All posts filed under: ArtsandCulture

Art Walk

The week leading up to the Art Walk I came home every night to a room covered in t-shirts and paint. From outside I’d see warm light shining through the window, the music up loud. Inside, the table covered with a shiny tarp, piles of black cloth on the counter, blue all over the cutting board, turquoise in the measuring cup, turquoise on the counter, turquoise on the floor. Henry Jokela and Tala Schlossberg standing in that chaos, brows furrowed. One pouring paint into a frame and shucking it around with a little wooden paddle-thing; the other, pacing around with two paint-soaked shirts in each hand, frantic for something to hang them on. “Elijah!” Henry would say, not looking up. “Where’s your fishing line? We need to hang the shirts, we need to string your fishing line now!” And I would (and it would break, a disaster). Then dinner for three, not realizing the spoon in the soup had paint all over the handle. Eleven o’clock, I say goodnight. They stay up many more hours. …

Skateboarding in North Village Parking Garage

By Sam Anglum and Finn West First year Camilla is confused. Her downstairs neighbors constantly ask her to stop re-organizing her furniture. Unbeknownst to both of these parties, the noise they hear is the resounding echo of skateboards in the garage. A Fourth year living In North Village hears people rolling around downstairs and turns over restlessly in bed, thinking “when will they fucking stop.” And a second later, “why the fuck am I still living in the Villages.” Meanwhile, in the garage, a cluster of skaters gather next to the entrance of the trash room. Someone is trying to take out some recycling. But their path to complete this simple chore is hindered by a bulwark of sweaty shoulders. Someone else walks through the door to the garage from the North Village lobby intending to go pick up groceries. However, as they enter the garage, they realize that their errand will be interrupted by a large wooden box preventing them from backing out. They start their car, and wait patiently as a lanky, blonde-haired …

What Happens

In some American town, there’s a house with a sagging, garage-sale mattress inside a bedroom.  On the mattress there’s a girl drinking a milkshake she bought from a lousy diner down the street.  It’s thick and strawberry-flavored, like some children’s toothpaste.  The windows are painted shut and the AC broke and the girl feels like she could sweat off her body.  There’s an electric fan in one of the unopened boxes in the hall, but the girl doesn’t know which box, so she doesn’t look.  A colony of ladybugs emerges from a crack in the ceiling, seeking asylum from the heat.  They won’t find it here.  The girl holds the cold Styrofoam cup to her forehead.  Only fifty-two more days of summer left.   Across the road – now a sparkling, squishy mess of hot tar stripes – there’s a blue box house.  Its yard looks more like a meadow.  No one’s cut it for years.  Dandelions and saplings and full beds of poison ivy spill over one another, vying for sunlight or relaxing into …