TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Magic in the Ordinary
Bits and Bobs, Knicks and Knacks
The Girl Who Loved Words
ENTERTAINMENT
Longing in the Digital Age
The
Letter from the Editor Rhea Matharu
I like to write in front of a window.
Preferably in a café, overlooking a busy intersection. Countless people walk by, perceived as pedestrians to me, trying to get somewhere sometime for someone. Every so often, I realize that they too experience moments that lift them up, weigh them down, and work towards passions — so, we are all the same. It’s a simple emotion unveiling how this life of limitless unknowns becomes beautiful. We realize that there is so much to learn, to experience, to feel, simply through those around us who are carrying out their lives just like us.
When we create, in whatever form it may be, we translate our inner world into something tangible, not knowing who might stumble upon it and feel seen. The act of engaging with art isn’t just a moment of witnessing creativity, but rather, a chance to step into individual experiences and expand our own understanding of the world. Creative expression eliminates feelings of isolation— someone else, somewhere, is creating something that will speak to us in ways we never expected.
As I near four years of being part of MUSE Magazine, I have truly felt the power of shared expression in a creative space. Although moments of expression may have
been born in solitude, they find connection within the community. I know MUSE to be a place that celebrates the vulnerability of expression and makes space for every voice to be heard.
To be part of the thirtieth issue of MUSE Magazine is a privilege I am so grateful for. This issue is a testament to all the voices in the past years that have paved pathways to express individuality today. This issue is a hope that creatives in the future continue to put their hearts into their work and share pieces of themselves. Issue XXX, most importantly, is an ode to self, acknowledging the complexity of appreciating the self that allows one to create. It cherishes the physical, emotional, and environmental complexities we experience.
As I struggle to determine what words are possibly worthy of being the last I will ever write for this magazine, I keep coming back to you, to me, to us, to our relationship: the writer and the reader. It is you who allows us to express ourselves because for that brief suspension of time, we, the writer and reader, feel sonder.
No words can adequately express how much I’ve gained from this space and this community, so I’ll keep this part brief: thank you. Thank you to the creatives who continue to create stories and the listeners who fall into our stories.
Yours creatively,
Rhea Matharu Editor in Chief, 2024-2025
Won’t You Protect Me?
Creative Director: Olivia Bermingham Photography: Yaoqing Shu
Assistant
Videography: Jorina Lee MUA: Natassia Lee
MUA: Olivia Bermingham Models: Ifza Irfan & Kyla Grace Harry
My Love-Hate Relationship
With the Irish Goodbye
Rhea Matharu
I’ll gladly pass on a pint of Guinness, but the Irish art of saying goodbye is one tradition I am always happy to embrace. Slipping away from a party without announcing my departure— a chance to dodge the formalities of a farewell. It all sounds so ideal. Will acquaintances, at least three rings out from my social circle, even notice I’m gone?
The true meaning of why it’s called an Irish goodbye remains unclear. It may stem from the harmful stereotype of the Irish being too intoxicated to say goodbye when leaving a gathering—or maybe they want to avoid attention. The term has variants: French Exit, Dutch Leave, or even the filer à l’anglaise (a French reciprocation to the English). Either way, the gesture is the same— you leave without the face-toface.
Don’t get me wrong. I come from a place where proper goodbyes last at least an hour. Between recapping stories from the night, multiple hugs, and an attempt or two to make plans—because you can’t just end a goodbye without a calendar date on when the next hello will be. I loved these goodbyes. As someone who’s hosted gatherings, I always wanted to bid adieu to everyone before they left.
What about those times when staying out becomes exhausting? When you run into a ghost from your past, and you’re possessed to pack up and leave? It’s not as if my hands are clenching an invisible suitcase the second I enter a party, but there comes a moment where I reach the limit— or the goodbye becomes a ritual you can’t do that night because the ‘stay for one’ will lead to a regretful five or I don’t want to risk catching all my too familiar FOMO. In the cosmic sense, is the deduction of one body really going to do much? The music will still play, the Ubers will be parked outside, and there will be someone throwing up on the sidewalk. Of course, there are technicalities to this art; don’t dine and dash, if someone texts, answer, and maybe even have one person know your whereabouts—but that’s beside the point.
So maybe the Irish goodbye isn’t rude. It is a display of candor, of self-awareness, of emotional intelligence. The feeling? In its best times, it is like a breath of fresh air— like gaining the sudden knowledge that the world truly is my oyster. I’m not an introvert, I promise, I just suck at goodbyes sometimes. As Ella Fitzgerald said, “Every time we say goodbye, I die a little.” And why would I want anyone to feel like that?
The Magic in the Ordinary
I was never much of a camp kid growing up, so I never understood what the big deal about camp was. Why did so many of my classmates return to school in the fall with big smiles plastered on their faces as they recounted stories of campfire songs, canoe trips, and sports days? It wasn’t until I became the person leading one of these camps that I saw what I was missing out on. Who would have guessed my favourite
Jillian Morris
camp experience would take place when I was twenty years old?
Last summer, my time was spent relearning the beauty of being six again. I became known as the person for “uppies,” in which little ones would stretch their arms upwards in an undeniable show of cuteness until I would pick them up and carry them around as they played with the curls falling from my ponytail. We would splash through puddles and laugh as we played “Just Dance” at lunch. During this time, I picked many flowers, tried my hand at the monkey bars, gave many hugs, and wiped away countless tears while I played the role of doctor and gently placed a “Paw Patrol” Band-Aid on every single one of their many battle wounds. My coworkers and I would initiate splash pad water fights, get involved in the many camp games, and bring each other’s favourite candy and snacks at random. All these things may seem incredibly simple, but they all have something extremely important and fleeting in common: joy.
As we grow older, the lens of joy and wonder we see the world through as children begins to fade as we learn the harsh realities and responsibilities of life. The worst part is seeing the fade as it happens, noticing that instead of waking up excited to see your parents or eat your morning pancakes, there are days where you wake up with anxiety lurking in your chest for your next test, deadline, or presentation. Fights aren’t solved with a simple “sorry” and a smile and friends aren’t made or kept as easily as they once were. One day, you wake up and find out your light-up shoes aren’t considered “cool” anymore through a snide comment from someone at your locker. When we were young, we often wished we could fast forward and be older than we were. It isn’t until we are older and look back that we realize the place we were so desperate to grow out of is the one place we desperately want to go back to. As a whole, we struggle to be happy with what we have and always seem to wish and long for what we don’t.
