N A Y TH I Goes! STRIKE STL
This issue has a curated playlist that accompanies wthe code in the Spotify app for a full sensory Strike experience.
N G Goes!
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Welcome to Issue 09, where childhood obsessions, unchecked impulses, and unbridled freedom collide into a playground for the parts of ourselves we usually hide. Come in and stay awhile— take a look around!
Here, you’ll fnd expression liberated from logic, neon dreams, suspended disbelief, and memories reshaped with a maximalist hand. You’ll fnd play and performance, chaos and confession, with whimsy encouraged and caution discarded. In this issue, we asked ourselves: what happens when we take the rulebook, tear it to shreds, and bedazzle the scraps?
This is Issue 09: Anything Goes.
More than just a theme, “Anything Goes” became our ethos. We had the most memorable time getting wacky in this issue— the perfect way to end our four wonderful years with Strike Magazine. Strike has challenged us, encouraged us to take risks, and pushed what we thought we were capable of, both creatively and as people. It has been such a treat to get to experience this with such a dear friend. We are so lucky!!!!
What a gift it has been to make weird, wonderful things with you, Strike Magazine. Thank you for trusting us, for inspiring us, and for being down for the strange and the striking. Being your Editors-in-Chief has been the greatest joy of all.
So… for the last time…
Strike Out,
Elena Egge and Bailey Herman Strike St. Louis Editors-In-Chief
STAFF
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF
Elena Egge & Bailey Herman
CREATIVE DIRECTORS
Trey Hepp & Ange Muyumba
ART DIRECTOR
Chandra Phenpimon
ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Violet Holah
ASSISTANT CREATIVE DIRECTOR
Lé-Anne Johnson
Lily Pecoriello
ADVISOR List
SHOOT COORDINATORS
Violet DeLuca
Faheem Rahman
Nina Rosell
Nora Bare
Tatum Goforth
Margo Ogrosky
ASSISTANT
ART DIRECTOR
Madison Wang
STYLING DIRECTORS
Hannah Hollingsworth
Shira Pinker
BEAUTY DIRECTOR
Olivia Slemmer
WRITING DIRECTOR
Riley Card
ASSISTANT
WRITING DIRECTOR
Harper Moothart
BLOG DIRECTORS
Emily Bekesh
Jordan Siegel
ASSISTANT
BLOG DIRECTOR
Natalia Jamula
PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR
Zoe Pessin
MUSIC DIRECTOR
Ariel Grossman
SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR
Nikki Nguyen
PR DIRECTOR
Anara Pollak
FINANCE & OPERATIONS DIRECTOR
Jenny Rong
DIGITAL DESIGNERS
Estelle Rosenblatt
Hana Rust
Lumi Lee
Zahra Sarwono
Avery Ominsky
Sophie Miller Vivienne Chung
Paisley Flamenbaum
Camila Fermin
Maggie Crimmins
Kayla McKenzie
EDITORIAL DESIGNERS
Julia Cheon
Margo Ogrosky
Kaila Brooks
Evelyn Lee
Claire Yang
Grace Chung
Sophie Lee
Naomi Turk
Ava Jones
Lexi Bonham Walsh
Valentina Prieto-Black
Arianna Shekhani
ILLUSTRATORS
Avery Ominsky
Michaela Sewall
Ingrid Lyons-Carlson
Ailisa McGowan
FASHION DESIGNER
Jaqueline Isaacson
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Emily Lapidus
Dominique Reinhart
Gabriella Cullen
Nina Bergman
Olivia Barrett
Claire Yang
Rayna Auerbach
Zoe Oppenheimer
Charlotte Allison
Lakshmi Mulgund
Violet DeLuca
Lavina Grzymajlo
VIDEOGRAPHERS
Alice Lee
Lavina Grzymajlo
Ella Doppke
Grace Chung
STYLISTS
Asia Turner
Evelyn Pae
Jacqueline Isaacson
Aaliya Malhotra
Hana Rust
Claudine Noel
Gillian Nevins-Saunders
Sooah Lee
Revha Menon
Soobin Ahn
Seoin Chloe Yang
Ashton Burgess
Isabella Solorzano
Nadia Watson
MAKEUP & HAIR
Julia Mills
Irene Zhou
Claudine Noel
Tahlia Lamour
Grace Pindel
