ISO Magazine Winter 2013: HOME by ISO Magazine

W IN T E R 2 0 1 3

ISSUE 10: HOME I S

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR In opening submissions to young photographers, we asked for their interpretations of the “particularities of place.” We wondered, most generally, how do images deal with spaces? As Mariel Victoria Mok writes in her article “What is a Non-Place?” un-rootedness is created between lived experience and representations made by photography. Images have the ability to organize, categorize, and arrange places and the people within them. They can show inconceivable expanses of land in one frame. In the way that photographs capture they can be domineering. We wanted to explore the negotiations made between photographers and the spaces they represent. We chose the theme Home to represent an origin

of our exploration and to highlight inherent points of reference even when relations to space are altered by movement and travel. Tina Barney and Laura Stephenson image tableaus of family life exposing absolute familiarity. Brian Finke, conversely, is foreign to his subjects and the spaces they occupy. By depicting a range of emotions from his subjects, he makes types such as the global figure of a flight attendant multidimensional. In the Gallery, we offer some examples of images which appear entirely ambiguous of spatial context. As with our past nine issues, we hope to open a discussion of what it means to be a photographer in this time when, as always, our images are inevitably tied to the spaces we create them in. -Perri Hofmann

ISO is a biannual publication conceived and created by a group of New York University undergraduate students. Since 2008, our main goal has been to create a platform for emerging photographers to share images and discussions on photography. The magazine features historical, critical, and creative writing about photography in addition to interviews with students and professional photographers. For each issue we curate the Gallery. This section includes images from young artists from around the country based on a predetermined theme.

www.isozine.com

Cover: James Huang, Windows of Klyer, 2013 Inside Cover: Jackie Russo, Universal City from Mulholland Drive, 2012

02 04 06 08 14 22 24 32 34

WHAT IS A NON-PLACE? Mariel Victoria Mok

PORTFOLIO

THE DAYS

LAURA STEPHENSON

F E AT U R E D A RT IS T

BRIAN FINKE: EVERYDAY ECCENTRICITIES SEARCH

Blagovesta Momchedjikova

F E AT U R E D A RT IS T

TINA BARNEY: FRAMING THE FADING

ON MY FATHER SELLING THE HOUSE OLIVIA MANNO

HOME

THE GALLERY 5

what

IS A non-place? mariel VICTORIA mok

he quality of immediacy with which information is accessible and available has direct bearing upon the timing we move in accordance with. The speed of the internet and the promptness which knowledge can be disseminated has spilled over into the creation of a culture that prides itself on the ability to give us immediate gratification and satisfaction. This immediacy – the here and now – seems to bring us closer to a cohesive experience of place, since we can hope to access a direct experience of any place, which is simply a particular ‘here and now’. Understanding our desire for immediacy as an aspiration toward a transparent medium that puts the viewer in the same space and time as the objects viewed, it is then a desire for a strong sense of place, a pursuit of presence in our experience of place. We want the experience of a place as though we were there. The photographic medium would seem to exemplify this immediacy, since it has its basis in reality, and comes close to recreating our regular visual experience through its ‘transparent’ quality. Looking at

photographs, we often forget we are looking through a medium and not just at the photographed thing itself. Photography is associated so strongly with place: a particular time and space is what makes a place, and any photograph is located in some time and space; all photographs are necessarily place-relative. But we can also think of our desire for immediacy as challenging to the photographic reality of place: we have, on one hand, place at an experiential level of that which is lived, but, on the other hand, photographic authority transmits the perspective of an outsider. A photograph provides us with the likeness of a place, but any photograph necessarily exists in twodimensional space, with visible length and breadth but lacking in depth, while the forms or objects it images are three-dimensional. We cannot exist in the plane of a photographic image in the way our three-dimensional selves allow us to exist and interact with a place. Some say that we experience the reality of time only because we perceive change and motion, and we cannot experience time as existing independently of the events that occur

in it: without change and motion, we cannot differentiate time; we cannot say what has become past, cannot tell what is present, and cannot project what will be in the future. In this way, time is the fourth-dimension; as Peter Ouspensky explains, if you take a three-dimensional object and change or move it, you have an image of the fourth-dimension. All our experiences of place consists in four-dimensionality – we encounter changes and movements of threedimensional objects daily – and yet the photograph represents these space-time experiences while missing a dimension of space and without any dimension of time. We can describe a photograph as being timeless: a photograph exists long after what it captures has disappeared, allowing us to manipulate time in that we create and keep moments out of a continuum of time, stealing a point from the endless flow of time to extend it indefinitely. And yet, while the photograph aspires toward the timeless, desiring for the creation of an eternal time, it itself is a finite resource of time, or contains

