issue 18
THE STAFF
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Cecily Manson Alexandra Pink
BUSINESS DIRECTORS Natalie Chyba Audrey Linden
CREATIVE DIRECTORS Alexa Penn Sophia Fish Lieyah Dagan
EDITORIAL DIRECTORS Jeanette Zhukov Christina Svenson
EVENTS DIRECTORS Christy Wang Vanda Saggese
LAYOUT DIRECTOR Michael Hyun
MARKETING DIRECTORS Lizbeth Ochoa Rhiannon Yee Christine Oh
ONLINE EDITORIAL DIRECTORS Catherine Zhou Anita Xu
PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR Lily Shafroth
MODELS DIRECTOR Justin Hsiung
CONTACT baremagazine.org facebook.com/baremagazine @baremagazine
ASUC SPONSORED
Alex Cabana Ankur Maniar Becky Jiras Camille Aroustamian Celestine Griffin Chandler Lefrancis Charisse Celestial Christina Yeghnazarian Cindy Chou Claire Danna Cleary Chizmar Coral Finnie Doug Schowengerdt Hannah Reinhard Irene Kim Jasmine Barakat Jessie Moore John Lawson Julia Kang Kelsey Abkin Lauren Gagnon Leah Hotchkiss Lisa Kimura Louise Deboutte Mallory Foster Mashael Alsaie Matthew Sater Mimi Diamond Molly Simon Nadine Melamed Naria Quazi Nick Chou Noah Chantos Noelle Forougi Rachael Kim Ran Lee Risa Tamura Sahil Mohan Sandy Campbell Shamber Ebert Sheldon Kaplan Shruthi Patchava Sudeshna Barman Tony Morales Vivien Nguyen
EXECUTIVE PHOTOGRAPHS Ankur Maniar Peter Phan
CONTRIBUTOR Photo Lab
issue 18 tattoo 06
series 1 08
molecule 14
collage 16
series 2 18
matrix 28
series 3 30
construction 38
editors’ notes Our eighteenth issue is olfactory ambrosia. For me, it is the synesthetic transformation of many of my earliest memories. This issue smells like waxed pears. It smells like the driveway– or that scorching, red-tiled perimeter around the pool– after it’s been washed with bikinied bodies. Our palms left dark half-blooms on the hot cement. It smells like the blue cut-glass bowl on the dresser; and next to it, the Wedgewood trinket box. Scent is, perhaps, the most fitting way to describe this issue whose visual and editorial content does not lend itself to standard descriptors. In this way this issue is representative of our current stage of transition. Our executive staff has nearly doubled this semester; we have welcomed in and begun the process of training the next generation of directors. With this additional creative energy we have been willing to challenge our modus operandi and make progressive deviations in all facets of our publication. I am proud to share this page– and this year– with Alexandra whose enthusiasm for taking on the editor position continuously reminds me of my own affection for this magazine and my commitment to its growth.
b are executives
I don’t dream at school. My body is exhausted and I have pushed myself to wake and stay woke for days and weeks, so sleep is a silent, temporary trench to fall into. It is never deep enough to consume me. At home, my dreams are vibrant and wild. I live a double life, the familiar turning in on itself, curling like smoke in the cold. Sleep becomes a resplendent sand tray of images and experiences. My dreams guide me from rest to waking and walk beside me in the daylight, silent and invisible. My dreams lap over me like a sulfurous sea and I am startled by their pervasiveness and I am reminded that emotional experience is just as felt in my body as physical experience. I rely on the tangible to place me in the context of the life I live. Objects take on multitudinous associations and sentimental value because they are physical proof that I have experienced and felt things. I often doubt the reality of experiences that do not result in a physical sensation. How can we know what was felt if the feeling comes and goes with no reason for its existence except for chance encounters and neurotransmitters? Memory is malleable but objects retain their integrity. Perhaps my fascination with books and magazines stems from the legitimizing power of the printed word. In publishing a magazine, you are creating a physical edition of ideas and moments. Suddenly, thoughts and dreams and revelations have weight and take up space in the world. Magazines are physical compilations of thought to be discovered and revisited, and, ultimately, to be treasured. That is the true value of creating a thing like BARE: we bestow a physical reality upon our dreams.
the personal politics of tattoos
I look down at my arm and see it — the inked in hummingbird — and I am fluttering. Chandler LeFrancis
6 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org
Ink and identity in 2015.
