Arts High School - Vignette Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

Page 29 text:

ip. Soloists Recital At last the finale of our high school symphony is about to be played. The clos- ing theme, ‘““The Graduation March”’ is about to begin. Look! Dr. Seamster lifts the baton, and the final strains of our high school career become reality. It is trium- phant and sad at the same time. Yes, we the Soloists of June 1948 have learned much about ourselves and each other since we came to this unusual school four years ago. It’s a funny place, Arts High. The people are all individuals (maybe that’s why the teachers have quite a bit of trouble curbing our—shall we say —high spirits?). We really appreciated our allotted shares of learning about Maximilian in Mexico, how to put on a flat wash, and how to pacify study hall teachers. It seems so long ago, and yet not long at all, since fifty-four potential mu- sicians and artists met in Miss Brown’s and Miss Johnston’s home rooms. The year after that things began to pop music- ally. Mr. D’Amico came to us, and from then on we had Our Own Dynamo con- structing a band, glee club, and inspiring so many of us. Our musicians include Jack Ventura, our little drummer man who has enough rhythmic energy to sup- ply a couple of atom bombs, Golda Mess, our blonde Beethoven fiend, “the Trim- pin,” Jack, whose interests include music, skiing, and fashion design—oh, and girls. There’s Frances Yeldell, Ruth Tinney, Al Licht (who drew a portrait of his tenor sax). Vivian Martin (alto sax), Frank (Chick) Ippolito (trumpet). And there were the choir days, ah—how they loved to get excused from class. Everything we do will be influenced by our high school days. All our memories are tied up, in a four-year montage of smells and pieces of knowledge and good laughs we had and faces and snatches of music. John Currey always will make us think of incidents in art class, when he was scolded by Miss Brown, and replied, ‘Miss Brown, please—” “John, leave the room,” she said. “Miss Brown, please—” while we laughed and laughed. There’s Colleen Cole, our glamorous cheerlead- er; and Johnny Marolakos, whose giggle has been imitated by everyone in the gang. Della Williams, one of our class leaders, who has few inches in height but more personality to the inch—Berta Immer- man, our striking black-haired friend; Donald Smith, the tall and quiet fellow; charming Rivoli Roth, a Boston import; George Wilson, whose opinions on world affairs we all value; Jean Ciccone, viva- cious and intelligent; Elaine Roth, so generous with her time and always run- ning around doing something for some- body; little Angie Paolucci, a true Arts patriot—Margie Hood, the “new look;” June Owen from Hillside, our class fi- nancier; Richard Kruschka, class politi- cian, who came to us a short while ago; Florence Campanella and Helen Cam- panile, the permanent twosome (Doodles and Scribbles) ; Norman Locker, who’s just learning to play bass; we call him— by his own request — ‘Monk.” Jack France, true to the Gray and G reen; Wil- liam Thomas, with the pizzicato laugh: Gianetta Manfredi, our medical-minded Artist; Pat Moon—ain’t she purty? 25

Page 28 text:

DELLA WILLIAMS, 18 Coes Place Della, small and cute, has a personality twice her size. She is ambitious and always on the job. She’s noted for her unique hair styles and beautiful clothes. When we read Della’s future qwe see a career in dressmaking. Her favorite record is “Al- ways”. Class Vice-President, Student Council, Red Cross, Art Club, Vignette, Library Guild. GEORGE WILSON, 33 Burnet Street George is the politician of our class who commands respect with his conversation and public speaking. He is an art student, with a mind for philosophy, a subject he intends to study after graduation. George enjoys all classical music. Student Council. ae JULES ZEMEL, 137A Rose Street gang herk ; Jules is that happy-go-lucky fellow utth a sense of humor that ss Pe cannot be held down. His humor and wit have provided many a chuckle for his classmates. Jules is also a fine student. His favorite song is “Let The Rest Of The World Go By’. FRANCES YELDELL, 92 Bruce Street Frances’s friendliness and helpfulness is as much a part of her as her pleasant smile. She is usually found applying the latest fashions in Miss Johnston’s class. She plans to make dressmaking her career and judging from her record she’s sure to be successful. Scope, Choir, Garden Club, Red Cross, Spanish Club.

Page 30 text:

Gis Soloists Recital Well, gee, it just boils down, we really don’t want to leave,—so please don’t make us! Sincerely, we leave, besides our tattered Muzzeys, our wishes that what- ever Arts High does, it will continue to be good. It’s a school with a strong in- fluence on people, you know? We'll think of it always, as a rather unique place; our funny companions, the pals we made on the faculty, the music that we connect with it, all the wild, exciting music that fits in with our reminiscences. Funny how we appreciated every minute of it, the jam sessions, the crabbing and cutting and kidding—Mr. Landolphi, not the lunchroom—no, no, not that! Tl never do it again! Nice homeroom, Mr. Faber, hmmm! here’s yours... Be-bop, and romances, and how we cried at all the graduations but we’ll cry most at our own. Please—take back the diploma, Miss Hamilton! The music wil! fade, and not long after the last chords of that Graduation March are over, we will be heading on the separate paths away from high school. Where will we all be ten years from now? I wonder. Carl Berkowitz, perhaps with gray hair, jo- p iy, vial and large as ever, Dolores Rebar, maybe a mama—say, Rebop, will you send the kids to Arts? Why, Dolores! And there’s Emil Serio, with a distin- guished mustache, and Bunny Belfer— say Bunny, remember me? I went to high school with you. Mack Johnson, a big businessman—and Walter Kerner, a fa- mous commercial artist. Relax—I really don’t know. I was just dreaming. Gee, if we only knew. Gloria Marsh, our famous horsewo- man, oh, just another alumna of Arts, we'll be saying. It’s fun reminiscing about the future days besides the old days, but it’s all guesswork anyway. Well—I guess it’s really all over. Four years of the greatest times anyone ever had in school. Oh, Arts High, we sing to you! We sure do! Long may you wave. Now we take a leaping dive out into the cold, cruel world. Let’s hope we don’t land on our heads. They’re still tender from four years’ growth. But we’re ripe now, even well-done, so—here goes! MAS) ANGs: ON 7