THE IVY ISSUE XXII | PHS
THE IVY
ISSUE N . 22 O
The Ivy began in the 1960s. Its serialization began in 2014.
Editors’ Letter Dear Reader, Welcome to Issue 22! At this point in the year, we are knee-deep in quarantine and life can feel monotonous. The days blend together and we are confronted with a familiar but distant feeling: boredom. We often don’t allow ourselves this feeling in the hectic buzz of High School routine. So, let this be a time where we can face that boredom and accept that it is essential to our mental well-beings and creative freedom (Isaac Newton published his most important works on calculus under quarantine during the Bubonic plague!). The images and literature pieces will take you places you’ve never been; hopefully, our staff-selected artwork and literature will inspire a creative boredom in you and allow you a break from notifications. Despite set-backs, our staff has overcome many obstacles and, as editors, we are very proud of their hard work. Finally, thank you to the many people who read our magazine, you give us purpose! We hope you enjoy this issue as much as we do and that you continue to stay safe and channel your creative boredom. Sincerely, Andre and Alice
4 | PHS
Table of Contents UNTITLED...................................................................................... 6,7 Emily Smirkanich
A BOOKSTORE IN CUBA...........................................................7 Anonymous
UP THE OAK WITH YOU............................................................8 Samuel Tabeart
UNTITLED...........................................................................................9 Leila Rose
VIEW OF LAKE BOHINJ FROM KOMNA..................10,11 Mark Mastnak
GOOD OLD DAYS........................................................................12 Junkai Gong
MY DREAM.......................................................................................13 Emily Qian
THE SMALLNESS OF BEARS..................................................14 Charlotte Gilmore
SUNDAY MORNING.....................................................................15 Julie Benetar
UNTITLED.....................................................................................16,17 Han Li
STILL SHE PLAYS.....................................................................16,17 Heidi Gubster
ISLANDIC SHEEP.....................................................................18,19 Ellie Henry
MOTHER.......................................................................................18,19 Via Niraforos
INSOMNIA........................................................................................20 Henry DeCheser
UNTITLED.........................................................................................21 Thomas Nowak
THE STUDY OF NIGHT.............................................................22 Lindsay Hirschman
UNTITLED........................................................................................23 Jordy Paredes
THOUGHT CRUNCH.......................................................... 24-27 Audrey You
UNDERDEVELOPED..................................................................25 Flossie Zhang
ANATOMY..................................................................................28,29 Cody Lederman
CHEMISTRY OF ASSIMILIATION..................................28,29 Brooke Xie
TEST DAY JITTERS......................................................................30 Calum Binnie
BIG........................................................................................................31 Jonathan Blazeman
THE THOUGHT OF PERSEVERANCE........................32,33 Andrew Zhao
SUNSET AT PARADISE.......................................................34,35 Lawrence Chen
TITLE PAGE: MAGIC MONKEY by Anonymous, photography COVER PAGE: MAUVE RIVER by Nina Bergman, photography
XXII | 5
I T N
, D E TL
U
6 | PHS
ich n a erk aphy m S ily otogr m E ph
A BOOKSTORE IN CUBA,
Anonymous
A run-down villa the rain has stopped Havana unveils herself damp railings, planks, columns an unfinished project lay untreated, unvarnished from the smashed window one can see the endless piles of paper knowledge Inside, the shadows of an old and broken system disappear through the doorway lies a mountain a brave climber takes on this mighty feat in doing so, he retrieves a paper relic, one stuck right beneath the summit for years past this adventurer, very determined and mad, knows the descent well and doesn’t falter he is followed by the dogs he brought home, like the people the country forgot who, at the bottom, await his words Once another title is sold, the man grabs a humored one, maybe a little less stern than an outlawed book I thank him profusely, so does the group This archivist of all human stories, who has survived the wrath of the absolute tyrant, harvesting and illegally selling knowledge since he was young, a man with nothing else but books and dogs, bestowed this generous gift to me I’ll never forget what it means. XVII | 7 XXII || 77 XVII
