ROCKET SPRING/SUMMER 2020

Rock e t VOL. X, ISSUE 2

We are socialized to accept being exploited.

SPRING/SUMMER 2020

Rock e t M

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FASHION ARTS CULTURE

WILLIAM & MARY WMROCKETMAGAZINE.COM ROCKET@EMAIL.WM.EDU @ROCKETMAG

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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

ANDREW UHRIG

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

RHEA CHESSON

DIGITAL DIRECTOR

ALIJAH WEBB

FASHION DIRECTOR

DALTON LACKEY

MANAGING EDITOR

EVAN PAKSHONG

DEPUTY EDITOR ART EDITOR ART TEAM

BEAUTY EDITOR

EMILY BACAL CLARA POTEET EMMA BRIGAUD, AVERY HINES, HANNAH MATTHEWS, JIAQING PAN, LAURA REITZE, NAZ SHIRAZI KAELA SUNG

BEAUTY TEAM

EMILY BLACK, CAMRYN CLAUDE, ELISSA CLELAND, MEG CUCA, NINJIN GANKHULEG, RUTH GOSHU, SYLVIA SHEA, JASMINE TURKSON

DIGITAL TEAM

GAVIN AQUIN-HERNÁNDEZ, CARMEN HONKER, CAROLINE KATZ, CHRISTINA MCBRIDE, KIERA SEARS, OLIVIA TRAN, SASHA WAI, JAELA WATKINS, ZAK ZELEDON

FEATURES CO-EDITORS

JACK MACKEY

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DEPUTY FEATURES EDITOR

JOEL CALFEE, HANNAH LOWE

FEATURES TEAM

DEPUTY MANAGING EDITOR MARKETING CO-EDITORS MARKETING TEAM

PHOTO EDITOR PHOTO TEAM PRODUCTION EDITOR PRODUCTION TEAM

STYLE EDITOR STYLE TEAM

TECHNICAL EDITOR TECHNICAL TEAM

SHADE AYENI, LORIELLE BOULDIN, CHARIS CONWELL, SUNITA GANESH, RYAN POSTHUMUS, NINA WILLMS INEZ OLSZEWSKI SAMMY MURPHY, BOB ZHU JULIA CARLSON, JULIA D’ELETTO, STEPHANIE DOLAN, AIDAN GOSSETT, FATIMA JEREZ, SALIMATA SANFO, ERICA WU, ALEX YUN IRIS WU SYDNEY MCCOURT, ALEXIS PEDRICK, FEI WANG, RUOCHUN YANG PETER SAMAHA NOELIA AZIM, ANDREA GEBHARDT, KARISSA MCDONALD, CAMILLE OKONKWO, NEHA SHARMA ESTELLE EYOB ZARIELLE ANTHONY, MEREDITH ARNDT, MAY HUANG, ANNA KASHMANIAN, LEYAH OWUSU, THANH PHAM, NIGEL SEABROOK, LAUREN WHITE ABBIE DANIEL JORGE CONDA, JAKE KEALY

letter from the editor

In this issue, we focused on what we’re “attracted” to, in every sense of the word. On one hand, we explored beauty, desirability and seduction, questioning our subjectivities on these matters. On the other, we considered what bonds us together to form networks of support and invest ourselves in our communities.

Featured on this issue’s cover, collective centers this attraction through our discussion with various student activists, organizers, and leaders whose work bonds people in the William & Mary community together. Some of these fellow students are also helping those in this community left unsupported by the school’s administration in the midst of COVID-19.

Since its inception, ROCKET has centered pushing boundaries in every way possible. In making this magazine, we constantly ask ourselves to think beyond conventions. This motivation is at the core of everything we do.

Through holding onto this sentiment, we have made leaps and bounds, and have even further to go. I am excited to put this issue in front of you, and even more eager to see where this publication goes in the future.

In closing, I would just like to say to anyone and everyone looking at this magazine: I love you, and I need you.

Warmly,

andrew uhrig they/them

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I can’t believe this is it: ROCKET is blasting off again! So much has happened over the course of my tenure as Editor-in-Chief, not to mention the rest of my four years on staff. I, along with all our members, am filled with so many emotions as this academic year comes to an end.

Speaking of this pandemic, the prospect of this being my final issue is heartwrenching, particularly because we missed out on giving you so much we had planned. From the annual ASTRAL Fashion Show, to photoshoots, and to everything else that did not come to fruition, we are saddened by the content we could not bring you. Even still, many of us have devoted countless hours to producing the enclosed work.

I am forever thankful for everyone’s contributions, for our continued role as Adobe ambassadors, for the styling support of Three Sisters Boutique of Williamsburg, and for all our other wonderful collaborations. It is with all this support, this issue is of the same, if not a higher, caliber as those past.

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the 90s were all that laquann dawson at long last press start re-dressing going up emme, unmasked

sharply polished leak your sex tape feeling animated sam pao get up, stand up damian dragon collective 5

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SHARPLY POLISHED AND WELL HEELED photography by IRIS WU beauty by EMILY BLACK, KAELA SUNG, SYLVIA SHEA, JASMINE TURKSON, NINJIN GANKHULEG models COREY BRIDGES, ALYSSA BROCKER, JECY KLINKAM, UNDRA TSEND, JING ZHOU

7 HOUSECOAT VINTAGE, ASCOT VINTAGE, PANTS VINTAGE

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top to bottom DRESS BY DESREE AKORAHSON, BLAZER BY GILMOR, DRESS BY MARK ANGELO, SHOES BY KELLY & KATE, SHIRT BY SOMETHING NAVY, PANTS BY BERSHKA, SHOES VINTAGE

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DRESS BY EVAN PICONE, BELT BY COACH, SHOES BY NINE WEST

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LEAK YOUR SEX TAPE

written by ANDREW UHRIG photography by DYLAN THOMAS @DDYLANTHOMASS models JOJO @BIG.JO.JO, ZUNI CASTILLO @ZUNICASTILLO adidas corest by LEAK YOUR SEX TAPE

pink corset by LEAK YOUR SEX TAPE

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Editor-in-Chief andrew uhrig talks with Louis Dorantes, founder and designer of Leak Your Sex Tape (LYST), about his experience starting this queer underwear brand. To see more of his work, you can find LYST on Instagram @leakyoursextape_underwear.

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ROCKET: What inspired you to start LYST? Louis Dorantes: I was really inspired by my own queerness, to start, and exploring my own and others’ provocative energy and re-learning what lingerie can and should be! I wanted to see what would happen if I pushed aside timidness when it comes to using traditionally feminine shapes, fabrics, and embellishment on traditionally masculine bodies. LYST is not exclusively for drag and it’s not exclusively for men, I should say, but that was a starting point.

R: What do you believe is the significance of your work in a world that can’t stop consuming fast fashion?

LD: I don’t consider my work cheap and neither is my time. And, through my work, I encourage people to buy into quality craftsmanship and buy into what will elevate their own aesthetic, not just the latest trend. My custom service focuses on delivering pieces that are thoughtful and well-represent the wearer. I love the concept of giving insight into the workmanship of every piece I offer. Like, who’s making these pieces and how long did it take to do it? And that’s hard to do with fast fashion. I want people to appreciate clothes and see the humanity, skill, and resources it took to make them.

LD: LYST started with making DIY pieces to wear myself to queer parties in Brooklyn. I upcycled some of my own underwear and sports jerseys for raves. Then I made pieces for friends and by the end of the year I started making a comfortable pair of RTW [ready to wear] underwear to sell online. It all continues to be very organic! Most of my projects come from custom orders but I’ll have more RTW pieces released soon. I’m very excited to offer more accessible clothes that have great stories and craftsmanship.

R: What is the process behind the design and construction of LYST’s garments? Is it all you, or do you work with others?

LD: Everything is designed by myself and all of the custom pieces are made right here in BK also by myself! I hire my queer friends to help me during busy seasons and to help me drape pieces. The design process always begins by draping! A lot of people assume draping is for voluminous woven pieces on runway shows, but draping body-con lingerie is the real difference from store-bought and my made-to-measure. Fitting is the next step. It strengthens the relationship of the customer and clothes. That’s important to me. I want people to not just relate to what they’ve commissioned me to make, I want them to love it.

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R: How has LYST grown since you founded it in 2018? What has that experience been like?

R: Your work incorporates a lot of Adidas-branded items by restructuring them into jockstraps or other sexy forms of underwear. What made you want to use Adidas items, specifically?

LD: I’ve always loved activewear and specifically Adidas. I have a small closet full of Adidas gear and my DIY fashion sense quickly led me to start using them in my work. Adidas and other big activewear companies have always steered away from being too sexual in their designs and campaigns. So it continues to feel fresh to appropriate classic Adidas garments and imagine what a hyper-sexualized Adidas campaign would be styled with.

I didn’t make any money from that collab, but I got everything else; confidence, friends, and resources to make more exciting pieces!

R: If you could have anyone model your work who has not already done so, who would it be and why?

LD: Off the top of my head, Chella Man ;) I’d love to dress more queer activists or even a politician! It’s important for our own individual queerness to be more visible and normalized through our advocates and leaders. That will ultimately not just elevate my brand, but also our under-represented community. And it feels less obvious than dressing movie stars.

R: On your website, you write to email you for “made-to-measure garments & like-minded project proposals.” Have you received any wild proposals that were maybe out-of-touch with your work or otherwise shocking?

LD: If anything, I haven’t received any proposals that are wild enough! But I’ve had a customer wear my pieces on their wedding day!

I’d say my seamless transition into wedding apparel is shocking and beautiful.

R: Who are your work?

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LD: Acra, Craig Green, my friends from nightlife, so many people! I think great clothes don’t just have a good concept, they have context in real world situations. That’s what separates wearable art from fashion.

And I like being somewhere in between for the most part.

R: Where do you see yourself and LYST going in the future?

R: Building on the previous question, you got the chance to work directly with Adidas in 2019 as a part of their young designer program. What was this experience like, and where has it led you?

LD: That was wonderful! I designed pieces along with twenty other creatives and our ideas were uninhibited and uncensored, which I thought was going to be inevitable in my case, but it was the opposite. It really epitomizes Adidas’ forward thinking and openness to try new things. My ideas were celebrated by their PR team and Olivia Oblanc, a fellow designer and mentor in Brooklyn that critiqued our work. Amazing, just amazing... empowering and an assertion that I’m on the right path.

LD: I’m building LYST at my own pace, with passion, quality pieces, and the temperature of the world. I’m going to continue to work with queer bodies and talent that inspire me.

