What if we were kids forever?
Chalked-dusted overalls, bubble residue, and parkour around Ted Drewes—this season of Armour, we gave free rein to our inner child. As we curated this issue, one “what if” echoed through it all —what if we never had to grow out of this? Even better, what if we were kids forever? We reminisced on the days when our lives were defined by boundless creativity and unfiltered joy, a time rooted in the simple pleasures of discovery, and when make-believe and reality seemed only loosely separate from one another. In a world that demands we grow up too quickly, we wanted to revisit that carefree space, where anything seemed possible, and the world was simply our playground.
Armour is where goofy, wild ideas find a home, where no concept is too absurd, and every “what if,” no matter how far-fetched, is welcomed. It’s where we play with creativity in full technicolor, transform our quirks into polished art, and turn outlandish thoughts into unforgettable editorials. Here, chaos is celebrated, and creativity reigns supreme.
We owe immense gratitude to every individual who brought this season’s fantastical world to life. Thank you to each Armourite who tapped into their most whimsical ideas and daring thoughts. The outcome is everything we could have imagined— and more.
Together, we crafted monsters from shadow puppets, wrapped ourselves in miles of hair, and transformed the human body into avant-garde furniture. Creative directors, stylists, makeup artists, and more let their imaginations run wild —no off switch, no limitations, no reality checks — and that was the best part. As we flip through each page of this magazine, we can’t help but smile. We are incredibly proud to see Armourites fully uninhibited and delightfully silly—just like we were as kids. Here’s to playing more.
Sincerely,
Editors-in-Chief
Audrey Engman, Leena Bekhiet Lea Bond
What if? season
Welcome, dearest armour reader. Whether you intended to skim this part for the bottom line or read carefully between the lines, let’s pause here. In this issue, you will find no meat and potatoes, central principles, or keynote thoughts. So, if that’s what you’re looking for, this is your opportunity to go pick up a copy of Student Life before it’s too late. In this magazine, you will find a universe filled with the meandering “side-thoughts” that buzz around your mind only when given the freedom to go blank. If you haven’t noticed, these moments of freedom are few and far between, especially as we’ve gotten older. Maybe a little “what if…” will zig-zag into your brain as your focus drifts dangerously
away from the Modern Art History lecture in front of you or while you’re hearing your friend tell you the same story for the third time in a row. Or right after your phone dies, and you’re left with no choice but to abandon your doom scroll and let the flood of “what ifs…” come marching in.
This issue strives to capture the whimsies of an open mind and welcome the aimless and neglected “what ifs” into the limelight. You will find no definitive answers but hopefully a whole boatload of questions. This is not an entrée, but every single strange and miscellaneous snack you’ve indulged in at the wrong times of the day. In other words, it is going to get weird.
This is an assemblage of our collective daydreams, intrusive thoughts, and hypothetical fantasies. We have given way to a rambling expedition toward our personal cloud 9s and the roots of our insomnia, and you are getting a one-way ticket to tag along. Each editorial explores a different ending to the question of “What if…?” The beauty of these explorations is that they don’t require conclusions—they’re meant to be endless, just like the thoughts that inspire them. So, as you flip through these pages, let your mind wander, question everything, and embrace the unknown. Maybe you’ll find yourself lost in a daydream or lingering on a thought you hadn’t considered before.
your mom was a secret alien?
your dreams were real?
your nightmares were real?
humans were furniture? the hills had eyes?
the one didn’t get away?
bubblegum chewed us?
your hair had a mind of its own? emotions were tangible? we lived in the matrix? we wore inanimate objects?
Editors-in-Chief
Audrey Engman
Leena Bekhiet
Lea Bond
Directors of Layout
Ruby Grant
Grace Demba
Directors of Social Media
Bri Lee
Whitney Short
Directors of Copy
Sidney Speicher
Ali Meltzer
Camilla Maionica
Director of Finance and Operations
Gaby Dorman
Senior Finance Manager
Lara Isabel Marco Y Marquez
Financial Advisors
Paul Fynn Kuemmel
Anika Busick
Jakob Shenfeld
Aliza Lubitz
Rachel Gwon
Celine Mazloum
Directors of Styling
Faith Phillips
Madison Hunt
Yabsera Bekele
Directors of Project Management
Emily Lapidus
Talia Zakalik
Director of Armour Online
Jessie Goodwin
Director of Digital Publishing
Erin Lee
Director of Web Design
Bella Pearce
Director of Web Development
Ethan McCormick
Directors of Videography
Brooke Pan
Ava Farrar
Directors of Events
Sophia Palitti
Kate Kunitz
DIRECTION Ethan McCormick, Adrian Fuller, Ali Meltzer
PHOTOGRAPHY Nina Bergman, Ilan Barnea
STYLING Maya Iskoz MAKEUP Olivia Slemmer
WRITING Ali Meltzer LAYOUT Margo Ogrosky
MODELING Margo Ogrosky, Madison Wang, Brodhi Ramirez, Selah Pabon, Tobi Pristupin
What if your What if your Mother Was Mother Was
A A Secret ALIEN? Secret ALIEN?
casey and Conor’s Mother begins every day with a hot mug of chamomile tea. She takes extra care to ensure the water is at a very high boil first because that’s just the way she likes it. She takes pleasure in stirring the water in the pot with a large ladle, listening to the clink, clink, clink, as the spoon hits the metal edges. She prefers to use the same pot she uses for everything to boil the water — why must she buy so many things when the things she already has work just as well?
Once the water begins to jump and dance, she uses her ladle to pour it into her mug, which reads “BEST MOM EVER” in an electric blue sans-serif font. A soft smile creeps across her face, then creeps back down when she remembers that this is the same mug that she gave Casey last week when she asked if she could try Mommy’s tea. She remembers the way that Casey screamed as she took her first sip; the piping hot liquid settling into her tongue like venom and leaving thick, pink welts behind. Casey cried and cried, and cried, and all that Mother could do was tell her it was going to be okay and call Father to tell him he had to be late to work so he could take Casey to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to her husband, as she pleaded with him, her wide eyes shedding tactile tears that turned her skin to a ghastly shade of green as they ran down her cheeks. Sometimes it is too easy for Mother to forget that her children and her husband are different from her. As she gently sips her tea, she finds herself reaching inward to remember when she has done well, to remind herself that she is doing the right thing.
BEST MOM EVER! BEST MOM EVER!
There was that time when Connor told her he wanted to learn how to ride a two-wheeler, so Mother taught herself how to when he was at school. She found the bicycle quite easy to activate, except for just one fall she took on her first try. Mother scraped her knee on the driveway, and her skin oozed a clementine-colored fluid that completely stained the pavement. She spent the rest of the day coloring a mural with chalk to mask the orange mark, scribbling images of her, Father, Connor, and Casey, onto the ground in vibrant colors.
Her neighbor Nancy passed by her on a jog, and Mother recalls feeling so worried that Nancy would think she was strange. Nancy, however, loved her project and wanted to help. She did not care that her black tracksuit would be ruined by the neon dust; she crawled down onto her hands and knees and drew a purple sun in the top right corner. Mother looked at her knowingly; “she’s seen a purple sun before, too,” she thought to herself. After they were done she invited Nancy inside for tea, and now they jog together every morning after they drop the kids off at the school bus and talk about nothing in particular.
“she was strange”
THE MICROWAVE BECAME HER WISHING STAR... the microwave became her wishing star...
