LAYERING EVERY MOMENT
Before we leave,
Fiona introduces me to color negative film.
Shows me how silhouettes
look dark when contrasted
with an amber world.
Suddenly
—a vision—
I can scan the photos I took on the old Nikon
combine them digitally
with images from my phone,
overlay the two,
present mixed with past.
In the photo with the girls clapping
I can add a school in silhouette.
To the playground, an adjacent church.
In the photo of Tanner’s Spring,
images of people gathering water.
So busy
excited—
ideas churning,
images forming,
I barely notice
when Silas comes
behind me, says,
“Hey, class is over.”
THE WHOLE SECRET
I text my parents
that I need more time at the library.
Don’t wait for a reply.
Afterward—
we take a walk.
Silas is quiet.
Tell him
I didn’t share
my whole secret the other day.
Tell him
I’m not sure
my parents would pay
for art school either.
They don’t even know
I’m applying.
He smiles
holds my hand.
But doesn’t say he thinks I’ll get in.
Instead of asking
I pull him in toward
the park.
As we pass through,
Mariners’ Gates
turn from stone to silver.
SUMMITING
We go to Summit Rock.
The highest natural point
in Central Park.
From there, you can see
where the Seneca Village homes
would’ve been.
I snap a photo.
Remember
the teakettle
child’s shoe
roasting pan
they found in the excavation.
I could take a photo of household items
superimpose them here, where the homes were.
“Linc?”
“What?”
“I said, I like hanging with you.”
Somehow I missed this moment
while envisioning another.
Turn,
focus on his bright-blue hair
against the pale-blue sky
his full pink lips,
and as I kiss them
I say, “Me too.”
AN EXCEPTION
That night
I hardly sleep.
My mind dances with
Silas’s lips,
my project ideas.
Sunday passes.
Mom comes in to
review my work,
no wineglass this time.
Old traditions
made new.
I tell her
I don’t think I did great
on my geometry test,
but I’m going to
ace my history project.
I wait
for what’s familiar
to return
for disappointment
to bloom on her face.
The glass to reappear.
But she tucks my hair behind my ear,
says,
“I can see you’re trying, Linc.”
Maybe she’s trying
too.
It’s enough
to keep me smiling
the rest of the day.
A gold star sprouts on my shirt.
SIDESTEPPING
Dad comes into my room
as I’m working,
brings me snacks,
says I seem so focused
lately.
And much more . . .
energetic.
He asks if there’s
anything new going on.
Besides my project.
I stop working.
Try to picture
Silas coming over
like Stefano does.
But the image is foggy.
“No, not really,” I say,
pushing it away.
“I have to go take pictures of a church.”
He laughs, nods.
“Far be it from me
to distract a historian from her work.”
He winks.
STITCHING
It’s hard to capture
the whole church
in one image
to get the distance needed
from the other side of the block
so I do it in pieces.
The steeples.
The front door.
Try to use an
image stitching technique—
the combining of
multiple photographic images
with overlapping fields of view
to produce a panorama.
Maybe I could digitally
stitch them in.
My mind’s going faster
than my camera can click.
OVERLAYING
Home,
I begin to do the overlaying.
Holly comes in
and lies down
on my bed.
She watches me work.
“That looks cool,” she says.
I say thanks, ask her
what she’s up to
but she’s quiet
and I keep working.
“Oh, nothing, really,”
she says.
As she leaves
I realize
I didn’t
look into her eyes
to see
if she was telling
the truth.
But—
I don’t have time to wonder,
to go after her right now.
And—
when Mom asks
at midnight
if I am still doing homework
I’m not lying when I say
yes.
She gives me a head nod in approval,
doesn’t tell me
to get to bed.
Click/click/stitch.
PRACTICALLY
Monday,
Holly and I
walk to the bus stop together,
just us.
She tries to talk to me
but my eyes keep closing
at every red light that
tells us to stop.
While we’re waiting
she shows me
her rough draft
all printed out,
copies of the
suffragette petitions scanned.
Asks what I’m turning in.
Show her my owl-shaped hard drive.
I haven’t done much writing
yet
just a very basic outline
but I know the images
speak loudly.
They are strong,
Fiona said,
and last night
I made them so much better.
I know they will speak louder than my words ever could.
DELETE
In f
ourth period,
I hand over my hard drive
with a speeding heart,
then head to lunch.
Ellery tells me about Taryn
sleeping over this weekend,
and my fatigue sets back in.
I chug Coke,
try to pay attention.
On the other side of the caf,
watch Stefano glide up to Holly,
her head perched on his shoulder,
effortlessly,
Taryn now by Ellery’s side,
sitting knee to knee.
Look at my phone,
text Silas: miss you.
Dare myself to send it.
And then,
deep breath in,
I do.
COULD HAVE BEEN
My phone buzzes.
Not Silas.
Mom.
Asking if I’ll meet her at Holly’s game later.
She shows up wearing scrubs,
a Ketchum High sweatshirt overtop.
Look down at my navy shirt,
orange sneakers.
“I guess I’m in school colors?”
Mom actually laughs
at my joke.
Places her hand on my back,
asks if I know what today is.
I think about it.
I don’t.
She says her brother
would’ve been 45 today.
Before I can say anything back,
she says,
“Let’s go get some pregame snacks.”
As she hands me a pretzel,
my mind-camera focuses
on Roy.
Who would he have been at 45?
