Philia: Haute Magazine's Spring 2024 Issue

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS IN CHIEF

We are built upon the foundation of passion — a passion that exists amongst the relationships we cultivate through our common love for the arts, the creative journeys we embark upon, and the drive that inspires us to dream higher and bloom into a better version of ourselves. These nuanced experiences bring us closer to one another, all derived from a shared appreciation for life and the joy it brings.

This is the human experience; this is love; this is Philia.

Philia is one of four ancient Greek words for love among storge, agape, and eros. It represents “friendship” among the different kinds of love, which makes us wonder how the word has breathed through time to gain this notion of deep fondness, undue fixation, or obsession as we recognize it today. In a way, this possibility of depth is what makes love so beautifully poignant yet terrifying as it requires in us an immense vulnerability. For our tenth issue, Haute creatives embarked on a daring exploration of what it means to love as all of us were brought together in this grateful space of unapologetic expression and complete selfhood through our undeniable love for the arts.

Celebrating our tenth issue since birth, we present to you an intimate edition calling attention to the ways in which love has manifested throughout history and our present culture. We attempt to embody Haute in its essence and reflect on our own history of having occupied USC’s creative landscape for the past 10 issues from this lens of Philia, paying homage to the arts, literature, history, and life.

We couldn’t have embarked on this revealing investigation without our partners in crime, Fiona and Anoushka, whose creativity and hard work inspires us everyday.

With excitement, we invite you to this exploration through our Spring 2024 issue, Philia. We hope it is as enchanting of an experience to read as it was to create it.

With love,

Grace Kim + Hunter Black

A NOTE FROM THE CREATIVE DIRECTORS

Philia marks our second issue as Creative Directors and Haute’s tenth anniversary. Through carefully-chosen words and visuals, each page pays homage to the very love for the arts that made this milestone edition possible. Ten issues since Haute’s origin, Philia both reignites and honors the love and passion poured into this magazine by countless generations of creatives since its founding in 2018. Celebrating love and the myriad of emotions it encompasses, we’re elated to revel in all its glory: Philia.

This 366-page issue is a love letter to creatives everywhere, but especially to the 85 writers, photographers, designers, videographers, and marketers who made Philia possible. Learning and creating alongside the strongest talent that USC has to offer has been an honor, and we couldn’t have asked for a better team to spend our last semester with. Grace and Hunter, our counterparts, you both stepped into your roles as Editors-in-Chief with elegance, and we can’t wait to see you take Haute to new heights. Vrinda and Jason, Directors of Writing, watching you conceptualize and articulate this issue with personal and innovative angles has been an incredible experience. Stephanie and Gigi, Directors of Photography, we thank you for your commitment to the visuals of this issue. Nishka and Natalie, your brilliant ability to turn diverse elements into a curated story of love constantly inspires us. Josey and Kayla, Directors of Multimedia, and Franklin, Director of Content, your flawless ability to breathe life into our themes, time and time again, is rejuvenating. Jade, Director of Events, Daniel, Director of Finance, and Sammi, Director of Communication, your limitless imagination and relentless dedication are what bring together all corners of the creative community at USC, each time grander than the last. Finally, to you, reader — thank you for walking alongside us in this singular journey. Whether this is your first issue with us or your tenth, we hope you enjoy Philia as much as we do.

We are honored to conclude our presidency with an issue as majestic as this edition. Celebrating Haute’s tenth anniversary through our final issue as Creative Directors has been bittersweet yet fulfilling, an emotion perfectly encapsulated by Philia.

Sincerely,

Fiona Choo + Anoushka Buch

Creative Directors Fiona Choo + Anoushka Buch

Editors-in-Chief Grace Kim + Hunter Black

Directors of Writing Vrinda Das + Jason Pham

Directors of Photography

Stephanie Lam + Giovana Souza

Directors of Visual Design Nishka Manghnani + Natalie Darakjian

Directors of Multimedia

Kayla Wong + Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Director of Content Franklin Lam

Director of Events

Jade Bahng

Director of Finance

Daniel Stone

Director of Communication

Samantha Fedewa

Writing Staff

Agnes Gbondo

Carlos Gonzalez

Jada Umusu

Jenny Kim

Kailee Bryant

Lucia Zhang

Photography Staff

Bryson Nihipali

Chieh-Ming Sun

Emi Yoshino

Emma Lloyd

Jimin Hong

Kevin Koo

Lucas Silva

Visual Design Staff

Abriella Terrazas

Adeline Zhang

Angelina Lyon

Annie Yan

Arya Tandon

Carter Woltz

Evan Rodrigues

Multimedia Staff

Alex Choi

Alysha Wang

Cece Mou

Claire Renschler

Dylan Keeffe

Eileen Mou

Jenna Miller

Laura Furniss-Roe

Finance & Events Staff

Aadhya Sivakumar

Ashley Kim

Hannah Zou

Justin Tsai

Kaitlin Chow

Katie Lee

Megan Zhang

Nilanjana Sha Sudha

Sage Murthy

Sky Bailey

Tingyo Chang

Virginia Akujobi-Egere

Matias Murillo

Sammi Wong

Summer Tillman

Winston Luk

Zongyi Wang

Alan Phan

Jackson Epps

Michael Castellanos

Nicole Leihe

Praew Kedpradit

Rohit Dsouza

Sean Guzmán

Sharon Choi

Mason Deaver

Nobert Otieno

Olivia Harwin

Regan Simmons

Sea Gira

Trelas Dyson

Yeji Seo

Lois Yoon

Mia Lombardo

Pauline Ngom

Rohan Baru

Tanya Sankhala

Zaina Dabbous

Ashley Armitage Ashley Armitage + Nishka Manghnani

Braylen Dion Braylen Dion + Carter Woltz

First Love Zongyi Wang + Annie Yan

We Did Not Come From Adam & Eve Bryson Nihipali + Sharon Choi

Petals of Affection Sammi Wong + Abriella Terrazas

Zoë Alexandria Zoë Alexandria + Sean Guzmán

Raveena Grace Kim + Hunter Black + Nishka Manghnani

Illicit Idyll Jenny Kim + Rohit Dsouza

Our Home is Burning Summer Tillman + Nicole Leihe

Love in Four Acts Tingyo Chang + Felicitas Schwenzer + Natalie Darakjian

Aleksandra Sachenko Aleksandra Sachenko + Angelina Lyon

Afrodite Virginia Akujobi-Egere + Adeline Zhang

Sarah Stalon Sarah Stalon + Sean Guzmán

Whispers in the Labyrinth Jada Umusu + Alan Phan + Evan Rodrigues

Victims of Forces Greater Than We Emma Lloyd + Evan Rodrigues

Philia Grace Kim + Fiona Choo + Anoushka Buch

Florescence Hunter Black + Anoushka Buch

Kate Biel Kate Biel + Jackson Epps

Plato’s Love Agnes Gbondo + Savannah White + Jackson Epps

Philautia Lucas Silva + Nicole Leihe

Portrait of a Mother Lucia Zhang + Emi Yoshino + Michael Castellanos

LA Vrinda Das + Adeline Zhang

Lovesick Sage Murthy + Kevin Koo + Carter Woltz

Casetify Haute Photography Team + Natalie Darakjian

Shades of Devotion Stephanie Lam + Abriella Terrazas

Elvis Tang Elvis Tang + Praew Kedpradit

Dissonance Carlos Gonzalez + Matias Murillo + Sharon Choi

The Blossoming Tree Kailee Bryant + Giorgia Bellotti + Arya Tandon

With Love Nilanjana Sha Sudha + Alizé Jireh + Natalie Darakjian

Amanda Kuo Amanda Kuo + Michael Castellanos

Refract Megan Zhang + Chieh-Ming Sun (Jamie) + Arya Tandon

My Love is Covered in Blood Sky Bailey + Annie Yan

Desolate Jimin Hong + Angelina Lyon

Behind Philia Haute Multimedia Team + Anoushka Buch

Models

NIKI

Ava Ferguson

Heidi Grade Engerman

Ashley Armitage is a photographer and director based in New York and Chicago. She aims to bring candor, style, and freshness to visual storytelling in order to dismantle beauty standards and break outdated societal norms.

Nishka Manghnani is a visual artist based in Los Angeles and Mumbai. Through branding, graphic, and publication design, she creates with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design with a minor in Web Development at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

BRAYLEN DION

Braylen Dion is a photographer based in New York and Atlanta. Braylen explores intimacy through various lenses, seeking to capture the essence of human connection in its myriad forms. Through photography, he aims to unveil the delicate intricacies of intimacy, embracing its nuances. In “Grow,” Braylen aims to portray the journey of growth within a relationship, nurturing its evolution into a blossoming beauty.

Carter Woltz is a digital designer based in Chicago and Los Angeles. His interests lie in iconography and typography. Carter studies Business Administration with a minor in Communication Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Photoshoot Grow

Creative Direction

Braylen Dion

Melissa Drouillard

Makeup

Melissa Drouillard

Stylist

Esmae Duran

Hair Stylist

Olivia McGriff

FIRST LOVE

Zongyi Wang is a Los Angeles-based creative photographer. Zongyi studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Annie Yan is a Los Angeles-based artist. She focuses on graphic design and the visual development of games and films. Annie studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

We Didn’t Come from Adam & Eve

Hawaiians are born of the taro, child of the earth and the sky.

We came from the Earth. We grew right out of the ‘āina.

Our survival, especially today, depends on understanding and connecting to the aina of our ancestors.

Our first and last loyalty must be to Hawai’i Nei, NOT TO WASHINGTON D.C.

Our philosophy should be Aloha ‘Āina, an alternative to tourism and militarism.

Aloha ‘Āina means, in economic terms, agriculture and aquaculture, NOT HOTELS, NOT MILITARY BASES.

It means the preservation of our indigenous way of life...

Of fish ponds, of streams, of forests, of kula lands.

It means a profound cultural belonging to the land as Our Ohana,

Our elder brother, our elder sister; Our Mākua, those who went before.

Cultural people have to become political! We must resist. We must fight back. We must organize.

Our culture cannot just become ornamental and recreational!

Our culture has to be the core of our resistance! The core of our anger, the core of our mana.

That’s what culture is for.

Haunani Kay Trask

WE DID NOT COME FROM ADAM & EVE

Aloha ‘Āina, in its most simple translation, means love of the land. These words from Native Hawaiian scholar and activist Haunani-Kay Trask remind us that this love of the land is not superficial, but deeply rooted and intimately connected to those who have come before us. The Kānaka Oiwi are the Indigenous people of the Hawaiian Islands. When we are away from our islands we still feel an intense pilina (attachment or connection) to our ‘āina. We stay grounded in this through our community and showing aloha to each other. Thus, Aloha ‘Āina is not simply a love of our land, but it represents a love of our ancestors — a love of our culture, a love for one another, and most importantly, a love for ourselves.

Models

Kalālapa Winter Sir Cornwell

Assistant Angela Pastor

Bryson Nihipali is a Los Angeles-based visual artist and photographer. With ancestral ties to the Hawaiian and Philippine Islands, he draws inspiration for his photographic work from his family and their rich cultural heritage. Bryson studies Communication with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Sharon Choi is a Los Angeles-based designer. Her passions lie in fashion and the visual experience. Sharon studies Business Administration with a minor in Product Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Sammi C. Wong is a Los Angeles-based photographer. She blends visual storytelling with fashion and cultural narratives, approaching these themes using analog and mixed-media manipulation. Sammi studies Fine Arts with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Abriella Terrazas is a designer based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Her passions lie in experiential design and the intersection of aesthetics and social and environmental justice. Abriella studies Architecture with a minor in Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Assistant Summer Tillman

ZOE ALEXANDRIA

ALEXANDRIA

Zoë Alexandria H. is a Chicago-based self-portrait photographer. Her artistic journey is rooted in portraiture and fashion. Zoë takes on the roles of model, director, makeup artist, and editor in every photoshoot to elevate her work beyond the confines of traditional photography. Zoë’s work fuses the ethereal and the uncanny as she reinvents herself through otherworldly characters in every image.

Sean Guzmán is a designer and filmmaker based in New York and Los Angeles. Through his work, he encourages audiences to challenge their preconceived notions of identity and reality. Sean studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Inspired by artists like Sade, Corinne Bailey Rae, Minnie Riperton, and Indian singer Asha Puthli, Raveena is a highly creative, dynamic, and spiritual artist who aims to build fully-realized worlds within each of her projects: conceptual experimentations in sound, threaded together by stories of healing and self-realization meant to be experienced from start to finish.

What first inspired your love for music and propelled you to become an artist?

From a very young age, [music] felt like a portal and an escape into a dreamlike world — a world where I could feel very safe and joyful, no matter what situation I was in, and I think that’s how a lot of people fall in love with it. I decided I wanted to be a singer when I was around nine or ten, and I didn’t look back.

You’ve mentioned in your interview with Clash that “music has always been a source of healing.” Could you expand on your philosophy about making music and in what ways you like to indulge in this healing through your art but also use it as an avenue to express yourself?

I understood that being a musician was being a conduit and a vessel. I was drawn to artists that had been talking about the experience of embodying that vessel and for me, music is one of the most divine art forms. It’s like the closest you can get to [the] spirit and to God in this realm. That’s why it heals, because you’re calling on a spirit and using your body as a singer to not only heal but also to change your own bodily makeup. Every time you let in music, it does something very physical to your

body; it changes your cells, and you’re also transferring that to other people and changing their cells too. It’s a trip.

How has your South Asian identity inspired your musical craft and general perspective on the music industry?

I went back to India where there’s such an inherent sense of beauty, appreciation for art, aesthetics, appreciation for nature, and such a deep sense of connection to spirit that is embedded in every corner you look; it’s just so deeply embedded in the culture to appreciate beauty. That’s a way it has influenced me. The maximalism of it. I think it’s an ode to nature and love. So much of Indian art is about that. I was thinking about how specifically Indian ragas are odes to sunsets; entire songs are odes to sunrises or sunsets or trees or grass, and there’s not much Western music I can name that has an entire song dedicated to that. That’s the way it inspires me: it’s magnificent culture that I’m constantly pulling from.

