UNITY:UNIFORMITY

THE AVENUE Fall 2018 Vol. 8 Issue 2

unity

THE AVENUE Unity—Uniformity | Fall 2018 Vol. 8 Issue 2 President Michelle Rodriguez Editor-In-Chief Phillip Zminda Senior Creative Director Halley Husted Creative Director Sade Adewunmi Communications Director Victoire Cointy Communications Associates Allie Kuo & Fernanda Lopez Community Manager Tova Lenchner Deputy Editor Madelaine Millar Beauty Editor Isabelle Hahn Lifestyle Editor Kaela Anderson Fashion Editor Anne Koessler Head Men’s Stylist Alexa Portigal Head Women’s Stylist Moana Yamaguchi

Senior Graphic Designer Sarah Porter Graphic Designers Karina Masri, Phoebe Lasater, Hannah Wolfensen, Anna Rychlik, Juwon Lee, Franny Kuth Treasurer Tomer Zilberman Secretary Maddie Casey Marketing Designer Mikaela Amundson Head Photographer Jay Brimeyer Photographers Calem Robertson, Simran Gvalani, Ellie MacLean, Kate Coiro, Aditi Lohe, Hannah Gallagher, Gilbert Wong, Maggie van Nortwick Writers Olivia Mastrosimone, Michelle Weth, Anastasia Angkasa, Aidan Baglivo, Kathy Villa, Danielle Gritzmacher, Rosie Meyer, Nia Beckett, Camille Ruykhaver Stylists Jackson Wang, Jonathan Pereira, Akhil Bollu, Julie Chan, Maggie Van Nortwick, Camille Ruykhaver Models Jephte Alphonse, Shreya Mudigonda, Nicole Erickson, Phillip Zminda Makeup Artists Lucia Tarro, Vidisha Agarwalla

letter from the editor Where does unity end and uniformity begin?

These two concepts, while related, act as two drastic sides of the same coin. We like to think that unity brings disparate people, parts or communities together across difference, while uniformity discourages our singularity in favor of a sedated sameness.

We obviously prefer the former, but the forces encouraging us to fall in line are ubiquitous and unavoidable. Life in the digital age allows us to connect and bond with others in a way no other generation has been able to. While we can now proudly air even our most fleeting moments to the world, we’re encouraged to share and experience them in the same exact ways. We adopt the same filters as the famous; we only go places we might be able to post about later; we mull over tweets and captions like we might term papers.

And while these developments allow us to curate life like we might our feeds, doesn’t blindly following those unspoken rules in pursuit of digital clout sound exceptionally dull?

We at The Avenue believe embracing our individuality is this problem’s panacea, a choice that allows us to be ourselves and encourages others to do the same. When we all show up as our authentic selves, we are unified.

To explore just unity and not uniformity isn’t satisfying, though. As such, we’ve chosen to make this The Avenue’s first dual-themed issue, exploring both ideas in equal measure.

The articles this issue contains land in different spots on the spectrum between the two, and progress in either direction as you flip through the magazine. (Read it front to back then back to front for full effect.)

As my second and last issue in my brief tenure as The Avenue’s editor-in-chief, I can’t help but pore over how magical this experience has been. I went into this semester deeply aware of how little time I had to make my mark, and I feel that I’ve accomplished that – not because of anything I’ve done, but because of the work of every single contributor to this beautiful little book I had the honor of helping weave together. I suppose that epitomizes the power of unity; we alone are but stars, yet together, a galaxy.

Phillip Zminda Editor-In-Chief

table of contents 6

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Common Threads: Trends as a Form of Unity

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#MeToo and Unity Across Difference

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Barstool Smokeshow: An Interview with Influencer and Real Person Alyssa Otolo

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How Fashion Satisfies Our Need for Nostalgia

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Are Uniforms Equalizers?

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The Limited Definition of Dressing for Success

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UNITY — UNIFORMITY

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I Tried Making Sense of “Guinea Pig Journalism” and You Won’t Believe What Happened

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Why I’m Not Hype About Hypebeast Culture

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Breaking Up with Toxic Friends

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Influencer or Bad Influence?

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Don’t Treat Me Like One of Your French Girls

Common Threads written by Aidan Baglivo photographed by Kate Coiro

Trends as a Form of Unity

There is comfort in uniformity. In today’s divisive world, fashion can offer a reprieve from the toxicity of a polarized political environment insofar that certain trends transcend current events. Sharing an affinity for something tangible, like the clothes on your back, with other people promotes new connections and discourages the all-too-familiar “Us vs. Them” dynamic.

Trends are intersectional because the fervor behind fashion has no boundaries. What a person chooses to wear and how they choose to wear it is directly influenced by the choices of others. Because inspiration knows no color or creed, a particular style can emerge at any rung in the social ladder. Part of fashion’s appeal is its momentum in the pendulum of public opinion; surges in a particular style’s popularity are infectious.

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models: Michaiah Parker, Aiden Baglivo, Tiffany Fujiwara, Soja Moore & Annabel Snidow

Trends are intersectional because the fervor behind fashion has no boundaries.

