Embodied Magazine | The New York Issue

EMBODIED VOLUME 4

T h e N e w Yo r k I s s u e

EMBODIED Editor in Chief Jake Nevins Creative Director Devyn Olin Managing Editor Alice Hindanov Layout Zoe Priest Online Editor Kira Hirada-Stone Community Director Natalie Campbell Feature Editors Fashion | Jordan Sitinas, Happenings | Victoria Rochibaud, Health and Beauty | Kendall Hill Fashion Director Michelle Igdalev

Cover Photo: Brandon Osorio

table of contents

4 Editor’s Letter 18 Chelsea Girls 38 Morning Glory 10

Style on the Square

17 The Edit

24

Health Goth

46

28

FREE THE NIPPLE

49 Snow Angels

The Truth Behind Your Brew

Visit Emobdied.co for more 3 | Lead

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Very recently, I found myself sitting alone at Katz’s

Delicatessen at 3:30 in the morning. My face was buried in not only my brisket-sandwich but also a faux-cashmere snood, which was remarkably unsuccessful in shielding me from the unruly gusts of wintry Houston wind. A table of six sat to my left, each wearing Yankees gear as they cackled and violently gnawed on their food. To my right, an attractive couple feeding one another spoonfuls of matzoh ball soup. And, finally, an adorable geriatric duo in front of me, savoring their food in unblighted silence. Observing New York’s heterogeneity from a periphery, it was one of those quintessential New York moments, an idyllic instant of solitude where it seems as though you’ve transcended the relentless sounds of honking cabs and the discouraging hustle-and-bustle and found, albeit ephemerally, freedom. So, for Volume 4, Embodied set out to compile a journalistic morass of said moments, an homage to the city we love.

One challenge we encountered was reconciling our variant notions of New York, and creating an issue that encompasses them. For me, it’s Katz’s at sunrise. For another, it’s something entirely different: the man playing the keyboard at the Bedford subway stop, the cab driver to whom you poured your heart out.

Combining, metabolizing and channeling each of these into a single issue is no easy task, but with the help of a stellar editorial team and the wonderful writers, photographers, stylists and models that reside right here at NYU, Embodied has taken a crack. In Fashion Features we’ve explored style through myriad lenses - historical, cinematic, contemporary and practical. Jordan Sitinas’ “Trench Warfare” tackles each one in dissecting the storied trench-coat, unique in its functionality and constant reinvention.

In “Chelsea Girls”, Gallatin’s own Claudia Buccino revisits an age of impossibly cool society women who made the Hotel Chelsea the stomping ground for their wonderfully heretical rebellion. Janis, Edie, and Patti ruled Manhattan with glamour and a certain joie de vivre - perhaps Claudia’s ruminations on a bygone era will inspire you. Fast-forward to 2015, where third-wave feminism brings with it a brigade of resilient women unafraid to hone their sexuality and challenge the institutionalized patriarchy. One of them is Carson Stern, profiled in #FREETHENIPPLE. She is decidedly millennial in her conquest of Instagram and Tumblr, where her photos broadcast her message of sexual exploration and self-love.

In “Morning Glory”, Creative Director Devyn Olin shows you how to throw a look together during those lethargic morning hours. Many say that New Yorkers are night owls, but it doesn’t have to look that way.

And, finally, The View offers all sorts of literary charms, from Courtney Kezlarian’s moving work of short fiction, “Snow Angels,” to a convincing case against Starbucks’ hawkish brand of corporate guile.

After substantial editorial turnover, Embodied has grown up. Rather than pigeonhole ourselves as a fashion publication, we aim here to display our literary bandwidth, with journalism that is interdisciplinary, intriguing and expository. Aiming to touch on all things New York, you can read about fashions old and new, social provocateurs, political polemic and creative non-fiction - all parts of the complex whole that is culture. Despite the breadth of this issue, though, one common thread weaves it together: New York.

The city’s been called the nexus of power, money, society and fame, but perhaps it’s more apt to think of Manhattan as a city of freedom, where the coffee options are endless and the nipple can be freed. Sure, we find ourselves strapped for cash, meandering from class to work and to class again, but here, in this monstrous metropolis, we can be ourselves, uncensored and imperfect.

Jake Nevins

4 | Lead

FASHION From Embodied’s Fashion Director: The Trends for SS15

I

t’s a question on everyone’s mind as we enter a new season: what are the trends for Spring 2015?

In an era that calls for refinement and practicality, dressing for the weather-confused seasons can be challenging. Fear no more, because we have the scoop! From the quintessential pieces needed to survive in NYC to the most chic affordable trench coats that stave off the unruly precipitation, it’s all jam-packed into fashion features.

The major trends seen on Spring runways were focused on graphics, gingham patterns, and the color yellow. They’ve each seen respective reincarnations, interpreted in myriad ways by different designers, each offering a spin that’s suitable to the on-the-go city-dwelling student.

In the graphics department, Carolina Herrera, Tommy Hilfiger, Opening Ceremony and Alice & Olivia all chose to go bold, incorporating animals, effervescent flowers and, in a move that’s generationally apropos, emoticons. Gingham patterns, too, were seen on the runways of Diane von Furstenberg, Michael Kors, and even Oscar de la Renta. DVF mastered the gingham look by creating matching separates, another surprising but welcome addition to the spring/ summer wardrobe. Moschino toyed with this cool concept, too, as designer Jeremy Scott sent matching sets down the runway. Marios Schwab also had a matching trench coat set in his RTW collection!

Finally the color yellow: it seems to have taken over the runways this season, although its yet to proliferate the streets. Burberry, Phillip Lim, and Missoni—to name a few—had head-to-toe yellow ensembles walk the runways. While it’s easy to roll out of bed and throw on the usual all-black outfit, we at Embodied are excited about the resurgence of brights.

We hope to see our readers take to the streets in their own Spring-inspired looks.

Best, Michelle Igdalev

Carolina Herrera S/S 15

Diane von Furstenberg S/S 15

Marios Schwab S/S 15

Missoni RTW S/S 15

5 | Fashion

The New Fashion Landscape Y

ves Saint Laurent once said that “fashion fades, but style is eternal.” But what happens when styles, too, begin to fade? According to Suzy Menkes, the esteemed fashion journalist who’s written for the industry’s greatest publications, trends are becoming not the product of a season but a transitory fad.

In Menkes’ article for the New York Times, “The Circus of Fashion,” she questions the path the fashion industry seems to be following. Gone are the times of underground runway shows and exclusivity. Now, fashion shows have become sartorial circuses, as accessible and mainstream as ever. Menkes states, “you can hardly get up the steps at Lincoln Center, in New York, or walk along the Tuileries Garden path in Paris because of all the photographers snapping at the poseurs.”

These “poseurs” are mostly made up of celebrities, bloggers, editors, and stylists alike. Some of the most well known faces are Anna Dello Russo, Chiari Ferragni of The Blonde Salad, Miroslava Duma, editor of Harper’s Bazaar Russia, Leandra Medine of Man Repeller and Bryan Yambao of Bryan Boy. But these “poseurs” aren’t there just to look pretty, although they often do.

They serve a bigger purpose. Brands, even the highest of the “haute,” have realized the potential of the “poseurs”: free brand promotion. Suzy Menkes touches upon this strategy in the fashion world citing Marc Jacobs as an example: “Marc Jacobs was the first designer to sense the power of multimedia. When he named a bag after

Bryanboy in 2008, he made the blogger’s name, and turned on an apparently unending shower of designer gifts, which are warmly welcomed at bryanboy.com.”

Rihanna is another beneficiary of this system. The singer was seen sporting Alexander Wang x H&M during Fashion Week this fall, several weeks before its commercial launch. However, this new strategy of publicizing runway looks before the shows even occurred has caused an unrelenting cycle in the fashion industry, one that mitigates the seasonal nature of dressing.

Brands have been forced to churn out clothes faster and faster to meet the market’s demand for instant gratification. By allowing the bloggers and celebrities to wear the new runway clothes right away, brands have perpetuated an impatient mindset in not only the fashion elite but also the urban consumer. Thus, the rate of distribution has been changed, as has each company’s inventory.

Many companies today have adapted with innovative new business models that allow them a greater turnover rate, which coincides with more profit. Zara, fashion’s undisputed King of the Street, epitomizes this paradigm.

