SPECISSUE14 (1)

SPEC

S 2025

SPEC ISSUE 14

ON THE OUTS

ISSUE 14

OUR TEAM ANNABELLE LE ROUX & SAMANTHA LEE EDITORS IN CHIEF

NICOLE LEIHE & DUNCAN CARSWELL CREATIVE DIRECTORS

DAISHALYN SATCHER & CECILIA MENDEZ COMAS VICE PRESIDENTS OF WRITING

ASAKO ISHIBASHI & FELIPE MAC ALLISTER VICE PRESIDENTS OF PHOTOGRAPHY

MAYA MAZOR VICE PRESIDENT OF PR

SPEC

TRISHA VARIYAR & ISABELLA BALIKIAN

/spek/

VICE PRESIDENTS OF FUNDRAISING AND EVENTS

In hope of success without any commission or instruction.

NATAISIA HAMBIDGE VICE PRESIDENT OF WEB DESIGN

We are a fashion, beauty, lifestyle, and cultural publication focused on individual and creative expression.

SKYLAR SEPULVEDA

Cover Image by Julie Wan

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VICE PRESIDENT OF MERCH

WEB DESIGN

DESIGN

WRITING

PHOTOGRAPHY

ELLA JANE DOUGHERTY ANNIE KERSTEN ANUSHKA RANE

MIA ALONSO KATE D’AMARO AMY KOO ZEINA LEE JAIMIE LIAO STEPHANIE PARK OONA TAYLOR

CHIDERA EJUEYITCHIE ASHLEY KHANG GEORGIA LAGERWEIJ MELINA LIMANTZAKIS JACKY RUTHERFURD JESSICA WALKS CORDELIA WELD EMMA YAN

BEN ERTL MARINA HERMAN DELARA JADVAR CHLOE LEE EMMA LLOYD PAULINE NGOM NUB-PETCH SINTHUNAVA JULIE WAN

FUNDRAISING & EVENTS

BLOGS

MERCH

PR

STELLA BRUCE ANDREW CARDENAS JULIANNE TAGER-GEFFNER MARIA LAGUNA

SOHALIYA DHADDA TIFFANY HO ATHENA MORI LIZZIE STEWART

AUTUMN BROWN ANISA DIAMOND SYDNEY GOTTLIEB LUCY HANG CATE HEWITT ANDRA IONESCU VIVIAN KELLER PERLE MASRI TEZER MUSABEYLI NEHA SARWAL

ADA BASAR SHEILA CASTLLO ASHER DUBIN GINA GAVAM TIARA JAIN AVA KESHAVARZI GAVIN MARK KEVIN ROME SEY STEIN NAZ URAL 4

letter from

The Editors Dear readers, We are thrilled to share with you Issue 14 of SPEC Magazine.

There is an outsider in all of us.

Whether by culture, by choice, or by circumstance, we all carry a mark of difference. In a team of international students, creatives of color, pineapple-on-pizza defenders, and those with a myriad of proud flaws—“outsider-ness” unifies us.

In contrast, “insider status” pervades the way we behave as social creatures. It powers trends, fuels casual addiction, and worst of all, perpetuates a culture of exclusion. But the notion of the ‘insider’ is limiting. It homogenizes us to familiar looks, places and people. However, in celebrating the outsider, we find room to expand : be “on the outs” to reflect and reconsider, be “on the outs” to find a different perspective, be “on the outs” to realize being outside-looking-in is an empowering feeling.

To be “on the outs” is to be open. Open to the unknown, the misunderstood, the overlooked. It’s where identity, style and story have the space to try and fail.

table of

Contents Addiction is Trendy

6 - 11

The Weight We Carry

12 - 17

When the Soil Shifts

18 - 23

Hollywood is Shrinking

24 - 29

Fashion as Resistance

30 - 35

Both of us come from outside of America and have attempted to bring those contexts into the pages of this issue. We cannot wait for you to see through our lens – or rather – see from our perspective.

We hope this issue challenges and moves you. Most of all, we hope it makes you stop and consider what lies just outside the frame, in the margins of the page, on the fringes or over the edge.

With love, Annabelle Le Roux and Samantha Lee Editors-in-Chief

SPEC Spotlights: From the Streets A Second Chance at Life, A Second Chance at Art

Meet The Team 5

36 - 41

Mastering Art of it All

42 - 47

Dancing in the Streets

48 - 53 54 - 55 6

Addiction is

Trendy.

WRITING Jacky Rutherfurd DESIGN Kate D’Amaro

I am nine years old and alone, sitting cross-legged at an airport terminal, waiting to board my transiting flight. My parents aren’t far; only ten feet away, but separated by the glass doors of an airport smoking lounge. I watch them from afar, like fish in a smoke-filled aquarium. I squint through the haze, trying to make out the faces of the strangers unified by their shared addiction. My parents are among them, laughing and leaning in. But they don’t look cool. There is no effortless elegance, no Hollywood mystique—just yellow stained fingertips and deep, wrinkled frowns. To me, their habit wasn’t rebellious or alluring; it was routine, obligatory, and desperate. I swore myself against it. To sit in an airport smoking lounge is nothing but glamorous—it’s addiction in its purest form.

Addiction manifests in many different ways, whether it’s alcohol, weed, gambling, or sex. It drives us to the furthest of ends, allowing us to rationalize things once unimaginable. How far would you go to chase that next high? Would you steal to feed a craving? Lie to protect a habit? Risk your health for a fleeting moment of relief? I myself am guilty of addiction. I was once revolted by the smell of burnt tobacco that clung to my parents’ clothes. Now, I indulge in the very thing I once condemned.

PHOTOGRAPHY Emma Lloyd PR Anisa Diamond 7

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Not every relationship with smoking looks the same. In France, a cigarette is as much of an embellishment to an outfit as a designer handbag or a pair of sunglasses. In Indonesia, cigarettes offer an affordable symbol of hospitality and masculinity. In our city of Los Angeles, smoking thrives in contradiction; it coexists in a climate that worships green juice cleanses and exclusive workout classes. SThey rationalize smoking is rationalized as an occasional indulgence rather than a habit. Regardless of where you are, the true virality of addiction lies in the illusion of control: the belief that one can participate without consequence, that lung cancer happens to other people and not themselves. As we partake in smoking against the backdrop of social rituals, we blur the line between an occasional indulgence and a full fledged dependency.