UP THE OAK WITH YOU, Samuel Tabeart I. As the last autumnal chirp of the south-bound sparrow sounds out, So does my aching breast for times of joy, beauty, blemished indulgence, As if to say to the world, “What manner of you has it so poorly laid out for me?” That bird alone, with shutter of limbs fastidious, so to journey on, flies. And my fervent heart wallows, poorly and squalid, with days of fancy pale on the mind. The nest where it once lived, gone to the winds and sands of ere, A shattered mess on the paved-over streets, fossilized in a cold place, With none to hear it chirp, nor a chirp to be heard. II. The sparrow, in its shimmies and dips, has nothing for me. The sparrow flies as it will, making amends with none and ties to none; The sparrow lives ceaselessly, not I. Jouissance a grounded illusion, playing across kindle twigs, though not those of the sparrow’s nest. Nothing for me, nor anyone, happy as a sparrow; Loft corporeal, lift dimensional, scintillate and free. Mockery of worldliness, I, a fallen leaf of nature’s branch; Sparrow free and scintillate, oak extending to the skies. III. Come to me now, mourning dove Lay home in my sill, cracked, Chiseled by wind and rain. Paint peels, though under your nest, Sprawling quiet, beneath my window, Permeating temperature, it finds shelter. In years to come, the house shall wither, Paint fades, you know. You’ll be long gone, by then, I, too, up the oak with you. My sill lives on, under your nest, The paint not cracked, nor Chiseled.
8 | PHS
UNTITLED, Leila Rose
ink printing XXII | 9
VIEW O F LA
KE BO HINJ FROM K OMNA,
Martin Mastnak photography
10 | PHS
XXII | 11
GOOD OLD DAYS, Junkai Gong
Now that I have become a teenager and have settled in the US, my childhood in China seems to be left behind as I walk into a new chapter of my life. But whenever I am feeling down or having a bad day, I always look back at those old days, full of joy and happiness. Each event spoke with a delightful tongue, brightening up my entire day. There was the smooth, cool feeling of waves brushing my feet on a hot and humid summer day at the beach. There was the amazement I felt when I first saw the bright red sun rise from where the ocean and the sky collided, creating a purple world. There was the salty sea breeze I woke up to every morning. The breeze with the scent of seaweed and sand follows me from sunrise to sunset. There was the chilling sensation of licking a cherry-flavored popsicle. The sweet and sour flavors mixed and exploded in my mouth.
Even after a day had passed, the flavor was still staining my tongue. There was the adrenaline that surged through me whenever I played soccer barefoot in the sand with my friends. Arguments occasionally broke out, but the day always ended with laughter and the scheduling of the next game. There was the savory scent of dumplings wafting from the kitchen the evening of each Chinese holiday. There was the joy of playing video games with my friends. Debates about who was the best player transpired every time, but even with all the trash talking and cursing, all of us were filled with happiness at the end. There was a lively atmosphere throughout the Spring Festival. Fireworks exploded in the background while the whole family ate around a table and reflected on the past year.
Those memories are like what they say, “good old days,” for me.
12 | PHS
colored pencil
MY
D
E
R
an Qi
, AM
Em il y
XXII | 13
The Smallness of bears, Charlotte Gilmore I try to write poetry about smaller things, about spinning in the living room with wild hair, loud music and cookies on snow days, the happiness in shared indignation as we watch the year slip from between our fingers. And there I go again. I can’t enjoy a moment without categorizing it as some sort of Tragedy, Realization, or Epiphany. And this is simply not the sort of love you write poetry about there are no gentle touches, no soft glances and there are no terrible storms, no tears, no worlds ending without you. But I think that is the preciousness of it. We balance between extremes, on a speck of dust that catches the light sometimes when we are sitting in a coffee shop and laughing, and we tell each other to Zoom Out. I look down, and there we are, in the light, horizontally fading. I hold these moments even as they speed away; collect specks of dust until they pile or drift into night-settled, music-quieted, rain-thudding fears of isolation; and I try, at least, to write poetry about smaller things.