no time: by stopping change and motion, a photographic image carves out a world of timelessness, a world of time with infinite extension, but in stopping change and motion, our very markers of time, it becomes time-less. Our desire for immediacy, for our experience of place to have an ‘inthe-moment quality’, for a direct, unmediated presence in place, then seems to be at a tension with photography, which holds on to the past and things fleeting, preserves time and space, and clings to life, not as it is lived but as it is seen. Change the edges of a photograph into a window and we realise we are voyeurs, not experiencing but only watching. Can photography then give us access to an immediate experience of place? Given that photographs lack the dimensions that consist of our experience of place, how do they bring us closer to an intimacy with place? Place as represented through a photograph seems so strongly separated from our regular, lived experience of place, but perhaps it is this separation that makes a place more present in our minds, in the same way that irregular occurrences affect us more strongly that what we encounter daily. In fact, a place itself only comes to be a place due to a certain separation or distinction: any place has a special identity in space and time, differentiated from the vast amount of space in the world and the infinite continuum of time. It is this separation, this marking out, that gives a place its existence and presence. In a similar way, photography converts objects that are merely there – distant, separate and apart for us – into real presences in our minds, and makes them accessible to our consciousness. In the study of geography there have been discussions about how language is an integral part of placeconstruction. Beyond the changes in physical landscapes and material nature, places are slowly been seen as products of language, which includes

descriptions and stories of places, passed down from generation to generation, the narratives of the lives that move through places, and even the naming of places. Although language cannot materially transform a place, it still holds the sacred ability to organise significant composite wholes out of disparate entities and to make things formerly overlooked become visible and real. The unique consciousness that photography gives us is akin to a photographic creation of place. Like language, photography does not physically manipulate the environment, but instead carves out moments from the endless flow of time, isolating them to achieve some degree of stability and some sense of permanence, apart from the undifferentiated, fleeting movement of time. As a visual language, photography imparts emotion, character and personality to place, and when it does this successfully, we see the power that emanates from any work of art, in that it can create an identity for a place. In photography there are simply no mere narratives or descriptions, each image contains some interpretive or explanatory element; all images necessarily contain a hypothesis or some worldview, whether implicit or explicit. We know from experience that changes in our perception and attitude can seem to alter a place more so than if the place had actually been materially altered, that a place isn’t what it is simply because of the material transformations, the landforms or infrastructure. The different elements in a place do not themselves make up the place; a place is not a mere collection of things, and when we refer to a place, we indicate that various things constitute a real unity, the parts all form a new whole. There is an atmosphere of a place that its parts do not have and do not independently create, since different features come together in a unified sense of place, irreducible to its parts. While a photograph

remains unable to fully capture all the dimensions of our experience of place, these dimensions on their own remain as parts, and a photograph brings to us a new dimension that is often overlooked in our regular experience – a dimension of meaningmaking or of attached significance. In our regular, lived experience of place things are easily overlooked as we receive so much input from all the different dimensions of place. But isolating space or time through photographs, we build ideas of place, and from our ideas we can reconstruct place. On one hand we understand place in terms of rootedness, an existent reality whose changes can be charted, comprehended and predicted, and it is from this objective presence that we come to know a place. But while the reality of places gives us our ideas of them, our ideas also overlay on places, constructing and changing them in an interactive relationship. Giving us ideas and images of places, photography has the specific power of calling places into being: on one level, they remind us of places, bring us back to them as though we were actually there again; on a deeper level, as much as any place is a construction of stone and brick, it is also a construction of words and images, its discourse and its representation. As much as photography is a practical force that relies on spatio-temporal particulars, it is an imaginative force, affecting the quality of place. • Images by Esteban Lahoz from Subtrópico

