The WALK Fall/Winter 2021/22

15th anniversary

CA PSULE issue the

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Copyright c 2022 The WALK Magazine. All rights reserved. Stories edited by the editorial staff will carry bylines of the original author. Unless noted otherwise, all content is produced by The WALK teams. Please report corrections to thewalkmag@gmail.com. We will post corrections on our website, at www.thewalkmag.com.

The University of Pennsylvania’s premier fashion magazine, The WALK was founded in 2006 as a student initiative and continues to be a student fueled organization. The WALK Online was launched in 2010 as a sister to the print edition. The WALK aims to satisfy our community’s widely-demanded fashion fix year-round.

To get involved or learn about advertising and partnership opportunities, please contact us at thewalkmag@gmail.com.

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FALL/WINTER 2021/22 Grace Wu Editor-in-Chief Ania Swider, Sam Braffman Creative Directors Pia Singh Videography Director Bebe Hodges Editorial Director

Krishna Sivakumar Finance Director

Catherine Liu, Chelsea Cheng Art and Design Directors

Emily Liu, Christina Whittingham Operations Directors

Lindsey Randall Social Media Director

Kennedy Benjamin, Olivia de Rezende Marketing Directors

Bella Ozomaro Website Director

Sara Rex Photography Director

EDITORIAL Fashion Editor Celine Sevgi Okcu • People’s Editor Karen Pan Copy Editors Rebecca Redlich, Hannah Zhao, Darya Ameri, Eunice Chong Writers Aakruti Ganeshan, Adelyn Chen, Emily Liu, Grace Holden, Lucas Brienza, Navya Janga, Kathleen Chen, Sara Heim PHOTOGRAPHY Photographers Nathaly De La Paz, Julia Deng, Adrianna Brusie, Elisa Zhang, Oceania Eshraghi, Erica Xin, Intel Chen, Olivia Kim, Yujia Vanessa Huang, Daniel Shi, Sarah Yoon VIDEOGRAPHY Videographers Taeyeon Kim, Rene Chen, Savannah Stone • Video Editors Sofika Janak, Liv Cook, Mea Ayers ART AND DESIGN Illustrators Vivienne Chen, Margaux Games, Nova Meng, Christopher Kwok, Sheehwa You, Misheel Soyol-Erdene, Agatha Raganas • Designers Mea Ayers, Isabel Liang, Allison Tsai, Isha Bhandaru, Cecily Nishimura STYLING AND BEAUTY Beauty Stylists Parvati Ragoobeer, Kaday Kamara, Anna Naggar, Darlene Sam, Olivia de Rezende, Shar Shojaian Fashion Stylists Judy Liu, Dylan Walker, Vincent Paik, Rebecca Radlich, Ellen Manford, Jojo Buccini, Cecily Nishimura, Megha Raman, Egret Jin, Zaria Dancer, Victoria Rosa, Jennifer Ahn, Ivy Deng, Connor Brandon, Victoria de la Rosa FINANCE Senior Analysts Odyssia Sifounaki, Amanda Cohn Analysts Vivian Wang, Paige Hosbein, Zaria Dancer, Eunice Chong, Rachel Ker, Rika Yamauichi, Vivian Zhu, Sarah Li, Claudia Bellacosa OPERATIONS Operations Coordinators Valentina Chang, Dylan Walker Merch Designer Misheel Soyol-Erdene • Social Chairs Maathangi Nellicherry, Sam Salcedo Martinez The WALK ONLINE Website Managing Director Lana Salloum • Website Manager JooChan Shin Fashion Editors Adelyn Chen, Eunice Chong, Lola Thrower • Fashion Writers Jamie Song, Sarah Bender, Zoe Millstein, Eugenia Xu, Sophia Powell, Cali Gaer • Culture Editors Navya Janga, Grace Holden • Culture Writers Hannah Bernstein, Suzanne Liu, Gabrielle Galchen, Adanna Mogbo, Mallika Tatavarti • Health & Beauty Editor Lana Salloum • Health & Beauty Writer Natalie McTigue • Website Creative Director Julia Deng • Beauty Stylists Nicole Ng, Hannah Lee • Apparel Stylists Zaria Dancer, Christopher Kwok, Yasmin Llano Astacio, Josephine Buccini • Photographers/Videographers Erica Xin, Olivia Kim MARKETING Event Coordinators Caroline Kaplan, Sofia Graziano, Solunna Nwankwo, Giselle Wagner Brand Outreach Coordinators Sofia Graziano, Sofia de la Sierra SOCIAL MEDIA Social Media Content Producers Oceania Eshraghi, Jaya Krishnan, Mahaa Ayub, Hansie Wang, Sarah Bender, Eliza Fogel, Chase Kelley, Heather Shieh, Mohammad Ragheb Foroutan Nasab Social Media Engagement Managers Stella Hung, Maathangi Nellicherry, Meredith Devine, Harper Nguyen, Margarita Matta

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Have Your Fruit and Eat It Too

Food fight anyone? The WALK gets playful in our vintage-inspired shoot. Inspired by A Moveable Feast (Winter 2012).

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She Talks The WALK A Q&A with the founder of The WALK.

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Fight Back Like A Woman

How “Red (Taylor’s Version)” redefines heartbreak as female power.

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The Sanitation of Reality TV How reality TV is trapped in a different time.

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Must Have Pieces for Your Capsule Wardrobe What to add to your closet for countless looks.

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The In-Between

Where are you at 4am? Taking a look at the unseen hours. Inspired by Interlude (Fall 2016).

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Fashionista in the Making Q&A with NYC model Amya Powell.

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A Canvas

The body as a canvas, challenging the boundaries of art and fashion. Inspired by Chroma (Fall 2016).

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Inside the Archives

Moore Vintage Archive showcases fashion history in South Philadelphia.

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Style Staples Throwback items here today.

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The TRANSFORMATION Issue Highlights from our Spring 2021 issue.

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cover look: CAPSULE The word capsule envelops you. Its definition is both rigid and malleable: a protective shell for its contents, while in other contexts, used to describe a work of art that embodies its original inspiration, albeit in a rather condensed form.

In honor of the 15 year anniversary of The WALK’s founding, the CAPSULE issue seeks to express that duality. The magazine you hold before you is a physical time capsule of sorts, an artistic manifestation of some of our highlights from the past 15 years. Inspired by the vintage-esque styling from a photoshoot in a 2012 issue, this cover photo embodies the power and experimentation of early 2000’s style, paying homage to the early days of The WALK. It’s an incredible first glance into the time capsule you’ll soon uncover.

View more on page 8.

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editor

Letter from the

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hat does time mean to you? Is it your ally? Your nemesis? Google defines time as “the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole.” Time is omnipresent; we use it as a currency for our identity, relationships, dreams, and beyond. Time is our greatest weapon, allowing us to live in the present, reflect on the past, and anticipate the future. Most importantly, time is non-renewable. It is one of our most valuable resources.

The CAPSULE Issue has been a long time in the making–15 years, to be exact. Since its inception in 2006, The WALK has been following the shifting changes in fashion, revealing hidden messages woven in the fabrics that we choose to wear and express ourselves with. Across the lineages of our publications, we explored up-and-coming trends, raised social commentary into pop culture, and curated a community of creatives that have pushed us to be more adventurous, more abstract, and more disruptive.

Through this issue, The WALK pays homage to the labor of love that our predecessors have paved for us. Kathleen Chen’s (‘25) “She Talks The WALK” features an interview with Lea Artis (‘08), founding member of The WALK and former Executive Editor. In “Inside the Archives”, Sara Heim (‘25) unveils the beauty of preservation with Moore Vintage Archive, a Black and queer-owned business located in the heart of South Philadelphia. Grace Holden (‘24) illuminates the long-standing dichotomy between authenticity and performance in “The Sanitation of Reality TV”. Of course, our pictorials are inspired by past photo essays, which we have embedded within each photoshoot.