I want to build a brand that’s family-owned, queer-run, and accessible to people who are passionate about gender non-conforming fashion. I also really like the idea of disrupting the idea of traditional collections and shows that I knew growing up with. I see myself being a product designer first, and incorporating that into fashion, on my own time, wherever I want, online or IRL.

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I think great clothes don’t just have a good concept, they have context in real world situations. That's what separates wearable art from fashion. And I like being somewhere in between for the most part.

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One of the most immediate effects of the quarantine caused by coronavirus is that everyone has turned to sources of comfort.

Students are returning to their childhood homes as places of safety, families are binge-watching reruns of their favorite TV shows, and people are picking up old hobbies in an effort to try to distract themselves during this frightening and unpredictable time.

written by JOEL CALFEE art by JOEL CALFEE

When my last semester of college was brought to a screeching halt and I returned home to finish my undergraduate career, I felt hopeless. For weeks, it took all I could muster just to drag myself out of bed and write a blog post for one of my classes. It has been exceedingly difficult not to feel as if I am being unproductive during this time, simply because that idea is so ingrained into our minds. Most of the time, whenever I wasn’t doing schoolwork, I tried to fill my “free time” with things that brought me joy, whether that meant watching multiple seasons of a show in one sitting, or going for runs outside. Over time, I realized that I was repeatedly turning to the media that has always brought me the most comfort: animation.

As I revisited the Phineas and Ferb episodes that I adored as a kid, and the Pixar films that I obsessed over, I began to realize just how valuable and formative these works were, but also how resonant they re-

Features Co-Editor, Joel Calfee recognizes the urge to return to the comforts of our childhood amidst social distancing, and he discusses the importance of enjoying the animated works that remind us of our youth. While watching a cartoon show or Pixar film might feel like an inactive and lazy way to spend all this “free” time, these comforting works have plenty to offer in the form of progressive messages and innovative storytelling.

main today. Animation is something that has always been associated with childhood, whether it’s Saturday cartoons or Disney princess films, but, despite all its imaginative and inspirational elements, it has always been considered a lesser form of art.

This perception of animated works is evidenced by the way in which they’ve been historically neglected by honorary institutions. The Academy Award for Best Animated Feature Film was not established until 2002, and the only animated film to have ever been nominated for Best Picture before this category’s inception was Beauty and the Beast in 1991. Meanwhile, The Flintstones and Family Guy are the only animated series to have ever been nominated for the Emmy Award for Outstanding Comedy Series (with neither winning), while none have ever been nominated for Outstanding Drama Series.

As animation has grown throughout the years, different institutions have felt compelled to create a partition between animation and live action, by establishing categories where they can celebrate animated works as separate forms, but rarely ever on equal ground. However, animation has proven time and time again that it is a medium that defies expectation. In the mid-2000s, Pixar had the highest average score on Rotten Tomatoes of any film production company, and the animation studio continues to produce films that are universally adored and critically successful. Films like Coco can be just as impactful for the kids they’re tailored to, or the parents who take them to the theatre. Meanwhile, as digital animation creeps into more film and television through CGI technology, the lines begin to blur as to what constitutes animation anymore.

While animation has often been associated with adolescence and even immaturity, it is important to recognize the ways in which it acts as one of the most progressive mediums of our generation. During the twentieth century, there were often underlying themes that were problematic and offensive in many animated works. Certain Looney Tunes shorts are no longer aired because of the racial and ethnic stereotypes that were depicted by some of the characters. Meanwhile, in recent years there has been a discussion around queer coding in classic Disney animated villains, and the ways in which many of these characters were created with gay or lesbian stereotypes in their mannerisms or voices.

Thus, while animation becomes more prevalent, it is important to note how the themes in these works have increasingly become more innovative for children and adults alike. Wall-E functions as a haunting climate change parable that could stand alongside the warnings spoken by Greta Thurnburg, and shows like Archer match comedies like Arrested Development in their referential humor and wit.

I used to feel guilty when I would rewatch one of my favorite animated shows or movies, because it felt less “challenging” than other forms of art. However, some of the most powerful messages keep coming from these unexpected places, so - maybe it shouldn’t be so unexpected anymore? I finally realize that I haven’t been lost in a fit of nostalgia or some lazy, childish fixation on the colorful stories that dictated my youth. Instead, I was reveling in some of the best art the world has to offer.

to be continued...

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I haven’t been lost in a fit of nostalgia or some lazy, childish fixation on the colorful stories that dictated my youth.

Yet, in the twenty-first century, animation has taken the front seat when it comes to progressive storylines and diverse representation. Consider Bojack Horseman, an animated Netflix series that ended this past January. Bojack was lauded for its complex storylines and willingness to broach tough issues with thoughtfulness and grace. It was one of the first shows to have an openly asexual main character, and it covered difficult themes like depression and substance abuse in a realistic way. Meanwhile, other series have blazed similar trails, like Steven Universe, a Cartoon Network series that presented sexual and gender fluidity in a respectable manner amidst a heartwarming coming-of-age story. Neither Bojack nor Steven ever won a Primetime Emmy Award.

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Style team member Meredith Arndt speaks with Sam Pao, artist and founder of non-profit organization Wrong Brain, about their work in vintage reclamation, the importance of supporting underrepresented artists, and the uncertain future of sustainable fashion. You can find them on Instagram @_sam_pao. written by MEREDITH ARNDT images courtesy SAM PAO

symbols. Though this cathartic process is deeply personal, I am naturally an extrovert, and I draw a lot of inspiration by collaboration, too. My favorite artists are my peers. I find the most creative power from working directly with other artists. Some of my favorite contemporary artists are my collaborators as well: Sylvea Suydam, Villada, Dan Beauvais, and Brian Barthelmes.

As for admiring from afar: Lately I’ve been really into tattoo art, specifically Dan Higgs, Chistopher Scott, and Will Geary, for their surreal styles and bold imagery. There’s a lot of overlap with tattoo design and screen printing with focus on shape and line weight. I also love the battle of permanent vs. temporary, and how time affects art and what I put out into the world.

ROCKET: Where do you find inspiration for your work? Who are some of your favorite artists, and how have they influenced you?

For the classics I always admire Louise Bourgeois, for her own self-therapy through artwork and vast array of materials. Keith Haring also had a great impact on me, for his simplicity of design for the greatest accessibility to the viewer.

R: When did you decide that you wanted to work in vintage reclamation? What does vintage reclamation mean to you?

SP: Vintage reclamation allows me the privilege of making my living as an artist, without sacrificing my values, contributing to environmental destruction or exploiting workers.

I started making screen printed tee and tie dyed shirts with my artwork in 2009 as

R: What does “sustainable fashion” mean to you? Where do you see the future of sustainable fashion practices in the future?

SP: Sustainable fashion is about having a neutral or positive effect on the environment and society through the birth, life, and death of a garment. For me, sustainability is about accountability and being able to trace the product’s origins and predict its death. Where was the cotton grown? Did the farmers make a fair wage? Did the tailors have safe working conditions? Was the dye filte-

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SAM PAO: Many of my initial inspirations are about expelling inner demons; I draw without intention and then dissect the product as a form of self-therapy. From that practice I find patterns in objects, shapes, and figures, which become my own language, and I use those symbols in adaptations of real-world subjects. I usually consider my work Pop Surrealist because of my bold outlines and colors and morphed reality.

Humor is also an ongoing theme — I find comedy in the macabre and try to laugh at the death, pain and depression that often appear in my drawings. Worms, intestines, boxes, scars, clouds, and dragons are my most current bag of

an accessible alternative to my original drawings and paintings. I found that the demographic who liked my art the most often couldn’t afford to pay over $50.

I began to think of myself like a band who sells merchandise, then a brand.

When I started selling more shirts than originals, I was forced to think more about the business side of art, including price and ethics. In 2010 I started buying garments from the thrift stores to print and dye — I was saving money by not buying new, and the thrift hunt is thrilling. I love making each garment unique, its own piece of artwork, instead of a mass-produced image on the same color, same shape shirt — sourced from environmental destruction, exploitation and capitalist greed. Ten years ago, the world knew that the textile industry was inhumane to workers and destroying the planet, but there wasn’t the movement that there is today. I wanted to be an artist full-time, and selling clothing was my best chance at making a living, but compromising my values wasn’t an option. Now, all the items I sell are second-hand upcycled.

Climate change is real, artists are paying attention, and they care about how their products affect the world.

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red properly or did it poison a river? Will the garment last longer than six months? A year? Is it easily mended? Will it decompose? How was it transported? The journey of one garment affects so many people and environments across the globe that very few New Garment companies are able to be truly sustainable. Corporations are very rarely truly transparent with their manufacturing details, especially fast fashion brands who don’t want you to realize why that shirt only cost you $3.

I think that true sustainable fashion is not realistic, but I can try to the best of my ability to work towards it. There would need to be a global revolution of conscience to change the entire fashion system — and those in power, who benefit from it and control it, aren’t going to give it up. I think educating consumers on tracking their products (“Who made my clothes?”) and also teaching directly how to alter, reuse, mend, and recycle are the best options. I choose to use secondhand and discarded materials to save them from landfills, and to shorten the lineage of the garment when I sell it.

Sustainable fashion is trendy, but it’ll probably get lost in the next few years when we are enraged about something else. I don’t know, I guess I’m feeling pessimistic today — can you blame me? Look at the state of our world. I guess... I’ve been selling upcycled clothes for a decade, and I’ve seen a huge surge in independent artists, designers and brands using second-hand materials pop up the past couple years — which is great. Climate change is real, artists are paying attention, and they care about how their products affect the world. But the “trend” part of it — like any other trend — has been exploited by corporations to sell more of the same toxic products but with a “greenwashed” label. They’re using sustainability as a marketing strategy by doing the absolute least amount of change required to call themselves “eco-friendly.” Like the infamous Urban Outfitters — their $59 Urban Renewal upcycled Levi’s shorts (first of all, rip-off, you can get a pair of Levi’s at the thrift store for $5 and use a cheese shredder to do the same thing) is only one of hundreds of unethical and environmentally damaging products for sale. One upcycled or “eco-friendly” collection is featured to promote their noble efforts, when the majority of their sales profit off cheap, dangerous labor and awful environmental practices. The only hope for true sustainability is the collapse of the capitalist system and bringing every corporation to its death. We need to support independent makers, and become reliant on ourselves and our local communities.

R: Not only do you run your own fashion brand, but you also run your own NGO, Wrong Brain, supporting "underrepresented artists in all mediums." What inspired you to begin this non-profit, and how important is this work to you?