According to an article on Forbes by Walter Loeb, Zara changes its inventory every two weeks. Yes, every two weeks. If the brand notices a specific color of a sweater is selling faster than another, they’ll mass-produce it so as to maximize profit – it’ll hit stores just a few weeks later.

Other brands, such as H&M and Topshop, have also adopted this strategy, albeit less effectively than Zara. Even 6 | Fashion

high-end stores like Burberry have been reporting higher turnover rates than ever before.

All of this change, which began with the consumer’s need to wear the runway clothes soon after they’re presented, has wrecked one of the seminal structures of fashion, being that clothes are presented twice a year and worn in the season for which they were presented.

The emphasis on constant innovation can cause a brand to become too focused on profit-maximization and less focused on the purpose, function and aesthetic of the clothes. It’s imperative that brands remember the importance of creating seasonal clothing that aligns with their image, rather than catering collections entirely to the demands of ravenous buyers.

Yet the question still remains: how does technology play into all of this? In short, technology makes everything accessible and convenient. Online shopping allows us to hold the largest mall in the world in the palm of our hands. According to Forrester Research, online shopping continues to increase and data shows that $248.7 billion is expected in online sales this year alone. More and more people rely on online shopping. In fact, there is more traffic on Cyber Monday than on Black Friday. It makes sense though, doesn’t it? Why go out and stand in line at 5am when you could stay in your warm bed and online shop from your computer, smart phone, or tablet.

Convenience is the name of the game.

Online shopping fits the needs and lifestyles of most

people, notably both the working woman and the stay-at-home mom. It’s easy and the only downside is the wait for your package. As companies make it easier to shop online everyday, with applications and customer-friendly websites, brick and mortar stores, and waiting for fashion in general, is rendered a thing of the past.

Will physical stores soon become obsolete? While I think that some will remain, the world will soon be perceived through a screen. It wouldn’t be surprising if, in a decade or so, the vast majority of shopping is done online. If one thing is clear, it’s that the fashion world is remarkably ephemeral, and technology and aseasonal trends are the catalyst.

Menkes thinks that “even those with so-called street style have lost their individuality” and that “something has been lost in a world where the survival of the gaudiest is a new kind of dress parade.” However, I find that this evolution of fashion is for the better.

Fashion has become a thing for the public, without the exclusivity and elitism of the past. A new generation has infiltrated, where fashion is an experience for the masses. It is surely an upheaval of tradition, but it’s also bold and intriguing. It’s the beginning of a new era and as bloggers, the embodiment of the everyday fashion-lover gone vogue, take over, I am excited to see where this new path leads.

Diana Fujii 7 | Fashion

STILLETOS ON THE SILVER SCREEN

Movies and fashion have a relationship as symbiotic as peanut butter and jelly. What seems to be most fruitful about the two art forms is the shared element of escapism - from quotidian monotony, from sweatpants and flip-flops, from the oft-underwhelming script known as life. New York has been the backdrop for the silver screen’s most memorable sartorial moments, providing cinema devotees with an array of inspiration, transcending eras, styles and trends entirely. Take Holly Golightly’s classic LBD and pearls in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or Diane Keaton’s urban bohemian garb in Annie Hall. The synthesis of New York City, cinema and fashion cannot be understated; from two simple, decidedly chic portrayals, like Holly and Annie, came two different yet equally important aesthetics that live on in the Manhattan of today.

I’ve always been an avid watcher of film, but before I’d educated myself,

as any true cinephile should, about technical aspects, like cuts and transitions, dialogue and casting, clothing seemed to be the one tangible thing I could latch onto. One needn’t know the ins-and-outs of movies to appreciate the way everyday fashions are amplified, or even invented, in film.

Clothing and characterization go hand-in-hand, neither fully embodied without the help of the other, and when done well, they have the capacity to transport you to a different world. There is something magical about Barbra Streisand as Dolly Levi, prancing around New York City as the late-60s epitome of glamor, in ornate gowns and feathered headwear. And lesser known but equally imminent is the eternally chic Edie Sedgwick in Ciao! Manhattan, which shows the Factory Girl’s seminal “heroin chic” style. Lastly, is there an urban sophisticate as widely idolized cross-generationally as Carrie Bradshaw?

Although Sex and the City began as a TV show, some of Carrie’s bravest fashion turns came in the two movies - those purple Manolos have permanent residence in the mind of fashion and city-lovers alike.

In the mental mood board that inundates us each morning as we pick out an outfit, endless screengrabs of silver screen Manhattanites inevitably appear. It serves as an apropos reminder of what fashion is meant to be: an elevation of sorts from the mundane to the cinematic, the drab to the dramatic. And what is fashion if we don’t treat it as the canvas of self-expression that it is and was in the aforementioned films?

Noted street-style photographer Bill Cunningham once said “fashion is the armor to survive everyday life.”

Whether you’re a Holly or an Annie or an Edie or a Carrie, wear your armor like it can’t be penetrated.

Brody Rommel III 8 | Fashion

TRENCH WARFARE T

here is a saying that contends, “All genius is simple.” It’s particularly applicable to the trench coat, wondrous in its simplicity and cleanliness. Invented during 1850’s, the trench coat became a staple of the British Army during WWI. Because of its functional background, everything on the coat is designed for a reason, from its waterproof fabric to its gun flaps to its D-rings.

Cinema brought the trench coat out of the battlefield and into the limelight. In 1928, Greta Garbo was seen wearing one on the set of A Woman of Affairs. Since that portentous spotting, the coat has been a silver screen staple, associated with a number of actors. Ava Gardner, Joan Fontaine, Veronika Lake, and Lauren Bacall all sported trench coats in starring roles. Then, it was Humphrey Bogart’s characters in The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca that gave rise to the idea of the trench coat as an emblem of all things mysterious – the image of the private detective standing in the rain in his khaki-colored coat is one imprinted in the cinematic pantheon.

Marios Schwab Spring 2015

In the 60s, the trench coat took on yet another role. Radical intellectuals adopted it as a part of their uniform. They were not the only ones to make the trench a mainstay in day to day life; Audrey Hepburn popularized it yet again when she played Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Before Yves Saint Laurent came along, the trench had always been a masculine piece, with broad shoulders and boxy proportions. In 1965, when the storied designer was at a professional peak, he hijacked menswear and feminized the trench, also introducing the smoking jacket.

Post-60’s, the trench experienced many more reinventions, this time with modern materials and inventive silhouettes.

Nowadays, the coat is seen as the untouchable property of one Christopher Bailey, who began as creative director at Burberry in the early 21st century. He stayed true to the classicism of the trench while adapting it for a woman’s everyday wardrobe. It’s become an urban staple, seen in Burberry ads with Kate Moss, Jourdan Dunn and Naomi Campbell, a triumvirate of models who serve as arbiters of contemporary style. What better item exists than the trench to combat the wet New York weather? In nine decades, it’s yet to go out of style.

Jordan Sitinas 9 | Fashion

Olive Lürrie

STYLE ON THE SQUARE

Heather Negron & Simone Romear

10 |

Tyrelle Elmore & Patrick Thompson

Ben Elias

Kendall York

Kristen Chen Toms

Joshua Bone

Leaf Zhang & Lily Zhi

11 | Fashion

RAP GOD, GREEK MYTHOLOGY In the past decade, rap music has been a revolving door of MC’s asserting their lyrical and sonic prowess, each vowing for the rap throne. In Kanye’s 2010 hit “See Me Now”, he likened his hegemony over hip-hop to that of the Greek Gods, but by no means has he been uncontested. Then came Drake, running through the 6, largely inspired by Kanye’s digital innovation but imbuing it with more emotional, unguarded overtones.

In 2012, Kendrick Lamar released his debut, good kid, m.A.A.d city, to the thrill of the music industry, which bestowed upon him countless Grammy nominations and critical praise. Kanye protégé Big Sean isn’t doing so bad either; after 2013’s Hall of Fame, he signed with Roc Nation and continues to make waves with his music and dating life.

In 2015, each of these rappers, deities in their own right, have new releases. Here, Embodied breaks down the bustling rap scene.

