez 46 Robert Privitera Alexandra Maria Reyes Salvador Rodriquez Richard Lewis Pilone Randi L. Pincus Valerie Poulos Victor Manuel George ReederJr. Celeste Reid Roxanne Rivera Clement A. Roach Andre George Rodrigue Zitamarina Rodriquez Naomi Rosado ldalia Rosario .Y .Lf ' J X My VX X . H , we A - gvx is ,OLl7'Xi 'I fl ' vxl .. .dbx if VN' Miguel Rosario Barry Lee Schaeffer Laura Shepherd LarryJan Spears Cheryl Suzanne Rothberg Lucille Viola Stanley Simms Sharlene E. Spingler Paul Rubino Robertdadon Ryan Juan Santiago Judy Sciurba Charles Johnson Scott Chari Dean Sharpton Amanda Smith Lawrence David Smith Richard L. Smithson Z l A 2 t, fr Huge-, an xxw MM, XJ Alan RohertSpivack Janet'tDleborahStern ffl MarcAlan Stern k'.n , . Anda Stipins John Stockton Doranne F. Thomson Yvonne Thompson Robert Vitale Gail Vrana Wilford Walter Watts Shelley Gail Weiss 48 Steven Craig Stubbs Thomas M. Tweddle James Walker W f, 4 ff! f If yy y y, ,,A,, X ' LW WZ NA! 5A,XZ:', X- 1 , . fy 7 Vgffxf K. 'f 4, 4, ,.. . ,.,, 54-,f .- J' -j fs 7,-. 1 ,W fufzfg, .Q 4, fp, 'f ' fi, 'wg 'rw f Q, ,r 4, 5425 ef 09 5,3 m y I My - L ,i 5339 R M ' 'V W 'V f:j,1i,w-3 I , , .1 ,Q-, ,, , I .,. . b V, .gm f f 1 1,9 f 1 X 1 X , ff V, QW' Kenny R. West Diana Lee Tanlinger George James Tatay Peter Vazquez 1 olia, A Anthony Vita Randolph Walker Yvonne Washington Mason Wilder Madelyn Williams ff F ' 1, buf' fi , i fi f r yo' MXL! if J ,uf if "'5 D LUCY? ,,.,., ,-" Xi , ,J Q K, QVL . f 1 r I 5, X Dierdre Amelie Wolownick Richard M. Woo Guy Darryl Woodard Jeannie Doris Haldorsen r ,of , ' ,wi-' sw rx, ,, r VL ,. 9 ,M F1 X, K," ,H ' , rr W , Q ,N f, ', .r ' Knut H. Jakobsen Dorothy Lew Ada Pullini Z ig des 8 packa bb so PACKAGE DESIGN is: expressiveness in design. The psychology of people...what they like and why. Hours spent laboring over a drawing board. The T.F. book propped up in front of you. It is diligently trying to recreate the letters staring back at you. It's the pursuit of precision. It is being told a "W" is not really an upside-down It's a lot of patience and perspiration and a great deal of relief when someone says, "I like that one best." iff if A , . f 'vi ,Jr r l,c.f,v,f,f -xl, J 1, I tf,,k lr- , . ,n fgyul 6571 f ' lf r.. 1 r 1 1' f f Vf . -'Q l 4, , -, ceq, liygg, J' g ,ff David Baker Elyse Arnow Nanne M. Carroll Roni Jane Eisenberg xyf Steven Lawrence Feinberg Karen A. Pikanowski , , Angela Regina Trerotola Marina M. Valcarcel Ronald Leon West Hedy Wolfe 5-J' cr ap of' lv 'Y 1 t Michele Sue Kay Doris J. Lee Nancy Rose Leo Larry Alonzo Nesbitt Nathaniel Riddles Fern Rosenbaum Barbara Silverman Y. B. Simpson QW f f4Zf+.4"x544f4ff fs-Qf of 51 If 31 2 2 CU i bb 3 4.1 3 .Z Z. 52 'nf zz. y ff i f 7 PHOTOGRAPHY is: running madly around the studio getting lights, making layouts, taking exposure readings with light meters. Being in a small darkroom all alone. The thrill of seeing a positive print emerge from a blank piece of photographic paper. It's the development of shadows, moods and shapes. It's knowing you control what your camera says It's a dark world...a bright world...a world of sudden changes. Photography is humanity in its truest form. It's magic. lt's reality. at li' f Howard Molefsky Sergio Arena Anthony Paul Armato Michael L. Armstrong David Bellaflores Angel Bigio Pat Bolte Alice Alves Cardoso Robert Dlugokenski Gloria Regena Faison Denis James Fay Richard Feldman Artie Joseph Gonzalez Frederick S. Greenspan ,ri ,,Carol Grossm n Lynn Jarvis Shirley Curtisse King Jeremy Joel Knaster Howard Kriedter K 5 l will -f' fyf 'I 9 if Ji nfl! Lfqnzwcuflff 'ly 7,1 li fi 1 fre 'MXH my if Mjflw, y .f sl! X .., .lbw QL x s Vicki Lefcourt Cheryl Ann Lewis David Lopez Pedro Lopez Joyce Machiavelli Joseph y Annette M. Manco Bonnie Milne Susan Maria Nargi Beverly A. Nelson Sharon Yvette Newborn Betty Usin Jill Pulis Ingrid Roze Stanley Seanscott Scherer Janet Siegelman Susan Caryl Tindall Carol Susan White Peter M. Wong Allan Steven Weitz 54 ll-4 V16 X 72'-o Q fl jig? 'n P N my hfff' , ,,,, ,,..,,,,1,,.,,WW I 4, f X fi ling mode 56 MODELING is: the feelings and sensitivity ofthe artist. lt is working in three-dimensional design, in media rough as metals, clay and wood. It's the outsider's first impression of ease and fun in the ceramic shop. It is carving, cutting, hammering, sanding, gouging, wedging, modeling. It is the tired clay, the polished stone. It is the artistic atmosphere, the absorption in emerging forms. It's the green stone sculpture almost too heavy to lug home on the subway. Lynette Joy Brown Frances Elizabeth Campbell Robyn Cohen ! 1 Marci Compton Ann L. Deblinger Deborah Anne Finch Nancy Lynne Green Karen C. Jonassen l Susan Hedy Lane Janet Anne Moniot Dennis J. Novick Susan Pillsbury Hope Singer Donie Gene Williams EITTS TB Bill .Z 4-a 58 1 THEATRE ARTS is: a balance of hilarious fun and nervous anxiety. lt's the smell of freshly cut lumber, paint cans littering the shop, V huge canvas flats sprawling into the hall, giants of papier-mache. lt's a deafening iig-saw and the steady beat of the hammer. It is a chilly, bare stage and a broiling, dusty catwalk. lt's serious planning and loud 'angry criticism. lt's a crew working as one in a headlong chase to meet a deadline. lt's wondering if it was worth it all. lt's deciding it was. Terri Rosa Constance Initia Caldwell Judith Bernarda Safiron Lorraine D. Craig Francis Edward Forth Karin Peers Bruce Joseph Silverstein U0r0IhY S00 as f., '35 -ww orksho W Oli cti Z 'Z 3 5 Z. DD : FZ' 'E GD 3 'Z CU eo ADVERTISING PRODUCTION WORKSHOP is: copywriting, typesetting proofreading. lt's rubber cement, pasting up proofs, rubber cement thinner, taking apart proofs. lt's scaling, cutting, stretching, shrinking, checking, rechecking, redoing. lt's deadlines, bylines, delivery time. lt's talking up to art directors, having them talk down to you. But mainly it's ulcers and headaches. lt's various individuals working as one. lt's a yearbook called Prism. lt's a iob well done. Mark Alan Abraham Hella Freitag Usvaldo C. Garcia .raruo1 xuew Bobby Gene Hall Jr. Kenneth John Krutick ,,.,,w,wv DISPLAY HEADING FOR PRISM SET BY ADVERTISING PRODUCTION WORKSHOP j is bi ffm APPinE'ff 13 H P553 a mirror in the girl's bathroom. a mirror in the boy's bathroom. an early dismissal because of snow. excused lateness because of snow. all the teachers out with the Hong Kong Flu. an unexpected substitute. an unexpected assembly. a smoke filled girl's bathroom. an optional Christmas and Easter Vacation. passing your History regents. the teacher you love smiling back at you. being accepted to one of six colleges you applied to an absent teacher, first period. an absent teacher, ninth period. the basement door unguarded. a pad of blank early excuse pcsses. being able to forge Mr. Ryan's signature. being able to forge your parent's signature. getting Mr. S. Hoffman for Economics. having a class on the second floor, last period. getting home when it is still light out. no homework in any subiect. finding toilet paper in the girl's bathroom. press type. finishing your cigarette before the teacher comes into the bathroom. sitting next to someone who brings his art supplies every day. coffee served in the cafeteria. passing a test you didn't study for. Mr. Wernon. having a iob you spent eight hours on, displayed. a gym teacher who can't touch her toes. carrying your coat all day and not getting caught. sitting next to your best friend in every class, and writing notes all day. being first on the lunch line. Mr. Dyson in dungarees, a turtleneck and Afro hair. the first day of your summer vacation. looking at your yearbook twenty years from now and remembering all of the happiness. SANDY GREENBERG: Editor q I I I 5 h BEYOND THE FOREST-Pedros hair I COOL HAND LUKE-Pedro Lopez I WAIT UNTIL DARK usual time A 8. D students get home . ' WEEKEND-Thank God! 57 P ' SEE HOW WE COME AND GO-A81 DSeniors THE GRADUATE-MEf?l HEAD-typical A 81 D graduate THOSE WERE THE DAYS-what we'Il be saying next year f???j I I I I g ft ' - THE COMEDIANS-Harvey Fierstein and Allan Weitz A , I 1 I I , ALEXANDRA REYES2 Editor EIGHT ON THE LAM-starring the A 8. D faculty in alphabetical order THE FIXER-Mr. Ahearn THE SUBJECT WAS' ROSES-Miss Aldan THE WIZARD OF OZ-Mr. Bonadio CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG-Mr. DiGemma RED BEARD-Mr. Doree THE DETECTIVE-Mr. Dyson DOCTOR DOOLITTLE-Dr. Freeman TO SIR WITH LOVE-Mr. Raphael THE ENTERTAINER-Mr. Spivak THE MUSIC MAN-Mr. Shine I FIDDLER ON THE ROOF-Mr. Tatti YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT-Mr. Teppich ROMEO AND JULIET-Mr. Vanier and Miss Petrotf GREETINGS-Mr. Wernon VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED-1075 Second Avenue featuring Art and Design UP TIGHT-the girl's bathroom in the cafeteria CORRUPTION-the boy's bathroom in the cafeteria FANTASTIC VOYAGE-a ride on the A 8. D escalator ENTER LAUGHING-the A 8. D band THE SOUND OF MUSIC-l'?j the A8.D orchestra YOURS, MINE AND OURS-community art supplies THE NIGHT THEY RAIDED MINSKY'S-Spring Festival ICE STATION ZEBRA-the girl's gym NEGATIVES-10th year rotational photo lab ONE MILLION YEARS B. C.-copyright date in our textbooks SECRET CEREMONY-the G.O. meetings THE NIGHT OF THE GENERALS-open school night CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE-the front doors at 3:10 RIOT-Field Day 63 lust for life , f ,-.111 1 H' f 155. .V-kf'.' . "'l 1 --1.0 H j xf"' 4 U I-1' K' JM 541041 YlMME'Dl,q'FELY Arr'z,Q Tl-Hs ANNOUNCEMENT Wi' f I ll w1LL HAVE AN ovmaoa FIRE Df?!LLf Q' Wi Z ? gi ,ff e 5 2 5 5 S sf S NTLI Tl Ns in ii in n u ii n ii On the other hand..." -Miss Adler What is your problem?" -Mrs. Baskin Turn it up loud to wake up the class." -Mrs. Clarence The rell is bringing." -Mr. DiGemma I am the sovereign dictator here." -Mr. Hollingsworth Buy my book." -Mrs. Einstein Are you coming to class on Friday?" -Mr. Gaydos Shaaaaa ........ " -Mr. Doree in Read the Peculiar Institution by tomorrow." -Miss Geist my "Empty barrels make the most noise." -Mr. Greenbaum "If I were a rich man..." -Mr. Tatti "Have a nice summer." -Mr. Kenton "All right people..." -Miss Orgel "Water for my plantsI" -Dr. Starr "Fly down from the cat walk and land on your feet on I stagep will you pIease?" -Mr. Salzman "Let's go, men!" -Miss Schneider "When I say it is night, it is night even if the sun is shining." -Mr. Eliscu "kkk ii kkk ii ppp kip" -Miss Kasson "DNFI " -Mr. Schaeffer "May I have your attention please! This is essential." Z Q -Mr. S. Hoffman ee Z? "Any more guestions,-ask my art director and vs asst. director." -Mr. Toledo ,QR -N I, 4-' A "I never hit a girl in my life." -Mr. Ireland v . O "And then there was this guyg he was a kindergarten A 9 dropout." -Mr. Spivak "Please rise for the flag ritual." -Mr. Raphael "Smell these dead roses. Write a poem about ' their beautiful fragrance." -Miss Aldon 4 "Asi es Ia vida..." -Mrs. Kagan V rx SANDIE GREENBERG 5il'lorv'L SLEEPING, AND UPON AWAKENING- THE EPIPHANY- Thoughts entered my mind from the moon, to try to understand my presence, to try even as G dying man may fight to live: so strong is the force for life, that in the depths of the fearful abyss, I may find a feeling of being eneveloped by...Something that has come to lead my un- worthy soul through the channels of experience, of strength, of purity. I have wondered if ever, I can begin to walk on land. It seemed as if I was truly in the womb of the earth. I did not understand what I was searching for, or why I wanted it. I can re- member only a feeling of intense loneliness, of longing, of frustrationg and a strange, un- defined feeling of presence-that is comparable to an imagination of swallowing stars that flash into the depth of my being. The train ierked to a sudden stop, and a mass of people entered, rushing about like ants for a seat. Some faces seemed friendly, warm... they know something. I forced myself to think important thoughts. Why am I trampled by my dreams? I want to do so much, and yet, I am de- feated before I begin. The ocean has sung to me during the eclipse, and the moonlight on the water looked like fire. The whole world seemed to breathe with life, moving, not through physical forces, but, iust slightly waving, pulsing with being. What is it