In Plain Sight: Haute Magazine's Spring 2023 Issue

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR IN CHIEF

Dear Reader,

This issue is a collection of the significantly insignificant, the extraordinary ordinary, and the exciting mundanities. Inspired by the candid appreciation of the everyday, we aim to give a voyeuristic peek into daily life — showcasing intimate, personal narratives written from the heart and telling untold stories of our community with sights that may have been missed at first glance. “In Plain Sight” is as quiet as they come, but not any less charming than the others.

This will also be my last issue as Editor-in-Chief of Haute Magazine. To those of you who took a chance on us — from the bottom of my heart — thank you. The past three-and-a-half years have been nothing short of amazing; I’m filled to the brim with gratitude to have been a part of the most talented creative community on campus and to have met the stellar individuals of such, whether you went or stayed. Our fellow Executive Board and staff keep me in a constant state of awe as they continuously redefine what it means to produce student work. And to our friends, family, and Internet strangers: we owe it to you for keeping us alive. I’m proud to say that we have reached over 500,000 impressions worldwide to date, and this semester, have been recognized as one of Issuu’s top student magazines. Haute Magazine has also been able to enjoy riveting opportunities and partnerships with both local and globally recognized brands, and it wouldn’t have been made possible if not for all of you.

It has been the biggest privilege learning and growing alongside this organization, and I’m more than overjoyed to end my last letter to you with the biggest congratulations to our next generation of creative leaders. I am excited to see what more we can accomplish and to what greater heights we can reach, even from a distance.

We laughed, we cried, and we reimagined what is “In Plain Sight” — and we are serving it to you on a platter of love. From Shreya and I for the last time: thank you!

Sincerely,

NOTE FROM THE CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Haute has grown from a rough idea in the minds of our founders to now a full-blown professional publication and cultural force to be reckoned with at USC and Los Angeles. Our goal has always been to redefine what a student-run magazine can be. By fusing the creative genius of you all — USC’s very own student body — with that of industry leaders, Haute claims its position as the anchor of arts and culture in every corner of USC. I am so proud to be here, in this position, representing the USC student body for those consuming our work globally. Alice and I have been with Haute for three-and-a-half years now, and watching it grow from the ground up has been truly an amazing experience like no other.

To the Haute staff: each of you are so, so very appreciated. Without your immense talent and support, Haute would not be where it is right now. The visual design team has a special place in my heart — the team I have had the privilege of being in and then overseeing since freshman year. I would love to specifically speak on the importance visual design holds within the magazine. Photography and Writing can exist independently, but design is what binds our entire 300-page issue together. Design is the backbone of this publication. The care and attention our designers put into each spread is something that readers may not explicitly notice, but like all good design, is something that they will feel when they flip through this issue and sense its professionalism and elegance.

It feels incredibly full circle to end my tenure as Creative Director on a theme as grounded as “In Plain Sight”. A theme that captures the beauty in small, seemingly unimportant moments. Looking back on my three years in Haute, it’s not the “big” moments — the issue launches, the parties where hundreds celebrate with us, the collaborations with globally recognized brands — that stick with me, but the small ones — the late nights in Taper Hall, the last-minute team pregames in my living room, and the dozens of inside jokes. As you flip through this issue, I hope you feel the same sense of fulfillment and contentment as I do.

CREDITS

Editor-in-Chief Alice Han

Creative Directors Shreya Gopala + Ally Wei

Director of Writing Bryan A’Hearn + Daniel Lee

Directors of Photography Fiona Choo + Juliana Margolis

Directors of Visual Design Anoushka Buch + Jared Tran

Directors of Multimedia Katherine Han + Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Director of Web Borja Schettini

Director of Fundraising & Events Katelyn Lee

Director of Finance Josh Ko

Director of Social Media Jade Bahng

Senior Advisor Xyla Abella

WRITING

Lucia Zhang

Grace Kim

Anthony Slade

Shane Dimapanat

Veronique Louis-Jacques

Hunter Black

Cynda Wan

Aerin Oh

Sam Koog

Julie Wan

Vijay Dalal

Olivia Mooney

PHOTOGRAPHY

Eliza Barr

Alan Phan

Aaron Wilson

Emi Yoshino

Yukin Zhang

Morgan Brown

Sunya Ahmed

Lucas Silva

Stephanie Lam

Jenny Yu

Jacob Hollens

Daniel Song

Thythy Do

Amanda Chen

Emma Lloyd

DESIGN

Arya Tandon

Jackson Epps

Natalie Darakjian

Rohit Dsouza

Nishka Manghnani

Michael Castellanos

Abriella Terrazas

David Nguyen

Eileen Mou

Imagen Munkhbayar

Sharon Choi

MULTIMEDIA

Alysha Wang

Aria Li

Tyler Tang

Sea Gira

Cecilia Mou

Joanna Song

Sam Socorro

Zehua Yang

Kayla Wong

Liya Yang

Mikayla Ashe

Youmin Lee

Sofia Malkassian

Yeji Seo

James Mai

Franklin Lam

Cheyenne Terborg

John Kim

F&E

Tiffany Lo

Karly Kortbein

Lauren Oh

Anish Lahorani

Camryn Lee

Katie Lee

Daniel Stone

Lois Yoon

Ashley Kim

Nya Manneh

Samantha Fedewa

Owen Tan

Alexander Bronfer Alexander Bronfer + Nishka Manghnani

An Infinite Reflection Lucia Zhang + Juliana Margolis + Nishka Manghnani

Brendan Flesher Brendan Flesher + Michael Castellanos

Everything in a Name Aerin Oh + Jenny Yu + Natalie Darakjian

Behind The Curtain Emi Yoshino + Abriella Terrazas

A Perfect Match Anthony Slade + Stephanie Lam + David Nguyen

Faded Aaron Wilson + Imagen Munkhbayar

Fugitive Colors Sam Koog + Daniel Song + Borja Schettini

Damien Maloney Damien Maloney + Natalie Darakjian

The Aesthetic Experience of Coffee Shops Julie Wan + Thythy Do + Eileen Mou

Through Conversation Alice Han + Fiona Choo + Juliana Margolis + Shreya Gopala

Members Only Haute Photography Team + Shreya Gopala

Square Feet Olivia Mooney + Lucas Silva + Arya Tandon

Two Stories Vijay Dalal + Rohit Dsouza

Ted Min Ted Min + Rohit Dsouza

The Color of Our Eyes Daniel Lee + Sunya Ahmed + Anoushka Buch

PEOPLE WATCHING! Alan Phan + Jared Tran

In The Eyes Of Hunter Black + Amanda Chen + Jackson Epps

The Human Condition Morgan Brown + Jared Tran

Shattered Perceptions Cynda Wan + Jacob Hollens + Anoushka Buch

UNIF Ally Wei + Xyla Abella + Nishka Manghnani

She Grace Kim + Emma Lloyd + Abriella Terrazas

Life Recently Veronique Louis-Jacques + Emi Yoshino + Borja Schettini

Where Did Everyone Go? Shane Dimapanat + yinnlob + Sharon Choi

Make Me a

Fiona Choo + Michael Castellanos Behind

ALEXANDER

ALEXANDER BRONFER

Alexandar Bronfer is an Israeli photographer who is a true citizen of the world. He was born in Ukraine and studied in Saint Petersburg, Russia. After arriving in Israel, Alexander lived in a kibbutz in South Israel where he fell in love with the Dead Sea region and desert. Alexander is a talented and creative artist with a unique concept of street photography. He focuses on the connection between street and fine art photography, where he finds that reality is not what he is trying to capture but his personal feeling of the scene is. Alexander is a finalist of multiple international and Israeli photography festivals. Nowadays, he spends his time on personal projects mainly about environmental issues in Israel and our interactions with nature.

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

ALEXANDER BRONFER

ALEXANDER BRONFER

Seeing an old man eating alone is enough to make a grown man cry.

He was hunched over in the corner of the Panda Express, the silence radiating off of him a stark contrast to the clattering of plates and chatter of customers that hung in the air. He was cloaked in a fraying brown jacket and a web of wrinkles, and his eyes blurred as they gazed into the distance.

She stared at him, unashamed, but unable to erase the prickling in the back of her head. She glanced back at the counter, waiting for her name to be called.

The man’s hands trembled as he wrapped his fingers around a pair of chopsticks, the two narrowed ends repeatedly bumping into each other before slipping out of his grasp. He appeared unbothered and simply picked them up and tried again, but she could see the way his knuckles blanched white against the yellowing bamboo. It brought her back to the time when she saw her dad, a man who prided himself on besting his mile time and buying overpriced gym equipment, doing push-ups with the fading vigor of a dying man. The veins in his forehead strained against the thin, reddening membrane that lay above, and sweat ran in rivulets down his cheek. His chest heaved; his elbows threatened to give out. His rage at his sickness and determination to prove his strength fought a valiant yet futile battle against his weakening state.

She frowned, thinking back to the last time she went to the gym. A long time ago, if she were to assume, but waking up nauseous drained her motivation. There were more urgent matters to attend to, but the panda logo, the sticky smell of orange chicken, and the shiny, individually wrapped fortune cookies were stifling. Glimpsing back at him, she couldn’t help but feel like she was the reason he was sitting here.

To calm the curdling in her stomach, she made her way to the counter and grabbed a plastic fork from the black container. She walked toward where he was sitting and gently tapped his shoulder, nudging the fork at him while eyeing his grip on the chopsticks. He took it, his brows raised and eyes questioning, before his face settled into a frown. Rather than expressing his thanks, he gave a curt nod and turned back to stabbing at his noodles with his chopsticks.

She returned to her previous spot, brushing off the interaction as something to be expected. It was hard to age without some amount of regret; if only something was done differently, hewouldn’t be here. If only this one thing hadn’t happened to him, he wouldn’t be here. If only the circumstances were different... Too easily, that regret morphs into blame, a crutch to rely on that lets responsibility slip through his fingers.

It was hard to imagine what it would be like to be him, eating in a fast-food restaurant alone. In such a transitory establishment, he chose to sit down with the nonchalance of someone who has nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, and nobody else to turn to. She could see his life cycling as still frames in a spinning zoetrope: a childhood chasing kites and trampling grass, his graduation in white robes, the first wedding in charcoal suits, the second in gray. Through his eyes, she watched as his children waved goodbye. Then, through their eyes, she watched as he waved a last goodbye to his wife. Perhaps he blamed his children, or he blamed her. Perhaps, really, it was his fault all along, and he wouldn’t mind moving out and into a retirement home. It would be better for him, being barely strong enough to seal his memories into cardboard boxes with packing tape. Feeling like another piece of baggage, a burden, he hopped in a car to be placed away.

Or perhaps she was just projecting. He could be anyone, after all.

Someone behind the counter called her name, and her thoughts spiraled back down. She walked up and grabbed the bag, fumbling with the receipt. As she reached to open the door, she looked back at the man, still stabbing at his food with the bamboo chopsticks. She empathized with the sheer loneliness that he must have felt, surrounded by so many yet left alone by those he supposedly loved most.

As she crawled into the car, she thought about telling her dad. She shook her head and turned the key. A thread of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. Yet. She rested a hand on her stomach and stared out the window, trying to remember his address. Yet. Her hand moved to her phone as she typed in the name of his retirement home.

December 15, 2018

Remember when I was packing away Dad’s stuff? You weren’t there, but I was clearing some leftover boxes and found an unopened box. I opened it, and letters spilled out of the top like a barrage of dead lives. You addressed them to me, to him, to our dog. “Congratulations on taking your first steps!” Or, “Happy second birthday!”

I jumped back, really, but the true shock came when I opened your journals. I shut them almost immediately, but I’m stuck with a visceral image of it: your handwriting, blue and black and messy, with doodles framing your words. A child’s writing. I tried to put the ripped-out pages back in, but they wouldn’t fit, and the empty spines where pages were missing bared their teeth at me and I was too scared to do anything else and I couldn’t so I left.

Anyways, I thought I might try a little writing exercise. I’m trying to finish this manuscript, and it’s barely coming along with all the morning sickness and worry that I can’t seem to run away from. I thought that maybe I could write one of those letters to myself, pretending to be you. If I can get into your head a little, maybe I can stop getting into mine.

You never seemed to be able to look me in the eyes in the months before you left. I sometimes still wonder why, and maybe I could write myself into some closure and it would be good for you, too.

Although I’m not sure how you would ever see it. ***

I see you.

You’re more than just light bouncing off cones and rods and amalgamating into an image. You follow me like a shadow, even when you’re not there. You are me, I am you, but you are everything I never could be and everything I never will be. I envy your naivety, I envy your innocence, all siphoned from me. You’re everything I want, everything I fear, and everything I never want to face in the mirror.

I can’t bear to look at you.

I hate the way you smile is uneven, and I hate the way you stumble and trip and giggle. Sometimes, I just want to shake you, but I really just want to reach through the glass and shake myself awake.

If anyone asks, I left college because I couldn’t see myself there. Something about finding my own path. I had reasons to stay, I did. But you were pulling me away, a hypnotic reflection drawing me in.

I can’t look at you without changing who you are. I cannot look at you without changing who I am. The moment I look at you, you are Schrödinger’s cat: dead or alive, but you are something and I am nothing but a set of eyes. I was first though; everything you have came from me.

You stole it, you stole it all. You’ll be happier when I’m not here, and you’ll finally be able to exist just as yourself. Just in plain sight, innocuous and unknowing. For now, though, you’ll never just exist as yourself. Not to me.

The old man watches as the young lady drives away. He looks down at the plastic fork, feeling thrown off-kilter by the way she stared at him.

He glances down at his watch, shaking his head. It’s about time. He stands, moving to throw the boxes and chopsticks away, but not before tucking the fork into his front pocket. His phone rings, and he picks it up.

“We’re almost here!” the woman over the line exclaims, and he hears childish giggling in the background. He pushes the door open. The colors of sunset spill across the sky, pooling at the skyline.

Models

Emily Gross

Bella Joyce

Viva Vadim

Lilly Margolis

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angelesbased graphic designer and digital artist. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Lucia Zhang is a Los Angeles-based writer hoping to write about the history and science behind why we’re here. Lucia studies Quantitative Biology at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Juliana Margolis is an Atlanta and Los Angelesbased photographer. She focuses on developing her creative voice through documentary, environmental, and portrait film photography. Juliana studies Political Science and Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences and the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

AN INFINITE REFLECTION

BRENDAN FLESHER

MICHAEL CASTELLANOS

BRENDAN FLESHER

BRENDAN FLESHER

Bren is a film photographer located out of Butte County, California. He primarily shoots medium format film and spends quite a bit of his free time either in the darkroom or photographing Lassen National Park. Having received a MA in Global History at Freie Universität Berlin, he often tries to weave historical narratives into his images. One such instance of this is his gallry of photographs taken at the former headquarters of the East German Ministerium für Staatssicherheit.