14 | PHS
photography XXII | 15
tar
NING, Julie Bena
SUNDAY MOR
still she plays, Heidi Gubser Putting away my piano music, I stumble across a book of pieces Belonging to my sister I flip to a random page, wondering What this one sounds like I play the first few notes Silver-colored and soft And then I remember It is the piece my sister used to play For hours, no end Because she loved the way it sounded Christmas nights, The notes would serenade us Lights sparkled bright And we listened She played it at family meals In our grandparents’ house The smiles on our faces always grew. Protected, I knew we would feel The fireplace crackled Our fingers traced raindrops, Racing each other down windows. But her fingers found their way To the piano
16 | PHS
UNTITLED, Han Li
photography
I play through the piece My own fingers fall On the wrong notes I pause at each page turn But I remember our little Christmas tree The family dinners The fireplace and the raindrops My sister still plays the piece sometimes Brokenly, from memory Always differently because she forgets How it really was I watch her eyes close And her body sway gently, A wind chime in the breeze The breeze might turn Into a malicious howling wind But still she plays Our tears might sparkle Instead of tree lights But still, she plays
XXII | 17
mother, Via Niforatos
lie down & watch the earth exhale in a one-colored calmtaste the virgin moonlight & the smoke rising from that chamomile field to the left. i trace the cobalt clouds with my fingertips dig my nails into the earth cleanse myself in soil and breathe in the sunrise. trace my thighs on green light & dandelion wineclose your eyes & touch the sky above you- map the stars by how they feel to the handfeel the sun rising, know the name of the moon on the day you died smell your immortality in the sage & asphodel around you. the green colored wind sounds in the grass as it sways, seeking the earthborn prophets & pastures of the calm cold cliffside land.
18 | PHS
remember the ground growing around your feet & the grass you lie your little life on. know that earth will become earth once more. spend days memorizing the mauve mud & flowers & wine. make life an ode to the earth from where i rose & the earth where i will rest. kiss the rain- be still be simple be grounded & be still lie on the cliffs & lilacs sending the seething wildflowers & willows home. let us come back from empty decades gaea cannot reign in hills to imprint on your spine: listen to the land lay your flesh into the earth listen to the dirt root your body in meadows cling your soul to the grass & green colored wind- drowning the drowsy whispers & wonders of the calm, cold cliffside land. earth becomes earthdrink in the equinox linger in the sky bury your heels in the ground glide through the cycles of this earth & the briefness of forever
ICELANDIC SHEEP, Ellie Henry photography
XXII XVII | |19 19
ink printing
20 24 || PHS PHS
INSOMNIA, Henry DeCheser
UNTITLED, Thomas Nowak
Those sleepless nights An inescapable light Even behind that sleeping mask Sirens chirping like the morning birds from home Though the city is now my home But I sleep in it as if it’s a hotel room Knowing I will leave From this indefinite stay The furniture and pictures on the walls Do not hide its bright lights Or sounds from stories below
XXII XVII || 21 25
THE STUDY OF NIGHT, Lindsay Hirschman An observer, I am, of the night and its clouds Catching my eye in moments profound Earnest feelings evoke memories in a shroud because time itself might’ve stopped or unwound The planes and clouds whiz in synchronized speeds Blinking bright speckles above a skyline of trees shaking in the wind, seperating life from dreams It creates a new optic—sublime and serene An observer, I am, of the moon and its stars Find a glimmer of hope in my residual heart Neighbors’ yellow lights are nothing beyond compare with nature’s brightest mirror: the moon and its glare The looking glass welcomes the moon from afar Casting light upon myself, a shadow in the dark The window of perspective now merges between nostalgia, the present, and what will come to be Cooking and chopping and the muffles of T.V. This unpause in time alludes to reality But the distraction is not one of despare A mere accompany to this night, euphoric with flare The window of perspective allows me to see felicity and hope in unknowing times of need So I gaze out my window, inside of my home where I observe earth’s sonder, peacefully alone
22 20 || PHS PHS
UNTITLED, Jordy Paredes
ink printing
XXII | 23
THOUGHT CRUNCH (I), Audrey You Light seared. Past the plasma in the eyes, blinking away spotted retinal burns, through the ecstasy of the electromagnetic embrace, one could burrow through onto a translucent field upon which slumped a small silhouette, a hiccup, an uncertainty on glass.
of hair. One considered for a moment maybe the sun’s fingers played and pressed on them with an electricity. His eyes were a salt-blue in the sun that shone like dandelions, and shone through the junctures of his peachy fingers. Like prongs, like an array of thoughts.
