Winds of Change: Haute Magazine's Fall 2024 Issue by Haute Magazine

LETTER FROM THE

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Dear Reader,

The scope of how much our society, culture, and lived experience has changed – in just the span of a few years – is insurmountable. We’ve experienced social upheaval on various cultural fronts, and it has made us critically evaluate the principles, effectiveness, and the purpose of the society we live in. As we continue to grasp for some semblance of an answer, we must also balance the inevitable uncertainty brought upon us as we transition into adulthood: to mold our own identity, a tall order in this inscrutable landscape we find ourselves tethered to.

However, while our timeline may be unique, balancing identity amidst societal struggle is a dilemma that every generation has faced. From our parents to our grandparents to generations, the trials and tribulations of young adulthood combined with a spark of passion to bring about change in society is what drives cultural progress. Our livelihoods are shaped by the milestones of our youth who are united in collective struggle, banding together with nothing more than the awareness of the injustice in our world and striving to change society.

“Winds of Change,” our eleventh issue, pays homage to the efforts of our agitated youth who have crafted a better world, both past and present. The issue not only reflects on these movements, but the

artistic renaissance which has flourished as a result–a wave of counterculture lifestyles which are the byproduct of the voices of our rebellious spirit…The universal emblem for the desire to break free from conformity, yet rooted in a collective culture.

This issue has been brought to life by the tireless work of our Executive Board and their teams, who we couldn’t be more proud of; and the work of our amazing friend and Creative Director, Nishka, who inspires us each day to give it our all.

As we present our eleventh issue, “Winds of Change,” we would like to remind you that your words, your actions, your thoughts, the very fabric woven into your being, has real power behind it. At a time when things couldn’t be more uncertain, remember that through your voice, you are not alone in the chorus of reformation.

With love and resistance, Hunter Black + Grace Kim

LETTER FROM THE CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Dear Reader,

In this cyclone of change that is our world today, we find ourselves suspended between the familiar past and an unwritten future. Here, in the eye of the storm, we celebrate the audacity of those who dare to challenge, create, and redefine. Haute Magazine’s eleventh Issue, “Winds of Change,” embodies the relentless spirit of youth, a force that sweeps through society with the power to reshape worlds.

“Winds of Change” brought something new to Haute; this semester, we explore how the youth has challenged societal norms through various forms of expression. As you turn these pages, you’ll find stories that amplify marginalized voices and rewrite mainstream narratives. Each photograph and every word is a thread in the complex fabric of change we’re weaving together.

I, Nishka Manghnani, am honored to have served as Haute Magazine’s Creative Director for this issue. I am thrilled to have worked alongside an amazing team of creatives. Hunter and Grace, the Editors-in-Chief and Co-Presidents, thank you for your unwavering support and visionary leadership, which have been instrumental in bringing this issue to life. Sage and Virginia, Directors of Writing, your ability to string words together beautifully echoes the passion in this issue. Juri and Amanda, Directors

of Photography, your determination to expand the visual horizons of this theme constantly motivate our team. Angelina and Nicole, Directors of Visual Design, your limitless talent and commitment to good design are crucial in making Haute visually compelling. Franklin and Sea, Directors of Multimedia, your purposeful approach bring a dynamicness to this theme. Hannah, Director of Events, Aadhya, Director of Finance, and Sammi, Director of Communication, your groundbreaking ideas enable us to commemorate this issue in the most spectacular way imaginable. Anoushka and Fiona, our senior advisors you were invaluable role models reassured us through every step of the way.

Finally, a huge thank you to our staff of writers, photographers, designers, videographers, and marketers — none of this could be possible without your passion. After all, to quote James Baldwin, “ The world is held together by the love and the passion of a very few people.” प्यार से [With Love], Nishka Manghnani

Editors-in-Chief Hunter Black + Grace Kim

Creative Director Nishka Manghnani

Directors of Writing Sage Murthy + Virginia Akujobi-Egere

Directors of Photography Juri Kim + Amanda Chen

Directors of Visual Design Angelina Lyon + Nicole Leihe

Directors of Multimedia Franklin Lam + Sea Gira

Director of Events Hannah Zhou

Director of Finance Aadhya Sivakumar

Director of Communication Samantha Fedewa

Senior Advisors Anoushka Buch + Fiona Choo

Writing Team

Agnes Gbondo

Ava Zinna

Isabella Murray

Jenny Kim

Karina Alvarez

Leila Yi

Photography Team

Benti Kaur

Brandon Woo

Catalina Palazio

Jacob Hollens

Visual Design Team

Arya Tandon

Jackson Epps

Abriella Terrazas

Michael Castellanos

Annie Yan Evan Rodrigues

Multimedia Team

Aador Bose Roy

Alex Choi

Ben Rana

Cecilia Mou

Claire Renschler

Colin Kerekes

Elise Anderson

Finance and Events Team

Anushka Rane

Ashley Kim

Ching Yi Annie Hui

Era Qerimi

Gemma Miller

Justin Zheng

Katie Lee Kensington Ono

Lisa Dang

Lucia Zhang

Natalia Rocha

Nilanjana Sha Sudha

Sky Bailey

Tingyo Chang

Nub-Petch (Nam-Ning) Sinthunava

Sammi Wong

Winston Luk

Xin (Robynn) Shen

Sean Guzmán

Aveen Nagpal

Laila LaDuke

Michelle Kwon

Michelle Rojas

Angela Chan

Jiayun Zhang

Maizy Zenger

Molly Nugent

Praew Kedpradit

Samuel Walker

Ulises Vera

Markus Rosendorfer

Mia Lombardo

Nia Blumenfield

Rebecca Llopis

Rohan Baru

Sunwoo Eom

Zaina Dabbous

Ben Loader Ben Loader + Angelina Lyon

Reflections and Dances in Neon Lights Isabella Murray + Robynn Shen + Abriella Terrazas

Tillys Haute Photography Team + Nishka Manghnani

Jae Stephens Virginia Akujobi-Egere + Rohan Baru + Nicole Leihe

Bleeding Red, White, and Black Sammi Wong + Michelle Rojas Ortega

Distortion Ava Zinna + Austin Wallace + Angela Chan

Batalin Maksim Batalin Maksim + Anoushka Buch

STUDENT INTIFADA Sage Murthy + Nicole Leihe

Claudia Permatasari Suciono Claudia Permatasari Suciono + Michelle Kwon

Alemeda Grace Kim + Rohan Baru + Angelina Lyon

Jerome Hoffmeister Jerome Hoffmeister + Aveen Nagpal

Cielo Pintado Karina Alvarez + Catalina Palazio + Laila LaDuke

Winds of Change Hunter Black + Amanda Chen + Nishka Manghnani

Jared Cobb Jared Cobb + Angela Chan

Blazing Through the Scarlet Sky Lisa Dang + Jacob Hollens + Michelle Rojas Ortega

Paul Harries Paul Harries + Michael Castellanos

GRANDMOTHER / GRANDDAUGHTER Natalia Rocha + Merton Wu + Arya Tandon

Ian Ohara Ian Ohara + Sean Guzman

日落而息 / Rest at Sundown Leila Yi + Nub-Petch Sinthunava + Annie Yan

On Stagnation Nilanjana Sha Sudha + Charles McNeill + Michelle Kwon

Fragments of Becoming Virginia Akujobi-Egere + Juri Kim + Angelina Lyon

Barry Plummer Barry Plummer + Aveen Nagpal

No Skateboarding Allowed Sky Bailey + Winston Luk + Evan Rodrigues if cages could talk Tingyo Chang + Brandon Woo + Sean Guzman avant-garde summers Jenny Kim + Benti Kaur + Jackson Epps

Compost Lucia Zhang + Annie Yan

Inherited Resistance Agnes Gbondo + Quality Lenz + Jesse Gallo-Carson + Laila LaDuke

Han In (한인) Grace Kim + Carlo Salvador + wavechoppa + Abriella Terrazas

Behind Winds of Change Haute Multimedia Team + Haute Visual Design Team

BEN LOADER

Angelina Lyon is a Los Angeles-based designer specializing in graphic design and brand identity. She is pursuing a BFA in Design at the Roski School of Art and Design and a minor in Entrepreneurship at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California. She also serves as Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Ben Loader originally started taking photos and videos of his mates at the Skatepark in New Zealand back in 2011. Since then he has grown to be able to do Photography, Videography and Editing as a full-time job. Ben’s photography gives the public an insight into what skatepark culture is really like. The stereotype of skateparks is that it’s a rough and scary place, however it is far from that. In reality they are all a friendly community that just loves to be at the skatepark and hype each other up. He wouldn’t have his job now or be where he is today if he never went to the skatepark. As cheesy as it sounds, Ben really does owe his life to it and wouldn’t want it any other way. He is thankful that he has years and years of photos to look back on and hold these memories he has.

ROBYNN SHEN + ISABELLA MURRAY

When Yun woke, the neon lights outside the window blurred into a haze, their hum louder than remembered. Who needed the sun when the glow from a billboard could warm your skin as you drifted in and out of sleep? Yun sauntered to the mirror; a reflection stared back, tired and worn. The skin on that face, once smooth, had begun to sink, retreating, as if it, too, was tired of the night that lay ahead.

The satin sheets, once a bold crimson, were now faded and crumpled in a forgotten heap on the floor. Stains from last night’s customer decorated the bed, an embroidery of salt and sweat. Yun tidied the room, holding onto a rhythm—anything to ground them. Routine, they said, kept you sharp, and to be sharp was to survive. To lose that edge was to be consumed, and the weight of a man every night tends to wear the body down to nothing.

Three knocks on the door, soft but deliberate, meant it was time. Customers were already there, eager to be pleased and consumed.

Yun moved with the quiet precision he perfected—face washed, hair brushed, makeup layered, clothes slipped on like water. Beautiful, they’d say. If you saw Yun, you’d think all of this was wrong—that, like a pressed flower, he had been plucked too soon and left to wither in forgotten pages.

Every night, before it unfolded—relentless and unforgiving—Yun lingered at the mirror, caught between anticipation and dread. Waiting for that moment—the one where the

figure staring back seemed to shift, as if tired of just watching, as if it, too, had something to say. Not one person anymore, but two—locked in a quiet, familiar standoff. To keep fleeting insanity at bay, Yun had named his mirage, this reflection, Lian. As if to justify any words exchanged between a man and himself.

Lian always appeared before it all began, a ritual of sorts. His presence was a reminder of something real, something that didn’t revolve around lost pleasure and explicit pain.

But it had been a while since they whispered, shared cigarettes, and pretended, just for a little while, that everything outside didn’t exist. The room, damp and heavy with the smell of rain, had become their place—an unspoken agreement.

For all the walls Yun had built, Lian always found a way in. Lian was the only one who took the time—to see, hear, and love Yun—not for what he seemed, but for who he was.

Neon signs flickered above, casting the two in shades of pink and blue, their outlines halffaded in the twilight of the city.

“You’ve changed,” Lian said quietly, leaning against the reflected wall. Yun didn’t answer right away, lighting another cigarette, the orange glow momentarily illuminating their face before it disappeared into shadow.

“Maybe,” Yun murmured after a pause, the voice quiet, detached. “Or maybe I’ve stopped pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“That any of this was going to change.”

Lian watched, the way Yun’s fingers shook slightly as they brought the cigarette to their lips. “You don’t talk like this.”

“I didn’t need to.” Yun’s voice was hard now, eyes drifting up toward the neon lights blinking in the distance. “No one cares what I have to say. Every night out here, it’s the same story. You learn how to move, how to use what you have before it uses you.”

Lian tilted his head, gaze searching Yun’s face, as if trying to find the person he once knew. “So, is this what you’ve come to? Accepting the cold reality that your body is just a tool, nothing more than a wrench in a workman’s belt?”

Yun took another drag, exhaling slowly, letting the smoke twist into the air between them. “Don’t be one-dimensional, Lian. It’s more than that,” Yun said, voice low, almost a whisper, a plea. “It’s power.”

Lian shifted, uncrossing his arms as he leaned in closer. “Power? In what?”

“In knowing that I’m the one in control. That I decide what happens. No one else.” Yun flicked the cigarette into the sink, washing the broken ash away with tap water. “This world, every day, every moment I take a breath, it’s been trying to erase me since the beginning. This is just my way of making sure it doesn’t.”

REFLECTIONS AND DANCES IN NEON LIGHTS

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Lian’s face, as if he wanted to challenge but couldn’t find the words. “But do you really think that? Do you really believe you’re in control?”

Yun’s laugh was soft, bitter, barely audible above the noise of the city outside. “I know how they see me,” Yun said, voice steady. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how I see myself.”

“And how do you see yourself?”

Yun looked away, eyes tracing the cracks in the walls as if the answer was hidden somewhere in the wallpaper. “I see someone who’s learned how to make their way through this. Someone who, every time they take a new person in, finishes them, and seals the night with lost change placed on a wooden vanity, will be remembered in some way,” Yun said finally. “Someone who isn’t going to disappear.”

Lian leaned back against the wall again, gaze lingering on Yun’s face, watching the way the light shifted and flickered across their skin. “But isn’t it dangerous? Don’t you feel vulnerable?”

“Vulnerable?” Yun’s voice sharpened, hands tightening around his lighter. “Of course, it’s dangerous. That won’t change. Being out here, being me—it’s all the same. The danger never goes away, but you learn to live with it. You learn to turn it into something you can use.”

Lian’s brow furrowed, eyes dark with concern. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to...” “What?” Yun interrupted, his voice cold. “I don’t have to

do what? Do what I need to do to survive? Become untouchable?”

Lian didn’t answer, gaze dropping to the ground, silence stretching between them.

Yun sighed, voice softening as he looked at Lian. “You think I haven’t thought about it? That I haven’t wondered if there’s another way? But every time I step out there, I remember what the world is really like. You can talk about ideals and dreams, but they don’t mean anything out here.”

Lian’s eyes met Yun’s again, filled with something Yun couldn’t quite place—pity, maybe, or something deeper. “And the judgment?” he asked softly. “The way people look at you?”

Yun shrugged, lips curling into a half-smile. “People will always judge. They’ll look at me and see what they want to see. But the pictures they paint have no effect on the person I’ve carved myself out to be.”

There was a long silence, the only sound the distant wail of a siren, the city alive and indifferent around them.

“And to you this is power?” Lian asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know it is.” Yun’s eyes were hard now, unwavering. “Every night, I go out there and take back a piece of myself. Body by body. Thrust by thrust. Every night, I remind them that I’m still here.”

Lian opened his mouth to speak, but the

words seemed to stick in his throat. He closed it again, shoulders slumping slightly, as if the weight of everything between them was too much to bear.

“And what do you want?” Lian asked after a long pause, voice trembling slightly.

Yun turned away, eyes fixed on the neon lights, their cold glow casting long shadows across the wet pavement.

“I want what everyone wants,” Yun said softly, voice barely audible over the hum of the city. “To be seen. Really seen.”

Yun lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating their face before disappearing into the night.

“And to not be forgotten.”

Lian had nothing left to say. He watched Yun, face half-lit by the dull glow of the third cigarette, the angles of their cheeks sharp against the shadows, delicate but worn. The silence between them felt heavier than the words they’d shared, as if the conversation had finally ended—a full stop in a story that had been dragging on, punctuated by pauses, hesitations, and half-finished thoughts.

Yun, done with the mirror, took a pause and turned away from the reflection, leaving Lian behind. The night stretched ahead, and already Yun slipped away, back into the underbelly that was never satiated, back into the neon glow that was never quite warm enough.

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

Robynn Shen is a photographer based out of Shanghai and Los Angeles. Xin’s work blends design, photography, and storytelling, exploring themes of identity and social change. Robynn studies Business Administration at Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

REFLECTIONS

AND DANCES IN NEON LIGHTS

Isabella Murray explores the power of narrative and vivid imagery in her writing. She enjoys crafting stories that evoke deep emotion and desire, using words to paint the kind of pictures others create with a brush.