Mitchell Tyler

SO HELP ME GOD Speculation has been rampant about Kanye’s highly anticipated release, rumored to be titled So Help Me God. If 2010’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy was Ye’s magnum opus, a lyrically and instrumentally pristine album with an abundance of unforgettable features (see Nicki in “Monster” and Bon Iver in “Lost in the World”), then 2012’s Yeezus, a stout follow-up, threw us for a loop.

A massive, politically charged, intertextual fusion of punk, rock and new-wave hip-hop, Yeezus showed an abrasive Kanye stirring the pot and holding nothing back. You could say things have settled down – with Kim K and a kid, glimpses of the rapper’s new sound (“Only One”, “FourFiveSeconds”, “All Day”, “Wolves”) indicate an introspective-yet-still-subversive ‘Ye, collaborating heavily with Paul McCartney on the keyboard. While mum’s been the word on this project, it’s shaping up to be another artistic achievement in the pantheon of West masterpieces.

IF YOU’RE READING THIS IT’S TOO LATE Drake pulled a Beyoncé and dropped this album late one February evening. Initially called a mix tape, it was later revealed that this was the rapper’s follow up to 2013’s stellar Nothing Was The Same, and perhaps a rush-release to get out of his embattled Cash Money contract. “Nothing”, laden with romantic nostalgia and unshakeable confidence, showed a self-aware Drake at a creative zenith. His first two singles, “Started From the Bottom” and “Hold On, We’re Going Home”, were exemplary of the dichotomies Drake achieved on the record: bravado and vulnerability, party-anthem and slow-crooning. “If You’re Reading This” is not an album for radio, but its chill beats (“Legend”, “You and the 6”) supremely display Drake’s penchant for introspective lyricism and hometown pride. It’s a record you want to play on a long, rainy road trip, and its somnolent hooks epitomize Drizzy’s sexy, uncloaked conviction.

12 | Happenings

DARK SKY PARADISE After Lamar’s earth-shattering verse on Big Sean’s “Control” saw the rapper declare himself “King of New York,” Sean was left to sift through the debris caused by his stolen thunder. Since then, he has admirably forged his own path, pushing back against critics who saw him as mere top-40 fodder. Dark Sky Paradise, executive-produced by Kanye West, is Big Sean’s third album, a more abstruse and creative release than his previous works. The lead single, “I Don’t Fuck With You,” is pure radio mincemeat, but “Paradise”, “Deserve It” and “All Your Fault” are some of the best songs of Sean’s career, with coquettish lyrics and truculent beats. Big Sean is surely growing up, as evidenced by the most complete and mature full-length of his young career.

TO PIMP A BUTTERFLY Kendrick’s latest, the mid-March release To Pimp A Butterfly, begins with the chillingly upbeat “Wesley’s Theory”.

Shortly thereafter it’s clear that the album is special, a worthy successor to the classic good kid, m.A.A.d city. The opening, which includes a sample from Boris Gardener, sees Kendrick at the peak of his powers, an introverted MC opining about capitalism and race in America, displaying his metaphorical acuity and inimitable aggression. In “Institutionalized”, Kendrick’s rapping has a sort of helium-infused softness as he comments on classism and violence. The album, in its jazziness (at times harkening back to 90’s Outkast, but refined), its audacious Kendrick-ness, and willingness to comment on real issues without appearing as punditry, succeeds with flying colors, stationing the Compton-born rapper in untouchable territory. It’s been rightly called “mandatory listening.”

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Student Artist Spotlight

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Jacqueline Ledesma Concentration: Dance Management, and Classic Literature NYU Gallatin is unique in that its students embrace an array of academic and aesthetic disciplines without ever being married to one. This often means that a thespian is also a finance guru, or a jazz guitarist a history buff. This kind of seamless enmeshing of interdisciplinary perspectives is integral to the Gallatin spirit.

Through workshops in the arts, clubs, yearly art festivals and gallery openings, Gallatin student artists are in many ways the lifeblood of the school. In the case of Jacqueline Ledesma, Aristotle, choreography and entrepreneurship collide in a way that is quintessentially “gallitonian.” She sat down with Victoria Rochibaud to discuss dance and her other passions.

How long have you been dancing?

I started doing ballroom at age 3 and did that until I was 6. Then I started doing everything else once I was 13: jazz, ballet, modern, musical theatre, and tap. I first started choreographing when I was 15.

How did dance motivate you to come to Gallatin?

I actually was in Stern my freshman year because my original plan was to graduate with a business degree and open up my own dance studio. But the problem was I didn’t really have time to dance or choreograph. What drew me to Gallatin was the interdisciplinary component and flexible curriculum. I can still take classes in entrepreneurship and management, but I get to also take performance and classics courses as well. The fact that all of my experiences and passions will ultimately come together in my colloquium makes every day exciting and meaningful for me.

How would you define your creative process as an artist?

My main source of inspiration comes from Greek tragedies and their connection to the human condition. I also find inspiration in other works of art such as painting, drawing, sculptures, and films. Something really draws me in when I can connect these to specific moments in my life that stir strong emotions. Often I’m compelled to share these emotions and experiences through movement. For me, it’s about creating a relationship that extends from the text to the movement, lighting, music, and costumes.

What motivates you to create a dance piece?

I’ve always been interested in the big questions that tie all of humanity together: Where do we come from? Who are we? Where are we going? I attempt to address these questions in my dance pieces inspired by Greek tragedies. Doing this allows me to work with the great ideas of the past and to reflect on my own life, but from a distance.

In what ways has going to school in New York City affected your role as an artist and student?

Living in the city is so exciting because I’m exposed to so many diverse ideas that continuously challenge me with different perspectives. Through these interactions I’ve been able to create my own voice as an artist. The pressure for time that I feel in the city also affects me. Living amongst people who are working professionally in the performing arts world motivates me to constantly present new works and ideas. Art in the city always needs to be told now.

Interview by Victoria Rochibaud

15 | Happenings

what’s goin’ on 10

Make sure to treat mom like royalty this Mother’s Day. Whether it’s brunch at Hundred Acres or breakfast in bed, she’ll spare you the monthly phone call about your spending.

The Frieze Art Fair hits Randall’s Island Park. Exhibitors include Gagosian, Pace, David Zwirner and Gavin Brown. Follow the fair on Twitter at @FriezeNewYork.

14-17

16 all month

The 9th annual NYC Dance Parade promotes diversity and expression by showcasing dance forms from all over the world. And let’s be honest, who can turn down a good boogie?

Glee’s Darren Criss hits The Great White Way in the Tony Award winning Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The handsome crooner’s star turn goes until July 19th.

The Who celebrate 50 years atop the rock world with a stop at Brooklyn’s Barclay’s Center on their North American tour. And be on time to see opener Joan Jett.

26 29

MAY 2015

The Observation Deck at One World Trade opens to the public on Friday. Level 102 will feature panoramic views from North America’s tallest building.

16 | Happenings

THE EDIT

The E-board selects the best of spring’s offerings Illustrations by Tyler McGillivary

Opulent loungewear | Patterns on textures | Broad City | Inventive cocktails | Oversized denim | Stickers | Big brows | “Spinster” by Kate Bolick | Culottes

17 | Happenings

CHELSEA GIRLS

“I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel,” Leonard Cohen croons famously, to Janis Joplin, in “Chelsea Hotel #2.” Though Joplin insisted in an interview that he did not ‘ball’ her, Cohen describes her, “giving me head on the unmade bed, while the limousines wait in the street.” West 23rd, that is, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, now one of the chicest neighborhoods in the city; in the late ’60s, when Cohen and Joplin were both living in the hotel and the alleged love affair took place, it was one of the seediest. “Those were the reasons, and that was New York,” he explains wistfully, then concludes matter-of-factly, “I don’t even think of you that often.”

The Hotel Chelsea’s long-term residencies, reasonable rates, and legendary art collection made it a popular hangout for the who’s who of New York cool. Everyone from Warhol Factory Girls and several members of the 27 Club to Beat poets and punks like Patti Smith called the Hotel Chelsea home at one point in time. Creativity was at the fulcrum of the Chelsea’s identity, and its existence as a haven for the most outlandish and exuberant of personalities allowed it to transcend what we think of as a hotel. It was not merely residential; it was iconic, with Madonna in room 882 and Joplin in 441, among countless others. Their lives – and deaths, often untimely and sometimes at the Chelsea – added to the spooky allure of the hotel over time. Now, although closed to guests, the hotel exudes the gritty-glitzy glamour of 1960s-1990s New York, of which 222 West 23rd Street was zenith.

