THE CURRENT
2019-2020
The Current
The Rivers School 2019-2020
Editors’ Note and Introduction “The Current” is The Rivers School literary and visual arts magazine. In putting together this year’s issue, we strove to capture all of the creative talent that Rivers students have to offer through collecting prose, poetry, and 2D and 3D art from both the Middle School and the Upper School. This year’s magazine includes work from the spring and fall of 2019 as well as the winter of 2020. We would like to thank Mr. Steve Cambria, our faculty advisor, for making this year’s magazine possible. His optimism, knowledge, and support have continually inspired us throughout this process. We would also like to thank Mr. Long, the Business Office, and the Performing Arts Department for helping us raise money for the publication. The Visual Arts Department, in particular Mr. Clark and Mr. Harrison, along with the English Department and Mr. Gormley, deserve a special thanks for helping us with all of the behind-the-scenes details along the way. Lastly, we would like to recognize Josh Rocha ‘21 and Olivia Segel ‘23 for their dedication to the club and willingness to learn the skills it takes to put this magazine together. Enjoy! Fondly, Isabel Salvin ‘20 and Emily Stoller ‘21 Co-Editors
We dedicate this year’s issue of “The Current” to the senior class of 2020. Thank you for leading by example and spreading positivity through these challenging times. We wish you the best of luck next year!
Table of Contents Eye Super Predator Portrait Distortion “Like a folk song” Bleeding Black and White Stacked Odds “Time” Wood Box with Drawers Fresh Display Flowers Unebeleafable Wings Self-Portrait Refraction Grasp “the four seasons of grief” Bienvenidos VFW Parkway Coral Organic Serenity “Opposites” Emmet Till Prize Pig “Rays of Light” Self-Portrait Urban Puzzle Emerald Dragon Father Daughter Lifeguard Tower “Unanswered Questions” Jigsaw Fading Loudly “Song of the Frogs” Assassin “4:07am // waltham” Intense KDH
front cover
9 10 11 12-13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39-40 41 42 43 44 45 46 back cover
Lucy TonThat ’22 Pastel Aliesha Campbell ‘20 Ceramics Audrey Connelly ‘20 Drawing Oliver Carswell ‘22 Painting Nora Brown ‘19 Short Story Lindsey Filoon ’21 Drypoint Print Kate Eselius ‘20 Ceramics Maddie Foley ‘22 Poem Collin Graf ‘20 Woodworking Lindsey Filoon ’21 Drypoint Print Anabelle Hasselbeck ‘20 Painting Phoebe Fogel ‘24 Photograph Adebiyi Oyaronbi ’21 Drypoint Print Audrey Connelly ‘20 Drawing Jenna MacDonald ‘21 Painting Gavin MacIsaac ‘20 Ceramics M.W. ‘21 Poem Evie Thomajan ‘20 Drawing Lauren Barich ‘20 Painting Madi McShane ‘20 Ceramics Anna Monaghan ’22 Photograph Dana Lowitt ‘23 Poem Adebiyi Oyaronbi ’21 Drypoint Print Mulan Zhang ’25 Painting Lexie Ravech ‘21 Poem Audrey Connelly ‘20 Drawing George Reinhardt ‘20 Photograph Dylan Mentis ‘20 Ceramics Evie Thomajan ‘20 Drawing Caroline Sivolella ’21 Painting Josh Rocha ‘21 Short Story Tori Varsamis ‘20 Woodworking Abigail Weiss ‘21 Ceramics Sylvie Pingeon ‘21 Poem Chelsea Yan ’25 Digital Art M.W. ’21 Poem Cara Schmidlein ’21 Drawing Henry Johnson ‘24 Photograph
Super Predator Aliesha Campbell ‘20 9
Portrait Audrey Connelly ‘20 10
Distortion Oliver Carswell ‘22 11
“Like a Folk Song” By Nora Brown ‘19 “See like I just really want pasta but like I don’t wanna spend $28 on it,” I say as I take a step back from the window. The restaurant inside is dark, seemingly lit only by candles, and it has posted its one-page-only menu in the window, hung from a miniature clothesline. You wouldn’t even know there was a restaurant here unless you knew where to look. All of these trendy touches mean one thing: out of our price range. So my friend Maren and I keep walking, searching for a place to eat dinner on our night out in Cambridge. As we cross the street, I begin to hear strands of music; fast-paced strums on a guitar and mandolin accompanied by, is that a violin?, and oh yeah there’s a bass, guitar? no, upright. I look down the road to a spot where buskers usually set up shop, but there’s no one there. The music gets louder as we walk; it’s definitely coming from the left. Ah yes! There’s a speaker on the sidewalk, leaning against the railing of a set of stairs leading half a story or so below street level. The sign above the door reads “Club Passim.” I turn to my companion: “what about this place?” She shrugs her approval, and we head down the sturdy stone stairs and inside. The woman at the front desk tells us to sit down wherever we’d like and hands us a copy of the schedule for the night. Inside the venue is lit only by electric candles in the center of each table, directing all attention to the stage up front. We take a seat in the back, despite the majority of tables’ being empty. The