PHOTOGRAPH ISABELLE KAPLAN
Once the adrenaline wears off, the whirr of the machine becomes louder. It’s best to focus on the vivid cardboard prints of tattoos on the wall, listen to the music they’re playing, or take deep breaths and close your eyes. I am sitting in a tattoo parlor, getting my third tattoo and it’s burning. I feel the needles going in, and although it feels like an hour, I look down to see only the outline has been done; we haven’t even gotten to shading yet. This is something I’ve been waiting months for. I’ve had two tattoos before this: one I had thought about for years prior to getting it, the other I got because it was a spur-of-the-moment Friday the 13th tattoo that I liked. In 1870, the first tattoo shop opened up in the United States. Tattoos first appealed to American soldiers and sailors who got tattooed while visiting countries like Japan and New Zealand, where tattoos were a cultural tradition. They had tattooed on their skin marks to signify their rank, battles they had fought in, friends they lost and family they wanted to go home to; they covered their arms with tattoos of roosters and on their feet, pigs—both symbols were thought to prevent drowning according Navy folklore. After the Golden Age of Tattooing in the 1950s and 60s, tattoo shops opened everywhere. Today tattoos have become a part of our national identity too; millions of Americans have at least one. Yet having ink on our skin can hinder our chances at getting jobs, garner angry stares, and mark us as outsiders even after tattoos have (for the most part) shed their subcultural capital. Tattoos are still very much a looked down upon practice; hell, we call tattoos on a woman’s back side a “tramp stamp,” and tattooing was banned in New York from 1961 to 1997. So why is it that such a personal decision is able to elicit public scrutiny. Why can this little bit of ink on my arm prevent me from getting a job? It could be because the practice started in communities of color that Western colonizers looked down upon; because our country was founded on JudeoChristian values that banned permanent skin markings; or because counterculture undesirables adopted tattoos as their primary way of branding members. What the stigma around tattoos and their placement obscures, however, is that this ink is a way of broadcasting our identities. Tattoos are able to express individuality insofar as they affirm through symbols and images who you are and where you have been. Without speaking, tattoos are able to represent who you are by visually presenting the memories and moments that contribute to the formation of your identity. I sit up, and as my artist cleans my arm and rubs salve on the hummingbird on my arm, my eyes well with tears. I am back home in Los Angeles. The sound of the wind going through our orange tree in the backyard clashing with the motor of the pool vacuum; the smell of flowers and our stale furniture on the back porch comes back to me. I’m standing with my mom, smiling and pointing out all of the hummingbirds coming to feed on the sickly sweet red syrup from the numerous bird feeders hanging from the limbs of that old tree. They made nests, lingered, perched on the branches, and would sometimes fly just a few feet away from us, as if to say “hi.” They made a home in the house I loved, and now one is at home on my own skin.
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OPPOSITE: LOUISE WEARS SWEATER JAMES ROWLAND, JEWELRY STYLIST’S OWN. JACKIE WEARS BATHING SUIT JAMES ROWLAND.
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JACKIE WEARS BLOUSE STYLIST’S OWN, PANTS JAMES ROWLAND. LOUISE WEARS BLOUSE STYLIST’S OWN, PANTS JAMES ROWLAND, BOLO TIE M.A.C. SF. KRISTOPHE AND MARK WEAR PANTS ESSENCE OF TIBET.
LOUISE KRISTOPHE MARK WEAR STYLIST’S OWN. JACKIE WEARS DRESS M.A.C SF, LEGGINGS SAVERS, SHOES STYLIST’S OWN.
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PHOTOGRAPHER LIEYAH DAGAN PRODUCTION CLAIRE DANNA, CORAL FINNIE, JULIA KANG, KELSEY ABKIN, LOUISE DEBOUTTE, NOELLE FOROUGI MODELS JACKIE TAN, KRISTOPHE GREEN, LOUISE DEBOUTTE, MARK BRINKER
JACKIE WEARS DRESS M.A.C SF.