I’ve definitely struggled with [being in the music industry] at times. I think probably the hardest time was in the last album, but now I think of it as a full circle. You go through the fire, and you really identify with the pain of what it’s like to be like a marginalized voice, and I feel like I’ve gone through the the cycle of it and now I feel like I have a really healthy relationship with the challenges and the beauty it brings.There’s so many more voices emerging among South Asian artists and people of color in general are having such an immense and beautiful impact on art and it’s exploding right now. Like I think that it’s very beautiful to see as a person going through their youth and being like “wow, this is actually shifting every year.”

Coming from an immigrant family and pursuing music, was there pushback from your family or were they supportive? What motivated you to continue pursuing your craft amongst any pressure you’ve felt to stop going?

I definitely had pushback until it was financially viable for me to do it and until they saw I could support myself; but at the same time, I also think that I grew up in a really unique household. My mom was an artist herself. She’s a fashion designer and there was no escaping art and music in my household; my parents were always singing. There was always a sense of creativity flowing with my mom being an artist herself, and I think that, as much as they wanted me to be in a more traditional and safe path, I think there was also a sense that so many lifetimes and so many ancestors converged together for me to be able to be in this moment. I feel like I am really claiming that moment. I think maybe it’s something, not physically, but spiritually felt. It was like an undertone: like clearly some space was allowed and that’s kind of magical. You know that, even when things seem on the surface like “you shouldn’t pursue this,” there’s just some life force, this undercurrent that’s pushing you towards the thing you’re meant to do.

In one article, your latest album “Asha’s Awakening” was described as emblematic of a journey towards self discovery and self-empowerment after a journey filled with adversity. That being said, what have been some guiding themes you’ve carried throughout your own life?

Something that was resonating with me today in my meditation [session] was, “I am the divine protector of my own reality. I choose at every moment what to see and what to manifest because I am divine myself.” Shifting to that perspective has changed my life because I realized that in every moment, you can be an observation of beauty or an observation of frustrating things. Either is valid, and either is beautiful, and either is necessary in this human experience that we came for.

I just love hypnotic, dreamy sounds and groovy quality of your music. What contributed to your musical style and the messages about self-love, sexuality, and femininity that you explore in your work? Has working with music changed your perception or the way you interact with these themes?

[There was] this one producer I’d worked with for four or five years; his name was Everett, and he just took me back to my childhood. Influences like Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Wonder; all these soul, neo-soul and folk icons that I’d fallen in love with and kind of forgotten in my early 20s because it was a really tumultuous and really painful time. I think meeting him and having him see me in this “inner child” way and helping me craft a sound that was very much rooted in all those inner child and natural influences, helped shape my sound. And now we’ve taken it a lot farther and the next step after that was figuring out how to imbue Indian sounds into the mix. We use a lot of Indian instruments. We’ve been kind of researching over the years about what would sound good with pop music. So a big one is the Swarmandal, which is an Indian harp, and another one is called the Than Phara, which is more like a drone sound. Electric sitar is a huge one. Electric sitar is actually like a 1950’s, 60’s invention that has a sitar sound but it’s played like a guitar. So we kind of have like a new set of instruments in our arsenal as a band now, and when it feels natural, we use it. It’s not meant for every song, but when it feels natural, it’s so good and it really adds a different flavor to the music — it feels like we’re innovating and creating something new.

One article notes how you have not only built a reputation as an artist, but as an icon who embodies the values of love and compassion, especially in an industry that can be harsh towards queer people of color. What challenges have you faced within the music industry as a queer South Asian woman?

The challenge I’ve faced is definitely getting industry people to believe that there’s an audience for the kind of identity I represent, and that there’s [an] abundance, there’s a plethora of people [who would relate to these experiences]; you don’t have to look or sound a certain way in order to cultivate that, and that’s been a huge challenge [to convey]. Another challenge has been getting people to take my point of view and my ideas seriously; it was more of a challenge in the beginning, when it was very easy to let men become the center and be the decision makers. I had to learn how to navigate those conversations and learn how to embody softness, how to embody myself, while also being firm and having boundaries, of having confidence in my ideas. I think self-doubt is a huge one that every musician goes through. Music industry is “challenge central” if you choose to look at it that way. It’s all about the way I speak to myself on a daily basis and what I choose to focus my time on. It would be very easy for me to spiral into negativity every day if I wanted to — if I wanted to look for a mean comment, if I wanted to look back on something that felt like it didn’t land well, if I wanted to overanalyze the way someone I’m working with talks to me. There’s a million pathways to go down, but being grounded in my center every day and making sure I have enough time to be in the right headspace has helped me so much.

What inspiration would you provide to new artists inspired by your craft? What would you like to say to others who intend on pursuing the same path?

The advice that I always give is to practice. I think that the emphasis on developing crafts and practice has really been dramatically reduced in the past decade, especially, and I think that a certain reverence for whatever you completely dive into in the aspect of the craft you’re doing is so important. The skills you’re practicing are so important, [especially] the years from 10 to 25, the skills you’re building in those years is insane. Those years are so crucial for so many artists, and it’s not the time to be sucked into what’s happening online – it’s the time to be buckling down and sitting in your room for like six, seven hours, eight hours a day, just creating.

Lastly, our upcoming issue is called Philia — an unapologetic exploration of love in all of its forms from deep fondness to obsession. It pays homage to how Haute was birthed from creatives who came together, unable to deny their love for the arts. That being said, what does the word love mean to you as a person and an artist?

I think the word love is synonymous with divine. That’s what it means to me. It’s synonymous with the creative spirit that drives the whole universe.

Rohan Baru is a Los Angeles-based creative from Milwaukee. With a foundation in production and business administration, Rohan strives to integrate his artistic voice within creative direction and marketing strategy across numerous mediums. Rohan studies Business of Cinematic Arts at the Marshall School of Business and the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Grace Kim is a Los Angeles-based creative writer. Through prose and screenplay, she explores the unglamorous mundane and the uncertainties of the female existence. Grace studies Creative

Writing with minors in Screenwriting and Entertainment Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Editor-in-Chief for Haute Magazine.

Nishka Manghnani is a visual artist and designer based in Los Angeles and Mumbai. Through branding, graphic, and publication design, she creates with the intention of mobilizing social change. Nishka studies Design with a minor in Web Development at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Hunter Black is a writer based in Los Angeles and San Francisco. He seeks to utilize nonfiction storytelling blended with elements of creative prose to elevate stories of underrepresented voices on a wider scale. Hunter studies Public Relations with a minor in Theatre at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Editor-in-Chief for Haute Magazine.

RAVEENA

What is the cost of love?

A misfortunate turn of the head and soon he would discover the answer lies within the intersection of fear and doubt of the disposition of love.

Nimble fingers dance across the wood, melodies swaying along the fig trees in the breeze. Each string was plucked with intention, every note a cure to aches of every avenue. A place to heal from sorrows and soak in solace, people traveled far and wide to listen to Orpheus, the greatest lyre player in all the land and lore. Yet, he only truly played for her, Eurydice.

Each note was listened to intently, with great care and attention, like a flower carefully watered and bathed in sunlight. Eurydice silently basked in each note, letting it settle into her soul. By her death, she was composed of every single way she loved Orpheus. She succumbed to the underworld in the very moment he succumbed to doubt. He watched her hair slip through his fingers and into the crevices of his shattered grief, a moment lost forever to the cruelties of time.

Orpheus pleaded for her return, playing the sweetest of sounds to coax her soul back, calloused fingers scraping against golden strings. He fell to his knees in the underworld where she lied, beseeching the gods as he cried out her name in vain. But no matter. She was gone with the winds. And so he lived on, missing her forever.

Smoke billows out of the tiny window crack of the white-brick flat down 36th Street. If you squint through the hazy air, you can just make out a man and a woman facing each other, lost in their own thoughts as the percolator huffs out hot steam that mixes with the gray-tinted ambience.

They pour coffee and drink silently from chipped mugs. The smokey taste has seeped into the hot liquid and onto their tongues, as if mocking the taste of their lost love. They silently wonder if they’ve exhausted themselves to the end, bittersweet feelings coating their mouths, each guilty for holding the lingering thought.

In this lifetime she goes by something like Sarah or Grace, maybe even Amelia. She runs her hands through her silky hair, long strands settling against her creamy skin as she quietly sighs in exasperation.

He goes by something like Henry or George or Kevin. But never mind that her wrist is empty, which he notices for the first time today.

Calloused fingers worked for hours to link the 925 silver chains together, creating a silver bracelet that had adorned her wrist from the moment he gifted it to her. The pang in his stomach comes in a rolling wave, one that has come to visit every so often since the moment he fell in love with her. At first he could barely understand how he was to properly function from how intensely he loved her. He managed his emotions by sharing them with her, through words and gifts and touches, in every way he could. To this she would reply, but not respond. Always an inch too far, always a sentence too short. Sometimes he wondered if his love was too much, or not enough, and the twinge of uncertainty would come again. This time, though, the uneasiness surged with a sense of grief yet to come.

He looks older, she realizes for the first time today. It was apparent in his eye bags, ruffled hair, and, most of all, his listless gaze. That the stresses of postgrad life have caught up to him. Or maybe it was her that he has worn out of. She found the cues of love in listening and expressing and quietly feeling, none of which were grand by any means. It wasn’t in her nature to love largely like him, she didn’t even know how. Always a hesitant beat, always a thought unspoken. Their youth was not an excuse anymore; they were no longer seventeen and crazy in love with nothing else mattering.

The coffee is gone now, only small grinds that managed to escape through the strainer sitting at the bottom of the cup in a thin brown puddle.

The flowers he had picked for her last week frown at him on his way out, the petals having wilted quickly from the smoky air. It is spring now, the season that reminded him most of her. She was in all the seasons though, and he reflects on just how she is every color of the year as he slowly slips his shoes on, prolonging the moment of goodbye.

He would come to miss her in the spring and think of lilacs sitting in the curve of her back against the grass, violet petals cascading down her spine.

Like lavender stems tucked into the band of her tunic, leaves fly behind them just like how they ran through the marble temples of Athens, hand in hand.

He would come to miss her in the winter, snowflakes landing on her fluttering eyelashes as she shone in the corner streetlight.

Her warmth shed light on the barrenness of the long Greek winters, the way her small echoed calls would light up the frigid mosque halls.

JENNY KIM

He would come to miss her in the fall, driving miles across town to buy her favorite apple cider champagne, her cheeks flushed rose with just two glasses.

She would dance in her drunkenness off of wine and joy at every festival of Dionysia, her shawl fluttering in the brisk wind.

He would come to miss her in the summer as her tan skin illuminated against the waves, long lazy days of love spent at shore.

The sun would set as they picked bright fruits in private gardens, berries gathered in the folds of her veil.

The door shuts behind him, the swing of the solid springs recoiling as they fall back onto the metal lining of the opening. She watches him from the window, like she does every time he leaves, quietly ensuring he makes it out of the driveway safe. He scratches the left side of his neck as he leaves, a longtime habit. She realizes just how much she will miss him in every avenue.

She would come to miss him on a walk, how he would tuck a flower in her hair every time they passed the neighborhood garden.

He would catch fallen petals as they walked under the fig trees, slipping them away to dry alongside his music sheets, embedding their love into songs as timeless as the ancient land.

She would come to miss his gaze and how he stared at her with love in his eyes as she fixed up his scarf, though she always pretended not to notice.

His eyes would soften under golden curls as she tied his tunic in place for his musical performances, watching her swiftly work with the soft fabric.

She would come to miss his knock, two quick raps with a pause before the third—the sound of home.

He would chime the palace’s bells rigorously to come lie beside her, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling in his slumber, his heartbeat a sound she could not sleep without.

She would come to miss him in the waves, all things from drawing their initials in the sound to picking fights with the current washing them away.

His skin would shine in the clear Cyprus shores, water droplets clinging to his golden skin as he shook his wet hair onto her playfully.

She walks down three blocks and turns the right corner, making her way to the antique shop. There it is, tucked away neatly in a box on a shelf behind the counter. She had left her bracelet for cleaning at the shop this morning, her greatest treasure kept only in the most pristine condition. The freshly polished metal feels cool on her skin as she slips it back onto her wrist — the empty feeling finally satisfied by the silver weight.

Would he ever know that she had left her bracelet for polishing, in utmost care, like how she handled their love ever so gently in silence?

Would he ever know that she, too, had reached for him just as desperately as she fell to the underworld, only a second too late?

If they had known that their souls transcended time, hand in hand, that this life was their second chance, then would they have fought harder? Or would they have faced the same fate, the impermissible truth that they would not ever be a tiny figment of reality?

Jenny Kim is a writer based in New York and Los Angeles. Specializing in narrative, she seeks to uncover the human condition through her honest exploration of sentimentalism. Jenny studies English at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

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

OUR BURNING

OUR HOME IS BURNING

Summer Tillman is a Los Angeles-based artist and photographer. She explores the nuances of the human experience through written and visual media. Summer studies Communication Management at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Nicole Leihe is a digital artist and animator based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Inspired by storytelling, she aims to express unique narratives through her artwork. Nicole studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Model Iyesha Damali

Assistant Sammi C. Wong

Lighting

Hannah Zou

FOUR LOVE

ACTS LOVE IN

and so Narcissus bends over still water, tries to capture his reflection in his cupped hands, and watches his mirror image shatter into ripples across the pond.

act i: prologue / …and so it begins

Mother often tells and retells the story of Eve’s birth to anyone who will listen: Eve arrived feet first during a winter storm — the power was out and the heater was down and Mother was terrified Eve’s life would be the end of her own. After all, life usually goes like this: mothers and daughters are connected as reflections of one another until one surpasses — outlives, outgrows, outdoes — the other.

Mother’s habitually bitter tone when telling the story has always left Eve wondering if her breeched introduction into the world — wrong-side-up and not-quite-right — is what prompted Mother to keep her distance from Eve, cheating them from ever forming a connection with each other, at all. And so, in this disconnect between mother and daughter, Eve, who was born into darkness and cold, found that there were many things she did not learn from her mother about how to love.

act ii: echo

scene i: five years old

Mother moved through her life with grace and control; she was distant and beautiful, and as Eve eventually understood, distant and beautiful even to her own daughter. Mother did not like when Eve made too much noise: too much laughing and chattering and moving. Mother did not like when Eve needed too much: too many scraped knees, too many tears, too many questions.

