em Magazine: Connection by EM Mag

EM MAGAZINE

CONNECTION

images courteous of Austin Quintana, Peter Henry, Valeria Sarto, Renata Brockmann

In Search of Quiet Obscurity

Among the Stones and Roses

A fleeting presence

Salandra

How I move

In which I re-read my old journals

I Lost Something

The Girl Who Lived

An Ode to My Nonexistent Creative Romance

The Chain

The Collector

Lost Pets Found

Multitudes

Yohji Yamamoto in 3 Parts

A Song of Language and Culture

Impressions

Crux

The Resolution

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Joseph Boudreau MANAGING EDITOR Nathaniel Smith CREATIVE DIRECTOR Noah Chiet DESIGN/ILLUSTRATION DIRECTOR Enne Goldstein EDITORIAL DIRECTOR Abigail Baldwin PHOTO EDITOR Mana Parker DIGITAL EDITOR Abigail Baldwin STYLE DIRECTOR Amanda Zou MARKETING DIRECTOR Abigail Baldwin EVENTS COORDINATOR Sam Berman ASSISTANT DESIGN Chloe Krammel ASSISTANT EDITORIAL Sam Bratkon ASSISTANT PHOTO Ellie Bonifant ASSISTANT STYLE Serino Nakayama ASSISTANT MARKETING Sam Berman

EDITORIAL Nada Alturki Swetha Amaresan Abigail Baldwin Joseph Boudreau Samantha Bratkon Erin Christie Delia Curtis Peter Henry Caroline Knight Diti Kohli Matt McKinzie DESIGN/ILLUSTRATION Kayla Burns Katrina “Chappie” Chaput Enne Goldstein Pixie Kolesa Meightyal Liu Coco Luan Nic Sugrue Morgan Wright PHOTO Ellie Bonifant Renata Brockmann Noah Chiet Brunei Deneumostier Ningze Han Mana Parker Austin Quintana Milan Sachs Valeria Sarto Mariely Torres-Ojeda STYLE/BEAUTY Noah Chiet Michael Figueiredo Serino Nakayama Eileen Polat Amanda Zou COVER PHOTOS (Front) Austin Quintana (Back) Mana Parker

Among the Stones and Roses words PETER HENRY photos RENATA BROCKMANN

shot on 35mm infrared film

The only labeled ruins of Boston exist in Franklin Park, known as the overlook and schoolhouse respectively. All that is left of the overlook resemble the foundations of a labyrinth, with a square courtyard surrounded by gnarled staircases leading to nowhere, and lone columns of jagged stones held together by friction for nearly two hundred years. The overlook itself, resting on top of a circular tunnel, looks out onto nothing in particular. Mossy trees have risen up and obscured whatever immediate view was there, but looking closer reveals two modern athletic fields beyond. This reminds the onlooker of the constant evolution of our landscapes. This overlook was a creation of Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of countless parks across North America, including Central Park in New York City. Originally built as athletic houses for a nearby school, the ruins became a place for celebration in the 1960s, at one point hosting Duke Ellington. The weight of this history can be felt when standing at the center of the ruins, surrounded by the towering pillars of stone. Ghosts float in and around the structure, and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not difficult to imagine the rush of activity that once surrounded the complete building. On my visit to the ruins, a play for children about the history of the park had just ended. Older actors dressed up as a host of exaggerated historical figures, including Olmstead himself, hung around the edge of the ruins. A swarm of children played tag in the courtyard, seemingly unaware of the history around them. All that remains of the schoolhouse ruins are the foundations for stone windows, and a couple steps that lead to an indent in the ground. Those pillars and windows once belonged to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and it was there that he strayed from his life as a schoolmaster to pursue nature writing and poetry. Knowing this made looking out to the sky something more special than usual, and there was a much more open view than those at the overlook. I could see rays of light poking through the sky, illuminating

the trees and patches of grass below. The one thing that refused to let me enjoy this sight was that the fields had not remained untouched the same way the ruins had. Instead of an open field, there was a golf course, complete with balding men smoking cigars, driving around pre-planted and perfectly trimmed shrubs and trees. Labeling these structures as â&#x20AC;&#x153;ruinsâ&#x20AC;? is a single acknowledgment for how time has transformed the parks of Boston. Above the overlook ruins, there is a stone bird fountain, shriveled up after years of erosion, along

with mangled pipes sticking out the sides. Next to this is the rusted foundation for what was once a proud streetlamp. All that remains is a hollow tube with square spiral inscriptions on the side. These foundations can be seen all over the emerald necklace throughout the city. The only reason I know what exactly they are is that I came across a full streetlamp, untouched and unnoticed in the middle of Olmstead park, a dense nature trail winding throughout Jamaica Plain and Brookline. The glass that was meant to hold the gas flame was shattered within, the

brown color of the rust blending in with the trees surrounding it. Today, we have no figures like Olmstead to pave the way for the integration of nature within a metropolis. The expansion of our cityscapes, in all terms, ranging from our transportation systems to the technology within our cities themselves, has progressed at an exponential rate with no signs of slowing down, while our parks remain stagnant, and stuck in the past. Whereas our parks were once centers of community and socialization, they are now methods of escaping from city life into a new environment altogether. Markets that were once held in the Boston Commons now exist in Copley Square and the North End, while events that do occur in the realm of parks are based around this entirely different energy. Fog X Flo, an installation by artist Fujiko Nakaya made to celebrate the Twentieth anniversary of the Emerald Necklace Conservancy directly plays on this morphed connotation of parks. Pipes filled with fog are strategically placed around different areas of the Emerald Necklace, including the Back Bay Fens, the Arnold Arboretum, and the Overlook Ruins themselves. The pipes shoot out a thick cloud of fog every fifteen minutes, shrouding a specific area, and steeping the parks even more into its own

mystical world. I saw this fog in action at the Overlook Ruins; a thin skeleton of pipes hung around the central courtyard, blasting a mist over the entirety of the ruins, and the resulting cloud seemed to resemble a white-bubble sports dome more than anything else. At the location at the Arboretum, events are coordinated with the timing of the fog, including a recent production of Macbeth. While these events further propel these areas into the realm of the ancient, their influence is mostly positive. Every time Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve

encountered the fog (once at the Arboretum, Overlook Ruins, and Olmstead Park), thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been a crowd of marveling onlookers, completely immersed in the world with their backs turned away from the cities. Even though the meaning of what a park is has changed substantially in the last two hundred years, their overall importance in visitors of all ages has been revitalized time and time again. Whereas the 1960s and 70s saw a rise in the conservation movement, revitalizing the love and activity shown within the parks, and immersing the modern world within an older foundation, viewing these parks from the world of today as a window into the past could be the key in creating thinkers like Frederick Olmstead or Ralph Waldo Emerson. With this outlook of the past, the only danger is being selective with what we choose to remember and preserve. Relics of the past are forgotten just as often as they are remembered. The Boston Public Gardens, perhaps the most popular park in the entire city, contains this in the fountain statue celebrating the use of ether to sedate medical patients. The statue often goes unseen due to being located on a series of pillars in the middle of a fountain, and the inscriptions on the side explaining the meaning have almost eroded away. A hundred years may see the inscriptions being wiped out altogether, and public memory associating the statue not with any real meaning, but confusion as to what the meaning ever couldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been. g

A fleeting presence

photos AUSTIN QUINTANA models QUINN ALBERT & JASPER COTE & MIA MANNING & AUSTIN QUINTANA

SALANDRA

photos NOAH CHIET styling NOAH CHIET models ELISHEVA GLASER & CHRISTINE HOLM beauty NOAH CHIET