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People often participate in the group dynamic behind a trend without needing to consider their background or beliefs. Denim, in particular, has sustained public favor for decades across differences in race, gender and class.

With the recent resurgence of denim jackets, patches and overalls, the trend has truly diffused throughout society regardless of political affiliation, sexual orientation, race or gender. There is beauty in the anonymity of a trend— wearing it and flaunting it are not restricted to one type of human.

Natural differences arise in how people choose to wear what everyone is wearing. This natural dynamic highlights how individuality can thrive within unity. Putting personal touches on an overarching style or fabric, like denim, enables people to make trends their own. Experimenting with raw or clean hems, the type of wash or embroidery creates avenues for self-expression while retaining a connection to something larger than oneself.

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There is power in our common threads.

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Lone voices from disparate sources unite under trends to form a cohesive yet heterogeneous form of protest.

Historically speaking, women have been restricted in the realm of fashion due to their gender. After all, jeans began as simple pieces of men’s workwear because of their durability. Considering the general impracticality of womenswear, the popularity of these utilitarian garments among women is a direct result of rebellious women adopting men’s Levi’s. Because certain women were brave enough to wear men’s jeans, the denim trend today is united by a sense of androgyny.

We should look to the world of fashion to find stability in a volatile time. The natural ability for people to bond over clothes points to a much larger human dynamic; people are much more similar than they think. There is power in our common threads.

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#MeToo and unity across difference

written by Rosie Meyer illustrated by Franny Kuth

Warning: this content may be triggering for sexual assault survivors.

There is always more power in unity. For women, this statement has proven true time and time again. As we look back at the revolutionary feminist movements of times past, we can see that women fighting for their rights succeeded when they’re bolstered by unity. These movements, however, haven’t included all women.

Intersectionality, defined as the “understanding of how women’s overlapping identities—including race, class, ethnicity, religion and sexual orientation—impact the way they experience oppression and discrimination,” has been largely absent from our largest feminist movements.

The suffragists of the 1920s cared not at all about the vote of black women, only allowing the voices of upper-class white women to be heard. As white women fought for birth control in the 1960s, black women saw little support from them in their fight for civil rights. These phenomena beg the question: what would have happened for civil rights in the 1960s if women of all races and backgrounds joined together to push the movement forward?

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Before it reached mainstream support, #MeToo provided women of color a collective voice and a safe space to share their stories of sexual assault. It gave a sense of unity and strength to women who were previously silenced as victims, or feared to identify as a survivor in the public eye. If they could not project the sound of their own voice as a victim, they could find power and solidarity from the millions of women who experienced the same trauma. It told women they were not alone—even if they felt nobody would believe them.

According to Cosmopolitan magazine, one in three women aged 18 to 24 have been sexually harassed at work and 71 percent of those women did not report it. Additionally, 80 percent of all female sexual assault victims on college campuses do not report their assault to authorities.

The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization, acknowledges that many victims report feeling ashamed and worried that nobody will believe their story, or blamed for their own assault.

never stop fighting for what women deserve, and never feel like you’re fighting alone.

The pervasiveness of these issues explain why in 2018, women from all ages, races, and socioeconomic backgrounds stood together for the first time to lift up the stigma, lack of accountability and silence surrounding sexual assault under the #MeToo umbrella.

Beyond its digital roots, what makes this movement so special is the unique ways its intersectionality manifests.

We see this in the diversity of leaders representing these movements, which in turn widens the space for participation. The #MeToo movement began this work, and has since trickled down into sub-movements like Time’s Up. Time’s Up arose within the entertainment industry to address the persistent and widespread harassment that has been knowingly tolerated for decades. There have been celebrity endorsements from powerful black and Latina women across industries, and even ostensible acts of solidarity. One such act included wearing all black during the Hollywood awards season in 2018. Time’s Up also established a Women of Color committee, including the TV-writing powerhouse Shonda Rhimes and the award winning director of Selma, Ava DuVernay.

In Entertainment Weekly, Emmy-nominated writer, producer and star of the hit show Insecure on HBO, Issa Rae, summed it up pretty well: “I feel like Time’s Up has really helped to give women sort of power, it feels very much like this is our now…at the same time, this is something that people of color and black people specifically have been rallying for for such a very long time. I think if anything, Time’s Up has helped to shine a spotlight on those movements in addition to the women’s movement as a whole.”

Alternatively, we’ve seen this in the Women’s March, whose leaders include Tamika Mallory, an African-American civil rights activist, Linda Sarsour, a Muslim-American activist, and Carmen Perez, a Latina activist.

There’s hope for the future, and it looks like this: inclusion and unity, across difference, as the ultimate goal for all women in feminist movements. Apart from achieving greater equality in pay, leadership representation, and reproductive rights, women understand that in order to reach these things, they must support each other no matter their stories. It’s essential that women stand together, united—regardless of how the world has divided them before.

it feels very much like this is our now.

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BARSTOOL SMOKESHOW An Interview with Influencer and Real Person Alyssa Otolo written by Tova Lenchner illustrated by Juwon Lee

Most people think influencers make all their income from social media; for Northeastern alumna Alyssa Otolo, though, it’s not like that. She may moonlight as @lyssieelou_ on Instagram, where she sports over 92,000 followers, but she spends most of her life in scrubs as a nurse at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston.