current act has just stepped off stage, so the man in the DJ booth behind us has put on some recorded instrumental folk tunes to fill the time. Most of the people in here are older, either retired couples or families with children; the city’s large population of college students is underrepresented here. There are some kids running around, investigating the stage and sound system in the time before they will be shushed and made to sit still and listen. I look across the table at my friend and raise my eyebrows, trying to convey a sense of surprise and excitement and say this is pretty cool. She smiles back at me– another one of our frequent city adventures. After a few minutes two men walk onto the stage. One is bald and wearing a very folksy but expensive-looking hat and carries a guitar, and the other in a rumpled button down shirt grasps a mandolin. They look exactly like what I expected folk musicians to look like: middle-aged white guys whose muddy boots and belt loop rings of keys sharply contrast their worn but undeniably well-crafted instruments. They begin playing, their songs ironically upbeat for how depressing the lyrics are. Their fingers seem to fly effortlessly, pulling off ultra-complicated solos in every single song. These are the most casual musicians I have ever seen, the most at-ease on stage. They give me a feeling of wanting to be up there myself, even though I know I can’t pull of anything nearly as spectacular. All three seem in their element, completely at ease; between most songs they pause and share forgettable comments or anecdotes: “If any of you are mandolin enthusiasts out there,” says hat guy, “I recommend talking to this guy about his mandolin camp he went to last week.” “Just three days of mandolin playing and jamming in the Adirondacks, really,” says the other. 12
“You know he made that mandolin himself? If any of you have a spare two grand I’m sure he’d be willing to…” The two-man wonder band says goodbye for the night after about fifty minutes of playing. This place makes me think about music more, even picture myself on that stage. I’ve never been to such a small concert before, but now I realize how important they are. You shouldn’t have to be famous world-wide in order to make a living as a musician, but so often these sorts of events and artists get written off as boring or lame. Not that they aren’t sometimes, but it definitely makes a good night out and the tickets are so cheap, so why not? We are once again reminded to refrain from conversation as the next act takes the stage. This time it’s three men: the guitar player, who looks out of place in a tailored blazer and neat haircut; the upright bass player, who looks exactly like a country grandfather with his long silver hair and beard and worn out jeans; and a surprisingly young guy on mandolin, wearing a plaid shirt and a neatly trimmed beard. As they begin to play, most of their songs are pretty similar to the act before. All upbeat, mostly covers, featuring speedy, dancing solos and a steady but quick back-and-forth rhythm. In between songs, my friend and I discuss leaving (the Mike’s Pastry down the street closes at nine, and I need a cannoli). But after each time we agree on one more song, we stay in out chairs and extend the deadline. There’s one about a farmer who moves to Baltimore to please his wife, one about (of course) a runaway girlfriend, and one about the dark, twisted beauty someone could find about working in a coal mine. “It’s Sunday folks,” begins the bearded bassist, “so we’re gonna play you a gospel tune so we don’t get damned to hell.” “To God,” proclaims the straight-laced guitarist, a surprising humor in his voice. The younger mandolin player shakes his head and laughs like a kid embarrassed by his parent’s attempt at the latest dance craze. The instruments take up a simple, easy-going melody, one meant more for swaying than line dancing as the others were. It is the mandolin player who sings this one. His voice is smooth and clear, and it settles on the room like a fluttering silk scarf. Whereas the bassist’s and guitar player’s voices played secondary to the instruments, his takes center stage. I feel something open up inside of me at all this beauty, and I sit transfixed, unmoving for the duration as he sings about love and religion. The song ends, and it feels like the breaking of some sort of trance. My friend and I decide through brief eye contact to take our leave– I don’t feel like having that kind of beauty overwritten. I want to take it with me. We step out onto the street, gushing about how good the music was. As we wait in line for our pastries, I reflect on the simplicity of the evening. There are tons of wonderful things out there to discover– you just have to forget your judgements and find them.
