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Celebrate 50 years of broadcasting excellence with Georgia Public Broadcasting. This year, GPB is unveiling three new documentaries which highlight some of our state’s most fascinating people and stories.

As If We Were









Visit for more information and view clips from Augusta’s Master Plan, As If We Were Ghosts and Margaret Mitchell. You can also learn more about all of the programs airing on GPB Television and GPB Radio, GPB’s award-winning newscasts, and the outstanding educational resources GPB provides to teachers and students across Georgia. worth sharing How Do You Get GPB? For a complete list of stations, programming information or GPB membership questions, visit, email or call GPB Member & Audience Services at 1.800.222.4788 or 404.685.4788 in the Atlanta area.

Table of Contents About The Issue When you look in the mirror, the person staring back at you may not be the same person others see. Sometimes the gap we create between who we appear to be and who we really are is intentional. Sometimes it’s not. This issue, we wanted to explore our inner layers, the different versions of self that we project and keep private. As artists, we excavate our memories, experiences and unspoken dreams to challenge each other and the world around us. As you read through these pages, think about who you are and who you might become. Underneath it all, is that you?


MY FACEBOOK SELF A commentary on the wall between our posts and ourselves.


BURN Getting too close to the flames of passion.



Nothing is black or white, we all have shades of gray.


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To be, or not to be true to who we really are.

SHOWCASE The best in fashion and photography SCAD Atlanta has to offer.

FOCUS: HONG KONG A culinary experience, halfway around the world.


UNCONVENTIONAL WISDOM Portraits of the artists beneath the surface.

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Contributors Dru Phillips

Olamma Oparah

Cassie Robinson

Photographer, Cover

Stylist, Multifaceted

Solomon Chaison

Chris Lincoln

Photographer, Showcase, Unconventional Wisdom

Model, Cover

Model, Multifaceted

Joseph Calvo Writer, Photographer, Focus: Hong Kong

Tom Taylor Writer, Unconventional Wisdom




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About SCAN

Contact Us

SCAN Magazine is the quarterly student magazine of the Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta. All editorial content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in SCAN Magazine are not necessarily those of the college.

SCAN Magazine SCAD Atlanta 1600 Peachtree St. Atlanta, GA 30309

Office » 404.253.2738 Fax » 404.897.4888   » scan @ »

©2011 SCAN Magazine. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

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Wall of Shame

False Info Doctored Photos True Friends 4



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Facebook Written by Erin White Illustration by Barry Lee

Facebook and I have a love/hate relationship.

I love that I can communicate with all of my friends and acquaintances within seconds. And I hate that in doing so, I have grown accustomed to living online. By living online, I mean the daily happenings of my life are displayed for nearly everyone I’ve known since middle school to see — people I’ve had drinks with at parties and my best friend’s mother. Facebook provides everyone with a stage to act out the play of their life for the world. S P RI N G 2 011




Until recently, the first things I did in the morning were turn off my alarm clock, hobble out of bed and check my Facebook. I would wait for the page to load, hoping that my recent, slightly obnoxious status had caused a miniature stir in my online community. I would create statuses with two goals in mind: first, to bring attention to myself, and second, to connect with my friends. There is a lot of work that goes into crafting a Facebook status, whether you want to admit it. First, you must think of who your

Against my better judgement, I find myself clicking through picture after picture of a scantily-clad girl I knew from 11th grade English. Blonde, flat-stomached and midriffbaring, she is surrounded by similarly dressed friends in a colorfully lit bar. The pictures irritate me. I look at the images and question the differences in our weekends and body shapes. I try reminding myself that the comparisons are unfair, but it’s hard to feel cool sitting at home, Facebook-stalking in my ratty, Edward Cullen t-shirt on a Friday night.

We’re in love!” No matter what your profile picture is, it’s undeniable that some thought was put into selecting it. Like a first impression, a profile picture speaks volumes about who someone is. In a single thumbnail you are stating who you are and what you’re about. What makes it different from an in-person first impression is that it’s highly manipulated and controlled. It wasn’t until recently that I first realized how much these statuses were affecting me.