Promoting accessories and beauty products for brands like Daniel Wellington is demanding enough to call it work, but being a public figure isn’t her full-time job or even her passion. “[My Instagram] is tedious to maintain, but I like it as a hobby,” says Otolo. “I think it does have an impact on my self-esteem, but sometimes it is good and sometimes it’s bad. Depends on what mood I’m in that day, really.”

We don’t often think of models on Instagram as actual people that have their own lives outside of social media— but Otolo is one who does.

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How did you gain your Instagram following?

Not sure how I gained my following. It just kind of happened and then snowballed really quick over the past 3 years.

Do you get any perks?

Yes, I get paid for almost all posts and stories and get free things with each post. All different kinds of companies contact me to promote their clothes or products and they usually send me guidelines for what the expect.

Are there any downsides to your Instagram fame?

Yeah, I don’t like getting recognized and I don’t like to bring it to work—I like to keep it separate.

Do you think that your Instagram reflects your life or who you are as a person?

No, it’s not reflective to my life. I am nurse Alyssa in a critical intensive care unit 24 hours of the day and then just post on the weekends. I like to dress up and take pictures during my time off, but it is not reflective of my actual day-to-day life where I am usually saving lives without any makeup on and in scrubs, not some glamorous girl with free time and who is always done up, but it’s a hobby like modeling was for me and I like it to be able to do it when I want and how I want.

Do you think it has changed you, your view of yourself, or social media at all?

No, I don’t think it has changed me at all. I think I’m pretty down-to-earth compared to what my Instagram makes me look like but it’s not reflective of who I am.

Do you think there are any downsides to social media overall?

Yeah, it is unrealistic, but I think most people know that people’s lives aren’t how they seem on Instagram and anyone can post happy pictures 24/7.

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how fashion satisfies our need for

nostalgia written by Michelle Weth photographed by Simran Gvalani

Fashion is demonstrative of an era and its values. When we think back fashions past, they are characterized by the countercultures of the time, such as Woodstock of the 1960s or the grunge scene of the 1990s. The costumes of popular television shows or films set in the past can influence viewers’ personal styles. Thanks to the Internet, images can be shared more easily, providing access to fashion beyond the mainstream runway, normcore or streetstyle aesthetics.

Though more apparent today, fashion has always taken inspiration from innovative designs of the past, thus evoking our collective nostalgia. In her book Accessories to Modernity: Fashion and the Feminine in NineteenthCentury France, Susan Hiner defines nostalgia as the

“romanticized longing for an idealized past.” She writes that nostalgia often “overinvests certain objects with emotional powers, and the object is thus fetishized,” exalting certain articles and incorporating them into the collective consciousness.

It’s indisputable that clothing is reflective of the values of a time, but our interpretations aren’t always accurate. It’s widely believed that corsets from the 18th century were laced so tightly that women either became ill or chose to remove their ribs to fit the body standard. This belief was actually disproved in an article by Michelle Honig for Bustle, who wrote that “A woman’s body is quite malleable. You can quite comfortably minimize the body without causing distress or discomfort.” Much of the criticism surrounding

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corsets in our collective consciousness actually comes from male critics, demonstrating that even in the 18th century, women were incapable of escaping the male gaze.

Sometimes nostalgia for a bygone era’s fashion is warranted, though. Take into account the iconic leather jacket, à la James Dean, and its classic association with rebellion. Later incorporated into the grunge counterculture, leather jackets have become a mainstay in fashion with people of all ages, rebellious or not. The fact that clothing items have become such symbols only fuels the notion that society has fetishized certain styles because of their historical significance.

But what do we truly know about the past? People may think they belong in the 1920s or the 1960s, but these desires often come from a nostalgic look at fashions of the past.

People may have an affinity for bohemian fashion and think that they would fit right in with the hippies of the 1960s, with the perception that they lived for love and freedom.

Although identifying with the past often involves a romanticized version of history, it also allows people the freedom to embrace silhouettes across generations. The past exists to inform our future, so why not use elements of clothing from the past now? Perhaps take advantage of personal vintage items, or even secondhand pieces from thrift stores. Whether you take inspiration from the clothing your parents or grandparents wore or from style icons like Audrey Hepburn or Steve McQueen, experiment to find your personal blend of old and new to create a style that reflects your own values.

model: Maya Dengel

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Are

UNIFORMS written by Danielle Gritzmacher photographed by Hannah Gallagher

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Equalizers?

I was six years old when I first watched the movie The Princess Diaries. In the movie, Mia Thermopolis was assigned to defend the benefits of the school’s uniforms during an in-class debate. Mia forgot what she needed to say so her best friend Lilly Moscovitz whispered it to her: “You like our uniforms. They’re equalizers.” Since I was only six at the time, I didn’t understand that the debate was a school assignment. Lily’s words seemed to be a statement of her and Mia’s personal opinions, and I was perplexed as to why anyone would want to wear a uniform.

