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

Page 11 text:

Have you ever lain awake on a late February night when a thaw has come suddenly? There is a promise of rain. Outside, the leaf-mold is deep, and damp to its very core, and in the shells of foot prints pressed into the mud, the leaves are black and oily. Everything sweats. Tipped against the street light, tree branches raise a mesh, rosy where the buds hide dormant. The world around is a sponge saturated to its limit. It oozes, it bubbles. The soft crackle of expanding, bursting moisture breathes in at your window. Down below, the street is a broken mirror dropped beside the salt marsh. Behind its fence the meadow lies waiting in the night. Then a car rackets along from town, over the brow of the hill and past the dark blot of the sea and the land. As that car shatters the peace of the meadow, so concern shatters the eternal waiting within, rattling brash and noisy down your mind. Like that car, it is as soon and as simply gone. You are tied to the world inescapably, but just at this moment time is noth- ing. There are no train tickets, collected each day, chopped four times and stuck in the back of the next seat, visible reminder that another day of your last year is gone. No more two-day packs of cigarettes that refuse to stretch to a week and make bearable life on the allowance plan. No, no time. Instead the dateless memories that are a habit in your life come back — they seem to have had no beginning and should have no end. You think of the secrets told to seven or eight individually, you laugh at how the elements of the class dispose themselves on any subject, you squirm at the balance between work done and undone. Then you remember the warm black glue of etching ink and the unholy smell of egg-oil-emulsion tempera, the acid stains, ink smears, and stiffened dungarees. The mess of it followed by the blessed cleanness should never end. Tonight they won ' t, so you roll over and sleep. LYDIA MONGAN President Vice-President Secretary Treasurer Margaret Oberti Sally Brine Helen Hatzilambrou Eleanor O ' Shea

Page 13 text:

Banded together by a brace of easels, the D.P. ' s brandish their palette knives (apologies to Irving) with erring skill, sometimes brought to rein only by Mr. Philbrick ' s quizzical expression or well-chosen quip. They sit and stand pale but strong, shadowed behind the bizarresque of their own canvasses. If painting has a double entendre, they achieve it, tor conversation pieces and color effect are running mates, perhaps to the sacrifice of the latter after a week end. They help each other, like each other and shout each other down . . . ' til at an impasse. They are a class of sorts. As ' to the future, no overstatement — anything can happen! Nancy Noyes