Alex Citrin Master's Thesis Process Book : MICA MFA Illustration Practice 2014

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a book about a magazine about coming of age alexandra citrin mfa illustration practice 2014 maryland institute college of art dissertation




“have you thought about doing an online magazine instead of dealing with print?� (almost everyone)


I II

intro projected goals

III

writers

IV

artists

V VI

art direction case studies funding

VII

web + media presence

VIII

printing + publishing

IX

contracts

XI

the future


welcome to my master's thesis

(that's me, Alex)

I applied to graduate school for the most mundane of reasons: to enhance my craft, to become part of a community, to obtain my master’s degree so I could teach college and perhaps enjoy the benefits of a steady paycheck while continuing to work as a freelance illustrator… the lattermost I had been doing fulltime since graduating from Skidmore College in 2009, along with a string of design-related art department gigs in New York City that left me feeling jaded and burnt out at twenty-four years old. Now that I’ve reached the end of my tenure at MICA, I can say definitively that I got everything I initially set out for — I’m certainly a stronger illustrator, wholly due to the incredible professors and fellow studio-mates I’ve been so lucky to work with these past two years. I also feel so blissfully and wholly ingrained within the MICA graduate community that my initial distaste for academia has

all but vanished. And, unless I’m expelled in the next two weeks, I will be qualified to teach college-level studio courses once I’m declared an officially sanctioned Master of Fine Arts. All of this is great. I’ve never felt more creatively fulfilled in my life, and that alone would be enough. However, I could not have anticipated the deep and permanent change in my own illustration practice that would take place during my time here. Approximately halfway through my first year in the aptly-named Illustration Practice program, there was a shift. No MFA program would be worth it’s weight without fellow candidates to critique with, both formally and informally. I doled out as many informal critiques as those I asked for, but eventually this ratio began to tip. I began to care more about communicating with and helping other illustrators produce their strongest work than even working on my own illustrations. Slowly, I realized that my true strength, or at least my true


interest, is art direction, and that I could use my skills as an illustrator to inform this new pursuit. Until Now was born out of this revelation. Print publishing is currently in flux. There is the breakneck pace of the internet, a constant influx of new technology, and the way in which most people absorb visual content and information has dramatically changed in the past ten years. That said, a veritable cottage industry of beautifully produced independent magazines has sprung up around the alleged digitization of all media, perhaps partially as a reactive response — I wanted in. I love print and have a background in design, so producing a magazine appealed to me organically. I chose a topic that’s I've always found particularly intriguing, coming of age, and I simply ran with it. My idea was met mostly with support, if not slight bemusement. Why

go through the trouble of doing print? It’s expensive, it’s a headache, it’s gutwrenchingly permanent. But I wanted to produce something a person could hold, an object of tangible value that enhanced the impact of the content within its pages. This is, after all, a magazine about people’s pasts. The past may be static but the stories it provides are fluid and never dated, as it is already past due. A thing like that, it needs to live on a bookshelf, on your coffee table, and in your arms, not behind a computer screen. Throughout this “book about a magazine” I’ve detailed my process, covering everything from barcodes to printing to design. Ultimately, though, Until Now was an experiment in what to do with my gut instinct about art direction. I took everything I’d learned from my professional work life, my undergraduate degree in design, and my practice as an illustrator and combined it. I wanted to see if I could effectively

art direct illustrators from concept to completion and, if so, might I become sick of it. While I can only present Until Now as a means by which to judge my art directing ability, I can say for certain that I feel I’ve found that one thing I’m supposed to be doing, and now I just want to do it all the time. For this, I can only credit everyone in my graduating year from the Illustration Practice program for being the catalyst, for switching the light on in my brain. Had I not been surrounded by such diverse and unbelievably strong talent, I may not have ever put the pieces together.