These camps helped heal my inner child. All the scary parts of life – money, stress, sickness, death – all still exist, but those months made me realize that so does the magic in blowing bubbles into a sunny sky, bringing colours to life by dragging a piece of chalk on a sidewalk, and creating new worlds with a pencil and paper. To kids, everything and everyone is magic. Their lives are overflowing with imagination, as they are equipped with the unique ability to focus only on the good. While this blissful sense of innocence and ignorance is something we may not have the privilege of having at this point in our lives, it is still a sign that, as the saying goes, life is what you make it.
So instead of spending all your time dreading that next “Grade Updated” notification, beating yourself up over that last fight with a friend, or focusing on that one comment that brought your spirits down, try looking at the world through the same lens as your six-year-old self. The lens full of wonder, curiosity, and most importantly, joy in seeing the world unfold around you.
Like I tell my little ones, it’s okay to experience big feelings sometimes. We’re human, that’s what we do. It’s how we respond that matters most; so experience it all, but then try to shift your focus and find something small to brighten your day, whether that’s by treating yourself to a coffee, reading a good book or racing outside to play in the rain. We all experienced the magic of being little kids once, and after this summer, my advice would be to revisit that magic as often as you possibly can.
And so, with that, Camp Counselor Jill, out… until next summer at least.
Bits and Bobs, Knicks and Knacks
A tiny pink umbrella saved from a fluorescent cocktail. A miniature blue glass-blown cow figurine. An appropriately cliché Eiffel Tower keychain. My guilty pleasure is that I love little trinkets. Bits and bobs, knicks and knacks, bobbles, ornaments–whatever you want to call them. I love novelties if you will.
I’ve never really subscribed to the idea of minimalism, of clear countertops, or untouched walls saved purposefully for low-profile art pieces. I love seeing a home with character; shown in the mismatched items that hold stories of their own. Nothing sends a dopamine rush through my brain like discovering little treasures and lining the shelves and window sills with them. There’s nothing like commemorating a moment with a little token, especially one that’s perfectly pocket-sized.
There’s just so much that someone’s countertop clutter says about them. I used to love going through the cabinets in my grandparents’ houses; finding blackand-white photos and religious figurines, carvings from travels, and one-of-a-kind collectibles. The stories that went along with them felt like fairy tales. Even now, in the student houses of friends and
strangers, I find these treasures touched by nostalgic and hilarious plot lines, like the shot glasses “borrowed” from local bars to the doodled-on sticky notes that hang on the fridge. There’s not always rhyme, nor reason, but there is so much meaning and so much love in these little symbols of our lives.
That feeling as a child when you found a pretty shell on the beach, or even the urge to collect all your fortune cookie premonitions. The feeling you get now when your friend goes on a trip and brings back a funny little keepsake that reminds them of you. This is a feeling I want to carry with me forever. I always want to feel that twinge of joy in finding perfect, yet quirky, little mementos, inspired by moments, people, and places in my life. Think of the stories you’ll tell and the memories you’ll invoke when you notice that little Eiffel Tower keychain sitting atop your desk or the little clay figurine you found at a local market. Think of how eventually your grandkids might find these tiny tokens, and wonder where they come from, sending you down a rabbit hole of nostalgia. This is a vote in favour of cluttered countertops. I hope I made a convincing case.
Nicole Dancey
The Girl Who Loved Words
My fascination with words started as a shameless attempt to be perceived as smart. In the second grade, I saw the smartest boy in my class read the dictionary—so I read the dictionary. Unfortunately, somewhere between overusing the word “elegant” and misusing “otherworldly,” I learned a startling truth: the words I spoke were able to shape, shatter, and mend how I perceived the world and how it perceived me.
I started writing songs when I moved across the country. My lyrics never fused vulnerability with philosophy—but they were an escape from reality. Every song I wrote was an experience I could grasp in my hands and revisit in three-minute
increments. Writing helped me reclaim a semblance of control when it felt like I had none.
My “silly little songs” evolved into essays that made my teachers laugh, cry, and sometimes even post about me on their teaching blogs. I wrote poetry fueled by brown sugar-shaken espressos and short stories inspired by Arthurian legends (yikes).
Words are intoxicating to me. Some people blush after a few drinks, but I have always swooned for those who could casually slip an eloquent phrase into conversation.
Some seek a charming smile or a confident demeanor, but I am always beguiled by those who shared my experience of living a thousand lives between the cover and the back of a book. I’ve never longed for grand speeches like the ones in books, but I cling to the fleeting brilliance of passing words— the ones that linger long after a moment has passed.
My university experiences will long live in publication, but what happens after I graduate? I shared and received literary validations in the form of grades, contests, and sharing my work online—but now what? Will my words only be recognized in the form of well-written emails, curated LinkedIn posts, and witty captions?
I’m not ready to give up the romanticism of writing.
My time will soon be dedicated to profitability over poetry, meetings instead of museings, and efficiency opposed to epiphanies. Maybe I won’t be the girl who shares her words so earnestly anymore, but perhaps I can still be a girl who loves words. I’ll love them even when they fail me, when they aren’t my own, or when they’re reduced to bullet points on a presentation slide.
Maybe that will be enough, or maybe I will write a new story.
Cassidy Rae
un pèlerinage vers un hiver éternel
Creative Director: Zahara Wong Groenewald
Photography: Jade Robinson Videography: Sofia Merulla
MUA: Khush Sagar Model: Lois Aguda
Longing in the DIGITAL AGE
Have you ever watched a film like Before Sunrise and thought to yourself, “I miss the idea of yearning and longing”? This feeling is directly attributed to the suffering we endure living in the digital age. The fantasy of meeting someone spontaneously on a train, spending the perfect day together, and never having to endure the torment of exchanging your social media sounds incredibly desirable to me. In our current technological climate, the concept of missing someone is eradicated completely. We think we know enough about people through their crafted facade, but it’s never really enough to foster a real connection. We obsess over digitally manufacturing our image to perfection for others, meticulously balancing transparency and fantasy, giving people enough content to know who we are constantly. There is no more yearning or longing because of how easily accessible people are.
When watching the film Past Lives, I understood this concept completely. The main characters, Nora and Hae Sung, attempt at making a long distance relationship work online with little to no foundation in person, ultimately causing their relationship to falter. Despite having each other at their fingertips at any moment, allowing these long lost childhood friends to rekindle a connection
Liyah Suliman
through social media and video call, there’s still an aspect to it that feels inauthentic. Eventually, this causes fatigue and frustration for Nora and Hae Sung, as they realize technology has limited their connection to being two dimensional. While the globalization of the internet allowed them to reconnect, it simultaneously highlighted the excruciating distance between them in an entirely new light. This is why, when Hae Sung comes to visit Nora, it’s such a transformative experience. The amalgamation of emotions that developed virtually are suddenly being faced in person.