BRENDAN FLESHER

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design. He allows empathy to inform his design and drive his creative direction. Michael studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, as well as Architecture at the USC School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

BRENDAN FLESHER

“Hello, my name is Aerin.” This is usually the first thing I say when I meet a stranger. A mundane greeting, one that I say more than a handful of times every week. One that I don’t think twice about before I continue a conversation. Isn’t it strange yet very human that we have names? We like to label and organize; to group and categorize; to create a sense of structure in a chaotic world. It is, therefore, a given that we must have names for each other — and isn’t that wonderful as well? How, since the beginning of recorded history, humans found the loveliest sounds to make to call after their loved ones. Much like how humans naturally found stories and folktales in the starry night sky, we naturally realized stories and meanings to our names with love in mind.

“Hello, my name is Aerin, spelled A-E-R-I-N.” The odd spelling of my name is the result of the Korean custom of having the paternal grandparents choose the children’s names and my parents’ decision to differentiate my name from the usual spelling in English. In my case, my paternal grandmother decided on the “hanja” characters of my name, or the Chinese characters that the Korean language borrowed before the creation of “hangeul” or the modern Korean alphabet. She chose “Ae” derived from love and “Rin” from jade marble beads, together meaning bright jewel.

“Hello, my name is Aerin and nothing matters.” My favorite movie is the 2022-released “Everything Everywhere All At Once” directed by the Daniels. Not only was it a breath of fresh air for Asian American representation — carefully depicting a Chinese immigrant family running a laundromat — but after a global pandemic, a piece that encapsulates the encouraging and comforting aspects of optimistic nihilism. When brainstorming on what to write about for Haute Magazine, it was so obvious to write about this film as it was natural to me: the script, the characters, the themes, the absurdity of the multiverses are a playground for analysis. Not just the film itself, but everything that lead up to creating it. Originally, the director duo wrote the script with Jackie Chan in mind and the character was named Jackie. However, as the script was rewritten, they found that a female protagonist would fit the story they were trying to tell more. In came the character Michelle — later renamed Evelyn — written with the legend Michelle Yeoh in mind. After the release of the film, the actress revealed in an interview that she refused to be a part of the project until the Daniels changed the name of her character. Yeoh’s reasoning for it was simple: the character deserved her own identity because it wasn’t her story, even if the character was heavily inspired by her acting career. Evelyn was a Chinese immigrant mother running a laundromat with her husband raising a queer daughter; Michelle was not. Michelle’s insistence on changing the name — a seemingly small detail, so miniscule in the grand scheme of writing a story — proved to me the importance of a name.

EVERYTHING IN A NAME

“Hello, my name is Aerin and I do not have a middle name.” I’ve sat through countless roll calls where a teacher stumbled over an unfamiliar name. Chosen from the 26 letters of the English alphabet they are so familiar with, the new combinations of the letters were often coupled with nervous laughter or a disclaimer about how they were “bad with names.” I’ve met countless people who introduce themselves with their given name but prefer an English name because it is easier to assimilate when people can pronounce your name in one try. I’ve always found it unfair — unfair that for the comfort of other people, many people of color shy away from using their given name. Especially when I heard the same stumbling teachers pronounce long European names of composers, artists, and other historical figures. The feeling never went away, especially when my mom changed her name, after she earned her U.S. citizenship, to Kaitlyn. While I do not have a middle name, my mom now does. “And what is your name?” Of course, your name does not constitute your identity as a whole. If anything, it can mean nothing to you as you navigate through life. You can live up to your name; you can defy it if you wish. Regardless, the name you tell others to call you means something: it is how people can recognize you as yourself.

Aerin Oh is a South Korea-born and Chicagoland-raised creative pursuing the film industry. Her passion lies in empowering marginalized communities through various forms of media accurately and thoughtfully. Aerin studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Jenny Yu is a China-raised, Los Angeles-based photographer. She specializes in landscape and cultural photography with a strong passion for self-identity exploration and black-and-white photos. Jenny studies History at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Natalie Darakjian is a Los Angeles and Orange County-based designer with an interest in form making and visual design. Coming from an architecture background, she seeks at finding ways to merge her various creative interests together. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Model Jiaxi Tang

EVERYTHING IN A NAME

BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Emi Yoshino is an Orange County and Los Angeles-based photographer who specializes in portrait, event, and production photography. With her experience in Stage Managing and Photographing, she has gained a passion for storytelling and entertainment. Emi studies Stage Management and Business Leadership and Management at the School of Dramatic Arts, University of Southern California.

BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Abriella Terrazas is a Bay Area and Los Angelesbased designer whose passions lie in experiential and visual design. Her work focuses on the intersections between aesthetic expressions as well as social and environmental empowerment. Abriella studies Architecture and Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Wednesday March 3, 1972

Across the parking lot, at pump number seven, through the gaps of the trash cans and columns, I saw her.

It could have been her long, blonde hair, which somehow still looked like white silk even underneath the harsh overhead street lamp. It could have been the song, “Hypnotized,” by Fleetwood Mac, blaring from her brand new 1973 Corvette Stingray. Maybe it was the way she leaned against the gas pump and looked out towards the stars in the sky. But somehow, some way, I knew we would be together.

I thought about her until the morning. A handful of drivers parked and came in to buy some gas station bullshit. For once, I didn’t resent each of them for interrupting my scrapbooking session behind the checkout counter. This girl, dressed in a red patterned top and shoes to match, has breathed life into my graveyard shift.

64 STEPHANIE LAM + ANTHONY SLADE

Thursday March 5, 1972

I was about to fall asleep behind the counter when the headlights of a Corvette made me jump out of my uncomfortable metal seat. But it can’t be her, I thought. It’s only been two days since I met her — well, saw her. And it was 2 a.m. — there’s no way a girl like her would be out this late on a Thursday.

But as soon as I saw that red shoe step out of the flashy car, I knew it was her. It was Donna. But, this time, she wasn’t here for gas.

I watched her walk in through the window behind the counter, where she had no way of seeing me. Today, she was wearing a turtleneck. She seemed like she was in a hurry, her heels danced over the puddles that filled the potholes since that storm swept in last night.

When she entered, she made a B-line to the counter. To me. She moved with a beautiful urgency, a grace that only she exudes. A single cross dangled from her ear.

She asked me something — I didn’t hear her at first. I looked into her rich, blue irises, surrounded by the bloodshot red of her sclera and contoured by the bags underneath her eyes. She was so tired. She spoke again: “a pack of Marboro’s, please?”

I asked for her I.D., I had to — gas station policy. She reached out with a shaky, delicate hand. Red nail polish, but the paint was chipped, her cuticles damaged. As soon as my eyes left her hands and glanced at the card, I knew it was fake. The glare wasn’t right, the weight felt off. But when I told her, her tired eyes narrowed, she insisted it was real. Poor thing.

I told her I had to check with my manager. Hopefully she believed me. I was able to get a picture of it after I walked it around the corner, where she couldn’t see me anymore. This way I’ll be able to remember her name.

When I handed it back, I told her I knew it was fake — but I’d let her off the hook. Her narrowed eyes were suddenly filled with gratitude.

“Do you have a lighter?” she asked me. We didn’t. “Not even a matchbox?” Nope. She slammed down a 10-dollar bill, grabbed the cigarettes and her I.D., and ran out.

She shouldn’t be out so late, buying cigarettes, tired and clearly out of sorts. I’m worried about her. After my shift let out in the morning, I went to church. I prayed for her. Donna Albright, on 307 Westminster Dr., 5 foot 5 inches, 130 pounds, blue eyes.

Friday March 11, 1972

She was at Paula’s again. She goes every day at this time. She walks down 5th avenue, then makes a right on Central. Today she was wearing green. She loves green. And green loves her. Her skin is glowing in a way that mine never has. Sometimes she gets a coffee at Ava’s. Today she got matcha. It matched her shirt perfectly. She licked the foam off of her upper lip — I wonder how it tasted.

I know it’s not right how I feel about her, but I know she must feel the same way about me. She wouldn’t be smoking that cigarette without me. We met just once, but that’s all we needed to. Next time she’s out of gas, I’ll show her that we’re a perfect match.

She might be a liar, a smoker, a heathen. But she cares about me, and I care about her.

Sunday March 12, 1972

Well, she doesn’t fucking care about me.

She needed gas again. Finally. All that driving to parties and getting fucked up in the middle of the night in a running car will do that. But she didn’t fill her tank at my station. I saw her across the street, at the Shell. The fucking Shell.

She kept looking towards me, across the street as she filled up. I walked over to remind her that my station is open.

I was met with a beautiful, confused face. A face that didn’t recognize me, not even in my gas station uniform I wore when we first met. Not even after I recited her name. Not even after I told her we were meant to be together. She looked at me like I was fucking crazy just like everyone else.

I was only trying to be polite. I put my job on the line for her, I prayed for her, I’ve been keeping an eye on her for weeks now!

And she’s scared of me. I’ll give her something to be scared of.

Monday March 13, 1972

I did something bad.

It was yesterday at the crack of dawn, I left early and followed Donna to her apartment. I didn’t even have to be discrete — again, she probably wouldn’t even recognize me.

When we got to her place, like clockwork, she lit a cigarette in her car. She smokes too much.

The gas canister was heavy. I lugged it toward her car. Her Corvette, somehow still without a scratch, reaked of cigarette smoke even from the outside.

I started pouring. It was a few seconds before she noticed, but I made sure she was covered as soon as she stepped outside the car. I scraped the red tip against the side of the box, and tossed it on her red dress.

I might not have found my match, but at least she found hers.

David Nguyen is a New Jersey and Los Angeles-based digital artist whose passions lie within the realm of interactive media and game design, with a focus on creative direction and visual storytelling. David studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Stephanie Lam is a Hong Kong and Los Angeles-based photographer and multimedia creative. She specializes in film photography and is passionate in arts and design, aiming to present surrealism and editorial fashion themes through the lens of conceptual photography. Stephanie studies Public Relations at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Anthony Slade is a Chicago and Los Angeles-based writer and journalist. He specializes in digital media and queer storytelling. Sladwe studies Journalism at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Model

Alana Harrison

FADED

FADED

The body of work explores a relationship where love has faded, but the couple remains together. It shows that not all relationships are full of love.

Aaron Wilson is a Houston and Los Angelesbased photographer. He specializes in fine art, sport, and film photography. Aaron studies International Relations (Global Business) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Imagen Munkhbayar is a Los Angeles-based designer whose interests lie in employing her marketing background to enhance user experience. Imagen studies Political Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Models

Nicole Huckaby

Jared Wilson

FUGITIVE COLORS

FUGITIVE COLORS

The school bus screeches to a halt, ending its afternoon course at the very edge of the neighborhood, as the student in the backseat disconnects his headphones, ready to return to the quiet corner he calls home. Since sunrise, he was a turtle shrunken into its shell, hidden from plain sight, just another gray spot on the wall camouflaged in a colorblind world obsessed with black, white, and the emotionless. But as he walks into his driveway, step-by-step up the cobblestone path to the front door, his heart starts to flutter, the tension crumbling like walls toppling to the floor. He’s taking off his uniform now, ripping the buttons of his ironed shirt like a ferocious primate tearing into its prey. There’s nothing collected about him anymore, nothing presentable, and that’s the way he prefers it, all up in his own mess.

In the world of watercolor, the term “fugitive color” refers to shades that fade when exposed to natural light, quickly losing their personality to various environmental factors. Due to this inability to retain character, art collectors and enthusiasts discourage the use of these pigments, but there is a distinct beauty in experiencing the impermanence. Fugitive colors like tranquil blues and warning reds evoke a range of emotions, an intensity that leaves an impression, and it’s this euphoria the student is addicted to, beckoning him to his palette and a blank canvas. Sinking a paintbrush into a cup of clear water resting at the foot of the easel, the student surrenders himself to his imagination, awakening the artist lying dormant within him. -

The painter begins with a blanket of inky indigo, blending in accents of prosperous blue that bring to life the destructive ferocity of a tumultuous coastline.

Tacky. The boy thinks, staring into his fuzzy reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. Even in the muddy image, he can make out the outline of a suit that fits him but doesn’t suit him, like he’s some contortionist forced into someone else’s skin. How come it’s got to be me? Why am I the one who has to come to terms with it? He’s disassociated from his body, unable–or perhaps unwilling–to express himself in the way he knows he should, the way he yearns to.

Going to class. Dragging himself through his studies in pursuit of a sense of belonging. Lost in a whirlpool of emotions every passing hour, longing desperately for someone to appreciate him for who he is in plain sight and not the pretender that shrinks behind the curtains of self-doubt. It all seems so meaningless: he’s in costume, just an actor in some stereotypical feel-good coming-of-age musical. Even as he lies sleepless in bed, his insecurities infiltrate his train of thought like outlaw bandits lying in ambush, waiting to rob him of his life the moment his psyche veers off track. Where did it all go wrong? It’s only the first day of the semester, but the magic is already gone.

Sleep, class, work, sleep. Sleep, class, work, sleep.

He wakes up. Another day, more expectations and shit to do without anything to look forward to. Everything’s the same, and nothing ever really ends. So is there even a point in trying? His head boils with a forlorn contempt that refuses to let him be, scalding him with the heat of shame, desire, and everything in between. He’s obsessed, every passing minute inching him closer to the agonizing question. Why. Can’t. I. Accept it? Cause right now, he just feels like a fucking phony. But now it’s time to go to class. On second thought, what’s the good in that?

Sleep, work, sleep. Sleep, work, sleep.

Work. Sleep. Sleep.

His mind is an ocean of unwelcome abuse roaring in his ear as he sinks, drowning in the murky blue abyss of his own denial. It’s quieter here. Colder. He’s a submarine, hidden from light, out of plain sight, where no one can hope to reach him let alone see who he is inside. Wallowing in the depths of apathy and scorn, he’s withdrawn from reality, floating through parties, meetings, projects, and finals like he’s a marionette strung up by the scripted routines he follows on autopilot. It’s the end of the semester already, but that hardly matters anymore. He’s found peace in isolation, welcoming his insecurities like they’re old friends to keep him company, waiting for the day where he no longer cares about opinions or assumptions or any meaningless things like that. Maybe then he’ll be able to look back and laugh at it all.

Dark, far too dark, the painter admits. Let there be light. He starts on a lighthouse: a looming tower casting a shimmering streak across the water’s surface, illuminating a strip of glittering emerald.

He’s been so distant the past few months, and she’s beginning to wonder why. Actually, wonder would be an understatement: nails clawing into her skin in anguish, she’s lost in a hurricane of thoughts. Why isn’t he here for me? Her body quivers, eyes trained at the door, heart dropping with despair at the slim, slim chance that he could be gone forever, out of her life entirely, leaving her behind with less than absolutely nothing. It can’t be. He wouldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t do that to her. She breathes. And chokes. Where is he?