Given the turbulences of COVID-19, we also wanted to celebrate the editorial work from our unpublished TRANSFORMATION Issue, spearheaded by former

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Editor-in-Chief Anna Jellinek (‘21) and Editorial Director Bebe Hodges (‘23). Drafted in Spring 2021, these articles convey that change is truly the only constant in our lives, manifesting itself through the dynamics of consumerism, clothes, and our unconventional college experiences.

As you turn each page of The CAPSULE issue, we hope that you will view it as a timeless collection documenting the evolution of our identity in these last 15 years. A heartfelt thank you to The WALK team for collaborating on this special issue and to The WALK alumni for giving us the opportunity to do so. From The WALK family to yours, happy birthday!

Cheers,

Grace Wu (‘22)

THE WALK

WEB FEATURES FALL’21

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she TALKS

the WALK

WE CHECKED IN WITH THE FOUNDER OF THE WALK TO CELEBRATE THE MAGAZINE’S 15TH ANNIVERSARY

BY KATHLEEN CHEN ILLUSTRATION BY CATHERINE LIU DESIGN BY CHELSEA CHENG

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rowing up with the drive of a leader, Lea Artis knew she was going to make her mark during her time at Penn. In just the course of four years, Artis started The WALK. Now 15 years later, the publication has become a mainstay on Locust. Staff writer Kathleen Chen sat down with Artis to talk about what led her to create the first fashion publication on campus and what has changed over time. Artis opened up about the glam and rough sides of starting a fashion magazine, her shock when she found out that Teen Vogue named The WALK a top campus fashion publication and the unexpected ups and downs of post-college life.

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Lea, obviously we know you for your time at Penn, but what was life like before you stepped on campus?

LA: So, I was born in Germany, but I grew up in Las Vegas. We moved because my parents were in the air force. Before coming to Penn, I basically ran everything I was in. I was student body president, I was captain of my competitive cheerleading team.

I was very involved. I went to a magnet school for math and science for junior high and high school. I was cool with math until calculus, and then I went purely to social sciences after that.

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Why did you choose Penn?

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Tell me about starting The WALK. How did this come about?

LA: I applied to 10 different schools, and Penn was a clear choice. I just loved the campus, and I loved Philadelphia. And now I can tell you all of my best friends come from Penn.

LA: Design to Show was the original fashion organization at Penn, and Design to Show was started a year or so before I got there. When I came in fresh out of junior high and high school (I was student body president from elementary school, middle school and high school), I had run sh*t energy. I came into the meetings and basically said, “You are doing it all wrong.”

For a couple of years, I was in Design to Show, and our priority was our fashion show.

During my graduating sophomore year and junior year, I took over Design to Show, and we talked about starting a magazine. We did research after sophomore summer and started to incubate it, and we released our first issue in fall 2006.

The WALK was our child organization as part of Design to Show, so my role in The WALK was the executive editor. I oversaw The WALK. I made sure things happened, I wrote and I handled the creative direction. But there was a whole founding team that helped make The WALK happen.

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What were the team’s goals when starting The WALK? LA: I don’t think we, the founding team, thought in terms of goals. We thought in terms of vision. We produced three to four magazines a year. We did fundraisers, launch parties and spring and fall fashion shows. We were super intense. Our vision was to create something that people liked.

Creating something entirely new comes with its own set of hiccups. What were some challenges you faced in the early years of The WALK? LA: Aw sh*t. Creative differences were always there— always. It was pretty interesting to navigate. We had to find out what our identity was. For our first issue, we had a lot more ambition than our skill sets allowed.

There was this magazine that was very graphic and we wanted to be as creative as that magazine, which was very difficult to do. I am not sure if we executed that as well as we wanted to. There were a lot of growing pains.

We had to find the right structure, voice, we just had a lot to figure out.

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Teen Vogue named The WALK one of the top campus fashion magazines nationally in 2013. How did you react when you found out?

LA: To be honest, I just found out recently. I just saw it and I was like, “Holy sh*t. Wow.” I was humbled and proud. You have to be motivated to be a part of The WALK, so it is pretty incredible to see its legacy and how it continues to evolve.

I love how The WALK is starting to make social commentary, it provides a unique perspective.

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When you established The WALK did you expect that it would be one of Penn’s most established organizations?

LA: No. *laughter* When Grace reached out, I was just like “what.” The responses that I am getting from the alumni list are like “Wow, this is cool.”

None of us thought things would turn out this way because we were just doing it.

Q “I love how The WALK is starting to make social commentary, it provides a unique perspective.”

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Who was in charge after you? And what was their position called?

LA: Rajah __ took over for two years and was president of Design to Show. He made a couple of decisions to alter things, and he could see more from a continuity perspective. He saw how to make things more sustainable and find a balance.

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After passing the torch onto the next leader, what did post-grad look like?

But I think that not getting the job was divine intervention. It redirected me in a very different way. I am from Las Vegas, so I ended up working in casinos. At the same time, I started the Penn alumni club in Las Vegas. I also started Ivy Plus Las Vegas. I started these organizations while trying to figure my sh*t out because we didn’t have any alumni connections there.

Through a Penn connection, I ended up getting a job doing social media for one of the largest casinos and manufacturers. I was there for a couple of years trying to figure out what our digital strategy was and figuring out our social media strategy. After that, I ended up getting a job for the first online poker start-up in the country.

I have been fired maybe two and half times.

The first time I was fired was the HR role at Caesars, and that was not a fit. That is what led me to my social media role. The second time I was fired was an online gaming startup. That was a combination of things--cultural fits and otherwise. I was thinking about leaving. It’s kind of like a bad breakup. It was like who was going to leave who first. One of my mentors calls it a holy eviction.

But I think that was another divine eviction. To thread the needle through the bow, that was the reason I started my own company. I was always thinking about it, but this is what pushed me.

I’m still conceptualizing how to describe my current job because it draws on a wide range of skills and perspectives. I have a background as a strategist and futurist and a background in social entrepreneurship, innovation and impact.

Pretty much, I look at how to make effective change in the world. I am also trained as a coach, a depth practitioner and an alternative therapy practitioner. I do spiritual transformational work as well. So all of that kind of comes together in an interesting synthesis of intellect and intuition

“it is okay to be wrong, not know, run into things, for things not to work out, for things to fall through.”

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What message do you have for current WALK members? To current WALK readers? And to those who want to work in the fashion industry?

LA: I think that there are two messages I want to share. First, it is okay to be wrong, not know, run into things, for things not to work out, for things to fall through. This is the point that I want to make by sharing my story. There is a greater orchestration happening on your behalf. To find out what is there for you. Google search it. Take the next step. It might not be what you think it is, but it will take you in the right direction. Learning to go after what you want is such an important muscle, and listening and following through on that is the number one skill in life.

Secondly, enjoy it. Enjoy the moments you have in front of you. Enjoy being 19, 20 or 21. Enjoy being with your friends. I have had so many incredible relationships with people from Penn, from before I graduated and after. Live the life you want to live.

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Fight Back Like a Woman Taylor Swift’s most recent album re-recording, “Red (Taylor’s Version),” takes a stand for women in the music industry.

BY LUCAS BRIENZA ILLUSTRATION BY MARGAUX GAMES DESIGN BY CHELSEA CHENG

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ctober 2012 let us in on the rollercoaster that is the album “Red,” which features a mosaic of Taylor Swift’s post-breakup emotions with actor Jake Gyllenhaal. A 22-year old Swift felt that the best way to express her heartbreak was through her music; and in doing so, she showed the world the good, the bad and the ugly. But now, almost a decade after the original drop date of “Red,” Swift is re-recording the entire album as well as including 10 new songs. And in the process, she is making a clear point about female empowerment in the music industry.

The whole reason why Swift is going about re-recording “Red” speaks to how she is taking a stand for women, and all musicians, in the industry. As we all know, the masters for some of Swift’s earlier albums were sold without her permission to Scooter Braun, manager of big names like Justin Bieber and Ariana Grande. This meant that when songs from albums like “Fearless” and “Red” were streamed online, the passive income would go to Braun, not Swift.