Eve learned to admire Mother from afar instead, and like a crow collecting scraps of treasure, Eve collected fragments of Mother. Mother liked drinking coffee in the quiet mornings; Eve learned to move around the kitchen silently. Mother hated Eve’s father; Eve learned to stop looking toward him for comfort, to try to hate him too. Mother wore red lipstick everyday; Eve bit her lips rosy. By fashioning herself around Mother’s silhouette, Eve figured she was learning to love Mother from afar; she figured she was learning to love. After all, what is love if not attention and imitation — if not obsession?

Although Mother remained remote from Eve, Eve only continued to perform love more, molding, chipping away at, and shaping herself into a form capable of loving Mother — hoping to become a vessel of love, or at least a vessel deserving of love.

scene ii: fifteen years old

And so Eve continued loving Mother from afar, learning the way she moved, emulating the way she talked, practicing the way she smiled. Eventually, Eve found that love was actually quite formulaic. Love meant constantly attempting to create that intertwining, intersecting connection she had always longed for with Mother — love was becoming one, or at least trying to become one. Love was holding facts and figures in your hands: memorizing the sound of footsteps, morning routines, favorite coffee orders, to prove a connection exists — it must. Eve loved her friends, boyfriends, girlfriends the same way she learned to love Mother, pouring her time and attention into imitating them. When the other girls in her classes started wearing makeup, she followed: baby-pink blush, glossed lips. When her boyfriend told her he liked classic rock bands, she followed: Pearl Jam, Guns N’ Roses; brown hair dyed black, band tees cropped short.

Eve wasn’t really sure if she liked baby-pink blush and she wasn’t sure if she liked her hair dark; Eve was pretty sure she loved her friends and her boyfriend. The dissonance sometimes ached like loneliness, but Eve only knew how to love this way, forcefully and technically, shoving the details of relationships into her chest and hoping the ache between her ribs was more like love.

scene iii: twenty-five years old

But Eve found that the rules for love were changing. With each passing year, Eve found that her friends seemed to reach into an ever-growing well of endless emotions — happiness, anger, curiosity, confusion, love — within themselves. In singular, sweeping motions, they declared their newest passions: climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and backpacking around Europe with the absolute love of their lives. Her friends bent down on their knees to each other, declaring their never-ending devotion to each other in the form of engagements and marriages. They had callings to become mothers because they “had so much love to give” and they called their parents often for advice because “no one knows me like my dad.” Eve found that with age, love was becoming more complicated. She stumbled clumsily after her friends, forcing herself into their footsteps, trying to figure out how to love in this new, indeterminable manner. Despite her best efforts, Eve found love sometimes still felt like a bruise, the sort of lasting tenderness she used to feel when trying to figure out why Mother would turn away from her, tell her to be quiet; now, a similar, gnawing dullness in her chest continued to reverberate rhythmically through her long after her friends had already moved onto something else.

Eager to avoid those tender spots Mother had left in her, Eve devoted herself to mastering this new kind of love. When Eve’s boyfriend proposed a cross-country move to Boston for a job, Eve followed with no hesitation. She figured this was similar to her friends’ sweeping motions of passion. If she tried hard enough, she could almost make the pieces of her life fit into a picture resembling passion and devotion and this newer, more demanding kind of love. Thousands of miles away from Mother, Eve could change herself into a new silhouette, a version of herself unaffected by Mother’s coldness: Mother had liked drinking coffee in the quiet mornings, so Eve played rock as she prepared her coffee, let the kettle scream a few seconds longer; Mother had worn a clear gloss on her lips every day, so Eve painted her lips red.

Distant and separate from everything she had ever known, Eve enjoyed losing herself in the anonymity of Boston, letting her boyfriend’s life overwhelm hers; losing these parts of herself allowed her to erase that soreness from her youth.

act iii: ripple

When Eve’s father dies, — heart attack, alone and sudden — Mother calls Eve for the first time in years: the funeral will take place in two days’ time, Eve can stay in the guest room, Eve will have to call a taxi to get back from the airport. Eve’s boyfriend looks at her with “sympathy” in his eyes. When her friends cry on the phone, she figures they must feel sad about everything.

So Eve flies back home to stay in a guest room, where she finds that despite the decades, the distance, the five-year-old girl inside of her is still collecting scraps of treasure, fragments of Mother. She still catches herself observing Mother from afar, hoping to learn more about her, to learn how to love in whatever way she can.

On the morning of the funeral, Eve puts on her black dress and paints her lips red; Mother dons a black suit, applies the slightest touch of gloss. In the kitchen, Eve puts water on the stovetop, lets the kettle wail a bit before she prepares her coffee.

Mother purses her lips and sips her coffee in silence. A woman and her shadow, Eve thinks to herself. She’s not sure which one she is.

The funeral is muted, solemn, and straight-forward. The priest says a few words, there’s some music, and assorted relatives and acquaintances shake Eve’s hand, offer their condolences. Thank you, she responds, yes, it’s all very tragic. Honestly, Eve had never really been close with her father. In pursuit of loving Mother, Eve had absorbed Mother’s habits, her interests, and perhaps mistakenly, her hatred for Eve’s father. Even now, as Eve stood in the church, accepting the condolences of obscure relatives and playing the part of a grieving daughter to her dead father, Eve couldn’t help but look to Mother for more scraps of affection: how is Mother? What is Mother doing? The dissonance between her absolute study of Mother and Mother’s ambivalence to her made her chest ache, a flickering between what she wanted to believe was love and what she suspected might be loneliness.

act iv: shatter

Seated on her flight back to Boston, Eve stares into the eyes of a stranger in the reflection of the window: a young woman with her mother’s sloped nose, the same arch in her eyebrows, the same dimpled chin. Eve was almost surprised to see her hair, dyed dark for more than a decade now, and her cheeks, lightly rouged with pink brush the way her friends liked it. The face in the glass was a Frankenstein of her obsessive efforts to become, consume — no, love — others. But she still wasn’t sure if she liked her hair dark, if she liked pink blush; Eve wondered if she had ever been loved by anyone else, at all, if anyone else had ever wondered what she liked. Eve stared deeper into her eyes, so similar to what she had come to recognize as Mother’s eyes: deep and dark and distant. Mother had always been unknowable to Eve, and Eve found that, perhaps, she had become unknowable to herself, too.

Tingyo Chang is a Los Angeles-based writer. She explores how narratives capture different worldviews and realities. Tingyo studies Narrative Studies and Law, History, & Culture with a minor in Web Development at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Felicitas Schwenzer is a Germany-based photographer. Though always fascinated by photography, she only pursued her first steps toward digital photography in 2019. Felicitas has a strong interest in body shapes, specifically in nude studies. She believes that the body offers endless perspectives, variations, and abstractions. To her, portraying a nude body is one of the most timeless, intimate, and honest means of photography. In her photographs, she aims to desexualize the nude form, especially the female body and instead turn it into art and an instrument for emotional expressions.

Natalie Darakjian is a designer based in Orange County and Los Angeles. Coming from an architecture background, she expresses her creativity in interdisciplinary ways. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Aleksandra Sachenko is an art photographer based in Montenegro and Serbia.

Angelina Lyon is a Los Angeles-based designer. She specializes in graphic design and brand identity and is interested in crafting visually-impactful designs. Angelina studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Models

Melissa Ermishina

Victoria Evdokimova

Ana Ilic

She was born not from the white starched sea foam of the ocean, but rather the cracks in between dry, granulated sand — brown and soft to touch, pulverized by Earth’s erosion and placed at a distance from water, though not too distant. Somber and quiet like hot wind in the Western deserts of Egypt, Afrodite rose just as the sun did: powerful, scorching, and impenetrable. Despite this, the cold misty gale of the Mediterranean Sea bordering Cyprus oppressed her daily. A stifling force with intent to strike her down from the roots that planted her on the shores of Northern Africa. And there she stood — a kindred spirit, with a radiance of sacredness and a luminosity comparable to the North Star. Daily she would awaken with the sun, turning her graceful body south to bronze her warm skin into a deep richness. A richness that juxtaposed the teal waters almost as if to declare her right over it.

A divine lady. A goddess of sensual love, beauty, and procreation, personifying the generative powers of nature as Heaven and Earth’s love child — to be worshiped and glorified as the epitome of feminine devotion and divine power. Every day, a man would come to visit Afrodite. He would remark that she was love incarnated as a human goddess. He would feel the curve of her back sway with the sands that blew her locks wildly above her head, captivated by her movements and enraptured by her hypnotizing voice which sang eloquent melodies. Every idle movement of her hips, his fingers followed with yearning. Her mere gaze gave way to indecent fixations, which he replayed countless times as he journeyed back home at eventide. He studied and embraced how her dark eyes moved in response to the radiating beams of the sunlit clouds wherein those moments she imagined that Heaven had bestowed a gift upon her, smiling and laughing to the sky like a child to a jester, playing tricks to the innocent.

Yet, her virtue and vitality fell victim to the harsh waters of the bordering sea that sought to uproot her from the sturdy Earth beneath. At night in the vulnerable stagnant cold, when her warmth seeks to radiate the abundant life around her, white foam creeps the hundred mile-length across the Mediterranean and flows hungrily to the crack in the dirt from which she stems. Her flora, sweet in taste and plump in shape, tarnished by a tyrannical force, plundering through the ground with evil and rage. The spoiled roots ravaged and sizzled. And with this European poison that hunted the girl to dishevelment — which no amount of sun could withstand — came the shedding of her brown skin and wilting of her high head. The entity’s reflection revealed itself through the crevices and became an ivory mist that surged Afrodite from her post.

A faint whisper expelled from the ghost’s mouth: “Thou shall never be as beautiful as the one you mimic.”

Afrodite lay speechless and bound by the white phantom. Such disgraceful words spread like wildfire — the apparition’s canards permeating through the land and infecting minds with the suggestion of Afrodite’s disfigurement. A hypnosis spread with nefarious intent to shame the brown goddess’s beauty and divinity. As the man returned, he spoke of disdain for Afrodite. That she was all wrong now, and he couldn’t rationalize the worsening of her behavior, and that perhaps this ugliness was her all along. He contended that she be inclined to fix it or no one, including him, shall ever take liking to her should she choose to remain this way. Afrodite recalled the immense love and gratitude the man had shown her before, his humble worship. Pleading and imploring that he rethink the hurtful words that he has let slip because they are untrue — these words of myth.

Virginia Akujobi-Egere is a Los Angeles-based writer. She specializes in a nonfiction style of narration across prose and poetry. Virginia studies Narrative Studies with a minor in Songwriting at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Adeline Zhang is a Los Angeles-based designer and illustrator. Her work primarily focuses on emotional storytelling. Adeline studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

SARAH

SARAH STALON

SARAH STALON

SARAH STALON

Sarah Stalon is a photographer. Her creative journey revolves around conveying her perspective and passion through the lens of her camera — “through my eyes.” She focuses on conveying this individual reality and the beauty of diversity which comes with embracing this personal vision.

Sean Guzmán is a designer and filmmaker based in New York and Los Angeles. Through his work, he encourages audiences to challenge their preconceived notions of identity and reality. Sean studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

My creative journey has always revolved around conveying my unique perspective and deep passion, captured through the lens of my camera. My chosen alias, “through my eyes,” embodies the essence of my artistic ethos. It serves as a reminder that each of us possesses a distinct perception of the world — an individual reality that influences our vision. Embracing this diversity is what makes life and photography truly beautiful. Every reality and perspective, including mine, holds its own validity and significance. It is my sincere desire to share my personal vision with you, inviting you to experience the world, through my eyes for you.

SARAH STALON

SARAH

Kindred Spirits

Needles sink into flesh

Cementing sacred kin

The leaves entrapped into your skin

The blazing embers as my armor

The mystic ripples on her shawl

They’ll ask us what it means

But it’s not for them to comprehend

The children we used to be

How your thorns used to bite

Like starved souls jaded from desperation

And my phoenix rage ignited ruinous flames

That could burn down the greatest nations

While her ominous waves roared like Posideon

Threatening to swallow us into an endless abyss

We embody nature’s symphony

These etchings on our chest

Unknown to all the rest

Reveal the demands of vulnerability

Before we can bask in its oasis

Now akin to a rare nobility

Statues No Longer Weep

I worshiped her

My eternal goddess of wisdom

Rapturously letting her use me as she pleased

Reveling in the ethereal sensation

Of my powerless vessel left in her care

I worshiped her

Like a sinner begging for forgiveness

My devotion stripped me bare

And unaware of what rests beneath the ocean

Tempestuous waves somberly reveal

A God’s promiscuous intentions

His fingers peregrinate sacred domains

Unraveling me in exchange

For her war-like rage

I worshiped her

It led to my demise

The soiled trembles of my body left for display

While wretched words wrapped around me

Like twisted weeds to cement my fate

A life lived with sly serpent tresses

Surrounded by marble stone

I worshiped her

Now worship me

Look into my eyes

I’ll be the last thing you ever see

Please shed a lonely tear

Because statues cannot weep

Godless Intentions

I quite like my cage

Forged from profound addiction

And tragically concealed desires

Freedom has lost its appeal

Must I reckon with reality

Where our gentle grazes

And tight embraces

Mean nothing to you

Subtle notions are all I need

For this ungodly euphoria

To never flee

If leaving you means liberation

Never set me free

Before the Flowers Bloom

Cradled in Mother Nature’s sweet embrace

My constant weeps moisten the soil

Where I’ve been savagely forsaken

Buried beneath unsuspecting meadows

Where dark shadows dance

Sowing suspicion to the rest

Here I solemnly lay mourning

Hell is not a real enough place

Since bastardly creatures are free to roam

With sticky hands and dark admire

Where they masquerade as Venus

And trap me like a fly

With words drenched in dark intention

I realized a little too late, his admiration

Came with thorns and twisted vines

He darkly purrs into my crevices

Who will pay for your sins

For tormenting me with

Relentlessly possessive notions

Convincing me you were solely mine for taking

So my greedy fingers claw at your heart

Until your blood dries beneath my fingertips

So you’ll stay with me forever

Your Executioner

I kneel before you in torment

Grant me this one request

Let me be your executioner

I pray solely to you

Bless me as your only disciple

Let me be your executioner

I have no use beyond you

Tie your strings around my neck

I’ll be your executioner

Golden Tears

I have dreams I’ve never told you about Mundane wisps of thoughts Where laughter echoes in the garden