The chime of the doorbell snaps the tension like cutting a thread and in waltzes the prince, late–as usual–but she had already resigned to his untimeliness long ago. One glance is all it takes for her to relapse on her feelings as she rushes to greet him, to plunge into his arms and forget about how distressed his ignorance makes her feel. But his response is coarse: he doesn’t catch her, can’t comfort her, because he has nothing left for her, no affectionate words or sentimental goodbyes. He’s failing to reciprocate, wearing a glum mask of indifference that has been glued to his face for who knows how long. Truth is, he’s not here to stay, he came just to leave.

She’s fighting now, tugging at his arms helplessly as he pulls away, out the door and down the walkway. She watches as he gets into a car she’s never seen, a car he never mentioned, a car she’ll never ride in or get to know, and, momentarily, everything is numb, as if even the molecules in the air are holding their breath. He’s really leaving. The crushing realization hits her like a truck, splintering her soul into shards that shatter on the ground, and a scream climbs up her throat, forcing its way out of her trembling mouth as a croaking howl drenched in hopeless pain and betrayal. She falls to her knees, scraping them on the concrete, as he starts the engine and pulls out of the driveway, the tail lights disappearing into the distance, abandoning her in the dark.

They’re living lives that never eclipse, opposite sides of a burnt down bridge.

At first, all is quiet: no tears, no sobs, nothing but a deafening silence he hadn’t felt in forever. It’s not like he was a stranger to solitude but this time it was just so tangible–he could feel it on his skin, the ironic heaviness of emptiness. Though they had become strangers, her company was still all too familiar, tattooed in the crevices of his mind. And as he drives through the city, leaving behind streets that he’s memorized, she’s all that he can think about, even as life commands him somewhere new, to a world that he doesn’t know as much as it doesn’t know him.

Slowing to a stop at the freeway entrance, he rolls down the window and lights a cigarette, but this time, no one nags him to put it out. With a heavy sigh he exhales, but no one bats away the smoke or playfully pokes his shoulder in exasperation. Consumed by bitter remorse, he feels it deep in his chest: the dull ache becoming a throbbing pain lurching his heart like a race car spinning out of control. Staring wistfully at the endless road ahead, he’s lost in how it all fell apart, cursing the cruel truth that life is always in motion whether he likes it or not. Then the lights turn green, taking him away from the one who truly loved him.

The backdrop is done at last, a lighthouse shining its beam onto a shadowy ocean, and

it’s time for the finale. In the limelight of the beacon’s brilliance, the painter illustrates his closing chapter: a sailboat crashing against the waves to reach the shoreline, holding high a bright crimson sail thrashing fiercely in the wind.

Three years ago, we endured a global crisis that overturned the course of history. At first, it felt like a dystopian fantasy, a commotion that only existed in news channels we watched from the comfort of our own homes. But as the world around us revealed its true colors, it flipped a switch in us, where we recognized that fundamental values today have strayed far from justice and equality. For some of us, it was watching a brother fighting in his last minutes to breathe. For some of us, it was hearing of women overseas fighting their entire lives just to live.

For some of us, it was watching grandparents mercilessly beaten and harassed for their culture, bearing the blame for a pandemic entirely not their fault. For some of us, it was hearing the heartbreaking news of innocent children massacred week after week while the authorities in charge of their safety stood by idly, failing to implement the necessary changes to stop this senseless brutality.

For some of us, it was witnessing the disgracing of The Capitol and the live fallout of the government we’re supposed to believe in.

It’s infuriating, engulfing us in an eruption of red hot anger down to the core that refuses to simmer down. No longer are we content with complacency when every passing tragedy has been a command to take a stand, to take off our blindfolds and bring what is hidden in the dark into plain sight. Protesting against a society divided by deplorable values, we come together to build relationships and support networks that encourage us to channel our anger into something greater: agency over our lives. The virtue in our suffering is that it establishes solidarity under an umbrella of shared anguish and frustration, galvanizing us to challenge the injustices ingrained in our traditions.

Everyone is welcome on the ark, a refuge that will survive the chaotic floods of violence, prejudice, and turmoil. Striving to make it to shore, we must remember that on this boat we carry something greater than our own well-being: a vision of the future. Igniting a resolution to purge injustice, anger enlists us in a never ending war against the world itself, a call to action that inflames a spirit of pushing for what we believe is right. We sacrifice our time, effort, even our entire lives to secure fairness and freedom not only for us but for the generations that follow in our footsteps. It’s a fire hazard, but as we face the malicious inferno of reality, we’ll fight it with a fire of our own.

It is finished. Marveling at the magnificence of his complete masterpiece, a window into a collage of vivid tones, the painter recalls the emotions that inspired him: from the desolation of self-rejection to the misery of goodbyes and finally the burning sensation of defiance. It’s time for the last step. He reaches for the cup of clear water resting at the foot of the easel and turns to the painting, smiling and satisfied with all that is good, before his arm jerks forward, melting the scene into a multicolor river running down the parchment and splattering on the floor. With his bare hands, he blends the paint into a uniform sludge of pigment, unrecognizable in a matter of seconds. The student-turnedpainter knows he isn’t the feature of today’s exhibition–just an amateur trying to make a statement–but this destruction sets the stage for the true artist.

Illuminating the horizon, the sun kisses the hills in the distance, its gleaming rays leaking through the window, soaking everything–the room, the walls, and the painting–in a shower of rich scarlet to burnt ochre and even a touch of pink. Over the next half hour, the student admires the sunset’s colorful dance, a story that unfolds in hues on the canvas’ surface, nature’s very own light show. Every passing shade captures a glow and personality of its own, where watercolor pales in comparison. The radiance is absolutely captivating, almost as if time itself pauses to appreciate the scenery. It’s unforgettable, a moment of pure amazement.

When the performance comes to a close and the sun bids farewell, the student begins to reflect on his own life–the incessant crawl of boring, monotonous days that drag him along. He realizes that while weeks pass by, it’s the thrill of painting that helps him process his feelings and immortalize instances of lasting emotion. This obsession with imagery and color, a side he keeps to himself hidden from the public eye, is his medium of selfexpression, keeping him grounded even as life marches on. Embracing this vulnerability, the student reminisces on the journey that brought him to where he is today, to the quiet corner he calls home, and as he settles down to sleep in the faint light of the rising moon, he reminds himself to be grateful for a world he finds so beautiful in plain sight.

Let’s take a break from the fiction.

Have you ever seen campus at night? Not when you’re grinding at the library or stumbling back wasted from a party. Go for a stroll sometime, when everyone’s asleep, and you’ll see what I mean: the light coat of fog that hugs the sky, the glowing amber street lights that bathe your sight in a faint golden wash. It’s the perfect space to get lost in your mind, to escape the noise of day-to-day life. No one’s out at that hour: it’s just you and maybe some people who are hooking up with each other.

For me, these night walks are a time I set aside to humble myself and be thankful. The

lights are nostalgic: they take me back to my childhood and bless me with perspective. I’m thankful to be in good health, with plenty to eat and a place to stay. I’m thankful for my parents and teachers who believed in me, encouraging me to become the best version of myself. I’m thankful to be at a university that champions creativity, with an organization that gives me the liberty to write something like this. I’m thankful that I have people to lean on, role models to admire, friends to mess with, and the memories of a lover to cherish. And I’m thankful to you, the reader, for walking with me on this journey until now (cheesy I know). Gratitude starts with recognizing that we all come from somewhere and have experiences that led us down a path of development. Appreciating these roots by being thankful gives meaning to the people and opportunities that nurtured our growth, celebrating their presence and efforts even as we mature to a new stage of life.

Just as fugitive colors fade over time, our circumstances are forever temporary and always subject to change. But to discover meaning in this ever-changing flow, we attach ourselves to something out of sight: internal emotions like sadness, love, anger, and gratitude that are so intense that they become the crux of our character, allowing our experiences to translate into our actions and who we really are. In this sense, fugitive colors–which are defined by their stunning but short-lived beauty–are a representation of the unpredictable spontaneity of life, where we can only find permanence in remembering what the emotions we feel in the moment. While our time in this world is forever in motion, our emotions are an oasis of stability, illustrating who we truly are in plain sight.

Sam Koog is a Los-Angeles based writer specializing in thought pieces and creative work. In particular, he likes to explore the intersection of business and fashion, fascinated with the design process and industry culture. Sam studies International Relations (Global Business) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Daniel Song is a Washington and Los Angeles-based photographer. He specializes in digital photography, graphic design, and digital art. Daniel studies Computer Science and Business Administration (CSBA), jointly offered by the Viterbi School of Engineering and the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Borja Schettini is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design and creative direction. His acute understanding of the principles of design makes way for his experimental style to push those boundaries while creating artwork. Borja studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Web for Haute Magazine.

100 DAMIEN MALONEY

Damien Maloney is a San Francisco and Los Angeles-based editorial and fine art photographer. Maloney was first introduced to photography when he became a photo editor at his college daily newspaper, and has since had his work featured in renowned publications such as The New Yorker and Vogue.

Natalie Darakjian is a Los Angeles and Orange County-based designer with an interest in form making and visual design. Coming from an architecture background, she seeks at finding ways to merge her various creative interests together. Natalie studies Architecture at the University of Southern California.

Models

Steve Lacy

Jake Johnson

COFFEE THE AESTHETIC

My 2006 Toyota Camry sputters as I pull the keys out of the ignition. I check my reflection and heave my tote bag from the passenger seat. Noticing my presence as I near the entrance, a man exiting the space holds the door so I speed into a light jog, uttering a sheepish, crescent-eyed “thank you” in passing.

Our fleeting interaction is a pas-de-deux of phosphenes, of zigzags and spirals before the colors dispel, we drift apart, and he returns to the rest of his morning while I, laptop in hand and torpid body primed to intake a mild psychotic substance, enter my suburban oasis tucked between an udon restaurant and chicken joint: Philz Coffee.

I tiptoe my five-two stature to peek over abnormally tall counters, scanning the baristas for a particularly familiar face. Their syncopated footsteps tap to hissing milk and the buzz of grinding coffee while Prince’s Raspberry Beret plays on the speakers.

I was working part-time in a five-and-dime… The blue-haired goth girl sporting a The Cure tee, nope, not her… My boss was Mr. McGee… the cushy shift lead pushes up his glasses while frothing milk under a steam wand… He told me several times… a head of espresso peeks out from the storage room — that’s him… ’Cause I was a bit too leisurely…

Espresso head makes his lithe frame to the cashier and our back-andforth exchange begins, a rhythmic dance I’ve memorized: Bryan! I exclaim fondly, What’s up he replies, the tone starting high before sloping into a darker timbre, How’s it going? is a rhetorical question because he always says It’s going, and we both smile one of those smiles that don’t quite reach the windows to the soul. I pretend to scan the menu like someone who ventures into the experimental but proceed to order my usual Philtered Soul, a nutty medium-roast iced coffee with oat milk, a sense of safety I can cup with my palms. Bryan clicks a few buttons to waive my payment and I hold up my debit card in protest, each time unavailingly. Lingering at the bar — he probably only sees a fragmented version of me from the neck up — we chat about mundane topics while he busies himself with my order: music taste, absurdism, hobbies (or my lack thereof). The amorphous quality of these conversations, their no-stakes, purposelessness, soothe my otherwise racing, existential thoughts and tethers us to the present moment.

Philz baristas often hand you the drink sans lid so you can taste it and ask for adjustments. Glistening ice cubes sinking into a circular bed of cream greet me like a jeweler’s velvet adorned with diamonds. Bryan waits for my first sip. It’s awful, I deadpan. It’s divine, actually. He laughs and saunters off to greet the next customer at the register. Our duet consummates and

THE AESTHETIC EXPERIENCE OF COFFEESHOPS

Prince’s flamboyant tenor fades out… The kind you find in a second-hand store…

I ease myself into a corner table and pull out my laptop. Certain aspects of existing in this “third place,” a physical space apart from work or home, cues my body from doom-scrolling to getting tasks checked off my to-do list — the cold wood desk against my forearms, the weight of the beverage and rattle of ice as I savor tiny sips of my coffee, the presence of other patrons immersed in their workflow. Though no one is intently watching my every move, I become conscious of my existence under this public gaze and perform a polished act in a sort of self-voyeuristic fantasy; under potential surveillance, my productivity is motivated by the silent applause of glances from other atomized, physically-isolated individuals in the same room.

Bryan left Philz for a big-boy corporate job and I have since curbed the frequency of my coffee shop outings — no longer do baristas offer me a free cup of joe. But since coming to LA, my hours spent studying in trendy coffee shops soared once more, along with an increasing trepidation when checking my bank account. For many, maybe the modern consumption of coffee is hedonism. Personally, I happily pay far too much for a short-lived multisensory experience, for a specialty coffee concoction, one with bizarre add-ins like a six-dollar Tokyo latte from Voyager Craft Coffee with cherry blossom water and brown sugar, or a nine-dollar Vienna Einspanner from K-town’s Memorylook café with clouds of their signature cream bleeding sensually into Americano. Maybe I enjoy posting Instagram stories of pleasing shades of bronze and beige and unique interior design that gives each coffee shop character, whether it’s farmhouse elements of reclaimed wood and glass jars or industrial bare Edison light bulbs with gray concrete walls. Whether it’s studying or snapping digital camera pictures for your next social media dump, perhaps interacting with this physical space is an expression of class identity, a symbolic code for hip millennials, burnt-out students romanticizing schoolwork, or remote tech workers to actualize their existence in a certain social group.

Yes, maybe coffee shops are limned with a touch of vanity, self-indulgence, and capitalism. However, the aesthetic experience of existing in a coffee shop opens my heart up to creative work, solitude, and human connections— no matter its transience — and although my habitual visits start and cease in a similar temporal and spacial routine, they entertain subtle changes—a conversation with a new barista, a compliment from a stranger. When I visit coffee shops, I celebrate the joy of the everyday, the ordinary that constitutes a communal ritual between person and person, person and place, a process of initiation and consummation that organically ebbs and flows, systole and diastoles, day by day. When life is uncertain, I feel at ease knowing that at any time, I can re-inaugurate this ritual.

Julie Wan is a Los Angeles-based writer who studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Thythy Do is a Southern California-based photographer and freelance cinematographer. Her work in digital and analog photography captures human experiences and nature, especially through narrative films and music videos. Thythy studies Cognitive Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Eileen Mou is a New York and Los Angeles-based designer with a focus on visual and experience design. She designs while keeping the intersection of aesthetics and purpose in mind. Eileen studies Design and Designing for Digital Experiences at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Models

Madison Pottinger

Min Ju Kim

list by climbing the corporate ladder. And there’s absolutely no way I wouldn’t be sold — growing up as an immigrant and knowing some of the insufferable consequences firsthand — why wouldn’t I be sold to that lifestyle they think I want? That tunneled, spoonfed idea of success?