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Stories about the hotel’s hallowed halls are told with reverence and slander in equal measure. Its legendary residents are remembered as much for what they were wearing, the words they were spewing, and the great works of art and music they inspired. In this way, the Hotel Chelsea has become synonymous with style in the same way Bryant Park or Lincoln Center has. But just as we might associate the latter two with a decidedly contemporary aesthetic, with fashion week’s sprawling plaza and refined grounds, the Hotel Chelsea has come to represent something more authentic and hard-shelled.

When she fell out of Andy Warhol’s good graces, Edie Sedgwick packed her drugs, leotards, kohl eyeliner, and chandelier earrings and fled to the Chelsea, where she met and romanced a married Bob Dylan. Sid Vicious allegedly stabbed his 20-year-old girlfriend,

“Nauseating Nancy” Spungen in the bathroom of the first-floor room they were living in after the Sex Pistols disbanded. This couple’s history of drug and domestic abuse – as well as their mesh clothing, leather pants, spikes, studs, and unruly hair – make Courtney and Kurt look like copy-and-pasted wannabes, poser punks. October 12th, 1978, the day of Nancy’s death, has been called “The Day Punk Died,” as photos of her body being carried out of the hotel’s lobby still harken back to the recalcitrant and often dangerous spirit of the era. Yet, with its mystifying corridors and boundless folklore, the Hotel Chelsea has kept punk alive well beyond the lifespan of its early pioneers, casting an indelible mark of the history of New York.

Claudia Buccino

19 | Happenings

MORE

IS

MORE?

by Kelly Han

Y

ou’re casually strolling through Soho after grabbing your coffee, a pick-me-up for your jam-packed day preparing the looming colloquium. Suddenly, the twinkling lights and wide “Sale” signs whisk your attention away. Without a pause, you find yourself erratically elbowing a middle-aged mom as you dive past a heap of oversized, lace-knit sweaters.

has been put to good use. The theory of Cost-per-Wear (CPW) basically affords us an objective way to look at shopping. Think about the number of times you’ll wear a new garment in a month and multiply that by 12 for every month of the year. Then multiply that by the number of years you think it will stay valuable in your closet.

Then divide the cost of the piece by this result.

For all of you fashion aficionados, this reenactment of retail therapy gone haywire is a normal occurrence. For some reason, stumbling upon any deal registers instantaneously as a priority that must immediately be tended to. Case in point, it’s safe to say that LF sales epitomize our insatiable lust for that adrenaline rush, that feeling that we just robbed the store of items that generally cost way more.

So, for instance, you bought $200 black denim jeans at Madewell. It may seem costly at first, but perhaps you’ll wear them 5 times a month (you’ll probably wear them way more than that, but we’re being generous to the cynics). 5 (wears per month) x 12 (months) x 2 (years it’ll stay in your closet) = 120 wears. So $200/120 = $1.67 per wear. Now, in the case of your Forever 21 jeans, let’s say they cost 40 bucks. You’ll also wear those five times a month and they’ll remain undamaged in your closet for half a year, at max. The math on that comes out to $1.33 per wear. Now, are you willing to pay an extra 30 cents per wear for the far better pair?

But what happens to that daisy-emblazoned bandeau that Miley Cyrus probably wore at Coachella three years ago?

Let’s be honest – it will most likely be abandoned, collecting dust in the corner of your cramped closet. Or you will wear it several times before it begins to fall apart, tearing at the seams or exposing its inability to weather the ins-andouts of your hectic lifestyle.

Buying $20 Cable-knit sweaters at Forever 21 or $30 blazers at H&M seems reasonable. At least it does to pretty much every NYU student, broke and trying to retain our last shreds of style on a string-tight budget. It all adds up the subway rides to Brooklyn, brunches at Grey Dog, and the stressful excursions to Trader Joes. Thus, it only makes sense to purchase clothes that match our college lifestyle.

But when you have a Hulk moment and the blazer you once wore starts ripping at the seams right after you purchased it, haven’t you technically just wasted money? The cheap clothes you bought from that fast-fashion retailer end up getting thrown out months later. So, rather than buy those $20 jeans from Forever 21 that will instantly rip after squatting down, you should splurge on some quality pieces and dip your toe in the designer jeans pool.

Having a long-lasting and money-saving wardrobe requires the skill of choosing a product’s quality over its name. It’ll require that you have far less clothing, but pieces of greater quality. Keep in mind that pricier brands invest far more in production than the fast-fashion retailers. For instance, a pair of Rag & Bone skinnies will not only outlive your H&M jeans, but they’ll also mold to your body better.

Warning: Try your best to maintain sanity and calm after bravely handing over your credit card once you catch eye of the triple digit price. Just remember that feeling of buttery denim compared to the high waisted, sand paper-esque denim of Urban Outfitters. But for those who remain unconvinced and need a foolproof algorithm, here’s the lowdown.

All of my hours spent with eyes glued to the computer screen streaming Netflix, specifically What Not to Wear,

Something I always say to myself when I go shopping is “I can get these $140 Dolce Vita Chelsea boots that’ll last me 3 years or I can get $50 ones at Urban Outfitters that will last me less than a year.” Granted, I will feel that painful, instantaneous sting when getting my bank statement, but ultimately, I am investing in quality pieces that will battle the rain and snow along with me, as opposed to leaving me to fend for myself.

There is no denying that fast-fashion takes premium in the eye of the average consumer. But we’re here to advocate on behalf of the higher-quality and higher-priced contemporary brands. In some cases, the designers such as Alexander Wang team up with fast-fashion brands such as H&M – in this case, you get the best of both worlds, with cheaper prices than Wang’s ready-to-wear line and far more accessibility.

This is all about putting together a wardrobe of basic, high-quality pieces, around which you can throw a pop of print or an eye-catching accessory. Sure, it’s nice to have trendy pieces such as a Kenzo-inspired shirt with their eye pattern or a pastel MinkPink fur jacket, but slowly cultivating a dare-I-say-it “adult” wardrobe can save money in the end and provide longer-lasting pieces for years to come.

So, for those of us that usually fall victim to the many stores thirsting for our wallets with cheap prices and sale signs, remember that quality and cost-per-wear is essential in successful shopping. There’s a reason why classics are classics. In a nutshell, quality and durability should remain supreme. Think simple, understated white tees, black jeans, a well-cut blazer, and that little black dress.

After all, you’ve got to be able to trek down Broadway on a Saturday afternoon without worrying about your pants button.

Kelly Han

21 | Happenings

All that glitters is gold

A rack up of the best and brightest products, each with a “Heart of Gold.”

Clockwise from center: Drybar Gold Mine Shimmering Leave-in Conditioner, $29; Givenchy Le Rouge Limited Edition Gold, $36; Formula X The Brushed Metallics Nail Polish in Ambitious, $12.50; Marc Jacobs Highliner Gel Eye Crayon in Meri(Gold) 70, $25; Peter Thomas Roth 24K Gold Mask, $80; Stila Magnificent Metals Foil Finish Eye Shadow, $32; Guerlain L’or Radiance Concentrate with Pure Gold Make-up Base, $73; Alexis Bitter Liquid Gold Compact Mirror, $42.

Urban Decay Electric Pressed Pigment Palette, $49 Asos Textured Hologram Make-up Bag, $18.95

Holographic Hotties

American Apparel Metallic Nail Polish in Violet Panache, $7

BareMinerals Marvellous Moxie Lipgloss in Hypnotist, $18

Trip out over these vibrant, futuristic beauty products, perfect for summer concert season

Floss Gloss Polish in Wet, $8

Make Up Forever Diamond Powder in White Mauve 3, $25

Lime Crime Unicorn Lipstick in New Yolk City, $16

23 | Health & Beauty

HEALTH GOTH

Photo by Chris Cantino

Health Goth. I’m sure you’ve heard buzzes about the term by this point, or have even had a friend strut into your dorm room sporting their new Roshe Run’s in quintessential health goth form. For those of you not so familiar with the trend, health goth is the newest lifestyle craze among hip 20-somethings, aligning itself with New York’s all-black uniform, but imbuing it with an edgy, rebellious layer. It’s the perfect excuse to wear workout clothes to class and comfortable sneakers to your fashion internship. Just make sure there’s a cigarette on hand to ensure the trend’s defining paradox.