Isabella’s work focuses on capturing the intensity of human experience through a blend of narrative experimentation and rich, sensory detail. Isabella studies Health and Human Sciences at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Model

Michael Li

Models

Simone

Toni

Julia

Autumn Stallia

Tayler Somerville

Garcia

loew

Levin

Juri Kim is a Los Angeles-based visual artist, recognized by institutions like the National YoungArts Foundation and the National Scholastic Foundation of Art and Writing. Her work explores girlhood through a cinematic and unsettling lens. Juri’s work has been exhibited at the Getty Center, Band of Vices Gallery, Affirmation Arts Gallery, and Glasgow Gallery of Photography. Juri studies Fine Arts at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Nishka Manghnani is a designer and visual artist based in Los Angeles and Mumbai. Through her branding, graphic, and publication projects, she intends to create work that can mobilize social change and resonate with audiences. Nishka studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design with a progressive graduate degree in Integrated Design, Business and Technology at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Creative Director for Haute Magazine.

Lighting Technician: Amanda Chen

Production Coordinator: Amanda Chen

Photography Assistants: Nub-Petch (Nam-Ning) Sinthunava Winston Luk

Jae Stephens is an innovative singer-songwriter and producer from Los Angeles, known for her distinctive ability to blend genres like R&B, pop, and electronic music. Her introspective lyrics, sultry vocals, and inventive production create a sound that is both intimate and boundary-pushing. With influences ranging from pop futurism to soulful melodies, Jae’s music explores themes of love, identity, and self-discovery. Her new EP, “SELLOUT,” solidified her reputation as an artist unafraid to experiment with sound and storytelling. Through her work, Jae also addresses her experience as a Black woman in the pop music scene, advocating for representation and inclusivity in the industry.

Your music is beautifully influenced by R&B, though denoted as “Pop”—and yet you’ve seamlessly blended both genres in your music. What draws you to this kind of experimentation? Furthermore, how do you approach balancing your sound between Pop, R&B, and other influences while staying true to yourself?

I feel like it’s a pretty natural balance just because I feel like it’s a blend of what I was raised on and what I grew up on, and then what I sought out for myself. In my house, Gospel music was always playing as well as R&B. Lots of Brandy, Mariah and Beyonce. I have that foundation, and then as I get older, I’m looking at the Britneys and the Xtinas and Gwen and Fergie, and those really shaped an idea of the kind of artist or singer that I wanted to be. I think when it comes to Pop music in particular, Black girls are always going to have that kind of different approach. We do come from a different space, we have those R&B/Gospel sensibilities and know how to seamlessly blend them into our own special subgenre of Pop/R&B. I’m happy that people are able to hear those different influences in my music. I don’t ever want it to be just like one thing. So I’m glad that that’s coming across because it’s influenced by a lot of divas.

What artists have you garnered the most inspiration from? Are there any particular genres or artists you’re currently exploring that might surprise your listeners?

So just like basic influence, I like to look to different divas for different things. Like, for example, I record literally everything myself. When it comes to recording, vocal arranging, harmonies, stacks and layers, and yada-yada ad libs, Mariah and Brandy are my vocal bibles. If you listen to their backgrounds and their arrangements and the way that they can do it really heavy in an R&B song, you see that they find a way to do it much lighter, but

it’s still impactful in a Pop song for the radio. That’s something that I really look to and I’m really inspired by in the music that I’m making now.

I think Beyonce and Rihanna in terms of versatility and a willingness to try anything. Keep it up, keep it urgent, and keep it intentional at all times. It’s something that they have been incredible at, which is why they’ve stood the test of time and it’s something I’m definitely keeping at the forefront going forward. I don’t want anything to be like a ‘vibe’ or ‘too chill’: I want to come in on this bitch swinging.

Who am I inspired by right now? I’m definitely doing new deep dives every week into an album or an era that I might have missed. This week it’s a bunch of Britney. So much Britney. I’m spending so much time listening to her entire discography. I’m doing some homework.

Can you walk us through your typical creative process? How does a song go from an idea to a fully produced track?

Well, for me, I’m a very melody-driven person. If I could release an album of fire melodies with gibberish and no lyrics, I absolutely would. It always starts there. I want stuff that’s hooky and catchy and fun to sing and layer. It usually just starts either with a melody in my head or if I hear a beat, track, or instrumental that evokes something. I’ll put the whole song down with just humming and mumbling. From there, I get into the writing room, but it varies sometimes. Sometimes I might start with a title if I have something I really want to say or something that looks good on paper; but for the most part, I’m starting with just my gibberish melodies and the whole song is

built from there. I did go through an era where I was trying to have lyrics and poems in my book and from my heart, you know. When I would try to put these melodies, it came out, it was like fifth grade poetry contests, like it was a mess; but yeah, maybe one day I’ll make the switch.

Where do you find inspiration for your lyrics and melodies? Are they more autobiographical, imagined, or a mix of both? Has your approach to making music evolved over the years?

It can get autobiographical sometimes, but for the most part, no. I see this entity of Jae Stephens as like ‘cosplay’. Like I’m having fun. She’s larger than life. She doesn’t give a fuck. She’s a bad bitch. I think in order to have fun with this process, really commit, and just not be self-conscious and overthink, I like to just write what feels good. I like to take inspiration from anywhere, from anyone, from anything, because even if I don’t relate to it, somebody will. It’s more fun for me that way when I get to play a character. I played a horrible character on “Girls Don’t Cheat” and it got a lot of people mad. And you know what? I love to stir the pot. So like, whatever. It was a good song. But there’s definitely broader topics that I sing about that I can definitely relate to. For the most part, you know, it’s a mystery. Is this true or not? I don’t know. It’s so fun. I’ve been doing this for a while and there have been times where it has really beat me down and it’s not been fun. I just don’t want to do anything that’s going to make it unfun and make it like a process. If I’m going to be this larger than life star that I think I can be, then I’m totally open to just exploring all possibilities, all characters. I’m looking for my Sasha Fierce right now.

JAE STEPHENS

Your past projects, (2019), “And Friends” (2022), have However, you’ve a pivotal moment fans “have been up this year.” What compared to your process for “SELLOUT” in the past? On body of work—what you wanted listeners

Well, this project from a behind major label. My been rocking with years. Now there’s you know, years was definitely my where I really decided that I speak of it and just give fun with it.

I’ve always released have this song, really wanted to and everybody me. I just wanted through the effort was having with people to be able That kind of energy much of a fuck. whatever, because I was in when mean, like literally “Sick of my sadness. me being over then I’m going through, and that’s better, more than

projects, including “f**k it i’ll do it myself” Friends” (2021), and “High My Name Is” showcased your evolution as an artist. you’ve described your latest EP, “SELLOUT,” as moment in your career, even noting that your been down for a real long time, but we’re finally What makes this project stand out to you your previous work? How has the creative “SELLOUT” differed from what you’ve done On that note, “SELLOUT” is such a powerful work—what was the central message or feeling listeners to take away from it?

project was definitely different for me. I mean, the scenes standpoint, it’s my first on a My first with a real team. I’ve kind of just with me and my manager for however many there’s a lot more people involved, a lot more, years turning. From a creative standpoint, it my first with intention; it was my first time decided to commit and to be this character and to really put everything that I have into myself a chance, really—and to have

released music from a very casual base. I song, I like the song, I’ll put it out. This time, I to take full advantage of all the resources everybody surrounding me and everything behind wanted to give it my all. I think that really came effort and the intention and just the fun that I with it and not taking it too seriously. I do want able to hear that and come away with that. energy and attitude of just not giving too fuck. Just say what’s on your mind, get sweaty, because that’s very much the mindset that I was writing these songs of just being. I literally the first line on the project is so true. sadness. End of an era.” Like that was literally being pathetic. Like if I’m going to do this, to fucking do it. I think that really came that’s what is like connecting with people than anything I’ve put out so far.

If you could describe this new Jae Stephens in mere words, what would you choose?

Flirty. Cheeky. A bit shameless. Like I said, it is cosplaying to the fullest degree, and I feel empowered to bring these traits into my daily life.

Something that sets you apart is your unique emergence by building a following on Tumblr. Over the years, your perspective on this part of your journey has evolved, and you’ve expressed feeling a newfound sense of comfort with it. This background has clearly shaped your ability to connect deeply with your fans—so much so that your interactions feel less like a traditional artist-audience dynamic and more like a community where you’re one of them. In an industry increasingly focused on leveraging social media for success and with many emerging artists using these platforms to promote their music, what advice would you give them on how to use these tools effectively while staying authentic and fostering genuine connections?

I would say just really don’t be afraid to really be the person that you are in the music. I think for anyone who likes your music, if it’s truly you, then they’re going to like you. I feel that once I started putting out things I believed in and that were pieces of myself, where you can hear my personality and the lyrics and whatever, it made me feel less shy to like to reach out to people online and interact with people who were commenting on and sharing my stuff. It just made me feel like, you know, if there’s a natural community there, then why push it away? I feel like you should always try to engage in the conversation. I’m always going to give anyone who wants to give me the time of day, the time of day back. Like I said, I remember when I was really desperate for anyone to hear anything, and now that I have a small but mighty audience, I’m just really trying to bask in it. However, it’s also not something that’s necessarily hard for me, because like you said, I’ve been on the internet forever and Tumblr definitely established me being comfortable with talking to strangers online—maybe a bit too much. I would say, yeah, just find the community that sits best with you. For

some reason, I gravitate towards these text heavy apps that are on their way out for some reason. I guess so, right? History has repeated itself. I don’t know why.

I do better in spaces where I can just sit and yap and share my content with people and go, compared to a place like Instagram, which just scares the heck out of me. But then some people do much better in those spaces where it’s very aesthetic-driven and you can really lean on that to tell your story. I think it’s all about just finding your niche and if you’re really deep in your music, then you’ve probably already found it. It’s just finding out how that translates to an audience. From there, I think it’ll become really natural.

Building on that, one of the central themes of our Winds of Change issue is the relationship between communities and art. Given your unique ability to cultivate such a close and engaged relationship with your fans online—truly building a community that feels connected to you—how has this dynamic influenced your work and creative process? How do these interactions shape what you create and how you choose to present it?

I feel like it’s a bit of a loop. Like, my interactions with my fans influence my music and then my music influences the kind of fans I have. I feel like being such a natural-Internet person, I have come across these people online who are very likeminded musically. We love pop culture. We love celebrities. We love pop music. We love divas - yada, yada, yada. I think they are like minded enough to enjoy what I’m putting out, but then I also see what they ask for. I see what they wish their fave would have done. It’s always something that I can take into consideration if I choose. I’m like, “Oh, that could be a cool idea. That could be a cool idea for a collaboration. That could be a good idea for just something that the girls want.”

JAE STEPHENS

Like, I know too much about what these girls want. I’m always going to do what I want at the end of the day, but it’s really nice just to have that extra connection where I feel like I can consider those things too.

At the end of the day, I wouldn’t be here without these people that are listening and supporting. I always want to keep my ear on the ground to take any of these ideas into consideration. If it’s moving the people, then it can’t be that wrong.

A reason we were very interested in specifically speaking with you for this issue is that you’re a Black woman making waves in Pop music amongst other genres, which nowadays has become an underrepresented genre due to the common miscategorization of Black artists into fields like R&B, hip-hop, etc. As an artist who does make work in different genres, do you ever feel that such versatility isn’t fully recognized as it should be? Moreover, do you feel these categorizations still impact your work - and what is your response to it?

I think that it’s something that is going to change by force over time. I want me and all the other Black artists to be seen because there’s plenty out there. We just have to find them. Everybody’s in search of this next Black pop star. There’s so many. I just want us to keep going and not get jaded by the conversation. I feel like we either have to retreat into a box, whether it be kind of throwing up a white flag and making R&B tracks or feeling forced to make something so pop that it’s not even resonating with us anymore. We’re doing it for the sake of a title or a genre. I just want to keep making what I’m making and I want people to give it a chance. I want people to accept it as something else. I want people to recognize that it’s actually pulling from many places, many influences, and many genres before it is so quickly boxed.

Moreover, I really admire how you’ve shifted excelling in pop music — something you consistently emphasized this in your conversation with PAPER, to work with each other and uplift each other.” community among Black artists in pop so important

I think it’s really necessary, because I know there’s It’s not fair - if we can have a Charli, a Chappell, same for us. If we are already in an industry the least we can do is bring each other in, keep get derailed into “Oh, she’s the next…” - I feel Black Pop girl. There’s room for all of us, and able to be seen and heard.

As someone who is so young and successful, what’s your biggest advice for other young creatives?

OMG get over yourself! I really appreciate perspective what I have accomplished and created. much time I wasted and how much further along and believed it. I took myself too seriously and think the number one thing you can do as an artist enough. I would say find a trusted team of advisors be your final say. You have to believe it, or no been afraid of being myself to the fullest, opportunities in different ways and it wouldn’t have taken as

Lastly, our issue Winds of Change is an issue movement and art where art has always been to be heard and expressed. We wanted to explore and to rewrite the mainstream by rupturing relationship between art and movement?

I feel like I can’t move without art. Each of been a turning point in my life - I was like a teenager, autobiographical writer, but looking back I’m The only way to evolve from that place and people that is writing a song, for some it is that has been documented though my discography of myself. This EP has been the biggest move when I didn’t. The only way to change something

this conversation to uplift other Black artists consistently make an effort to do. You’ve even PAPER, saying, “we’ve got to collab, we’ve got other.” Why is this sense of collaboration and important to you?

there’s only going to be one allowed at a time. Chappell, a Sabrina, and a Tate, it should work the industry where we aren’t seeing ourselves as much, keep that conversation going, and don’t let it it is so redundant. I don’t sound like the next and it’s important that more than one of us is

successful, and has started these endeavors early-oncreatives?

speaking to you both because it puts into created. I spend a lot of time regretting how along I could be if I had put myself out there and was worrying what people would think - I artist is lose that. If you like it, it’s fire. That is advisors who will honestly tell you, but it should one else will. It’s crazy but it works. Had I not opportunities would have presented themselves as long to get to “SELLOUT.”

issue which focuses on the intersection between been an integral site for underrepresented voices explore what it means to be an agent of change rupturing the status quo. What do you think is the

my projects, which I am realizing now, has teenager, a young adult. I like to say I’m not an like “Girl that was true. You were projecting.” recognize it is to put it down - and for some changing your style/outlook/sound. For me, discography - you can hear me becoming more sure move yet - I had to jump out and believe it even something is to move.

VIRGINIA AKUJOBI-EGERE + ROHAN BARU

JAE STEPHENS

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.

Virginia Akujobi-Egere is a Los Angeles-based writer with an emphasis on creative writing and storytelling. Her work demonstrates an adeptness to creative, non-fictional narrative through prose and poetic construction. Virginia studies Narrative Studies at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences with a minor in Songwriting at the Thornton School of Music, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

Nicole Leihe is a 3D artist and designer based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. WIth a love for storytelling, she aims to convey meaningful narratives through her work. Nicole studies Game Art at the School of Cinematic Arts, as well as Economics and Data Science at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Visual Design for Haute Magazine.

Photographer Randijah Simmons

BLEEDING RED, WHITE AND BLACK

Sammi C Wong is a Los Angeles-based Creative Director and Photographer focusing on visual storytelling through her unique lens of fashion and cultural narratives. She approaches themes using distinctive analog and mixed media manipulations, blending between sculpture and photography, she draws inspiration from mundane experiences. Sammi studies Fine Arts at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Michelle Rojas is an interdisciplinary 3D artist, writer, and designer based in Los Angeles. Originally from Mexico City, she has a keen interest in the diverse forms narrative can take, from literary magazines to immersive experiences and even cool animations. She loves them all equally. Michelle is a graduate student at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Model Adisah Grimes

Makeup Artist/Assistant Bri De Anda

BLEEDING RED, WHITE AND BLACK

Thursday, August 14, 1969. 1:19 pm. Woodstock-eve. Richie and his buddies had been waiting for this weekend since, well, a couple of weeks ago when they got their tickets. They weren’t quite sure what they were walking into, but for $18 a piece, they figured it should be a pretty cool show. They were mostly going to see their idols, the Grateful Dead, but Joplin and Hendrix were also supposed to show face. There were a bunch of other randos performing too, but any live music was always better than recorded, so the boys didn’t care if they knew the performers or not. By midafternoon, Richie and the guys had packed his dad’s ‘67 Ford Falcon to the brim with fresh outfits, sandwiches for the road, a few blankets, and an unreasonable amount of drugs. What else did they need?