I won't deny that a well-received status gives me some satisfaction. Yet, there is some lingering doubt about whether the feedback is for the real me or the Facebook me.

audience is, and what their potential reactions could be. Next, you need something witty, funny or bitchy to say. If nothing exciting has happened, you still want to make your presence on the Internet known. I will not deny that a well-received status gives me some satisfaction. Yet, there is some lingering doubt about whether the feedback is for the real me or the Facebook me. Facebook enables users to pick and choose what pieces of their lives they want to share. The notion that we have the freedom to post whatever we want seems liberating, but the very act of controlling what other people know about us can also be oppressive. Connected to this online world that I’ve built for myself is a whole universe of my friends’ worlds. They step on and off podiums, describing the events of their seemingly action-packed weekends.




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The girl whose images mock my sorry weekend posted them, subconsciously, to create envy. After all, if you can’t brag on Facebook, where else can you do it? I’m not so self-absorbed as to think that pictures of her or anyone else are uploaded to make me feel inferior, but I do know that they were not selected at random — that each picture was a choice. A choice of what aspect of your personality you want to show. On Facebook you make your own reputation, and this was what my old classmate was building.

A popular boy from my high school wrote, “Fat chicks in skinny jeans is just not right.” I read it twice to make sure that’s what I saw. I felt the waist of my jeans tighten around my belly, and I cringed. Fat chicks? He must be talking about me. Obviously he’s talking about me. My insecurities made me paranoid and self-conscious. I loved my skinny jeans, but I began to question the appropriateness of wearing them. I let someone’s Facebook self, someone too afraid to say it to my face, challenge my own happiness.

Some people choose to upload dozens of drunken dancing pictures from the night before. Others post pseudo-artsy edited Instagrams of themselves laying in fields of flowers. Then there are the ones who post pictures of themselves with their significant other, kissing and sharing intimate moments. These profiles scream: “I’m in a couple!

I found myself Photoshopping a self-portrait. There was nothing wrong with the picture. In fact, it was a fairly decent picture of me, but it seemed inadequate next to all the other girls’ bikini profiles. Their sun-kissed pictures got more than comments — they got buzz. For better or worse, these images became the subject of discussion. The photos were

immodest, but at least they were getting noticed by people. I began giving myself one less chin, de-frizzing my hair and rounding out my cleavage with iPhoto. Soon, censoring and editing my photos leaked into my status updates. My main focus changed from wanting to make my friends laugh, to rubbing my sometimes exaggerated good fortune in their faces. Trying work days became days that I verbally kicked the ass of a superior. It also gave me the chance to step up on the soapbox and say whatever I liked to my 650 friends. I passive-aggressively bitched about peers I was too cowardly to confront. I used it to make sure everyone knew that I had plans that night. I became more conscious of how I came across to others. Instead of off-the-cuff comments, everything I felt and and thought had to be filtered and poured into the mold I thought I was had to fit in to. As with my real life, my Facebook self wanted to be seen as two things: really cute and really clever. I let my selective collection of photos do the cute part and my blurbs of interests do the rest. Each photo was carefully vetted for these qualifications. My mental checklist looked something like this: What am I wearing? Am I wearing something I’ve worn too many times? How does my hair look? Subconsciously, I selected pictures that were not full-length, hoping to conceal my pudge and other flaws. The revamped images didn’t bring me any real satisfaction, though, just superficial security from the comments they received. I found myself wondering — what does it mean when you start covering up who you are?

clumsy, but graceful. Its favorite shows were little-known BBC dramas, and it only watched obscure Netflix documentaries about prison inmates. It failed to mention that it has also been watching “The Real World” since 1998 and enjoys playing “The Sims” for hours on end. Nor did my Facebook mention that I sing songs by Disney’s Cheetah Girls on my way to school every morning. It only let people see what I wanted them to see — what I thought was worth seeing. After taking a step back from this online universe, I felt silly. Silly like the way I felt in middle school, trying to impress the “cool” kids and looking like a fool. I had sacrificed the things I loved about myself. My affinity for the “Real Housewives” series was something that everyone needed to know about. I loved dramatic reality TV, and I loved my skinny jeans. The pressure I had felt to look a certain way was my own. I had allowed myself to lose what is most important, my sense of self. I had momentarily compromised who I was by hiding parts of my self that I made me ashamed. Now, I don’t take Facebook so seriously. I continue to dance to Britney Spears in my bedroom, completely unabashed. And I don’t cover up the things that scare me – the things that make me less than perfect. I’ve learned to embrace myself and remain true to that, at all costs. Even though my life may not be so glamorous, and I spend more time at home than out with friends, it is my life. And that’s how I like it. All the quirks and individuality that make it mine are also what make it interesting.