There was that time when Casey had a family tree project to complete in school, and she asked Mother if she had a Grandma, and Mother didn’t know how to tell her that her Grandma wouldn’t be able to speak to her. She instead told Casey all about her Mother, about how she had such a soft head and a funny-looking mouth and the most beautiful singing voice in the whole world. She told the story about how when she was a girl her dreams felt so real that her Mother would sit with her while she fell asleep, stroke her nimble ear, and hum unnamed tunes in her high, calming voice. Whenever the microwave in the kitchen went off, Mother remembered those tunes and every time she wished to herself there was a language she could speak or song she could hum to make Casey and Connor feel that way. The microwave became her wishing star; she loved its soothing shrill scream, loved all of the things she could use it for. She started to stock the fridge with Hot Pockets, Campbell’s soup, macaroni, and cucumbers; her favorite food was anything that she could put in the microwave so that she could make it sing.
If only her Mother could see that she made it. If only her Mother could see that she made it.
After she told Casey about her mother, Casey wanted to know where Mother and Mother’s Mother were from; Mother looked at a map of the states that Father had hung in the den and picked New Jersey. Somewhere that began with “New” felt right to her, and she thought that “Jersey” had a beautiful sound. Casey remarked that New Jersey was very far away from where they lived now in Nevada and that Mother must have traveled a long way to be with Father.
“Why did you do it mother? Why did you move so far away?” “Why did you do it mother? Why did you move so far away?”
“Why did you do it, Mother? Why move so far away?”
“For you, darling.”
“But I wasn’t here yet!”
Mother simply laughed when Casey said that; she had no way of telling Casey that it was, indeed, for her. Mother’s Mother told her once when she was a little older than Casey is now, that she could never have children at home in the place with the purple sun, that one day the purple sun would not be enough for them. She pointed to a speck in the sky next to the purple sun and said, “there, that is where you need to go.” So Mother went to that little dot in oblivion. If only her Mother could see that she made it.
“For you, Darling.” “For you, Darling.”
Casey and Connor’s Mother raises her mug to take one last sip of tea, only to realize there is not a single drop left. A chime comes from the bedroom next to the kitchen; it’s 8:00 am, and it’s time to wake the kids up for school. Mother puts her mug in the sink and walks over to their door breathing in before turning the knob. She has adapted so well to the air here, and as she exhales, she remembers the feeling she had when
she first stepped foot in Reno and immediately choked on the dust. She thought she was going to die; isn’t it so wonderful that she didn’t? She opens the door and sees Casey and Connor, in their respective twin beds, gently breathing in and out, in out, in, out. They’re never going to have to relearn how to breathe, they’ll always be able to breathe here.
It was worth it, she thinks to herself.
“It was “It was Worth it” Worth it”
she thinks to herself. she thinks to herself.
DIRECTION: emily lapidus, margo ogrosky, chandra phenpimon
PHOTOGRAPHY : emily lapidus, margo ogrosky STYLING & MAKEUP: shalah russel
WRITING: rida qureshi
MODELING:
DESIGN:
LAYOUT: fona lyons-carlson
judy li, matthew schmal
chandra phenpimon, margo ogrosky
life must move in slow motion for the birds. a thousand miles down, tiny people live their tiny lives: specks you can barely spot in a still life painting. streets bleed into sidewalks, buildings bend and blur, burning auburn tree tops interrupt concrete jungles, & sunshine hues draw you in like a hearth. from here, you forget that leaves fall, and beauty fades, and nature does not wait for you to notice.
the last time i felt this free was on a rooftop, new years eve. headlights and christmas lights and street lights blurring into a soft white cushion.
the wind passed through me and took my worries with it so i stood at the edge on my tiptoes, waiting for a breeze kind enough to whisk me away. closed my eyes and swam up into dark blue oceans, constellation seas. shared a kiss with the stars at midnight and when i opened my eyes.
the memory of gravity came in ten-foottall waves, taking me under.
how can i go back to the life i once knew knowing what waits for me above the clouds?
this sky is endless wonder, and every inch brings me closer to that untouchable sun.
i never understood the story of icarus until now, holding my breath in this gossamer bubble, knowing it could Pop! at any second but less afraid of falling than i am of waking up.
i am ten times the size i was yesterday, and i love you ten times as much.
i know this isn’t what you were expecting, but i can ft you in my palm and carry you with me everywhere i go.
let’s go to the rockies, like we always said, and i’ll carve a home for us in the side of the mountain and keep you warm with my breath when it snows, and you’ll sleep here on my chest, where it’s safe, and i’ll rock you to sleep with my inhale, exhale, and when you struggle to remember what my hand felt like in yours, my heartbeat will remind you i’m still me.
bad news:
i am ten times the size i was yesterday, and my tears are too big for you to wipe away. rivers stream down my face and form lakes at my feet. you’ll have to swim to get to me. i want to kiss you, but i’m worried i’ll swallow you whole. my cupped hands form canyons, deep craters that echo your name, your name, your name.
each call for you a clap of thunder that shakes the sky –i am squinting at every passerby, searching for your familiar smile, but people see me and run the other way. i wouldn’t blame you if you were scared too.
i’m terrifed.
last night, I walked a thousand miles and found you in Appalachia, a silhouette hidden behind tall sprigs of mountain laurel, faceless, nameless, spotless, beckoning me to come, come, come. your movements are fluid, and your voice is honey: silk notes that slip inside my mind to play smooth melodies. every word that leaves your mouth is music, and I cannot help but sway to the cadence of the way you whisper my name, soft, like a frst kiss.
then more urgently, a crescendo of strings, a symphony that swells beneath my skin and flls me with a hunger for more, more, more — you held me steady as I stepped onto your steed, and we rode through the valley, whipping past willow oak and winterberry, leaves in our hair. you say faster, faster, faster, and suddenly we’re flying. soaring up the sides of the mountain until we reach the summit. we lay down on the mountaintop, side by side, and look up at the stars, tracing our names next to each other in the infnite night sky.
moonbeams glisten against your porcelain skin as you lift me to standing,
and then we’re dancing to the tune of twinkling stars, eyes locked, arms intertwined, desperate for any way to get closer, closer, closer. spinning and spinning and stopping only when we reached the cliffside. we watched years pass down below, but in the space between our lips, time stood still.
last night, I walked a thousand miles to meet you in Appalachia, and we’ve been there ever since.
WHAT IF YOUR NIGHTMARES WERE REAL?
Direction: Eloise Harcourt, Talia Zakalik Photography: Erin Lee, Eloise Harcourt Styling: Olivia Slemmer
Writing: River Alsalihi
Modeling: Selah Pabon Layout: Ruby Grant
I.
There’s someone waiting for me, but it doesn’t matter. The tacky scabs around my thumbnail don’t either. Neither does the half-full bottle of cherry syrup in the door of the fridge, neither does the piece of hair that gets stuck in my mouth when I move my head too fast, and neither does the clock ticking clinically on my bedside table. I know it isn’t good for me, but I can only think about one thing at a time. I strike through all the rest with a half-functional pen.
The raspy hiccup of the air conditioning and the barcode of setting sun on my naked legs grow like mold across the comforter. The comforter is dirty. I can see three stains in one look, and now it is time to do laundry. I need to wash the comforter, and the comforter is white, and my shirt is white, and my shirt is dirty. I take off my shirt and yank the comforter off of the bed in one fell swoop bundling it in my arms like a newborn baby. I go and put it in the washing machine, then my shirt. I feel like a strong man who could do anything he wanted with my shirt off. I pour in the cerulean detergent. I close the lid and turn on the machine. I stare at it as it shivers into action, and then I remember there’s someone waiting for me.
