10.9.19

October 9, 2019 | 34st.com

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EOTW: Julia Coquard

Interview with Avan Jogia

'The Politician' Review

When Tutoring Programs Fail What does Penn owe to Philly public schools?

october99,,2019 OCTOBER 3 WORD ON THE STREET Penn Was My Pipe Dream

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EOTW: Julia Coquard, Tori Borlase

Annabelle Williams, Editor–in–Chief Dalton DeStefano, Managing Editor Daniel Bulpitt, Audience Engagement Director Lily Snider, Assignments Editor Ethan Wu, Media Director

Chelsey Zhu, Katie Bontje, Isabella Simonetti, Denali Sagner, Chris Schiller

Amanda Shen, Sudeep Bhargava, Adrianna Brusie, Kelly Chen, Eli Cohen

Style Beats: Diya Sethi, Karin Hananel, Sofia Heller, Mark Pino, Hannah Lonser, Hannah Gross

Video Staff: Sam Lee, Megan Kyne, Morgan Jones, Mikayla Golub

Sophie Burkholder, Special Issues Editor Allison Wu, Long–Term Features Editor Ryan McLaughlin, Word on the Street Editor Katie Bontje, Ego Editor Sam Kesler, Music Editor Srinidhi Ramakrishna, Developing Features Editor Bea Forman, Style Editor Shannon Zhang, Film & TV Editor Sophia DuRose, Arts Editor Sophia Dai & Eleanor Shemtov, Photo Editors Tahira Islam & Katie Steele, Copy Editors Kira Horowitz & Sarah Poss: Copy Editors

Film & TV Beats: Shriya Beesam, Samantha Sanders, Anna Collins, Jonah Charlton, Aashray Khanna, Deren Alanay

Copy Associates: Kate Poole, Serena Miniter, Erin Liebenberg, Lexie Shah, Carmina Hachenburg, Luisa Healey, Agatha Advincula

Arts Beats: Rema Hort, Sarah Yoon, Tsemone Ogbemi

Audience Engagment Associates: McKay Norton, Rachel Markowitz, Kat Ulich, Brittany Levy, Jessica Bachner, Maya Berardi, Stephanie Nam

Dean Jones & Jackson Parli, Video Editors Alice Heyeh, Print Director

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Philly Orchestra, Natalie Prass, Maggie Rogers Concert Review

10 STYLE

Clothify, Avan Jogia, How to Adopt and Foster a Dog

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When Tutoring Programs Fail

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Love Island, Robert Pattinson, 'The Politician'

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'Presenting the Damn Thing'

LOL

Ego Beats: Amanpreet Singh, Sonali Deliwala, Katie Farrell, Amy Xiang, Ananya Muthukrishnan, Margaret Dunn, Fernanda Brizuela Music Beats: Mehek Boparai, Melannie Jay, Teresa Xie, Petyon Toups, Julia Davies, Keely Douglas Features Staff: Zoe Young, Hailey Noh, Katrina Janco,

Design Associates: Isabel Liang, Ava Cruz, Joy Lee, Rhys Floyd, Gebran Abulhai, Kai Song Staff Writers: Ana Hallman, Arjun Swaminathan, Tara OʼBrien, Hannah Yusuf, Sophia Schulz-Rusnacko, Jordan Waschman, Jessica Bao, Quinn Robinson, Layla Murphy, Anya Tullan, Hannah Sanders, Julia Esposito, Avery Johnston, Harshita Gupta Illustrators: Brad Hong, Catherine Liang, Jake Lem, Saranya Sampath, Christopher Kwok, Diane Lin, Jacqueline Lou, Isabel Liang, Sammie Yoon Staff Photographers: Hoyt Gong, Sophia Zhu, Diya Sethi, Adiel Izilov, Sally Chen, Mona Lee, Emma Boey,

Cover by Sriya Choppara #Robsessed

Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Annabelle Williams, Editor–in–Chief, at williams@34st.com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com ©2019 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Wednesday.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR W

hen the majority of the Class of 2020 first set foot on campus as students, High Rise Field was still green. Allegro Pizza and Huntsman Hall stayed open 24 hours a day (I even spent 24 hours in Huntsman for a Street article, once upon a time).

In the course of, say, human history, we haven’t been here that long. But as a 21–year–old, it’s a significant chunk of my life. And because it’s senior fall — the beginning of something that’s much more of an end — I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of my first three years on this campus, and how soon the fourth will be over.

Because I can’t help but relentlessly self–narrate when it comes to my life, and because I’m a deeply self–indulgent person, this time of year has brought up a lot of thoughts of cyclicality.

I see my friends from freshman year on the street now and sometimes we don’t even say hello.

I’m reconnecting with other friends I haven't seen in years, people who've come back from abroad or people I've grown apart from. And I'm thinking mostly about how far we've all come.

Rather than feeling sad, or feeling scared of the vastness of this campus and scared of the vastness, rather than feeling worried about fitting in or finding a place, I’m now able to call Street home.

I now know the shortcut through Penn Vet that

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Design Editors: Gillian Diebold, Lucy Ferry, Jess Tan, Tamsyn Brann

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plops you right onto my part of Pine. I've probably been to every Wawa in a two–mile radius, and even though I don't like sports, I get excited when the Eagles win. Three years ago, none of that was true.

But I also remember that not that much has changed. I came to this campus apprehensive and excited about a new opportunity. Whatever next year brings, I'm pretty sure I'll feel the same way.

Reese Berman | Illustrator

WORD ON THE STREET

PENN WAS MY PIPE DREAM, SO WHY DIDN'T I WANT TO LEAVE HOME? THERE IS A HOME FOR ME IN A CITY I HAD NEVER VISITED, IN A SCHOOL WHERE I DIDN’T THINK I BELONGED. MEHEK BOPARAI I got no sleep the night before moving into college. Instead, I spent those seven hours silently sobbing into the white comforter of a twin–sized bed, timing my breaths so my mother wouldn’t stir from the other room of the Airbnb.

The year before, I had purposefully staked my claim in Penn’s early applicant pool for the sake of getting denied early—to ensure I would finally be able to process realistic college options over winter break. When I submitted my application on the first of November, the rest of the teenagers who crowded into my English teacher’s room during lunch break all burst into applause. Students from my rural town in Central California rarely applied to Common App colleges, let alone Ivy League universities.

During my first semester at Penn, I encountered many people who described their application decision as the moment when everything fell into place— each trashed draft of their Common App essay felt validated when their parents saw the congratulatory video flash onto the screen.

I opened my decision alone. I sat there, startled when the fight song played through my computer speakers. The first three numbers I dialed to relay my disbelief went straight to voicemail.

But as the days passed, so did the glow from my acceptance.

Relatives and classmates ex-

hausted their pool of congratulatory messages, and I began telling people I was “going to school out of state” to prevent any more. I romanticized this seemingly impossible dream for years to remedy small town boredom—but I didn’t plan to shape my life around it. Planning plane tickets and finding thick winter coats became more daunting than picking out first semester classes.

I no longer anticipated nights spent in Gothic–style libraries and afternoons in city cafes.

Not going to Penn seemed like wasting a future. Attending it, at times, felt scarier.

As a seventeen–year–old girl who already secured her spot as the top in her class, there was no need to do schoolwork. No need to go to dances or attend club meetings. My insomnia translated from hours of history homework to hours of staring blankly at my computer screen before crashing in last night’s makeup. I got coffee three times a day just to fill time and skipped afternoon classes,hiding in my bathtub. Life felt transitory. I would be heading to an entirely foreign world in a matter of months, and all I wanted to do was stay in my front yard.

I compiled the salvageable remnants of my childhood into three suitcases and flew across the country, edging closer towards what I was most afraid of. My parents and I strolled through an Ikea in New Jersey filled with excited chatter from other incom-

Isabel Liang | Illustrator

ing freshmen. The pink bedding and storage boxes strewn across my cramped dorm room the next morning made me feel hollow. I didn’t let my mother hang more than two shirts up in my closet before urging her and my father to the parking garage.

I found out that going to college doesn’t blur out the blots you’ve carried your entire life.

