Massachusetts College of Art and Design - Palette and Pen Yearbook (Boston, MA)

Page 16 text:

and cellophane-covered hams. Behind the dusty windows, moldy, canvas covered cheeses sweat in the mid-day sun,- golden cans and amber bottles hold olive oil; macaroni, scalloped, crinkled, and diced, is displayed beside dried gray devil Fish whose curled tentacles re- semble a petrified octopus. The meat shops exhibit the furry carcasses of rabbits suspended from barrel tops,- bloody beef hangs above my head; I dodge frankfurters, arranged in garlands over the doors,- I must step aside to avoid the dripping fish trays filled with raw oysters, starfish, snails and flounders. Farther down the street, fruit carts crowd against the curb. The shops, overcrowding onto the sidewalks, make walking practically impossible. In the throng, people stare at me, women in the tenements draw back the curtains to watch me, a stranger in a scene where every face is familiar and everyone is known. If, after school is out, I pause to stare at men succulently swallowing raw oysters at the fish stands, sly knaves approach me for pennies. They trail behind me as I move down the street offering their services as guides, chanting “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” or ex- plaining the intricacies of colonial life in the best manner of the Greyhound bus-driver. If I pause too long, I am besieged by fishermen, bootblacks, newsboys and curious youngsters. It is then, as an escape from the swarming streets and the monotomy of red brick walls, that I often seek the solace of old Copps Hill Burying Ground. Here, high above the water- front, I may catch a vista of earth and sky and sea; a few blades of grass which man has not dared smother with pavement. Here among the shadows of the tumbling tombstones, I con- template my task of bringing beauty, vision, appreciation to these people. Suddenly I realize that beauty is already here; it is vision I must bring. But as I sit alone on the stone bench, twilight descends and my dreams end. The stillness of th e graveyard is broken. A W. P. A. man prowls in the tool shed behind me,- the elevated roars past, children home from school rollerskate down the historic hill toward the old North Church. My day in the North End is almost spent and soon I make my way back through the lamp-lighted streets to Haymarket Square to leave until another day the raucous glory of Little Italy in the historic North End.

Page 18 text:

Can king or wise-man harbor such a gladness As the poor artist scratching stone on stone? Lo I find beauty in a twisted pattern. And I imn the light that is so swiftly Flown. O joy of earth, forest and mead and city! Behold, I find what angels ache to see. Beyond all things, to put the chalk to paper Seems wondrous rich and power enough for me.