alexandra citrin


The dichotomy between the reality of growing up versus what it means to grow up is fascinating. There is a cultural nostalgia ascribed to the idea of coming of age that skews either overlyromantic or painfully overwrought. In actuality, like so many things, the process of coming of age could probably be distilled into a few select moments in time (romantic, overwrought, or otherwise) linked by stretches of relatively mundane weeks just trying to make it through school or work or the people and places that make up a life. In here you'll find those moments in a series of essays, fiction, and illustrations from forty-two writers and artists who responded to the prompt "coming of age." It's not hip to do an editor's letter. Believe me, I rifled through hundreds of independently published, limited-edition matte paper lifestyle and literary quarterlies throughout the production of this publication and most do not have an editor's letter. Perhaps editor's letters are the bastion of the old guard, our editor forbearers who spent forty years in the industry and are (a certain kind of) household names in their own right. The non-specific omnipresent voice is both comforting and dissociative, and for those reasons I've been known to use it myself from time to time in regards to Until Now. But in print and in truth this publication is quite personal to me and hopefully to others. In February 2013 I was in graduate school at the Maryland Institute College of Art trying to generate an idea for my master's thesis, which by definition is simply a theory you attempt to prove is true. I wanted to prove that as an illustrator I could sufficiently (and joyfully) operate as an art director, working with other illustrators to produce work we both felt to be relevant, dynamic, and beautiful. What became of this idea is so much more than what I initially set out to do, and what you now hold in your hands is the result of many, many moving parts; the forty-two razor sharp and impassioned contributing artists and writers featured in this issue, my graduate


school colleagues, professors, and studio mates who patiently listened to my endless rambling about the who and what of this whole operation, plus a few tenacious voluntary editorial assistants without whom I could not have functioned. Every step of this process began with a series of questions and anxiety-induced inner monologues simply hinging on my own experiences as an illustrator, writer, and various levels of art department cog. What came of all this was the discovery that perhaps it is sometimes better not to know what you are getting yourself into at first, but to let the project take over, to let your priorities shuffle around organically until whatever it is you have set out to produce takes on a life of its own. This realization has fortunately provided me with a pretty convenient metaphor for coming of age which, in many ways, making this magazine has been for me in its completion. Of course, the business of coming of age never really plateaus, as there is no age (16, 18, 21, 25, 30, 40…) or arbitrary life event (menstruation, graduation, first job, first marriage, first divorce) by which to scientifically pinpoint the exact moment we learn whatever wise lesson is supposed to carry us gracefully through the years with the ease of what a child might believe an adult existence to be. But Until Now isn’t about wisdom or grace. It’s not about an endpoint and it’s certainly not advice — this is simply a time capsule. ~AC

Editor's letter from Issue #1 of Until Now magazine




but really this is the most important thing to me


goals i sought to achieve

Produce a real magazine, complete with appropriate production value for the medium Take the proper steps to insure the magazine's eventual distribution in bookstores Use my experience as an illustrator to art direct other illustrators Use my professional experience to produce every element of the magazine itself Keep over forty contributing writers and artists happy, engaged, and feeling respected Establish a sustainable enough business practice to ensure the potential future of the publication


I decided early on that the contributing writers to Until Now must be professional working writers, figuring this requirement would (likely) ensure minimal complications. As it turns out, I was pretty much correct in this assumption; with the exception of one person, every writer made his or her deadline promptly enough to provide me with ample time to brainstorm with the illustrators and art direct accordingly without needing to fuss over multiple rounds of editing with the writers (they are personal essays, after all). The one exception was a writer who sent her essay in a week before the print deadline. Having known this might happen, I produced a simple and highlyeditable layout for this one particular essay and took it upon myself to do the illustrations, as to not risk inconveniencing or upsetting any contributing artists with a rush deadline.


professional writer previously unpublished previously unpublished in the united states

until now writers

Annie Kreighbaum, senior beauty editor at Into The Gloss

Maria Passarivaki, editor at Ignant (Berlin)

Joe Ahearn, co-founder of Silent Barn (NYC), curator at the Clocktower Gallery

Doree Shafrir, managing editor at Buzzfeed

Alexandra Schwartz, staff writer at The New Yorker Gillian Reagan, editor at Capital New York Michael Sheffield, editor at The Village Voice Colin Lord, copywriter at Droga5 Vivek Nemana, stringer for The New York Times Shannon Hassett, freelance writer Carrie Battan, staff writer at Pitchfork Daniel D’Addario, culture reporter for Salon

Tom Haviv, freelance writer Lola Pellegrino, staff writer at Rookie Will Carlisle, copywriter at Colossal Media Charlotte Lewis, television writer for Warner Brothers Daniel Kraines, poet David Stern, writer and musician Emily Thompson, editor at The Le Sigh Christopher Sullivan, playwright and copywriter for MTV


(L to R) Lisk Feng Rand Renfrow Yelena Brysenkova

Dave Singley Sarah Jacoby Caleb Luke Lin

Nicolet Schenck Alex Citrin Maily Degnan

Valeria Molinari Rob Young


sts

l

unti

arti now

(R to L) Billy Burkert Laura Callaghan Lisa Perrin

Jun Cen Greg Kletsel Angela Dalinger

Jordan Sondler Kevin Valente Lizzie Gill

Jonny Negron Will Laren



case study #1: yelena







case study #2: greg







Distorted screams through a cell phone

Disollution Days

bottle rolling from his fingertips, the

wet leaves dripping. I didn’t have a place

at 3 a.m. I held the phone far from my face

isolated knock of an empty plastic container

of my own in the city at the time, I’d often

to curb the blows but I didn’t do much. I had

hitting the wooden f loor, and a faint rolling.