All summer, Richie’s parents had been non-stop bugging him about applying to a college, something they seemed to think was of the utmost importance. Responsibilities this, opportunities that, you know how parents get. Richie did not care about all that “future stuff” one bit, and was heavily bummed out by the thought of it. He’d been avoiding home like the plague since the end of his junior year that May. Instead of working parttime at the town pool like most of his friends that summer, he’d mostly been hanging in his buddy’s garage and listening to tunes. His buddy Don was really into that new stuff that was happening out West, and honestly, Richie was starting to see his point. All of the guys out there, the “hippies,” all seemed to understand the pressure that Richie was feeling. And they said “Hey! It’s ok to not want that! You can reject it all.”

It felt cool to be a (self-proclaimed) part of a movement bold enough to oppose society’s expectations for the new generation. Richie even stopped going to youth group on Wednesday nights. He decided to let his hair grow instead of getting his usual monthly trims. And these musical artists, man, they were the real deal. That new sound they used—distortion, they called it—was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was even groovier when you were tripped out. That was another standout of the summer—Don’s older brother had slipped the boys some LSD to test out. Sometimes in the silence between disks, Richie could hear the news from inside Don’s house talking about some civil unrest...something about a stone wall? And some stuff about unions too. Now and then he tried to listen a little closer, but Don said it would all iron itself out if everyone could just “choose love as we do.” So, Richie spent the summer collecting psychedelic rock records and indulging in psychedelic drugs. It was his own personal rebellion against society’s (his parent’s) expectations. He would bike home every night for dinner, obviously, and come get fresh clothes (that his mom washed) every morning, but still. Rebellion. So, when Don told him about this hot new event coming up in August, he dipped into some of his saved-up allowance and bought a ticket on the spot.

The boys were looking for good music, time. And they had a feeling Woodstock good night's sleep in a motel by the the boys were ready for a day of getting The second they saw the crowd, Richie indescribable feeling of being around that was the pot talking (they had decided the later acts). Richie didn’t recognize stage, but they sounded pretty good to of these songs anyway. Most of the improvise some (or all) of their performance it hit that much harder. He stayed lost

Monday, August 18, 1969. Post-Woodstock. with a violent headache. Where was finally remembered the last three days even seen the Grateful Dead? He couldn’t migraine. Richie cringed thinking of the of bed and lazily got his stuff and his his parents were going to be peeved hear Dad droning on about how “no opportunity of an education for that he was referencing, Richie wasn’t too messing around with Vietnam and Cambodia him were dying gruesome deaths across were fighting for their rights and Black theirs. But he wasn’t involved in any of involved in anything except, well, music using the music as an excuse for the concert and couldn’t remember a single things were happening in the world, seemed to think that he was involved Well, he wasn’t. And neither were any neither were most of the people he spent

As he continued down the freeway, Richie’s he’d had in early August with his neighbor the summer. Tom had been blasting the was trying to sleep off a high, and the stuff marched over to Tom’s house to tell him to Tom laughed. The conversation that followed

music, a good trip, and a damn good Woodstock would not disappoint. After a field, Richie and Don and the rest of getting high and listening to some tunes. Richie could feel it. That deep, kinda around people who just get you. Or maybe decided to save the psychedelics for recognize the group that was playing on the to him. You couldn’t really know most groups would just get on stage and performance anyway. That spontaneity made lost in the music for three days straight.

Post-Woodstock. Richie woke up at 2:31 pm he? After a few groggy minutes, he days he had spent tripped out. Had he couldn’t recall much of anything with this the drive home. He dragged himself out his friends and hit the road. He knew peeved at his condition. He could already son of his was going to give up the damn hippie agenda.” What agenda too sure. He knew that Nixon had been Cambodia and that kids a year older than across the world. He knew that women Black people had just stopped fighting for of that. In fact, he wasn’t particularly music and drugs. But really he was just drugs. He drove all the way for this single song! What was he doing? Real world, and people (not just his parents) involved in helping to make real changes. any of his friends. And, he assumed, spent the last few days tripping with.

Richie’s brain wandered to a conversation neighbor Tom who was home from Columbia for same album over and over while Richie stuff was driving him so crazy that he’d to shut it. Upon his not-so-kind request, followed had gone something like this:

Tom: What, you don’t like Zeppelin? It's not too different from your beloved acid rock. Same big sound, lots of distortion with the guitar, some improv on stage, the works.

Richie: No, the song is fine, but I’m trying to sleep. Can you just turn it off?

Tom: What’s the big deal? Got a big day of tripping more acid tomorrow?

Richie: Yeah, actually, I do. Not that it's any of your business. Now can you turn it off?

Tom: Well, in that case, I’m more than happy to help you out. Seeing as you're doing so much to make real progress on the serious social issues in this world. Nothing like a 17-year-old buying drugs with Daddy’s money to help further the cause of the feminist and labor movements. Real purposeful.

Richie: Take it easy. I’ll just close my window.

Back then, Richie had dismissed his neighbor’s comments as a lack of understanding from a pretentious college intellectual. Tom and his college buddies were pretty openly against the whole Hippie stuff that Richie had claimed with Don earlier that summer. They thought it was too indulgent, too careless, not enough action. Their music reflected that idea. But as Richie played the scene over in his head, he started to get that sinking feeling that Tom might’ve been right. He hoped it wasn’t too late to realize that. The rest of the drive was pretty quiet—Richie was caught up in his thoughts, and the other guys were too tired to break the silence.

Monday, August 18, 1969. 5:52 pm. Only three days had passed. But Richie knew that when he got home, he was going to try and do something. Learn something real. Borrow that Zeppelin album from Tom. Time for a new type of rebellion. Time for a change.

Ava Zinna is a bicoastal writer and student specializing in rhetorical criticism and all things analysis. She seeks to present historical issues through a lens of creativity and imagination. Ava studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Austin Wallace began his photography journey in 2018. He is a self-taught photographer who loves freelancing in local and places abroad. His shooting preferences are street, landscape, and boudoir photography. Photography is an outlet for Austin. He uses it as an avenue to bring joy to those who encounter him or his work. He views this art as a way to provoke conversation. As he likes to say, “there’s a story in every picture. But who’s telling the story...”

Angela Chan is a San Diego and Los Angelesbased graphic designer and artist. Influenced by both her design and visual arts background, her works focus on narrative and functionality. Angela studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

Batalin (Max) Maksim is a director, photographer, and editor from Moscow. Max likes find beauty in the dark spaces, and he intends to show what’s hidden beneath each subject’s surface. Directing and photography give him the feeling that he is in his place. Max finds inspiration in people, movies, music, but also in the little things; he seeks to see sophistication and mystery in simple things.

Anoushka Buch is designer based in San Francisco and Los Angeles. With a foundation in editorial design, she seeks to create beauty and utility 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 senior advisor for Haute Magazine.

STUDENT INTIFADA

It is dystopian to be a student attending a privileged institution in America while children are being indiscriminately exploded to bits in Gaza. Kids my age, younger than me, barely born and not even able to speak, didn’t get a chance to experience half of the things I have experienced in my nineteen years of life.

In the spring of last year, students from all different backgrounds came together on USC’s campus to build an encampment in support of the people of Palestine. There was chanting, and singing, and crying, and learning, and so much heavy emotion and empathy for a group of people we will likely never get to meet. There were children, and adults, and students, and parents, and teachers—all united under a singular cause.

As I sat in Alumni Park, safe on a picnic blanket, I thought about a project I did in the fall for my “Intro to American Studies” class about the genocide in Palestine. For my portion of the project, I was tasked with writing about specific Palestinians’ experiences in Gaza. I discovered the website We Are Not Numbers (WANN) and was not able to look away from it for hours. There were tens and hundreds of posts from Palestinians, dead and alive. Now, when I think about Gaza, I think about Ayah and her dead family whom she thinks is alive, and Nowar who lost her best friend and learned about it through the grapevine, and Wael who was filmed and photographed crying over his wife’s body for the sake of conveying a message. It is painful to realize that so many Americans refuse to see what is happening in Palestine simply because it is not happening right in front of their eyes. I think about how I’m not sure if some of these people are still alive, while the images of their faces are burned into my memory.

I’m tired of using the word “conflict” to describe what is happening. Al Jazeera reports that over forty four thousand Palestinians in Gaza have been killed since October 7th, 2024 and that over sixteen thousand of them were children. It is unfathomable to me that people can still claim that Israel is acting in “self-defense.”

I’m not sure what the best way to enact change is as a student. I am aware that we have more power than we know, especially in united communities. But, I will admit that there comes a point when words like “organize” and “protest” start to become background noise. What change can we really make when the administration of our school doesn’t give us a seat at the table? When they are not even willing to allow our valedictorian to speak for fear of her saying “Free Palestine”?

What I loved so much about the encampment was that it was tangible proof I was not alone in my deep anger and sadness about what is happening in Gaza. Students gathering together at all hours of day in community, for a common cause, was inspiring. Everyone there was warm and kind, and just from knowing that they cared enough to be there made me feel safe. People from the outside community brought food and resources while voicing their support. I made friends, and I learned the importance of tangible community to resistance. USC’s encampment, combined with the encampments at schools across the country, was the momentum we needed to continue to fight for divestment and a ceasefire.

However, the end of the year marked the end of the encampment. DPS and LAPD raided the camp, breaking down the structures that had been sustaining students for days, shoving students and ignoring their pleas for a free Palestine without empathy. Students have begun to organize again, but it is so hard to convince people to protest when the school has so much power to punish whoever they like.

With the recent re-election of Donald Trump, my heart sinks for this country. I am scared for the future of Americans, especially minorities. I am scared for the future of Palestinians. And yet, I hope that Trump’s election allows people to open their eyes to how far America has strayed from the moral path. I hope that in the next few years that people become more and more radical, and push our politicians to act as we want them to act.

Intifada is defined as uprising and rebellion, specifically by the Palestinian people against their Israeli oppressors. To see a free Palestine, we need to embrace radical hope for change, and that starts with you and me.

Sage Murthy is a Los Angeles-based writer. She specializes in personal essays and seeks to develop characters with captivating personalities. Sage studies American Studies of Race and Ethnicity at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

CLAUDIA PERMATASARI SUCIONO

Claudia Permatasari Suciono finds art in the vibrant streets and public spaces of Jakarta, Indonesia. She loves wandering the city, transforming everyday moments into timeless visual stories with her unique eye for detail. Her work, recognized by Apple and featured on their Instagram, captures the beauty often overlooked.

Michelle Kwon is a Los Angeles and South Korea based interdisciplinary artist specializing in visual experiences. Her work navigates the boundaries between fine art and design, driven by a fascination with all things creative. Michelle studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design with a minor in Marketing at the University of Southern California.

CLAUDIA PERMATASARI SUCIONO

GRACE KIM + ROHAN BARU

Alemeda, the Ethiopian-Sudanese artist redefining Alternative Pop and Rock music, is a storyteller at heart. With a flair for bold sonic and visual self-expression, she weaves empowering and nuanced narratives through soft yet striking melodies. Since her first single Gonna Bleach My Eyebrows in 2021—a track that’s amassed over 34 million streams and counting—Alemeda has captivated audiences worldwide with her daring authenticity. Her latest EP, FK IT, serves as both a fearless celebration of her artistic journey and a tantalizing glimpse into the innovative sounds shaping her future. Newly signed to Top Dawg Entertainment, Alemeda stands poised to challenge boundaries and redefine genres, all while staying true to the heart of her artistry: creating music that resonates, empowers, and inspires.

Rohan: You just recently dropped your debut EP, which we are so excited to have as it marks a significant milestone in your career. Since the release of your first single in 2021 to this EP, what were some of the key intentions in mind or what messages did you want to convey?

Alemeda: We kind of threw together a lot of these songs like a sampler of what my future sound will be. I didn’t spend a lot of time going in, making it a whole story, because it’s my first project. I kind of wanted people to have a bunch of different types of genres to listen to, conveying my artistic vision. I feel like each song is different, one of them is dark and slow then another is an upbeat drum and bass, showcasing a diverse array of selves. My future projects will be a more mature version of that with more exploration of Rock too.

Grace: Continuing with the EP, is there any purpose behind the track listing and its order?

Alemeda: The first three songs in this “playlist” were my favorite songs, but as I’ve mentioned earlier, it could have been in any order. I feel like artists usually put their biggest song as one of the firsts but for me, I was like “Gonna Bleach my Eyebrows” had its time, so let’s put the other three up there. I think the beauty of it is that you could hit shuffle and still enjoy each song the same. It’s gonna be the same shit, right?

Rohan: (Laughs) Of course! We wanted to shift to discussing you as an artist. A current trend in the music industry is the tendency to miscategorize Black artists into the mold of hip hop, R&B, or core ‘urban’ genres. And I know you’ve been vocal about this matter as you once stated that when you stick to one thing, it’s very limiting because you’re sticking to something people expect you to do. So how has this pressure affected your artistic choices and what steps have you taken to break away from these expectations?

Alemeda: There are so many genres I want to do. So I went through every genre including EDM, R&B, jazz, pop, and even rapping, which didn’t fucking go well. (laugh) But there was this special thing about rock. I grew up listening to alternative music, and I feel like everyone who was in my age group grew up loving rock because that’s what Disney Channel had on and the bands that I liked as a kid. It made the most sense to me to make more alternativesounding stuff.

In terms of struggles, I had to damn near be aggressive at times. I’ve reached out to people who have written articles about me and corrected them, saying “Hey, my influence wasn’t Brandy.” I try to do it in the most respectful way, and nine times out of ten, they’ll just just go back and change the article, but I feel like I have to do that because of stereotypes and expectations Black women experience.

It’s so limiting to put them in R&B. Even in rock, there are a lot of stereotypes even though it was created by Black people. There’s a lot of great Black Alternative/Rock artists, like Rachel Chinouriri and Willow who are a part of this movement of doing whatever the fuck we want, and I want to become a part of that.

Grace: As you should. One of the reasons why we were eager to feature you for this issue is because you are a trailblazer for greater representation of Black women in underrepresented genres. What advice would you give to artists who feel pressured to fit into certain boxes but are eager to participate in less explored creative spaces? Do you have creative routines that keep you grounded?

Alemeda: As generic as it sounds, I would say, don’t listen to anyone and just do it. Because if I had listened to people, I would be doing R&B right now, just because that’s what people around me wanted me to do. You just have to listen to what you feel your heart wants to make at the end of the day. There’s a lot of pressure as a Black woman in the industry to sound like other Black artists or be in that same genre, but that’s not what I like. I’m just going to do what I want to do and no one can tell me otherwise.

Rohan: That leads me to think about your first-ever release on Spotify, “Wish You The Worst,” which is a more R&B-leaning record. Was it something you wanted to drop at the moment or what you felt pressured to do?

Alemeda: Yeah, it was a record that I dropped when I came around TDE when I was 19. It’s not like I had a whole discography. People signed me off of singing covers on Instagram back in 2018. I was very new to making music so I felt so much pressure to put something out because I just had a blank-ass Spotify. But putting that song out was my biggest regret because I wasn’t ready.

I don’t hate the song. I also had a moment when I was working with a lot of drum and bass sounds and UKG music, where I felt like I just had to do this type of music though I wouldn’t say it’s my sound. I grew up listening to a lot of UK artists, and that was around the time Pink Pantheress came out and that sound started popping off on TikTok. When I wrote “Gonna Bleach my Eyebrows,” I was inspired to just fuck around and make something goofy. It was just something fun to work on at the time because I was uninspired.

But I don’t think it was necessarily the sound that drew people in, but the lyrics and the melody. I could do a rock version of “Gonna Bleach my Eyebrows” or I could do a jazz version, and it would still be a fire-ass song. But it made me feel pressured to make more upbeat music instead of acoustic, more heartfelt stuff, which I’ve been exploring more of. At the end of the day, I just want to do everything.

Rohan: Going from the music to the visuals, I do want to give you a round of applause because you’ve always delivered incredible visuals. Through your visual consistency, I feel like I’ve come to understand who you are as an artist, which is not the easiest thing to do, especially when your songs are so versatile. I was wondering, when crafting your visuals over the years, do you feel this process has allowed you to further explore your individuality as an artist?

Alemeda: You know what? Yeah. I had a big hand in figuring out the artistic and visual treatment of those videos. I’ll look back at them when I’m feeling low in terms of

artistry, and I love them so much because they came out the way I wanted them to. The biggest thing I wanted each video to be was unique. For example, the truck dancing shit was a kind of visual unique for a Black woman. Even through the different genres of songs, I like to explore, the visuals are what consistently make me me, and it meant a lot that I got to have so much artistic control over that.