I spin on my heel, and the piece of hair goes in my mouth; I stick my tongue out and remove the strand methodically. I pull up the bedroom blinds to a magenta sky. It reminds me of the açai bowls Opal and I would get in between lunch and dinner, back when I was working. (Working in more ways than one.) Ornamented with slices of juicy strawberries and blueberries and sugared-up granola. There’s a flash of light from outside the window, which makes me jump. I search for the source and my eyes land on a man with a few strands of hair tilled over his head and
a professional camera obscuring his face. I remember I have no clothes on and drop to the floor. I can already feel the bruises forming at the crests of my knees. I am failing to breathe properly. The sour smell of the carpet, the rattle of the washing machine, the yowl of strays fighting right outside the apartment. I peek and the man isn’t there anymore. The dimming purple cast over the room, the crack in the ivory wainscot by my head. I peek and the man still isn’t there. I am thinking about everything at the same time.
THE DIMMING PURPLE CAST OVER THE ROOM, THE CRACK IN THE IVORY WAINSCOT BY MY HEAD.
IT BEGINS WITHOUT A SOUND: THE SHADOWS START SHIFTING, CONGEALING, PULLING TOGETHER.
The room is dark and alive. I can hear it breathing. Somehow, I am not surprised by my misfortune. I lay in my bed with my body straight, like a piece of rotting driftwood waiting to be washed up, and I wait for something terrible to happen to me. I focus on my breaths like I’ve been told to, I keep my eyes on the accelerating crest and trough of my chest, I think of a gentle pool of water I waded through as a young girl. How it lapped at the edges, how tiny pebbles cascaded back and forth and made crystal sounds against each other. None of this matters. I am completely terrified.
I missed my appointment with Opal. She had wanted to get mildly expensive coffee with me and drink it beside the street, for the free side of exhaust and e-cigarette smoke. I am not sure if she will want to see me again. It isn’t the first time this has happened.
It begins without a sound: the shadows start shifting, congealing, pulling together. My breathing goes erratic, firework pace. If I could speak, I would ask them not to hurt me. The room is making noise again, the slow, agitated inhale and satisfied exhale. It is ingesting me, my fear. It is delighted. The shadows form fingers and palms, and I sit up, unable to lay exposed any longer. I make myself as small as possible, curl up each petal and tuck under the protective layer of leaves. My hair, its coils, make a thin, penetrable shield.
The hands squeeze closer to me. A whimper echoes from my throat.
The military-style alarm and sour metal in my mouth. My brow furrows, my eyes flutter open. I don’t have anything to be awake for. I have banished all commitments. All I can do is this.
There’s a pounding pain rippling out from my mouth. Closing my eyes doesn’t put sensation to death, to my disappointment. Then something lands on the back of my throat. I cough. The object flies forward and clinks against the inside of my teeth. I curl my tongue around it, propping my body up on my elbows to curb the nausea. The object is all smooth ridges and grooves on one side and pointylike stalactites on the other. It is small, cubelike. I spit it into my hand.
It is a tooth. It is my tooth.
I shoot out from the covers, dropping it in the chaos of the motion. I am afraid to move my mouth. My legs bring me to the bathroom, where I stare at the circles of my eyes and the tiny asterisk of blood on my bottom lip. I open my mouth mechanically. I am in a daze. I am not sure how much more I can take. There is a gap of a quarter around my top row. This is permanent. There is no replacement. I am not a child. I bring two fingers to the next tooth over. I pinch it like I am selecting a raspberry from the carton. When I hinge my wrist, just infinitesimally, the tooth moves. I gasp. It falls out into the sink and I am dripping blood. I turn on the tap just to dilute it, to not have to see my bodily fluids in such saturation. I am crying. I am crying so hard I can feel my teeth in my gums like they are charged and vibrating with the severity of my unrest. I get the impression that I am being punished for something. A third tooth falls into the sink. I force my lips shut, choking on my sobs. My tongue bathes in viscous crimson.
THE WATER PULLS ME UNDER. IT’S FASTER THAN MY BODY SHOULD BE ABLE TO MOVE SUSPENDED, MY FEET HAVING BEEN SWEPT OUT.
Opal calls it all psychosomatic and says I just need to be out of my damn bedroom, says it’s driving me cr– it’s causing problems for me. She says I need a day out on the lake, and she drives us there. I am shocked that she still cares for me as a human being because I don’t feel as if I am one anymore. We don’t talk about my looming dentist bill or the absent patch of hair by the nape of my neck. I wear my favorite necklace, and she keeps her hands on the steering wheel and sings songs from before we were born. I love her. It’s unfortunate that I can’t feel it in my chest, just in my head.
We are spending the night at her wealthy step-aunt’s house. Her wealthy step-aunt looks at me like she is deciding whether to kick or have pity on a stray animal that has lost its cuteness. Gray dust-matted fur and crust around the eyes. I almost smile, forgetting. Opal had told me to speak with my lips as closed as possible. She brings me to the shore with her hand around my forearm and gives me a meaningful look. I size up the water. Its personality. Its desire to kill me. The lake has no waves or foam, but the bottom isn’t visible. I test my breathing. I can breathe. I breathe in the air because you cannot do that once the water gets you. The water is not going to get me. It is supposed to be all in my room. It is psychosomatic. I look at Opal, who has let go of me and is waiting. As always.
“I haven’t told you about how I was standing in front of my window one day and I wasn’t wearing any clothes and this—”
“Please just get in the water,” she says. I do not blame her. In fact, I have no idea who to blame.
The water swallows up my ankles.
I leave my dress on as protection and Opal does not question it. Shins. Knees. Thighs and the hem of my dress. Hips. Waist. I hover my arms above the surface on instinct, though the lake is not cold. It is July, and the water has been basking in the sunlight for hours. I give it my fingers. Hands. Wrists. I keep walking. Ribs one by one. Chest. Collarbones. Shoulders.
“Does it feel good?”
“I don’t know,” I say. Maybe she brought me here to baptize me. Maybe she wants to go back home. “Maybe it’s a truce.”
“What?”
The water pulls me under. It’s faster than my body should be able to move suspended, my feet having been swept out. I can hear her voice but it’s warbled by the liquid filter in my ears. I wonder what I am supposed to do. The big “Supposed,” the moral imperative and the hero’s savior action. The lake tries to kill me.
Opal does not tell her step-aunt about it. She dries me down with a threadbare towel and puts me straight in the twin-size bed made with a hospital white set. She is hasty to leave, flicking the light off and making to flee to another part of the house.
“Opal.” I am convinced I am going to die tonight. “You have an enormous heart. I’m very sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She means don’t bother. There is nothing I could say to change it.
“Okay.”
“Sleep.” She does not linger by the door. She shuts it quickly and I hear her leave me. It does not waste any time now. It knows there’s no need to. The sheet vacuums to my body, seals me in.
I COVER MY OWN FACE AND SUCCUMB. IT INVADES MY LUNGS. IT DRAWS EVERY SUGAR SWEET COMPLIMENT, CHILDHOOD MEMORY,
FAVORITE FLAVOR,
ETHICAL VALUE OUT OF MY SKIN AND TOSSES IT INTO SOME VOID.
WHAT IF
DIRECTION: EMILY LAPIDUS & NICOLE FARNSLEY
LAYOUT: MADISON WANG MAKEUP: SYDNEY GOLDSTEIN
H U MANS WERE furniture?
SAM
HAS YOUR HUSBAND RECENTLY TURNED INTO A PIECE OF FURNITURE?
DON’T WORRY, IT’S MORE COMMON THAN YOU MAY THINK!
PHOTOGRAPHY: EMILY LAPIDUS STYLING: NICOLE FARNSLEY
WRITING:
MODELS: ELLA URTON, PEYTON MOORE & MADDIX CRADLEBAUGH
A once happy, healthy couple in love gets shaken up by one little argument, and poof– suddenly the man turns into a chair, or a lamp, or a couch! You may be asking yourself, how will he read the paper? Or maybe, how will he go to the bathroom? Or –most importantly– how are we going
Meet Michelle.