trying to tell me? Positive and negative life cycles, unity, timelessness. Those were huge things to think about. The sand that I was walking on has been here for eons, seen pilgrims wandering, searching. The sand must be very wise. I think the sand knows. Something...someone seemed to float through my body, and I felt as if I was walking only because of a strange, invisible force...The door slammed behind me. It is all impossible. It was late when I finished my work, and I felt better, knowing that it was done. I don't recall whether l was awake or asleep. It was dark, midnight, and my eyelids were closed to soothe my eyes from the scorch- ing tears. My body reverted to its position in the womb, and was sinking deeply into a pile of soft blankets. I was moving upward-not through any power, or force, of myself, but like a rush of flutes, trumpets exalted on a rising arpeggio of flashing light. I felt as if my arms were outstretched be- hind me, and my heart led sky-ward. Unbelievable wonder, beauty, tearful ioy replaced my sorrow. I cannot explain further what "yes" feels like to say to the Absolute. I was overwhelmed and trembling with ioy, with tears... It was then that I knew. MARCI COMPTON THE HUMANITY OF MAN Man, as has often been said, is the highest rank of being, elevated from the order of animal by the possession of that quality which Iiberates Man from animal mores, the soul. This unique attribute, the soul, has been defined and explored both religiously and philo- sophically, and though there are technical dif- ferences of definition, all men, more or less, agree that the soul is what allows Man to act from stimuli other than instinct or need, as is the case with lower animals. Taking for granted this conception ofa soul, it follows that in order to completely liberate oneself from the shackles of barbarism and same- ness, one must develop one's soul to its utmost capacity of appreciation for beauty, in whatever shape it might assume. In the case of lower forms of life, creatures that exist from instinct and habit see but an infinitesimal portion of Nature's beauty, limited perhaps to the attractiveness of a mate, or the dearness of its young ones. Man, onthe other hand, has the ability and the aware- ness to see, to observe, to breathe in beauty, to choose what is beautiful and to immortalize it, he can react to instinctive stimuli, like an animal, or he can rise above himself and react from emo- tion and logic, choosing rather than accepting. It is Man's duty to his Creator, and to his fellow man as well as himself, to develop this awareness and appreciation, for by observing and appreciating this natural beauty, one also becomes aware of the beauty of Man, and once this awareness is reached, the greatest barrier to self-understanding and self-improvement has been hurdled. This plateau of understanding, the knowledge of oneself, extolled and preached by philosophers since time immemorial, is the key to a peaceful and happy existence with one's fel- low. The appreciation, understanding and sharing of all nature's beauty is what keeps Man social, and what makes him and keeps him worthy to have been created in the image of Him who created all things. DIERDRE WOLONKIK social activities HONOR SOCIETY MODERN DANCE BAND ORCHESTRA ORIENTAL CLUB FRENCH CLUB ASPI RA DRAMATICS CLUB SENIOR COUNCIL HONOR SOCIETY EXECUTIVES AFR0'AMER'CAN CLUB FUTURE TEACHERS CLUB G.O. COUNCIL M' I '!:v5?f?C,f.f.",!fL,QlJ ,, ,, W I A ,A ,X gygffgf, Jw-A 5 Qfrgg " ' "':Q?WQ1fi1g, .LAL ffm! W ,MW . f M 6 f ? 7 .f Q9 -Q f f I f Q U 1 f H O , X W W if E9 ' -M-f 1 , f f f , fu f J? ,f f M My f ff f I f, 7 f f f f f ,Z V W I 5, LM E f 4 M1 ff QQ I I W' ,, ,- Q.. 5 Z 4 f l f , 1, A cf , , ' 2 " . , ' ,A J ,-,V AE , -M . .z 41:1 . E QA- , 5 f ,QW K A I , , M My in if 4 1 4' f M111 ' W f . " 'v , ' IW f 091, . K 1 , J, 5 U ,591 , 1 ' f , ,Q I Y , , X -1. ' M , 5 A ' 14. I , .5 I , .,-.,,. 44 X, . 2- A E f "' ' ' I CHORUS VARSITY BOWLING CLUB GIRLS TENNIS CLUB VARSITY HANDBALL TEAM VARSITY BASKETBALL TEAM VARSITY GOLF 6 B 7 , 4 v Y VOLLEYBALL TEAM ' LIBRARY STAFF - SERVICE SQUAD AUDIO VISUAL SQUAD LITERARY CLUB VARSITY TENNIS TEAM HIGHLIGHTS STAFFI THEATER ARTS I I I youth is that period when you try on all the faces until you find your own. I can safely say that if I had known what sixteen-going-on-seventeen would have been like when I was six-going-on-seven, I would have had serious doubts as to the wisdom of growing up. The turmoil and indecision that we go through each day can be understood only by another teen- ager, for once you have passed this puzzling period, you suffer a mysterious lapse of memory. Strangely enough, if our sometimes peculiar be- havior is an enigma to our peers, it is utter com- plexity, and without definition to us. In every direction, we are instructed on how to be good, honest, intelligent, considerate, ambitious. We are faced with a dozen ways we should be and no explanation as to why we are the way we are. As a result, every day is an ex- periment in practice. Today we are complete honesty-Result: confusion. Next day we are quiet and terribly reserved:-Result: confusion. We decide to be sticky sweet, and we are con- fronted with puzzled queries as to why you are acting so strangel Each new mask is put on, tested, and finally disposed of. But, oh those days, weeks, years, of tryingl Those horrible questions: Just who am I? Actually, the only thing that keeps us going is the knowledge that in a few years, we too can forget what we went through. We try not to real- ize that any stage is the difficult stage. MIRIAM JIMENEZ .fvwff04.ef-,nf ,Wy h - ff 'iff 1 -nf We 'iff ,X-V74-My K f .6 1,1 ww my fy, 4 .M44f,1,fQ:-4? jg mf f :gg 1 .if .9 3121.-an , ,. ,f V.,.w'9f'.'Q2ff'Z'W 2-ZZ! 4211 f Q1 ,. z.?w4f2ii?f17f!Z2:'Wfff 7 -ffitfiz 7 .r.ff1l,if. if!" diff. ,WY-4'ff""2'p1fivfi P ' ,. X1'i'jlv67' ' fzfzwfffw fum .wf4e4-:ww Aff 4z.,m:,w4z Agfmw,.:y!,,wf fn iwgyr ,.f,.p9Qw.-W..-,7 MMM ,,.,9gyW-,4fn-'myf fi W -V1 WM! .J 2 ffff if ' 2 ffffab- ,WKGWMV '-'iffh .Wy ,fhrpiff . is 5 ww .'7-57-Qxw ,ff-Qlfqf, ' , K V745fWf,wf2z!f4Fif" ffffffi -fs Q1 mf-f ,.,.., ws -1. ff5fW2ffff gpvfiefm . 1 in Q fi. KZCZZVKW WE ARE NOW EMERGING We are now emergingg light is thrown upon our faces, and we see. We are no longer in the womb that has nursed and protected us. Yet do you find yourself withdrawing, boring back into the past security? It is gone. Baptism of your Self, you stand in chimer- ical sanctity. Look beneath you, and you will fall, fall into the reality that you are as erroneous as me. Be an individual,-unique, but in harmony. There is no antonym for symphonies when you are one, complete, and free. Leave now this elementary consciousness and raise yourself from out your crib of ignorance. Yet a word of warning, I give: Don't throw your Self into the stream of knowledge, lest you drown. Emerge, emerge butterfly, from your sun- tight cocoon, and worship the light descending upon you. Make an Exodus from your bondage, animal of burden, and ease your weary muscles, but always know work. Birth is not a simple procedure, but once born, you are an individual and very much on your own ..... Go forth and conquer. HELENE GROSSMAN SO FOLLOW So I can Cross the summit Where there is hope opening like warm rain to drench the sky in glory ............................... a Span of the Sun's wings flooding the earth with Light are the eyes of HIS initiated at daybreak. i f' 6 X MARCI compress I ' Q k l-a prism, a crystal honeycomb Q Q madeto catch, imprism Q and turn itto rainbows Q49 n A I sunsiigrii D By night l am a jeweled prison d to capture, the rapturous HIGH sciinul nr Am Ann nfsinri 1959 m00""5 'lgmf in the LITERARY REFLECTIONS Dimensions of Our Spectrum 2a Prism 3a The Mask 5a Characterizations 7a Emotions 11a Concrete Poems 13a Fable 18a The City 28a The "B" Poems 29a The Bridge 32a The Seasons 38a ART STAFF Mr. Richard Johnson. Faculty Art Adviser. Karen Pikanowskl, Marlene Kaplan, Lynn Kudelka, Art Dirac- tors. Marlene Arnaiz, Valerie Mele, George Hom, Associate Art Directors. STAFF: Daniel Haskett, Warren Westbo, Martin Golding, George Moy, Matthew Rosenzweig, Roni Eisenberg, Hedy Wolfe, George Abagnalo, Tom Kostro, Don Ellison, Stephen Marchesi, Claudia Schwalb. PHOTOGRAPHY STAFF Anthony Armato, Sharon Newborn, Jill Pulls, Helene Grossman, Denis Fay, David Lopez. COVER DESIGN: Barbara Silverman LITERARY STAFF Daisy Aldan, Faculty Literary Adviser. Adele Geraghty, Editor-in Chiel. STAFF: Alexandra Reyes, Sandy Greenberg, Leona Seufert, Brenda Branch, Helene Grossman, Marci Compton, Lani Mysak, Tina Ladas, Judith Pfeffer, Dierdre Wolownick, Roxanne Rivera, Lorraine Brooks, Miriam Jiminez, Hope Singer, Gail Debel, Carolyn McCombs, Caryn Ward, Daniel Haskett, Mario Sotolongo. CONTRIBUTORS. Beth Irwin, Vicki Nanos, Bill Mantlo, Jo Amy Shulman, Claudia Schwalb, Barbara Escoffery Lance Lovelace, Glor Brown, Ellen LaSpalluto. THE BOARD OF EDUCATION OF THE CITY OF N. Y. HIGH SCHOOL OF ART AND DESIGN 1075 SECOND AVENUE NEW YORK 10022 Mr. Jacob H. Raphael, Prlnclpal Mr. Walter Welsh, Acting Prlnclpal closed eye of night. Lani Nlysak DIMENSIONS OF OUR SPECTRUM We are the love generation. We are the war generation. We represent the emergeance of man from the shell of denial to the utmost in awareness. We are unafraid to face reality. We are the think generation. We are more introspective than ever before. We have expanded our minds and broadened our outlooks. We are great discoverers, probing the field of creativity, constantly. We are greatly pressured by complex problems, but we try to solve them. We have an optimism no other age has: unique in itself. We will find ourselves faster than others our age because we know what to look for! We strove to equal others and we have surpassed. We have won the battle! We have suffered through drought and flood and have blossomed into better individuals. We have questioned ourselves and searched our souls. We have explored the regions of life's mysteries. We have questioned others, but learned to accept. We have learned to shake the hand of defeat, rather than bear a grudge. We have estimated our own worth and learned how to increase it. We have seen that life is cruel and wonderful at the same time. We have ridden the waves of trying times, emerging victorious. We have learned to appreciate what is worthwhile and can discern what is not. We have chosen our goals and are about to enter the realm of realizing our dreams. We are about to enter a new Renaissance in living and thought. We are about to enter a revolution in life, as independent individuals. We are no longer allowed to grasp onto childhood as an excuse, for we are making our debut into the world of the adult. We are being graduated into a new phase of life. We will use the skills we have learned to enter the phase gracefully. We will be prepared to roll across the ocean of time without mutiny on the part of life, without being stifled, to be what we are CARYN WARD WHITE YELLOW ORANGE GREEN BLUE VI OLET BLACK MAN MADE: a color that is gray, that is snow - is filth in sight, and is swept away to fall another day hated and unwanted. is a bilious sun, not the sunlight's pale cast, but bellowing cheap fractions of the reflecting source an electric light. is not the fire in sun- set, is not the glories of dawn. is a chintz scarf lost in a gutter, blow- ing flutter mixing with the dirt. is shining, is the nause- ating gloss of the subway car's paint, the subway car's tainted tint all slashed and lashed with obscenities. is the hidden one, is the forgotten one, - the buildings are the sky! Blue is the old man's shirt, a soiled old skirt. is twilight's hue - is the commuters greeting light after climbing from the depths of the city's subways, lt foretells the end of the weary days, al- ways. is a pool of wet city sweat or better known as puddles of pollution, the city's rain. After the fall is tamed into dirt. LANI MYSAK PRISM YELLOW in the burning intensity of the yellow sunrise a golden bird spreads his wings in victory. strength emanates from the celestial glow, giving power to the winged god of the morning light. he flies freely, leaving me behind. his wings were once bound by the magic ropes tied to my