SHEI Digital // The Isolation Issue

The Isolation Issue

who’s on staff? editorial EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Natalie Guisinger CREATIVE DIRECTOR Evan Parness PRINT FEATURES EDITOR Deirdre Lee DIGITAL FEATURES EDITOR Melina Schaefer PRINT FASHION EDITORS Nick Farrugia Juan Marquez DIGITAL FASHION EDITOR Jacob Ward DESIGN EDITORS Carly Lucas Mackenzie Schwedt PRINT PHOTO EDITORS Katie Corbett Ryan Little DIGITAL PHOTO EDITOR Rita Vega STREET STYLE EDITORS Lucy Carpenter Sophie Herdrich MANAGING PHOTO EDITOR Alex Anderson VIDEO EDITOR Kendall Ka

business PUBLISHER Colleen Jones MARKETING DIRECTOR Kira Mintzer FINANCE COORDINATORS Alex Chessare Deesha Shah EVENTS COORDINATOR Alex McMullen OPERATIONS COORDINATOR Drisha Gwalani HUMAN RESOURCES COORDINATOR Julia Napiewocki

DIGITAL CONTENT EDITOR Alex Sterchele

PUBLIC RELATIONS COORDINATORS Mackenzie Fleming Gillian Yang

SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR Hannah Triester

SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR Liz Haley

SHEI PSYCHE OUT NOW

SHEIMAGAZINE.COM contributing members STYLISTS Sophie Alphonso Josie Burck Isabelle Fisher Tavleen Gill Anastasia Hernando Karly Madey Claire Manor Sarah Ory Caroline White

SHEI /’sh(ay)/ Magazine was founded in 1999 as an Asian Pop Culture Magazine and became affiliated with University of Michigan Student Publications in 2013. Our Digital Magazine, known as SHIFT at the time, was launched in 2015. Since then, SHEI has grown to campus wide recognition as a publication that students can come to for fashion, art, and culture commentary and inspiration.

WRITERS Lauren Champlin Patience Young PHOTOGRAPHERS Gabby Ceritano Nick Daniel Anders Lundin Vera Tikhonova Megan Young

the isolation issue

MASTHE LETTE A FL

S BLACK LI

EAD 02 ER FROM THE EDITOR 06 ANN ARBOR ISOLATED 08 LUIDITY 16 TIRED 18 ISOLATED PARADISE 24 DISTORTION 26 LIES OF FOUR WALLS 32 FLORA & FAUNA 34 EXTRA! EXTRA! 36 RECREATING NORMALCY 40 PORTRAITS 42 ALBUM COVER ART 46 QUERENCIA 50 AMSTERDAM IN ANALOG 54 LOOKING INWARD 58 FLORA EFFULGENCE 62 STEADY FOOTING 66 IVES MATTER 68

letter from the editor

{

{

When the Editorial Board and I collectively agreed to create a quarantine issue in mid-May, we had no idea how it would turn out. I myself assumed it would be a small collection of personal projects our staff completed during quarantine, but it evolved into one of SHEI’s most multi-faceted digital issues.

In this issue, we examine how the Coronavirus pandemic forced us into living among stagnancy, paralleled with anxiety about our future.

Our fashion and photo teams collaborated remotely by executing “Facetime Photoshoots”, which consisted of single models, clad in handdrawn jeans and safety-pinned french braids, wearing looks of tired, wistful, hopeful, and unsure expressions.

Anxiety is undeniably a theme threaded in this issue, including in Digital Features Editor Melina Schaefer’s “Lies of Four Walls”. Schaefer states that, “The abstractions of fear, anxiety, social discomfort and pain seem to cower in the face of the truth that you belong to something bigger than the world inside yourself, inside the four walls you built.”

We have all been living in our own walls — metaphorically and literally — these past few months. As the creation of the Isolation Issue continued, pressing issues arose, intersecting between public health, race, and politics, among others. In our Street Style section of the issue, we share imagery our photographers made during the Black

Lives Matter protests in the wake of the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery. We want to use our platform to continue the conversation of the Black Lives Matter Movement and end the systematic racism entrenched in our country’s history and current society.

As Creative Director Evan Parness and I were digitally rifling through the images from the issue’s photo projects, Katie Corbett’s image, which is the cover (and found on pages 22-23), struck me.