There is no perfect group of people waiting to give you the experiences you’ve daydreamed about, and beautifully–designed buildings can’t fix your depression. It takes a lot more than a random roommate assignment to do that.

After spending the first half of the year mostly alone by choice, I struggled to make authentic connections with others. I invested every ounce of emotion I had into 3 a.m. conversations with people on my floor, causing me to skip classes. I went out on Saturday nights forging false intimacy in friendships I thought would be valuable. In a struggle to brand myself as a college student, I forgot who I really was.

When I returned home for fall break, my best friend and I sat

in an In-N-Out parking lot for twenty minutes before either of us spoke a word.

“This feels weird,” she said. It was.

Our town felt the same, but I had adopted this identity as a Penn student, and felt out of place.

There was no epiphany where I realized I was unhappy. Everything for a while felt so unfamiliar, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel—just what I was supposed to be doing. Winter break edged closer, and my friends and I exchanged awkward party encounters and meaningless conversation like trading cards. The parts of my personality I clung to in May were slowly disappearing, and as January arrived, I wondered if I would ever be content.

Once again, I was wrong.

Slowly, my entire experience changed. Late night conversations came after hours of studying in Quad lounges with a girl from calculus lecture—the girl whose room I moved into a month later. To fulfill a credit requirement, I returned to jazz after years of performing, and fell in love with

Monday mornings over Brubeck and Armstrong. My weekends were defined by on–campus performances and downtown dinners rather than parties. I took in memories—the type I still turn over before going to bed, the way I once turned over getting into Penn.

There’s no perfect conclusion to this identity crisis of sorts.

Some days I still wake up and struggle to remember that a philosophy class is worth something. I am, however, learning to be kinder to myself. I now know it’s not my fault that half the students in my class are better prepared at the start of the semester due to their high school. And I know there is more to these four years than seeking attention from anyone who is willing to listen.

There is a place here for my late–night poetry I force friends to read, for my detailed chemistry notes and outlandish jazz opinions. For spontaneous trips to Delaware with my best friend, and for articles I write for this magazine. There is a home for me in a city I had never visited, in an education system where I didn't think I belonged.

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Meet : The UA Representative Who Organized the Philadelphia Climate Strike This sophomore tells us about the Philadelphia Climate Strike and her work with the Penn Debate Society.

BY FERNANDA BRIZUELA Tori Borlase (C '22), laughs and says “give me a second,” when I ask about her activities on and off campus. She needs more than a second to list off her numerous involvements.

She is a PPE major, currently both a novice trainer and a national equity officer for the Penn Debate Society, a UA College Representative in the academic initiatives committee and budget committee, a project coordinator for the Free Library of Philadelphia, and a member of the nonprofit organization New Climate Lobby.

I ask her to tell me a little bit more about New Climate Lobby and her involvement with the climate strike.

“It’s really just us,” Tori says, as she tells me about her friend, Vyshnavi Kosigi (C’ 22), who started the organization. They met the summer after their junior year of high school in Girls Nation, a youth senate program where they were each representatives for their respective states. They kept in touch and then came to Penn together, asking each other which project they wanted to start next.

“Specifically for the climate strike, we were sitting around in the summer and thinking, ‘the climate strike’s happening, we should look into what’s going on in Philly,’ and there was nothing yet, so we went on

Action Network and posted about a climate strike event.”

Once they had started planning the strike, Tori realized how challenging it was to organize such a large–scale event in a major city like Philadelphia.

“It was kind of daunting,” she adds.

She mentions that the strike gained traction rapidly with national movements, such as the Sunrise Movement, volunteering to help plan it. The process itself was a youth–centered collaborative environment where college and high school students were the main organizers.

Working with young organizers created an interesting dynamic because “they [didn’t] know what they’re doing any more than we do,” she says. “It was a challenge, but we were so driven to create change that we decided to stick with it.”

As for Tori specifically, her main role in planning the strike involved reaching out to press, communicating with high schools to coordinate student participation, lining up speakers during the event, and making sure social media was in check.

“I didn’t really have one job, it’s more like, we need people to do certain things, and you step up if you’re interested,” she notes.

I ask her about her other

Sally Chen | Photographer

activities and what she is most involved in on campus “I hate picking a favorite child,” she sighs, “what I think takes most of my time is debate.”

She tells me about her roles on the Penn Debate Society, one of which is being a novice trainer. As a trainer, Tori is in charge of making new members feel welcome and familiarizing them with college–style debate. She’s also a national equity officer during tournaments, which entails monitoring what is said during debates and taking the necessary disciplinary action if anyone feels uncomfortable due to inappropriate comments.

“It makes me feel like I can make a change in the debate space, I feel like it’s my job that everyone who wants to do debate can debate in a safe en-

vironment,” Tori says.

As for creating a safer and better environment at Penn, the Philadelphia community and beyond, Tori is in the midst of many projects.

As UA Representative in the academic initiatives committee, Tori is working on a project to give students in the College of Arts & Sciences access to syllabi from previous courses.

“Wharton already has this, so I’m trying to get this for everyone,” she says. She’s also a member of the budget committee, which manages the money to fund clubs and other student projects.

Through New Climate Lobby, she has started an initiative for a plastic bag ban in the greater Philadelphia area. So far, New Climate Lobby has

met with councilmen to get the issue on the agenda. After this, New Climate Lobby will also focus on a styrofoam ban.

As for plans after Penn, Tori wants to go directly to law school, possibly focusing on criminal justice reform or anti–discriminatory law, with a lot of involvement in pro bono cases. She says that all of her extracurriculars have their unique aspects, but each give her skills that translate well into law school and her future career.

“Just knowing that I’m helping people is really important to me. I think having the academic burden as well as the extracurricular burden can help me do my job with a sense of balance and know that I can achieve anything I set my mind to,” she says.

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the philly orchestra makes classical music more accessible with free concerts The college concert program runs through 2020 and is open to all. julia davies

There are rules to attending orchestra concerts. An expectation for dead silence during and in between movements.

No coughing, speaking, or cheering. Formal and modest clothing. A stark opposite to what it’s like to usually attend a typical concert. With this cold atmosphere, it’s understandable why people, especially young adults, are of-

ten uninterested in attending orchestra concerts. It fills our headphones when we study, before we fall asleep, or maybe as we’re heading to class, but it’s not a form of music that is seen live.

I played the violin for ten years and I didn’t love playing the violin on my own, but I absolutely loved the sound that came from performing within

an orchestra. How, if you listened closely enough, you could distinguish the unique sounds of each section as they meddled to form one coherent song. Yet, for most of those ten years, I had little interest in seeing a professional orchestra perform.

It seemed too exclusive and strict even for someone eager to learn about the music.

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Photo by Jessica Griffin (provided by the Philadelphia Orchestra)

There were moments of my childhood and teen years where I would get to sit back and listen to a free orchestra concert during the summer in a park, or a trained violinist from the Philadelphia Orchestra would visit my high school to teach a master class.

I held on to those moments where orchestral music felt welcoming and freeing, not stifling. When institutions make classical music accessible it can be inspiring and, at the very least, entertaining for young people. Luckily, the Philadelphia Orchestra is one of those institutions seeking to share classical music with people of all ages and backgrounds through a variety of free community and student programs.

Throughout February and June, the orchestra will perform six concerts as part of its 2020 Free Neighborhood Chamber Concert series in locations throughout the city, including the St. Francis de Sales church in West Philadelphia. Annually, the Philadelphia Orchestra performs a free Martin Luther King Jr. Tribute Concert. Throughout the school year, K–12 students can attend free matinees and are provided with trans-

portation, if needed.

For college students, the Philadelphia Orchestra hosts a free concert each year to celebrate the launch of their eZseatU program which offers college students a season pass for just $25. For a fraction of the price of a single ticket, a student can have unlimited access to over 80 concerts.

This year, the free kick–off event is on Oct. 3 at 7:30 p.m. at the Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts.

Conducting the orchestra is Kensho Watanabe, the Philadelphia Orchestra’s assistant conductor who was mentored

by Yannick Nezet–Seguin, the current music director. Watanabe will be conducting Valerie Coleman's "Umoja, Anthem for Unity" and Brahms' "Symphony No. 2."