veins. the sun has transmitted its energy to his system. causing him to rip my binding and fly with all of his strength towards the sun of freedom. TINA LADAS REFLECTIONS OF INDIGO Blue - Reflection of the somber moodiness of the recesses of a reflective mind. - White - hot pinpoints herald the doom of day, As the cool blue ceiling of evening caresses the earth with relief from the scorching sun. The deep, melancholy blue soothes eyes, raw from brilliant sounds: it envelops the senses in a womb of comforting, lonely space. Dark, mute swans glide like ephemeral shadows over the swift waters of the musical Blue Danube: its water glistens in countless gems of ultramarine and cerulean, melding with the midnight blue sky. . . Somewhere in a cool veridian forest, sapphire feline eyes glint in the negative moonlight, stalking, glimmering like multi-faceted blue-black coals. Timeand Space are Blue. A cobalt sky underlies a velvet-black eternity of colors yet unseen. BLUE is beautiful and limitless. knowing only the infinite boundaries of star-studded space. "Blue is one of the darker colors of the spectrum , . . ' - a minute part of what is, an encompassing part of what we see. My spirit is blue, alive through color: The color of a probing, searching intellect. at peace and at odds with his universe. The universe of blue space. DIERDRE WOLOWNICK GREY IS THE COLOR OF DESTINY 615 In the cold grey light of morning a small group of men had gathered for a ceremony. One man lifted a brick from the pile, laid it down in the mortar, and said, "lt has begun!" The city was built of brick and stone. The builders are dead And their names are unknown. f2l The years went by, and dirt streets were eventually covered with black asphalt and tar. Bricks and stones gave way to steel and glass. The city progressed. Retrogression and progression. Man has outgrown his toys. Oldfthings, new things But no everlasting joys. C37 Dark grey avenues lined with bars and jails and whorehouses soiled the city's soul. The inhabitants had only one desire -to live life fully while it lasts. The city became another Sodom and Gomorrah and the lofty skyscrapers shouted out: "We are the epitome Of your materialistic society, The mirror image of your soul. C47 The city survived the ravages of time. Its denizens thought themselves to be invincible. "Here is our fortress," they yelled, "It is impregnable: We are invulnerable. Nothing can harm us!" To this, the stoic steel edifices replied: "We were conceived in your childhood. We then grew to manhood, While you remained the immature child." 159 No one ever conquered the city, and the people thought themselves secure. They recounted to each other how they had withstood outsider's attacks, bragging more about their greatness each day. "Not even nature would be able to destroy us. We are the mighty ones!" To this the stoic structures made no reply. C67 The Black Death came and took with itself the entire population of the great city. Now only the glass and steel buildings remained. The spark of human life had vanishedg decay has set in. "Yes, we are the great cities that have protected you for centuries But in the end we all turn to dust." LEONA SEUFERT BLACK You entered my life from the black geometric shadows cast upon bare walls. Your face glowed like streaming light from midnight windows. Your stoical existence left permanent stains within me. lcould never tell you how Ireally felt. You lit fires that spread through the dry night like the rushing tides upon heated sand. You burned entire cities. And as the blackness disappears at dawn, you disappeared. Disappeared like the black storm clouds at the return ofthe sun. TINA LADAS SURRENDER lstood in the fields of green sea Casting my eyes upward. lcaptured the firmaments above: The sky is a flowing jigsaw puzzle, a flowing Conglomeration of flowing colors into flowing shapes. My fingers flee with the fleeting ocean overhead The strokes of my brush rapidly race against the luminous time-keeper above lgrasp the delicacy of dancing fleece My body is like soft foam, My eyes become delicate fog, my fingers are like wavelets The rays of my mind dissolve the suspended threads of my body lfloat into pools of neon lace The easel in the field is like an empty hourglass BRENDA BRANCH mx THE MASK RITUAL Slowly the crowd diminishes, until she is left alone in the room, a small figure standing straight with self-preoccupation. The slam of the door reverberates dullyg the dry ice mask begins to crack, leaving her face paler, her mouth more childlike. As the mauve-veined eyelids are slowly raised, I see that her shy black pupils are as wide and deep as paneless windows. Painful windows .... Slowly, intently, she begins to move. At first her gestures are angular, constrained, as though the sharp fragments of the shattered mask still pricked her painfully. The light changes, warming the room, and I see that she is dancing, performing an ancient, wistful ritual to .... to what? Does she know? No, now she is aware of nothing but the primitive need to relieve her emotions, to im- merse herself in the hypnotizing rhythm that heals the inside wounds of indignity gathered afresh each day. The dance has become soft and benevolent, now, it is almost finished. She knows this, and is savouring the last caressing flutters, a faint smile pervading her body. In the deepest well of the night, I hear a desperate, smothered soundt- She is crying, the eternal sobs of being less then perfect. I should not be watching her, for if she knew that I was here, the briny streams would be abruptly cut off. She'd lie on her stomach, no longer writhing, but every fiber of her body stretched to the utmost. Not breathing. Press- ing herself into the mattress with all her frenzied strength, there would suddenly be a convulsive relaxation. Then she'd turn to me, tiredly, and look at me questioningly, frustration showing only in the pinched marble iaw. I could only turn around and leave, ashamed not of my eaves- dropping, but because I have no answer to her singular gaze. BETH IRWIN TRUTH I want so much to be understood and ac- cepted: to be able to reach out and have you realize what an infinite amount of beauty there is in the truth. You used to be truth itself-so brave, and fearlessly strong, and so beautiful. It was as if you were a flower, with your stem growing straight, and your petals so honestly outstretched, fully understanding the hardship of rain, but real- izing the beauty of the fresh air after the storm. There is so much hurt, and pain, compas- sion, and strength, in the truth. You were truth. You stood with your head held high, meeting the future with no defenses raised. Your mouth was partly open, in contemplation of a beautiful thing, like two sores burning, pressed together, begging to be pulled apart. You understood life, and were willing to stand tall through its ups and downs. Your eyes were constantly open, as if you were a watchdog, always ready to protect his master. Your master was the truth. Without even knowing you, a person could tell how beautiful you were. Was it the way you stood, so open and forthright, or the way you walked, reaching the corner as quickly as the man who had to run? Perhaps it was the firm, con- fident, and yet tender way in which you looked at a person-a look of deep understanding. Why did you ever begin to run, and cut corners, and not think of the other person? When did you begin to lie and put an outer covering around yourself, so that no pain could reach you? Didn't you see that that shield blocked beauty too? When did you lose your depth, and iust be- come a flat surface painted a pretty color? Wasn't it obvious that the paint would soon start to chip and ugliness would begin to show through. I want to be understood, and I want to be accepted, but neither is important, for now I am the truth. SELF 342 I have danced myself invaded with feelings Dancing so fast, l cannot feel. To reassure a soul: A self, is to man As blood is to a forest, Or a bleeding heart, Carried by the wind Upon a leaf. I never stop to rest, Nor does the sky, Nor the earth For one robin said the earth was round. The spark of madness Swept inside of me, lvvlga A current of unfound lj y identity. Q g . o ' o To Search an infinite mindg N 9 U ., A self is to man Q' As the earth is to a lonesome tree Q O O How a bleeding heart carried by 4 the wind Q ls soothed to safety if o Q Upon a leaf! y 9 CLAUDIA SCHWALB N -'7 2. 'P . 'a n ll , NN . ,I lb f5 , . fi I t- at N Q ' M ., l gi 9' X if eg JO AMY SCHULMAN , QI lx It '41, y ll. 0 lflx W2 I FK 1 f N A ' , 1: A ,S L5 H o CLAUDIA' SFHWA N I ' lf' - 1 A A --:tp is li 'll ' 1533641 2 . ' ' '- ..Q'-505 ' ' 1 ' . ms I 4.51. ull V . 6a 44.5 K U N 2 ' CHARACTERIZATIONS SAINT FRANCIS FED THE SQUIRRELS We had taken a walk through Central Park that day. There was nothing unusual about it all, the strike was on and the three of us, Laura, Leona and I, had come there to nibble on fresh bologna sandwiches. We washed them down with thin orange drink that we had bought from a vendor. I can't remember whether we had ridden the carousel that day, but on other days during the time we were out of school, I became quite familiar with itg her old pumping, grinding giant music box filling the air with circus tunes. If I was lucky, they would play 'A LITTLE BIT OF HEAVEN' and then I could sing along with it. We had made our way leisurely from the carousel to the zoo, and turned the winding, sun- drenched road around the red brick building planted in the heart of the zoo. As we turned the corner, I saw a little man standing by the entrance to the children's zoo. In his right hand, he held a bag of peanuts. His left arm was raised and crooked half way in front of him and perched on his forearm sat a squirrel, busily chewing the peanuts as fast as the little man could draw them from the bag. I stopped my two companions, and we stood watching the little man. His face was plain, his clothes. non-exceptional. He resembled no less than a dozen men you could see every day in a subway, street or bus. But his face was very calm and quiet and he neither laughed nor frowned, coaxed nor teased the little animal that sat clinging to his arm. Patiently, he drew the peanuts, one at a timep sometimes breaking them, sometimes leav- ing it to the squirrel to do. The little rodent iumped back and forth from a litter basket to the grass and back again to his arm. Children who passed into the zoo with their parents, stood and gaped at himg the children shrieking wildly, the parent's eyes wide, their faces, with beaming smiles. The little man didn't seem to notice. He seemed oblivious to the fact that there were other people in the park. He was totally absorbed in keeping his little friend well fed. What other friends does he have?I thought. Was he a soldier in World War One? Did he drink warm English beer in musty old pubs and make love with the village girls? Was he a sailor? Was he disabled one night in an enemy attack and have to be shipped back to the States? I noticed he wore a hearing aid. I wondered if he wore a red poppy on Armistice Day. But most of all, I wondered if the only friends he had in the world were the frisky squirrels that scampered at his feet. I had friends. There had been many times when I couldn't say that I could reach out and grasp someone's hand. I knew people who never let themselves reach out. They offer their hands saying, 'Here I am if you ever need a quick lift up... but don't grasp it too tightly, and don't pull me down with you. l'll know you, but l'll never be obligated to you, and then you can never hurt me. You see, I want the world to think I'm strong, then they won't question me. But you'll never know me and l'll never feel for you and l'll never be hurt.' I thought about it. I wasn't one of these people. I gave myself too quickly. It is a well known fact to me, as well as to those who know me, that after being with a person five minutes, I grow very 'attached to him. My fondest aim in life is to gather people to me. People are the life source of creativity in me. It could never spring to life by itself. People are what keep me going. Friendship is the common denominator in everything I strive for: To please people, to make them laugh when no one else can, to put them at ease in time of trouble, and most of all, to form lasting friendships that can survive. I knew I would always be hurt because I gave too much of myself. I knew I was the type of person that would say, 'Here is my hand: take it if you need help. I don't mind helping you. And if I am ever hurt, I will be sorry, but I will be a little bit better and a little bit wiser for knowing you.' I could never be sorry for making relation- ships a foremost thing in my life. I love harmony. My creativity needed god-parents. I knew that no matter how many hurts should spring up, there would always be too many good friendships to counteract them. I was still staring at the little man. He moved unconsciously, except for his eyes. They were alive with the knowledge that these ani- mals needed him, looked forward to what must be his daily coming, and the friendly gesture he made with his arm to beckon them to dinner. