Evergreen

EDITORIAL Board

SYDNEY SEYMOUR - EDITOR IN CHIEF

STELLA RANELLETTI - EXECUTIVE PRINT EDITOR

ELIOT CORRELL - EXECUTIVE DIGITAL EDITOR

MIA MICKELSEN - FINANCE MANAGER

KELLY KLEINBERG - WRITING EDITOR

AVA WISDOM - DESIGN EDITOR

BEATRICE KAHN - PRINT COPY EDITOR

EMESE BRACAMONTES VARGA - PRINT COPY EDITOR

SYLVIA DAVIDOW - PRINT COPY EDITOR

WALLIE BUTLER - ILLUSTRATION EDITOR

SNEHA CHOPRA - PHOTO EDITOR

ZOE MAITLAND - PHOTO EDITOR

CAMILLE ANDREWS - STYLING EDITOR

ANAYA LAMY - BLOG COPY EDITOR

RUBY JOYCE - BLOG COPY EDITOR

NATALIE ROBINSON - MUSIC EDITOR

ISABELLA THOMAS - MUSIC EDITOR

ZAK CHRISTEN-COONEY - VIDEO EDITOR

KYM ROHMAN - FACULTY ADVISOR

Dear Align Readers,

Place two feet on the ground, if you’re able. Put your hands on your thighs or chair. Take a minute and think about how your foundation — your chair, bed, your own two feet — connects to the floor. Think about what’s under the floor, and what’s under that. Eventually, you hit the Earth. Envision the Earth beneath you and your feet on the Earth. Recognize that you’re supported. No matter how you feel — anxious, exhausted, stressed, confused — know that you’re supported, physically and existentially.

I’ve found myself repeating this visualization and grounding exercise — from trauma-informed journalist Kate Woodsome — a little too often this year. To remind myself that I’m supported wherever I am and will be, I focus on my feet. I felt the need to practice this exercise especially when I thought of graduation and the uncertainty and fear that comes with not only change but also what’s next. I felt the desire to stop time, or at least slow it down — something I explore in my piece for this issue, “How To Stop Time.”

One of the biggest reasons I wish I could slow time down right now is this. Align. Four years of Align Magazine have offered so much more than work experience and like-minded individuals; it has provided a place to love, to belong, and to make a difference (the three basic emotional needs according to my 6th-grade teacher). Align has truly been my most fulfilling experience in college. I have so much love for what has been built; I’ve watched it grow from a 50-person publication into a nearly 300-person media organization. I will miss it, and the people here, dearly.

I’m beyond grateful to have had the opportunity to lead this team of incredible creatives who I already know will continue to inspire and amaze me after graduation. To my current editors, thank you for making this such a special experience (and for bearing with me). To the incoming editors, you’re all going to do amazing. Kym, Stella, Mia, and Eliot, thank you for everything.

Thank you to all the Align members who put countless hours and boundless commitment into this issue, and to those who have contributed to Align in any way in its 10 years. Thank you to anyone and everyone I’ve crossed paths with in Align, I’m so happy we got to share this space together. And thank you, dear Align reader. This wouldn’t exist without you.

Align has been my evergreen for the past four years: the strongest constant. So thank you, Align.

But the time has come. Stella Ranelletti, it’s all yours now. I’m so excited to see what you do; there is no one else more capable and deserving.

Meanwhile, the following 118 pages exploring the evergreen — what retains green and thrives through every season, adapting to winter’s ice — await. Through a warm, whimsical, and natural lens, you’ll uncover the origins and meanings of timeless constants: handme-down clothes, bread, children’s games, our ties to Mother Earth, and more. The clock’s ticking.

Sincerely with eternal love and hope you enjoy, Sydney Seymour

WRITERS

Amanda Lan Anh

Amelia Fiore

Ana Mendonca Kertesz

Anaya Lamy

Anna Liv Myklebust

Anna Viden

Ava Chand

Avery Wilson

Beatrice Khan

Brady Jones

Campbell Williams

Claire Conger

Drew Turiello

Ellie Johnson

Emese Bracamontes-Varga

Emily Hall

Emily Hatch

Hannah Kaufmann

ART DIRECTORS

Helen Myers

Kayla Cervantes

Kelly Kleinberg

Kiana Heilfron

Lara Clute

Libby Findling

Lily Reese

Lindsey Pease

Luke Bottomley

Mark Munson-Warnken

Morgan Hopes

Nichole Kwan

Olivia Oliver

Sophie Turnbull

Stephanie Hensley

Sydney Seymour

Sylvia Davidow

Viviann Nguyen

STYLISTS

Allyssa Corpuz

Alyssia Truong

Anna De Sanctis

Camille Andrews

Clarissa Perez

Clementine Jaffe

Cori Markus

Diego Vasquez

Elin Lawrence

Esmé Comstock

Gidi Batya

Josie Cunningham

MODELS

Aamani Sharma

Ailsa Huerta

Ainsley McCarthy

Alexandra Bondurant

Allyssa Corpuz

Alma Schuetz

Alyssia Truong

Amanda Lan Anh

Amelia Steffe

Amma Mnu

Ana Gastelu

Ana Mendonca Kertesz

Anathyn Burton

Angelika Stolecki

Anika Vyas

Anna De Sanctis

Arden Brady

Arien Acosta

Ash Dunteman

Asia Lieberman

Audrey Mercier

Ava Szymanski

Avery Wilson

Julian Eclarinal

Kaitlyn Moldovan

Keiran Christiansen

Lauren Gulden

Lindsey Nguyen

Mika Maii

Morgan Glinski

Nina Latto

Olivia Roberts

Piper Shanks

Rex Brown

Aya Laprete

Bella Snyder

Blu Mackey

Bri Garcia

Bryant Leaver

Camille Andrews

Cecilia Foskett

Charlie Townes

Charlotte Mohr

Claire Crager-Stadeli

Claire Weaver

Clementine Jaffe

Connor Counts

Cori Markus

Daisy Simpson

Danielle Collar

Davis Lester

Densel Villaspir

Diego Vasquez

Drew Turiello

Elias Contreraz

Ella Chieda

Ella Hutchinson

BLOGGERS

Addie Jensen

Amelia Gamlen

Bridget Donnelly

Claire O’Connor

Daisy Simpson

Fiona McMeekin

Grace O’Connell

Hope Call

Aamani Sharma

Alexandra Bondurant

Angelika Stolecki

Anna Curtis

Audrey Stephens

Ava Klooster

Avery Wachowiak

Blu Mackey

Claire Brady

Claire Crager-Stadeli

Danielle Collar

Eliot Correll

Ella Kenan

Emily Muro

Eva Rose Brazfield

Harper Meyer

Harry Nowinsky

Isabella King

Isabella Uribe

Kaia Mikulka

Krisha Borgonha

Lac Nguyen

Lela Akiyama

Lucy McMahon

Madeline Zeller

Maura McNeil

Maya Clausman

Phoenix Nwokedi

Sally LaChica

Zoe Maitland

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Ayla Fung

Charlie Townes

Emma Highfield

Joey Matsuno

Ky Myers

Natalie Robinson

Sophia Greene

Bella Snyder

Cocoro Darby

Cole Thomas

Eliot Correl

Ella Tatum Moriarty

Janaya Pardo

DESIGNERS

Abigail Raike

Adaleah Carman

Allie Harakuni

Caitlyn Ngo

Elianna Mabaet

Evan Fandel

Evan Giordano

Evan Giordano

Evelyn Orozco

Kayla Chang

Kennedi Cutliff

Liv Bourgault

Madeline Dell

Megan Lee

Mia Romero

Natalie Englet

Noah Gagnier

Preethi Buddharaju

Ryan Ehrhart

Sofia Lentz

Stella Ranelletti

ILLUSTRATORS

Ash Dunteman

Ava Aanderud

Braylon Belloni

Cecilia Seldera-Bahnson

Chloe Isaacman

Ella Jaksha

Emma Harris

Joey Bezner

Joaquim Gruber

Julian Ramirez-Sanchez

Maddy Lazarow

Naomi Betz

Natasha Maltman

Oliver Barlow

Paris Snider

Saj Sundaram

Sneha Chopra

Sofia Moscovitch

Tori Wilke

Zoe Maitland

Kaitlin McDaid

Olyvia Bankovitch

Racheal Davidson

Sierra Baker

Taylor Jones

Wallie Butler

Ying Thum

Ella Kenan

Ella Tatum Moriarty

Elsie Ferber

Emerald Skye

Emily Casciani

Emily Cook

Emily Hall

Emily Hatch

Emily Muro

Emma Rubin

Emma Watanabe

Esmé Comstock

Eva Frezza

Eva Rose Brazfield

Eve Haghighi

Evelyn Park

Fernanda Gonzalez

Huerta

Francesca Overton

Gidi Batya

Grace Grunwald

Hannah Kaufmann

Harper Meyer

Helen Myers

Henry Martin

Isabella King

Isabella Razura

Isabella Thomas

Ivi Coleman

Izzy Pope

Janaya Pardo

Jessalyn Beninati

Jessie Higa

Joey Bezner

Joey Matsuno

Josie Cunningham

Julian Eclarinal

Julian Ramirez-Sanchez

Kadin Mitchell

Kaia Mikulka

Kayla Chang

Keiran Christiansen

Kennedi Cutliff

Khushi Mishra

Kimberly Bowman

VIDEOGRAPHERS

Adrian Beltran

Jake Borja

Kate Cooper

Matthew Bedrosian

May Byrne

Minami Salas

Nahla Wilson

Rachel Ehly

Stella Van Goor

Diego Solorio

Elizabeth Lucas-Lucas

Hana Jessup

Iman Zarlons

Kaitlyn Moldovan

Maura McNeil

Sofia Cervantes

Kira Curtis

Kira Vernon-Gauthier

Krisha Borgonha

Lela Akiyama

Lily Reese

Maddy Hughes

Madeline Dell

Madeline Zeller

Madisen Kunkler

Makende Stewart

Malya Fass

Maura McNeil

Max Zembur

May Byrne

Maya Clausman

Maya Gangishetti

Mercy Schmidt

Mia Fairchild

Mika Maii

Millie Langarica

Milly Gamlen

Morgan Glinski

Nahla Wilson

Naseeb Reyes

Natalia Finney

Natalie Caddell

Nina Latto

Nina Latto

Olivia Roberts

Quinn Vormbaum

Reed Fine

Reiley Lesyk

Sailor Lombardi

Sally LaChica

Shinee Kingkaew

Simleen Gulati

Sofia Cervantes

Stephanie Hensley

Sylvie Rokoff

Taylor Jones

Vy Lam

Will Ficker

Will Martin

Zoe Maitland

MUSIC CONNOISSEURS

Arianna Rinaldi

Benjamin Cohen

Bianca Lewis

Ellie Acosta

Gretchen Scheck

Henry Martin

Isabella Thomas

Katterina Mehring

Maddy Hughes

Makayla Sur

Mia Fairchild

Millie Langarica

Natalie Robinson

Piper Smyth

Sylvie Rokoff

JOIN OUR TEAM

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Follow us @align_mag on Instagram Read past issues and our digital content at alignmaguo.com

MUSIC

Curated by the Align Music Team, this playlist explores the sounds that are timeless and everlasting.

Could You Be Loved .............................................................................................................

You’re Not the Only One I Know.................................................................................................................

It’s Easy to Remember...............................................................................................................

Electric Relaxation.........................................................................................................................

Julie Profumo...........................................................................................................................

Down to the Waterline......................................................................................................................................

If You Leave Me Now..............................................................................................................................................

Brokedown Palace......................................................................................................................................

Old Man.................................................................................................................................................................

California...........................................................................................................................................................

What’s Going On...........................................................................................................................................

Breathe (In the Air)..............................................................................................................................................

Don’t Let

Listen to the full Evergreen playlist: ALIGN ON AIR:

VIDEO

The Align Video Team has created various projects to express the spirit of Evergreen and capture the behind the scenes of creative events. Here are a few of our favorite projects. Watch them at @align_mag on Instagram or on our website.

BEHIND THE SCENES FOR BELLTOWER BAND

By Adrian Beltran

By Sofia Cervantes

BLOG

From Align’s free-for-all, say anything, corner of the internet, here are some of our favorite blogs written for Evergreen.

AMERICAN PARADISE: THE HISTORY OF NATIONAL PARK PRESERVATION

By Claire O’Connor

HERE, QUEER, NOT GOING TO DISAPPEAR: A RETROSPECTIVE ON DRAG

MEMORIALIZED: THE SUBTLE ART OF BEING REMEMBERED By Hope Call

SOLASTALGIA: THE MENTAL HEALTH OF CLIMATE CHANGE By Jake

Borja

IN BLOOM

By Stella Van Goor

Abysmal

DRUCKER V. KLIGMAN PHARMACEUTICALS GATHERED IN THE ORANGE GLOW THE KITCHEN, WHERE LOVE PERSISTS THE LIE WE CHOOSE TO BELIEVE UNTYPICAL LOST

WRITTEN BY EMILY HATCH

ART DIRECTOR KAIA MIKULKA PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOEY MATSUNO STYLIST ALYSSIA

TRUONG MODELS EVELYN PARK LELA AKIYAMA, LISA GARLAND & MIKA MAII DESIGNER

RYAN EHRHART

Japanese design is defined by its meticulous attention to detail and thoughtful design, where every element has a purpose and deeper meaning. It is refined by spiritual belief and a symbiosis with nature’s rhythms, resulting in understated, timeless elegance. In a country perpetually reshaped by earthquakes and tsunamis, the Japanese honed an iconic and lasting style, designed to withstand environmental torments. Like the evergreen tree that endures each season with quiet strength, retaining its color year-round, Japanese architecture embodies timeless resilience. Its resilience is rooted in its capacity to be continuously reborn in the wake of

destruction. Centuries of living in a land defined by volatility led to a fluid, light, and modular building style. Structures were traditionally made of wood, paper, and other natural materials, allowing for flexibility and swift reconstruction after being destroyed by frequent natural disasters. However, this wasn’t just practical; it was spiritual.

Shinto and Buddhist beliefs emphasize the impermanence of all things and a reverent coexistence with nature. In Shintoism, divinity is believed to reside in the landscape. Every tree, river, and blade of grass is imbued with a sacred presence. In Buddhism, the inevitability of change is not feared but embraced,

seen as a vital part of the cycle of renewal and rebirth.

The architectural simplicity was not just a solution to seismic instability, but a physical representation of Japanese spirituality. Japanese homes and temples often incorporate interior gardens, bringing the outside in, blurring the boundary between human life and the natural world. Rooms breathe with paper screens; light enters delicately through rice paper and wooden lattices. Everything is built to coexist with nature, not conquer it.

In embracing the inevitability of change, Japanese design offers a subtle paradox: how can something be timeless if it is designed to be rebuilt? The only thing that can be counted on in this world is constant change; anything

that cannot keep up is mercilessly left behind to degrade and slowly fade from existence. Rather than resisting nature’s cycles, it flows with them, rebuilding not as an act of defeat, but of continuity.

This tradition extends beyond ancient temples and countryside homes. In the 1950s and ‘60s, Japanese visionary architects translated these spiritual and ecological values into a language fit for the urban age. Known as the Metabolists, they saw cities not as fixed forms but as living organisms, capable of growth, renewal, and transformation. Leading architects of the movement imagined concepts that toed the line between futuristic and ancient, manifesting as modular towers and structures resembling trees. The movement evoked a biological renewal

and a Buddhist view of transformation. These architects didn’t abandon the past; they reinterpreted its core values for a modern world, drawing on flexibility and a deep respect for the natural environment. Their designs reflected the cyclical nature of life, echoing the Japanese belief that death and rebirth are inextricable.

Today, the tension between modernity and tradition continues to shape Japanese architecture

and the rest of the world, especially as the West becomes increasingly receptive to Japanese values and design. Cities like Tokyo — where cutting-edge skyscrapers coexist with ancient shrines and gardens — serve as examples of this philosophical integration.

The interplay between the new and the old, progress and memory, remains. Underneath it all, the same philosophies ingrained in Shinto and

Buddhist beliefs remain. Like the human soul, living spaces are shaped by their relationship to the earth, the seasons, and the unseen forces that guide life’s rhythms.

Throughout time, Japanese architecture has remained an evergreen aesthetic — adapting to the changing seasons of life, enduring through disaster, and continuing to resonate in contemporary design.

Loaf, Actually

Bread is a cornerstone of human history. It represents more than a means of survival or an introduction to the restaurant experience. Bread weaves cultures together as a symbol of comfort, celebration, new beginnings, and community.

The varieties of bread worldwide encompass the diversity of textures, flavors, and culinary traditions. From ciabatta to lavash, challa, soda bread, johnnycakes, or pumpernickel, bread is always welcome at the table.

Its role today is a constant reminder of its long history. Bread bowls, made popular by the fast-food chain, “Panera,” recall days in the Middle Ages when lower-class people used bread as a plate. The word “bread” is also rooted in everyday sayings. Bread and dough are both popular synonyms for money and represent a period of history when bread was used as a currency. “Breaking bread” embodies bread’s symbolism for community and fellowship. The idiom can be found throughout the Bible, but later gained a secular significance. Breaking bread can mean to reconcile, make peace, in addition to referring to the act of sharing a meal with a community. The saying, “that’s the best thing to happen since sliced bread,” is a true shout-out to Mr. Otto Frederick Rohwedder, inventor of the first commercial bread-slicing machine in 1928, which revolutionized bread production.

But the real history of bread dates back over 30,000 years. During the Paleolithic and Neolithic Eras, our ancestors knew bread in the form of flatbread. It wasn’t until 3000 B.C.E. that the ancient Egyptians redefined breadmaking by developing the first leavened breads using wild yeast. From there, bread baking spread throughout Europe, where it gained immense significance.

During the Roman Empire, bread was not only a staple food but also had economic and social significance. White bread required more labor to produce and thus became a symbol of wealth and status. The debate between white and brown bread marked early class divisions.

Over time, bread evolved into a form of currency. Shortages of bread led to riots in the streets, becoming central to political movements. During the French Revolution, the famous phrase, “let them eat cake,” was attributed to Marie Antoinette during a time of widespread famine and social unrest.

Bread’s timeless journey as a substance, a symbol, and a staple in kitchens worldwide

As humans migrated across the world, they carried their knowledge of bread-making and connected it to their history, leading to the many varieties of bread we know today. Ancient civilizations like the Egyptians, Mesopotamians, and Persians traded grains and baking techniques, influencing regions across Asia, Africa, and Europe.

Europe has France’s baguette, Italy’s focaccia, and Germany’s rye. North America features San Francisco sourdough, tortillas in Mexico, and Southern U.S. cornbread derived from Native American cuisine. Africa offers Moroccan khobz, South African potbrood, and chapati, a flatbread common to East Africa. In Asia, naan and roti are staples of India, baozi is popular in China, and shokupan is a soft, square bread from Japan.

While these are only some of the many types of bread worldwide, they each reflect the unique history, culture, and agricultural practices of their regions. Together, they form a global bread culture that has been shaped by centuries of trade, migration, and cultural exchange.