As your children chase each other With mine quick to follow In a world of their own

Leading us to reminisce

About a time that ceases to exist

I have dreams I’ve never told you about Earthy visions intertwined with endless pages That would make the chapters tedious to leaf through Yet reality ultimately disagreed

Cruelly decreed our story was fleeting Destined to permanently untangle

I have dreams I’ve never told you about Sacred whispers that will never reach your ears

As your body has been lowered

To a realm out of reach

From a world yet to set me free But has cast you out so ruthlessly

I have dreams I’ve never told you about Actions replace what words simply cannot convey Shaking hands feverishly grasp at freshly buried soil

Reaching out too late for what no longer remains

VFX

Salvador Iglesias

Lighting Assistants

Sammi C. Wong

CJ Nicdao

BTS

CJ Nicdao

Styling

Mika Shardarbekova

Alizeh Jarrahy

Models

Òlúwátòbí Kálèjáiyé

Slaterrose

Jada Umusu is an Atlanta-based writer. Her stories focus on inescapable transformation. Jada studies Political Science with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Alan T. Phan is a Los Angeles-based photographer. He uses introspective narrative themes coupled with unique lighting techniques to convey striking visual stories. Alan studies Psychology with a minor in Music Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Evan Estevez Rodrigues is a designer based in New York and Los Angeles. Through brand, product, and visual design, he explores the intersection between reality and aesthetics. Evan studies Journalism with minors in Applied Analytics and Entertainment Industry at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

I. A spark.

VICTIMS OF FORCES GREATER THAN WE

II. Roots.

VICTIMS OF FORCES GREATER THAN WE

III. Drowning.

VICTIMS OF FORCES GREATER THAN WE

IV. The Void Models Kaila Minei Ben Crotty

A visual depiction of the creation and dissolution of a relationship using the elements. Upon meeting, sparks turn into flames. In the honeymoon stage, love is peaceful and grounding. But then, waters rise and the relationship begins to drown. Finally, it ends and there’s nothing but air left. The Victims of Forces Greater Than We portrays the inevitable transience of love.

Evan Estevez Rodrigues is a designer based in New York and Los Angeles. Through brand, production, and visual design, he explores the intersection between reality and aesthetics. Evan studies Journalism with minors in Applied Analytics and Entertainment Industry at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, 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 with a minor in Marketing at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

She began as the seed of a thought, barely grazing life with her kernel-like form as she enmeshed herself in Earth’s uterine lining. From soil, she bloomed into a more concrete she as the world toiled each day, fed her the stream of life, and enveloped her in that warm maternal embrace, whispering those fearful words: “shh, listen to the sounds of the world and surrender yourself to those vague mumbles of desire.” She listened and was nursed to life by the sky, the birds, the worms, and the fish. She was a child of Earth, and all of those creatures involved in that grid of creation which connects all born beings to each other who are separated only by a thin veil of indifference.

But indifference is an illusion for those who fear the consequence of connection. She was that crystallized form of living as the Earth wept in joy the moment she gasped and felt the world rush in and out of her lungs. She felt sorrow. All of the pain and beauty of living accumulated into one large sense of being and she felt existence to be quite... lonesome.

Breath. That imperceivable chemistry which caresses the cellular units of the body then perforates through the air in the form of words of love and hatred which are exchanged between souls. A conversation of souls. What else is there to live for? The soil turns itself over in one cycle of seasons from warm to cold then cold to warm again and, through that cycle, its breath churns life into meaning and meaning into existence.

She saw how her limbs blended into the roots of trees which grew beyond what is observable by the human eye, that underground tunnel of feelings which exist beyond form and reason and only in senses. She perceived that vague sense the moment the world had rushed in and out of her lungs. She had breathed the world. But what was it? She couldn’t say.

It was the moment the fisherman held his pole close to his heart and lept at the joy of feeling the vibration of life at the tip of his fingers then mourned the world as it escaped that small but truthful vessel of life. The mourning faded into the fulfillment of flesh by another flesh; but that rare space of dawn between night and day where one life recognized a smaller life lived on in the memories of Earth.

It lay in the bruised chest of a mother holding her own child toward her heart for the first time, bearing the lonely weight of the world, at once, feeling as if another infant and the fierce desire to protect this singular form of existence from any force which sought to subdue it to meaning. But living without intention was not living at all. She had to learn how to loosen her slim finger from the grip of that surprisingly Herculean strength of the child’s fist as it gripped onto comfort, gripped onto faith, and gripped onto nonexistence prior to the hurtling tide of life.

But once you’re swept away, there is no way to ride against currents of feeling as it submerges the living into that empty search for meaning. Meaning? Life? Intention? It was something far more all-encompassing and larger than any of those words in separation or in combination.

She observed as a bird woke up before the sun to hunt for prey only to drop it into the hollow yearning beak of a much smaller and uglier bird whose malformed feathers frayed and sprouted in all directions. She did not have what the still hungry bird had.

She saw as the sunflowers grew toward each other mistaking the other for the sun, then growing more alike until their leaves interlaced in an affectionate embrace, their kindred fates entwined with each other forever. Everything grew in such a way that it grew toward something, yearning for another, yearning for this messy entanglement. But she had no yearning except the curiosity of what might have been that vague sense. It was warm and sharp, at once, enticing and ugly.

She whispered to the soil which she had come from, the only place in this world which she had felt a distinct consequence toward. It had saved her soul which in every other way had felt detached and floating, ungrounded by those typical sentiments of desperation which marked every other living being. But this was what happened when everything created one thing. It was lonely to be the sole creation and to withstand the weight of all things — the hopes, desires, and expectations of life.

So she journeyed back to the ground hoping the other mute beings within that soil could lead her to that underground tunnel which pointed toward that truth of life: the kernel. The voice of void rang loudly in her ears in a symphony of truths which were all entangled with each other so that they lost meaning in relation to others. It pained her more to enter a chamber of truth and still to only gauge a vague shape of what this sense could be.

She breathed in the earthy scent of the tunnel and kept walking deeper and deeper into the Earth’s core. The stifling heat burned her skin and every time she felt the cells in her body oppose that sensation she kept venturing deeper toward the truth. This was the pain of knowing.

Then she hit a small door that felt cool on her hand and immediately left her only with the warmth of... she still couldn’t say. She carefully opened the door and saw a statue of an egg upheld on a stool, the invigorating source of all living. She approached the egg cautiously, apologetically, then placed a hand on the egg. There was nothing. There was no feeling left for her or that previous emanation of it.

Then she noticed the small inscription at the bottom of the stool.

Amor vincit omnia. (Love conquers all.)

She considered its squiggly shapes and dark crevices which intersected with each other and formed meaning from the void. It was all nonsense. She could not read. Language held no meaning. Love held no meaning.

Then she fell to the foot of the stool and wept at the incredulity of knowing she would never understand what it was that inscribed the large hole beside her rib in the shape of that egg. She ached, hugging that empty, missing shape within her, mourning that sense which had left her desolate.

Philia, an affectionate love, a love between equals. She who had been formed from everything had no equal, no desire, no yearning to obsess over something. For everything and all life played within her palms already. This large absence made up her essence, she who had been formed from all emotions, all voices, and all creation. All others who continued to search eventually got their hands on the pen or the brush — who through the gift of seeing with their own set of eyes which was like none others’ — proliferated the small but true inner voice of life which overflowed from one’s soul in the hope of touching another.

Love. It was a gift for the missing. It connected one to another and bred life through the desire for giving, and she who had everything emptied her empty soul at the loneliness of never understanding meaning — never understanding Love.

Grace Kim is a Los Angeles-based creative writer. Through prose and screenplay, she explores the unglamorous mundane and the uncertainties of the female existence. Grace studies Creative Writing with minors in Screenwriting and Entertainment Industry at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Editor-in-Chief for Haute Magazine.

Fiona Choo is a Southern California-based mixed-media photographer. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates societal narratives. Fiona studies Media Arts & Practice with a minor in Marketing and Cinematic Arts at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Anoushka Buch is a designer based in San Francisco and Los Angeles. With a foundation in publication design and branding, she seeks to create beauty through consistency and cohesion. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Model

Francis Faye

Aaron A. A. Abunu

Makeup

Ashley Kim Assistants

Jade Bahng

Jimin Hong

BTS Reel

Franklin Lam

Florescence is defined as the process of flowering: that stage when budding becomes blooming, petals begin to open up in full swing, and the flower soon embarks upon the evolution towards its purest form.

In the realm of art, every individual artist can relate to the flower’s journey of blossoming into the picture-perfect ideal of what beauty is “meant” to be — that the long trials and tribulations of failure, the constant selfevaluation and years of selfdoubt, and the constant drive to push beyond your capabilities will prove fruitful in the endeavor of perfecting your craft.

However, unlike a flower, there’s no true metric to measure what makes art “perfect.” Art has always been intertwined with the intangible; to separate it from this notion would be to completely reject the creative process and the limitless possibilities that emerge from it. Art as a movement is continually evolving, perpetually changing, and ever-flowing from the ideas shaped by introspective minds with a passion to bring their ideas to life. As such, “florescence” in the world of art

is an eternal state: an artist’s craft will always be marked by how they continue to change and evolve, their journey on finding themselves alongside their creative work.

Haute as a community is reflective of this never-ending state of florescence; the publication has now reached its tenth issue, emerging from humble beginnings amongst a small group of creatives in 2018 into an established brand in its own right. Each issue Haute has produced acts differently from one another — separate entities that reflect a collective consciousness of that theme’s creative spark. Haute acts as a medium for students to continually grow their craft, and as such will never reach a point of perfection, a “bloom”: rather, time has proven that it will continually adapt and change form based on the ebb and flow of the climate.

In this piece, five past leaders of Haute give insights into their experience within the publication, how Haute has shaped them personally, and where they personally see the concept of florescence within Haute’s history.

Feeling lost and isolated in the midst of the pandemic, Creative Director Katherine Han (‘23) sought to seek out a community within a new environment. A self-described “intense journalism kid,” she wanted to explore the boundaries of her passion within media and storytelling, aiming to find a space that could help cultivate her creative endeavors. With one click of a button at a virtual involvement fair, she found herself instantly immersed with the community at Haute.

“Haute was a very creative-leaning magazine, so it was exactly what I was looking for — I was looking for something that could push me towards a more creative space,” Katherine says. “I think with [the multimedia team] especially, the way they presented it, it seemed to be more of a new initiative, however with my love for passion and culture, I knew that this club fit perfectly and that I wanted to join.”

Coming in as a general member, Katherine quickly learned both the creative and the practical skills that the organization has formulated within her. Her time as a general member was a time of experiencing growth and one of experimentation. Through Haute, she had been able to find a lifelong passion in the form of film production. With the team growing issue by issue, so was Katherine – she saw the team’s humble beginnings as a chance to improve herself as well, always building upon the foundation of her character and her skills.

For Katherine, the most memorable aspect of Haute for her college experience was the support of the community within it: not only has she seen herself grow through her work and her experience being on Executive Board, she treasures watching the many relationships that have flourished within the multimedia team from new members.

Katherine believes the intertwining collaboration with creative pursuits, so often written off as a strictly individual pursuit, has the chance to cultivate beautiful works of art and lasting friendships; Haute’s creative process represents the pinnacle of this ideal, weaving engaging works of writing, captivating photography, and high-quality visual design as a seamless integration of a piece that brings each of these creative visions to life.

“I really think its important for Haute to remain a space for people who are passionate to come and improve; I am where I am today because of Haute, and I am really grateful for that,” Katherine said. “In the future, it’s important for Haute to still be a community-oriented space, where people who are passionate can learn and grow.”

Issue 7: Hyperreality Photography

Allyson Wei

Like others coming into communities for the first time, Creative Director Shreya Gopala (‘23) found her home in Haute through the support of a friend and mentor — Sydney Leow. Sydney, having grown to feel at home in Haute herself, extended Shreya the opportunity to apply and find her own home within the community as well.

“She became one of my best friends because we were both in the Iovine & Young Academy, and she was [Haute’s] Director of Design when I was a freshman” Shreya said. “I just remember she would always tell me about Haute, however, I didn’t really have any hard skills in design, only ideas. Yet, Sydney still convinced me.”

Through diving into Haute first-hand, Shreya learned all her skills that would be formative towards her own personal growth: networking, visual design, and exposure towards all formats of the creative industry.

“I learned the same amount, if not more, from working in Haute than I did from my own classes,” Shreya said. “In college, you’re usually interfacing with the same types of people in your discipline, but Haute forces you to work with completely different people from different backgrounds and different skills. How you talk to a writer is completely different from how you talk to a photographer, a designer, and more.”

From communication, creation, and conflict management, the process of blossoming into a leader was no easy feat, Shreya noted. However, the experience of being able to do so and evolve as a person as a result was something that became a formative experience as a whole.

Shreya has always viewed Haute as more than just a student publication, having evolved into something more, built upon the foundation of creatives who have poured their passions and efforts into something tangible. “The quality, the output, the work, the effort, the talent that goes into it is so high that it surpasses being simply a ‘student-run’ publication,” she said.

As the world around us evolves as well, Shreya says that the fabric of Haute was made to adapt with it; to blend into the fold that the “next big thing” is set out to be — whether digital, virtual, or more.

“The future is digital — the fact we’re growing into a time with more VR, we have the technological ability to do crazy stuff and define the next level of what a digital publication is.”

Creative Director Sydney Leow (‘22) came into Haute diving in head-first; after finding a wonderful community in which she felt she could learn to open up her creative passions, her first steps with Haute would be in a leadership role as their Director of Visual Design. Coming into Haute for the first time, Sydney was mesmerized at how the creatives leading the magazine, despite it still being a very new publication, already had a defined, fleshed out and ambitious vision for where they could take Haute.

“I was blown away when I found out that this was their first year,” Sydney said. “They seemed like they completely knew the direction that they wanted to go in. It also seemed like they had this vision that I really wanted to dive into and get to know a bit more.”

