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

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your head,” or in stentorian tones, “What was I saying before I so rudely interrupted myself?” But if those brave souls who invade the sanctum sanctorum need the courage of Theseus or the magic word of Gawaine the dragon slayer, there is recompense. Years of experience, vast stores of knowledge, — these the initiate of the spotlight, the laven- der gauze, and the rich brocades may take for themselves as largess. There are little tips about using one’s imagination intelligently, nuances of color in musical terms, and looking for beauty of shapes and values. We learn that the work must be “professional,” for “a good painting is finished from the start,” and as, with “fasting and prayer,” each student works beyond his power to excel the beauty and the brilliance, he knows that it must be “amusing.” Days, weeks, months, later, a seemingly offside remark becomes a thing of substance, something to build on as we perceive the meaning. “Go to it, Sal, I’ll hold your bonnet,” or “Whoop it up! Whoop it up!” startles us out of our lethargy. Then,“make it, make the shapes.” And again, as though inspired, “Why do you suppose an oasis is so beautiful? Isn’t it because it is surrounded by a desert?” Or else a touch on the arm and he says, “Step back here . . . .” Motioning toward your drawing, “Did you ever see such a gorgeous thing, so transcendentally beautiful? In the nature, I mean.” We’ve all been told that “you can’t get something for nothing,” and that “no man can serve two masters.” These and a hundred others mean “Notre VIeux” to us. FLORENCE WHITMORE

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NOTRE VIEUX n the dim light of late afternoon, the warm glow from Beth Israel vies with a brilliant spotlight and, as if in defiance, a familiar chant fills the room: Rise, shine, give God his glory, glory.” Thus begins the awakening of the mentally dormant, as the grand old man transforms somnolence into alertness with a variety of inimitable gestures and bombastic explosions. Mercilessly our transgressions are unveiled before all. The shy and retiring, as well as the fearless, learn to weather the tempest of disapproval, the shock of unexpected approbation, or a silence as ominous as it is gratifying. A man-to-man talk invites clarity at times, more often quandary, but not without humor, for the room fills with laughter as words twist glibly to meet each personal situation, and the arts are explained by correlation. Here Gilbert and Sullivan may find appreciation in company with Charlie McCarthy and the Marx Brothers. Or in a different mood, for Notre Vieux” is at all times attuned to the mood of his class, there is the moment for poetry: ’Twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam: Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies.” A period of meditation broken by, Turn a cartwheel and stand on

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YEMA Hadar was miserable. You would have been miserable, too, if you had been in Hadar’s place. True, it was cool in the shade of the huge date palm, but Hadar was hot inside — hot and bitter as the coffee bean in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a woeful sigh. Yema was only a mule, so he could not understand. The cool shade of the date palm filled his mulish heart with happiness, happiness as sweet as the tender grass blade in his mouth, which he shifted to make room for a sigh, a blissful sigh. And though it’s very sad to relate, Yema was the cause of Hadar’s misery. With the setting of the sun behind the mountain of Irak would come exciting preparations for the journey of the morrow. The Ameer Mundhir ibn Mundhir had decreed a festival at Hijaz, and everyone was going. That is, everyone but Hadar. Hadar had no horse. He had only Yema. Only by hard and fast riding on their beautiful Arabian steeds could the tribe of Nabajoth, to which Hadar belonged, hope to make Hijaz for the festival. Hadar sighed again and bit viciously on his coffee bean. A wonderful thing happened. A very marvelous, superextraordi- nary thing. You won’t believe it! Right before Hadar’s very eyes ap- peared a strange little brown man, who salaamed gracefully until his turban toppled. “Who are you?’’ asked Hadar, in a quivery, quakery voice. “I am the jinni of the coffee bean,” answered the little brown man. What is your wish, my master?”