Aside from its vibrant history, bread also holds a special place in homes as an act of community and comfort. During the COVID-19 pandemic, many found solace in obsessive bread baking. The ritual of baking bread is therapeutic. Kneading the dough, watching it rise, then waiting to greet a warm, fresh loaf from the oven provides comfort, particularly during uncertain times. Many people, myself included, even personify aspects of bread. For example, sourdough starters often have human names and become companions in the kitchen. I got my sourdough starter, Sharron, from a kind woman on Nextdoor who left me a jar of it in her mailbox.

Bread is passed across countries just as it is passed down through generations. Many families hand down their centuries-old secret bread recipes to grandchildren, making it a means of connecting to one’s ancestry, heritage, culture, or religion. It isn’t just simple ingredients that go into the process of braiding challa, pressing masa tortillas, or decorating focaccia; it is also love and perseverance.

Bread is a reminder that great things take time. It is not always a one-day project like other baked goods, but it is certainly a labor of love with the intent of bringing people together. Bread’s consistency throughout human history represents the enduring nature of traditions and the cultural importance of foods.

WHAT

STRETCH MARKS, SMILE LINES, AND PEELING BARK CAN TELL US ABOUT LIVING FULLY

Aging isn’t just the passage of time — it is the quiet accumulation of memory, endurance, and transformation. While society clings to youth through the use of smoothing creams and glossy filters, we all forget that beauty doesn’t vanish with age; it evolves. There is power in wrinkle lines that map laughter, strength in scars that mark healing, and grace in the evolution of time. Aging reflects a life lived well, as each line, mark, and scar resembles evidence of memories endured.

MARKED

WRITTEN BY LILY REESE ILLUSTRATED BY TAYLOR JONES

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR NATALIE ROBINSON

DESIGNER KENNEDI CUTLIFF

As a young woman in my early 20s, I’m already exhausted by the commentary surrounding aging, the complaints about stretch marks, the resigned jokes from my mother and her friends claiming, “We’re too old to wear that,” and the quiet fear that one day we’ll stop being desirable. Maybe it is because I’m still young, but I don’t see the marks of time as something to be ashamed of; rather, I look forward to welcoming them wholeheartedly.

There is a concept in Japanese culture called wabi-sabi, where aging is respected and celebrated; it is not something to hide or erase, but something to embrace.

In every life cycle, we grow, we live, and we get old. However, throughout our lives, we continue to begin again. We live cyclically because nature lives cyclically. Like us, nature cracks, sheds, and transforms as it ages. Yet we revere in nature’s weathered state, admiring its “imperfections,” its wrinkles of time.

As redwoods stretch skyward, their limbs soar high above our heads, indifferent and eternal. Meanwhile, their roots crack the Earth beneath them, pushing up the ground in quiet defiance. The bark of redwoods peels like the pages from an unwritten book, each ring represents a record of years that came and went without fanfare.

Like the redwoods, we, too, grow resilient. Experiences of life lift us, carry us, and make us steady in a way youth has not yet learned. Like the bark of a redwood — cracked, weathered, and worn — we as humans wear the markings of time. Wrinkles are not flaws, they are records. Smile lines trace the years we spent laughing, loving, and surviving. Each crease is proof: we were here, and we lived unconditionally.

These so-called “imperfections” are not erasures of beauty; they are additions. They deepen our sense of self. Where youth offers brightness, age offers depth — depth of knowing, of feeling, of being. Aged faces are not devoid of liveliness. They are full of stories, memories, and quiet triumphs. There is emotional and experiential value in every furrowed brow and every softened jawline.

Objects often tell similar stories. A weathered wooden house doesn’t just stand — it testifies. The worn floorboards, the sun-bleached paint, and the creaks in the stairs all speak to a life lived within its walls. A scratch on a table, a rusted hinge on a door, a faded spine of a book — these are the patina of love, time, and human touch. Aging in objects becomes a form of storytelling.

The people and things that have endured, whether through the wear of time or the challenges of life, carry a deeper value. They are something earned, something rooted in experience.

Why, as a society, do we only associate aging with decay? In reality, aging is the mark of everything that came before, every breakup, every midterm completed, every summer spent in the sun, every moment of stress, and every moment of living.

As the youngest sibling in my family, there is this idea I’ve carried: you are never actually old enough. I remember when my sister turned 16 and started driving. I thought to myself, “When I’m her age, when I’m ‘older,’ I’ll finally feel different.” But when I turned sixteen, nothing changed. I still felt young, like there was another milestone ahead, another age I had to reach to feel “older.” That feeling still hasn’t gone away, I’m not sure it ever will.

Whether you’re 21 or 67 years old, there always seems to be another moment just around the corner, another milestone, another year that makes you wonder, “Maybe then I’ll feel older?” But if that is the constant — if we’re always looking forward as we tend to do — then the question remains, will we ever actually feel old enough?

Time alters, but it also reveals. Aging adds layers of memory, emotion, and context. What is worn is often what is most deeply lived. The old forest does not apologize for its gnarled limbs; it stands tall, bearing witness, as should we.

So as you age, remember to live your life to the fullest, not in defiance of time, but in harmony with it. Each crease, each ache, each softened edge tells a story. You must embrace your human form, not despite its changes, but because of them. To age is not to fade, but to deepen, in presence, in understanding, in life.

BY TIME

A Tale of Two Wavering Souls

THE MEANING OF AN ANNIVERSARY

Cicadas buzz loudly as I step onto the ground, as if to drown out my sorrow and everything with it. The grass is a fervid yellow, clearly parched for water and neglected in care. The air is thick with heat — my breathing becomes disoriented upon stepping out of my car into the so-called fresh air. I look around at the miserable sight; a desolate graveyard with moss-covered stone, the writings on each worn so much I’m unable to make out most of their names. In one hand, I hold a bouquet, a burst of color amid this monochromatic garden of souls. Sweat forms at my brow furrow, and my polyester suit soaks up all the heat like a wet sponge.

I hate to call it what it is, but I’ve yet to come up with a better name. This sweltering August day is the anniversary of my lover’s death. Typically, the term “anniversary” is used in a celebratory sense, as an anniversary marks a milestone worth celebrating. But to celebrate a death simply sounds cruel. My heart tugs at its aching strings each time I remember the day she left, the day she unexpectedly fell off the face of the earth without a trace, without a word of her own volition. I see her grave; it is littered in worn letters I’d left in the past and framed in dead flowers. Our shared keepsakes sit at the foot of her grave, a painful reminder of our time together. Rose, I can’t move on. I’m stuck on you. It’s like I’ve died too. I can’t get out of bed in the morning without a pit sinking into my stomach. You haunt my dreams, my memories, even my very conscious thoughts. You were my past, present, and

future. How could I be so selfish as to keep living on without you?

I walk away from the graveyard, finding myself in an empty field of vibrant green. In my pocket I find a crumpled sticky note in a vibrant orange hue. I take it out, carefully opening it, edges frayed. In dark purple ink, in that handwriting I know too well, I feel my eyes water once again. “Good luck,” it reads. As I weep, I curl into a ball, my knees to my chest as I hold the note close, pretending it’s her. It feels like the world has come to an end. How can I move on when everything reminds me of you, Rose? It is as if she has become part of me.

In the blistering heat of August, I hold a red gingham picnic blanket in one hand and Jane Eyre in the other. I look to the picturesque mountains, the clouds enveloping their peaks, and the trees bordering their connection to the ground. Though the temperature is

beyond scorching, I cannot deny that it is a beautiful day. Before me is the desolate, neglected, and lonely graveyard, the grass a patchy yellow. The sun pokes through the empty pockets of trees, shining onto the ground. I look ahead to one grave in particular, the only one with a flower crown resting atop the tombstone.

To my devastation, today marks the anniversary of the death of my partner. His absence weighs heavily, but I’ve learned to leave it alone. The pain I felt after his death lingered like a disease coursing

through my veins. It was like a trigger — each small, seemingly meaningless thing seemed to break the dam of tears, flooding into my memories and halting time itself. My love for him is overflowing, amplifying all my emotions tenfold. I look back on these memories and the items I associate with him with fond adoration. Oh, how lucky I was to have been the love of his short-lived life. I treat each death anniversary as a relaxing day of visiting, celebrating our love, and nurturing his soul with shared memorabilia.

After paying my respects to his grave and talking his ghost’s ear off, I wander into the empty field nearby. The green

grass calls my name from afar each time I glance over. The picturesque mountains and abundance of trees surround me, and the breeze occasionally brushes the hair out of my face. I feel a weird sensation of serenity. My body is relaxed despite the pain of today. Unfolding my picnic blanket, my heart-shaped locket falls out onto the grass. I pick it up with curiosity, opening it to find a slightly crumpled picture of him with his toothiest grin. A wave of warmth washes over me. I put the locket on, leaving it open, before I sit on the blanket and open Jane Eyre. Accompanied by the sound of my voice reading is the chirping of birds and the buzz of summer, surrounding us whole.

“The picturesque mountains and abundance of trees surround me, and the breeze occasionally brushes the hair out of my face.”

WRITTEN BY VIVIANN NGUYEN

ART DIRECTOR ANNA CURTIS

PHOTOGRAPHED BY MADDY LAZAROW & NATASHA MALTMAN MODELS DAVIS LESTER & REILEY LESYK STYLIST CORI MARKUS DESIGNER EVELYN OROZCO

EMMA HARRIS

RECESSION ROUTINE

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF 20-SOMETHING IN THE CORPORATE WORLD

It’s six in the morning. The market is already open on the East Coast. I’m in New York City, the capital of the world. Turning on my side, the twin bed creaks as my arm reaches for my cell phone. In his sleep, my roommate grumbles about the lack of organic bananas at the food pantry. Switching on my device, I check my stock holdings. This morning ritual is assuredly not healthy. But how can I help my obsession with the market? It is, or at least used to be, my path towards prosperity. Dreams of a Master’s degree, of a room of my own, disappear. Blearyeyed, I blink away the crusted tears from last night. It is increasingly difficult to distinguish between figments of my imagination and my stagnant life. The door to the bathroom is open; I see my hollowed cheeks and cracked lips in the mirror. I brush my teeth methodically to get rid of the rancid aftertaste of last night’s happy hour. Memories of shared LinkedIn profiles and proposed coffee chats flood my mind.

The only reminder of reality is the abandoned ramen noodle, the remnants of an artfully crafted classic, which lies limp on the blue kitchen tile. When you live in a single room, the kitchen is the bedroom and the bedroom is the kitchen. The styrofoam cup rests precariously on my sink,

not fully consumed, not yet in the garbage. This and the flood of notifications from my landlord remind me that I have not taken the disintegrating bag out to the trash can. Not in a week. The only indicator of the month is the increasing light that creeps into the desolate room. At 7:15, I scrounge for a cup of overnight oats. I forgot to meal-prep this week. Past their expiration date the peanut butter topping, like my market prospects, has begun curdling. As I search for a spoon, the hinges on the drawer squeak. Within 10 minutes, I’ve finished my breakfast. Looking down at my pajamas (my prep school t-shirt and sweats), I realize that I need to get dressed for work. The threadbare soles of my heels from happy hour peek out from under the frayed gray couch. My favorite skirt is still in the plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner. On Monday, my boss spilled their Americano on the gray silk in the elevator. Hangers clash against each other and my collection of neutral blazers become indistinguishable. How many sculpted suit jackets do I need? Money is best spent in investments. Maybe I could resell the tweed one with red buttons on The RealReal. It could still be worth something. Shuffling across the street towards the L line, I calculate the value of my closet if I were to start over, if

I were to adhere to true minimalism. But I get distracted by the Loewe advertisement in the subway stairway.

The 10-hour work day disappeared before me. My eyes, glassy from the incessant Outlook notifications, drift away from the downward arrows on the screen and towards the neon glow of the clock. The market hasn’t improved. My ergonomic chair has now melded to my thoracic spine. Thoughts drift to the dinner at eight with colleagues, where I am tasked with describing the investment portfolio. After receiving a business degree from a top university, I was honored to be employed by a large financial firm. In this line of work, I prefer the numbers to the people. An alluring spread of sashimi and king crab sits before me. The food is merely decoration. I am still on the clock. Bringing the steaming

cup of tea to my lips, my coworker explains a proposed tariff policy and the ramifications on free trade. I catch the eye of the waiter. Signaling for the check, I add up my per diem rates from the past month. Rather than blow the daily rate on cosmopolitans, I try to pocket roughly half for my savings. If I could get that promotion, I’d be able to take one night to myself, rather than entertaining my co-workers. Others head to the back door. I wait behind. Maybe if I get the promotion, then I could get a studio apartment.

I will myself to sleep after a final refresh on my holdings. Somehow, my suitemate resumed sleep talking about organic produce. Visions of prosperity, of satisfaction, dance before my eyelids. Another day awaits.

WRITTEN BY BEATRICE KAHN

ART DIRECTOR HARRY NOWINSKY

PHOTOGRAPHED BY NAOMI BETZ & PARIS SNIDER

MODELS KAIA MIKULKA, KRISHA BORGONHA & SAILOR LOMBARDI

STYLIST NINA LATTO

DESIGNER KAYLA CHANG

WRITTEN BY AMANDA LAN ANH

ART DIRECTOR & PHOTOGRAPHER ELIOT CORRELL STYLIST OLIVIA ROBERTS

DESIGNER ABIGAIL RAIKE

MODELS ASHLEY DUNTEMAN & MADISEN KUNKLER

romises are meant to be kept. They are forged in public, notarized by hands and rings and spitshakes and signatures, witnessed by God or the government or the unfortunate friend who agreed to be your emergency contact. These are the promises that come with conditions, clauses, loopholes. The promises that, when broken, require litigation or at least an uncomfortable conversation over coffee.

And then there are the other ones — the quiet, unspoken promises we make to ourselves in the lonely, liminal spaces of life. In a grocery store aisle, staring at the fluorescent betrayal of our reflection in the freezer door. In an airport terminal at 5 a.m., when sleep deprivation and stale air trick us into believing in reinvention. In the passenger seat of a car we should have already left, fingers digging into the fabric of our jeans, thinking, I will not let this happen again.

Somewhere, there is a version of us who keeps these promises.

That version is probably insufferable. She wakes up at five, runs until her lungs burn, drinks water like it’s her religion, and journals with the diligence of a war correspondent. That version always leaves when she says she will. That version never wakes up with regret crusted around the

edges of her mouth. But that version is not here. That version exists only in the back of our mind, shaking her head as we break, once again, the promise we made just last week.

But in truth, we are ouroboros — creatures devouring our own endings in search of a new beginning — mistaking the loop for a ladder because it lets us feel ascendant while staying exactly where we are. We make the same promises, again and again, like a gambler convinced that this time, the odds are different.

Maybe the important promises are not the ones we get right the first time, but the ones we come back to.

Some promises stick. Some we make once and call philosophy. Others, we repeat until they harden into habit. And some philosophies are just habits dressed up in meaning — conviction retrofitted by consequence. Promise something often enough and it calcifies: caution mistaken for wisdom, repetition mistaken for belief.

Take, I will never beg for love. The first time, it is an act of dignity. The second, an act of self-preservation. The third, a reflex. And then, one day, you realize it is no longer a promise but a truth, woven so tightly into your being that you cannot separate it from yourself. You do not touch the stove not because you are resisting, but because you have learned the language of heat.

And yet, there are the other promises. The ones that feel important when we make them, but dissipate the moment they are tested. The ones we only keep until it is no longer convenient. I will leave next time becomes I will leave when it gets worse, which becomes I will leave when I’m ready, which eventually dissolves into I would have left if it had been worse, which is just another way of saying I stayed.

And what happens when we break these promises?

Nothing.

No divine reckoning. No montage of lessons learned, no narrator solemnly explaining the arc of our character development. Just the dull, vaguely humiliating thud of recognition: we are not, in fact, the exception. We are just as seduced by softness, by memory, by the narcotic pull of what’s familiar and just a little bit wrong. We are not forged from principle — we are patched together with longing and excuse.

Perhaps this is why we romanticize vows. Not because they guarantee virtue, but because they require witnesses. A promise is easier to keep when someone else is watching. We want our commitments to mean something, and meaning often requires an audience.

So we do what people have always done.

We make new promises.

And maybe that is the nature of being human. Maybe the measure of a person is not how many promises they keep, but how many they remake. Maybe the important promises are not the ones we get right the first time, but the ones we come back to, over and over, carving them into ourselves through sheer repetition until, eventually, they are not promises at all — just a part of who we are.

HERE’S MY PROMISE:

I promise to hydrate.

To eat something green that isn’t envy.

To go outside when the sun is out, even if I’m still mad at it.

I promise to stop waiting for the mirror to apologize. To look forward, not inward, or at least not downwards.

I promise— well, I’ll try.

And if I don’t keep it, I’ll write it prettier next time.

RECONSTRUCTING THE COLLEGE TOWN:

HOW CAMPUS EXPANSION MAY IMPACT

STUDENT AND RESIDENT EXPERIENCE

The college town is uniquely American. Most international universities such as Imperial College London, the University of Edinburgh, and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich reside in their country’s largest and most bustling cities. Even in Canada, as scholar Henry Srebrnik explains, students treat their schools more like companies, going back and forth between class and home .

Only in the United States can the largest universities exist alongside mom-and-pop shops in residential neighborhoods. In Eugene, the coexistence between the university and its residential community is part of what makes the University of Oregon special. Weekend-night haunts like Prince Puckler’s and Hilyard Street Market sit alongside the homes of young families and elderly couples. Many of these residents are also employed at the UO, creating a symbiotic relationship between the school and the community. In return for putting up with the antics of college kids, locals get close access to high-level athletics, public lectures, and other exciting aspects of college life.

However, that relationship might soon become strained. The UO recently unveiled the 2025 UO Next Generation Housing Development Plan, a new construction project in the East campus neighborhood. The first phase of the plan will begin in the summer of 2025 as ground breaks on an 870bed residence hall. Another portion of the project includes a proposed six-story residence hall for older undergraduates. The Daily Emerald reported that East neighborhood residents expressed their concerns about the project, including increased traffic and worries about overcrowding. Others said they understand that change is inevitable and that amenities provided by the UO are vital to their community.

How might the planned construction affect Eugene’s status as a college town? Of course, East Campus is only a portion of the city, but it is arguably the most visited by students. You’re more likely to find people in the park, huddled around a tree, in a dimly lit corner at midnight than at the university’s heart. Additionally, the small neighborhood restaurants and shops allow young people to participate in a trial run of adulthood. Students maintain houses or apartments, shop for groceries, and fulfill other “adult” obligations. New dorms and the amenities that come with them eliminate the challenges that face students entering their second years and beyond.

As UO expands further into the East campus neighborhood, the lines between the community and the university will blur. Writer Blake Gumprecht speculated that as college towns grow, they will begin to resemble the major metropolises that they once offered an alternative to. They become filled with, “traffic, sprawl, high real estate prices, and chain-store culture,” he wrote. While the UO details plans to preserve as many existing neighborhoods as possible, it is hard to imagine that the currently proposed projects will be the end of the university’s expansion. Dorms need dining halls, dining halls need truck depots, and students may soon see the reach of the university expand further into residential neighborhoods. Those dimly lit edges of town are now more likely to be bathed in the light of a UO dorm, dining hall, or building.