I lost something words NADA ALTURKI photos PIXIE KOLESA

I don’t know how long it took until the world decided that was enough. I try to remember how it happened. As I walk down Commonwealth Ave, listening to my shuffle sing “I’ve got dreams / don’t hold me down,” I try not to remember. I try not to remember all the dreams we both had: dreams of moving to the city that never sleeps, dreams of leaving the deserted land we called home, dreams of finding comfort in each other. I try not to remember the way Farah always made me laugh at the girls at school who thought they were cool because their daddy bought them $6,000 Cartier Love bracelets. I try not to remember the way she always knew what to say, even when I hid my problems away. And for so long, I could not remember. I hadn’t thought about her in so long, and I hadn’t talked to her for even longer. This past summer she had reached out to me. I saw the Snapchat notification and it was like running into an ex at a grocery store that you hadn’t seen since the break-

up. It came out of nowhere, and she wanted to see me. All the times we talked about falling in love with smirky boys with dark hair; all those times we dreamed of moving away from the limiting world of pre-written narratives; all the dreams we had about becoming the next Carrie Bradshaw. They all came rushing back. I agreed to meet her for dinner at a restaurant, because the past was the past and I had trained myself to never look back. I’ll admit I was nervous. My heart beat like rain on concrete, soft but so loud if you listen close. The initial conversation flowed more naturally than I thought it would. I found my face smiling without a need for a command. So much was the same, and she was as bubbly as ever. She still ordered way too much food and some sort of sugar-saturated chocolate dessert. She still masked her natural color with green contact lenses that I never thought were as pretty as her own eyes. But so much has changed, like the newfound confidence in the way she

moved, and barrier trenched between us in the way she spoke. There was not much left of us either way. We talk about life and how it took us over and I realize that she missed it. I fell in love and she missed it. I moved away and she missed it. I found my reason and she missed it. And I missed much of the same. And I still remember the bubbly feelings of those late nights spent in front of buzzing screens, eating Doritos like it was the last bag on Earth. Every time “Forget You” comes on, what comes to mind is those times we took road trips with my parents and danced to the Glee version in the back seat. I recall nothing of the endless Grey’s Anatomy episodes we watched because I was too busy appreciating this person who could make me laugh away all my sadness. I can’t remember how it happened. We had been fighting about little things that probably didn’t matter for quite a while. We had been going to different schools at that point, so the fallout was easier. She picked

on little things I did and made fun of me, and I was passive aggressive about it. I believe the moment our connection was lost was when I said something about how needy she was when it came to boys. It was only honest, and I had never regretted telling her the truth because she deserves nothing less. But it was enough to break whatever was left of us. She was angry, the anger turned to silence, and then to nothing. It was an interesting feeling, losing someone who was such a huge part of your life. I went from going back to her place which smelled like home, to going home all alone to one that smelled foreign. I’m good at expecting people to leave: first my childhood best friends, then my father, and my sister after that. I kept my guard up because I knew it was easier to lose someone when you remind yourself of how much it had already happened. I slowly begin to adopt a numb feeling and now it feels like I’m never really losing anything. Because people only give us the time they were meant to give us, and I realize now that I got the best of her, and that is a blessing in itself. I don’t know how long it takes until you’re finally tired of someone’s baggage, their softness, their strength. Until you can’t deal with it anymore, and you’re finally ready to face the world without them

as a shield. Until you’ve had enough, and you start to push them away. Or they push you away. You hang up the phone, for the first time, without saying I love you. You look at them, for the first time, without feeling hungry. And you’re alone again. Or maybe for the first time. At some point, everything changes: after you’ve realized you don’t love the person you were so sure you loved. You question every turn you’ve made, every fact you held on to, and every word you dared to utter. Was there truth in any of it? Maybe there was. But you listen and read, and question, and grow, and travel, and drive, and swim, and sing, and walk, and dance, and eat, and breathe, and see, and be. For a while. And it hits you. You have traveled so far away from who you were; the truth was left behind somewhere. You would see it in the rear-view mirror if you dared to look. But you can’t go back. You wouldn’t want to, even if you could. The truth, you learn, is consistently inconsistent. All of it was once your truth, and it still is, but it takes on a new meaning for someone else or something new. People, like love and truth, are consistently inconsistent. The same way we lose our baby teeth, and gain new wrinkles, we lose some loves and gain others. And again. Whether that be a lover, a family, a friend: we all fall out eventually. g

The

Girl words SAM BRATKON illustrations COCO LUAN

While taking a nap after school, hair still wet from the shower, you are jerked awake by a shriek. It’s the first week of high school. You run to the sound and find your mother, on her knees, on the warped red linoleum kitchen floor. The police are at the door. They say there’s been an accident. Your brother died. You take your mother into the other room and get on your knees. You pray they made a mistake (they didn’t). Your best friend stands in the backyard screaming. Your dad gets home. You see him cry for the first time. It takes less than an hour for your extended family to congregate at your house. They sleep on spare mattresses, couch cushions. The only thing you feel comfortable as is the comic relief. But there’s only so much relief to give. Your mom makes you sleep in her bed that night. She clings, but not to you. As her child, you were always special, but now you’re some-

thing else, something less innocent, something you struggle being— a reminder of how much there is to lose. A month after the accident, you’re walking around a rundown mall. Half the storefronts in the building are empty. Old Navy is now a furniture store. Your mom won’t stop crying every time she’s in public. You’re embarrassed she’s drawing attention. You start to feel less like the child and more like the adult in the situation. In freshman physics, you calculated the distance between planets, but the distance between yourself and your parents was immeasurable. It’s May, and your brother should be graduating. The school asks your family to walk across the stage and receive an honorary diploma. You ask your cousin to come to the ceremony with you, because it’s torture to be anywhere alone with your parents now. Something is always missing.

Who

Lived

It has been 3 years and 1 day since the accident, also known as your 18th birthday. After work you pull up to your house, surrounded by friends’ cars and a Disney princess bouncy castle. Your mom has thrown yet another “surprise” party, even after you’ve spent the last 3 birthdays asking her not to. She spends nearly the whole time crying in her room. It’s a Monday night, so your dad utilizes the weekly deal at the town pizza shop and orders at least a dozen small cheeses for 4 dollars each. With things winding down, you offer to drive your friend home, jumping at the opportunity to escape this social obligation. After dropping her off, you drive aimlessly. Ultimately, you end up stopped next to the Goodwill donation bin in a Walmart parking lot. You listen to the voices of The Killers as they sing “everything will be alright” on repeat. You weep. You think “this is a pretty shitty way to spend your birthday.” High school has been really hard on you. It’s difficult for everyone as they transition to adulthood, but your mom says you’ve become a different person. Life feels like it can be put on two separate timelines: before and after. They told you things would feel normal again soon, but there is

no “normal” anymore. You ask to drop out and instead get a GED. Mom says that you have to finish high school. She insists that you walk at graduation. During rehearsal, your principal asks horseplaying students to take things more seriously, remarking that some kids here are the first in their family to graduate and it’s a big deal to their parents. That’s you. But it shouldn’t be. As a dual graduation/birthday gift your parents take you and your best friend to Disney World, the month before high school lets out forever. The whole trip feels like a sigh of relief after 4 years of holding your breath. You wish you could take home a piece of the magic. A month later you walk at graduation wearing a cap decorated with your brothers initials. Mom tells you that you’re the only reason she remains alive. Even after you move out, she requires that you call or text her every night, so that when her nightmares jolt her awake in a cold sweat at 3 AM, she can at least know you are somewhere, sleeping safely. It has been 7 years since the accident. You are a senior in college. The yearly candlelight vigil is held in your backyard.

The same backyard your best friend was screaming on the day of the incident. The same backyard that once held the 50 dollar swingset your mom bought off Craigslist. The same backyard where your uncle buried your rabbit after it died while you were on vacation. You can’t think of a single memory of you and your brother in that backyard. Your mother’s back slides across the white lead paint of the garage as she sinks into the ground. She is retraumatized every time September rolls around. You sit beside her, knowing that since your brother died you are the only thing that brings her comfort. You still hide all your pain from her, because you know just how much it vicariously hurts her. Even though you’d never tell her, she’s the first thing you want when your sad. Trauma has brought you closer together. That’s why the only place you feel safe enough to have a breakdown is at 2 AM, on your knees, in her bathroom, where your tears are warmer than the shower water, and she is only a hallway away from you. That’s why you won’t let her read this. You may not have a lot of things in this life, but her love is one thing you have never been short on. g

o n

d to

Creative

Romance

words CAROLINE KNIGHT illustrations NIC SUGRUE

Fuck me. No, but actually FUCK ME. Please--in a sensual way. Then we can paint over breakfast and run lines, envision a video art piece or play music. Am I asking for too much? My fantasy relationship has become my standard; everything else feels like settling. When I see photos of Keith Haring and Juan Dubose or Sam Shepard and Patti Smith, cue the funeral procession as I penguin dive into my grave. Since the majority of my idol couples are dead, I decided to interview a few romantic and creative couples that are alive in my actual world, hoping they’d help me figure out how to get the sexy collaborator I deserve. Walking over to Rachel and Gal’s apartment was great! It was raining, my hands were cold, and no one was texting, or calling me to make sure I was doing alright. One of my favorite love-to-self-loath songs by Porches (Headsgiving) was blasting out of my earbuds. Just kidding, the volume wasn’t even close to medium. Gal takes Rachel’s ear health pretty seriously too. And you know who takes care of my ears? *crickets* *sighs and mutters: “Great, another thing I have to do before I die”*

Rachel Baldwin is a musician whose music can be found everywhere, including Spotify, and Gal Petel is a music producer studying at Berklee. They met on Tinder. When I found this out, I was ruined. They make music together in their cozy, one-bedroom apartment. Gal says their process can be lazy at times, you know, waking up, making coffee for one another, then just hitting the collaboration station in their living room. Tragic! This isn’t about me! No, no, this is about Rachel & Gal’s love for each other and music! They tell me they saw Porches the night before. I tell them that’s so funny because I rang their doorbell to a Porches song. It’s not funny. The Universe is playing tricks with me. Rachel and Gal bounce off each other like notes reverberating from a guitar string and if that simile isn’t the most on the nose than… Jesus. They trust and support each other, which bleeds into their music. That is--and I’m being real here--beautiful.