The word “equalizers” stuck out to me. I knew that it meant everyone was the same if everyone wore the same things. Lily said it as if it were a good thing, but it was never something I felt from my own experience.

models: Ilakya Senthilkumar, Kelly Fleming and Adelaide Megard

I once fixed my hair with a clip that all the other girls had been wearing—as a timid child, this was a big moment for me. “Finally, I can fit in with the other girls,” I declared in front of my mirror before heading to school. “Dania, you don’t need to fit in,” my dad told me. “You’re already beautiful just how you are.” At the time I didn’t cherish the moment for what it was, and instead thought to myself: what does being beautiful have to do with fitting in? I didn’t want to be beautiful; I just wanted to be like the other girls.

My attempt to fit in via scrunchies and clips never worked.

I was still just as shy and awkward, and still without a solid circle of friends. Even though my classmates and I all wore the same outfits, it was obvious who was in what social group—but why these groups assembled that way wasn’t.

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For my school’s uniform we had to wear a solid polo or button-down shirt, navy or khaki pants, skirts for the girls, and a pair of “reasonable footwear.” We didn’t have to purchase our uniforms through the same retailer, so there were variations in what each student wore. I started taking notice—obsessively trying to crack the code of what it took to fit in with the other crowd.

It was in the fifth grade when I realized that the pants my parents had always dressed me in were pleated khakis.

(Only the boys wore pleated pants and all the other girls wore flat front pants.) I begged my parents for a new pair. Shoes were another point of differentiation; I wore whatever thick-soled sneakers my parents picked out for me at Payless ShoeSource, while the other girls were in adorable ballet flats and UGGs. As I tried to imitate the details of my classmates’ appearances, I was introduced to a new concept: originality. I quickly learned that copying was a cardinal sin. When you’re forced into the same standard shirts and bland bottoms every day since kindergarten, originality becomes a sort of competition. Doing your hair the same way as someone else did the day before, or buying the same shoes as another girl was almost forbidden in middle school. I distinctly remember one girl refusing to buy UGGs, except for a brown pair with cargo pockets on the sides because no one else in school had a pair like that.

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It was my senior year when the new principal considered revising the dress code. He decided to meet with me and my fellow student prefects to discuss how the new change would impact the student body. One of the proposed changes was instating the same footwear for all students.

My friend instantly spoke up: “Shoes are one of the few ways I can express myself here, you can’t just take that away from us.”

I didn’t like my uniform, nor was it an equalizer. The dress code may have created uniformity among the students, but it also created a backlash against any hint of similarity.

As much as we may try to imitate others or fit in with a specific group, I don’t think anyone truly wants to be a carbon copy of anyone else. What truly united each of us as students was our desire to be unique, and one of the most personal ways we expressed our individuality is through our style.

The irony is that while school administrators believe uniforms will promote equality among the students by deemphasizing fashion, it actually makes students go out of their way to be more fashionable and expressive. I don’t think this was something my principal as a retired U.S. Air Force Colonel understood. I’m sure he spent much of his time in a uniform, but it is never just the clothes that unite people; it needs to be so much more than that.

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the limited definition of

dressing for success

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written by Nia Beckett photographed by Gilbert Wong

In 2010, an insurance company rescinded its job offer to Chastity Jones, a black woman. The offer was not withdrawn due to her lack of skills or experience, but instead, an aspect of her appearance: her hair. Jones’ dreadlocks were apparently not in accordance with the company’s policy that an employee’s “hairstyle should reflect a business/ professional image.” Jones brought this unfair incident to the attention of the U.S. Supreme Court, which ultimately declined to take the case.

Once upon a time, the concept of business attire was uniform and simple. Each businessman—as at the time, the workforce consisted of only men—wore a suit and tie.

However, as the workplace has become more diverse, business dress codes have become more meticulous, complex and exclusive.

In 1977, John T. Molloy published a how-to guide entitled “The Woman’s Dress for Success Book” in which he described the outfits he felt were most appropriate for women to wear at work. Molloy explicitly offered the defense, “This is not sexist.” And yet, the book comprised a man’s perspective on sartorial rules women should follow in the workplace, instructing on how to wear their hair, blouses, bottoms and even accessories as trivial as hats and scarves.

The scrutiny dictating the female-specific dress code has caused women from all walks of life grief. Plus-sized women often have to choose between wearing ill-fitting, oversized outfits to appear conservative and wearing clothes that fit properly with the risk of being told they are too revealing.

Like with school uniforms, women of all sizes are often told to adopt ultra-conservative attire in the workplace as to not “distract the boys.”

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While some queer women prefer masculine clothing, the condemning workplace culture has often prevented them from wearing it. Molloy felt that women should avoid what he described as the “Imitation Man Look” at all costs, including a man’s fedora, a shirt and tie and a pinstriped or chalk-striped suit. Even as recently as 2017, Donald Trump reportedly expressed that he wants his female staff to “dress like women,” presumably in dresses and skirts.

models: Simone Atwa, Ilakya Senthilkumar and Brittany Mendez 26

Groups like the Human Rights Campaign call for dress codes that avoid gender stereotypes altogether and enforce their rules across the board. The disproportionate number of gendered dress code rules in businesses have resulted in discomfort for women of all backgrounds.