Sasha Pecoriello
Saivee Ahuja
Jasmin Wu
Nadia Watson
WRITING TEAM
Katie Holland
Audrey Langston-Weiwbe
Cordelia Ramsey
Jasmine Najari
Seth Skiles
Sadie Rosen
BLOG WRITERS
Doris Lamour
Riley Meltz
Ashton Burgess
Kyra Sorkin
Mika Kipnis
Sophie Miller
Paisley Flamenbaum
Ben Stull
EDITORS
Liora Raimondi
Ella Doppke
Mika Kipnis
Kyra Sorkin
Emma Linden
PR TEAM
Sarah Terry
Sierra Ma
Sasha Pecoriello
Emi Newman
Hannah Bess
SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM
Anna Miller
Eva Simonte
Maria Brooks
Helen Kim
Soobhin Ahn
Julia Mills
Helen Kim
Ben Stull
Kyra Meyer
FINANCE TEAM
Tanvi Jammula
Isabella Solorzano
10 22 it Back ! Run WHAT EVEN HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?!
Big Girl Tea Party
38 52 EXPRESS YOURSELF clown car
R
T UN
BA CK !
Shoot Director
Violet DeLuca
Writing
Audrey Langston-Weibe
Design
Chandra Phenpimon
Vale Prieto-Black
Photography
Olivia Barrett
Rayna Auerbach
Videography
Ella Doppke
Styling
Ashton Burgess
Aaliya Malhotra
Sooah Lee
Hair & Makeup
Julia Mills
Bailey Herman
Lily Pecoriello
Olivia Slemmer
Featuring
Vale Prieto-Black
Alice Lee
Olivia Slemmer
Emily Lapidus
Iwas born beneath an indigo sky— Or so my mother would say.
An indigo child, With ancient eyes and a tender, restless heart.
Placed on this Earth, already knowing its secrets; With a soul too wise and a body too small.
I believed her every word.
I folded my dreams into little envelopes; Slipped them into the knotted bark of trees, And hid them beneath my pillow.
These letters were addressed to fairies. With hope fowing from my heart, These long, carefully crafted letters, Filled with questions no one else could ask—
“Have you ever felt you didn’t belong?”
These questions—no one else could answer.
They were bigger than this world, after all. I, too, longed to be part of something grand.
My mother once told me, “If you close your eyes and swing high enough… You’ll feel like you’re fying.”
And oh, how I soared.
The open sky cradled me, the air kissed my cheeks, and for a few precious moments, I believed I had wings.
But as time passed, things changed. The letters fell silent, The tree knots, now empty, And no swing ever lifted me as high.
I learned to pause, To think ahead, To steady myself before a fall.
My mother murmured that something had stolen her indigo child—
That the color had drained from my sky, Yet, when the sun dips low and the world melts away, And the canvased sky is painted in streaks of pink and purple,
I see whispers of that deep, quiet indigo. It seeps back in.
I close my eyes, I swing high, And I know—
I am forever an indigo child.
For a few precious moments, I believed I had
wings
My wishes couldrealize wonders, them I’d whisper into wind the
When the tooth fairy fnally paid her visit, I had already left her a note— Not for coins or trinkets, but rather, a bold wish:
I asked her to make me a fairy.
They called me a social butterfy, My imaginary wings streaked in pink and purple hues. But I craved something more.
I didn’t want to futter in paper wings, Fashioned from paper and ribbon. No, I wanted to soar with real wings, Shimmering and strong.
I dreamed of letting the wind vibrate through my bones, Of lifting of the ground, Of dancing through the sky, My arms outstretched, my heart unburdened.
But alas, they’d tease, I was told to “tone it down... Just to tone it down sometimes.”
But how could I?
When the dawn exploded in pink, and nightfalls rest in purple? Everything was so colorful.
The world’s watercolor shades bled through my mind.