Let’s not get sentimental quite yet, though. I didn’t spend a great deal of time interviewing multiple creative and romantic couples (acknowledging my isolated misery) for you folks to feel good this soon. So, onward to Maryam Fassihi and Bethany Hamlin. Maryam is currently producing an independent web series called “LIBRA,” and Bethany is launching a clothing company (HVY, pronounced “heavy”). Getting to Maryam’s apartment was a dumpster-fire-shart-show and I won’t let you tell me I’m being dramatic. My phone alarm went off, but didn’t make a noise. I was 40 minutes late, and that never happens, so I was obviously berating myself. I then discovered my bank account was overdrafted because a grocery delivery service charged me an outlandish amount of money for something I simply did not sign up for. I wouldn’t have been in this stress-

mess if I wasn’t heavily single because “taken” people have their partners grocery shop for them. They don’t have to go to the store, every single week, alone, in the cold rain (single people don’t experience sunshine), while getting soaked by their broken umbrella that they tried taping but ended up looking like a droopy pterodactyl wing because they don’t have anyone who can fix it properly for them...They’d fix it successfully if they had a unified romantic and creative passion with someone, but they don’t, so their self-respect is dwindling. Whatever. I put in the wrong address for my ride after I solved my overdraft issue, so I had to walk up a hill in the humid fog as fire spewed from my lungs and my hair puffed the fuck up.

I decided to end this wretched investigation on a couple that met in their 40’s, Julia and Keith. Julia is an advertising creative and Keith is a painting contractor, working for art collectors, museums, and cutting-edge designers. He hits the studio for his ceramic work multiple times per week. I’m genuinely happy for them, but I’m also angry. I cling to my humor and bitterness by one hand, avoiding the pain and envy below me. Keith says that being creative in a solid, loving relationship encourages you to explore and appreciate all things appealing to the senses. Romance is random and unpredictable; a reaction of love. I nod because I’m too frustrated to form words. Tears well in my eyes (I pretend it’s from a yawn) as I hear Julia say that when you allow creative thinking into your relationship, you support the transforming power of imagination, risk, and openness; overcoming the fear of change.

Maryam’s post-fundrager apartment is squeaky clean thanks to Bethany wanting to alleviate Maryam’s stress. As I’m hearing this, I notice remnants of a pancake breakfast sitting on the table and think “this is the smell track of love.” This love was quite good and free of the eight most common allergens, so my sensitive ass ate that shit up. As Maryam and Bethany explained how they got involved—it basically just happened—I nod, with a mouth full of cold pancake. Bethany and Maryam continued to share how they support each other in their creative endeavors: always stepping in for one another, not because they have a personal stake in the work, but because they want the other to be successful. Maryam tells me she couldn’t imagine preparing herself for the real-world alone. I laugh a little too hard, accidentally regurgitating a dried, sticky pancake chunk.

I only have one memory of my parents being happy together: they were cheering and clinking glasses of wine over a dead mouse, trapped in a kitchen drawer, foreshadowing a divorce that I’d soon discover by eavesdropping over the home phone. All my life, I’ve had to learn how to love someone else, on my own, with no example. It’s been excruciating to drag my face through dry cement searching for a solution, feeling at fault for not having one. Maybe I crave romantic and creative love because creativity is my empathetic gateway. I desire so strongly to feel safe and loved by someone who understands what continues my existence. I think it’s okay for me to want this. I understand what type of love I need, now. But I’ll still be bitter, that way, one day, the Universe, or Steve Jobs’ ghost, can prove me wrong. g

TT hh ee CC hh aa ii nn So here I was, enduring this brilliant yet inexplicable phenomenon, one with a fourdecade-long lineage linking my mother’s days as a high school senior to the Instagram stories so unique to the digital age.

words MATT McKINZIE illustrations KAYLA BURNS

It was a cold January night when I first noticed it. Having just left the cinema, braving the sandpapery winds of Avery Street beneath a wool scarf and peacoat that provided little actual warmth, my numb fingers found the strength to tap through a slew of hours-old Instagram stories. Amid a melange of Spotify shares ranging from Tame Impala, to Kendrick Lamar, to St. Vincent, I noticed something altogether new and different in context: the cover of Rumours, a lanky Mick ethereally interlocking knees with a witch-like Stevie; their chosen tune: the album’s final track, “The Chain.” I write about this with much love for Fleetwood Mac, having been raised by two diehard fans of the band. In fact, that January night was the first time I had encountered the album since leaving Connecticut, the image of my mother’s vinyl still lingering in my mind as I left our home in late-August, its weathered sleeve propped against our living room turntable. The sight of that Spotify share actually put a smile on my face. It elicited feelings of nostalgia and assured me that my peers weren’t transfixed merely by music from our own generation—we could have a genuine love for the past without feeling antiquated or “outof-touch.” But what began as a fleeting, almost coincidental moment in time turned into something truly and inexplicably bizarre. I began seeing “The Chain” everywhere. It suddenly became the anthem everyone was jamming out to and publicizing on their Tinder profiles. It swept through Instagram stories like a parasite. A latenight excursion to heat up a bowl of mac-and-cheese led to one of my best-remembered run-ins with the song: a person who lived on my floor was writing a paper and passionately singing along. When she saw me, frozen in fascination at her unexpected pseudo-performance, she turned to me, pulled out an earbud, and asked: “Do you know Fleetwood Mac? I love them.” Less than 24 hours later, even Instagram bios began changing, the most memorable being: “Alexa, play ‘The Chain’ by Fleetwood Mac.” These strange encounters continued steadily throughout the rest of the semester and bled into the fall. Only recently, a student in my building descended with me down nine floors, into the lobby, and onto the street, and with them was a portable speaker blasting “The Chain.” And just last week I attended a gathering in East Boston during which a man introduced himself, made sure that I knew his favorite song was “The Chain,” and subsequently rolled up his sleeve to reveal a chain tattoo. (It wasn’t long after that I called an Uber and fled the scene). So here I was, enduring this brilliant yet inexplicable phenomenon, one with a four-decade-long lineage linking my mother’s days as a high school senior to the Instagram stories so unique to the digital age. It was as if everyone around me was beginning to cling to this sliver of the past, a tiny morsel of nostalgia, our collective adoration of a vintage aesthetic morphing into the desire to run back to a 1977 we have fantasized about but never actually known. But why did it seem to be following me in particular?

“It’s all over. They’re getting a divorce.” That was where it began, my first weekend home that January when things began to unravel. The first broken link. I had trekked into my freshman year of college full of trepidation but never fell off the edge knowing that there was a firmly-woven safety net waiting for me back in the woods of Connecticut, a safety net built off of a lifetime of perceived stability and essentialism—that marriage was sacred, that family was eternal. I listened to that song on the car ride up that Monday morning, gazing with disillusionment through a slate of frost on the car window, the Connecticut foliage disappearing into silver city spires. Listen to the wind blow, down comes the night. “She hates your guts.” That February came around, and with it, my first backstabbing in Boston. A blade of betrayal that cut through my spinal cord and into the most intimate parts of me, someone who I shared nearly everything with had subsequently turned their back on me and ran as far away as physically possible. Another broken link. The song was appearing all around me at a rate that I had never before experienced. That was when I began to understand it as more than just a meaningless coincidence. Damn your love, damn your lies. “Every relationship has its hiccups, right? Maybe we needed to fight the way that we did last night.” I cried my eyes out until my body was bereft of fluid, haggardly leaning over a computer screen as the sun crept over the Boston cityscape. Yet another broken link. How could I ever be forgiven? How could they ever be forgiven? How could we possibly climb out of the pit we dug ourselves last night? The both of us, together, were walking on a knife-edge as April drew to a close, the numb emptiness of summer impending, creeping up through the floorboards. By this time, the song seemed to pulse continuously into my ears with every movement and heartbeat. If you don’t love me now, you’ll never love me again. That summer brought almost utter silence. I lay sprawled out in a fuzzy, bleary fever dream, almost having surgically removed college from my consciousness—and everything about home that might, too, bring uncertainty and pain. I turned off the news, I turned off my playlist, and I turned off my brain, savoring only simple, almost hedonistic thrills—the taste of Cola and ice cream, the acidly sweet smell of sea salt, the rattle of fireworks—living in a state of denial for four months. Four months ended quickly, though, and