Swift, rightly so, wasn’t going to let someone—especially without her permission—profit off of her talent, work and most poignantly, heartbreak. So she decided to re-record the albums that were in the sale, hoping her dedicated fans would choose to stream the re-recorded songs over the original tunes so that Braun and his team could no longer profit from her success. She released “Fearless (Taylor’s Version)” in April, followed by “Red (Taylors Version)” in October, with more re-recorded albums on the way. For Swift, the re-recording process was all about taking ownership back.

But the re-recording of “Red” in particular speaks to the way Swift is taking hold of the music industry in a way she

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wasn’t able to before. “Red (Taylor’s Version)” allows Swift to be completely vulnerable and raw with her emotions in a way that she couldn’t while signed to Big Machine Records. We see this especially true for “All Too Well (Ten Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) (From the Vault).” The song tells the rollercoaster ride of Swift and Gyllenhall’s whirlwind relationship, complete with the crashing down of young love allegedly due to Gyllenhall’s flimsy claim that Swift is “too young.”

The 2021 version is 10 minutes long, 4.5 minutes longer than the original,

which may have been shortened to fit radio expectations at the time. As a result, listeners get more of her story, the pain, the heartbreak, and the betrayal in a way that wasn’t there before. The song carries power both for her fans and for herself because it shows that her emotions are no longer in the hands of a record label—she isn’t expected to hide her feelings anymore. “All Too Well (Ten Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) (From the Vault),” like the re-release as a whole, has captured throws of attention because it ingeniously speaks to heartbreak, fragility, gaslighting and the strength of womanhood all at once.

of attentive listeners. Here, Swift’s character has clearly become renowned for the story of her heartbreak, redefining a situation in which she feels betrayed by the man she loved.

“Red (Taylor’s Version)” demonstrates that Swift’s spotlight can’t be overshadowed by music execs who have tried to suppress her artistry. The album also exemplifies the continued relatability and enduring power of Swift’s 2012 album. In 2012, nobody batted an eye at the older men who entered Swift’s life like a revolving door and treated her as a possession to be bid on. Instead, Swift, with her multiple breakup songs, was seen as a girl who bounced around from guy to guy. Today, people are finally starting to consider Swift’s songs as a product of an empowered woman, who speaks out against double standards in relationships and music industry injustices.

“her emotions are no longer in the hands of a record label—she isn’t expected to hide her feelings anymore.”

We even see how empowered Swift has become through the story of her heartbreak in the short film Swift directed, “All to Well: The Short Film.”

Set to the 10-minute song, Dylan O’Brien plays the assumed role of Gyllenhaal, and Sadie Sink plays the role of a young woman, presumably Swift. At the end of the film, Swift makes a cameo, posing as the older version of Sink’s character, several years after the relationship.

She reads a book that shares the song’s title to an audience

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SANITATION of Reality TV

Why “trashy” but nostalgic reality television is sure to remain a thing of the past

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ABS-ing—the act of seeing and being seen—is very much alive in the Penn vernacular: A prime seat in Saxbys or outside the ARCH building lends itself to a grade of social performance perhaps unique to the Social Ivy. Even at such an insignificant level, tucked into a pocket between 34th and 40th streets, to SABS is a perfect case in point for a certain comfort with engineering the desired image of oneself.

A consciously artificial display, a more polished version of our daily routines feigning authenticity: The allure of reality TV rests in its

ability to mirror the well-practiced duality of performing—and claiming not to be. Our joint scorn and guilty enjoyment of reality television emerges because we love to judge “fakeness,” but we’re all engaging in some level of social projection. Reality TV is unapologetic as it captures and monetizes the SABSing we’ve all come into contact with in our daily lives.

“Reality,” with its implication of truth, and “TV,” with its propensity for fiction, already raise the alarms of falsehood. Yet, the reality TV industry is one that has never failed to attract viewers. It is a certified mainstay on all television networks and now, on all streaming platforms.

Despite the continued popularity of reality TV, there has been a noticeable shift toward banality, begging the question of what has changed since the genre’s genesis.

The way I see it, the days of debauchery, screaming fights, authentic chaos and genuine scandal are long gone, trapped in a society shaped by different values and a different media culture. Earlier seasons of “Love Island,” “America’s Next Top Model” and “Jersey Shore” (and for that matter, the messier UK version, “Geordie Shore”), among countless others, mark a phase of reality TV that there is simply no space for today. Nostalgic and locked in time: There is perhaps no going back for guilty-pleasure viewing.

“LOVE ISLAND UK”: FROM A RAUNCHY GENESIS TO A FRANKLY BORING DEMISE

TRAPPED IN TIME...

The burden of being “watched” has become exponentially heavier with the onset of the digital age. The slow descent of “Love Island” from “so bad, it’s good” to “just plain bad” is illustrative of a wider move in reality TV. The British public, waiting with fingers poised to tweet with unbridled aggression at any sign of “game playing,” coupled with a growing consumer culture and awareness of surveillance has changed the face of “Love Island” indefinitely.

As a young woman whose high school years were spent in England, watching “Love Island UK” is close to religious ritual. For six seasons straight, I have been on the front lines, waiting eagerly at 9 p.m. for the unmistakable theme tune, the fluorescent montage of bikini-clad bodies emerging from a swimming pool and the satirically self-aware voiceover of comedian Ian Stirling. The premise of the show is that “Islanders”—beautiful singles plucked from normalcy—live in a villa under constant video surveillance and couple up, playing games and challenges in a bid to win £50,000. Love Island also employs the classic first-person confessional format of reality programming, to gauge reactions and thoughts from contestants throughout.

I can list from memory the dramatic moments which impressed upon me the beautiful chaos of the show, which in 2018 even won a BAFTA award. Season 2 saw Zara Holland losing her Miss Great Britain Crown after having sex on telly, a genuinely intimate personal tragedy televised for the British public. Season 2 also saw Malia Arkian kicked off the show: Tensions ran so high that when fellow contestant Kady McDermott spilled wine on her leg, violence broke out. Fan-favorite Season 3 was host to the single most dramatic Casa Amor recoupling the show has ever seen, with the blows softened by the heart-warming, authentic friendships formed (ahem, Kem Citanay and Chris Hughes).

The Maura, Tommy and Molly-Mae love triangle certainly defined Season 4, but from Season 5 onwards, there are just fewer instances of genuine drama to talk about. Ratings have gone down, relationships warm our hearts a little less and the Twitter fervor is significantly quelled.

All these points of drama, chaos and unbridled human emotion come into stark contrast with the disappointed audience’s reactions to Season 6, which aired this past summer. This reflects the wider downfall of authentic reality TV goodness. So what has changed?

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SEEING AND BEING SEEN: SELF-REGULATION IN ACTION Communications and media experts have analyzed the way surveillance and self-policing play into the scenarios that play out in reality TV programming. In settings like Love Island, there are invisible and tripartite sources of power: the camera, public perception and the looming oversight of corporate recruiters looking for the next new face of Pretty Little Thing. Perhaps over time, these mechanisms of control are just more influential: Seventy-three cameras in the villa leave no moment uncaptured, public perception is made more brutal than ever with social media and post-“Love Island” stars like Molly-Mae and Maura Higgins set new, glamorous goals.

Islanders are more acutely aware of how they will be perceived.

When powers at play are invisible, they must assume it is everywhere, and they begin to self-police. Contestants in earlier seasons wouldn’t do so much to discredit fellow islanders for “game-playing” and were less influenced by the overwhelming success that they could achieve from the show: Interactions were simply more authentic. The slow march toward blandness can thus, in part, be attributed to new assumed expectations of what constitutes “marketable conduct.” An example of this is when Season 6’s Jake Cornish was suspected of playing up his feelings for girlfriend Liberty Poole: after he was suspected of “game playing” he almost immediately elected to leave the show, knowing that he simply couldn’t garner public support now that he had shown awareness that he was part of a gameshow—despite the very obvious cash prize. Authenticity is demanded more and more in a setting that is innately constructed for entertainment. The phrase “I’m here for the right reasons” bounces around villas, big brother houses and the four

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sides of a TV screen, as if it has any meaning at all.

