Guise by lise friedman

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Contributors >

Anthony Espino @anthonyaespino

Dakotah Terrace @darlingdakotah

Leila Samii @kamaisny

Layla Kovacevic @laylakovacevic

Ramya Velury @ramyavelury

ZoĂŤ McGee @zmcgee219

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07 13 17 26 30 32

contents 35 mm

Missed Connections by Layla Kovacevic

prose

Notes to Self by ZoĂŤ McGee

editorial

The Invisible Woman by Leila Samii

vibes

Unmixed and Unmastered by Ramya Velury

SO.MEDIA

Almost (Instagram) Famous by Anthony Espino

PORTFOLIO Sign Off by Dakotah Terrace

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Layla Kovacevic

s d n e o s i s t i c M nne o C I don’t know your name, but you have short brown hair and long skinny legs and spend a lot of time by yourself. I see you around the city and I think you’ve seen me too, but I’m not sure. I’d really like to talk to you, I hope you see this soon so we can meet. You know where to find me.

< PHOTOGRAPHED BY > Layla Kovacevic

< FEATURING > Zoë McGee

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NOTES to Self

For many, the cell phone note has become a depot for ideas— thoughts, reminders, projects—most of which dissolve with time. Eventually these notes are forgotten, tucked away in an app on a dashboard, useless words uniform in their default, yet sometimes unintentionally poetic. Notes to Self emerged out of the iPhone notes of strangers. By using the familiar format of the Notes application as a platform, the following written pieces reinterpret three separate, unrelated entries, allowing lost thoughts to resurface and form new significance.

< BY > Zoë McGee

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We sat in the room with the tall ceilings and the corner windows. The glass took over both walls; a grid of nine individual windows that stretched from the heaters to the ceiling, creating an enormous glass corner that looked out onto the empty apartment buildings across the street. We crouched on the sofa chair that had enough room for the both of us if we squeezed. The day was ending. We ignored time and pretended like our conversation was heavier than space moving, unchanged by the light slipping around our bodies. The evening rolled and our words cascaded like those fountains where water slips down stone stairs just to get sucked back up. We were talking in circles, falling and restarting a conversation that couldn’t end.

As the darkness enveloped us, so did our chair, and we sunk further and further into the cushioned seat. The arm rests became back rests and the seat a mattress, and our bodies became one as the space pushed us together. Our arms and legs entangled. My knees leaned against your chest and our shoulders overlapped, yours over mine. Our toes curled under us. The light was fading faster and our big sofa chair was getting bigger, and I began to feel the weight of both. Everything about us was shrinking. The space between our lips was closing in on our conversation, and the words coming out of ours mouths began to sweat as they lost their point. The darkness was pushing us in, pushing the light out, and it grew. We were in complete darkness and we both

knew the light switch was by the door but we couldn’t get up because it was warm on our mattress chair and our bodies were knotted together and we knew the night would push us back down. That was okay. The darkness squeezed all the light out and we sucked up all the words. There was no more tugging or pushing, so we sat still. My forehead pressed against the inside of your neck and your left arm settled on the curve of my waist. The night had soaked us up and we couldn’t see time anymore. I didn’t miss time. We never did go up to turn on the light, we just sat still. u

On these summer days when I am too lost to function, I wait all day in my wooden bed with the painted pink trimmings and fading roses. Waiting becomes an activity for me; sometimes I stay in bed so long I start off sitting up and sink slowly under the covers. I always end up falling asleep. Slouching. My legs stretch out in front of me, my spine digs into my pillow, and my head crushes the roses on the headboard. My laptop is on my lap but I am doing nothing. I watched the darkness turn my bedroom’s sky blue walls into night blue. This is always a shame - the hour my room greys—because the way the summer sun absorbs into my peach marbled fireplace and my red bookshelf and the rose colors

in my rug ignite a form of happiness in me that I will never find elsewhere. The way the sunshine seeps from the garden through the sheer curtains that hang lightly in front of the windows, and bounce off the clay fairies and crystal figurines carefully arranged on the mantle create a feeling similar to the scene. My computer is propped up by my knees, its keyboard resting on my legs and its screen hovering above my chest. Its edge digs into my bladder but it molded a little ditch for itself and I barely notice how much I need to pee. My chin rests on top of my chest and my eyes are pinned to the screen above me. It’s tipped forward so I see its full brightness and it’s inches from my face, saying “look at me!!!! I’m your CLOSEST friend!! Only

friend?!!” I nod and keep staring cross-eyed into its ever-loading page. Loading... I’m looking at it like a mirror now, and instead of twirling my hair and tilting my cheek, I stay neutral. I look into the glare of the glass and see the real things, the bruises in the whites of my eyes and the circles underneath them. My eyes start to hurt since they tell me they’re not supposed to be looking into a laptop’s eyes, wherever they are, and I put it down to watch nothing. u