soon I found myself returning to the tall, silver spires, and the mix of emotions that came with them. Fear, most of all, consumed me. Who would love me? Who would hate me? What would happen to all of the connections I had made—and the ones I had lost? I can still hear you saying, you would never break the chain. “It’s not worth your time. But she still respects you as a person.” I entered the elevator with those words, the girl from floor 7 blasting the song from her portable speaker. A mended link, sort of. “I’m hurt. You’re hurt. He’s hurt. We’re all hurt by it. But we have each other, I just want you to know that.” I fell into the folds of her embrace, sinking into her arms with bewilderment in front of the mirror. But there was a strange peace about it. “I love how experimental you’re becoming with what you’re wearing. How you’re presenting yourself. The family always has your back, no matter what you do. I don’t want you to stress about that.” A restored safety net, if you will. Connecticut, and its comforts, hadn’t abandoned me. Chain… keep us together. “The Chain” gave significance to events in my life where meaning could not be readily discerned, and without any real catalyst other than it all simply fell into place—I was compelled, inexplicably, to open those Instagram stories, swipe through those Tinder profiles, attend those parties, embark on those elevator rides—and with great resonance, “The Chain” was there to greet me. It was the lens through which I could perceive my own reality. What I could have understood to be a nuisance or strange, bothersome phenomenon was the universe telling me something—its way of reflecting back to me the relationships I forged, those among them that fell apart, and those that were ultimately strengthened and rebuilt. It became the one constant in a sea of transience and uncertainty, where love, loss, creativity, destruction, pleasure, solace, and so forth, was ephemeral. It was the common thread, the link that bonded and continues to bond me to myself and to others in a world becoming increasingly...unchained. g

The Collector words DITI KOHLI photo ELLIE BONIFANT comic MORGAN WRIGHT

“In a world that is spiraling towards eminent virtuality—no more pen to paper and hand to hand—we must backtrack to observe these miniscule physical traditions.” 67

Alan Geiss always relishes the inimitable opening moments of the DVD version of Guillermo Del Toro’s Cronos that he first watched as a child. “It has this little opening of the menu that plays a little piece of music from the movie,” said Geiss. “You can only get that when you first pop in the disc which is weird. You listen to that music and it’s opening up that world.” During his first viewing, seven-year-old Geiss was entranced by the plot, the action, the driving movement of the gothic horror film. Ripe and uneducated, he was ignorant of directoral concerns. From then, an unbreakable connection to films settled in Geiss’ blood. “It is always—constantly—in the back of my mind.” Geiss, now 26 and a sophmore Visual Media Arts major, owns of over 750 DVDs that are housed in his Dorchester apartment after his recent move to Boston. They are meticulously stacked and boxed on the floor. The cost of food, furniture, and hauling his essentials from his former Texas residence has shaved away at the budget for new DVD shelves. I met with Geiss, talked a tad, but mostly listened, first in a nook in the library and then in his home weeks later. Geiss delicately pulled out his favorite John Woo film, The Killer, from one of the identical cardboard cubes between his desk and his dresser during my visit. When he was buying Woo’s movie, Geiss was obsessed with getting his hands on a soon-to-be out of print authentic copy. “I became a fake connoisseur. I knew exactly what the disc had to look like, the case, the margins, the black borders,” said Geiss. But during my visit, the sight of the case was underwhelming to me; the physicality of the DVD was stingy and breakable and strikingly mundane. I looked up to see Geiss’ gargantuan smile and enthusiasm, unmatched by mine. As his DVDs were compressed in meticulously packed boxes and transferred to Boston, some were damaged. The flexible cardboard edges of his Samurai box set were crumpled and cracked; the plastic covers of a few were slightly undone, making it more difficult to crack open. Geiss’ dejection after examining the damage was clear when he was pointing out the subtle scratches. “I walk into the room [where they are], and it stings,” said Geiss. Despite this current attachment, Geiss used to be locked in a

sceptre of naivete and saw movies as separate from everything outside the dimensions of the screen. They were lenses of farcity— playful adaptations of reality. But then, he watched Three Colors Red before leaving for the Air Force eight years ago. He invested over a fourth of his remaining 200 dollars into the movie. With little left to live on, Geiss justified the purchase with his inquisitiveness and unrelenting compulsion—to watch, to ingest, to own. “Watching that movie, every time it gets me drunk on movies,” Geiss said. Three Colors pushed Geiss to understand the impact movies can have on human experience. The tangibility of DVDs and message of their contents can alter the perception of communities, families, individuals; sometimes, that affected entity was himself. “After that movie, I was in over my head. I didn’t know the rabbit hole fell that deep,” said Geiss. The idea that art runs through the plastic latches of DVD cases is what drives Geiss’ continual urgency to collect these physical manifestations. They’re raw and real and handed to the consumer from the vulnerable hands of the musicians, actors, producers, and directors who create them. “It was the fact that they are clearly people making this art that is meant to be taken in physical form and they’re making it worth your while,” said Geiss. In a world that is spiraling towards eminent virtuality—no more pen to paper and hand to hand—we must backtrack to observe these miniscule physical traditions. “It’s like a little ritual when you pick it up and figure out what you’re going to watch—scrolling through your shelf. You pick it out and you haven’t opened it in a while,” said Geiss. Geiss’ daily ritual includes dusting off a DVD cramped between two other collectibles on an apartment floor. Maybe that DVD is Thin Red Line, one that he says reeks of dirt and toughness. Or his Star Wars “Despecialized Edition”—displaying intricate fan art on its cover. Or his most recent addition, Hocus Pocus, in its pristine steelbook case from Best Buy. Really, Geiss thrives off of collecting and opening these DVDs that carry on a culture of possession and artfulness and sentimentality. g

LOS T PE TS FOUND

photos ELLIE BONIFANT illustrations COCO LUAN styling NOAH CHIET & SERINO NAKAYAMA & AMANDA ZOU models SAM BERMAN & CONNOR WELLS & HANNAH ZHONG beauty SAM BERMAN & AMANDA ZOU

u M l t i t u e words ERIN CHRISTIE photos MARIELY TORRES

Fourth grade was an eye-opening year for me. Not only was it the year that I finally got the courage to sport a “bob” hairstyle (which made me look a bit like a mushroom, a fact that my mother didn’t have the heart to tell me) or the year I started wearing a sparkly, green retainer. It was the year I became hyper-aware that everyone around me was changing and starting to represent themselves in new ways. In 2008, Club Penguin was the hottest spot in town, Fall Out Boy’s “I Don’t Care” made Beethoven look like an absolute amateur, and the Twilight film saga launched a decade of wannabe vampires. It was a strange time for fashion, pop culture, and budding adolescence and still, I wanted so badly to wear sparkly knee-high Converse like the rest of my peers, because it would have helped me climb the social ladder. I didn’t necessarily want them. 2004’s Mean Girls is infamous for its especially honest portrayal of high school social hierarchies. There, you’re classified and filed away into a manila folder labeled with various headings from “desperate wannabe” to “burnout” to “sexually active band geek.” Though these labels truly are so “2000late,” even today, we are sifted into cliques depending on how we present ourselves, making the concept of “self” difficult to pinpoint. With this in mind, the “self” I presented in a social sphere, glittery-converse clad and eloquent in the language of Teen Beat, was vastly different from the “self” those in my personal life saw.

This brings about the concept of “dual selves,” as in, the idea of adapting our language, manner of dress, attitudes, and personalities depending on who we are with and what situation we are in. As we grow older, we quickly realize the social implications of being unaware of the latest fashion trends, the best-selling record, the hippest slang. And with that in mind, we shift in response: we adjust the way we think, dress, speak, and act in order to “fit in.” Youthful insecurity results in our subsequent adaptation to social expectations, resulting in our adoption of habits, trends, and even likes and dislikes that we may not have come into contact with had they not been considered cooler than cool at the time. Bedazzled jeans became my jeans. Fall Out Boy became my favorite band. Team Jacob became my team.