SP: Wrong Brain first began as an after school art club in 2003, when I was a sophomore in high school. I wanted exposure to alternative arts that weren’t offered in my classes, and to collaborate and share with other creatives in non-traditional ways. The spirit of Wrong Brain continued that way, but the form changed, in 2010 to a zine for a few years, then into a market, then multi-media events, galleries, festivals, and now we are a state-recognized nonprofit with a mixed use space with storefront, gallery, community space, and eight private artist studios. Wrong Brain started as my own personal outreach to my peers, to collaborate, share, encourage and lift each other up to advance our practices and careers. As I continued (with a natural ebb and flow, sometimes going years without any Wrong Brain projects) I found that my peers wanted the same things I did, and the organization grew to be a force within our community. It still operates with the same basic goal, but now on a larger scale: to connect and support creative folx who don’t fit into the traditional art scene.

I’ve tried leaving Wrong Brain a couple times. It can be exhausting, and at points I was working a full-time job as the director with no pay. I keep coming back, I think it’s just in my blood. I really enjoy networking and organizing, and specifically, cultivating a home for the misfits who are so grateful for a place to feel welcome and accepted.

R: What vision do you have for both your brand and your non-profit in the next 5-10 years?

SP: I’d love to have the ready-to-wear collections made by a team of 4-5 employees, so I can free myself to do more couture, costume, and stage pieces; and collaborate with other designers and artists of different mediums for limited edition collections. I’d also like to have Sam Pao carried in more stores across the US, but the question of sustainability comes into question. It’s important to me to keep everything made by hand in small batches, sourced and sold locally, so expanding across the US would require setting up another location elsewhere where I had my employees sourcing, upcycling and selling around that area. Although I do have some qualms with having someone else producing my line — maybe it’s control freak issues, but I like to think it’s Artistic Integrity. The balance between Art Vs. Product is always a challenge for me when it comes to the Sam Pao clothes.

My ultimate fantasy for Wrong Brain is to convert an old factory, mall, or mill building into a mixed-use art emporium with psychedelic jungle gym, galleries, venue/dance club, restaurant, classrooms, private artist studios, artist residences, and hotel/weekend residences. I just need someone to give me like, a few million dollars? But realistically, I would love for Wrong Brain to stay a volunteer-run small scale operation, expanding only when the community has a void that must be filled.

R: Where do you see LGBT and non-binary representation in the future of the fashion industry?

SP: It’s vital to the lives of LGBT folx to have representation in fashion — seeing yourself in the images in the media reminds you that you exist, that you are valid. I see it happening, but I would love for the fashion industry as a whole to end gendering clothing. The gender binary is toxic and only upholds the systems which keep womxn and trans folx down. There are non-binary specific brands (like Sam Pao!) and right now we need those. We need to be screaming at the world that it’s important to do so that the corporations and luxury brands eventually hear us (even if just to exploit us...in the beginning).

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My favorite artists are my peers.

I find the most creative power from working directly with other artists.

get up, stand up From “Tear The Fascists Down” to “Fuck Donald Trump,” the protest song is a great American tradition. When words fail, music speaks; musicians from all genres and backgrounds have long used their art to communicate issues they care about with the masses. In this piece, Features Co-Editor Hannah Lowe takes a tour of great protest songs from the Deep South to the Wild West.

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In 1937, a man wrote a poem; in 1939, a woman sang it.

The simple story behind “Strange Fruit” belies the complexity of the song and the genre it inaugurated. Written

by Abel Meeropol, a Jewish-American schoolteacher, and made famous by jazz icon Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit” is an early example of the protest song in American popular music. The tradition of protest songs is diverse, spanning centuries and genres, but its core concept is simple. Protest songs are a way to communicate ideas and motivate people through a language everyone speaks: music.

Like other political songs, “Strange Fruit” makes its point clearly and powerfully. Just ninety words and twelve lines long, Meeropol’s poem chills the audience’s blood with the image of lynching victims — “Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze” — set to a haunting melody. Holiday’s delivery — sparse, passionate, painful — comes straight from the heart, evoking the terror and grief of Black and Jewish Americans living under the constant threat of lynching. In the same way that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. used religious references and evocative imagery to speak to his audience in familiar terms, songs like “Strange Fruit” discuss complicated issues in plainspoken language. Later artists added catchy beats and lyrical hooks to their protest songs, but the idea is the same: issues that matter to the masses, sung in familiar styles. If racial injustice and anti-war protests aren’t enough to get you on your feet, perhaps the beat of a good song will.

written by HANNAH LOWE art by HANNAH LOWE

This is not unique to “Strange Fruit,” of course, nor to any individual protest anthem. For as long as musicians have had causes to fight for, they’ve written songs about them.

The barrier of entry to political discourse is high; the barrier of entry to singing political songs is comparatively low.

You don’t need to read theory to understand the message of Phil Ochs’ “I Ain’t Marching Anymore” or the Dead Kennedys’ “Nazi Punks Fuck Off.” Folk singers realized this early, and many of the great protest songs in the American musical tradition stem from the folk genre. Famously, Woody Guthrie — best known for “This Land Is Your Land” — wrote countless anti-fascist folk songs, played on a guitar bearing the words “This machine kills fascists.”

His image, that of a train-hopping common man, spoke to people as much as his music. Guthrie inspired singers in subsequent generations to pick up their guitars and sing out about issues such as the Vietnam War and labor organization: Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and Phil Ochs, among others. Johnny Cash and Bruce Springsteen similarly cultivated the image of the all-American everyman, unafraid to speak out on issues that mattered. Cash, with his roughspun demeanour and emotive delivery, spread the word of the Lord and condemned the American prison system in equal measure. Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” is a bitter rebuke of Vietnam-era America, although conservative politicians like Ronald Reagan seemed to forget everything but the chorus and used it as a campaign song.

The barrier of entry to political discourse is high; the barrier of entry to singing political songs is comparatively low.

If the genre of protest songs is a tree, and the folk contingent one branch, it continues to grow in the twenty-first century — on both sides of the Atlantic. For decades, guitar-heavy genres like rock, punk, folk, and blues rock have produced myriad songs on issues as diverse as the War in Iraq and the elections of George W. Bush and Donald Trump. Think “American Idiot.” Recently, Declan McKenna, a Gen-Z British singer-songwriter, condemned Britain’s role in the foreign arms trade with his single “British Bombs” (the title an homage to The Clash’s 1979 song “Spanish Bombs”). Irish singer-songwriter Hozier consistently addresses left-wing issues in his blues-rock ballads, including “Nina Cried Power,” featuring Mavis Staples and honoring civil rights icons, and “Jackboot Jump,” voicing support for anti-establishment protesters at Standing Rock and in Moscow and Hong Kong. Recently, blues rocker Gary Clark Jr. won a Grammy for his album This Land, which includes the title track about being Black in the South and in Trump’s America — inspired, of course, by Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land.”

One could spend all day naming great protest songs and the stories behind them. There isn’t time to discuss every branch of the tree: Indigenous singer-activists like Buffy Sainte-Marie, A Tribe Called Red, and Nahko Bear; Riot Grrrl; punk and pop-punk. It would take an essay’s worth of words to explain why Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” and the union hymn “Solidarity Forever” are arguing the same point, but I’ll die on that hill anyway. This is the simple truth: there are always issues to care about, and there are always musicians who will write about them. Even as monopolistic corporations such as LiveNation and iHeartRadio threaten to swallow the music industry whole, protest anthems are a voice within the leviathan calling out for revolution.

This is why these songs are so important. The thing that protest singers do best is punch up: listen to any great political song, and the target isn’t the missguided masses.

The enemy isn’t immigrants ‘taking American jobs’ or the neighbour you don’t agree with. The enemy is “The Man,” the corporations, the strike-breakers, the capitalists, the wizard behind the curtain. These songs are by the people, for the people; they’re a form of solidarity against systems built to oppress. Now more than ever, we need musical messiahs to soundtrack our fight against those who would keep us all down.

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While many Americans think of the folk revival when they think of protest music, one would be remiss not to mention the hip-hop branch of the tree. From the inception of the hip-hop genre, there has been an active, socially-conscious subgenre dedicated to criticism of the systems that oppress Black Americans. One of the first great rap songs, “The Message” by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, describes life in the streets and the economic and social oppression of Black Americans. Artists including NWA and Public Enemy echoed this sentiment in the late ’80s with their tracks “Fuck Tha Police” and “Fight The Power,” respectively. As hip-hop went mainstream throughout the 2000s and 2010s, rap artists have and continue to speak out within the confines of the Top 40 charts. Childish Gambino broke the Internet in 2018 with the music video for his single “This Is America,” which married issues as disparate

as gun control and the exploitation of Black musicians in one absurdly hooky track. Killer Mike and his supergroup with El-P, Run The Jewels, have made a career out of politically-charged tracks. So, too, has Kendrick Lamar, whose 2015 album To Pimp A Butterfly examined the challenges of success and took on the music industry for its mistreatment of Black artists. You would be hard-pressed to find any major hip-hop artist from the last three decades who hasn’t addressed some social, economic, or political issue at one point or another in their career.

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DA M I A N DRAGON

31 photography by SOMOS AMOR

Editor-in-Chief andrew uhrig talks to porn actor Damian Dragon, who has worked with a variety of reputable studios, about his ventures in the porn industry, experiences of anti-Asian sexual racism, and advice for a brighter future. You can find him on Instagram @damianxdragon.

image courtesy DAMIAN DRAGON

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written by ANDERW UHRIG

ROCKET: When did you start working in the industry? What was it like for you at the beginning of your career?

I was very green in the industry to be working with these studios. I didn’t see many others like myself in the business which made me feel out of place and disconnected. Personally, I think this inexperience came through in the productions. Hopefully those who have seen them think they are hot scenes to jerk off to! After all, It is all in the camera angles and edits.

R: How does your identity as a gay Asian man influence your work and your career? How does your career impact your daily life off set?

DD: Coming out in the late ‘80s early ‘90s, I longed to fit in and I didn’t want to embrace my heritage. I didn’t want to be the fetishized gay Asian male – smooth and hairless, effeminate, soft-spoken, obedient, submissive bottom. I longed to fit with the masses, Caucasian cisgender gay men. Men I found attractive at that time didn’t give me a second look. The men who found me attractive were fetishizing me. Even to this day, Asian men are a product of years of being told they are unattractive. I think being aggressive with decisions is a new thing for Asians in the wider spectrum of the gay community.

R: You’ve made some history working in gay porn. What has it been like to work for major labels as, at one point, one of the few gay Asian men at your level of visibility in the industry? How do you think that might change the face of porn in coming years?