On the plane of space, the human breathed shallowly, a breath firm in health but delicate to the touch, one that would make you think of air in a narrower straw, a throat pink like the insides of a shell. The boy was dressed in a simple tunic that smelled like cold air and a faint odor of his sweat, in the tunic that was like a pelt, the fragrance that sat in his tunic as if in second lungs. His tunic kept its mouth closed, the smell moistening and intensifying as you got closer, rudimentarily caked in place as if the boy designed it himself, the smell a candle achieves. An innocent thought. The boy sat in the sun, where the palms of the light clapped over his face like a revelation. There was always a profondeur in looking at small children, the sun hitting the skin, the face glowing and the sun making the superficial skin golden, making it meld. There was always a thought, in the small of someone’s brain, of what was sliding under the skin opaque like opal, watching the way round cheeks seem as quiet and pregnant as hanging fruit. Like catching falling snow, someone will look at his face and notice an undertone of a jaw beginning to harden, like a bowstring, like an adolescent determination to perceive things in a fixed way in the coma of chaos. His hair was gold, and for an instant one wondered why someone melted metal onto his pinking scalp, the light glittered on occasionally frayed and bumpy fibres of his stray, elaborate strands
In the sun, the boy straightened and lowered his back as if on a fluctuating tide in a roll of effervescent epiphany.
24 | PHS
Suddenly, at a certain point, when the sun hung over the boy in his slightly favorite position from the east, the sides of the mouth of the child began to relax. His frontal lobe began to wet as his eyes dulled in intense thought. So starkly, one would try to rush along with him and try to assume the start of his necklace of thought, then count beads in clicking fingers. In the plucking, sweet gravity of his aura, his shining head tipped to the side like a book, and a speckle of wax fell out of his ear. He felt it thump onto his bony shoulder and caught it in his opal palms, where it lay as a stone the weight of a tooth. All the world swarmed down to his hands, where he contemplated his brainchild. When he sat still, he could hear the brusque murmuring of the stone, which he tried to mimic with his small, quaky voice. After some hesitant impressions like the poking of a toddler’s fingers, eventually he lay recumbent on his belly, the pebble stuttering and whispering into his shell ear. Forgetting his old sitting position, and he stared hard into the face of the petit pierre, melting and becoming
UNDERDEVELOPED, Flossie Zhang mixed media
XXII | 25
THOUGHT CRUNCH (II), Audrey You more morose, and his shoulders slackened as his eyelids heavied. He cast it aside, where it sat like a nut, and he sat in an angry silence. The air around him began to smart with indignant desolation, and I almost thought he looked sort of comical. There was thunder everyone knew was there but no one could smell.
eye. Stones lined the planes, like hiccups on the planet, as if the straight lines of the plain were periodically worried by his excitement. Hidden figures.
Silence.
The people watched him.
