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

Page 31 text:

together again, so we turned at rest periods to an intensified company. After painting hard at a canvas, we seem to see all colors more brightly, not because the day has changed, but because we look at them differ- ently. Now we look up from our theses and our own futures, and we see our friends burnished and in shining colors. — Beatrice Holmes SHOGHER BAGHDOYAN First there was dark-eyed laughter-brimming Shogher who made of quietness an act of gracious charm, filling an unobtrusive place with friendliness and industry. To some of us after four years she was still a wild surmise . . . the books that she had read . . . her suddenly amazing beauty . . . that she would enjoy being a biologist. DOROd HY BROOKS ' There was Dolly who recalled to mind Trench studio days in the old story way, black-stockinged days and dancing in the night. About her we wove a legend, with a prince out of the white unicorns of things we did not know, and gave it a happy ending. Dolly, we said wisely, is going to be a painter.

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THERE HAVE BEEN eighteen of us together for a year. And these eighteen have made up the society which we have so immensely enjoyed, — the poorness of the jokes, and the wealth of laughter they received, the punning mornings, the morning after Jack Benny, which was also the morning after Flagstad, and just the morning after, — Ruth’s tall tale against Pete’s observing quietness and Iris’s quick, “Oh goodness,” the colorful against the solid and pastel of us; there was a world of contrasts, and there were friends for all. Some of us were jocund and some were petulant. Spring flourished at our windows and then Winter still lay heavily outside. From the fall’s beginning to the summery end of classes we can remember the beginning on each Monday morning, hope in the hearts of all of us, and the ending each late Friday when it seemed as though that little room of souls must sit upon the painty floor and weep, — until now we must leave when the days have grown thick and heavy and in the summer’s full bloom. This was the immortal panorama of our days. It seems to us now as though this year can never fade, will never merge into the general golden blur. We can look back on other years that were quite like this, — all of our days here. There are a few things that are novel, — that Sindoni doesn’t whistle any more and that Midge is going to Ber- muda and will never celebrate the Fourth of July again, — but most of them have to do with our room. There was a more than ordinary bond between us, here where we came and waited for the miracle to be per- formed upon us, and the room was always at least full of the wonder that men feel a compulsion to learn to do some little thing, and labor more than for the moment to give back a common knowledge made unprecedented by their touch. It will seem strange to leave the room where we have so lately cleared away our last party. It took so many shapes and guises until at last we hung the green burlap curtain in front of the door and placed chairs for our friends and pillowed the divan and crowded our easels around the model stand. Eighteen of us were here together for a year, in bond of fortune and the wings of men, the green curtain and the pursuing seasons. We painted through each sunny morning and on the gray days by their rainy light. And somehow we lapped into a class although we had seemed quite as un- joinable as quicksilver. There was always the awareness that one day we would separate, and once upon our private ways would hardly come

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MARJORIE COLUNS And then there was the Collins, the inestimable Collins, demanding our troubles, confronting us with our talents, announcing our inherent good intentions, — for in pure friendship we were affronted and our souls stripped bare. But we loved it. Marge. These things were strange to us, but they were more generous than anything we knew. WINIFRED COSTANZA We liked to look at Winnie, dark and rich and deep red and glowing, and greeting us with a smile, always so capable, collected and serene, — painting really seriously in class, doing outside etchings, but quick when the week-ends came to get out and away for her fun. JEAN DAY There was Jean to meet us with her home work under her arm, candor upon her lips; but under a semblance of child-like-ness a dark purpose had its way. Work blossomed in the night, and each minute was remem- bered and no trust betrayed. Through flood and snow and beckoning of spring day, Jean always met the dead- line. JOHN DOROZYNSKI There was big, blond, agreeable, easy Dorozynski from the apartment of so many fabulous tales, critique of the funny radio programs, wielding a powerful com- pressed charcoal. He was one of a company which has often maddened us, with sudden bursts of conversation and a fund of jokes to raise the hair of any but the whiffle-headed.