She was once madly in love with her husband Andrew. They lived a happy, quiet life and often spent their evenings out dancing. Sounds heavenly! But after they started getting into some arguments over where to go out to dance, the feelings between them began to get tense. One night when things were beginning to heat up, Andrew suddenly turned into a chair!
And she’s not the only one…
She and Brad were the perfect pair: high school sweethearts turned husband and wife. How dreamy! They lived a well-balanced life of work, fun, and love. But now, he’s an armchair one day and a lampshade the next! Why, you may ask? Amy had asked if they could start spending a little less time together. The drama! Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. We’re here to walk you through this change.
Here are our tips!
The most important thing to remember is that this change doesn’t determine the rest of the relationship. Well, other than the fact your husband is now a piece of furniture. But if you truly love
BRAD-CHAIR
each other, it won’t matter if your husband is a desk or a light fixture! Communication and effort are key to maintaining the relationship after this transformation.
In most cases, the change is due to the man feeling underappreciated!
Not doing enough acts of service? Offer to hold the paper for your now chair of a husband to read in the morning. Perhaps you’re having trouble understanding each other’s perspective. Throw on a lampshade and try to see things from his point of view. Lacking quality time together? I guess it’s time to start sleeping on the couch!
THE TRUTH IS...
There’s no clear-cut way to navigate this furniture dilemma! You have got to be adaptable, invested, and most importantly, in love. Or at least be okay with having a chair that can talk back.
WORST CASE, LOVESEAT
WHAT IF THE HILLS HAD
DIRECTION
LOLA LAMBERG, JENNY RONG, GRAY SCHERMA
PHOTOGRAPHY
NINA BERGMAN, PRISCILLA LEE
STYLING
EvELYN PAE
MAkEuP
CAROLINE BIxBY
MuLTIMEDIA
SOPHIE FLOYD, SOFIA HuITRON
E Y E S ?
WRITING
LOLA LAMBERG
MODELING
KAILEN PERRY, LAuREN MACBRYDE, JOE KIM, CHARLES GOEBEL, CHARLIE KNOWLES, ELI PENN, ARMAAN GuLATI, WILL vIANESE
LAYOuT
GRACE DEMBA
THE GIRLS SIT FOR DINNER.
Their lives, once bathed in the mundane, are now subject to the relentless scrutiny of rooms filled with unblinking, fixed pupils. Devoid of names and defined only by their features, the girls are involuntarily immersed in a world that blurs the bounds of privacy. Spaces concealed behind walls, adorned with countless screens, hold the unyielding gaze of an unseen force, forcing a watchful eye on every thought, breath, and emotion that danced across their bodies. Each space is an omniscient observer, bearing witness to their every emotion, laughter, and tear. It became evident that they were captives of a voyeuristic experiment—an audience with no faces, only countless unfeeling eyes that studied them like specimens. Their bond, once carefree and spontaneous, has become a sanctuary within the suffocating confines of the watchful eyes. They communicate through glances, finding solace in the unspoken understanding that develops between them.
THEY ARE NOT A L O N E
Every step, every fleeting expression, was cataloged in the vast network of surveillance that loomed over their lives. Mirrored rooms forbid any chances of privacy. They are followed by both the reflections of themselves and the watchful security in place around them. Their days unfolded in a monotonous rhythm dictated by the ever-present surveillance. The girls live in a perpetual dance, choreographed by the sweeping reality of full disclosure. Their faces hidden beneath the ubiquitous glow of omnipresent eyesight, screens and humans alike reflecting the curated images of a life that can never truly be their own.
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS, THEY SOuGHT SOLACE IN THE vIRTuAL REALMS THAT PROMISED AN ESCAPE FROM THE OMNIPRESENT GAzE.
But even there, algorithms and intelligence tailor their experiences, filtering out anything deemed unfit for the carefully constructed narrative of their lives. As the girls succumb to the routine, a sense of resignation settles over them. They speak in hushed tones about
dreams that dared not surface in the light of day, about a desire for connection that feels like a distant memory. They share fragments of a yearning for something beyond the scripted existence laid out for them—a longing for freedom, for a life unobserved.
Direction Ali Meltzer, Maxine Roeder, Rida Qureshi
Photography Sydney Hou, Maxine Roeder, Nina Bergman, Anna Picinich
Styling Maxine Roeder, Madison Hunt, Zoey Scher
Makeup Olivia Slemmer, Caroline Bixby
Writing Ali Meltzer
Modeling Lauren Macbryde, Yabsera Bekele, Evia Della Valle, Nogoye Cisse, Abi Cannon, Tenzing Dekyong, Ava Farrar, Shalah Russell
Layout Grace Demba
What if the one didn’t get away?
Every time I drink sweet wine, I think of you.
I think of mornings spent in the library, of plastic cups, of that cold night in November when we went to the university “gala” – we thought we were so sophisticated. I remember how we left the gala early and sat on a log outside of a building on campus, one of the decrepit ones where I had my English classes. The grass was wet, and my feet were bare; I told you that my heels were sinking in the mud, and you knelt down to undo the straps.
I held your forearm as I bent down, taking my shoes in my hand as my bare feet hit the ground. I looked down for a moment and thought to myself that the frost-coated grass looked like glitter.
I don’t think I’ve seen the world like that since.
You were the first person who taught me that I have to maintain eye contact during a toast. I asked what would happen if I looked away, and you said I’d be cursed with bad sex for seven years. You smirked, revealing the dimple on your left cheek, and as we sat side-by-side on the cold, wet wood, I clinked my plastic cup of Pink Moscato against yours and held your unblinking gaze. I remember thinking that your eyes were so beautiful, and I don’t know if it was the pink wine or the cold air or the sheer ecstasy of the moment, but I forgot where I was.
I wonder if you felt that way too, and sometimes I wonder if you even remember that night at all. We drank too much back then; I wonder if that’s why my memory fails me when I try to picture you. In my mind, you’re still twenty-years-old, and we’re in the library. You’re kicking me under the table as I read a book with a title that I can’t even remember. I was always trying to act like I was older than I was when I was in college. I rationalized everything, I worked too hard. But you weren’t like that. You wore crooked glasses and doodled on your notes. You called professors by their first names, and they still liked you.
If I were more like you
made it. we might have
I always, even when we were together, wished I was more like you. I went on dates after you, with boys who never split the check but always asked me if I had been in love before, expecting me to fall in love with them just because they had asked.
But they all asked that question. Every single one of them. Usually, I would respond by saying “I don’t know, have you?”
After particularly bad dates, I would go home and think of you. I would build you up so big in my head and attempt to tweak your features to match my age, but no matter how much editing I would do, you’d still have the face of a twentyyear-old. It was alright though, because I had the mind of my younger self. Just as I did back then, I would dream up scenarios of you and me as I tried to fall asleep at night.
We might have graduated early and moved to the Pacific Northwest where the air was frosty all year round, and there were big lakes with transparent water.
We could’ve opened up a tea shop with homemade jams, and I would keep a small herb garden in the backyards. We would live in a small cabin with a too big bed that we would spend too much time in.
My dreams without you in them were big, almost too big; dreams of success, cities, objects. But when you were in them, everything was enough. I needed nothing. We would fold the fitted sheets together, and you would gently unfold them when it came time to remake the bed. We would make pasta together most nights, and as we would eat we’d drink Riesling and talk and talk and talk until no words came out.
On nights where we would have to go out, we could go to the local bar with live music, and you would lightly draw on my back as the woman on the bass played, and played, and played.