Media has shaped our perception of youth to be something impermanent, as a commodity for untapped potential, rushing us to discover our peaks before it’s “too late”. As youth, we’re conditioned to always think about the next three steps and get obsessed with continuous progression and undying motivation. It’s always go, go, go. You can always do better. Always be better. Always get better. If you stop, someone will get ahead of you. And even if you don’t, someone is always ahead of you. So I’m running and running but I don’t even know what I’m running from or what I’m running to or who I’m trying to outrun.

Lately, I’ve been making my rounds talking to my peers I run into time-to-time on campus; everyone is a lot more open to conversation as we near graduation, whether they be floormates I haven’t seen since my freshman year or just old friends gone onto different paths. The typical conversation usually goes

like this:

“So, have you figured out what you’re doing after grad?”

“Yeah. Gonna be in [Major City] at [Prestigious Firm] as a [Coveted Position]. You?”

“Huge congrats. I’m moving to [Another Major City] to work at [Another Prestigious Firm] as a [Another Coveted Position]. Base salary is about [A Ridiculous Sum of Money].”

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Oh, what about [Our Mutual’s Name]? Do you know what they are doing?”

And repeat.

I feel my heart race (and not in a good way) when I’m flooded with thoughts like: Why am I not doing that? Should I have done that?

When I escape the suffocating repetition of textbook conversation, I take a plane from my fenced community of my peers and run home — a place I was once itching to leave — and I open my door to familiar but aged faces. I

wonder since when I could count another wrinkle on my dad’s forehead, or since when my mom’s smile mark was so deeply ingrained in the corners of her eyes. They were once faces I looked at every day, my image of them stuck in their mid-thirties; now I see that they’re wearing two more decades and I wonder since when.

I’m always greeted by a nice, warm bowl of homemade baeksuk, a Korean chicken-and-herb soup dish, and a bowl of steaming hot rice, and I don’t wait until it doesn’t burn the roof of my mouth and eat anyway as if I’ve starved for the last two weeks (because if you’re working hard enough you’ll forget to eat, apparently).

My mom sits in front of me as I tear into dinner and usually asks how the semester is going. Her way of showing she cares because I’ve grown to learn she finds it difficult to say the ‘I missed you’s. I learn to say some sentences after the usual “It’s fine.”

Time feels slower here and I’m not rushing to what is next. I’ve already forgotten what is supposed to come next.

I still don’t tell my parents a lot of things, but I do shyly admit to her that I feel a little stuck and am a bit anxious about it. That I’m not sure what to do next and I don’t know where my place in the world is. My dad tells me even he, gray hairs and all, still doesn’t know what his dream is.

We instead talk about how parent-child relationships are so important and that they’re glad they’re having these conversations with me; and how we should be fixing ourselves, because we’re as broken as they come; how we should be building meaningful relationships around us. How we need to be learning from the mistakes we make in relationships (and make a lot of it, because as time goes, they’re a lot less forgiving); how we should be getting our heart broken, and on occasion, also break hearts too. How a good career is meaningless if you don’t learn an acquired taste for people; how you should learn to apologize and forgive. How making memorable memories is so important and to take a lot of pictures because that’s what lasts; but also to stop spending so much time on my phone and take an hour out of our day to just sit. That success isn’t something tangible and the meaning of life is to define that success for yourself — and it can be something as trivial as having the best set of life-long friends you could ask for. These are the things that we should be focusing on.

I’m learning to have better conversations with them. Our conversations feel

mellowed out recently. I’m no longer pushing back to be heard but rather standing firmly to digest. Biting my tongue when I should and swallow my premature guttural reaction so I can just listen and nod and treat every word sacred. I’ve stopped moving here for a bit and I’m okay with that.

If we take a second and stop, we’ll find that the meaning of life is hidden in plain sight. Media is trying to sell us a life we think we want when life is right here in front of us. They tell us that you can find that meaning of life by working hard enough, if you make a lot of money, if you reach that epitome of success, if you’re recognized by your peers or become the next industry-leading professional. We’re killing ourselves trying to seek that meaning of life but it’s right there.

Otherwise, we’ll just outrun the youth in ourselves and look back with nothing but a haze left. They’re right — youth is fleeting — it’s in our hands to make the most out of it but we don’t realize that we’re holding it. And it doesn’t always have to be prosperity or “success”.

Work hard but you can also love hard. There is no reason for you to not do both.

Alice Han is a Los Angeles-based writer studying Computer Science/Business Administration at the Viterbi School of Engineering and the Marshall School of Business and Cognitive Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences. She also serves as the Editor in Chief of Haute Magazine.

Fiona Choo is a Southern California-based mixed media photographer studying at the University of Southern California. She also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Juliana Margolis is an Atlanta and Los Angeles-based photographer studying Political Science and Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences and the School of Cinematic Arts. She also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Shreya Gopala is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic and visual design. Shreya studies Art, Technology and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

MEMBERS ONLY

Shreya Gopala is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic and visual design. Her signature aesthetic approach integrates intentionality and elegance.

Shreya studies Art, Technology and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Fiona Choo is a mixed media photographer based in Southern California. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates perpetual narratives in society. Fiona studies at the University of Southern California. She also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Jenny Yu is a China-raised, Los Angelesbased photographer. She specializes in landscape and cultural photography with a strong passion for self-identity exploration and black-and-white photos. Jenny studies History at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Daniel Song is a Washington and Los Angeles-based photographer. He specializes in digital photography, graphic design, and digital art. Daniel studies Computer Science and Business Administration (CSBA), jointly offered by the Viterbi School of Engineering and the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Emma Lloyd is a Texas-based photographer. Her work explores the beauty of detail in the human experience. Emma studies Public Relations and Marketing at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Alan Phan is a Dallas and Los Angelesbased multifaceted photographer and creative with extensive experience in concert, concept, and film photography. Alan studies Psychology and Music Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences and the Thornton School of Music, University of Southern

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Models

Thomas Fitzgerald

Brittney Quach

Madison Pottinger

Masha Cherezova

Kainoa Martinez

SQUARE FEET

It is Saturday, and my body begins to mold into the mattress. I shamelessly refuse to move. Yet, I become consumed with pride because the deep indent serves as a testament to my claim to the space. A sense of solitude warms my heart. I feel protected by my familiar surroundings; it is safe here. I made this, and I do not want to leave. Although the blinds are closed, they fail to keep out the overwhelming sunlight. So, I roll over and inevitably stare into the eyes of the Sam Cooke poster across from me. There is no choice but to welcome the flood of memories that arise at this moment. When I finally decide to get out of bed, my

eyes land on the rug. The once pure white cotton rug stretching across my floor has suddenly transformed into a mysterious gray, with traces of my hair nestled in between the distressed yarn.

Weeks of unwashed coffee cups and halffull water bottles line my bedside table. The bright purple cap of a nearly empty Melatonin bottle stands out among them; I need to buy another soon. I have not been sleeping. The flowers he gave me weeks ago continue to suck the oxygen out of the room, but no matter how much water I give them, they are still dying.

I feel a sense of horror in this disorderly state and have no choice but to finally open the curtains. I stare out the window and become thankful that I am protected from the inside out. The walls have never been this vacant. They are crying to be filled. I am suddenly consumed with emptiness. I long for my old blue sheets.

Whether the walls are barren or the floors are covered with nonsensical clutter, there are stories to be told through our living spaces. It is a tremendous privilege to have a space to call your own, to grow and evolve with the things around you by hanging posters of your favorite

album, TV show, or photos of your best friends. One even exudes a sense of self by choosing not to decorate their space. Thus, a lot can be understood about a person from the things they intentionally or unintentionally surround themselves with.

Our homes, more specifically our bedrooms, function as personal spaces separate from the outside world, a zone of self-expression and seclusion. Our rooms house our belongings and grant a place for mental recuperation and rest. They are a breath of ourselves, a portal in which we emerge and exist.

Having gone to boarding school and subsequently moving across the country for college, I was granted the opportunity to curate a personal space away from home for the past six years. There is a distinct excitement that arises when you move out of your childhood bedroom. You get the opportunity to truly resonate with your likes and dislikes for the first time. You decide if you want to clean up a mess or not. You get to dictate how much time you want to spend alone or with friends. You navigate what is truly important to you at this stage in your life. Was your self-expression restricted at a young age? Were you not allowed to hang things on the wall? All of these factors play a role in how one navigates their first opportunity to express themselves through their surroundings. This ultimately alludes to the empowerment that one gains through their living space.

As I reflect on my various rooms from the past six years, a plethora of valuable sentiments become clear. Firstly, while we cannot see ourselves change, our personal spaces are a direct reflection of who we are at a certain moment in time. Several external and internal factors constantly fuel our understanding of ourselves and consequently our living spaces. Oftentimes, indications of our changing character and identity lie among us: In Plain Sight.

Like many, as I clean out my room each year, I resonate with what I hope to discard and keep. I think carefully about stacks of papers and books because each is representative of a certain moment in time. I reflect on events that transpired in the

space and how certain moments of isolation changed me. Because of these reflective periods, my room looks vastly different each year. I enter new spaces as a different person and approach my purpose in the space with mature eyes.

Our rooms and homes can also show when we stray away from ourselves, as dysfunction can manifest in our environments. Bedrooms often serve as blatant depictions of our depressive states or loneliness. This can look like an inability to organize personal items or seeking constant solitude.

As I grew into my own, my room became an extension of myself. My personal space acts as a fundamental component of my existence, so much so that I believe that anyone who knows me would know the essence of my room without ever seeing it. However, the room’s items and atmosphere hold memories that I would only understand and contemplate later in life.

Everything in our living spaces serves a purpose, whether we think so or not. We evolve and throw items away without hesitation, whereas we are protective over other objects and insist that they remain close to us. Our living spaces are a direct reflection of our identities, serving as a reminder of who we want to be and who we hope to become. The content between four familiar walls is representative of how our past, present and future selves intersect. There is always something drawing us back to a place we made our own.

Olivia Mooney is a Los Angeles-based writer specializing in poetry and short stories that explore the human experience, culture, and the intersection between perception and reality. Olivia studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business and English (Creative Writing) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Lucas Silva is a San Diego and Los Angeles-based photographer. He specializes in film photography and largely shoots portraits, cars, and landscapes. Lucas studies Health Promotion and Disease Prevention at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer focused on visual design and user experience. Her designs navigate the intersections between accessibility and aesthetics. Arya studies Cognitive Science and Designing for Digital Experiences at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California.

Model

Christian Silva

TWO STORIES

STORIES

Alaska, 1979

It was 4:42 a.m. and the sock smell was back. The sock smell was not something that stuck around in the back like a low hum. It was absent until you were unfortunate it to notice it. He noticed it and he thought about feet for a second. Think about all the things that go under your feet. Forget shoes, forget socks completely. You were on top of things all day. The sock smell was back and the sock smell was lord over life and death in the room.

He rolled over on his mattress and heard it crunch a little. That was the worst, when something crunched. Rather than squish or silently give way. A crunch was the worst. Maybe not the worst, he thought. Candy bars crunch. He hadn’t had a candy bar in years. 4:52 a.m. No sun. No sun in the north, not for months.

The sock smell came from “The Pile” or “Jackie’s Remains”. He fluctuated between these two names depending on his mood. When it was just him and his disgusting things it was the pile, the great mound. And then when Jackie was around in his head it was her remains, it was her pile, with her socks and her underwear. He could almost see the tendrils of the sock smell now. They were reaching skinny fingers into his nose and nostril-fucking him.

Now it was impossible to exist in the same room as The Pile. The apartment could not hold its burden anymore. Not with him in it. He got up from the mattress, on the floor now. He had a bed frame but he moved the mattress on the floor. Jackie and him used to do it on the floor. She would roll off him and giggle and tell him that they should do it on the floor. He slept on the floor now. He picked up his black sweater and his keys from the kitchen table. He locked the apartment door behind him.

The hallway smelled like stale weed and stained napkins. It was bone eating cold outside but at least there was no sock smell. He walked down the staircase and his boots scraped against the parking lot. His truck was waiting for him in the stable.

He was on the freeway now and things were just fine. The station was playing “Down On The Corner” and the sock smell had retreated into the rear view and he was thinking about what he would order at the diner. Then the diner was in front of him and he didn’t really know what to order. He got the car and walked inside.

The door jingled when he walked in. There was a man with dwarfism sweeping the floor and two or three construction workers drinking coffee and having toast in a corner booth. And Raul was sitting in another corner, wearing his dull faded jacket. That was Raul’s only jacket. There was nobody at the front so he took a seat next to Raul. He was having coffee and pretending to read the newspaper. He was still

pretending even after he sat next to him. Raul didn’t say anything. He was homeless but he didn’t smell. That was the only reason they let him sit inside the diner. He had zero smell, he was just a lack of air.

“Why don’t you smell, Raul,” he said.

Raul didn’t respond. He sniffed and flipped a page. He sat next to Raul almost every night. Raul never said anything at first. He had to do his little newspaper charade before he started talking. Few knew his secret but Raul was completely and utterly illiterate.

“Raul, you don’t smell at all. You sleep on the street and don’t shower and you have no smell.”

Raul sat still for a while. In the parking lot the wind was blowing and some cups rustled around. A big Ford pulled into the lot and spat out a few more construction workers.

Raul let out a big exhale and brought out one big hairy foot from underneath the table. He placed it on the table. Raul did not have any socks on.

1999 - Texas

Roger’s knee was acting up and it was 11:52PM. The man he had shot was lying on his sofa and there was still something oozing from his head. Roger was on the couch thinking about dinner. He was alone and had lived alone for a while so he ate late at night and watched television until he fell asleep. The dead man he had shot with his .38 a few hours ago was marinating on the couch. He wasn’t concerned about cleaning anything up because he was going to use the .38 on himself later. This fact didn’t come in jolts or shocks for Roger but rather a quiet internal acknowledgement. Like seeing the mailman put something in the mailbox or watching a dog piss up a tree across the street.

On the walls of Roger’s trailer were three William Blake engravings, equally spaced and cheaply framed, though Roger did not know that they were Blakes, as he had bought all of them in a cluster at a thrift store and did not concern himself about art. He had bought them after a female friend had remarked on the bareness of his walls. His trailer was decorated in standard divorcee fashion. Every object had utility and purpose, other than the dead man lying on the couch.

The dead man had stopped by late in the afternoon with a six pack. His name was Phil and he had known Roger for some years because they were both divorced and both

TWO STORIES

veterans and both lived in the same trailer park. Two men with such backgrounds living in close vicinity were bound by some unwritten law to drink with each other on a regular basis. They usually sat and drank and listened to the four Creedence records that Roger owned, the only records that he owned. They watched television while the records played and turned the television and the music up until they were both completely bleeding into eachother and formed one distinct mass.