I believed in fairies, leprechauns, and a hearty dose of magic.
My wishes could realize wonders, I’d whisper them into the wind; Trusting they’d ride on dandelion seeds.
And for the longest, most whimsical while, It seemed the world believed in me too.
I used to race through the backyard woods, Climbing up trees, reaching just to feel taller.
I’d spin until the wind roared louder than laughter, Until I could lift of the ground.
…I swore I could lift of the ground.
Then, in some sick twist of fairy tale fate, Everything shifted.
The colors softened, the stories blurred, And my cherished wings were tucked away.
“It’s time to grow up,” they insisted, They claimed I already had wings, But somehow, that was never enough.
And now, I fnally see why.
Wings, they’re not just for fying— They’re for becoming.
Wi ll I eve
gr o wn ?
I
a strong girlthen.
I was am a strong girl now.
Ionce craved everything under the sun:
Apple juice, water, ice, milk, prune juice, and orange juice—
Lined up on the table was a squadron of little glass soldiers.
Why choose just one, If you could have the whole brigade?
I dreamed of being a princess— and why couldn’t I be? There was pink, there was orange, With soft stretches of tulle curling around me, dancing, Like the warm rays of a lazy afternoon sun.
The world was enchanted; it glowed in golden hues, Wrapping me up in an everlasting hug.
In its arms was promised safety. There, I was safe.
I, too, was a hugger; A conqueror who’d tackle and engulf. Back then, I shared everything, Even the crown atop my head.
“This is my crown,” I’d smile and say, “I’ll share it with you—just please, Don’t give it to the tooth fairy with futtering wings.”
See, your oferings will be turned into coins.
I’ve learned that things vanish when you blink, Everything seems to disappear.
These days, I hold on a little tighter. I ruled my little palace—
Overlooking a backyard of grassy, rolling hills, Perched atop my plush, pillow-soft throne. The carpet beneath me was velvet, My stufed animal court obeyed my every whim.
Everything had a place, Their own rightful spot.
And for me?
The tiny empress of a bright and simple world.
Time, though, plays tricks And with it, my kingdom, The crown, the certainty, it all slipped away.
One day, I just wasn’t three anymore.
If I could, I would stack my words Until they were high enough for me to climb.
Perhaps I could climb back into my tower, Where everything felt like it was mine; bright, simple, and mine.
I lost my crown, But I can fnd it again.
See, the magic was never really lost,
It just needs to be rediscovered.
“I was a strong girl then,” I say, And “I am a strong girl now.”
Well, I was a strong girl;
Ipainted my walls indigo, a deep, velvety hue, Rendered in thick, uneven strokes. It invited you to lose yourself in its heavy, mottled cascade. And lose myself, I did.
I thought it would help.
I documented everything, Saturating the world with my ever-changing self. Through daily posts, shaky videos, and fltered selfes, I, too, invited everyone in.
“Guess who’s ready for school” “Double tap if you can’t wait for the weekend!”
Shout me out, like me. Notice me. Tell me I exist.
I wanted to be seen.
I clung to a perfect rubber mustache, With its sweet elastic aroma and its tantalizing grooves, Faithfully, it stayed by my side—my constant sidekick. Until one careless boy broke it in one fell swipe, He tore my eraser and split it right in two.
“You broke my mustache!” I cried,
Turning tragedy into ammo, It was a tongue-in-cheek joke, Though it wasn’t actually—not quite.
I was devoted to my craft, to my art. Cementing the moments meant to be cherished, I sought movement, shape, and negative space.
Yet, once the negatives began, I was engulfed.
The posts slowed, My stories faded, And I surrendered myself, To a mere snapshot of who I once was.
One day, I’ll properly grow up,
And maybe then, I’ll be fne. But it seems that I keep growing. …Will I ever be grown?
“The real world sucks.”
My friends look back and laugh, Recounting the wild days, The whirlwind of what I once was— Of what she once was:
How she was crazier, louder, How she wanted so much. And sometimes, she comes back.
When she does, I invite her in. It’s satisfying to meet her gaze, To let her see who I’ve become.