come into Brooklyn from my family’s home

been drinking gin with Hunter at Passion, a

He was athletic, young, and handsome; olive

in New Jersey for weeks at a time, and

neon red dive bar off Broadway in Bedstuy,

skin, black hair with a Misfits curl in the

without Hunter I was fresh out of people who

and the two of us were making our way back

center, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow.

would let me crash on their couch. “I’ll go

to his and Claire’s place together to crash

His body would never be seen again.

somewhere.”

as Claire cried through the phone. “Where

essay by Michael Sheffield illustrations by GreG KletSel

I was moving more inwards that

It was late, the bars were closing, and

were you guys tonight? I feel like I don’t even

summer, drowning in failures, death and

so I trudged to the nearest bus stop at Gates

know you anymore. How long are you going

disappointment and Claire couldn’t bear to

and Wyckoff and waited under the partial

to keep this up?” The rain came in soft nails.

see it. She said my sadness wasn’t real, or

glass roof. I waited with a few nurses and

Our friendship had been shaky by then and

that everyone’s weight meant mine could

a schizophrenic man in a soiled sweat suit

by all accounts the blame fell on me. She

not be that heavy, and so I hung up the

who talked wildly to himself about water

blistered me about how I divided my time,

phone. It was my custom to cut people off

bugs infesting his skin as I watched the

lamented why I couldn’t confide in her and

if they tried to reason with me. As a child,

rain f low down gutters and rush onto the

shushed my quiet tributes to the dead. Our

I had been lectured by my parents against

street. Years before, crashing at friend’s

friend Terry had died that week in his bed,

self-pity. They saw it as a waste of time, “why

apartment on Himrod Street, I invited a girl,

and I couldn’t help but playback the whole

do you sit in the dark all day?” I left Hunter

Anita, to come see me before passing out

thing in my head. It was an itch: the room in

- despite his concerns for me and where I

on the f loor. I hadn’t thought twice about

a river hue, his long legs sticking out over

would stay - and found myself in an alleyway

what repercussions might be for luring a 21

the bed frame like tree trunks, the Tryptizol

between apartment buildings canopied by

year old girl out to Bushwick alone in the

UNTIL NOW

UNTIL NOW

16

17

morning hours. We were chugging 40s, I

I couldn’t differentiate dreams from reality.

frequently spattered racist, homophobic

real shit deals actually - but I was desperate

had wanted sex but one by one we simply fell

The door wasn’t opening, I’d shake it off

rants. During the week, I’d work odd one-

and he was a source. Julian had come from

off into drunken sleep. But she had come

and see nothing had happened but I dreamt I

off jobs giving out name tags at corporate

Chicago and learned the art of sound and

out from her dorm room in Manhattan, and

was exposed to the world. All sorts of people

parties in Midtown or counting income

producing records alongside his friend Steve

waited at this same bus stop calling and

came in. The friends who worried about me

reports at an Equity firm, anything to keep

Albini. That was all he had wanted to do in

texting me to no response until she found

or wrote me off as a waste would peek behind

drifting. So when former college buddies

life. To let his fingers gently cascade up and

a man masturbating beside her. She left me

the door and leave awkwardly ashamed

told me they were going to rent a spot in

down the mixing board, his eyes looking out

angry messages, “You dick, where the fuck

without saying a word. The lunk from Tucson

Bushwick where we could make a racket at

of the control room, a vapor gaze sculpting

are you? I was almost raped, I could have

who shared the room with me, a stupid but

any hour, I was more than inclined.

noise. Working the soundboard at a music

been killed!” Earlier in our f ling, she had

big guy who swore to me on coke fueled

f lirted with the idea of having me move in to

rampages that he’d slit my throat if I touched

the 90s but had failed as a business and been

hungry musicians looking to put their first

her Carroll Gardens brownstone, but that

his wilting amplifier, would come in and beat

vacant the few years before Tom and Julian

expressions onto tape, so I imagine working

was the last I would hear from her.

the shit out of me. The squatting stranger

came in. They sought to make it a utopian

Party City felt like a perfect fit for Julian.