These biased guidelines created by men for women to follow stifle the freedom of businesswomen everywhere out of sheer entitlement.

While this discrimination persists in some institutions, another trend may be emerging for the future of business attire: the rise of “business casual” may bring a more accepting workplace culture, eradicating gendered dress codes.

dominated industry in favor of styles they are more comfortable in. Others argue that even with this shift, the older generations are still hiring the majority of the workforce and that the old ideologies of dressing for success still apply.

The very term “business casual,” once seen as an oxymoron, has become a widespread trend in newer businesses. Tech start-up entrepreneurs are notorious for dancing the line between formal and casual, wearing blazers and dress shoes with their jeans or pairing their suits with sneakers.

General Motors’ CEO Mary Barra has implemented a twoword dress code for her company: “dress appropriately.”

While many have questioned the effectiveness of such a simple concept, she has found that smaller teams within the company can easily communicate when they need to adopt a more formal attire for meetings or events.

Millennial business owners such as Glossier founder Emily Weiss are often found in more casual wear as well. Many of Weiss’s directing staff follow suit in patterned dresses and blazers that would make Molloy tremble in horror.

While company dress codes are not exactly one-size-fitsall, businesses need to consider how their rules may create unnecessary concerns that begin as their employees get dressed for work. Workforces cannot unite if they are being torn apart by partitioning dress codes. There is hope that the next generation will create a new and inclusive definition for appropriate business attire, allowing people of all backgrounds to dress in a way that’s comfortable for them.

Many millennial-dominated places of business are becoming more relaxed with the idea that the way you dress does not affect the quality of your work, allowing women to escape the box created by the formerly male-

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unity

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photographed by Jay Brimeyer

UNIFORMITY

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“Guinea Pig I Tried Making Sense of

Journalism & You Won’t Believe What Happened written by Olivia Mastrosimone photographed by Calem Robertson

“I Dressed Like Meghan Markle For 5 Days & Honestly I’m Still Exhausted.”

“I Dressed Like Every Kardashian Jenner for the Week.”

“I’m 23 and Dressed as Royal Baby Prince George for a Week.”

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The list goes on—literally. There are pages of this stuff.

We’re talking more than 18 Google Os worth of people trying to look like other people and writing about it. It’s confusing, it’s entertaining and it’s absolutely taking over the internet.

The idea of “guinea pig journalism,” as coined by Amelia Diamond of Man Repeller, is one unique to 2010s fashion and digital media. It all follows the same basic concept: someone decides, for no real reason, to dress like a public figure, character or decade for a week, chronicles their journey with photos or videos and then writes about how it fundamentally changed them as a person or something.

You have your classic, “I Dressed Like Kim Kardashian for a Week” articles on just about every lifestyle publication on the internet, but it goes much deeper. What about the trend where YouTube personalities make videos about dressing like other YouTube personalities? Or the more abstract articles, like Refinery29’s “I Dressed Like a Divorcée In A Rom-Com For A Week?” There’s even a Vice article about dressing like Keanu Reeves that somehow manages to make a compelling statement about value and self-expression. Oh, the nuance!

We could categorize guinea pig journalism as a harmless fluff fad, and just brush it off our content-logged shoulders.

Cosmopolitan probably won’t be winning a Pulitzer Prize for “I Dressed like North West for a Week and This is What Happened,” but let’s think for a moment about the purpose these articles serve – outside of being guilty pleasure material.

If you can get on board with the dramatics, there is a dark side to all of this content. The more articles of this type you read, the stronger tendency there is to develop a destructive “if that celebrity can do it, why can’t I?” mentality. Pop culture views an extreme divide between celebrity culture and real people, and focusing on the details of how a celebrity dresses and lives their life for an article exemplifies this unattainable reality. In short, reading an article about a normal woman who fails miserably at trying to look like celebrities who have a fullon “glam squad” at their disposal is probably not the best for our psyches. It’s not that they’re shooting too high, just at the wrong target.

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No matter how high you think your horse is, you can admit that these articles – if anything – are fun. They’re downsized reality TV without the champagne-throwing antics. They’re the articles you read while waiting for a train or spiraling down a content binge at 3 a.m. Besides being entertaining, they have the ability to make us feel good about ourselves, considering the most common thread is that dressing like any celebrity is excruciating. You’ll think to yourself, “being Kim K seems pretty terrible, I mean, I can be seen in public in my pajamas and no one will care!

I’m so lucky I don’t have to always look presentable!” and go about the rest of your day with a newfound sense of pride in your day-to-day appearance. If these articles teach us anything, it’s that flawlessness is a farce, and being real is easiest.

models: Anna Rychlik, Bridget McDonald, and Alaina Robie

The next time you come across one of these pieces, which shouldn’t be too long from now, think about how it’s affecting you.

Treat it as entertainment, not a suggestion.