And one day, looking at her, I whispered with an odd certainty,
That “for some reason, I feel strong.”
The whirlwind of what I once was...
SHOOT DIRECTOR
PHOTOGRAPHY
Emily Lapidus
Trey Hepp
Lavina Grzymajlo
WHAT EVEN HAPPENED
WRITING
VIDEOGRAPHY
Nina Rosell
Tatum Goforth
Jasmine Najari
Lavina Grzymajlo
STYLING
Jacqueline
HAIR & MAKEUP
LAST NIGHT ?!!?!!!!
FEATURING
WILD CELEB PARTY!
Tattoos, Secret Lovers, and a Total Nightmare Unfolds
Hollywood’s most exclusive party of the season started as a glamorous, star-studded afair—but it quickly descended into absolute chaos. From impromptu tattoos to an unexpected new romance and a spectacle that left A-listers in stunned silence, this night will be talked about for years.
A Tattoo Artist… or a Walking Fever Dream?
Deep in the VIP lounge, an unsettling fgure lurked. He was tall and gaunt, and his elongated face cast eerie shadows under the neon lights. No one knew his name, but that didn’t stop the biggest names in the industry from lining up to get inked by him. Some say it was the thrill of mystery, others suggest it was the open bar clouding their judgment. Either way, by the end of the night, Hollywood’s newest heartthrobs walked out with entire neon dolphin sleeves, snake skin prints, and STRIKE tramp stamps—and the expression of a man who had just realized he made a terrible mistake.
The tattoos weren’t just bad. They were surreal. A renowned pop singer now has a grotesque, misshapen butterfy crawling up her forearm. One A-list actor, known for his carefully curated image, was overheard frantically asking, “Is this… permanent?” It was.
Ghostface’s New Romance Sends Shockwaves Through Hollywood
No one saw this coming.
Ghostface, the tormented enigma whose haunted expression has captivated the world for over a century, arrived arm-in-arm with an unknown partner, clad head to toe in black leather. The two whispered to each other in the corner, clearly an intense convo. At one point, Ghostface clutched their chest, whether from love or existential dread, no one could say. Uh oh, looks like there’s trouble in paradise….
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Ghostface has never been publicly linked to anyone—so who was this shadowy fgure? Were they a dark infuence, pulling the tortured icon further into despair? Or had Ghostface, after all these years, fnally found a kindred spirit? The mystery only deepened when, moments before leaving, the new couple was seen engaged in what looked like a heated argument—before vanishing into the night.
A Night of Chaos and Flames
Just as the party hit its peak, disaster struck. Fireworks—indoor freworks—erupted out of nowhere, sending shrieks through the crowd. Glass shattered. Someone tripped and took an entire table of drinks down with them. Amidst the chaos, the reigning queen of pop stood frozen in horror, clutching her martini as she screamed, “Is this performance art?!”
No one had an answer.
As the smoke cleared, the wreckage became apparent. The venue was in shambles. A major director, dazed and covered in champagne, kept muttering about “a sign from the universe.” And in the center of it all, the horse-faced tattoo artist stood over his latest victim—carving the fnal lines of an ominous, jagged symbol onto the back of a drunk actor’s hand.
THE PARTY WAVE CHAOS
If the impromptu tattoos and Ghostface’s scandalous new romance weren’t enough, what happened next sent the night spiraling into pure insanity.
Somewhere between the indoor freworks disaster and the arrival of yet another uninvited masked fgure (seriously, who was vetting the guest list?), the party took an even more surreal turn. The DJ, perhaps inspired by the utter breakdown of decorum, cranked up the bass and unleashed a full-on tsunami of bodies into the center of the dance foor.
A party wave had begun.
It started small—a few overenthusiastic socialites jumping onto the arms of their assistants. Then, chaos. The wave grew, A-listers, infuencers, and industry moguls alike hoisted into the air, passed over the crowd like a bizarre ofering to the party gods. The weight of fame proved too much, and soon, entire groups were being tossed, limbs failing, toward the far end of the room.