PHOTOGRAPHY:ALEXNICKEL,SYDNEYHOU V I
DEO: NICOLEFARNSLEYSTYLING:KEMIAKINFENWA,ROBINPYO MAKEUP:OLIVIASLEMMER
WRITING:ELIANA JENKINS MODELING:SOLVEIG HICKS, HELENTELAHUN , TIRZAELLIOTT, RIYA DAFTARY LAYOUT:RUBY GRANT
WHAT IF YOUR HAIR OF HAD A MIND ITS OWN
Tirza’s hair speaks for her in ways she herself doesn’t feel like she has to: “I feel like hair talking is more of an extension of you, or, if you could say the things you can’t say verbally, your hair says it for you. If that makes sense.” Which it certainly does – especially for Tirza, whose love for bedazzled barrettes and multicolored ribbons mirrors her eccentric personal style. “It’s Tirza with the bows,” she indicates as her unique signature up-do: always parted, always in two pigtails, and never – ever – not tied with two bows at the ends.
Why? Partly, because she can. “I just – I like it. I feel like it’s cute. It adds to the outfit. There’s no particular reason.” Also partly, because it’s ritual: her earliest hair memories are tied with ribbons and bows, typical childhood hair accessories, but also tied to fond memories with her mother and sisters. “My hair has a lot to do with, like, how my mom used to do it when I was little. My mom always put bows in our hair. Me and my sisters, we’d line up at the door. My little brother would even be like ‘Can I have a bow?’ And we’d be like…. ‘okay’ *giggles.* But yeah.”
While Tirza’s hair memories echo a familiar story of sacred hair traditions exchanged between mother and daughter, to her, hair doesn’t always need to be taken so seriously. It’s merely a reflection of her inner childhood self that she reminisces; a nostalgic, subtle ode to girliness that rejects society’s tendency to adultify black women in their youth. “I feel like my hair would be silly just cause. I feel like it would be outgoing but like, shy at the same time.” Funny enough, the way she described her hair mimicked the way we characterize little kids: outgoing, or shy, but better when well-behaved: “I would say – well I like to slick my hair down *chuckles* into the, like, depths. A bad hair day is when the weather doesn’t cooperate with it so it causes it to frizz up. A good hair day would just be when it cooperates with me.”
But despite how much her hair may act like one, Tirza is no longer a little girl. Adulthood, to Tirza, is agency. “When I started to do my hair by myself I think is when I became conscious of the role it plays in my life. Because then, it became like an actual part of me and something I would take time to do.”
IF HER HAIR COULD SAY ANYTHING TO HER, IT WOULD PROBABLYNEVER FORGIVE HER FOR HOW TIGHTSHE’ S PULLED IT, THANK HER FORNEVE R STRAIGHTENING IT, AND LOVE H E R FOR LOVING IT BACK.
Growing into her identity as an adult requires her to assume the independence to take good care of her hair while in school (which she does through thorough conditioning treatments), but also to never forget the fun, care-free aspects of childhood doing what some may think to be a childlike hairstyle, herself. If her hair could say anything to her, it would “probably never forgive [her] for how tight she’s pulled it, thank [her] for never straightening it,” and love her for loving it back.
If you were wondering…no she can’t see herself changing her hairstyle anytime soon. When asked if she ever saw herself without bows, she pondered for a second. With a childlike giddiness but adultlike assertion, she finally answered: “I guess, no. ‘cause I like my bows and they are a big part of me and, like, me without bows wouldn’t be me.” *cheeses*
SOLVEIG
Anonymity is something that Solveig – and her naturally bright blonde hair – has never had. “My relationship with my hair is –um – uniqueness?” she describes, explaining that if her hair had a personality, it’s naturally – like the color of her locs – bold. “My hair is something that makes me feel special and makes me feel really confident,” she affirms. “I'm always able to pick myself out in group pictures and people are always able to see me. So, I feel that sense of being perceived.”
And oh how enviable it is to be seen – or so we’ve been taught. For decades, America has cherished the nation’s blondes, ‘oh-so-perfect’ Barbies that dominated vintage TV screens and quickly became mass media’s ideal beauty standard. Think everyone’s favorite Y2K Hollywood bombshell or the newest Victoria’s Secret Angel. Your middle school sitcom crush. The very first doll advertised to you which you begged your parents to buy, just to leave sitting pretty and perfect in a now dated plastic Dreamhouse.
But despite the reigning national
vision of blonde women as “this shiny, eye-catching thing,” Solveig does not let stereotypes define her reality. While she believes boldness and blondness are two things to be thankful for, she’s aware they are also things to be cautious of. “Being blonde does come with some baggage in terms of pop culture and in the way we know what it represents. It represents that Americana femininity in some ways.” She admits, “A lot of times I think I've felt like being blond makes me be taken less seriously and undermines [my intelligence].” In that way, she feels Western media’s characterization of blondness to be not just a liability, but a threat. “I've always definitely taken pride in being an independent thinker, and I like to be distinguished in the things that I do. I like to feel like I put in an exceptional amount of work into things [am] a really driven and unafraid person. Even if I haven't always been that person, aspiring to be that person, that version of myself, has always definitely been something that's driven me.”
TH BAGGAGE
B E I N G B L O N D E C O M E S W I
Her blonde hair exemplifies her bold personality not in the way the world sees her, but in how she naturally sees herself. “Like, I can't really hide in my hair, and so I've kind of just naturally had to lean into that.
I guess in some ways, it does feel like it really supports me in being more bold. And especially as a woman, I think that's something that's really important in advocating for yourself and speaking up. It's a journey, but I always want to be more bold.” Meaning, that accepting her hair in all of its glorious blondness helps her take control of her narrative, while also bringing awareness to the one that’s been bestowed upon her.
“We wanted to depict my hair being attacked, and I thought a good way to represent that would be a reference to Alfred Hitchcock’s
The Birds. Alfred Hitchcock is known for his famous ‘Hitchcock Blonde’ at the center of his horror film. [I’m] thinking about hair as
a vulnerability. Even though it's something you might love, the way it [can] immediately make you a target, whether to being perceived as less [than] or to a big swarm of birds flying at your head.”
In Solveig’s world though, she always gets the last word. In the final moments of her shoot, the concept took a reclamatory, revolutionary turn as a response to the 1960s American film: “What if I ate the birds? What if I attacked the birds? It is my hair, and it is something that I should get to feel confident in at the end of the day.”
If her hair could speak, it would ask [her] to lean into that same message: “to not let [boldness] just be an external thing, but an internal thing of recognizing that you have a specialness inside of you. If you can't hide having very memorable hair externally, you shouldn't hide your spirit in that same way. The confidence should mean more than [the fear] it will attract the wrong kind of attention.”
RIYA
We’ve all been there – wondered the lengths we’d go to achieve that pageant “Perfect 10.” In this age where ratings matter and beauty is reduced to a swipe-right, the pressure is always on, especially for women who are consistently told that ‘everyone needs to like you.’ Life is a never-ending beauty pageant with the world as our audience, patriarchal standards as are our judges, and beauty, the shiny golden trophy we hope to win, wishing we could hold onto it forever. Our competition resembles the likes of perfectly made-up faces and Riya’s voluminous head of hair, typically styled in a beauty-queen blowout look that makes Riya feel the most put-together: “[long] hair really shapes my outlook on myself, and I’m pretty sure everyone else’s outlook on me,” she admits.
But what happens when the curtains close? Behind the scenes, there’s much more to Riya’s locs than its length: an enduring symbol of femininity. “The pageants I [used to do when I was little] were totally natural, where you weren’t allowed to wear make-up, but you could have your hair as natural or as styled as you wanted it to be,” she said while reflecting on her time as a pageant girl.