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Bleeding Black and White Lindsey Filoon ‘21 14
Stacked Odds Kate Eselius ‘20 15
“Time” By Maddie Foley ‘22
The shining box sits
The metal now brushes through shiny white hair Thin wrinkled fingers twist the dials Exhausted It lays tight on the wrist Now prominent The man sits Watching Tired limbs aching with age The metal’s weight has grown A burden It is all he sees Tick, tock
In its perfection Waiting to be open The boy’s small hands brush across the smooth paper eagerly He reaches into the box His sticky fingers grasping the cool surface Pulling out the smooth metal Curious Tick, Tock The metal slides onto his skinny wrist A small reminder Cold It dangles A bit too big But no matter The boy runs Free Happy laughter Echoing through the warm air Oblivious to the weight Tick, Tock
Tick, tock Tick, tock Until he can’t
He shoots his fist into the air The metal now secured to his strong arm Comfortable It brushes over his glistening forehead His rosy Dirt-streaked cheeks turning up into a smile Cheers of the crowd echo through the stadium The bright lights blind his eyes Tick Tock
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Wood Box with Drawers Collin Graf ‘20 17
Fresh Display Lindsey Filoon ‘21 18
Flowers Annabelle Hasselbeck ‘20 19
Unbeleafable Phoebe Fogel ‘24 20
Wings Adebi Oyaronbi ‘21 21
Self Portrait Audrey Connelly ‘20 22
Refraction Study Jenna MacDonald ‘21 23
Grasp Gavin MacIsaac ‘20 24
“the four seasons of grief” By M. W. ‘21
winter. bitter unforgiving harsh sunshine consumed by twilight. the wish to be far far away.
spring brings new beginnings melting icy hearts breathing life trying to forget flowers and false hope the hope that the world can be brought anew that the chill of winter can be washed away by the facade of green leaves and fresh blooms when in reality spring is not appreciated unless followed by winter. and blossoming from springtime’s gossamer glow is summer the so-called freedom of long days of golden rays sun-kissed skin and salty hair no cares in the world but what’s for dinner basking on lawn chairs trying to forget that the cycle is inevitable to enjoy it while you can. fall arrives. golden flames erupt from sturdy trunks fire consumes the cobalt sky crisp air cleansing the soul rustling saplings shed their leaves beauty in a time of change. bare branches soon to be blanketed with torrents of crystals spiraling downwards the crunch of jack frost’s icy breath and the raw snap of the unavoidable but this time i am ready. 25
Bienvenidos Evie Thomajan ‘20 26
VFW Parkway Lauren Barich ‘20 27
Coral Madi McShane ‘20 28
Organic Serenity Anna Monaghan ‘22 29
“Opposites” By Dana Lowitt ‘23
If I am meant to love, Why am I hollow? If I can lead, Why must I follow? If I am perfect, Why do I feel flawed? If I can run, Why must I plod? If I should soar, Why am I grounded? If I am a star, Why am I surrounded? If I am meant to be brave, Why am I afraid? If I am beautiful, Why am I ashamed?
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Emmett Till Adebi Oyaronbi ‘21 31
Prize Pig Mulan Zhang ‘25 32
“Rays of Light” By Lexie Ravech ‘21 Mist Hovers Above the Soft sleeping creek. A moth gliding over the lake Brings on the mute night. Light is gone Save the glassy dots Sprinkled across The skyline. Yet, the day before And the day after, The vivid sun restores The rightful place of Nature’s greatest wonder. A baby deer is birthed, Bringing on early morning. Wind awakening those who live And bringing light to those who mourn. We find ourselves Awoken and attentive, As if the frigid and ominous breeze Revives us with vitality. Rays of light Reach from the heavens Revealing scratchy and sore skin. Droplets float Like mist as fresh as mint, Balancing nature’s duality. The bird’s fluttering echoes Bouncing off the red wood Simmer down To just a whisper.