Security tried to intervene, but they were no match for the sheer force of celebrity hedonism. One critically acclaimed director was seen screaming as they were fung directly onto a table of caviar. A chart-topping rapper was spun upside down midair before vanishing into a sea of fashing cameras. Even Hollywood’s most unshakable It-Girl— known for her icy composure—was seen clinging to a chandelier, her thousand-dollar heels lost to the madness below.
CELEBS SWEPT AWAY —LITERALLY
The Aftermath
By morning, Hollywood’s elite were left picking up the pieces—some with regrets, others with permanent ink to remind them of the night they’d rather forget. Ghostface’s mystery partner remains unidentifed. The tattoo artist has disappeared without a trace. And the question on everyone’s lips remains: was this party a masterpiece of chaos… or a warning?
One thing is certain—this wasn’t just another celebrity bash. This was something else entirely. And whatever it was, it’s far from over.
clown car
WRITING DESIGN ILLUSTRATION
Chandra Phenpimon
Evelyn Lee
Micheaela Sewall
Ailisa McGowan
Katie Holland
A slate-gray Honda Civic–the old body style, circa 1998—sends drops of brown sludge spraying against the garage walls of three neighbors. Two of them cook two separate dinners in two kitchens on two diferent foors.
The other neighbor, Blake, sits inside his Civic, one of seven passengers. The seven, bonded in brotherhood like handkerchiefs tied in a long knotted rope, come in an assortment of colors and patterns. The passenger door ricochets of the garage wall as a purple polka-dotted fgure opens it. A green, yellow, and orange striped fellow follows him.
Well brother we’ve done it. We’ve graduated clown school.
“Hey watch the door!”
“Like you care about this piece of shit car”
The turd’s owner, Blake, does care. He worked three summers at the CVS down the street to buy it in cash before starting his higher education. Blake’s brother, James, knows this like he knows Blake’s temper, and he swings his door behind the driver’s seat open. Now James, in purple paisley, followed by a clown with the biggest cherry-red nose since Richard Nixon, trailed by a third with purple and yellow mismatched shoes, ftted for Shaq but fated for a 5’6” guy from Carmel, Indiana. The last bounds out of the Civic’s back row in a bright blue blazer blackened at the pits. He blubbers:
“I just need a little water for my fower lapel pin and then we can take of!”
All the clowns but one, Blake, still sat in the driver’s seat, nod in doleful understanding. Blake’s eyes fx on the brick garage wall in front of him as he mutely tosses his keys to no one through the open car door behind him. The keys land on the foor in a pool of melted ice, probably composed of acid rain and pesticides. Blue blazer stoops for the keys, wetting the edges of his suit coat on the way down. James, his face painted white as a suburban fence, motions them inside, staying back himself, and their feet drift and slip across the slate of ice pressed between the apartments’ garage and the back entrance. The screen door pushes against each clown’s backside—pop bop pop—as they fle inside to fll the fower lapel pin. The fnal slam of the door by force-happy purple polka dots unfocuses Blake’s eyes as they dart to his side mirror. His brother’s comically high-hung orange pants seem close enough to touch.
Blake raises his black-gloved hand instantly to open his door, the other foats to the back pocket of his black pleated trousers to a pack of cigars his father mailed to him for the occasion: graduation.
“Well brother we’ve done it. We’ve graduated clown school”
Blake, the older of the two, gets out of the car, boring into James’ deep brown eyes that spring out of the blue face paint circling them like glasses with forgotten frames. James says nothing as he towers over his older brother in the crammed garage; he just reaches into the deep pocket of his paisley shirt to grab the lighter he bought at CVS for the occasion. A beat passes, then another.
“We’ve done it, and now what, huh”
Blake speaks again, his black greased hair mirroring the black ovals etched around his white, white painted face; his white jacket with white tails and black edges pairs well with his stark face.
“Well, now we’re clowns. Now we do our two-brother clown show.”
“At what? At children’s birthday parties”
“Well yes, and at our other gigs.”
“What fucking gigs.” Blake demands no answer. Blake’s just angry.
