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

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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

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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

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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 '