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything else to cry. I wanted to take the little man and never let anyone laugh at him or stare at him or hurt his precious squirrels. I wanted his placid face to break in a thousand grey old lines and a thousand tears to flow down the square planes of his face: Whether for ioy or sorrow or both, I don't know. I wanted to cry out: 'Cry Little Manl Never mind the rest of the worldl Cry, cry, Little Manl Feed your little ani- mals, St. Francisl Feed your friendsl Feed your damned lice and flea infested squirrels with their dirty feet and rat-matted fur and pus-streaked eyesl Feed your friends, for God's sake St. Francisl Love them and feed them and cryl Oh please cry, my Little Manl And thank God that there's a park for you to walk in and tiny animals to bestow your love uponl Who would think, Little Man, that you could love! Have a good cry St. Francis. No one will see you. They're too busy looking at them- selvesl Get yourself stoned St. Francis! Who would think that you could love...' A very slight smile, so faint it was almost unnoticeable, slipped across his face as the squirrel plucked another nut from his fingers. I let out a gasp and dove into my pocket- book, crammed with iunk. Pulling out a pad, I scribbled as I said out loud, "Saint Francis fed the squirrels." Both Laura and Leona looked at each other and smiled a somewhat knowing smile. "I want to write a story about him," I said, "He's like something from another era." We left the park laughing. Fool that I aml I am the little man and the squirrels, and the people that watch himl I can't help hoping he won't die iust yet. When he does, I hope he dies in his sleep. ADELE GERAGHTY LEMMING - MY MOTHER Lemmings are small, attractive rodent- like creatures who inhabit the Arctic Tundra re- gion. They are nomadic animals who travel end- Iessly in search for food. Rather than change their course, bands of Iemmings have been known to swim across rivers, where more than half drown. No barriers can hinder their progress because of their great determination to move on. They are famous for their quixotic courage, demonstrated in their willingness to fight for their young. Unfortunately, large predators find the brave lemming easy game. I know only one person who possesses the virtues of this animal. She has searched endlessly for the food called kindness and understanding, and she still searches, finding only enough crumbs to keep her from dying of starvation. Mountains of apathy, rivers of fear and deserts of hopeless- ness confronted her in her iourneys, but in her desperation, she managed to move on. When she thought she had found her sustenance, a gro- tesque animal called CRUELTY chased her away from happiness, devouring her spirit again and again, until almost all her willingness to live had been ingested into its black interior. Unceasingly, she searched, being led into spider webs of pain, hypnotized into security, then being allowed to fall into a pit of reality by the sneering laugh of deception. The little progress she had made in life had been envied by other Iemmings who con- spired to stop her from gaining any more. They bit her and clawed at her soul until blood and tears drenched her shabby gray rags. One reason for existence then saved her from dying. She sheltered it, nursed it and made it grow. Only then was she able to seem complete. But is she complete? Even now I sense that she searches for food. Will she regain what she has unwillingly lost, or has half of her drowned in the seas of her past? ROXANNE RIVERA JUST A SIMPLE JACK-ASS I told her from the first to be careful. She wouldn't listen. I can still remember the massive shoulders shrugging away my advice. Even then, I marveled at the similarity between her and the mule she called, Angel. We met on a lonely road, quite by accident. I was desperately lost and she was passing by. I watched for a while before speaking and let- ting my presence be known to her. She was a big girl, with long, brown hair, pulled back into a messy pony-tail. Her skin was a deep tan, from the long exposure to the sun and her feet were bare. Her arm rested on a small mule who refused to move. With her hands pulling on his rope, she finally got it to move a few steps only to give up as the mule once more stood still. She went and sat under a tree, and I approached her. I thought her to be an uneducated farm girl and so I spoke to her in the Spanish dialect spoken in the region. She noticed my clumsiness and with -a smile spoke to me in a hesitant English. I told her my name and how I was lost and she offered to take me to the town as soon as her mule de- cided he was ready,-she did not want to trouble him. It was a full ten minutes before he rose from his hind-quarters and started to walk down the road. It was another hour before we reached the town, and the public water pump. After getting Angel a iug of water which she spilled into her hand while he drank, she went to the pump where I was drinking. She drank. It was not until they began to shout their insults that I noticed the boys standing nearby. She paid no attention to their taunts, only con- tinued to drink her water. I was furious in the face of her calmness. I could not think what to do and so moved towards the source of the shout- ing. She stopped me, not speaking a word, and I could only stare at her in disbelief, in confusion. I continued to watch her as she unstrapped the bag from her mule's back, slung it over her shoulder and walked towards the church yard. I followed, unwilling to let her out of my sight. She placed the bag by the door and without a word, went back to her mule. She walked slowly with even steps, each falling squarely on the ground. When we reached the mule, she looked up, smiled her kind, knowing smile and said good- by. I looked around me to make certain we were alone. "It should not matter who your parents were. The product is what is of importance. It should not matterl" bhe patted her Angel's head, "After all, he is iust a simple iack-ass." MIRIAM JIMENEZ ALLI His dark skin and strong legs were always seen among his goats. Alone in the isolated val- ley, sleeping with them, eating with them, their world became his. At the time the sun came up, he went to his long journey with his flock to find pasture. They glided down mountains, a black wild river, and he with them, skipping upon the rocks with his curved, hairy legs, and always holding, like a single horn, a huge oak stick. Alone. At sunset when the sun colored the trees with pastel tender colors, he returned to the cave. Here, on his wooden bed, covered with hard goats' skins, he watched his goats when their wild desire rose: he watched them making their coarse love on the stained ground. His unsatisfied desire was then rising in- side him, wild and powerful. His hoof-like hands would grasp something in the air, until the pale dawn came .... He tried to get deeper and deeper into the valley. To escapel To forgetl He tried to concentrate his life, his thoughts, on the goats, staying with them in the cold winter, helping them to give birth to their young, and yet they feared him. Sometimes he would become cruel all of a sudden, trying to hurt them, and they would see death in his eyes. Blood. His cracky voice would hang like a wild eagle in space, above them, threatening. Sometimes he would stand for hours on a peak, the wind blowing against his dark, hairy chest: his sharp eyes searching the distances below. Something vague, ungrasped would begin to wrestle inside his simple brain. What was it? One time in one of his iourneys he met a group of children. Their pure eyes looked, won- O dering, at him. They feared this dark, sweat- smelling figure in a goat-skin. "What is your name?" Long forgotten cords of something unde- fined rang inside him. But he could only draw distorted, childish forms on the ground, and call THE WANDERING ALBATROSS He came from the sea to puzzle us, like a wandering albatross. He had traveled many life- times and seen more than he told of before he came to us to choose his mate. He was fine-boned and handsome beneath his curls of soft down, and as the albatross is clothed in thick feathers to shield him from the wind, so was our albatross enveloped in his own shield of fantasies to guard him from the sober- ness of the world around him. We doubted him and knew too little of his mysteries, iust as the sailors hadalways held this unusual bird in wonder. Like the albatross, he seemed never to sleep. His eyes remained open in rest, as if he sought to see great distances in his dreams. He seemed to fear us, for he never fully landed in our midst, always hovering lust out of touch, not wanting to leave us, but afraid to give up his wandering life and put his wings to rest forever, not wanting to be soiled by our human frailties, and not wanting to recognize his own. He was a sea bird and a strange bird, and his goats. His legs then iumped lightly upon the rocks, and he disappeared. A free, wild figure. But something was missing in his mind, something he wanted and knew not. Something which could never be fulfilled. SCHOSCHONA SCHONFELD he came to us to find a mate. He found her in the summer and took her to the sea. The courting customs of the albatross are peculiar to us. Male and female waddle to- ward each other with a dignified step and bow ceremoniously. After some strutting, they cross bills and seem to fence like swordsmen, mean- while uttering strange cries. The pattern of their relationship bore a startling likeness to that of the albatross. lt was an odd and unearthly love, nour- ished on the sea, and always he hovered above her, not wanting to close his eyes to his dreams of wanderings past and wanderings to come: afraid to let her touch his vulnerable soul, and always afraid of losing his wings. The summer came and went, and few of us succeeded in truly understanding our albatross. When the sea froze, so did the love of our albatross. It seemed to be covered with a shell of transparent ice that promised to melt in the spring, and at the peak of the lonely winter the albatross stood at the shore of reality and spread his wings in the rain. JUDIE PFEFFER C 'iz'-: N r lfflyams s . t Ag itlminv' - W if T h QXXXS: 1 n 51 , 5 1 ' l W T' ' EMOTIONS GRIEF Sunshine. Yellow-gold shining in my hair. Life is beautiful. Flowers are blooming. Birds are singing. The world is full of light. My hap- piness radiates from my eyes. A song bubbles forth with a will of its own. I can't control my feet from dancing up the walk. The house looks different today. Brighter. Homier. The phone rings. An ominous ring. Threatening in its sim- plicity. I try to close my ears. I will it to stop, but it keeps on. I hesitantly pick it up. "Hello." My voice quivers. My hands shake. I hear the faceless voice on the other end telling me goodbye for- ever. The click in my ear tells me the conversa- tion has ended, but my hand is clamped tightly around the phone. My fingers turn white. The veins grow taut. The phone burns into my palm like white coals. I drop it. The house is dull and suffocating. It chokes off my breath, and I run out. Outside, it's grown cold. The fog has started to roll in, and has turned the sun