Although some of the formalities remain, there’s no set dress code for the event and the Philadelphia Orchestra has some non–intimidating tips on its website about concert etiquette.

The truth is that classical music doesn’t have to be unpopular. With an increasingly informal culture and economic accessibility, classical music can be a form of art for all to enjoy.

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ARTIST OF THE WEEK:

On 'The Future and the Past,' Prass stares down her demons.

SAM KESLER

This time last year, Natalie Prass weaved her way into music lovers' hearts with her performance on Conan singing her hit single “Short Court Style.” The song details the ups and downs of a relationship, but also the ultimate strength that comes from a perfect pairing, while shiny synths and an unforgettable groove evoke the high– paced environment of a street basketball game. Decked out

in a shiny pink power suit and backed by two of Philly’s favorites, Dominic Angelella (of DRGN KING) and Eric Slick (of Dr. Dog), the latter her fiancé, she landed herself a place in indie pop that she’s firmly lived up to since.

On her sophomore album, The Future and the Past, Prass brought all that energy and more to tackle her frustration with recent politics. Instead of bringing the mood down,

she uses rhythm and style to face those demons. But that was the second iteration of her album—the singer–songwriter had an entire other album planned for recording, but after the 2016 election, scrapped the whole thing and began rewriting, much to the chagrin of her label.

“Yeah they were pissed,” Prass tells me over the phone, “Basically, I thought I was going to be recording in June of

2016, then it got pushed to September and then it got pushed to December. But then after Trump won the election, I was just like, ‘Oh, hell no. There’s no way I’m recording this. This record makes me feel nothing right now.’”

It all worked out, however.

The Future and the Past is a brilliant record combining dance rhythms and powerful messages, charming the

listener while talking out the larger problems that face our society. On the opener, “Oh My,” Prass sings, “Seems like every day we're losing/when we choose to read the news,” with a thick bass line underneath and slick guitar licks inspiring a more upbeat attitude than the words would suggest. The words come from Prass’ own concern over S E E PA G E 8

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the constant barrage of bad news, but ultimately resolving to take action. “I need to stay engaged,” Prass states, “I need my energy. I’m sorry but Trump and all of that, they can’t take my energy away from me. That’s all I have.

Yes, it’s extremely disconcerting and confusing, but I have a limit, and I have shit to do.

And we all do.”

Prass makes that subtext clear in the music video for her equally challenging song, “The Fire,” where she dons a pink prizefighter robe and confronts giant busts of former presidents' heads in a field. In the video, Prass is minuscule compared to the sight of these powerful men, but as she confidently strides in their shadows, she eventually becomes a statue herself and faces her own figure before an even larger Prass carries it away.

“Everybody knows about those, has kind of heard about

those presidential busts on somebody’s private property,” Prass says of the filming process, “but there’s kind of a lot of urban legends around the guy that owns them. That he’s very eccentric, that there’s a lady that guards them with a gun.” Her friend Alex, however, took a chance and gave the owner a call and managed to get him to allow them to film there. Prass says, “He let us bring the whole crew out there, and he’s like, ‘As long as there’s no negative political messages in the video, then yes, I’ll allow it.’ And I’m like, ‘Okay, wink.’”

This talent for picking out striking visuals comes from experience. Prass studied visual arts in college and utilizes her skill in everything from her music videos to her live performances, but it’s reflected most strongly in the fashion of her work. “Putting on a very strong kind of silhouette is always very impor-

Photo by Tonje Thilesen // Provided by Shore Fire Media

tant to me,” she says, “Even the outfits that I made for my live shows, it’s like my uniform, where I have this work attire on, but it’s in these really fun colors. I just like to

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have these very classic and utilitarian kind of looks to my image.”

Her live shows tend to have her band clad in all blue, reflecting the blue on the cover of The Future and the Past, also reinforcing this idea of a uniform. Teamwork is a huge part of the music she makes—her band tends to rotate through different skilled musicians, each bringing their own style to every performance. “Anytime I have a new band member playing with me, I like to accentuate what they have to offer,” Prass says, “It’s a challenge but it’s also super exciting because it gives us an opportunity to rethink.”

That approach also follows her into her relationship with drummer Eric Slick of Dr. Dog. Between their busy schedules as full–time musicians, the two still try to play together whenever possible.

“It’s true, absence makes the heart grow fonder, for sure,” Prass says. “But we also both have the kinds of personalities where we’re just very go with the flow, and we’re very supportive of one another,

and we both want each other to succeed, so there’s no jealousy, there’s no competition … It’s based in trust, like we really trust each other, and if we didn’t have that I don’t think we’d survive.”

Speaking with Prass, one can hear her steely resolve, a bit of trepidation in her voice but also strength and hope.

This is no better exemplified in her music, where she approaches difficult topics with flair and style. Despite all the outrage of the past few years, she has faced it with resilience and continued to make music that brings joy to her fans.

“I guess I just want people to feel inspired, to feel engaged, and to feel like the best versions of themselves,” says Prass. Considering that Prass has reworked an entire album, perfected her vision through film and fashion, and found her other half, she certainly inspires others to become the best version of themselves.

Natalie Prass will be performing Thursday, Apr. 18 at World Cafe Live. Tickets and more info can be found at World Cafe Live’s website.

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Kelly Chen | Photographer

puts on a sincere p e r f o r m a n c e at the mann center

Rogers and opener Empress Of delivered the perfect concert to start off the fall season. j u l i a d av i e s

There was a chill in the air as the stage crew set up for the Maggie Rogers concert outside at Philadelphia’s Mann Center. Concert–goers filled the lawn with thick blankets, warm sweaters and wool caps.

After weeks of thick, warm humidity, fall was finally here on the first Friday of October. Wrapping up the second leg of her late summer Heard It in a Past Life Tour there’s a feeling of the need to soak in every second of the moment as colder days come in and the tour comes to an end. Despite the cold, Rogers filled the stage with radiating warmth and comfort as she wrapped up the second leg of her late summer Heard It in a Past Life tour.

First, the tour’s opener Lorely Rodriquez, known as Empress Of, energized the crowd with synth–y, alternative pop. Her opening songs “Trust Me Baby” and “Everything to Me” from her 2018 album Us were refreshingly unique as the singer switches between English and Spanish lyrics. Her words were full of musings about love and heartbreak, and she performed each line with passion. As an opening act, Empress Of captured the audience on her very own with her catchy lines, electronic beats and her confident stage presence.

The climax of her performance came with “I Don’t Even Smoke Weed,” one of her most popular songs. The singer excellently expressed the sense of complete devotion to a lover while maintaining elements of humor in her lyrics. Another highlight

of her performance came as Empress Of was finishing up her set. Her self–proclaimed “feminist bop,” “Woman is a Word,” is the ultimate crowd– pleaser as the audience sings along to her empowering lines. Empress Of is the perfect touring act with Maggie Rogers. Matching Rogers' energy and strong lyricism, Empress Of put on a performance that was uniquely her own.

Maggie Rogers took the stage shortly after, her warm pop persona feeling surprising familiar at the small outdoor venue. Warming up with one of her Now That the Light Is Fading throwback singles “Color Song,” Rogers was angelic both in her performance and appearance. Her singing is light and slow as she tip– toed around the stage in a silky white robe.

The tone shifted as the singer transitioned into “Fallingwater” from her newest album Heard It In A Past Life.

Gaining momentum and confidence, her vocals became stronger as she danced across the entirety of the stage. From there, Maggie moved onto “Burning” and “Say It.” The first song is about being undeniably and unapologetically in love, while the second is about a crush she tries to suppress.

Together these two songs were perfectly and cleverly balanced.

Returning to an old classic, “Dog Years,” Maggie Rogers switched from singing about romantic love to a love that she shared with a best friend.

Rogers has an impeccable ability to make the audience

feel comfortable and close, and they swayed along to every word.

Later in the set, Maggie gave the audience a listen to an unreleased single titled “I’m Gonna Love You for a Long Time.” For a new song, the lyrics and music sounded very familiar. Like her previous songs, it’s a sweet and about love, swapping out some of her heavier pop beats for the sounds of her acoustic guitar.