Experimenting with a lens polarizer, Corbett’s image has a tonal warmth to it; the setting sun’s rays gleam from the corner, while the model basks in the sun, sitting in solitude in a still river. Her arched back and neck craned upwards toward the sun almost evoke a sense of her being possessed, or attempting to escape into the sun while the Earth is grounding her. As Schaefer concludes, “As we heal from these events and try to piece ourselves back together, I encourage you to remember one thing: the Earth is rising to meet you, and if it rises, then you’re not alone.”

As you flip through this issue — ranging from creative photo projects made by passionate photographers to veracious and insightful writtenfeatures of personal experiences during quarantine — reflect on what resonates with you. Perhaps something from our Isolation Issue will bring insight you can carry with yourself as we slowly emerge into the fall.

Natalie Guisinger Editor-In-Chief

PHOTOGRAPHER EVAN PARNESS GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

a n n a r bo

or

i s o l a t ed

This project explores isolated scenes around Ann Arbor durin and loneliness during quarantine, highlighting details of sub anyone in frame -- or at least at a distance.

ng lockdown, at night and during the day. The photos focus on the emptiness burban stillness and the almost cinematic surrealism of Ann Arbor without

As the word “quarantine” rolls around in my head like a marble being pushed by an amused child, boba tea, “Black Mirror”, and cancelled flights float to the forefront of my thoughts.

A peculiar combination, yes, but not unrelated. This past semester, I studied abroad at the National University of Singapore in Singapore, located in Southeast Asia. Upon traveling halfway across the world, I expected my life to be different from Ann Arbor — little did I realize how drastically.

By the end of January 2020, the National University of Singapore had emailed all students about the coronavirus developing in Wuhan in China’s Hubei province and mandated students report their travel plans from January through February to the university. At that point, I had just traveled to Batam Island, Indonesia, and thought little about the email.

Quickly, however, emails started to flood my inbox in the coming weeks, and by late February, the following occurred: most of my classes transferred to online learning; travel restrictions and bans from the National University of Singapore as well as the Singaporean government were enforced on other Asian countries; masks, hand sanitizer, as well as food from grocery stores were disappearing at an alarming rate; and the National University of Singapore required all students to submit their body temperature twice daily to screen for fevers, as this is one of the major symptoms of the virus.

With these enforced public health sanctions, it was as if I had to relearn how to exist in Singapore again: My preconceived notions of what constituted as “normal” there had been modified. Within my first week in Singapore, my feet burned to the beat at nightclubs and my plans to travel to Japan, Hong Kong, and Seoul danced before my eyes, the flames of excitement brushing my fingertips, only to be quickly extinguished. Now, with withered flames, my only hope was to finish my study abroad program.

Despite these changes, I adjusted quickly, and Singapore regained a semblance of “normalcy.” Even though restaurants, bars, businesses and other public facilities remained open at the time, the majority of people strictly abided by the implemented regulations.

With the societal emphasis on communal safety and social responsibility, I fortunately was able to lead a relatively comfortable, “normal” life without worrying about my safety and continue my education with minimal challenges.

Nonetheless, once I fully adapted to Singaporean life and education, the University of Michigan recalled me on March 12, unsurprisingly — this was a likely outcome I had considered back in late January at the onset of the outbreak. Within one week, all of my friends from the United States received similar emails in correlation to the rapid influx of confirmed COVID-19 cases within the US. Again, the cycle of change presented itself to me, albeit much sooner than expected.

While preparing accordingly during this time, mobile notifications from The New York Times informed me of how the virus was affecting the US; by comparing statistics of confirmed cases in both countries and listening to the personal experiences of friends and relatives from home, it quickly became apparent that Singapore was safer.

Unlike the US, Singapore had learned how to handle a pandemic by learning from their experience with the severe acute respiratory syndrome (SARS) outbreak from the early 2000’s.

This information weighed heavily on me once I reached Changi airport. Face mask on, my eyes darted across the departure screens, widening at the number of cancelled flights to the US, the sight of the red words “cancelled” written almost exclusively next to all airline flights home as well as across the world.

Luckily, my flight had green words next to it. At least, then, it did. Upon waiting to board for five hours with vague information detailing the nature of the delay, the crew for my flight were ordered off the plane and quarantined on site.

The sound of crying from both crew and persons hoping to board the plane became static as the gravity of the situation and the dark possibility sunk into me like a sucker-punch: What if I couldn’t even travel home?