I feel like I’m doing something my younger self would say, “damn you did that even though you thought you couldn’t.” In every aspect of my music, she reminds me that I have an actual motive here.

Grace: As fans, I think we can feel that individuality in your music and visuals. Also, congratulations on joining TDE and Warner. You truly deserve all the success, you mentioned that signing to them means more than just being an artist. It means being a “pivotal part of this Black art and culture” following this lineage of artists like Kendrick Lamar, Doechii, SZA, and Isaiah Rashad. So how has being surrounded by such genrebending and culture-paving artists impacted your artistic growth? What does it mean to follow in the legacy and pave the way for younger Black women in a male-dominated industry?

Alemeda: It’s almost a good thing and a bad thing because I was lucky to be in development and not have the pressure right off the bat.

My first-ever show was at an open mic night at USC. Before that, I did covers in high school, but I had a lot of time to not like fuck up in front of people. And I felt pressure because the fans of TDE are used to a specific quality of music. I was trying to match that in my way but not completely.

In the past four and a half years, I’ve learned how to produce and write all my music. I’ve learned how to play guitar. It’s like all these things I knew I had to do because when I came in I wasn’t a full-fledged artist. Everyone else had been doing music for at least like two or three years before, so I felt like a fraud for the first three years. I also didn’t grow up listening to a lot of music, so I had a lot of music to catch up on. For example, I didn’t even know who Lauryn Hill was—like these huge artists who I’m obsessed with now.

So I had that time to explore. Being a part of this label now, I also feel like my art is respected differently because everybody on there is amazing. As a Black woman and dealing with being called things you’re not, I think TDE will help me get through those struggles and be respected for what I want to be.

Rohan: On that topic, Anthony “Moosa” Tiffith, the copresident of TDE himself, mentioned to Billboard that for the “last four years, [Alemeda has been] focused as a student of music and developing her sound”. What has this artistic journey been like for you, and how has it been to hone in on who you are? Do you feel like the release of your EP has now closed this chapter and put you at a new stage of your career?

Alemeda: It was hard, but I was determined. I really took advantage of that time. I loved being in the shadows and grew so much more confident in my songwriting, performing, and just everything. So, I appreciated it a lot though it was a difficult process to find my own style since there was so much information to pull from.

I think for me, the special part of creating this EP was the growth, too. I absolutely agree that this EP has put me in a new stage; I feel like I’m in Alemeda phase two. That was my past 4 years, and you described it perfectly about it feeling like it’s opened a new chapter. That’s exactly how I feel.

Rohan: Moving onto something I’m very interested in knowing more about as a student who also comes from an international background, I wanted to ask how your Ethiopian-Sudanese identity has helped you develop personally or creatively. How has your background complemented your musical endeavors when establishing your artistic voice? Especially while shooting that short documentary when recently going back to Ethiopia?

Alemeda: I don’t know if you’re first generation, but the majority of Ethiopian and Sudanese people here are first generation. In a refugee country, doing art is considered bold very bold because all our parents want us to stay in school. It’s just not what they want you to do. So one of my biggest things is to put that on the forefront with the cover of the EP and the Amharic lyrics on my reels because I’m here to show that you can do whatever you want and that it is possible to make it for those like me and come from my similar background.

With the documentary and everything, my goal was to show that I was there and now I’m here, which was an opportunity that was handed to me like a golden ticket. I feel like I wasn’t supposed to even be in this country, let alone in the music industry, doing what I am. The documentary was about my family and my upbringing. It’s a “where I came from” story to inspire others now that I’ve made it here. My story is unique because I’m both Ethiopian and Sudanese too. Those are both completely different cultures. The main goal with all of it is to inspire and make people feel like they can do it.

I do want to keep integrating and exploring these cultural influences in the future. I don’t know if people know but Ethiopia has a lot of Reggae influences, which I grew up with. When I went back, there were so many talented people in Ethiopia, but the music scene was just not as big. I want to give those people out there opportunities like what we have here without necessarily coming to America because their lives aren’t completely horrible out there. Like they got better food than us. (laughs)

Feeling like they can do it there, that’s the first step. I want them to feel like they could do it in their own country; there are already people starting labels and making studios out there. They’re doing Ethiopian Rock, Ethiopian Rap, Ethiopian Drill. I just really want Ethiopia to have a big music scene.

Grace: Thank you so much for sharing more about what your background means to you in music. I’m sure it’ll resonate with a lot of us who are doing art to know what it means to diverge from a prescribed path. Bringing it back to our issue, Winds of Change, what do you think is the relationship between art and movement?

Alemeda: Nowadays, artists have the power to just post a fucking video online and for it to go viral. It’s very empowering to have this platform and crowd of people who resonate with what you’re saying, and what you’re feeling, especially as somebody who treats my music like a personal diary of my real experiences. To have people come together and relate to what I’m saying is fire.

I’m Black, I’m African, but I like to think that it’s about people from everywhere. And music gives you a chance to make something of yourself with your identity, where I’m like, this is me, a refugee Ethiopian girl who came out of nowhere, and now I’m gonna be able to help my family in Africa who does not have a house. I’m going to inspire others to follow their dreams by having the platform to talk about things I want to talk about.

Because a lot of things don’t get shown to the world, I feel like it’s important that my story is a little more unique. I’m not just doing this to live in a mansion in the fucking valley, but I’m trying to bring meaning through my work. My whole family is in Ethiopia, like no one’s in America. Even my family in Arizona financially depends on me too.

Grace: Thank you so much for sharing those experiences with us.

Rohan: Yes thank you so much. I believe that wraps up our main questions, but I do have a little bit of a fun question to ask you. You’ve attributed your initial desire to pursue music to watching High School Musical. What is your favorite high school musical song?

Alemeda: I’d say “Bet On It.” It’s just a classic! I remember one day, I was feeling down while driving up Beverly Hills trying to get to a session, and playing it gave me a boost of inspiration. I was like whoa, hold on, these lyrics hit!

Rohan: Oh my god, I love “Bet On It” too - it really does have that energy!

Well, on that note, I think we’ve covered everything we set out to discuss. Thank you so much for taking the time to share your journey and insights with us, Alemeda—it’s been such a pleasure!

GRACE KIM + ROHAN BARU

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-inChief for Haute Magazine.

Photographer Brianna Alysse

JEROME HOFFMEISTER

Jerome Hoffmeister is a German photographer known for capturing raw, authentic moments with a bold, underground aesthetic. His work centers around urban environments, using striking colors and low light to create gritty, atmospheric images that feel both intense and personal. Often featuring individuals who embrace their unique style, his photography reflects the vibrancy and edge of street culture. With a tendency for neon hues and moody scenes, Jerome’s work captures the raw energy and individuality of modern life.

Aveen Nagpal is a Boston, NYC, and Los Angeles-based multidisciplinary designer. He joins the humanities and design in his work, exploring the intersection of public policy and artistic process. Aveen studies Philosophy and Economics at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

JEROME HOFFMEISTER

KARINA ALVAREZ + CATALINA PALAZIO

I.

Gael

“Padre nuestro, que estás en en cielo,”

The pastor’s voice fills up the four walls, tumbling out with sharp, dangerous piety. The laymen mindlessly recite the prayer, heads hanging low.

In the back pew, Gael’s neck is craned while his head is hung low mimicking the others. His eyes curse the room, staring into the stained glass window. The red and blue hues dissolved in the Sunday light casted a nefarious color on the visages of the churchgoers. A sudden chill courses through Gael.

He’d have to receive now, drink the wine, eat the bread. He’d have to look into the Father’s eyes.

Guilt.

That’s what they would want him to feel, that’s what they would use to burn him alive. They would first try to remedy him; say he has to eat more meat, dance with more women–

Gael knows this.

But until he would be called home, al cielo, he would tuck her within himself.

She’ll be safe there.

Gael abruptly stands with the pew, starting for the communion line. Sweat begins to pool around his collar as it does every Sunday morning as he nears receiving from the Father. It seems, to Gael, that when he does, the Father’s face contorts into a Mephistophelean smirk.

He knows what comments come after that smirk as he recognizes it on the faces of his tío’s at the holidays. Snide, crude remarks about the way he talks, the way he walks. Grinding jaws, and chins jutted out with pride.

He knows what curses they chant in their heads, and what fortune they have already attributed to him. It fills him with dread.

KARINA ALVAREZ + CATALINA PALAZIO

II. Mariana

“Gael, don’t forget to get the chicken out for later,” Lisa barks. She drops her car keys onto the wooden kitchen table. Her gaze is hard and fixed on the Sunday paper.

“Yeah mama, I will,” Gael quickly assures. He kisses her cheek and rushes to his room.

He locks the door behind him and flops onto his bed. His whole body sighs—his breath finally steady.

Outside on the tree beside his glass window, the mourning doves coo, making him lazily smile with contentment. They flood him with something resembling peace. Blissful peace he hasn’t seemed to fully recover since his halcyon days; back then they used to sing, making Gael wake joyously to a new day.

But now, their coos have distorted into something that sounds like longing—like mourning. It sounds to Gael that they now lament the coming of a new day that will be just like the one before. But he understands that sorrow, and he only smiles because he can share that with them.

He picks his head up from the bed and stares out the window before turning to his wooden dresser. He lazily gets up and opens a drawer, reaching for his hidden cosmetic bag and bagged wig from the closest beauty store.

Looking into his mirror atop his drawer, he searches for something in his eyes. He’s already thought of how much easier it would be if he could find even an ounce of happiness in his current body but–

He cannot find it.

He hastily opens up his cosmetic bag, taking his time applying his makeup and fixing his hair, completely getting lost in a reverie.

She feels at home.

Suddenly, the door flies open.

“Gael, I’ve been calling you for the past–”

It wasn’t locked properly.

Lisa’s mouth hangs open, and her bug eyes protrude out of her head. Her face is stretched into a grimace as if what she had been dreading had manifested right in front of her very eyes.

Gael rips off the wig from his head and tensely stares back at her, anticipating her reaction.

Silence.

Lisa’s throat sounds something of a choke, then with a furrowed brow, rips her hand through the air, landing with a smack on Gael’s right cheek.

Gael, with the same bug eyes he inherited from his mother, stares back at her and holds his face in disbelief. Lisa starts to fight him, but Gael barrels past her and exits the house with a harsh squeal and slam of the wooden front door.

The perfected makeup on his face is now smudged, his vision blurred, but he knows where to go. Gael runs to his church, the place where the walls scream with the color of the youth’s voice; the graffiti underpass 2 miles away from his house.

Gael’s feet hurriedly rush underneath him, and he quickly reaches his destination.

He lets out a sigh as he takes refuge under the concrete walls above and leans his head against the cold wall for a second, glad to have escaped the harsh sun nipping at his nape.

III. Bajo el cielo pintado

The bright and bold words sear into his eyes: DREK, CHAKA. He imagines how the artists unapologetically scribed their names, how they knew their identity, how they could even show it off. He never considered how much a name, an identity could weigh, until he realized how heavy carrying the weight of a repressed identity was.

He had already tried and tasted the name he yearned to hear on his tongue. Mariana

He dreamed of the day where, in his mama’s embrace, he would hear her softly whisper in her unique cadence,

She’d call out to her,

“Mariana,”

She’d hug her, tell her it’s okay, and that now she can live without fear.

He dreamed of the day that he didn’t feel that his secrecy was discovered, smiles occasioned by his impending doom. Yeah, he dreamed of that day.

Where instead of the filthy conjecture that burns his nose, his mouth, and his lungs, there is an acceptance.

He had been holding Mariana’s hand for so long, caressing and attempting to placate her screaming heart—telling her, “Soon… soon.”

Soon, the world will soften, the world will carry you gladly, and you won’t have to worry. You will live, Mariana. Soon.

Gael blinks hard. The light at the end of the underpass throbs and dances in the thin darkness of his eyelids. His legs grow heavy, and he sets himself down onto the cold concrete floor. He hugs his knees to his chest, allowing his chin to drop. His eyes start to follow, the corner of his eyes drooping slightly.

Gael abruptly picks his head up and casts an intense gaze at the graffiti piece covered up with white paint. The letters once there, so apparently emboldened and charged with yearning, now stand faint and obscure. It irks something deep inside him; he knows he should try and decipher this cryptic message, but it hangs over him like a bad omen, so he chooses chooses to look away.

He notices the sun going down from the corner of his eye; some of the orange and pink hues approaching the horizon leak into the tunnel.

He looks toward the light. His brows scrunched in anger, and he thinks about the possibility of the sky splintering into fragments; what does their religion mean then? What does their system do for them then? If love saves, why would they need to attain salvation?

His heart was aching, and his inner clock incessantly beeped with alarm– he knew he’d have to go home, but now she’s unprotected. Mariana is known

But somehow, within her fear, she feels liberated. She’s known!

But the sky is dimming, and Gael remembers the world. He sobers up. For when the night falls, so does a man with a heavy hand and machismo come home from work.

Gael’s heart jumps in his throat with the thought of his mama sharing the day’s turmoil with his father before he could arrive and plead for her silence.

He stands to his feet quickly, suddenly burning to beat it. The humidity of the summer night has taken its toll on him, sweat sticking to his skin, beading up around his forehead.

He lets out an audible sigh, barely heard by the cicadas buzzing throughout the underpass.

Little girl, you will carry this weight for a long, long time.

A languorous gust of wind suddenly flooded the underpass. Gael stops, letting it soothe his skin. With the thought of the creator pulling the sun up again tomorrow, Gael dreamed of the change.

A day where he doesn’t fear for her life, a day where those eyes upon her cease to cast her into this acrid, vile unknown.

He felt something stirring within; something pulled at himself, whispering, that something will change soon.

Yeah, something ought to happen. Soon.

But until then, he had to go home, face the world, and carry that weight.

LAILA LADUKE

Karina Alvarez is a writer based in Los Angeles and Arizona, specializing in screenplay and prose. Through the medium of storytelling, she wishes to elaborate on the human condition with sentimentality. Karina studies Writing for Screen & Television at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Catalina Palazio is a photographer based out of Miami and Los Angeles. She is highly inspired by nature and architectural forms which inform her visual narratives. Catalina is pursuing a Bachelor’s in Architecture at the University of Southern California.

Laila LaDuke is a Los Angeles-based designer exploring the intersection of humancentered design and creative storytelling. Laila is pursuing a degree in Arts, Technology, and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California.

Model Joy Zhao

My mother used to tell me stories: stories of a young girl, no older than thirteen, wandering aimlessly through the urban landscape of Quezon City, Philippines. She recalls her tarnished shoes that hung on the brink of disrepair clicking and clacking across the broken pavement. Cheeky jokes passed between friends in the classroom corridors, and hopping across muddy puddles on the way home for dinner.

While growing up, hearing her tales of childhood was rare, but whenever I got the chance I held on to every word I heard. Days of childlike innocence amidst a world so foreign to me was fascinating, learning to blossom like the spring flowers in the cracks of the city’s pavement. To me, my mother’s vision of childhood was the basis in which I strived to live my own – a lifestyle not built by wealth or glamour, but defined by innocent, unbridled hope.

However, my mother would never tell me about her life as a teen; her story would always end on a light note. The child who found joy in the inner city and nothing more. She simply said as soon as she turned eighteen, she moved away from the Philippines completely and didn’t return for a couple years, but wouldn’t elaborate why. Her background and her character was a well-kept secret, something even I dared not to ask about as her son.

As I grew older, I found myself filled with the insatiable curiosity to understand myself, my background, and my mother on a greater level. My identity could no longer stay confined in the speculations of my mind’s attempts to fragment my family tree—always piecing together ‘what might’ve been,’ to be content being inches away from the truth. It might have been due to my overconsumption of melodramatic, sappy coming-of-age films that dominated the 2010s; it could’ve been the inevitable juvenile naivete that yearns to discover one’s roots, perhaps laying dormant in every child’s psyche until springing into action at the age of thirteen.

I grappled with the dilemma of whether I was meant to be privy to my mother’s youthful tales, to bear witness to her life and inspire my own. The ‘diaspora dilemma’ – the notion of being to be tethered to a culture, a family, a homeland yet know nothing of it, was a lingering problem I desperately craved a solution for in my adolescent years. Whatever the true reason behind my curiosity may be, I found a natural calling to piece together these fragments of my identity, and that started with learning more about my own mother.