DD: If you look at mainstream porn, the majority of the performers are white cisgender men. No wonder many men of color think that the ideal of our community is this trope – where the majority of sexual desires lay. When I was looking at porn, it was hard for me to identify with what I saw out there. There were no other Asian men in mainstream porn. I didn’t feel like I found my place within the industry until I started working with Peter Fever. Peter Fever works outside of the mainstream boundaries by featuring a strong presence of Asian men with other men of color. Through working with Peter Fever I unknowingly stumbled into my role as a gay Asian male being portrayed in a confident and strong sexual light. I never realized that I had this impact until after my first release with Peter Fever. I started receiving messages from my newfound fans thanking me for this presence in porn.

I’m sure that other performers within Peter Fever’s roster are having that same influence.

R: Recently, experienced and new porn actors alike have turned to the site JustForFans and other similar subscription-based platforms to post their own content. What has using JFF been like for you? Do you think this is liberating and potentially safer than having to use an intermediary, like a porn site or agency?

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DAMIAN DRAGON: I started working in the adult industry in 2009. The beginning of my career was so new to me and I was bright-eyed in the industry. My first film was in a Buck Angel Production and my second was with Raging Stallion. Working with studios of such stature is a great honor when just starting out. In greater respects, pair that with being an Asian performer in the gay adult industry ten years ago. I believe there were only one maybe two other Asian performers at that time. From a first-hand conversation I do know one of the other Asian performers, who is Hapa, who also denied his Asian heritage to excel his work in the industry.

As for how working in porn affects my daily life — I am very open with my life and what I do. I find being upfront about one of my chosen careers is also a good way of weeding out others who may be wary of what their friends and family would think if they found out about my work in porn.

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I didn’t want to be the fetishized gay Asian male – smooth and hairless, effeminate, soft-spoken, obedient, submissive bottom.

DD: JFF is a job in itself.

I must maintain regular posts to keep my fans happy, which consist of sex and solo shoots, plus the photos that are not social media-friendly. Outside of just uploading and posting, there is scheduling shoots with models, photographers, and videographers. Plus there are also edits that must be done. That said, I love the platform. It allows me to choose who I perform with and monitor the content going out. My shoots for JFF can be forty five minutes to an hour, then edited into two twenty-minute scenes, whereas a studio scene is almost four hours for a half-hour scene.

It’s a no-brainer when it comes to the efficiency of self-producing your own content.

I do think that JFF is liberating, as one has complete control over their content. As for safer, I’ve always dealt with studios directly without an intermediary or an agent — so I have no knowledge of the difference. I do believe, in my mind, that the studios and/or intermediaries are looking out for the safety of the performer.

R: I think porn actors and other sex workers/ artists are tremendously important because you offer sexual libera-

tion and a private digital space for queer people to engage with pleasure.

I also think collectively, a lot of people are starting to realize this importance, given the quarantine/isolation we find ourselves in thanks to COVID-19. How has this pandemic affected your work and life more generally?

DD: I have to say, in my case, it hasn’t affected me at all. I had elective surgery at the beginning of March and 11 days later my appendix burst and the contents of my intestines spilled into my stomach cavity! I am in a quarantine at present while I’m heal-

35 photography by HAO ZENG model FORREST WU

ing at home. Not an ideal situation but unknowingly timed well.

I do know that all porn studios have halted film production. I hope this has also been the trend with performers and their self-produced content.

The performers I know directly have been doing solo shows regularly with the addition of toys, etc.

The quarantine has added a new layer of creativity to keep the followers that one may have had while also widening their fan base.

R: In an interview with BONER WORLD, you talk about how Tumblr and In-

stagram’s strict policies have “nullified platforms where Asian males could have seen themselves depicted [in] a non-fetishised light.” Can you talk more to your experience in this interplay of censorship and racial fetishization?

DD: The ban of adult content by Tumblr, as well the strict policies of Instagram, has basically nullified platforms where Asian males could have seen themselves depicted in a non-fetishized light.

Tumblr and Instagram have driven me to publish my adult content pictures and videos to my JFF page. [This is] an unfortunate turn of events as

there is no longer a mainstream viewing platform that presents the representation of Asian men that many of us are looking for.

R: You’ve been involved in other works as well, including modeling for the CHRISHABANA x CAM4 2019 pop-up and performing in “Asian Tops White Bottoms” as a part of E.T. Chong’s Slaysian Dynasty. What have these experiences been like?

DD: These two experiences were amazing. Working with CHRIS HABANA x CAM4 was an honor. My roots when I was in my twenties was working as

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Be strong. Be confident. Be aggressive to the point that you are making the decisions. Go after what you dream of, whether it’s a potential partner or a place in your chosen workplace. Be unabashedly sexual. Most of all, be proud of who you are and your Asian heritage.

photography by MARK DEKTOR

a model. I did countless streetwear ads for local companies in the Toronto area. Chris allowed me a rejuvenation and an extension of my early roots.

To get to be part of a NYC Fashion Week presentation alongside others such as Francois Sagat, Boy Radio, and Amanda Lepore was a dream come true.

Chris allowed the fringe into the mainstream in collaboration with Cam4.

R: We see many porn actors who also engage with other industries, such as modeling. What industries have you engaged with outside of porn, and how have you navigated them?

DD: At the forefront, I am a personal trainer, yoga teacher, massage therapist, and a stretch therapist. As my sideline and as an outlet for my creative side, I work as a fetish model and muse for some. I also work in the adult industry as a performer. Navigating my industries may seem more complex than it is. I work in fitness, am trained in several modalities that complement each other, and can work with a single client in several of them. I also work independently, meaning I set my own hours although they are dictated at times by my clients day to day scheduling. Working independently allows me the time to work with other artists, performers, photographers, and

photography by JOHNNY Q

videographers.

R: If you could communicate one thing to people who look up to you or identify with you, what would you tell them?

DD: I find compromising as a gay Asian sends the wrong message. It may not be a conventional way of bringing this issue to light, but I want to be that strong and confident gay Asian male presenting a positive sexuality to other Asian men in my community, be it through porn or in my day-to-day life.

Be strong. Be confident.

Be aggressive to the point that you are making the decisions. Go after what you dream of, whether it’s a potential partner or a place in your chosen workplace. Be unabashedly sexual. Most of all, be proud of who you are and your Asian heritage.

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Another passion of mine is the art/porn movement.

There can be a fine line between the two of these when looked at separately. Also there is a fine balance when used together. I hope that this part of what I present through the eyes of the artists I work with.

E.T. Chong’s performance Asian Tops White Bottoms was a true merger of art and porn. [It was] also another dream fulfilled for me, an active participation in a show which brought art and porn together. On a side note, E.T. Chong, OUT100’s event producer, philanthropist and artist, donates his event profits

to charities, runaway youth centers, and shelters. He also donates his time towards these same efforts.

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photography by IRIS WU written by SUNITA GANESH cover design by ANDREW UHRIG models IFEOMA AYIKA, AIDA CAMPOS, DAVID FERNANDEZ, ZOE LE MENESTREL, KIBIRITI MAJUTO, BEAU ROWLAND, RAMSHA SAAD

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collective

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On March 11, 2020, the President’s Office informed the William & Mary community that all in-person classes would be suspended, pending further review, in response to the outbreak of COVID-19 or coronavirus. The successive events that unraveled threw more than physical presence into question. Coronavirus has not only escalated the deficiencies of a faux-public community, but asked us to consider the capacity for academia to distribute care.

The personal toll of isolation comes to the forefront. There are numerous benefits to the digital world we live in, a realm that might be our only tether to one another at this time. But we sacrifice the privilege of organic experience as a result, finding ourselves missing the spontaneity of new conversation or the warmth of a friendly hand. There’s no template to coping with this containment either. David Fernandez (‘20) describes his isolation experience as a process

of grief acceptance — “Initially I was desensitized to it. I felt like I’ve gone through a lot of shit in college and this was some type of unfortunate event I expected to happen. As time went on I began to feel more and more sad because during this time I was supposed to be celebrating with my fellow seniors and best friends by eating cheese fries at Paul’s. I was supposed to be in FASA’s [Filipino American Student Association] annual culture show where alumni come back and we all bond. The isolation is finally getting to my head, however. I cannot concentrate on school work when I need to worry about a multitude of things in this pandemic I haven’t had to worry about before.”

The preoccupation with schoolwork is a common sentiment, and one the university has not dissuaded in a legitimate capacity. Ifeoma Ayiki (‘21) discusses a similar tension to David’s, stating “Isolation has been hard. I am

living in this liminal space where I don’t feel productive, but I don’t feel relaxed either.” The critical word is productive.

It targets one of the most damaging questions burned into our minds — what are we worth if we don’t optimize ourselves? Some have said our sacrifice of grief and personal empathy will drive us all bitter and mad. But I disagree with Allen Ginsberg. I haven’t seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by the madness — rather, I’m watching them push through it, because they see themselves as part of a larger collective.

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I haven’t seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by the madness — rather, I’m watching them push through it, because they see themselves as part of a larger collective.

Collective organization around and against the school benefits from the relentless work of quality student leaders, but it also reveals activism’s onerous nature. “It’s kind of a dirty secret on campus that William & Mary enjoys less sustained, successful student organizing than some other schools because they overwork their students to such a degree that it is impossible to devote the amount of time to organizing that is needed for it to take off,” comments Zoe le Menestrel (‘20). At a school where “so many ... are just trying to do their best and genuinely care about doing what they can with their little power,” as Ayiki kindly notes, martyrs for collective well-being begin to sacrifice their own mental health. David contextualizes this as a generational concern — “People in my generation, I feel like, are also experiencing a barrage of information coming their way from many different sources — all trying to capture our attention and emotional responses at once. This, coupled with the productivity myth, is so incredibly exhausting.”

William & Mary could contest its own inadequacy at caring for the “community,” but it’s a Sisyphian task. Between faculty reductions, student-worker pay, limited transparency, and the financial and emotional abandonment of contracted dining staff, there’s a force of rightful anger the school seems unprepared to oppose. Beau Rowland (‘20) shares their frustration towards the empty gestures — “All they do is talk about how great they are, how great we are, and all the privileged William & Mary heads eat it all up when they go to their town halls and read their emails. This is such a serious crisis. We can’t keep playing games like ‘I’m the president’ and ‘You are all rock stars.’ What is being done to keep members of the community fed, housed, medically safe? They’re sending emails about the millions of dollars they are going to lose because of this. Pay your workers.

Keep your promises. Listen to the needs of those who are most in need and start from there.”

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Aida Campos (‘20) cuts to the chase — “we [are] socialized to accept being exploited as the norm.” It’s important to understand that this exploitation is all-encompassing and surpasses material means, though the harms there are countless. Between isolation, exhaustion, and exploitation, the failure of William & Mary to distribute adequate care both material and emotional is impossible to combat. The collective impetus to challenge the institution is both physically incapable of existing and emotionally exhausted — we’re inundated with distractions.