My flight was supposed to depart on March 19, and I wasn’t sure what U-M would do if I didn’t, or rather couldn’t, adhere to their March 20 deadline. This, compiled with other frantic thoughts, churned like butter in my head, but a rather curious thing happened — I recognized this moment as simply another segment in the sequence of adaptations made during my time abroad.

Throughout my two-and-a-half months in Singapore, embracing change became my first and most important lesson and now permanent mantra. My environment was continuously evolving with or without me, regardless if I was prepared or not, and I had the choice to resist or accept it.

This sense of uncertainty can be frustrating, especially for those who like to have control, structure, and order. Nonetheless, moments like COVID-19 show that situations arise that transcend our immediate control and aren’t easily solvable problems.

This is where a change in perspective can feel like a fresh breath of air.

For me, the attitude of “going with the flow” and acknowledging the changes occurring around me and responding accordingly versus simply reacting to them has culminated in a better emotional and mental state. Rather than harboring anger toward my current situation, I can accept it as my current reality and acclimate to it, knowing this situation will too change again, as will I. WRITER DEIRDRE LEE GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS

TIRED

STYLISTS ISABELLE FISHER CLAIRE MANOR PHOTOGRAPHER KATIE CORBETT GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT MODEL MADISON MORGAN

STYLISTS ANASTASIA HERNANDO SARAH ORY PHOTOGRAPHER RYAN LITTLE GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT MODEL EMMA HERNANDO

ISOLATED

PARADISE

PHOTOGRAPHER KATIE CORBETT GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS

This analog series uses different reflective surfaces during the shooting and printing process to alter the images. Focusing primarily on distortion of the face, these photos explore the different ways in which images can be altered without using post-processing tools.

LIES OF FOUR WALLS

WRITER MELINA SCHAEFER GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

Four walls take on shapes of their own when you live between them too long. Mine played protector, imprisoner, tormentor, incubator. They played mirror, they played window, they played a doorway locked shut. But mostly they just played tricks on me, on my memory of my friendships and my memory of life beyond them.

My four walls hid me from the judgement I thought others had for me about the way I acted or looked. They hid me from the doubts I had in my ability to make true friends or be a good friend, and they relieved me of the responsibility of maintaining an image I didn’t completely relate to.

Those tricks made me feel safe there between the four walls. I felt happy to have a space where I didn’t have to worry about others and could just be content with myself. I never realized I only felt safe there because the world frightened me.

I was so frightened. I felt like all my worries swept me up into a space above the ground, disconnected. I was floating through my days with a sense of both endlessness and rapidity, like my life would run and blur before me like a watercolor painting in the rain.

The biggest thing those four walls made me do was forget a fundamental element of the human experience — they made me forget the Earth rises to meet you.

I don’t mean you forget when things fall, or that you’re bound to the ground by an invisible force. What I mean is that you pull the Earth as the Earth pulls you. I mean there is balance inside us all with the world around us, and there is a connection deeper than physics.

My connection was broken, more broken than

I had ever experienced it to be. I was floating, detached from the Earth and from people and myself. It was an ailment that remains unnoticed and unchecked.

I almost didn’t come to Indiana. The four walls leaned in, whispering my doubts and my fears.

They spoke of insecurity and the unknown. I’d been so disconnected from my friends and the outside world that I feared putting on a facade again. I didn’t want to don that disguise that I had built and that I had shrugged off in the privacy of my home. But I think deep inside of me, I could feel the way I was swimming through air, freefalling past a place of comfort with myself into a place where my comfort was derived from never being seen.

Greenville, Indiana, a small town so far south it’s closer to Kentucky, is the kind of place that makes you wonder what else you’re missing in the world. It’s a landscape that splits the heart in two, full of rolling hills and rock faces that tower around you. Trees rest on mountains and look like broccoli heads, while grass shines blond in the sun.

Seeing where my friend grew up, and seeing the beauty that I was completely blind to before this trip, put the world into perspective for me.

For so many months my existence had collapsed into my little Michigan home, and I’d forgotten about the people and places that lived beyond.

I connected and reconnected with people in a way that was as beautiful and open as the landscape around us. I talked and laughed like I was starved of it. I was in a dream.

The Earth finally rose up to meet me again on the third day, when we hiked a cliff’s edge high

above a running river. Maybe it was the air, or the sound of my feet against the packed Earth. Maybe it was the birds, or the way the sun kaleidoscoped across the forest floor, or maybe it was the silence of the four walls, so far from me.