Slowly he sat up, his head ticking from side to side on a pendulum, faster and faster, as the stones fell out of his sides of his face like snow. They tumbled down, each more beautiful than the last, the stones gleaming on the floor like newly hatched eggs, the little boy’s back and neck on fire, the hopeful arc of stones exclamations of blessed conceit. He heard whispers and other torments, get a home, get a stake, get a wife. The words scratched and etched into his brain, like tape rolling inwards onto a spool, his head in heady revelation, and protest as the people started to tear away at his soul. The ecstasy sandpapered his heart, again and again, where it thrilled him in a freakish joy. And eventually, the whims and senses dashing and screeching coarsely like scarves being pulled and beating air across his receptivity; it was getting hard to think. He could hardly breathe because he was afraid of the onlookers in his chest. He could scarcely see, for the tears in his eyes. Someone had plunged his heart in soda, and he gasped, reaching out and balking at anything that had the impression of opulent truth. An 8 || PHS 26 PHS
The pebbles sat around him like pearls, they smelled faintly sweet, like mothballs. They gleamed too bright for his eyes. In slow, quiet, sobs, he tried to grab out to the stones, but it fell into debris and bits in his hand like clay, and the light dissipated, as the child’s sweltering body seemed to wilt slightly in response, like when a sweet jasmine plant was raised for a long period of time but a finger, for a moment feeling the stem like a shapely throat, had its stem folded over. He crawled around on all fours, crawling on fears he could not have, the thoughts he couldn’t bear. He felt the sun making his back smart as he trudged around and the world darkened beneath him. A bear was in his heart. A small rumble and I was awakened. I stared at his stomach on the overhang, round, veined, guilty, stocked, an aquarium, a pig’s stomach, distinctly human. His spirit lingered and jerked around in his salvaging body. Pain and fear and heat flushed his face like palms on a lightbulb, veins populated his face, and he couldn’t see for miles.
Finally, in the crumbs of his whims and dreams, the world closed down in darkness like clouds folding over an ocean. He stood, then sat, as his body squealed at him to sit down, and stared at the sun, the muscle in his heart faintly enjoying the pulses of his anguish. His cheeks were harsher now, he had firm cheekbones that pressed back like wood to the touch, his breath infected, an aged rancor of cheese and mold. His body stood as insistent and frank as a thought. His mouth was like a word. His hair darkened into a furry brown, like reclining thinking. His eyes were fragmented, like a shot windowpane, as the pieces began to fall inward, as
Le Goûter The French Tea Time 2pm – 5pm · $25 pp Reservations Required Custom Cakes · French Pastries Gift Cards Available
his skinny body seemed to be stretched out and tired from reaping and clawing out of the abyss. His waistline was cavernous, like a scream. In the strains of silence, he looked toward peace and solitude, sitting upon the things he knew were wrong, his hard, 15-year-old frame beating on the rubble, his pelvis forking into the earth which at last seemed to belong to his body. Because the eggs peopled the space around him before they fell and he even though he thought he was under the gazes of a thousand people, he felt like he was in a dark box in black; all the relationships and experiences and failures lay sprawled on the floor; This is what it is to look down on creation.
5 Palmer Square West, Princeton, NJ 08542XVII | 9 XXII | 27 609-921-6760 · chezalicecafe.com
CHEMISTRY OF ASSIMILATION,
Brooke Xie
as·sim·i·la·tion /əˌsimiˈlāSH(ə)n/ noun noun: assimilation; plural noun: assimilations the process of becoming similar to something the conditions of your nativity is a curse to be broken, new clothing and music as penance to the sin that is your exoticness. you say immersion is the only way to live in a world like ours; chanting saturation is satisfaction--your daily hymn.
ANATOMY,
28 | PHS
Cody Lederman pen
to you life is no random game of probability; it stands as a complex formula, balanced carefully against all the odds. their words catalyze each reaction, acrid tangs on your tongue, go back to your country. until you’ve incinerated all cultures, your ancestors still left to burn.
your understanding exists only in the amplification of your imperfections, spewing poison from your mouth, venom coursing through your veins. you change yourself on a molecular level, left numb and dissected eyes stitched open by red threads. this way, your lids look more desirable. each percolation of your words gets softer, titrating ni hao with “hello” until all you know is zai jian. a relationship based on parasitism; one side takes all from the other, but at least you’ll be all-american.