The new dorms do solve a problem facing many UO students. According to a 2025 UO Board of Trustees meeting, more than 1,000 students are on a housing waitlist. The more the school expands, however, the fewer students will be able to get the full Eugene experience beyond the limits of university property.

WRITTEN BY BRADY JONES

ILLUSTRATED

BY KAITLIN MCDAID

DESIGNER STELLA RANELLETTI

CHILD’S PLAY

Schoolyard

games and the slow death of sincere connection

It is the last day of school, and your elementary days are now forever behind you. June’s sun is beating down, heating your scalp, which is already tight from the pigtails your mom strung in. You hop from one leg to the other across chalky numbered squares drawn on the concrete by small, eager hands. The echoes of your friend’s cheers seem to push your feet across the board, and, before you know it, you’ve made it to 10.

In Mumbai, India, a boy about your age is running towards his friend to tag him. The dirt kicks up from his bare feet, and it feels like he’s the fastest person who’s ever lived. Just as his swipe misses, he tags his teammate sitting on the line and yells “kho,” effectively switching places. The teammate makes the tag, and his whole team erupts into a choir of cheers against the blow of a whistle.

No matter the time, place, or culture, kids have always played games. Ancient Roman streets swarmed by children helped create the framework of games still played today during recess. In a world

WRITTEN BY AMELIA FIORE

ART DIRECTOR BLU MACKEY

PHOTOGRAPHED BY TORI WILKE

STYLISTS BLU MACKEY, JULIET POWER & REX BROWN

dominated by digital entertainment, it is easy to forget how simple, traditional games have connected children for centuries.

It is everywhere; dodgeball from the U.S., kabaddi from Sri Lanka, and peteca from Brazil are timeless. The simple rules are passed down through generations from kids who “age out” of the practice. Games are a tradition of youth, a link in the long chain of our ancestry.

When the second season of “Squid Games” released this past summer, viewers took notice of its thematic irony. The show’s children’s games acted as a perfect antithesis to the greed and violence fostered by a crumbling socioeconomic climate. In the show, 456 contestants, most struggling financially,

compete in a series of deadly children’s games until there is only one lucky winner left. As characters played ddakji ( 딱지), gong-gi (공기), and jegichagi (제기차기), they hoped their peers would perish so their chances of winning the jackpot would increase. As grocery prices skyrocket, communities clash, and rent becomes impossible to afford, we may be forced to take a far leap from our communal roots to a violent, “every man for himself” society.

Nowadays, most children come home from school and fall straight into bed to scroll through personalized feeds. Instead of monkey bars, they swing from post to post. Preteen girls promote collagen cream on TikTok accounts with millions of underage followers, and, according to The Annie E. Casey Foundation, 65 percent of kids aged eight to 10 spend up to four hours on social media a day. Growing up online seems to be a catalyst for rapid maturation.

These apps create a curated environment to keep children trapped in their algorithms. TikTok, Instagram reels, and other short-form video content suck them in with flashy new concepts and trends. Amidst the constant current of entertainment, the practice of boredom is often lost. It is how these games were created in the first place, how children filled the gaps between chores and schoolwork with make-believe. With the world at our fingertips, there isn’t much of a reason to create anymore. It is all right there.

Children thinking — connecting — is dangerous to tech developers and content creators whose business models rely on the short attention span of children. As simple as it sounds, playing, being bored, and entertaining yourself with your own imagination, is a way to resist technological dependence.

While the concerns sound like an ancient ad nauseam complaint, the thought of a future without freeze tag

seems like an odd, dystopian fever dream. A culture that is cultivated through isolation and competition will not be kind to children who crave genuine connection or uniqueness. Schoolyard games are taught by word-of-mouth, a rare medium nowadays with the rise of online communication and copy-andpaste trends. Kids are being hand-fed instructions in the digital age, which threatens blossoming creativity that comes with rule-making and imaginative worldbuilding.

As Generation Alpha grows up in a world that is so polarized and isolated, what does their future in society look like? It is hard to imagine that social

interaction will maintain its current normalities, which is the case for each new generation. This time, however, it feels somewhat like an omen of what’s to come.

You are 21 and can’t remember the last time you sat in a circle to play “down by the banks of the hanky panky.” Does growing up mean you’ve left your recess rituals behind? The boy in Mumbai wonders the same. While the games you played in your youth left you out of breath, passing by empty playgrounds is far more troubling. As an act of defiance, be childlike. Keep the spirit of the schoolyard alive.

MODELS ACHILLES DAS, BELLA THOMAS, EMILY CASCIANI, JULIAN ECLARINAL, KADIN MITCHELL, MAKENDE STEWART, MILLY GAMLEN & NAHLA WILSON

DESIGNER ELIANNA MABAET

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEURS ARIANNA RINALDI & MIA FAIRCHILD

WRITTEN BY

LUKE BOTTOMLEY

ILLUSTRATED BY ELLA

JAKSHA

DESIGNER PREETHI BUDDHARAJU

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR ELLIE ACOSTA

PLEADING Action movies, Disney,

PLEADING

Curiosity

is central to the human experience, a need to understand. However, there are things which we simply cannot explain, things which science or logic can’t reach — and so, we’ve created myth. Whether to detail a history that isn’t remembered, or to explain the crueler parts of our lives, or to simplify the feelings which connect us, myths have always played a crucial role in helping us define ourselves.

Today, the mention of mythology usually brings the image of Greek or Roman gods as relics of antiquity. This is understandable, considering the Greeks coined the term, but the reach of myth has extended far beyond that to the modern day, morphing to fit the needs of the times. Now, we have entered a new era of myth through a uniquely modern medium: film.

One of the more pertinent examples of mythology through film can be found in Harrison Ford fighting Nazis with a whip. On the surface, the “Indiana Jones” films don’t quite match up with something like the “Odyssey” or “Beowulf,” but it contains the same core elements as these myths do. As many creationary myths of the past do, “Indiana Jones” inserts itself within real history, in this case, of World War II, in order to create a fictionalized history that exaggerates what the storytellers want to get across. Indiana Jones fights against the most common modern representation of true evil in the Nazis, becoming idealized as a figure of true good and strong morals. This may seem similar to the concept of fiction as a whole, conveying a message through a story, but the character of Indiana Jones’ significance in pop culture and the clearly defined morals create a different significance than any typical work of fiction.

Apart from the heroism of Indiana Jones himself, the film franchise uses real mythology as central plot points to further mythologize the character. The Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail from “Raiders of the Lost Ark” and “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” respectively, are both real mythical objects from Israelite and Arthurian mythology. At more of a stretch, “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” and “Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny” invent objects within Hindu and Greek mythology for Jones to crusade for. The fact that these objects come from mythology, real or not, helps to place the films in the mythological realm.

and filmic mythology

THE MYTH THE MYTH

In a pivot away from action movies of the ‘80s, filmic mythology has taken a distinct form within the past 30 years. Pixar and Disney have created a formula for perfecting animated films, one which takes on a form very similar to mythology. Each of the films have a central theme or lesson which the characters convey through their journeys, just as any ancient mythological story would. The popularity of these films among western audiences has created their own kind of modern mythological canon, standardizing the lessons the films contain. The themes of these films ae often the same, family, friendship, acceptance, and love. This creates a sort of Disney philosophy through its mythology. Apart from films like “Toy Story” or “Finding Nemo” which situate Pixar’s world within our own, Disney has used real mythology to add to its canon.

For instance, “Moana” uses the Polynesian mythological character of Māui to create its plot. Māui’s struggle in the film and the character of Moana were invented entirely by Disney, inserting its own piece to Polynesian mythology. Of course, the story doesn’t really have any weight in Polynesian myth because its only real relation is the character of Māui, but it does act as an insight to the mythological significance that Disney and Pixar’s canon is capable of holding. The morals Disney seeks to teach with its mythology are supplanted onto a preexisting mythology.

Apart from a new mythological canon, the recycling of ancient myths has become massively popular in the realm of film. “Moulin Rouge” used the Greek myth of Orpheus to create its plot, “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” is a retelling of Homer’s “Odyssey,” “The Green Knight” is a legend from Arthurian myth, and “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” uses a main plot point of Arthurian mythology in its story. The use of ancient myths in creating these films points again to the necessity of myth within our society. These myths were pertinent not just then, but they relate to our experiences now, better told to us through a familiar medium.

Mythology is ever present in human society, answering unanswerable questions and making us feel more secure in the unknown. Today, as we become more reliant on media to operate, mythology has taken on a new form. Film allows us to continue to answer questions on love, connections, and what we can’t understand through a medium we know, creating a modern mythological canon.

Evolutio Latinorum Scripta in Arena:

WRITTEN BY DREW TURIELLO ART DIRECTORS ANGELIKA STOLECKI & ELLA KENAN

DE SANCTIS & BLU MACKEY STYLIST

You stand atop a dune, the wind pulling at your clothes and whispering through the grains. Beneath your feet, the sand shifts — never still, never the same. In the air, a language rides the breeze, full of syllables no longer spoken, only remembered. Words no tongue has claimed in centuries still hum just beneath the silence, like echoes etched in stone, waiting. It is Latin. It threads through science, law, prayer, and memory. These dunes, like those old words, move and change,

but never vanish. They shapeshift across centuries, quietly persistent, reminders that what we bury does not always fade.

Latin was once the voice of empires. It echoed through Roman forums, scrawled itself across marble decrees and carried laws, logic, and liturgy across continents. When Rome fell, the language didn’t. It fractured and planted itself in silence –– into Italian, French, Spanish, English. It hid inside anatomy textbooks, legal documents,

mottos etched above courthouse doors. Ad astra per aspera. Habeas corpus. In vino veritas. Latin became the quiet scaffolding of western thought, no longer shouted in marketplaces but instead whispered through centuries of scholarship and structure. Though labeled dead, it adapted in a different way: by embedding itself everywhere.

Like the dunes, Latin has never held a single form – what seems fixed is always shifting. The wind reshapes the sand daily, just as time molds language

into new silhouettes. The dunes are never the same two days in a row, and neither is Latin. The language, like the dunes, adapts through movement –graceful, slow, almost invisible. And yet, it remains.

Both are landscapes of memory. As Egypt’s stone temples hold the weight of millennia, so, too, do these dunes hold time – not in permanence, but in persistence. The Romans once carved their words into marble, but now we find them, ghostlike, in the shifting sands of our own languages. Even as words erode and monuments crumble, what they meant, what they shaped endures.

But Latin’s endurance raises a deeper question: What does it mean for something to exist without being seen? Can a thing be alive, not in use, but in influence? Latin lives not in our mouths, but in our systems, our codes, our ways of ordering the world. It has become part of our unconscious infrastructure — so foundational that we no longer notice it. That is a stranger kind of immortality: not survival through visibility, but through absorption.

In this sense, Latin is not a monument, but an inheritance. We don’t look at it — we live through it. Its presence has become like gravity: invisible, constant, shaping us without us even knowing it. It is a reminder that the most powerful legacies are not the ones that demand attention, but the ones that reframe the way we perceive

And isn’t that what all human creation longs for? Not eternal life in the literal sense, but to leave a fingerprint on something lasting. To fade, but in the shape of a gesture. A phrase. A pattern of thought. We may die, but the way we once saw the world might stay, passed along in forms no one can trace back to

us. Latin shows us that to endure doesn’t mean to remain whole — it means to echo. And maybe that’s enough.

In the end, it is not monuments but whispers that endure, carried by the wind, etched in the sand. The dunes, like language, hold no memory but preserve the past through soft reshaping — each grain a story, each shift an echo. Latin lives on, not in loud voices but in the quiet impressions it leaves behind, shaping the world without being seen. Like the wind, it moves through us, reshaping and remaking, never truly gone — always present, always leaving traces.

With Permanent Ink

The history of tattoos and their ability to tell stories

In 1991, two tourists hiking the Alps accidentally discovered Europe’s oldest human mummy to date — 5,000-year-old Otzi the Iceman preserved in a melting glacier, unmistakably decorated with a total of 61 tattoos.

Tattoos serve as a symbol of permanence in our temporary existence, helping us to walk through life with a badge placed on our bodies that can’t be stripped from us. The practice has had deep cultural, personal, and spiritual significance to our kind for thousands of years, evolving with time, resilient and evergreen.

Ancient humans used tattoos to protect against evil, mark status and beliefs, assist therapeutically and medicinally, and to decorate the body. Celtic people used a blue plant-based dye to tattoo spirals, knots, and braids to symbolize life’s interconnection. In Polynesian culture, tattoos were chosen by masters to reflect one’s achievements, personality, and social status. Similarly, in Samoa, men’s tattoos called “pe’a” symbolize their manhood and familial commitment. The Maori people of New Zealand developed Tamoko, a tattoo practice that honored lineage, achievements, and tribal affiliation. In Maya culture, tattoos displayed courage and worshipped idols.

Tattoos have also been enforced as punishment, or have been perceived to carry stigma. In the U.S., missionaries in the 1700s made efforts to keep tattoos stigmatized, leading countercultural groups of the 1800s such as sailors, soldiers, and circus performers to use tattoos to express their beliefs and anti-establishment feelings, finding community in their otherness.

Artist Sailor Jerry learned tattooing from Japanese tattoo masters and emerged during WWII, tattooing chipper young sailors who were propelled into war. Jerry’s iconic designs helped push tattooing to become a bold and artsy way to self-identify outside of the constraints of mainstream society.

Counter-culture movements in the ‘60s and ‘70s fueled led to a wider social acceptance of tattoos. Celebrities like Janis Joplin inspired young people to get tattoos that spoke to hippie culture and the anti-war movement. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, getting tattooed and pierced was telling of punk culture’s contempt for social conformity. Rising popularity of tattoo art from foreign cultures like yin-yang symbols, Native American motifs, and Polynesian designs in the ‘90s sparked the first conversations about cultural appropriation.

Today, tattooing is a safe and sanitary practice that just about anyone under the sun can find their niche in. Tattoos freeze a moment onto a living canvas, giving artists a way for their art to be interactive and alive. Oregon artist Natalie Fletcher, known for taking the first season trophy of “Skin Wars” and her kickass tattoo skills, looks forward to a future where tattoos have fully integrated into society. “One day we’ll have a president that’s got a full sleeve,” she said, “and it’ll be like, super accepted, right?” Fletcher got her first tattoo at 18 in the early 2000s — a time when she says men dominated the industry and a drunken stumble into a shop to get inked was welcome.

In the last 20 years, and especially since COVID-19, she explained, it has become harder to spontaneously walk into shops. As artist reservations fill out months in advance, getting a tattoo has

turned into more of a special occasion. Fletcher believes that more people are taking ownership of their body as alternative forms of expression have become normalized. Today, the tattoo world is more feminine — from the tattoo artists to the physical art. Softer work welcomes more people into tattooing. These individual art styles change the way that tattoos are seen — not solely bold and hardcore pieces, but perhaps as subtle embellishments that anyone can personalize. “It’s almost kind of crazy if you meet someone that doesn’t have tattoos,” she said.

Fletcher’s arms are lined with fruits and vegetables, deadly herbs, and other “random, weird stuff” that her friends tattooed. After body painting in every state, Fletcher got a tattoo of the U.S. map. She carries a wild and adventurous attitude about tattooing while holding herself as an artist with a serious goal.

“The human body is the best canvas. It talks, interacts, and feels things,” she said. “As much as we treat tattooing as casual now, it is still a sacred art. There is still this permanence and seriousness to it. Every day for work, I f*cking change people.”

For as long as there has been ink, there has been a human with a story to tell. Permanent ink allows for us mortal humans to tell our stories. Tattoos give us a way to express who we are onto our vulnerable skin, a mark of bravery and a snippet into our souls. Tattoos are proof of the life we have lived.

While our mummy friend Otzi’s tattoos were preserved for 5,000 years, most tattoos done in the modern age will only last a lifetime, which may be all the more reason to get that tattoo.

RE-DONE

The significance of hand-me-down clothes

Iwait patiently and earnestly as my mom rustles through the back of her closet in pursuit of ancient treasures. “Found ‘em!” she finally shouts, hobbling out of the depths with a shiny black trash bag in her hand and a soft smile across her face. Carefully, she dumps out the objects from the bag onto her bed, forming a beautiful pyramid of vintage clothes. With hesitant fingers, I pick through each piece of clothing as if I’m flipping through the pages of my mother’s life. A blue corduroy button up, a black Patigonia fleece, roughed up on the cuffs and pilling down the chest, a fitted dark denim jacket with stars on the buttons, and a mid-length black skirt with dainty lace decorating the bottom. Life runs through them in loose threads and hanging buttons.

“Here, try this on,” she says and hands me the blue button up. The fabric is soft and flexible from the countless times it has been worn, and it has a smell unfamiliar to anything in our home — a smell from a time before. “I used to pair it with a white tank top and would leave the top two buttons open,” she explains, her eyes watching lovingly as I button up the shirt, never touching the top two.

There is something magical about receiving hand-me-down clothes from generations before. These clothes not only have the uniqueness and vintage qualities that clothes today just don’t possess, but they also carry sentimentalism, as they were a part of your parents life before you even existed. I imagine my mom, in her early 20s and glowing with youth, strolling down the streets of San Francisco. She walks through Crissy Field for miles, then to the Fisherman’s Wharf to rest and take in the sounds from the bay, then back to her apartment in the Marina District where her friends await. She is easily spotted in her new, bright blue corduroy button up, with the top two buttons left untouched, just like her friend Renee suggested. This shirt, like all hand-me-downs, lived through various experiences and moments throughout someone’s life, some mundane, some profound. While some look at this button up as just a shirt, to me, I see it as a witness. A testimony of a life that has been lived.

I gently touch the soft, corduroy fabric and I can sense the memories she made, the people she met, the ideas she shared, the places she saw–everything, all woven within this simple button up shirt. The memories that were created when this shirt was worn may be unknown to me, but they still shine through in subtle ways. When I wear that corduroy shirt I carry those memories with me — they don’t disappear in the washing machine. My mother’s experiences live on in each cuff and in every individual button and thread. And with that, my new memories are intertwined with the old in a spiral of never-ending life and love. The significance of hand-me-down clothes is that they never come to an end in their cycle of usage, they simply gain a new soul occupying the garment.

The threads of memories woven within this shirt connect my mother and I together in a unique and special way. Clothes are a striking example of self-expression, and to share clothes is to share a connection of love and understanding. When I wear this shirt, I get a glimpse into the life of a young woman before rambunctious kids, an exhausting career,

connection

and any idea of settling down. She is free, she is young, and she is ambitious. She is me, and I am her, and every wear of this shirt exemplifies that. That is a feeling a store bought shirt can never replace, and a song only a hand-me down can sing.

WRITTEN BY OLIVIA OLIVER

ART DIRECTORS ISABELLA URIBE & MAYA CLAUSMAN

PHOTOGRAPHED BY SAJ SUNDARAM

MODELS AILSA HUERTA, AVERY WILSON, MAXWELL ZEMBUR, & SALLY LACHICA

STYLIST ELIN LAWRENCE

DESIGNER MIA ROMERO

self-expression

WRITTEN

BY

Fire FUEL

STEPHANIE HENSLEY

ILLUSTRATED BY ASHLEY DUNTEMAN

DESIGNER SOFIA LENTZ

How agriculture is turning our world into a tinderbox

If you’ve ever thought wildfires only affect the land it burns, you’re wrong.