Whatever the case, I remember looking at my friends’ faces, at the dirt on my legs, and the sweat on my brow. I was under the sun, taking in the beauty with people I loved. It was perfect in a way perfect had never been, unclean and tired and quiet. But in that moment I felt so strongly the realization that there is Earth beneath my feet, and that there is Earth beneath their feet.

There is a place in this void, in this hurtling space rock, where I alone am standing, and it’s a place that exists only here and now.

The abstractions of fear, anxiety, social discomfort and pain seem to cower in the face of the truth that you belong to something bigger than the world inside yourself, inside the four walls you built. Maybe you built them to feel safe, or maybe you built them to not feel responsible. Maybe the pain of the world, the suffering and the despair are all too much. Maybe you’ve experienced loss at the hands of this pandemic, or maybe you’ve just lost your mind. Regardless, those four walls want to make you feel like you’re alone. Like you’re invisible, in the most selfish sense of the word. You’re invisible so you’re not responsible.

You’re invisible so you’re not a friend. You’re invisible so you’re not a target.

As we heal from these events and try to piece ourselves back together, I encourage you to remember one thing: the Earth is rising to meet you, and if it rises, then you’re not alone.

flora & fauna

PHOTOGRAPHER VERA TIKHONOVA GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

EXTRA! EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT!

A!

STYLISTS KARLY MADEY JOSIE BURCK PHOTOGRAPHER KARLY MADEY GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS MODEL MAISEY MICHELZ

Bootcut medium wash jeans - Drawn by Karly Madey Light wash jeans with chains - Drawn by Karly Madey

RECREATING NORMALCY

PHOTOGRAPHER GABBY CERITANO GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

PORTRAITS O As the story goes, in order for Orpheus to leave the Underworld safely with his wife Eurydice, he must walk with her following behind him without him turning around.

Against his only instruction, he turns to look at Eurydice, securing her place in the Underworld and losing her for good. “He chooses the memory of her,” explains Parisian painter, Marianne, one of the central characters of the 2019 film Portrait of a Lady on Fire. “That’s why he turns. He doesn’t make the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.”

Similar to many others, I’ve been spending this period of self-isolation indulging in films and TV shows, one being Portrait of a Lady on Fire, a French piece that received critical acclaim when it premiered at Cannes last spring, and was released on Hulu this February after its time at the theater was cut short due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Centered

around two women—one an artist, the other her subject—Portrait of a Lady on Fire follows Marianne and Héloïse as they attempt to create permanency out of their temporary love affair. Like the Greek myth Eurydice, this film explores love, loss, and how we experience, understand, and value each other. Today, in a time where mortality rates increase by the minute while the world simultaneously feels as if it’s been paused, I find myself circling back to these themes and recognizing how they apply to my life before, during, and after this quarantine ends — is it useful to capsulize people or situations into permanent memories, or does it disalude one's perception of the constant changes in life?

Portrait of Before I find that it’s common among college students during this time to feel stuck in the past.

Many of us are back in our hometowns, a dra-

SUMMER IN Q

OF A matic shift from the people, places, and pace we’ve grown accustomed to in college. The last time I felt this alone was last winter, after my first heartbreak. During that time, I held onto a version of the girl I loved for as long as I could, much longer than I should have. I painted a memory of her to keep for when I couldn’t actually have her. Her portrait wasn’t permanent; it wasn’t even fully-formed. It possessed all of her softness without any of her selfishness—her rosy cheeks on December walks without her strict boundaries or cunning tongue. That’s what I’ve learned about portraits — they capture a moment, not a whole person, or a whole story. Choosing a memory of someone is never the same as choosing them. When you choose their memory, you love them in a vacuum, believing them to have a singular truth, smoothed by the fine touch of a paintbrush and sealed by the sparkling finish of varnish.

WRITER LAUREN CHAMPLIN GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

Portrait of Now We see the extent of this virus’s destruction all around us — on our families, our places of work and education, and our mental health.

There is a fear that it will never end, that the world will never go back to normal, that people will never stop hurting from it. There are people we miss and opportunities and experiences we will miss out on. However, viewing it as it is, a single snapshot — haunting for a moment, but only to be replaced by the next frame — has helped me cope with the fear of peril, the grievance of the study abroad program in Paris and writing excursion in New England I had planned for this summer, and the absence of my loved ones during this time. Plans can be rescheduled, college credits can be made up, and the people who love you will wait for you to see them again. Like fleeting love and temporary heartbreak, this portrait of a world ravaged by a pandemic is temporary.