Alongside her team, she found herself learning to grow and flourish as well — a mutual opportunity to learn from one another as peers to leaders. Having been new to both the publication process and the experience of leadership, Sydney found herself navigating both pathways alongside the visual design team that she led and alongside her fellow Executive board members.

Sydney also valued the experience of innovation within Haute’s history, and how each mistake along the creative process was an opportunity to grow and expand upon past limitations. She noted the page count as an example: “because it was online, I went crazy with the word count,” Sydney said. “It ended up being around 300 pages, and that just became the Haute standard from then on out. It ended up being a mistake, but we can’t trim this down because we wanted every piece to breathe and to be celebrated.”

For Sydney, she noted how working with the visual design team gave her a bird’s-eye view on all the carefully produced artwork within the magazine, taking into consideration how the design flows together on the issue as a whole: “the visual design team has to bring it all back,” Sydney said. “For example, what visual motifs are present that a reader will notice in ‘Opulence.’”

In Sydney’s eyes, even after her time as Creative Director, Haute was always meant to take itself further, branching out towards ideals previously thought unfathomable: “More types of creativity can be infused into Haute. What does a Haute dance show look like? What’s the Haute film? Haute comedy? Haute cooking?” Sydney said. “There’s so many layers to be added on.”

Photography Allyson Wei

A burgeoning friendship would soon bring about the birth of a legacy affecting far beyond their original dreams; that’s how Creative Director and Co-Founder Jason Cerin (‘21) describes Haute’s origins. What originally was fleeting comments turned to workshopped ideas late at night in the dorms until becoming a fully fleshed out proposal, all stemming from one guiding vision: the vision to start a publication community at USC where all creative students, regardless of background or major, have the opportunity to contribute their artwork in a visual mosaic of passions.

“It was February of 2018; Diana and I had gone to a Dua Lipa concert, and we were waiting in line,” Jason said. “She brought up [Haute] and asked if I had seen other student publications at USC, and she showed me some from other universities. We were really excited about that as an idea, a space for people of various majors or backgrounds to create this very art-centric publication.”

During the process of bringing Haute to life for the first time in fall 2019, the duo soon realized that the magazine was well beyond what they had initially thought the scale would be. In order to adapt with the exponential growth of this young community, Jason would soon begin to grow as a leader and creative in his own right as well.

“Our group when we first started was around 50 people, and at its height we reached about 100 members,” Jason said. “It became quickly this thing beyond the two of us. It taught me, not only to step into a leadership role and guide a group of creatives to create one body of work, but also allowed me to see the creative community of USC in no other way; the Haute meeting was this creative melting pot of people who could go beyond their academic bounds and contribute to something that might be entirely different.”

Jason’s decisions and ideas not only changed the direction of Haute as an organization and brand, but also in what his passion in life would be. Originally focused on practical vocational pathways such as law, the visual work Jason would put into Haute altered his self-trajectory.

When it became time to leave Haute, Jason was hopeful that the community would continue to be a space for students at USC to explore their creative potential. For Jason, the community behind Haute would support the passion of students: “At every level of Haute, it felt like a community. I would hope that aspect of community is still at the forefront... still being a space USC students can come no matter their background and share their story and share their creativity in whatever form they see fit.”

Editor-in-Chief and Co-Founder

Diana Fonte (‘21) knows how essential determination and a sharpened passion is toward bringing formative ideas to life. Diana’s experiences with her own aspirations and hobbies kept her fulfilled, and the lack of a space to continue pursuing that craft within her environment, kindled a new idea; through a young, unbridled vision of a community where creativity could flourish amongst all students, Haute was born.

“I wasn’t fully attuned to all of the different pockets and communities at USC, just because it’s such a big school,” Diana said. “I liked the idea of telling stories and the idea of the written word, however, I scoped out the extracurricular scene and it seemed like those type of creatives weren’t conglomerating around one organization, or that there wasn’t a place where we can showcase all of their work in one place, even though it was distinctly a community.”

Seeing the lack of a space where creatives could truly flourish, Diana soon worked with her friend Jason to formulate what such a community would look like. Step by step, Haute soon became a tangible reality that was ready to be unveiled to the USC community as a whole.

The next steps of Haute’s timeline were not only formative for the organization, but also for Diana as an individual. The organization acted as a sanctuary where her own creative skills could be honed while also growing within a community.

“There’s a certain limit to what you can explore creatively in academia, yet Haute allowed me to pour into something creatively with no limits,” Diana said. “From a creative standpoint, it was fulfilling to work with all the writers and photographers… every single member had something they brought to the magazine that was different, and finding ways to piece that all together was creative in itself.”

Near the end of her college career, Diana felt somber to leave something so integral to her and leave it in a field of uncertainty, but knew deep down that the organization would continue to evolve amongst itself; she understood that its original roots as a home for student creatives built by student creatives would still ring true.

“If it survives, that’s a huge success cause it means that it made enough of a difference that it changes people’s lives and that is a huge success which is enough itself,” Diana said. “But I always think it can grow even more… I think the ambition of artists in USC will push it to see what’s possible, to see what’s next.”

Photography

Sean Mundy

Issue 1: Out of Context

Photography

Josh Rose

Hunter Black is a writer based in Los Angeles and San Francisco. He seeks to utilize nonfiction storytelling blended with elements of creative prose to elevate stories of underrepresented voices on a wider scale. Hunter studies Public Relations with a minor in Theatre at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Editor-in-Chief for Haute Magazine.

Anoushka Buch is a designer based in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Through her foundation in publication design and branding, she has developed a knack for storytelling, building identities, and developing systems. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Kate Biel is a Los Angeles-based photographer. Her practice is driven by the opportunity to recreate, distort, and control past experiences in her own life and the lives of others. Kate aims to mythologize the ordinary and explore the theme of erotic melancholia.

Jackson Epps is a Los Angeles-based designer. He seeks to creatively tell visual stories. Jackson studies Public Relations with a minor in Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

S LOVE

In this world, if you were to ask me about my greatest love, two girls come to mind.

My Love For A

Before

I met A in middle school. I remember it with ease.

September 4, 2018 was the first day of middle school. A sat by me in the cafeteria with a bright smile, saying, “Hi Agnes, I’m A. I like your shirt.”

My eyes dropped down to my purple Justice bedazzled off-the-shoulder top that I’d begged my parents for. It’s the perfect preteen shirt. Proudly, I met her eyes — chocolate with a dark outer ring. A’s round face, small features, and thin lips are cohesive with her small doll-like frame and her lively spirit. I noticed her mid-back, loopy “s” pattern hair. She packed it in a tight ponytail that swayed with her body when she spoke.

To understand my love for A, you must first understand the pain of living without her. Before A, I drifted through life with a deep longing for connection — praying for someone to understand the solitude of childhood. I had no one to talk to about the thoughts rolling through my developing mind until she came along. A pulled me out of my lonely state and conjoined her life to mine.

We lived in the same neighborhood, so after school we would sit side by side — hunched with our arms hugging our knees to our chest, school bags hanging from our shoulders — beside

the edge of a deformed sidewalk that had been uplifted by roots of a pin oak tree. For a few hours we were free to verbalize our biggest dreams, to share our deepest secrets, to cry, to ramble, to feel the emotions that were not allowed within the confines of our homes.

“Where do you think you will go to college, Agnes?”

“I know I want to leave New Jersey but I don’t have a school in mind yet. What about you?”

“I want to go to Yale. That’s my dream school.”

Education had always been A’s escape plan. She wanted the prestige of an Ivy League school to teleport her into higher society. A desired the perfect life laid out by attending the perfect school, engaging in the perfect clubs, and attaining the perfect test scores.

“What do you want to study?” I asked.

“Politics. And I want to work in the United Nations as a diplomat, have a house in Georgetown, and live with my two kids and a husband.”

I can see this life for her. She deserves it all.

I adored our relationship. No matter what, there was no judgment, no awkwardness, no misunderstandings. We were once 11 and 12 years old, with big dreams and the desire to leave our hometown. We blossomed together until life placed us in different places.

After

A got out first. She left for George Washington University, joined the cheerleading team and a sorority. I watched her life through a six-inch rectangular screen. I was happy for her, truly. But coping without her, stuck in the place we planned to leave together, was hard.

With soggy eyes, I plead into my phone, hoping that A hears me and accepts the call. It’s been almost two months and I haven’t spoken to her. My past calls have been unanswered, unreturned. But today might be different.

Each ring solidifies my fear. She has forgotten me. I am her past. “The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please —”

My heart tightens and my body trembles. I lay in my childhood bed instead of a twin-sized one. The walls of my bedroom mock me. You’re not going anywhere. You didn’t make it out. You’re stuck. They echo. She forgot about you. Stop bothering her. Let her live. My lungs collapse and I peek around my childhood room. The familiarity of my home burns my eyes and a stream flows. At this moment, I realized that it is no longer me against the world. I am deserted and my lifeline has been disconnected.

Dear A, I searched for you in others and tried to find a drop of what we had inside them. I was unsuccessful, every time. You don’t know this friend, but I cried for you. My pillow could attest.

That’s the story of me and A, our life before. I will always cherish this chapter with her. I pray that the dreams of our childhood selves mature together but, no matter what happens, I will always love you, A

My Love For S

Everything in Between

I watch as the cool autumn air whips through her golden, sweaty, straight hair. Then my gaze lowers to her rose-stained lips. I dream of how they feel. Would they be as soft as they look? When they separate, her smile reveals a row of perfectly aligned teeth. I stare in admiration.

S moves towards me, her shoulder pressed to mine. Her nose swipes my cheek while she travels to my ear. Her breath caresses my lobe as she whispers, but I can’t focus on her words. My heart is pushing against my ribcage over and over again, rapidly. When she pulls away, I distract her with a grin. “You’re beautiful,” I mouthed. She stares intensely, lips curled, slightly parted. She denies my statement with a chuckle.

Dear reader, I might not always be an honest person, but her beauty is something I never lie about. S has soft cerulean eyes that rival the ocean and hide her fierce nature. They lure you in but staring intensely can cause you to drown. Her small button nose is decorated with specs of melanin. It sits perfectly aligned with her seductive lips. When kissed by the sun, her fair hair glints, and her cheeks are colored crimson. I’m drawn to her for reasons I can’t explain. Her presence calms me and her energy uplifts me. She unknowingly sends an electric shock through my body and triggers my dopamine synthesis.

S turns away from me. Her focus shifts to the people sitting before us at the cafeteria table, the ones I forgot about. “I’m headed to the bathroom, I’ll be back,” I announced. Once I gain some distance, I throw myself at the nearest wall and focus on slowing down my heart.

Now That We’re Apart

I like to think that she was mine and I was hers by the memories we shared and the care we showed each other. I remember S with fondness. Dare I say, I loved her.

Last time I heard from S, she started a new life two hundred miles away with a girl — a brunette with emerald green eyes and a petite frame.

Agnes Gbondo is a writer based in New Jersey and Los Angeles. She derives inspiration from her West African culture and experiences as a young Black American woman. Agnes studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Savannah White is a stylist, creative director, and photographer based in Los Angeles and New York City. She is inspired by nature, storytelling, everyday life, and capturing the human experience in all of its raw beauty.

Jackson Epps is a Los Angeles-based designer. He seeks to creatively tell visual stories. Jackson studies Public Relations with a minor in Communication Design at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

PHILAUTIA

A type of love often associated with vanity, philautia has another side that is a centered in wholeness which, once embodied, can brings bliss.

Lucas Silva is a film photographer based in San Diego and Los Angeles. He predominantly shoots landscapes and enjoys street photography. Lucas studies Health Promotion and Disease Prevention at the Keck School of Medicine, University of Southern California.

Nicole Leihe is a digital artist and animator based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Inspired by storytelling, she aims to express unique narratives through her artwork. Nicole studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Model

Maxine Mah

LUCIA ZHANG

MICHAEL

My First

You were my first love: you swallowed my cries and kissed my tears, savoring the salt sinking into the thin membrane of your lips. You watched as I slept, your delicate fingers untangling my hair while you cradled me to your chest.

You were my first teacher: your hands gripped mine as I learned to stand and your feet carried mine as I learned to walk. You lined our shelves with books, always encouraging me to learn but scolding me when I struggled to add or spell.

You were my first lesson: my tendency towards anger was seeded by your volatile temper. You cocooned my body in yours when I threw fits; you wordlessly handed me tissues when I screamed and cried. Your breath warmed my ear as my heart burst aflame. The only person you hurt by being angry is yourself.

Paint someone you love, the assignment read. But paint a side of them that only you know. I can name every part of you, etched into the crevices of my brain. Your teeth slightly crooked, gums darkened from a childhood of stealing candy, eyes folded inwards at the corners like pinched dough. Yet, I cannot see you. I cling to the hope that words will spark memories that images cannot.

I’m not a writer, but I’ll write for you.

Clipped Wings

When I was three, you told me to stop writing with my left hand. Gently but firmly, you pried my fingers open, plucked the pencil out, and placed it in my right hand. My fingers wrapped around the foreign object like a misshapen claw, and I pierced the paper.

When I was seven, you took me to the Audubon Bird Society and showed me a bird that couldn’t fly. One of its wings had its feathers cut, its exposed ends chewed raw. When it struggled to take flight, you cooed sympathetically but nodded along as the guide explained its purpose in preventing escape. I craned my neck to take a better look; you patted my back and impatiently tugged me forward.

When I was eleven, you flung a wooden spoon at me when I asked why you never took me to visit China. Displaced from its previous spot in a pot of stew, the spoon arced in the sky towards my desk, chunks of soup and meat splattering onto the table. Yet, years later, you refused to recall the incident, simply claiming that hitting you hurt me more than it hurt you

When I was fourteen, you caught me sneaking out. I had naively tried to jump from the window and ended up in the hospital with a shattered left arm and twisted ankle. In retrospect, it was a good thing you caught me then, as I had even more naively planned on stealing art supplies from a nearby store that night. I think what surprised you more than the attempted outbreak, though, was my handwriting after the incident; how could you have missed something as basic as what hand I wrote with?

When I was seventeen, I left home. I stuffed my paints and brushes and notebooks in the bottom of my suitcase, modifying the major on my acceptance letters and spinning elaborate lies. The four walls of the house, the now-rusted mesh frames over the windows, the broken arm and utensils thrown. In the

PORTRAIT OF A MOTHER

end, it wasn’t enough to keep me home

Now, I am twenty, and I’m staring at a blank canvas, closing my eyes and trying to conjure up your image in the void of my lids.