My profile information may have had the essence of me, but it was a better guitar player and a more serious student. It did not have a goofy, obnoxious laugh and was always thoughtful and composed. It wasn’t

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Written By Seth Crowe Illustration by Barry Lee




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The rain never pretended to be something that it’s not.

It called my name through the window, and condemned my idolization of each luminous drop. On the other side of the glass there was thunder, and as it struck, I kept score of each deafening crack. I went outside. I stood in the rain. I faced the sky and said I never wanted your water; I just wanted to get wet.

We drove back to Atlanta and conversed about our tragic upbringings. In our history of violence, adultery and the grotesque, we shared something wholly evil and wrong, and despite the overbearing calamity of our past, it was comforting to confide it in one another. My father, the lush alcoholic and disloyal husband; my mother, the constant victim, a caregiver and bearer of the unforgiving cross; and me, the broken realist holding together what was left of a love lost between my blood, my heritage — the relationship responsible for my existence. I couldn’t have imagined, at the time, a lineage more dysfunctional, until my openness spawned hers. I began to cherish every slow syllable leaking from her lips. She never pretended to be something that she was not. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this,” she said. “It’s not something to be ashamed of. Our history is our truth.”

seat belt in the passenger seat of my truck. She lit a cigarette and cracked the window. “I don’t know. I am having trouble figuring you out.”

cracked windows. As we came to the intersection of Spring and 17th Street, again the light was red. I let out a deep sigh and shook my head from side to side.

“To be honest, I do have a goal for this date.” She raised an inquisitive brow.

“What?” she asked. I took off my seat belt and ran my hand across her dark hair.

“And what's that?” I reached across the truck and placed her hand in mine. “Objective complete.”

“I don’t think I can sit through another light.” I kissed her through the red light and the following green, and intentionally hit every red light on the way home.

She smiled. “Damit you can’t do that. You make me feel like such a girl.” As we approached the Midtown exit off of I-85, she flicked her cigarette through the window and rested both elbows on the middle console. She propped her head on her hands and stared at me with deep concentration. As we sat at the red light, I looked her over. I’m not a romantic, but if I were, I'd say her eyes held mine like a finger on the trigger. “Damit, don’t look at me like that,” I said.

“Honesty comes too easily for you. You want something from me, just as I want something from you.”

“What did I do?” “I bought a dress.” “What does that mean?” “It means that I’m back in grade school.” Her affection was a disease, an infection, the first luminous drop leaking through my window.

“Why?” “Because, you make me feel like such a girl.”

“Do you really think I have intentions? Am I just any other swinging dick?" She paused in thought for a few moments and took off her

She called the next day. “Now you’re really pissing me off.”

The light changed. I’d barely noticed. The air was dense. Tension poured out of the

The next weekend we drove to my brother’s house. I pulled a beer from the fridge and chose a new song on the stereo. Everyone had gone outside to smoke. She peered through the walkway.

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“I love this place, you talk about it like it was a prison, but there’s something about it. I can’t really describe what, but it’s endearing.” “I love your friends,” she added, coming into the kitchen. “Your brother is just like you, if you were bald, dark and brooding.” “He’s like my evil twin. I’ve always told him the chrome dome plays; he doesn’t believe me though.”

drank the rest of my beer. There was thunder on the other side of the glass. I said nothing and left her in the kitchen. The moment had grown cold, whether she intended it or not. She caught up to me in the hallway. “What makes you do things like that?” I called upon a thousand years of literature from Shakespeare to Eliot. “Because you’re awesome.” “Awesome?”

I’d been thinking about her — not with adolescent care or longing, but with a particular warmth and fondness that could easily be described as distraction. I shuffled through play lists on my iPod. She grabbed my hand. “Wait, what was that?” I’d forgotten, but amid my thoughts over the past week, I’d created a play list titled with her name. It consisted of songs that did nothing to discourage my infatuation. “You bought a dress; I made a playlist.” The hardwood floors begged for our attention. We’d moved the kitchen table outside the night before to play cards. It seemed a brilliantly awkward space, lacking in movement, in life. I selected Dead Weather’s “Will There Be Enough Water” and gently wrapped my arms around her. I thought, how cliché, but the moment was sincere, and no matter my loathing of romance and tenderness, we were submersed in the moment, holding our breath in this fleeting grasp on reality. She laughed as we danced and shared stares. The music moved slowly. Like the last few drops of rain after a thunderstorm. “I couldn’t see myself dancing with a man in a stranger’s kitchen a year from now,” she said, dropping her arms from my side. I let go of her hand, changed the song and