who had nothing to lose would come down

concert venue, the biggest and best rock club

He had funded his studio out of pocket and

and left the block as those on board ate egg

and talk to me as if at confessional, violently

Bushwick had ever seen, and what a name!

it was his prized jewel. He called it the Fort.

sandwiches and drank coffee before going

pleading for some kind of meaning to it all,

Although we didn’t have much stake in their

Even if everything else in life gave out, he

off to work. Twenty blocks south, I unlocked

holding me and weeping. It all surely could

dreams, we saw an opportunity for cheap

had the Fort - his dream, his passion, and his

the massive gate to my renovated rehearsal

have happened, these were the realities of

rent. When we first arrived at Party City, the

earthly capital. Gradually our relationship

space below Party City. Inside the door,

basement Room #1 below Party City, but

place was a dim, garbage-covered expanse

extended beyond polite nods and drug deals

a squatter lay on a pile of cement rubble,

they didn’t. Nothing happened. I held the

– mold, sewer water, rotting garbage,

and we formed a camaraderie; watching

dirt, and wood intended for a bar. He didn’t

soggy bedding tightly and counted the

scattered soot-covered party accessories and

movies together, listening to the latest mixes

look familiar and so I said “hello” to no

times I’d wake up before the sun would rise

samba records. We took sledge hammers to

he was working on, talking guitars with his

response. He looked dead or sleeping except

completely, and I’d take a wrinkled suit out

the wooden work bench in the basement and

Australian roommate Kip. Our roles would

his stare; stark, uninhibited eyes, black

of my backpack and make my way to a funeral

crafted ourselves the first bunker. Room #1.

change and he would ask me for grass late

spheres in the jet blue room as morning’s

for a friend.

Midwood was a trek away from Bushwick,

at night or early in the morning, in the stale

and taking the subway back and forth I’d

heat or bleak cold of Party City.

I boarded the bus around 4:30 a.m.

mute light came in slowly. There would often

I had just finished NYU in 2009.

venue was one of the best ways to meet

Party City had been a costume outlet in

be homeless-looking squatters crashing at

Seventeen years in institutionalized learning

sometimes write, sometimes I’d sit gazing

Party City. They would be employed to do

and I was disillusioned. I hadn’t become

stoned out the window creating fictional

was no heat or insulation. Bands practiced

cheap labor for a month or two, installing

anything, I finally had nowhere left to go and

lives about the girls on the train or parsing

and performed as if trudging across a snow

toilets or repairing the decaying f loorboards

simply sought to erase my disappointment

together some half-thought meaning on why

coated bridge, wearing parkas in the broken

– disintegration was constant - and they

with pipe-dreams, cheap drinks and

the last four years had kicked my ass so hard,

shell of a building. They had hired an extra

would inevitably make Party City their

cheaper drugs; I was obsessively attracted

but mostly I’d drunkenly fall asleep coming

hand to help shovel ice and to keep the place

home. But this man I didn’t recognize. I

to anything other than what should have

home, riding the F train from Queens to

clean. Oscar lived a few blocks away. He was

traveled to the basement, unlocked my

been expected of me. I spent the last of my

Coney Island back and forth as I dreamt of

15 years old, a Puerto Rican boy who had

room and feigned sleep on a mold coated

dwindling money paying $300 a month for a

nothing.

sleeping bag. I pulled the bag over my face

room in a split house in Midwood, Brooklyn

and said a thousand unheard prayers. Some

for the summer, a remote residential

New York party scene for some time, an

going on than we actually did. He seemed

and it became a disgusting ritual. When all

out of his situation. He’d spend long nights

for Terry, but mostly for me. Everything was

neighborhood deep in South Brooklyn; a

independent promoter with a list of failed

to have forgotten what he was wearing, gave

the beer was gone, if you were still looking

watching us play in Room #1, occasionally

going nowhere, life was disappearing. The

place – for all intents and purposes –I had

ventures and shady investors decorating

me the rum – Ron Pampeno — as a gift and

for a bigger buzz, you’d take a swig of the

picking up drum sticks, and always rolling

f luorescent lights on in the dank basement,

no reason to live in. I lived on a Pakistani

his life. He was tall, with long thin arms, a

talked to me about business, “I’m going to

rum and remember how shitty life could get.

something before taking off to get a couple

I knew I wasn’t supposed to sleep there and

block with five Serbian water polo players

protruding jaw, and receding wiry black hair

put out your record and we’ll split the profits

The first few times I met Julian, I

in fevered paranoia, found myself in a loop

who smoked Marlborough Light 100s, ate

that rested just below the shoulders. He was

50/50, and then I’ll put out my band’s record

couldn’t remember his name. They say

School. I always wondered how he could

endlessly seeing the door open but a crack.