It’s a fitting transition as the pop star returns to some of her more acoustic and somber songs. Her most stellar performance came when she sings “Past Life”—those who were singing and dancing before

quickly found themselves on the verge of tears.

All these mixed emotions reached their peak at the encore performance of “Alaska.”

There’s an overwhelming sense of nostalgia as Maggie Rogers sings the song that propelled her into stardom.

The song struck a perfect balance between dance and folk music layered with soulful and beautiful vocals. It's a classic

and serves as a reminder that this musician hasn’t changed.

She consistently walks the line between familiarity and spectacle in her powerful performances. She’s a pop star that feels like a close friend.

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Meet Clothify: the Future of Clothing Rental at Penn Made for and by Penn students, Clothify is changing the way our community consumes clothing.

Hannah Lonser The idea for Clothify struck Kian Sadeghi (C‘22) last March when a friend asked him to borrow his pajama pants. “So I give them to him and then the next day he returns them washed and folded, and I think, 'Why don’t I start borrowing out my clothes to people?'” Kian recounts. “And then I started wondering, 'Why don’t we all start lending our clothes to each other?'”

We all have those moments where we look into our closets and realize that

Photo courtesy of Clothify

we don’t have the appropriate attire for a certain event, before frantically knocking on a hallmate's doors or shooting urgent texts into crowded group chats. To combat this inconvenience, Sadeghi and Julie Lee (E‘22) launched Clothify: a convenient clothing rental service for the Penn community that's both economically and environmentally friendly.

Since its Sept. 1 launch, Clothify has provided a marketplace for Penn students to lend and borrow clothing

items. From dresses to jackets to shoes, if you’ve got it, you can lease it. And when you find yourself short a certain clothing item, check Clothify to borrow it from someone here on campus.

In Kian’s words, “Clothify takes something that already exists and streamlines it, makes it more efficient, and allows you to make money off of it.”

What makes Clothify so unique is that it was created by and for members of the Penn community. “We

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use our experience and our friends’ experiences and our friends’ friends’ experiences to inform everything that Clothify does,” Kian notes.

And with no minimum fees, no subscription fees, no delivery fees, and a commission fee of only 7%, Clothify is suited for everyone. As Kian says, “It’s cheaper than any other option you can possibly think of.”

But Clothify's goals extend beyond just providing affordable clothing rental options for its users. In the era of fast fashion, sustainability is one of the pillars of Clothify’s mission. “Julie and I both believe that instead of encouraging [fast fashion] retailers to continuously make an excess of clothes by buying from them, we should use what we already have,” Kian explains.

On the website, you can search for an article of clothing, and filter the results by the item's size, price point, or location. For example, if you live in Harnwell College House, you can use the location feature to search for clothes to rent right in your building and pick them up without even stepping outside. “Literally speaking,” Kian says, “the college house becomes your closet.”

You can offer up your own clothes by going to the upper right–hand corner of the home page and selecting, “Post a new listing.” From

there, type in the name of the item, list your location, set a price for rental by day or night, and upload pictures. "There’s also a place where lenders can block out dates,” Julie notes. “Say I’m putting my shirt up on the website but I know that I need it for this weekend. On the website I can block off those days.”

Clothify takes measures to ensure the quality of the rental experience for all parties involved even after the exchange takes place.

“Regarding cleaning and stuff, we leave that up to the borrower and lender,” Kian says. Clothify also uses a mutual review and rating system. “We want to make sure that all lenders are trustworthy and that all borrowers are trustworthy," Kian adds.

Kian and Julie hope to ultimately expand Clothify’s reach to other universities in the Philadelphia area and to add features that allow users to rent clothes directly from retailers near campus like Lululemon, Urban Outfitters, and United By Blue. But, in the meantime, Clothify’s founders are focused on getting as many Penn students lending and borrowing on the site as possible. “I think that Clothify can become something very important,” Kian says, “I think it could literally change the way we consume clothes at Penn.”

ST YLE

An Interview with Avan Jogia on 'Mixed Feelings,' His Book on the Mixed–Race Experience

The 27–year–old actor talks about the importance of using his platform for meaningful dialogue.

Anya Tullman

Maybe you know him as Beck, the shaggy–haired hunk from Nickelodeon’s Victorious. Or, maybe you think of Danny Desai, the innocent but troubled teen from ABC Family’s Twisted.

Either way, actor Avan Jogia is getting attention after releasing his first book, Mixed Feelings, a collection of poems and stories centered around the experiences of people of mixed descent.

Almost one hundred undergraduate and graduate students packed into the upstairs conference room of Penn’s bookstore on Sept. 27 to hear Jogia read from and talk about Mixed Feelings. A couple hours before, I had the privilege of speaking to Jogia over the phone about his career, artistic background, and inspiration for the book.

Jogia, who is now 27 with short hair, is half Indian and half Irish–English. Originally, he set out to write a collection of poems based on only his own experiences, but soon realized that the book would benefit from a variety of perspectives. Jogia set up an email account, through which he solicited people's stories about their mixed identities. Almost immediately, he had thousands of notifications in his inbox.

“I realized the collective mixed experience is so similar,” Jogia said. “It doesn’t matter what the racial background of those mixed–nesses are. We are all unified in the similarities of the experi-

ence.”

As a lifelong poet, Jogia decided to convert both his own stories and those he received from others into poetry. "I think scars around race are so close to the heart and sensitive," he explained.

"Being able to sit and read and meditate on a feeling or an idea by yourself is a great way directly to feel and interpret your feelings about your racial identity.” Through the writing of his book, Jogia did much of this meditation and reflection.

Mixed Feelings touches on the subjects of family, politics, and inclusion in a world that often wants to exclude people of mixed descent. By being open about the hardships he faced as a mixed person, Jogia encouraged others to be equally vulnerable about their own experience—ultimately, this openness is what Mixed Feelings was born from.

Jogia hopes that Mixed Feelings will fill a void that he noticed growing up: the lack of representation of mixed cultures in mass media.

“I never had anything that I could point to that I could be like, ‘Hey, this is what the mixed experience is,’” Jogia said. “So, if it offers that, that to me is like the goal here, to be at least a little bit of a framework or a guideline, or at least ask the right questions that might inspire you to define or figure out who you are.”

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F E AT U R E

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J

ana Pugsley (C ‘22) was used to the metal detector that greeted her at the entrance of Central High School every morning. She was used to subsidized breakfast and lunch, to bathrooms without toilet paper, to police officers eyeing students in the hallways between class changes. She was used to showing up to a half–empty classroom and waiting for her teacher to come, only to leave without a lesson.

“Teachers spent years and years without contracts, so they weren’t getting their raises and their pensions,” she says. “We could tell it was really hard for our teachers because they were like, ‘Well, if my work isn’t being valued by the state and if I’m not getting paid, then I don’t care.’” Teachers often weren’t there to mark the even greater number of students who were absent.

Central High School is one of the best public schools in Philadelphia. Jana had to submit an application and sit for an interview to get accepted, and students boast some of the highest test scores in the city. Even so, the systemic poverty plaguing Philadelphia schools also affected Central.

“There was just this feeling that nobody really cared,” she says. “Nobody cared about being there.”

Jana came to Penn wanting to change that.

She joined GEAR UP, one of the many tutoring programs at Penn, the first semester of freshman year. There are more than a dozen organizations serving K–12 schools through the Netter Center, the Civic House, Academically–Based Community Service (ABCS) courses, and other groups on campus. Every week, hundreds of Penn stu1 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E O C T O B E R 9 , 2 01 9

F E AT U R E

When Tutoring Programs Fail

What does Penn owe to Philly public schools?

dents travel to public schools to work with kids on math homework, reading comprehension, Jana and college applications.

Pugsley But like many students, Jana quickly discovered that tutor- ing was not what she expected it to be. She says that inadequate training left her feeling “wildly unprepared” to teach high school students, and attitudes of privilege from wealthier Penn tutors made her question the effectiveness of the program.

There were also fundamental issues with the city’s public school system that only large–scale funding and intervention could fix. In a situation where the responsibility for improving education has been pushed onto under–qualified college students, the kids and families in Philadelphia bear the brunt of the consequences.