Health goth is normalizing functional fashion by mixing the spirit of exercise with that of the subversive urbanite. Big fashion houses like Alexander Wang and Rick Owens, the kings of black and white, are pioneering the trend, cranking out collections that epitomize the fashionable-yet-sporty rebel. You need look no further than Wang’s affordable collection for H&M, which sold in just a few days.

While apparel is a huge part of the trend, health goth is more than a fashion statement. Health goth fits into an obscure, niche market for the person who isn’t into the feigned joy that supposedly comes with a 5-mile run. The goth trend is marked with lots of black, heavy makeup and tons of HotTopic. Yet, it’s less for those who are paleo than for the girl who just craves a functional and cranky edge. This style is antithetical to the raw/vegan girl in your food studies class gabbing about her health kick, aiming to mix the ease of

exercise gear with the coked-out brazenness of mid90’s Kate Moss.

According to some authentic health goths, the movement is quickly becoming too mainstream, which detracts from the sincerity of the lifestyle and turns it into a misrepresented novelty. Without being other, health goth loses its principal sense of rebellion. In a VICE interview with the founders of the “Health Goth” Facebook page, the style’s spear-headers emphasized that the movement didn’t originate as a goth-turnedcardio-bunny-turned-rebel, but instead placed importance on living healthily, whether that meant eating right, meditating, or living minimally. The pseudo-gym approach was tacked onto the movement later. While the movement has departed from its original essence, a point of frustration for its founders, its popularity is not a pejorative. The core values of health goth remain intact while it reaches battalions of trendy followers.

So, is health goth as fleeting as normcore or lumbersexual, or will it have long-standing effects on the lifestyles of urban millennials? I hope that health goth doesn’t become as obnoxious as the juice cleanse and instead inspires a cool confluence of artsy-edge and exercise, without loosing its aesthetic. Just be sure to stock your iPod with dystopian rap, match your black socks to your black sports bra, and keep your Taylor Swift soundtrack low enough so your neighbors can’t hear it over the beating of the treadmill.

Kendall Hill 24 | Health & Beauty

LADIES WHO LIFT

Men, quit hogging the dumbells and bars at Coles, please!

There are new heavyweight champions in town, and their calves look ten times better in heels. Girls Who Lift, one of NYU’s newest fitness clubs, serves as an oasis for girls who are interested in learning about lifting weights, also providing an outlet for the more experienced lady-lifters to guide the newcomers. NYU students Tessia De Mattos, Catherine Rodriguez, Sunny Lee, and Chelsea Flannagan founded Girls Who Lift in the spring of 2014 to inspire girls to learn about the benefits of lifting through biweekly meetings and a community of support. Founder De Mattos writes, “Ever since I started lifting, I became obsessed and I was like, ‘why don’t more girls do this, this is amazing!’ And because so many girls are scared of getting “bulky” or hurting themselves or generally have no idea where to start, I came up with the idea of creating a lifting club for girls to encourage more girls to get into the weight room!”

The meetings, marked by a spirit of inclusivity, dish out nutrition advice and precautionary lifting measures. In a recent meeting, the group conducted a Skype interview with Andrea Valdez, a powerlifter, Youtube star, and inspirational fitness guru, to get advice about lifting with a female body. In a decidedly phallocentric sphere, it’s imperative for girls to support one another in order to overcome stereotypes and preconceived notions. While the girls aren’t officially certified to teach (yet!), the group acts as a community to support one another in their fitness endeavors, sharing their best tips and tricks. De Mattos hopes to get her certification to teach in the coming months, as well as inspire more members to compete along side her by next year.

If you want to get your lift on, contact the group at gwi.club@nyu.edu or through their Facebook page, facebook.com/groups/girlswholiftnyu.

Cassidy Burke

25 | Health & Beauty

TWO-FACED

Beauty editor Kendall Hill styles and photographs the most eccentric beauty trends of 2015.

26 | Health & Beauty

27 | Health & Beauty

Morning Glory

The common conception is that New Yorkers aren’t morning people. But big city dwellers find a way to look effortless, even in last night’s clothing.

Styled by Devyn Olin & Carly Valentine Modeled by Zoé St-Onge Film Photography by Mica Daniels Digital Photography by Chloé Crane-Leroux

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The Truth About Your Morning Brew Starbucks has monopolized the coffee industry, but behind your venti latte is a history of exploitation.

With more than 21,000 stores in over 65 countries, how does Starbucks sustain a multibillion dollar corporation selling non-essential beverages? By appealing to you. No one revels in the “Customer is King” mantra better than Starbucks Coffee Co. With convenience, consistency and 87,000 drink combinations, the company champions the quintessential customer experience. The Starbuck’s brand responds to shifting demographics and cultural trends with impressive precision. One can’t help but notice the premium placed on customer satisfaction. Through expert marketing and daresay manipulation, Starbucks has garnered a customer base second to none, amassing unprecedented power and legions of loyalists who’ve aided Starbucks’ slow and steady monopolization.

Trade, Rainforest Alliance, Smithsonian Bird Friendly, and Utz, incentivize sustainable agriculture systems and aid farming families through price management, direct trade, and community development opportunities. Because coffee is a sensitive market, premiums via certifications offer much needed security for farmers. So, it seems promising when you read on Starbucks’ website that “by 2015, all of [their] coffee will be third-party verified or certified, either through Coffee and Farmer Equity (C.A.F.E.) practices, Fairtrade or another externally audited system.” However, C.A.F.E. is Starbucks’ own carefully curated certification program which allows for distortions in their sourcing practices.

Simply put, they’re making their own rules.

Now, behind your cup of coffee lies a complex network of people, organizations, and processes, all of which stem from the coffee tree. A small tree bearing crimson cherries with sought-after caffeinated seeds, this tropical plant is hard to please. Each variety requires very specific ranges of temperature, precipitation, elevation, and wind and soil type, all for effective commercial cultivation. These environmental demands place production in regions between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, or rather, in regions with the highest levels of biodiversity and economic poverty. And thus, the world’s coffee countries and their farmers remain especially vulnerable to environmental and socioeconomic exploitation. More than 70% of exported coffee comes from small-scale farms typically housing and supporting impoverished farmers and their families. The coffee tree takes five to six years to reach its full yield and then lives for 15 to 20 years, making production slow to respond to price. Coffee is a very important export for most coffee countries including but not limited to Ethiopia, Rwanda, Colombia, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Honduras, and Indonesia.

The large majority of Starbucks’ beans are certified by C.A.F.E. with a small percentage certified through actual external programs. Furthermore, the sad truth remains that C.A.F.E. standardizes and thus depreciates these premiums.

This enables the corporation to oversaturate the specialty market for smaller competitors but still reap the branding benefits. In layman’s terms, the consumer doesn’t care or pay as much attention to smaller roasting companies that actually pay the higher prices for these third-party certified beans because they believe they’re getting the same thing at Starbucks when in fact, they’re not. Competition encourages these premiums and drives up the market for farmers. When a small number of transnational corporations such as Starbucks monopolize coffee exports, it causes an unfair share of value in the supply chain, leaving farmers and laborers at the bottom, severely disadvantaged. There’s no need to completely vilify Starbucks, but the bottom line is a corporation with such a daily high demand for coffee beans simply cannot procure an entirely ethically-sourced supply. But the Starbucks brand would lead you to believe otherwise.