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Self Portrait Audrey Connelly ‘20 34
Urban Puzzle George Reinhardt ‘20 35
Emerald Dragon Dylan Mentis ‘20 36
Father Daughter Evie Thomajan ‘20 37
Lifeguard Tower Caroline Sivolella ‘21 38
“Unanswered Questions” By Joshua Rocha ‘21 Phone in hand, pillows surrounding me amidst a sea of blankets chilled from lack of use, I make myself comfortable on the sofa as the phone rings once...her face becomes clear in my mind, there, right there...twice...the rest of her body, poised, hair messy from sleep, reading glasses still on...three...she answers, more quickly than I expected, catching me slightly off guard as I slide back in my seat, roll back my shoulders, and clear my throat in preparation. She asks me how I am, what I’ve been doing to pass the time. I do the same, perhaps more quickly, more adeptly than her aging mind can work these days, but she answers me nonetheless. “Walking the dog, reading of course, lots of reading, and knitting your sweater.” Her words flimsy and wavering as they travel from her to me across streets and roads and people I don’t know and I wonder how she is, what she’s feeling, but her tone is slightly deflated and a little tired and I decide, despite my eagerness to always be in the know, to just listen. “Yeah, well, you know how things usually are around here. Not very much action anyways, but I picked out lots of good books to read on my Kindle, so I’m all set.” And as she continues, her words tremble and vibrate towards me like small vessels, fragments of her soul oozing from her body and spiraling towards me. I envision her there, on her brown leather couch, reading whatever book she’s reading at the moment, one pale hand alternating with the other as she turns page after page, fumbling at the edges every now and then, too eager to move on, to see what’s next, to escape the confines of these claustrophobic pieces of paper pushed against one another, stuck in place. “I can only knit for so long, you know. I also haven’t taken out those few inches at the end to make it shorter for you yet, but I’m planning on it of course. I want you to feel comfortable in it!” So sitting there, my legs crossed, I stand up, almost as if to walk over to her, to embrace her? No, that couldn’t be it. She’s miles away and we’ve both begun to feel that distance now, she knows I’ve dialed those 10 digits that connect us, weave us together, out of fear. Pity. Love. Isolation. And maybe I should consider it a good thing, a gift to be able to sit down and call her and talk to her and check-in but it all feels surreal. I imagine her as she gets up from her spot on the couch, the sun from the windows above her glazing her wilted skin and radiating through her body, mingling with oxygen and dispersing through the protruding veins on her forearms and her short, wavy strands of hair, so much like mine, filling her and attempting to reach her, to really talk to her, to scream at her that this is temporary, that, yes, you will see them all soon, and, yes, these times are scary, and, yes, they love you, of course they do, and they miss you and your bright laughter and the way your eyes crease up into little crescent moons when you smile. 39
“What have you been doing, Sweety? Do you have any work to do for school, or is everything cancelled for you too?” The unknowns hurt. They ache and they weigh down on us both no matter the differences in our realities, and I want to hug her and tell her it’s fine, that everything’s going to be alright, that she’s safe. She’s knitting now, in my mind at least, you know how they tend to wander when you’re swallowed up in someone’s words and thoughts, wavering, diving in and out of focus. Her lap covered with yarn, it’s almost celestial, those purples and blues and greys swirling and swarming and covering her thighs and stomach, transforming her into a heavenly body, something divine. Hands moving intricately with her knitting needles, they dance together, back and forth, up and down, twirling and pirouetting and shaking the earth beneath her she is so powerfully delicate, so wholesome. “Yes, Aunt Lori gave me a mask to wear when I go out, but I’ve been trying to go during senior times despite how early in the morning they are. I know, it’s too early, right? That’s life, I suppose…” 12 years old, and I’m in the kitchen with her now, we’re baking rugelach, half chocolate half cinnamon, but only half the butter we need because both of us forgot to go to the grocery store and pick more up, but we laugh anyways, and the rugelach are still delicious and satisfyingly beautiful propped up on the China plate with the sky blue swirls we decided to display them on for the entire family to see, and I want to be with her again, to slide my fingers against her soft hands and squeeze them against my own. “I’ve got to go now, Sweety, but thanks for calling. I miss you all! Alright, mhm, see you soon. I love you.” The phone beeps and I’m alone there now, legs no longer crossed, staring at the fireplace, lacking flame. Who, me? No, the fireplace, of course. Flickering and full, she is there now, a few feet away, not too close but not too far, and we both see each other without sight and smile and we wave at each other without any real reason except that it’s been a few weeks and that already feels like too much but we can’t do anything to stop it, to close this distance, we have no power, no way around it, no way to close this gap, whether it be mere feet or many, many miles. All we have is hope, hope for the next phone call, the next conversation, and, eventually, the next embrace.
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Jigsaw Tori Varsamis ‘20 41
Fading Loudly Abigail Weiss ‘21 42
“Song of the Frogs� By Sylvie Pingeon ‘21 It was dark to the point where shapes lost color and then form, just blurs of shadow against shadow against us, shining in the moon and rain. Long grass wrapping around legs, Water sticking to skin, to clothes, to hair, like spiderwebs in late evening dew.