A discussion of “Love Island’s” decline can’t be had without looking toward the show’s tragic failure to provide adequate psychological preparation and follow-up help for contestants. During just six years, two “Love Island” contestants, Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis, have taken their own lives. The passing of the show’s own host, Caroline Flack, is the third suicide attached to “Love Island.” In the past, Love Island has been—rightly and heavily—criticized for ignoring its duty of care. Thus, efforts to regulate the wellness of contestants have been made in more recent seasons. In Season 6, Faye had a breakdown directed toward her boyfriend, Teddy, that resulted in Ofcom complaints and general discomfort among watchers, including myself.

The next day she made an out-of-character apology, almost as if she had actually received the psychological attention she needed. Perhaps reality TV has been stabilized as accountability media has proliferated: Producers are less able to take advantage of the highs and lows of vulnerable contestants for views.

It seems the puzzle of what has injected the “Love Island UK” show with a more mild and nurturing tone is not a hard one to solve.

This is a change for the best, a move toward a kind of corporate wellness that shouldn’t be reversed in the interest of the health of contestants. “Normal people,” thrust into an unforgiving public eye for entertainment purposes, certainly need protection from reality TV

THE KIM KARDASHIAN EFFECT: AN EXCEPTION TO THE RULE? Running for twenty seasons and premiering on the E! cable network in 2007, “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” has always maintained a keen viewership and has won several audience awards. Though the show evolved with the lives and careers of the Kardashian family, it never changed its tone. Ryan Seacrest’s TV venture traced a predicable and watchable structure: The Kardashian-Jenner clan “show[s] off their privileged lifestyle and maybe get into one or two minor family squabbles before ultimately wrapping things up with a monologue that squabbles before ultimately wrapping things up with a monologue that reinforces the importance of family” (as noted by Caroline Siede of Quartz).

The KUWTK structure never fell victim to the degenerate sanitization of reality TV, and the reason for this lies in the agency afforded by extreme wealth and influence. The Kardashian family in 2007 was already well established: Kim Kardashian had made several appearances on Nicole Richie’s “The Simple Life” and was Lindsey Lohan’s personal stylist. What’s more, the family name was catapulted into prominence during the OJ Simpson trial, in which the late Robert Kardashian was OJ’s (widely-televised) defense attorney. Together, wealth and social capital gave the Kardashians a kind of agency and awareness that “normal people” trapped in reality TV structures lack.

And still, while exempt from the pressures and standards of reality TV, celebrities like the Kardashians create the standard. Their existence in this subset of pop culture says that to be successful you must have a monetizable identity, marketable, and just appealing enough—but not so amiable that you’re bland. The Kardashian family, a household name for sure, are both insulated from the pressures of self-policing and encouraging fellow reality TV stars that self-policing is what they must

TRAPPED IN TIME...

Since 2007, what it means to be a reality TV star has completely changed. It is a mixture of heightened self-awareness, valid critiques of the industry and its effects on contestants, with the added pressure of creating a monetizable identity. Fame has always directed the attention of contestants, but now it seems that fame is increasingly taboo, while also presented as increasingly alluring by social media. Reality TV contestants are thus stuck between a brand new rock and a brand new hard place, making interactions more stable and less enjoyable.

It is no question that reality stars were never simply existing, ignorant of the camera and the public eye. There was just a less ubiquitous understanding of reality TV stardom: In this setting, human nature played out at its ugliest and at its most beautiful, with “Love Island’s” most popular season—season 3—the perfect example of this.

Social media’s rise has ushered in a new comfort with and habit of refining oneself for the public eye: The same comfort has been translated to the genre of reality TV. Just like an inclination to SABS, contestants are pushed to refine their behaviors. A mutated version of fame, reality and audience expectations has changed the way contestants “see and are seen,” with performance taking precedence over authenticity.

BY: GRACE HOLDEN ILLUSTRATION BY: CATHERINE LIU DESIGN BY: MEA AYERS

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Inside the ARCHIVES

by Sara Heim

Let’s take a closer look at Philly’s newest vintage designer store Moore Vintage Archive.

Moore Vintage Archive is home to a collection encapsulating the history of fashion, as told by owner Keesean Moore. After opening the business in Brooklyn, Moore recently relocated to Philadelphia to work on expanding the archive in all directions.

His new location in the Bok Building provides physical space to display the collection as well as an opportunity for “collectors, buyers and designers to come to see the archive.” Despite the store’s significant transition and expansion this past year, Moore says he’s just getting started.

I ran out of the Snyder Avenue station taking the stairs two at a time. I kept up my brisk pace for the duration of my walk to the Bok Building, a former public high school now filled with creative businesses, restaurants and studios. Frazzled by my lateness and the incorrigible directory of stores, I frantically searched the first floor for the Moore Vintage Archive. Once I spotted the small sign marking the store, I composed myself and entered inside. A floorlength, knit purple gown greeted me from its place mounted on the wall, hanging above the packed clothing racks that filled the rest of the space.

Moore Vintage Archive is a boutique that sells high-end vintage located in South Philadelphia. “There’s something to be said about preserving legacy and giving it the respect that it’s due,” said owner Keesean Moore, one of the few Black, queer vintage boutique owners here in Philadelphia. Moore started the storefront in Brooklyn, but in April 2021 he brought his expertise to Philadelphia in hopes of finding “​​a vessel to hold the dream that was already unfolding,” he said.

Though the enormous amount of clothing in the store made it seem as though Moore has been collecting vintage for a lifetime, the resell market was not his first stop in the fashion industry.

When Moore was in high school, he interned and spent time after school in the few vintage stores in his hometown of Jersey City.

There, Moore began to learn about the process of collecting and selling vintage clothes, which he did on a small scale to make money in college, but he never considered as a career possibility.

Moore’s original interest was in fashion journalism and styling, which required frequent international travel to some of the world’s fashion capitals. Reflecting on the years of exhausting work, in his mid-twenties, Moore questioned, “Do I want to be doing this when I’m forty?” The answer was no. Yearning to expand his horizons from styling and realizing the importance

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of “the seeds that you plant during these very formative years,” Moore “started to lay the groundwork for a business,” he said.

In 2014, he launched Moore Vintage Archive in Brooklyn, New York, and began to use his industry experience to incorporate all he knew and loved about fashion through his collection. Moore was living in New York at the time, which offered him an already established vintage market in Brooklyn that eased his entry as a novice vintage seller. While providing an opportunity to join a thriving vintage market, Moore’s original location did not allow for display and high volume collection. So earlier this year, he opened a storefront in the city of Brotherly Love where he can properly showcase the garments he so carefully selects.

The primary goal of Moore’s curation is to “preserve the history of fashion in all its diversity” through high-quality pieces, natural fabrics and a wide range of top-notch designers. He aims to showcase a certain level of garment creation that has been lost among the careless stitches sewn into fast-fashion pieces.

Each piece collected is finished with a magnificently talented hand and a great level of craftsmanship. Through these minute details, “you see the hand in a way that really elevates it to an artistic craft versus just a consumable kind of disposable product,” Moore said. When I visited the store, Moore showed me a Bill Blass jacket that perfectly exemplified the techniques he was in search of. Though a simple garment, the stitches were placed with such finesse that they elevated the piece into a work of art.

Through mere observation, it was clear the jacket was constructed by a master.

An additional aspect of the archive’s collection is that nearly all the pieces are made from natural fibers, with the exception of a select few synthetic fabrics from designers who specialize in such textiles. Moore strives to include only the highest quality materials in the store.

Moving to Philadelphia Moore is effectively defining his space in the Philadelphia vintage market as one of few sellers offering high-end designer garments, specifically focusing on fashion from the 1960s to the 1990s. Compared to New York, the Philly vintage market is still in its infancy, fostering a small but supportive community of vintage dealers. The community of Black vintage sellers in Philadelphia is even smaller, and one which Moore is proud to be a part of and excited to see expand.

Getting in on the ground floor in Philadelphia, as opposed to joining New York’s highly saturated vintage market, allows Moore to fill the gaps that he sees and wants to fill, rather than bend to the will of the customer. Neither Moore nor I could think of any other high-end vintage store in Philly, meaning he has room to explore and develop without being restricted by a crowded market.