Third-party certifications, the largest being Organic, Fair

In 2005, Ethiopia filed to trademark Yirgacheffe, Harrar, 46 | The View

and Sidamo, three of its renowned coffee-producing regions, with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The Ethiopian government wanted to accumulate a larger portion of coffee sales by compelling retailers wishing to advertise beans from these regions into licensing agreements. Their efforts were successful in Europe, Canada, and Japan, but thwarted in the United States. This is because Starbuck’s had previously applied to trademark “Shrikina Sun-Dried Sidamo,” establishing a brand name and creating a significant obstacle for competitors. When Ethiopia requested that the company drop this claim, Starbucks refused and advised against trademarking, suggesting that Ethiopia apply for a geographical certification instead. Several non-governmental organizations advocating labor rights, predominantly Oxfam International, defended Ethiopia. Word spread that an Ethiopian farmer earned an average of $1.45 per pound, although the final product retailed for as much as $26 per bag. After Starbucks was publicly cast in an oppressive light, their Corporate Social Responsibility department responded and reached an agreement with Ethiopia. Eventually, the trademarks were approved and did significantly raise farmer dividends. While justice was served, the question remains: why does Starbucks, a U.S. corporation, have the clout to bully an entire country?

Starbucks is not horrible by any means. The company has invested money to benefit coffee farming communities and charitable causes in the US. They’re highly regarded for what they deem their “Corporate Social Responsibility.”

However, an air of superficiality and of reputation hypersensitivity looms suspiciously over the brand. As seen with Ethiopia, change follows public awareness and criticism.

Ethiopia, change follows public awareness and criticism.

Starbucks and the other large coffee contenders may have paved the way for the globalization of coffee, but we’re witnessing the rise of specialty coffee, of artisanal roasters and quaint coffee shops. Starbucks can respond by adding the flat white and a cold brew to their menu, but they’ll never truly measure up to smaller authentic roasters and retailers, for their sheer size disallows them to act with the responsibility and authenticity of these less corporatized roasters. For an industry so dependent on small-scale farms, diversification on the distribution end is not only fitting but imperative, both for environmental and socioeconomic sustainability.

Reader, there are other places to get your cup of coffee around campus, with more traceable and simplified supply chains: La Colombe, Think Coffee, Joe’s, Third Rail, Oren’s, and Stumptown to name a few. They may be just a pinch farther from class, but prices are not too different and the quality far surpasses that of Starbucks. As consumers, we matter. Starbucks caters to us for good reason. In our globalized, interconnected world, where your dollar makes a difference, we influence the market. And the market dictates the livelihood of coffee farmers, their children, their communities, and even the economies of entire countries.

I’m not calling for a boycott of Starbucks, but spread the love, try someplace new and, above all else, take into consideration your responsibility as a consumer.

Seneca Jakosky

47 | The View

A SLICE OF NEW YORK, A BROA D As I closed the door behind me, I was transported back to the East Village. Footstep after footstep, my body stripped itself from the surrounding Prague atmosphere. I was reincarnated into my former New York character.

The small, hidden shop – just a few steps off my favorite little back-road, the one paved with mismatching cobblestones – opened up into an organic oasis. The walls were lined with gluten-free biscuits, breads, and pastas. The shelves were packed with coveted cashew butter, apricot jam, and coconut protein bars. Each package had the small “does not contain” images of wheat, eggs, and dairy – made transnationally obvious through the sketched icons of fluffy grain, transparent ovals, and cartoonish cows.

Czech words didn’t even faze me at this point; I knew exactly what I was doing. There was no more guessing, no more anxious decision-making.

For the first time in almost three weeks, food was something that was in my control. Instead of blankly starring at ingredient lists or half-translating, half-bullshitting my way through grocery shopping, I grabbed armfuls of familiar labels.

I mistakenly greeted the cashier in English rather than in Czech. Within five minutes, I had forgotten my place on the map. A moment of familiarity, a second of comfort, and then I ducked back in to the Central European streets. Clutching my paper bag full of New Yorkish treats, I moved along, ready to lose myself in translation as per usual.

Alyssa Yurasits

48 | The View

I

Snow A ngels

mogen Larson dreamed of snow. She would dream all day of fluffed crystals the size of teardrops falling from the sky to land on her nose, to coat her eyelashes until she could barely lift them to see. She would wear white mittens and a knitted cap with one of those puffy pom-poms at the top. She would spend an entire afternoon building a snowman with coal eyes and a long carrot nose that, after a few days, would have icicles hanging from it, glistening in the sun. But most of all, Imogen dreamed of snow angels. She would fall backward, arms spread like wings, and the snow would catch her in a pile of whiteness. The snow would never touch her, but she’d know it was there, cooling her flushed cheeks. Then she would flap, she’d swing her arms up and down, her legs from side to side, faster and faster as she tried to reach the bluest of skies. And she would be fly.

But snow didn’t fall in Varson, Mississippi. Snow didn’t fall in hell. “Imogen!” yelled Louis from the television room. Imogen looked up from her book, The Snowiest Cities in America, and huffed. She closed her book and tucked it under her pillow. She always hid her library books in case Louis ever decided to use them as a beer coaster. She dragged her feet to the television room where Louis was seated on the couch, his bare feet propped on the coffee table and his belly protruding from under his tank top. Louis always snapped at Imogen when she called it that. ‘It’s a wife beater you little bitch!’ What a horrible thing to call something. She also never understood how that belly worked. Every other part of Louis was scrawny and weak looking, like his muscles had been filled with air and someone deflated them. But that stomach stuck out like a bowling ball, hard and round. Imogen went to the side of the couch farthest from Louis, “What?”Louis turned his head and grimaced, “Don’t give me that attitude. Go get me a beer.” “Fine.” She heard Louis mutter something about having to smack some sense into that little bitch.

Imogen was only twelve but she had been called a little bitch every day for three years, since Louis started dating her mother, Patty.

At first Patty scolded him for calling Imogen that, but one night, about four months after the two had been together, she spoke to him about it when he was drunk.

“Do not call her that, she’s just a little girl,” Patty had whispered harshly. Imogen’s mother was a stringy woman, no weight to her and just tall enough to reach the bottom shelves of the kitchen cupboards. She had said it so many times before, but this time she got snippy, which for anyone else was just certain of herself.

Louis stood in a rush and stomped up to Patty, lumbering past Imogen, “I can call her whatever I like. If women knew what they were earlier on they wouldn’t be such a

pain in the ass. Is that what you want? For her to be a pain in some man’s ass just like her bitch mother?”

“Louis you’re scaring her. Lower – ” “Shut up!” he roared, knocking a chair over with the hand that didn’t have a beer in it. “You don’t tell me what to do, you hear me? I provide for this family, you will treat me with respect!” Patty shook and looked down, “Yes, Louis.

I’m sorry. You’re right.”

And from then on Imogen was a little bitch or a little whore or a little cunt. She learned to savor the times teachers at school called on her with her given name, half expecting each time for Mrs. Grayson to go “Yes, little whore, what is the answer?”

On that hot day trapped in the house, Imogen came back to the couch and handed Louis a Budweiser, “Here you go.”

He snatched the can from her and waved his hand, “Alright, scram, I’m watching the game.” Imogen turned and hurried back to her room. She flounced on to her white bed and took out her book. The Snowiest Cities in America was an entire reference book of the places with the most snowfall in the United States, with full color pictures of blizzard enveloped streets and mountainous forests. Imogen loved the way pine trees looked like towers of little green needles, and how they poked through snow in tiny dots, like emerald freckles across porcelain skin. Her favorite place was Boulder, Colorado. It was a city nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where they could have snow as early as August. There were busy parts and quiet parts, with lots of trees and animals.

Imogen ran her fingers gently across a glossy picture of a moose amongst snow covered birch trees, chewing bark and basking in the sun that broke through the leaves above it. She closed her eyes and imagined sitting on a branch, swinging her legs back and forth while surrounded by light, she’d look down at the moose and he would look up at her. She’d remove a mitten and break off a shoot from the side of the tree’s trunk and hand it down into its mouth.

Its fat lips would flap against her bare palms and she’d giggle, swaying with the laughter.

“Imogen!” And as if shoved by the hands of reality, Imogen fell from the tree, landing with a crackled thud back in Varson, back into 90-degree heat where the coldest thing she had was the condensation on the outside of beer cans.

She replaced the book under her pillow and scurried out to Louis again.“What?” Louis’ head rotated slowly, his eyes bloodshot. He bore his clenched, yellow teeth and chucked his newly empty beer can at the four already on the table.

The colliding metal seemed to explode into a clanking rumble as Louis launched from his spot and grabbed 49 | The View

Imogen by her upper arm. Even if Louis looked anemic immobilized in front of a television, when he was drunk he was as strong as an ox and could throw Imogen halfway across the room. “What did I say about the attitude?!”