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I surprised even myself with such a poor, stupefying selection of words. I made

I stretched out in bed, as she wandered toward the bathroom. After twenty minutes, I began to worry and wandered around the house, but she was nowhere to be found. another attempt. “Overwhelming, breathtaking, splendid, awe-inspiring, humbling, remarkable, amazing.” “Is that all…” My brother Jordan peered through the entry. “She doesn’t have her hands on your man parts does she?” He didn’t see her behind the door. She punched him the face. “Gotcha bitch.” Jordan rubbed his jaw. “I like this one.”

On Valentine’s Day, she slipped a hand-made card into my bag. It was a diagram of a pig, with sectioned-off portions showing the butcher’s delineations for meat cuts. At the bottom it read: “Because you’re awesome.” I had no frame of reference. I’d given valentines but never received one of my own. We made a trip down Ponce de Leon Avenue to eat dinner at Popeye’s. It wasn’t the intimate setting I’d imagined she desired. I suppose I’d built up preconceived notions about what to expect. She said: “I don’t want a boyfriend. I’ll be your girl if that’s what you want.” “Of course. Labeling a relationship creates expectations,” I replied, but I didn’t mean it. So I added, “If you change your mind, you should let me know.” “You never really know,” she said, devouring a piece of fried chicken. That night I pondered what she meant. Then, putting aside the rising emotions, I went to the grocery store and bought a bottle of wine, a deli package of salami, a roll of sausage and a pound of bacon. Using some old Davey board from a design class, I fashioned a box and wrapped it all together with twine. The next day, I went to her apartment with my poorly made package of wine and assorted meats. “All you ever talk about is frying up bacon and eating sausage, so I figured I would get you something you could use.” She smiled. “Honestly, this is probably the best valentine I’ve ever gotten.” We drank the bottle of wine and wrestled into bed, breaking all four slats holding up the mattress. She didn’t care. We had sex and divulged secrets, until the sun began to

rise. She made breakfast, and I tore myself away from the comforts of her home to attend classes, where I thought about nothing and scribbled her name in the corners of my notes. I was back in grade school.

She left for a family trip before spring break, and we didn’t speak for several weeks. The time apart created a distance that revealed a certain painful insight. I had begun to care, and that wasn’t something I could grasp. I was confused. I confessed this to my exgirlfriend, as we caught up on homework and watched trash TV on a Saturday afternoon. “I just don’t know what to make of it. It’s such a strange relationship. Neither of us can concede to becoming emotionally invested.” “These things just take time. You seem to really like her.” “I do, but it seems like there’s something lurking just beneath the surface.” We talked about times we’d forgotten on purpose — like sneaking out of her parents’ house to meet at the end of her driveway, skipping class to drink my father’s homemade wine, and driving to DeSoto Falls in the summer to escape the city air. “I think I’m just going to be an old maid. I keep thinking I’ll settle on the wrong person,” she said while looking to me for an answer. “That’s not going to happen. If you are not married by 25, then I’ll put a ring on your finger.” She went to the record player and put on “When The Lights Go Out” by the Black Keys. Her body swayed to the music. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. We danced, and I thought about red lights,

bacon and Popeye’s chicken. I danced with her thinking of another. Where my love interest had ruined the moment, my long-time friend had succeeded. I kissed her.

don’t,” she whispered in my ear stumbling across the sidewalk.

She grabbed my hand and said, “You know I love you.”

She said nothing as we walked into the house. I stretched out in bed, as she wandered toward the bathroom. After twenty minutes, I began to worry and wandered around the house, but she was nowhere to be found. I went into my brother’s room. She was in bed with him. I was too drunk to muster a reaction.

As I gathered my things to leave I replied, “I think that’s the problem.” I was standing in the rain. Time had not resolved the problem. I loved her too.

A few weeks later the girl called me after returning from the family trip. She met me in my hometown. We went for a walk in no particular direction.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

A few minutes later, she came back into my room. Her hand covered my lips. She explained that the plot to sleep with my brother had been underway for weeks. She said she was the devil. I said, “I never wanted your water.”