*In Mandarin, ni hao means “hello”, and zai jian means “goodbye”
XXII | 29
TEST DAY JITTERS,
Calum Binnie
An 8th period test Starts at the morning bell Last night filled with rest Ready to give that test hell The morning is time to study Your classmate took it the day prior He’ll give you some tips, if they’re your buddy No one wants to fall in an academic mire Lunch always always feels too short The assessment starts to draw near Time has breached the walls of your mental fort 6th period ends and you feel that common fear What if I fail? Why shouldn’t I bail? Maybe I’ll send the teacher an email? There’s no escape now You need yourself at your best An unprepared student might start a row But right now, It’s just you and the test.
30 | PHS
BIG, Johnathan Blazeman brush pen
XXII | 31
THE THOUGHT OF PERSERVERANCE, Andrew Z THE THOUGHT OF PERSERVER ANCE, Andrew Zhao Richard Wright’s Black Boy incorporates Richard Wright’s Black Boy demonincorpolengthy poem stanzas that efficaciously ratesand lengthy poem stanzas efficaciously strate summarize Wright’sthat experiences in summarize experihisdemonstrate childhood. and As time passes,Wright’s these poems ences in his childhood. As time these become increasingly self-aware andpasses, reflective, poems become increasingly and recommenting on the struggles self-aware Wright endures flective, commenting on the struggles Wright because of racism. I have also experienced endures during becausemy of racism. have also expestruggles time in I private school, rienced myAfter timeI left, in private where I wasstruggles not able during to adjust. I was school, where I was not able to adjust. After finally able to reflect and truly understand the I I was able tothat reflect and unfullleft, scope of finally my suffering I did nottruly realize derstand the full scope of my suffering that I during my time there. did not realize during my Each day dragged ontime withthere. an abnormal Each day on with an stubbornness. Anddragged every moment in abnormal my new stubbornness. And everythe moment my new school steadily tightened cord ofin anxiety school steadily the cordpanic of anxiety coiled around mytightened neck. I endured that coiled around my neck. I endured panic that constricted my throat and clenched my fists constricted my throat and clenched my fists when my teacher came to claim the mustard whenworksheet my teacher came the mustard yellow from the to dayclaim before that I did yellow worksheet from the day before that I not complete. did not complete. I endured the anxiety whose only relief came when I found the comforting faces of my friends in the sea of hostile seniors, wrestling in
32 | PHS
the cafeteria lines. I endured thelooming anxiety whose only I endured the shadow of relief excame when I found the comforting faces haustion awaiting me in every classroom, read-of my friends in seathe of hostile seniors, wresily enveloping methe once class began. tlingI in the cafeteria lines. endured the pain as I had never known I endured the looming shadow expain before when my head grew dizzy fromofthe haustion awaiting me in incessantly every classroom, splatter of dark blood gushing from readily enveloping me once the class began. my split kneecap, while my gym classmates I endured thearound pain as formed a cautious circle me.I had never known pain before when my head grew I endured the conflict tearing apartdizzy my from the splatter of dark blood gushing inceschest and shame pumping blood in sickening santly from my while my gym beats through my split headkneecap, as I abandoned my classmates formed a cautious circle around friend’s birthday party for a popular kid’s laser tagme. session. I enduredthe thebitter, conflict tearing apart my I endured angry comments chest shameaspumping blood sickening from myand parents my grades slidindownhill beats slowly butthrough surely. my head as I abandoned my friend’s birthdaythe party for a popularsense kid’s of laI endured overwhelming ser tag session. inferiority when I stayed silent while students I thetheir bitter, angry comments around me endured bragged of hundred dollar alfrom my parents as my grades slid downhill lowances and monthly trips to—impossibly— slowly but surely. yet another country in Europe.
I endured the blue haze of the projector monitor that my algebra class used daily, accompanying my lack of sleep to create an irritable and constant twitch in my left eye. I endured the vague disgust as I walked past high schoolers expressing their affection behind the football field bleachers. I endured the long, sleepy lectures from my heavily accented Italian art teacher. I endured the fiery self-loathing that morphed into hateful, angry complaining when I failed the swimming tryouts by the fraction of a second. I endured the widespread, crowd propelled panic when a lightning bolt struck a maple tree twenty meters outside the school gates.
