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

Page 80 text:

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

Page 79 text:

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.

Page 81 text:

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