“I-I’m sorry, I just, you called!” Imogen pleaded. She always did that. She begged and cried, even though she didn’t mean it, out of hope that it would stop him. But it never did.“You little whore I should take you out and put a belt on your back!” His eyes bulged and his grip tightened.

Imogen was losing feeling in her fingers.“Please, I’m sorry, please, ah – ” she yelped as Louis jerked his arm and sent her toppling to the floor. “You will get your bitch ass into that kitchen, get me a beer and say sir when you talk to me.

I am your elder, you are my bitch and you will respect me.”

He pointed toward the kitchen and Imogen scrambled to the refrigerator. Her hands were trembling and she knocked over the ketchup and mustard bottles as she wrapped her hand around another Budweiser.

She heard him snarl “Hurry up!” and she nearly tripped running to hand him the beer. “Here.” He raised a hand high, ready to release and she quickly added, “Sir! Here, sir!” His hand lowered. He scowled and turned back to the game, slumping back into his spot on the couch. Imogen took the moment and ran back to her room. She shut the door behind her quietly and lifted up the sleeve of her dress. A large bruise in the shape of a hand began to bloom a pinkish red, a morbid field of roses on Imogen’s pale skin. The whole area felt sore, but her fingers only felt tingly.

It wasn’t the worst of her injuries. Once, when she was ten, Louis twisted her wrist so hard a bone broke and she had to be taken to the hospital. Imogen’s mother had to be called from her shift at the grocery, she mopped floors at night.

“Ginny, w-what happened? Are you alright?” Patty reminded Imogen of a lost doe, her eyes were always large and watery and her lips small, pursed with worry. She never was good at stress and could only work jobs that involved little human interaction. That didn’t earn much money, the janitor job, so Louis provided most of the money for food and rent. It eased some of her stress even if it added a little as well.

That’s why Imogen told her mother she had caught her hand in between her bookshelf and the wall.

That time wasn’t nearly as bad as the first time. Louis had been around for a almost a year. Imogen had come home late from school from working in the library and Louis was already five beers in. “Where the hell have you been?” he had belched the words, some of the syllables disappearing in his alcohol haze. “I was at school.” Imogen was heading to her room.“Well I’ve been here all afternoon, waiting for the fucking cable guy.” “So?” Imogen regretted that ‘so’ for the rest of her life. It’s not as if it would have prevented what happened next from happening, but Imogen liked to think it was some random occurrence, that if she had done one thing differently nothing would have happened.

Since Imogen had been eight, she didn’t remember all he shouted in his rage, but she did remember his eyes turning red, glowing with an evil so terrifying she wondered how she hadn’t died from the fright alone. Her whole body

quaked as Louis came at her with all his drunken force, grabbed her shirt and flung her across the room, causing her to hit the coffee table. Tears began before she even hit the wood surface, and everything was spinning in her mind. When you’re eight you don’t really understand what can kill you and what can’t, how a bang on a coffee table can give you a concussion at worst. But Imogen felt like she was about to die, like she would never see her mother again or know the snow. She thought the last thing she would ever see would be the evil fluorescent eyes of her devil boring into her.

That night was the first time Imogen ever wet the bed. Her mother spanked her for it.

Imogen knew that if her mother knew, she would leave Louis. She would sweep Imogen away in the night and they’d run together. But before Louis, Patty was actually worse. She was thinner and so was Imogen, they hardly ate anything besides peanut butter sandwiches and orange juice from the concentrate metal cylinders in the frozen food department. Now they had chicken and green beans and Tropicana orange juice, from the refrigerator section.

Patty gained weight and she didn’t have to work as much.

The anxiety from Louis wasn’t good, but it was better than what it used to be. And the hitting didn’t happen that much, not enough to make Imogen talk.

Back in her room, the twelve year old rolled down the sleeve of her dress and climbed up on the edge of her bed.

She had white sheets, white pillows and a downy white comforter. She came back here whenever Louis got that angry. She stood at its edge, her back facing the bed and spread her arms out just a little. She let herself tumble backwards, her body landing amongst the white blankets, almost cool enough to be cold, and she pumped her arms and legs, trying to make a snow angel in fire.

After school the next day, Imogen came home to her mother making grilled cheese. Louis was still at work and would be until late. Patty smiled, “Hi my little tomata.” Imogen knew she was named after a movie called Fried Green Tomatoes and that Patty’s favorite character had been the one named Imogene. So she always got called a tomato, by far the strangest nickname Imogen had ever heard.

“Hi Mama,” Imogen hopped on the counter and picked up a cheese slice, ripping a piece off and popping it in her mouth. “How was your shift last night?” “Oh, you know, quiet,” her sinuous hands pushing the sandwich around the frying pan, “Just the way I like things. How was school?”

“Oh, you know, quiet,” Imogen beamed, “Just the way I like things.” Patty laughed. It was a hiccupped, breathy reaction that always made Imogen laugh as well. Patty kissed her daughter and flipped the golden grilled cheese on to a plate and handed it to Imogen.“I thought that was for you?”

Patty put her fingers to Imogen’s cheek, “All I do is for you, tomata.”The little girl blushed and reached for a napkin across the table. As she stretched her arm, her shirtsleeve hiked up and revealed the bottom of her bruise.

Patty touched the purplish swelling, “Where’s that from?”

“Nowhere,” Imogen quickly yanked the edge of the linen down, “Just bumped into a door at lunch.” “Well, alright,” Patty bit her lip and went back to the pan, now burning the 50 | The View

crispy flakes that had fallen from the bread’s crust. “Just make sure you’re careful.” Imogen stared down at the grilled cheese and suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore.

There are few pieces of time children remember with clarity. Every sound, every smell, every breath. The evolution of life often erodes upon so many moments, softening the details in a mist of reveries. But that night, the night of the day with the grilled cheese sandwich, was the clearest memory Imogen had. She had almost fallen asleep in her snow-covered bed, the waves of slumber washing away the horrors of reality, when the tide receded and a voice came crashing into her head like lightning.

“PATTY!” The whole house shook with his drunken rage as Imogen scuttled out of bed and went to the door, cracking it open just enough to see down the hall. Her mother was standing in her nightgown, the thin pink one with applique roses embroidered on it, at the end of the hallway.

Her shoulders were hunched and her arms were wrapped around her body, like she was cold as she faced the kitchen.

“Louis, what’s wrong?” Her voice barely reached Imogen’s ears. “You used the last of the bread, and now I don’t have nothin’ to eat. What am I supposed to eat, Patty?” Imogen felt a knot twisting in her gut. “Oh, I’ll just make you some chicken, or I could heat up some casser – ” “AH!” The shout accompanied the clattering of pots against the linoleum. “I wanted to come home to a sandwich. A fucking sandwich. Can’t a man have a basic, fucking, sandwich?

No, because the bitch he provides for just can’t get that through her puny head.” “I’m sorry. I, I’ll, how about I go buy some bread now? The corner store’s open till 9:30.”

“You are the biggest damn moron on the planet Patty. That ain’t the point. My point is that you are a selfish bitch that needs to start thinking about me instead of yourself!” Then a skillet flew into Imogen’s view and hit her mother on the shoulder. She crumbled immediately, her frail frame could barely take a slap. She keeled over and heaved breaths.

Imogen ran from her room to her mother, kneeling to help her stay up. She smelled like the sweat that dripped from her neck and beaded on her upper lip. When Imogen’s hand cradled her elbow, she flinched. Then looked up. Imogen had never seen fright so purely evoked in a stare before she saw her mother’s screeching blue eyes. “Imogen, tomata, go back. Back, please, go back to your room,” the woman pleaded, trying to shove her daughter off. “Well if it isn’t the bitch’s bitch?” Imogen turned to Louis, who’s stiff, beer stench could be smelt from where she was stooping.

He had his navy blue canvas work suit on, the sleeves rolled up and the collar disheveled. Imogen had always felt scared when confronted with Louis, always trying to subvert the potentially deadly result of these encounters.