At Penn, 46% of students are white, by far the largest demographic. The average family income is $195,500, and 96% of students graduate within six years.

In the School District of Philadelphia, 48.49% of students are black, and 21.71% are Hispanic. Every student receives free breakfast and lunch because the entire district is classified as economically disadvantaged. The average graduation rate for public high schools in the city is 82.18%, but many schools trend lower: at Strawberry Mansion High School in North Philadelphia, 40% of students graduate.

As a university at the forefront of research in dozens of fields, Penn assists public schools through volunteer tutor programs. But while the university projects itself as a benevolent community provider, that image isn't fully convinc-

ing to many Penn students—much less to Philadelphia residents.

Because of its status as a nonprofit, the university doesn’t pay property taxes, despite taking up miles of land and pushing native residents and businesses out through gentrification. Philadelphia public schools get more than half of their revenue from these taxes. Protests pushing for Penn to pay PILOTS—payments in lieu of taxes—to help local schools have gained momentum over the years, but the university has been staunch in opposing them. Vice President of University Communications Stephen MacCarthy has argued that the community service that students do more than makes up the difference, citing Penn’s contribution to “over 500 activities going on in 248 schools in every catchment area throughout the District.”

But the large number of tutoring programs doesn’t fully conceal their sometimes shallow impact. Despite getting a C in high school algebra, Jana was assigned by her program to work with students on the same math textbook she’d struggled to understand.

“I think [the students] could tell that I wasn’t super confident in my skills, and that wasn’t good because I was supposed to be in there helping them,” she says. For GEAR UP, tutor training consists of several orientation sessions focusing on the basics of mentoring and the college application process, as well as mandated reporter training and some history of the Philadelphia school district. There were also biweekly meetings where tutors could reflect on their experiences in the classroom.

Jana says that overall, the training was good at teaching Penn students how to help with college applications, but there wasn’t any support for specific subjects like algebra. Although she didn’t want to teach a subject she didn’t know well, GEAR UP was in need of math tutors, so she hesitantly agreed. In the process, Jana felt she lost the respect of her kids, and she, in turn, lost respect for GEAR UP.

Other tutoring programs at Penn show a similar gap in training. For the West Philadelphia Tutoring Project, students attend one orientation session and receive no subject–specific training. And in a Netter Center program last year at Sayre High School, there was no training at all.

Theresa Simmonds, coordinator for the Netter Center’s College Access and Career Readiness programs, acknowledged that the pilot program did not include an orientation or recurring meetings. In an email, she confirmed that the program has been canceled.

Although Jana felt unprepared for her program, she had advantages that many other Penn tutors didn’t. She knew how Philly public schools worked, and she didn’t flinch when students yelled at their teachers or broke out into fights. But many tutors didn’t come from the same background, and they were quick to pass judgment. As an FGLI student, Jana says other Penn students often carry attitudes about wealth that are alienating to her, including a misplaced admiration for her background as a “badass” inner–city school student.

“People think it’s clout or whatever that you went to a rough school, and they think that you’re tough or something,” she says. The poverty of her school district seemed minimized by richer students. She’s also felt excluded from conversations about experiences her family and school couldn’t afford to provide, like expensive sports, music lessons, and standardized test prep.

“It’s definitely alienating when people are like, ‘Oh, well if you didn’t have this very specific set of experiences, then you’re other.’ And I think that’s something that’s very common with people that went to not just Central, but a lot of Philly high schools,” she says.

Jana’s biggest criticism of training was its failure to fully address the environment of Philadelphia public schools, how it might differ from tutors’ educational backgrounds, and what kinds of stereotypical assumptions Penn students should be careful not to adopt. She felt that many tutors

were not prepared to work with students who misbehaved or showed little interest in learning, and they were judgmental as a result.

“If the students see that the tutors don’t know how to handle a situation, they’re not going to take you seriously,” Jana says. “They’re not going to trust you. And then if they see if you quickly pass judgment, they’re not going to want to interact with you. It really boils down to trust.”

“The students, they’re human beings, they are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves,” says Carter Gale (C ‘20). Carter is a lead coach for GEAR UP who recruits, trains, and manages tutors in addition to tutoring himself. He’s been with the program since he came to Penn, and he’s not shy about how much he believes in tutoring as a positive force for change.

Even though Carter has dedicated much of his time at Penn to GEAR UP, he admits that many tutors come into the program with misconceptions. “Everyone at Penn has an attitude of changing the world,” he says. “This kind of white–saviorism that a lot of Penn students have is like, ‘I’m going to Carter change Gale the world and fix these kids.’

They’re human beings, they can handle themselves. You don’t need to save them.”

A white savior complex, as Carter points out, may often arise from good intentions. A student from a more privileged background

wants to help out other students who may not have all the opportunities they've had. They’re excited to become tutors so they can lift students out of violence and poverty, unaware that they’re implicitly supporting racial stereotypes by viewing themselves as “saviors” for marginalized groups.

Carter says this is a significant concern in tutoring, as many Penn students unknowingly carry this attitude. But through time and more experience, Carter believes that tutors address their biases and become better teachers.

Based upon her own experiences with wealthier Penn students, Jana is more skeptical. Frustrated after several attempts to work with group coordinators, she quit tutoring after a year, highlighting another weakness with a volunteer model of tutoring: low commitment. When people can easily skip training sessions, push tutoring off for a week because of midterms, or quit out of the blue, what does that mean for public school students?

“I think continuity for students is a big thing, so if you have this rotating cast of college students coming in and out, you can’t form connections with them. Then what good is it?” Jana says that even tutors who decided to sign on for another semester frequently skipped their tutoring sessions, feeding into the environment of instability that surrounds kids learning in an underfunded school district.

Lack of training and commitment, significant as they are, only brush the surface of the fractured relationship between the university and Philly O C T O B E R 9 , 2 01 9 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E 1 3

F E AT U R E

public schools. It’s an uncomfortable reality that Penn students receive vastly different opportunities than the public school students who live next door.

Penn is currently in the process of constructing New College House West for its students, a $163 million project. In Philadelphia public schools, old, decaying buildings expose children to dangerous levels of asbestos and lead dust.

One six–year–old consumed lead chips that fell from the ceiling at school for two months and suffered lasting brain damage. According to the Philadelphia Inquirer, the school district needs $3 billion over ten years for all necessary construction and repairs on their buildings.

Twenty–three schools closed in 2013 because of a projected $1.35 billion budget deficit.

Thousands of students left behind friends and teachers for new schools in unfamiliar neighborhoods.

“We got letters home with teachers begging parents for photocopy paper,” Jana says. At her high school, lack of funding permeated every aspect of her learning. This included the struggle to be known

by her guidance counselor, who had a caseload of 600 students.

How much can any tutor, well–trained or not, help a school that’s falling apart inside and out?

“There’s not always the infrastructure,” says Simmonds. She notes teachers, principals, and Netter Center staff at the schools are often putting out multiple fires at the same time, from low test scores to absenteeism to serious incidents of violence against both students and faculty.

“The schools are underserved, they don’t have enough staff, and knowing how to use volunteers is a skill,” Simmonds says. “The needs of the students are so great that all of the services that you want to provide—all the activities and making use of all the volunteers—may just have to go down the priority list because there are other things that have to be dealt with immediately.”

Teachers and students are being pulled in all directions constantly, and even an inch of progress can seem incredibly fragile in the face of so many challenges.

“If things start to slide, and you don’t

1 4 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E O C T O B E R 9 , 2 01 9

take care of it pretty quickly, it can get to a point where you’re doing a mountain of lifting to get it back to where it was,” Simmonds says.

There’s not much a single Penn student can do to combat systemic issues. There’s a lot the university can do—but decidedly hasn’t. While claiming that “Penn actively supports the Philadelphia School District” through its outreach programs, the university avoids the responsibility for letting kids go to school with overworked teachers and administrators, in classrooms full of toxic chemicals, taught by inexperienced volunteers.