In a meeting with your employer, you wouldn’t sling insults and joke around like you’ve known each other since kindergarten. In the same manner, you wouldn’t up your cordiality and come prepared with the latest editions to that year’s dictionary when casually hanging out with friends. We have different “selves” for different scenarios, and we shift between them depending on what we hope to express about ourselves, who we are going to come into contact with, and more. Though sometimes negative when forced upon us, our ability to create dual selves can be positive in nature. Like certain breeds of butterfly—including the Green Hairstreak, Callophrys rubi, which disguises itself seamlessly among foliage—sometimes, adjusting ourselves is the only viable course of action to take in order to avoid the worst possible scenario. Despite taking those protective measures to avoid a tragic end, the Green Hairstreak can quickly shift back to its normal state once the danger is no longer in sight and we, too, can do the same. The protective measures we take, such as a butterfly’s act of camouflage, can become part of who we are, our “true” self. Habits and trends that I adopted solely to “fit in”- for example, my introduction to Fall Out Boy-- soon became huge parts of my identity and holistically, could be credited with shaping who I am today.

In 1939, Frida Kahlo created a double self-portrait under the title “Los Dos Fridas” that draws on this concept. Kahlo thrived during a time period where she was constantly ridiculed, whether due to her activism, or something as shallow as her refusal to fit into societal standards of beauty. As represented in the piece, one version of herself is adorned in a dress that suggests her Mexican roots, her cultural identity. In the other, she represents what the majority wanted her to be, prim and proper and sporting European style. The “two Fridas” are linked by a common thread, their hearts connected by a single artery, hands clasped tightly together. Despite these conflicting selves, Kahlo never let European oppression stop her from being outspoken and straying from the “norm,” as if their pushback affirmed her identity even more. With that in mind, like Kahlo, we create different versions of ourselves to please and protect ourselves from scrutiny.

In June of 1994, Brent W. Roberts and Eileen M. Donahue published a research piece entitled, “One Personality, Multiple Selves: Integrating Personality and Social Roles.” In it, they discussed the question,“How do people maintain multiple, role-specific self-conceptions as well as a consistent sense of self?” With the concept of “dual selves” and our identity hanging in the balance, the lines between what we actually like in terms of music, style, and more versus what we’ve chosen to “like” based on social circumstances begin to blur. How, then, can we avoid losing the sense of our “self” when constantly having to juggle different versions of such?

Our concept of self consists of self-identity, as in, what distinguishes who we are from others and knowledge that describes one’s own attributes in different dimensions. Though the “self” is not a clean cut concept and isn’t easily defined, it’s inaccurate to assume we only have one. Our sense of self takes form in a variety of different images, torn and cut out from magazines and printed Google image searches. The various pieces of the collage take shape in our “multiple selves,” the identities and roles we inhabit and shift to in times when appropriate. Our “true” self, in that sense, is never really lost but rather, an amalgamation of the “multiple selves” we create throughout different portions of our lives. g

Yohji Yamamoto in 3 Parts

Y-3, 2002

Paris 1981

SS 2019

FW 2002

Yohji Yamamoto debuts at Paris Fashion Week. His vision is menswear for women. The models rhythmically stride together down the runway to operatic music. They are draped in geometric cuts of fabric, red and black, with front buttons (like a man’s suit). They walk rhythmically and in groups. Until...alone, for the first time, a woman strides down the runway. She points her toes like a dancer, shoulders back, hands in the pockets of her broad black gown with draped sleeves. On her head is a widebrimmed hat. She could just as easily be a ballet-dancer as she could a commanding male CEO. She narrows her strong brow, and purses her lips. She carries Yamamoto’s clothes with the power and elegance he intended. Once all the clothes have been admired, Yamamoto walks casually down the runway to collect his flowers with a small, almost shy smile. He is young and thin, not yet the icon he will become. And so begins the career of one of the most prolific designers of the 20th and 21st centuries, who, before this, had a law degree. But after assisting his mother in her dressmaking business, Yamamoto discovered a passion, with the core idea that women could carry off the structure, the elegance and the power of men’s clothing. In 1983, he speaks to the idea of creating coats to hide a woman’s body. He wanted to protect women, maybe from men, or maybe just from the winter. Still, there is no conservatism in his ideals or designs. Rebellion and opposition to traditional values are the core tenets of his avant-garde collections. All at once he seeks to protect women’s sexualities and also empower them.

21 years later, Yamamoto is a household name. He’s entered sportswear, streetwear, updated sneaker silhouettes. Adidas launches one of their most fertile collaborations, Y-3. “Y” for Yamamoto and “3” for the iconic Adidas stripes. The athletic silhouettes bleed over into Yamamoto’s personal collection. In his Fall 2002 collection his models walk down the runway in zippered jackets and loose-fitting joggers. Denim patchwork begins showing up in his garments. His recognizable marriage of masculine and feminine remains. His designs sport elegant high necklines, structured shoulders, draped skirts and asymmetry. In 2003, Elton John requests that Yamamoto design his costumes for his European tour. It’s a surprising partnership, but also stunningly logical. Elton John has never been afraid to display feminine power. He had stopped doing psychedelic drugs and lost some of his original flamboyance. Still, his presence had not dimmed. Yamamoto’s designs are now somewhat flashier than his runway collections. They maintain a structural elegance, but there is glitter too. He still relies heavily on blacks and whites, but also includes vibrant blues and purples in Elton John’s performance looks. One of the greatest English songwriters stands on stage in draped coattails and embellished sleeves.

山本耀司

words ABIGAIL BALDWIN illustrations ENNE GOLDSTEIN

Yohji Forever Yamamoto is no longer a womenswear designer, nor a designer of menswear for women. He is simply a designer; his clothing fit for any and all gender expressions. His decades long career has seen an evolution in designs, but never withdrawal. The 75-year-old designer cannot see himself retiring. Today, Yamamoto’s designs are appropriate for a hype-beast, a goth, a business-woman, or an artist. His Spring/Summer 2019 models descend the runway with unisex sophistication. They sport the wide shoulders and draping we have come to expect from the master tailor, but also sheer elements and round cut-outs. Several of the looks shock with huge, gathered fabric, reminding the onlooker of Rei Kawakubo’s unsettling work. She and Yamamoto have represented the best of Japanese design and fashion innovation. It’s no coincidence they were lovers in the 80s. Yamamoto’s cast of characters are diverse in race, sex and presentation. They represent the rebellion signature to his work. They wear trench coats and sandals and blazers and combat boots. Their looks are influenced by 1990s punk and their hair is greasy. Yamamoto is an activist and piece-builder. In 2008 he started a fund to send emerging Chinese fashion designers abroad to study. His daughter, too, is a designer, and you cannot help but see the influence of her father’s designs in her work. Yamamoto’s Adidas collections are as popular as ever. His garments are haute-couture and readyto-wear. They are high fashion yet athletic. He has invested in the future of fashion, while also paving the way. And so there it is, a 75-year-old-man is the future of fashion. g

Fall 1981

A Song of Language and Culture words DELIA CURTIS photos NINGZE HAN styling AMANDA ZOU

Gazing out into the nighttime skyline of East Boston, dotted with pale little lights and the texture of lapping waves, Bruce Song sits at the base of the Poss Family Mediatheque in the Institute of Contemporary Art, his favorite local spot. Scribbling in his notebook, he outlines shots for a film that he’ll be working on soon. His long, dark hair is swept up in a half bun and he’s outfitted in a cozy black Song hails from Kunming, the major city in the Yunnan province, China. At 15 years old, Song made the decision to pursue hockey at The National Sports Academy in Lake Placid, New York, leaving his city of Kunming behind, but not his culture or identity. Speaking only Mandarin, Song began his education in the States without knowing English and existing as the only Asian student in his first high school. “Your perspectives are shaping and then you go to a different place and then you’re faced with a different environment, different people, different culture. And language especially. I think it was the marking point. It was a really transformational point for me as an individual to come here [to the States],” Song said. Forced to learn in and speak in English during his studies, Song was forced out of his comfort zone. Song was one of just a handful of people of color at his first high school. There were, “Only a few. You could count on your fingers. I think everybody was at the point where they’re not too well informed about this issue of race. Where it’s like, ‘He looks different, she looks different.’ But people start to make jokes when they’re not intentional, but it’s out there.” After Song’s first high school was closed down due to a financial crisis, he transferred to a second high school. While it was more diverse than the first, he still ran into incidents of disrespect and discrimination One of Song’s most vivid memories was during his senior year. “There were more diverse students, more people of color