Would he have been here with us, cheering?
Mom is quiet,
her mind locked—continuous focus—
on her brother.
I try to picture his face
in hers.
Past/present/past.
SIDE-HUG
Dad meets us at the game.
Kisses Mom, side-hugs me.
We watch Holly block goal after goal.
Each time
someone shoots at the goal
at Holly
my hand clenches my drink.
Mom cheers so loudly,
but sometimes I see her eyes go teary.
My mind-camera shifts focus
zooms in on:
our family.
We enter a photo gallery—
Mom beams as she sees
my name on the wall
my photographs on display.
She’s so proud when she realizes
finally
what I’m really capable of.
And she cheers
just as loudly
for me.
ARTIST’S STATEMENT FOR INNOVATIVE ARTS ACADEMY APPLICATION
Artists are able to express the world the way they see it. Oftentimes, they see things in unusual ways—sometimes they even see what isn’t actually there but could be. My vision as a photographer is to show that there is more than one truth to any given moment. One example of this is how the past lives on in the present.
I have always felt better at expressing myself, more understood, through images. At a school like IAA, I believe I would be surrounded by others who could relate to this experience. Whether someone is sculpting, painting, acting, dancing, singing or taking a photograph, they are offering something to an audience. They are offering art and creativity. And through that art, the viewer is exposed to a new perspective.
I come from a family who sees academic achievement as the height of success. It has only been recently that I’ve come to understand that there might be a whole group of people who actually see my viewpoint as valid, essential, necessary. Sometimes, we have a hard time seeing beyond what is right in front of us. Sometimes, our imaginations wither. As an artist, I hope to never lose this ability to imagine, and create newness, to own spontaneity, and to defy the temptation to look only on the surface. I hope I can always visualize the unseen and then make it come alive.
In this portfolio, I have attempted to show the way the past of Central Park still lives inside its present. Central Park was once home to a place called Seneca Village. A settled community of outsiders, African Americans, immigrants from Ireland and Germany, all of them creating a home together, peacefully, in the wilds of New York City. All of them driven away by the wealthy Central Park buyers—people determined to make a beautiful park despite displacing a functional community. Through my portfolio I strive to keep this history alive.
I hope to keep finding places where, through art, I can help people discover what’s been lost.
I hope to learn a lot more about respected photographers and the work that has come before my own. I know IAA can give me the tools and the confidence to move forward, and the humility to learn from the past.
PINGS
That night
I print out my Artist’s Statement.
I print out the application: contact information, etc.
All that’s left to do is sign it,
figure out the order of my portfolio,
write and refine captions for the images.
November 15th,
10 days away.
I focus on English homework,
reading Julius Caesar.
Then
my phone pings with a text—
Ellery.
I text her back and realize
it’s been hours since
I texted Silas miss you.
Just before bed
finally ping
he sends me an emoji
a boy and girl
kissing.
My heart skips fast
ping, ping, ping
even as I try
to sleep.
STARE & MEMORIZE
Later that week,
geometry test
back.
63.
Nowhere near
A
B or
C.
things made sense.
I stared
I memorized
I understood what to do.
But now a red-marked paper
stares back at me,
problems
still
not solved.
MONOTONY
In my weekly meeting
with Mr. Chapman,
he says it looks like
I might be failing math.
And my English grade has slipped
from a solid B to a B-.
He tells me it’s important
that I keep my grades
front and center.
My GPA is back down to 2.4.
I need to be careful.
Keep working hard.
2.4 is not 2.7.
Now I need more than a B+ in history.
Now I need an A.
I look outside the window
focus on something else
change the composition
see a new angle
anything to take me out of here
away from these words
but all I see are
endless windows
endless buildings
endless wintering sky.
SPEEDING UP
In history
on Friday
Ms. Marshall returns
our rough drafts,
says
many of us turned in
quite polished and
thoughtful work,
&nb
sp; some really fresh ideas.
She looks directly at me.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
My breath quickens
like a train speeding up
my arms a field of goose bumps
as she
passes our projects back.
KEEP IN MIND
Along with my flash drive
Ms. Marshall hands me a note:
Linc, this needs more words to be a history project. This is not an art class. While I appreciate the way you took time with this, and I see you are showing Seneca Village then inside Central Park now, I am still not sure what you are saying about all of it. What is your thesis?
Please keep this in mind as you work on your final draft.
The train grinds to a stop.
Goose bumps fall flat.
SUPERIMPOSE
Here’s a thesis statement:
I’ll never be good at this shit.
In the hall,
I pass Holly,
alone,
for once.
We lock eyes,
//caught//
in the same frame.
She asks me how I did.
I shake my head.
She calls for me
//to stop//
but I keep
walking right past her
to the bathroom.
Out of her sight.
I don’t want to hear
how hers is
already an A.
Instead I
superimpose myself
somewhere new
text Silas:
Can you meet me after school?
POSING
Silas doesn’t write back.
After school I head for the park,
take close-ups of bark,
find images as bleak as I feel.
Mid-shot
of a dead leaf
spinning in the air,
a buzz from Silas:
Where are you?
Twenty minutes later
he emerges through the trees
in a red-and-black-checkered coat.
I hold on to him
to keep from crying.
He asks if I’m okay.
I tell him not really.
Wait for him to ask why.
Instead:
“Do you want a lollipop?”
Says his mom found his pot stash,
she’s straight-up mad.
These are all he has left.