QUARANTINE

Portrait of After Because there will be an after, and I’ve come to understand this toward the end of quarantine as restrictions are gradually lifted and businesses slowly reopen. There will be an after where we can console each other in an arms embrace. Where I don’t feel the need to possess love as a portrait of a moment out of fear of losing it. Where, instead, I can create a series of my current partner, each frame capturing all of his care, his attentiveness, his fear, and his desire, never to be forgotten for what it truly is. An after where I choose him instead of choosing to believe his singular, temporary truth.

What is it about these portraits that hold our attention, that take up so much space in our minds and hearts? In my portrait of before, I was deceived by the power it gave me. After I was hurt, it felt as if the control was put back into my hands and I was able to dictate what version of her I remembered. I didn’t have to dwell on the mess she left me when I could instead recall the beautiful, affectionate girl I missed. But holding onto that girl, that control, did nothing to help me heal.

It wasn’t until I let that version of her go that I could love myself and others again.

In the present, my fear surrounding the pandemic caused me to feel stagnant, stuck with the realization that everything I worked toward wouldn’t come to fruition. It was those portraits of loss and fear that pushed me toward developing a dynamic portrait of the future, never letting it hold me back, and instead observing how it shifts and allowing my path to shift with it.

If the version of the past, present, or future that we possess isn’t true, with all of its honest complexities, is it worth holding onto?

In my experience, I’ve found there’s no real power in controlling or manipulating a memory. Instead, there is power in accepting what has been and growing more resilient from it.

It won’t be until I let go of my fear of what the future holds that I can move forward. In the present, as I write alone on my living room couch during this summer in quarantine, I can learn to forgive, understand, and enjoy time with myself, so that in the future I can safely continue my education, lounge with my friends and family, and travel the world with the boy I love.

PHOTOGRAPHER LUCY CARPENTER GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS MODEL LUCY CARPENTER

ALBUM COVER ART This self-portrait series is based on a series of album covers from different artists, including Cage The Elephant, Harry Styles, Grouplove, and more. Each shoot was designed to look similar to the cover art without mimicking it exactly, leaving more room for creativity with colors, locations, and poses.

Querencia STYLISTS SOPHIE ALPHONSO TAVLEEN GILL PHOTOGRAPHER RITA VEGA GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT MODEL TATIANA VEGA

Amsterdam in Analog This photo essay captures the city of Amsterdam from a pedestrian’s perspective.

The photos act as quiet, observational portraits of the city and its essence, documenting the ornate yet homogenous architectural styles as well as hints of human presence and lifestyle.

PHOTOGRAPHER ALEX ANDERSON GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS

looking inward

PHOTOGRAPHER NATALIE GUISINGER GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS

Jodi Cobb, one of my favorite Photojournalists, captioned one of her most recent images during Coronavirus isolation by stating, “It seems the more time I have to spare, the more I see.� That was exactly how I felt while I made images for my Advanced Documentary Photography final. Whether it was my family strolling through our neighborhood, self-timer images in my childhood bedroom, or the angular light peeking through blinds, I captured my surroundings and rituals each day during quarantine.

floral effulgence

STYLIST CAROLINE WHITE PHOTOGRAPHERS CAROLINE WHITE, MEGAN YOUNG, VERA TIKHONOVA GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS MODEL EMILY YOUNG

STEADY FOOTING The last thing I did before Governor Gretchen Whitmer issued a stay at home order was tour a house with my future roommates. I had been looking for housing in Ann Arbor for six months, and every previous situation had fallen through.

As someone with bipolar disorder and post traumatic stress syndrome, the roller coaster was a constant trigger, but in my new roommates I had found a sense of stability and trust. We greeted each other from a distance, and our tour guide met us outside, clutching a container of Lysol wipes.

There was a palpable tension, rooted in fear of a tiny virus we had yet to fully understand. We all grabbed a wipe and entered the house. The living room floor was bare plywood, and there was a gaping hole in it at the bottom of the stairs. The bedrooms varied wildly in size.

Despite all the glaring problems with the property, I was ready to sign any lease. I was exhausted from hunting and anxious that this too would fall through. I wasn’t used to being discerning. In the past I always took what I could get and what I could afford, often going with the first option, since my moves were usually fraught with trauma and desperation.