black. I run. I can't stop running. The wind whips my hair into my vacant eyes. Finally, I collapse on a bed of rock. The screams are ripped from my throat with a will of their own. The salt of my tears burn my eyes. Drained finally of emotion, I walk home, and calmly rip the pictures off the wall. BARBARA ESCOFFERY A SONNET You stretched your hand out in an offering. An invitation for a short time stay. With great uncertainty, I wondered if Ishould not stop to hear your music played. To hesitate would be a faulted move. And yet, where e'er I turn, Icannot see. The water now has blinded reasoning In me. I long to find your manhood now. Across the seas of time unreal we reach Each other's fingertips. And with that touch I wonder if all innocence is gone. Ido not wish to cleanse my hands - in fear. To stroke your face must satisfy me now For, "Thou shall not covet what is thy neighbors!" HOPE SINGER POEM IFor H.R.S.l I won 't try to watch the stars breathe through us Or to listen, as the death drums have sounded, but, they are quietly beating beneath the roads of our evolution, over darl-r covered rocks, pouring forth tears to spirit, pacing the path . . . But the hazy love glow returns to reshadow the past with regret, turned to the place Where we once flew together exalted like birds in the free grey sl-ty. The Voyages where we vaulted into the patterned past have blackened. Still There is warmth for Nowlam wrapped in a soft brown leaf: inhaling, alone and pulled by the reassuring cloud substance to the cold and windy hilltop where I will Erect this daybrealf in the form of an Altar. MARCI COMPTON AND WHAT A BIZARRE RELATIONSHIP IT WAS A tear fell and wet my lip. It must have been the millionth shed. With all the strength I possessed, I lashed out-I struck, I beat, I wounded. I cut as deep as I could. Yet she re- mained there, unmoved. She would simply stare in astonishment. All my words were incompre- hensible and senseless. I struggled within:-why can she not understand? Why can she not? Why? O O There was a time we walked along the shore together, she and I. We spoke in gentle tones of comprehending each other. We sat on the grey, broken rocks and watched the waves try to escape,-and we giggled, almost mali- ciously, because we both knew that Mother Sea would always reclaim them. There was some- thing ironic about us witnessing the water trying to leave the ocean,-of one trying to break away from oneself. The beach and the sea were great comforts to both of us. We claimed to be indigenous to it and swore that when death came, it would em- brace us there. But,-we fought constantly. Every day, a civil war, and there was no victor-because there never is in warl We wanted so desperately to loin together-to be one. And very often we did come close to it. Then, in one fell swoop, the magic would be gone. The day had come. The end was near. We both sensed it, at the same moment, as usual. I couldn't imagine life without her. That evening, we sat in my room as we had so many, many times before. She asked me why I was not sensitiveg and then why I was not creative: and why not good? These words, I had heard them so many times before from her, suddenly took on a new twist. More questions on the trueness of my spirit, on the honesty of my soul. We two players smashed that ball of hate with our paddles with vigor before unknown. She knew of my idealistic-no-simple minded search, and used that to lacerate. "A Diogenes," she screamed, "a cynical fool with a lamp. And what are you looking for?" "Do you think yourself a sculptor, your soul C piece of clay you can mold and shape and twist-to make yourself that soft, wholesome, beautiful creature you are forever reaching for?" The warm tears flowed to the floor and quickly we found ourselves swimming, lest we drown. The flood lasted for forty days and forty nights. Lightning ravaged the skies. The turbulent water cast me to shores unknown. When the sun came up at the dawn of the forty-first day, I knew a renaissance was coming. I prayed for a clear light. And when the water left and the ground dried, I gazed across the land and found I had not been taken away ot all. She was still there. I know now she always w ill be there- for how can one lose her own reflection in the mirror of her own heart? RETURN OF MIDNIGHT Midnight came to fair Claudina Images returned in mist Ghost of fatal cavern boulders From the moulding rotting crypt. Calling for her but in vain Hands extended, eyes aflame "Fair Claudina, I've come for you Trust in me, you'll feel no pain. You can't feel me touch your hair Tresses wildly strewn about you You cant hear my longing verses Staring blankly into space. Only now you rise from slumber Only now you rise in fear Fearing an unearthly presence Knowing somehow I am near. Sweet Claudina can you feel my Longing hands caress your hair? Can you see me, see me now Tell me that you know I'm here." "lt is strange in midst of slumber Arms feel wrapped around my soul." "It is I, my raven beauty Tell me that you see me now," "Why on such a summer night Have I chills that paralyze?" "Sweet Claudine It is I, Look unto my longing eyes." "Iohn, my love, Idream of you Iohn, oh Cod, can it be true? Flames of blue that sparked your eyes Hold my breath and stop my heart?" "Yes, Claudina, oh my beauty, Let my heart fly, come with me Ican feel your heartbeat quicken, Can you feel the life in me?" Windows parted, doors blew open Wind had carried in the storm. HOPE SINGER Clocks stopped ticking, curtains rested, But the music box played on. CAI L DEBEL CONCRETE POEMS LE CYGNE SQUIRREL So Boy, these New grace- York City squirrels - ain't afraid ful, you o' nothin' .... little experienced dance upon beggars that they are - lthink they the water, put us on sometimes -they have a gliding so effort- racket goin' - these little guys put lessly over the on such a great show of reflecting tiny rodent timidity that pool. . . lbelieve they deserve some Your kind of award for their performance. serene face shining inamillion sparkling mirrors. You flutter - After all, they do receive a sort of applause - for example, - such cries as: "C'mon .... c'mon, a little closer. . . . ....c'mon" - or - "Look, look your saintly pure wings like a silken flame, growing in a pale sky. With your ceptively strong beak, you rearrange your faery down, to an even more perfect symmetry. With an unearthly display of beauty, you unfold your snowy pinions in a prayer to the heavens, Then, with a flurry of down, - you glide upwards like a billowy cloud . . . proceeding your prayer, like a phoenix from the muddy water. - lknew he's coming toward me." - or - "Take it .... take it .... oh, c'mon, take it!" - or - "Hey, Ithink he likes me!" Poor fools, - he doesnt care one way or the other about you .... He just sees you his way .... . . .perhaps as you really are - - - a big nut. de- DANIEL HASKETT that could not re- ca: wtf oenif, panty, 'wh-Q I DIERDRE ogg! 0' 0' uf wlmnfif Jo 'Pi Q 5 G' fu 'V' 9' 42 Q woLowN1cK AF QP 'O' 907' Qaw' y-mr 'tl 2- 1- ij. Q, 5 ' 6 1 X2 jog ff b -Q s 3+ 39 .,-9' a e fy' Q5 .- .. ,ga cf., is u .ss NF Q75 t M j,q'l-"6 3.-Q? "' G. Q5?AWvv'W" 'P' 'aEi"? . Q' 4 'Tp ff 4- 'S we is 3 1 o Q a Q' SN A? " A P T- 2. ur., SQNS 'gwgiigi Ng 98 Q J 'N Q xv Q 2- 2 E+ 'Q Q 'N is g N "- r- 5, 2 "- Q if 2 ,S as ess 325325. 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Through the day and deep into the night, the cowering creature lay, alone and frightened. The hole was too high to climb out of. Then, midway through the blackness of the hot evening, a passing tiger chanced to stumble and fall into the same hole. Upon seeing him the zebra cried: "Listen my friend, this pit is too high for one to climb out, but I have a plan which may provide for the escape of two. If you were to stand erect against the wall of the pit, and I were to climb upon your massive furry shoulders, l should be able to reach the top. Once out of this accursed pit, l would devise a means by which you could be rescued also." The tiger, ravenous and greedy, thought not of the ingenious plan the zebra had proposed. He thought only of the tender and succulent meal the beast would make. Without further hesitation, he leapt savagely upon his captive companion and swallowed him whole. In the morning, the natives found him, alone and trapped in their pit. Moral: Indulgence leads to disaster: it is far better to exercise self-constraint. LANCE LOVELACE I jf! CREATION SONG Sun clarflyaf Fw'-hr I Ifnfa fvh , beings biiiow iii ii-iidiiigiii air , ' 0 l E' ' - 255- :5.g:5E,.E55::: In midnight, like the black sky and Clouds 'lil' 4 ' I I . . K I ,ff ,nf L. ,QI , poke that gather for the falling flight to ' 15:5 1 !:::E:: blending, from being embedded , , ,,,,i CMS, - I 'T 1 , in Winter, beneath the warm black 5- IF J ll IF: . I .ll-Pj' !-l-ijtlvlf-H-5-211-hi-I lii i I -Q ll"1 al- ' I -i lf fwlzsraga . B B 1 I l -I ii. is . B d 5 b t , ' ' ' bginy Su S ance Hi- SI?IEFI2i ' ' if "" -' l 'm ' g I IIII1--EFI I 'I - I I1 'I B1 : 1" - 2 'J ' I-! If--I-i--If i fi : S' el .l I . I . I I I ll dlQ- Bl I -I I 4 . 3 gods Cycle io ueusazazess ei -sw -::: nd L, "'i a body bursting from the blue blooming womb. MARC! COMPTON THE BALLET SHOES Pale, glowing pink, like Chopinic bleeding bleeding moons, the toe shoes hang on the de- serted bar. They move ever so faintly, swinging on their frail, luminescent ribbons, as if still ani- mated by their wearer's movements of a moment before. They beckon to you, the rose-touched breaths of a sunrise zephyr's calling. You slowly raise your fingers: they are daring you to touch them, mocking you like field butterflies, flitting mirrors of the sunbeams. You blush at your hesi- tation, but like a young girl faltering at her first kiss, there is an awe, an uncertainty of their real- ity in your world, and your validity in theirs that holds you back. Now they seem only refractions of the slanting sunlight on the dancing column of dust that you used to grab at with both hands as a child. Finally, with the sudden determination of a sharply inhaled breath, you touch them. One trembling finger slowly, gently contacts the silken surface .... Ahhhl Like the velvet skin of a blooming rose, like a young egrette's snowflake feathers, like .... But look! Several dusty marks here and here, and there. The tips are quite well worn, revealing a stiff and coarsely woven white fabric. Where the ribbons are sewn, the downy silk has started ravelling, and the lining of the heel is striped with band-aid adhesive. A rusty nail peeps up like a pistol barrel through the narrow sole. Deep inside the toe-is that dull stain- More rust? Or-no, it couldn't be! Blood? Do such delicate, pale, tender things draw blood? WINTER SOLSTICE Icy blue skies contrast white frozen seas. As Children of Light walk among the thrones, purified to view the Virgin receiving the Sun, A sun burst of dead umber, bursting, alive in yellow hue Iof soft melting cosmic light! And trees in white slumber wade through a brewing snow as winter baubles bounce from cold branches . . . and fingers Gently pushing, prodding the warmth, plugging in and keeping into its frozen state . . . a warmth. And Fatherly winds tell Motherly tales and icicles fall from my arms. To see the light between the darkness, to give birth to new times. . . new days Of frosted branches deadened by winter's chill, and white ducks still. . . on the frozen lake fwithin the frosted branches of time.j Being borne up Being drawn out-down New as morning - as in morning As dew - as flower - as winter crystal As sun - Child born - Manchild - thriving. . . . . . It is from your goodness, that l am born. BETH IRWIN Those sounds within the passing tide, and by winter solstice, your birth, Imight pass through its time, in love again . . . with icy blue skies contrasting , g .,., white frozen seas. X ' vflc'4.i f 4 " 1 D' ' p X C 22.3511 .4 Ag Kg . I X ' X 'Nr Jgspflf. NOTE: The above is a communal poem, by 'Z V "-"'7"- the Creative Writing class, each line written . -U j f, by a different person, who has not seen the ' L - previous line, or any other part of the poem, f . but only knows the title. O Cl I HAD TO CHOOSE I ioined them and hoped that in doing so I would