I was a sophomore in high school when, in 2019, the Kincade Fire blew through Sonoma County, California. Official reports said that the fire started near a 230,000 volt transmission line that failed, but there was no report on why it actually started.

The sky was bright orange for miles, even as far south as the San Francisco Bay Area. It wasn’t the first time I had seen something like this. Most northern Californians might remember the Camp Fire that decimated the town of Paradise in 2018 and turned the sky orange for weeks.

I kept wondering if there was ever a time that I wouldn’t feel anxious every time I looked at the sky . The amount of natural disasters and other calamities that we’ve seen in the news over the past few years has created a disturbing sense of apathy towards environmental issues, and my concern is that there’s going to be a point when people will stop caring altogether.

California is one of the biggest producers of agricultural products in the United States, if not the world, and is home to over 60,000 farms and ranches. To grow crops and raise animals you’ll need water, which means that nearly 34 million acre-feet (a unit of measurement for large quantities of water) of water is consumed each year to provide food for the world. The state’s water supply comes from surface water and groundwater, largely from rain in the northern part of the state, but water demand largely comes from southern California due to its dry climate. With a massive decrease in water, also due to high demand from farms for their crops, the precipitation will decline and eventually lead to dry land and low rainfall, making it perfect for wildfires to grow rapidly.

Groundwater drawdowns, which is the lowering of the groundwater level due to extraction, in California’s Central Valley led to drier soils. This means that less water vapor is released back into the atmosphere, thus suppressing local summer storms and locking in drought cycles. Trees and orchards are often neglected during droughts. Once they die, dried-up orchards can become fuel in large wildfires.

Individual ranchers and farmers are not the problem. Each person must find a way to provide for themselves and their families, as is the way of life, and that way of life might be running a largescale industrial farm. The issue lies with our reliance on industrial

agriculture, which has its roots based in the Industrial Revolution of the late 1800s and early 1900s. Industrial farming can be characterized by selective breeding of animals, use of heavy machinery like tractors and combines, and the increased use of chemicals (pesticides, insecticides, and herbicides). Because of the increase in food production and the growing worldwide population, farmers started becoming more selective in what crops they grew. Farms became less diverse in their crops, giving way to monoculture (fields planted with one crop species at a time).

In theory, monoculture isn’t a bad idea. Why grow only a few acres of one crop that may not sell in grocery stores, when you can grow 100 acres of the same crops and feed more people?

What most people don’t realize is that a million acres of lettuce will deteriorate when its water source is depleted, creating evenly spaced fuel for fires. Lettuce is a shallow-rooted crop with a high water demand. When the water is depleted, the entire area dries out evenly, turning it into a single layer of dry vegetation, which is perfect for fire fuel. By planting diverse crops, this breaks up the continuity of water demand and dry soil.

Our dependence on chemicals also resulted in dry soil between rows, so the soil doesn’t hold any moisture. This results in hotter surface temperatures and quicker ignition. The supply chain is also affected by fires, because when 80% of one crop comes from one area (ie; almonds in California), one megafire or an irrigationcutoff rips through national food prices and the livelihoods of farmers.

Fires like the Kincade Fire aren’t just natural disasters. They are symbols of a larger, interconnected web of issues, including how we grow our food, how we use our water, and how we’ve responded to climate change. It is easy to feel disconnected from agriculture if you live in a big city, but the truth is that we all depend on a system that’s currently breaking.

If we continue down the path of industrial agriculture without embracing sustainability, we’re not just risking our environment; we’re risking our food, our economy and our future. Change doesn’t come from one farmer or one fire season. Change grows when producers and consumers work together and realize that how we care for the land is how the land cares for us. By choosing sustainable and local agricultural practices rather than relying on industrial agriculture, we empower communities and build a food system that can endure.

A mindfulness exercise with Professor David McCormick

We tend to have this desire to speed time up when things are not going well, and to stop time when things are going well,” David McCormick said. “But time, in essence, doesn’t change. It goes at its own rate.”

With almost 30 years of practicing meditation and mindfulness — and experience teaching neuroscience to Buddhist monks in Tibetan monasteries in India — McCormick, University of Oregon Professor and Director of the Institute of Neuroscience, currently teaches a science-based elective on campus about the neuroscience of happiness.

Happiness: A Psychology and Neuroscience Perspective launched in 2020, and just under 2,000 students have already taken the course. With it being offered in the upcoming fall and spring terms, an additional 1,200 students are projected to take it next year. According to McCormick, then approximately 25 percent of students at the UO will have taken the course by the time they graduate.

In this course, meditation and mindfulness are central topics. After taking the course myself, I learned from McCormick that meditation can be a five minute exercise or an hour-long group session dedicated to quieting the mind. Mindfulness is consciously bringing our awareness to the present moment. With practice, meditation can help us learn to live mindfully, in the present moment.

Rather than ruminating on how much longer you have with your best friends until graduation or counting the days until distance rips you apart from your significant other, the best thing to do is be present and appreciate the moment for what it is.

“You can’t control time,” McCormick said, “so you have to learn to let go of the regret that a wonderful, pleasurable moment didn’t last forever, or the regret that an anxious time went on way longer than you had hoped.”

And while we cannot control or stop time, the closest we might come is through a core concept of Buddhist practice: jhana meditation. Author and jhana teacher Leigh Brasington explains that jhana involves nine altered states of consciousness, or jhanas, achieved through strong concentration in which one eventually experiences infinite space, time-less consciousness, and no-thingness.

The first time McCormick sat down and meditated, it was like “a storm in the middle of a roaring ocean,” but after six months of persistent, daily meditation, he started to see real progress.

His mind became “a still, quiet lake,” he said. As equanimity, balance, and stillness gradually became more familiar states, he applied a newfound mindset to his daily life, which enabled him to better see what the true nature of things are, and be more present with how things are.

“Life,” he continued, “is nothing but a series of present moments.” The past is made up of present moments that have happened, the present is the present moment, and the future is present moments yet to happen.

“So if you can learn to live in the present moment fully,” he said, “your life will be filled with fully lived moments.”

When entering the higher states of jhanas, “You might start feeling like you don’t have limits in your space,” McCormick said. “You’re expanding into the room, into the outside. There’s no differentiation between you and everything else. You become expansive and limitless.”

While it’s not easy due to the inevitable distractions inside and outside of the mind, eventually, one can reach a point of naked awareness: consciousness without content.

“Here, there’s nothing happening,” he said. “So, there’s no time, because time has to have a past, present, or future. But nothing is happening. You just are.”

Time, McCormick said, doesn’t have meaning anymore. Hours pass in seconds, seconds stretch into hours, and time — a construct of the imagination — ceases to exist. When you come out of this state, you can see even more clearly and realize how various experiences, situations, parts of your identity, relationships etc., affect your mindset and your happiness.

Thus, through extensive concentration and a dedicated journey, mindfulness and meditation can alter one’s perceptions of time.

“If you take each moment for what it is,” McCormick said, “there’s less of a desire to try and slow time down or speed time up.”

Considering the amount of concentration and mindfulness needed to stop time, follow this beginner-friendly mindfulness and meditation exercise, curated by McCormick, to enter — just the beginning — of your journey to stopping time:

Focus on your breath

Your breath is life-affirming, it is always with you. Pay attention to the temperature of the air when you breathe in versus when you breathe out. Be with your breath. Count your breaths one to 10, and then back down to one again. In breath, one, out breath, one. And so on.

Find your anchor

If your anchor is not your breath or counting breaths, sometimes you can anchor on other things: the sound of the rain, meditative music, or even chanting. If you can’t keep your eyes closed, slightly open them and use a lit candle as an anchor to keep your mind occupied.

Treat your thoughts as clouds floating by

Observe your thoughts from a distance, allowing them to simply float by like clouds. You will want to learn how to distance yourself from yourself. Don’t let thoughts and feelings capture you — keep your mind stable, set, and observant.

Learn how to be the listener

Every conversation in your head must have a speaker and a listener. Just be the listener — be with your breath and listen. Let the voice do whatever it is going to do. Don’t identify with the voice, just observe.

Practice mindful moments

Extend your practice into your daily life. Whether you are walking to class, taking a shower, brushing your teeth, washing your dishes, etc. you can practice being present. Next time you find yourself in a conversation, for instance, try mindful listening: actively listening to others, not thinking about other things or what you’re going to say next.

DARK BLOOM THE WHITE LOTUS

unlight shimmers on the surface of an infinity pool, and a champagne flute catches its glow. Behind the cabanas, plumeria trees sway gently. At first glance, the White Lotus resorts offer paradise — a carefully curated Eden suspended between sea and sky. But beneath this polished surface, something

Across three seasons, HBO’s “The White Lotus” peels back the glossy layers of luxury travel to reveal a darker, more enduring story — one about power, love, desire, and the fragile identities we perform. The show’s creator, Mike White, doesn’t just invite us to watch; he makes us squirm, challenging us to confront what makes us uncomfortable as we judge characters who often mirror our own contradictions.

At its core, “The White Lotus” examines the fantasy of escape. It presents a world where wealth buys seclusion, attention, and even absolution. Whether it is the high-strung Mossbacher family in Maui, Tanya McQuoid’s grief-driven escape in Sicily, or the self-serving Ratliffs in Thailand, each guest arrives at the resort seeking relief from something back in the real world — only to become a more artificial version of themselves.

wealthy white friend, stands as the show’s moral axis — at least at first. Her quiet unease progressively grows into outrage, but when she acts, the consequences destabilize those already on the margins.

This storyline draws from historical resonance, as the White Lotus resorts stand on colonial legacies. While guests come and go, locals bear the cost as tourism becomes an act of aesthetic whitewashing. The White Lotus resorts are marketed as places of paradise, yet it is constructed over sites of Indigenous displacement, economic exploitation, and cultural erasure. While the guests at the White Lotus come and go — indulging, selfdestructing, and moving on — we can’t forget the locals stay behind, tasked with catering to the fantasies of visitors while absorbing the longterm costs. The very land that once held meaning, stories, and sovereignty for native communities is repurposed to serve selfish Western desire. The setting becomes a character in of itself, one drenched in beauty and burden. The message is

don’t vanish when wrapped in luxury — they evolve, quietly and insidiously.

FEMALE FRIENDSHIP AND FRAGMENTED ASPIRATIONS

RACE, COLONIALISM, AND POWER

No season of “The White Lotus” tackles race, colonialism, and power more directly than the first, set in Maui. Paula, a young woman of color traveling with her

Tensions run not only across class lines but also within the complexities of female friendships. In season three, Laurie, a middle-aged corporate lawyer and a single mother, delivers a monologue that encapsulates strained relationships.

POWER LOVE COLONIALISM AND THE Of

Sitting with her two longest-lasting best friends, she shares a quiet truth: “Men leave, lovers fade, children grow up — but girlfriends… girlfriends are the ones who stay. If you let them.” It is tender yet tinged with something raw and regretful. By the time Laurie speaks, we’ve already seen the erosion — the petty comparisons, the drifting silences, the unspoken betrayals.

CLUTE

ART DIRECTOR KRISHA BORGONHA WRITTEN BY LARA

PHOTOGRAPHED BY SNEHA CHOPRA

Her words don’t feel nostalgic; they serve as a warning. Throughout the series, the bonds between women wilt under diverging dreams: ambition versus stability, justice versus loyalty, the desire to be seen versus the fear of judgment. In a world where self-reinvention is marketed as self-care, “The White Lotus” forces viewers to question what happens to friendship when identity becomes a performance. Can connection survive when everyone is auditioning for a different life?

Laurie’s speech reframes that question. Friendship, she suggests, isn’t passive — it is a choice and a responsibility. In a landscape where transactional love dominates, true friendships become an act of rebellion.

OLD TRUTHS, NEW STORIES

If a white lotus flower symbolizes rebirth from the mud, then “The White Lotus” itself is a modern myth that blooms from decay. White’s writing doesn’t just poke at taboo subjects such as exploitation, addiction, selfishness, power, greed, and complicity — it invites them in and lets them speak for themself. They come wearing designer labels and veneers, chasing dreams led by self-interest. This is what makes the show feel evergreen, old truths are rendered in new skin. We are all more porous than we like to admit, easily seduced by comfort and power. But more than that, we crave wealth and stability.

CONCLUSION: PARADISE, RECONSIDERED

By the time the credits roll, the sun is still shining, but

Stories in

The Strings

Bluegrass music, sharing stories, and a timeless sound

Every June, Yellow Creek Park in Owensboro, Kentucky comes alive with the sound of bluegrass. American folk music lovers are drawn from near and far to the ROMP festival, one that has been part of my life for as long as I can remember.

Since childhood, I’ve looked forward to attending ROMP — originally standing for River of Music Party — every year. There’s something special about the feeling the festival creates — there’s nothing like watching the golden sunlight dip behind the old log cabin at the center of the park as musicians gather in a circle on the porch, creating stories through the strings.

Born in the 1940s, bluegrass music originates in the Appalachian region of Kentucky and is shaped by passed-down stories of working-class Americans. It blends elements of gospel harmonies with African American blues and jazz. The core instrumentation of bluegrass consists of a five-piece ensemble: banjo, guitar, bass, mandolin, and fiddle. Bill Monroe, known as the “Father of Bluegrass,” helped define the genre’s high-energy sound with his band, the Blue Grass Boys. But long before bluegrass had a name, people were gathering on porches and on the dance floor, passing songs down by ear. “It was a way of life,” says Randy Lanham, a Kentucky bluegrass legend. “That’s how I learned — watching my granddad play at backyard jams.” Bluegrass became a form of oral history, keeping family stories of struggle and joy alive through melody and memory.

Bluegrass continues to thrive beyond Appalachia. Owensboro, home to the Bluegrass Hall of Fame and the annual ROMP festival, remains a cornerstone of bluegrass heritage, but the music has also taken root elsewhere. In Eugene, Oregon, the bluegrass scene is alive with weekly jam sessions, student bands, and a growing community of bluegrass fans.

Sarah Wilfong, a fiddler and instructor at the University of Oregon who spent years performing in Nashville, claims that while Eugene may not share Nashville’s deep bluegrass roots, it has a uniquely welcoming and connected scene.

“It doesn’t matter your background. You sit down at a jam session with people who may not agree with you on anything, but in that moment, playing bluegrass, you’re connected. It’s like a musical hug,” Wilfong says.

Despite the cultural and geographical differences between Owensboro and Eugene, the heart of bluegrass remains the same. It’s a tradition where people gather, play, and pass stories from one generation to the next. For musicians like Lanham and Wilfong, playing bluegrass music is about more than technical skill; it is about emotion and storytelling even when no words are spoken.

“When you’re playing, the instrument becomes your voice,” Lanham explains. “You can tell if it’s a happy song or a sad one, just from how the fiddle sings it. You feel the emotions through the strings.”

Wilfong supported this idea, describing how each instrument brings its own emotional texture: the mandolin’s cheerful chatter, the bass’ steady grounding, and the fiddle’s ability to weep. “You can listen to different people playing and, on some subconscious level, understand a little bit about them just based on the musical choices they make,” she says. The physicality of bluegrass is a form of storytelling itself. In every jam session, new versions of old songs unfold like conversations.

Bluegrass endures because it continues to mean something deeply personal to the people who play and hear it. Lanham spoke about how teaching children to play, and bringing music to hospice patients and veterans, are ways of passing on not just songs, but a sense of joy, hope, and connection. “Music is healing,” he emphasizes. “Even if it’s just for thirty minutes, it lifts people up. That’s the real magic.”

Wilfong believes bluegrass resonates because its stories are universal. “Everyone knows heartache. Everyone knows hope,” she says. “Bluegrass music doesn’t use complicated language. It says something real, and people feel it.”

Bluegrass music is about carrying stories forward — whether through a lyric about a homeplace, a fiddle solo that feels like a memory, or the communal energy of a song played under an open sky. Whether on a porch in Kentucky or at Beergarden in Eugene, bluegrass serves as a living archive, preserving histories through melodies and lyrics. The stories in the strings aren’t fading; they are still being told, one note at a time.

WRITTEN BY ELLIE JOHNSON

ILLUSTRATED BY EMMA HARRIS

Braids: Womanhood woven through time

Braiding came more naturally to me than any subject in school. I could do a fishtail braid long before I could multiply or divide, and I was always the designated hairstylist at basketball games, sleepovers, and summer camp. Despite my expertise, I would beg my mom to do my hair before school. I sat below her on our beat-up red sofa as she gently brushed through my tangled mess, calming me down with a back rub if she pulled my hair too hard. We laughed about the latest “Modern Family” episode as she carefully wove each strand down the back of my head and finished off her creation with a sparkly blue hair tie. This mother-daughter bonding ritual carved out a moment of serenity during busy mornings; as our distance grows, so does my nostalgia for these memories.

It is said that braiding is a universal language all girls speak. The Venus of Willendorf, a 30,000-yearold figurine found in modern-day Austria, boasts grotesque body proportions and no facial features, but has an intricate woven pattern sculpted around the crown of her head. She is a woman of many mysteries, but anthropologists believe her to be one of the earliest representations of braided hair. Across the Mediterranean Sea, concealed deep within the

Tassili Plateau of the Sahara Desert, 5,000-year-old cave paintings depict a mother donning cornrows while breastfeeding her child. Braiding is woven into the history of nearly every culture across the world, and there is arguably no hairstyle more timeless. Aside from the practicality of keeping hair out of your face, braids hold far deeper significance.

For centuries, braids have served as a means of communication and identity. In many cultures, you can know someone’s age, social class, and marital status purely based on the way they present their hair. In certain Native American tribes, children wear one braid to signify they are unwed, while elders wear two braids adorned with beads and feathers.

Meanwhile, in Russia, it is young unmarried girls who sport two braids. As for representations of social status, during the Hellenistic period, upper-class Athenian women wore elaborate braided updos to flaunt their wealth, while the working class had much simpler plaits.

Ties between spirituality and braided hair have also been present in cultures

throughout history. In certain parts of Mongolia, hair was seen as another organ of the body and an extension of the soul, and unbraided hair was a sign of impending death. Ancient Egyptians thought of braided hair as a barrier, protecting them against evil spirits. For funeral ceremonies, members of the upper class were decorated with dozens of small braids and elaborate accessories to help maintain their identity in the afterlife.

During the African slave trade, braids acted as a means of survival. In Africa, people wove things like rice into their hair so that if they were stolen from their land, they had sustenance for the journey. Some even used the hidden grains to grow crops from their homeland once they reached the Americas. Some have also theorized that cornrows were used by enslaved individuals to send secret messages and draw maps toward freedom.

Braids are culturally polygenic — early societies independently developed hair weaving techniques, and no singular group is credited for their conception. However, each culture has developed their unique methods and meanings around braids, which is an important aspect to the discourse surrounding cultural appropriation. A common defense

cultural appropriators use when caught with a hairstyle not meant for them is that, “it’s just hair.” Although braids are for everyone, the historical context and specific cultural significance should not be ignored.