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What’s dreamier than a rooftop, where everything is not where it’s supposed to be. Everything’s reversed; you’re not on the ground nor in the sky and top and bottom kind of collide. We are where they meet. I guess you and I make up the horizon then, on the rooftop ocean, but sometimes the sky seems like the water holding itself above us while the light sets down below. Maybe the moon is its own reflection then, and we’re in the clouds. That makes sense... I felt like I was in the clouds with you on the roof when you were in the chair underneath the billboard signs. There was no one else on the platform and the beams of the tower surrounded us while we stared in silence at the empty couch on the roof across from

us. It must have been when the weather was still hot because we were up there in shorts but I think the sky was grey without a sun. “There’s the city,” you said, pointing at the pixelated skyline poking out from the rest of the world. The city still didn’t mean much to me. I watched the clouds with you when we were lying backwards on the ledge at the party that spilled out onto the roof. Everyone stayed near the door while we crouched under the wires and over the ledges to the other side, and held each other. That night was the first time I saw you smoke a cigarette and you smelled like burnt tobacco, which I liked. I had just gotten my hair cut and the wind was brushing up against the back of my ears in a new way. There was a tsunami of clouds coming over us, backlit by the moon, and it looked so

majestic in slow motion. In slow motion, we watched the moon get swallowed up. The moon! The moon is so content when the sky is clear. It looked so peaceful that time we both couldn’t sleep and so we tiptoed to the rooftop and slept on the pillow beneath the star-speckled sheet. You held me while the moon faded and until the light woke you up. I was still in your arms the way I had been when we fell asleep and my eyes struggled to adjust to the sun’s reflection on our comforter. Everything translated into colors that morning, the rich blue of the cloudless sky, the blinding white of our blanket, your golden hair and eyes seen through my half shut eyes. u

The Invisible Woman < PHOTOGRAPHED BY > Leila Samii G UI SE

Trench Coat, Burberry. Dress, Acne. Boots, Jeffrey Campbell. Sunglasses, Saint Laurent. Tights, Wolford.

Dress, Again LA.

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Dress, Balmain. Bracelet, vintage.

Dress, Millau. Jewelry, vintage. Lipstick, Tom Ford.

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Shirt, Jacquemus. Skirt, J.W. Anderson.

Shirt, Chanel. Skirt, American Apparel. Sunglasses, SUPER by RETROSUPERFUTURE.

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Dress, Rihanna for River Island. Cape, Tom Ford.

Layla

evic

Kovac

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un/mixed and un/mastered A look behind the music-making process at Quad Studios in New York City. Every song recorded here is archived in the space before knowing what heights the record will reach. Quad remains a constantâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; an edifice of vibes. < BY > Ramya Velury

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9:00 PM Amidst a crowded Times Square sits pockets of creation. Down the street, at W 44th Street and 8th Avenue, is Puff Daddy’s recording studio Daddy’s House. Right behind it is Platinum Recording Studios, owned by Wyclef Jean and Jerry Wonda of the Fugees. But today’s destination is Quad Studios. It simultaneously sits next to a pizzeria and a strip club, yet it’s infamously known for Tupac Shakur’s murder. To an ordinary pedestrian, the entrance to Quad looks like an apartment building, with only glass doors and a buzzer separating an outsider from an insider.

9:05 PM While it’s a newly remodeled building, the entrance is unkempt and the cannabis waft rolls out of the elevators, forcing you to capitulate to the energy of the space. Stepping off the elevator and into the lobby of Quad is the equivalent of stepping onto platform 9 ¾. The place has its own heartbeat: a partially abused pool table sits in the front, a healthy fish-tank lines the far wall, and the entire lobby is complemented by an assistant/ attendee who sits at the desk 24/7.

9:37 PM The artist is late—which isn’t unusual, since his studio was booked for a ten-hour session, courtesy of Epic Records. There are roughly three recording studios at Quad; one seems to be in the middle of renovations with plastic lining the door. In 2011, the entire space went through a giant renovation, upgrading the equipment and interior design of a studio that proved to be critical in the 90s. Tupac was shot near the entrance of the building and reportedly bled out onto the floor above, which is no longer accessible. The studio’s walls archive its history, displaying dozens of hit records that left their cultural stamps—from Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak My Heart” to the “Space Jam” soundtrack. To kill time, I sit on the couch facing the elevators, waiting for the artist to arrive, and chat with the lobby attendant. He is about 5’9” with a chubby,

“Time passes too fast, exhaustion causes us to stare at things for so long that we’re not sure if we exist any more.” stocky frame. He is hunching over his elbows on the make-shift desk, allowing me to see his premature balding. Even with his furrowed brows and red eyes, I can tell through his smudged glasses that he’s about 26 or 27 years old. “How long have you been here?” “Since like, 7AM We’re here 24/7, mostly waiting for the artists to come.” “When do you get to leave?” “Whenever the artist leaves. Sometimes they’re early nights, but mostly late nights. Then I come back the next day and do it all over again.” “Why do you do it?” “I love it. I love seeing these songs that make it to the radio being recorded right in front me… seeing the process. Crazy shit just happens. I want to eventually be on the soundboard, working with the songs directly.”