discover if this was the action I should take. I wanted to know how they felt cmd thought about the issue. So I took up a sign and marched with them. I began to believe that they were iusti- fied in leaving school, in protesting. I read their leaflets and heard them voice their opinions on what should and should not have been done-I sided with them. So I picketed but still I could not merge with them. I was not submerged in their fervor: I could only observe. As time passed and they began to shout their slogans, I shouted too, but not from deep down as they did, only from the surface. It was more as an experiment to dis- cover what it was like, than really an emotional outburst. I voiced words but remained impassive. As time went on, the words and their repe- titions pounded into my brain and began to take hold of me. I associated them with what I be- lieved, and shouted louderg but I felt disturbedp something was amiss. I watched the reporters come, and dwelt on what it would be like to be on camera. I saw the picketers swarm around the reporter: they wanted a moment of glory. On I walked. The shouting had momentarily subsided, and I began to think. Why did they feel so strongly over this cause? Was the iniustice done to them really so great? But soon I was dragged into a sea of swarming bodies. Another reporter had arrived. I found myself in front of a camera, and many bodies pushing down on top of me. I wanted to say, "Get off me," but knew that the cameras would see me. So instead I mustered all my con- trol and held up my sign. Inside, I hated every moment of it. This was not my type of glory. Now we were to march through the streets, and the whole mile of bodies and shouts to resume as before. I remembered a peace march that I had once participated in and I wondered if this would be as peaceful. The reporters followed us, and we soon received a police escort. I was tired and hot, for two hours of picketing had already passed. My throat ached from shouting meaningless words. But those around me shouted stronger than be- fore and the concrete canyons echoed their angry voices. I was silent. I thought, "Did anger and loud voices ever bring about change: the desired change, or did it bring about havoc?" The answer did not come. We arrived at our destination and all at once, there was an uproar. My crowd had sighted another. Before I could comprehend the proceed- ings I was swept along with the rest. Those about me screamed as they ran, but I iust ran. I feared that stopping would result in my being run over by this insane crowd. My portfolio dragged heavily on me, and anger at the foolishness of the situation rose up in me. I iust wanted to stop and drop to the ground: I was tired of the entire procedure. But I kept on, I had to see what was going to happen. Everyone finally halted. I wished that this would come to an end. Police were appearing in greater numbers and barricades were being placed around us. I wondered what would happen next. Some students spoke and defined the pur- pose of this rally. I stood and stared, my mind beginning to make associations. They spoke words that I had heard many times before, and I was afraid of what I concluded, afraid of what would follow. The atmosphere calmed down and every- one milled around, sat down or smoked. I asked one of the leaders what was going to occur. He answered in ci vague tone. "We are waiting for the others." I knew that my conclusions would be cor- rect. I was confused, but I knew what I had to do. They were not to get a hold on me cis they had on others. The crowd was not going to drag me down into its depths of irrationalities. So I left. I walked on and on down into Manhattan, feeling alone and guilty of deserting the others. But soon my mind cleared. I knew that I had to do what I had thought was right, and not let mis- guided emotions of loyalty and anger govern me. I knew very well what could happen to a crowd without competent leaders. For me, leaving had been the one and only logical solution. I didn't want to be a part of this disaster. That night I heard what I was afraid to hear. I saw my thoughts and fears come to life on the very television screen that everyone had wanted to be on this past morning. The anger and hate had been spilled. They had rallied, all right, and they had generated within themselves uncontrollable rage. They had put into motion a small riot. They had destroyed what they had so greatly wanted. I had always wanted to belong, to get in- volved in a cause, but now I came to the conclu- sion that it this was the result of believing and belonging so strongly to a cause, that reason and right were discarded, I would rather walk alone for the rest of my life than be a part in such an irrational rally of destruction. LEONA SEUFERT CONQUEST Dedicated to Miss Aldan . . . As lfall into place the silent forms drift before my eyes. And the Voice of Radio whimpers as though set upon and shaken from the Roots. It moans and screams as the forms move in silence weaving a silent song that is louder and stronger than the disgusting whimpers it mercifully drowns out. The Voice of Radio dies unnoticed its miserable dying squeak covered by the beautiful silent song, A song more magnificent than a symphony. Imarvel at the Ultimate Power, at the Ultimate Song. CRAIG STARK THE SEA Clashing waves, angry skies, prominent clods of earth: A proud sight, a euphoria to any naturalist: On calm humility rolls the dawn: Pale the shore line, glistening with nature's bliss: Gifts of life - from the sea I, the beholder of such beauty. Feel the warmth of the sun. Bathed by nature's own breath Sifting through turbulent rushes. I AM the SEA. GLOR BROWN THE GREAT ETERNAL SUNBURST lrise in the morning amidst clouds of uncertainty: The air is dark and moist. Eternity has not yet awakened to the cowardly entrance of the priestly sun. lt is delinquent. lt will come with unknown grandeur. And paralyze our eyes. The orange globe sinks from oblivion And reveals its splendor to all who disbelieve. Crimson and vibrant it yields such illumination. Orange shadows cover the world In a blanket of love Without which all worlds would surely die. In the opaque prism of the universe, We forget all that is about us. We tend to take for granted that which is natural. The omnipotent Sol reaches down with hands of coral And touches our pained souls. And lights our dark future. And heals our sick and diseased. And gives hope to the poor and needy. And gladdens the sorrowful. And like a trance lt spreads over us and engulfs us in its mystery. Leaving us only as ignorant as we began. Coral and crimson and shades of topaze Gleam over the sea. Shadowy fire reflects in the mirrors of our ego. Perhaps we do not or cannot fathom such a Godly universe Where time and air and earth and grass and fire and smoke and life and death and love and war and blood and tears and fear and vengeance and hate and disgust and dignity and unworthiness and hearts and souls and passion and indifference Can all be one and the same. Can be ignored and pushed aside Like rotten fruit. Surely in this neon world of boundless and uncensored emotions We should see the futility of our blood The uselessness of our sweat! And the grime of our tears! 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' J 2 f f ' ', , , , Harvey Fierstein Allen Davis George Moy Peter Carella O THE CITY THE LETTER Dear City, Your people hover In the grayness and solitude of their homes Dominant gray Domineering gray Your streets bustle with Rainy facesg cleansed of individualism In the beauty of night and still of the morning You resound with the noises of nothing And with all you have to offer You give but nothing Your reservoir of hope Has become a draughty hole And your people who were once people Are now pebbles Being ground to nothing With all due respect to you city I regret to inform you Iwill not be engulfed in your madness I will remain a rock Sincerely, Individual ELLEN LASPALUTTO ON EITHER SIDE OF THE RAILROAD TRACKS The broken bits of beer bottles were scat- tered along the sidewalks. Their stale stench combined with the various unpleasant odors of putrid food, dirt and the decaying bodies of dead cats. The stains on the sidewalks started to bubble and boil, turning into a hardened lava. The garbage cans overflowing with the discarded articles, slowly grew grotesque, ugly, symbolic of all the trash and dirt that bred and lingered behind the locked doors with loose hinges and between the steps of the chipping paint of the fire escapes ascending higher and higher, reach- ing the roofs and then graded and blending into the sky in the dark billowy clouds that rose from the chimney. The people sat at the windows with placid expressions like hungry vultures ready for prey. Their mouths foamed and watered for the sight of a victim to become captured in the webs of their disfigured minds. Their words were pre- planned coming out in shrilled voices travelling over from alley to alley trying to be discreet but knowing how to hurt. The pack of wolves lurked about the cor- ners dressed in black shiny leather, tough to the exterior, impenetrable on the interior. The venom of evils and sins seeped in through their pores and surrounded the walls of their hearts. They lingered and attacked, but with panic in their eyes they ran, scared at the sound of a police siren. The little children inscribed various ob- scenities on the streets and marred the gutters. They played cops and robbers, shooting at each other, killing each other, fighting and knifing each other in play, so affected by life. Will they ever play happy games? A group of Rabbis walked along the streets on their way to the synagogue, dressed in their uniforms, their long bristly beards flowing along with their somber black robes. They walked ser- iously and peacefully. In the eyes of the others, they were ridiculed, labeled with the words of the preiudiced, tortured with names. A young boy throws a rotten egg from a window, cracking on one of their hats, dripping down in a syrupy gooey liquid. But they keep walking, constantly keeping a steady pace. Cross over the railroad tracks and observe. The contrast is unbelievable. The rows of tall maiestic-like apartment houses glisten in the morning sun. A landlord sweeps slowly a few specks of dust on the clean sidewalk. A young man slowly shines his car, apply- ing the last coat of liquid and searching to see his own reflection in the vinyl finish. The rows of trees begin to blossom in the early Spring air, reaching out in grandeur, and sheltering the streets from the evils so near. The school children run down the streets laughing, smiling, their cheeks flushed pink with excitement and exuberance. They pile into the vacant bus and create life inside the still vehicle, A middle-aged woman walks her dog and greets everyone, "Hello." Her French poodle is dressed in a stunning outfit, complete with booties. There is a peaceful stillness and calm in the streets. People are living humanly, not like animals hungry and desperate in low poverty con- ditions. either side of the railroad tracks. There is no barbed wire, no fence, no walls, but for the people living on the poor side, it is practically impossible to break through. There are two distinct worlds lying on GAIL DEBEL THE "B" POEMS LOVE'S BIRTH A FOOL'S PRAYER Bursting... Bacchus.. .. . . ' beyond its boundaries. god of Wine, Breathing... b U hl b bl, b b l within the being of its harbor. aptlzet IS um mg 3 8 mm your LOVE is abundant in its beneficence bacchanalian rites. and Icome before you bare faced and bland. Boundless now in its beauty. I Worse than a bumpkinq CAROLYN MC COMES Barren of frivolity, beaten, broken and barred. HBH Bathe me. . . in your bitter, blinding waters. Bury my carcass under the ruins of Babel. Barren land Buy me .,........................,.......... Ibid you. betrayed and bombed FB.ee this SOUL from inhibitions. by the bozjb b , BIRTH Anew your blazing waters bring. Brazen bulls an all arm' blithe spirits Bold, Blustering in Baritone voices, brandishing brimming with quick wit and skills. bladgg Blame me not for binding my spirit to you blazfflgbzvfflg iicivow NO OTHEH WAY oo . Blood A fool' l blackened bound to the magic troubadours' ballads caused and bubbling by your brew. benegillnt BAHBAHIC FooL, . . and battered a blundering, babbling bridges. fool' A bending Tower OfBHbe1f ALEXANDRA REYES brought down by the bravado ofthe recently banished bandit. IUDITH PFEFFER G the agony and the ecstas 3Oc1 if , W - ., ' 12 X M. f vm .