Evolving alongside us for millennia, braids serve as a physical manifestation of identity, cultural heritage, and ancestry. Despite specific cultural differences, femininity and maternal relationships are always at the core. Anyone can braid, but there is something so momentous when the exchange is shared between two women. To take time and effort to braid someone’s hair is not a monotonous task; it is an exchange of love, weaving souls closer together with every strand tightened. Millions of women throughout history have the collective memory of their mothers, grandmothers, or sisters braiding their hair — a bonding ritual that has been passed down through generations. When I sit down to braid my hair, I can feel the gentle hands of all the women who came before me, reminding me that our womanhood is more intertwined than we realize.

WRITTEN

BY

HELEN MEYERS

ILLUSTRATED BY

CECILIA SELDERA-BAHNSON

DESIGNER

MADELINE DELL

WRITTEN BY ANAYA LAMY

MAURA MCNEIL & ZOE MAITLAND

ZOE MAITLAND

Lillies, Gardenias, Bellflowers, & Tulips Navigating queer love in a heteronormative world

At an early age, many start to develop a picture of what love should look like. Maybe it’s the cookiecutter suburban paradise formed by your high school sweetheart parents. Or maybe it’s through the fairytales you read about — the charming white knight saves the damsel in distress, and they ride horseback into heterosexual bliss. Through stories, observations, and universally agreed upon societal standards, we plant the seeds in our brains for what a perfect garden of love would look like.

But what happens to the ones who reject a conventional garden filled with the chemical pesticides of social norms? Instead of picture-perfect red roses in symmetrical rows, they see a teratological plot of lavenders and green carnations. They watch their peers’ budding into traditional love and blossom into seemingly fulfilling relationships that, to them, just seem prosaic. It’s something they could want or even feel like they should want. But no matter how hard they try, it’s just not the ground they were meant to grow upon.

To be in any relationship is to tend to a complex ecosystem of human emotions — yours and your partner’s. The more you give to it, the more it grows. It must be watered so it doesn’t wilt, but not overwatered to death. It requires deep maintenance, attention, and care. There are traditional gardening methods that have worked for centuries, but for queer relationships, their soil knows no bounds.

For my sister Basia Lamy and her partner Elle Fell, this rings especially true. The two had to plant completely foreign seeds on unorthodox land as Lamy navigates it as a Black, queer, cis-gendered woman with Fell: a woman with a transgender experience who began her transition during their relationship — an unprecedented situation with few examples to look up to. A garden of biodiversity met with adversity.

The Foundation

At first glance, their relationship seemed conventional: Lamy presented as a cisgender woman and had only ever dated cis-men in the past. Fell, assigned male at birth, who had mostly dated just women in the past, was fairly masculine presenting, but identified as non-binary. Fell, however, did not disclose their gender identity on their first date. “I had a couple previous relationships end because they weren’t down to be in a queer relationship with me. Heteronormativity was pushing me to hide that part of myself,” Fell said.

Even without Fell disclosing that information about their identity, Lamy knew that what they had was different. “I remember telling people I connect with this person, but I don’t know if we will connect romantically as partners after our first date. But after our second or third date, I knew I wanted to spend a lot of time with her,” Lamy said. From there, they only continued to grow.

Establishing Roots

The act of falling in love for queer people is not as clearcut. Those butterflies in your stomach are easy to confuse as platonic when the person you feel them for is not of the opposite sex. It was even more difficult to differentiate considering Lamy already felt satisfaction with her queer friendships. It was hard to understand if Fell would be a new addition to her community or something more.

“I feel like a lot of queer people feel satisfied just being in queer community.,” Fell said. “You feel like you’re dating your community.”

As time went on, the two realized what they had was deeper than platonic, and quickly fell romantically for each other.

There’s a misconception that queer relationships are completely egalitarian due to its lack of gendered roles. However, queer people may still feel inclined to pick roses from the common garden, as it’s all they’ve had to look to.

“There’s such a possessiveness with heteronormativity,” Fell said. “The idea is that you own your partner, especially, traditionally, the man owns the woman. Queer relationships can follow that a lot of times, because it’s the norm. It’s what we are raised to understand relationships should be and what we see on TV and in the media.”

The couple ignored gender roles, but also worked hard not to fall into homonormative standards as well. They steered clear of the U-Hauling trope and took the time and space to know themselves as individuals before completely falling into each other.

“It’s easy for that person to become everything, and to spend so much time together.,” Lamy said. “We could have done that, but we didn’t. That made the foundation of our relationship strong, because it was really special to see each other.”

Conventions from both sides of the spectrum didn’t stop the couple from creating something authentic to them.

The Growth and Development

be simple, Lamy met Fell with love and support because their relationship and connection were so special.

Lamy was digging for guidance from people who had been in their situation. All she was met with was subreddits with the words of couples who didn’t get their happy ending. Despite feeling hopeful, she still fought hard. “It wasn’t easy,” Lamy said, “but it was worth it for me.”

They take the time to give their relationship plenty of sunlight and care, through scheduled quality time together and sessions with their therapists. “It’s work, but it’s what makes our relationship so special. We love doing the work,”

About a year and a half into extensive care of harvesting good soil, their stems were spotting. However, their plants underwent unexpected metamorphosis when Fell came out as a woman and expressed the desire to undergo physical transformation through hormones.

Fell wondered if physically transitioning was a good idea as they had the best of both worlds: being comfortable in themselves as a queer couple but presenting as a heterosexual one to the general public. However, she knew this was something she had to do for herself. Despite knowing it wouldn’t

“The way that our relationship is at its foundation is also radically different,” Fell said. “We had to create it ourselves, with our bare hands. We didn’t have any help.”

The Harvest

Now, three years into their relationship, Lamy and Fell’s garden is filled with vibrant foliage. Fell said that they’ve recently been eating the fruit of their labor. “We’ve found a synergy working with each other, now that we’ve both grown into ourselves,” Fell said. “We’ve been able to blossom in our careers and find the way to mesh those together.”

The two have been able to grow something beyond themselves and feed others too. With Lamy’s passion for eventplanning and Fell’s newfound love for DJing, the two have gone into business throwing parties in Brooklyn, New York, such as “i don’t sweat i sparkle” and “girl2girl.” Fell also inspires trans people alike on her Substack “secrets from a trans girl (who has yet to see it all)” where she documents her transition and experiences going through life as a woman.

Lamy and Fell teach us there is no right or wrong way to fall in love. We must snip away weeds of expectations and prune the shame that comes from being othered. Don’t just plant the roses. Plant the pumpkins, the radishes, romanesco! Your garden, your rules.

MODELS AINSLEY MCCARTHY, ARIEN ACOSTA & NASEEB REYES STYLISTS CLARISSA PEREZ & ESMÉ COMSTOCK

DESIGNER STELLA RANELLETTI PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR MADDY HUGHES

Drucker V. Kligman Pharmaceuticals

a fictional case summary of an anti-aging procedure gone wrong

CJurisdiction: Los Angeles Superior Court

For Plaintiff Al Kligman of Kligman Pharmaceuticals: Benjamin Li, Esq.

For Defendant Mason Drucker of Kligman Pharmaceuticals: Heather Solomon, Esq.

Depositions taken April 02-08, 2035

CROSS-EXAMINATION

OF KLIGMAN

Background: Kligman graduated from Stanford University with an MBA degree in 2031 as a member of the graduate Sigma Alpha Epsilon chapter. He met Drucker on the Stanford campus and invited him to work at his father’s company, Kligman Pharmaceuticals, upon graduation. Kligman describes their relationship as friendly, noting several practical jokes he pulled on Drucker throughout graduate school.

Project Intentions: Kligman tasked Drucker and his research team to come up with a plastic surgery technique that could be patented to push the company out of the red. He wanted something innovative enough to justify high profit margins — a scientific reversal of the aging process, “like stepping into a younger skin suit.”

Reaction to NDA Violation: Kligman exhibited surprise at the violation of Drucker’s Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA), which Drucker signed before starting the project. The NDA mandates that Drucker not take his procedure to the press until after a six-month observation period of initial participants. After hearing about the state of participants in the final month of observation, Kligman hoped for the information to reach news outlets after a hurried, premeditated privatization and sale of Kligman Pharmaceuticals. Drucker refused to meet with participants, calling them freakshows and insisting that, through medical descriptions alone, the participants affected “didn’t sound so bad [sic].”

CROSS-EXAMINATION OF DRUCKER

Background: Drucker confirms that he and Kligman met at Stanford, where Drucker graduated with an MD in 2031. Since beginning at Kligman Pharmaceuticals, Drucker notes many incidents of workplace harassment, including emasculating nicknames “limp dick” and “muffin top.” Due to a criminal record (a resultant of one of Kligman’s practical jokes in graduate school) he has neglected to look elsewhere for employment.

Discovery Timeline: Drucker shares that, to meet Kligman’s request, he experimented with a full-body split-thickness skin grafting technique combined with a chemical agent, Replexin, aimed at wound closure catalyzation through enzymatic debridement. Young organ donors providing elastin-and collagen-sufficient epidermides were euthanised for allographic experimental procedures, done in a 12-hour window to surgery to avoid irreversible putrefaction.

Several issues were noted with qualitative participant experience and wound recovery process. Jaw atrophy occurred from 4-week full-body wound protection period; participant fed through IV. Loss of sensation as nerves grow into grafting. Chronic epithelialization and skin contracture. Before end of observation period but following Replexin and the grafting surgery’s release, the following symptoms arose in many to all participants: keloids around stitching, body dysmorphia (sent one participant to behavioral health unit), eschar returning after debridement, and epidermis failure (includes perceived pallor mortis via lack of blood flow to epidermis).

Reasoning for NDA Violation: Procedure became available to consumers before end of observation period and its subsequent findings. Drucker attempted to file a company complaint upon news of its premature release. After being repeatedly met with bureaucracy throughout the company, Drucker decided to relay his experiences in full to the press, underlining the danger and uncertainty of this procedure. Says Drucker, “We were not ready to test on humans… this was stage one of a thousand” (30:17-19).

WITNESS TESTIMONY: EDITH YOUNG, STUDY PARTICIPANT

Young’s deposition was taken at Saint John’s Health Center using an Assistive Context-Aware Toolkit. Young, a 72-yearold retired white female in pressurizing bandages, initially volunteered for the study because “I’m not getting any younger here” (32:01-02). She cited previous exasperation with sagging and thinning skin and her ongoing struggle with disordered eating, the latter of which created a delay in her healing process. Mentioning her surgery-induced diagnosis of fatal anhidrosis, she calls Replexin “abhorrent. I looked fabulous for a month or two, hon, but can we stop fiddling with God’s work?” (35:26-28). To Solomon, Young notes on lines 43 and 44 of page 38, “I wish I had skin like yours again… so pink, so supple… not a mark… can I touch it?”

NOTES FOR TRIAL

Expected argument from Solomon: NDA warrants violation to warn potential clients of public endangerment; Li: history of workplace harassment indicates potentially malicious disclosure; NDA Whistleblower Protection Clause as signed by Drucker warrants disclosure only to government or regulatory agency. Preliminary assessment: Drucker faces significant challenges in prevailing at trial.

POST SCRIPT

Motion filed by Li to remove case to U.S. District Court for Central District of California under an interstate commerce clause. If moved, case will not be held until after official release of Drucker’s scientific findings post-observation period were the NDA still intact.

Gathered in the How fire carries our history Orange Glow

Fire brings people together. That fact is written in our history, and carved in Earth’s land. It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact time when humans began the tradition of gathering to tell stories around fire, but we know it’s been a continued tradition throughout thousands of years. To me, storytelling around a fire feels somewhat like an ode to the Pacific Northwest. It embodies camping in the middle of the forest, memories from nights where a poorly made fire has been lit, and blankets are piled on as hot chocolate heats our hands. Gathering around a fire is distinctly nostalgic, and scientists have proof from archaeological evidence — such as old fire pits and hearths dating back hundreds of thousands of years — that storytelling around fire is a long standing tradition, one that continues to thrive in our modern era.

Griots are West African storytellers, and the people of sub-Saharan Africa have a strong storytelling tradition in their culture of oral storytelling around fire. Many other cultures around the world have used fire as a gathering spot as well, and even in modernity, people flock to fire. Fire has also always been used as a source of ritual which would bring communities together. At archaeological sites like Copán and Tikal, which are both ancient Mayan ruins, there’s remains of fire altars, and what’s believed to be distinct interpreted features of fire circles located at the base of the Mayan monuments. While fire — and the tradition of storytelling — is an ancient practice that has continued today, the presence of fire is also often associated with warmth; lighting the dark and unknown provides a sense of comfort, which is a clue into why people have turned to campfires for comfort and community throughout human history.

Whether you realize it or not, society spends so much energy conveying stories — we have an entire industry in Hollywood dedicated to it. Broadway depicts tales through dance and song, we publish millions of new book titles annually on a global scale, and those are simply examples on more elevated levels on how we have continued to be storytellers. There is, then, the more intimate

levels of storytelling, where secrets are hushed to friends, and gossip is spilled over a morning coffee after a night out.

There’s a connection between fire and light that brings people together, and makes them comfortable enough to connect with one another. Fire has been a crucial part of human evolution, which has allowed our ancestors to survive. We, as humans, are wired to have a primal connection to fire, and to associate it with safety and comfort. Due to that connection, we express ourselves through storytelling. Combining the safety that fire grants to us with our need to share stories creates the ultimate environment for those stories to be shared. One of the most cliché — and one of the strongest — traditions is oral storytelling around a campfire. Oftentimes, it’s over smores and hot chocolate while someone does their best to tell a horror story to scare family and friends.

Fire has continued to be a place for human connection and storytelling — it’s an ancient tradition, one that has never waned throughout human history. Campfires, bonfires, and even Fourth of July sparklers are all ways people continue to bring community and friends together. We dance around the flickering orange light, sing songs, and play the guitar, harmonica, kazoo, or whatever instrument is available to you, connecting with each other. Society will continue to form connections and be storytellers. That is a fact which is written in our history, and carved in Earth’s land, and will continue on throughout generations.

WRITTEN BY ANNA

LIV MYKLEBUST

ART DIRECTOR ALEXANDRA BONDURANT

PHOTOGRAPHED BY KY MYERS & SOPHIA GREENE

MODELS ARDEN BRADY, BELLA SNYDER, HANA

WITTLEDER & IZZY POPE

STYLIST CLEMENTINE JAFFE

DESIGNER NATALIE ENGLET

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR GRETCHEN SCHECK

The Kitchen, Where Love Persists

How the language of love is passed down through familial dishes

Perched behind the vent of her bellowing white kitchen fan, I watch yellow-orange persimmon skins flit into the bowl of my grandmother’s sink. Her wedding ring glints in the sunlight with every strike of her knife. Unlike most grandmothers, Yeay is silent as she works. But the tap-tap-tap of her knife and the soft sounds of her footsteps provide their own gentle melody. I am eight or nine, the age when I know persimmons are much too sweet. But when she offers me the plastic bowl, I bite my tongue and smile in appreciation. I thank her in Khmer, and she pats my arm sweetly, then turns her attention to the stove.

Yeay is cooking her famous curry, and I watch with curious eyes as she fries the molasses colored base in popping oil. Her arms and hips sway to a silent rhythm as she dances about the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the cabinets with an experienced flourish. Using only her eyes and a worn silver soup spoon, she splashes fish sauce and measures pre-fried garlic into the pot with confident precision. It is as if she knows, from senses alone, what to add and how much. She offers me lemongrass to smell, and the tangy scent envelops the kitchen as she stirs it into the bubbling mixture. I am enchanted by the woman in front of me. It is impossible to watch her without noticing the grace with which she maneuvers through the kitchen. I know she is cooking the same dishes my mom and her siblings grew up tasting on special occasions.

In between the silence and the sounds of the kitchen, a quiet camaraderie forms. My grandmother and I have never been able to converse fluidly, with English being her second language, and with me knowing very little Khmer. Usually, we are limited by this barrier, our conversations littered with uncomfortable pauses or uncertain nods. But in the kitchen atmosphere, the tension dissolves completely. Sensing our mutual ease, I bite into another persimmon, showing my appreciation. She laughs giddily and reaches over the stove to pat my arm once more. “Good?” she asks. I smile softly and nod. In the warmth of her kitchen, the language of food transcends our most vibrant conversations.

Now, 10 years older, I stand in my parents’ kitchen, frowning over a lined sheet of paper. On it, I’ve converted my grandmother’s intuitive measurements into tablespoons and cups. Her elegant movements are scribbled in my hasty penmanship, and question marks litter the pages. Scattered around me are open containers of my heritage: fish sauce, fermented bean paste, and homemade lemongrass. Leaning into the dish, I begin to interpret a few of the steps as I would prefer them. I stir the molasses-colored base and breathe in the familiar scent. Eventually, I find myself falling into a gentle rhythm, not unlike Yeay.

WRITTEN BY NICHOLE KWAN

ART DIRECTOR LELA AKIYAMA

PHOTOGRAPHED

BY EMMA HIGHFIELD

Sprinkling in two star anise, I stand back on my heels. I’ve finished. I close my eyes and let the gentle sound of bubbling curry carry me through time, back behind my grandmother’s billowing white stove. For a moment, she is here, in front of me, swaying to her silent melody, measuring every ingredient by heart. Yeay never sang like most grandmothers did, and rarely did she utter the words “I love you.” But it was in the kitchen where her love thrived. Through her cooking, I am reminded that love transcends language. Like a good meal, it reaches us where words cannot, sustaining us, and remaining central to our hearts.

MODEL EVA FREZZA STYLIST MIKA MAII

THE LIE WE CHOOSE TO BELIEVE

Understanding the colonial origins of travel content creation and its 21st-century effects.

An innocent vacation TikTok or colonialism rebranded? In the act of creating traditional travel content, 15 to 60-second videos showcasing a novel destination, a twofold extraction of “value” takes place. The first, an extraction of audience attention: following the initial three to eight second seduction, the audience bears witness to a one-sided dialogue paired with luxe imagery, constantly shifting to satisfy a dopamine-exhausted brain’s minute attention span. The second and more insidious extraction is one of place, resulting from creators with little knowledge or tact condensing the nuance and beauty of a location and its culture into a one-dimensional perspective, which is then conveyed to strangers across the internet. Such an extraction at best sterilizes the location in question, and at worst reduces the endless value of a culture to the profits of a 60-second video. In a 21st-century twist on extractive practices created by colonialist ideologies, the historical framework of Western exploitation has been digitized, creating a breeding ground for the current norms of travel content creation.

Empires in the East and West rose and fell to the tune of invading or arrowlike nomadism. The practice, coined by Martinican philosopher Édouard Glissant, refers to the form of nomadism of the Romans, Huns, and roaming conquerors. In a series of subjugations and exterminations, these conquerors slowly settled their lands, giving birth to new nation states. In a contemporary

context, such ideas were given form in Europe via the colonization practices of the Spanish and Portuguese. “During this period of invading nomads,” Glissant wrote, “the passion for selfdefinition first appears in the guise of personal adventure.” Such nomadism ushered in a new epoch where a series of empires dominated the globe, united solely in opposition to humans considered foreign or the Other.

A new era driven by colonial domination brought what Glissant describes as “transparency” into the cultural dialogue. Defined as an overwhelming desire to make the natural world clear and understandable, transparent thinking dares to establish order on the chaos of the human psyche. When we seek to understand the Other, we reduce each complex identity to terms we believe we understand. In colonial nomadism, populations unable to fit the Western mold were exiled, killed, or enslaved, and the material value of territories was extracted. Now, in the age of information, such practices have been resuscitated to suit the digital.

