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

Page 16 text:

PETER BELITSOS With a Byzantine palette and an eye for the children’s illustration market, the fruits of his labors were as honest as boiled potatoes. Pete’s ledger-like efficiency was belied by the roguish gleam above his dashing moustache and his impetu- ous vocalizing. MURIEL BERNIER We recall with amusement how we stole glances across the aisle into Muriel’s pew, trying to fathom the intangible serenity of our blond Beatrix. But the Pre-Raphaelite heroine emerged in an Impression- ist light and smiled radiantly over charming portraits at our most boisterous humor. CLIFFORD GEARY Behind tobacco clouds sat, or pref- erably lay, the Trapper. With the philosophy of another day. Cliff wove into a mellow design for living cosmopolitan yarns, ditties and dances, but the main threads of his interest run with the homespun illustrators, having withstood all en- tanglements with glamor boys. LORRAINE GRAHAM After mornings of unobtrusively stroking daubs of muted colored paint, Lorraine could often be found alone with the afternoon shadows of our easels. Dark and cherub faced, we knew that our mild- mannered individualist sympathet- ically divined the personalities of the rest of us in our paintings.

Page 15 text:

Illlllllll Harold was somewhat of a “chiceur,” and most of us were on the “right track.” The varieties of thesis work added to the space between easels, but the rest of the school was not altogether wrong in typing the Senior D.P.’s. We were by nature as heterogeneous a company as Bottom’s, but we found it perfectly natural to share interests in the Deacon’s corner. There were art exhibits, plays, radio programs, and a dozen other common bonds to start with; Hutchy’s skiing casualty and Lorraine’s rowing in from Winthrop became matters of common concern; and when our tricolored feminine entourage caught some of the enthusiasm of the hockey play-offs, our unity was complete. From Mr. O’Donnell’s urbane witticisms or Mr. Major’s eruptions we would return to the room we felt was our own. In the afternoon light, the after-images of our classmates stood before their easels, and we saw beneath the surface of the paint. Underclassmen poured in to pass judgment. Blind to the personalities lingering only for us, they could not realize that Cliff’s “were better than they looked,” or that Phil “knew what he wanted.” Stealing a momentary respite from our theses, we ponder the problems of the professional field which seem all-important and yet somewhat remote. More than ever we prize each moment because it seems that we shall never again thrill to the experience of living in such a close-knit community, sharing labors and dreams as readily as paint, rags and lunches. —EDWARD MALSBERG

Page 17 text:

AARNE HANNINEN Gentle and retiring, Aarne looked no more energetic than the rest of us in the Deacon’s corner, but we were constantly chagrined at the fury with which our blond dynamo painted on gargantuan canvases with Geranium and Blossom Yellow, and the vast number of landscape sketches. MARGARET HUTCHINSON Our amiably freckled carrot top grew up before us but still took her cue to register coy indignation at our bantering. Charmingly saucy, her paintings, too, teased us, like a violinist tuning up. PHILIP KREVORUCK P. Craige O’Rourke, of the keen mind, determined lip, and McClel- land Barclay forearm, scrubbed undertones on his canvas, sang tuneless improvisations on the gas house” melodies, lashed our short- comings with a quip, and soothed everything by laughing at himself. EDWARD MALSBERG Emerging from Poe-like phantasms, reconditioned by radio gag writers, our Roman-nosed Pagliacci arrived early to plant his shovel in every pile, sweep a few brush strokes over home-made canvas, and fight for justice. Ludicrous, vituperative, lovable, — Shadow was a legend in his own day.