Technology allows us to create idealized versions of ourselves, and maintain this manufactured ideal of our relationships. Yet the version shared digitally can never be fully embodied. The digital sphere has brought us this fleeting hope of real connection, with the idea that any distance can be closed - whether physical or emotional. This promise fails to actually deliver, further highlighting this separation rather than eliminating it as falsely assured. We’ve traded spontaneity and vulnerability for carefully curated profiles and endless scrolling, and in the process, we’ve lost the beauty of longing and missing. True connection, ultimately, must be found in reality.
Nicole Dancey
Have you ever seen THE edit? We all know it, whether it’s Timothée Chalamet dancing in slow motion or Tom Blyth in The Hunger Games prequel. There’s just something about a good edit, a highlight reel, set to the perfect music, that gets me every time. From sexy to sad, the creators behind The Edit evoke saturated emotions in their audience. It is a sight to see and we can’t look away.
As a generation, we love to sensationalize: revering in the romance and the drama of The Edit–falling for it every time. We twist and turn to saturate our own lives with this idealist romanticism. Every walk and car ride soundtracked, every playlist attached to a hyper-detailed niche emotion in search for some cathartic release and meaning. A long late night drive set to Gracie Abrams. The journey to our hometown accompanied by Noah Kahan. We reflect to the sounds of nostalgia and colour grade our memories. We might sarcastically laugh that “last night was a movie” but really we strive for a filmic meaning and purpose.
When I take my headphones out and truly look around, the real world can pale in comparison. People complain the world has somehow “lost colour” over time. I am guilty of this. I fall for scenic visions and
Embracing a Life in Lower Saturation
notice when reality doesn’t match. I gaze out the window dramatically to sad songs. I play the main character. Perhaps we are too comfortable with the over-saturated shades of The Edit. Overconsumption is not solely a material issue. We’ve grown greedy in our needs for stimulation, demanding for more entertainment all the time. Boredom is never on the table.
There is an Italian phrase, ‘il dolce far niente’, translating into “the sweetness of doing nothing”. I try to lose myself in this sometimes, to live slower, conscious to the world as is, untouched and unruly in all its messy lines and shadows. Quite literally, sometimes I need to touch grass.
There is beauty in the mundane, of a walk in silence, listening to wind and drifting lilts of conversation, in the real connections that form when we leave space for them. It’s okay to embrace boredom and sit in your thoughts once in a while. The allure of The Edit is hard to look away from, but there’s beauty in embracing the less saturated tones of reality as well.
Should I Have What She’s Having?
Rhea Matharu
My housemates and I have a tradition- a movie night with a twist. Each of us takes a turn showing the others our favourite movie. When it came to my turn, I of course chose When Harry Met Sally. It was a maneuver I was all too familiar with. Every plane ride, I scrolled to find the 23rd letter of the alphabet to play this classic. At times of sadness, I resorted to this rom-com. I had a connection to these characters and their yearning that I would always find comfort in viewing.
When Harry Met Sally depicts Harry and Sally’s journey that spans over a decade, beautifully showcasing how people can drift in and out of each other’s lives yet still remain connected. Even after periods of estrangement, they’re seemingly drawn back together, as if tied by an emotional tether. In a sense, it is a portrayal of the age-old “right person, wrong time” mixed with the painful “friends to lovers” trope. Is friendship really that simply though? Are people really able to pick up where they left off when reunited with someone from the past?
These themes bear similarity to other media I have consumed far too often— with Normal People being a favourite. Connell and Marianne share a love that is messy, complicated, but strong. Even
though they move through different relationships, cities, and even experience personal transformations, their connection doesn’t fade. Dare I say, they give viewers a false hope about love and relationships? They can depict the illusion that certain connections might persist despite time, distance, and misunderstandings. That the one person in your life will find their way back to you. While this concept is beautiful, real life does not always work this way.
In reality, people drift apart permanently. Some people are simply in your life for that certain interval of time. For a purpose of teaching you a lesson or even no purpose at all. Yes, people certainly leave impressions but you shouldn’t linger on these marks. Not every unresolved relationship gets a second, third, or fourth chance. If you continue to wait for “the one that got away,” you restrict yourself from entering phases of growth.
These stories are beautifully written but they should be received as simply that: emotional storytelling. They should not be a guide on how relationships unfold in reallife. If you keep waiting to open the door to that familiar face, you might be greeted with unwelcome disappointment. It is time to step out of limbo. It is time to leave this dangerous comfort of unfinished business.
Creative Director: Nadisha Gautam
Photography: Jade Robinson
Videography: Hadleigh Green
NAD
Model: Nadisha Gautam
MUA: Khush Sagar
ISHA
Julia Jim
and niche history of correctional institutions. One topic captivated me above all: art created by inmates. Due to the Huron County Gaol’s maximum twoyear sentencing period, those locked behind bars have little time to marinate in their solitude, build relationships with fellow inmates, or move toward rehabilitation within the prison environment. I did not get the opportunity to learn about institutional artwork at the Gaol because there was none in the collection. But a six-hour drive away, on the second floor of the Kingston Penitentiary Museum, there is a small, dimlylit exhibit of inmate artwork. This exhibit showcases landscapes, abstract forms, animal portraits, and even sculptures–each piece demonstrating remarkable skill and passion. Art as a tool for rehabilitation has been central to Canada’s history of incarceration, a way for inmates to express mental health struggles, reconnect with loved ones, or imagine freedom beyond their confinement.
Among the museum’s extensive collection are hopeful messages within seascapes and sunsets, juxtaposed with the occasional inappropriate depiction–an unavoidable nod, as my boss says, to prison ‘culture.’ Despite the criminality of these artists, their work offers a refreshing perspective, unbound by traditional academic or societal expectations. It is art created by individuals whose names, fates, and origins remain unknown to me but who communicate vividly through their creations.