Phil was the one who got up and flipped and changed the records because he was the one with the better legs. They were long past singing along to the records, though they knew every chord and every lead and every lyric. They both dreamed in Creedence Clearwater Revival but they had never mentioned it to each other because they never talked about dreams. They had bled through every topic and marched down every conversational fork until there was nothing left to say and nothing left to do except sit and let the television and stereo blare away against their mutual tinnitus. They did this most nights until Roger fell asleep on the couch and Phil went back to his own trailer and locked the door behind him using Roger’s spare key. He never turned the lights off. It did not occur to him. Roger never noticed because the lights would go off on their own some time in the night.

On this night Phil got up from the couch to change Willy And The Poor Boys for Cosmo’s Factory and noticed Roger’s pills near the record player. He picked up the pill bottle and rattled it.

“These work?” Phil asked.

Roger nodded. “They work okay,” he said. Roger launched into a series of complaints about his knee.

Phil nodded back. Once Roger was finished he would respond with his own tirade against his headaches. They volleyed these against each other almost every night. They were completely aware of each other’s aches and pains and it was one of the only things they could talk about because it was always getting worse and never getting better.

Phil was holding the pill bottle and listening to the Creedence record when it occurred to him that this was as fine a night as any other and this record was as fine of a record as he had ever heard.

“Say, Roger?” Phil said.

“Yeah?”

“Think these could help?”

Roger told him he reckoned they might help. He said this without thinking about the question because him and Phil dwelled in the affirmative. There was no denial or refusal in the trailer. Phil sat down on the couch with the pills.

He opened the bottle and rolled the pills out into his palm. Roger did not see how many pills Phil rolled out because he was watching the T.V. program, a program he had seen many times over but it was a good one, as good as any he had ever seen. Phil knocked the pills back and chased them with a can of Budweiser.

Twenty minutes later Phil and Roger were still watching television and listening to Creedence.

“Roger?” Phil asked.

Roger grunted.

Phil considered asking him about dreams because he was slowly falling asleep and it had occurred to him for the first time that they had never talked about their dreams. He was about to ask him about what he heard in his dreams but stopped and that was all.

Roger waited for Phil to respond for a while but he was still and did not say anything. Then he got up and checked for a box under the sink. He forgot about his knee.

Outside a boy came to piss behind the trailer. He liked to leak one out behind their trailer because he liked to hear the loud music and the deafening gunshots from Phil and Roger’s westerns while he pissed into the cool night air. There was no music tonight, however, and they were watching a strange western, because the boy heard no television sound that night, only two gunshots that pierced the night air.

Vijay Dalal studies English (Creative Writing) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Rohit Dsouza is a Los Angeles-based designer with an interest in graphic and visual design. He seeks to combine a rigid, architectural style with his fluid, painterly approach. Rohit studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Twisting the Nipples of Photographic Representations uses humor and spontaneity of collaborative portraiture as a tool to explore discourses about truth and photography: in particular, the way in which photography records and distorts the reality that it purports to represent. The series is constructed through a set of repeated images of my friends “flying” on broomsticks and other similar objects, forming an inclusive photographic space of play. The frozen moments of my friends mid-air, sticking a broomstick in between their legs signifies not only what we recognise as the act of jumping, but what also corresponds with our understanding of flying from witchcraft. With the clash of two connotations, flying and jumping, the work aims to play a theatrical trick — an obvious lie that simultaneously denies and confesses to the hoax: presenting photography’s capacity to tell the truths and lies at the same time.

Ted Min is a Korean photographer based in Australia and South Korea.

Rohit Dsouza is a Los Angeles-based designer with an interest in graphic and visual design. He seeks to combine a rigid, architectural style with his fluid, painterly approach. Rohit studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

166 DANIEL LEE + SUNYA AHMED

EYE

S THE COLOUR OF OUR

This isn’t the story of how they fell in love, how he got her, or how they ended up. This is the story of how in plain sight (cheesy, I know), she added color to his reality.

To him, she was green.

Her favorite color was green, but to him, green was seventh at best if you took out the fifty shades of grey from the list. Because although he did love Earth tones, green was the hardest to work with even if it wasn’t vibrant and neon. He had a love-hate relationship with green. He was always intrigued by green and wanted to love green, but it always crossed the line by a hair. He bought a lot of olive or pistachio-colored shoes but would never wear them. One of his favorite outfits was a plain brown shirt, a white/grey/black flannel over it, with some off-white corduroy pants. He would put on his “green” shoes, pace his room for a bit, until he eventually talked himself out of it and put on a pair of black boots.

But she loved green. All shades of it. And because of that, green went from being the annoying little brother he had to take everywhere, to puppy love.

Green was the hardest to overcome. Before, green put him on the edge and on the line. Anything more would send him into a spiral. But now it was acceptance, embrace, and peace.

Green was:

• seeing beauty in the details.

• skipping class to go lay on the quad.

• slowly inching forward in traffic.

• the first sip of matcha.

• Shrek, his comfort movie.

• the rustling of trees from camping trips as a kid.

• Thai curry, his comfort food.

• the color of the line on the flight map showing how far along the route you were.

She brought a new meaning to green for him and he loved it like he loved her.

170 DANIEL LEE + SUNYA AHMED

THE COLOUR OF OUR EYES

To him, she was orange.

Orange was the pain of the past. Orange can be a deceiving color. On one end, if it was too bright it could hurt your eyes, but if it was too burnt, it could trap you in your thoughts. But because of her, orange became bittersweet.

Orange was:

• a Sour Patch Kid: Sour, Sweet, Gone.

• not getting into his dream school, but making the most of wherever he ended up.

• high school graduation.

• putting alcohol on a cut, knowing the immediate pain to come, but the relief that would come after.

• orange juice in the morning after brushing his teeth.

• the Vitamin C pill his parents made him take every day.

• the girl he kept going back to out of habit, but after finally breaking free from that toxic cycle, he met her.

• living and learning.

But most importantly, to him, she was purple.

A little secret about him is that despite his neutral lifestyle and sense of color, his favorite color was actually purple. Do you know why? Because he actually was colorblind, literally, physically, and scientifically. But purple was the color he could see the most clearly.

Purple did not have a redemption arc like the rest. Purple was:

• always good to him.

• his Lakers.

• Welch’s Fruit Snacks.

• grape Fanta.

• a sweet potato on a cold day.

• wine tasting in Napa Valley.

• the color of his childhood room.

• royalty.

• the smell of lavender.

• sunset milk tea.

• the sticky note his mom would leave in his lunch.

• the lights at his favorite bar.

• the only acceptable neon color.

• Little Miss Kind.

• the eggplant emoji.

• Brambleberry Crisp from Jeni’s.

• My World 2.0.

174 DANIEL LEE + SUNYA AHMED

THE COLOUR OF OUR EYES

“I dream of you in colors that don’t exist” simply wasn’t true for him. Imagining colors that didn’t exist was frightening, unstable, and unsuspecting. Purple was comfort. Comfort in his own skin and who he was as a person. College being a time of uncertainty and spontaneity, consistency was rare. Consistency was key. Consistency was what he wanted. That’s why out of all the colors she could have been, she was purple. Purple was deep. Purple was meaningful. His hearts weren’t red or pink, they were purple.

To him, she was green, orange, and purple. What’s funny is that if you mix all of those colors together, you will get brown. But to him, that (she) was perfect.

As they spent more time together, she went from being his direct source of color to also providing indirect sources as well. Because sometimes, the moon isn’t always visible at night and it needs the help of the stars to light up the dark. The stars were her gift to him. No matter how far apart they were from each other, he could always look up knowing they saw the same sky. The stars were little anecdotes she left for him. Each of those stars emitted its own color.

The stars were:

• her toothbrush in his bathroom.

• her falsies left on the bedside table after a night out.

• the smell of her perfume on his hoodie.

• his love for reading after he met her.

• her favorite café.

• the jargon he picked up from her.

• strands of her hair she left anywhere and everywhere.

• all her plushies on his bed.

That’s the story of her. That’s the story of colorful love.

Daniel Lee is a Los Angeles-based writer focused on creative marketing. Daniel studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. He also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

Sunya Ahmed is a Los Angeles-based creative who has a passion for concert and narrative photography with warm, nostalgic undertones. Her artistic style is characterized by bold compositions, vibrant colors. Sunya studies Music Industry at the Thornton School for Music, University of Southern California.

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative specializing in brand, graphic, and visual design. Anoushka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Models

Feben Worku

Jamal Seriki

Makeup

Thays Figueiredo

THE COLOUR OF OUR EYES

WATCHING

WATCHING

Jared Tran is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic and visual designer. His work exemplifies a strong understanding of composition and form. Jared studies Design at Roski School of Art and Design, University Of Southern California. He also serves as the Assitant Director of Visual Design at Haute Magazine

Alan Phan is a Dallas and Los Angeles-based multifaceted photographer and creative with extensive experience in concert, concept, and film photography. He has a knack for conceptualizing outside-the-box ideas and bringing those loud concepts to life via bright colors, unique visuals, and storytelling. Alan studies Psychology and Music Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences and the Thornton School of Music, University of Southern California.

IN THE EYES

THREE NARRATIVES WOVEN TOGETHER TO

190 HUNTER BLACK + AMANDA CHEN

EYES OF

191 JACKSON EPPS

“The Self”

“Flexible; curious; independent. I feel as though while I can be more introverted and shy on the surface, I can really be flexible in how I interact with others. I am also drawn to a shared cultural bond, and finding bonds with people who have shared a similar lived experience with me; finding a community within those who have something in common with me, whether it’s language or interests, is something I’m drawn to. The interests I feel are very broad and I draw my experiences from others’ experiences, as I’m curious to know more about the paths in which others took to guide my own. I feel as though I take on a more independent work ethic with how I take on different things; I also feel as though my more introverted side also adds to that independence, as I can find solace in myself in certain situations. In the end, I feel that my identity would usually fluctuates based on who I’m with and as such is always changing. I feel that those who may not know me as well would see me as independent, but when I get to know someone I take an effort to really open up and ask questions to really know more about them from a deeper level and I love learning more about people; I would be most proud of my ability to be curious and understand others; I feel that if we as a whole would become genuinely interested in each other more, we could really learn the dynamics of others, which is not only more understanding, but it’s also such a great feeling of learning more about each other. While it is great to have a community and shared bond, understanding differences is such a nice curiosity of mine. I feel that what makes people unique is how people react to life differently; two people can have the same situation happen to them, but the means they approach it can be radically different. It is a great interest of mine to really understand the depth and meaning of others and how we all take in the world around us.”

194 HUNTER BLACK + AMANDA CHEN

“The Lover”

“Open-minded; resilient; humble. We can be opposite in personalities; they’re more realist compared to my optimist, and while we can be opposite, they’re still a tether to me and keeps me grounded. It was a very over-time moment, as we grew closer it was something that came naturally from our bond. We’re also really communicative with each other, as though we came from different backgrounds they’re very open-minded and our shared interest in the arts helps come up in tandem helps to challenge our perspectives continuously and see a new perceptive in concepts. There are also small moments of ourselves that bring us together but can also clash; we can be stubborn at times, and though we may clash we still find a way to smooth over over time. They take into consideration the sentimental value of things, such as collecting photos; they are a very open person, taking time to get to know people whenever they get the chance but is also highly emotionally resilient; in the end, however, they are still someone who is very caring and never overwhelms others, still being able to really take the time to know more about others. I like how they’re very vocal, opening up about their day-to-day and really being conscious of the little things we do with each other. They’ve also been a very humble person who knows their boundaries and never belittles

others or themselves even in the face of conflict, something that I really admire in them. They carry both a routine and an affectionate side of them, carrying both consistency and care that allows me to feel really comfortable around them, which I feel is what helped our relationship grow. The things they also watch or do in the content they do can also reflect in their personality, highlighting how flexible they are with how they conduct themselves. While on the surface they can seem indecisive, I feel it’s due to their ability to see value in everything; their demandingness in certain situations indicates how they can conduct themselves without letting emotions overwhelm them. Overall, this person is someone who takes everything into consideration, never ignoring or belittling something because they recognize things for what they are; they see the little things because they recognize how it can contribute to the world as a whole. They are ambitious in that they want to continue exploring their scope of the world. They really reciprocate care and affection to people, something they do unconsciously to make sure that everyone they interact with is never felt insignificant while carrying a sense of emotional maturity. They continue to yearn for understanding the dynamics of concepts and viewing the world around them, always curious to know more.”

“The Outsider”

“Similar; easy-going; determined. I was similar on the surface to this person in cultural bonds, but I didn’t see any common similarities until we saw that we had similar interests in the arts, and also our family structure and background; for example, we both pursued theatre in high school when it came to the arts. I thought that we wouldn’t really get to know each other well at the start because I found this person a little intimidating, something I found with all initial perceptions of people, until I saw this person talking with some mutual friends and we got to know each other a little better and I saw this person as a little more easy-going. When we did have interactions, this person would push me to do more when it came to pursuing our passions, and while I don’t know this person as well, during our off one-on-ones at the start I’d be scared to get to know them; despite that, this person took the time to get to know me a little better. I considered myself pretty introverted at the start, but their easy-going nature put me at ease during our off interactions. This person is also someone who I can see as very determined; pursuing the arts within college life can be scary, especially with no precedent in their family or in a cultural background, this person still pursues this background; seeing them go through these obstacles and still taking the time to devote themselves to their passions also inspires me in a sense to do the same.”

Lover Serapina Chung

The Outsider Abbe Pingol

The Self Josephine Mo

The

Hunter Black is a Los Angeles-based writer who seeks to incorporate lived experiences into creative stories. Hunter studies Public Relations at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Amanda Chen is a Houston and Los Angeles-based photographer and filmmaker specializing in high-concept, editorial photography. Amanda studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Jackson Epps is a Los Angeles-based designer whose passions lie in typography and the visual experience. Jackson studies Public Relations and Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Models

Tobi Ogunyankin

Cleo Porcheret

Styling

Amanda Chen

HUNTER BLACK + AMANDA CHEN

Lighting

Hunter Black

As people, our eyes are meant for perceiving the world around us; gridlocked in this perpetual first person-view, we watch our ever-changing environment, being active witnesses to the lives of both loved ones and strangers alike.

Since our eyes are meant to perceive the world around us, we often are limited in our ability to perceive ourselves: both visually and otherwise. We find ourselves relying on the outside world, with our perceptions, interpretations, and actions revolving around our environment give insight into how we conceptualize our identity.

This could not be more true with our interactions with other people: we act as guides for one another within every interaction that we have, beyond just in the visual sense; our interactions with each other and how we react to one another gives insight into our own character.

Our day-to-day interactions with one another fill in the gaps of ourselves that we cannot see, something that feels so trivial and be taken for granted yet is so influential in shaping how we view ourselves.

This article goes through three different narratives surrounding an individual: “the self,” a self perspective of an individual describing themselves; “the lover,” someone close to the individual who interacts with them on a daily basis; and “the outsider,” someone who is acquainted with the individual but does not know them well.

These distinct narratives aim to showcase the dynamic intersection between each individual we come in contact with, and how their narratives help to influence our self-perception along with fueling a vivid spirit into our lives.