But seeing her mother crippled on the floor, snot oozing from her nose and her whole face wet with tears, Imogen felt something different.“I had a sandwich today.” The words were clear, ringing and directed at Louis as Imogen stood from her crouch. “I made a grilled cheese with your bread.” She felt the limp grasp of her mother’s hand, “Stop it, be quiet.” But Imogen’s voice was louder.“I ate your bread and I’m sorry. Please, can’t we just go to bed?” And with that, Louis walked over to Imogen and struck her 8 times. Imogen counted every one as they happened. First

he slapped her across the face, then again with the back of his hand. He closed his hand into a fist and knocked her right eye. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her head to collide with the wall. Still clutching her hair, he thrust her toward the ground. The remainder of the blows was carried out with his boot-enclosed foot against her gut.

While Imogen’s face lay on the gritty wood floor, bloody spittle escaping her lips with every kick, she watched her mother curled in the corner, fresh tears pouring from her eyes and her whole body trembling. And she remained that way as she watched in silence.

Later that night, after Louis had calmed down and fallen asleep, Patty dressed Imogen’s wounds. The two sat on the edge of the bathtub while Patty wrapped the bandages.

Imogen was quiet, waiting for the words, for her mother to whisper plans of escape into her ear. For hushed commands to pack and urgent phone calls made to the police.

After Imogen was stitched up, her mother finally spoke.

“Just be quiet next time, Imogen. Just stay quiet, you know, like we like.” The next day, Imogen missed the school bus. She missed it the next day too. She stayed in bed for a week. Her mother came in with water and soup, but Imogen wouldn’t eat it. She flinched when her mother tried to caress her. All she did was look in her books of snow, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t make bed snow angels or else her stitching would have fallen out. She stayed in that room the whole time, eating her candy stash and drinking from a few water bottles she had in her backpack, leaving only for the bathroom when no one was home.

Then, on the eighth morning, Imogen was gone. When her mother went in to check on her, her bookshelf was cleared off, her closet was half empty and her suitcase was missing. Later, Patty would find that she was missing a few pieces of jewelry from her box, things that Louis had given her in the sweet beginnings of their relationship. And she would find a note under Imogen’s pillow, Dear Mama, I’ve gone to find the snow.

Goodbye, Tomata Courtney Kezlarian

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The New Censorship Jake Nevins

It is quite baffling, given the term’s permeation of our modern-day parlance, that “political correctness” as a phenomenon is quite young. It was used in a 1793 Supreme Court case, Chisholm v. Georgia, but in a literal sense, bearing little resemblance to its contemporary application. Then, it was a largely pejorative term in the mid-20th century that referred to Stalinist communists whose “loyalty to the CP line overrode compassion, and led to bad politics.” These instances, though, were flashes in the pan, for it did not seep into political discourse until the 1990s, where its usage more closely reflects that of today. In a well-calculated, sagacious move to

turn the public against democrats, the right wing employed the term to castigate the ways liberalism had manifested in culture. They viewed “political correctness” as a pernicious idea restraining academia and fractionalizing culture.

Nowadays, there is nothing particularly sour or recondite about the term, or the ways it’s implemented into everyday conversation. But if you strip away its layers of normalcy, examine the symptoms of political correctness that aren’t so glaringly obvious, one sees the grave ramifications of its influence.

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Should we assume that the PC-perpetrators began in good faith, that the idea at its nucleus was an innocuous attempt to protect disadvantaged groups from harmful speech gaffes and mislabeling, then I think we should also assume that it’s reincarnated itself into a system that, whether we realize it or not, limits our words and thoughts a considerable amount. We’ve entered a wondrous new era of libertinism, in music, cinema, television and more, where creative minds can more expediently produce work of a racy, tendentious nature. And the generation after us will surely make us look utterly conventional. Why, then, in casual conversation or academic settings, can we not say so many things, either because they’re deemed passé or offensive? The constitutional right to free speech, it seems, is being infringed upon not legally, but culturally, by an onslaught of moralism and a cult of buttoned-up disciplinarians ready to make mincemeat of your every rhetorical misstep. The cost is not ignorant people spewing misnomers, but people sharing their ideas at all.

Political Correctness is the new censorship, not because it intends to stifle creativity, but because it is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Those most prone to offending the leftist-language gods have become so preoccupied with finding le mot juste, and certain that in our fickle political lexicon they’ll get it wrong, that they choose to stay silent instead.

Everyday confrontations, and the concomitant moral imperative that is political correctness, see us grapple with all sorts of terms: do I say, “terrorist” or “radicalist” or “criminal”? “Christmas break” or “winter vacation”?

And what about those who, following the Charlie Hebdo shooting, argued that the magazine’s satire breached our PC-protocol? Are we so entrenched in an age of semantic priggishness that even slapstick humor gets the whip?

Writer Freddie DeBoer states, “There are so many ways to step on a land mine now, so many terms that have become forbidden, so many attitudes that will get you cast out if you even appear to hold them. I’m far from alone in feeling that it’s typically not worth it to engage, given the risks.”

The idea that there are inherent risks in expressing ourselves is not a new one. Throughout antiquity people have come under fire for propagating this, that and the other.

But the specificity of 21st century political correctness, and its intolerance, has upped the stakes. Nomenclature has become an incriminating activity and efforts to effectuate a universally-p.c. lexicon have begun to look like transparent attempts to shut out a whole range of opinions.

It’s undeniable that in American culture we have a prevailing “underdog” culture, in which those who purport to be victims, and oftentimes are, get, as a kind of retribution, the sympathy and support of the consensus. The infiltration of political correctness into the quotidian intersects with this; to view it as a non-political system is naive.

Nowadays, everything is political, with its multifarious tentacles fondling our heartstrings and voting ballots and wallets. PC is exactly this - there are aggressors and victims, oftentimes conservatives and liberals and, in reverse, the political winners and losers.

PC rears its head most authoritatively in the realm of academia, while also exemplified in identity-politics and humor. The former, though, is a more dangerous battlefield, with further-reaching implications, because it’s where young minds are sculpted for the “real world.” College campuses have always been an overwhelmingly liberal arena, likely because us youngsters are progressive and forward thinking; but when what was formerly a milieu for polemic becomes a one-sided brigade of homogenous thought and linguistic intolerance, the tonic loses its fizz.

At most universities, political and social ideology amongst professors and students is an overwhelming monolith, steering us all in the same direction. And whether that direction is better or worse is wholly besides the point; the sheer fact that their exists in education a monopoly on thought, that we are taught to say this and not that, is reason enough to take a step back. Between 2000 and 2014, there are 263 recorded instances of an invited campus speaker being driven to withdraw or rescind because of rampant student protest or petitioning. Among those are Henry Kissinger at University of Texas at Austin, Tony Kushner at CUNY, Ayaan Hirsi Ali at Brandeis, Hillary Clinton at St. Catherine University and Marvin Casey at Washington University. Surely you wouldn’t mind hearing one of those speakers.

This kind of intolerance percolates through the classroom as well. Among ideologies one should be wary of holding: hawkish foreign policy, fiscal conservatism, religiously-based beliefs, even the kind of patriotism this country fosters. Something about this irks me. While I’m liberal in pretty much every sense of the word, I see no reason why the classroom, a place where we ought to invite incendiary disagreement without rancor, should be so irreconcilably partial. And when political correctness renders us scared to speak out against the hegemony, must we act subservient to the prevailing culture, or place a premium on the dissemination of our ideas? I’d certainly say the latter.

This is where get muddled. Both liberals and conservatives are strident advocates for the wholesale proliferation of our ideologies. Neither looks to, in any sneakily implicit diplomacy, infringe on our right to say what we please (some do try to curb our right to do what we please, but that’s another story). It’s perhaps the sole bridge connecting two parties increasingly derided by hostility and diplomatic aphasia. The difference, though, is the attempts by both to micromanage the rhetoric surrounding our daily conversations, as in the ones we hold in class, or with friends on the subway, or at the dinner table. Fear mongering from p.c.’s loyal apostles does nothing to rectify colloquial indiscretions. Instead, it wrongfully assumes that taking a broom to our day-to-day lexicon will imbue it with a greater sense of egalitarianism and respect when, in actuality, its implementation is anathema to the very bone marrow of democracy. People ought to feel safe in expressing their opinions. They’ll know if its unpopular, and I guarantee they’ll be ready to fight the consequences.

Still, it’s better that we promote heterogenous thought and political discourse rather than censor it before the words have even left our mouths.

Jake Nevins

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