In 1964, the United States Surgeon General published a report linking cigarette smoking to the incidence of lung cancer. The recognition of its ill-effects left Americans with no choice but to change their habits. It first began with a ban on indoor smoking, which quickly expanded as a shift away from the social acceptability of smoking as a whole. Somewhere along the way, smoking has made its way back into the cultural zeitgeist of Gen Z—not as a vice, but as an aesthetic. The media idolizes public figures like Lily-Rose Depp and Lana Del Rey who are often photographed in chic outfits accessorized by a cigarette, . to curate the perfect cool-girl facade.

In films like Call Me by Your Name and Saltburn, cigarettes are more than just props, they set the mood for romance and seduction.

Exposure leads to acceptance and as smoking reemerges as a trend among Hollywood stars, our generation becomes more and more willing to disregard science.

So why have we begun to renormalize smoking despite “knowing better”? For our generation, this ‘trend’ is not exactly about the chemical relief of a nicotine buzz.

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The complex social implications of smoking are just as much to blame.

It’s about the sexy allure of holding a flickering flame to your face before unleashing a slurry of cancer and sex. It’s about the instant comradery formed between two strangers who share a lighter outside the bar.

It’s about the desire to project indifference to the world, despite the knowledge that you are hurting yourself—an active rebellion against science and society.

My peers of non-smokers exist as proof that resistance against addiction is possible. They see the cigarette not as a symbol of rebellion, but as what it truly is: an expensive, carcinogenic crutch.

In a culture that romanticizes self-destruction, addiction is often downplayed as something casual or controlled. The first step in Alcoholics Anonymous meetings is to stand up among your group members and introduce yourself point-blank: “Hi, my name is Jacky and I’m an addict.” To be reduced to your addiction is supposed to be the ultimate form of shame, but what shame are we left with when we live in a generation that reframes addiction as humorous and quirky.

Habits that should be plainly recognized as “addiction” are now usually prefaced with a list of contingencies: “I only drink to loosen up.”

“I only do coke at parties.”

“I only smoke when I’m around my friends.”

Whether you’re California sober or an occasional dabbler, our generation refuses to acknowledge the underpinnings of what we choose to romanticize. Somewhere along the years, I’ve found myself in a place I’d never imagined. When I’m at a house party and am offered a cigarette, I nod in agreement. With slacked wrists and a cigarette in hand, I carry on with the night: dancing, laughing, and getting lost in conversation. It is only until I am hit with a wave of nostalgia that I am able to actively make sense of the position I am in. My hair reeks of ash and my voice is beyond hoarse. I’m in a hot box of smoke plumes, no different from an airport smoking lounge. What can I say, I’m a sucker for fashion, and smoking is officially back in vogue.

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THE

WEIGHT

WE

CARRY RY WRITING Melina Limantzakis DESIGN Oona Taylor PHOTOGRAPHY Julie Wan

I used to think loneliness was an old man. He sits hunched over a cup of black coffee in the corner of a bustling diner— the kind with cracked vinyl booths and the hum of conversation that never quite reaches him. His wife is dead, and he wears the same plain sweater every day because he’s always cold. An overworked waitress with red hair asks if he’s finally ready to order. He calls her “ma’am” and speaks slowly, squinting at the menu as he goes. By the time what’s left of his eggs are cold and the toast is gone, he clings to his Motorola and dozes off—even though he knows it won’t ring.

There’s no one left who’d call.

The image is sad—but what’s so tragic about someone who has lived a full life?

The portrait of the old man is upsetting but realistic. He can’t pretend to be busy scrolling and has no desire to. A little bit of coffee and mediocre eggs is enough for someone accustomed to simplicity.

Loneliness sits in the next booth over scrolling through Instagram. It’s in the kitchen flipping the eggs so they won’t burn. It’s taken a hold of the uber driver dropping people off in the parking lot the diner shares with a dance studio. It manifests differently in everyone and seeps into our daily lives.

LA, in particular, has no shortage of unique cafés, parks, or community centers. In theory, these locations are what we call “third spaces.” It is a place where people can gather outside of the workplace or home—a hub of possible connection. And yet, in this digital age, we find ourselves connecting to Wi-Fi more than with each other. This makes the experience of loneliness slightly different for newer generations.

Third spaces are still present, most of them even full. People are sitting on the barstools, walking through parks, and hearing the crowds cheer at their favorite sports game. But their minds

aren’t there. Social media was meant to bring people together, and in some cases, that’s true. However, I find that most of the time, it’s easier to scroll than make small talk. People are intimidating, judgmental, and foreign, while a device simply shows you what you want to see.

We are inherently social beings. We want to see what other people are doing.

The issue arises when you’re sitting in a café, surrounded by people, and see your long-distance acquaintance post with friends on a boat. Suddenly, resentment starts to bubble up—not for the acquaintance you met three years ago, but for your own plans. That’s when loneliness creeps in.

Loneliness is a weight—not just an absence, but a presence all its own. In small doses, it’s simply uncomfortable, like a stranger hugging you just a little too tightly. What begins as an awkward embrace gradually turns into labored breathing. In larger doses, it’s like struggling to keep your head above water, twenty miles from shore. No one is there to witness your thrashing. Your muscles begin to cramp. Before long, exhaustion takes hold, and you swallow a mouthful of saltwater. It stings. You drink more, and with each gulp, the water pushes you down even harder.

Eventually, it becomes too heavy, and you can no longer summon the strength.

So, you give up.

In 2023, U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek H. Murthy called loneliness an epidemic—not just a fleeting sadness, but a force with real, measurable consequences.

Even before the COVID-19 pandemic, one in two American adults reported feeling lonely, a number that has only grown. Studies show that chronic loneliness doesn’t just weigh on the mind; it wears down the body, increasing the risk of heart disease, stroke, dementia, and even early death. To put it bluntly, Dr. Murthy equated the health effects of social isolation to smoking 15 cigarettes a day.