You don’t have to stop reading about women being Kim K’s guinea pig. Keep watching that video about dressing like a Real Housewife of New York. Enjoy content responsibly, and be happy knowing you can leave the house in whatever state of pajama-wearing you like. Focus on yourself and don’t strive for unrealistic ideals, unless those ideals are Keanu Reeves barefoot wearing a red trucker hat.

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why i’m not

hype hypebeast about

culture

written by Nadya Angkasa illustrated by Anna Rychlik

It’s 7:42 a.m. in New York City and there’s already a line wrapped around the block. Bleary-eyed and on my way to the bus stop, I don’t pay much attention. It wasn’t until I scrolled through Instagram later that I realized my friend was in that very line as part of an overnight camp-out for Supreme’s new T-shirt drop. It took my friend an hour to explain how 23 hours on the cold streets of New York on a Wednesday night was worth every second of his time.

He knew that even if he waited that long, he still wasn’t guaranteed the limited edition shirt since Supreme releases usually sell out in seconds. And he’s not alone hundreds of people are content just being able to enter the store and see the latest item, even if it means only leaving with a pair of boxers.

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This devoted sort of brand worship, known colloquially as hypebeast culture, has dominated men’s contemporary streetwear for much of the 2010s. The term comes from a college student named Kevin Ma, who began a streetwear blog by the same name to capture his favorite streetwear looks. Now a full-fledged fashion publication, Hypebeast and its three million sub-brands achieve over nine million unique visitors a month. As the website grew, the word “hypebeast” has grown to be both a “style” and an epithet for someone who only buys the most popular streetwear brands. Earning hype is the strongest currency for a streetwear brand; if you’re “hypeworthy,” you’re popular, and people crave your clothes so they can fit into the elite community.

Ever since hypebeast culture was born, the fashion industry has stepped up their game. New collaborations with famous brands drop frequently to capture the elusive hype, hence off-kilter partnerships like Supreme x Louis Vuitton and Comme des Garcons x Converse. Having two names printed on a shirt already should cost more than one, but these companies further their prestige pricing model by only producing a few hundred of their products for a market that’s made up of thousands fighting for a taste.

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It’s as though these brands are taking advantage of these collections’ popularity surrounding and deliberately selling less for more. Balenciaga offers a plain black cotton T-shirt with its logo in the corner for $350; OffWhite prices keychains embellished with their brand name for $200. These brands are so “hypeworthy” they can just place their logos on basic items and jack up the price to absurd proportions.

“Here lies the key problem with hype culture: being fashionable means having brand names and the wealth to buy them rather than a personal sense of style.”

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When I asked my friend why he stayed in that line overnight, he offered that, unlike other brands, Supreme doesn’t have a constant supply of products available for purchase.

Instead, they have “drops” of every collection, where only a handful of items are sold at highly specific locations.

Once they sell through, the items are gone forever. After that, their resale value goes through the roof; some people even create a separate business around reselling these pieces for profit. A red backpack from the Supreme x Louis Vuitton collaboration was originally priced at $3,900 but can be found at roughly $9,073 when bought second hand. Some just want to be apart of the hypebeast culture and chase these trends. At the end of the day, the exclusive air that surrounds these brands is exactly what entices people: less makes people want more.

Fashion comes down to expressing who you are. Some rely on brands to speak for themselves, hiding behind flashy logos and verifiably “hype” items to define their aesthetic. Streetwear should revolve around more than that; it shouldn’t just be about the big brands. Fashion should be about who you are, not who you wear.

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Breaking up B r e a k i n g u p with

toxic friends

written by Camille Ruykhaver photographed by Maggie van Nortwick

Perhaps they throw judgmental glances and snide remarks here and there, slipping them into casual conversation.

Maybe they sandwich disparaging comments between discussions about homework and next weekend’s plans.

Insecurity instilled and pressure placed to act a certain way. Toxic friendships can take on several forms, yet they all create the same crippling effects.

The rules of friendship form within relationships, meaning what constitutes a good relationship to one can be different to others. To me, friends are people you can confide in over mugs of hot chocolate, have adventures with on a Friday night and feel comfortable being yourself with, no matter how goofy or dramatic. They can be beautiful sources of support and care, but they can also harbor pain and resentment. What might begin with trust and happiness can deteriorate into a relationship embedded with wariness, where friends put you down and make you feel judged. Once your friends stop meeting your standards for friendship, it may be time to end the relationship.

I was quickly drawn into my group of friends, finding my place with people who I could laugh and my share interests with. We had an instant connection and a friendship that felt easy and natural. We found comfort and happiness with each other. They were the people I trusted, relied on and loved. However, as our friendship progressed, I found myself slowly becoming swallowed by sorrow and doubt.

Their support soured into disdain, as they began to slide sharp insults towards me. They suddenly made me feel unwelcome, treating me as an outsider. Their unwarranted insults became more and more frequent and I became increasingly uncomfortable being myself around them.

Being around my group of friends became toxic, and I felt like I needed to hide aspects of my personality in order

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to avoid their scrutiny. Spending time with them began to drain me of my happiness, but I continued to spend time with them because I was scared to leave them behind, fearing what would happen if I distanced myself from my friends.