“Let’s go ‘awesome’ boy. I want to get drunk,” she said. The crimson walls, the recognizable black and white of Elvis Presley, the mason jars filled with Gentleman Jack and Sailor Jerry’s rum, the stench of stale cigarettes and the sound of Crotty’s unabashed, sarcastic voice welcomed me into the bar. Crotty, the bartender, poured our shots. “You’re not with the band are you?” “No.” “Good. I was going to slap the next person that said they were with the band.” A woman sitting next to us raised her head from her drink and said, “I’m with the band.” Crotty leaned towards her. He raised his hand. “Give me your face.” We drank until last call. On our way home, she grabbed the back of my neck and pulled my hair. She kissed me like it was the last time. “You think you know me, but you really

“What?” “You wouldn’t understand.” She went back to my brother’s room as the rain began to trickle down my window. I didn’t sleep. “Literally, I had to punch her in the face,” Jordan said. We were sharing a drink and smoke at the bar the next day. “That doesn’t surprise me. She’s used to getting what she wants.” He put a hand on my shoulder and with a serious tone said, “For the record, I did not touch her. I made her sleep at the foot of my bed. I was afraid you would kill her. I wanted to hari-kari myself with a butcher’s knife.” I smiled. “ ‘Shit I’m with ya, I ain’t mad atcha; got nothin’ but love for ya.’ ” I finished my drink and took a long drag from my cigarette. “I’ve been sleeping with my ex for the past three weeks.”

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faceted multi

Sometimes what others see in us does not reflect who we really are.

Photos by Sara Hopkins Modeling by Chris Lincoln Styling by Olamma Oparah




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A Rose by Any Other Name SCAD students have a distinct look. One walk around the main building, and you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. Or, Kansas City. By Osayi Endolyn



Photos by Malee Moua


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Chris “BlackRose” Lincoln knows all about that. The second-year fashion major from Missouri’s largest city is recognized throughout the university for his daily black ensembles, severe makeup and long, locked hair. He developed the moody, gothic look as a result of challenging experiences he had growing up. Just don’t let the sharp lines and black lipstick fool you. He has a brilliant smile that you’d consider yourself lucky to see. And even when he tells a sad story, you have permission to laugh through the hurt. BlackRose (as he prefers to be called) may have come through some darkness. But looking past the layer he’s constructed, you can see a light shining through. The persona “BlackRose” evolved over time, he says, when being Chris got to be too tough. “When I was younger, I had to deal with a lot of rejection, love-loss,” BlackRose says. “When I realized my sexual preference — life got hard.” Being gay in an urban, mostly Christian, black neighborhood was like having a target on his back, BlackRose recalls. The judgment was

relentless, even before he dressed head-totoe in black. At school, in the supermarket, perfect strangers would approach him, shouting prayers and attempting to cast out the devil. It was no way to live. BlackRose remembers a pinnacle moment when his perspective shifted. Like with many high school students, the life-changing moment happened at prom. “I had just come out. My family had disowned me. I’d been jumped. I was looking for love and acceptance. I had a few friends who really encouraged me, so I decided to run for prom king.” The reign was not to be. Despite much support, the most popular kid won. Standing on the stage, BlackRose felt crushed. His sadness wasn’t just about losing the contest. The loss capped off a seemingly endless list of rejections. “Chris had had enough. After that, I became BlackRose.” He donated all of his clothing that wasn’t black. He stopped reaching out. If you wanted to connect with him, you would have to be drawn in. “My style stands for rejection — I feel I represent all those who’ve been rejected. BlackRose is a little stronger at handling things than Chris could.”

BlackRose started writing poetry. He began to push back at the taunts and unwelcome religious gestures. About a year ago, he moved to Atlanta to come to SCAD. As a developing fashion designer, with a minor in creative writing, he has found ways to channel his look into styles and words that connect with others. BlackRose’s designs are geared towards the alternative market, and he has used Occult studies for background research. His sketches are inspired by the Grim Reaper, featuring layered, textured garments that both conceal and define. Of course, with the exception of a few white accents, they are all in black. Could it be a hint of Chris coming through? “I don’t know, maybe.” He is pensive. “It’s good to have layers because it shows that we open up to certain types of people in different ways. It can be dangerous to become vulnerable to just any and everybody. People can take advantage of you. I think I will always be BlackRose.” Starring in the photo shoot for this issue pushed him out of his comfort zone. “It made me very emotional, because I could identify