PR Sydney Gottlieb 13

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The crushing weight of loneliness is not a personal issue and is most definitely not contained. It presses down on individuals and communities alike, especially in cities like Los Angeles. The shamelessly eccentric, dream-chasing residents of LA are held back by a simple fear: the fear of rejection. In a city where image is everything, rejection feels personal—like a heavy weight that drags you deeper. It isn’t just a no; it’s a mark, a judgment that feels as though it confirms the absence of value, the feeling of being too much or not enough.

This fear becomes another burden, making it harder to break the surface of connection.

Breaking the surface of connection is not something we can do alone. We pass by people every day on the street and ignore them. We live our lives spending more time around strangers than the people we call friends. That’s normal.

Yet, loneliness is becoming more and more “normal” as well. Perhaps it’s time to be a little strange. Fear is an enabler of loneliness and often stands in the way of connection. We worry about saying the wrong thing or acting the wrong way. It’s why we avoid small talk in elevators or text our friends to confirm the dress code before going out. Fear can be overcome. We can train ourselves to shed that weight. What if rejection wasn’t a confirmation of inadequacy but just another part of human interaction— like making small talk with a barista or asking for extra napkins?

A recent trend called Rejection Therapy on TikTok could offer an inspiring solution. By deliberately putting themselves in outgoing situations, people seek rejection to prove to themselves and others that nothing is ever that serious.

USC student Jessica Bukowski has gained attention for her Rejection Therapy videos on TikTok, where she intentionally steps outside her comfort zone to challenge social fears. When asked about her experience, she shared the following statement:

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“If Rejection Therapy has taught me one thing , it’s that strangers are often kinder and more open to connection than I ever imagined. I think we’re conditioned to keep to ourselves and stay inside our comfort zones as we get older. At the same time, I’ve met so many wonderful strangers who are immediately willing to do silly things like play duck duck goose or make up a secret handshake with me.”

Bukowski is proving that a little courage can lead to big connections. Through her Rejection Therapy challenges, she pushes past social fears by making unexpected requests—and often finds that people are far more open than we assume. One of her favorite moments?

Asking a stranger to run lines for an “audition” using a ChatGPT-generated script. The first person she met not only said yes but had a personal connection to theater, leading to an unforgettable, laughter-filled scene where Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck argued over pizza. Her experiences show that meaningful interactions are out there—sometimes, all it takes is the willingness to ask.

Loneliness doesn’t just linger around old men in diners. It finds all of us, in big ways and small.

When ignored, it only grows. So, instead of simply coexisting, why not become strangers with benefits? A few seconds of conversation can lighten the load for everyone. Ask a stranger about their coffee order. Smile at someone in traffic.

Have lunch with a different coworker.

It may feel scary, but chances are, reaching out to someone new won’t kill you. But loneliness could.

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SOIL SHIFTS APPROPRIATION & GENTRFICATION

WRITING Georgia Lagerweij DESIGN Mia Alonso PHOTOGRAPHY Chloe Lee PR Lucy Hang Tezer Musabeyli

Have I been living in a paradox this entire time? Southeast Asia was all I had ever known; the “I heart NYC” crop tops worn by locals, familiar smells of fusion restaurants and radio infiltrated by western pop. But was my reality an authentic reflection of what it meant to be Asian?

Living in Bali, Indonesia, I learned to embrace tourism, accepting it as an homage to traditional Balinese culture.

In Singapore I learned that I could still find some of the best western flavors despite living on an island only 280 square miles wide. In Malaysia the opening of a new jumbo mall every month was no shock to the community — pushing out poorer communities and increasing the cost of living was normalized.

Any and all cultural landscapes are made up of a garden of flowers slowly being plucked away by gentrification’s global dominance. The deep-rooted traditions of a melting pot of cultures — those of which are slowly withering right in front of our eyes. It is undeniable that America is profoundly impacted by this brutal process — one that is, in many ways, deeply dehumanizing our community.

Now, coming to California, I have witnessed this process continue most overtly in pop culture bedrock of Los Angeles: hip-hop. Distilling cultural awareness directly into the listeners earbuds; utilizing turntablism, repurposing elements from past artists and incorporating drum machines (i.e. Roland TR-808), artists help this garden regrow its roots — reclaiming self-identity in the process.

Though this is only below the surface of the soil. Each sound nurtures the growth of lyricism, providing the flower with distinct nutrients transported through the phloem of what is — hip-hop music.

The ultimate voice for those in Black and underrepresented communities is Kendrick Lamar. He is among the many who remind us of the tumultuous journey Black Americans have experienced as a result of marginalization and oppression. This reminds us that our personal gardens are so vulnerable to pruning — our roots distorted beyond the control of our own gardening tools.

The epitome of reclaiming what was once ours.

Lamar’s album “To Pimp a Butterfly” (2015), explores how a butterfly derives from a caterpillar — inherently less refined, grounded in the struggle of transformation.

The caterpillar is always finding a way to reap the benefits of the butterfly and thus “pimping” it out. The butterfly is weak, or so it seems, in the lens of the caterpillar. This is a comment on Black American culture, being constantly terminated and challenged by the gentrification of America.

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The butterfly complex is what it is: once a caterpillar is exploited by the industry then it can spread its wings and be the butterfly it always wanted to be — but at what cost? At the cost of neighborhoods being stripped away from its roots, at the cost of erasing history, and the cost of what it means to be human.

“Adversity provides the fertile ground needed

Similarly, big-name rappers such as J.Cole and SZA are in the pursuit of bringing light to these withering stems through their music.

The effects of this drought go beyond the words of famous rappers and is a reality for many. For the first time in nearly 40 years, D.C. has experienced the highest degree of gentrification of Black communities, characterized by the cultural shift taking place in the DMV. What was once a place open to all walks of life is now an environment made to make you feel like an alien species.

KeLow LaTesha, musical artist who grew up in the DMV, mentions that “What comes before helps birth what comes next in a sense,” in an interview with Respect. The seeds we plant affect the blossoming of future generations, but in D.C., musical influences such as Go-Go and Neo-Soul no longer have the same standing they once did before. One thing that Latesha’s experience does tell us though, is that growing amongst minorities has a profound impact on the way in which we view the potential within ourselves. Struggle is part of the human experience — the mere chance to realize that adversity provides the fertile ground needed to grow branches beyond conventional thought.

to grow branches beyond conventional thought”

LaTesha is the very rose in a garden of thorns that made it out alive. Despite external pressures in the DMV attempting to drive her community out, her cultural armor (that being her eclectic array of muses), remains in her system. A subtle form of protest against what is happening around us lies in our ability to remain as who we are — as people, daughters, sons, and members of society.