James imagines steam pouring out of his brother’s ears, fltering through the stringy hair that hangs of Blake’s scalp like threadbare curtains. James imagines the steam stinks.
“Well, we just have to build our business up.”
And at the same time, Blake’s gray eyes jump violently out of their black-paint cages, and the words lash out too: “Now we’ve done it, now we’ve done it, we’re clowns. We’re fucking clowns— ”
“—I’m fucking my girlfriend—”
“—we’ve graduated clown school and now what? We’re going to be clowns and what is there to look forward to?”
White hollows puf out of James’ mouth and foat up as he stares at his black-and-white brother. “Well, to being clowns, and to loving our jobs— ”
“—and to having no money—”
James’ words start to pound now. “—and to having wives and families and the lives we’ve always dreamed of.”
“And so what? What will I have? People in my life and no goals? Just people, family, and all. I’ll have no money, no respect, all I’ll have, all I am will be a fucking clown.”
James’ eyes bores into Blake’s. The screen door begins its popping—pop bop pop
“You’re not a fucking clown, you’re a sad clown.”
pop pop.
All I have, all I am, will be a fucking clown. You're not a fucking clown, you're a sad clown.
BIG GIRL Tea Party
SHOOT DIRECTOR
Faheem Rahman
Nora Bare
WRITING
Sadie Rosen
PHOTOGRAPHY
Charlotte Allinson
Dominique Reinhardt
Grace Chung
Gabriella Cullen
VIDEOGRAPHY
Grace Chung
STYLING
Soobin Ahn
Claudine Noel
Gillian Nevins-Saunders
HAIR AND MAKEUP
Saivee Ahuja
Irene Zhou
FEATURING
Claudine Noel
Ava Shropshire
Gbemi Folayan
DESIGN
Madison Wang
Chandra Phenpimon
The Doll House Effect
“How fucking obnoxious,” Isla whispered to Olivia, her manicured fngers wrapped around a pink champagne fute rather than the delicate porcelain teacup in front of her.
Olivia snorted, trying to suppress a laugh, but the rosé had already gone to her head. Across the table, Becca was dramatically retelling the story of her latest situationship, waving a tiny sandwich in the air like a prop. Becca, as always, was “fucking on her ex.”
“And then – get this – he pulled her in by the waist and kissed her. Right in front of me. Looking into my eyes.”
Becca paused, looking around expectantly, waiting for her audience to be appropriately horrifed. Olivia gasped on cue, but Isla just stared at her, unimpressed. She proceeded to roll her eyes, twirling a strand of her perfectly curled hair around one fnger.
“Becca,” she sighed, “I love you, I really do, but please try—just try—to have a shred of dignity. I’m begging.”
Becca scofed, clutching her chest like she’d just been punched. “Excuse me?”
Isla took a slow sip of her champagne. “It’s just exhausting, you know? Watching you act surprised every time he treats you like a doormat when you lie down in front of the door.”
Olivia let out a strangled laugh, immediately covering her mouth, champagne escaping her lips and dribbling onto her dress.
Isla barely spared Olivia a glance, keeping her gaze locked on Becca, who looked like she was about to either throw her drink or choke Isla.
Becca’s face reddened, the color slowly spreading down her neck. She set down her fnger sandwich, stood up, and stared at Isla, blinking rapidly, as if trying to process the sharpness of the words. “Are you seriously comparing me to a doormat right now?” she stammered, her head cocked to the side.
Isla, meanwhile, had begun humming quietly to herself, inspecting her manicured nails. “A doormat, a rug, a carpet,” Isla mused aloud, smirking.
The table of girls grew silent—not a giggle, not a whisper, not even a drunken scoff from Olivia. Isla turned to look at Becca, waiting for the inevitable outburst.
But Becca was gone.
Isla blinked rapidly, her humming faltering, as she took in the empty seat where Becca once sat. No discarded champagne glass, no half-eaten sandwich—just a tattered little doll in Becca’s pink frilly dress, propped up neatly in her place. Its glass eyes, wide and unblinking, stared straight ahead as if it had been sitting there all along.