I had been combing the Internet obsessively before the lockdown. Our other tours had been cancelled, so my new roommates and I got to know each other via Zoom. We would talk about the news, our anxiety, what we were looking for in a house, and how we liked to spend our free time.

When the stay at home order hit, all I could do was sleep. I wasn’t sure what to attribute it to: the worst depression cycle of my life, the anxiety of the pandemic, or the weight of all my fears and grief. Maybe I needed to sleep. Detroit was quickly one of the hardest hit areas in the country.

My roommate and I tuned in to learn the death count every day at 3 pm. We took extreme caution. I have lupus, and my lungs had been giving me trouble before the shutdown. We had friends who had died or been hospitalized and near death.

I was truly afraid for my own life and the lives of those around me. In addition to the present fear I felt anxiety and grief about the future. Would we be able to find a house amid the pandemic?

Would all my classes be online? Did this mean my dreams of studying abroad were dashed?

WRITER PATIENCE YOUNG GRAPHIC DESIGNER CARLY LUCAS

As the weeks stretched into months the rental companies caught up with the times and started conducting virtual tours. A tenant took us on a tour of a beautiful home in Kerrytown, but one of the bedrooms was located in a dank basement with pool-table-green carpet. After a half hour of technical difficulties, a landlord took us on a tour of a cramped second-story duplex. In another video tour the tenant told us the basement flooded twice, and the landlord didn’t address it. I scoured the Internet for other possibilities, but there wasn’t much out there that fit our needs. My panic increased, triggering my mania. I spent sleepless nights watching TV and eating sedatives.

Having felt nothing but depression for months, the familiar sensations of mania came as a relief.

Before I was in treatment, mania was the only time I functioned. It was responsible for my ability to juggle multiple jobs, a full-time school schedule, and seats on several non-profit boards. It was also responsible for countless suicide attempts, personal conflicts, violent outbursts, and paranoia.

The only thing I could do to keep it at bay was work all the time. While others were stuck at

home I cut the finest leather for luxury Porsches and planted flowers on the expansive patio of a closed veterans bar. I felt thankful for the Detroit dirt under my fingernails. It’s hard to leave this city, and even harder now when I can’t be with my people performing our rituals. Our bike rides to Belle Isle to pass a fifth and toast each other. Our dance parties at the recycling center, grooving into the wee hours of the morning as freight trains pass above us. Detroit is the place where I had built my chosen family and support network, and it was hard to think that after ten years of grinding, succeeding, failing, laughing, and crying I would just quietly slip away without a proper goodbye.

After a few more false starts we signed a lease.

At least one thing is sure, but the virus still marches on. It’s hard to find a sense of comfort when we can’t hug each other. I try to reign in the mania.

I ride my bike through the streets of Detroit and memorize every last detail, the way the sun sets on Grand River, the graffiti on billboards, and kids on four wheelers racing down side streets. I meditate on Ocative Butler: “The only lasting truth is change.”

BLACK LIVE These photos were taken during the protests in Detroit, Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, and Minneapolis by members of SHEI Magazine’s photography team.

In showcasing these photos, our intentions are not to glamorize any protestors, but rather to use our platform to amplify the conversation about the Black Lives Matter Movement and highlight the cultural and moral awakening America is currently experiencing.

Our generation is capable of changing the system if we continue to speak out, act up, and fight for truly equal liberty and justice for all.

SHEI stands with and will always stand with #BlackLivesMatter and we will forever use our platform to amplify unheard voices.

PHOTOGRAPHERS LUCY CARPENTER NICK DANIEL SOPHIE HERDRICH ANDERS LUNDIN EVAN PARNESS GRAPHIC DESIGNER MACKENZIE SCHWEDT

ES MATTER

We encourage you to: • Confront any biases you may hold • Address the racism you observe in your interpersonal relationships • Support local Black owned businesses • Donate to causes that need funding • Reach out to organizations and activists in your community to see if they need volunteers • Contact your local representatives to share your concerns of continued rise of strategic-structural racism (including white supremacy and the prison-industrial complex).

AN

NN ARBOR

MINNEAPO

OLIS

DETROIT

Y

YPSILANTI

like what you see?

WEBSITE: sheimagazine.com INSTAGRAM: @shei_magazine FACEBOOK: @SHEImagazine For advertising inquiries contact sales@sheimagazine.com