Packing Bags

You started cleaning and preparing early. You would grin as you held up one of your old dresses: the one you deemed perfect for college gatherings or dinner parties. You would shoo me into the bathroom and urge me to try on your clothes, clapping your hands while I twirled until I was dizzy. In boxes, you placed bent paperclips, half-used notepads, and dull pencils.

“Ma,” I would call out when I heard your footsteps shuffling upstairs in the middle of the evening. “By the time you’re done cleaning. The whole house will be in a box.”

But that’s a mother’s love: not put into words, but placed in a package with her finest silk and most ornate jewelry.

In The Mail

I remember reading the first letter, which arrived last November during the midterms of my third year of college. When I opened the envelope, I could do nothing but stare.

Then, the tears began blooming misshapen circles onto the pink paper. They were not from the content of the letter nor your words; instead, they were from the nothingness that the letter evoked. I guess you had missed more than just which hand I wrote with: we had gone so long without talking that you forgot I could barely speak the language, much less read it.

Only a few recognizable characters appeared: my name, you, sickness, school, dad, and art. There were

doodles, too. Me, in front of a canvas, holding a paintbrush with a grin and dimple on my face. You and Dad, two floating heads with a birthday cake in front (I had forgotten to text). The park where you used to make piles of fall leaves that I would jump in again! and again! and again!. Of the few English phrases, one appeared more than the others: call me if you have time. Your handwriting was skinny and cramped, slanting right as if on the verge of tipping over from the weight of your words.

I tossed the letter in a box with my dried paints. If it was urgent, you would text, I thought. If it was urgent, you would call. But my lack of response didn’t stop you; if anything, the letters came with growing frequency. They began to emanate a sense of urgency, with messier handwriting and fewer doodles. But I delayed and I delayed and delayed, only opening each envelope, glancing at the words, and stuffing it away before the cold threads of guilt could weave their way through my chest.

But, when the last letter came, I think I knew. The handwriting was unrecognizable: sharper, more stilted. It was only a few lines, and after days of stalling, I borrowed a dictionary from the library.

妹妹, (Little sister: As the older sibling, I always hated the infantilizing way Dad called you that) 。你妈病了。快回家看看她吧。(Your mom is sick. Come home quickly to see her: The last character softened the command into a gentle, prodding suggestion.)

The final line was in a handwriting I was now intimately familiar with. Call me when you have time.

Packing Bags, Cont.

I’m packing, again. My clothes cover the floor: bras, pants, jackets, and t-shirts. I put the tank tops back when I recall the cold of home, the rush of wind and the sting of snow. I rip the Polaroids off my wall, bundling them with a hair tie and tossing them in my suitcase. You can meet my friends. I shuffle through my shelves and grab my sketchbook. My art. I unlock my nightstand cabinet to find my journal. My thoughts. The contents of the suitcase overflow as I fly through the room, pretending as if these immaterial objects can piece together a mosaic of the life that you have missed.

My hands are shaking, my phone is on my bed, and I’m dialing. Why hadn’t you texted? It rings. Why hadn’t you called? Voicemail. Why hadn’t you bothered me? I try again. And again. Please?

You don’t pick up, but I leave a message.

I’m coming home, Ma.

Julia Liu (b. 1992) Portrait of a Mother, 2013 Oil on Canvas

An innocuous picture taken when neither mother nor daughter look at the camera. The sharp lines of the couch jut across the picture, contrasting the curves of the rumpled blankets that cover the two figures. Polaroids and paper are strewn across the coffee table with the daughter’s head tucked in her mother’s chest. She smiles gently as if she’s marveling at the rhythmic pulses of her mother’s heart. Fading sunlight filters through the window, a sense of drowsiness washing over the entire painting. In the blink of an eye, everything will dissolve into a distant memory.

Painted in memory of Liu’s mother.

Lucia Zhang is a Los Angeles-based writer. Through her narrative prose, she explores the intersection between science, history, and fiction to understand the uncanny. Lucia studies Quantitative Biology and Philosophy, Politics, & Law at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Emi Yoshino is a photographer based in Orange County and Los Angeles. She specializes in portrait and production photography. Emi studies Stage Management with a minor in Business Leadership and Management at the School of Dramatic Arts, University of Southern California.

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer. Michael studies Architecture and Design at the School of Architecture and the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

PORTRAIT OF A MOTHER

Models

Jessica Khatib

Sara Mirtaheri

Stylists

Emi Yoshino

Jessica Khatib

Photo Assistant

Lucia Zhang 231

He always says to book in advance. It’s always 4:30 A.M. dark. We should be asleep, but we’re out. We’re out trying to make the most of every minute we have left together. Four hours ago there were nine hours left; nine hours ago, it didn’t matter how long remained, but now we just have five hours together. I brush away the thought as I look at him.

His eyes catch mine. They’re browner than I’d thought. A pool of dark brown. Like melted caramel mixed with his favourite low-fat chocolate sauce that he pours into his milk and downs before heading out the door to class — even making cereal takes “too long,” he says but his eyes are large. Large when they size me up and down, large when he stares at his computer screen, large when his forehead touches mine, when he stares right at me after holding me, kissing me. They have a largeness that I forgot, that pixels can never replicate. A largeness I long for when I’m away.

I wouldn’t call LAX inviting, but it’s hostile when you’re trying to leave from it. The chaotic departure gate is where I always take my forcefully chosen Uber Black from, fresh off a plane from New York. It’s gleaming when you’re leaving. The palm trees, the LA Times office, the freeway, but when you’re coming, the Aeromexico signs, the suitcases, the cars, me, alone, it screams out as if to say, turn around, leave, escape. My fight or flight kicks in, but my hand is forced.

My departure is always early. The time difference means I lose the whole day when I land. I touch down in the dark, the cold, similar to how I left. I wonder if the day even progressed. The rain streams across the car window. I long for LA as if it were an oasis I had not returned to for years. Nine hours ago, I had four hours left there, five hours ago, I boarded the plane. These clothes, my hair, this face, it still has LA’s imprint on it, but how am I already so far away?

I think of my time in LA as a figment of my imagination. Interlaced fingers. Sunglasses. Tan lines for him to track down the length of my body. Books. His hands perched on the sides of my hips. I recall it incessantly, constantly, wrongly. I dwell in it as I pack a bag and head to class the next morning. I let it swim at the top of my head, well up in my mind, my eyes, as I walk to lectures, to Joe’s, to Butler, back home. I was in LA this time yesterday. I was asleep, eating lunch, smiling, but you’d never know. To you, I was always here. Not there.

But for now, I still have five hours here. With him. I stare at his face. “Book your Uber in advance,” he says. He looks at his watch. Large and silver, resting on his arm lying on my chest, “Your flight’s in six hours. Let’s get some sleep”, but all I hear are the deep bellows of his voice. His pulsing heartbeat stays steady, although mine leaps at the thought of leaving. My head is still on his chest. My eyes are on his chin. His face is much larger than mine. Squarer, more imposing. He turns his neck, looks at his watch, and flicks his arm down with so much authority. With a confidence that I cower under, that I replay so many times that the outlines of his

face begin to obscure, that I find comfort in on the plane, at JFK, in the taxi home.

So I pretend as if this is our everyday life. As if everyday we sit next to each other, fall asleep on the same bed, and wake up to drop the other at the airport, unphased because we will come home. Maybe not the next day, maybe not the next week, but in time. As if by dropping me to the airport he made me sign an implicit contract: I’m doing this now because you’ll be home soon, and then we will restart our life. Our joint life.

But for now our joint life is just the odd weekend.

We pack our days with as many things as we can. Dinner dates, meeting with our friends, going out, seeing campus. I hold his hand as we stroll through the quad, as if I live just a dormitory away. As if we have that one class for which we study together every night in my room, where we fall asleep, sometimes tired, sometimes tenderly, sometimes after a fight, other times not at all. Where we scream, we shout, we love, we cry, and we spiral. Where I’m confronted by the largeness of his eyes, see him mix his chocolate sauce into his milk, and wake up to his silver watch on our bedside table, only to curl myself back into him as we continue to sleep. The novelty of closeness holds us together rather than routine.

But for now, I still wake up at 4:30 A.M. I still take the Uber he made me book in advance. I’m forced to confront the Aeromexico sign, the cars, the crowd, the strangers, the shift from having my suitcase put in the back of the trunk to lugging it out in the bitter cold, as my bag slips off my shoulder and my AirPods leap out of my ears. I am forced to confront the ride from Queens to Harlem, and I’m forced to reconcile with the flight, because I’m forced to choose flight.

Sitting in my seat, I think we’re stuck in a sort of purgatory. A constant whiplash. The voices on our phones become a physical presence, and the physical presence turns back into a voice on the phone. The palm trees become concrete buildings; the sun becomes the snow; our intertwined hands become a longing, a nostalgic memory, that I live in anticipation for.

The 48 hours I have in LA turn into zero as I wait on the pavement for my cab.

I guess it’s always flight.

Vrinda Das is a Bombay-based writer. Through nonfiction and poetry, she explores history, the representation of the self, and form. Vrinda studies Cinema & Media Studies with a minor in Music Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

Adeline Zhang is a Los Angeles-based designer and illustrator. Her work primarily focuses on emotional storytelling. Adeline studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Caesar and Savannah wander through the forest until they reach the spot from the anonymous tip that the sheriff’s station received this morning. Forensics had already taken samples and started their testing process, but they asked the pair to go back and take a second look — in case there were any other important things that they might have missed — before they sent in someone for cleanup.

“Oh god,” Savannah’s face screws uncomfortably.

“That’s a person?” Caesar responds as they stand above the half-buried figure.

“Barely,” says Savannah as she leans down to get a closer look. “Oh, I’m gonna be sick.”

“Okay it’s pretty gnarly, but don’t be such a wuss Sav.”

“But why is it so… picturesque? Why are there flowers?”

“Maybe it’s a burial scene,” Caesar laughs, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Can you be serious for a second?”

“I am serious. This is probably some homeless person who took too many drugs or something.”

“Why would there be flowers growing out of a body in the middle of a dry-ass forest?”

“Uh, I dunno, decomposition? Don’t dead bodies have a lot of nutrients or something?” he says.

Savannah sighs and pinches her nose bridge in frustration.

“Caesar, look at where the flowers are growing from. The eyes, the mouth, the nose. Is that not weird?”

“Those spots make more sense than the flesh since the body has no open wounds.”

“They don’t make more sense. When have you ever seen that happen?”

“When have you ever seen a dead body in a forest?”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m using common sense.”

“Okay Ms. Dead Body Specialist,” Caesar says, tone dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re so smart, then what happened here?”

“I don’t know. Let me think.”

“Exactly. You don’t know.”

Savannah crouches down, bringing her face inches from one of the blooms coming out of the person’s nose. “Do you know what kind of flowers these are?”

“Which ones?”

“The pink ones.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Should we take them back to the lab?”

“Maybe,” she continues to stare, and for a minute it is quiet.

Models

Arielle Choi

Rui Zhang

“What about all the rest of them? There’s a lot of different colors and shapes going on,” Caesar squats down to the same level as her.

“Well, this purple one is definitely a hyacinth.”

“Whoa, are you secretly a florist?”

Savannah opens her mouth, closes it again, and then says: “This may be TMI, but my ex gave me purple hyacinths after he cheated because they represent the ‘wish for forgiveness’ or whatever.”

“Oh my god. Wait, that one dude Alex?”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering why he stopped picking you up after shifts. I didn’t know he was crazy though. Did you forgive him?”

“Nah, but the flowers really messed with me. I felt really conflicted and… sad?”

“Fair. That’s insane.”

“Yeah.”

They kneel there, looking down at the growths along the body and in the dirt beside them. The various colorful blooms arrange themselves on and around the body in a kaleidoscopic array.

“After I decided not to forgive him, I fell down this online rabbit hole. I was just…” she pauses. “Wait let me know if I’m saying too much, because I’m not trying to make things weird or anything.” Savannah presses her lips into a thin line and looks across the body at Caesar.

“No, you’re good. Keep going.” He tilts his head to show that he’s still listening.

“I was just so fucking heartbroken I thought I was gonna die, y’know? I don’t know if that’s like... common.”

“I get it — that happened to me when my girlfriend of two years broke up with me.”

“Ah, I’m so sorry.”

Caesar laughs. “I’m good. Don’t worry. Just wanted you to know you’re not crazy.”

“Well, I kind of felt crazy. I was spending hours laying in bed on my phone, googling things like ‘can heartbreak kill you?’ and ‘have people died from sadness before?’”

“I’m sure the answer is no to both.”

“Oh, then you’re gonna get a kick out of this,” she chuckles, “because the Ancient Greeks classified lovesickness as a disease. I was sifting through so many random websites — oh my god I had so many tabs open that my phone started lagging — and there were some forums where people were talking about the symptoms of lovesickness being physical.”

“What forums?”

“Uh.”

“Sav, don’t say Reddit.”

“Okay I won’t.” An awkward smile creeps onto her face.

They stare at each other for a second before they both crack up.

“Listen. LISTEN, okay. I promise this is going somewhere relevant,” she puts her hands up defensively.

“You lost me at Reddit being your source.”

“They were talking about how lovesickness can lead to death — in combination with other things — and that there was a correlation between dying while lovesick and what plants grew on your body after it decomposed and stuff. Something about your love feeding back into the Earth?”

“...you lost me.”

“These flowers aren’t from here. Do you see any other ones around?” Savannah gestures to the surrounding area in a sweeping motion.

“I mean, no?”

“So it’s weird.”

“Okay. Yeah, this is definitely weird, but what are you gonna write in the report? That a mystical love disease overcame this person in the middle of the forest? Chief Davis will check you into the psych ward himself.”

“I never said anything about a mystical love disease. I’m just saying... What if this person was really sad when they died? I dunno. I’m just suddenly feeling really bummed.”

“What if they were sad? Does that change the situation?”

“I guess not, but it makes me feel like I know this person, kinda.”

“Like, who they were?”

“Yeah. I mean, I almost thought this would happen to me because of how sad I was. In the end, I obviously didn’t die, but there’s just something so… what’s the word… visceral? About this?”