One of my favourite pieces in our collection is a series of decorated letter envelopes, including one intricately adorned with a vast seascape stretching out over the envelope’s white space to accommodate for the warm sand and cloudless sky dotted with seagulls. Another envelope paints the scene of a pianist using dark moody colours, inspiring subconscious melodies within my mind. Each envelope is carefully crafted with remarkable precision, meant to be sent to loved ones on the outside. These decorated envelopes often carry more meaning than words could express,
whether the letter was being sent for a child’s birthday, a wedding anniversary, or a special holiday. Art within the prison system wasn’t just a pastime, it also held significant value. Inmates often bartered with talented artists to have their envelopes decorated, creating a unique economy within the institution. This exchange exhibits the importance of art behind bars: it is not just a form of expression but a commodity that fosters connection and community.
The sticker in my boss’s office asks, “What is the opposite of a prison?” This question, posed by a 2023 workshop by Kriss Li at the Agnes Etherington Art Centre, has stayed with me. Kriss Li is a multimedia artist, working in film, installations, and other conceptual projects. Her works aim to explore structures of power and how these systems condition us, despite our intentions. While I didn’t get the opportunity to participate in the workshop personally, I face its lingering presence in my workspace daily. “What is the opposite of a prison?” To me, art is the opposite of prison, a limitless exploration of self that persists even in the most confined circumstances. One testament to this is one of Kingston Penitentiary’s segregation cells, where a prisoner has designed intricate vandalism by peeling and carving paint from walls to reveal the contrasting stone beneath. This is proof that creativity cannot be confined. Art plays a significant role in rehabilitation, offering inmates a way to imagine reintegration into society. This idea fuels my passion for niche Canadian histories, a field I hope to pursue for a lifetime. One day at work, in the cluttered art room with boxes of confiscated sharps, my coworker Yvonne glanced around and joked about what her old McGill professors would think of her using her degree to sit on the floor, deep in thought about how to catalogue a thousand shivs. I laughed, not only at the joke but at the quiet realization that this is exactly where I want to be: immersed in the wonderfully specific work of preserving and giving meaning to what the world tends to overlook.
MY SKIN, MY CANVAS
Carolyn Kane
Even though I have lived in my body for twenty-one years, I still don’t understand it. I am constantly learning new things about myself and my body, simultaneously making me feel connected and confused. I did not choose the colour of my eyes, the size of my nose, and so many aspects of my appearance, there is little to my body that I can control. But, tattoos, tattoos I can control. My tattoo is an exterior marker of my identity. Having a tattoo has helped me to feel at home in my body, a place that has felt like a battle ground. Art doesn’t have to be beautiful or aesthetically pleasing, but it is supposed to make you feel. My tattoo has made me feel connected to my body.
Growing up the word “tattoo” would sour the mood at the dinner table. I remember the word always receiving negative connotations and being used as an insult to someone’s character. Throughout university I have seen tattoos in spaces I never expected, from displays about historical tattoos in museums to the Agnes Etherington Art Centre’s “we are magic: a love letter to our tattoos.”
Abby Nowakowski, the artist behind “we are magic: a love letter to our tattoos” revolutionized how I thought about tattoos and deconstructed all the taboo. So often we let our own prejudice dictate how we will experience things, which I saw when I was leading tours of “we are magic.” Kids thought it was cool, but the older a person was, the more often they were perplexed to see a tattoo studio in an art gallery.
It took me a long time to grapple with the permanent altering of my physical state. With Abby’s guidance, I felt comfortable with the idea of getting a tattoo. Rather than seeing my tattoo as an alteration of my body, I chose to see it as a marking of my personality on the outside. It acts as a reminder to myself of who I am, so that when I feel lost, confused, or tired, I will always be able to remember the person I am at twenty-one and what my life had been up until that point. After all, the body tells a story, I might as well have some choice in mine. I can’t think of anything better to mark my body with than a work of art.
Behind the tensed arrow pointing directly at your chest is your partner, your teammate, your world.
Do you trust them? Does your eye contact break? Would you lean back and surrender all control to their grasp?
The feeling of total trust is difficult to depict without words or narratives, but it is done so in Rest Energy, the performance piece created by Marina Abramovic in 1980.
Tia Olesen
AN ACT OF TOTAL TRUST
Rest Energy was conducted by the artist couple, Abramovic and Ulay. As Abramovic grips the bow and Ulay holds and tenses his arrow pointing directly at her heart, they simultaneously lean back for the fourminute show. Emotions and gravity seem to hit pause while the two hang in the air connected by the arrow nock notched to the bowstring. Microphones attached to their chests recorded the sounds of their heavy heartbeats and respiration, elevating tensions in the audience atmosphere. Any wrong move could have killed Marina on the spot, but by surrendering her safety in this act of total trust, she showed her unwavering faith in their bond and finished without a scratch.
Rest Energy is one of many well-known performance pieces of Abramovic’s. She uses the human body as a medium, creating conceptual art to push the limits of the body and mind. Marina deploying her body as a creative outlet has led to critical acclaim, controversy, pain, fear and truth through challenging performances that have put her life on the line. She describes Rest Energy as one of the most difficult acts she had ever conducted, for in it she had zero control as her body weight rested on the other end of a drawn weapon, waiting for the end of those four minutes.
Rest Energy embodies vulnerability. The idea of surrendering control to another person and the feeling of tension and intimacy as their heartbeats pounded and breaths shuttered against the mics, increasing in volume and speed as the performance progressed. Using a real bow and arrow is an extremist example to depict trust and vulnerability in relationships, but what is Abramovic’s work if not risky? The surrendering of power in this piece while Abramovic holds the bow shows she supports him, even at her expense, making it the renowned act of relinquished control that it is today. Abramovic and Ulay had no room for hesitation or doubt; they became one.
SAR DIN ES.
Creative Director: Aglaia Joithe
Photography: Harvey Tolentino Doniego
Videography: Emily Fuhrman
MUA: Anika Tasneem
Models: Mckenzie McCloskey, Cassidy Comeau & Emma Gephart
Red used to be my favourite colour. Its loud presence once filled my closet in all forms imaginable. I thought the colour was beautiful—until I concluded that I wasn’t beautiful enough to wear it. This understanding wasn’t influenced by a specific moment in time but rather, a gradual shift in my brain chemistry based on societal pressures to fit the beauty standard. Suddenly, I felt that I existed in a world built to tear me down and analyze everything from my personality to the clothes I wore. Red became a magnifying glass highlighting all my inner insecurities.
Red is a colour that draws all wandering eyes and attention to you. In a fashion world that boldly emphasizes neutrals, red has become a sort of statement voicing I’m here, and I’m not hiding. It requires a certain level of confidence, which is immediately brought out on anyone who wears it.