Ending friendships can be a daunting challenge. You may still care for your friends and cling to positive memories of them, even if you feel completely ready to leave them behind. Mustering the courage to separate from a toxic group of friends is complexified by society’s pressure to be a part of a group. Our worth is measured by how busy our social schedule is, and we’re told to focus on how many people we have surrounding us rather than their quality.

We’re told there’s something wrong with us if we prefer to be alone, when in fact we might be in the right for being alone, especially when the alternative is being treated poorly. Nevertheless, the fear of being judged as a “loner” can make it seem like it’s better to stay within a group even if it’s harmful to our well-being.

The truth is, you’re better off alone than surrounded by a group of people who don’t have your best interest at heart. Once I left behind my toxic group of friends, I could finally breathe. Despite the fear and the unknown, severing ties with people who no longer enrich your life is the healthiest decision you can make. Being part of such a negative group of friends for so long eradicated my confidence. Separating from them provided me with the time and space I needed to heal and build up my selfesteem. It helped me become comfortable with being on my own and allowed me to reflect on how I deserve to be treated and the kind of people I want in my life. Everyone’s personality is infused with different colors in varying hues, and you should never stay around friends who make you feel like you need to erase some of them to fit in. Leaving toxic friend groups introduces the opportunity to find people who will embrace all of you and love every shade of your personality.

models: Elisa Kodama, Kathy Villa, and Soja Moore

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OR

INFLUENCER written by Kathy Villa photographed by Aditi Lohe

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Staying in the loop of the latest beauty trends is not difficult.

If anything, it is impossible not to get lost in the realm of Instagram makeup tutorials, hacks and DIY facial routines.

For some reason, watching dozens of beauty gurus and social media influencers apply makeup to their faces is always entertaining and sometimes, incredibly useful.

When those same influencers begin showcasing risky practices, though, it makes their audiences question their judgement. The online influencer’s job is to elevate the standards and practice of beauty; as such, they often must find new ways to capture attention in the hyper-saturated world of social media. These internet stars climb their way to the top by following in the footsteps of those before them, but once they’re there, the pressure to be original and innovative can make them not an influencer, but just a bad influence.

Kylie Jenner quickly became one of the most famous digital media influencers thanks to both her notorious family and her regular appearance on “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” as a youth. In 2015, her dedicated following began raving about her unusually plump pout— which she addressed, claiming she had never gone under the knife. Not long after her statement, though, social media was inundated with young girls attempting the #kyliejennerlipchallenge, placing their lips inside a shot glass, sucking in to create friction and watching their lips painfully swell up - to the horror of dermatologists.

“The new trend in trying to DIY lip plumping is quite concerning,” said Dendy Engelman, a dermatologic surgeon, to Seventeen. “Not only can significant pain, swelling, and bruising result from these suction techniques, but there is potential risk for scarring and permanent disfigurement with repeated attempts.”

Jenner never explicitly told young girls to plump their lips, but by starting her own line of “lip kits” she found a way to profit off the plumped lip look she brought into the mainstream. As someone who already has a following, she doesn’t have to strive to be particularly innovative to amass followers, but aspiring influencers with less fame must constantly find ways to capture the attention of their audience.

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Sadia Khan, or sadiaslayy on Instagram, recently posted a video in which she applied foundation using an $800 Louboutin heel instead of a foundation brush. It’s unlikely anyone will throw out their contour brushes and replace them with heels, but it was attention-grabbing - which is exactly what influencers need to do to make a living.

And while this was simply entertaining, other displays of pointless consumption aren’t as innocent.

Countless DIY skincare products influencers create are often not safe, or worse, actively harmful. Farah Dhukai, who has a whopping 6.3 million followers on Instagram, is known for her off-kilter beuaty hacks, using Listerine mouthwash to get rid of dandruff and applying wasabi to her active zits. In an article for Refinery29, dermatologist Jeannette Graf advised against the latter practice, saying “Application [of wasabi] to a pimple can create itching, burning and irritation. There are so many good over-thecounter spot treatments that make more sense.” Wasabi might work for Farah Dhukai, but chances are it won’t work for most anyone else.

Social media influencers succeed by having everyone recognize who they are. If Farah Dhukai starts a conversation about the benefits of wasabi for your complexion, she’s done her job. Validating the controversial and different has become part of the influencer agenda, and as consumers, we’re sipping the Kool-Aid because we can’t stop watching.

We’re becoming so desensitized to the impact of influencers that it’s becoming normal to look at people who are paid to get our attention for advice on how to take care of ourselves instead of people whose livelihood is built on doing so. While so much of this content is entertaining, it’s imperative we don’t adhere to every piece of advice an influencer touts online - lest we start putting wasabi on our faces.

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Don’t Treat Me Like One of Your

French Girls

models: Aya Albakoush, Anna Sedova, and Wint Htet

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written by Victoire Cointy photographed by Ellie MacLean

Every designer creates clothing with a particular individual in mind, creating entire lines and collections as they place themselves in their models’ shoes. Just as each individual puts together their outfit based on the demands of their day, a designer will inhabit their customer for an instant.

The “French Girl” we’ve all come to aspire to be was, like any other style, born from the self-expression of a particular type of woman.