Meaningful organization requires a mutual agreement to shoulder one another’s struggles.

One approach is to consider more evenly distributing the weight by contributing to our causes in the capacity we can.

Our organizing community is bright enough to see better circumstances for those around us. “I am deeply inspired by folks who gathered to create community aid groups at our campus but also in Virginia … seeing how many people are willing to step in to help and provide for these people really gives me hope,” remarks Campos. Meaningful organization requires a mutual agreement to shoulder one another’s struggles. Kibiriti Majuto (‘21) points out the necessity to contribute meaningfully, noting that “with our current climate, it is not the time for performative politics.

We have got to start organizing and building alternatives that are going to improve the lives of the most oppressed people around the globe.”

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Jenny Odell, writer of How to Do Nothing, discusses the importance of a shared collective needing sustained mutual attention to one another and the issues at hand in order to act. This is borderline unfeasible in a global pandemic with limited organic interaction. Odell observes this impossibility in noting that “a social body that can’t concentrate or communicate with itself is like a person who can’t think and act.” The question of what we ought to and can do becomes immensely more important when there’s an imbalance in the burdens we’re sharing. Inaction isn’t an option however, not when our collective well-being is at stake.

The inimitable Gwendolyn Brooks is right to think “we are each other’s harvest: we are each other’s business.”

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With the failures of William & Mary to provide at its institutional level, we have to assemble ourselves in a more organic sense, one that truly offers community and obligates us to care about each individual’s outcomes. It requires a re-evaluation of the privileges we may or may not hold in this moment, and the necessity to provide according to our means, “because not all people have the time to burn out,” as Ramsha Saad (‘20) astutely notes. She describes her own experience getting involved with the community’s collective action through the encouragement of friends who “have pushed me to actively communicate with people who need help during this time. My friends who were relying on housing at the school were put in tough situations that no person should be put under in such short notice. It’s infuriating, but also lit a fire. It forced us to do something.“ Stepping up doesn’t feel hard; it is hard. At a time where we find ourselves so emotionally burned out, the last thing on our minds might be the plight of those outside our immediate circle, and in the tiresome day-to-day fight for productive actions, organization appears to be another extension of labor. But no one said it better than Fannie Lou Hamer — while we may be sick and tired, we’re also sick and tired of being sick and tired. Disconnection will always exist as a place of emotional escape, and at times I find myself moonlighting there in apprehension and doubt. But the trouble with such detachment is we exist in admittedly selfish isolation, just ourselves and our guilt. Reconnection offers an alternative — a mutual decision to share our burdens as an act of empathy, to practice the care that our community so desperately needs.

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Reconnection offers an alternative — a mutual decision to share our burdens as an act of empathy, to practice the care that our community so desperately needs.

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the 90s were all that photography by FEI WANG beauty by NINJIN GANKHULEG, SYLVIA SHEA models FELICIA HAYES, DAVIDSON NORRIS written by SHADE AYENI

left to right SHIRT VINTAGE, JEANS BY FIFTEEN, SKIRT BY H&M, BELT VINTAGE, SHIRT BY AIME LEON DORE, GREEN JACKET BY GRAND SLAM, JEANS BY JONES SPORT, SHOES BY ADIDAS

To seem historically relevant, social media influencers post captions that read, “God, take me back to the 1950s, so I can bump a jukebox with my hip.”

The 1950s? When segregation was as trendy as The Renegade? Or when the LGBTQIA+ community was seen as sexual perversions and denied federal jobs? Their posts may be harmless, intending to appreciate the past like their boomer ancestors do, but they are always met with disdain in their comment section. One of the few decades we can wish to travel back to without hinting at an underlying racist, sexist, or homophobic milieu is the ‘90s.

The grunge aesthetic that is widely associated with oversized flannels and ripped acid-wash jeans doesn’t come close to capturing the essence of being an outcast. Perceived as junkies, high-school dropouts, or cult members, grungers relaxed in the shadows of society, establishing their own culture with no obligation to participate in the real world. In the early 1980s, “grunge” was used mainly to describe music with heavy-metal, aggressive screaming, a cacophony of instruments, and clashing

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Conspiracy theorists believed that on December 31st, 1999, the world would breath their last breaths, settle their last kiss on their lover’s lips, and be met with the end of the world when the clock struck midnight. So, the nineties were under pressure to be great, as this decade would not only end the twentieth century, but the human race. With sitcoms such as Friends and Boy Meets World, the end of the world seemed to fade to black as soon as the TV lit up and laughter filled the air. The end of human existence was not as frightening as Scream or I Know What You Did Last Summer. And movies like Clueless were a reminder of teenage bliss, convincing us that the end of the world would mean our youth would be preserved. The ‘90s really were all that when popular entertainment served obscure reality through a screen. Outside of television, fashion, music, and art helped assemble what we know call ‘90s aesthetics. The diversity in this aesthetic is impeccable.

With diverse countercultures, such as grunge, gangsta rap, the LGBTQIA+ community, and the Cholas, the ‘90s distinguishes itself from other decades that have an aesthetic of happy, golucky people in business suits and proper dresses.

chords. Not until the late ‘80s/early ‘90s was the term interchangeable with the lifestyle of individuals who craved the discordance of sound. Nirvana, the most commonly known band associated with grunge music, originated in Seattle. The name of this band held what older generations thought was the hidden intent of all grunge music: spiritual enlightenment. The myth from the ‘70s, that a rewound rock record was the voice of the devil, was reinvigorated. Music was only an accessory of the Seattle sound, though. In an attempt to embody the music that danced on the spinning wheels of a Walkman, grunge kids dressed how they envisioned the music. Their style, consisting of fishnet stockings, layered flannels, baggy denim, and latex or leather boots, was an indication of their connection to this counterculture. Black, dark brown, and carmine colored cos-

metics lined the eyes and lips of many alternative followers. Jewelry dangled from lips, poked from eyebrows, and flashed from tongues. Cigarettes teetered off of adolescent’s lips; smog polluted the air above and buds littered the ground below. Grunger attitudes were rebellious and care-free. All the while, parents wondered what had happened to their pure little angel.

A running theory in the fashion world is that ‘80s fashion in the white community inspired the Black community’s style in the ‘90s. Vibrant colors bridged the two races together. ‘90s throwback parties are guilty of representing this decade with every spectral color known to the human eye, with The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and TLC serving as fashion guides. This aesthetic was a valued part of hip-hop culture, but it was and is too

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popularized to be considered a counterculture. This label does, however, belong to gangsta rap, which originated in Compton, California. Eazy-E is credited as being the father of gangsta rap but failing to give all of N.W.A recognition is injustice. Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, MC Ren, and DJ Yella were integral parts of making gangsta rap the voice of the people.

Black people had a story to tell but no platform to tell it until N.W.A recorded tracks as raw as slaughterhouse beef.

They went as far as risking their careers to expose crimes against Black people with songs like “Fuck Tha Police” and lyrics insinuating the same message. Being gangsta was not an identity one could fake; it ran in their blood. Gangstas expressed their ruthless demeanor through lowrider cars bouncing to the bass of cassette players. The aroma of dank Indica followed them, while a 40, snug in a brown paper bag, swung from their hand. Their presence emitted swagger; from the glisten of their gold chain around their necks to the oversized clothes draped over their bodies.

Men wore their hair in high/flat tops, timeless jheri curls, or were completely bald. Excluding high tops, hair could be seen capped with a branded snapback. Women wore their hair in box braids — short to hug the nape of their neck or long to cling to the curve of their hips — decorated by gelled edges. Ear piercings were not uncommon. While men sported diamond earrings or tiny gold hoops, women wore large, thick hoops or dangly jewelry from their ears.

Most elements of their style were unisex. Cuffed denim jeans, graphic tees, bandanas tied around their forehead, jerseys, or a hoodie worn under a jean jacket, belonged to the culture as a whole. Women might have chosen to pair a fitted crop top with their saggy denim pants, and men dark shades with their fit, but individuality was encouraged.

Gangstas perceived a family as individuals banded together; there was no doubt in their unity.

There’s a reason why pride is the mantra of the LGBTQIA+ community: they have no shame expressing themselves.

The underground queer scene peaked two decades before the nineties’ misfits migrated to New York City to innovate an already flourishing culture. Michael Alig and The Club Kids hosted televised parties that left nothing to a viewers’ imagination. Sons and daughters that wore a standard outfit of jeans and a t-shirt throughout the week dressed in extravagant costumes that represented their inner being on weekends. Costumes were often crafted by hand and from material that was already in their house, allowing the partygoers to make each of their outfits unique. Sometimes, body paint was favored over clothes. While some personas were edgy and gory, with spiked hair, chained stiletto heels, or artificial blood that seeped from skulls; others were softer, like teens dressed in rubber floaties or in a diaper and pacifier. Angels could be seen dancing with Satan or Marie Antionette with a royal fool. The club was the common turf for all opponents. Makeup completed the fit.

Ivory powder and rosy blush, or long falsies and a sharp, winged eye, were only a few of the number of ways a club kid would dress their face. Masquerading with a bedazzled cover-up was also a preference. Ecstasy was the novel drug in the ‘90s. Since the drug was fairly new, police monitored it, but were not authorized to confiscate it, which permitted the girls and gays to experience a high unknown to them outside of the humid club. Nightlife was a highlight of queer representation, but not the only representation. Marsha P. Johnson, a transgender activist who’d be seen in a feather or floral crown, influenced members of this coun-

terculture to always leave an impression wherever they went. RuPaul, the Queen of Drag, released chart-topping songs, such as “Supermodel (You Better Work)” in ’93, that encouraged the community to strut off heteronormativity.

Whether day or night, the LGBTQIA+ waved their colors like conquerors of new land.