As the barrier of entry to global travel lowered, contemporary Western populations had more opportunities to come in contact with the Other. As we study abroad, run a boys’ or girls’ trip to Puerto Rico, and join the Peace Corps, we often frame our experiences and the people within them to fit our narratives. These types of generalizations are the transparent thinking Glissant described as reductionist and

imprisoning. Applying transparency to travel content, vapid travel influencers frame countries and cultures in relation to themselves, seeking to justify why the location of their content has value. In a corrupted exchange, a culture is compressed and traded for currency. As this digital malpractice is normalized, a self-fulfilling cycle of transparency occurs, and Westerners become entitled to understanding. According to Glissant, the only solution to a society built on the endless extractive cycle of transparency is an acceptance of “Opacity.”

Opacity, or a condition lacking transparency, is defined by Glissant as “an alterity (or state of otherness) that is unquantifiable, a diversity that exceeds categories of identifiable difference.” The “Right to Opacity” expresses the idea that we are not entitled to understanding every facet of ourselves nor all that surrounds us, and runs counter to Western thought. While digital creators who embody opacity are few, a case study of this possibility for a positive ideological shift is found in a small corner of the internet under the name “nor gather into barns.”

In 20 videos spanning two years, an unnamed transporter follows in the footsteps of wanderers like Chris McCandless and Jack Kerouac, traversing the continental United States and Europe, transporting anything in need of a destination. Unlike his contemporaries who inundate social platforms with glamorized content, the transporter is in a state of perpetual

wandering, typically sleeping outside or in his vehicle. He imposes nothing on his surroundings, merely observing and appreciating moments for what they are. “I am only thinking of where I am,” he said, “and if anything, I’m thinking, where can I eat, where can I sleep, and after that, it’s nothing. But even so, I don’t worry, it’s my tranquilo.”

For the algorithmically blessed who happen upon the transporter’s content, the value created by this new style is enough to warrant hundreds of genuine comments, so where does the value come from? Simply put, the answer is the candid visual experience of Glissant’s errantry, or wandering. In an American

society too numb to know its fracture, viewers resonate with the transporters’ unsparing honesty. The transporter’s attitude is cynical but distinctly optimistic. As he traverses the Spanish Pyrenees, he reflects on his errant state: “We’re not out here looking for meaning, we’re looking for nothing and that’s the point.” His novel take on mindfulness is presented opaquely, shifting the impetus for meaning creation to his audience. His words and more importantly, his actions, plant questions in the hearts of his audience and with them, the seeds of change.

While these seeds were sown across centuries through the meteoric rise

of countercultural movements like the transcendental philosophers, Beatnik poets, and hippies, all of whom fizzled into the annals of history under capitalism’s duress. The significance of such movements was unceremoniously laid to rest with counterculture’s death in the ‘70s; what the world needs now is a culture revitalized. It would be foolish to assume the transporter’s journey to be an intentional beacon for social change. Nonetheless, as both producers and consumers of content, in embracing his example, we may all find the joy in a life well-lived.

“His words and more importantly, his actions, plant questions in the hearts of his audience and with them, the seeds of change.”

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR

SYLVIE ROKOFF

UNTYPICAL

A DEEPER LOOK AT BELOVED AND OBSCURE FILMS

In the 21st century, it often seems like every movie coming out is indistinguishable from the other: a collection of films and sequels with weak plots and uninteresting characters, which “make up” for it with extravagant CGI and a few big stars to be just enough to coax people show up to the theaters. Every once in a while, however, we are blessed with a provocative, divisive piece of art that changes the way we think about movies. More often than not, these kinds of movies aren’t box-office hits, as they are not marketed nor intended for mass appeal. They represent a singular vision by the filmmaker which if you don’t enjoy, it is simply not for you. These films often gain smaller cult-like followings from the people who saw the vision and appreciate it for what it is. In turn, these films are remembered for decades based on the passion of their followers, making them a “cult classic.”

A common theme among these films is the artistic manipulation of one or more aspects that go into every film: plot, set and costume design, and performances. These three aspects are not the only ones that make up a film, but they are most likely to be warped to fit the filmmakers’ vision. Due to the nature of these movies, being outlandish and non-conformist, it is very common for the filmmaker to show their ideas through each one of these factors, but more often than not, there’s one purely unique and provocative aspect that shines brighter than the others. To get a better understanding,

we can look at 3 films, each of which specialize in one of these aspects, to see what it takes to be a cult classic.

A great example of a film where the storyline itself carries the most weight is Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film ,“Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.” This film follows the U.S. government during the Cold War when a rogue general orders an all-out nuclear attack against the Russians that cannot be called off. All branches of government scramble to stop the planes carrying these bombs, also arguing if they instead want to follow up the inevitable tragedy with a second strike; a finishing blow that would single-handedly stop all conflict and win the war for the U.S. Despite the serious nature of this story, the film is satirical and incredibly funny, mocking the people leading our government during a time of war. The decision to make a movie based on the destruction of the world

in the midst of the Cold War was a bold choice on Kubrick’s part, resulting in this film being a controversial release when it came out. The fact that this film has stayed relevant and impactful some 60 years later speaks a lot to Kubrick’s timeless storytelling, and has also taken on new meaning as the once-satirical depiction of the U.S. government has slowly become more and more real in the modern day.

When thinking about set and costume design, one of the most iconic films is Tim Burton’s “Edward Scissorhands.” This movie follows a man with scissors for hands, the creation of a mad scientist who died before its completion, and his story of trying to assimilate into a suburban community. Scissorhands has a harsh look to him, with his dark leather suit, non-uniformly sized blades for hands and scars adorning his face, which contrast the light and colorful suburban

setting of the film. This difference works perfectly to depict the fish-out-of-water feel that the film presents, showing how unnatural Scissorhands is in this environment, while also presenting an interesting dynamic. Scissorhands’ dark, yet fascinating, presence in this colorful, yet bleak, neighborhood actively brings life into it, as he quickly becomes the talk of the town with everyone wanting to meet him. This film uses its visual aspect to double down on the story it is trying to tell, and perfects Burton’s eerie style with its eye-catching, memorable set and character design.

Possibly the most prominent example of a cult classic that heavily relies on its performances to stand apart would be Jim Sharman’s “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” This 1975 comedy musical focuses on a newly engaged couple whose car breaks down one stormy night, leading them to seek refuge in a mansion, only to find a mysterious group of people led by transgender scientist Frank-N-Furter from Transylvania. This movie is wildly over the top and campy in the best way possible, due heavily to the amazing performances by the actors and how well they mesh together. Tim Curry’s wildly extravagant and hypersexual performance as Frank-N-Furter sets the pace for the supporting cast, in turn setting the tone for the entire

film. Rocky Horror’s acceptance and enthusiasm towards sexual and gender fluidity was something very rare at the time, which when amplified by the amazing performances, stays in the mind of anybody who has seen it, allowing it to remain a cult classic to this day.

A common sentiment across these films is a strangeness and uncanniness, which isn’t a theme that lends itself well to mass appeal. Film companies know what sells to massive audiences and have focused on those big-budget blockbusters, leaving inventive

filmmakers unable to bring their visions to life. Recently released original movies such as Ryan Coogler’s “Sinners” or Mike Cheslik’s “Hundreds of Beavers,” similarly to their predecessors, have not made enough money to swing the cultural scale in their favor. It is up to us, the movie goers, to find these films through the heaps of forgettable theaterbait, and support the filmmakers who are exploring new avenues and trying out new ideas so that hopefully we can return to a world of being excited to go to the theaters again.

Lost & Found:

The evolution of the authentic self in a commodifying world

Aresurgence of nostalgia for girlhood and, more broadly, childhood, has recently swept through online spaces. But the age demographic of those reminiscing should raise a few eyebrows.

A cornerstone of nostalgia is longing for simplicity in our world, our responsibilities, and ourselves. Childhood is simple, partly because children’s dreams are just their own, untouched by others' expectations or socially defined parameters of what is realistic or possible. They tread unabashedly through life because no one has told them not to. In that way, children are humanity in its most authentic form.

Cut to adolescence and emerging adulthood, and many are actively “finding” themselves in a world that is anything but simple. They cope with cognitive dissonance by reminiscing on a time when one could just be. Suddenly, nostalgia is used to reconnect with who they once were, or perhaps still are. Was the self always there? Did we just get lost?

As French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir famously argued in “The Second Sex,,” identity is an act of becoming deeply intertwined with our social world, and humans are ambiguous, free agents who create meaning and value. If we create meaning and value, we are not born with it, we instead construct it through experiences, choices, and actions. Thus, Beauvoir rightly believes identity is not something one finds again, but continuously builds and reshapes throughout one’s life. Nevertheless, nostalgia is intoxicating. For many, rummaging through old photos brings a feeling of comforting certainty, like tangible evidence of the self that is otherwise hard to find.

Nostalgia can feel like reconnecting with oneself, not because the self was predetermined, but because many deny themselves of their being upon finding it at first. German philosopher Karl Marx discusses this very phenomenon in his “Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844.” The eat or be eaten nature of our “free” market society is practically stuffed down our throats, leading many to make life choices and choose career paths that may not be authentic. These choices are framed as implicit obligations, as it hardly seems like a choice to be able to provide for oneself, or, God forbid, buy a house. However, as Beauvoir would say, to be human is to be bound to freedom. Thus, choices made in alignment with society first are ultimately in vain. We cannot deny ourselves.

Making choices and performing actions one is conditioned to make and perform will construct the self in society’s image

rather than one’s own. This estrangement of the self from one’s being culminates in either a miserable life or a breakdown of the inauthentic self. In breaking down the inauthentic self, finding one’s path is a return to the authentic self. This is not because it was always there, fully formed and waiting to be found, but because many abandon nurturing the authentic self to become what society expects of them. Our entanglement in society and its expectations could leave many feeling aimless. They may feel so trained to ignore non-conformist signs of their true, authentic self, they might be convinced there never were any signs of it to begin with.

So we turn back to our younger selves and look for just that, signs. We flip through old photo albums, leisurely at first but with progressively more vigor. We dive into the depths of our bedroom closet and put on pieces of who we used to be, seeing if they still fit. We pay attention to anecdotes from our parents and siblings about shenanigans of days long past, biting back the urge to say, “Tell me more, tell me who I was so that I might find them again.”

Adding in social media, where we create profiles meant to symbolically and authentically represent ourselves. Suddenly, there’s pressure to do it “right,” leaving 20-somethings yearning for a time when they did not have to be defined, displayed, liked, or commented on.

The more we think about it and curate it, the more precise the act of authenticity becomes, until it is just that, an act. The more we commodify ourselves for consumption, whether through our own life choices or online presence, the less fulfilled we feel. In that moment, we are creating the self from the outside in, as opposed to the inside out.

Winning the mental battle between societal expectations and authenticity does not ensure victory in the war. When one returns to the authentic self, they may find a frail, dehydrated sapling waiting for them. They must water that plant, no matter how fruitless it may seem at first, as it is imperative to both themself and the world around them.

In being authentic, in assuming our freedom, we construct the world in our image. Nostalgia can ground us in this new journey, allowing us to look back to where we’ve been before so that we might find where we need to go. We are the trees, and we thus shape the forest. It is our responsibility.

WRITTEN BY ANNA VIDEN ART DIRECTOR CLAIRE BRADY PHOTOGRAPHED BY COLE THOMAS

MODELS EMILY COOK & MILLIE LANGARICA STYLIST GIDI BATYA DESIGNER SOFIA LENTZ

Once in a Blue Moon

New beginnings and growing through lunar phases

here is an ethereal beauty in the aura of a blue moon. Its enigmatic glow is magnetic, inviting us into a space of mysticism and personal transformation. It acts as a symbol for feminine and goddess energy. A blue moon is an enchanting treasure that appears as the second full moon in a calendar month. Its rarity serves as an emblem to let go of the past and step into new beginnings, something many of us appreciate being reminded of.

Remember the saying “once in a blue moon?” Well, it stems from the literal first sighting of a blue moon. In 1883, the Krakatoa volcano exploded in Indonesia, and for the next two years, people across the globe began seeing strange-colored sunsets alongside a blue moon. Because of how unusual and practically impossible it was for the moon to be blue, the phrase, “once in a blue moon” emerged. From this moment on, people channeled the moon’s energy and saw it as a sign for transformation, the time to take advantage of an opportunity, and begin the next chapter knowing anything is possible.

With its mystic hue shining, the presence of a blue moon is seen as a time of heightened energy. It serves as a sign that new beginnings come as a result of something else, urging us to embrace the new possibilities it offers. These signs do not come often, so when they do, it is important to acknowledge what shifts need to be made in order for growth to happen. The blue moon tells us that in order to grow through what we go through, we must reflect on what needs to be released to make room for new beginnings. The blue moon gifts us its energy so we may receive heightened intuition, inner connection, and wisdom.

Some even believe that the blue hues activate the manifestation process. Because the moon is associated with powerful heightened energy, many feel it creates a prominent time to manifest their desires. By releasing negative energy, a person can clear space for positive thoughts and intentions, guiding them to the life they aspire to live.

Feminine and goddess energies are also amplified with the rise of a blue moon. Mythological female deities like Atermis, Diana, and Hecate represent female archetypes such as huntress, protector, and the mystic in nature. The number 13 is associated with femininity, motherhood, and nurturing energy. It aligns with the 13 lunar cycles in a year and the menstrual cycle, both traditionally linked to female biology and the Divine Feminine. In ancient matriarchal and lunar-based cultures, the number 13 was seen as sacred, though its meaning later shifted in patriarchal societies.

For those attuned to the rhythms of nature, the blue moon represents more than just a visual wonder. It is a moment of alignment, a space where the energies of the universe amplify, making our intentions more powerful and our connection to our

higher selves stronger. Whether you’re embarking on a journey of self-discovery or letting go of old habits and thought patterns, the blue moon asks us to trust in the cyclical nature of life and honor the constant dance of endings and beginnings.

One modern superstition believes if a person becomes sick while a blue moon is present, they will pass away in eight days. Another belief is if someone picks flowers or berries while the moon is active, they will experience love, beauty, and abundance. Regardless of spiritual or scientific perceptions of the moon, its magic and mystery are undeniably striking.

The blue moonlight asks us to pause for just one minute of our night and simply exist in nature. It desires for humans to be present with time and with ourselves. The future is unknown and many wait for a sign to make that change. A blue moon is that sign, communicating that our lives are about to become fulfilled with love and happiness. It up to us, however, to take the necessary steps to officially live out this happy ending.

“...the blue moon represents more than just a visual wonder.”

WRITTEN BY KAYLA CERVANTES

ART DIRECTORS DANIELLE COLLAR & LUCY MCMAHON

PHOTOGRAPHED BY COCORO DARBY

MODEL ISABELLA KING

STYLIST KEIRAN CHRISTIANSEN

DESIGNER EVAN FANDEL

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR NATALIE ROBINSON

WRITTEN BY AVA CHAND

ILLISTRATED BY BRAYLON BELLONI DESIGNED BY ALLIE HARAKUNI

The #1 classics in my early 2000s household

Black Blockbusters

When people think of cult classics, their minds typically go to films like “Napoleon Dynamite,” “Rocky Horror,” “American Psycho,” “Pulp Fiction,” “The Shining,” and other classically quirky and mind boggling films. While these films carry a collection of iconic lines and looks, they are missing a vital ingredient of relatability: Black joy. When you ask people what Black-centered films they’ve seen, the answers tend to revolve around films that feature Black struggle such as “12 Years a Slave,” “The Help,” “The Color Purple,” or “Selma.” Undoubtedly, these films fall under the Black cult classic genre and celebrate both excellence and perseverance, but don’t necessarily show the joyous parts of being black.

The “Classic” Classics

“Cult classics” looked a little bit different in my household. In fact, many households of color in the early 2000s likely had similar definitions of cult classics. Now, at 22, I’ve lived through a few different eras of films that could be considered classic. I got the OG classics such as “Coming To America” or “Poetic Justice.” I had the newer classics such as “Creed” or “Black Panther.” I even had the childhood classics like “Jump In” or “Let it Shine.” However, these are the films that were number one in my household. When I mentioned early 2000s households having similar definitions of cult classics, these films are the glue of the similarity — they are staples in Black households. These are the “classic” classics.

Friday (1995)

My dad first showed me “Friday” when I was about six years old. I remember it on a VHS tape in a bright yellow case with Ice Cube and Chris Tucker hitting their iconic “Daaaammmnnn” pose. Of course, being only six, my dad hit me with, “Don’t repeat any of the words you hear in this.” But to his dismay, the line “Bye Felicia,” was ingrained into my developing brain. The movie follows Craig and Smokey’s day meeting a multitude of characters, including the infamous Felicia, in South Central LA. While the film touches on themes of violence and poverty, it mostly follows Craig and Smokey’s average day. They get high, drink Kool-Aid, people watch the neighborhood characters, and live to see the next day. I think the reason my dad showed

me this film was because of how silly yet realistic it truly was. Growing up in Oakland, California, I had my own collection of neighborhood characters with their own quirks. It was relatable to our own experience yet added an extra layer of humor which made it almost spoofy. It is a classic movie that I can guarantee almost every Black household has seen at least once. “Friday” is one of those films that provides humor and joy to the Black experience without an overarching dark tone.

Love and Basketball (2000)

“Friday” is what I watched with my dad, but I watched “Love and Basketball” with my mom, which became our comfort movie. ‘90s and early 2000s Black rom-coms are a genre of their own, usually starring Morris Chestnut, Gabrielle Union, Queen Latifah, or Taye Diggs. But, “Love and Basketball” was different from typical rom-coms. It didn’t star the expected actor rotation. It wasn’t a simple guy-chases-girl love story. It showed me Black girl strength for the first time. Strength in terms of showing that girls have power, just like male characters did. My mom first showed me “Love and Basketball” when I was 10, the year I started playing basketball for my elementary school. It follows the story of Monica and Quincy, both aspiring basketball players. Monica is determined to be the first female player in the NBA, and Quincy is under pressure to follow in his NBA father’s footsteps. They grow up as childhood friends, date in college, split up to pursue their personal goals, and end up together in their adult lives. It follows their love story without any added motif of Black oppression or violence. It shows love, joy, and drive. As a 10-year-old brown skin girl, I thought this film showed me my future, one of success and bliss.

Do the Right Thing (1989)

You can’t talk about Black cult classics without mentioning “A Spike Lee Joint.” Spike Lee is a widely celebrated director who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. He uses the phrase “A Spike Lee Joint” to brand his films. One of my favorite Spike Lee Joints is the 1989 film “Do the Right Thing” featuring himself as the main character, Mookie. While this movie holds less nostalgia for me (I watched it as a sophomore in college), it still captured my attention as a classic. Unlike “Friday” and “Love and Basketball,” this movie acknowledges Black struggle, but not in

the way that only focuses on black and white. The movie depicts the hottest day of the year in Brooklyn, provoking tensions between Black, Italian, and Asian New Yorkers. However, it is not the representation of conflict that makes this film a standout to me, but a scene in the first thirty minutes. When the heatwave strikes, the neighborhood kids and adults crack open a fire hydrant and frolic around in the mist. They splash in the water as “Can’t Stand It” by Steel Pulse plays in the background. Growing up in a Caribbean household, seeing unadulterated joy of Black folk accompanied by the rhythmically steady bass riff brought out the nostalgic feelings that the other films brought me. The scene smelt like wet grass, felt like water droplets on my skin from the hose, and sounded like my mom watering her plants on a hot day. The essence of the film and

that particular scene brought me straight back to my childhood experience of a hot day in my Black neighborhood. These feelings are what makes it a classic.

