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

Page 23 text:

junior class President Vice-President Secretary Treasurer In three years, reluctantly, we are facing the gray ghost of our own pent-up knowledge, the self-criticism that has come in the eleventh hour. The time that seemed so long is running out, and uncovered in its passage a balance between what we did and what we had hoped to do. Not that we are frightened by it, or too greatly alarmed. It comes, rather, as a blow to our pride, to what little confidence we had, as the recognition of a weak line, a borrowed idea, or a hasty judgment. We had been seeing our work only through the eyes of others, feeling that it could not bear our own analysis. Rejection and acceptance were swift, impression transient. Now, the missing overtones and subtleties are rising, and the opinions we re- served for others are turning inward. We are coming at last to know ourselves. We have another year: the time has come to put a clear eye to the canvas and a firm hand to the brush. Our own arts, ideas, and judgments are truer to us than any we can distill out of the past or present. The kindest critic we will know is at our shoulder — but he recognizes only the best. Dorothy Weafer George Lane Thomas Donlon Jean Wells Nancy Peering

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Time — weird and intangible, yet ever present, before whom the world pays hom- age on its tired knee; trying to grasp, in desperation, the hem of its garment and thus stay the hurrying hours. If it could but pause awhile for us to breathe — yet always we are rebuffed and we pick our- selves out of our corner only to discover its pace has increased. Time — yesterday we began, we sophis- ticated sophomores. Yet yesterday is eons ago and between then and now are left the vaguest recollections of a night ' s dream. A dream of things all huddled together in enormous space, yet the space, still lim- ited; the hushed warnings from the seats of the wise; smoothly bouncing subway cars in and out on endless tracks that stretch forever into the empty ether; blurred faces seen once, seen time and time again, lost in the maze of a Dali world; the escaping steam of New Haven trains somehow sounding like the kiss of a new brush on canvas; falling leaves coating the pavement with ice, and with all — the taste of midnight coffee; the front humer- uses with and without side Deltoids joining the Latissimus Dorsi at the external angular process; Kupfie ' s cadmium spreading over the brownstone Summer House for a Family of Four whose three foot overhang never does vanish at the horizon line and through- out the whole — the advancing and re- treating face of Blake ' s Tiger. Tearing the last vestige of fog from our eyes we discover time. Time — weird intangible and everpresent has increased his pace and even the junior cannot grasp his hand or halt his progress — time. Natalie Gallagher Sophomore III