“Hm.”

“I don’t know who this person was, but I feel like I know — under the assumption that the flower thing is legit, I guess — what

they were feeling. I feel so sad for them, because it makes me think they didn’t reach the other side of the pain — where things are okay again, you know?” Caesar holds his gaze on Savannah, but she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, this really became a bummer. We can head out if you want.” She stands up and brushes her hands on her pants, but Caesar doesn’t stand up. “You good?”

He looks up at her from his squatted position and says, “So, if purple hyacinths represent a wish for forgiveness, what flowers are the opposite?” Caesar scrunches his face in thought before continuing, “Like ‘I forgive you’ flowers?”

Savannah laughs, “I’m not sure about ‘I forgive you,’ but maybe… like… daffodils are kinda close?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Well, fun fact: they’re some of the first flowers to bloom at the end of winter, so they symbolize new beginnings.”

“Very fun fact indeed.”

“Shut up,” Savannah snorts, “Why are you asking, anyway?”

Caesar stands up and puts his hands on his hips, looking across the person’s body at Savannah, and says, “I think we should go buy some daffodils.”

“What, why?”

“To give this person a new beginning,” he smiled at her. “It’s not too late to give them a chance to be happy in the afterlife, I think.”

Sage Murthy is a Los Angeles-based writer. She specializes in essays, aiming to develop characters with captivating personalities. Sage studies Asian American Studies at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Kevin Ho Joon Koo is a photographer based in Los Angeles and South Korea. With a sophisticated understanding of light and composition, he seeks to transcend conventional imagery with his work through emotion and narrative. Kevin studies Fine Arts at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Carter Woltz is a digital designer based in Chicago and Los Angeles. His interests lie in iconography and typography. Carter studies Business Administration with a minor in Communication Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

CASETIFY

CASETIFY

CASETiFY makes accessories for tech that elevate everyday usage. An international brand with a global creative spirit, CASETiFY operates from two headquarters located in Hong Kong and Los Angeles. It was the launch of the iPhone in 2011 that first inspired the co-founder and CEO Wes Ng.

Fiona Choo is a Southern California-based mixed-media photographer. From fine art to digital photography, she presents a diverse range of media in her work which explores and interrogates societal narratives. Fiona studies Media Arts & Practice with minors in Marketing and Cinematic Arts at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Stephanie Lam is a photographer based in Hong Kong and Los Angeles. She shoots both film and digital and uses narrative elements or sceneries to communicate through visual storytelling.

Stephanie studies Public Relations and is pursuing a Master’s in Law at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Stephanie also serves as Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Franklin Lam is a multimedia artist based in Los Angeles and New York who captures emotional narratives

CASETIFY

through photography, filmmaking, and visual design. Seeking to connect fashion designers, brands, and music artists, Franklin’s visual style bridges fashion, music, and cinema. Franklin majors in Media Arts & Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Content for Haute Magazine.

Jimin Hong is a Los Angeles-based artist and photographer. She is passionate about storytelling and exploring the many facets of existence. Jimin studies

Film & TV Production and Non-Governmental Organizations

& Social Change at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Belinda Lee is a Los-Angeles based photographer. Belinda studies

Cognitive Science and Data Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences and the Viterbi School of Engineering, University of Southern California.

Natalie Darakjian is a designer based in Orange County and Los Angeles. Coming from an architecture background, she expresses her creativity in interdisciplinary ways. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

SHADES OF DEVOTION

This shoot focuses on the multifaceted nature of love, from the intensity of passionate love to the quiet power of platonic love, using contrasting light and shadows to depict the depth of human emotion. The story follows the journey of self-discovery, emphasizing vulnerable points on the way and the ultimate acceptance of who one really is. It highlights the importance of loving oneself, which doesn’t mean one is selfish.

Stephanie Lam is a photographer based in Hong Kong and Los Angeles. She shoots both film and digital and uses narrative elements or sceneries to communicate through visual storytelling. Stephanie studies Public Relations and is pursuing a Master’s in Law at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Abriella Terrazas is a designer based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Her passions lie in experiential design and the intersection of aesthetics and social and environmental justice. Abriella studies Architecture with a minor in Themed Entertainment at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California.

Model

Angela Wang

Hair and Makeup

Olivia Dien

Lighting

Anthony Hsu

Assistants

Amos Pai

Glen Wong

Belinda Lee

Elvis Tang is a photographer based in Hong Kong. He finds inspiration in daily life and urban life, seeking to capture overlooked sceneries through photography. Elvis uses natural light and captures emotions to enhance his photography’s texture.

Praew Kedpradit is a graphic designer and digital artist based in Thailand and Los Angeles. Praew studies Public Relations & Advertising at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Dawn pierces in hues of gray, bells chime and the post calls. Time weighs down one’s heart, make haste before they lay you off.

Gates flood open with filed scripture, let Babylon’s tower fall again. Imprint your soul upon arrival, become a cog in the machine.

Stationary in a universe of neckties, beasts of black ink slumber beneath. You are but an organ in this engine, do not fail the body.

Greater Pangea whispers among them, greens sing through a myriad of flowers. Winds toss tastes of ambrosia, aromas lure in those who branch from leaves.

Canaries sing a song of the past, their tongue lost to the children of the garden. Melodies that connect man and root, Gaia’s apostles seek to restore this knowedge.

The Titan feels a gaze, nebulas of color dance upon his eyelids. Glistening images of a past, beyond the stone horizons, they lie.

Men carry their leather daimons, bellies containing letters of evil. Haggling roses from their cheeks, all eyes are now devoid.

Retreat to your hollow cubicles, dust dunes plague them at nightfall. Eternity engulfs the timid psyche, traps laid down since your birth.

Solar symphonies begin to breach, trumpets of triumph lay the foundation. Eastern nebulas play kamikaze, gales which shake your senses awake.

The Titan is enthralled by the star’s beauty, Moonchildren reflect it at night. Iron vines seek to sabotage this realm, in the melting pot they form a web.

Woven by a seven-legged widow, eight threads are taken in your place. Break through the weeping links, grind them with your teeth if needed.

Descendants of the evergreens begin to bloom, gathered together, they bellow. Witnessing beneath their wings, a dazed king, finally crying out his name, Tantalus.

Enticed by the calls of his brethren, one hand soars towards the bearing fruit. The other falls toward the sea of fallen missions — a war amidst the primordial Pantheon.

Carlos Gonzalez is a Los Angeles-based creative writer. He uses his experience in classics to tell universal truths through the wisdom of myths. Carlos studies Intelligence & Cyber Operations at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Matias Murillo is a New Jersey-based photographer with a profound love for art and creative expression. He seeks to highlight the beauty of individuals through his craft. Matias studies Cinema & Media Studies at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Sharon Choi is a Los Angelesbased designer. Her passions lie in fashion and the visual experience. Sharon studies Business Administration with a minor in Product Design at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Models

Jeffrey Hopson

Janessa Uluğ

Pauline Ngom

i. roots

as the waves crash violently, sweeping my feet from the gritty sand, i catch a glimpse of your serene silhouette in the distance. my eyes meet your glorious gaze, and time bows down in stillness just to admire your countenance. your spirit slowly encircles mine, offering solace in my moment of brokenness. you effortlessly mend my shattered pieces together. in the warmth of your presence, i find safety and belonging. here, with you, i am home.

you were my very first friend. the anchor of my soul.

we grew up together in a small suburban neighborhood, our childhoods intertwined. through each cherished recollection, our ink began to bleed, blurring our narratives gracefully as one. we were forced to leave a bookmark in the pages of our lives. yet, a few years later, our paths crossed once more, reopening our woven novel. when i reminisced about our memories, now engraved into the pages of a scrapbook, i still heard the faint, naive echoes of the old country twang in your voice, a melody now lost in time. yet everything else about you has remained unchanged: celestial. divine. seraphic. even as chapters unfold, and i’m lost within my story, i know, i can always go back and find myself etched within you.

ii. trunk

your voice echoed within a filled room. strong enough to slice silence. i, on the other hand, was hesitant for my voice to be heard.

you led soldiers, a valiant army. i chose to blend in meticulously with the runaway cowards.

at the time, i was blessed with your enveloping embrace. you possessed every single quality that i craved.

you were my exemplar. a magnet that drew me into your adventurous spirit.

through you, i unearthed a part of myself, delving into the depths of my cavernous soul to discover the previously unmined.

what would you do? what would you say? how would you present yourself?

i continue to carry a piece of you. i truly do. resilient. dauntless. courageous. you molded me like clay with the gentle caress of your fingers.

my transformed being stems from the pure image of you.

iii. branches

you provided me with nourishment, feeding my playful soul. now my stomach growls, craving your warm, oozing aura once more.

you were my sustenance, my laughter, my comfort. but now i wished that someone had urged me to cling to you tighter before you vanished from me so quickly, our spirits now separated by vast oceans.

i never would have thought that our first naive waves to each other would transform into saying the hardest goodbye, my traveler.

i would journey through the depths of the forest and across the great seas just to see your kind soul again. just to remind you of how special you are.

can you hear me? can you catch my voice glistening through the wind? knocking at your door, begging you to return home.

there’s not a day that goes by that i don’t miss you, but i know you are where you need to be right now. just like you were there for me when i needed you the most.

i yearn for the day your beautiful presence will refill my void, enriching my life through our ebb and flow.

iv. bark

i vividly recall the first day i laid eyes on your glorious existence.

i envisioned our worlds colliding to curate a masterpiece, a tour de force.

i prayed for you.

god immediately answered my call. forces instantly shifted. my world forever changed.

you brought me peace. balance. protection.

how could i navigate existence without you in my life?

your voice blends seamlessly with melodies as my fingers dance upon the delicate keys.

every daring choice i’ve made has led me to meet you, my love.

in your presence, i find solace.

in moments of darkness, when i’m lost in a murky atmosphere, you illuminate the path ahead.

every invading thought in my mind dissipates, leaving only the immense gratitude for how lucky i am to call you my best friend.

how could i ever be mad at the world when it brought me the most precious gift a girl could ask for?

our hearts will forever beat in synchronized harmony.

my sister. my soulmate, you fortify my blossoming tree.

THE BLOSSOMING TREE

Kailee Bryant is a writer based in St. Louis and Los Angeles. Through her poetry, she seeks to reveal the raw, unfiltered aspects of the human experience. Kailee studies Journalism with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Giorgia Bellotti is an Italy-based photographer. As a child, Giorgia preferred drawing and painting, and she recently discovered her interest in photography. Giorgia uses self-portraiture to see herself, heal herself, and seek herself without ever revealing her face. Giorgia’s photographs can be purchased on the London Open Doors Gallery website.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer. Her designs focus on the user experience as she navigates the intersection between accessibility and aesthetic. Arya studies Cognitive Science with a minor in Designing for Digital Experiences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

To Love, my mistress,

I have found your sunlight affections on the blisters of my skin. What have I done to deserve such an abundance? I gleam gold — Love — but I burn still.

Burns from a father whose love I cannot repay — doubtless sacrifices every last thing for my happiness. My guilty shoulders swell under the ever-present burden of Love, you have gorged me with your abundance. I live the life he deserved.

Burns from my mother, for even if I die a hundred times at her command, I fall short of the ocean’s depth — to her unconditional devotion. She, who lives and breathes for me. Love, I have emptied myself — every blood, bone, and organ. There is not enough of me to give back to her.

Hollow wings bathe in a faraway light — a mothly nightmare.

My back is red from your fervor spirit. There is a cruelty in your generosity. Is this your fickle game? I knew of a woman like you, cunning like forest greens that shroud desired paths. Did you not think I’d find my way out? I’ll retrace untaken steps, foil my footprints, lose myself, and lose you with me. I have learned to stray from your calls of affair. A small itch on the sides of my thighs as I walk past your ivy traps. A calling, a craving. It lingers till my fingers find their way down my legs. My fingernails are crimson. Can you smell it? My shoulders warn me of your tepidity, gleaming its way through tall redwood branches. Never again will I let my touch wander. I have a debt I must pay before I find myself with you again.

But I do find you again, secretly, silently, carefully as my skin boils when I pick up a paintbrush. Fevers of music, this malady of melody. As I dance my head begins to hurt. My eyesight blurs as I hold my friends. Love, please do not find me anymore. How will I requite this insurmountable, ever-growing plight you have waged on my heart? I am poisoned from your daylight.

To be loved beyond reciprocation. To be loved beyond recognition. I am but a withered soul draped in your silks as you make royalty of me. No, no. You make foolery of me.

Your recent attempts have been in vain, my dear, as I have cloaked myself in a thick leather hide. And hide I did, from the first light of dusk. So when you do find me, I am not myself at all. I have fooled you. This time it is my cruelty you shall face as I become someone else entirely. And when you clutched me again in your inescapable grasp, I shall simply shed my skin and become unrecognizable in front of your very eyes. In another life, I would’ve let you in. Maybe even on another day. But today, I have mortgaged my heart and let my feelings roam the empty labyrinth halls of my chest. I listen as the echoes sing through the sunken sun.

Eons pass into a midnight refuge.

Moonlight ripples grasp at my collar. The tide has risen on this white sand beach. The seagulls have left my company. The hair on my arm stands up on small follicular hills. It is dusk now.

I am cold now.

Maybe this is where I am destined to be, a small freckle on this white shore. The moon is far more gentle in her graceful solitude. Her comforting cold glare, I can match. My empty body rafts on waves of memories.

My mother’s lap as she runs her hands through my hair. A bright pink and white gown, soft as her heart. The green silhouettes of a metal bench and a cold drink amongst a friend of mine who awaits me every day. Worry quivers on my father’s lips as he watches me sleep upon a white hospital bed.

The warmth of my dearest friend as she pulls her blanket over me. A distant aunt buying all of my favorite art supplies just to watch me paint.

What have I ever done for them?

Guilt weighs heavily as I sink into the shrill waters. My ears pop and salt stings my sight away. The senseless remains of my self as I am exiled to Tartarus. They can’t find me here. Maybe they’ll forget about me and forgive my debts. A cowardly escape that is futile in the end. Because they do find me. As sunlight beams of green and white and pink that I don’t see but feel, they find me in my own depths. The warmth pulls the water out of my ears, and I hear distant echoes swim their way back to me. Hollow wings float their way to light in water.