One evening as we drove home from dinner during my high school years, my mom and I sat in silence; minutes flew by, the only wedge between

us being the moon’s gleam, yet the distance between us never felt greater. We rested on a horizon, strangers amongst kin, a long-standing status quo that would falter once I decided to ask the piercing question: “Why did you move away from your home?” She continued to sit in silence before finally unveiling her story.

When my mother grew up in the Philippines, she lived during a time of intense political strife. In the backdrop of her childhood was the Marcos regime: the political dynasty that imposed a martial law rule upon the whole nation. The regime came into power and enacted their decades-long martial law rule in 1972 – one year before my mom’s birth.

She said that the concept of liberty – or the lack thereof in the Philippines – was not something she understood until getting older. Her parents and other figures in her life warned her to keep her head down, know her place, that the politics wouldn’t affect her if she never came looking for trouble in the first place. Whispers and rumors of people disappearing, army trucks that would pass by in streets, told like boogeyman stories on the schoolyard grounds, yet rooted in an eerie reality.

The dictatorship was always something in the backdrop of my mother’s life, but amidst the peak of her adolescent years, she witnessed the

revolution that brought it down first-hand. After school, her friends had made a plan to go outside and join the protests in the capitol city streets. My mother was unfamiliar with the resistance efforts, not knowing more than the secondhand whispers she’d hear on the city streets. Yet, despite not knowing much, she decided to take a risk and join her friends outside.

The protest itself was a spectacle like she’d never seen before; people of all walks of life, from the shopkeepers to neighbors to fellow classmates, familiar faces had piled through each block and street corner, blocking out the cracked grey pavement beneath their feet entirely. Looking towards the sky, she would find the city towers filled with people on the rooftop, onlookers whose gaze was fixated on the city palace, bound together with nothing more but hope.

It was as if the spirit of the city itself cried out in anguish, and the citizens felt compelled to answer the call. Everyone present, especially the youth organizers from the universities and high schools, knew nothing of what may come of the protest, of the risk their lives may face from political persecution. Even without knowing the future that lies ahead, they took the chance to change fate head on in order to manifest a truly free society for themselves and future generations.

My mother stayed silent throughout the demonstrations, simply observing and listening intently to the chants of the protests. Amidst the vibrant energy of the city, she distinctly remembered one thing from that day: the cold winter breeze, flowing through her hair, the gust reverberating in tune with the people’s chant. The flow of wild, raw fury channeled into grace that lingered within the entire capitol sky – this was the soul of the revolution, Mother Nature’s call of support for the cause.

Throughout the Philippines’ history, the Filipino identity is one bred by the art of struggle and revolution, striving for liberty amidst the constant pushback from colonizing powers. This is the narrative ingrained from the Filipino education system. From the centuries under Spanish rule to the brutal American and Japanese oppression in the early 20th century, the spirit of the Filipino people has emerged resilient amongst the clashing waves of cultural erosion.

It is one thing to hear stories of revolutionaries and war heroes, but another entirely to witness them in action. For the young people in the community, there was no prelude behind their road to activism; for many of them, they found themselves tied to the cause by chance. Perhaps it is that same juvenile sense of hope that drew me to discover more about my mother’s life that

drives them to bring change in the world; idealism that still envisions a silver lining in a world so bleak, that the foundation of oppression can crumble with enough momentum.

Ever since then, I’ve carried my mother’s words of experience with new weight. The world, constantly evolving with the passage of time, presents new conflicts and a new movement to keep the torch of change alive. That hopeful spirit is a pleasure I had the opportunity to be a part of first-hand, joined by a wave of other young people carving their own identity in the midst of society’s trials and tribulations. Joined together from all walks of life, all sharing nothing in common other than the unified passion of manifesting an equitable world. Despite all these differences, there has never been a more welcoming community – it is in the spirit of the collective where hope in change is rekindled again.

I join the change and the uncertain path that comes with it, giving compassion to the world in the hope that it will return the sentiment to its most vulnerable. In time, the wind will flow throughout the crowd; I, too, accept its cold embrace.

Hunter Black is a Los Angeles and San Francisco based writer. He seeks to utilize non-fiction 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.

Amanda Chen is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and photographer. Her work surrounds amplifying unique perspectives through narrative film, new media, and photography. Amanda studies Film and Television Production with a minor in Entertainment Industry at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Photography for Haute Magazine.

Model

Mia Juni

Jared Cobb is an artist living in Calgary, Canada. Jared has been photographing for just over four years and enjoys capturing all types of subjects such as portrait, landscape and conceptual themes, all with his own unique aesthetic.

Angela Chan is a San Diego and Los Angeles-based graphic designer and artist. Influenced by both her design and visual arts background, her works focus on narrative and functionality. Angela studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design, University of Southern California.

JARED COBB

BLAZING THROUGH THE SCARLET

THROUGH SCARLET SKY

Anecdotes from Vietnam 2023-2024

When I visited Vietnam for the first time last summer, I was in awe of the many beautiful architectural sites rich with cultural heritage in Ho Chi Minh City, which I’d only ever experienced a tiny sliver of while growing up in the United States. I naively entered the War Remnants Museum excited to uncover more lore on the Vietnam War my Midwest textbooks left out. To my horror, I was greeted with preserved fetuses on display. Their desecrated flesh exposed the malformations and birth anomalies caused by Agent Orange, a poisonous herbicide the United States deployed for nearly a decade in Vietnam. Photographs of deformed children, destroyed villages, and abandoned corpses were captured in thin black frames. All the subjects were innocent civilians, dressed in tattered clothing, none close to being described as “military” or “combatants.” In the center, handwritten letters addressed to Obama urged the President to rectify the US’s deadly extermination — signed by the dioxide victims.

As day moved to dusk, sunlight dimmed through thin window slants elongating the M16 rifle silhouettes cast down the gray slab hall. My mouth felt dry despite wet tears dripping down my face. I couldn’t swallow. On the side of the museum, there were real-scale replicas of the re-education camps which imprisoned hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese victims after the fall of Saigon — including my grandfather. Torture methods inflicted by the prison wardens were outlined on the wall next to an array of weapons: clubs, spears, ropes, and electrical shock collars. Did you endure these horrors, ông ngoạ i? I peered outside at the apricot skies, missing its warmth on my face whenever I’d close my eyes. How blissful my trip was until then, and my mother’s previous warnings came ringing to mừng đi con, không có gì vui ở đó. Mẹ sợ con sẽ bị giết chết, mẹ sẽ không bao giờ gặp lại con .” (Don’t go my child, there is nothing fun there. Mother is afraid my baby will be killed, I’ll never see you again). Back then, I denied her worries, eager to reconnect with her home. Now blood-tainted sunsets follow me coast to coast, from the dewy afternoons by the Saigon River to my return home on the west side beaches of LA.

The next year I visited Vietnam, I traveled to Hanoi where my friend dragged me to the citadel. He loved visiting historical sites, but nothing prepared us for the twenty feet Viet Cong propaganda that adorned the old city walls. Depictions of America sending missiles, marching in with tanks, and Vietnamese families suffering were the backdrop to written phrases such as “Nixon phải trã nợ máu. ” I carefully sounded out the accents to decode the message. Nixon, oh the US President. He must…pay… debt blood? No, blood debt. It read, “Nixon must pay his blood debt.” The sentiment was powerful, yet painfully hollow. Time passed, the war criminal walked free, and this silent city turned to dust.

Brief Contextualization

In the mid-twentieth century, the threat of war loomed on thousand-acre fields farmed with nuclear missiles and rounds of deadly promises exchanged between the United States and the Soviet Union. A stubborn non-concession between capitalism and communism fueled the arms race toward a feared genocide of humanity itself. The atomic ashes in Hiroshima and Nagasaki had yet to settle into the earth when these operations began—over 200,000 deaths and exponential values of casualties from radiation occurred. Violent war crimes and atrocious genocide in WWII left fresh scars on its affected communities and changed the global landscape forever. International governing bodies constructed the United Nations Charter and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights to prevent future atrocities and protect the rights of all people regardless of their identity. Despite the ratification of these documents, the lack of enforceability caused the failure of prevention for the war crimes committed in the following proxy war. When the United States deployed its first combat troops in Saigon and invaded the shores of Da Nang with marine ships, the U.S. involvement amplified casualties for the next decade. Opposition to the war grew, and large populations of civilians began assembling to protest. The catastrophic geopolitical issues were maddening to an incoming generation that viscerally opposed war violence, political oppression, and social injustices.

I reflected on the traumatic consequences of war passed down generationally. From the tragedies, many awakenings flickered across disciplines, across minds, simultaneous moments interwoven together to form a revolution. I compiled a few intriguing insights from alternative music, scientific theories, and prior philosophies surrounding the time. Although these events are seemingly unrelated, their timelines share a fiery tone for change that I hope resonates. Each challenge signifies a hopeful flare into the societal fray.

Collection of Real Stories

/Punk Rock/ 1. a loud, fast-moving, and aggressive form of rock music or, 2. Pinkheaded Unruly Naughty Kid, Rebels Opposing Conformity (K)ulture. Elders first encounter punk in their homes when the radio features a new song and their kids excitedly blast it in their homes. They consider it harmless so long as they can still hear their morning television over the heavy electric guitar and shouted lyrics. Besides the mild headache. Which turns into a concerning migraine when the obscene dress and language follow. Please be a phase. For youthful adolescents, the dynamic composition of distorted instruments and DIY nature of the fashion satisfies a crave for autonomy. The discovery of music that empowers them through a bold channel of self-expression. New York City welcomed the genre at the height of political disparity and social injustices toward women, LGBTQ, and Black Americans. Punk infiltrated society challenging toxic masculinity with its gender-bending fashion. Popularized figures like the Sex Pistols and David Bowie sang anti-war songs while portraying the first examples of gender fluidity and androgyny into the mainstream. Men with pink mohawks, crop tops, and full-beat faces in the frontier to send soldiers home. When the Vietnam War called sons, brothers, and husbands to the front lines of the bloody battlefield, more than 500,000 soldiers went AWOL. They endured dishonor and punishing confinement, but this time they were unwilling to march to their deaths in another senseless war.

/Multi-Verse/ 1. A collection of different universes. Inspired by a drunken debate at Princeton University, young Hugh Everett III began his career-long dissertation challenging the implications of quantum mechanics and the foundations of reality. As he observed microparticle superposition behavior, Hugh derived a mathematical formula that merged the microscopic and macroscopic world on a single continuum. Although his initial proposal was rejected for publication, it trailblazed the path for additional research in metaphysics that developed the popularized concept known today. Continuing his science endeavors, Hugh tested missile simulations and contributed works that eventually discouraged the use of nuclear warfare. With the prevalence of the multi-verse realm in modern film, it’s astonishing to realize that the idea was conceived during the nuclear arms race. In an infinite realm of possibility, the existence of our homes as we know it could have been turned to dust far worse than the ashes of Hiroshima. In another universe, the demolished history of mankind and our lands is nothing more than a lesson to another living species. In some way, we have quantum physics to thank for this superposition of existence we’re in.

/Collective Unconsciousness/ 1. A form of the unconscious common to mankind as an inherited structure of the brain. Carl Jung’s theory on the human psyche distinguishes unconsciousness as two distinct entities — personal unconsciousness and collective unconsciousness — a new concept to Freud’s model. If true, what aspects of our being is shared, and what is individual? What other unmet discoveries exist in the streams of our unconsciousness? The closest portal to access our unconsciousness is through dreams. Some of the world’s greatest discoveries were born from dreams. Niels Bohr conceptualized the atomic model in a dream when he saw the sun surrounded by all the planets in the solar system tied together with strings. Mendeleev dreamed the periodic table with the chemical elements perfectly arranged by their atomic weight. The conjunction of Carl’s theory of the unconscious and its significant contributions to science makes me wonder what else is waiting to be uncovered. Carl described synchronicity as the interaction between the mind and body when they are two different substances. Similar to how we match our external presence to our internal being, there’s synchronicity when our physical appearance captures our thoughts and identity.

We paint our bodies like canvases with our envisioned utopia and make it real. Although the past is scarred from war, I believe in youth to blaze through every cycle and create new realms of possibilities. Generation by generation, we become more progressive towards a hopeful future. I begin with the confinement of my lived experiences and create with the imagination of humanity’s collective unconsciousness. The perfect granddaughter I tried hard to be is no longer a facade I wish to portray. The war on myself is over, I’m ready to face opposition and challenge further. Mom, I confess I have symmetric butterfly tattoos beneath my collar bone, wings I inked permanently in my skin to signify self-reliance and freedom. You might hate them for the fear I’ve joined a gang, sold my body, or worse. I want you to see them now and be proud that I’m living the dream ông & bà ngoạ i prayed for us.

Lisa Dang is a Los Angeles-based writer who explores different mediums to convey intricate stories. Crafting her narrative, she draws inspiration from travel experiences, musical creativity, and philosophy. Lisa studies Business Administration at the Marshall School of Business, University of Southern California.

Jacob Hollens is a Florida-born photographer based out of Los Angeles, heavily influenced by storytelling and bold expressions from fashion, art, and color. His work explores themes of identity and expression through dynamic lighting and thoughtful composition, with narrative elements driving many of his shoots. Jacob would like to honor their Lolo, who introduced him to photography and provided their first camera. Jacob studies Theatre Design at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Michelle Rojas is an interdisciplinary 3D artist, writer, and designer based in Los Angeles. Originally from Mexico City, she has a keen interest in the diverse forms narrative can take, from literary magazines to immersive experiences and animations. Michelle is a graduate student at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Model KJ Odea

Lighting

Jacob Hollens

PAUL

PAUL HARRIES

PAUL

Bands Featured

Foo Fighters

Linkin Park

Paul Harries is a London-based music photographer best known to many for his work with the British rock magazine Kerrang! Since his first professional assignment in the early 90s, Paul has gone on to work with a huge range of artists including Nirvana, Metallica, Biffy Clyro, Green Day, Linkin Park, Evanescence, Ghost, Type O Negative, and more. Paul photographed the very first UK magazine cover for Slipknot in 1999 and has enjoyed a great working relationship with them ever since. Paul has a selection of prints available on his website, www.paulharries.com and posts regularly on Instagram @paulharries.

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

PAUL HARRIES

1. MEXTICACÁN / ALHAMBRA

She was born in a small town on the edge of Jalisco, Mexico to a teenage mother before the turn of the mid-century. As she had done before with every pregnancy, Julia’s mother, Leonor, journeyed back to her hometown to give birth. Her grandmother cared for Leonor’s tired body and new baby for 40 days in a sacred maternal ritual, forever tethering the three generations of women. At the end of the 40 days the family journeyed back to Yahualica with a new member in arm,

ready to share their happy life. Decades later and worlds apart, Belén was born in Alhambra, CA after 17 hours of intense labor. The family story claims she stayed inside because she had to finish her book. Her parents were 24 and 27, ten years older than Belén’s great-grandmother was when she gave birth to her first child. Three years older than Julia was when she birthed her own first. Belén and Leonor shared the same birthday.

2. SIBLINGS / COUSINS

The panadería was a family business. It was and would be passed down through the generations, bringing everyone around them together. With eight children, the house grew crowded and Leonor grew tired, but Julia’s father made room for them in the kitchen. Pieces of days were spent in the back of the shop, watching her father knead, roll and pinch at dough. When the room was filled with that thick, sweet smell, out of the oven came glossy mounds of caramelized bread. The children who could run tripped over each other with trays in their hands and giggles in their throats, eager to share their treasure. The early days of Yahualica were fond ones of schoolmates and familial food.

Two generations later, Belén’s most vivid memories were of the townhouse. The scent of chlorine followed her cousins as they ran up stairs and into bushes—playing sardines and pushing hands against each other’s mouths to stifle their laughter. Family pool days were regular back then, with Costco pizza boxes stacked atop the trash can and beach towels discarded on the wet cement. When the sky finally darkened at eight the adults took shelter from the summer air, thick with mosquitoes and heat, and the neighborhood was finally their playground. Hide-and-seek and made-up games took up what felt like minutes but were really hours. The children took these games with them to the Christmas house or Belén’s cul-de-sac, where summer days were trips to Red Devil Pizza and winter months were pots of posole. Years later they would hardly ever be in the same place at once—someone always busy with work or school or in a feud with another.