P O RT F O L I O

THE DAYS

Text & Images by LAURA STEPHENSON

or as long as I can remember we have been talking about what to do with Wayland when our parents are no longer alive. I say this, but my mother says it, too. Her parents bought the property—100 acres of rundown farmland in upstate New York—in 1953, the year she was born. At first it was her parents’ home, and then as their kidsbecame adults and had kids of their own, it became everyone’s home. We are attached to each other and the land in the kind of way that often brings out the worst in us all. When I am not at Wayland I long to be there, but as soon as we step out of the car, we begin noting our grievances. There are the dogs that are tearing up the house, the family albums that my aunt took without asking anyone. Across the property are relics of past endeavors: fallen down cabins, empty ponds. Each structure lives on long past the small dreams that

brought them into being and settles easily into disrepair. How attentively my mother chronicles their histories for me. How the land holds and divides us. My mother and I talk most in transit. The last time we were in the car together she was driving me to the bus station to catch a Greyhound back to New York. We found ourselves in an argument that came without warning, that we couldn’t find our way out of once it arrived. The subject was Thanksgiving. It is tradition in my family to celebrate the holiday with all the families packed into one house. I am the youngest of my generation. My attachment to this tradition is fierce. For as long as I can remember my mother has calmly been reminding me that the tradition will end: the cousins will grow up and have families of their own, we won’t always come together like this. She observes the passing of the generation as if she cannot believe it

Dad and Mark, 2012 Left: Fresh Sheets

Afternoon in July, 2011

Winter Washing

Untitled, 2012 Right: Brush Burning, 2012

escaped my notice. I know that she is simply passing on the questions she has learned—what will we do with Wayland?—but I cannot forgive the inheritance. Then there are the days when she will sit still and tell me the story of my birth. Here, in this chair, she tells me, was where I sat the weekend before you were born. It was hot, even for July, and this is a good chair for the heat. Whenever she tells me this story I look at the wooden arms of the chair, note the rotted areas where the wood has chipped away to reveal the metal frame. I am aware of remembering her telling the story. I note the ways in which each telling diverges. It has taken me a long time to

realize that when we talk about Wayland we are talking about memory. The land houses our rituals well and we are reluctant to let them go. Can you blame us? I remember once wearing my mother’s plaid skirt from childhood to visit my grandmother in the nursing home, thinking this small piece of evidence would help her remember. Was this before or after she followed us outside after a visit and asked if we were just arriving? Before or after my mom explained to me why her mother didn’t remember that we had just spent an hour with her? Alzheimer’s is a difficult concept to explain to a seven year old, thus the faulty logic of the plaid skirt. And yet, it is an enticing logic, one that is hard to set aside. •

EVERYDAY ECCENTRICITIES

BRIAN FINKE

Text by ERICA DYE

From 2,4,6,8: American Cheerleaders and Football Players Right: from Construction

ll the time, it feels like I’m in these ridiculous and unique situations, and it’s kind of wild that I’m there, in that place,” Brian Finke told me, laughing incredulously. Going through his work, I feel the same. I am entranced by the exoticism of the everyday and find myself wondering how I got there from such a familiar environment. Although he refers to himself as a stylized documentary photographer and is accustomed to commercial work, Finke believes that the content of an image should embrace and transcend the intention or function of it. By frequently using flash, his images contain a sense of heightened reality, and along with the saturation of his photographs, his work tends to feel larger than life while simultaneously focusing on the minutiae of the ordinary. Finke’s photographs accentuate the brief brush of a touch, an emotionally charged passing glance. “How I shoot, it’s a lot about capturing the expressions and the gestures that reveal something about the personality of the people that I’m photographing,” Finke said. “I try to focus on the characters and the subtle aspects: how someone holds themselves, their body language, their gestures.” His ability to notice these intricacies is what differentiates him as an editorial photographer. Like most photographers on assignment for a publication, he is rarely afforded much time with subjects. Despite this, he embeds himself in a place and creates work with an emotional proximity that reflects intimacy. Considering the subject matter of his photography, one could assume that it is easy for Finke to take a critical look at his subjects. “Some of my pictures can be sarcastic. They can also be sentimental. They can also have a sense of humor. I think what makes

an interesting story of images is when it touches on all those different emotions,” he said. Finke continued to explain that it would be just as easy to make overly romanticized photographs as it would to make critical or judgmental imagery, concluding that it is best to represent a realistic range of feelings. When I look at Brian Finke’s work, I see distinct groups of people—subsets of a population all bound by a commonality. I can pick apart and formalize what binds them together: vocation, hobby, obsession, profession. More generally, I look at his work and see people expressing identity. His photography exhibits identity that is coded by clothing, as seen most obviously in his project 2,4,6,8: American Cheerleaders and Football Players. Viewers can immediately place the subjects into stereotypes by their uniforms or attire. They are bound by their physical appearance, but Finke complicates our way of seeing them by focusing on their ranging temperaments. His subjects could function as symbols or archetypes, but instead transcend stereotyping through the complexity of emotion that everyone can relate to.