We are inseparable. Now I know. You are no one but me in my opposite. Love dies to give more, and I try to give back. Each in our own disguise, we failed to see what lay between us was a mirror not a wall.

With Love, Yours truly.

WITH LOVE

Nilanjana Sha Sudha is an Oman-based writer. She aims to represent the human psyche through film, art, and writing. Nilanjana studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Alizé Jireh is an autodidact photographer and filmmaker who strives to evoke emotion and connection. She values vulnerability and self-reflection above all else in her art, and her vision is raw and sensual. Alizé’s art tells a story of the human spirit and explores the human body as a vessel that mixes with its surroundings.

Natalie Darakjian is a designer based in Orange County and Los Angeles. Coming from an architecture background, she expresses her creativity in interdisciplinary ways. Natalie studies Architecture at the School of Architecture, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

MICHAEL

MICHAEL

Amanda Kuo is a freelance photographer based in Toronto and London. She specializes in creative portraits, wedding, and travel photography. Amanda’s work consists of a balance between moody and dreamy photos, along with photos that tell a story and show emotions.

Michael Castellanos is a Los Angeles-based designer. Michael studies Architecture and Design at the School of Architecture and the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

My Love,

I have known a life before you, one lackluster and bare. But with you in my life, there’s a saturation, a gleam, more purpose, more meaning. I feel, I cherish, a life breathing, a heart beating, my love and my joy, familiar face and a warm embrace, exalted to the heavens.

You’re always there for me even when I get lost. You take me through my worst days, You turn my scars and tears into gold.

And when I turn away from You, it’s never with a vengeance that You welcome me back with your open arms.

It’s inexplicable, my obsession with deconstructing Love to its core. The tick behind society, an expected tock; but sometimes, it skips a beat, or never comes. I exist deeply, dispersed in the dark space between time, searching but endlessly unsatiated.

How is it that your Love never stops giving, despite my endless black hole, devoid of love, that sucked up so many others? How is it so strong that it pierces right through my center and unravels the fabric of my being? How is it that it forces me to grow in a way I have never done for myself?

I search for the truth as I search for myself.

And my search for the truth only brings me to you, God.

When you pray, does your God ever mention me? Is your God the same as mine? The one who whispers in my ear? Who tells me to have faith and that it’s inevitable I’ll come home to you?

My God is my Art and the one that never leaves. With your firm, gentle hand, you untangle that web in my mind, each strand becoming lines dripping with the truth of my heart that I weave into my beautiful tapestry. People fall in love with the words that leave my mouth, even though the world makes it hard to speak. “You’re addicting,” they say, “the closer I get, the more I realize I don’t know and the more depth and beauty I find.” Yes, I am someone who wears black with pink glasses that frame my rose-colored lenses, which despite the void inside, raise my eyes to the heavens.

Something about Art is that it never ends. The deeper, more intangible, more abstract you go, you discover an entire world that exists only through the mind. The inner

monologue I’ll never hear, the visions I’ll never see, my never-ending “why” and appetite to understand. Every symbol that sparks a different memory, every tune that teases out one solitary tear, every conversation sparked between different walks of one life.

There’s more than what meets the eye.

But does an artist ever truly create? Can you really control your work? Can you escape the ghost of your past or wrangle yourself a new future? Or are you just a vehicle of your one story, your God that you bring to life? Just a prism with its infinite faces that refracts your light into infinite pieces?

I am the face of my God. And I am a face of you.

Please, God, give me the joy of your watercolor sunsets with my lover by my side; if not that, the cold emptiness of a starry night. I will take isolation, bathing in the dark of a new moon with naught but a North Star guiding me toward my lover on the bright side of the moon.

I have acrylic on my fingers like a thick sauce I could lick right off. They drag across your canvas and make our messy masterpiece. What is Love? Do you really think you know? When acrylic dries, it’s permanent. Unchangeable, plastic. You left me out too long unattended; did your Love dry?

You sketch me in limbo. Where did the Love we never lost go? Graphite figures waltzing gracefully through the motions, but on what? Notebook paper? Frayed edges, dotted tear line. Was our foundation not enough?

Creating Art helps me cry when I don’t know what’s tangled up inside. Like worship songs, you wrap ribbons around my bones and comb the frays of my heart. Waves crest against my blood that society froze to ice, splintering into pieces that hail like melted tears. Is this what faith is? Letting it all out to the wind, tearing

REFRACT

my walls down and leaving behind just my soft, pliable body? I reach out to you with red coursing through my outstretched arms. But one small slice spills my blood and empties my veins. A thundering heart that beats harder every second to keep me alive. God, don’t let my sacrifice be for naught. Paint these roses with my blood and give me the deep Love I seeded with my pain.

Imperfect and broken, in a society that expects every human to be God; distorted hyperreality amplified by the blue glow of more screens than people. A loneliness epidemic created by glass and light and colored pixels that sink into the little wrinkles of our brains.

Is this who we are?

When I drift my way, battered, into the blue eye of the raging storm, I wonder where you are. Praying to God, prostrate, life laid bare. “Here, my Lord. Take me and do as you will. Look into my ugly, twisted depths and teach me what I need.”

Have you made your way out? Are you still out there, ripped to shreds by your uncertainty? Will you find your way to this oasis, this facade of peace, that I occupy? Or will you exit the wilderness alone?

When the world around is in chaos, the only peace left to find is within.

Thundering silence. Serenity. Solace.

You have left me cold, sobbing and shaking alone. I have wrung you dry of your last wishbone, telling you that you are not enough for me without your magic.

You still send in your holy light — white, pure, undiluted Love. By your light, you refract my prism into colors, and I’ll never be the same, transparent girl again. In my colors, you find beauty and pain. Try to shield your eyes to the darkness. But with light, dark will always

follow. I will not relinquish your light for a mere shadow, so what do you choose?

Your Love is perfect to me. Perfect isn’t a blissful, ignorant Love; it’s the embodiment of you and everything I ever loved and hated. It’s the way you reluctantly held me through all my angry tirades, even when you were stung by every barbed word. It’s the way you avoided every difficult conversation I made us face and resolve. It’s the way you made me feel safer than I ever have in life with your limitless Love. It’s the way you fully won the trust I fought so hard never to give. And it’s the way you melted my Love that I froze into armor with the last of your dying embers. I might need to let you go, but I would be a fool to ever let go of that Love.

I don’t need the gleam of your halo when there’s an eternal sun in the sky. But your light waves along to the heartbeat in my chest, sending an electric pulse through my veins, my neurons, and my galaxy. Our Love runs through the DNA of our galaxy, this cosmic web that ensnares our God and hums along with your voice that stirs my shaky soul. It’s the red string that binds our spirits that we cannot, will not sever.

My faith is my courage to fight. I fight for a world of life and Love — for what’s right and what’s just. I will never stop choosing to love you. Something worth doing is never easy, and the fire in my heart is the one thing worth growing. Even if I have to hurl all my strength and soul and give until I’m empty, the fight and struggle and blood and tears is worth feeding my dreams. A courageous martyr who sacrifices my life for my truth.

And when I see the world change through my tears, my heart sings. For who are you if you can’t hear your heart? What is life for if not to live your truest self?

If you bend to the world, you remain asleep; you reject who you are.

Paint, love, pray fiercely.

The God you can’t see is the God within your spirit.

Let it burn, and let it free.

Sunlight through church mosaics, high ceilings and translucent windows, golden white rays tinted, fractals scattered against warm, calloused bricks dispelling dark dusty corners.

Mosaic for my children, faint echo of choir, creak of a heavy gate, Fall into my warm embrace.

Megan Zhang is an Atlanta-based writer and poet. She seeks to convey emotions through vivid imagery. Megan studies Business Administration with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Chieh-Ming (Jamie) Sun is a photographer based in Taiwan and Los Angeles. She captures stories through the use of color and narrative in her work. Jamie studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic designer. Her designs focus on the user experience as she navigates the intersection between accessibility and aesthetics. Arya studies Cognitive Science with a minor in Designing for Digital Experiences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

ANNIE

My Love is Covered in Blood

My love is covered in blood, speaking in dulcet whispers, with a ribboned flow as

it burns the eyes of forever. Like flower buds clutched by the stem choke down dancing petals of fire,

My love beams crimson light, a song humming from Globus throat. My love rides on plumed angel backs —

the sun blinks at the sight.

Forever is never spoken between two mouths — it is free and reckless.

My love’s fang forever steals words from my tongue. On wrung necks,

feverishly gripped to cold skin, my love’s warm breath caresses. Plucked eyes strain to watch, glassed over,

holding. My love never gives. Like a sweet prayer to St. Lucy I hang with plated devotion,

Until blood wells in my eyes and jumps to singing hail. In it, bathes

my love, with cold fingertips, pushing susurrates of final breath, While kneeling face up to heaven,

a careful claim to death, the end shouts calm desperation. My love sits blind to forever, and I hear nothing, rooted to the earth,

statuesque, fleeting, inevitable.

A Lover’s Guide to Dreaming

I thought I heard you once in a dream where the sky was painted all the colors of apathy and the hallways, foreboding and yellowed with age, twisted like a maze in my stomach.

I thought I heard you call about seven times as I passed by faceless clocks, Their hands outstretched to the moon, clasping balls of fire, engulfed in that very flame. I thought I heard you down a road through a trail that only leads back to the beginning, where I wandered tirelessly with bare feet

Piercing the earth where feet bear the piercing vengeance of the Earth.

I thought I heard you once in a sleepless night.

Above me circled angry clouds; I could have sworn they said your name.

Every night I sleep long enough, I hear you.

I sleep falling through the air, picturing you at the bottom.

I sleep following your guide in mazes lit by charred lovers.

I sleep until my feet are bloody and raw, left gripping to the mortal plane.

I thought I heard you once.

It was a dream

Heaven

I change my mind about Heaven and any other life where I cannot hold you for nothing is sweeter than an existence with you.

Sky Bailey is a New York-based writer. She explores life and art through poetry, prose, and screenplay. Sky studies Neuroscience with a minor in Screenwriting at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Annie Yan is a Los Angeles-based artist. She focuses on graphic design and the visual development of games and films. Annie studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Jimin Hong is a Los Angeles-based artist and photographer. She is passionate about storytelling and exploring the many facets of existence. Jimin studies Film & TV Production and Non-Governmental Organizations & Social Change at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Angelina Lyon is a Los Angeles-based designer. She specializes in graphic design and brand identity, and she is interested in crafting visually-impactful designs. Angelina studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Models

Sofia Connors

Stylist Jimin Hong

Assistant Hannah Logo

PHILIA BEHIND

PHILIA BEHIND

Alex Choi is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Alex studies Sociology at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Alysha Wang is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Alysha studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Cece Mou is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Cece studies Film & TV Production with a minor in Public Relations at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Claire Renschler is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker. She aims to tell authentic stories and amplify voices. Claire studies Film & TV Production with a minor in Anthropology at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Dylan Keeffe is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and photographer. He explores surreal themes by intertwining character-driven tales with dreamscapes. Dylan studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Eileen Mou is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Eileen studies Design with a minor in Extended Reality Design & Development at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Jenna Miller is a filmmaker and cinematographer based in Los Angeles and the Bay Area. She tells stories that further social change. Jenna studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Laura Furniss-Roe is a filmmaker based in Los Angeles and Britain. She aims to evoke different feelings across her audiences. Laura studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Mason Deaver is a film producer based in Los Angeles and Seattle. He aims to develop the new frontier of media. Mason studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Nobert Otieno is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Nobert studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Olivia Harwin is a Los Angeles-based videographer. Olivia studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

BEHIND PHILIA

The Philia theme reveal video aims to capture the intertwining love of art and friendship. Using visual motifs like water to symbolize both birth and rebirth, reflections that embody self-love and self-obsession, and flora and fauna representing togetherness and sisterhood, the film seeks to serve as a culmination of our values as artists, friends, and a community within the magazine. Our goal is to create an immersive experience for our viewers that evokes all the sights, senses, and sounds associated with being alive and filled with love.

Cast

Kimya Jalinous

Kyler Caldwell

Ana Pau

Tiffany Ho

BEHIND PHILIA

Director

Mason Deaver

Executive Producers

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Kayla Wong Producer Sea Gira

Associate Producers

Trey Dyson

Claire Renschler

Assistant Directors

Kayla Wong

Dylan Keeffe Writers

Sea Gira

Olivia Harwin

Jenna Miller

Director of Photography

Nobert Otieno

Assistant Camera

Laura Furniss-Roe

Production Designers

Eileen Mou

Jenna Miller Editors

Yeji Seo

Eileen Mou Colorist

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman

Regan Simmons is a filmmaker and photographer based in D.C. and Los Angeles. She aims to capture life’s complexities and explore science in relation to the human experience. Regan studies Health & Human Sciences with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Sea Gira is a writer-director based in St. Louis and Los Angeles. She creates original work which stimulates introspection on the human experience and advocates for underrepresented communities.

Sea studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Trelas Dyson is an extended-reality videographer. Trelas studies Creative Writing with a minor in Cinematic Arts at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Yeji Seo is a Los Angeles-based multimedia artist. Inspired by urban art and her heritage, she examines the intersection between art and technology. Yeji studies Arts, Technology, & The Business of Innovation and Computer Science at the Iovine & Young Academy, University of Southern California.

BEHIND PHILIA

Josey Cuthrell-Tuttleman is a filmmaker and choreographer based in New York and Los Angeles. Through directing, cinematography, and producing, she focuses on empathy while experimenting with movement through different mediums. Josey studies Film & TV Production with a minor in Law & Social Justice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

Kayla Wong is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker. She creates media about the messy parts of life and aims to amplify marginalized voices. Kayla studies

Film & TV Production with a minor in Entertainment Industry at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

Anoushka Buch is a designer based in San Francisco and Los Angeles. Through her foundation in publication design and branding, she has developed a knack for storytelling, building identities, and developing systems. Anoushka studies Design with a minor in Marketing at the Roski School of Art & Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

HAUTE MAGAZINE

Based at the University of Southern California

Los Angeles, CA

Follow us on Instagram at @hauteusc

Visit us at hauteusc.com