The only school Penn directly contributes to through funding is Penn Alexander, a K–8 school where 30% of students have family ties to the university. The result has been decisive: with the additional $700,000 the university gives to Alexander every year, the school boasts top test scores, student awards, and an abundance of resources that surrounding schools simply don’t have.

Jana and Carter have a few ideas to better structure the tutoring programs. Besides providing more subject–

specific training, Jana thinks deeper lessons in the history of Philly school systems and a “more trauma–informed approach” would help Penn students become better tutors. Trauma– informed teaching takes into account the various forms of stress students can face on a daily basis, including poverty, neglect, mental health issues, unstable living situations, and abuse.

Instead of reacting negatively when students act out, Jana says, tutors should learn to suspend judgement and understand how traumatic experiences might affect kids’ behavior.

As a lead coach, Carter is working on having older, more experienced members watch over new tutors for the first few sessions, which he thinks will help people learn more quickly on the job.

“Our training model is very much, you go in for the first time with other people who have been doing it longer, and doing more of that, I think, is helpful,” he says. “[Tutoring] is not something you can train in a classroom or an orientation session.

It’s something that you need to kind of learn through doing.”

But there’s a fundamental tradeoff be-

tween better training and student interest, Simmonds says. Right now, there are hundreds of Penn students who travel to local public schools to teach, but how many would stay if programs instituted stricter application processes, longer and more in–depth preparation, and mandatory cultural sensitivity training?

According to Carter, who also works for the Netter Center’s internal evaluation team, the majority of people who join GEAR UP already quit after a year with the program, joining the “rotating cast” that’s so disruptive to students’ development.

The future of Philadelphia public schools is volatile, and the extent to which Penn tutoring programs can help is uncertain. The divide between Penn and public schools is growing, cementing the university’s position as an institution unattainable to many Philadelphia students.

Without more funding for the district, the efforts of outreach programs designed to close the gap are stunted, and tutors are, at worst, transitory—a temporary mark on a kid’s life for a semester or two, set to disappear.

ST YLE

How to Actually Foster, Adopt or Volunteer with Animals in Philadelphia Street breaks down the process behind getting involved with animals in the city.

HANNAH SANDERS Sophia Zhu | Photographer

Many people have pets on campus. It’s a popular way to add some depth and structure to your college experience—whether it’s the traditional cat and dog or an exotic chinchilla, animals can add real joy to life. There are so many options that it can be overwhelming—however, the options can be split into three main categories: adoption, fostering, and volunteering.

Adopting a pet is a big commitment, but Philly has so many great shelters to choose from.

Many shelters in Philly work with the city’s animal control to help save animals. If an animal is found wandering the streets of Philadelphia, it is then seized by animal control and assessed to determine where it has to be placed. In the case of dogs and cats, shelters in Philly take them in to help them look for more permanent homes. Some great no–kill shelters in Philly include Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society (PAWS), Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (PSPCA), and Animal Care Control Team of Philadelphia (ACCT). And the process of adopting is pretty simple: “If you are interested in adopting, the application is the first step. You can do that [at the physical shelter] on the spot while you are looking around, or you can do it online ahead of time, or you can pop in, drop [an application] off,” Ame Wiltzius,

the manager at PAWS in Old City, explained.

Once the application is processed—which can take anywhere from a couple of days to one week—the shelter will reach out to confirm approval and share animal care information.

There is an adoption fee, which mostly accounts for the medical status of new animals. “The fee includes that they are already spayed or neutered and microchipped, [and that] they are up to date on vaccines,” added Wiltzius. After all of that, you can bring your cuddle buddy home and experience the true joys of pet owning. Plus, you’ve helped saved a life!

If you aren’t interested in the long–term commitment of adopting, yet you still want a pet in your home, pet fostering is a great option. There are so many great ways to foster pets in Philly.

“It is a great choice, especially for students,” Wiltzius said. “A few months at a time each semester is a great way to participate and help save lives.”

Fostering through shelters is a great way to have a pet in your home without long–term commitment. PAWS, PSPCA, and ACCT all have strong fostering programs. A pet is fostered for anywhere from a week to two months, giving it a home while it waits to be adopted. The foster parent provides all supplies including food and toys, but medi-

cal care is provided by the shelter.

All you have to do is apply online or at the shelter of your choice.

Another way to foster a dog is raising a service dog. “I had wanted to as long as I can remember, but my parents were not on board, so as soon as I moved off–campus and was able to, I just decided to go for it!” said Malia Szyman (C '20). “I raised a service dog through Canine Companions for Independence (CCI). I fostered a dog; I raised, had her full time for one and a half years and gave her back to them.” Malia heard about CCI in elementary school and decided that when she went to college she would join the program. The CCI fostering program gives a volunteer a puppy for a year and a half. For another six months the dog goes through a training to become a service dog. Then,

the dog is given to a person with disabilities.

While it isn’t full adoption, fostering through CCI is still a big commitment. Foster parents have to train the dog on basic skills, provide all supplies, and pay for all medical necessities.

Fostering a dog is a volunteer position, so CCI does not give any form of financial support.

CCI prioritizes college students, so once an application is filled out, a puppy could be sent to your home within a few weeks. Malia also started a club called Step–Up, where people who foster service dogs receive a large amount of support from other Penn students.

The members of Step–Up are put into a schedule to spend time with the dog for an hour.

There are so many alternative volunteer opportunities to get to spend quality time with animals.

Volunteering at animal shelters is one great option. “Any shelter relies on volunteers and PAWS especially. We have volunteers helping us do the animal care in the mornings and evenings,” Wiltzius said.

“They help us change litter boxes, change water, feed the kitties. We have people who come in just to socialize with really scared or aggressive cats. We have dog walkers come to walk dogs…Without our volunteer help, we would have no time to help adopters find pets and send the pets to a home." Most other shelters have similar volunteer programs.

Philadelphia used to be one of the worst cities for animal treatments. But Philly is on its way to becoming a no–kill city. If you cannot commit to adopting a dog, fostering and volunteering are amazing alternatives for spending time with pets.

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'Love Island': Reality TV for the Now

Reality television is in a weird place right now. The genre, predicated on the idea of reality, has been exposed as being entirely false. In the time since the original release of shows like The Hills and The Bachelor, stars and producers have come forward admitting to the falseness of what we see onscreen (Lauren Conrad even wrote a YA series detailing how little truth there is to reality TV).

As a result, viewers don’t really care about narrative—we know that whatever we’re watching has been manipulated for our viewing pleasure. Instead, we care about the characters. And in worlds driven by character drama, the arcs found in reality TV tend to be artificial: who is taking advantage of the show for the wrong reasons? What are their intentions? What did they say off–camera, behind our backs? We are obsessed with hints of truth, jumping to conclusions and guessing at who can be trusted. Enter: Love Island, a show that broadcasts its un–reality in every way.

And ironically, that unreal– ness is what makes it feel so real. The British ITV2 show is like Bachelor in Paradise on steroids—it’s a dating show turned up to the extreme for everyone’s enjoyment. From revelatory “challenges” designed to expose contestants to the microphones that hang prominently from the participants’ necks, viewers are bluntly and constantly reminded that that Love Island is made for TV. Now, courtesy of CBS, Love Island has been brought across

What makes this breakout UK reality show an international phenomenon?

By Samantha Sanders the pond to U.S. audiences.

And though the American spinoff is nowhere near as beloved as the British original, a second season has already been ordered.

This means that on some level, network executives believe in its potential for profit and ratings.

So what is it about Love Island?

How do we explain its success?

Here’s its basic premise: attractive women and men are invited to the Island. The contestants have to pair up or ship out. And, as the days pass, the ways in which contestants are eliminated become increasingly involved: audience vote, the introduction of a newer, hotter contestant, and even forced splits of couples.

This contrived, heteronormative format might seem derivative in nature, but it never plays out that way onscreen. Given the short time frame in which the couples must choose partners, genuine intimacy might seem an almost impossible feat. But sexual attraction, a lack of privacy, and a chance at fame force contestants to make it work.