10:10 PM The artist walks in, swarmed by his manager and four friends. He opens his computer and starts checking a few e-mails while everyone sits idly, waiting for some kind of direction from him. The engineer who was previously mixing a track has turned off the soundboard, waiting for the artist to load his beats. With the phone to his left ear, he starts to pace. Flailing his right arm, the artist yells, “NO! I need a bigger budget for the stylist. That’s not how I want the video to be. BRO. I don’t care. Do what you need to do.” Yo, this is why I only fucks with the nigga ‘Ye. Like he gets it. FUCK. I don’t want this to be some basic ass shit.” The artist sits pensively. The room is relatively quiet; his friends are probably afraid he’ll spaz on someone because of his earlier temper tantrum. His friend hands him a blunt and he eases into his chair, inhaling deeply. Puffs of smoke tumble from his nose and mouth, giving him a smoke mustache that lingers in the room. He’s ready to record.

MIDNIGHT The only light in the room is glaring from the computer screens, which momentarily reveals the face of the engineer. His eyes take longer to blink when he stares at the screen; I imagine it’s because he is envisioning the song in his head, internalizing the layout. The artist goes back and forth from the sound booth to the sound board, purposefully keeping the lights off because: “The music just feels better.” The artist walks over to his friend leaning against the wall. The friend is smaller than the artist, yet he seems to make the artist feel inferior and vulnerable. He mumbles lyrics in the boy’s ear, slightly loud enough so the rest of the room could make out some formations of the words. The artist isn’t looking for self-validation, but rather encouragement for the conviction in his lyrics. “Purple drank...burning a roof, waking up asleep…”

The engineer has the track on loop, tuning it to the artist’s fancy. It sounds like a demonic séance erupting from the speakers, aliens kick-boxing bass in our eardrums as the 808s simultaneously syncopate our cardiac rhythm. They’re jumping on the soundboard and the table, morphing into something similar to the flying monkeys in the Wizard Of Oz. It’s destructive—yet contagious.

1:15 AM The manager walks back in the room and with a huge sigh says, “FUCK. They didn’t clear the sample.” He is referring to an older song that was sampled in the artist’s beat. If they release the song without clearing the sample, they could be facing copyright infringement. “Are you serious? Let’s just release the record for free then. Can we do that?” “I mean, she didn’t like her verse anyway. Let’s just scrap the record. Did you finalize the track listing? You need to name Chop’s song.”

7:00 AM Time passes too fast. Exhaustion causes us to stare at things for so long that we’re not sure we exist any more. A phone call breaks the trance of the artist’s manager and he says, “Yo, the Uber is here.” And just like that, reality snaps back into focus. The room is disheveled left to the attendant who will clean up the empty alcohol bottles and half-eaten McDonalds after we leave. The darkness absorbes into the studio walls and the events of the night fade with it—the slight slur of a word because the artist’s friend made him laugh; the original chorus for track 3; and the sound of the beat “before 2 AM” The artist will soon return to Quad, but in a few hours, the space that doesn’t fear time will embrace another artist who also hopes to live up to the plaques lined on the walls. u

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Almost (Instagram) Famous An inspection of social media, Internet fame, and the evolution of the celebrity.

< BY > Anthony Espino After scouring a café at LAX for something fried, I cave and get a salad.

socks, stained jeans, and an H&M shirt that hasn’t been washed since Britney was bald.

Remarkably, I am an hour early to my 7am flight; a prompt arrival I normally reserve for events with open-bars or gift bags.

It’s like watching Animal Planet. The Internet Celebrity in his natural habitat, rarely looking up from his iPhone, only to politely ask his travel-buddy’s opinion about the caliber of a selfie he just took.

As I sit down to eat in the corner of the food court, I spot a familiar face. Not a friend or acquaintance, and despite being at the Mecca for celebrity sightings, it’s not a celebrity… per se. I have spotted the celebrity’s attention-hungry younger sister. Across from me is Insta-celebrity Davey Wavey. If you’re wondering, “who the fuck is Davey Wavey?,” you’re probably not gay or have not spent an obscene amount of time on YouTube. If you do recognize Davey Wavey, you’re possibly one of his 100,000 Instagram followers, or account for one of his nearly 160 million YouTube views. To put that into perspective, that’s over half the population of the United States. Davey Wavey became famous on YouTube for being an attractive gay guy who talks about mundane things with his shirt off. His videos have compelling names like, “Dude, Where’s My Foreskin?,” “I Caught My Hot Neighbor Masturbating (With Sound),” and “Can You Make Straight Guys Gay?” I suddenly become hyper aware of my appearance. As a result of getting a cheaper 7am flight, I am wearing tennis shoes paired with athletic