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molecular meditation
ISOPRENE
SUCROSE
ILLUSTRATION ALVARO AZCARRAGA
INULIN
A summer sunset settles in as your feet drop onto the parched grass. It is a late August afternoon, and the sultry heat of the day has slipped into a mild evening. It feels as though you are the only being on earth on this lazy summer day, and you ponder whether this isolation, alone is just another part of the summer monotony, or if it actually comforts you. What is left in our massive reality? In the world of the miniscule the exchange between microstructures is colorful; they intermingle at their most basic sense–intuitively–to create our greater environment. Isoprene blocks out the rest of the world by surrounding itself with its own kind. It doesn’t just want homogeneity; it needs homogeneity: like-minded individuals form small groups that meet with other small groups. They form a cult of opinion: a large mushed together sludge of concordant groupthink. Without that fluid harmony of thought and action, the individuals would break apart, and the coordination that binds isoprene together would fall away to reveal a vulnerable has-been, past its prime and scared of the world beyond it. Sucrose gets lost in its swirling. Centripetal force pulls it in and drowns out the imperfections of the world, holding onto a sweet, ephemeral melody that keeps them bouncing on their feet. The moment won’t last past this intuitive dance, but it keeps the flow going as sucrose tosses its worries to the floor, and hopes that the night won’t end; it’s surrendered to complacency with the here and the now. But soon all the dancers will file out and fill the lines of consistency, breaking up the rhythm of a fake but pleasant consolation. Sucrose is always bound to fade to white. Inulin has found a home in nostalgia; too hesitant to start moving forward, it lingers in the mementos of the past. Forming a cluster in a comforting symmetry, it latches onto this arbitrary design like it’s the only thing it needs to know, and struggles to fight the gales of change once they rear their ugly headwinds. But the struggle won’t last; time moves forward and as the future moves farther from the past, inulin is too much a stranger to the times. The impetuous winds blow on, and once inulin learns to relinquish itself to them, the path is a breeze. Naria Quazi
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picture language A discussion with Isabella Chiara about femininity and the power of assemblage.
‘TEAR SERIES’ ISABEL CHIARA
16 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org
Take a look at your Instagram for a moment; go on, be wild. If you open your “explore” page, you’ll see images of a variety of people– men, women, cisgender, trans, Black, White, Asian, Hispanic. In the last decade, something kind of amazing has happened. Through the development of the internet and all its many children – Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter – we have garnered the power to self-publish. Social media, despite the ageold moral panic that surrounds it, has given people the power to self-publish, self-identify and ultimately to be in control of their own image. Broadcasting photos of yourself in your sweats may not seem like a victory, but it is. Every day, all over the world, people are uploading their own definitions of what it means to be a person in 2015. The result is, quite literally, a plethora of images and definitions that the modern person must maneuver their way through; it is a collage, if you will, of many different identifications. Isabel Chiara is a Spanish GIF and collage artist working to try to present her own monologue amidst such abundance of visual images. Her work is both haunting and hilarious in its fusion of classical and traditional symbols of femininity with more ostensibly dark images. In one, entitled ‘Marcianas’ (Martians), a Grecian woman’s face morphs into that of an animal, before a target is placed on her, and the words “BANG!” explode across the page, merging the Classical with the comic. Another presents an Elizabethan woman whose head is partly severed, with steam emanating from the hole. Her face is contorted and she appears to be screaming madly. Collage seems to me to be the millennial medium. It perfectly reflects our own bombardment with images and the complexity of the visible elements of our identities. Chiara tells me: “years ago I had worked with other means but I felt like I had absolutely no way to express myself. The collage is a direct reflection of my thinking, my inner monologue.” It was only through collage, both paper and digital, that she was able to “reconcile [her] traditions with [her] expressive needs.” That is, only collage, with its variety and complexity, could give her a voice that could speak to today’s audience. “I had found my own voice in my picture language,” Chiara tells me. This is a “language” in which the average millennial is fluent. Pictures are arguably supplanting oral culture; we now send a photo, or a Snapchat, to inform our social spheres that this is what we are doing, seeing or eating.
‘MARCIANAS’ ISABEL CHIARA
“The collage is a direct reflection of my thinking, my inner monologue.”