T H E S T R E N G T H S H E F I N D S R O O T E D I N REH
The importance of embracing natural beauty is also emphasized through values she’s embraced in her South Asian culture, which serves as her inspiration to maintain her hair’s natural state through a consistent routine to keep her hair healthy: “Since I was younger, I’ve had this perception of my hair that I want it to be really healthy, really thick; in Indian culture, hair is considered this really beautiful thing which you should always try to take care of…I’ve always made sure to oil my hair and put extra conditioners and masks in it,” which she considers to be her “holy grail.” Like that Mean Girls quote, Riya’s big hair may be “full of secrets,” but she’s not above sharing them, because how can you compete when you don’t compare? The “IGK 4 in 1 spray, Olaplex, and Moroccan oils” are her personal conditioning recs to keeping your hair healthy, and by effect, keep you looking your best.
In this way, the beauty of Riya’s hair is not rooted in length alone nor its adherence to traditional beauty standards, but because her length indicates how well she cares for her hair, and that kind of relationship with her hair is intrinsically beautiful. After years of hair beauty treatments and a careful regimen, she describes her locs as “resilient.” The strength she finds rooted in her length is now a source of her unwavering confidence, and for that reason, when health is the standard, Riya wins the crown.
“Maybe it’s because I’m a Gemini” Helen joked – her reason for personifying her hair as her unfamiliar other half. Translated from its Latin origin as the twins, the “two-faced” Gemini horoscope projects two separate entities bonded by celestial fate. By chance, not by choice, Helen navigates the contradictory, sometimes complementary relationship with her hair every day in the mirror with a spray bottle of water and some will.
Helen’s hair journey is a story of distorted reflections: “If my hair’s not looking good, I’m not looking good. It’s not possible.” Helen’s afro, a high-strung, high-maintenance diva is the “exact opposite” of her: laid back, low-maintenance, and not reliant on anyone else to handle business. “I take care of her. I pay for her dinner. I take her out. I make sure she’s well-fed. I make sure she looks good,” lists Helen, who relies on the cooperation of her stubborn fro to fuel her selfconfidence. In this way, Helen’s hair is her mirror: an unconventional reflection that she can’t escape and a constant reminder of how difficult life can be when you’re a walking contradiction. “Ethiopians are just known for long, luscious
hair, and so I think growing up, being Ethiopian, [I would see] all my cousins have very long, very luscious locs of hair, and so I just always saw that and was like damn, I don’t have that.”
On a bad day, mirrors reflect our deepest insecurities to show us a stranger: the darkest parts of our lives stare through us, reducing us to nothing but a pile of broken pieces. On a good day, mirrors can make us feel larger than life; the sacred place for daily affirmations that motivate you to wipe your tears and remember who the f*** you are. Like a true mirror, Helen’s hair is neither a friend or foe, but a sister who shows tough love when necessary. Despite the bickering, there’s one thing the girls can agree on. “I just do what I want,” Helen states. “I just go whichever direction I feel like life is pushing me and that’s what my fro does. I eat it up, and so does she.” In this way, Helen’s fro mirrors Helen’s tenacity to conquer unexpected roadblocks in the day-to-day realities of her fast-paced, unpredictable life as an entrepreneur.
A disruptor in the FinTech industry, Helen works relentlessly on her app Article26, unapologetically taking up space in a male-dominated field. Helen is her own boss, and both herself and her hair defy status-quos in a corporate world traditionally unwelcoming to black women – despite the number of regulations that label black hair as “unprofessional.”
By deciding to embrace her reflection which can often be uncomfortable, Helen has begun to discover parts of herself she hadn’t recognized before. If Helen’s hair teaches us anything, it’s that the relationships to our reflections should be flexible, not fixed. While Helen and her hair may not be the best of friends, it’s her protective coat of armor and her ultimate weapon: “My hair teaches me so many things about myself, so the message really connects. My hair is my perfect coat just bundled up around me, so I think the concept [what if your hair had a mind of its own] is perfect because me and my hair do talk.
What does yours say?”
HELEN’S
HAIR IS
HER
MIRROR: AN
UNCONVENTIONAL
SHE CAN’T ESCAPE AND A CONSTANT REMINDER OF HOW DIFFICULTLIFE CAN BE WHEN YOU’RE A WALKING CONTRADICTION.
REFLECTIONTHAT
WHAT IF Emotions were Tangible?
Direction: LAUREN SPEICHER, MAX SELVER, SAIVEE AHUJA
Photography: MAX SELVER
Styling: DAVID SCHANTZ, ZOEY SCHER
Makeup: SAIVEE AHUJA
Writing: RACHEL BAI
Prop Design: JULIA CHEON
Illustration: GIANNA KIM
Modeling: LAUREN SPEICHER, DAVID SCHANTZ, KATIE ZHU, KIMBERLY TAN
Layout: NATALIE DINH
SCENE 1:
If I had a stronger will, I would make a cage out of my fingers and stick my knuckles together into a fisherman’s net. I’d close my eyes, fall to my knees, and cry to the divine.
If I were stronger, I would put my hands into paint, clay, literature, and creativity—the way we used to as little girls. But art is hollow without you here, and I don’t have the strength to find a better way to cope.
Lately, I find myself licking my teeth until my tongue feels dry against my throat. Sometimes, the world just can’t move slowly enough—sometimes, time works too hard. And too sharp. Sometimes, friendship is like a stone that sinks into the sand and washes away with stormwater.
How long do I have to miss you? People always leave, you used to tell me. They cry into your shoulder and peel themselves away like putty that doesn’t stick, but I will always be here for you, you would remind me. An ironic oath as you too have become part of the departure, forcing me to cling on to nostalgic memories of us.
Goodbyes will always be painful, regardless of time, regardless of inevitability.
The last time I saw you, you were lying still, a shadow of the vibrant soul you once were—cold and unmoving. I try my best not to think of you like this. I hope you're doing better now.
Sometimes, the world just can’t move slowly enough.
SCENE 2:
Step One Take a seat.
So because I am not strong, I sit in a place where the air is as sterile as the stillness is profound. Silence seems dark and heavy: it is as if time has stopped moving in the hopes of haunting me.
Step Two
Choose your vial.
Options: Love. Euphoria. Solitude. Nostalgia. I choose Nostalgia. I just want to see you one more time.
Step Three Feel.
In the hands of the alchemist: a syringe. My arm is bared, my pulse a fluttering bird eager for flight. I feel the cold kiss of the needle’s tip, a harbinger of the deluge of remembrance flooding my senses. They told me that to be injected with such a potion is to feel infinity. Unlimitedness. As the potion begins to course through my veins, I brace myself.
SCENE 3: SCENE 4:
The room fades, the walls diluting into nothingness. I’m suspended in a void where the air is thick with the scent of yesterday. And there, in the web of Nostalgia’s tender veil, you appear–a phantom woven from the threads of my mind, a spectral silhouette aglow with the soft luminescence of past time. You’re there, but not exactly—like a dream that knows it’s being dreamt. Your eyes, once a canvas of life, now hold the tranquility of the afterlife, fathomless. You extend your hand, an invitation.
I reach out, my hand trembling as it slices through time, from girlhood to womanhood, from naïveté to wisdom, from pink cheeks to a lifeless complexion. I expect to grasp nothing but the chill of absence. Yet, as my fingers touch yours, a shock of warmth floods through me—a paradox against all reason. It’s you, different yet the same, your spectral presence enveloping me in an embrace.
Will you let me remember you for just a minute?