I’ve read that grey complements brunettes, and nothing compares to a blonde in allblack—but red doesn’t need to compliment certain skin tones or hair colours, because it compliments who someone is beyond their physical appearance. It shines a light on their inner beauty for all to see. Red has become neutral in that way, allowing you to look past someone’s physical appearance
and see the beautiful person that exists within. As a society, we’re so preoccupied with picking colours that best compliment our exterior identities, forgetting that fashion encompasses so much more than physical space; that it is a reflection of our inner selves.
Everyone who effortlessly wears red is the epitome of beauty in my eyes. But I remove myself from this statement. In red, I am an imposter, cosplaying as someone who exudes false confidence and beauty. I feel strangers’ eyes on me like lasers, stripping the red from my clothes, leaving behind a woman consumed by her own self-doubt with (ironically) nothing but red flushing my face.
One day I hope to wear red again. One day I hope to feel beautiful.
However, beauty shouldn’t be something you have to wait for. Maybe beauty isn’t about deserving a colour, but rather allowing yourself to exist in it, take up space, and let it settle into who you are. Perhaps it’s unrealistic to think I’ll wake up one morning and suddenly feel beautiful again. But maybe, just maybe, I can wear red anyway.
Beth Hood
“My hate for the North Face Jacket, and why you should hate it too.”
City of Mirrors
Ethan Hurtubise
Winter in Kingston. A time of sloshing through sidewalks and covering our faces from the biting wind. And with that, the resurgence of the North Face Jacket we all know and (maybe) love. There’s no need to specify the 1996 style Nupste jacket for the image of this accursed puffer jacket to appear in your mind. It is everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I see only one solution to the problem.
It’s time we kill The North Face Jacket, and I know exactly how I’d do it. Picture this. There I’d be, dressed devilishly in a suit and tie, black umbrella in hand, on a scorching summer day. There it is. The jacket. Hung on a wooden stake in front of me; a witch on trial. Operatic music playing vaguely in the distance. I’d flick my near-exhausted cigarette into the trail of gasoline before me, watch as the flames rise, igniting the polyester and down to completion. Across my face, the slightest grin as I walk away. Perfection, right?
Now I know what you’re thinking. Fashion is subjective. However, this jacket has morphed into a statement of wealth that entails no true sense of self. A near $500 subscription to a collective identity of
sameness. A ticket to be a part of this ‘City of Mirrors’ – for those who can pay the price. It has become a mask for people to hide behind, a simple trick of the trade to appear like everyone else. Every year you see it more and more, people going about their day, cloaked in the boxy cut disguise of the puffer jacket. But subscriptions expire, and this one will expire, and everyone will be left with a $500 compatible sack of down feather.
Fashion is an opportunity to express individuality, yet all we seem to do is imitate the first person we see on social media. All social media is doing is diluting our sense of self as we compare ourselves to an endless feed of the fashion and body types we are supposed to live up to. In hunting for the perfectly curated items to match a certain exterior “aesthetic,” everyone is eventually going to dress the same. Exhibit A: this jacket.
It is time to change. As we are forced to bundle up and sweat our way to campus, don’t hide behind the mask. When the time comes to kill the North Face jacket, just know I’ll have my jerrycan ready.
I’M A MESS
Creative Director: Anika Tasneem Photography: Andie Butler
Videography: Sofia Merulla MUA: Anika Tasneem Model: Evie Hylands
D I N N E R WITH FRIENDS
Jillian Morris
Throughout my twenty years of life, I’ve experienced a myriad of friendships. They have ebbed and flowed, with some remaining present throughout all seasons while others went out with the tide of new beginnings. I have experienced the sisterhood that arises from a lifelong bond, as well as the heartache that comes with losing those closest to you.
Having left behind my university house and friendships that had hurt me yet again, I was a strange mix of hopeful and apprehensive for what this year held in store for me. When you have been torn down by people you let in enough times, you arrive at a fork in the road. I always feared that I would choose a path defined by avoidance and shutting people out. Yet,recently, I realized that it’s not my responsibility to change what others couldn’t learn to appreciate.
Walking into this school year, I never expected to be welcomed into the embrace of so many lovely people. They introduced me to the simple intricacies of caring about others without expecting anything in return. They showed me kindness in simple conversations and welcomed me with open arms into their lives without hesitation or selfishness.
Instead of longing for the friendships I thought I once had, I was waking up to morning debriefs over pancakes and bacon as the smoke alarm raged above us. Nights previously spent agonizing over an argument or cruel comments became time spent collapsing in fits of laughter on a public school’s basketball court and decorating freshly pink dining room walls. My drinks earned special spots in the bar carts of other homes and my presence was now considered a given, not a burden.
This all became clear when one of my closest friends rang in her twentieth birthday with a dinner party. It was such a simple request, yet the care everyone put into planning and cooking each dish, painstakingly arranging the table just so, nearing close to asthma attacks while inflating balloons, and putting out little fires everywhere (even literal) illustrated the unconditional love everyone had for their friend. Sitting around the rickety dining room table blanketed by streamers and lights, I let myself take a moment. A moment to feel at home in the embrace of inside jokes, basketball rivalries, and shared laughter that make up the scattered pieces of what I now know to be real, honest, genuine friendship.
SMILE LINES
Our bodies show the signs of time. In the crease between your father’s brow, a stretch mark along your mother’s hip, or how grandparents seem smaller every time you see them. Even the freckles you only grow in the summertime, or the fading
of an old tattoo. Time passed and years lived are shown in the aftermath it leaves on our persons.
Getting older is scary; an overwhelming anxiety of an ever-present unknown
Nicole Dancey
future. Aging is something we’re taught to avoid, a threat used in beauty marketing, encouraging us to dye grey hairs and prevent lines with special products. It’s a vehicle of fear in the media, harping on the overwhelming desire of society to stay young, to maintain not only youthful bodies but the freedom of naivety. We feel blindsided by new mental complexities and obstacles that appear at an unpredictable pace. We cling to smooth skin and our figures, clutching onto superficials with both hands, as if to preserve some youthful freedom through them.
The signs of age are hardly surprising, and yet the sight of them in our reflection, the toll on our minds always seems to come as a shock. It sounds ridiculous, but I never really seriously considered that one day I wouldn’t look seventeen anymore. I felt like puberty was finally over (thank god) and the body I had would more or less be my body forever. At the very least, I expected a few more years of stability before any major changes started to happen. I knew there were grey hairs and wrinkles on their way, but this was a distant future.