3. IMMIGRATION / INTEGRATION

At eight years old, Julia’s parents picked up their children and left. Leonor already had her U.S. citizenship, having been born there and moving to Mexico at a young age, but her eight children were without papers. Without a chance. So she and her husband set them in the hands of friends and relatives and went to prepare a life. It was years later in Julia’s early teenagedom when they finally made it, except it was less than what she had hoped for. Split parents, cramped apartments, and the expense of six younger mouths to feed made up her welcoming party. Leonor, like Julia, was fiercely independent and fiercely prideful. A few years of life in the United States and she realized maybe she could do it by herself. So Julia and her eight siblings lived with their newly separated mother west of the 110 freeway. They never went back to Yahualica.

At 14, Belén was thrown into the deep end of the American public education system. Her parents had decided to enroll her in their local high school after years of homeschooling. Although she didn’t realize it at the time, freshman year was hell. “Pumped Up Kicks” blasting over the loudspeakers before the first bell should have tipped her off. Freshly self-aware, insecure, and not a familiar face in sight, Belén drifted through the year until whispers, then screams of a virus shut down the classroom. She didn’t remember much of the next year and a half.

4. PAYCHECKS / POCKET MONEY

Julia made it to the 11th grade until she dropped out. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do schoolshe had good marks while balancing odd-and-end jobs and caring for her siblings. It’s just that her family needed her. There’s no such thing as personal time. So at 17, she started a full-time job at the textile factory. There, Julia measured and pinned and snipped and hemmed until someone noticed and moved her upstairs, where she typed and filed and shuffled paper until her future husband noticed her. Years later, cosmetology school was only a hobby until she needed it to be more than that.

The Deli was in dire need of young people, so Belén became the resident baby. Proud and excited to have a job, on that first day she dampened the wave of guilt at only now working. Age 18, in community college, and working an LA County minimum wage job to save up. “Oh, you don’t work?” It was always met with an “I was too busy with sports” instead of an “I didn’t need to.” Now in some sort of fetishization of the disadvantaged, she was glad to be on food stamps and work-study a year or two down the line.

5. RESENTMENT / SUFFOCATION

Bitterness clouded the first 20 or so years in the U.S. Julia had moved countless times between Mexticacán and Tijuana, alone with her seven young siblings, just to arrive and find the country had also broken her parent’s marriage. Her mother’s likeness showed in her stubbornness, too. Her first ten or so years as a citizen, Julia had no interest in nor knowledge of politics. Elections slipped by unbothered like a narrator watching onscreen characters drive, except they were driving the car she was in. It was only after being a wife and a mother that she began to heal the deep wound left behind by the struggle. Now, decades of leaders later, an I Voted! sticker is pressed into the back cover of her journal.

Everything now is overwhelming. The news. The issues. The policies. The candidates. What happened to filling in electoral college coloring sheets? It’s all or nothing and everything is on the line. A future for herself, her children, the world. So many people scream so many things, and everyone else is always wrong and maybe you’re a schmuck either way. Teenagers are told to vote while they’re busy losing their wired earbuds and catching the attention of a cute classmate; obviously they’re too young and naive to have a valid opinion. But still, vote! There are too many questions, it seems. Still, Belén thinks that there have always been questions and never enough answers, that is nothing new.

Merton Wu is a New Jersey based photographer. As a photographer, Merton wants his images to communicate a sense of love, hope, warmth, longing, contemplation and nostalgia—the kind of feeling one would experience when having a meal with your family and friends, going to church to say a prayer and reading your favorite book or magazine on a Sunday afternoon. Merton wishes the viewers to be transported through his images into their own sense of beauty where ordinary everyday life is captured through the compositions and colors of the subject matter. His work invites you to pause and appreciate the extraordinary in the ordinary we find around us. He loves shooting film because the outcome of the images are often unpredictable and never perfect as life can be. He often refers to the Japanese idea of wabi sabi where one finds the beauty in all things that are imperfect. He approaches each frame not only in search of that particular feeling but also stripped down to its essence in order to tell a story.

GRANDMOTHER / GRANDDAUGHTER

Natalia Rocha is SoCal native who loves to write creative nonfiction and essays. Inspired by the literature of greater Los Angeles, her work often explores the nostalgia of life in the San Gabriel Valley and interpersonal relationships shaped by their cultural landscapes. Natalia is studying Narrative Studies at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Arya Tandon is a Los Angeles-based graphic and product designer. Her designs focus on 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.

Ian O’Hara is a Chinese-American artist and photographer based in New York City. Ian has been creating art since he was a child whose creativity was fueled by his grandparents. Ian uses mixed media to express his feelings on important topics. Growing up in Queens, Ian takes to the streets to find inspiration for his art. This is ultimately what made him pick up a camera. He fell in love with photography as he could document and capture the world around him, realizing it was another tool he had to express himself.

Sean Guzmán is a New York and Los Angeles-based designer and filmmaker. Through his work, he aims to challenge preconceived notions of reality and identity. Sean studies film at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

IAN O’HARA

Once you reach the underworld, the last stop any tormented soul makes is by Nàihé bridge. There stands a woman— sometimes tall, sometimes not, occasionally in a hat, and once, twelve— waiting at the edge of the water. Some describe her as ineffably beautiful, others claim her simple presence to be terror-inducing, slow-acting venom. Not a single soul hasn’t taken a sip from the bowl she offers, and not a single soul has memory of what its contents hold. The water of oblivion is what they call it, Meng-po’s soup.

1. Natural Deduction: Negative

Slow-blinking. Fluorescent lighting. The stench of too much bleach and the cold, cold burn of tile flooring. Eagle-brand medicated oil. Slow-blinking meets slow-blinking and you find yourself, blearily, sprawled out in the midst of linoleum aisles, zoo attraction to a collection of featureless faces. Half-featureless faces. Without a second thought, your hands find themselves searching for the features on your own face. They discover ridges and bumps, and eventually find their way into your field of vision. Still have a nose, eyes, and:

Ah, you hear someone say, hear yourself say. Ah, ah ah.

Still have your mouth and, by extension, your throat. That’s good. That’s good. Silent reassurance settles in your chest.

By now, you haven’t noticed how the feature-less gazes from the three— four— of your loyal audience members complicate. You haven’t noticed the wary not-glances the pair at the back with wrinkled hands exchange with each other. You haven’t noticed the curiosity sparkling in the single, still-open eye of what was once a young boy. You do, however, make eye contact with the slow-blinking, two-eyed stranger with all her face intact.

Hello, an attempt, Who are you?

You watch as she furrows her brow, then unfurrows it, then sighs, and runs a hand through her soft, soft hair. There’s some non-verbal, non-signaled understanding pulsing through your three other strangers. A long pause follows.

I need to make a call, she says, Don’t move.

So you don’t move. You hold your breath and try not to tense any more of your muscles. You haven’t sat up from the floor yet, which was a small victory (It was much easier to stay still lying-down than sitting-up). The tips of your fingers grow a bit numb, and your face goes a little purple. It was the same lilac colour that the flower pattern on your dress was when you . Not that you would know. You continue holding your breath. Holding, holding, holding, holding, hol—

—Breathe, you idiot. A hiss from somewhere that felt farther than before. Would she be running her hand through her hair again? Just— It’s fine to move, I meant— Don’t leave the store.

Cold hands pull you up by the shoulders. The imprint of colder metal on the small of your back would have reminded you, again, of when would shove ice down your jacket on snow days, if you weren’t so taken aback by all the air tunneling into your lungs, bursting in with such a force it felt that they might puncture altogether.

Who are you calling? Your voice is raspy. Another strange expression responds in lieu of an answer. One beat. Two beats.

The boss, she decides, I’m calling the boss. You’re in trouble. The boss has been busy since that swindler’s scheme got blown out of the water. She won’t like this.

The boss, so she says. Of the (linoleum shelves, tile flooring, fluorescent lighting, and, with a quick skim, stocked shelves, three tables near

the closed entrance, and a kitchen window) combination supermarket-and-family-eatery. You would be in trouble.

You can tell from the rapid-fire conversation that the boss picked up. The single-eyed boy squats in front of you. Now that you’re given a closer look, the rest of his face is satisfyingly, abnormally smooth. Like there was never meant to be anything there to begin with. You gesture to him to come closer and cover your mouths (mouth and would-be-mouth) with your hands conspiratorial.

How do you breathe? you ask, more force than intended in your whisper. He doesn’t seem to mind, and his eye squint in a way that resembles your ’s smile. You imagine he would’ve giggled or at least let out a mocking laugh, but with the amused tilting of his head, you hope it would have been the former. This makes you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever moment you were having is interrupted by the sound of the welcome bell. If you were polite, you would have said that it jingled, but you’re too far gone for pleasantries. In an odd sort of way, it almost crowed. Croaked. Desperately struggled to make a noise, to attempt to notify the occupants that a guest had arrived. Though in this case, it most likely wasn’t a guest, instead the—

— Boss! Meng-po, you’re here!

An inhumanely tall woman lanks in, ducking ever-so-slightly to fit through the cluttered

Models

Angie Ho

Melody Wu

Stylist

Angie Ho

doorframe. For a second, you feel as though you’ve walked into a bedding store up north with the burn of red-green-pink florals of what you make out to be a scarf around her neck. Awkwardly large in brim, her hat almost lodges itself stuck as she straightens her back a step too close to the entrance. It blinks at you, and even when you turn away you can tell that it’s still looking. Three of your four strangers make their way toward her, leaving you with only the one who’s spoken to you. The hat keens at their attention.

There’s a pop sound in the room when the boss— Meng-po— clicks her tongue, and you can feel the intake of breath from the two-eyed stranger standing above you.

“As nice as it is to see you all,” she opens, smile half-laced with something that makes your spine tense, “I’d like for us to get down to business.”

This situation, a pause, The situation is just like what I said over the phone. The memories are fine, now, but there’s no— They never…

Eyes narrow. Hands clench, then unclench.

“And exactly how much of the brief have you guys given?” The refrigerator hum from the kitchen becomes noticeable. “No, nothing? Well, I suppose I can save the overtime pay to pad my own pockets. Still, good job on keeping everything here, in one piece.”

Lady-Boss-Meng-po kneels down by you. “Breathe.” She says.

You breathe. REST AT SUNDOWN

“To put it simply, dear, you’re dead.” She sighs. “Have been, for a long, long time.”

I’m not dead, you think. I’m here. Who’s that? And that? Who’s she? Where is this? Why are you here? Why am I here? If I’m dead, what has all this been about? If I’m just dead, then what are you? Why am I here?

Oh, you say, Then what do you guys sell here?

Her face twitches, like she’s just bitten into under-ripe melon.

“Meng-po soup. Freshly made, freshly delivered. Home-grown recipe by, well, yours truly.”

I thought you guys were by the river. You hear yourself asking, voice dumb to even your own ears. In hell, I mean?

Meng-po exchanges a glance with your stranger, somewhere now between perturbed and concerned. She turns back to you, brows furrowed like an underpaid nurse about to draw the blood of a child. Gesturing again to not-you, she disappears into the back room— storage room?

A static, pregnant silence lingers. Your stranger twists her hands around like a wet nurse with a towel, and pulls conversation into orbit with a guttural tug and clearing of her throat.

Well, there’s innovation to be found in everything! Her voice cracks. With all the new street-paving around Nàihé, Lady Meng couldn’t stay as a stall by the bridge forever. Folks always complain about the dust and the fencing everywhere, and the publicity reps hate

how it ruins our brand image… all that unfinished construction work and the stench of concrete right where we’re serving soup. Way too rustic.

You’re torn between touched and unnerved— the fact that the standoffish stranger had warmed up to you and that the underworld was undergoing renovations and had publicity reps.

Modernity waits for no man— woman— or, uh, soul, in your case, so we had to come up with a newer system. She resumes fidgeting with her fingers. Can’t stick to the old ways when the customers coming in are… you know, modern and shiny and all.

I didn’t know they were gentrifying the underworld, you laugh. That’s definitely, a pause, something.

There’s a small chuckle from her. Not warranted, this time, but still.

There’s nothing else to spend eternity on, down there. She blanches. It took a while to figure out internet routing and all of that, but for all those officials working on offerings and nothing else, it’s worth the investment to have some other way to occupy themselves. The guys in charge have sent half of their workers up here from all the construction down there. It’s noisy, after all. Noisy as hell. That’s why Lady Meng opened up shop. That’s why she hired us.

By then, you hadn’t known, but you would soon. Meng-po’s hires, each equally strange, each equally a headache to the underworld’s investigations bureau, each an enigmatic case sent into hiring-hold while their case-handlers had their shot. And now, in that back room, Meng-po— the boss— was making a call to HR.

Leila Yi is a Chinese-Canadian writer who dabbles in both poetry and prose. Typically producing their work during the witching hours, their favorite genres to write are magical realism and creative non-fiction. Leila studies Comparative Literature at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Nub-Petch Sinthunava is a photographer based in Los Angeles and Thailand. She incorporates dark, bold colors and dramatic lighting to create visually striking images. Nub-Petch studies Art at the Roski School of Art and Design, 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.

ON STAGNATION

CHARLES MCNEILL + NILANJANA SHA SUDHA

STAGNATION

There will be moments in stagnation, where you will watch and observe. See humanity seep into a dangerous mitosis. Mankind that has evolved thus far through a cumulative effort, and yet now society preaches an independence. The false narrative that we are meant to be in this alone is far from any structure of nature that runs deep in our blood. The interconnectedness of human existence is everywhere. Microchimerism between mothers and their children, a connection at a cellular level–where even after birth, mothers carry their children’s cells in their body. Quantum entanglement of particles affecting others, even with no contact or seeming connection. We are just the recyclement of a handful of particles, and for eons we have been redistributing and reforming. How blind to discard the origins of our composition? Sympathy pain, survivors’ guilt, menstrual syncing; it is human to connect. It is human to feel. Why are we abandoning this idea now?

Politically, we see leaders of all nations preaching ideas that are separatist. Why do we create these binaries. Why do we create boundaries to alienate the other? There are far too many powerful players at bay, who profit in this strategic disconnection. We see people of lesser fortunes, of struggle and tragedy, and instead of empathy, we see problems–only weeds to eradicate, unsighted to the flowers it roots. And in that, we are blind to the systemic foundations or political powers that underlie. We start blaming others of problems far bigger than they themselves. We see genocide on the news and turn a blind eye, or worse, put up some performative act of philanthropy while putting investment of warfare in our routine. Was it too difficult? The boycott? Strategic spending? To cut off some material things from your life for a greater good though you won’t get recognized for it? Is it too futile of an effort? Ok then do something greater? Oh that’s too much effort now. What could I do that leaders couldn’t? “It isn’t my problem to solve” you’ll say.

You are in stagnant waters.

We are not meant for stagnation, the very waters of our body, our blood, does not stand still. Our oceans, rivers, waterfalls, nature is whispering in our ear, the power of movement. Moving water erodes rocks, tears mountains, it might be protensive, but there is power in an unending force. That is what we are meant for. So when we become waterfalls of rebellion, and justice, we become what nature intended us to be. A unity of progression.

So when echoes of inequality, degradation, and injustice waft in the air, listen. Listen and move and create. Become the undercurrent that lifts feet off the ground. Don’t wait for the first drizzle of rain to act. Humanity has reached a drought of courage. Toleration has been deeply conditioned into our skin and it goes against the growth of every hair, the strains of every muscle and unwinds the very DNA of our soul.

Nothing floats in stagnant water. It is time to create waves.

CHARLES MCNEILL + NILANJANA SHA SUDHA

Charles McNeill is an innovative photographer based in Fayetteville, North Carolina. He is goal-driven in his work as well as his daily life. Charles is not only well-experienced in portrait photography but also in sports photography and fashion photography. He puts much time and energy into his craft to produce something new every chance he gets.

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.

Michelle Kwon is an interdisciplinary artist based in Los Angeles and South Korea specializing in visual experiences Her work navigates the boundaries between fine art and design, driven by a fascination with all things creative. Michelle studies Design at the Roski School of Art and Design with a minor in Marketing at the University of Southern California.