In addition to his Bok Building location, Moore travels around the Tristate Area to vintage shows, allowing him to bring the product straight to the customer. The clientele of these shows is primarily industry professionals and vintage experts, all looking for highly specific pieces. Costume designers may be seeking out clothing from only one specific year to fit the time period of their production, and the speci-

ficity of Moore’s collection allows them to find exactly what they are searching for. The shows are an important opportunity to network with costume and fashion designers, stylists and textile collectors, whose patronage is a significant portion of Moore’s business and one he hopes to expand.

While shoppers at these vintage shows may be more wellversed in fashion than the store’s typical clientele, Moore expects all customers to come into his store with a level of understanding of vintage materials. “I feel like the customer that I’m shopping for understands garment construction, understands a certain level of fashion history and why things are important,” Moore said.

Additionally, he expects customers to both be intentional with what they buy and understand the role their purchases play in the history of fashion. The narrative Moore creates through the curation of the archive is one founded on his extensive knowledge of fashion. His expertise is both part of the experience of shopping the archive and part of the price customers pay for the garments. While Moore was approachable and down to earth, as we spoke I was awed by the extensive fashion knowledge, all from memory, he shared with me. An understanding of and appreciation for vintage clothing is essential to fully grasp the valuable space Moore Vintage Archive fills in the fashion industry.

Illustration by Christopher Kwok

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STYLE STAPLES

BY AAKRUTI GANESHAN. ILLUSTRATIONS BY SHEEWHA YOU. DESIGN BY CECILY NISHIMURA. Fashion is perhaps the most dynamic art-form there is: ever-changing staples are here to stay. and notoriously immutable. As winter coats replace cut-offs denim-shorts, The concept of “fashion revivalism” isn’t necessarily new — in an interview and microtrends flit in and out of our tik tok algorithm, some age-old closet with The Zoe Report, Fashion and Design Curator Michelle Finamore describes

The Claw Clip

The Low Rise Pant

Forbes has called the large exaggerated claw clip the official “hair accessory of 2021.” Beyond paying homage to the ’90s, the claw clip provides a practical alternative to classic hair accessories or elastic ties, providing the look of an effortless updo without any damage. The claw clip was likely inspired by its predecessor, the 1980s banana clip, and was first produced towards the end of the 20th century by the hair accessory titan Goody. The most archetypical iteration is the tortoiseshell hair clip, popularized by numerous female heroines of the late 1990s cinematic and television canon (think: Rachel Green from Friends). The clip is by far the most classic design, but the sheer range of possible colours, patterns, and sheens affords this accessory a lot of versatility. Alexander Wang reminded us of claw clip supremacy during his fall 2018 show; now, these accessories have moved off the runway as an integral part of the “off-duty model look.”

A 2003 WSJ article reads: “Not since the streaking craze of the 1970s have so many backsides been on public display.” The low rise pant, one of fashion’s most polarizing figures, has strutted its way onto the runway, into commercial stores, and of course: Bella Hadid’s closet. First introduced by Alexander McQueen in his early ’90s shows, low rise jeans became every “it-girl’s” pant of choice by the early 2000s. Often paired with a baby tee or ribcage-skimming crop tops, the low rise pant became omnipresent among some of our favourite 2000s icons. Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, and the original members of Destiny’s Child, among countless others, championed this pant as the true beacon of sizzle. The low rise pant is never met with an equivocal response: It is either adored or reviled with equal fervour. Though some may consider the low rise pant a statement more than a staple, it’s entirely plausible that it could be both. Ranging from basic low-waisted jeans to colorful corduroy low rise pants, there are a plethora of variations on this trend that render it (somewhat paradoxically) versatile.

How to Wear: The easiest look with a claw clip is definitively the basic twist-up: Use the clip to anchor the bottom twisted part of your hair while letting the rest sprout up from the top. If you want to transcend the current norm, celebrity hairstylist Ted Gibson recommends trying a half-up half-down look or using it as an anchor to pull one side of your hair over to the other.

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How to Wear: If you’re feeling particularly brazen, do as Britney did and pair these pants with a shrunken baby tee. For a more pared down look, try them with a tucked-in plain shirt and an oversized blazer, or even a simple white button-up shirt.

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how “recycling the past” is ubiquitous in every style period. For instance, the simple, high-waisted elegance of neo-classical dresses was reissued in 1910 and the 1960s, over a century after these designs were first popularized in Europe and France.

For Generation Z, however, the longing for nostalgia seems markedly different: The popularity of “archive” or “vintage” pieces seems to correlate with the tumultuous events of the past year. Research by David.B Newman, a postdoctoral scholar in the Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences, suggests that people feel most nostalgic during periods of grief or negativity. For instance, before the lockdown, the entertainment industry was focused on revitalizing 2000s culture, with the Gossip Girl reboot in the final stages of casting and Reese

Witherspoon announcing a Legally Blonde 3. The access to these entertainment mediums through streaming services might’ve spurred Generation Z’s renewed interest in the Y2K period, and digital services like Tik Tok provided the perfect platform to invigorate 2000s fashion trends. Moreover, the recent interest in fashion trends from the last half-century, (specifically the Y2K period) is indicative of Newman’s original research: a longing for comfort, nostalgia and familiarity.

Whatever the exact cause may be – the past year has seen a dramatic resurgence in trends that allegedly dropped out of circulation a year ago. We’ve selected a few pieces that best encapsulate the last few decades in fashion and best suit the world we live in today.

The Puffed Sleeve

Shiny Puffer Jackets

The puffed sleeve has clawed its way amidst a slew of other well-intentioned ’80s trends (shoulder pads and aqua-net perms) into the new year. In 2019, Harper’s Bazaar called the puffed sleeve “camp” – in reference to the presence of puffed sleeves at the eponymous Met Gala that year – but this year, puffed sleeves have brought an entirely new sentiment altogether: sheer romanticism. With the rising popularity of shows like Bridgerton and subcultures like cottagecore fashion, it’s no wonder that puffed sleeves are experiencing their moment in the spotlight again. On the runway, Loewe and Altuzarra are championing dresses with huge ballooned shoulders and trench coats with gathered sleeves. Danish brand Selkie has even patented the “Puff Dress”: A gauzy concoction of sheer fabric and volume that seems to be ripped straight from the throes of Barbie’s Fairytopia. Most impressive of all, however, is how the puffed sleeve contains multitudes that even Walt Whitman would envy, being featured on dresses, outerwear and tops.

Puffer, or bubble jackets, have an extensive history in fashion. The voluminous silhouette harkens back to the 1920s, while the jacket itself made the leap from sportswear into the music videos and street style of numerous rap icons in the 1990s. These jackets are not so much coming back, as they are graduating, as today, variations on the traditional design often include chunky funnel necks or almost comically oversized cuts. Phillip Plein brought glossy puffers to the runway in 2017, while musicians like Kanye and Drake donned bright red Monclers for concerts and the infamous “Hotline Bling ‘’ video. Canadian clothing brand Aritzia currently stocks their “Super Puff” in over 60 different colours and styles. Of these, their collection of “high gloss” jackets is evocative of the luridity and supersaturation that pervaded ’90s fashion. With the weather changing, a flashy puffer jacket may well be the most practical closet staple of them all.

How to Wear: We suggest a dress with sheer puffed sleeves for

of outfit or, if you’re in the mood for something more comfortable, layered over a color-coordinated hoodie and sweatpant combination.

maximum romance. Alternatively, a puff sleeved bodice top pairs excellently with any pair of jeans or pants.

How to Wear: We recommend pairing this jacket with any sort

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TRANSFORMATION issue The Digitization of Consumerism 5 retail businesses that are utilizing tech to transform their operations in COVID.

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Bamboo Ceilings & Glass Runways The fashion industry’s role within anti-Asian racism during COVID-19.

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“Iconhood”: A Modern Transformation The evolution of pop culture icons: How have icons of old paved the way?