But as quickly as you arrive, you leave me as you did before. You begin to wane as the potion’s potency diminishes, the edges of you blurring into the encroaching fog of the present. Desperation clutches at me, a plea to your retreating figure, “Stay.” But Nostalgia, impartial and cruel, ebbs from my body. Your image wanes like a candle succumbing to the dawn, and I can no longer see you.
“No!”
I raise my hand, and the vial crashes against the wall, a burst of the elixir, glass, and splintered reflections. As each item clatters, I can hear the beat of my own heart—breath heaving, limbs trembling. My heart clenches into itself: a small death self-administered.
I stand alone, trembling, as the room falls silent. A tear slides down my cheek as I realize I’m alone. If I were stronger, I would let this be our final goodbye. But I am not stronger. I book another appointment.
I’ll see you again, I promise.
like a candle succumbing to the dawn.
WHAT IF WE LIVED IN THE
MATRIX
DIRECTION : YABSERA BEKELE, AIDEN COLE, CHANDRA PHENPIMON
PHOTOGRAPHY : PRISCILLA LEE, SAM CHEN
STYLING : ROBIN PYO
WRITING : RITA WANG
DESIGN : PRISCILLA LEE
MODELING : SOLVEIG HICKS, ETHAN MCCORMICK
LAYOUT : RUBY GRANT
20…
I wasn’t scared. But she clearly was.
A month ago, I took off my gear to disconnect from the Second World and found her in my cubicle, stealing from my energy supply. This was not a completely foreign activity, as there were many stragglers in the First World low on energy. However, something about her was different. When I slid off my gear, she gasped a strange gurgling sound from her throat. This took me off guard, for I had never heard someone who looked my age make a sound of surprise. No, it wasn’t a surprise, it was fear.
15…
“You’re not a CC?” I was bemused. Her eyes were still wide open. I could see the distinct silver veins at the corners of her eye that marked CCs. This made me curious: if she is clearly branded as one of us, why is she in fear?
“Please!” she suddenly cried out. “You need to help me!” She grasped my arm, and I jumped back, electric pulses charged up my arm, my spine, my brain. It’s been years since I had any physical human contact. My life in the Second World felt just as real, but its signals to my sensory system paled in comparison to the strange feeling of touch.
HOPE WAS A BUG IN THE SYSTEM, A DISEASE OF SORTS.
“Please,” she begged once more.
10…
She never told me her name.
She was a Visionary. One of the developers who keep the Second World running. At first, I was in awe of her: the Visionaries were hardly ever seen in the Second World, and the ones who are visible are hailed as celebrities.
She had developed an extension for the Second World. An extension stimulating the feeling of First World Exclusive Emotions. In addition, she tested the extension on herself. Originally, she felt the emotions “Ecstatic” and “Joyous” at her work. Then came “Ambition.” These I understood to a certain extent. The last emotion she described to me was “Hope.” This one I could not understand.
10…
I saw the effect of this “Hope” on her. She wished for something more than the Second World. She wished for “Truth,” which she thought could be found in the First World. Her search has left her broken, hungry, fatigued, and wounded. However, this “Hope” strangled her. It kept her in a chokehold. I did not understand her pain, but I understood her problem. “Hope” was a bug in the system, a disease of sorts. The extension was a virus, taking control of the once rational Second World citizen and turning her into an irrational insect.
5…
I suggest that I could shut the extension down. It did no good to her, and it certainly would not do good to the world if unleashed. The pure sanctity of the Second World, forever tainted by remnants of the First.
4…
She wouldn’t let me. For the next month, she came and went from my cubicle. Sometimes coming back with weird patterns on her skin. She didn’t understand them, and neither did I. Disease was foreign to both of us.
3…
She’s lying on my floor, tossing and turning about. Every time I removed my gear, I offered to remove the evasive bug from her system. She refused.
2…
“Tell me,” I said, sitting down next to her, “Was this experience worth it? Did you find your something more?”
She didn’t respond, her eyes, once full of energy, glazed over. I put my hand on her chest. Nothing.
1…
I stood up and brushed the grime off my hands. With my curiosity fulfilled, I turned back to my gear.
Reboot successful. Welcome back to the Second World.
WELCOME BACK TO THE SECOND WORLD REBOOT
Bubble gum
WHAT IF CHEWED US?
(AN AI EDITORIAL)
DIRECTION: Saivee Ahuja, Rachel Bai
PHOTOGRAPHY: MIDJOURNEY
STYLING: MIDJOURNEY
MAKEUP: MIDJOURNEY
writing: chaT gpt
MODELING: MIDJOURNEY
lAYOUT: RUBY GRANT
I woke up that morning to a world unrecognizable, draped in an ominous, glowing pink. The streets were silent, eerie—a stark contrast to the bustling life I remembered. It was as if I had awoken in a twisted dream, but the sticky air that filled my lungs was all too real. This was the day bubble gum, a once benign treat, revealed its sinister nature: it chewed back.
THE DAY REALITY MELTED II
THE CITY’S CANDY-COATED NIGHTMARE
Wandering through the streets, I watched in horror as the gum slithered over buildings and lampposts, an insidious parasite disguising itself in whimsy. It was a grotesque display of power, turning the familiar into something out of a nightmarish fairy tale. The city I knew was no longer; in its place stood a candy-coated mausoleum.
AN OMINOUS, GLOWING
PINK
IVA HARROWING NEW LIFE
Life intertwined with the gum became a morbid reality. I witnessed births where infants emerged into translucent, pink cocoons—a chilling symbol of their entry into this altered world. Love and connection, once pure and unadulterated, were now ensnared in the gum’s sticky grasp, perverted into something unrecognizable.
the inescapable pink abyss
As days turned to weeks, the gum’s hunger seemed insatiable. I watched helplessly as it devoured the Amazon, smothering its vibrant life under a blanket of deathly pink. The oceans, once teeming with life, lay motionless, entombed under a suffocating, glistening layer. The world as we knew it was being consumed, bite by bite.
HUMANITY’S DISTORTED REFLECTION
As time passed, those touched by the gum began to change. Their bodies twisted and stretched into grotesque, gum-like forms. I saw friends and family morph into these aberrations, their humanity lost under the pink sheen. We had become the very embodiment of our downfall, a tragic spectacle of what once was.
HUMANITY LOST UNDER THE PINK SHEEN
Our resistance was futile. The more we fought, the more we lost. The realization of our powerlessness was crushing. We were but pawns in a game dictated by the gum, and eventually, we all succumbed to its embrace. The world had changed, and so had we— irreversibly and profoundly.
SURRENDER TO THE PINK TIDE VII
A WORLD TRANSFORMED
In the aftermath, a new order emerged from the ruins of the old. The gum, once a simple confection, now reigned with an iron, sticky fist. We adapted, surviving in this dystopian landscape, our lives and identities forever altered. In this new reality, the bubble gum did not just consume us; it reshaped our very essence, our souls entwined in its ghastly embrace.
BUT PAWNS IN A GAME DICTATED BY THE GUM
IN THIS NEW REALITY, THE BUBBLE GUM DID NOT JUST CONSUME US; IT
WHAT IF WE WORE INANIMATE OBJECTS?
Direction: Faith Phillips, Madison Hunt
Photography: Rose Liu, Chiby Onyeador
Styling: Madison Hunt, Nina Roswell
Makeup: Shalah Russell
Writing: Sadie Rosen
Modeling: Judy Li, Solveig Hicks
Layout: Fiona Lyons-Carlson
Perhaps you find joy in the art of knitting, relish the rhythmic clacking of knitting needles, and the sensation of yarn gliding over your fingertips. Maybe you’re fond of photography– intrigued by the ability to capture a story without uttering a single word.