On a visit to Puerto Rico this Spring, I couldn’t help but hear hip-hop artist Bad Bunny’s lyrics in my ear. He, Benito Martinez, has gathered his own bouquet of commentary on gentrification within Puerto Rico.

The release of his short film titled “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS,” translated to “I should have taken more photos,” to accompany his album with the same name (2025) was pivotal in bringing back color to Puerto Rico’s landscape — an homage to his hometown. Martinez explores how a coquí, a frog native to Puerto Rico’s environment, is a reminder of those instrumental pieces that help foster the growth and maintenance of the garden he, and many others, call home. That garden that is Puerto Rico; a tropical island that requires those moving pieces to help preserve the past.

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Benito plays himself, 40-50 years down the road — a senior citizen navigating the ins and outs of a landscape that once was familiar, and now, unrecognizable. With a coquí attached to his hip, the spirit of Puerto Rico lives in the exchange of their words, where he advises the coquí: “One must love as much as possible, while we’re still alive.” He reminds us to take photographs; to capture a moment before it’s gone, especially when the subject is fleeting in and of itself. When we protect what is near and dear to us — be it biodiversity, culture, even our neighborhoods, we are doing what we can before it is irreversibly lost to the drought.

Benito demonstrates how gentrification pervades even the simplest of places. One may think that a simple pastrami and quesito, embedded in the roots of Puerto Rican food, would be easily acquired at the cafe around the corner. Though, to one’s surprise, it now costs $30.. Benito requests, “I would like a traditional quesito” and to which the cashier responds “you mean a regular quesito?”

The simple interchanging of words, traditional with “regular”, represents how easy it is to pluck those pre-existing flowers and replace them with new species.

With gentrification in Puerto Rico stringing along its respective weeds in contemporary society, it is also a means for togetherness. How can we replace the soil for the flourishing of all flowers? The dream sequence in which Benito is blasting Reggaeton in his jeep encapsulates that there is rain where there is drought; older generations are able to coexist with change if a mutualistic environment can be fostered. A more modern take on gentrification, not commonly explored in hip-hop.

It is of utmost importance to accredit the vibrancy of America and neighboring countries to the cultures that all thrive here — the petals that are reminiscent of diverse communities which have blossomed over time, making it the multicultural hub it is today.

Our home. However, as the pursuit of gentrification continues to thrive, we can only do so much. It is a matter of letting it happen, or taking action to change the narrative. Will the future of America be stripped from its roots, only to be replaced by wilted stems?

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Hollywood Is Shrinking

Hollywood has become a playground for the well-connected, and you have to pay to play. The city formerly known for its glitz and glamor has lost its sparkle as originality is put on the shelf in favor of legacy, and fresh voices are drowned out by the noise of those who have already made their mark—or whose family has made it for them.

Hollywood is Dead Now studios are stuck holding onto a formulaic strategy: play it safe with what’s familiar, and cross your fingers hoping the numbers add up. Unfortunately this strategy has audiences falling asleep in theaters, fatigued by the never-ending stream of old narratives.

It doesn’t seem like this trend will die anytime soon, with reports showing that since 2014, nearly three-fourths of the top ten box office hits have been sequels, with only 8% being entirely original movies. For the first time in history, every single one of the top ten grossing films in 2024 were sequels.

WRITING Chidera Ejueyitchie DESIGN Amy Koo PHOTOGRAPHY Nub-Petch Sinthunava PR Perle Masri

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From the perspective of the number-crunching corporate side of Hollywood, there is little to no motivation to put an end to this never-ending cycle. Hollywood has become the land of reruns, with studios passing on creating new stars to focus on retelling the same stories starring those with inherited fame. Now as the lights dim in the theater rather than feeling a surge of anticipation, we just feel tired.

This relentless focus on legacy over innovation has created a shift has both Angelenos and aspiring industry leaders mourning what they consider the “Death of Hollywood”

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Creators Create Content What’s the next step? From the perspective of the next generation of filmmakers coming out of schools like USC, the reality looked pretty stark.

But have no fear, if you couldn’t make it in Hollywood the traditional way, you can always pick up your phone and film a TikTok! Especially now that creating a movie on your phone is almost as easy as watching one.

For the past two decades aspiring filmmakers have taken to the internet to share their work with the world instantly, reaching audiences that were once difficult to access. The barriers to entry have never been lower, and our beloved smartphone, once thought of as just a communication device, has evolved into an incredibly powerful tool.

This shift has been coined the “Content Era” with independent filmmakers that were pushed out of Hollywood now pushing content out through social media.

Filmmakers, or “creators” as we now call them, for the first time in recorded history have the ability to bypass traditional gatekeepers - publishers, producers, and studios, and directly reach their audiences.

It feels like a true disruption of Hollywood, creators from all over the world are able to get their voice heard, and audiences feel lucky to exist in an era of talented filmmakers who have been able to realize their dreams even with limited resources.

Although it seems like an amazing opportunity to create, Hollywood sees this disruption as the perfect opportunity to exploit this newfound community, digging their proverbial claws into what we now know as the creator economy.

The Death of Hollywood Socialites and The Rise of Social Media Stars Before it would take hundreds of auditions to get through the door, now all you need is a mic and a mildly controversial topic to get the attention of millions.

As the Hollywood Socialite dies and is replaced by the Social media influencer, everyday people have their own chance to go viral.

Even as this digital shift continued, the physical location of Hollywood still acts as a hub for all things entertainment. Reminiscent of old Hollywood, residents from Waynesville, Ohio can take a ticket straight to LAX once they pass the threshold of one million followers on Instagram.

It didn’t take long for Hollywood to adapt, with studios now searching for talent on social media apps and holding auditions based on follower count. If you thought this shift might stop the re-run conveyor belt Hollywood is running you would sadly be mistaken.

Instead, Hollywood did the funniest thing they could do. After realizing that younger audiences don’t have as much interest in a new version of a movie that came out 30 years ago, studios decided to start casting people young people did have interest in - influencers.