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When Sleepwear Becomes Streetwear Penn students discuss loungewear and its lasting impacts.

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Reflection Essays Looking forward and looking back on the college experience.

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DIGITALIZATION of Consumerism VIRTUAL DRESSING ROOMS, MOVIE THEATERS, AND HAIR SALONS

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one of us are strangers to the drastic changes the world has endured in the past year. A fraction of the usual number of pedestrians, now decked in masks, walk down familiar streets. Many of our favorite stores and restaurants have closed their doors.

A year has passed without us seeing some of our closest friends and family.

As our social lives have changed, so have our shopping habits. We have spent an unprecedented amount of time in our homes and far less time at the storefronts we love. In the past, the delivery of merchandise and food to our front porches was mere convenience. It is now a necessity. The pandemic has accelerated countless trends, bringing about years worth of change in just a few months.

One of these trends is the digitization of consumerism. In January 2019, retail websites received 13.87 billion visits–by June 2020, this number climbed to nearly 22 billion visits. And businesses are adapting to meet the consumers where they are. A McKinsey Global Survey of executives reported that businesses have accelerated their use of digital technologies by three to four years, and they expect these changes to last. This range of new technological capabilities include everything from online dressing rooms, to online grocery shopping, to online customer service.

Countless retail businesses are adapting to this new reality. We selected our top 5 need-to-know businesses that are revolutionizing new technologies to make our pandemic-era shopping easier now and in the future:

FORMA The website Forma was designed to bring the in-store experience of trying on clothing to your computer screen. Their website allows customers to upload a photo of themselves, then enter Forma’s “virtual dressing room.” They are then able to see how items from thousands of popular brands, including BCBG, Kate Spade, Alice + Olivia, and Madewell, look on them.

MADISON REED Madison Reed sells at-home hair color that is delivered right to your door. Their website now has AI technology that allows consumers to try different hair colors before purchasing. They also offer free, one-on-one video consultations with professional colorists.

LEARN ABOUT HOW CONSUMERISM HAS TRANSFORMED DURING THE PANDEMIC

AMAZON’S WHOLE FOODS As decreasing quantities of consumers are shopping for groceries in-person, Whole Foods transformed many of their brick-and-mortar stores to distribution centers and warehouses to fulfill online grocery orders.

BEST BUY Best Buy dramatically increased their virtual support and technology repair offerings, and shrank its store footprint in the U.S. Upon opening their website, you can immediately access a member of Best Buy’s technology expert team for assistance. They also provide free, contactless curbside pickup of products.

TELEPARTY (formerly Netflix Party) Mere weeks into the pandemic, Netflix launched Netflix Party, which allows users to watch movies and TV shows virtually with friends and family. Now called Teleparty, the software synchronizes video play, allowing users to start, stop and pause Netflix movies and shows as they watch with others.

During times of economic crisis, creativity tends to boom to match the changing landscape. WhatsApp, Venmo, Instagram, Uber, Airbnb, and many other successful companies were founded during the 2008 recession.

The development that we saw during that this turbulent time in our nation’s history parallels the progress that we’ve seen during the pandemic. At the beginning of 2020, walking to Center City and entering the fashion district required nothing more than your time. Now, the most important shopping companions are your mask and hand sanitizer. As our world has transformed, businesses have too.

From curbside pickup to AI technology, consumerism is becoming increasingly virtual and contactless. Businesses are navigating this–how do you? As consumers, we can adjust to this changing landscape by utilizing these new technologies. Rather than feeling as if our lives are at a standstill, we can adapt.

BY MADDIE MULDOON ILLUSTRATION BY CATHERINE LIU DESIGN BY MEA AYERS

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Bamboo Ceilings & Glass Runways

BY ADELYN CHEN

Waves of violent attacks on Asian-Americans are crashing over the country.

Through it all, where have the voices of the fashion industry gone?

On March 13th, 2020, I went about what would indefinitely be my last day of regular life. As soon as I arrived home, COVID-19 was declared a national emergency. Mayhem ensued in my household; clothes were tossed directly into the washing machine, all objects that had so much as touched the air outside were sanitized, and no one was spared a shower; contracting the virus was the most immediate threat to our physical health. We were no stranger to America’s long history of anti-Asian racism, so it concerned us that the initial outbreak had come from China—but we hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

We were wrong. Two months later, then-President Donald Trump publicly dubbed COVID-19 the “kung flu,” an action that would catalyze the conversion of whispered microaggressions to roaring aggression. Soon after, a sign displaying the words “Go Home Chinese” went up at the Safeway near my house. My mom began reminding me to be careful when I went outside for my neighborhood walks. I refused to let my dad, who has hearing loss, go grocery shopping by himself. The problems progressively worsened until the inevitable catastrophe: on March 16th, 2021—almost exactly one year after the lockdowns began in America—six Asian women were killed in a mass shooting that took place at three different massage parlors in Atlanta, Georgia, forcing the country to acknowledge the anti-Asian racism that had been festering for decades.

In light of the events, many companies and corporations have stepped in to make the obligatory public statement that they condemn the racially motivated violence against us. But, with the exception of Asian designers, models, and industry leaders, the fashion and beauty industry— which relies heavily on Asian countries for production and consumption—has largely been silent.

For decades, the industry itself has been complicit in deepening the roots of anti-Asian racism, continually straining its relationship with Asians and Asian-Americans.

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It is true that in recent years—most notably around the height of the Black Lives Matter movement—fashion brands and media outlets have made efforts to improve diversity, equity, and inclusion. Yet, these efforts have predominantly excluded Asian-Americans, as does the typical American race narrative. As such, anti-Asian racism in the fashion industry gets stuffed in the back of the closet like a Forever 21 “Taco Tuesday” graphic t-shirt: out of sight, out of mind.

A quick glance at fast fashion brand PrettyLittleThing’s website reveals an obvious disregard for Asian culture that is present throughout the industry, manifested in the form of cultural appropriation. There is no shortage of appropriated Chinese qipaos—form-fitting and culturally significant dresses—in which the keyhole at the top is far too large, the dress is short enough to be a shirt, or the back is completely open. Even when PrettyLittleThing’s joint collection of these “qipaos” with British girl group Little Mix received backlash for appropriation, neither the company nor the singers apologized, and the products continued to be sold. It’s this kind of behavior across the industry, notably in fast fashion brands, that promotes harmful stereotypes; in this case, the objectification and sexualization of Chinese women.

Luxury brands aren’t off the hook either. They may be marginally more prudent, but some of their actions have been embarrassing, to say the very least. Dolce and Gabbana’s 2018 advertisement depicts a Chinese woman as too unsophisticated to understand Western culture, as she attempts to eat an entire uncut pizza with chopsticks while a male voiceover gives her directions. In 2019, Gucci released a $790 “indy full turban” that they sent Caucasian models wearing down the runway, with no regard to the religious significance of the turban to the Sikh community. Needless to say, despite the incredible diversity and vibrance of Asian cultures, the Western fashion industry’s insolent appropriation is the same for all of them.

It’s worth noting that the current ideas of “beauty” in Asia aren’t all that inclusive of their own people either.

Double eyelid surgeries and skin lightening practices are always in high demand, a direct result of antiquated colorism and some adoption of Western standards. This is especially detrimental to South Asians who have naturally darker skin tones. America differs from Asia here in that, in the former, looking tan and curvy is more popular, and in the latter, looking light-skinned and stick thin is more desirable.

These disparate standards beget a constant tug-of-war for Asian-Americans.

When I was younger, I didn’t experience this inner war between cultures; up until middle school, I was a thinly built classical Chinese dancer, often mistaken for a native on trips to Taiwan. I still wear round glasses and clothes I bought from there, but after growing up in Northern California, my body type has become a dead giveaway to Taiwanese people that I’m not from Taiwan; I am unmistakably American. Regardless, here in America, I’ve still gotten the “where are you really from” question one too many times. In this vein, to be Asian-American is to be neither Asian nor American: we are caught between two (or more) cultures, unable to gain stable footing in any of them.