But lo and behold there is a secret second puberty that no one tells you about, and the hormonal ups and downs, weight gains and losses, and every other symptom of growing continues to occur as you enter your twenties. I had just gotten used to the body I was in, only to find it replaced by something that felt foreign. It felt awkward and slightly disconcerting. It still does. And yet, I see my friends grow up just the same, and I feel so proud, like I can see how far they’ve come, how mature they are, compared to the kids we once were.
From babyfaced to training bras, dropping voices and over-plucked brows, I’ve had the privilege of watching my longtime friends come of age. Even in the way they carry themselves, the assuredness with which they wear clothes, the language in our conversations. I don’t note the ways they look different, too preoccupied with the glow of their confidence, one which only grows brighter with time.
Jerzy Kosinski wrote “I’m sure that there are aspects of my personality buried within me that will surface as soon as I know I am completely loved”. I cannot wait to watch the people I love grow older. I have loved every version of them, and I look forward to every new discovery, every buried aspect that will unveil itself in the years ahead. I will adore every smile line deepened from hours spent laughing, and feel the callouses that appear on their hands, signs of a life well-lived.
The fear of aging is almost always projected internally. I’ve never noted my friends’ coming of age as a loss to be mourned. But I’ve spent so much time staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but apprehension for the future and discomfort in a changing body. We’ve all done the same.
How can this fear, this thing that we dread so deeply, simultaneously be so beautiful to witness in those we love? We feel our own aging from the inside out, first-hand fighting the growing pains, the mental overhaul and changing hormones. But for those we care about, the cynical lens melts away, leaving only understanding and love.
The body is a beautiful and peculiar being, never stagnant, constantly changing to reflect the lives we’ve lived from within them. The fantasy of youth is just a myth we created, a last-ditch attempt to hold onto some innocence. But there is a beauty to be found in the stretch marks on our hips and the scars on our knees.
The signs of aging will appear on our bodies unexpectedly, and likely before we’re ready to deal with them. But I will watch in awe as my friends flourish and grow. I will take a step back and hope to catch glimpses of that glow in myself. I’ll see wrinkles anew, think of them not as something to prevent, but something to appreciate. At least I’ll try. Aging shows the signs of life, and when I look to my loved ones and note our matching smile lines, I’ll know how far we’ve come, and look forward to how far we have to go.
eas part
Rhea Matharu
The experience of a loss is unique to one’s self. You remember a past in a different place and time, and are constantly measuring it against your present state. You know you can never go back to that past, and you’ve lost the potential to continue that certain future. You will change without it. It was out of your control.
I dream about being back in my grandmother’s home. The aromas are unlike any other, with cardamom notes all around. Incense sticks are modelled after the scent that lingered here. The trinkets that sat so kindly on shelves that I wanted to steal but knew they belonged there. The laughter I’d hear echoed all around. I’d sit, getting my hair oiled, by my grandma, watching TV shows we both loved and chuckled at. I’d practice learning our cultural language with her, trying my hardest to mimic the way she spoke every word. I loved coming here.
This wasn’t my home though. It belonged thousands of miles away. I loved it too; it was the string that tied me to my friends, to my sports, and essentially, my whole life. I loved playing soccer in the park with my friends or skating in the nearby ice rink. But the weekends sometimes stung. My friends would be off to their grandparents’ place, a short drive away to a home welcome with freshly baked cookies. No passport needed. My weekends consisted of phone calls made that planned the time difference just right. Or, my friends would be picked up by their grandparents from school, a chance to leave the last period early. No flight ticket needed. My walk home, ironically, would be with my best friend’s grandma, since we lived right beside each other. This was a walk that became accustomed to my routine that I didn’t think too much of, until it would some time hit me; the yearning for my own grandma to walk me home.
It was one summer that my grandma came to stay for a couple of months. I remember spending all my time with her. We cut vegetables for dinner together while resuming the TV shows we had put on hold from our last encounter. We would go to
the park with my best friend and I finally got to revel in having my grandma walk with me somewhere. We would go on long road trips to the beach or to waterfalls to bask in the summer sun. I had a chance to show her how well I had learned to make chai. I got to practice speaking certain words with her, syllables that my tongue had forgotten but muscle memory forced back. I got to show her my writing; something she loved to hear about because she was the one that taught me my love for words as a product of all those bedtime stories.
I try so hard to remember them now.
I can count the number of times I visited my grandma or vice versa on two hands. This number stung –and continues to–after she passed. It was a number I was ashamed of. Why didn’t I increase it? I could probably even count the number of times I spoke to my grandma over the phone– because it simply wasn’t enough. Why didn’t I call more?
It’s been four something years, and I’ve locked away all of my memories, all my grievances, all my regrets. I’m afraid to go into the vault. For if I enter, I’d be met with regrets of words unsaid, flights not taken, and hugs not given. I refuse to visit my grandma’s home now because it is not the same. I know the scent is different, laughter is infrequent, and trinkets are cluttered. The yearning returns, stinging me, forming jealousy seeing everyone continue to visit their grandma every weekend, having their grandma pick them up from places.
In fear of losing memories of a version of a home I never got to live in and will never get to visit, I live in memories. I continue to make chai and mimic the way she would dip a rusk into it. I oil my hair, and care for it, the same way she would. I continue to write, creating stories of my own in the same way she would weave them at night. And sometimes, like this time, I’ll write about her.
THE SPACE BETWEEN BEFORE AND BECOMING
Alexia Platt
CONTENT WARNING: This article contains discussions of sexual assault, which may be triggering for some readers.
My hometown both shaped and scarred me, like a place that can’t decide if it's a shelter or a prison. Our relationship is complicated, but my hometown will never be my home again.
As one of the only girls of colour, I struggled to be both visible and invisible. In elementary school, I fought to be acknowledged as smart and worthy of the same opportunities my peers received without question. I tried to disappear as peers mocked my skin, pulled my curls, and called me sensitive when I swatted their hands away and rejected their jokes. In high school, I had to prove my accomplishments were earned rather than received to satisfy diversity quotas. Outside
of school, I walked with my head down and braced myself for fetishizing catcalls and the occasional slur. My hometown taught me to bite my tongue, smile sweetly, and keep moving forward; I became resilient, but I shrunk myself to survive.
Despite my hometown’s cruelty, there were moments of joy. My friends and I sat on playground structures and dreamt about futures that felt impossibly far away. We’d take a parent’s car and drive with no destination – just the freedom of the open road while everything else faded in the rearview. My hometown is also where I found solace in figure skating; I dedicated myself to the sport that gave me air while my hometown tried to stifle my every breath.