with all the characters you guys came up with, even though you brainstormed them before I became involved. I grew up as a Christian, so I could relate to the image of a priest. When I’m at home, I don’t wear makeup; I’m totally vulnerable. That shoot forced me to reveal things, show my flaws.” Even now, BlackRose still encounters people who want to fix and change him. He says some SCAD students confront him in the hallways, telling him that they’ll be praying for his sins. It’s a total violation of his right to be himself, he says. “I’m not worried about the soul and the afterlife.å I’m all about the flesh and the now,” he says, laughing. What matters most to BlackRose is that people realize his look is more than a look — his identity is no fluke. “I don’t want to just be recognized for my style, I want people to know how it was created — I want to be recognized for my poetry and my art.” He is on a mission to represent for the rejected. How long will he keep it up? “Until the flesh is gone, baby, until it’s all gone.”

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Dru Phillips When did you know you wanted to pursue photography? It was sometime in 2009 when I figured I would shoot reference pictures all the time in undergrad for my illustrations. I just thought to myself, "Hey, these are pretty ok. Maybe I could get paid to do this."

What do you try to express through your work? I look at my compositions and subjects as drawings and paint the image in my mind. I view a photograph as a small slice of time, which cannot be repeated. So I try to express a sense of timelessness. I usually want the viewer to feel as if he/she was right there at that moment.

What is it about people that makes you want to photograph them, as opposed to other subjects? People are predictable and unpredictable at the same time. What I mean by that is there is an auto response to a camera for everyone. I usually like to wait for a real moment before I make a picture, and no two photographers will catch the same expression from a person. I do like to photograph inanimate objects every now and then, but I already know what they are going to do because it was doing the same thing it was doing before I got there.

Who or what inspires you? I am really inspired by most of my peers — mainly Marlene Hawthorne Thomas — because she knows everything, and she has taught me a lot. Also people such as Adam Reign, Omar Richardson, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Vivian Maier, and Bob Ross’ hair. I am inspired by tons of imagery I find on the Behance network and other sites.




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Shamollie Anthony When did you know you wanted to pursue fashion? I don’t ever think I “knew” that I wanted to do something in fashion. Ironically it was one of those things I'd always done and then one day I just had an epiphany about making handbags full time. When I was younger my mom would make all of my outfits so naturally I picked up on sewing and it just grew from there. I would make my doll clothes and small pillows for my room and before I knew it I was making handbags for my myself and my friends in high school.

What do you try to express through your work? I aim to express handmade pride in my work. I try hard to make my bags with the best craftsmanship I can. I love when people say, “Wow, I thought you bought that!” More so than the look, I want the time and effort put into it to be the focal point.

Describe the woman who would carry one of your bags. The woman who would carry my bags is a college student or new career woman. She's onthe-go, but still stylish. She doesn't live out of one particular bag so she's able to switch up her bag selection on a daily basis. She loves pieces that are slightly off the beaten path, and is not afraid to mix colors, textures and prints.

Who/what inspires you? What inspires me is the concept that there is nothing new under the sun. I often think about living in a time when just about everything that can be done has already been. What may seem like a creativity killer actually enhances my designing. I’m constantly testing this theory by mixing up zipper placement, using contrasting textures, or combining closure techniques in an effort to create something new. I’m always inspired by seeing things that already exist and trying to make them fresh. The handbag is nothing new, but the way it’s made can always be improved upon.




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Mandisa Supris When did you know you wanted to pursue fashion? I learned to sew from my grandmother, and one day I was siting in the big armchair in our family room at home and was flipping through some of my favorite fashion magazines when a thought slipped through my mind, "I could make that dress!" I created my first collection at 14 and had a fashion show in downtown Atlanta. From then on I just knew that fashion was more than just pretty outfits and glamor. If I can make someone smile and feel beautiful in one of my pieces, I've done my job well.

What do you try to express through your work? I love theater and so I enjoy bringing theatrics into my couture pieces. Whether it is ready to wear or couture, the character or feel of a mood that I am trying to express has to be evident. Overall I try to express beauty without being overtly sexy, elegance wit a twist of flavor, and modernity while always revisiting the past.