- f .rw fn 7 419 ,jwf-: f ig 7 I g fy, , X 6 Z , iii! 7 '5 if nf 1 ffwfjfdf -7 ' y 4 '7 if 6 1' 4 Q? 7 f 7? 4 f' M j 1 .54 Q hi, w ' ' f ' f : gs G THE BRIDGE THE BALLAD OF THE MAN ON THE BRIDGE He stood and he watched, Never moving he stared, Down the abyss of hell His shadowed eyes glared. The wind whipped at his face, tossing his hair out behind him in a golden contrast to the starless black sky. Rain lashed his naked form as he stood, unmoving, on the obsidian bridge that spanned the gulf between life and infinity. Like a statue of gold, he faced the unknown. He held himself proud, and death was in his eyes. And he knew as he looked -The last Man of Men- He would die the real death And come never again. And all about him stretched the cold, bar- ren wastes that had once been a world known for its life. Where once had rolled the green hills of Earth, there was now nothing but heaps of charred slag and frozen waves of molten sand. All was pitted and scarred like an anguished body being eaten by leprosy. Where once -cool breezes had blown, there was only the cooling remnants of atomic fire. Where once the songs of nature had rung out in the air, there was only the emptiness of a vacuum whose atmosphere had long since departed. He stood on the bridge, afraid of him- self and alone with his tears. He who had called the death From the skyl Who had screamed like the thunder, Like the thunder he'd die. The death that had come at his sign, at his call, Killing and burning, destroying them all, Snuffing out light in a mushroom of shade, Like a portrait of Death sitting, laughing, In Hades. They had screamed and died by the thou- sands and millions. Young men holding their women and raging at their helplessness. Old men running about in the confusion of age to have their ancient skin burned from their dry-tinder bones. Mothers desperately sheltering their chil- dren and screaming in pain. Children trying to suckle again. From ashes they had come and to ashes they went, taking with them their thoughts, beliefs, and way of life. All the generations had become like the fine black dust that now covered the dead crust that remainedl That always re- mained. And he stood filled with sadness that the glory of man had died out like a fire and was covered with sand. No pains of glory, no moans of defeat, ln silence he'd die, With surrender he'd meet, The G-d who had made him The Man that he was, And he'd finally learned the G-d's name, It was love. He was the last, all the others were gone. lt had taken the end of a world to start his race over again. But this time they would start right, start with Truth and Beauty and Faith and Love. For he had learned the truth. And if he could always worship it, then the race would be re- membered. Mankind would live on. For the G-d called Love was also known as Mercy and For- giveness. And this man, while he would always remember his sin in shame, he would have a second chance, a chance to erase them. For the G-d was not hate, The idols he'd praised, He'd learned his mistake And to G-d Man was raised. He was washed of his sins, But remembered his shame, For G-d in His wisdom, Had left man His name. BILL MANTLO THE BRIDGE I awoke, seeing the soft, red-orange sky slowly diffusing before my eyes. It was dawn. The last trailer truck had passed over my yawn- ing, gray asphalt, and I knew that the city would soon awaken to greet me. I slowly stretched myself thoroughly, stretching every cable, every girder, every coil, making sure that I was completely primed and ready for the morning onslaught of the city. At the usual time, about 6:45 A.M., the first brigade of cars came in. Each morning, I said a silent prayer of thanks that there was only a bare mini- mum of cars on the road, because at 6:45 in the morning, one does not drive that well. Perhaps the fact that one is still half-asleep at this time has something to do with it. At that time there are no such things as lanes: or, for that matter, no such things as steering wheels. I could iust imagine the 8:45 group like this. When I do, I simultaneously detest the thought of having chrome-plated trash swept off of me every day. At about 7:00 A.M., my cables stretch slightly as a larger, more wide-awake group comes in. These poor devils have had at least five minutes for a cup of coffee before entering their gas-buggies. These are the alert, defensive drivers you hear so much about. They are orderly, drive at a moderate speed, and comfortable to my asphalt. But, alas, they aren't very interest- ing to talk about. There is, however, a group that is more interesting, the hardy, robust walk- ers. This band of troopers, obviously young men, get their morning exercise this way. Wait till they get in the army .... they'll get lots of exer- cise that way .... You'd be surprised how many athletes abound in the city, deeply breathing the polluted air. Now, 7:00 has become 'log-in time on my concrete. Sometimes it tickles. The ioggers and those drivers who watch out for the other guy are slowly replaced by the wild ones. The time is 8:00 A.M.g the actual onslaught is hitting its peak. Cables and coils stretched, here's an outline of what I am supporting: a multi- tude of drivers and cyclists lmanual and motor- izedj. MULTITIDE OF DRIVERS-primarily made up of forty-five year-olds who must have had ci secret desire to be iet jockeys. Their only reason for being on the road is to experiment on new ways to pass their little friends on my now compressed asphalt. MANUAL CYCLISTS-I never knew bicycles were so popular. They're the only things that soothe my concrete. But the smooth, gentle rolling of bike tires is quite unlike their relatives, the MOTORIZED CYCLES-whose iagged, burning treads feel like an avalanche of peb- bles, and glass all wrapped up in a ball of heavy-grained sandpaper. Why is it when they cross me they begin to roar and spit cracks of vio- lent ignition like cherry bombs in a trashcan? They NEVER seem to do it on any other kind of road. Why me?...why is it always me? 8:45 A.M. Before I describe my guests for this period, I must ask a question. What makes people honk their horns when they know that the only way a car ahead of them can move would be to float above the traffic on a cushion of air? My guests: NORTHBOUND TIP-those who are disgusted with themselves for being late. They figure that they're late anyway so they might as well take it easy. NEAR MIDDLE GROUP-"Hey, come on you guys, I'm late enough already." MIDDLE GROUP-"Who the hell's up there caus- ing this?" NEAR END GROUP fhorn-honkersl-spend their time doing two things: staring at their watches, and honking. SOUTHBOUND CENDJ TIP fhorn-honkersj-mutter dark oaths I don't wish to repeat. At IO:0O, I iust sag from exhaustion ,... and I ponder over the questions .... How come we can't just skip from 4:30 to 6:30 P.M., and elimi- nate the demon in between? DANIEL HASKETT C1 Aa DEBORAH AND ME At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it. I entered the vast schoolyard of Winthrop Junior High School, with eyes wide and hands trembling. I swallowed hard and stepped across the threshold into a new world of new friends and new ideas. New, strange, the building, the faces, oh, the faces, so many. I walked slowly through the faces, past the faces, between the faces, my eyes swallowing each one, checking each detail, establishing an opinion of each in my mind. I walked among the endless lines of faces, looking for my own. I saw a girl, an older girl, with makeup on her face and soft, smooth hair, holding a sign reading a few numbers and letters. I glanced down at my clumsy pocketbook and pulled outa postcard, whose corners I care- fully straightened and pressed, and then I read my class section on it. I looked once more at the markings on the girl's sign, and upon finding it identical with the one on my card, I latched onto the line, sighed a deep sigh of relief, and half- smiled nervously as I felt my face grow red. I stood quietly on the line, glancing about as casually as I could, and nibbling on my lower lip. After what seemed to be quite a while, but was probably two minutes, a bell sounded and the lines began to shuffle along slowly toward the building. I watched the alien structure en- velop the stream of figures, and my heart began to pound. I don't know what I expected to be inside, but to my surprise, it looked much like my elementary school, only larger and older. The room we entered had "grown-up" desks and a large blackboard with a name and a room and that same class section written on it. I took a seat and eyed the one next to me. It was empty, and I glanced nervously at each passing figure, wondering who would sit next to me, why they would, and why the others weren't. Finally, a climax was reached when a tall, stocky girl plopped herself down in the neighboring seat. I peered out of the corners of my eyes and saw her assembling her books and things on the desk. She looked at me openly and my eyes quickly darted downward. She smiled and said, "Hi," and I smiled weakly and murmured the same. I did look at her though and I saw before me a tallish girl with large wet, gleaming brown eyes framed with long curly eyelashes, shiny, neatly assembled hair, chestnut brown skin, and wide lips and nose. Deborah's eyes were laughingly inviting and I rather felt myself grow less conscious of my be- ing, and more involved in hers. I was no longer stiff and scared, but instead enchanted by the energetic, adventurous spirit in my new friend. Deborah took me under her wing, I, a year younger and somewhat less courageous than she. We laughed every day, every minute. School was of no matter to either of us, and it was only on report card days that we could be seen trudging home, sniffling and consoling and uttering snide remarks about this teacher or that. But those were the only tears between Deborah and me for the rest of it was laughter. I remember the time we hiked up to Woolworths and invested our last dollar in a variety of iunky makeup which we both hid until safely in the school bathroom, where we would transform ourselves into two painted dolls. It was horrible, and messy, but it was prohibited and we wore it with a proud de- fiance. Deborah and I weren't delinquents, only two carefree irresponsible kids whose person- alities merged and submerged. It wasn't too far into the term when I de- cided to invite Deborah to my house. I did, and we enioyed ourselves as usual. My parents told me that they thought Deborah was a sweet, friendly girl. Things were fine I thought, and Deborah's friendship and mine thrived. Until I made a tragic mistake: I called Deborah when her mother was home. The words, those words, burned in my ears. l'You'd better not call Deborah any more, be- cause her father's a policeman and you will be in a lot of trouble." The tears blurred my vision, the salt stung my tongue, I felt a lump growing hard in my throat. I told my parents of this phone conversa- tion I had with Deborah's mother and I watched them look at each other, nervously, knowingly. They began to explain gently about how they knew of the problems that might arise from our friendship and how it wasn't only what mattered to me or my parents. I nodded although I didn'1 understand, and later wept bitterly over my feel- ings of desperation and confusion. The next day Deborah and I talked, she telling me to call and apologize for calling on a school night and I re- fusing out of fear of a repetition of my anguish. The subiect was dropped and our friendship re- sumed to normal, except that I had special hours in which I was allowed to call, and that when Deborah came over she would tell her mother she was going to a school committee meeting. My parents sighed but in spite of it all, welcomed Deborah in our house. Once in a while, I could go to Deborah's house, when she was sure her mother wouldn't be home for a while. We en- dured, however, and