Chiara’s work is largely to do with oppressive gender ideals; she chooses to focus her lens on the way in which society attempts to subjugate women. She made clear to me that women’s rights have not yet been won, despite the fact that it is now 200 years since first-wave feminism began to make its voice heard. She is (rightly) vehement that “women’s participation is necessary in the decision making process…Women are the guarantee for the future and the planet’s survival, but are still considered as second-rate citizens in the countries known as ‘first world.’ ” This is the life and anger that is breathed into every piece of work Chiara produces. She has been consistently riled up, and now has something to say. While she has garnered some mainstream success–her work is advertised on SaatchiArt.com– most of her art is published on her own Blogspot. Both the message and the medium here seem to convey a real sense of agency, despite Chiara’s “general pessimism” about the status of women and the opportunities available to them. However, as a female artist, her start was not simple. I asked her about what it was like to grow up in a semi-matriarchal culture like Spain, where women appear to take a more dominant role. “The role of mother and housewife is highly estimated, like that of a peaceful, unifying force that is so particularly protective,” Chiara told me. She continues, “however, this is probably the only comfort zone that women traditionally have held. She has never had the privilege of being called ‘the head of the family.’ Spanish women perpetuate their own acceptability and transmit to their daughters their devotion to family, as well as submission and passivity, to lack one’s own room. In this context– and I am talking about my own generation—it’s difficult to develop an artistic career.” It was through women like Janis Joplin, Chrissie Hynde, Billie Holiday, Grace Slick, Virginia Woolf and Dorothy Parker (to name a few) that Chiara was able to break away from such oppressive gender expectations; she “needs” female artists whom she can emulate and by whom she is inspired. “Unfortunately,” Chiara laments, “the role of women as artists has been quite marginal throughout the history of art,” but the women that have made their voices heard have “opened the way” for others, like Chiara, to follow. I hesitantly asked Chiara what she thought the most powerful image of womanhood was to her. “The woman’s body,” she told me, “as presented by herself.” This is exactly what social media platforms are generating every day. While Chiara believes this flood of images and information is confusing and “degrades” the identity of women, it seems that it is a massive step towards free and open expression. Go on, take a selfie. Present yourself. Contribute to the collage. Mimi Diamond issue 18 • baremagazine.org 17
womb-mates It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and we are just wrapping up the last parts of the day’s exhausting photo shoot. SWMRS frontmen Max and Cole Becker, aged 22 and 20 respectively, have been twisted up like pretzels for the last four hours, donning a palette of designer threads while cameras snap final shots in a semicircle around them. Cole is posing for the final shot in an antique wedding dress; his elbows just barely hidden in the lace of the dress, are marred with small scabs characteristic of any active eight-year old. You probably wouldn’t expect that he and his brother are the ringleaders of an up-and-coming band that has toured the world or that they’ve walked runways in last year’s Paris Fashion Week to the sound of their own album. As they take these next steps into adulthood, their progression as artists is nearing a new chapter that’s already over a decade in the making. As we talk in the hallway, I can’t help but to notice that every other girl that passes by seems to throw Cole a coy smile. He jovially chitchats about next year’s world tour as if he were talking about his class schedule for the following semester, “We’re touring Europe next summer, and ideally, Japan.” Our conversation undulates between the thrills of playing Club Penguin (Username: Girls4jesus) and the possibility of being “Eskimo bros” with Mac Demarco. Pronounced “swimmers,” the band is the most recent musical development of the four-member East Bay group formerly known as Emily’s Army. They began playing together in 2004 with drummer Joey Armstrong (they added bassist Seb Meuller last year), and since it has been hard for the group to shake the baggage that comes with being a precocious boy band. Nearly every interview and feature seems to retrace history back to their adolescent roots or focus on their connection to Green Day (Joey’s father is legendary vocalist Billy Joel Armstrong). Although they have over ten years of experience together, restructuring under a new name seems a logical choice as they stand at the foot of both adulthood and explosive popularity. While their expertise rivals that of bands twice their age, their content verbalizes the sounds and preoccupations of a young demographic. This combination of youth and refined skill may be what makes the band so intriguing and relatable. A host of genres have been used to categorize their emotive vocals and heavy guitar riffs, but Max insists that they’d “like to be respected as a rock n’ roll band that pushes themselves,” rather than falling in line with a long tradition of drive-soaked punk acts. Sharing the roles of lead singer and guitarist, the brothers have propelled the band’s growth from youthful garage project to full-fledged pop and fashion icon status over the last 10 years. After March’s Burgerama Music Festival, creative director of Saint Laurent Paris, Hedi Slimane, solicited the band. “He was like ‘wow I love this band,’ ” says Max, recalling their surprise at Slimane’s response to their music. Three months later Max and Cole were across the Atlantic walking the runway for Saint Laurent to a soundtrack they wrote at Slimane’s request. Max sums up the creative process for writing the soundtrack: “one Saturday we drank some 40s and wrote a 15-minute song.” Their most recent development is clearly displayed in the aesthetic departure from the polished bow-tie presentation of Emily’s Army to the blunt-passing, raucous bender that is SWMRS. The self-produced music
18 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org
COLE WEARS TURTLENECK MARS, JACKET COMMES DES GARÇON, MAC SF, SHORTS STYLIST’S OWN. MAX WEARS BLOUSE DRIES VAN NOTEN, SUIT COMMES DES GARÇON, MAC SF.