and then this one time—it was a communal bathroom. [...] Someone was making random jokes, calling out, like the people’s name by their color. So like, you’re, ‘Black man!’ You’re ‘Yellow man!’ and stuff like that which was very rude.” Immersed in this new place and having limited visits back home to Kunming, Song found solace in forging bonds with his classmates and teachers, expanding the definition of family. The intimate environment of his first high school, made up of only about 100 students, fostered these close-knit family dynamics. He even began to spend school breaks with his principal, staying with her and her family after she opened up her home to him. They still keep in touch. Remarking on his experiences with his principal, Song says, “Hospitality. Hospitality which is such a loving thing to have here. If you consider it: humanity. It’s such a privilege to know that there are people out there who care. Who are loving, willing to be open, even though they know that you carry a different culture, a different perspective. And they’re willing to listen and to understand. To empathize.” One constant in life abroad was his roommate Dennis, another international student from Sweden. Though they were from two different countries with different languages, customs, and cultures, Song says, “We’re both outsiders coming to a new country and trying to make sense of it.” They learned from each other, picking up on habits that the other hadn’t understood before. They learned to coexist. When it came to learning in this new environment, Song found that his teachers and professors in the U.S. were more open-minded and willing to discuss ideas that went beyond the classroom. The relationships that he fostered led to discussions about life and culture. Song decided to pursue Visual Media Arts when arriving at Emerson, straying

from the path that his parents believed he would take. “You know, movie making is really interesting, and it allows me to be on my toes, to think about stuff, to construct stories. And to get creative. And then still, because your parents want you to do certain things, sometimes, say, ‘Okay, you grow up, be a lawyer. Be a dentist because it’s the easy way. You’re not going to get trouble. You make a lot of money. You have kids. Beautiful. Secure.’ But I’m not a fan of you know, going into the traditional route.” But when it comes to learning and growing in a new culture, you run the risk of an identity crisis. “I know for me that it’s true that I have different lives. I have different lives and sometimes it is so difficult to adjust to one another. So like, for example when I first came here, or first came to Boston, to Emerson College, I was like, “Where am I?” and “Who am I?” and “What am I doing?” And then after the first semester and the first year, I went back to my hometown, and I was like “Where am I?” and “Who am I?” “How should I behave?” Cause you’re in a different place, you can’t be the person that’s like, ‘This is the way I wanna behave,’ You gotta find a way to be flexible, so you can actually be a part of the culture. You join the dance; you know? And then I think for me, it’s just to be flexible. Allow myself the time to say to myself, ‘Okay, Bruce. Here you are. It’s a different place, different people, different way of interacting…’ and then, ‘You gotta change.’ Especially mentally,” Song says. When you’re in constant motion like

Song, the people you meet aren’t always going to be there with you physically, but their impact probably will be. This is what happened when Song met Michael. While shooting his senior video for school on the main street in Lake Placid, Song was approached by 76-year-old Michael, a photographer based locally in the town. Curious to know what Song was up to, Michael inquired about the project and they got to talking, discussing everything from Chinese opera and filmmaking to philosophy and life in general until Song had to be home for his school’s curfew. Finding out that Song was graduating high school soon and that his parents weren’t going to be able to make the ceremony, Michael offered to take Song’s photograph and attend in his parents’ place. Song was ecstatic. Rushing home to make curfew, Song bawled his eyes out, struck by this serendipitous connection, that came and went all too quickly. The next day rolled around. “I was playing in the band and I looked up, there he was…with his camera, taking pictures of me and then we talked at the banquet and he was there to see the senior video that I made and we talked after. And the next day was the day that I needed to fly back. So I got his phone number. We decided to meet in the morning and he was…all of a sudden, like, ‘Let’s meet before I go.’ So we met at the café and as a gift for going home, he gave me a script. “Love in Vain” It’s about a blue jazz player.” “Why that was such a profound, strong connection was that it was such short term. It was like we had such a small amount of time to spend with each other which I think happens in my life mostly, that I get the most beautiful, beautiful connections with people in a very, very short amount of time. And then, in terms of distance, physically, it’s not there anymore. But, it’s here with me spiritually. Cause it was short, it was like a flash that passes by so quickly. That’s what made it so precious. That’s what made it so miraculous.” Song is no stranger to goodbyes, having to say them quite often, but he doesn’t like to use that phrase. “At first they were, at first they were, but then gradually I just realized that a goodbye is never a goodbye, it’s just a see you again.” Finding these connections has helped

Song navigate the complexities of existing within different cultures, but at the same time, the longer that Song exists within American culture, the more his identity and way of communicating blurs. It’s an interesting phenomenon for Song. “I’m 21 years old and I’ve spent six years in the States and then currently, I am in the States. So English, oddly, or naturally, has become the easier way for me to communicate. And sometimes I’m like, ‘Whaaat? What is happening to me?’ And I get these moments when I’m trying to talk to my parents or to my friends back home and I’m like, ‘Ugh.’ I stopped. I couldn’t find the words to say. I’ve lost. It’s like certain parts of my brain don’t build that language connection and bridge that used to be so easy to find. And now, it’s just not there anymore. Which is why I said I’m losing that part of me which I really want to hold on to. I think it’s a thing for a lot of people too, with…say you’re exposed to a different culture. How do you maintain yours at the same time?” To solve this problem, Song exists as a fusion of the two cultures—his Chinese and American cultures. “It’s a fusion. But I think first of all, just sorting out detail by detail what they are separately, individually and I gotta have a clear mentality about what you are doing in your life and whether you know, there’s one culture, learning it, and to an extent that you forgot about your own culture, that you’re learning at the same time. Then you can draw references to your own culture, so you build this web, this interconnecting web that you can see things from different perspectives which I think is such a beautiful thing.” While it’s not entirely home, Song has found nooks in Boston that create a semblance of it. There’s a restaurant named after his province in China, a home wares store in Chinatown with handcrafted products, even a WECB radio show hosted by a friend that plays Chinese songs and one in which they only speak in Mandarin. “It’s the only Chinese channel which that really gives me the resonance of, you know, the arts through music, that musical connection that I had when I was back home. I would be listening to these kinds of songs, this music and then I would be listening to those songs here in Boston and Emerson College, a foreign school. That’s, I think my connection to my culture.” g

IMPRESSIONS These images come from a curated experience that sought to explore how people connect for the first time without sight. The goal was to track these interactions using their tactile experience of painting. Five pairs of strangers were brought, blindfolded, into a room and sat across each other. They then listened to their partner’s favorite song before being allowed to explore the table between them. The table, unbeknownst to them, was covered in a large poster board, paints, brushes, and sponges. Every pair was different. Despite their lack of sight when creating their pieces, visual analysis of the final product brings their unique experiences to light.

director KATRINA “CHAPPIE” CHAPUT producer ENNE GOLDSTEIN photos RENATA BROCKMANN participants ANNA STEWART & SHAFAQ PATEL KERRY FERRELL & AYO XAVIER PHILIP PAUL & ERIC BISCHOFF BETHANY HAMLIN & HANSEN PAIGE RAZ MAOYED & JOHN TALBOT special thanks TRISTAN CALVO–STUDDY & CHLOE KRAMMEL

Anna / Shafaq SHAFAQ Am I allowed to talk? CHAPPIE Yeah! We want you to talk. --SHAFAQ They said your name was Anna? ANNA Yeah. SHAFAQ I’m Shafaq. ANNA Nice to meet you. --SHAFAQ How’s your day been? ANNA It’s good. SHAFAQ Great. ANNA How about you? SHAFAQ Woke up right before this. ANNA Yeah me too. SHAFAQ It’s great. ANNA Were you partying? SHAFAQ Uh, kinda a little bit. --SHAFAQ (CONT’D) Can I ask what you’re drawing? Or painting? ANNA Honestly, I have no idea. SHAFAQ Yeah, that’s fair. Me neither. --SHAFAQ (CONT’D) Classic Emerson question: what major are you? ANNA VMA. A pause. ANNA (CONT’D) What about you? SHAFAQ I’m a journalism major. ANNA Alright. --SHAFAQ What year are you? ANNA I’m a freshman. SHAFAQ Oh, wow. How do you like it so far? ANNA I like it. It’s alright. Shafaq laughs. ANNA (CONT’D) And Chappie’s here, so, you know. SHAFAQ Are they your RA? ANNA Uh, no. SHAFAQ Oh. --SHAFAQ (CONT’D) Have you heard my song before? ANNA Yeah I have. SHAFAQ Yeah, it’s pretty famous. I’m not into- I don’t listen to random music too much. ANNA Yeah. SHAFAQ Just what’s on the radio. Pause. SHAFAQ (CONT’D) How’d you come across your song? ANNA Um... that’s a good question. I honestly don’t know. I think I was-actually I do know. I was at the beach and I got really into this genre of music called Dream Pop. SHAFAQ Okay. ANNA Which is, like, heavy on synths, like, kind of airy. And I just stumbled across this song. And it was, like, it just gave me this feeling... that-- like this really disorienting feeling. SHAFAQ Mm-hm. ANNA And I, like, couldn’t stop listening to it. SHAFAQ Oh, wow. I love that when you get that from a song. ANNA Yeah. It makes me- it reminds me of, of like, a foggy day, or something SHAFAQ Mm-hm. ANNA I dunno. It’s a weird song, but I love it. --SHAFAQ How many colors do you think you did? ANNA One. SHAFAQ Oh! I think I hogged all of them. I’m so sorry, I did not know. Would you like more colors? ANNA No, I like one. SHAFAQ Okay, I think I used three. I apologize for hogging all your colors. ANNA (laughing) Don’t worry. SHAFAQ I did not know. --CHAPPIE You wanna comment on what you’ve made? ANNA (after laughing at the painting) No. Kerry / Ayo AYO There’s a cup... OH! KERRY What? AYO Oh god, okay. KERRY What? AYO There’s paint... in the cups. KERRY Okay. AYO I’m about to finger paint- can I do that?