Where do you find inspiration for your shapes? I think I naturally am attracted to curvilinear and rounded objects so when I sketch my fashion designs they seem to just emerge from my pencil. I am largely interested and amazed by large sculpture so I believe that inadvertently I draw upon pieces that I have seen without even realizing it.

Who or what inspires you? When I look for inspiration to design a new dress or outfit I think about who is the character I have in mind. Is she outgoing or shy? Does she want to be subtle or love to be the center of attention? I then think about shapes that I feel moved by, the season, current events‌almost anything! It really is a combination of life, art, people and my own personal emotions that stir my inspiration.




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Written and photographed by Joseph Calvo




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At times where no English translation was to be found, I would point to a random row of Chinese characters and hope for the best.

A walk down the streets of Hong Kong is a striking visual experience. In Sham Shui Po (the home of SCAD Hong Kong) a plethora of colored signs and tall buildings hang over the heads of passersby. Each day an amalgam of smells greeted me as I walked through Fuk Wing Street. Due to my love and curiosity of new foods, I tried several of the restaurants. From the corner shops selling glazed chicken and chicken feet, to the Thai and Vietnamese restaurants serving delicious soups and green chicken curry. My first meal was at a restaurant called “The Eat Together”. I ordered Hot and Spicy broth with rice noodles and barbecued pork. As I slurped the broth and twisted the slippery noodles around my chopsticks, I knew Hong Kong would be a wonderful food adventure. While in Hong Kong I took a documentary photography course. I photographed the process of me ordering, the chefs preparing the meal and it being served. Through personal experiences attention is called to the act of eating emphasizing not only its importance, but also the importance of the scene behind the meal. I traveled to 30 restaurants in several cities around Hong Kong sampling their cuisine. At times where no English translation was to be found, I would point to a random row of Chinese characters and hope for the best. With each new restaurant, I embraced a wonderful meal (on most occasions) and an experience that lives not only in the pages of my Moleskine, but also my mind. S P RI N G 2 011




While many high school graduates swim for the predictable waters of the mainstream, the art student veers off where the currents run deep, wide and varied. Even more unpredictable are the people who choose to become artists. Everyone knows the stereotypes. But what’s more interesting are the real people behind those molds — people who defy convention, which is what an artist really is.


Written by Tom Taylor Photos by Cassie Robinson

First-year painting student Cat Markli sports pink hair and Narcotics Anonymous key tags, which hang in plain sight from her purse, and a tattooed owl is visible on her hip. Blunt, strong-willed Markli looks every inch a free spirit. She’s been painting since she was little, and right now she’s doing distorted portraits that look purposefully unrefined. But just when you think you have her pinned down, you’ll find out something else about her that makes her unique, and wholly herself. She likes to snowboard. Once upon a time, she thought she would be a nurse, or a psychologist. Now, she’s back to her first love, painting. “I always kind of wanted the same thing. In third grade, I would draw these roses that my mom loved. She would always hang them up on the wall.”

Kenny Ong, visual effects graduate student, seems like any other college student for the most part. He loves Star Wars and eats microwave dinners from the stockpile in his freezer. For Ong, life at SCAD is purely business. He has left his life in Singapore, including a wife and child, to be here. He’s not here to impress anyone or have a social life. Yet even he gets bored of school work sometimes. You wouldn’t think it to look at him — dressed casually, in gym shorts and white t-shirts — but Ong likes to shop. Mounds of cardboard boxes are piled in the corner of his room, the leftover packaging from eBay purchases, where he likes to buy action figures and vintage cameras. “I like to shop and eat. I collect vintage cameras and do a lot of online shopping. It’s like retail therapy.”


Alana Adams is full of contradictions. As a third-year writing student, she is quietly opinionated. Adams writes personal essays, which tend to be witty, sarcastic and bitingly humorous. She also loves animals and thought she’d be a veterinarian, before she changed her mind to being a singer. “I loved animals; I wanted to save them all,” she said. Adams is not the kind of girl to throw on an outfit without grueling contemplation, and her jewelry collection is extensive, which explains why she was in fashion, before finally choosing writing. And at times, she’s still undecided about what she wants to do. What she does know is that she wants to be happy, sleep and eat chocolate.


S hop



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SCAN Magazine Spring 2011  

SCAD Atlanta's quarterly student magazine. The Spring 2011 issue explores the secret sides and different facets of personality that make eve...

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