Airing every day throughout the summer, Love Island has little—if any—time to manufacture drama. Oftentimes what’s shown onscreen feels totally unfiltered, as though we are actually watching people fall in and out of love. And in a lot of ways, we are: there’s nothing to do in the Love Island villa except fall in love. Contestants aren't allowed access to books, movies, or even a pen and paper. The Love Island villa is like an alternate universe wherein everything is distinctly brighter: walls painted with neon

words, matching chartreuse and fuchsia bed linens, all existing in a manicured villa with fake grass in the middle of Majorca.

Watching Love Island is a distinctly Machiavellian experience. It mirrors The Truman Show so closely that the 1998 movie could've been the direct inspiration for the series. We watch as contestants lie and misremember details we saw just moments before, all the while waiting for the truth to come out. But it never does. The producers never seem to interfere in the ways that matter. There are the 73 in–house cameras and

the conspicuous microphones, but that's it. Our watchful eyes are the only intrusive presence.

It's always bizarre to see the way people will behave when they know they're being watched, but it's even more bizarre to see how they act when they forget they're being watched. And, as everything unfolds in front of us, we become frustrated with how warped the sense of reality seems to be in the villa. Even with all the on–air confusion, there’s no falsity for us on the outside— we know what’s happening the whole time.

We have the distinct sense that

it's wrong to watch, but the draw of schadenfreude is too great to ignore. These lives fall apart in front of us, and we drink it in.

Every last bit. Because no matter how confused the contestants' ideas of truth becomes, ours stays the same. We always get exactly what we want: the truth, the drama, and the intrigue.

And in some ways, that makes it the perfect show for today. It is rare that we know exactly what we’re getting or how we’re getting it. So in an age of deep–fakes, false narratives, and real deceit, the simplicity of Love Island is relaxing, comforting even.

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FILM & TV

The Evolution of Robert Pattinson Why he's more than just than that vampire from 'Twilight' Anna Collins

Twilight is undeniably a cultural touchstone. It defined the current generation of young adults by exposing them at an impressionable age to the world of softcore porn, dramatic romance, and dreamy bad–boys. It singlehandedly ushered in an era of vampire and werewolf fiction, a genre still seen in popular media today like The Vampire Diaries or Teen Wolf. Twilight not only changed the lives of the girls who ate up hundreds and hundreds of pages of theatrical romantic drama, it also revolutionized the world of YA fiction and film. Perhaps most important are the consequences it had for the careers of its two main stars: Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson.

The duo constantly made tabloid magazine covers during the years that the iconic

Twilight adaptations were being filmed. Not only were they starring in one of the most influential young adult film series—they were also the target of media speculation regarding their relationship from the get–go. Sometime in 2008, news broke that the actors playing everyone’s star–crossed lovers were actually dating in real life. Stewart and Pattinson’s relationship was thrust into the spotlight, an addition to the long line of onscreen couples who have become romantically involved in real life. Unfortunately, all this public scrutiny led both actors to go on a public–life hiatus after they finished filming Breaking Dawn Part 2 in 2012. While they still acted, they stayed out of the headlines.

So, what are these two ac-

tors up to now? Kristen Stewart has made headlines for discussing the LGBT problem in Hollywood and is performing in the upcoming remake of Charlie’s Angels. While still relatively private, she seems to be much more in the spotlight than Pattinson.

Pattinson, while maintaining relative elusiveness, has had an incredibly packed schedule.

Just last year, he was in the infamous High Life which allegedly made audience members at TIFF walk out in the middle of the screening. This year, he has a full slate: the Netflix film The King on Oct. 11 with Timothée Chalamet, and on Oct. 18, the two–man movie The Lighthouse, starring him and Willem Dafoe. Pattinson is also going to be taking over the mantle of Batman, following the likes of Ben Af-

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fleck and Christian Bale. Unlike the dreamy Edward in Twilight, these roles are about grit, drama, and violence. It is clear, through these upcoming projects, that Pattinson is no longer just the cute boy from Twilight: he's breaking out from his past and trying to make his name as an actor.

People, of course, are hesitant, and some likely find it hard to separate him from the sparkling vampire he once was.

Additionally, Twilight received a harsh reaction from critics; people called Pattinson dry and boring, and Stewart uninspired and bland. And they're right—both are a little stilted—particularly in the exaggerated romantic scenes. Yet, to be fair, the script is clunky and confusing, the subject material is melodramatic, and the production for the films was allegedly a nightmare. Pattinson’s hatred of being Edward is so often discussed that it’s become a meme of its own.

Despite his past, Pattinson has proved himself a talented performer in these recent roles.

Reviews for The Lighthouse say that “this may be his best work [...] he throws himself entirely into the role and it’s fun to watch” and “it’s the most ferocious acting of Pattinson’s career”. Reviews of The King said that he “gooses the movie just when it needs a fresh shot of adrenaline.” This is not the same uncomfortable, cold actor who portrayed Edward a decade ago—this is a matured, professional performer taking on complex roles.

Robert Pattinson should no longer be considered ‘the vampire from Twilight’. The media’s obsession with typecasting actors effects them for the rest of their career— there's no doubt that Pattinson’s widespread fame in Twilight has been haunting him in audition rooms since.

However, every role that he’s taken post Twilight indicates an incredible range and talent. He has already done all the work to break out of the shadow of his past. Now, all that's left is for us to acknowledge his growth.

FILM & TV

'The Politician' Is Compulsively Watchable and Emotionally Flat The Ben Platt–helmed Netflix show brings you in to the high–stakes world of high school politics.

Annabelle Williams In the introduction of The Politician, Sufjan Stevens' “Chicago” hums over a montage of a wooden body being constructed.

That’s a key word—constructed.

The body is wooden and hollowed out, a Trojan horse containing the refuse of a privileged, hyper–ambitious life. There’s a purple heart curdling in a vat of steaming black sludge. There are books—biographies of presidents, “How to Win Friends and Influence People.” And eventually, after the body is sewn into a bespoke, jewel–toned suit, we see our main character.

The show starts after a cold open of Payton Hobart (Ben Platt) in a stilted Harvard interview, wearing a blue suit in contrast to the title sequence's purple one. It then cuts to manic–pixie–dream–boy River (a dimpled David Corenswet) and his ice– queen girlfriend Astrid (a delightfully restrained Lucy Boynton).

She’s reassuring him that she will “do better at appearing more authentic from now on.” He thinks of authenticity as paramount; she can’t see the difference between appearing to be something and actually being it.

Though the show pairs him with dreamboat River, Payton is Astrid’s natural counterpart in this authenticity crisis. He, too, can’t decide if pretending to feel something and feeling it are any different. His identity as "a winner" is not so much borne from identity as it is action. You get the sense that he’s never lost.

The Politician is a show about authenticity, a look at Ryan Murphy’s first foray into Netflix (though it was produced in partnership with Fox21 and not as a Netflix exclusive), and the dollars and creative freedom that brings.

Murphy, Brad Falchuk, and Ian Brennan, the team behind Glee and Scream Queens, executive produce. And The Politician takes on some of the DNA of its predecessors—young adults in schools that vaguely resemble reality, only with more singing and higher stakes.

It’s daring in some ways and a hot mess in others, but it really shines when it's dealing with emotions and repressions, not trying to convince us to care about a high school presidential election. And even though some of the characterization leans on caricature, it's a promising start for a satirical show that, at its core, is so sweet it's almost painful.

The treatment of feeling and the attempts to parse authentic and pretended emotion come to a head quickly in the first episode.

River, the only character who seems to never have an ulterior motive, dies by suicide. In the series’ seventh episode, we learn why: he just feels too much.

There are quite a few scenes of Georgina (Gwyneth Paltrow), Payton’s mother, worrying about her son's capacity to feel. “Your ambition frightens me,” she whispers, as Platt angles his face in the crook of her elbow.

But it's hard to see where she's coming from, because emotion writes itself across Platt’s face.

He’s a vulnerable performer, sure, but it’s clear that Payton feels everything, deeply, and tries to dam his emotions. His repression is the most interesting emotional thread in the show. The question becomes less about whether he has feelings and more about if he’ll be able to manage and express them.