This French Girl is effortless, wears minimal makeup and prefers a neutral palette over loud colours. Her sex appeal doesn’t come from a plunging neckline, high hemline or exposed skin, but from her elegance, sophistication and quiet intellect. She’s unapologetically herself and owns her identity as a voracious sexual being, but with a quiet and muted confidence. Her indulgences are always reasonable, though she’s never one to refuse a glass of red wine, any and all types of cheese or some chocolat, especially when offered by a potential romantic counterpart. Her hair cascades down her shoulders with admirable ease. She’s Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, Jane Birkin, Inès de la Fressange, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Carine Roitfeld, Laeticia Casta, Clémence Poésy, and Julia Restoin Roitfeld. She’s the elusive, yet widely desired French Girl.

This image of the French Girl pervades every aspect of the fashion industry, from runways to magazines. Even Vogue, a leader in the print and digital media industry, has a plethora of articles about her in its archive, with topics ranging from matching eyeshadow to earrings in “This French Girl Beauty Trick Is About to Be Everywhere” to dissecting fall-appropriate outfits in “How to Do Backto-School Shopping Like a French Girl” or celebrating of bare skin in “Why French Girls Skip Concealer—and Swear by the Surprising Charm of Under-Eye Circles.” Goop— Gwyneth Paltrow’s newsletter turned lifestyle brand—oneup’s the print mogul with an entire section on its website dedicated to looking like the French Girl. One of its first few articles is a French Girl wardrobe starter kit because “French women do, in fact, just have it going on.” From a simple black blazer, to year-round white denim, the look seems almost too easy to co-opt.

Articles like these—found in every nook and cranny of the fashion print industry—preach the secrets of a woman who seems so elusive and so perfect, she’s almost completely unattainable. Therein lies the attraction women have with this myth, turned marketing gimmick.

Brands profit from the idea of the French girl. In fact, it’s slowly but surely turned into a billion-dollar industry.

Take French Girl Organics. The sustainable beauty brand, created by American entrepreneur Kristeen GriffinGrimes, markets itself as “inspired by the timeless je ne sais quoi spirit of French Girls everywhere” and “perfect for everyday self-care and effortless indulgence” on its website. However, other than the French labels, none of the products feature any ingredients that seem inherently French. Though Griffin-Grimes claims to

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have been inspired by the South of France, the area’s intoxicating scent of vegetation and garrigue is ignored in favor of rose, sea salt and charcoal, which—truth be told— hold no particular significance in French culture.

On the fashion front, Madewell, launched in 2006, has built itself around making the French style readily available.

From customizable leather bags to striped cotton shirts, channelling the style of the hundreds of thousands of women roaming the cobbled streets of Paris has never been easier. But, here’s the thing: no French girl would ever wear a mustard tee with the word “Dijon” printed onto it in big, bold letters. That idea is tantamount to French designers creating a maroon shirt embroidered with the words “barbecue sauce,” and labelling it the American style.

The current definition of “French style” and its effortlessness severely misrepresents French identity.

Though France is not a leader nor a model of diversity and integration, Parisian women—unlike what brands and

the media want us to believe—are not all slender white women with hair that always falls perfectly when undone and a constantly clear complexion. Many women in Paris are women of colour, who leave their homes in hijabs, dashikis or kaftans; women who do not fit in ridiculously small sample sizes; and working women, whose dress is determined by their field of work rather than their own personal musings. Denying that their sense of style is part of the larger tapestry of French fashion is ignoring a very large percentage of the women who make up the population of France today.

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To put it metaphorically, lack of diversity and social inclusion in France is like a bad blemish: the country knows of its existence, but often refuses to take a long hard look in the mirror to truly acknowledge it. In the past few years alone, the country has dived nose-first into a more nationalistic identity, almost electing Marine Le

“

Parisian women— unlike what brands and the media want us to believe—are not all slender white women with hair that always falls perfectly when undone and a constantly clear complexion.

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Pen—incumbent leader of the National Rally, a right-wing nationalist party—to the presidency in 2017. Coupled with the recent refugee crises and subsequent immigration, many today feel like outsiders and second-class citizens in a country they’ve called home for generations. Mix together this nationalist identity with a severe lack of social mixity and cultural integration, and you end up with the cités of Seine Saint-Denis and Marseille. Both known for being the poorest areas in France, their landscape is made up of dozens of cheap, large building complexes which house generations of immigrants from all over the African continent.

It’s when looking at issues as deeply rooted as the racial and financial segregation of individuals in France that one is truly able to understand the problematic nature of the French Girl’s existence. Not only is she a classical misrepresentation of the many styles of dress adopted women across the country, she is a symptom of a much larger issue: racism and the erasure of diversity in France. So, next time you plan to wear a beret, forgo your concealer or add a red lip in an effort to be authentically French, think about Laura Flessel, Marjane Satrapi, Leïla Bekhti, Yamina Benguigui, Amel Bent or even Fleur Pellerin—all truer reflections of what it means to be a French girl than that marketing myth could ever dream of being.

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THE AVENUE Fall 2018 Vol. 8 Issue 2

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