The ‘90s wouldn’t be complete without the influence of Cholo culture. Their influence is underrepresented, yet easily appropriated. The term “Cholo” described a subculture of Mexican-Americans that resided in Southern California. Commonly known as Chicanos, both men and women alike were naturally cool kids, with a suave dialect in their slang, Caló. Paying homage to their heritage through popular culture was their Holy Grail. Seemingly ostentatious with their Old English font tattoos and body piercings, Chicanos simply minded their own businesses; their main concern was their family and the protection of their community. Emitting a tough aura, they, too, cruised Cali streets on their lowriders. Chicanos created their cool kid persona by wearing dark biker shades and tweaking fashion trends. Dickie cargoes and saggy Ben Davises were as admired in the nineties as Fashion Nova jeans are today. They were generally paired with a wife beater underneath a flannel that only had the top button buttoned. They experimented with a variety of pieces, like bandanas, suspenders, and high knee socks, which were worn in high top converses or white sneakers. Chicanas had the most exploratory makeup looks of the ‘90s. Eyebrows arched thin and high on their foreheads; lips were lined brown or black and filled in with a lighter shade for contrast. Eyes were surrounded by black penciling; eyelids and cheeks were complemented by purples and reds. And, nails were long

51 left JERSEY BY WNBA, PANTS BY REESE COOPER AGAINST THE WIND, HAT BY URBAN OUTFITTERS right SHIRT VINTAGE, DRESS BY WILD FABLE, BELT BY URBAN OUTFITTERS, BAG VINTAGE

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left to right SHIRT VINTAGE, PANTS BY DAISY STREET, GLASSES VINTAGE, DRESS VINTAGE, SHIRT BY FOREVER 21, PANTS BY URBAN OUTFITTERS, JACKET VINTAGE, CHAIN VINTAGE, HAT VINTAGE

and acrylic, designed similar to their tattoos. Dark, wavy hair in a half up-half down style or in a ponytail with straight bangs complemented a Chicana’s olive complexion. Chicano men wore their hair spiked short or bald under a Panama hat or a snapback. Chunky gold earrings and/or studs glamorized their streetwear. Mixing American style with Mexican authenticity made Cholo culture one of the most memorable countercultures from the nineties.

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The twenty-first century is guilty of taking trends directly from an era and claiming ownership. Fashion falls down this slippery slope, like in the late 2000s, when preteens claimed skinny jeans were the new wave even though they can be dated back to the 1930s. Within our imitation, though, we’ve made our own creations. We test boundaries by mixing well-known fads together; floral prints with stripes, rap with alternative lyrics, or hip-hop dances to folk songs.

Hearing country artists feature rappers on their tracks and seeing cheetah print worn with zebra print makes us question the isolation of the countercultures in the ‘90s. Sure, gangstas and Cholas wore bandanas and originated in California, and grungers and club kids were seen as outsiders, but they didn’t intermingle. They shared nothing more than the decade they flourished in because they had different causes to fight. Grungers challenged social norms to raise hell for political transparency. Gangsta rap responded to police brutality, the rising rates of incarceration in the Black communities, and the dehumanization of Black people. The LGBTQIA+ community was not only rewriting social norms; they were fighting the prejudice of the decade that accused them of creating and spreading AIDS. Chicanos protested unfair immigration and deportation laws. Although the ‘90s was progressive, it wasn’t perfect. This truism makes us embrace the reality that these four countercultures offered.

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laquann dawson

Editor-in-Chief andrew uhrig sits down with LaQuann Dawson, a photographer and designer currently based in Brooklyn, New York, to talk about his photographic process and creative outlook. You can find him on Instagram @laquanndawson. written by ANDREW UHRIG photography by LAQUANN DAWSON

ROCKET: Your photography shows an eclectic array of what I assume are mostly, if not all, queer and trans people of color. What have been the biggest motivations behind your work as a whole?

LAQUANN DAWSON: That’s accurate. I am motivated by people, I would say more specifically, I am motivated by those who make me feel safe and seen. Folks who I share experience, space, and community with. People with stories that need told. Most, if not all, of the work I do is supported by and/or commissioned by queer folks and queer POC, so very often they are both the subject and the motivation.

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R: How do you decide who or what to photograph?

LD: For the large most part, my subjects usually find me. A lot of the people I shoot are friends, loved ones, and people I admire. Friends of friends and community members.

I don’t do a ton of test shooting since I usually practice on myself (for a multitude of reasons). So most of the folks you see in my images have either reached out to me or were put in front of me by someone else.

I like to shoot things that feel honest and a little impulsive.

I don’t work in a way that is overly produced and I don’t shoot much fashion or corporate stuff. I like to photograph intimacy and yearning. Lonely, horny, jaded, powerful / empowered. Things worthy of celebration and conversation. I like to shoot queer Black folk who know what it feels like to go from bad bitch to badder bitch when you put on eyeliner and a lil mascara.

R: How does your self-portraiture inform others perceptions of yourself?

LD: This is something I struggle with, and I am unsure sometimes if it matters at all. I have my ideas of what folks’ perception of me is via my self-portraits, but I don’t really know. I’ve asked for feedback from people before and

a primary thing people say is “sensual.” Which, sure, is there, but I think more than anything folks don’t always know how to express their feelings toward certain art. So I don’t really know what they mean. I have noticed that there are a number of people who feel connected to my self-portraits and celebrate them for their own reasons. Reasons beyond my actual intention and understanding. I think that is beautiful and it isn’t always my business.

In another breath, I think every piece of work I put out is a self portrait in some way. The pictures I’ve taken of other people that I really like, I like because I feel like I see myself somewhere in there, and for me, that is a primary way that I define the success of an image or piece of work.

R: One thing I love about your work is how you portray softness. You do so in a real and refreshing way. Do you find yourself looking at other people’s work both to inspire what you do and what you avoid doing?

LD: Thank you!

I am very much aware of many works and styles that exist and I am of course informed by the times and what I see on billboards or on Instagram, etc. I think though, more than being inspired on what to do or not to do, I try to appreciate a lot of this work as their own stories and way of storytelling. I digest so much art in a single day from so many people that my own aesthetic naturally and subconsciously builds based on the things I find myself to resonate with or feel no positive connection to.

As far as softness and the way I address softness, it really comes together in a number of ways. The primary things I focus on are body language, expression, and color. When I shoot I take a ton of shots, later in editing and retouching (at least for my more personal work) I end up choosing images that resonate with me and my feelings and offer some softness or vulnerability.

I like to shoot queer Black folk who know what it feels like to go from bad bitch to badder bitch when you put on eyeliner and a lil mascara.

models RANDY BOWDEN JR @RANDYBOWDENJR, MARCO REESE @THEEGUAPP creative direction VINCENT SMITH @V.MSMITH

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R: You use a lot of strong pinks in your photography. I love it, and would love to know more about your motivations behind it.

LD: Ahhh, pink has been my favorite color since I was born, I swear it. I grew up drawn to and in love with the color and all things associated with it. As I got a little older I realized that it wasn’t so acceptable for me to like it so much. My daddy wasn’t going to dress me head to toe in pink or buy me pink bed sheets or curtains. I couldn’t wear pink laces or carry a pink binder, pink notebooks, pencils and gel pens around elementary school. From the time I was like 7 years old, really until I got to college, I’d kind of convinced myself that I didn’t like pink anymore.

Since I’ve offered myself space and distance from home and from traditional views I’ve kind of reclaimed this love and swallowed it whole. In the images I create, the pink is really representative of a genuine, unsuppressed love. For me, it’s an embodiment of something so completely natural and innocent. In the same breath, it can be a color that exudes sexuality, femininity, warmth, comfort, divinity and so many other things. For me and the way it shows up in my work and in my life, I am honest to gosh just showing people what I like and how I feel my aura looks. The rest is a bonus.

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R: You mention on your website that you’re from Elyria, Ohio and now live in Brooklyn, New York. How did growing up in Ohio then moving to and living in New York affect your work?

models GERRELL HANKTON @GERRELLHANKTON, CJ HART @HARTBREAK

model ISA’AH BAKER @DISAAHB

LD: That is a good question. Mmm. First, I want to say that I have no idea what my work would look like had I never moved to New York. My moving here was urgent.

About three years into college (at Kent State University) I’d gotten a chance to move here and work and I leapt and never even considered coming back. Ohio was a bit of a cage for me. I couldn’t see all the things I needed to see. I couldn’t be who I needed to be. I knew close to zero openly gay Black men. While I was coming into myself at a steady pace, quicker and more outward than some, everything still moved so slowly to me. I needed to turn into this gay ass butterfly of a man a little more quickly than Ohio was allowing.

So I got here, I unlearned so much shame. I reshaped my relationship to fear and to men. My work became more focused, more honest, more sexual, more queer. More Black. I fell in love here, I lost weight, I gained weight. I really became an adult here and got to see what life could be outside of my dad’s house and scope. Outside of a red state where all the Black boys are still straight. As far as my work is concerned, I will say that giving myself space and freedom to just be took everything I do to such a different level. I hope that answers the question in some way.

R: What brought you to working with Mobilizing Our Brothers Initiative (MOBI)?

R: Which online creatives have inspired you the most & who have you worked with that has had the most influence on your process?

LD: Gosh, I find so many creatives to be so incredibly inspiring. To name more than a few: Jai Pugh, Tyler-Andrew, Shikeith, Joshua Teplitz, Justin French, Deana Lawson, FKA Twigs, Terrance Nance, Neil Grotzinger, Jalen Dominique, Louis Dorantes, Cole Witter, Saskia de Borchgrave, Pavel Denisenko, Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe, Amy Sherald, Crystal Valentine, Roya Marsh, Beyoncé and so so many others. This list could truly go on forever but the talent in these people, the kind spirits, bad bitch energy, such great bodies of work that you should really get into!

In the images I create, the pink is really representative of a genuine, unsupressed love.

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LD: I was actually trying to get a free ticket to a conference they were co-sponsoring with Out-In-Tech. I hit them up and asked if they had any comp tickets for the event, they said “sure we do, oh btw we’ve been following your work for a while and would love it if you’d create content for our festival coming up.” I put together an 18-minute short film for them to screen at the festival and afterwards they asked me to be a part of the team as their visual director.

model LAQUANN DAWSON

As far as folks I’ve worked with who have influenced my process I would say: Amanda Baraka, Eric T. White, and Michael Sharkey. These are three photographers who have changed the way I work in such a big way. I met them all in different circumstances and watching them each work (all very different styles of shooting / working) has really informed the techniques I apply to my own work. Even as simple as shooting primarily wide, or using a mirror to reflect light, or switching from lightroom to capture one, or how to put up a C-stand. This is education I didn’t have prior to meeting them, being a self taught photographer with minimal resources. So I am extremely grateful to these three, and they probably don’t even know it.

R: Do you ever get creative blocks? If so, how do you deal with them?

LD: I absolutely get creative blocks. When that happens I tend to focus on projects and exercises that require a less exhausted form of creative energy and thought. For example, if I am experiencing an editor’s block where I am unsure or uninspired as to how to tell a particular story with images, I’ll start writing poems or dancing in my living room or even building a playlist. Those kinds of things start to restore, inspire, and educate wherever my creative blocks are.

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R: What mediums, if any, have you considered but have yet to explore in creating work?

R: What advice would you give to aspiring photographers and other creatives?