At sixteen, it became too hard to breathe. School is supposed to be a place of safety, but when I was sexually assaulted, my world shattered. Classrooms became cages and my shame, anger, and confusion locked me inside. If I didn't claw my way out, I would suffocate. I buried myself in textbooks, applied for scholarships every night, and poured all my energy into building a future far away from my past. I cried when I got my university acceptance – it was my life raft.
I arrived in Kingston with too many clothes and not enough certainty. After I tearfully said goodbye to my parents, I thought the hardest part was over. Yet, as my head reeled with boundless possibilities of what I could do in this big new place, I felt a sharp pang of something unexpected: guilt. The loyalty you feel to a place is strange, especially when it helped you grow while simultaneously cutting off your air supply. As I tried to distance myself from my past, the ghosts I’d run from found me anyway. One drunken night, I spilled all my secrets to my friends. I had invited the ghosts into my new space, but I also began to confront them. Healing, I realized, isn’t linear or particularly clean.
It came in small steps, like speaking up in class without fearing dismissal and
trusting the kindness of strangers. With each step, I reclaimed a piece of myself I hadn’t realized I’d lost. With each semester, I began to realize I was more than just my past.
As I near graduation, I see how far I’ve come and I can’t help but smile. I’m no longer the uncertain, small-town girl who arrived in Kingston. My journey hasn’t been easy – blank slates can feel overwhelming. I thought I could forget my past, but you can’t discard your trauma like an old bike you’ve outgrown. However, through the chaos of campus life, healing took root and shaped me into the person I am today: strong, smart, joyful, funny, and caring – someone I am proud to be. I arrived with these qualities already within me; I had simply forgotten they were there. With every opportunity I’ve had here, I’ve rekindled my sense of self.
Now, I laugh loudly and unapologetically. When life gets tough, I lean on my friends and know they’ll support me. I’m part of my community: I’ve mentored students and discovered my love for public speaking. I’ve found my voice and I get to decide how I wield my power. I’ve danced in the rain, played in the snow, and basked in the sun here. From basketball games at the ARC to wine nights while watching Dancing with the Stars, Christmas parades and pier days, beer pong and peer tutoring – these are the moments that now define me. These are the moments that feel like home.
Now, when I think of my hometown, it’s with a strange mix of emotions. I’m happy to visit family but I’m terrified of returning permanently. I can’t entirely hate the place that both built and broke me, but I am brave enough to say that my hometown isn’t for me and that’s okay.
So, who am I without my hometown? I’m building a life that feels like mine. I’m someone who's both a masterpiece and a work in progress simultaneously, and for the first time, that feels like enough.
Creative Director: Olivia
Parent
Photography: Sheana
Tchebotaryov
Videography: Hadleigh
Green
MUA: Anika Tasneem
Model: Griffen Thuss Conkie
When the streets are dead and my neighbour’s black cat is hunting for her midnight mouse, I visit my Love House. I wander the dead halls for hours, and drag my hands along the wall as creaks escape through my hardwood floors. Some silent nights, when I’m feeling brave enough, I
visit you: kitchen, garage, basement.
You boys were unruly—rambunctiously immature, running through my house, playing tag. Your sweaty soles thumped on the floor, wearing my wood down until it began to squeal. I didn’t realize,
LOVE HOUSE
Sydney Toby
when I met you, that I was committing to roommates. Oh, well. I’m just glad that I finally remembered whose name is on the deed.
Volare
I feel brave tonight. The kitchen is smalljust a stove, sink, and countertop. You’re sprinkling basil into the pasta when I come in, and the instinctual urge to wrap my arms around you never leaves, but I know better now. If we’re being honest, you don’t deserve the kitchen. The broom closet, maybe, or the garden shed. Your list of offenses is ridiculously long. But you were the first to stay, and I can’t keep hurting you to hide that I’ll always love you a little. I choose to remember the good, and keep you in the kitchen, in the moment where we fell in love (the first time). I choose to hope you’re happy. When I leave you, softly singing “Volare” to yourself, I always feel nauseous. I’m working on that, I promise.
Stupid Car
In the garage sits a white SUV that isn’t mine, with its engine always turned on. You were an effort to push the first boy out, but that was naive. I lean my head against the doorframe now and watch you. From the backseat, you grin at me boyishly, but I don’t fall for that anymore. I can still picture the last time I was in that car, staring at you desperately as you throw your shirt back on. A beggar, hands out in hope and at your mercy. Unfortunately, the truth is that I could have been anyone. Or no one at all, just a body at your disposal, for your whim. That was the moment I realized I would never exist to you beyond the stupid backseat of your stupid car. I’m never going to see your bedroom, meet your sister, or feel your arm wrapped around me at the bar, while you make my friends smile. The engine fills my garage with smog and when I linger too long, I choke. I used to try and drag you out, but if you like this cold, lonely room, you can stay here.
Three for Three
My hand hovers over the basement doorknob. This room is the scariest… you are the scariest. In this house, I can punch your chest or scratch your face, trying to get you to feel something and, in this house, maybe you do. The real world is very different. There, we clandestinely kiss against walls, but never before midnight and never sober. There, the overwhelming love I’ve felt for you for five years gets muddled, jumping from platonic to romantic so abruptly that I don’t know how long I’ve felt this way for you. On the rare occasion I see you before midnight (sober), you bring your beautiful girlfriend, who looks like she stepped off a Waterhouse canvas. She wraps me in a hug and treats our group to pitchers. The guys thank her in unison, and then turn to me with their eyebrows raised, saying if she only knew. I wish there was disdain somewhere in these looks, but there’s only amusement, because you are constantly impressing them. You’re the god they pray to before bed, but to their credit, it’s miraculous how you manage to come out of every situation unscathed. Three for three – every time you’ve confessed to cheating, your beautiful girlfriend forgives you without hesitation. After we all go home, I throw up from guilt and hate myself, while you lay with her and revel in how great it is to be number one. I think you might be the meanest boy I’ve ever met. So, I keep you in my basement, where your girlfriend can’t find you, and where I’ll never find myself again.
My house became so sweet and pink, once I realized I could keep you without surrendering to your coup. I can move you any way I want. On my walk back, I see my neighbour’s cat gliding down the street, with a mouse swinging from her tiny jaw. She grabbed it by the tail, under a new moon, and didn’t let it loose.