Another unifying aspect of his work is demonstrated by disjointing his subjects from spaces in which they are typically seen. Finke explained, “With the project on flight attendants, it was about seeing them in their working space, but then seeing them in less familiar places was important as well. Taking them out of the context of how we’re used to looking at them and associating with them.” As he complicates our preconceptions of what is normal behavior or what is a normal environment for each of his subjects, viewers are faced with unfamiliarity, and that allows the work to feel strange. Flight attendants smile, directing us up a staircase that leads to nothing. A cheerleader cries out, desperately grasping to those around her. A woman serenely rides atop an elephant, embracing her dear friend. There is an everyday that does not make sense to pause to think about. As a storyteller, Finke elucidates the eccentricities— which are ultimately uniting—in the everyday. It is when the familiar is made unfamiliar that we question how peculiar we all really are. •

From Most Muscular

Tiger Airways, from Flight Attendants

From 2,4,6,8: American Cheerleaders and Football Players

Anna and Guprun, Icelandair, from Flight Attendants

The Jersey Game, from 2,4,6,8: American Cheerleaders and Football Players

From Circus

SEARCH Text by Blagovesta Momchedjikova Images by aaron breetwor

When the sudden jerk of the Flatbushbound 5 train wakes him up from the nap that old age bestowed upon him without warning, he starts fumbling through his many crumpled notes stuck defiantly on a clipboard. Something is missing. His head buried deep down in his chest, he turns his whole body wherever his eyes go, like an owl. He examines his green tote, the pockets of his

blue jeans and dirty yellow faux fur jacket, and then right under his fadedblack winter boots: left, right, both. Nada. He leans over daringly, hoping to find his lost treasure under the bench where he has freely sprawled himself on, as it is not rush hour. Perhaps way in the back, by the heater? As he bends over, to look under, his sunken head lunges forward, as if to separate the two lovers sitting across from him oblivious to his desperate search. What did he lose? His change? His keys? A ring? His pills? A pen?

It must be something small but oh, so important, something tiny that can slip away, roll under, stay put, hide, camouflage. As the train rumbles in between stops, he gets down on his knees, to look closer, hoping to pick out whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost from the dirt of nameless commuters, his head bent down so low as if he is not searching but praying to the god of the underground to return to him what slipped out of his grasp as he napped. Down there, on all fours, unsteady with every move of the train, he is part pitiful, a slave to

his need, part admirable, a man who abandoned his pride to find whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lost to him. To the lovers across, arms entangled, he is laughable: whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worth searching for, they think, cannot be grasped, only felt and shared. But what do they know? And who can tell someone anyone bent over and old on a moving train, on his knees, to stop searching?

FRAMING THE FADING

TINA BARNEY Text by HALEY WEISS

he American family isn’t close enough.” This assertion, made by photographer Tina Barney in the 1980s, is as relevant now as it was then. As communication technologies and social media advance and proliferate, there seems to be a widening rift in the American family, where face-to-face communication is trumped by a preoccupation with the Internet. Barney’s observation was the catalyst for her first major project and book Theatre of Manners, which depicts her own family and the community that she is a product of—the Northeastern upper class. In Theatre of Manners, a series that spans thirty years, Barney attempts to rekindle fading bonds within families by physically bringing them together to be photographed, with the hope that the physicality of the family’s closeness will bring them closer emotionally. In “Marina’s Room” (1987) and “Marina and Peter” (1997) you can see the progression of Barney’s project; Peter, presumably Marina’s father, is shown with his daughter at two different points in her life. In “Marina’s Room,” he lies beside her as she looks at him attentively, as though for guidance. In this image she appears doll-like, as if to be an archetype for a privileged young girl. This is a drastically different scene than “Marina and Peter” ten years later, where Marina is presented as a young woman with no frills, and Peter looks worn from the years, leaning on the bed before him for support. The pair stand perfectly framed, as if the bed’s pink canopy was a curtain being lifted to reveal them. Despite this, their relationship seems strained and distant, with Peter’s arm serving as a wall between them. As Barney articulates, these photographs are a result of: “years of thinking about something that is so much a part of who I am.” To Barney, the subject matter of these photographs is personal: she is putting her family on display to the viewer, and at the same time trying to fix what she sees as a fault within her own family structure. In her study and attention to her own domain, a very distinct one that may

The Hands, 2002 ÂŠ Tina Barney, Courtesy Janet Borden, Inc.