VIRGINIA AKUJOBI-EGERE + JURI KIM

And so God made my face. Just as everyone else’s, except I’ve taken accountability for the features that deepen the gravity of my nature. And in doing so, I’ve relinquished effort towards the things that cannot be changed– cannot be determined by something other than the mind and body I’ve inhabited at His will. What comes to us when the only point of connection, of consideration, is the flesh that clings to my bones? The eyes that hook to my skin pierce it with grit. What weight must I bear in order to reflect the happy life that I wish to obtain? Amongst the chaos, amongst the noise, the crowded streets, the crying babies from tall apartment buildings, the dull harkening of the wind. I, an observant caretaker, and you a methodological masterpiece.

And so, I am left to shoulder a weight that is not solely my own but also the impressions others have stamped upon me, a burden I never asked to inherit but am somehow expected to shoulder with grace. I move through the world—a world that names me before I can name myself.

Yet here I stand, amidst the rush of bodies and noise, as steady as a tree rooted in the concrete. My reflection flickers in passing windows, a momentary glimpse in the blurred river of strangers. It is a face I have come to recognize, yes, but it is not merely mine; it holds stories, glances, the ceaseless whispers of those who looked before I even knew they saw me. And so I ask myself: What legacy am I here to build if my very foundation, my face, is held together by the silent weight of others’ unspoken judgments?

VIRGINIA

This skin that carries history yearns to dispel the faint shadows cast on my features. I will shape my own design, a masterpiece, yes, crafted from survival and spirit. I am an artist of my own becoming, and in the quiet corners of my existence, I piece together the fragments I call my own. Amongst the chaos, amongst the noise, I garner the strength to create an existence, in defiance of the world’s gaze. This gaze reaches a breaking point, as do I, and we battle in a silence that is subdued in the covert struggle.

Let them look. Let them weigh and measure, dissect and declare. My face, my flesh—these are merely vessels for boundless inheritance, something untouchable by human hands or hardened eyes. The surface is facade and within lingers a roaring silence, an immovable force. And in the end, after the calm of the quiet streets and the bustle of the moving winds, I will define the face that stares back at me, and it will be mine—fully, unyielding, free.

Virginia Akujobi-Egere is a Los Angeles-based writer with an emphasis on creative writing and storytelling. Her work demonstrates an adeptness to creative, nonfictional narrative through prose and poetic construction. Virginia studies Narrative Studies at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences with a minor in Songwriting at the Thornton School of Music, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Writing for Haute Magazine.

BARRY PLUMMER

Barry Plummer started photographing rock music in late 1967, after working in various darkrooms and studios. In 1975, Barry was asked to become the official freelance photographer for Melody Maker Magazine until he quit in 1982. In that time Barry collected a lot of punk bands in front of his lens. His portfolio features industry greats such as David Bowie, Paul McCartney, Queen, Eric Clapton and Mick Jagger.

Aveen Nagpal is a Boston, NYC, and Los Angelesbased multidisciplinary designer. He joins the humanities and design in his work, exploring the intersection of public policy and artistic process. Aveen studies Philosophy and Economics at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Featuring Sex Pistols, 1976

Jimi Hendrix, 1967, 1970 Clash, 1977, 1978

Stranglers, 1978

Patti Smith, 1978

BARRY PLUMMER

One summer my friend and I rode to another town,

One with fewer cracks, and bruises hidden in the walkways; One where the streets whispered honey and smiled wide lawns, The walls painted over chantilly lace.

We would come here to fly between suites too high to reach, Built over old concrete playgrounds and tired pop shops. Our wheels are soft in these streets. I am not profound enough to talk about the empty quiet I feel when leaving home,

But at night when I raced the street lights, stomping and shouting into my road, dancing over the gapes of glee in the sidewalks, rolling in dirt and gravel, pressed into my knees, returning to the steps of my mother’s mother covered in moonlight, in this moment, I don’t think too much about honey

My bricks here are coated with the treacly time; the paint is chipper, My neighbor spits riddles and wisdom Louder than any other street in the city.

Here I fall, but so has my mother. And in this street she still stands, Hard with grit.

The streets sing, and the wheels applaud against the pavement, cracked or smoothed.

It is painted with the colors of resilience, glitters like broken glass, and smiles with golden honey teeth.

I know I am home.

And here I will learn to fly and skate through walls that read: “Stop! Do Not Enter.”

And I will fall and I will fall and I will fall.

NO SKATEBOARDING ALLOWED

When I am back on my side of town, some distance from here,

Rolling down the same crooked smiles, riddles dancing in my mind and out my mouth into the ears of my neighbor’s empty house, blowing smoke that’s sweet like honey and mutters change, you see, The streets are heavy with it.

And as my wheels tug at dirt and time, Colors fade and the taste slowly sours, I still whisper those voices, While sitting in some familiarity The sky softly testing darkness–

Softly testing the life I’ve been given, And everytime I feel I am falling, A jolt of electricity runs down my body

Just to remind me that I am alive.

The streets hold memories. Time and honey will fester in those cracks, paved over or otherwise. And the people will remark That something more has always lied beneath. It is here that we fly.

And we will fly and we will fly and we will fly…

Winston Luk is a photographer based in Hong Kong and Los Angeles. He captures candid moments and sceneries to communicate connection and cultures. Winston studies Computational Neuroscience at the Dornsife School of Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Sky Bailey is a writer based in New York and Los Angeles. 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.

Evan Estevez Rodrigues is a New York City and Los Angeles-based designer. 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.

Model

Sammi Nesbitt

NO SKATEBOARDING ALLOWED

“Dear Mom and Dad [. . .] I want you to know that this is something that I really and truly want to do. I just have to. I want you both to be proud of me, not angry. Try to understand that what I’m doing is right.”

— Clarence Grahm of the Rockhill Nine Written to his parents before engaging in a Jail No Bail movement February 1, 1961

i have stood in the same place for decades. i am cold, and i am iron, and i am indifferent. for decades, i have held men within my walls and my bars. i’ve seen lost men, bad men, men down on their luck.

i swallow them in, i regurgitate them. they pass through me, come out worse for wear and like a phase we disappear from each other.

but in the first month of that new year coming to a close, you and your young minds, your ambitious spirits, your willful determination came to visit me as the sun set that night. back then, i didn’t know myself the way you seemed to know me.

February 1, 1960: A group of four Black students seat themselves at the segregated lunch counter of a Woolworth’s general store in Greensboro, North Carolina. They are told to leave; they do not.

January 31, 1961: A group of ten Black students seat themselves at the segregated lunch counter of McCrory’s Five & Dime in Rockhill, South Carolina. They are told to leave; they do not. In a violent arrest, the students are jailed. Of the ten students, nine refuse bail and are sentenced to thirty days in jail.

i thought your parents and your grandparents knew all there was to know about me. that cold, iron, indifference, danger. i know i make my mark, i ruin lives. i swallow men up, regurgitate them tamed. i am a weapon in somebody else’s hands to use against you.

Outlaw:

Metal bars, prison, incarceration – an endless caging makes our children criminals. Delinquency, extremity, jailing, disappearing. Those walls will surround you, they’ll make up traps for you, call it “trespassing,” “disturbing the peace.” Nothing can be done within those walls except to try to escape. Keep your kids out of jail, keep your track record clean, play by their rules.

but you and your young minds, free spirits, saw something in me. i have stood in the same place for decades. i am cold, and i am iron, and i am indifferent. these are the things i believed i knew about myself. i took your comrades and i spit them out. yet, you came back for more.

Rockhill, South Carolina: The Greensboro

Four sets off a spark. The Friendship Nine stoke the fire. Youth, students – the movement is changing shapes, shifting strategies in their hands. Sit-in, jail-in, use a system against itself.

IF CAGES COULD TALK

your minds thought of me differently, your eyes saw me differently. your spirits changed me and you rewrote a part of me.

Jail No Bail: Why pay the bail for a system already tilting the wrong way?

i have stood in the same place for decades. i am cold, and i am iron, and i am indifferent. i work against you, i am meant to hurt you. i know these things about myself. but you let me swallow you, regurgitate you. you brought me with you, you came back for more, you brought your friends and your students and your teachers and your lovers. you held my bars in your hands, made me something of your own.

Greensboro, North Carolina: On the second morning, twenty-five more students sat down. On the third day, sixty-three students joined. By the fifth day, over three hundred students were sitting-in at Woolworth’s.

Rockhill, South Carolina: Education becomes a movement – ten students are taught nonviolent tactics, nine are jailed-in. Friends, family, strangers, connection. The plight of all is reflected in the plight of nine. Let a nation respond to a movement everyone must be a part of.

unconvinced, your mothers

and fathers look at me with shock and fear. they know what i am capable of. they know what i can do to a grown man. what will i do to you, your youthful idealism and your belief that something, anything will change? sit on my concrete floors, let this chill overwhelm you. i am violent, watch me tear you apart. i am vicious, watch me splinter your optimism.

February 1, 1961: Fresh-faced, honor student, arrestee. You leave a letter for your mother and father before you are forced into the shape of a criminal by my walls. You know your cause, I know my effect.

York County Jail: Chain gang, heat wave. How are you holding up?

i hurt you, but you seem to have a vision. you keep coming back. what are you seeing in me? what do you know about me that i do not know, yet?

yesterday, i was a weapon and tomorrow, a weapon i will remain. but today, i am just a tool in your hands. i have engulfed entire lives before. other men leave me behind and i take their hope, i change them. you use words like dignity and humanity, truth and justice. these are not words to describe me. yet, you use them. you bend my bars to these unfamiliar shapes, make me something of your own.

yesterday, i was a weapon and tomorrow, a weapon i will remain. cold, iron, indifferent. i am violent. i am vicious. the men that leave me lose their hope. i will change you. i thought i would change you. but you are different, you leave me behind, use my bars to bend your will and make hope your discipline.

Models

Angelina Lovato

Aaron Eichenlaub

Parth Suri

Makeup and Styling

Melody Wu

Tingyo Chang is a Los Angeles-based writer specializing in creative non-fiction and prose. She is most interested in writing about personal identity and using narrative to capture different worldviews. Tingyo studies Narrative Studies and Law, History, and Culture at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

Brandon Woo is a photographer and filmmaker based in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. He specializes in street photography and draws inspiration from his passions in cinema. Brandon studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

AVANT SUMMERS

JENNY KIM + BENTI KAUR

GARDE SUMMERS

Summer, 1967. Chicago.

To you who embodies tomorrow,

I am 43rd Street, right around the corner leading to someplace brighter than today.

I was outlined with energy, I was shaped with discourse. Illusions scribbled on my rugged face, and I hold them in my cracked crevices. I am a grand wall of pavement, adorned with vibrant colors, and bold declarations, and the faces of change. Here lies me written with honor, with justice, with strength. Most of all, I am encased with dreams, an all-consuming yearning to be more.

In all my glory, people stare. All day long, I am complex. Every face is accompanied by droop, every stance is encompassed with heave. But there is more, it is in their eyes; there is fear, there is hope, there is desire. I feel sorry to be complicated, I don’t mean to be. But there are layers to this want, and I think it has been there for a while. I can see it on the cusp of something greater than me.

Morning dawns and streaks of golden light shine in; I am anew to the world. Afternoon rolls in and uncertainty settles with the buzz, the awkward times between dawn and dusk. Night falls and I stand among the crickets. Here, I am not just a backdrop. I bask in the moonlight, considered for a moment longer, a view on a night walk along the street. I am discerned in the shadows, a shot in the dark.

I pray you surpass me. When all eyes are on you, and not me, the feelings are uncomplex. You are one-dimensional, you are linear, you

are simple. But should you be, do not forget me. I lived in hesitance; the edge, the almost, the what-if. You are everything, a manifestation of my escape from tentativeness. So when you stand tall, do not forget, you rest weight on the ground I laid myself starkly bare.

From me, a wall of the presumable past.

The Wall of Respect that stood at the heart of Chicago’s South Side was a mural encapsulating the power of a community’s resilience and strength. Created in 1967 by the Organization for Black American Culture, the Visual Arts Workshop of OBAC drew from the turmoil of the civil rights movement and aimed to capture the struggles of African Americans and celebrate their cultural heritage. Paintings of renowned Black influential figures, activist poetry, and powerful African heritage motifs, the mural’s final composition ultimately stood as a narrative celebrating both history and hope. Through vibrant colors and bold lettering, art was used as a medium to confront the issues of racial inequality and assert Black voices in a time when they were being oppressed. While the challenges of the civil rights movements were often overwhelming and daunting, the mural symbolized the fortitude and perseverance that could arise from their community. Much alike its sturdy structure, The Wall of Respect stood as a reminder that resilience could prevail, and community could stand strong in the face of adversity.

JENNY KIM + BENTI KAUR

Model

Aileen Le

Summer, 1967. San Francisco.

inhale, in with the new exhale, out with the old streets of warm light is this what it should have been all along?

i watch the moments unfold each little, each precious nod along, take a hit. scream our name, pitch a ball. drown in the faith of tomorrow maybe someday i’ll get it soak the sounds in the buds breath it in, hold it for a second longer than they want and swallow, don’t release for what they want is for you to spit cough the rage out of you sputter out that we are wrong but we have only been new, so gulp down the vigor and save it for tomorrow.

The Summer of Love was exactly that— a sweltering June full of laughter, peace, and culture, by the people gathered in the neighborhood of Haight-Asbury in San Francisco, California. 1967 was a time of turmoil when the world was enveloped in post-war turbulence and social upheaval. In Haight-Asbury, the noise was replaced with radio vibrations booming along the packed streets, and people celebrating alternative artistic expression through music and unconventional culture. Above all, the air was thick with psychedelic fog, as people turned to drugs like marijuana and LSD to seek enlightenment and a deeper understanding of an all-confusing world. Drug use became the path to a new world, a space away from the chaos where the lines of reality would blur. In place of realism, new perspectives on spirituality and transcendence arose, inviting people to explore previously impossible dimensions. At the intersection of euphoria and exploration, hazy consciousness allowed for new and enticing ideas of love, art, and culture. With the ability to transcend this dimension and enter a new one, drug use broadened the lives of those residing in the havoc of the 1960s— not only providing an escape, but also forging a profound connection with others entering the same new liberated world.

Summer, 1969. New York.

It is loud, I think it has been loud for a while. But today, and yesterday, and tomorrow, it is loud in the way that the tree branches whistle in the wind, and the wheatgrass rustles as my feet move along the prairie. This chaos is peaceful; I hadn’t heard it in a while.

Hold the glow, in your heart. Let the feeling sink, up and down and all around. And you will see the lights, from your core and to your sight. We are skin to skin, we are dancing, we are magic. And suddenly I can see it, we are finally right in this new dimension. It is here, that we are not facing that ache that resides in the side of my chest. We are not marching to the beat we cannot find amidst the screams that oppose us. We are not denied our desire to speak.

Nod to the divine rhythm. Speak it, smell it, we are dust in the smoke. Tiny and floating, I can see us in the air. And we sing, and we scream, and we sing while we scream, until we achieve the privilege of what they call losing your voice.

Breathe another little bit of my heart

Now darling, yeah, c’mon now Have another little piece of my heart now, baby

The Woodstock Music Festival held the spirit of a generation that decided to fight back. In Bethel, New York, 40 miles southwest of Woodstock, the Woodstock Music Festival went down as a 3-day long festival full of art, hope, and rebellion. Sporadic rain poured down on 32 acts and 400,000 people celebrating skin-to-skin in a crowd. Amidst a time when war terrors were raging to no end, this festival occurred when Americans were most divided, coming together to feel a sense of unity after loss.

For 72 hours, Americans escaped the uncertainty of the country, enveloping themselves in the tunes of musicians like Jimi Hendrix, The Who, and Janis Joplin. Performing her hit song “Piece of My Heart”, Joplin encaptured the sense of liberation and self-expression that greatly resonated with the screaming crowd. In a time when the future was uncertain, thousands of Americans came together to celebrate life, love, and art. The Woodstock Music Festival and its legacy stands as a reminder that youth can transform the existing cultural and political order through their passions of alternative music and culture.

Jackson Epps is a motion, 3D, and graphic designer who enjoys telling creative stories visually. Jackson studies Public Relations, Advertising and Design at the University of Southern California.

Benti Kaur is a photographer born and raised in Southern California. She has previously worked in event and portrait photography, but aims to turn to a more creative output at Haute. She aims to work in the brand strategy and digital marketing space one day. Benti studies Public Relations and Advertising at the Annenberg School of Communication and Journalism, the University of Southern California.