An interview with the brothers of SWMRS.
PHOTOGRAPHER LILY SHAFROTH
PRODUCTION LIEYAH DAGAN LILY SHAFROTH NOAH CHANTOS SHELDON KAPLAN AUDREY LINDEN EVAN RUIZ
MODELS COLE BECKER MAX BECKER FILM DONATED BY GLASS KEY FILM DEVELOPED BY PHOTO LAB
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COLE WEARS BLOUSE STYLIST’S OWN, JACKET SAINT LAURENT, PANTS MARS. MAX WEARS BLOUSE, JACKET STYLIST’S OWN, SKIRT YOHJI YAMAMOTO.
“When a lot of people are hearing what you are saying, make sure what you are saying is progressive and good for society.”
video for their new song “Miley” (a controversial homage to Miley Cyrus), depicts the squad puffing J’s in front of lazily concealed green screens. In front of a hemstitched Miley Montage, bandmembers spill champagne over each others’ heads while they eat bananas and stare offhandedly at the camera. While these creative liberties may seem like devolutions from their clean-cut roots, it is really a continuation of the prolific multi-platform output that they’ve presented to the public for years. “We are social media whores,” Cole admits as Max mulls over the nuances of auto-tune in a groupchat with the rest of the band. Scroll through their popular Instagram account (@swmrs), and you’ll find remnants of the band’s vocal support of Planned Parenthood adjacent to lazily filmed kitchen vignettes. Cole is putting the final touches on the second volume of his zine, Boyzine.com, an in-print publication which focuses on intersectionality and feminism. Max insists that building a name in music does not mean compromising one’s identity or silencing their social views. “When a lot of people are hearing what you are saying, make sure what you are saying is progressive and good for society.” Although dropping their new album represents “a crazy point of no return” in their careers, the Beckers seem comfortable in the college atmosphere that tethers them to normalcy. As they translate life experiences onto records, they seek to project the real uncertainties and joys faced by a young adult generation. “Our home life doesn’t influence us now as much as our departure from [it did],” Max says, “we had nothing to be scared about until we left.” The Beckers seem to look toward the near future with a mixture of excitement and circumspection. Cole foresees the next year as a time when “everything will change.” The prospect of deferring his education increases with the band’s continued success. In addition to work in the studio, Max feels the pressure more than ever when it comes to managerial tasks and logistics he describes as “all of the ‘uninteresting things’ that you have to deal with in a band.” Changes aside, the next steps are filled with an air of optimism as they turn a page with a band that has created a unique niche in a sea of big names. But for now, on a pleasant Saturday afternoon in Berkeley, more pressing matters must be attended to. Cole asks if he can borrow my longboard so he can feed the meter outside. As I hand it to him, Max seems worried that he’ll hit a rock, break his wrist, and simultaneously bring their dreams and aspirations to a screeching halt. Cole mutters something about “being careful,” but only after excitedly voicing news that might make any normal college guy’s face light up. “It’s 28-26, Cal just scored!” Johnny Lawson
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MAX WEARS TUBE TOP, PANTS STYLIST’S OWN.
COLE WEARS DRESS, TURTLENECK MARS.
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COLE WEARS DRESS MARS.
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Viewing 2 12:23am. I’m fairly confident in saying that most of the music in this movie is lifted directly from those PSAs that are played before every DVD menu screen ever– the ones that told kids not to pirate movies online because “You wouldn’t steal a car.”
10:35am. A friend started watching with me and immediately asked why this copy of the movie was glitchy. I’d mistakenly thought that the weird jumpiness and random pixelation was part of the style of the movie’s editing. When I re-downloaded it, the “real” The Matrix (1999) looked fake.