Marina and Peter, 1997 Right: Marina’s Room, 1987 © Tina Barney, Courtesy Janet Borden, Inc.

seem foreign to outsiders, Barney has presented a widespread issue about the closeness of American families that is not tied to class nor to a specific time. Barney departs from her own sphere in her project The Europeans, presenting the viewer with the old, high-class families of Europe as they were in the 1990s through the early 2000s. To Barney, photographing this sector of European life was like “going back in time but even more so. You go into these palazzos or you go into these castles, and the people really did act like they were from another century.” Barney’s subjects, whose relatives generations prior would have had their portraits painted as members of the elite, were documented by Barney in a way that gives them the chance to assert themselves despite their lineage, and no longer be only symbols of wealthy European rule. “The Hands” (2002) epitomizes this: a boy and his

father stand with their arms crossed; the father seems to do so protectively, skeptical of the gaze upon him, while the son does so in an innocent echoing of his father. The two subjects are playing into the larger narrative of their surroundings and stature as elites in Europe; they are bordered by artwork that speaks to the history embedded in their family, and the echoing form of the hand ingrains them in their history as a repeated gesture. By juxtaposing these elements within one frame, Barney compresses time, comparing old mediums to new, and old families to new ones. The most common misconception of Barney’s work in Theatre of Manners and The Europeans is that it is a documentation of an upper-echelon way of living, where the people are simply present within their ornate décor and extravagant homes. Barney’s formalism in composition may

lend to this impression at first glance, but her strict, neat framing is a means through which she conveys the depth of the subjects depicted. She allows the viewer to peek inside her images, past the decoration and towards the people. Her work illuminates something about those depicted that is humanizing, indicating that they are nuanced individuals as well. Small Towns, Barney’s most recent series, is a testament to the fact that her work isn’t just about class, and it presents something entirely different from her past projects in its subject matter. This series is the outcome of her traveling through the countryside of Rhode Island and Connecticut for six years, photographing the people in those areas, often at events like Civil War reenactments and parades. Formally speaking, she gives this topic the same treatment as her past projects, including elements in the images such as frames and reflections, while giving

Jill and Polly in the Bathroom, 1987 ÂŠ Tina Barney

the individuals depicted the opportunity to present themselves as they are within their own realms: “I looked for events that happened to draw people together,” Barney stated. She was searching for commonalities in an increasingly solitary society, and to find them she departed from the personal and private, looking towards public events and rituals that seem to be disappearing. As she says, life today is “just not about being in the moment,” so she frames a moment where the subject is fully present, and captures it on film. In photographing these moments, Barney is reinforcing the events as traditions. This is evident in “Bridal Shop” (2007), where a young bride-to-be gets fitted for her wedding dress. The viewer is presented with this scene, an act

considered momentous by many bridesto-be, but still the eye is not drawn to the bride. Although she is visible in multiple areas of the photograph, her reflection is fragmented. A girl looking out of the frame is the subject of the viewer’s gaze: she is seemingly floating above the ground, detached from the event happening around her. Her gaze makes her appear all knowing, as though she is aware that scenes such as these continue to fade in importance as familial connections are tested. Yet despite this, the occasion carries meaning for the bride, especially within the tradition of other women who have shared the same experience. Although Barney invites the viewer into these detailed worlds, a distance remains. Those depicted are separate from ourselves, but flaunted to us in

these photographs. The people and places depicted are not perfect, or even idealized, but the photographs still present places in which we are the outsiders. These people, who exist in different settings and structures, still experience basic issues within families and our changing social landscape. When speaking formally of objects on the edge of her frame, Barney insists that it is important to: “be careful, this all looks perfect, but it could all fall out of frame, and out of life,” she said. This can act as a metaphor for all of her work—even the pristine and the composed can be uncertain and impermanent. But in framing these moments, Barney lends them some stability. •

Below: Bridal Shop, 2007 Left: The Daughters, 2002 Right: The Garage, 2005 ÂŠ Tina Barney, Courtesy Janet Borden, Inc.