KERRY Definitely, do that. --KERRY (CONT’D) I got some paint. AYO You got some paint? KERRY I think so- I hope so. AYO Okay. KERRY Are we finger painting? AYO That’s what we’re doing. KERRY Okay. AYO Going back to preschool. --AYO (CONT’D) I wonder what colors these are. KERRY (with yellow) I really hope this is purple. AYO (with blue) This is gonna sound weird, but it feels like... blue. KERRY Really? AYO Yeah... like, I think colors have- you know what I mean. KERRY I understand. AYO Yeah, thank you. --KERRY I can’t draw for shit, I’ll try to do, like, a cube. AYO Everyone can draw. KERRY Oh! Do, do like the, uh, do the cool “S.” You know, like the “S” you’d doAYO Oh my god! That thing people did in middle school? KERRY Yeah, no, do the cool “S,” do the cool “S.” AYO YOoooooooo. KERRY I definitely cannot. --KERRY (CONT’D) You wanna trade colors? AYO What? KERRY You wanna trade colors? AYO What color do you have? KERRY (still with yellow) I don’t know, I hope it’s purple. But it’s definitely not. AYO What does it feel like? KERRY It feels yellow. --KERRY (CONT’D) This better fucking be paint. If we like- if this is, like, mustard or something disgusting I’m gonna be furious. AYO Wouldn’t you, like, smell it if it were mustard? KERRY Yeah, that’s really- yeah. --AYO It feels so weird. KERRY What are you doing? AYO I’m literally just feeling the paint. I don’t- I don’t know! I don’t know what am I supposed to do! They gave me no instructions. --AYO (CONT’D) Do you think we could, like, put this in the MOMA after we’re done? KERRY Yeah, I think we are in the MOMA. AYO Ooo. Wow. --AYO (CONT’D) What if all of these colors are black? KERRY Pretty intense. AYO What if it’s just, like, five cups of black paint? KERRY That’d be some pretty good social commentary. --AYO Choker? I thought it was Frank Ocean. KERRY Yeah, he kinda sounds like him a little bit. It’s a- it’s a really fun song. AYO Oh, so, does that mean you listened to my song? KERRY Think so, yeah. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” AYO Yes! That’s my favorite song. --KERRY What’s, like, your go-to kind of bread? For, uh, any breadrelated food? AYO Uh, my favorite is sourdough. KERRY Oh? I wasn’t expecting that. AYO Wha- sourdough isKERRY You sound like a 7 grain kind of person, just based off your voice. AYO 7 grain... KERRY Yeah, 7 to 12. AYO Is it because I sound like I’m from California? KERRY No. Are you from California? AYO I am. You know, it’s the little, uh... I do like 7 grain, though. But it’s not my favorite. KERRY I like honey wheat. AYO I actually have honey wheat right now. I ran out of sourdough, so

I bought some honey wheat. KERRY It- it’s not bad. AYO Ya know... it’s not sourdough, butKERRY Yeah, it’s better. AYO But it will do. KERRY It- uh. I like it. It’s my go-to. AYO Really? KERRY Yeah, honey wheat. Or, uh, if I’m feeling really crazy... 12 grain. AYO 12 grain? KERRY Yeah, if I need, like, several grains. AYO That just sounds, like, overdoing it. KERRY (pause) Yeah, it’s not that good. Philip / Eric PHILIP I wonder if there’s, like, a goal to this whole thing. I wonder if, like, we’re supposed to, uh, paint. Or if we’re just supposed to, like, I dunno, live in the environment. I like living in the environment. ERIC Yeah, it’s a pretty creative environment. PHILIP I think! From what I can feel. --PHILIP (CONT’D) I love the smell of paint, I will say. Like, like, all these smells are pretty tight. I, I’m, uh, I’m enjoying the smell of paint. I don’t really kn- I can’t really do anything with it, thoughERIC Maybe we can like drink it and get really high. PHILIP Oh my god, yeah. But like in my head, like the first thing I said was like, “Yeah I kinda wanna drink it.” ERIC Maybe I did drink it and that’s what’s going on, with this table. PHILIP Yeah, right. “I drank the paint and now the table is curved.” --PHILIP (CONT’D) Where are you from? You know someone from Providence, Rhode Island, does that, uh, imply that you’re from Providence? ERIC No, no. He just, like, commutes here from there. But, umPHILIP Get the hell out of here, that’s nice. ERIC Yeah, it’s likePHILIP Far! ERIC Yeah, kind of. It’s like a 40 minute thing. But, I’m from New Jersey. PHILIP Get the hell out of here, dude. I’m from New Jersey. ERIC Oh, shit! PHILIP I’m literally from New Jersey, um, what part of New Jersey are you from? --PHILIP (CONT’D) Do you like Jersey, did you like growing up there? ERIC Actually, uh, yeah. I mean, like, I got tired of it before I came to college. But then, once I got to college I kinda got nostalgic about it. PHILIP Yeah, that, um, that’s how it works, man, yeah. --ERIC I feel like @DannyDevito is the most New JerseyPHILIP (laughs) Danny Devito is undoubtedly New Jersey. I didn’t even need to know he was from New Jersey to know he’s from New Jersey. Uh, yeah that’s funny, that’s cool. --PHILIP (CONT’D) I’m more in the cup than I am on the paper. I’m just, like, I just keep prepping like I’m going to paint something but I’m not, like, doing anything with it. I don’t know- I feel like I’ve painted, like, a few lines. ERIC I’m really painting like a child. I’m using, like, two brushes. PHILIP Two brushes? Yeah, I’m over here, like, literally painting nothing. --PHILIP (CONT’D) Painting- painting has always been weird for me. I dunno. Do you like painting? ERIC I never really, like, tried it besides, like... things like this. PHILIP Right, right. So you’re, like, prettypretty indifferent

about it. Just like, not- not really associated. Yeah, I guess I’m the same way. I’d be like, I don’t like, not like painting, specifically. Uh, I love when other people paint. Because I’m like, “Oh my god, that’s, like, the coolest thing in the world, ‘cause I could, like, never do that.” ERIC Like Bob Ross? PHILIP Uh, yeah, like Bob Ross. That dude is literally too much, man. --PHILIP (CONT’D) Also, last night, I met, uh, two guys who were dressed as, um, Jonah Hill and Michael Cera from Super Bad and I thought that was the best HalloweenERIC That’s actually amazing. I literally love that movie. Yeah, that’s, uh, it’s, uh, yeah, that’s amazing. --Upon having their blindfolds removed. PHILIP It’s kinda funny to see what they come up with-- Hey! ERIC What’s up man? PHILIP What’s up? They shake hands. PHILIP (CONT’D) Oh, wow. I was painting with white, so, like, it didn’t even come to anything. I essentially should’ve just sat here and done nothing. That’s funny. This is so tight. ERIC I thought I had made some shapes. But I guess I just painted everywhere. They laugh. PHILIP Definitely more of a smear. Bethany / Hansen HANSEN I was told I wouldn’t be scared, but I’m already a little scared. --HANSEN (CONT’D) Are you across from me? BETHANY Yeah, I think so. HANSEN Ah! I’ve got mostly, painting materials. BETHANY Yeah, I think we both have them. HANSEN Yeah, I’m feeling painting materials. BETHANY Yeah. HANSEN How far are you? Hansen reaches out their hand. HANSEN (CONT’D) Can you touch my hand? Can you reach my hand? BETHANY Probably. Bethany reaches out and they touch. BOTH Yep. BETHANY I don’t think it’s a very wide table. --HANSEN If it was my song, which I feel like it probably was: it’s a song that I know because of my parents. BETHANY Well, I thoroughly enjoyed it. --BETHANY (CONT’D) (whispering to themself) How many paints are there? HANSEN I don’t know- are there actually paints? BETHANY Yeah. HANSEN Wait, where did you find paints? BETHANY Right in front of me. --HANSEN Well, now that I know that there’s paint... BETHANY What did you think there was, just theHANSEN Well, I just felt brushes, that’s all I found. BETHANY You gotta explore more. HANSEN I know. --HANSEN (CONT’D) I- I dipped each brush into a different paint but now I don’t remember... BETHANY Oh I wasn’tHANSEN I don’t wanna double-dip, but that’s fine. BETHANY I’ve definitely doubledipped. HANSEN It’s what happens. BETHANY Yeah. --BETHANY (CONT’D) I’m just using my hands. HANSEN Ooo! BETHANY At this point. HANSEN That is a fun idea. I did already dip my finger in it to assertascertain that it was paint.