Jenny Kim is a New York and Los Angelesbased writer. Through narrative, she seeks to deliver sentimentality and the human condition in her work. Jenny studies Communication at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

JACKSON

When the Mongols laid siege to Baghdad in 1258, the Tigris River ran black with ink.

06/03

Earlier today, the notification for my assignment came in. My only request was for something that didn’t need hard labor, and I’m glad they at least met that. I’m not upset at my placement— I’m just hoping to get it over with.

Indifferent, maybe?

07/14

Today was all about learning the first stage of Transportation: how to move the books to different destinations. Forget what I said about being happy that I’m not doing hard labor; this was grueling work. It’s ridiculous that we have to wear our little long-sleeved, red uniforms with belts and bandanas and everything while we hauled materials back and forth. We left dents from the amount of times we kicked the trunk closed, but at least we fit everything in just a few trips.

I’m exhausted, my back hurts, and I stink. We’ll have the next two days off for classes, at least. Something about the transition towards digitization and the role play in it.

Physical media is wasteful and unnecessary; electronic media is more sustainable and accessible. And so on and so forth. They’re not wrong, at least. That much I can agree with.

07/27

We’ve moved on to Archival (finally), which is a lot less labor than Transportation. This just means documenting all the books that we have: scanning, extracting the text, cleaning up the transcriptions. It’s tedious work, but it feels like it’s important work. I’m assigned to the “cleaning up” part, so things: fix any glaring typos or grammar errors from the text extraction, and then annotate the passages with different labels. Is it historical? Is it fictional? Is it about ___ era, or ___ topic? What age group is this most appropriate for? It sounds harder than it is, though. I’ve learned to just skim for keywords and add labels accordingly. A year mentioned? Historical. Something about dragons? Fantasy.

I also called Mom earlier, and she said that Jared will be getting his assignment soon. It seems like the programs been expanding But who knows, really.

08/11

Our first batch of Archival just finished up yesterday, and we’re back to transporting the books to their final destination. the same as the first Transportation, but we’re a lot less gentle with the things we’re handling. Once we’re there, we have a bit more work to do before we’re done with the first batch!

08/14

Today I learned that before we can get rid of anything, we have to take apart all the books and sort them into piles. Who be so labor-intensive? Plastic coverings in one box, hardcovers in another, colored or glossy pages in another, and regular printed book pages in another.

There will be more classes for the next couple of days, mainly about where the boxes go and what they’re used for. They transparency is one of the main goals of the process.

Mom called and said that Jared got assigned to one of the agricultural programs. that, but at least he enjoys farming.

08/16

Today was the first day of Sorting. I didn’t expect to dislike it as much as I do. The first pages are always the hardest; that’s where the dedications, the notes, the annotations are. It’s often cheesy things, but they’re things that shouldn’t be paid much mind. They’re things that we ignored in the digitized versions, and as much as I know that these things have no real significance, part of me compost into dirt over the next five months.

Silly when the pages compost, do you think the dirt captures the echoes of our words? Sounds stupid, but maybe the worms

8/20

To keep things more fun, I’ve developed a little game for each book I take apart, where I choose a page and passage to read from at random. Usually, the passage is something terribly boring or seemingly harmless, but sometimes, I can really see why we don’t want physical copies of that lying around for just anybody to see. I know it’s not much different from when I was cleaning the texts, but it’s a way to keep me entertained.

08/22

We finished Sorting for the first batch of books, and we get a week at home before returning for a second. I’m glad I’ll get to see Jared before he goes. Also , start digitizing other physical materials we want to keep: letters, family records, things of that sort. They’ve warned us that paper copies are no longer secure, and forge paper copies and to lose the important ones.

For the ones we digitize ourselves, we can dispose of ourselves. Otherwise, we can send them get them Archived. I think this is getting more pushback than moving books online, though. Do I these things forever? Or would I rather keep them private? I really don’t know.

08/30

I sent Jared off and wished chose the things I wanted to keep and transcribed them for online use. I the fireplace once I was done, but it felt like my memory of everything faded

The rest I’ll keep until I can’t.

I’m going back tomorrow. Yay, !

*** 09/12

We didn’t just take books for Transportation, so learning how to handle the other materials to prepare for Archival. wasn’t prepared for . Medical documents, birth certificates, wills, divorce papers. And to think that they’re all going into compost. Some things we’re required to flag as suspicious, but most things are

Maybe the worms will pick up a new identity and personality while they’re at it: newly divorced with two kids and and another kid on the way.

*** 10/05

I know it’s been a while, but we onto the third batch, but this time, everything’s required to go. I’m going to turn I can’t see myself burning it. Everything else has

Recovered August 23rd from Site #23.

Lucia Zhang is a Los Angeles-based writer who aims to intersect science and history to make sense of who we are and why we’re here. Lucia studies Quantitative Biology and Philosophy, Politics, and Law at the Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences, University of Southern California.

RESISTANCE

On October 20th, 1964, a child - a daughter - is birthed, with opaque skin, rich in history of two continents, tinted by bloodshed, terror, and torture. The mother sees the child as sinless and pure, deserving of protection and love. But America looks at the miniature being and is unsettled by her existence.

Just as death awaits her, so does the red white and blue, ready to challenge her identity and strip her of humanity. If she refuses to kneel at the feet of the yankee, defy the status quo, and push beyond the standards set for her, this child - this daughter - will be no different from those before her.

Lady Liberty fears that the child has inherited the spirit of Tubman and Parks. The girl’s ancestors have passed down their mantle of rebellion onto her. She will disrupt and redefine the fabric of society, set me ablaze with her resistance, and shake my foundation, forcing me to include her. She is a nuisance, a radicalist.

From birth, black girls are demonized, labeled with hatedriven symbolism, and alienated by all — black, white, and in between. We dare to desire more than the scraps Uncle Sam reluctantly throws our way. We invite the burden of success and achievement, despite suspicion, hostility, and vitriol lurking near. There is no corner on this rotating rock that we can seek refuge in.

This child - this daughter - grows to be everything the flag fears. She has been crowned the second most powerful in command – by the republic, one nation, under God. The first of her kind, she has paved the way for those who are to come. Her name is inscribed alongside Tubman and Parks, Harris.

Agnes Gbondo enjoys creative writing and uses it as an outlet to express herself. Agnes writes poems and fiction pieces based on her life — her West African culture, Black American identity, and personal experiences. She is currently based in Los Angeles but spends significant time in her home state, NJ. Agnes studies Public Relations and Advertising at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Laila LaDuke is a Los Angeles-based designer exploring the intersection of human-centered design and creative storytelling. Laila is pursuing a degree in Arts, Technology, and the Business of Innovation at the Iovine and Young Academy, University of Southern California.

Jesse Gallo-Carson is a Melbourne, Australia based portrait photographer who specializes in creative lighting portraits. He has been taking portraits for 5 years and has developed a moody cinematic style over that time.

Quality Lenz is a photographer based in Atlanta, Ga. They have been shooting for five years. They are from a small town called Brunswick located on the coast of Georgia. Their art is heavily inspired by black culture. From experiences to stories heard from elders, they try to build their own story within their work. Quality Lenz is eager to learn and grow on their journey as a photographer.

Model Choul Jacob

Stylist

Joelle Chai

MUA AlexandraTheArtist

Assist Nicolas Grgat

As I stand on the crossroads of the bustling intersection between Hyundai Department Store and my grandparents’ apartment in Apgujeong, I see mothers holding Chanel bags and their small daughter’s hands while coming back from dual immersion schools, grandmothers wearing flowy, floral print pants they bought in the old fashioned open market nearby, and European brand cars (Range Rovers, Porsche, Mercedes) on the road.

It feels like Korea has always looked this way—tall concrete buildings where the best mukbang spots and plastic surgeons occupy the same floor, clean subway cars connecting the entire city, and air conditioned cafes booming with Kpop songs my American friends listen to more than I do and flyers of globally acclaimed films entirely in Korean.

Just short of a hundred years ago, postwar Korea was lined with unmade roads and run down buildings, left with the mere GDP of 67 dollars. 78 percent of its postcolonial population forgot the language their own King once spent sleepless nights to save them from, leading to dependence on other letters and the sense of inferiority which comes with that. Mothers had to get creative to extract the most flavor from cheap plant-based ingredients by making stew, stir-fry, and seasoned muchims. Similarly to how just a year before, their younger sons had to get creative in the military with the sausage and spam scraps leftover by the American soldiers to make Army Stew. Now this dish is popular among Americans through mukbang. They were giving their 17 years of life for a cause they didn’t yet understand.

This city of skyscrapers, luxury hotels, and occasional news about an exceptional Korean in a field Yuna Kim in ice skating, BTS in K-pop, Bong Joon Ho in films, and most recently, Han Kang in literature is a mirage threatened by this rumbling, underlying tale of resilience and recovery from years of colonial subjugation and the ongoing impacts of the painful separation of a once whole country.

Growing up in Korea, my third grade Christmas was one of being warned by the cold splitting voice of a reporter who told us North Korea would nuke us by the end of that year. My mom said there was no escaping. I fell asleep afraid that night. But now that cold indifference envelops my own voice when talking about the next empty threat. The war never ended.

I remember seeing families who’d been separated from each other for years by the whims of foreign powers, reuniting, then being forced into buses going opposite directions of each other with the impenetrable 38th splitting the middle. Weren’t we once known to each other? Aren’t we one?

I saw a documentary about comfort women and the horrors of losing one’s agency over the body young women who were forced to receive 50 to 60 Japanese soldiers a day. None of those girls expected to be sold into sexual slavery when promised “work” to support their dying families.

Korean names were transmuted into Japanese letters, forgetting the roots of

ABRIELLA TERRAZAS + GRACE KIM

that Hangul, which excavated us from obscurity and fragility. Then we were again dependent and inferior, once robbed of a means to speak and intellectualize violence in one’s own language.

Through that connection of flesh and blood which delivers the empty screams of the unspeakable through national bonds, I feel the slow blood of students and activists in the Gwangju Uprising seeping into our fertile soil as they called out for democracy and freedom before being violently suppressed by the dictatorial Chun Doo Hwan regime. After years of war, voices were silenced by our own, progress was at the expense of life, and the human in humanity didn’t matter.

We are childrens of post-memory and inheritors of that unique pain, feelings of unjust associated with suffering, and lack of agency contained in that word Han That simple, monosyllabic word. Han In, we are called, with In being that word for personhood which connects with Han to form Han In–Han, a word which traverses flesh and bone to make up our national consciousness and what it means to be Korean.

Han is at once that heart fog (similar to brain fog but one where the heart can’t see what’s behind the haze of symptomatic feelings) our mothers back home feel as they’re holding their infant who inherits that post memory. Han is feeling small when traveling to a new country and being unable to speak their language. Han is being unable to speak out about a condescending supervisor in the hierarchical corporate structures of the elder-respecting Korea still

impacted by traces of Confucianism. Han persists as an accumulation of all these feelings and all those feelings past in our national psyche.

We are people of Han. Our personhood is defined by never being fully understood as there is no direct translation for that word or for that suffering either. The Korean language was made to be easy. But the intuitive letters made of 14 consonants and 10 vowels anyone can learn to read regardless of nation and origin cannot quite understand Han without being Han In. We are the children of Han.

Han means silence even as it means. It is the language of humanity, holding the weight of all of our stories the separation, the used bodies, the deceased, and the void of voices. It connects us to history and then to each other. It gives a name to being nameless then found, bringing us together in remembrance then in admiration for what we’ve endured.

Han is a word of endurance. It is the glue to our existences and the thread which binds us to each other in the web of what it means to be Han In–a silent endurance. But it turns into something beautiful. Silence turns into language which turns into stories, similarly to how Han Kang salvaged the seldom known history of the Gwangju Massacre from obscurity to visibility.

The language of Han (the Han people) imbues us with voice. Life. All we can do to fight that voicelessness is by continuing to tell stories. So that we are a people of stories who deserve to be heard.

Carlo Salvador is a street photographer based in Las Vegas, NV, began his photography journey while looking for a creative escape from his daily routines. Inspired by Asian cinema, he incorporates cinematic touches into his street photography. He enjoys exploring various cities and capturing everyday life through his lens.

Wavechoppa is a collective inspired by the multicultural and diverse spirit of global curiosity. It blends culture, design, and art, created by Jessica Park, a Korean American photographer and designer, who channels her lifestyle into the brand.

Sea Gira is a Los Angeles-based Thai American film director and producer. She is passionate about telling character-driven, poignant stories that explore the intense emotions of the human experience and stimulate both introspection and social conversation. She is a serious advocate for AAPI media representation. Her greatest intention as an artist is a balance of portraying raw and vulnerable material as a statement of reality while avoiding cliche and striving for originality. Sea studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. She also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

Franklin Lam is Los Angeles and New Yorkbased multimedia artist focusing on filmmaking, photography, and creative direction. Featured in New York Fashion Week and publications including Deadline Hollywood and 17:23, he has worked with clients and talents like Cate Blanchett, Aubrey Plaza, 070 Shake, and Disney Music Group. Franklin studies Media Arts and Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California. He also serves as the Director of Multimedia for Haute Magazine.

The Winds of Change theme reveal video strives to make a statement: youth is change, and youth has the power to destroy and to create. With found archival footage, costume and production design, and dynamic editing, “Winds of Change” brings our audience into an energized experience of appreciation and motivation that is both punk and psychedelic. We wanted to explore the destruction of existing social structures and the creation of new ones, reclamation, and moving toward the future with pride, joy, and ambition.

Ulises Vera is a Los Angeles-based video editor and graphics designer whose work blends themes of identity, gender expression, and creative exploration. While often focusing on identity, his projects also delve into experimenting with fun, dynamic styles, frequently drawing inspiration from music and futuristic aesthetics. Ulises studies Media Arts and Practice at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Sam Walker is a multidisciplinary artist, who is driven by individuality and selfexpression, he works across film, music, and art to explore themes of identity, longing, and the beauty of difference. Sam’s work celebrates the unique and strives to transform raw emotion into something timeless, blending authenticity with creative difference. And though he may hide it, Sam is secretly a closeted Canadian… We’re on to you, Sam. Eh! Sam studies Film and TV Production with a Minor in Music Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Ben Rana is a Los Angeles-based multimedia creative. From music videos to short films and theme reveals, Ben strives to implement his unique perspective, experiences, and heart into all his work. He is experienced in directing, producing, and screenwriting and is currently looking for further creative ventures. Ben studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Cecilia Mou is an Orange County-based creator. Since joining Haute in 2022, she has been incredibly inspired by the collaboration and talent of the artists around her, and hopes to continue to contribute to the creative collective that Haute has become. Cecilia studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Jiayun Zhang is a Shanghai, Vancouver, and Los Angeles-based based filmmaker. She aims to tell intersectional stories that bridge diverse identities, exploring themes like multiculturalism, AAPI identity and womanhood through an artistic and stylised lens. Jiayun studies Writing for Screen and Television at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Maizy Zenger is a Los Angeles based Production Designer from Corpus Christi, Texas. She has a passion for creating and all forms, and enjoys bringing life into the projects she is apart of through her work in the Art Department of film. Maizy studies Cinema and Media Studies at the USC School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Praew Kedpradit is a Bangkok and Los Angelesbased video editor. She specializes in creative branding and film/video production, blending artistic vision with strategic thinking to bring compelling ideas to life. Praew studies Public Relations and Advertising at the Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism, University of Southern California.

Claire Renschler is a Seattle and Los Angeles-based filmmaker. Claire believes that with storytelling comes a responsibility to tell authentic stories and amplify voices. She hopes her work–both in and out of Haute–will do just that. Claire studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Aador Bose Roy is a Los Angeles and Mumbai filmmaker. Drawing inspiration from her hometown, she seeks to bridge the cultural gap between the east and the west and explore the intricacies of the human experience. Aador studies Film & TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Colin Kerekes is a Los Angeles based filmmaker and multimedia artist. He enjoys making stories about incomprehensible people doing incomprehensible things. Colin studies Film and Television Production with a minor in Digital Studies at The School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.

Elise Anderson is a Los Angeles and Fort Worth film student. She aims to craft stories that explore the beauty and complexity of the human experience. Elise studies Film and TV Production at the School of Cinematic Arts, University of Southern California.