The time-tested Hollywood recipe of reruns met the new-age of influencers in a truly epic collaboration that brought us He’s All That, a remake of the teen movie She’s All That, but this time starring social media influencer Addison Rae. This was another example of digital Hollywood bleeding into the physical one.

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The Digital Revival of Hollywood As the boundaries between traditional Hollywood and the digital world continue to collapse, the future of fame is no longer tied to talent alone. Studios, long focused on the safe bet of legacy stars and sequels, have shifted their gaze to influencers who already command massive followings. The power of a social media presence has become just as vital as box office potential, and even the most established actors are now expected to maintain an online following to stay relevant.

Hollywood may still be the center of the entertainment industry, but the rules have changed. The city that once thrived on new voices and fresh ideas now finds itself scrambling to keep up with the creators who bypassed its gatekeepers entirely. What’s left is a hybrid world where reruns are mixed with viral trends, and fame is no longer defined by talent alone but by the number of followers you can gather. The glitz and glamor may have faded, but in its place, a new kind of star has emerged—one shaped by likes, shares, and a direct line to the audience. Hollywood might be dead, but its digital reincarnation is just beginning.

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BLACK DANDYISM

Fashion as Resistance: The Impact of Black Dandyism Black men’s presence in fashion wasn’t something that was granted—it had to be fought for, and carved out by movements like Black Dandyism. By embracing an exaggerated elegance, Black men asserted their dignity in a world that tried to take it away. Fashion became a statement of power, reclaiming a sense of self that had long been excluded from the industry. This legacy lives on through visionaries such as Virgil Abloh and Pharrell Williams, who have merged streetwear with high fashion to challenge the perceptions of what luxury means. Their work doesn’t just nod to Black Dandyism—it modernizes it by continuing to push the boundaries of who gets to be seen and celebrated in fashion.

& WRITING Jessica Walks DESIGN Zeina Lee PHOTOGRAPHY Pauline Ngom PR Neha Sarwal 31

THE BLACK K

GENDER A DIASPORA

Fashion has always been about more than just designer brands and outfit of thedays; for Black men, it has long served as a language of resistance, self-definition, and cultural expression. n the 18th century, Black men in Europe were subjected to dandyism—a style of fashion initially imposed on enslaved individuals as a symbol of their owners’ wealth. However, what began as a form of control quickly turned into an act of rebellion. Freed slaves adopted dandyism themselves, using their style and wit to challenge everything that had been forced upon them.

They reclaimed the art form, transforming dandyism into a way to express themselves. In doing so, they inspired generations, creating a movement and laying a foundation for Black men in fashion.

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For decades, the fashion industry operated under an unspoken rule: Black designers, creatives, and voices were pushed to the fringes. Virgil Abloh changed this rule. As the first Black man to lead Louis Vuitton menswear, he proved that luxury fashion could belong to those who had been excluded. Abloh was never interested in fitting the mold; with degrees in civil engineering and architecture, he saw himself as a “maker, not a designer.” His work blurred the lines between art and culture—whether it was the embroidered “TILL DEATH DO US PART” in Hailey Bieber’s wedding veil, his role as creative director for Kanye West, or the founding of his own label, Off-White.

Abloh didn’t just leave a legacy; he left a mindset: wear what you want, create what you want, and exist how you want.

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Virgil Abloh redefined the possibilities for Black designers in high fashion, showing that cultural influence was just as important as traditional aspects of fashion design.

His success created space for other Black creatives to challenge industry norms. One key visionary to emerge was Kerby Jean-Raymond, the founder of Pyer Moss.

Jean-Raymond took a different approach, using fashion as a medium for activism and storytelling. His collections have addressed racial injustice, celebrated Black innovation, and challenged the fashion industry’s failure to acknowledge Black designers. Though his presence in the fashion world has diminished in recent years, his impact is still felt and continues to inspire, and today, a new generation of creatives has emerged.

Wisdom Kaye, a Gen-Z fashion content creator and model, turned what once made him a target into his greatest asset—his appearance. After facing bullying for his looks and struggling with body image, he found confidence through fashion, using it as a form of self-expression. His rise on social media shows how individuality is now more valued than exclusivity.

After Abloh passed away in November 2021, Louis Vuitton’s search for a successor was not just about filling his role — it was about preserving the legacy he had built.

When they appointed Pharrell Williams, it signaled a shift in the industry, and his influence on Black men’s fashion is undeniable. His appointment wasn’t just a business move; it was a statement that fashion is changing.

Much like Abloh, Pharrell has pushed hip-hop culture, sneakers, and streetwear into the luxury space. However, Pharrell’s impact extends beyond just this—he brings a new vision to Louis Vuitton. A vision that can be seen in his Winter 2025 menswear collection, created with Nigo.

This collection is a statement—a modern reinterpretation of dandyism featuring suits, workwear, and bomber jackets. By acknowledging the origins of dandyism and incorporating traditional elements like suits, Pharrell reshapes them through the lens of modern fashion. His vision recognizes that today’s Black culture, particularly in hip-hop and streetwear, has a redefined version of dandyism—one that is just as sophisticated and just as influential.

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Fashion’s ability to redefine itself is what makes it so powerful, and today, it is a reflection of culture, history, and identity. Fashion shows themselves have evolved into more visionary platforms, where the runway is no longer just a showcase of clothes but an immersive experience.

Additionally, the industry’s acceptance of figures like Abloh and Pharrell indicates a movement toward inclusivity, where barriers are continuously being broken and new voices are finally starting to be given space. Fashion today challenges who gets to be called a designer, what luxury looks like, and how Black identity is represented. Fashion is no longer just about aesthetics; it’s about expression, innovation, and ensuring that creativity is not confined.

Yet, as we approach the 2025 Met Gala, themed “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style,” an important question lingers: Will this be a true tribute, or will it be misunderstood— reduced to just another aesthetic trend? Black dandyism has a long history, but it still remains unfamiliar to many.

While the theme could be a step forward in recognizing and celebrating its significance, there is also the risk that the theme will be diluted, turned into a spectacle rather than a moment of education and reflection. The hope is that the Met Gala doesn’t just showcase Black dandyism as a trend—it educates, uplifts, and propels the industry forward, continuing the work that visionaries have started.