THE HUMAN CONDITION

CONDITION

Models

Motheo Michelle

Chandra Delano

Anna Fujii

THE HUMAN CONDITION

Morgan Brown studies Psychology at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Jared Tran is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic and visual design. His work exemplifies a strong understanding of composition and form. Jared studies Design at Roski School of Art and Design, University Of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Visual Design at Haute Magazine.

SHATTERED PERCEPTIONS

See the boy, pale and thin. Over the next three years, he will religiously subscribe to Andrew Tate podcasts, pledge every fraternity he has access to, and commit mind, body and soul to a Destination Membership at Equinox. Yet does a shift in outward appearance equate to a change in inner self?

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN OUTER SELF AND INNER SELF IS A FRACTURED ONE. While the outer self is shaped by environment, relationships and social litmus tests, the inner self is an entirely different beast molded by history, morals, ethics, and a sense of purpose.

Film is perhaps the epitome of such a disjunction. The fundamental principle of screenwriting involves “showing not telling”, reminding us SUBTEXTS fuel understandings of narrative, of character. It takes the viewer beyond their simple reading days, where the innermost thoughts of the protagonist could be easily narrated through simple italics; to know the person on screen is to see beyond what’s presented.

BIASES IN VISUAL PERCEPTION influence the way we think. Slowly, we cater our inner selves to satisfy outer environment. This is a short story about that.

INT. BOY’S BEDROOM — DAY

A denim blue bedroom littered with tinfoil stars. A life size replica of R2D2 displayed proudly against the side of the wall.

A rough pair of hands, connected to sinewy, bulky arms DISMANTLES it, shoves it into a TRASH BAG.

We pan out to see, Star Wars decorations torn down, kicked aside, shoved out of view. It’s the start of something new.

See the boy in the mirror. The sallow look of someone who has lost a lot of weight in a very short period of time. He doesn’t recognize his new body, in his childhood mirror. But he does recognize a small YODA TATTOO in the corner of his wrist.

INT. OFFICE — DAY

An office overlooking the Financial District. But also overlooking —

A GLASS CUBICLE. Dead in the center of the room.

Interns in suits line up against the wall — patients in a doctor’s waiting room. All of them graduated from one prestigious school or another.

They stare through the looking glass, as one Intern faces a panel of prospective employers, waiting on their offer.

The Intern stands up. Head hung in their hands. He walks out.

INTERN 1: Holy shit. They just axed Kowalski.

The interns’ eyes follow Kowalski towards the door. No one says anything.

The Interviewer walks out of the glass cubicle. Clipboard in hand.

INTERVIEWER: Jensen?

The interns give the boy an apathetic glance. No one says anything.

INT. GLASS CUBICLE — DAY

The boy stands in front of the panel. Picture-perfect Wall Street Bros.

INTERVIEWER: Have a seat.

The boy looks down at the chair. He’s dressed just like the panel, but his suit is a size too small. The cuffs of his slacks ride up on his ankles. He tugs at the hem of his blazer and sits.

The panel stares back at him. Sharks in the water. They give it a lingering second. The boy can feel the stares of the Interns, through the glass wall. The panel relishes it, the boy does not.

A beat.

INTERVIEWER (CONT’D):

Unfortunately, we’re unable to extend a return offer at this time.

The Boy looks desperately at a Panelist. He sits up like the rest of them, tries to laugh like the rest of them.

BOY: But we had that moment. On the green.

PANELIST: I guess you just don’t match the company culture.

BOY: I bought an Equinox membership for fuck’s sake.

INTERVIEWER: What do you want me to say. It’s me not you?

Laughter from the panel. A beat for the boy. A realization.

BOY: But it is me.

The Interviewer gives him one last disdainful look-over.

INTERVIEWER: What is that? A Star Wars tattoo?

INT. BEDROOM — DAY

The door of the bedroom creaks open. Lost decorations stashed away. A space of personality now lost.

There’s a childhood photo of the boy. Naïve, hopeful. It stares back at him. He flips it over.

Then, as he rounds a corner, a PUNCH. The sound of shattered glass.

See the boy in the mirror. The fractured panes scattering the creases of his face. He doesn’t recognize himself anymore.

It’s dark. Except for the tinfoil stars, buzzing gently in the background.

SHATTERED PERCEPTIONS

Cynda Wan is a Los Angeles-based writer who studies Business of Cinematic Arts, jointly offered by the School of Cinematic Arts and the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Jacob Hollens is an Orlando and Los Angeles-based photographer specializing in portrait, editorial, event, and production photography. Their work strives to create a story, evoke emotion, and touch on the themes of identity, gender, sexuality, and expression. Jacob studies Theatre Design at the School of Dramatic Arts, University of Southern California.

Anoushka Buch is a Los Angeles-based creative specializing in brand, graphic, and visual design. Anoushka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Model Max Bodak

UNIF

Models

Brett Park

Jeana Park

Ally Wei is a New York and Los Angelesbased photographer and multimedia creative. She aims to promote themes of intimacy and community through the lens of dreamy and colorful work. Ally studies Media Arts and Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Xyla Abella is a fine arts/editorial photographer as well as an aspiring curator. She is pursuing a BFA in Fine Arts and Curatorial Practices at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Senior Advisor for Haute Magazine.

232 ALLY WEI + XYLA ABELLA

Nishka Manghnani is a Mumbai and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and digital artist. With a knack for public art, she creates work with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. 233 NISHKA MANGHNANI

234 GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

I. I Would Never Take Her on a Date

See her through a cracked window

She sits like a gremlin

In her yellowing wife beater

And crimped triangle panties

Perched atop a stubby wooden stool

As her bony toes and untrimmed nails grip the edges

Her protruding shoulder blades

Hunch with greed

Shrouding a burrito to devour, Demolish into oblivion

She chows down as if being chased by time

Chased by someone

Forgetting she’s alone

And that no one will chase her

And forgetting she exists because she is alone.

The boundary between the sour cream

Slathered on her face

And the shape of her twisted, chewing mouth

Blurs by the minute

And we can’t tell human from the burrito

Burrito from the human.

They absorb each other

Become each other

And she too becomes a part

Of the oblivion the burrito occupies

Nonexistent in time nor space

As they consummate and she consumes.

Bits of cilantro refrigerate in the cracks of her teeth

Along with older plaques of food

The new and the old combining in her mouth

Collapsing with time and through amylase

And her wide open mouth knows not to shut

But narrates the process of each granule of rice

Grown from the soil, the Earth, and the wheat

Transforming into the wet, moist, stomachable

Mixture which becomes a part of her own

238 GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

Wet and moist blood

The membranes of her flesh.

II. The War of Red and Blue

She sees herself in the mirror

No, she really sees herself

Not in anticipation of the face she will wear outside Ready to deconstruct that face

The fake one she erased of all pores And pale gray cheeks

Concealed and suffocated And buried under thick concealer.

But before, her hands move toward the bottom drawer

Not by command of the brain but by themselves And she pops out a flaking blue eyeliner, Twists open the cap, And swaths it across her eyelash in one go No deep breaths, no hesitation

But a sure slash of color sitting on top of her eye line.

Her jaw stretches downward and mouth hangs open

As the tries to observe the line she just drew

The blue is a whole inch above her eye line

And the line is more of a squiggle than a line really It suits her ill and she looks ill Bruised. Like a 70s Disco era wannabe. But she smiles, pulls out a red rouge And douses her mouth

Practically drinks the red lipstick

The red and blue enter a war with each other

On her face, clashing and fighting for territory

Because the two cannot coexist in beauty

Without rendering each other aesthetically futile

Not to mention that even on their own

They fight a struggle to prove themselves

Pleasing to the face

They have been so carelessly applied

But it doesn’t matter.

When she hops in the hot steaming shower, The two melt and dissolve

Coalescing and weaving into one another

Dancing down her face into blended purple streams

Then black streaks

Pushed off her chin by the water. Leaving no marks of their own.

Black or blue eyeliner, It didn’t matter

Red or nude lipstick

Line or squiggles, red or blue it never mattered.

It was all to be gone in 30 seconds

And no one other than her or the mirror

Would remember the Red or the Blue or the War.

III. Smell Flesh

A foul stench set in her room like a fog

Marinating the walls with must.

The objects of her room were organized

But it was the stench like unperceivable dust

Which coated the floors, the walls, and the room

With utter flesh

Not mediated by soap, perfume, deodorant, or water.

She hasn’t showered in days

As she lay in bed like a corpse

Like an animal specimen on a petri dish

Ready to be picked and pricked by a tweezer

Like a little cockroach laying paralyzed

After the unexpected encounter with a roach killer.

Her hair lies drenched in grease

The oils from the scalp

Cementing her hair follicles deeper into the bed

Stamping her figure into her mattress

And the oils expire and clump into dandruff

242 GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

Her hair like beds of a salt farm.

Her clothes grow yellow, Rotting

All remnants of colorful self determination

Decomposing to stain, Into the hive mind yellow

Except not like daffodils or the sun

But putrid like pee or puke

From half erased coffee stains

And fermented secretions of BO

But she still lies staring blank into the ceiling Her eyes adjusted to the cap given to her sky And mirroring the dull grains of her wallpaper. She wouldn’t know if a fly sat on her pool of eye.

When her mother walks in, she scrunches her nose, Yapping: “What is this smell? Take a shower. Air out your room. Open the windows. Go outside. Get ready. Wear something nice. Wear makeup. Brush your hair. Brush your teeth. Or else you’ll rot!” Does so once everyday.

But she always responds the same: “I smell flesh.”

IV. The Beggar in the Mansion

### W Xxxxxxxxx Blvd, Xxx Xxxxxxx, XX #####-####

Here lies a marvelous mansion

Engulfing the city

With its domineering and mountainous presence. And we wonder what kind of woman

Would live in such a mansion alone. Perhaps a manipulative Emma Or a vengeful Miss Havisham

Playing God and moving the pieces Of others’ chess boards of fate

Or a mysterious benefactress to an orphan

A fortune capable of changing a life

The glacier of the hero’s story, The origin of their river of life. Or an excruciatingly beautiful witch

Or a princess trapped in the solace of a tower.

Inside is bright and white with marble

Marble floors, pillars, and stairs

Wood ejected from the perimeters

Too lowly for its brown and common nature. Gold filigree decorates each square inch

Truly blinding to the eye.

Upon opening the door you could see a Divine light pierce the dull neighborhood

Whether from all the reflective white surfaces

Or the woman who occupies the light.

And there she is,

The woman of the many mysteries and rumors. In front of a window the size of a room. In a silky robe and fuzzy slippers

The sunlight illuminating her skin and hair

And she glows.

What is she thinking as she sits by a quaint coffee table?

Holding an espresso cup

With one pinky lifted, Whisking the milk and sugar in With a delicate teaspoon

As delicate as she.

But she drops that spoon

And as quickly as the silver flashes

Down and touches the cold marble surface

She stoops down to her knees

Like a vulture wired to snatch its unassuming preys

Picks the spoon up

And without a moment of hesitation

Plunges the spoon into her mouth.

GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

She gazes at the small beige pool of coffee

On the floor left by the spoon

Seems to look around for a millisecond

Then digs her hands into the floor

Lowers her head to the liquid, Bowing down

And licks the floor, Once, twice, thrice

Feeling the grain of the marbles against her tongue

Coating it dust and brown

Drinking in the sweet, now slightly chilled mixture. She licks her lips, Satiated, then rises back to her little stool And resumes her morning coffee, pinky still lifted.

It wasn’t a princess or witch or benefactress or goddess Who lived in that mansion but a beggar.

She was once an infant

Roaring as she exited the womb With a fierce cry

Unafraid of whether the hospital shattered From her piercing screams.

Now she finds herself unable to speak Into the hollow lecture hall

For fear that her voice is too shrill That the words won’t pronounce themselves right And somehow her voice

No longer matters to her anymore And she no longer speaks her mind.

She was on a date with a guy

V. Yogurt and Granola

I.

II.

Named Collin or Jacob or Daniel

Or some rendition of a name like that

When she ordered a salad

And he ordered Filet Mignon, Rare, just as she liked it.

She salivated as she saw the fleshy chunks

Of juicy meat devoured by his mouth

While the gravel textured leaves

Got chewed and sorted mechanically in her mouth

Down her food pipe

And scraped her throat on the way to the stomach.

He asked her what she enjoyed doing in her free time. She answered something along the lines of Going hiking or going to the beach when She was really an introvert And didn’t like the smell of soil

Or the burning sun.

The rawest thing in the room was the steak

And she still felt the scratches

On her throat from the rabbit food.

When people see pictures

Of her when she was younger

They don’t recognize

The blue crocs wearing, sunglass rocking, Hands on hips attitude to the max toddler

In her–she who now only wears monochrome colors And clothes which hide her figure, once occupied by a rebellion of a light blue Or even pink, if she was feeling adventurous, A crop top in the morning in front of her mirror

Before she took it off and realized

It wouldn’t necessarily be much like her…

Suited to her character to wear those things. She who doesn’t curse, know bad words really at all, Or has any desire. She blends perfectly Into the sea of plain humans

III.

250 GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

Just like another person trying to live about their day. Yep, that is exactly who she is trying to be, A person as one of the many seas of humans Which exist in this world Or maybe even outside of this universe. Just one of many fish in the sea focusing On their own swim. Riding the tide.

So no more blue eyeliner, No more spangles, No more funky shoes, And no more attitude.

Blended, Erased, and Subdued. IV.

She was ordering her food

In a Chipotle, down the street. She genuinely hates those glass dividers. The thick glass dividers. Loud music. Somehow her voice feels to frail to penetrate All of those barriers To get to the unfeeling ears Of the employees.

She asks for a bowl multiple times But ends up with a burrito. They ask her multiple times to speak up.

“Honey, I can’t hear you.”

“You’re going to have to speak louder than that.”

Too quiet. Without a voice. Without color. Apparently, those are the attributes which allow Her to be perceived as nice

And maybe she enjoys being the nice and the quiet girl

But at times she can’t help but think back to That blue crocs wearing, sunglass rocking toddler In the picture and wonder

Is that really me? Is that really who I am?

But those questions blend into the day

And into the heavy weight of the burrito. It no longer matters if she is really that way or not. If all others see in their sight a quiet, subdued, polite, Even pleasant girl who won’t correct Chipotle employees For getting the wrong order, Then she must be that person. She doesn’t see herself. She doesn’t know who she is.

But when the day ends, Whether or not the hollow air

Of the lecture hall had muted her

Or if she wore a same different outfit from yesterday, No matter if she isn’t hungry or has already eaten, She strips down to her underwear

And heads to the kitchen, Cracks open a 3 dollar cup of greek yogurt

And pours half of the bag of granola

Into a big bowl and mixes it vigorously, Violently, not so politely as she is And shoves a spoonful down her throat.

Munching and chewing, Yogurt all over the spoon, hand, and face

Like a starved animal.