ON AN ISLAND OF MY OWN
retreat
Dalyah Schiarizza
away from the world
retreat
new sacred peace
clouds are softer waters are warmer lighter smooooootheerrr
my mind, my island smile and dig my heels into the sand a little smirk emerges breezy bbbbrrrrrrreeeeeezzzzyyy a sad voice sighs on big blue tears mean rain sands and castles built up for months torn up in seconds eaten by an ocean hungry for new sadness ssssooooo
much
umbrellas picked up
sadness
flew south for the winter no return booked for spring panicked under a palm tree gripping gripping gggrrriiippppiiiinnngggg
my life depends on it
then when i’m done crying breathe breathe the rain lightens up no sun just clouds heavy and grey they will stay no return booked yet don’t stay don’t stay with no rain no winds to break me take me away
fashion new furniture building new castles a visionary at work a visionary reinspired peace reinstated my island, my mind away from the world away away a w a y
Jillian Morris
The sharp smell of acrylic paint cut through the air as she arranged the fresh canvas on her easel, watching the bright smiles shared between friends and loved ones as they chatted over shared palettes. Mornings like these possessed a magic that was only visible to those who took a moment to look around the studio.
Lessons began and ended, recipients bustled in and out of the door, and all they saw were the mountain of palettes, blank canvases, and the artists who made up the studio’s daily scene. Of these, one stood out slightly more from the rest—a young student who could be found each morning sitting alone. Passersby tended to notice the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck and how her eyes fluttered as they skimmed the references taped along the top of her easel’s frame, her gaze transfixed as if she wasn’t really there, perhaps not even alone.
But they never stopped to wonder if she wasn’t.
No one else looked for the shimmering swirl of laughter and joy perched on the stool next to her, or the way her dimples would flash briefly as she leaned into the
embrace of what seemed to be an empty space beside her. No one ever wondered at the way her hair would twirl of its own volition or why she would gaze into space as if she was in the midst of a riveting conversation. No one but the art teacher, observing from behind her desk.
What those coming and going did not know, or chose not to remember, was the months the young woman sat next to her aunt laughing between brushstrokes. They did not witness their hugs and handholds, shared dimples appearing as they worked, nor the gentle way her aunt would caress and brush back her hair. They did not witness the day they stopped coming together, or weeks later when the young woman came in all alone, with no one’s hand to hold or laughter to share.
The art teacher watched the aunt reappear beside her, tucking herself into the young woman’s side and running her fingers through her hair. She watched the young woman’s eyes prick with tears as she took her aunt’s hand, smiling as they painted a canvas together yet again. As all others bustled on, she watched and understood how love and loss can always be found between the comings and goings of life.
GOODNIGHT DREAMS, GOODBYE MUSE
Dalyah Schiarizza
i live, i dream
i learn to see again and again whenever i cry i hover my eye my tears fall into a well splash! poof!
tears of hurt from submerging barely surviving tears of joy from connections i get to cherish they all become ink filling my pen
swirling together growing big becoming small hiding in places learning to puff my chest against them all ink, pressed, and framed
snap shots and cake
art lives in community it matters more when together now the ink dries the well becomes empty this place is not mine anymore
where will my thoughts go? if not declared in ink, pressed, and framed are they real? is it art? what’s it all for?
for years to come, i’ll dream up the ink pressed in new frames gleaming at all i’ve created
looking over my shoulder with tears that won’t become ink, in press, and framed
at the first home of my swirling, inky mind
Broken Innocence
Creative Director: Taylor Pontet-DaSilva Photography: Nathan Zhe
Videography: Emily Fuhrman
Designer: Taylor Pontet-DaSilva
MUA: Natassia Lee
Models: Yvonne Pelau & Beth Hood
Fashion
MUSE is proud to feature the writing, photography, and creativity of students. We intend to create a platform for students’ voices - and we need your help to do so. Shoot us an email at eic.muse@gmail.com
Website: www.muse-magazine.com
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MUSE MAGAZINE
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Rhea Matharu
DIRECTORS
Creative Director
Nadisha Gautam
Print Director
Dalyah Schiarizza
Online Director
Nicole Dancey
Business Director
Cassidy Rae
Marketing Director
Armita Dabirzadeh
HEADS
Head of Layout
Nadisha Gautam
Head of Editorials
Aglaia Joithe
Head of Photography
Jade Robinson
Head of Videography
Hadleigh Green
Co-Heads of Creative
Initiatives
Olivia Smith
Midhat Mujaddid
Head of Hair and
Makeup
Khush Sagar
Co-Heads of Publishing
Cordelia Jamieson
Sydney Toby
Head of Music
Marijka Vernooy
Co-Heads of Podcast
Jaimie Frank
Katarina Bojic
Head Illustrator
Sydney Hanson
Head of Online
Marketing
Paton Morrison
Head of Event Marketing
Emma Barnes
Co-Heads of TikTok
Khush Sagar
Kyla Harry
Head of Finance
Ryan Ross
Head of Events
Rachel Heaney
Arts Editor
Carolyn Kane
Fashion Editor
Beth Hood
Entertainment Editor
Liyah Suliman
Lifestyle Editor
Cassidy Rae
MUSE’ings Editor
Jillian Morris
Creative Writing Editor
Dalyah Schiarizza
CREATIVE
Layout Designer
Nicole Turner
Videographers
Jorina Lee
Emily Fuhrman
Sofia Merulla
Photographers
Andie Butler
Harvey Tolentino Doniego
Sheana Tchebotaryov
Nathan Zhe
Yaoqing Shu
Creative Assistants
Olivia Bermingham
Olivia Parent
Taylor Pontet-DaSilva
Zahara Wong Groenewald
Anika Tasneem
Hair & Makeup Artists
Natassia Lee
Anika Tasneem
ONLINE
Online Editors
Isabella Persad
Maya Kromer
Molly Robson
Online Music Editors
Abigail Rossman
Sofia Leach
Podcast Editor
Michael Zuzek
Podcast Assistants
Sierra Raffiek
Deanne Pinto
Alexandra Culbert
Online Contributors
Amitis Tavakolli
Ben Linton
Evelyn Hylands
Julian King
Nadia Garcia
Natassia Lee
Nathan McAffee
Simrit Grewal
Sofia Aparicio
Tia Olesen
Online Music Contributors
Aurora Anderson
Kate Bassett
Lois Aguda
Madison Scott
Online Illustrators
Paige Chiusolo
Mia Dong
Maya Latzel
Meghan Zhang
Samuel King
Keira Sainsbury
BUSINESS
Events Coordinator
Isabella Wong
Business Assistant
Sasha Van Leeuwen
Marketing Coordinator
Zoe Porlier