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A SECOND CHANCE AT LIFE,

WRITING Ashley Khang DESIGN Jaimie Liao PHOTOGRAPHY Marina Herman PR Autumn Brown

To talk about hip-hop is to talk about Black culture; to talk about Black culture is to talk about history, resistance, and joy.

Few understand that better than Danté Rose, an educator, storyteller, and dancer who has spent his life not just moving through hip-hop, but moving it forward. Rose’s work is rooted in the philosophy that hip-hop is not merely an art form—it is a living archive of Black identity and struggle.

“You can’t separate hip-hop from Black culture,” he saidys. “It’s like learning a language—you can’t separate the language from the people who speak it.”

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A SECOND SECON NCE AT CHANCE A ART AR

For all that hip-hop has given to the world—for all the ways it has been innovated, remixed, and reimagined—it still fights to be taken seriously as an art form worthy of preservation, scholarship, and deep intellectual inquiry. Born outside of institutions, without permission or validation, hHip-hop emerged itself was built outside of institutions, without permission or validation. It was instead born from a necessity within communities to turn struggle into sound, oppression into movement, and survival into art. Yet, despite shaping global culture, its place in history remains contested–: celebrated in the mainstream but often stripped of the voices that built it.

Rose understood this long before he had the words to articulate its significance.

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“Hip-hop wasn’t something I found—it was just life,” he explains. “It was always there. The way people walked, the way they spoke, the way they dressed—it was Black culture, which meant it was my culture.”

It was woven into the basslines rattling the speakers of his father’s car, in the way people in his childhood neighborhood carried themselves, and in the unspoken languageunspokencoded language of rhythm and movement and rhythm that shaped his world.

That inheritance guided him from his earliest days in battle circles to his place among the legendary Soulshifters breaking crew, where movement became more than a physical act—it became a way to carve space for himself and for his community. He proved that hip-hop could stretch beyond the streets and into the world, that it could be both deeply personal and universally understood.

Hip-hop has always had to fight for space—on stages, in academia, in art. ; Bbut for all the battles Rose had fought for hip hop—on the dance floor and in the industry—none compared to the one he never saw coming.

A life-threatening brain tumor forced him to confront something far greater than competition or career ambitions. The thought of brain surgery had always unsettled him—the idea that someone could open his skull and reach into the very place that housed his artistry and change his thoughts or sense of self was his greatest fear. “I was okay with a broken bone,” he admits, “but the thought of someone going into my brain, touching something and changing who I was? That scared me.”

The uncertainty was suffocating. So much of who he was lived in his body–, in his ability to move, to translate rhythm into motion.

He had spent years refining that instinct. Iif the surgery altered even the smallest part of itthat, what would be left?

When the time came, on the operating table and under the sterile lights, he was confronted with a stillness he had never known. The future, always something he had envisioned in motion, now hung in uncertainty. He was paralyzed by the idea that he might close his eyes and wake up different— or even not wake up at all.

But that fear had only one escape: through it.

The only way out of that fear, he realized, was through. When he woke up from his surgery, something inside him had crystallized. “If I had died in that surgery, would I have been satisfied with what I left behind? The answer was no.”

It was not just relief he felt—it was clarity. “The worst had happened, and I was still here. So what the hell was I afraid of anymore?”

He had spent too long hesitating and second-guessing whether his vision would be received the way he intended. “I realized I had spent too much of my life holding back—not out of fear of failure, but out of fear that I wouldn’t get it exactly right. And that’s no way to live.”

The constant waiting for the perfect moment had kept him stagnant for too long, but survival had given him an urgency he couldn’t ignore.

“So much of my life felt defined by untaken chances,” he admittedadmiteds. “But after that surgery, I wasn’t going to second-guess anymore.”

That realization became the catalyst for Vinyl & Brush, a production company he founded to amplify underrepresented voices. His mission isn’t just about telling stories, it’s about telling the right stories. “There’s something incredibly powerful about joy in the face of oppression,” he saidys. “That’s hip-hop’s story— it’s resilience, it’s celebration despite everything.” He’s interested in narratives that reflect the complexity of Black life, not just its struggles, but its victories. “I want to see stories that show the allyship between cultures, our differences and our connections.

I want to see more of that.”

“I was terrified. It wasn’t even just about survival—it was about who I’d be if I survived. What if I woke up and something fundamental was different? What if I lost something in that operating room, something I couldn’t get back?”

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One of his most defining works, TASTE, embodied exactly that philosophy.

Created in response to the racial reckoning of 2020, TASTE was more than a performance—it was a call to action. Funded by the LA Department of Cultural Affairs, it blended dance, music, and digital storytelling into an interactive experience that forced audiences to engage, not just observe.

“I had a lot of anger, a lot of emotion, and I needed a way to express it,” he saidys. Inspired by Kendrick Lamar and Childish Gambino’s ability to fuse storytelling with social commentary, he crafted a work that blurred the lines between performance, social media, and activism. The goal was clear: to remind people that Black art has always been resistance.

As a lecturer at USC Kaufman School of Dance, Dante is helping shape the future of hip-hop within academia—right in the heart of South Central, where so much of hip-hop history was made. “LA’s contribution to hip-hop is massive,” he saidys.

“From locking to rap, it’s all right here. To teach hip-hop in this city, at this institution—it means everything.” His biggest lesson for students? “Enjoy life. Be grateful. Keep it rocking.”

With Vinyl & Brush, his work at USC, and his commitment to storytelling, Dante Rose is proving that hip-hop is an evolving force, a cultural archive, and a future still being written.

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MASTERING ART of IT ALL

“Sando” is breaking the mold of what constrains and defines an “artist” through his graffiti art and seemingly unlimited artistic passions.

Sando glided over to our interview on his skateboard wearing a bright blue beanie, paired with his matching Honduran football jersey. His hands were decked out in silver rings, and his right wrist was enveloped by layers and layers of beaded bracelets–I later found out that these “Mala beads” were a gift from Sando’s mother–which he fiddled with throughout our interview.

We immediately jumped into discussing Sando’s doodle-covered and worn-in skateboard. When thinking about Sando’s interests, one can’t help but wonder, what doesn’t he do?