A Becca baby doll.
It’s probably just the champagne, thought Isla … or maybe the mushrooms … potentially the mixture of the two? Her gaze narrowed on the doll in front of her. It hadn’t been there a second ago. Isla’s mind raced, trying to piece it together, but the room felt... of. She shook her head, her thoughts becoming muddled. It’s just the mushrooms, she reassured herself. The champagne too, defnitely a bad combination.
Isla squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fngers to her temples as if she could manually smooth out the distortion in her mind. When she opened them again, Olivia was still sitting next to her, but something was diferent. Her expression was frozen, her head tilted slightly to the side as if mid-laugh — and she was about an eighth of the size she was two minutes ago.
Isla reached out hesitantly, placing a hand on Olivia’s arm.
Isla’s breathing quickened as she turned her gaze to the rest of the table. Where her so-called friends once sat, now there were only dolls, their tiny hands resting just so on their laps or around their champagne futes.
Isla scrambled to her feet, knocking over her chair in the process. Then suddenly, a familiar voice spoke to her.
“Isla, it’s time to come inside now. Playtime is over, honey.”
“Who are you?” Isla whispered, even though she already knew.
Isla looked down at her hands, expecting her champagne fute, manicured nails, and her fowy tea gown. Instead, a plastic tea cup sat in her grasp, sticky fngers gripping its faded rim. Her sun-bleached princess dress barely reached her knees, tulle scratchy against her skin. This wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
“C’mon sweetie,” said the grey-haired woman standing in the doorway. “You’ve had enough outdoor time for today.”
Isla complied, walking through the rickety door the woman held open, her head down.
As she crossed the threshold, her mother shut the door to the outside world once again.
Instead of warm skin, she felt hard plastic.
It’s probably just the champagne...
Perhaps playtime tomorrow would bring escape, but Isla had a sinking feeling...
she’d be playing this game
FOREVER.
IT’S SOMETHING STRONGER THAN COMMUNITY. IT’S A SPIRIT.
The spirit is buzzing when we enter Field Club Media, a collective arts studio on St. Louis’ revered Cherokee Street. On the cluttered table–books, magazines, camera equipment, incense, office supplies, and a rolling tray lay kinetic, awaiting use. Paint trays and rollers, tarps, ladders, canvases, and bags adorn the foor while clashing music plays overhead.
UltraViolet dresses in the back room, stepping out occasionally to ask for opinions on her outfts–some items are homemade by her father, some are bought from costume shops, designers, or even beauty supply stores, but all are divine. Shiny, intricate, pearly, and decadent frocks drape her body, leaving little to the imagination. “I love fashion… and I just happen to be pretty too… I love to wear no clothes, so I’ve always been like: ‘what’s the least amount of clothing I can wear without being nude,’” UltraViolet explained while describing how being nearly naked, as Ultraviolet, makes her feel empowered –“She lets me have that outlet.”
“I think [drag has] defnitely let me become the person I’ve wanted to be,” she said later. Having done drag for seven years, since she was 14, UltraViolet talks about growing up gay, surrounded by fashion and dolls. “Realizing that I can become that is kind of amazing, in my eyes.”
KELLI DIAMONDS
Kelli Diamonds enters shortly after, already adorned in a showgirl leotard dripping with crystals and stoned to the nines. Expressing a similar sentiment to Ultraviolet, she says, “[Drag] brought the real version of me out. It’s the reason I’m comfortable being [myself]” That’s why, she says, it’s imperative that, in the face of the current political sentiment on drag, the community must persevere. “We know how to fght it now,” she says of her community. “I’ve never felt safer here…The community keeps us safe, we keep each other safe.”
After some solo shots of the two queens and general zhuzhing, heads turn as Maxi Glamour, a pioneer in the St. Louis drag community, enters the studio space. A bundle of royal blue, sumptuous fabrics, and refractive gold, their mystic presence appears like something out of a surrealist daydream. “I’m not trying to pass as a woman. I’m barely trying to pass as a human,” Glamour says when discussing their drag aesthetic.