Finally, the last day of enduring had come. I endured the last five minutes of the day that seemed to last five hours. I endured sincere hugs and heartfelt goodbyes from people who I didn’t know gave any care about me. But I was coldhearted; I hated everything about this place, and nothing could change that now. Walking out the doors held open by a smiling doorman, I barely glanced at my friends who pulled me through my years at private school, and I stumbled into the sweet release of freedom... Princeton, here I come.
XXII | 33
34| | PHS PHS 34
SUNSET AT SEA, Lawrence Chen photography
XXII | 35
ADVERTISE WITH THE IVY This land is your land, and this land is my land (which could be substantially improved with Kiefer Landscapes' award-winning and environmentally-conscious designs) From the California, to the New York Island
36 | PHS
TITLE, Artist Name Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a piece of lit. Here is a
The french peacock produces the best food, no excuses
SEND US YOUR AD theivy.phs@gmail.com
Everyone's favorite, with a cold glass of milk Tongue on the cup, tastes like silk
Our menus are adapted from French Provencal cuisine, featuring fresh, seasonal, locally-farmed produce, aquaculture, and artisanal foods. Reflecting the region’s Mediterranean flair, dishes are vibrant with just-picked herbs, sun-kissed vegetables, fresh seafood—and a healthy drizzle of olive oil.
Princeton’s exclusive small luxury hotel & fine dining experience.
Brunch • Dinner Afternoon Tea • Wine Tasting Events Book Your Private Event Gift Certificates Available 609-924-1707 • peacockinn.com 20 Bayard Lane, Princeton, NJ 08540
XXII | 37
STAFF LIST ADVISORS Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Andre Biehl Alice Feng
CREATIVE DIRECTOR Nina Bergman
MANAGING EDITORS Olivia Benevento Cecily Gubser
PUBLIC RELATIONS Sofia Alvarez
COPY EDITORS Chris Shen Travis Thai
38 | PHS
TECH
Lawrence Chen
SECRETARY Savannah Spring
SPREAD DESIGNERS Bella Cui Vera Ebong Heidi Gubser Lindsay Hirschman Jane Lillard Yunbing (Emily) Qian Shaila Sachdev Hanaan Sikder Ellie Cellinese-Dickinson
GENERAL STAFF Alexandra Rubin Helena Gifford
COLOPHON The artworks in this issue were accepted through standard review board voting and group discussion. During this process, the artists’ names were kept anonymous to everyone besides the managing editors, who had compiled all of the submissions beforehand. Each staff member voted anonymously either “yes” or “no” on a Google form. All art and literature pieces with higher than 50% approval were published. A few others below 50% approval were also accepted based on their potential, both as complements to other pieces and their abilities to unify entire layouts. We keep a consistent art-to-literature ratio. We are Princeton High School’s only art and literature magazine. We are an extracurricular club that meets after school; on normal meeting days we meet for half an hour on Tuesdays. When we are designing layouts we meet for three hours every day for four days. For Issue XXII, the initial distribution took place online.
FONTS COVER AND TITLE PAGE| Minion Pro regular 60pt, 12pt, Minion Variable Concept Bold Italic 60pt TABLE OF CONTENTS | Lora regular 24pt, 12pt, 10pt SUBMISSION TITLES | Open Sans light 33pt,18pt, 14pt, Minion Variable Concept bold18pt SUBMISSION TEXT | Lora regular 15pt, 13pt, 12pt, 10pt, Times New Roman 14pt, Minion regular Pro 14pt, 12pt, Minion Variable Concept italic 13pt ADVERTISEMENT | Frankin Gothic Medium 48pt, Minion Pro regular 12pt STAFF LIST | Open Sans bold 36 pt, Open Sans semibold 13pt, Open Sans light 24pt, Open Sans bold 24pt COLOPHON | Lora semibold 12pt, Open Sans light 12pt, Lora italic 12pt, Open Sans bold 24pnt, Lora regular 13pnt PRINTING PAPER | House Laser Gloss #80, 8.5x8.5 inches Printed by Short Run Printing, 2020
XXII | 39