LD: Free yourself. Free yourself. Free yourself from whatever it is you think you should be doing. Free yourself from whatever you think your work is supposed to look like and just create. I found so much power in freeing myself and doing what felt right and genuine to me. I’ve quit jobs with no two weeks notice because it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like a good use of my time. I left Ohio when it no longer felt like a place for me to grow. I abandoned fashion design when I knew it wasn’t what I cared about. People do not realize how valuable and urgent this information is. Knowing where you don’t want to be is so damn vital and it takes a really powerful person, I think, to actually remove yourself and seek out the things that will feed you.

I’ve busted my ass working, networking, scraping pennies together to eat, sending hundreds of emails and portfolios out, I’ve redesigned my deck, website, and resume a thousand times.

If you want something and want to be there, allow yourself the freedom, the space, the time and the energy to actually go for it.

Thank y’all so much!

LD: I will say I have tried a lot of different mediums. Graphic design, oil painting, digital illustration, sewing, draping, drawing, writing, collage, photography, videography, modeling, direction, production, acting, dancing, etc. More than anything, I would love to be able to maintain an artist’s career that allows me to explore all of those things so that I can be well-fed and exercised. So many of these mediums and skills inform each other in such important ways. It takes so much work to be able to offer each of them proper focus and attention so I’d really like to just continue learning about them and where they fit into my work.

Free yourself. Free yourself.

Free yourself from whatever it is you think you should be doing.

Free yourself from whatever you think your work is supposed to look like and just create.

63 model CHAVI ST. HILL @CHAVISTHILL

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at long last photography by SYDNEY MCCOURT beauty by CAMRYN CLAUDE, JASMINE TURKSON, ELISSA CLELAND, EMILY BLACK models ROBYN BRUECHERT, GUSTAVO ESPINOSA, MATT MCCAULEY *provided by THREE SISTERS BOUTIQUE art by CLARA POTEET

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left to right DRESS BY FREE PEOPLE* HEELS VINTAGE, SHOES BY STEPNEY WORKERS CLUB X CARHARTT WIP, SHOES VINTAGE

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left to right TURTLENECK BY UNIQLO, RED TOP BY UNIQLO, PANTS BY MARC ECKO, DRESS BY ELINOR*, BLAZER VINTAGE, JEWELRY VINTAGE, BUTTON-UP SHIRT

BY SÈFR, BLOUSE BY FREE PEOPLE*, PANTS VINTAGE

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BRALETTE BY H&M, SKIRT BY WILD HONEY*

P R E S S 25/25

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LVL: 20 HP:

Player 1

LVL: 22 HP:

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PLAYER 2

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NEW GAME

LOAD GAME SETTINGS

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CONTINUE

photography by FEI WANG beauty by MEG CUCA, KAELA SUNG EMILY BLACK, JASMIN TURKSON models HANAN LEGESSE, KAYLA ZANDERS art by JACK MACKEY, ANDREW UHRIG written by JACK MACKEY

A week after the US declared a national emergency due to the coronavirus outbreak, Animal Crossing: New Horizons was released. By the first week of April, the game had sold over three million physical copies in Japan alone (1.8 million selling in the first three days alone), with millions more purchasing copies of the game around the world as we responded to the outbreak with social distancing measures and stay-at-home policies. The New York Times has since named Animal Crossing the “game for the coronavirus moment.�

those who have played any of its previous iterations on the Nintendo 64 DS, Wii, and/or 3DS. For those seeking refuge from contemporary stressful realities, the game virtually transports the player to an island with talking animals, where one has the ability to design their home and character, and where the contemplative process of planting trees and catching fish is highly valued. From baking bread to planting a new garden, Animal Crossing exemplifies the modern pastoralism that we sometimes seek out as a means of taking a break from our ever-connected lives. And the game illustrates that social distancing in the real world need not mean social distancing in the digital world as it allows players to visit their in-game friends and their islands.

Animal Crossing, though, is not an isolated case of what video games have to offer us. Millions of worlds exist within the massive number of video games out there, all of which are ready for players to begin journeys within them. In other words, many of the video games that we play are methods of worldmaking: a creation of worlds brought to life by the players who want to take a step outside of the one we live in.

The question, then, is what does it take to build a (digital) world? It takes an incredible number of people dedicated to engaging players in. It takes builders (coders) and supplies (money from the industry). But it also demands storytellers (writers and voice actors) and illustrators (visual artists). Worldmaking

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The success of Animal Crossing has been widely linked to both this specific moment and the nostalgia that the game brings to its players. Indeed, the game has been eagerly awaited by

Video games present players with complex and imaginative worlds to escape to, engage with, and learn from. Deputy Features Editor Jack Mackey thinks about what it takes to build such worlds, and why games are some of the best places for creatives to engage with storytelling.

BOWLING SHIRT BY LABOUR UNION

is an involved process; at their core(s), digital worlds are stories that require a vast array of creatives in order to be told properly. The collective product of all these creatives may indeed be some kind of world for players to engage with, but the world is also an example of pure imagination and craft.

As the industry continues to grow, gaming has and will continue to be a place for creatives to do amazing work. From Starcraft to Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, Temple Run to Stardew Valley, and Madden to The Sims, the video games we play present almost limitless possibilities for artists, writers, musicians, and designers to engage in wondrous, meaningful, and awesome art-making. It is thus all the more important to take the genre more seriously as the art form that it is.

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Video games are an art. Gaming worlds are created by people committed to composing experiences and stories for players to work through and learn from.

The very existence of these created worlds signifies the presence of breathtaking art and, by extension, skilled creatives. Indeed, some of our most celebrated artists already participate in the production of video games. Florence + the Machine (Lungs, Ceremonials, High as Hope), for instance, worked on a few songs for Final Fantasy XV. Kit Har-

rington (Game of Thrones) voice acted in Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare. And Ellen Page (Juno, Inception, The Umbrella Academy) played the protagonist in Beyond Two Souls through the process of motion capture animation.

LEVEL UP!

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select

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+ Scarf Vintage + Pants by Urban Outfitters + Boots by aeyde + Earrings Vintage + Pink cardiGAN by SLY + Green turtleneck by Valencia & Vine + Skirt by Forever 21 + Boots by aeyde + Crop Tee by Urban Outfitters + Pants Vintage + Shoes by Converse + Bowling shirt by Labour Union + Gold skirt by SNIDEL + Boots by FRYE + Chain Vintage + Green leather jacket by Plein Sud + Dress Vintage + Boots by FRYE + Earrings by SHEIN + Camo jacket Vintage + Boots by FRYE + Earrings by BIEN FAIT

LOADING, PLEASE WIAT...LOA,NG,

PLEASE WAIT...LOADING, PLEASE WAIT...

left to right CHAIN VINTAGE, GOLD SKIRT

BY SNIDEL, SKIRT BY FOREVER 21, BOOTS BY AYEDE

G, PLEASE WAIT...LOADING, PLEASE WAIT...

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CONTINUE?

YES

The game has twenty-six different endings and requires multiple playthroughs of the same and sometimes parallel narratives in order to get further into the game. During one of those endings, after playing through several different narratives, the game’s wonderful score begins to play, and the credits start to roll, slowly becoming a space-invaders-esque arcade minigame. The credits overwhelm the player’s mini shooting ship and destroy it, prompting the player to accept help from someone else. Upon accepting the help, your ship gets more powerful and playing through the credits’ minigame becomes more manageable.

Ultimately, the player battles through the credits and is asked a simple question: would you delete all of your saved data in order to help someone else get through the end, just as someone just helped you? You will never know who uses your saved data or if it is ever used at all. You are asked to make a sacrifice for someone else, to help them get through a tough moment in the game.

And after hours of playthroughs, to do such a thing would be an act of selflessness. What a thing to practice right now.

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I’ve been replaying one of my favorite games recently. It’s a role-playing game called NieR: Automata, in which androids are fighting armies of machines so that humans can return to a post-apocalyptic Earth. The game is highly philosophical, with some of the machines being named after famous philosophers like Simone de Beauvoir, Blaise Pascal, Jean-Paul Sartre, Søren Kirkegaard, Friedrich Engels, Laozi, and Confucius (among several others).

At its core, the game is an exploration of existentialism, all while the player roams around a beautifully designed open-world, abandoned cityscape as a badass sword-wielding android.

no

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re-dressing your

sartorial grievances written by EMILY BACAL art by AVERY HINES

The question “who do you dress for” or “why do you dress the way you do” floats around fashion-related think pieces like an iridescent boomerang, its shifting hues reflecting whatever color is “in” at the moment. Answers come in and out of vogue. From the self-affirming “I dress for myself!” to the social realist “I dress to present a certain self to others” to the aesthetically inclined “I dress as a form of artistic expression,” answers can be as contradictory as they are convincing.

How are we to navigate these conflicting narratives of expression and reflection, conformity and rebellion, imagination and repression? I think the truth lies somewhere in the seams of these stances, emerging in a patchwork of contradiction.

I don’t just mean choosing silhouettes you find personally flattering. I mean dressing in a way that feels good, physically, making fashion choices grounded in the inhabitation of your garments. When nobody’s looking, we actually get the chance to just feel.

Social isolation has reconnected me to the tactile pleasure of wearing clothes. When I rifle through the depths of my wardrobe, more than ever I’m looking for pieces which are relaxed, soft, and conducive to movement. Whether that means choosing soft undergarments or eschewing them completely, sticking to pants that stretch as I do, or ensuring that my feet are constantly buffered by fuzzy socks, I have experienced less physical discomfort from my clothing in these past weeks of being homebound than I have in many, many years.

So I ask: what gives? Why do I and so many others regularly outfit myself in clothes that cut off circulation, restrict movement, and irritate skin?

Clothes that are tight and stiff and structured make us feel put-together, because they physically keep us together. Stiff garments strictly impose limits on the boundaries of the body, curtailing movement into small, controlled

In mainstream American culture, naked bodies are sexualized and problematized. Outside of the Classical Greek marble-hewn form, bodies sans bells and whistles are viewed as vulgar, deemed inappropriate. Clothes not only cover, but shape and smooth the body into something civilized. We enact these attitudes onto our own forms, internalizing shame and practicing secrecy. ‘Correcting’ the natural lines of our forms alienates us from the flowing, shifting, moving corps of the body au naturel.

But staying inside and alone means that we have less of an audience to project ourselves to, less of a reason to view ourselves as if from the eyes of an outsider. We are thrust back into the realization that we are inside our bodies. We inhabit, nay, we are our bodies, and we have as much (maybe more!) of a reason to experience ourselves from within than we do to try and view our bodies as if from the perspective of an outsider.

With every cotton-candy sweater I blanket myself in, every loose and flowing trouser, I distance myself further from the compartmentalized commodification of trying to model my form after a cultural ideal. I am getting away from viewing my body as being a numerical size and coming closer to experiencing it as my own undisrupted physical presence, whose boundaries are open and shifting, whose being is always changing and never still.