Viewing 3 2:10am. After two and a half viewings of the movie, I can already feel myself falling into a weird state of mental unconsciousness mixed with unnatural physical awareness. Wake up, Matthew… The Matrix has you…
11:20am. As I jump atop my desk chair, punching the air and emphatically cheering Neo on in his ultimate fight with Agent Smith, I’d prefer the fight go on forever (forcing me to continue watching this scene indefinitely, a situation wherein, though admittedly bleak in its own way, I wouldn’t be forced to watch the entire movie again). But I have no say in the matter. The fight ends and I’m still in my room, alone, yelling at my MacBook Pro.
Viewing 4 3:08am. It’s theorized that the universe is expanding at a rate beyond human comprehension, into some unknown, endless void. This situation seems analogous to my growing hatred for Keanu Reeves. 3:15am. I just remembered that Keanu was in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989). I can’t quite express why, but this information has made me inconsolably sad. Had to pause the movie to regain composure. Viewing 5 5:40am. On screen, Neo touches the electrical connection on the back of his head. In my dorm room, I catch myself grabbing the back of my own head. 8:47am. Just woke up from an accidental nap to find twenty-three tabs opened to various pages of The Matrix Wiki. I have absolutely no memory of ever doing this.
taking the red pill People love finding glitches. Some type of schadenfreude is derived from discovering that the rules that appear to govern are in fact flawed, circumventable. Finding glitches usually involves repeating some mundane action over and over again until something– somewhere deep in the inner cogs of the apparatus– cracks. With this in mind, I am going to watch the movie that popularized the term “glitch:” The Matrix on repeat for 48 hours. It’s my belief that excessively replaying The Matrix (1999) will allow me, Matthew Sater (1997), to expose glitches in the movie and, more importantly, expose glitches in myself. To keep track of my sanity, I’ll be keeping a log of my experiences. Here I go.
28 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org
8:55am. Oh my god I just realized “Neo” is an anagram of “One,” as in: Neo = (the) One. Just texted multiple people asking if they knew about this incredible discovery. This is the best movie ever written.
Matthew Sater enters the Matrix for twenty-four hours. Viewing 1 8:05pm. iTunes has informed me that my download is complete. I sit at my desk, munching on a delicious bowl of Kashi® GOLEAN Crisp!™ Toasted Berry Crumble in 1% milk. I click “play” for the very first time. 10:20pm. I can’t believe that after 2 hours and 10 minutes it’s the goddamn power of love that saves the day. I don’t know how I’m going to watch this ending even one more time.
Viewing 6 9:40am. The most confusing part of this movie is by far the inexplicable ability of Morpheus’s glasses to stay put on his face. I experiment balancing my own glasses on my nose, to no avail. My roommate asks what I’m doing. I can’t answer him. 9:59am. Neo wakes up in his fleshy embryo pod thing and then he gets sucked down through a pipe that resembles a steampunk waterslide. This pipe is unique to his pod, never connects to any other pipes, and appears to be the only pipe in the entire structure that drains directly into a conveniently unguarded sewer, where he can be quickly picked up by the good guys. This poorly organized and inefficient plumbing system broke my suspension of disbelief more than the fact that said plumbing system exists in a battery tower made of live human beings.
Viewing 7 12:23pm. Neo just fell off a building for the 7th time, but this is the first time that I’m laughing hysterically about it. Still alone in my room. 12:30pm. Still thinking about Neo falling off that building. God that was funny. 12:34pm. At this point any interaction I have with a real person feels like a put-on, as if the script of the movie is the only vocabulary I can use to verbally communicate. Viewing 8 3:25pm. I am abruptly hungry and grab a bowl to eat another delicious bowl of Kashi® GOLEAN Crisp!™ Toasted Berry Crumble. As I lower my spoon to take the first bite, the prophetic boy monk character tells Neo “There is no spoon.” I freeze. I leave the uneaten cereal off to the side of my desk, just in case. Viewing 9 4:51pm. I got a text and looked away from the screen for a few seconds. When I looked back up, the movie had gone backwards in time by 3 minutes. I hadn’t done anything. My entire sense of time is currently based on the linear nature of this movie, and it’s falling apart. 5:10pm. It happened again. Viewing 10 6:13pm. After experiencing acute déjà vu for the sixth time in three hours, I’ve decided that this will be my last viewing of the movie. I’m cutting off this experiment at twenty-four hours on the dot. I’d planned for my final watch-though to be a triumphant victory lap, but instead I will treat it like a vigil. I will not speak until Neo concludes the movie by inexplicably gaining the ability to fly. 8:05pm. Freedom is bittersweet when the cage is of your own design. Matthew Sater
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30 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org OPPOSITE: GREGG WEARS BLOUSE COMME DES GARÇONS GIRL, SUNGLASSES CHRISTIAN DIOR, COLLAR STYLIST’S OWN. GREGG WEARS TROUSERS JUSTIN HSIUNG, TATTOO SLEEVES, COMME DES GARÇONS HOMME PLUS, COLLAR STYLIST’S OWN. MARKO WEARS JACKET WALTER VAN BEIRENDONCK, BELT STYLIST’S OWN.