And yes, there are things that I need to address, because one should not be dependent on air thick with rain and the sounds of the swamp, But now it is 2 am, and the wind is warm and the rain has slowed, and I have opened my window, and the peepers and the toads are still out, and they still are singing, Their throaty calls and high-pitched chirps colliding and harmonizing.
The peepers hummed through the night, and below their music, the toads trilled a softer call.
And there is something about the starlight and the song of the frogs melting through the crack in my window that breathes youth into the stillness of the air.
And we walked in the grass out to the road, where we danced on the dark pavement, our world shining with infinite tiny droplets, the single street-light as our spotlight, dimming the stars.
No one could say that the earth is dead on these spring nights, And no one could say that I am either, because as I lie on my bed and you wind your way home on the empty roads, the frogs keep singing, and we all come back to life.
And no cars drove by because the earth is dead at 11 pm, but for the toads and the peepers and us. And I could have stayed out, and you could have stayed out, but it was late so you walked to your car, and I walked to my room. The shut of my door and the hum of your engine clashed over the melody of the frogs, and the mist in my hair dried and your headlights cancelled out the glow of the streetlight, and the silence in my room fell stagnant and heavy, folding down on me over and over and over. 43
Assassin Chelsea Yan ‘25 44
“4:07am // waltham” By M. W. ‘21 the sky bleeds indigo the darkness disrupted ever so slightly by the sprinkling of stars and the faint glow of moonlight fresh pine saturates the air cool and refreshing the crunch of frost on the grass as footsteps disrupt the night the smell of rain hangs heavy suspended in the fog that coats everything the walk is silent but soon comes alive as warmth filters through the branches birds caw crickets chirp golden rays of sunlight say good morning as soon as it begun it is over the day has to start the spell is broken pine and rain replaced by metal and concrete indigo and moonlight become fluorescent bulbs and i fall into place as another cog turning man’s world.
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Intense Cara Schmidlein ‘21 46
Index of Submissions Lauren Barich ‘20, p 27 Nora Brown ‘19, p 12 Aliesha Campbell ‘20, p 9 Oliver Carswell ‘22, p 10 Audrey Connelly ‘20, p 10, 22, 34 Kate Eselius ‘20, p 15 Lindsey Filoon ’21, p 14, 18 Phoebe Fogel ‘24, p 20 Maddie Foley ‘22, p 16 Collin Graf ‘20, p 17 Anabelle Hasselbeck ‘20, p 19
Henry Johnson ‘24, back cover Dana Lowitt ‘23, p 30 Jenna MacDonald ‘21, p 23 Gavin MacIsaac ‘20, p 24 Madi McShane ‘20, p 28 Dylan Mentis ‘20, p 36 Anna Monaghan ’22, p 29 Adebiyi Oyaronbi ’21, p 21, 31 Sylvie Pingeon ‘21, p 43 Lexie Ravech ‘21, p 33 George Reinhardt ‘20 p 35
Josh Rocha ‘21, p 39 Cara Schmidlein ’21, p 46 Caroline Sivolella ’21, p 38 Evie Thomajan ‘20, p 26, 37 Lucy TonThat ’22, front cover Tori Varsamis ‘20, p 41 Abigail Weiss ‘21, p 42 M.W. ‘21, p 25, 45 Chelsea Yan ’25, p 44 Mulan Zhang ’25, p 32
The following students were honored by the Boston Globe 2020 Massachusetts Scholastic Art Awards: Aliesha Campbell Gold Key Oliver Carswell Silver Key Kate Eselius Gold Key Phoebe Fogel Gold Key Henry Johnson Honorable Mention Jenna MacDonald Honorable Mention
Gavin MacIsaac Silver Key Madison McShane Silver Key Dylan Mentis Honorable Mention Anna Monaghan Silver Key George Reinhardt Gold Key
Staff Editors Isabel Salvin ‘20 and Emily Stoller ‘21 Design Team Josh Rocha ‘21 and Olivia Segel ‘23 Faculty Advisor Steve Cambria This publication was produced by Signature Printing + Consulting using 120 lb. silk cover weight paper on the cover and 100 lb. silk text paper on the inside. The font used throughout is Scala Pro in various sizes and formats. The publication is funded by the school and also student fundraising events. There were 200 copies printed.
The Current 2019-2020 The Rivers School 333 Winter Street Weston, Ma. 02493 781.235.9300