these problems were in- significant to us, non-existent almost. We were known throughout the school by teachers and students alike. The former would tsk at us sadly because we never applied ourselves in our school- work, but deep inside they smiled down on us. The kids, well, they saw us as two laughing, friendly faces and thought of nothing more. A summer passed, and so did letters be- tween us, and school resumed. Deborah and I changed little, and we still were two crazy, irresponsible kids. Never home on time, she and I would stop at the old Carvel stand, covered up with stickers, and others above those indicating the age of the bottom ones by a price change. We would buy frozen brown bonnets, a tangy milky vanilla custard cone, covered and inter- mingled with a sweet sticky dark chocolate. Fro- zen, yes, and difficult to bite, and later we hoped it would melt and soften. But it didn't have to for Deborah and me, for we digested it quite well in its original state. I guess it was toward the winter, when the Carvel stand closed and the wind becomes biting, that my parents announced that they had found the house into which we were moving. Although it wasn't that far from my present neighborhood, it was a much newer, more expensive neighbor- hood with long, modern schools and neat, orderly lawns. I guess it was Deborah who faced it first when she asked me if it was an all white neighbor- hood. I swallowed my overdone gaiety and ex- citement abruptly, and nodded quietly, and Deborah nodded back quickly in recognition. Time and events went on quickly from then, my marks getting a little better, I guess hers too. The spring shot up around us, and the days until school would close became less and less. Finally, the last day came, my last day in Winthrop, in this neighborhood, and my last day with Deborah. It was a dry, sticky, sunny day, the excitement of summer bubbled within the hearts of everyone, everyone but Deborah and me. By the time we trudged quietly down the monotonous stairs, the yard was empty of scream- ing, shouting, running kids, who made it their business to get away from the stately old build- ing. Deborah and I were two small figures, heads down, casting long willowy shadows in the vacant, sticky yard, which seemed as large somehow as it did on my first day there. We passed the Carvel stand, and approached the bus stop where Deb- orah got her bus. We stood mumbling words, dumb, silly words that weren't really what we wanted to say. Only seconds passed when the bus appeared before us, sneezing loudly and opening its doors. Deborah and I smiled sheep- ishly at each other, and said, "Well, goodbye, and keep in touch", and stuff like that, when suddenly I flung my arms around the girl I had leaned on for two years, the one whose nervy courage offered me protection from the tough kids in the school, and whose adventurous spirit had become a part of me. Tears flooded her eyes and mine, and Deborah stepped on the bus, her shining eyes looking into mine, both our cheeks stained with salty tears. The bus pulled away, and Deborah waved violently, smiling and weep- ing. I stood frozen, sobbing out loud, and through my tears I saw the uncrossable bridge between her parents and mine, the one we ourselves walked cautiously to the middle of, where we exchanged packages of friendship in a fleeting minute. Hurry, hurry before the bridge parts and lets society pass between! At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it .... ELLEN PEARLSTEIN G Denis Novick Nancy Green Janet Moniot modeling Susan Pillsbury Lynette Brown Susan Lane C THE SEASONS SPRING Isaw the new green birth, fed and nourished by the sun's secretions, push through the hard, frozen, winter earth like the birth of a new child. . . Isaw them dance in the gentle wind by day and pray to their pagan Moon God in the night. . . Isaw flowers at dawn, whose colors poured across the meadow and reminded me of the stained glass window, where I. alone, was, knowing that God was angry, and the thunder lit up the church and sent the colors streaming across the floor, and lon my hands and knees, trying to pick them up . . . lsaw the dead squirrel, fthe rotten odorl, who had died on his sacred journey to the next season, lying beneath the huge, old oak tree which has stood here forever like a bent old man who walks slowly with a cane, awaiting the vision of the Angel of Death. TINA LADAS THE SALT WATER CACOON Iam emerging from my madness in the Spring of creation and l am seeing with newborn eyes the world, as tears and gladness intermingled. ln the Park, the lovers waft on sullen brown waves beneath the shell they sit in and they feel the brightness illuminated after the shedding of a saltwater cacoon. lfeel the brightness refracted from tears of winter stillness and the open air cafes along the streets of happinessi reflected in my visions. Vendors sweep the sidewalk with hot dog stands and Madison Ave. displays its latest output for the columnists talk. And lstroll with burning feet, scarcely noticing, for the salt tears are gone and Iam immersed in the brilliance of the after-death and the reborn: the awakeningg the new and lam sharing my wealth with othersg but I long to know if what they feel is the same and not scarce or few in the worldg by the Lake. lt is very beautiful to be alone, when cherry blossoms fall with over-ladened heads. lt is very nice to dream. It is very nice to be alone: and quite beautiful but not in Spring: only when cherry blossoms fall: not when souls feel unity and seek it and vagueness of my eyes discolor the unexceptional and Close out all ldo not wish to See, when there is no sight. ADELE GERAGH TY RITES OF A NATIVE SPRING Sprout, bloom, spurt, New love. Snuff out the idiots! Blades of fresh green grass stab, My dripping mind, Bursting the dam of icy water-dreams thawing. Cascades, white foam churning, cool, clear, refreshing. Dewy eyes giddy, Showers of sights. Avalanches reversed. PLUCK THE DAISY MAN. Light slipping around silhouetted trees, shadow people, Sneak, hide and go seek. A game for twinkle-toed elephants. Stab me again, Laugh at the sight of your own eyes skinned of opaque corneas, Open the lid on your glass covered head. Ears, like cabbage leaves pasted on an erupting volcano floor, Observe the scarlet flowers popping open. Why are they called tulips? CARYN WARD AUTUMN Golden red drops of autumn fall from the royal blue sky and fill my bucket with the sounds of golden coins. Moonbeams and orange sunsets give light to my world. The black cat has disappeared. from my doorstep . . . Together we eat ripe pumpkins and dance with the falling SPRINGTIME EUPHORIA The earth cracked open that year and from its depths emerged a shivering naked spring. The clouds weighed heavy on my shoulders and pushed me down into breathing emerald grass. lwalked dazedly across the world of green sponge catching and keeping stars in my mouth. The birds joined forces in the tremulous strains of an aerial opera and the branches shook. While crowds dressed in rags hid in the shadows throwing rain in my face and trying to bring me down. Calling me didn't help because I breathed only giring and heard only those that lived in my head. IUDITH PFEFFEP. AUTUMN You are born like a candle in the darkness leaves from highest tree tops. You glgw like the reflection of the sun We slay the fire dragons with our swords. You burn like the consummation of your Self We walk through brittle forests and collect the You die winter flowers that wait for us. like eternity unexplained. TINA LADAS HELENE GROSSMAN O Anthony Armato photography Alice Cardoso 400 ,oV. 2 5 Alan Weitz fr, Carol White David Lopez Sharon Newborn 5 , gfiffx N A of wif Peter Wong l Robert Fall Marc Stern Steven Feinberg l E Michelle Kay package design Af "" 1 Witrm NM, H F be F r, 'GZWW' f wmv mm Blow? 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" f 0 3 'A' more, more X-J ' 0 lf 'I 1 DRAW me rmsoanffr :I R07PlGl!5L lD O at- G go f , QQ x W X L Mmm M , vm YR RSX wg S 1 f I B ,14lilri4 , N aw ,L N : Z iwfzmf W x U ' ' I 6 i Sfephw Dov-H00 'V law 1-lf A X ,- W f fm , fyq - in N 151-5 C fl W ,V,1i T wf ' ll fri?-W 9 J f 'll R f ll H x My TIMW ' ,f I ,I Q' Ye fl , X ., "A ig if 9th Year ...THIS I WILL REMEMBER Everything had changed: I entered difficult and interesting. fl study an unknown sphere to master meth on yellow paper because what will I IYHOWI WIWGI math, like light, bears the color yellowj will I have to know: -as a child I watched my idols- fthe teenagersl now I -am one of them. The halls are dark with lost shadows. I fumble I like to feel important. I marched in my first demonstration. Or when a teacher depends on you because you have proved yourself responsible. fl am beginningl to -at attempts to form a pattern from this, as move into myselfg to new colts will try to run. I am the new colt, the tiny stream among barren boulders, trailing crispy green vegetation, however. l0th Year It is easier to laugh lout loudl. I have gotten used to being here. But my interest in art keeps me apart from ideals I had of high school-with lockers and books I carry my locker in a portfolio and myself in the mirror of time. I ith Year I am drawn into political discussions and I now can form opinions. But It is interesting. Everything is X fill the roomy void. 12th Year I have seen a great deal, yet I am convinced I am blind: blindly drawing voyage sails. -I had been a seed, expecting to blossom but only before I die, will my life form a frail word, toward THE WORD like a blue petal? This I have learned: That to believe one truly knows nothing at all is itself wisdom, beginning... I am reaching for the tallest rainbow of eternity, to sprinkle , light on the stream, myself. I7 ,W MARCI COMPTON I :VN W I M 5 fill is M435 qboghf-2 'fs D K X I X ec. sw X iv, nj GUTIEIQQCZ . X II N xi Y- li L ' , c ill I I Q X c I i ' Will I i QQ QSJXIII og I I I X I lo ll I I '15 luxuh xxxnxvx FOR BEST RESULTS USE B N B R I D G E 66The General Organization wishes to express ILLUSTRATION BOARDS H72 smooth' '80 Medium' H69 Rough best wishes and congratulations A N D DRAWING BRISTOLS tothe gfadualmg 99 Illustration Boards - Drawing Bristols class Of Mounting Boards ' Show Card Boards ' Mat Boards CHARLES T. BAlNBRIDGE'S SONS BROOKLYN, N. Y. 11205 20 CUMBERLAND STREET 43' n 0- 8 JM amos PWS QUC9!!W'lf09 msnnus ' CHAQM5 in JCSIQH CUPS craftsmanship nnauzs rnonuss and quality YOUR CLASS JEWELER DIEGES 81 CLUST Manufacturing Jewelers 199 loricho Turnpike, Floral Park, L.I., New York 11001 Bloomfield, N.l. Providence any All Polymer painting styles are Anow possible robert - SIMMONS Ear Iette ' ' Professional .1 1 Polymer muck runs A BW' H d f f Painting THIN BRIGHTS ROBERT SIMMONS Inc 510SlXthA Y k'. . . . . ' : fm! ol s more pamt 1 V J for hgavy lmpasto 5. I appllcatlons iff. Mage spa - If ha , .ju f. colo . , 5,5 ,f softn . ' ' For Glazing eff flo - ' gl Blending ' f, f I - 4 1 f ' 'gnu . W 'l", 31 Mfg' f At your favorite r s I lsrl www 3 1 9 5 " V ' g 5511. ' f - ' ' ' 'f y 5 D venue 0 New or .N Y CONGRATULATIONS T O 0 U R GRADUATES FROM THE PARENTS ASSOCIATION OF THE HIGH SCHOOL OF ART AND DESIGN 1969 ,, . 1'1F'Z'-1112 - ,Q 1 . V G 5 1 1111-all - 'J' f. 1 51231511 1,-4'-. 1 111.1 ,,- . Q U I J "'-' ' " ' 1- G" 1 1 1. 1wsf1111-f'- 1 , :En f ' '1 1 - m1f:g1'2'141: f'1 1 ' .J Qi:-.Y 1- gif 53512 , ag 1-yah 1 '23-12 " ' iff. '22 is EL 11 . V 11, " 1' Q- .1 ' "mi, - 11:11, 1 ,Q 1 ...J , 1111 11-11 1 '-Lui, ii "if 1 11 1 5 - - 'iii .ng .1 2? . "FEL 2 fi .1 , ' 453,31 - Q A 1 ,.1,,11xv . 1 ' -1" '13 '. 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Suggestions in the Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) collection:

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 81

1969, pg 81

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 92

1969, pg 92

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 105

1969, pg 105

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 9

1969, pg 9

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 14

1969, pg 14

Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY) online yearbook collection, 1969 Edition, Page 63

1969, pg 63

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