The Los Angeles County native–in addition to being a graffiti artist–writes music, plays guitar, cooks, dances, draws, skateboards, and is a professionally represented model and actor. Within the first few minutes of our interview, it was evident that Sando is the antithesis of the cliché: “Jack of all trades, master of none.”

WRITING Cordelia Weld DESIGN Stephanie Park PHOTOGRAPHY Ben Ertl PR Andra Ionescu TALENT Sando

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“Graffiti as a whole, …I really got into [it] when I was working at [this] skate shop, and I was just hanging out there a lot,” Sando said.

After moving to Los Angeles from Corona, CA, Sando started working at a skate shop in Leimert Park. Sando was already a highly passionate, creative person, but the skate shop and skater culture are what honed Sando’s creative pursuits.

“When I moved to LA, I started working at this skate shop in Leimert Park. And one day I had a friend that pulled up, and he [said], ‘Oh, we’re looking for some kids for a commercial.’ I was just there, so I did it. It was for Marathon. Ever since then, I’ve been doing little stuff with them. And then I’ve been acting.”

“When I was working at the skate shop, this guy, Macks, actually gave me my tag, or now it’s my nickname: Sando.

I was in a pilot [for a show], and I saw they had paint markers. I was like, ‘Oh, I’m gonna pick up some paint.’ And at that point, I was just like, doodling stupid shit,” Sando said.

He was dubbed “Sando” by another coworker at this infamous skate shop.

“I walk in, and I’m playing [with] these markers. They’re like, talking to me. They’re like, ‘Yo, what do you like? What’s your tag? What do you write? What’s your name?’ And I’m like, ‘Oh, it’s Alessandro.’ And then, they’re like, ‘Sandro? Santo?’ Then somebody in the back [shouted], ‘Yo, Sando!’ I [thought], ‘Oh shit, that’s just fucking fire.’ Then I kind of went home and just, like, drew that on, like, everything… I’ve been going by that [because it] rolls off the tongue, so perfect. I’m gonna have to owe him royalties,” Sando said.

Art is limitless, and graffiti is not the exception to the rule.

Graffiti is current, impactful, and above all else, accessible.

Anyone with a tin can of spray paint or a marker hiding in the depths of their closet could be a graffiti artist. But, only those with the skills and willingness to learn from the community surrounding them thrive as artists. In Sando’s pieces and tags, he uses his unique experiences and cultural influences to fuel his art.

“There [are] so many different ways to write the same letters, and it’s not art, if you put limits on art, you can only make it expand in different ways. It’s more interesting, and graffiti just has such a rich culture. So, I kind of try to integrate my own Latin shit with it, and my own life experience,” Sando said.

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Graffiti has been around for thousands of years, but the graffiti artistic movement that is polarizing within artistic circles hails from the 1960’s. Modern graffiti or “Writing” first appeared in Philadelphia, specifically inside the New York City subway stations in the 1960s and early 1970s. Simple tags and words quickly evolved into gigantic multicolored art pieces that lay claim to the surfaces that they were inscribed on. Then, graffiti fonts began to influence literature. Now, it is hard to tell the difference between murals and graffiti, as intricate graffiti works have become synonymous with metropolitan cities.

The idea of producing art for art’s sake has inspired Sando from the very beginning.

“I was just always really attracted to it from growing up in LA. I was really young, always, like, whenever I came to LA, I was always, like, fucking enthralled by the graffiti… [My mom always said,] ‘This looks disgusting.’ But… this is art. These are people. That’s their voice, and nobody has a tag like you. And that’s the best part of it.

You get to be free to fuck up and not worry about it,” Sando said.

He added that anything we discussed in this interview regarding his relationship to graffiti was hypothetical and all “alleged.”

Contrary to the rhetoric surrounding the “disruptive” nature of graffiti and graffiti artists, true graffiti artists follow a strict code that Sando did not always know to follow.

“It’s merit-based… There’s a set list [of rules] that you can really only go over somebody else’s stuff if you’re better than them, so I think that kind of rule of hierarchy is just fire because it’s super anonymous,” Sando said.

“The thing is that graffiti is no less damaging than fucking all the bullshit that is destroying our actual communities. I think graffiti is just a scapegoat for, people that just want order. … I think, if anything, it’s beautifying the community… It’s better to always foster art.”

Sando’s multitude of talents connect back to graffiti’s intersectional roots. For Sando, each art form and creative pursuit fuels his creativity in another creating a creativity-induced positive feedback loop of sorts. Oftentimes, Sando uses one as an escape to recharge his metaphorical creative batteries.

Creativity can feel limitless at times, but great artists and creatives experience burnout too. Even Sando struggles with creative burnout occasionally, but he tackles his burnout by acknowledging the source–his mindset.

“I think a lot of burning out comes from holding yourself to this super fucking high standard and then not achieving it… It has to do with your mentality.”

While it is human nature to feel like time is always running out, Sando reminds us about the importance of enjoying the ride–while preferable skateboarding–to rush less and just do things for the hell of it.

“It’s just fun to experience the world. It’s fun to do shit. It’s fun to create anything, something… It’s always [hard] comparing yourself to other people, like, especially in graffiti too,” Sando said.

“You’re gonna have so many people that are leaps and [bounds] ahead of you. But at the end of the day [they aren’t] you.”

In Sando’s experience, when “writing” or pursuing a new passion you just have to go for it sometimes. If you have the opportunity to write, you just do it. There isn’t time to think, just do. Without the overwhelming pressure of perfection looming above you, your creativity can truly shine. Art is subjective, and since it is subjective, it can never be truly perfect. Yearning for perfection–in art and in life– erodes the unadulterated joy of creating and the simple joys of the journey.

“I think just art in general, that’s just my crack for real, being able to just express yourself through any means,” Sando said. “I feel like they all supplement one another because they all kind of feed a different feeling, different kind of itch… Artistically, I feel like I get something out of it.”

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DANCING ON THE STREETS

WRITING Emma Yan DESIGN Duncan Carswell PHOTOGRAPHY Delara Jadvar PR Vivian Keller 49

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Before I met Zach Lee, I met his skateboard.