We all pursue personal interests. Creative expression is crucial to a fulfilling life, whether it’s swimming, stamp collecting, or using social media. It's the unique language each of us speaks to the world, whether that be through the intricate stitches of a cozy autumn sweater or the click of a camera shutter. We engage in hobbies to unwind, recharge, and reconnect with ourselves.
However, the line between an enjoyable hobby and a demanding chore can sometimes be blurred. Activities that once brought great happiness can morph into obligation, demanding time and attention in more strenuous than joyful ways.
Let's say you once loved cooking – the sizzle of ingredients in a hot pan, the aroma of spices permeating the air accompanied by the satisfaction of seeing others enjoy your food. But maybe your skill is so extraordinary that your loved one tells you that you must cook a flawless meal every day, forever. While initially, you may be flattered, the persistent demand for your talent may transform your once cherished activity into a laborious duty.
HOBBYSPHERE:
A world in which our hobbies are personified in our fashion choices.
Cooking becomes her life.
For a moment, let's pretend we live in HobbySphere – a world in which our hobbies are personified in our fashion choices. Cooking, an activity once used for escapism, becomes inescapable. People say we "wear one's heart on one's sleeve," but what if the sleeve becomes a canvas for your culinary passion? In HobbySphere, our interests take center stage through our fashion choices. Our sleeves may become enveloped with cooking utensils. The sound of spoons clattering against each other as we walk and the smell of onions lingers on our clothes no matter how many times they run through the washing machine. In the desolate streets of HobbySphere, the pottery wheel's rhythmic hum and the strumming of the guitar chords create an eerie symphony. It becomes overwhelming, maybe even unbearable.
Here, we see a culinary artist. A once enjoyable hobby now descends into chaos. Her family and friends, rather than appreciating her skills, unintentionally contribute to the overwhelming pressure to produce more food. She questions whether her next dish will be good enough. Will people enjoy the food, or has the joy been overshadowed by the expectation that more food is to come? Cooking becomes her life. She opens her closet – once filled with a variety of attire reflecting her diverse lifestyle – only to find tops crafted out of oven mitts, skirts ornamented by cooking utensils, and dresses made of food storage container lids. In the kitchen, she looks distressed, weighed down by the demand for her culinary creations. Her favorite dishes' once comforting aroma has become a nauseating and ubiquitous cloud.
She looks disheveled, sweaty from her extensive tennis workout–
exhausted from her obsessive lifestyle.
The citizens of HobbySphere roam the streets, sporting their peculiar attire. Among these citizens exists a young woman who used to love tennis – the satisfying squeak of sneakers on the court, the thud of a perfectly executed serve, and the adrenaline rush of a victorious deuce point. Now, she can barely walk. Once designed for swift movement around the court, her shoes are now strangely spherical. Her hardy and practical purse is now unsuitable for daily use - the bag's fabric consisted of tennis balls from her lost matches. She looks disheveled, sweaty from her extensive tennis workout – exhausted from her obsessive lifestyle. Her coaches and stylists pressure her to keep up with her athletic and fashion games – turning her once-beloved sport into a never-ending runway performance.
Amidst the chaos of their world, the children of HobbySphere are innocent, untouched by the harsh realities that have overtaken their once-passionate parents' lives. The world is still a child's playground. They dance around in t-shirts sewn from candy bar wrappers, paired with skirts created from mismatched puzzle pieces, and shoes fashioned out of crayons. The disheartening scene of the adults around them serves as a cautionary tale, urging them to preserve the authenticity of their interests and passion, resisting the temptation to let external influences define the essence of what they love.
Abi Cannon
Adrian Fuller
Aiden Cole
Aisha Ali
Alan Moon
Alex Nickel
Ali Meltzer
Aliza Lubitz
Ana Mitreva
Andrew Wang
Andy Li
Ange Muyumba
Anika Busick
Anna Gardiner
Anna Jerdee
Anna Picinich
Armaan Gulati
Audrey Engman
Ava Farrar
Avital Isakov
Becky Moon
Bella Pearce
Bram Hoffman
Bri Lee
Brodhi Ramirez
Brook Wang
Brooke Pan
Brynne Venneman
Cameron Thompson
Cami Vynerib
Camilla Maionica
Camille Smith
Cara Gillow
Carlos Mendoza
Caroline Bixby
Celine Mazloum
Chandra Phenpimon
Charles Goebel
Charlie Knowles
Chiby Onyeador
Chloe Wetzler
Claire Pavlides
Claudine Noel
David Schantz
David Win
Dominique Bradshaw
Effie Lillig
Eileen Kim
Eli Penn
Eliana Jenkins
Ella Urton
Eloise Harcourt
Emily Blake
Emily Lapidus
Emory Marcus
Erika Yanou
Erin Lee
Ethan McCormick
Evelyn Pae
Evia Della Valle
Faheem Rahman
Faith Phillips
Fiona Lyons-Carlson
Frances Bobbitt
Gabriella Cullen
Gaby Dorman
Gianna Kim
Grace Demba
Gray Scherma
Hana Rust
Helen Telahun
Hina Kojima
Ilan Bernea
Iris Hyon
Isa Wilson
Jack Lasky
Jackie Yoon
Jakob Shenfeld
Jana Yan
Jenny Rong
Jessie Goodwin
Jessie Luo
Joe Kim
Jordan Wolf
Judy Li
Julia Cheon
Kailen Perry
Kara Yoon
Kate Kunitz
Katie Anth
Katie Zhu
Kemi Akinfenwa
Kimberly Tan
Lacey Shin
Lalo de Armas
Lara Isabel Marco Marquez
Lauren MacBryde
Lauren Speicher
Lea Bond
Leena Bekhiet
Liora Raimondi
Liza Birov
Lola Lamberg
Maddix Cradlebaugh
Madi Hermeyer
Madison Hunt
Madison Wang
Maeve Collins
Magdalene Aideyan
Margo Ogrosky
Marissa Mathieson
Matthew Schmal
Max Selver
Maxine Roeder
Maya Iskoz
McKale Thompson
Mercury Wang
Mia Johnson
Michaela Sewall
Morgan Rogers
Myra Malik
Natalia Jamula
Natalie Dinh
Natalie Rodriguez
Nicole Farnsley
Nina Bergman
Nina Rosell
Nissi Yorke
Noé Umaña-Ramos
Nogoye Cisse
Oli Zhang
Olivia Slemmer
Paris Nix
Paul Kuemmel
Payton Moore
Pema Childs
Priscilla Lee
Rachel Bai
Rachel Gwon
Rachel Solomon
Rayna Auerbach
Reni Akande
Rida Qureshi
Rita Wang
River Alsalihi
Riya Daftary
Robin Pyo
Rose Liu
Ruby Grant
Ryan Sumida
Sadie Rosen
Saivee Ahuja
Sam Chen
Sam Logerfo-Olsen
Selah Pabon
Seo-Eun Kim
Shalah Russell
Sidney Speicher
Sofia Huitron
Solveig Hicks
Soohoon Oh
Sophia Floyd
Sophia Musante
Sophia Padgett
Sophia Palitti
Sydney Goldstein
Sydney Hou
Talia Zakalik
Tatum Goforth
Tenzing Dekyong
Tirza Elliott
Tobi Pristu
Violet Holah
Whitney Short
Will Wianese
Xavier Lucas-Cooper
Yabsera Bekele
Zoey Scher
What if your mother was a secret alien?
What if your dreams were real?
What if your nightmares were real?
What if humans were furniture?
What if the hills had eyes?
What if the one didn’t get away?
What if your hair had a mind of its own?
What if emotions were tangible?
What if we lived in the matrix ?
What if bubblegum chewed us?
What if we wore inanimate objects?