Of course, these kinds of problems aren’t unique to the fashion industry; they permeate every aspect of Asian American life. Racism has established the overarching idea that no matter what we do, we will always be unwelcome foreigners— that is, except when our “model minority” identity is used to deny discrimination against

African Americans, which is another huge issue.

Despite the appalling state of affairs, few have acknowledged and spoken out against the hate crimes, and even fewer have taken action. Most of the companies who have released their “Statement Condemning Anti-Asian Hate Crimes” have simply sent one email and subsequently continued on with regular operations. This is a textbook example of “performative activism”, where both firms and individuals take insignificant actions like altering naming conventions and sending “thoughts and prayers” rather than addressing the real issue at hand: racism in the country’s core. This is not even close to being enough; trimming the ends of the bamboo ceiling is incomparable to attempting to shatter it.

My whole life, people have seen my race as an opportunity to use me as a punching bag or scapegoat: from the boy who asked “what grades I needed in order to eat dinner” in front of my whole class, to the anonymous Instagram user who sent me death threats and blamed me for human rights violations in China—I am 18 years old and Taiwanese. I grew up wondering how I could claim the culture of a country that frequently refuses to claim me, but I am still American regardless of how “un-American” I feel.

Asian-Americans grapple with this identity crisis caused by the model minority myth and reduction of our diverse race into a homogeneous population, exacerbated by the discrepancies between how we look and what we see in the media. Therefore, the fashion industry, which fuels many of these images, has a responsibility to start making amends for its transgressions. Only then can the perpetual body image standards and subsequent mental health issues begin to subside, allowing Asian-Americans like me to begin to feel like they truly have a home.

ILLUSTRATION BY VIVIENNE CHEN DESIGN BY CHELSEA CHENG

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“ICONHOOD” : a modern transformation FROM BOWIE TO LIL NAS X, REFLECTING UPON HOW A NEW GENERATION IS COMING TO DEFINE WHAT IT MEANS TO BE AN ICON AS SOCIETY TRANSFORMS

BY GRACE HOLDEN ILLUSTRATION BY NOVA MENG DESIGN BY MEA AYERS

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his fall, Lil Nas X, a queer Black musician, stirred up disdain among right-wing pundits with his newest single ‘“MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name).” Reclaiming the language of damnation used in conservative spheres to talk about homosexuality, Lil Nas X propelled himself into an uncharted domain of celebrity: iconhoodship.

Among the predictable clutter of celebrities and reality TV stars, there are only a select few who rise to the status of “icon.” The title is reserved for those who revolutionize attitudes and forge previously unseen creative (and often queer) spaces. However, it is perhaps the case that such audacity is only accepted in the modern space because of the icons of old.

Boundary-pushing has always distinguished the public figures who are most revered, in receipt of the most dedicated veneration. Take Janet Jackson, David Bowie, Stevie Nicks for example—they all rocked the boat first.

what ripples and transformations are they yet to ignite?

David Bowie exuded extravagance; it is his trademark red hair, eclectic style and phenomenal music which allowed him to uniquely push back against stereotypes which place fashion and gender into binary categories.

There was a certain flamboyant intent to shock that defined his music career and placed him firmly in the ranks of icons.

Such flamboyancy in the modern space—evolved and individualized, yet recognizable—can be seen in the likes of Harry Styles. He is undoubtedly iconic; the first man to grace the cover of American Vogue, enrobed in Gucci frills and lace, no less. He is rightfully praised for the way his style has challenged the gender norms which have, for years, permeated fashion and modern culture. Yet, looking back, it is figures like Prince and Boy George, who were pioneers in the realm of androgynous fashion.

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This is not to say that Harry Styles, and even figures like Billy Porter (who famously wore a dress to the 2019 MET Gala), are not incredibly unique in the modern space. Never before has a single celebrity been able to make gender-fluid fashion so incredibly mainstream. Styles’ “who cares?” attitude when asked about labels, gender conformity and fashion has perhaps uniquely filtered down into cultural norms. Wearing whatever feels cool has never faced such a widespread cultural embrace.

However, it is interesting to see which facets of iconhood have roots in boundary pushers of old. The effects of Prince’s feminine, flâneur, androgynous image are still reverberating today in conversations about conformity.

There is a timelessness— a poignant sense of permanence—behind the label of icon which makes me think about the way names such as Harry Styles and Lil Nas X will rest on the tongues of generations to come.

What paths are being cleared by their intrepid moves in the entertain ment industry? What ripples and transformations are they yet to ignite?

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WHEN sleepwear BECOMES streetwear

BY EMILY LIU ILLUSTRATION BY MARGAUX GAMES DESIGN BY CHELSEA CHENG

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CHARTING THE METEORIC RISE AND POTENTIAL FALL OF THE PANDEMIC LOUNGEWEAR TREND. If we’ve learned anything from the pandemic, it’s that loungewear will always stay in season. From Juicy Couture’s revival to tracksuits on the runway, sweatpants and sweatshirts are in right now. Celebrities like Jennifer Lopez, Selena Gomez and Hailey Bieber have been photographed in sweats more so than in bodycon dresses and elaborate gowns for all of 2020—and the general populace is following suit.

Over the past year, online searches for oversized clothing have increased three-fold. Meanwhile, searches for more understated clothing skyrocketed; the internet found over 160 times more searches for cotton jumpsuits and 185 times more searches for soft clothing. This hunt for comfy clothing has seeped its way into Penn’s campus.

Many of the Penn students I spoke to noted that their pandemic fashion has been a lot less diverse in comparison to their “usual” outfits. For example, junior Shunmel Syau stated that she would go for “jeans and a nicer button-up or blouse with a blazer” before quarantine hit but then “began wearing joggers and loose shirts because [she’s] usually inside 24/7 now and doesn’t feel the need to dress up.” Shunmel, like many other students, has fully adopted the athleisure trend as a result of taking classes online. While Zoom requires sitting in front of a laptop, the camera reveals only the upper half of the body, which “relieves the need to look perfect head to toe. I’d rather just be comfortable and not have one more thing to stress over,” sophomore Samantha Tam adds.

Convenience, comfort and versatility therefore play a large part in popularizing this trend, as influencers, celebrities and millennials have found increasingly novel ways of styling their sweats to perform everyday tasks. Bandana tops,

tie-dye, matching masks, trench coats and accessories turn loungewear into streetwear; layering pieces with sweats adds personality and flair to an overall more casual vibe.

But this trend would be nothing without the work of influencers and fashionistas pushing for a sweats-inspired fashion movement. “Part of [this popularity] is also the increased number of people who started adopting this fashion sense,” said Junior Grace Wu, an avid enthusiast of the hoodie-sweatpants combination during the pandemic.

“When a lot of people wear it, others start to think it’s trendy and fashionable.” As a result, what started off as sleepwear or loungewear became a streetwear sensation, prompting fashion icons near and far to take up the challenge of retrofitting their outfits for both inside and outside.

However, that also begs the question: how long will this last?

As a product of the pandemic, the hype seems fated to be short-lived. Junior Vanessa Nieto noted that even throughout the pandemic, she “wasn’t comfortable going out in sweats and was looking forward to dressing up again,” highlighting an increased desire for normality. Grace, Shunmel and Samantha all echoed this sentiment as well, each stating in a similar fashion that they were ready to toss out the sweatpants for dresses, blouses and jeans. However, it is still crucial to acknowledge the influence of this brief trend, as it has forever changed the way comfortable clothing is perceived and has created a generation of fashion icons unafraid to turn sleepwear into streetwear.

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Freshman Perspective:

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By Grace Holden Illustration by Catherine Liu Design by Claire Marucci

Senior Perspective:

By Eliana Waxman Illustration by Catherine Liu Design by Claire Marucci

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looking forward Grace Holden, C’24, looks at how unorthodox endings have shaped a freshman class uniquely open to unorthodox beginnings.

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he start of my freshman year: what should have been a period of immense change was ultimately reduced to an unrecognizable state of motionlessness. Moving to a new country, leaving behind the bitter-sweet high school memories of home and moving forward into a new life - I should have been exploring uncharted territory. Yet, for the first half of freshman year, having never stepped foot on Locust Walk, and exposed to the college experience only through a Zoom screen on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I was half- convinced Penn wasn’t even real.