PHOTOGRAPHER JUSTIN GONG PRODUCTION JUSTIN HSIUNG, MOLLY SIMON, JESSIE MOORE, DOUG SCHOWENGERDT MODELS MARKO GLUHAICH, GREGG HUGHES, ROSS PORTER, DEA HOVHANNISYAN
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GREGG WEARS TROUSERS JUSTIN HSIUNG, TATTOO SLEEVES COMME DES GARCONS HOMME PLUS, BOOTS RAF SIMONS.
ROSS WEARS TOP ISSEY MIYAKE, COAT, BELT STYLIST’S OWN. GREGG WEARS BLOUSE COMME DES GARÇONS GIRL, TROUSERS JUSTIN HSIUNG, COAT ANN DEMEULEMEESTER, COLLAR STYLIST’S OWN.
DEA WEARS DRESS DRIES VAN NOTEN, CHAIN NECKLACE JUSTIN HSIUNG.
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OPPOSITE: ROSS WEARS TOP STYLIST’S OWN, BELT JUSTIN HSIUNG, NECKLACE STYLIST’S OWN. VGREGG WEARS EARRINGS, COLLAR STYLIST’S OWN.
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thoughts on structure What is structure? This stupid question keeps traveling around in my head. I can feel it in my head but it doesn’t seem to travel out of it. I guess I might have an idea of what structure is, but I am never in the right state of mind to be answering these type of question before 9am. But… really the only thing that comes to mind is how much I miss my suburban home. Being surrounded by city buildings makes me feel lonely and claustrophobic. These buildings all look above me, not at me. I sense– I know– there is some lack of communication we have. These blue, black, earthquake-ready buildings do not notice me. The building that is under construction always stares right at me. It’s in love with me I know it. I think. We both understand each other’s displacement. That building is the reason I miss home. So naked and beautiful this way. Its supports are visible. There’s a process to its making, like a baby learning to stand. It’s a Jenga tower three minutes into the game. It’s missing a couple of pieces here and there but it’s well off enough to stand on its own. I always see my people constantly working on this building. I overhear their interactions as they eat lunch near their white pick up trucks. My father has a white pick up truck. They sound just like family. They sound just like me. I keep looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that today will be the day I find the answer to my unanswered questions about myself. I never realized how out-of-shape I was until I looked in the mirror. I never realized the bruised mouth my stomach has, scolding me to eat healthier. I don’t feel like I know everything about myself just yet. Today isn’t the day. I do know my family plays a huge role in building me. After all, they are the reason I am here at Berkeley. I guess I don’t look that bad without a shirt on, if I hold my breath until I put on a shirt. What’s the question again? There’s a homeless man outside shouting curse words without direction. He was a boxer feinting his blow against the world and I just happened to be his opponent for seven seconds. He never touched me, but he still gave me a blow to knock me out. He was the winner. I am the loser. After that fight, I did not feel as much of an outsider in Berkeley. The buildings seemed more welcoming. I think they feel sorry for my loss. They want to show some kind of support. Whatever the reason may be, they finally noticed me. But they don’t notice the homeless man; and the trees and the cars and the people don’t either. He’s invisible to the world, which is the reason he continues to fight. Maybe one day he hopes the world will face him, so he might have his opportunity to show it what he’s made of. Maybe one day he hopes to win against it. I am losing hair stressing out about what structure is. My life is becoming a Half Japanese song. Why must I know what exactly structure is. Is it not all based on perception? I am losing thought. I am losing thought. I am losing thought. I am thought. I am losing structure. I am losing structure. I am losing structure. I Am losing Stru cture.
38 fall 2015 • baremagazine.org
I am losing
stru
cture .
i lost
stru.
ILLUSTRATION HANNAH REINHARD
love, Tony Morales
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