Kimberly Liu
chiasmus, Broken
Labrys was founded in 2001 by Tammis Day, Margot Atwell, and Rose Ellen Epstein. It is currently Smith’s only student-run publication of art and creative writing. Our mission is to share uncensored work produced by our students with the greater community.
In her poem “I Need to Talk to You”, Courtney Arnold parses what it means to hear your own name spoken aloud: “Your vowels, gooey moans, / melted my name apart. / … / …is it yours now? / Will you ever say it again? / I hope so.”
Her speaker is one of many characters in this issue who is deeply curious about their relationship to another, wondering how we change each other, whether we can learn to see each other completely. You could argue this is why we are so interested in art and literature in the first place. What can we possibly tell each other about what it means to live these wild and disparate human lives? These questions haunt Labrys’ art as much as its writing—portraits by Madeline McCurry, Simona Miller, Ella Prince, and Alina Wang attempt to plunge into a subject and wrest out their inner life through shadow, color, motion. Some of the faces and bodies that have been depicted here are those of other people—the artist has tried to know someone by creating their image. Other images represent the artists themselves, which confronts a different sort of question: how do I show myself to you? Both prospects of can be deeply exciting but also precarious. “you know the fact of you scares me”, Ingrid Weimer writes in “like your mountains”, revealing a tension between two people that seems as unsettling as it is exhilarating. It requires bravery, vulnerability to be understood, for to be with others changes us indelibly.
In Janelle Tan’s love sonnet, the speaker is so altered by their obsession that the stuff of their self has changed: they profess they have “forgotten who i was before smitten,” reflecting the experiences of other characters contained in these poems and stories. A woman who playfully chides the family ghost at the breakfast table. A young tourist who is magnetically drawn to a stranger in Kyoto. A daughter who has absorbed so much of a mother’s love and attention that she has even picked up parts of her handwriting.
Thank you to everyone who has gathered with me to see this issue of Labrys into being: to vice president Mayrose Beatty, for opening a dialogue with our con- tributors; to the editors and art directors, whose curation and design shaped submissions into a magazine; and to the Labrys board, for caring about student art and writing at Smith. And of course, thank you to everyone who sent us their work!
While reading this issue I invite you—viewer, reader—to think of where you lie in relation to these artists and writers. Although you may never meet many of them, you have found a type a found of relationship. I am so grateful for the chance to introduce you. Keep each other company.
Julia Falkner '19
chiasmus, Broken
Mirroring
Untitled
Winter in Hangzhou
Untitled Woman 1
Still
Baby Blue
The Kiss
Untitled Self-Portrait
Alterity-Portrait
Sophia P.
Self Portrait
Summertime Blues
LA State of Mind
Woman with Child
5:49 AM
The Waves
Give Me Some Space
Solstice
Untitled
No Pulp
No One Knows
Untitled
I lay my head upon the riverbank, eyes closed, dreaming of a woman the color of clouds.
...I first tried to plant a garden, / a bulb bank, / but the groundhogs gobbled, feasted / on the tender tulips.
Fiona picked at her oatmeal as her mothers discussed school pickup and dropoff. Across the table, the honey in the dish was rapidly disappearing, as if being drank through an invisible straw.
It started with a sprout.
In those days, it was just you and me and the words you gave me, wrapped / in blankets while you hunched over my Little Tikes car bed, / sore with devotion.
To the delicate tissue you grasp, that it does not remember its delicate.
Your vowels, gooey moans, / melted my name apart. / Chemical reactions like that / can’t be pieced back right.
we two hunched over lasagna in the kitchen – / you squaring the pasta neatly, like you approach my fears.
our chilly bones warmed by fuzzy sweaters / pink cheeks / we are young / we have no secrets.
We contribute our varied tones, our adventurous pitches, and and our fragmented Hebrew to the communal song.
Spring / Is coming. And you are emerging, / Becoming the stars, a vision.
cradle the moon in / your arched / neck and / maybe then i will feel the / heat / of new mexico’s july / breeze
I will remember, how / the moon cradles / the earth’s shadow, / each night. / 238,900 miles away.
look up! look / up! i saw two and wished / vaguely (for us).
My father had always capriciously questioned why she wore his clothes, but today, he said nothing. He simply held her close.
This is a hard language, one I stumble over, / mumbling like a traveler on foreign soil, / uneasy with the sensation of shorthand.
The river is smooth; there is no current / the moon is a voyeur; it makes our skin shine.
i watched Moses split the Red Sea along the corner of Myrtle and Broadway with / a boom box spitting kaleidoscope jazz at dawn
She jabs you with her wooden spoon, / dusting your bones with ostrich feathers— / Generations of women.
I want to think of you, / your blackened spots and peeling skin / oozing out juice that makes the Dole sticker curl up.
"We each follow our own paths. When two people meet each other, it’s like lines intersecting. After that intersection, they depart and lead their own way again."
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