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

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press, the first press used in Colonial America. The attendant graciously answered my many questions, operating the press and explaining the differences in hand-operated and modern press methods. Here also were early American and modern newspapers. I was a little startled to learn that such a familiar paper as our own Boston Traveler has been in existence for more than a century. I blinked at musty yellow pages and smiled a little wryly at electrifying war lines, screeching predictions of disaster half way down the page. As I read various new items, captivated by their “antiquity,” I began to under- stand how these very papers had contributed to the molding of human thought and the recording of man’s achievements for over a century. The power of the printed word! Looking about, I was enveloped and overwhelmed by print. Repre- sentatives of Advertising, Printing and Publishing beckoned to me, cry- ing out for further inquiry and study. I became aware of color processes and the many types of engraving. I was conscious of myriad type faces and awed by the effects produced by metallic inks and coated papers. There were a million questions on my lips, but I had learned that artist” means designer and typographer as well as painter and illus- trator, and that the field of advertising and printing offers a stimulating challenge, demands the best in craftsmanship and beauty, in ver- satility and creative talents, as well as an understanding of the prac- tical side of selling and an appreciation of the mechanical limitations of reproduction. ANN CHIAVARO

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500th ANNIVERSARY OF PRINTING As I crossed the lobby of the Hotel Stotler and made my way up the stairs, Mr. Palmstrom’s compelling words still echoed in my ears: This is a really great event; none of you can afford to miss it.” He was referring to the exhibit occasioned by the five hundredth anniversary of Gutenberg’s development of movable types, and as I followed the arrows which led me to the Georgian Room, I felt a tremor of anticipation. I strode through the entrance and headed for the far wall, for there is something contrary in my nature which makes me want to look at exhibits backwards — just as some people must peek at the last page of a book before they can proceed to enjoy the story. But I hadn’t reckoned with that most celebrated of printed books, the “Gutenberg Bible.” A rare replica, it rested on a small table and compelled every passerby with all the authority and effectiveness of a red light to stop and look. This first important printed book resulted only after Gutenberg had spent almost twenty years in patiently making improvements on early experiments with movable type. What sat isfaction in seeing his invention spread throughout a hun- gry, awakened Europe — setting powerful new forces in motion! Be- cause of his genius we have books, newspapers, and magazines; we are educated, inspired, and entertained. With a lingering, almost reverent look, I left the Gutenberg Bible” and found myself standing before a model of the Stephen Daye

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SNOWFLAKES’ DIRGE They sifted noiselessly against my pane, These flakes of alabaster, frozen rain; And I refused admission, knowing what They did not know — within, ’twas death they sought. For I could offer nothing more than this: Disintegration following the kiss That I’d bestow upon one fragile drift. Then weep to find there nothing left But wetness — cool, sweet-tasting, tiny sips Of frozen nectar, chilled upon my lips. So go! Away! Don’t beg for what is sure To be your end. The air outside is pure And cold, but here within is stifling heat. Oh, that your world were mine! My senses beat! Oh, to exchange this suffocating jail Of human flesh, this overhanging veil Of heavy matter in a burdened mind For your aerial sphere, your weightless kind Of form that is not yet a form, but mere Momentous image; or perhaps a tear From God for any of our many shames; Maybe His silent epitaph to names Of heroes gone unsung. And still you press Your faces on my window, hopeful lest I weaken and admit you; but in firm Refusal, standing still, I watch you, spurned. Glide down in quiet sorrow, still with muted sound. To rest within the snowflakes’ burying-ground. MIRIAM KRASOW