Why These Matter

Having films that depict Black life without the main focus being oppression are important for Black folk to see; that is what makes them universally evergreen. Of course, part of being Black is the shared experience of racial injustice and tormented history, but that is not all that being Black is about. Blackness is about joy, success, excellence, love, comedy, and community.

RED, YELLOW, BLUE

Andy Warhol spins the color wheel

Ionce heard about a self-proclaimed celebrity in New York who married a red Coca-Cola bottle, only to divorce it a few months later after finding his true love, a yellow banana. But when that banana spoiled, as all things do, the man moved on. His final marriage was to a blue Brillo box.

“In this life,” he said, “you must endeavor to eternally bend towards beauty.” But marry it? That part nobody could understand.

He called himself a disciple of popular culture, and every morning, like a call to prayer, he would immerse himself in the procedures of American consumerism. Only those modern, colorful advertisements with their delicious promises of excess could satisfy his very specific appetite.

His friends, who he sometimes made into apocalyptic silkscreens, called him Andy. To the press he’d say, “If you want to know about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface.” The surface is color scattered and smeared. Dots of color are triggers of experience. But color can leave the mind blank, stiff, and thoughtless when used for stupid things like tabloids, fame, and Madison Avenue. Yet Andy Warhol adored stupid things, so color was made stupid, too.

Our world consists of a weft of vacillating colors, which can be whittled down to three primary threads: RED, YELLOW, and BLUE. Through time, the meanings associated with these colors have developed precisely, such that what they represent now is nothing short

of obvious. It’s only fitting that Warhol worshiped obvious things.

I’d wager RED is the first color you see when you’re born and the last color you see before you die. RED is the soldier’s uniform returning from another American war flattened onto a CocaCola label. In 1968, Warhol was shot in the stomach by the radical feminist Valerie Solanas, and thereupon realized RED was the color of scum and rapid hemorrhaging. Then again, maybe it was before, when Warhol screwed his soul into a soup can. Maybe that was when he realized RED was the color of catastrophe laid flat on its back, wagging its finger and murmuring, “come closer, come closer!” But not really. RED’s viciousness ultimately overshadows its natural vitality. All my life I’ve only seen RED painted with the harshness of passion: in blood rushing to the head, in a throbbing sunburn, or in my face hot with embarrassment. RED signals disaster, but fixes itself in the end.

In 1966, Warhol inserted himself into the subterranean lair of the Lower East Side and became the manager of the band, The Velvet Underground. In an ultimate gesture of merging the sacred (music) with the profane (commerce), Warhol illustrated the album cover of The Velvet Underground’s first studio album: a limp, gilded banana. Where RED occurs outside Warhol’s body of work, YELLOW subsists solely on the low-hanging fruit of the art market. To collectors and gallerists, it made no difference whether Warhol presented the overripe sponge of a banana or the finely-sifted angel hair of Marilyn

Monroe; all that mattered was the YELLOW in each work glistened with Byzantine gold, because gold is money, and money is heaven. YELLOW can be anything: pure fame, pure bile, pure dust. It’s all the same under money’s heavenly streetlights.

If RED evokes incensed passion, and YELLOW the dud of commerce, then BLUE must provide tips for extinguishing both, in the form of peaceful rattles. In 1969, Warhol shot and directed the controversial “Blue Movie,” which, confiscated by police upon its initial screening, features musings about the Vietnam War plus a ten-minute scene of unsimulated sex. More notably, the film is bathed entirely in a beaming BLUE murk. Warhol’s film depicts characters frantically passing in and out of talks of peace and other tangles, meanwhile, its BLUE filter injects their actions with a slow, alien cold. Too cold. BLUE fixes itself to solitude, hidden from sight like the terminus of an ancient glacier. One can easily imagine Warhol in the midsixties ringed with painkillers, feeling his insides dissolve into cold pearls, his gunshot wound poking out from beneath his surgical corset. He rarely painted with BLUE.

Warhol was a man who died as he lived, in the throes of pop culture; a man who said, “colors have personal mythologies and I’m merely trying to sell them.” A man who married objects, claiming they lined the universe. A man whose widows have outlived him. Ask RED, YELLOW, and BLUE…what is there to say about such a husband?

WRITTEN BY EMESE BRACAMONTES

VARGA

ART DIRECTOR ISABELLA KING

PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHARLIE TOWNES

MODELS HELEN MYERS, HARPER MEYER, DENSEL VILLASPIR & MALYA FASS

STYLIST CAMILLE ANDREWS

DESIGNER KAYLA CHANG

PLAYLIST CONNOISSEUR PIPER SMYTH

At The Crossroads

AHOW STREET SIGNS ARE THE SILENT STORYTELLERS OF OUR JOURNEY

pole with signage captures your full attention. You sit at the intersection, trying to figure out where you are. Distracted by families crossing the streets, live music on the corner, and the smell of delicious food drifting from nearby restaurants, you squint harder at this pole in search of direction. This beaten-up sign becomes the one thing guiding your next move. Street signs — so simple, yet so essential — they are markers of place, memory, and direction, guiding our movement throughout the world. We rarely notice them in familiar places, but the second we enter the unknown, our eyes are drawn to them. Without street signs, we really are lost. This traditional form of navigating has shaped our way of life, yet we rarely stop to think about where this idea came from or the longevity of its existence. With millions of miles of public roads, what would happen if street signs disappear? Will they remain timeless guides in a world dominated by technology? Or will their existence fade, losing the battle to our digitized society?

The Romans were the first to incorporate guideposts into their lives. They rode horses and relied on stone mile markers that functioned as a map to detail how far they were from Rome. Since people traveled either on foot or on animals, there was no need for a complex road system. But as traffic increased during the Middle Ages, signs were placed at crossroads to direct people towards their next adventure. Horses started to move slower as wagons became heavier and people eventually became lazier, no longer walking to their destinations. The 19th century followed with a larger transformation that set in a new reality for travelers. The inventions of bicycles and automobiles led to a necessity for well-thought-out road signage systems. Traffic developed rapidly and safety became an important entity, leading to the global standardization of guideposts.

With the new norm of street signs guiding the world’s ever-flowing motion, simply labeling posts with a mile counter to the nearest city wouldn’t be enough. Streets were given names, and roads developed their own identities, building long-lasting memories for travelers. Think about your hometown neighborhood, a famous landmark, or the street you live on. What was once just dirt has now been given individuality with its name. Yet, we often overlook where the names of every street, boulevard, avenue, or road come from.

Think of the common “Main Street” or spots of fame like “Hollywood Boulevard” and “Wall Street.” They all have a sense of individuality due to the unique names that follow before their variations. When looking into the etymology of street names in the United States, there seems to be a common historical pattern consisting of numbers, landscapes, plants, and the occasional surname of an important individual that no one has heard of. Neighborhood street names are often grouped by categories, while numbered roads lead to specific destinations. These naming patterns help differentiate one path from another. In doing so, they give roads meaning and personal significance. But what would a world of nameless asphalt look like?

Entering an era of self-driving cars, digital navigation, and continuously lazy humans, the future of blank asphalt is looking more realistic than ever. The technological GPS has now taken over what once involved the act of physically opening a map and reading signs to guide us. A robot named Siri tells you right from left, and electronic signage is something that is visible when thinking about our near future.

The issue with all of this is, street signs are more than tools for navigation — they are vessels of lived experiences. The crooked sign at the end of your block sparks memories of where you first rode a bike or where you and your siblings covered the sidewalk with pastel chalk. The name labels the road, but it also carries emotional weight, nostalgia, and history. Without these guideposts, streets become nameless corridors - places we pass but no longer connect to. Memories become fleeting visuals rather than stories rooted in language. What was once part of someone’s narrative is now just a way for you to get from point A to point B.

So now, as you sit at the intersection, gazing at the silver pole with a faded nameplate, understand how many people have done the same. That pole has quietly guided thousands, evoked countless memories, and continues to be a crucial part of our history of motion. As you gaze into the reflection of this beaten-up sign, realize it is shaping you, too. Although technology will get you to your destination, it can’t replace the presence of street signs – they anchor us in the world. Without these physical guideposts, we risk losing more than just direction. We lose our sense of place, our connection to memory, and stories that make the journey matter.

TO THEBONE

Veneers are no mystery to Hollywood, and they are no mystery to its audiences. Whether they serve as subtle beauty enhancements or elicit an uncanny smile perhaps resembling the teeth of a horse, veneers have been an increasingly more common procedure in the celebrity realm in the past few decades. In the early 2000s, celebrities like Tom Cruise and Simon Cowell pursued dental work that cultivated the idea of the Hollywood smile: bright, glowing smiles made of large, uniform teeth. This sort of smile grew in popularity throughout the 2000s and 2010s, with younger celebrities like Miley Cyrus, Jojo Siwa, and even influencers like Tana Mongeau embracing this stark-white standard. These days, tooth gaps, uneven smiles, and other sources of dental insecurity have been virtually wiped from red carpets in favor of artificial teeth.

Recently, however, the pendulum has been swinging the opposite way with the public praising celebrities like Sophie Thatcher, Sabrina Carpenter, and Zendaya for retaining their natural teeth in the wave of the Hollywood smile. Audiences are noticing that these celebrities who, while active participants in ever-shifting Western beauty standards, have made decisions to embrace their natural teeth are standing out because of their natural features. While the vast majority of celebrities have had some degree of cosmetic work done, this embrace of naturality serves as a small piece of defiance against the uncanny standards that have been set upon, and set by, celebrities in the public eye. Audiences are noticing these small moments of refreshing humanity and celebrating them. Recent films featuring leads with no veneers have been celebrated for creating characters who look authentic and real – they look human.

This wave of appreciation for natural teeth doesn’t come as a surprise; with every new cosmetic fad in Hollywood comes backlash as well as discussions of authenticity, class separation, and beauty standards. But the weight that teeth themselves carry as a site of cosmetic discussion is unique – not only are natural teeth defiant of the uncanny, but they are also artifacts of humanity. Our teeth, the only exposed part of our skeleton, are visible when we talk, when we smile, when we laugh – some

WRITTEN BY KELLY KLEINBERG

ART AND HUMANITY IN THE SHAPE OF TEETH

of the most simple human activities we do, and some of the foundations of human connection.

Teeth have also long been used in anthropology as indicators of age, diet, and lifestyles, continuing to tell stories of our ancestors long after their deaths. According to the American Dental Association, there is geographic and historic variation in teeth that trace back to various populations and groups throughout history. Teeth do not decay after death, thus serving as one of the most common and one of the most long-lasting, important fossils for learning about human history.

So when celebrities reject their natural teeth in favor of a cosmetic preference, an entire history is erased in the process. While this may not always be consciously recognized, it sheds light on why natural teeth carry so much character and humanity. Because of this significance, there’s also a lot of artistic inspiration that teeth carry as well.

Teeth have long carried symbolism in art and literature, from holding religious symbolism of vitality and sexual desire to literary myths like that of vampire fangs. Teeth have also always served as vessels for stories of cannibalism, a metaphor often used to discuss desire, consumption, and corruption.

I think that teeth, as a beauty standard and as a tool in both anthropology and in art, carry an incredible lesson: what makes us human makes us artistic. And what makes us human, like tooth gaps and chipped incisors and overbites, are also often seen as flaws, and become sites of insecurity. However, teeth serve as both a modern source of insecurity and, simultaneously, a birthplace of art and inspiration. This is often the case for our insecurities: although, whether physical or emotional or psychological, insecurities can be really difficult to navigate and handle, they hold this beautiful duality in being a site of artistic inspiration.

The most compelling art comes from exploring what makes us uncomfortable. And sometimes, what makes us most uncomfortable is facing our own insecurities – facing our own humanity. So maybe your biggest insecurities, your seemingly biggest weaknesses, are not actually weaknesses at all – maybe they are your greatest sources of inspiration and creation.

DAVIDOW

WRITTEN BY SYLVIA

ART DIRECTORS PHOENIX NWOKEDI & AAMANI SHARMA

PHOTOGRAPHED BY SOFIA MOSCOVITCH

STYLIST ANNA DE SANCTIS

MODELS MEHANA BYRNE, KEIRAN CHRISTIANSEN, MORGAN GLINSKI, EMILY HALL, EMILY HATCH & AMANDA LAN ANH

DESIGNER ABIGAIL RAIKE

A deep dive into society’s most talked-up guilty pleasure… gossip

Communication is vital to the human psyche. It allows us to learn about the people around us in more ways than one. However, we are prone to judging others based on societal standards, and this is when communication gets messy. Suddenly, the lines between truth and lie are faded, causing conversations to shift to discussing hush-hush rumors about people behind their backs. Gossip is the

act of spreading unreputable information about someone, usually done with the intent of smearing their image. The key is to highlight important exchanges that will leave audiences gasping for updates. As we are naturally curious beings by nature, it’s safe to say gossip has been around for centuries.

During hunter-gatherer times, there were significantly fewer people on Earth, so it was easier to keep everyone in check. Gossip was used as a means of survival; when someone stepped out of line, everyone in the group would know through gossip and it would serve as a lesson for others. But this fixation humans have on other humans and the innerworkings of their lives prompted essential social skills that make us the successful communicators we are today.

As societies grew, so did social classes. Gossip eventually became less about outing people for survival and more about spreading harmful information about a person for pure entertainment purposes. Nowadays, rumors are most commonly spread about the rich and influential by average citizens. That is, with one historic exception. During the 1800s, the wives of society’s most wealthy households would get together at teatime to discuss the “talk of the town,” which usually consisted of scandals known about exclusively via word-of-mouth.

In Netflix’s “Bridgerton,” gossip is used creatively as a writing device to judge particular members of their society. Without giving anything away, Lady Whistledown, aka the Regency era’s “Gossip Girl,” is a young lady from one of the town’s most elite families. When she has the hot goss, she secludes herself from her family, takes out her quill and parchment, and writes her draft. Then, during the

dusky hours of the night, she puts on a disguise, including a velvet cloak and Irish accent, and ventures on her horse to the printer, negotiating price per paper. Starting every issue with “Dearest Reader,” Lady Whistledown’s tabloid is distributed across town the next day, particularly written with the intent of stirring rumors of the latest marriage pool, influencing decisions on the “diamond of the season.”

Gossip columns started to make a name for themselves in the 18th century as they spread across Europe. Much like “Bridgerton,” these tabloids have always been published under a pseudonym and have mainly critiqued high social classes, usually regarding the royals and politicians of Europe. However, to make things more anonymous, these gossip columns would only reference specific high-class individuals by other pseudonyms or even their initials.

As the practice of gossip transcended the decades, so did the way information spread in general. Now, newspapers, magazines, and cell phones rule the world of communication, and anyone can have access to the inner lives of society’s most wealthy and famous figures. But the pool has expanded from just those who “rule” the throne or the government — anyone with enough influence has the opportunity to be gossiped about, it’s just a matter of who’s talking about whom.

In many such cases, people are mainly gossiped about in a negative light by those who dislike them for any apparent reason. But just as the Regency era had royalty, modern society has developed various pockets of people who dub their

own “queen bee.” This could be anyone from the popular girls in high school to Taylor Swift herself. And when friend groups converse, they almost always talk about other people. What’s more, it seems as if women are always known for being gossiped about—people often search to find the flaws of powerful women, giving everyone a reason to hate that person rather than respect them. The moment anything happens to a popular female figure, like a breakup, a disappearance from the media, or a change in appearance, it’s all considered “news.” Suddenly, the media is making up conspiracy theories about how things might have played out, reaching out to sources who might exacerbate rumors even further. The truth is, no one ever really knows what actually happened, besides the person the rumors happen to themselves.

So whether you are pursuing the latest “Us Weekly” magazine at the grocery store, reading the latest “Deux Moi” tip on Instagram, or discussing opps with friends over coffee, remember all these are just like you. We are nosy because we want what we can’t have, but it doesn’t mean we have to take our feelings out “à-laRegina-George.” God forbid a girl just live her life without everyone judging her every move.

I need to start a garden!

Ineed to start a garden, I need to start a garden, I need to start a garden, I need to start a garden!” - singer Haley Heynderickx in “Oom Sha La La”

That’s been the voice roving around in my head for a while now. Dramatized, obviously, and only halfway literally. But as far as gardens go, I’ve been stuck on the idea of what that could mean digitally.

I read about the concept of a “digital garden” in an essay by Maggie Appleton, sat sometime late-night January in the bendy, middle part of the EmX — brightness on my phone up all the way with “A Brief History and Ethos of the Digital Garden” staring back at me.

Digital gardening and a call for artmaking

The Digital Garden is essentially this: an idea of a privatized collection of one’s own notes and thoughts, carefully gathered into one world online. Appleton’s essay describes it as “a different way of thinking about our online behavior around information — one that accumulates personal knowledge over time in an explorable space.” A way for even the internet to be rethought and radicalized.

I got attached to this idea of the Digital Garden as a thing to make. There is, and always has been, something fascinating to how people consume media and hold onto it for themselves. Human instinct to make sense of the world, to grapple for some sense of understanding — a personal archive is all we’re ever building.

Something dangerous happens when we start to think about books and films and essays as simply set for mindless consuming. Even still, there’s something alluring to the Digital Garden idea, cataloging the consumption for personal, ether-space referencing. A year ago, I discovered a paper log of the books my grandpa read throughout high school and his teenage years. Only, instead of intricate rating systems and reviews, here was a simple list of titles and one number typewritten beside each, denoting how many times at that point he’d read and reread that particular book: Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden Two.”

The Digital Garden can function as a foothold, not designed to replace any

real thing — even though people will want it to, even though they might think that it has to. Maybe this is where the Digital Garden as proper noun begins to fail. The concept isn’t new at all, just regaining popularity in a changed social context — we aren’t inventing anything. The safekeeping of information and personal noticings, unrestrained, here is another way to explain how we collect media for ourselves. To try to make sense of the constant overwhelming surge of “everything” that comes our way all the time, and to keep the collection one clickable tab away from all of the “everything” as we find it. To try and turn online media consumption into its own kind of art, instead of doing the thing. Making the art.

“I’m gonna start a garden in the backyard, ‘cause making this song up is just as hard.”

The thing I was looking for was action with the accumulation. To not only search-and-gather ideas and articles and inspiration, but to make something of my own.

Sites like Substack, Notion, Are.na, most notably Obsidian, and all those hidden in-between work to cultivate a personal, privately-creative approach to the internet, acting as tools to prune your garden and let it prosper. So I got the software launched on my laptop, pledged to not being a robot

(proved it), and got lost in it: empty, blinking, staring. Here was a plot for the exemplary gardens I’d seen, the virtual Versailles built out of intricate web-weaving and type-A minds and so, so much time.

So I didn’t fall in love with the digital garden as YouTube tutorials and manicured Obsidian mind-maps presented it to me. Instead, I looked around and found a kind of self-made garden everywhere already — within and around the digital. I found instead, the flexibility of all the digital garden could be. I think we all build one without even knowing.