Madison McKenna, Jimmy, Marthaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Vineyard, 2012

ON MY FATHER SELLING THE HOUSE Text by olivia manno

few months ago, my father told me he was planning to sell our house. I expected this, as he is a single parent with his last child off to college in the fall—it just hurt to hear the words spoken. It’s not the only house I remember living in. We spent a handful of years in a perfectly memorable wood-shingled colonial, and I can still recall many details. Something about this house, though, made it my home. I know how my father grew tired of it, how all he saw was one more thing to fix; I think it’s a shame he can’t see the sentimentality behind all the cracks, books, and trinkets that fill the rooms. So, I do it for him. Every home has a keeper, and I am mine. There is a feeling present in a true home—it is warm, it is inexplicable. We fill our homes with things that can speak for us when we cannot. My father is his art, his guitars. He is every tattered pulp fiction paperback stacked next to his tobacco tins and pipes. I am the scuff on the far wall of our family room, the make-up stains on my bedroom carpet, the faint holes from pushpins in my ceiling, now filled (though not nearly enough) with a coat of yellow paint. In the wake of my father telling me the news, I started to panic about preserving these characteristics, all the trivial quirks I’d come to know so well. I was afraid that if I took pictures, I’d forget to photograph something and that would simply be the end of it—I wouldn’t be able to go back once we’d left. I decided that taking pictures in an attempt to preserve my home’s idiosyncrasies would yield nothing, because I realized that they were hidden in pictures already taken. Every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, every room renovation, every picture of every pet we’d ever had, they were all there. These mundane, 4x6 print outs adopted a timeless new identity, an archive of memories—all I had to do was look a little closer. This is the feeling that defines my home, which will be overlooked, go unnoticed, when we leave. It is one reminiscent of protectiveness, possessiveness. I want everyone to understand that things happened in our home. It does not matter how many coats of fresh paint the house sees when we’re gone. The stained carpets may be replaced and the countertops might be changed, but the light will still fall the same way through the windows of the front door; the top step of the staircase will still give way and let out a hollow snap when stepped on; voices will still travel through the air vent in the basement to my father’s bedroom, though they won’t be ours. It is enough, though, to know that after sixteen years such a feeling is present at all. •

THE

GALLERY HOME embodies the particularity of place and its inhabitants. In examining difference as well as homogeneity through perspectives both foreign and familiar, photography shows the way we relate to spaces in and over time.

Lauren Comly, Man Working, Ithaca, 2013

Casey Dorobek, Untitled Right: Jonah Rosenberg, West Jerusalem, 2013

Nick White, Lindenhurst, Illinois

Rachelle Klapheke, Lamb Slaughter, 2012 Left: Casey Dorobek, Untitled

Juan Madrid, Kirk

James Huang, Welcome, 2013 Following: Ji Yeo, Nicky

Soleil Garneau, Untitled Previous: Perri Hofmann, Dillon, South Carolina, 2013

Elnaz Mansouri, Longing #2

Juan Madrid, Untitled

James Huang, Tompkins Square Park, 2012 Right: Justin Guthrie, Dop de Doop

Rolando Sepulveda, Armaan Left: Jonah Rosenberg, Dead Sea, 2013 Following: Lauren Comly, Housing

Perri Hofmann, Natural Bridge, Virginia, 2013 Left: Lauren Comly, Store

Mariel Victoria Mok, My Brother at my Grandmother’s Funeral Right: Esteban Lahoz, Subtrópico 3

Rachelle Klapheke, Alex and Merridy, 2012

EDITOR-In-CHIEF Perri Hofmann perrihofmann@gmail.com Managing Editor Haley Weiss hweiss@nyu.edu Publisher Aaron Breetwor aaron.breetwor@gmail.com ART DEPARTMENT Bobbie Richardson bobbieprichardson@gmail.com

PHOTO EDITORS Mark Davis mtd322@nyu.edu Jonah Rosenberg jonaharosenberg@gmail.com Aaron Breetwor Rodrigo Ca単edo-Gattegno Soleil Garneau James Huang Erica Dye Andrew Nunes

Perri Hofmann COPY EDITOR Gabriela June Tully Claymore gtc230@nyu.edu COMMUNICATIONS Tess Mayer tm1640@nyu.edu ONLINE EDITOR James Huang jlh486@nyu.edu

WRITERS Erica Dye emd365@nyu.edu Olivia Manno oam228@nyu.edu Mariel Victoria Mok mvm297@nyu.edu Haley Weiss SPECIAL THANKS Jodi Bailey Janet Borden Gallery Irene Cho Amelia Chu Jackie Danziger Nate Davis Sonia Davis Mark Jenkinson Editha Mesina Akaylah Reed Deborah Willis GENEROUS SUPPORT FROM Thomas Drysdale New York University Photography & Imaging Tisch School of the Arts Tisch Undergraduate Student Council

Justin Guthrie, Wow