Not afraid to grunt in satisfaction

At the joy of a bowl of yogurt and granola.

Messy, Vulgar, and Raw.

She licks the lid of the yogurt

When she is done and her tongue

Is coated white, dusty, and tangy. Then she is free.

From the heavy weight of the burrito

And the scratches that the salad left on her throat. She is liberated

And she swims faster than the sea.

She is no longer quiet.

And all of a sudden, she is the toddler

Who wore those blue crocs and sunglasses again

And the infant who roared like a lion

That day in the hospital.

V.

GRACE KIM + EMMA LLOYD

Models

Giselle Galindo

Ivana Karastoeva

Grace Kim is an Orange County and Los Angelesbased writer specializing in poetry, prose, and screenplay. She seeks to tell the ordinary stories of those who are typically unseen through her work and is interested in experimentation with form and the dark comedy genre. Grace studies English (Creative Writing) at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Emma Lloyd is a Texas-based photographer. Her work explores the beauty of detail in the human experience. Emma studies Public Relations and Marketing at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Abriella Terrazas is a Bay Area and Los Angelesbased designer whose passions lie in experiential and visual design. Her work focuses on the intersections between aesthetic expressions as well as social and environmental empowerment. Abriella studies Architecture and Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

VERONIQUE LOUIS-JACQUES + EMI YOSHINO

My social media presence can be summed up into two words — complicated and short-lived. Fortunately for me, my digital footprint did not begin in elementary school, when the classic peace-sign and duck-face combo took the world by storm. Nor did I spend middle school obsessed with TBHs and oversharing my melodramatic adolescent life. Instead, the floodgates of social media opened up for me at the ripe age of 15. I got my first phone the summer before high school, made my Snapchat account a week after my 15th birthday, and made my first ever Instagram post at 16 (despite having the app for months prior).

Unfortunately for me, my refusal to damage my digital footprint early on in life proved to be my biggest downfall. Because while everyone seemed to have moved past the embarrassing and unfiltered phase of their digital life span, mine was just beginning. Except I couldn’t hide behind an overwhelming herd of others posting the same embarrassing content. I was on my own.

Instagram and its permanency intimidated me. While I now know that most people would tremble at the thought of someone revealing their archived photos from when they were fifteen, at the time, it seemed as though everyone was well-adjusted in their social media personas. I felt out of the loop, unknowing of the precise formula and VSCO filter that made for the “perfect” picture.

How could I curate a feed that would make people pay attention to me while helping me blend in all at the same time?

This question boggled my mind during every failed attempt at making my Instagram debut. I watched my peers celebrate at the finish line, while I struggled to catch up. But just when I thought I had mastered the formula and conquered the race, something shifted. I had huffed and puffed my way through an excruciating fight to finally post what I thought others might like, only to find my peers standing miles behind me, happily unbothered by the nonexistent finish line that I had created in my head.

Suddenly, people were posting more raw and unedited versions of themselves online. The famed “photo dump,” where an individual posts a thread of effortless photos that fit into a common theme. Essentially, there was no “right” way to take a photo. In an attempt to make Instagram more casual, everything and anything was accepted. The photo dump received praise for its emphasis on authenticity, reminiscent of the early days of social media.

The more effortless the photo, the better.

Flexing on my Cake

260 VERONIQUE LOUIS-JACQUES + EMI YOSHINO

What if someone had big aspirations? Aspirations that couldn’t be completely understood in a single post. An obsession so nuanced that it could only be properly represented in a cake executed by their closest friends. When Destiny OsuendoThomas, a sophomore majoring in public studies, sought out to plan a surprise party for Seyla, one of her closest friends, there was no question of what she and her friend group wanted plastered on top of the cake.

No ‘happy birthday’.

No reminder of the age being commemorated.

Instead, a blown-up blue image of the mechanical arm emoji, her friend’s favorite, had unanimously made the cut.

“She one day wants to get a bionic arm without amputating her own,” OsuendoThomas explained.

Any confusion or embarrassment brought from the unique instructions given to the cake decorator were all made worth it on the night of Seyla’s surprise 20th birthday party. Friends frantically prepared, as Seyla sat just in the other room. It was a night to remember, and the notorious birthday-cake, well-lit and nearly melting, was all Osuendo-Thomas offered up to her Instagram followers.

In the grand scheme of things, the cake was just a small factor in what made Seyla’s birthday so enjoyable – her friends, the music, the food, etc. Yet Osuendo-Thomas decided that the cake and its mechanical arm would be what was highlighted.

The act of photo dumping allows us to examine the smaller things that contribute to our happiness. We’ve zoomed in and taken a closer look at the different components of our lives. Our daily morning cup of coffee, the open sign of our favorite corner store, or the worn down swing set at our local park that reminds us of our childhood – all our smaller aspects of a much larger human experience. Looking outward rather than focused on ourselves, we’ve given inanimate objects a space to be appreciated and thrive.

The Hugging Coats

Two coats. One coat hanger.

Olivia Hadyn Phillips, a sophomore double-majoring in public relations and intelligence

and cyber operations, goes out of her way to collect photos that remind her that love is all around us, even in places where we least expect it.

While her parents had loved and cherished one another throughout their 26 years of marriage, their coats had yet to be properly acquainted. Hanging in Jin Din Rou, a restaurant Phillips’ family had taken her to since she was kid, the coats were quite literally stuck with one another.

While families were overstimulated with good food and conversation, all the coats had were each other.

So standing behind her mother’s coat, the sleeve of her father’s coat gently wrapped around the sleeve of her mother’s, tucked away into the interior. Waiters rushed past them and customers were too busy enjoying themselves to notice their presence. But Phillips, a keen observer of all things romantic, was able to appreciate their warm embrace.

A Single Avocado

Unfortunately, Yuka Miyamoto’s avocado was not granted the same companionship. Instead, the avocado stood stiffly by, alone in a pan. Its fate fully dependant on the novice cooking skills of two college students. A sophomore majoring in media arts and practice, Miyamoto and her friends had spent President’s weekend in Palos Verdes, staying at one of their houses. Her and her friend Owen had awoken earlier than everyone else and were left with the daunting task of deciding what they were going to eat for breakfast. At this point, Owen was exploring unfamiliar territory - the kitchen.

His suggestion for a gourmet breakfast meal: “cooked “ avocado. So, a single avocado, untouched and with the skin still attached, was chucked by Owen and dumped into a pan.

That was in fact, not how you cooked an avocado, and Miyamoto made sure to give Owen this life lesson.

And the avocado, in all of its uncooked glory, was captured, serving as the hidden gem in Miyamoto’s photo dump.

The longevity of photo dumps can partially be attributed to their versatility. Not every photo can be as romantic or poetic as the two coats that made the most out of each other’s company. Sometimes the moments that are the most mundane are considered the most valuable.

Philosophy professor Yuriko Saito has dedicated most of her career learning and sharing the inner workings of “everyday aesthetics,” a concept that can shed light on our newfound appreciation for photo dumping.

In her 2015 essay “Aesthetics of the Everyday,” published in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Saito analyzes how modernity has strayed away from the niche and limited perception of aesthetics that Western philosophy had praised in years past. In past centuries, the concept of aesthetics was directly linked to fine art, leading aesthetics to be seen as something unattainable or exclusionary to the common masses.

Yet we’ve learned that aesthetics do not have to be confined to fancy art museums or the pages of exclusive magazines – spaces that are dedicated to showcasing inauthentic and intentional versions of aesthetics.

The idea of everyday aesthetics reminds us that we don’t have to search for something aesthetic. Instead, we can find an aesthetic in the ordinary things we witness in our everyday lives.

Saito emphasizes that to do this requires the “defamiliarization of the familiar,” as it becomes difficult to marvel at the things that rest in routine.

She states, “Because we are most of the time preoccupied by the task at hand in our daily life, practical considerations mask the aesthetic potential of commonplace objects and ordinary activities.”

In order to find the beauty in the ordinary, it is crucial that we consider them as more than such. If you stop and look closely, you’ll find that any average and typical experience can be viewed as a luxury. Ultimately, the morning commute to work that you’ve taken for years or the bedroom posters that have aged just as much as you deserve to be celebrated too.

To Watch Others Pray

For Jessica Gonzalez, a sophomore majoring in cognitive science, a scenic picture of the Hsi Lai Temple in Hacienda Heights had the honor of being the first photo presented in her photo dump. The temple’s structure, with its gold and red detailing and dragon fixtures, was captured by Gonzalez, a background filled with passerbyers in the midst of the mountains of Southern California. The picture’s origin story lied in a trip taken to Orange County with someone she had become close with. To the random

onlooker, the photo was simply a picture of a good view.

“I’m not Chinese, so I feel like people who saw me post this might’ve thought ‘Where is she?’ or ‘How does this relate?’” explained Gonzalez.

Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Gonzalez had not been exposed to a big Asian population. Arriving in Los Angeles, with a complete opposite demographic, Gonzalez became interested in learning more about Asian customs and traditions. So much so that Gonzalez had taken up Mandarin, noting the similarities between her Mexican heritage and Chinese culture. As she observed others praying, meditating, and making wishes around the temple, the site became more than a pretty view.

However, the photo’s sentimental value was clouded by Gonzalez’ doubts on whether the photo even looked good enough to post, let alone be given the honor of her photo dump’s cover page.

“Now looking at it, it’s not all that special,” Gonzalez said. “There are people that are kind of in it that are not ruining it, but I think it would be a lot more special if I took it from a different angle.”

Gonzalez isn’t alone in her concerns. The authenticity of photo dumps continue to be threatened by the prioritization of aesthetics. Now, to be “effortless” requires effort. The casual photo, the one that creates the facade of living in the moment, may have actually been taken over 50 times.

The fallen book tilted to just the right angle. The scene setting image zoomed into perfection. The morning selfie – an homage to the many failed attempts at finding the right lighting.

All representative of the social media culture that we so desperately sought to run away from.

Photo dumps stem from a larger movement created by GenZ to “Make Instagram Casual Again.” People have shown support for a version of Instagram use that doesn’t involve the politics of trying to curate the perfect version of themselves. A version that simplifies Instagram to what the app is — a platform for sharing photos. But when hundreds, thousands, and even millions of eyes are watching and we are on the verge of committing to the “Share” button, is pure authenticity ever an option?

Casual isn’t casual at all. We continue to look over our shoulders to identify the effortless aesthetic our idols and peers have been able to achieve and mimic that. As we seek the fine-tuned version of casual, the stress-inducing dilemma of posting on

FIFA and Fireworks

Alice Chu, a freshman majoring in business, had spent the previous semester studying abroad in Paris. It was a weekday and finals were approaching. But Chu and her friend, Christian Kim, a freshman also majoring in business, were used to going out and conducting spontaneous late night adventures. But as Chu was seated in an Uber on her way to meet with Kim, time would suddenly stop.

The FIFA teams of Morocco and Portugal watched as the timer winded down to zero, making Morocco the first African country to reach the FIFA World Cup semifinals. Looking out her Uber’s window, the celebration of Morocco’s historic win took over the streets of Paris. People laid on top of cars, made noise up in their balconies, and ran through the streets, waving the Moroccan flag. Chu’s followers were left in the dark about the chaos that had ensued around her, with the experience memorialized by a photo of a single firework bursting over the Arc de Triomphe.

Moments like that can never be replicated. Chu will never again be a college freshman studying abroad in Paris. She will never be looking out the window of an Uber, the bystander of a country’s celebration. The historic win will be marked down in textbooks and left in fragments on the internet, but Chu’s story will live on through the friends and family she told.

Chu witnessed history. And while her followers were provided with a glimpse of that history, their perception of the event is skewed and severely undermined. Because Chu’s experience, no matter how much she shares with the internet, is uniquely hers.

It’s normal to want the approval of others. Whether we like it or not, the inkling of wanting to show off the best version of ourselves will always be there. But if I’ve learned anything from my 15-year-old self is that constantly waiting for others to give their nod of approval is exhausting.

I’m not sure if social media will ever not be “curated” to some extent. But what I do hope is that people will never stop sharing posts fueled by nostalgia and at the mercy of the question “Why not?”

Prominent Italian writer and journalist Italo Calvino, in his short story, “The Adventure of a Photographer“ writes:

Photographed reality immediately takes on a nostalgic character, of joy fled on the

wings of time, a commemorative quality, even if the picture was taken the day before yesterday. And the life that you live in order to photograph it is already at the outset, a commemoration of itself.

A shared photo’s life-span extends beyond the 24-hour window of its like and comment influx. The value of a photo lies in the experiences made taking them and the admiration felt for months, years, and even decades later.

Oftentimes, our best photo dumps lay in the depths of our camera rolls. I have to admit, I have yet to become an Instagram enthusiast. However, I find the most joy in taking and admiring photos that will most likely never be seen by another pair of eyes - photos of the meals I make myself to commemorate my cooking progress, the murals I’ve passed while walking down the streets of downtown LA, or the off-guard photos I take of my friends that they beg me not to post.

Yet the photos we leave buried in our camera rolls and the ones we post for the world aren’t that much different — they are ours before anything else. The only difference between photo dumps and the photos we keep to ourselves is the courage we take to post them.

So, I will never stop rooting for people’s “just because” photos.

Just because it looked cool, or beautiful, or both.

Just because my friends and family bring me joy.

Just because it reminded me that life can be pretty amazing.

Emi Yoshino is an Orange County and Los Angeles-based photographer who specializes in portrait, event, and production photography. With her experience in Stage Managing and Photographing, she has gained a passion for storytelling and entertainment. Emi studies Stage Management and Business Leadership and Management at the School of Dramatic Arts, University of Southern California.

Veronique Louis-Jacques studies Journalism at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Borja Schettini is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design and creative direction. His acute understanding of the principles of design makes way for his experimental style to push those boundaries while creating artwork. Borja studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Web for Haute Magazine.

WHERE DID EVERYONE THE LIMINAL SPACES

EVERYONE GO? SPACES OF CITIES

“It is the sixth day since I saw my first patient with Covid-19. I have become acutely aware of my breathing. Each inhale tugs against the stiffness of the mask, creating the slightest vacuum suction… I breathe shallowly in these rooms… I try to get just enough air.”

a point of suffering. Two years later, we are trying to heal and it’s shattering to remember all that happened.

“The concept of life is given its due only if everything that has a history of its own, and is not merely the setting for history, is credited with life.”

Space held a more noticeable role since the pandemic. It contained the difference between illness and health. It represented paranoia (often justifiable) and the paradigmatical shifts in our communities. Mandates took the existing gaps between people, our years long trends of loneliness and depression, and exacerbated them. Yearning came to define us during this time as we looked through hospital windows and curtains, and a walk two streets over could be worlds away from our own.

No words can meet death. No conversation and no amount of time can fully heal you, and no amnesia powerful enough to render one’s pain forgettable. When death happens, loss sticks to your skin, only forgotten in sleep if you’re lucky. It creates grief, a feeling at once so empty and full it overwhelms and populates the spaces between our breaths, to be lived and suffered.