The “digital” garden, as it turns out, can grow accidentally. An eternal circulation for visual inspiration, my Pinterest account has fostered my own informal digital garden since I was a kid. But what is the use in endlessly seeking the inspiration if there’s nothing real for it to inspire? What if instead of hoarding impermanent bits of the internet all away for ourselves, manicuring the collections for presentation and screenshotable shows of intellectualism, we just go do something with it? To use the things inside the garden as you’d imagine, enough to show something for it all besides the general notion of inspiration? To nurture your own self within it.

Maybe the “digital” is just a branch. Maybe that was the point all along. To

be horrible, and pull from pastel mentalhealth-advocate infographics and (eye-roll) poet Rupi Kaur: “Your mind is a garden.” The thing is, gardens die. And not in a nihilist, end-of-world ready way. The garden is just the most natural thing — is and has been. So we’re forced to see it, take care of it, use what’s in it, and to keep things growing.

WRITTEN BY LINDSEY PEASE

ART DIRECTOR MADELINE ZELLER PHOTOGRAPHED BY OLIVER BARLOW STYLISTS LINDSEY NGUYEN & CAMILLE ANDREWS

MODELS DREW TURIELLO & EVE HAGHIGHI

DESIGNER ADALEAH CARMAN

Vão-se os Dedos, Ficam os Anéis:

“The Fingers Will Go, but the Rings Stay”

My grandmother had been waiting on us to die. My father had already been in Brazil for a couple weeks at that point, and came to pick us up at the Salvador, Bahia airport. He had a conflicted expression on his face; of someone who’s grieving yet naturally grateful for his family’s arrival. Family, especially in moments of grief, keeps us grounded. The car was a rental, but the scenery was familiar, and the scent of the ocean tinged the air with that nostalgic tang of salt and sunscreen.

My grandmother’s house was a trove of memory, but sickness hung timidly in the air, striving to make itself known but not yet fully present, as if waiting patiently for our arrival. My grandmother herself had waited, and she passed away shortly after me and my sister said our goodbyes. I remember the way me and my cousins filed into her room, but my memory is now tinged with some unnamed gray film. I can no longer picture that day without it. Her house had always been the source of my creativity. My grandmother was an artist, and her shelves were lined with rows of canvases, now wrapped in a veil of plastic. Her counters and floors, usually dusted with clay, were wiped clean and smelled sharply of citrus, like the sterile surfaces in a hospital. The room was different, and she was different too, smaller in that great big bed of hers, the same bed we would crowd into on summer mornings. The morning after she passed, my parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, all huddled in my grandmother’s room and started unpacking her life.

Within my grandmother’s closet, we could always find a wide array of entertainment. Art supplies, paint-brushes, heavy blocks of clay,

WRITTEN BY ANA MENDONCA KERTESZ

DIRECTORS

KLOOSTER & HARPER

face paint, and a rainbow of fabrics adorned her shelves. Her clothes, which hung in every corner of the closet, were curtains, props and costumes for our makeshift productions (which we forced our families to sit through, and then charged them one Brazilian real for). To our wide childish eyes, Vovó’s closet was magic and an endless source of creativity. When she passed, we deconstructed it piece by piece; the designer handbag next to its counterfeit replica, the untouched box of colored pencils, the fraying canvas bag that held the tools she needed for her sculpting, the boxes of postcards and letters. Shadows of the teacher, politician and artist my grandmother had been throughout her life. What perplexed me the most was her jewelry. As a child she would often let me take a glimpse at the rings lined up in her jewelry box—and if I was lucky, she would allow me to pick a piece and take it home.

After she passed, we spread her life’s collection over the bed, combing through it like treasure. There is a saying in Brazil; Vão-se os dedos, ficam os anéis, meaning “the fingers will go, but the rings stay.” My father has a picture of that bed, all those rings lined up, but no finger remained to put them on.

We surround ourselves with objects, but what happens when those things eventually outlast us? When our fingers have returned to the Earth and our bones crumbled into sand, but the golden band around them stays. For my Vovó, her memories remain within her collections. I inherited rings from my grandmother — I wear them proudly on my fingers and they guide my strokes when I paint, as if her hand is still laid over the top of mine, echoing my motions. The letters she left behind are being compiled into a book, and through them I get glimpses of the person my grandmother once was. We live through our collections, and when they, too, decompose, we live through our memory, which is the most valuable possession after all.

PHOTOGRAPHED

BY BELLA SNYDER

MODEL EMILY MURO

STYLIST PIPER SHANKS

DESIGNER ALLIE HARAKUNI

m

I m r o t c l a n o I s

From ancient Mesopotamia to modern-day Hollywood, vampire folklore remains immortal, endlessly reemerging to reflect the anxieties of each generation. While fictional stories often paint vampires as villainous monsters, the traits that construct their “evil” personas — bloodsucking, seduction, and immortality — mirror the fears, desires, and insecurities that humans try to suppress. Modern media continues to prove that vampires aren’t just fanged creatures lurking in the shadows, but symbolic temptations of everyday life. Vampires are the 8 a.m. class that college students contemplate skipping every morning, the situationship we know we should leave, and the mindless doom scrolling on social media that leaves people emotionally drained — all subtle temptations that feed off human weaknesses despite people’s awareness. Through the evolution of vampire folklore, it is clear that vampires are an everlasting, ever-evolving cultural metaphor that symbolizes human fears surrounding mortality, danger, and purity.

How vampire folklore reflects human nature

Throughout the story, he manipulates Harker into a psychic bond by repeatedly feeding on her, gradually taking control of her mind and actions without full consent. Ultimately, “Dracula” reflects the dynamics of real-life grooming and exploitative relationships — a powerful figure breaking down a vulnerable person’s right to their mind and body under the illusion of connection or care.

The blood-sucking creature adapts to mirror the emotional and moral struggles of each societal generation. Though the modern archetype of the gothic, pale, “sexy” vampire comes to mind when people imagine vampires nowadays, the themes that structure the creature’s own folklore date back thousands of years, varying based on region and culture. In ancient Mesopotamia, myths were told of demons such as Lilitu, a seductive spirit who feasted on the blood of the vulnerable, while Greek mythology had Lamia: the jealous lover of Zeus who killed and drank the blood of his children. By the 12th century, writers in Central and Eastern Europe revived these blood-sucking archetypes in tales of night monsters who required an invitation to strike. At last, by the 18th century, the term “vampire,” derived from the Slavic root vampir, became common. With fangs, pale skin, dark cloaks, and castles, these characters laid the groundwork for the iconic vampire aesthetic that many know and love today.

Vampire folklore also reflects societal anxieties around sex, purity, and gender dynamics. This is showcased through the recurring gender-centered trope of the seductive, dominant male vampire and the pure, vulnerable young woman whose life changes once she comes into contact with him. In Stephenie Meyer’s “Twilight,” Bella Swan’s loss of innocence is symbolically tied to her growing involvement with Edward Cullen. Her transformation into a vampire occurs simultaneously with marriage, pregnancy, and sexual awakening, reinforcing ideas about purity and consequence. These narratives often borrow from religious elements, with vampires as tempters and blood representing sin. Much like the biblical story of Eve and the forbidden fruit, vampire stories frame desire as dangerous and morally risky, warning against giving in to temptation. In this way, the vampire becomes a symbol of both seduction and societal punishment for straying from traditional virtue.

The trait of immortality also reflects the natural human desire to conquer aging and death. While some fear death itself, and others fear certain elements that come with death, it is in human nature to want to have some sort of control over it. Giving in to this natural desire for control, however, can lead people down a rocky path — engaging in reckless behavior to feel “young again” or getting plastic surgery to resist physical aging. Vampires also represent this temptation, serving as the alluring pull of darkness that offers power and pleasure yet comes at a dangerous cost.

Certain iconic vampire traits, such as bloodsucking and immortality, are more than horror tropes; they serve as metaphors for real-world issues. A symbolic connection between the fictional world of vampires and real issues lies in the vampire’s role as an emotional parasite, often representing toxic relationships built on manipulation, control, and blurred consent. The act of sucking blood correlates to parasitism in relationships, showing how people use and exploit others for personal gain, leaving them with nothing. These vampire characters are also often significantly older than their human counterparts, creating uncomfortable power imbalances. In Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel “Dracula,” Count Dracula is over 400 years older than his love interest, Mina Harker.

Ultimately, vampire folklore taps into some of the deepest fears and desires embedded in human nature. Vampires exist to symbolize the darker sides of humanity that we try to suppress, such as our need for control, our fear of death, and our struggle with temptation, while also representing social anxieties such as grooming, purity, and gender dynamics. Though these stories exaggerate reality through horror and fantasy genres, they hold up a mirror to very real and relevant issues. By examining the metaphors behind iconic vampire tropes such as bloodsucking, immortality, and seduction, we can better understand why vampire narratives have endured for centuries — and why they continue to evolve with each generation.

When the artist’s object of desire gains autonomy

DEATH MUSE the of the

So many notable works of art can be credited as the inspiration of a muse, but what exactly does that mean? Why do these muses, who seem to be the focal point of the art, have no real say in the work they inspired? When did we stop seeing muses in the media?

The word “muse” originates from Greek mythology, referring to the nine goddesses of song, poetry, the arts, and the sciences. Each is said to inspire individuals of the discipline they represent to create work in their name. However, the modern definition of being a muse strays from the worship-

worthy title it once held. A muse in the 21st century is a person, usually a woman, who serves as an artistic source or creative inspiration for an artist, writer, etc. Typically, the muse does not have a direct role in the art created based on them, despite having something so alluring due to their presence that art is made. Even if a muse is to appear in said work of art, that doesn’t guarantee credit for their contribution. The muse is an object of desire with some ornate quality that the artist does not possess themselves. As a muse, your essence is to be captured and stolen, turned into a hodgepodge of what the artist thinks you are or what you represent.

WRITTEN BY AVERY WILSON ART DIRECTORS EVA ROSE BRAZFIELD & EMILY MURO

One of the most tragic American muses is Edie Sedgwick. Discovered by Andy Warhol, the socialite and the artist shared an immediate attraction. At this point, Warhol was established in the art scene of New York, but was about to make some of his most iconic works thanks to Sedgwick. The two began making movies together, blowing up Sedgwick’s star power as the public liked her unique look and acting. They made 20 films together, however, towards the end of their friendship, Sedgwick felt that the movies that once highlighted her talent were actually mocking her. She played characters with issues that mirrored her own, only they were played for laughs; clips of Sedgwick not acting were included among her acting foolish. Warhol ignored this, and Sedgwick fell into a deep cycle of substance abuse caused by the viciousness of their falling out. Even after she died in 1971, Warhol rarely mentioned Sedgwick in any of the work they made together in public interviews, despite having a very iconic and public professional relationship.

Another mistreated muse is Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of “The Great Gatsby,” or so it is said. After being married, she began experiencing breakdowns and had to go to a mental hospital. At the hospital, Zelda Fitzgerald, an aspiring writer herself, wrote a novel and sent it to F. Scott Fitzgeald’s publisher, which angered her husband. While the story was published and did poorly, evidence shows that lines from “The Great Gatsby” were pulled from her journals, many of which have been destroyed. This led people to speculate that Zelda Fitzgerald was the actual author of the novel, not F. Scott Fitzgerald, who claimed his wife as an inspiration for its creation. Both Sedgwick and Zelda Fitzgerald had their roles minimized or even taken away from them, being awarded the title of muse alone.

Not all muses, however, have this tragic fate of being seen rather than understood; many works created out of deep love and admiration get watered into “muse” pieces. The Beatles men had a particular fondness for showing their love through music. Paul McCartney wrote many love songs for his wife, Linda, and even credited her on his album “Ram” as a way for the pair to spend more time together. George Harrison happened to marry the most prominent rock muse of all time, Pattie Boyd, who had Eric Clapton chasing after her, with her being the real-life “Layla.” With a different approach, Harrison’s work for Boyd came from a much softer, loving place with his song “Something,” written after they were engaged.

In today’s media landscape, the role of muse has dissipated. You no longer hear of these mystical figures who have an artistic aura around them, but no agency to be part of whatever project is created in their inspiration. Now, we see many collaborators across the arts: filmmakers who use the same actors in all their films, working with one another to achieve their shared goal. Or people creating albums as works of art for themselves, telling their own story, even in editorial spreads when someone is emulating a look of someone else where credit is given. While the fantasy of being a muse may have died, the works of art created in their presence will live on forever, introducing new generations to their lives.

BOTTOMS

incredible decade – a time of economic prosperity, job creation, and innovation across various fields. It remains one of the most important periods for timeless fashion, from the Rachel Green haircut which debuted on “Friends” to tailored suits paired with muted high heels. This was an irreplaceable decade that has provided people with pieces that reflect class, wealth, and beauty.

Red THE WEALTH OF SOLE desire for : THE

Established French fashion designer Christian Louboutin has been fascinated with shoes since 1976. After visiting a museum with a sign that prohibited women to wear heels, his mission was to make the “forbidden heel”– a tasteful shoe that made women feel confident and powerful. Before he knew it, in the early ‘90s, Louboutin launched his own shoe business in Paris. While designing heels in his Parisian workshop, Louboutin thought the shoes in his drawings looked too clunky. While struggling to find a solution to slim and elevate his shoes, his eyes panned to his assistant. At her desk, she was painting her nails a striking shade of vibrant red. Louboutin took inspiration from the nail polish and started to paint the bottom of the black shoe. He noticed that not only the red accent at the bottom distinguished his shoes from other brands, but overall the color also made the shoe more fashionable. Just like that, the red bottom was born. Not only did this shoe pivot the brand, but Louboutin sparked “the beginning of an illustrious legacy.”

Since Louboutin’s debut, the red bottom has taken fashion by storm, making constant appearances in the media despite being relatively difficult to obtain. The red bottom, ranging in different colors, heights, and designs retailing for hundreds of dollars, has advertised itself as a symbol of soft-luxury and confidence. Many celebrities have graced the red carpet with these shoes and have worn them on their day-to-day basis. Red bottoms are go-tos for A-List celebrities like Kendall Jenner, Kerry Washington, and Elle Fanning. People with copious amounts of wealth adore these shoes, making them desirable amongst people from various economic and social classes.

Based on the influence of celebrity culture and the price of the shoe itself, the red bottom associates with the idea of obtaining wealth and living lavishly. Whoever wears

The biggest example of social media advertising wealth to the average audience is through a recent trend in 2023 deemed “The Old Money Aesthetic.” This trend tries to mimic quiet luxury, a concept the red bottom shoe emulates especially well. Without the iconic red sole, the red bottom would look similar to other brands. Quiet luxury is exhibited when someone of extreme wealth decides to discreetly wear expensive clothes that can pass as everyday wardrobe basics.

WRITTEN

BY

MORGAN HOPES

ILLUSTRATED BY

YING THUM DESIGNER LIV BOURGAULT

Despite an effortless look, these clothing items still manage to look timeless, put together, and somewhat expensive. Through muted colors, limited and simplistic jewelry, and monochromatic pairings of clothes, people display themselves as wealthier as opposed to wearing bright colors and having an unconventional style. Through actions like these, people are finding alternatives to looking and feeling like wearing the iconic heel known for its red sole.

ARTDIRECTOR&DESIGNER

LAC NGUYEN

PHOTOGRAPHED BY JULIAN RAMIREZ-SANCHEZ

MODEL MCKENNA WILSON OF THE GILA RIVER

Beauty Tragedy in

The immortalization of Chris McCandless’ life through his tragic death

WRITTEN BY KIANA

HEILFRON

ART DIRECTOR CLAIRE CRAGER-STADELI

PHOTOGRAPHED BY AYLA FUNG

MODELS ANATHYN BURTON & EMMA RUBIN

STYLISTS LAUREN GULDEN & CAMILLE ANDREWS

DESIGNER EVAN GIORDANO

If there is one theme among all of Shakespeare’s plays, it is the romanticism of the tragic. Whether a character dies or encounters some unexpected, dreadful fate, each of his plays represents a certain beauty found in tragedy. Take, for instance, “Romeo and Juliet.” Two star-crossed lovers who fall into a tragic fate of death. Their story is well-known and appreciated for its sad yet beautiful ending. The audience is moved by the message, “to die for love,” but is there something more behind the veil of their story?

The mixing of beauty and tragedy is not only found in the fantasy of Shakespeare plays. In fact, most people have a compelling attraction towards appreciating tragedy in their everyday lives, even to the point of romanticizing it. One real-life story that illustrates the human nature to appreciate tragic events is the story of Chris McCandless.

Chris McCandless was an adventurous spirit who was looking to change his sedentary way of living. After graduating from Emory University in 1990, McCandless realized how badly he needed a new start. Always drawn to the harshness and beauty found in nature, his journey started that summer when he moved out west. Family pressures and the confinements of the working lifestyle led him to live in the freest way he knew: alone, in the wild.

After abandoning his family, belongings, and burning all the money he had left, he set off to live in the wilderness. He hitchhiked and travelled west to California, where he spent the next two years in various states including Arizona, Colorado, and South Dakota, before eventually going on his final journey to Alaska. Unfortunately, his journey was cut short when, after nearly four months of living in Alaska, he got sick and ran out of food. Dangerously

ill, he wrote in his journal to document his final days. He died on August 18, 1992, at the age of 24, and was found less than a month later.

Although McCandless’ story is a chilling reminder of the unrelenting nature of wilderness, his story shows incredible perseverance of the body and mind to withstand harsh environments. It was only a few years later that author Jon Krakauer publicized McCandless’ story in his book titled, “Into the Wild.” The book gained popularity and was turned into a movie when director Sean Penn took up the true story. By the act of turning McCandless’ life story into works of art, his life became immortalized. Over time, his fan base expanded, and McCandless became known as a hero to many.

This begs the question: if Chris McCandless were alive to tell the tale, would his story be as popular as it is today? And does McCandless’ tragic death give his story more meaning than if he had lived?

appreciate it fully. The same is true for how society views stories — real or imagined — of people’s lives and tragic deaths. While “Romeo and Juliet” is appreciated for intermixing love and death, and Chris McCandless’ story is appreciated for his brave embrace of nature, both stories are known for how they ended. Could you imagine “Romeo and Juliet” living happily ever after, and the story gaining as much popularity? Probably not.

This isn’t an easy question to answer, but evidence points to our human nature in appreciating tragic events due to the supposed gained value of things once they’re no longer present. Oftentimes people take for granted what they have, and it’s only until tragedy strikes, when the thing is gone, that they

It is not necessarily because happy endings aren’t worth appreciating, but more so that a person or character’s tragic death allows for an added meaning to their life, which can cause a romanticization of their past. This romanticization can be beautiful, by appreciating something that is no longer, but it can also be harmful.

When an audience is only receptive to a story when there is a tragic element, people’s real, impactful life stories get lost and ignored. To counter this natural tendency towards tragicromanticization, we can benefit from taking time to appreciate what’s right in front of us, the people that surround us everyday, and what they add to our lives. All in all, “Romeo and Juliet” and the story of Chris McCandless show how a life can be turned into a legacy by the romanticization of the tragic. Although their legacy or story became popularized by their deaths, the source of this impact comes from their lived lives.