On a film set packed with cameras, crew, equipment, and little to no personal belongings, Zach’s battered green skateboard peeked out from underneath a sofa.

When I asked whose it was, everyone said unanimously, “Zach, of course.” Hours later, Zach appeared. Immediately, it was evident that he was a skater. From his baggy clothing, the way he stood— both relaxed and alert all at once —and even his language, littered with lingo like “dope” and “okay, word”, everything about Zach screamed skater.

Most people will never step on a skateboard, let alone attempt to learn how to skate. Kickflips require popping the tail of a skateboard, sliding your front foot up the skateboard quickly (an “ollie”), using that front foot to rotate the board 180 degrees, all whilst jumping in midair to then land on the board with two feet. But for Zach? No problem.

“I could probably hit it ninety-nine out of a hundred times.” Zach first began skating in Irvine, his hometown.

“My brother’s friends came over, and they brought a skateboard. I was watching his friend try to ollie, and I [thought], ‘Oh, that looks fun!’” Ever since then, Zach has been skateboarding, and this year will be his ninth year skating in Irvine.

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While the skate community in Irvine is not as prevalent compared to Los Angeles or New York City, where they not only have an advantage in population (more skaters!) but also in skateparks—35 in LA, over 40 in NYC, and yet only 1 in Irvine—Irvine’s skate community is still thriving.

“You can definitely find people skating at the local skate parks,” Zach said. Zach’s local skate park is Harvard Skate Park, the first skatepark formed in Irvine. Located at the corner of Harvard and Walnut, Harvard Skate Park first opened in the summer of 2000. The park includes a wide arrange of skate elements, most notably, a “spine,” or a double-sided ramp that is made up of two quarter pipes (a standard mini ramp), a “bowl,” an enclosed area of quarter pipes, and even lighting that allows skaters to skate at night.

“That skate park definitely helped me find a group. I remember, growing up, I’d be coming to the skate park and meeting up with the same skaters, and I was getting hyped up by the older skaters.”

It was a good skatepark to begin my skateboarding journey,” Zach concluded. However, skateparks are not the only place where people can skate. “I really love to skate street in LA. Street means not in a skate park setting, but just anywhere that isn’t a skate park. In the city, there’s staircases, random spots in the malls. Whatever you find around.

There’s just a ‘the city is your skatepark’ kind of vibe. The city or whatever—your environment is your park.”

First popularized in the late 80s, street skating has long been a way for skaters to express themselves outside the confines of a skatepark. There is an originality to it that is hard to find elsewhere. Think about an artist with an unlimited canvas or an architect with an expansive world—that is what street skating is all about.

It’s an art, and it’s a community: “The longer you skate for, you’re bound to meet other skaters that you vibe with. You can meet [anywhere]. It’s not a set space.” In fact, sometimes, by strokes of luck, skaters meet in the oddest places. “Two [film] sets ago, I met this skateboarder. He was in a street outfit, and I went up to talk to him. We [started] talking about skateboarding, and he turned out to be a skateboarder. We went to the skatepark after and skateboarded, and now, he’s the homie.”

“There’s skateboarders of all ages, races, looks, ethnicities,” Zach said. “That shit doesn’t really matter. Whatever disability you might have, it’s literally all seen in the skate community.

People that don’t have limbs skateboard, and they find new ways to skate with their hands. It’s pretty crazy what people can do.” For Zach, skating is not just a sport. It’s a mindset.

Practicing tricks hour after hour, day after day may be draining, but, for many, it is also revitalizing.

“[Skating] is about friendship,” Zach said. “Sometimes you just gotta go out with your friends and let off some air and skate around with your boys.”

“It keeps the fire burning. It’s definitely taught me to take a breath, and when shit gets tough, just hop on your board and pop a trick. You start to understand that life ain’t all that tough, and you don’t gotta take it too seriously, because we live on a rock. We’re literally pushing on a piece of wood.”

Focusing on the skate community, Zach mentioned his love for Youtube vlogs and films like mid90s, Skate Kitchen, and North Hollywood that center around the relationships made between skaters. However, while these films present skating positively, there are many other pieces of media that denigrate skate culture. From the film Police Academy 4 where skaters are called “delinquents” to an article by the Washington Post titled “Invasion of Skateboards”, skating has long been disparaged by the general public.

“It’s associated with vandalism & smoking a menace to society and breaking stuff. Kids really focus on school, they just like to skate.”

Despite the many biases around skateboarders, the skate community doesn’t consist solely of delinquents and menaces to society. It’s made up of a melting pot of people.

weed. Being that don’t

Skate culture is heavily tied to improving mental health. Not only does it reduce anxiety and boost mood, skaters tend to better communicate and develop relationships with people of diverse backgrounds. Beyond the mind, skating is also a great source of cardio. Working nearly every muscle group in the body, it improves joint and muscle health and refines balance and coordination.

“It just teaches you how to be in control of your body.”

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Skating has helped many learn control not only of their bodies but of the way they present themselves. When Zach first started skating, he noted that his “fits were basic—skinny jeans and stuff.” However, he said that, now, his style has evolved, as “skateboarding is heavily tied to thrifting, baggy ass jeans, button ups, and hoodies.”

Which is exactly what Zach was wearing when I first met him: a button up and baggy ass jeans.

From creativity to self-expression, just as a person can have his or her own individual style fashion wise, a skater can have their own style in terms of how they skate.

Skaters have a long history of owning the narrative for a sport that has been looked down upon. Similarly, skaters have now taken control of buying second-hand clothing, amplifying the voices of marginalized clothing shops.

Thrifting has long been tied to skating, because of the similar values that both activities share. “Skating is moving your body, and there’s so much style that goes into it.

There can be a skater that skates crazy—he can hit anything off of everything. There can also be a skateboarder that just does a clean kickflip, but the way he does a kickflip is stylish.”

“Skateboarding hits on all sides of entertainment, and it bridges a lot of things. It’s multicultural,” Zach said. It bridges fashion, film, youth, community, mental health, and physical health all wrapped up in an artistic package. Because, after all, skateboarding is not just a sport: “It’s a form of art. Skating is about being in the moment, being free.”

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VP

MEET THE

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Editors-in-Chief

s of F u & E ndraising vents

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ritin W f o s

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aphy

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