--HANSEN (CONT’D) I didn’t remember it existed until this past summer from, like, probably when I was, uh, I dunno, 10 or so. ‘Cause my parents just stopped listening to 80s music, uh, at a certain point they, you know, started listening to now music. But, uh, we made a Spotify road trip playlist this past summer of like, 80s dance pop and stuff and, uh. And that, like, came up in the recommendeds. And I was so excited to hear it again. You know how like, you forget a song, but then you hear it again and you still kinda know the words, but you can’t really, uh, like, say them, but you, like, know what’s gonna happen as they’re saying it? BETHANY Mm-hm. HANSEN That’s what it was like, it was really nice. BETHANY That’s really cool. --BETHANY (CONT’D) I used to, um. My senior year of high school I would listen to that song when I would drive into school. And, like, just sing it at the top of my lungs ‘cause it was fun, I dunno. HANSEN That is a really good song for singing. BETHANY Yeah. --BETHANY (CONT’D) Are we sharing a piece of paper? HANSEN I think so. BETHANY Oh, yeah, we definitely are. HANSEN Yeah, I didn’t- I didn’t find two. BETHANY Huh. A pause. HANSEN Sorry if you thought you were making your own art right now. BETHANY No, it’s interesting. HANSEN I’m definitely infringing upon it. --BETHANY I can come off as kind of rude if I’m in a rush. HANSEN That makes sense, I think that’s fair. I- I dunno. I think that the way I’ve started interacting with people for the first time has changed drastically very recently. Um, I think that I used to be a lot more insecure, so I’d always be, like, thinking about myself. BETHANY Mm-hm. HANSEN And what they would think of me. And, just really, like, not actually focusing on the other person. BETHANY Mm. HANSEN Which is sad. But I think it’s also really natural. I think that now, I am... a little better. At like, talking to people for the first- then being super in my own head. But, um, I can still be kinda shy. Still be a little, uh, awkward. --HANSEN (CONT’D) What do you do on a normal day if you have some time for yourself? BETHANY (sighs) Um, normally, I would do, like, errands. Just cause I, like, have to do those things. --HANSEN I like cooking... BETHANY What do you like to cook? Like do you like cooking or do you like baking? HANSEN I like cooking. I actually don’t even really like sweets that much. Um, but I like things that are savory, salty, spicy, and like soups. Soups are really fun to make because you just, keep adding things. BETHANY Mm-hm. HANSEN And if you fuck it up you can just kinda keep going. --HANSEN (CONT’D) So, you draw? BETHANY Yeah. HANSEN What kind of things do you draw? BETHANY Like, abstract faces. HANSEN Ooo. Sounds really cool. BETHANY Uh, I enjoy doing realistic stuff, but like, not, like, in my own time as like, uh, I won’t say that I’m super good at it, but I enjoy doing it. Raz / John JOHN There’s a bunch of, like, brushes. RAZ Yeah. JOHN I think this is a sponge.

RAZ I- I went inside a cup and it’s paint. JOHN It’s paint? RAZ Yeah, yeah. JOHN Oh, well I was about to dip my hand into it. RAZ That’s literally what I did. That’s exactly what I did. They laugh. --RAZ (CONT’D) (with yellow) This feels like a blue. JOHN I was also thinking thatlike, I just also got blue vibes... RAZ Right? I feel blue. JOHN For some reason. --RAZ Do you- I actually haven’t painted in a long time. In, like, ever, in college. JOHN Yeah, definitely not me either. --RAZ Do you that meme where it’s, like, that 90s, like, squiggly... woman? JOHN Like, that “S” thing? RAZ I think so? I don’t know. With the sponge and she’s like “Whoa!” John laughs. RAZ (CONT’D) No? JOHN No, I don’t think so. --RAZ (tapping a sponge against the paper) You like that sound? They laugh. JOHN It- it also reminds me of Bob Ross. And likeRAZ I- Oh, go ahead, sorry. JOHN Like, a lot of people like watching Bob Ross. I’m not really too interested in the voice, I’m more interested in the sound of the paint brush. Specifically, like, that thing. RAZ Yeah. JOHN And he does like the- I can’t do it with this brush. Let’s see if I can with what I have here. Ok, I think this is a brush. I’m gonna try a different cup, though. --RAZ You’re not, like, VMA are you? JOHN Yeah, I am. RAZ Honestly, it was too easy to guess VMA. JOHN Yeah, a lot of people are. RAZ You’re in production right? JOHN Yeah, sort of. RAZ Why sort of? JOHN Um, I don’t know, I’m kind of just figuring out what I wanna do. RAZ Mm-hm. JOHN To a certain extent right now. RAZ I’m on that boat. --JOHN LikeI was- The reason I picked it is because I was, like, SO into them when I was like 12 or 13, which was when I was starting to figure out what I wanted to do. Just, like, something in the art... world. --RAZ I couldn’t bring my record, because of that. JOHN I miss it. RAZ Yeah, I miss home. A pause. JOHN Dodo you miss home? RAZ Um, yes and no. JOHN Mm, yeah. Same. RAZ I was also, likeI was here over the summer. And... it was, like, nice

and so cool and I was like “Oh my god, this is so cool, I’m in Boston!” And I thought I was the shit, and then, like, the school year started again and I was like, “Oh yeah, I won’t go back home until, like, June.” JOHN Yeah, I’m kinda the same way. I didn’t stay here over the summer. But, um, yeah, I... I like- When I was first coming to college I was like, “I cannot wait to get out of this hellhole,” and, like, do something with my life. RAZ Mm-hm. JOHN Um, and then I- as soon as I got to college, I was, like, I got so homesick I could not believe it... RAZ Yeah. JOHN At all. RAZ It’s sorta weird, like, no one tells you. JOHN No! RAZ Like: “College is supposed to be fun! You’re gonna have such a good time! It’s the best time of your life” JOHN I know. RAZ And it is... to a certain degree. JOHN Yeah. RAZ I dunno. JOHN Yeah, freshman orientation was rough, emotionally. RAZ Oh my god, wait, tell me all about it, please. --JOHN I felt, like, isolated from everyone else. I’m lonely. I’m in a giant city. Why am I not super happy? This is all I’ve ever wanted. RAZ Mm. JOHN Um, I wish I was with my friends who are all in college too. RAZ And, like, not a ten-minute drive away. JOHN Yeah. RAZ I know. I think

that’s the hardest part. JOHN Yeah. --RAZ I definitely miss my friends. Like, from home. Like, they are like my true, true, true homies. JOHN Mm-hm. RAZ Like, I found my soulmates in high school. JOHN Yeah, I went to the same middle and high school. So, it was, like, the same people I’ve known for a long time. And now everyone’s in college, and moved away. RAZ Mm-hm. JOHN And all that. --JOHN (CONT’D) I- I just always stand out. ‘Cause I’m, just, like, above everyone physically. So, I don’t know if people are looking at, like, my- my belly or my face. Probably... actually, I don’t know. RAZ I mean, I sorta get you because my hair is so big. Like, it’s curly and, like, big, and like, everybody else is, like, straight. So, like, everybody can just point me out based on my head. ‘Cause, I don’t know. I guess, just, like, the surface area is larger than normal. --JOHN I’m gonna try and draw a smiley face just so there’s something to show. RAZ Something to show. JOHN So I gotta... I’m gonna- I’m gonna put my brush in all four paint cups, see what that does. RAZ Oh! --RAZ (CONT’D) I think, because of your song I became mellow. ---

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