6 minute read

The Art of Rebirth

Written by Enrique Hernandez

Photography by Monica Wilner

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It is just a quarter past one o’clock in the afternoon and somehow it feels as if it were rush hour. However, arriving to the city after spending three months in the desolate cornfields of Champaign, one could assume a mere car passing by as “rush hour.”

Rebecca Tsivin, a Senior Psychology major at DePaul University—in the city of Chicago—does not quite identify with the new era of “Insta-girls.” Instead, Tsivin is in a lane of her own, directly collaborating with Mejuri, the fine jewelry brand that is being hailed as the “Glossier of gold necklaces.” This past year alone, Tsivin has become an ambassador for the brand, and wears their collection religiously.

When I arrive at her apartment, she welcomes me in with open arms, clad in a black cashmere turtleneck (which I later learned was vintage J. Crew) and a stone washed pair of Hudson jeans. On the plush couch in back of Tsivin, Impulse’s creative director, Monica Wilner, is preparing the studio lighting and meticulously laying out camera lenses on a coffee table.

Tsivin and I walk directly into her closet to pull garments for today’s shoot. “I just went thrifting in Lincoln Park and I picked up so many things,” she says as she references a pile of sweaters, denim, and corduroy that have been strewn across the floor.

“Don’t mind the mess, I promise there’s a lot of good things in here,” Tsivin whispers.

As we begin shooting, Tsivin allures the camera with a cunning ferocity that is both gentle and provocative—the ultimate juxtaposition.

Wilner and Tsivin have been working together for years, their relationship is nearly symbiotic, much like Naomi Campbell and Azzedine Alaïa. Although Wilner is typically a shark behind the camera, obsessing over the perfection of every pose, today, this dichotomy is quite different. There is minimal direction given to Tsivin when she poses, simply because every nuance is so organic, so raw, that it encapsulates the anxiety of today: is she posing for the sake of the photo, the sake of others, or is she doing what she would normally be doing on a Tuesday afternoon, only this time with a tweed jacket adorned on her back?

“There is no authenticity anymore—everything is fabricated,” Tsivin says as she sips her cup of tea at the end of the shoot. “We have reached the point where we are doing things for the sake of other people and hardly ever for the sake of ourselves.”

With the meteoritic rise of Instagram, it appears as though we are all victims of hype beasts, over-edited photos, and cringe worthy captions. In addition to this, the content that is being published is staged, including the occasional, meta “I am not doing this for you, I am doing it for me” post accompanied with a picture of a user shirtless or in underwear.

“At the end of the day, it’s all bullshit anyway. The only person that knows who you really are is yourself and the people closest to you. These pictures? They are all just representations of who [we] can be in a given setting,” Tsivin says, this time scrolling through her Instagram feed, stopping on images that seemingly prove her point.

The world of fashion has long known the art of “posing” since the term was coined. The industry thrives off of setting ideals for men and women, and moreover, clothing them with garments that would often cost more than a month’s rent in the Gold Coast. However, the most compelling change in fashion to note, is the way social media has completely democratized fashion.

Gone are the days when readers would rely on Vogue, Elle and GQ to gain insight on the upcoming trends and beauty standards. Now, with the swipe of a finger, we can see and generate content that is indicative of personal style, and in a real-life setting. In addition to this, social media serves as a launching pad for all walks of life to join the conversation. Although this is neither good or bad, it has in fact increased racial diversity, size expansion, and an attempt from the fashion industry to be much more inclusive.

However, what should be expected the most from the fashion industry is for the community to acknowledge its primary fault: the industry relies on Eurocentric beauty standards and the fetishization—and mostly objectification—of minority groups to sell a product associated with an idea.

“You really need to know who you are, and more importantly, believe that you are the person you are,” Tsivin says, furrowing her eyebrows and meeting my eyes. She continues, “ignoring what people think is the first step—it requires practice—and once you’ve believed it, nothing is going to stand in your way.”

“Fashion has always been a form of escapism for me, there’s no reason for me to be in sweatpants all day because, put simply, it is not something that attracts me. I am attracted to beauty in all forms, and I love to dress up, even though I wouldn’t even call looking presentable as being “dressed-up,” she says cooly.

College can be a strange place for fashion, and when comparing the fashion on a Big Ten campus to that of DePaul, there are clearly some major distinctions. For instance, a walk down Sheffield Avenue in Lincoln Park (DePaul’s main campus) is practically a feast for the eyes. On that November afternoon, there were trench coats, overcoats, tweed, over-sized knits, denim and leather mere footsteps from the student library. Although this could be in part due to the fact that the institution is in the city, it was nothing short of spectacular when compared to the Greek t-shirts, athletic jerseys, sweatpants, and leggings worn on a daily basis at a Big Ten school.

At the end of our conversation, as I prepare to depart, Tsivin adjusts herself in her chair while staring out the window watching the Brown line speed by.

“You have to do everything for yourself, definitely care about those you care about the most, but all you have is yourself. Be kind.”

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