I’m still expressing myself through clothing, but instead of expressing my aestheticized aspirations, I’m expressing my tactile preferences and facilitating my enjoyment of movement. Instead of attempting to inscribe my mind onto my body, I’m giving my mind-body permission to re-unify.

Its a homecoming of sorts. One that’s outfitted in a lot of oversized knits.

I’m not saying that when this is all over I’m going to start wearing a soft sack and Uggs as my uniform. Many of us will probably return to jeans, blazers, and off-the-shoulder tops (which I am convinced are designed to allow zero arm movement). I’m actually not thinking much about the future at all. I’m choosing to live in the present needs of my body, to gently remind myself that when no one else is looking, I can feel free to just... feel.

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But that all changes when the only person you encounter outside of yourself and whoever you cohabitate with is the delivery-person twenty feet away. In the age of social distance, the personal experience of inhabiting clothing has become more important than considerations about what your outfit communicates to others. Right now, we really have no choice but to dress for ourselves.

spheres. Our bodies can sometimes feel overflowing, messy, uncontrolled. By pouring ourselves into tight clothes we police our own bodies, enforcing tightness and elongation and uprightness.

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photography by ANDREW UHRIG beauty by CAMRYN CLAUDE, KAELA SUNG, JASMINE TURKSON, MEG CUCA models JOSIE ADOLF, NATHAN BORG, DANIELLE BROWN, WILL RESTREPO

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emme, unmasked. written by DALTON LACKEY images courtesy KORINA EMMERICH photography by RYAN RUSSELL, SARAH KARENS beauty by DEYAH CASSADORE, AVA LUKAS models KORINA EMMERICH, GABRIELA MORENO, SUTTON KING, SPARROWHAWK

Fashion Director Dalton Lackey sits in conversation with Korina Emmerich, the solo creator behind EMME, to discuss the intimate relationship between fashion and radical political action. You can find her on Instagram @korinaemmerich.

ROCKET: What pulled you into fashion? What is EMME’s genesis?

We live in a capitalistic society that profits off our lack of education. “Ignorance” is the true luxury in this industry because the only thing that really seems to be trending is greed. As a society we’ve become so blinded by ignorance and money that the choice to do the “right” thing is no longer the easy choice.

We’ve gotten sucked into a place where we believe if it’s not our problem, then it’s not a problem.

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KORINA EMMERICH: I’ve always wanted to be an artist since a young age. It was around eighth grade I decided I would commit to that as a career and clothing would be my medium.

I always had the idea I would create my own fashion empire, but the more I’ve learned about the industry, the more quickly that has turned into me fighting against it.

I made a commitment to myself and to my customers to be completely transparent in my production and sourcing choices. Which I will continue to do as I grow.

R: The fashion industry is so entrenched in capitalist exploitation, from labor to sustainability. Can you share how you navigate this space as someone vocally opposed to that violence?

KE: I am learning every single day how to manage growth. The more recognition I get for my work, the more complicated it becomes, because as the demand grows, I am still only a single person doing all the work. And unfortunately we’re facing a time of pandemic where hiring on a team is not a possibility.

The more I have learned about this industry, the more problematic and toxic it’s become. It was originally this gold-plated dream of mine, this glamorous industry, where everyone was wealthy and good looking. The more the wool was pulled from my eyes, my attention shifted from the glamorous dis-

guise, to what was rotting underneath.

It was a swift lesson that exploitation is your only way to succeed quickly in this industry. When I had originally launched my collection in department stores, I was catapulted into debt. I knew I wanted everything to be made locally (I produced everything on 38th street in NYC), I knew I wanted to keep my core values, but I realized that wasn’t going to get me anywhere but deeper in debt. We have created a competitive monster, trying to drop costs at the cost of humanity. The key statement I keep at the forefront of my business is: “The success of one is not worth the detriment of many.”

We’ve created an industry built on the backs of people who have very few rights, very poor working conditions, and unfair pay. Our excessive demand to buy things “cheap” comes at a cost.

We have to start asking whose cost? In 2013 over 1100 garment workers died in the Rana Plaza factory collapse in Bangladesh. People are dying so we can buy cheap clothes. This industry HAS to change.

R: Confronting climate collapse appears to be central to your person and your brand, but I recognize many fashion journalists or publications that ask you to present a response to the crisis are less than receptive to real answers (for instance, #LandBack, a movement you have referenced on social media). How does this conflict influence your association with the industry as a whole?

Have you been met with positive response in some cases?

KE: Sometimes I feel like this industry is more focused on the commodification of diversity rather than actually supporting POC’s voices. The truth isn’t pretty and neither is our history as Indigenous people. Taking accountability needs to be priority. It’s frustrating to me when viral statistics like: “Indigenous people make up 5% of the population, but are protecting 80% of biodiversity” is not also met with the realities of what that means.

Indigenous people are stewards of this land. It is our right and responsibility to maintain the ecology that gives us life.

However, industrialization has led to the genocide, murder, and violence of our people. We’re often portrayed as protestors, no, we’re protectors. But that protection is not celebrated. It is met with unrelenting violence and military aggressions in order to push industry

through by any means necessary. It’s not a comforting statistic, it’s loaded and violent and threatening.

However, I believe the fight for truth is becoming a priority. To unveil the systemic problems in order to create change. I have hope, but I’d rather fight to ensure change.

R: You are a part of the Indigenous Kinship Collective based in socalled New York City. How do you go about bringing creative arts to the realm of activism?

KE: The Indigenous Kinship Collective community of Indigenous womxn, femmes, and gender non conforming folx who gather on Lenni Lenape land to honor each other and our relatives through art, activism, education, and representation. We use art as a form of resistance to call for a greater attention and understanding for Indigenous issues.

We also use art as a way to uplift Indigenous voices. We live in a very visual time and artwork as resistance is a way to connect directly to the lens of contemporary Indigenous life.

R: Where do you imagine fashion’s place in the future you and those you organize with intend to make?

KE: A call for transparency and accountability is the first step to educate the consumer. To open the opaque doors of business and see how their items are actually being made. As well as a call for industry accountability, because there is no healing without accountability. The actions needed to be taken are insurmountable, but the ideal answer is that our clothes are sourced, produced and purchased in a safe, clean and fair way.

KE: The Split-Shot facemask was originally designed as a part of the EMME Anadromous Fall collection in 2019.

The collection is a commentary on the relationship between Womxn and Salmon and the connection of all beings and the effect of colonial systems destroying these connections. The mask draws attention to biological warfare and pollution destroying Indigenous lands and our health. It was also commentary on the rise of protest and anti-pipeline demonstrations being held throughout Turtle Island. Indigenous people and masks is a common theme in contemporary native artwork as a way to call attention to tradition vs destruction.

In a time where we all feel out of control, mask making has given me some sort of stability, not just financially, but emotionally. It’s such a difficult time right now trying to find ways to help in a world where you can’t be physically present.

the patience and understanding of my customer base — as I have always been very open about being a made-toorder and slow fashion designer.

I don’t choose to advertise anywhere but on my own personal instagram and my own website. I’m not one to push sales as much as I like to just share my creations. It’s an interesting thing gaining more public recognition for my work, because as the demand grows I am still only a single person. It’s important to keep a balance mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.

I speak a lot publically about this monster we’ve created in the fashion industry and the demand for cheap goods, made for unfair wages and mass produced items that end up in landfills, or burned. Focusing on the life cycle of a garment from creation to biodegradation is an important responsibility for me. So this is not something I would choose to mass produce to get more sales.

This is something that has been my story to tell, and as an artist, I am a part of my work.

I am grateful to have something to wake up and work on every day, because the fear of being stagnant and useless is real.

It is strange however, because it was all so unexpected. I had made the masks originally as a protest commentary, and when the virus hit the mask took on a different life and purpose. It was never marketed as protective wear, so I was ill-prepared for the influx of orders that suddenly came in. Especially in this time of quarantine, when I am a one-person show, running everything from the website, ordering supplies, cutting, sewing, shipping etc. I am now doing what feels like four full time jobs, completely alone.

Keeping up with demand has been overwhelming, but I am so grateful for

the more I’ve learned about the industry, the more quickly that has turned into me fighting against it.

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From direct action banner drops at the Whitney Museum Biennial to calling to dechair Warren Kanders and demilitarize art. To staging a direct action banner drop at the Metropolitan Museum of Art bringing attention to the RCMP invading sovereign Wet’suwet’en territory.

R: You have mentioned on social media that the COVID-19 crisis has caused a pretty significant surge in purchases of EMME’s “Split-Shot Mask.” The mask is such an interesting and beautiful accessory (& tool, for activists especially), and one that few labels venture into. What originally inspired that item, and how has the pandemic affected its story?

R: Is there anything related to fashion or activism that I have not asked you that you would like to share with our readers?

KE: Important orgs to share / donate to: see below Indigenous Kinship Collective venmo.com/indigenouskinshipcollective Tiny House Warriors gofundme.com/f/tinyhouse2 Tribal Elders Support Care Packages aibl.org Follow Sunny Red Bear on Instagram and Twitter K’é Infoshop keinfoshop.org/donate/?fbclid=IwAR0nFM5-M6oI3GbP0-MZ6ZZYoEY2fI k0U7EQ_nVQfPMADseRAtczGONgjP8 Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund gofundme.com/f/NHFC19Relief Unist’ot’en Camp - CGL Is Still Working Amidst COVID-19 Pandemic unistoten.camp/covid19 Follow Unist’ot’en Camp on Twitter Chief Seattle Club chiefseattleclub.org/covid19-2 Follow Chief Seattle Club on Instagram and Twitter

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Pueblo Relief Fund pueblorelieffund.org Kinłani / Flagstaff Mutual Aid kinlanimutualaid.org/needs-list-donate Protect Our Heroes www.gofundme.com/f/Protect-Those-Who-Help-Protect-Us?utm_ source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link-tip&utm_campaign=p_ cp+share-sheet World Water Day 2020 waterday20.funraise.org/ We Are Navajo wearenavajo.org/donations Follow We Are Navajo on Instagram and Twitter Rocky Ridge Gas & Market’s Grandma Baskets www.rockyridgemarket.com STUDENT EMERGENCY FUND aigcs.org/student-emergency-fund/ Follow American Indian Graduate Center on Instagram and Twitter NATIVE AMERICAN RELIEF FUND nmcf.org/programs/native

It is our right and responsibility to maintain the ecology that gives us life.

However industrialization has led to the genocide, murder and violence of our people. We’re often portrayed as protestors, no, we’re protectors. But that protection is not celebrated.