With my hometown in the UK thrown in and out of various lockdowns and stay at home orders, my Mum was my closest college friend for the Fall semester. I felt completely disconnected from the freshman experience; struggling with my new classes and on several occasions wondering - had it all been worth it? Going to university, let alone university abroad, was never something expected of me by my parents: the pressures of both freshman life and embarking on an atypical college experience were exacerbated by the virtual setting. During the semester at home, there was a dissonance between being thrust forward into independence and being so physically connected to my high-school self; with a lack of ‘sendoff’ came a weird misalignment of physical stagnation and symbolic progress.

Perhaps many of us inadvertently reshaped ourselves for the eyes of our peers, recognizing that we were far from normalcy and unlikely to meet in the upcoming semester. It was almost ridiculous the amount of time I spent reading introductions

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in the Class of 2024 Facebook group, expecting to find a lifelong connection in a sea of equally lost kids who ‘like Netflix, hiking and hanging out with friends.’ The unique experiences and interactions which shape a college friendship were taken from us;; , yet, I am now sure that cherishing real and meaningful connections will be a value that defines this year’s freshman class going forward.

Campus opening in the Spring offered both a glimmer of hope and a colossal set of decisions to make. The self I had been in high school had been erased by a long, sleepy summer of lockdown; yet, I still can’t quite place my finger on the self that emerged. The monotony of it all means, for me, that while nothing palpable has happened, I feel like a different and more confident version of myself. I think I recognize now that it would have been easy to lean into isolation; there’s a certain ease to seclusion when all the typical venues used to meet people are stripped back. I think the active choice to travel internationally alone, to forge new connections and friendships is like a switch I flipped to force myself out of a comfortable static.

As I set off on this physical move to college in January, the notion of ceremony and goodbyes sparked my interest as I furiously released my thoughts onto the notes app (as I tend to do) on the plane into Philadelphia International. With no official send- off from highschool, followed by a YouTube convocation half-watched through drowsy eyes at midnight UK time, the lack of ceremony blurred the typical outline of transition. Silence in the place of send-off was heard deeply by this year’s freshmean. I think the abruptness of it all has forced me to alleviate the pressure I put on goodbyes and instead to focus more on the collection of memories I have amassed.

My ‘aeroplane thoughts’ notes page reads: “big goodbyes mean absolutely nothing compared to all the little moments

that make up your relationship with someone.” I hope - over the course of my relationship with college - I will keep coming back to what I have learnt amidst this foggy transition. It is so rewarding to decentralize the unreliable idea of ‘the final ceremony,’, and appreciate the small vignettes, fleeting moments and small encounters that will shape my college experience.

Again, looking back at the start of this unorthodox freshman experience, I was bombarded with tips and tricks to ‘settle in.’ Yet, the maelstrom that has been the past year, has made it understandably tricky to find my feet. Instead of succumbing to a reactionary frustration, I think I have managed to discover the value in being a bit ‘unsettled’ - especially at a place like Penn.

I have never before been surrounded by such overwhelming confidence and ambition. I can now see that the past few months, on such a highly-charged campus, have been punctuated by feelings of inadequacy - feelings which I instantly recoil from. I like to think that freshman year has been a sort of caution - a forewarning - displaying to me the dangers of comparison; I want to feel inspired by the successes of my friends, embracing my own lack of certitude as I do so.

Looking forward I can expect to try on versions of myself like I’m changing clothes; try on people, try on majors, try on the values which direct my life. Maybe in three years time I will finally be wrapped up in the warmth of an outfit that feels most like me. I know that I can’t possibly envision the girl that will emerge from college - she doesn’t exist yet. I’m giving myself full permission to be (and remain) unsure, unsettled and curious.

I will never know the version of my Freshman

“I think I have managed to discover the value in being a bit ‘unsettled’ - especially at a place like Penn.”

looking back Eliana Waxman, C’21, reflects on her atypical four years of college and how her unconventional experience will influence the road ahead.

T

hey say college will be the best four years of your life. As I was graduating high school, I remember adults congratulating me with that all-too-common phrase. I also recall my response: “God, I hope not. That would mean the rest of my life will just be downhill from there.”

I still agree with my naïve, eighteen-year-old self and, for reasons that I may or may not have seen coming, hope she was right. Unfortunately, even prior to the beginning of the pandemic, my college experience felt isolating at times. My cheerful, Midwestern, extraverted personality felt diminished by a pre-professional need to network. Like a tropical fish dropped in a stream filled with salmon, I couldn’t help but sense that rather than trust my gut and pursue my passions, I should follow my peers down the beaten path and swim straight toward the ocean.

Insecurity was – and sometimes still is – my greatest nemesis. And, I truly believe I’m not alone in that. Where do you think the concept of “Penn Face” came from? I spent my time on campus searching for places and groups of friends I could fit into, with an open mind and heart, only to be consistently disappointed by the fact that that I wasn’t experiencing the classic milestones that had been ingrained in me as the true purpose of college.

So many people discussed how Penn felt like home; for me, it was where I was least myself.

When campus first shut down, I was studying in Barcelona, just five weeks into an intended six-month stay. At that point, it seemed as if I had finally found some friends on-campus and that after a much needed respite from American univer-

sity culture, I would return more like the person I wanted to be. For one perfect year, I would live the college lifestyle I’d always dreamed about.

Instead, I was evacuating Europe almost overnight – throwing my dirty laundry in a suitcase as fast as my arms could muster. By the time I returned home, the world was locked away. As though someone had snapped their fingers, my life as a college student was over. Once the initial shock wore off, I spent weeks, months even, wallowing in a melancholic state, simply trying to process it all.

That processing took longer than I thought.

Hours upon hours were spent lying on the floor, staring at the aquatic-colored walls of my childhood bedroom. The room spun before my eyes as my brain cycled through my college experience – and everything leading up to it – over and over again, soundtracked by Summer Walker and Frank Ocean. An unproductive coping mechanism, I’m sure. Unanswerable questions floated through my mind: “Will I ever sit in a classroom again?” “How will I get my independence back?” “Did I even gain anything from the last few years?”

Simultaneously, in the rare moments I wasn’t watching my life in vivid replay, I found I was rediscovering myself. I spent hours on the phone with college friends, throwing myself into extracurriculars and coursework that I was passionate about, and using my knowledge from school to look for jobs in a field that, while impractical, I love. I was coming home, and not just in a literal sense.

It’s instilled in the minds of American students that college is full of rites of passage that are just that: things we’re supposed to do. Items to check off a list. But if I learned anything from the last four years, it’s that life simply doesn’t work that way.

Sure, there will be no more running into acquaintances on Locust Walk or meeting peers in line at Williams Cafe. I’ll never get to pop into my professors’ offices for a half hour of mentorship and conversation, nor will I get to cross off the items on my end-of-college bucket list. I never formed my cohesive group of friends. I won’t have a Hey Day or a real graduation.

But, I did get the library group study sessions where I doubled over in delusion and laughter. I had my fair share of late nights, both those that were spent alone crying and those involving unspeakable things with friends, eating mac and cheese from a pot as the sun rose on Sunday morning, still in last night’s clothes. I bonded with professors, met people completely unlike me, and had wacky roommates. I have a catalog of college stories… that are entirely mine.

I sit here now, writing in a subletted apartment at 15th and Spruce, weeks before commencement. More than a year since the world stopped, I’ve arrived of my own volition to attend a supposed rite of passage ceremony that certainly will be different from years past. Nevertheless, as I don my cap and gown and watch the world’s longest PowerPoint presentation, I know that I am paving my own path before me.

I will never know the version of myself who had a four year college experience. Yet, the person I am today is evolving at her own pace, confident in her values, driven, compassionate, introspective,

“...as I don my cap and gown and watch the world’s longest PowerPoint presentation, I know that I am paving my own path before me.“ and excited to see what’s in store next. On her own terms.

The Transformation The Capsule Issue Issue

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