Grief is also perhaps the most fitting word to describe the psychological condition of millions of people around the world right now. In the wake of the pandemic, many of us lost the lives we knew. At times, we lost people. Yet many of us lived on, at times reluctantly. We grieved in our rooms isolated, alone, trying to get used to this ‘new normal.’ Time elapsed, and now some of us pretend the pandemic is over. What happened feels like a fever dream at times, suffering the same hallucinations and nightmares, a rare moment in time where we could all see that we shared

We were children again, and we had nowhere to go but home if we were lucky to have it. Our worlds were narrowed considerably, and as we tried to process what was happening, the familiar became unfamiliar, the air between people visible and full in hallways and staircases. That air and those gaps were filled with meaning taking a life of its own since then. Many remember when cities yielded image after image of their strange emptiness during the pandemic. Times Square in New York, the canals of Venice, the Eiffel Tower; places all irresistible to tourists were empty. People were gone, the spaces they occupied remaining like markers of a past life, abandoned cities in stasis.

Remembrance proved an encumbrance for some at the time. To dwell, to talk, to confront one’s untenable position in life at that moment meant conceding that one was breaking down. Not everyone had a vacation home: journalistic work revealed families trapped in small rooms,

- The Liminal Space, Rana Awdish

- Illuminations, Walter Benjamin

revealing children struggling to have a childhood within four small walls. Parents, and people in general, felt the weight of what a caretaker meant. It was no longer a choice to be shirked: community health was clearly and inextricably tied to your health. To take care of another was to take care of yourself, and vice versa. We were all in this together, apparently.

Time demands its symbols, and these images of empty cities and overcrowded rooms where bodies blurred and almost merged together, reminds one of the recent popularity of ‘liminal spaces.’ More than any other internet trend, the ‘liminal’ aesthetic captures the feeling of that in-between-ness, uncertainty, and transitioning that marked our time.

The liminal space is something akin to Purgatory (for the religious) or the Upside-Down (for the Netflix-enthused). With its depictions of abandoned places and halfway points, there has been no clearer visualization of the undecipherability of the times we had just lived through, a time that we’re still living through. Unlike our deceased, whose bodies would be buried, cremated, and hidden, the monuments of their death, the cemeteries, the buildings, and rooms they once inhabited remain. Traces of living, and their life, appear everywhere and our buildings remember everything.

It is known that all of us will past by a murder or death at some point in our life unbeknownst to us. In the past two years, perhaps all of us have had that moment, unable to know that someone had just died near us. We are only now

WHERE DID EVERYONE GO?

beginning to understand the extent of the grief of people around us in the aftermath of what some health experts call the “greatest mass-disabling event” in human history.

How was it like to see a person outside your home for the first time? How was it to see a stranger? What did it take to be able to walk through the street again, with reassurance and a lack of guilt that one was not going to be the inadvertent cause of someone’s death? Of someone’s mother, grandfather, sister, child? What did these years do to us, and how did we break? Is there even any point in talking about it now?

We come upon grief in roundabout ways and hushed tones, and our obsessions and trends reveal something about us. Online, in forums and social media pages, pictures proliferate of abandoned offices and rooms. Streets are cast in a dark and hazy light, figures reduced to shadows. Some of these images look real but are created in programs like Blender. But the origin of the liminal space, contrived or documented, doesn’t matter. What these pictures capture is a sense of one’s being during these years. Reality disintegrated for many people as we questioned our lives and our world, wondering if this would continue forever.

The most popular liminal space imagery proliferating online ranged from factories and pools to hallways and offices. Dream Pools, Backrooms, cream yellow, black and grey, gas stations and hospitals come to mind. The pictures are always lonesome. One feels that something

should be there, but at best you see a shadow. The office stretches on. The figure walks in the dark. The light continues to illuminate the hallway. In these man-made environments, existence felt stretched, brought to the brink. Reduced to its form, its walls, and passageways, devoid of its ‘content’ or any form of human life, the absurdity of our spaces were shown. They were silly, and they were dystopian.

If one were trapped in a liminal space, you could be brought to the brink of laughter or tears, unable to differentiate between the two. One could be driven to madness after being locked in a room for so long. There is only so many times a person can repeat the same day over and over, a finite number of variations, minuets, and dances to be performed in the same space again and again. Losing access to the life and environment around us showed what our lives required. It required more than basic sustenance, more than fleeting satiations, more than the mechanistic and algorithmic predispositions of our era. We wanted to do more than exist, and the liminal spaces all around us pointed at what could be, and what was not.

The gaps and empty streets were indicative of a condition and what we felt. They taunted us. In these images, we could see something different for ourselves, different forecasts and predictions outside of the infinite growth companies rallied around. Our very existence was being bet upon, and we began to see a world without humans. Dolphins in Venice and the ‘nature’ is healing slogans emerged (giving some eco-fascists fuel to advocate for human

extermination). One felt that the concrete meanderings and neon lights of our cities created paths for nothing and no one else. Animals were pests, unwanted plants weeds. We were not simply at war with ourselves, but the world, and we were in dire need of new realities. Whether or not healed realities can form is the question.

Series like The Last of Us (which display apocalyptic futures with crumbling cities) show the one destination for a city without its people: a slow death. The vines creeping through alleyways and broken windows reminds one of how our life interacts with the non-human world, how the objects and architectures we create can live after us. In full focus since the Cold War, fears about worldwide destruction were returning. Nuclear annihilation, ecological crises, wars reaching fever pitches and boiling international tensions are seen by all, and they all come together to fuel premonitions and questions for our unstable time, an increasingly multipolar world.

Are we really headed for disaster? Will we pop out of existence? Will we be survived by anything? The liminal space tries to speak to this fear. Like a black hole, it can take all that we feel and can’t see. All that space could be for us, or it could signal our collective death. It could be everything right about us, our industry and cunning, or it could be everything wrong, our pointless expansions and our prolonged emptiness. No time has ever been easy to live in, and though some draw comparisons to the Spanish Flu or the Cold War as a temporal analogue to our time, we are only really facing

what previous generations left for us. We adopt their fears, their traumas, creating our own in response. We move through the spaces they once did, and when emptied we were offered a chance to really look at the world we had been navigating.

I am reminded of a line by Federico Garcia Lorca from his collection Poet In New York: “What shall I do now? Align all the landscapes?” How will we align our worlds now? How will we create our worlds anew if we dare ourselves to do so? What do our wills really even mean in this world?

Paired with this musing, Gwendolyn Brooks comes to mind In kitchenette building, where she writes “We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,” and it makes one wonder, can we change our conditions in the face of the ‘involuntary plan’? Brooks writes of dreams deferred and hopes distilled, of lives converged and life persisting. She knows the weariness of desire and the dizzying combination of life’s motions and tasks. She knows all that we can do.

“We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!” Brooks continues. The world moves on. The bustle of the bus, the clattering of keys, sirens, and lights blaring through the streets filling up our spaces. People found themselves with one another once more. We could be together again, or not in the face lost. What we have created for ourselves were just importance as what we destroyed, what we kept indicating what we left. The liminal spaces all around us that define our lives speak to that fact.

In the play Waiting For Godot, the two main characters Estragon and Vladimir wait in a liminal place of sorts. Next to a tree with a road stretching as far they could see, they wait for a man named Godot. They bicker, they fight, they laugh. They contemplate suicide, they contemplate meaning. They wait for Godot despite discontent. They become resigned and tired yet persist, and in the middle of the play, they have this conversation abruptly:

ESTRAGON: So long as one knows.

VLADIMIR: One can bide one’s time.

ESTRAGON: One knows what to expect.

VLADIMIR: No further need to worry.

ESTRAGON: Simply wait.

VLADIMIR: We’re used to it

Godot never comes and the two men remain by the road. The liminal space gets to their core, its air filled with possibilities and unformed realities a character of its own, asking, what is this all for? What and how and why is all this living occurring? The liminal leaves viewers with a feeling that teeters between light and heavy, ephemera and effluvia. It reminds us of future-pasts and histories unknown. There is only so much grief and nostalgia we can hold, and only so much living we can do. And as people with rather tenuous holds on our lives, I ask, what else, and where else, can we see?

WHERE DID EVERYONE GO?

Shane Dimapanat is a New York-based multimedia journalist, covering anything in culture, from activism and politics to the latest book release or art exhibit near you. Shane studies Journalism at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Yinnlob is a street photographer who loves to capture moments of the Hong Kong street area. Yinnlob began shooting film in April 2022 and currently shoots with the CineStill 800, hoping to create a cinematic feel of Hong Kong that people haven’t seen before.

Sharon Choi is a Los Angeles-based artist specializing in figurative painting. She specializes in a loose gestural and expressive aesthetic approach. Sharon studies Art at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

MICHAEL CASTELLANOS

MAKE ME A SPECTACLE

MICHAEL CASTELLANOS

Men dream of women, women dream of themselves being dreamt of. Men look at women, women watch themselves being looked at (Berger).

Make Me a Spectacle is about reclaiming the male gaze and challenging the constant surveillance of women.

Fiona Choo is a Southern California-based mixed media photographer. She presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates perpetual narratives in society. Fiona studies at the University of Southern California. She also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

FIONA CHOO

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design. He allows empathy to inform his design and drive his creative direction. Michael studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, as well as Architecture at the USC School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

BEHIND

Muse

Jocelyn Liu

Directors

Aria Li

Liya Yang

Assistant Director

Kayla Wong

Producers

Cecilia Mou

Sea Gira

Alysha Wang

Katherine Han

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Writers

John Kim

Aria Li

Liya Yang

Director of Photography

Zehua Yang

Editors

Franklin Lam

Yeji Seo

Animations

Yeji Seo

Colorist

Avery Niles

The InPlainSight theme reveal shows appreciation for the small moments in the everyday through a documentarystyle filmmaking to mimic the authenticity of ordinary life. The story follows Daisy, who, upon leaving Los Angeles, takes a moment to look back on how the city has helped her to love, grow, and express gratitude. The film takes the audience through some significant places around Los Angeles — The Last Bookstore, Angel’s Point, and Santa Monica Beach — and teaches the importance of appreciating the places one’s been to and looking forward to an unknown but exciting future.

BEHIND “IN PLAIN SIGHT”

Katherine Han is a Los Angeles-based creative specializing in videography. She seeks to continue pushing the boundaries of multimedia storytelling. Katherine studies Communications and Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism and the School of Cinematic Arts, University Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia at Haute Magazine.

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman is a New York and Los Angeles-based filmmaker with an emphasis in directing, cinematography, and producing. She strives toward creating content that focuses on empathy. Josey studies Film & Television Production and Law & Social Justice at the School of Cinematic Arts and the Gould School of Law, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia at Haute Magazine.

Liya Yang is a Toronto-raised and Los Angeles-based Chinese-American writer, producer, and director. She is passionate about creating raw and reflective narratives with striking visuals and psychological themes. Liya studies Film & Television Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Cecilia Mou is an Los Angeles-based artist who loves to make her audience feel loved and cared for, no matter the medium. She seeks to expand emotional boundaries and be as authentic as possible, all while having a little fun and joy in her artwork. Cecilia studies Film & Television Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Zehua Yang is a Los Angeles-based cinematographer with an emphasis in narrative, music video, and documentary. He seeks to create nuanced images that can evoke audiences’ emotional resonance. Zehua studies Film & Television Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Franklin Lam is a Los Angeles-based multimedia artist specializing in videography, photography, and visual art. He works across different artistic disciplines with a focus on themes like self-identity and technology. Franklin studies Media Arts and Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

BEHIND “IN PLAIN SIGHT”

Aria Li is a China-raised and Los Angeles-based writer-director. She likes to tell stories themed around intimacy, mental health, and Chinese culture, and she has assisted Academy President Janet Yang and Sundance-award-winning director Jordan Melamed. Aria studies Film & Television Production at the University of Southern California, School of Cinematic Arts.

Cheyenne Terborg is a Southern California-raised and Los Angeles-based multimedium artist, with an emphasis in film and creative writing. Her work fosters themes of personal transformation and the reclamation of self-identity that speak to broader universal truths to heal through art. Cheyenne studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Alysha Wang is a Los Angeles-based Indonesian creative who specializes in producing and set photography and videography. With a focus on POC and LGBTQ+ narratives, she’s passionate about exploring human connection and shedding light to underrepresented stories through her work. Alysha studies Film & Television Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Tyler Tang is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker who specializes in directing and cinematography. He seeks to stimulate the mind and evoke the deepest emotions in an attempt to find meaning in human existence. Tyler studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Joanna Song is a Vancouver and Los Angeles-based Chinese film student who specializes in video production and film photography. She seeks to explore different forms of media and has a passion for storytelling. Joanna studies Film Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Sam Socorro is a Bay Area and Los Angeles-based art creator who specializes in concert photography and analog videography. He seeks to create visually alluring short-form content based around his friends, travels, and personal life experiences. Sam studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Youmin Lee is a Los Angeles-based South Korean multimedia artist specializing in videography, photography, and visual arts. She loves to communicate with people through art. Youmin studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

James Mai is a Los Angeles-based creative specializing in filmmaking, graphic and fashion design, and photography. James studies Film Production and Cinema Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Kayla C. Wong is an Oakland-raised, Los Angeles-based filmmaker. Kayla specializes in presenting audiences with the messy parts of life from a personal perspective, focusing on amplifying the voices of those affected by politicized or underrepresented issues. Kayla studies Film & Television Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Yeji Seo is a Los Angeles-based multimedia artist with a passion for experimenting in and creating beautiful things within the intersection of technology and art. Her work derives creative inspiration from her heritage, urban art, and the diverse communities surrounding her. Yeji studies Arts, Technology, and the Business of Innovation and Computer Science (Games) at the Iovine and Young Academy and the Viterbi School of Engineering, University of Southern California.

John Kim is a Bay Area and Los Angeles-based multi-hyphenate in the visual arts and a lover of storytelling. John aspires to craft stories that observe raw emotions, and several of his films have been recognized at film festivals such as the Montreal Independent Film Festival, Toronto Indie Shorts, and the All American High School Film Festival. John studies Film & Television Production at the University of Southern California, School of Cinematic Arts.

Sea Gira is a St. Louis-raised and Los Angeles-based Thai-American filmmaker. She is deeply inspired by her own life experiences to create vulnerable stories that center around relationships, coming-of-age moments, psychological experiences, and representing minority communities on screen. Sea studies Film & Television Production at the University of Southern California, School of Cinematic Arts.

Sofia Malkassian is a San Francisco and Los Angeles-based filmmaker focusing on writing and directing. She seeks to highlight representation in her work through global and cultural diversity, working on films that have gone to international film festivals such as the Toronto Film Festival, Venice Film Festival, Armenian Apricot Film Festival, and SXSW. She studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.