The set dressing and characters are pure Ryan Murphy. Not quite

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All Photos Courtesy of Netflix camp, not quite verisimilitude, but with laugh–out–loud touches that reward repeat viewing. It seems only natural that Gwyneth Paltrow's character would oil– paint portraits of Syrian children on her veranda. And of course, there are Menendez–esque patricidal twin brothers named Martin and Luther. The WASPiness is palpable.

The show is also richly intertextual, referencing itself and a shared cultural lexicon that situates it firmly in 2019. It’s particularly apparent in episode 4, “Gone Girl,” a clear reference to David Fincher’s adaptation of Gillian Flynn’s domestic neo–noir. But the most egregious misstep—both as a reference and

on a purely plot level—is the Munchausen by proxy subplot.

Whether intentional or not, it’s a clear callback to The Act (and, to a lesser extent, Sharp Objects).

Any Munchausen storyline in 2019 is going to feel derivative. Casting Jessica Lange as the scheming grandmother in a role that’s essentially parody is a waste of her talents, though the panache she brings to the leopard–leggings–wearing Southern belle grandmother is worth a watch anyway.

Episodically, there are some interesting touches. The structure lends itself to a stream– and–binge model: some episodes clock in at 30–some minutes and others easily clear an hour. The

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overall arc finds a turning point in “The Voter.” In an inspired choice that’s uncomfortable to watch, the show switches angles and follows a day in the life of Elliot Beachman (Russell Posner), one of the school's few remaining undecided voters.

His aggressively normal life, normal house, and normal family stand in contrast to the 0.01% machinations that make up the rest of the show. Instead of a million–dollar commode, we get toilet stalls. Instead of threesomes and political marriages, we get a lot of masturbation. Elliot only cares about the central plot as it relates to him. At the end, he doesn’t vote. Because, as he says in the episode's last line, his vote “doesn’t matter anyway.”

For those watching the show for wealth porn and Heathers– esque high school drama, it’s jarring. The line and the episode implicate you. They make you wonder how, and why, you’ve gotten so sucked into a television show that's essentially about a high school presidential election.

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Until it’s not.

Because The Politician's first season is essentially just one season and another season's premiere, the narrative arcs—high school, Infinity’s “illness”—wrap up by the seventh episode. Its finale feels more like a premiere.

In the eighth episode, a time jump lands us in West Village institution Marie’s Crisis Café (it’s a set—the real Marie’s Crisis would never be able to fit the full backing band that Platt uses). Payton, now an NYU student, belts Billy Joel’s “Vienna” and makes eye contact with old nemesis Skye Leighton, who tried to poison him in the last episode, and Infinity Jackson, whose Munchausen by Proxy he kept a secret.

Skye and Infinity visiting Payton is a bit of a twist that speaks to the question of Payton’s identity. In casting off the idea of himself as a politician, he loses the entourage that came with it and moves towards Infinity, whose identity has shifted dramatically, and Skye, who seems to have mellowed out at—of course—Vassar.

This episode's plot hinges around Payton reuniting his former friends to mount a campaign against Dede Standish (Judith Light), who's in a throuple with Olivia Pope's dad from Scandal and some guy who looks like a knockoff version of the President from Scandal. She and her campaign manager, Hadassah Gold (Bette Midler), represent an old guard that Payton leverages his youth to topple. If that sounds a little convoluted, that's because it is, but standout performances from Light and Midler, who are clearly having so much fun with this, give hope for the next season.

For fans of Ryan Murphy and pop culture obsessives, The Politician is worth watching for

casting alone. There’s January Jones as a pill–addled ex–hooker married to a spray–tanned Dylan McDermott, screaming: “he wants to have sex with our daughter!” to a cop. There’s Ben Platt, emotion palpable on his face, belting out Joni Mitchell and Stephen Sondheim. There’s Bette Midler, digs at Andrew Lloyd Weber, and Goop in increasingly ridicu-

lous caftans.

And it's also notable in that just about every character displays queer tendencies, and it's barely remarked upon—it's just woven into the fabric of the show in a way that's both comforting and lived–in.

Structurally, it would make sense for The Politician to follow Payton and Co. on every campaign they mount, up until the highest office in the land. It might not always be a smooth ride, but it'll definitely be a fun one to watch.

It might be hard to stay invested beyond the spectacle, though, because there’s a fundamental flatness to the characters.

On some level, it’s hard to really care about them because they’re either one–dimensional caricatures like Infinity or inconsistently characterized like Payton.

The Politician soars when it’s tackling big themes of identity, construction, and emotion. The sets, costumes, and performances stick in your mind, and you’ll probably never forget Ben Platt’s rendition of “River.” But everything in between just falls flat.

'Presenting the Damn Thing:'

ARTS

A Powerful Contemplation of American Heritage

Philly local Inga Kimberly Brown's art exhibit weaves together an American Dialogue with the artist's own identity.

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“Presenting the Damn Thing,” a solo exhibition of a collection of paintings, seeks to provoke a distinctly American dialogue. The creator of the exhibit and its artwork, artist Inga Kimberly Brown, brings a unique perspective to the conversation with how she brings her mixed media paintings to life.

Brown meets me outside of her exhibit, which ended on Sep. 30, on a sunny Saturday, smiling widely at me while fishing for her keys in a bag that clunks around. Her foster child sleeps soundly as he's strapped to her, not stirring as she withdraws her keys and opens the door to

her space on 40th and Chestnut Street, chatting about the difficulty of finding parking here. We step inside a narrow hallway and enter her gallery, which contains seven of her paintings in one small room.

She makes small talk as we settle in, largely about our common roots of being from Philadelphia. She's from West Mount Airy and the daughter of racially mixed parents.

Brown’s work incorporates some of this personal history. She uses wood in her art because it speaks to her.

“Wood just seems a little bit more raw, a little bit more familiar. My father is a car-

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penter. Most of my family works with their hands.” Her exploration of her own racial heritage and family history is evident throughout her paintings, though sometimes it's not planned for.

“I don’t like to plan things out," she says, explaining

one of her pieces entitled "The Grande Damn." "[The painting] is so special because [it] has things that were never meant to be there,” she continues serenely, gesturing towards the painting as she explains. Brown approaches her paintings with a gen-

eral idea of what she’s going to paint, but doesn’t usually know the specifics. "In The Grande Damn," there are blurred faces in the windows looking in that she did not anticipate adding, and a woman in white whose face Brown has never seen. The

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woman in white wears an intense expression of shock and pain, her mouth partially open and her raised eyebrows reacting to an unseen menace in the distance.

"The Grande Damn" is also noteworthy for the layers it spans in both content and form. Three naked women sing a wedding song alongside the woman in white, and a recording plays beneath the painting to convey a mournful song. Small blocks have been added to the canvas, to extend the feet of the butler and to create a higher ceiling. David Bowie resides in the background, adding a temporal dimension to a home that seems to be from a distant past. It’s incredibly thoughtful, though Brown insists that all of it mostly just “happens.”

While Brown is a whimsical and spiritual person, there are still certain motifs that pop up in most of the paintings. The most notable one is nudity. "Your nudity is your truth," she nods.

"There's always been a sexual force behind mankind," she elaborates, and she points to Marie, Daughter of the Revolution, which portrays a semi–nude slave woman; she also directs me towards "Captain Trick," a painting of a nude white man resembling a slave master with a bag over his head. This open

display of sexuality in her artwork is part of a discussion she says we've been "too polite" to have—one about the role that sexual dynamics played in slavery.

Much of Brown’s art is not supposed to "mean" anything. However, she draws on meaningful inspiration for her work. The March represents the death of her aunt.

Boom Boom at the Bijou expresses her vision of West Philadelphia, which exuded a heavy energy of imprisonment and oppression Brown noticed when she first moved there. She doesn’t impose her vision on the viewers, however. Her paintings will be interpreted differently by every viewer, she explains, and each person will take home disparate messages from her work.

Ideas of American heritage are interspersed throughout the paintings. Moccasins are strapped on to the canvas of Boom Boom at the Bijou, acting as a tribute to Native Americans. Painted newspaper clippings of slave auctions decorate the background of Marie, Daughter of the Revolution. It’s all part of the American saga, a story rooted in race. All in all, Brown's collage of materials, stories, and temporal dimensions is a powerful contemplation of what it means to have an American identity.

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