But this isn’t my first brush with the Internet Celebrity. In high school I knew a girl we’ll call Elena. Elena was the longtime family friend of a good friend of mine. My friend told me that Elena had few friends at her school and insisted we hangout with her. Elena was cute, and seemed harmless enough, so I agreed. A few short months later, Elena coined herself as “Leezy.” Friends of mine who had never met Elena began talking about “Leezy.” Despite looking pre-pubescent, Elena had a Tumblr that resembled the lovechild of a Sofia Coppola film and a Marilyn Manson video. The Tumblr was filled with graphic pictures of sex, self-harm and drugs. Over social-media, Leezy was a wild, reckless, disturbed young girl, the kind of adolescent that Tumblr culture relishes. In reality, Elena was a virgin who had never tried a drug and could barely finish a Mike’s Hard. By summer, Elena went from being unknown to the enigmatic queen of social media known around Seattle as Leezy.

Then came “@therichkidsofinstagram.” The Instagram account (which spawned an E! reality show) 9 dedicate to showcasing teens around the world that decided to flaunt their parents riches over social media. Take a photo on your father’s yacht or with enough jewelry on your wrist to buy an island in the Pacific, and you had a chance to be featured on the @therichkidsofinstagram. Needless to say, Leezy found a way to make it on @therichkidsofinstagram. Leezy managed to photograph herself sitting on top of our wealthy friend’s parents Ferrari, with their Birkin’s, and wearing our friend’s mom’s fur. In person, Elena was underwhelming, but over the Internet she was able to manipulate her image to become Leezy.

“we create aliases. What is produced is a modified version of self.” When it comes down to it, many of us resemble Davey and Leezy. We all are catering to an invisible audience. They are just better at it. We put ourselves through Instagram filters, we keep what we have to say fewer than 140 words, and we create aliases. What is produced is a modified version of self.

Leezy is no longer just notorious, she, like Davey Wavey, is an Internet Celebrity.

The front screen of the iPhone has become a funhouse mirror, allowing us to take our reflection and distort, re-shape, and ultimately create a new image.

So what sets people like Davey and Leezy apart from the general population? Other than their stupid names?

For most, there is a disconnect between the person he or she is in real life and the person they portray themselves as online.

Do they wake up in the morning and check their Instagram accounts for new followers? Do they think of something funny and immediately tweet it? When they go to the beach do they take at least 5 pictures to prove they were there?

The Internet celebrity uses this constructed online persona to inform his real self. To their audience, the Internet celebrity is nothing more than the sum of their photos and tweets. Their power lies in being recognized. So there I am, at LAX, watching Davey Wavey take a selfie. It isn’t until Davey walks away that I realize I had been acting like I had just seen the President, and I wonder if anyone else in the airport will even recognize him. To him, I am anyone. To me, he is a celebrity. To the general public, he is anyone. u

Davey Wavey in a signature selfie

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</ sign off >

What defines an artist in the digital age? Savannah Galvin, a mixed media student at The New School, discusses how she straddles the electronic grid.

< BY > Dakotah Terrace Let’s begin with a walk-through of your artistic process. Where do you find inspiration, and how does it translate into your work? I find inspiration from a lot of different things, but expressing myself through art is always most important. I channel the anxiety in my life into my work for release. If something is bothering me, I work out my feelings through art. Now I’m really focused on how media and Photoshop influence body image. I’m also interested in the ‘social media mask.’ I really enjoy working with identity and media.

How have you chosen to portray yourself online? I want to be honest, but sometimes it feels more natural to hide behind a great profile picture or an interesting link. I post a lot of my art, so that helps me evoke my deeper self while remaining somewhat distant. Even though I share all the time, I’m very aware of what I post. What is your favorite social-sharing website? Definitely Instagram! The way you incorporate digital media into a sculpture or painting really speaks to the way our generation functions. The creation of art is so deeply personal, and yet your work ends up, in some way or form, on a digital platform. How do you feel about this, and how does it affect your work? You can never fully understand the emotion channeled by a work unless you see it in person. The nature of my art is extremely personal, because it provides me with a way to cope with internal and external pressures I face everyday. Because the emotion behind my work is so important, I constantly have to think, ‘how can I ensure [the anxiety] comes across on all platforms?’ What solutions have you come up with? I started in sculpture but have recently moved towards linocuts, which translate wonderfully online. My methods are evolving in order to transcend print and digital mediums, but my themes remain the same.

Above, Imprint (2013) Right, Self-Portrait (2013)

If you weren’t an artist, what would you be? I would want to be either a psychologist or a writer. u