bundles of boiled hot dogs by the dozen and

clueless but an avid schemer to his credit.

once we finish it, and then we are going to

even with the best intentions, forgetting

get away with being out so late, sometimes

His name – Tom Meyers – was tattooed in

have a release party here and turn it into a

someone’s name is always a sign that you

we would play nearly all night. But certain

Gothic print on his knuckles and he looked

rave with afterhours DJs…” He was always

honestly don’t give a shit about them. And

things would reveal themselves in time.

like he was made of electronics. He was

pitching some idea; he was going to take

as much as I sought fondness in Julian, I was

He once came down with an oozing wound

always in black leather over his chalk white

over Brooklyn, his time had finally come and

guilty. But I could remember his shaggy

on his hand, telling us his uncle had burnt

skin, an Iggy Pop or Cramps t-shirt on,

Party City was it. It was hard to argue with

black mop top, his porn star moustache,

him with the end of a cigar moments before

always high on uppers that he’d share with

someone with some much confidence even if

his aviator shades on as I walked through

coming to Party City. Raised by a single

a different girlfriend every few months. I

he had been up for days dressed as a Nazi. I

the venue. He called everyone “boss” as he

mother, his father was in the Latin Kings and

remember in the dredges of winter, him

would agree with him to a blank expression,

would greet them with smiles pulling on

the Bloods and apparently had reemerged in

stumbling into Room #1 in a Nazi uniform,

I don’t think it mattered much what I had

his cigarette behind the mixing consul. I

his life upon puberty. His thirteen year old

high on dope with a cheap bottle of rum. He

to say. We would keep the rum on a shelf in

would learn his name after a few months and

brother had just been initiated into the Latin

would come by every now and then to pick

our practice space and drink it from time to

I would frequent his home recording studio

Kings and as it stood, Oscar had opted out

our brains; he may have thought we had more

time. It tasted like moonshine or gasoline,

to buy weed. He never gave the best deals –

of both gangs. That may have been the main

She said my sadness wasn’t real, or that everyone’s weight meant mine could not be that heavy, and so I hung up the phone. UNTIL NOW

18

The first winter at Party City, there

been on Locust Street in Bushwick his entire life. He despised Bushwick but saw no means

Tom Meyers had been involved in the

UNTIL NOW

19

hours sleep before another day of High


Using Kickstarter to raise funds was a crucial part of making Until Now a reality. I set a goal of $7,000 which was surpassed in a span of thirty days by $250. With this funding I was not only able to get the magazine printed, but purchase additional prizes for Kickstarter supporters as well as supply funds for postage and mailing. The remainder of the funds, plus the money raised by the sale of the magazine (priced at $18 USD) went to the contributors.


funding


In order to reach an audience, I developed a quiet but multi-pronged approach to the web presence of Until Now. I wanted to keep the focus on the print magazine itself, but also get potential readers excited about the contributors work for the magazine by promoting their other projects as well. The Until Now website is primarily informational; it includes the name and website of every contributor, a mission statement, information regarding funding (mostly for the Kickstarter campaign), as well as information about advertising should that become an endeavor in the future. In addition to the website, there is an Until Now Facebook page, Twitter, and Tumblr, all of which have been instrumental in reaching potential readers around the world.


web + social media presence




For printing I used Heidel Press, a large printer based in Seoul, Korea with an additional office in New York City. They fit my budget as well as my requirement for high production value.

2000 magazines = 1,499.10 lbs


printing + publishing


I obtained a BIPAD number and barcode through the appropriate venues to ensure that Until Now could be stocked and sold at bookstores.


Until Now on the shelves at McNally Jackson in New York City.


contracts

Contributing writers and artists recieved the same contract.


contracts


a magazine about Coming of Age

Alexandra Citrin Art Director alex@untilnowmag.com 203 249 2074 www.untilnowmag.com


the future...

I am planning on continuing Until Now in the form of an annual magazine. In future issues I would like to include photography as well as more diverse editorial content such as interviews. I built this project intending to maintain it, and I have received enough positive support from my colleagues as well as the independent publishing community that I feel it is a worthy endeavor. I am also hoping to find in-house work at a larger publication with a similar focus on print and dynamic visual content. Through the inception of Until Now I have managed to interest a few potential future employers, including Harper’s Bazaar, Oprah magazine, Nylon magazine, and Rookie. Hopefully this will parlay itself into a job. Check back with me later on that.





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