Giving Up Touch

Giving up touch Giving Up Touch

WRITING Ellie Epperson

EDITOR Emily Hanson WRITING Ellie Epperson DIRECTION PHOTOGRAPHY Stephanie Chui Isabelle Roig STYLISTS IRECTION Stephanie Chui Reilly Brady Virginia Pittman PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURING Zachery Milewicz

Sofia Angula-Lopera Cecilia Liu Faith Phillips Ziyan Zhang FEATURING Sofia Angulo-Lopera Cecilia Liu Faith Phillips Ziyan Zhang STYLING Virginia Pittman CONTRIBUTERS Reilly Brady

Technology has become a facet of nearly every part of our life. It’s no surprise that it is also impacting the way we interact with beauty. From filters to apps, technology can morph the way we see ourselves. We wanted to flip the switch and use the art of projections in order to emphasize the beauty that’s already there. Tech isn’t going anywhere, but we owe it to ourselves to develop a deeper relationship with it.

From learning Tik Tok dances to embroidering to binging Tiger King, most of us did what we could to stay sane during quarantine. But just one more unintended consequence of the pandemic is the loss of a form of creativity. While previously creativity could be funneled into make up or glamour, we are limited to our houses, distanced. This shoot presents a new form of creativity. We focused on intertwining lights and projections to create socially distanced make up looks. Rather than focusing on what we’ve lost, we wanted to focus on the possibility of what can be created in that same space.

When this issue rolled around, resident makeup artist Stephanie Chui began to get creative with her ideas surrounding makeup. Rather than being discouraged at obvious obstacles associated with doing creative looks, an idea bloomed in her head. The models were asked to wear a natural look, while Stephanie drew one real time. She then projected the look onto the model’s faces. Not only did this shoot represent a new outlet of creativity during the pandemic, but it further encapsulated our relationship with connection in general. We aim to posit the question of what human connection really means. Does it have to be sharing physical touch with another? It seems that we as people living through COVID 19 are a resilient breed, creating new ways of connecting with one another using the technology at our disposal.

The use of the projector also highlights the distance between each other. 6 feet is the general rule. The projector can change lights and shapes based on how far it is from the model. We used it to highlight how distance can shape our relationship and perception of one another.

Why Can’t I Stop Staring at Myself on Zoom?

WRITING Kennedy Morganfield

EDITOR Emily Hanson

FEATURING Isa Zisman Izzy Jefferis

But why, O foolish boy, so vainly catching at this flitting form? The cheat that you are seeking has no place. Avert your gaze and you will lose your love, for this that holds your eyes is nothing save the image of yourself reflected back to you. It comes and waits with you; it has no life; it will depart if you will only go. — Echo and Narcissus, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses

“I hate it’s called that—a vanity.” Mom shakes her head. I’m placing jewelry boxes and books on either side of the mirror. Cherry red, purchased in 1986 by my self-indulgent equal, Great-Aunt Lilly. “Purchased” isn’t the right word. She’d precariously lowered the vanity onto a teetering tower of credit card statements and assorted impulse buys.

But “vanity” is the right word. Derived from the Latin vanitas, defined as empty, aimless falsehoods. It’s said that if you ran into yourself on the street, the mirror would never prepare you to recognize the person you confront. How old were you when you learned that years of dragging your finger across the contours of your face in the glassy pond have taught you nothing about yourself? And how devastated?

“I am Narcissus and my little Zoom square is my pond.” It’s an instant retweet from me. Variations of the modern myth proliferate online at the start of the semester, are then swallowed by the 24-hour news cycle. So why can’t I stop staring at myself on Zoom?

Nothing about this is new to me. I’ve adapted to collegiate cyberspace, though I find virtual learning unpleasant at best and surgically painful in general. Poke and prod around Canvas to locate the Zoom link. Primp in your grainy laptop camera that was once a sacred tool reserved for FaceTimes and maybe the occasional stint in Photo Booth. (Alternatively, Join without Video.) Pray you haven’t turned into an ogre in the 10 seconds it takes for your preview window to vanish and reappear in the gallery of grainy laptop camera views. The TA thinks your shirt is cool, notices your makeup. So you unmute to acknowledge the acknowledgement of your cool shirt or the color smeared across your lids. And then back to mute. It’s a whole thing.