I’VE NEVER FELT SAFER HERE…THE COMMUNITY KEEPS US SAFE.
I LOVE FASHION…
AND I JUST HAPPEN TO BE PRETTY TOO
PRAYFORSICKLY
The drag community is evident in the way that the queens fall into lockstep, naturals in front of the camera and among each other. While they work, the artist Sickly, who painted the mural backdrop, shares his experience in artist communities throughout his life.
“I was enabled by people who were in my environment to be more myself,” he says. Sickly grew up in Missouri, coming into St. Louis on occasion, where he would thrift, eventually entering into the creative underground scene. “When you tap in with what’s going on in your city…you’ll always have something to do because someone’s always trying to do something.”
“That changes the game when other people are willing to share the spotlight with you,” he says of the community and his entrance into it. He hopes to return the favor by “recognizing who’s real… Tagging them in.”
Sickly just launched his clothing brand Ghoul Ambrose. He says that when people wear his clothing, “...what I want them to take away is you can do this too…and what I want them to take away is ‘damn I might have a story to tell,’ because everyone has a story to tell no matter where you’re from. And your story is important, it’s valuable.”
When asked what it means to make art, specifcally drag, in the current climate, all of the queens are frm. Kelli Diamonds talks about the fear she experienced when she began drag, saying, “When I frst started drag, I felt the same fears that I [feel] now.” However, she later adds, “I already know how to combat it, I’m not scared this time…I’m not gonna let this slide.”
ULTRAVIOLET
UltraViolet touches on self preservation by saying it’s important “to not give a fuck, to really not care. You can’t let what other people say dictate what you do.” She also acknowledges the strength of drag itself. “I love art and art is going to continue on no matter the art form.” Continue on it has, and it will continue further as queer artists break into the mainstream and make unapologetically queer art. UltraViolet, who opened for Chappell Roan in 2024, speaks to the importance of a star like Chappell supporting and recognizing drag’s infuence: “The sky is the limit. There’s nothing you can’t do. She’s the perfect representative of that… she’s driving the car.”
Aided by popular media and stars like Chappell, there is a marked diference in the appearance of drag and its audience today versus ffteen years ago. Commenting on that phenomenon, Maxi says, “When I started doing drag it was underground.” They share, “Drag was gay people, it was queer people that went to the bar as a way of community building, and, like, a safe place; drag has shifted to a spot where we see drag brunches everywhere, where a lot of the audience members aren’t even queer.”
Though the drag scene has exploded nationally, due both to popular media and political backlash, St. Louis remains its own niche that extends beyond drag into all art spheres.
“It’s heavily cultured here in a very niche and unique way. It’s St. Louis culture,” Kelli Diamonds says when asked about the St. Louis scene.
“We need to catch up,” UltraViolet says. “We need to realize the scale of drag now, whether that’s because of Drag Race, or that’s because of popstars… I think it just needs to catch up a little bit.”
Still, she speaks afectionately of the St. Louis tradition, despite calls for change: “It’s lovely, tradition is lovely, knowing your roots is lovely, but it’s like… we need to also keep that, but keep in mind that everything’s changing all the time,” she says.
of breaking away from tradition in favor of evolution and fuidity. They say, “I think St. Louis has a very southern, pageantry system. A lot of my drag has been antithetical to that… and I think that I have seen the mainstream cultural structures of drag in St. Louis intentionally rebel against it to create a space for other weirdos… I’ve seen its shift and it’s great… it changed me, I don’t know… it made me.”
Sickly agrees that there is something happening in St. Louis he’s contributing to, saying, “I’ve been driven to tears several times over these last couple months because I’ve seen how what I’m doing, this little vision that I had, is afecting people in a positive way. People are like ‘man, I’m starting to believe in myself.’ That’s what we need, that’s what the world needs.”
However, when asked about subculture, he says, “I don’t know if I would call it a counterculture or a subculture. I think it is the culture. Because, like, everybody that’s doing shit in diferent places, they’re really taking it from us. So like… I don’t know if I like the term subculture, cause like… this is the culture.”
THIS IS THE CULTURE.
