MUSE Magazine Issue XVIII

ISSUE XVIII

MUSE MAGAZINE

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CONTENTS

TABLE OF

06 LIFESTYLE

Sober in a Drunk World Falling in Love with my GBF Why Pursuing Your Passion is Overhyped The Philosophy of Changing Appearances

15 ENTERTAINMENT More than Mulan Those Darn Funny Books How Country Can Save the Future Like, Comment, Suscribe Tv on the Brain

24 ARTS

Engaging the Modern Eye The Art of Destruction The New Spice Girls Canadian Radio Laws are Crucial

33 FASHION

Britney, Justin, and the Denim Dream The Name Game The Rise of the Wide-Legged Pant Survival of the Chicest

41 MUSE’INGS

After the Storm Room of Water The 36-Year Finish Line Painting Patches When to Speak and When to Stay Silent Empty Bodies

ISSUE XVIII

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR With every issue published, MUSE has changed in one way or another. This is, in part, due to the lessons our team learns from the mistakes we sometimes make – paving the way for constant improvement. But these changes are also representative of the new, creative minds that join our team and contribute to the publication each year. With each issue comes new excitement, anxieties and interests as we prepare to enter what we see as the ‘real world’, and reflect on the constant changes taking place around us. As the school year comes to a close and my time at MUSE is fleeting, I have found myself feeling incredibly grateful for the space MUSE has fostered for both my peers and me to express each of these things. As you flip through the pages of XVIII, implore yourself to reflect on the changes you have made over not only this semester, but your growth thus far as a young adult. I challenge you to consider your past, present and future as you move through the issue and take learnings and inspiration from our team and contributors with you as you move forward. Consistent growth is not only important, but imperative to success. We, as a team, continually learn and grow and invite you to do so with us.

Yours creatively,

Lucie Quinlan

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCAS MCCOMB

ISSUE XVIII

In a Drunk World: A Look into My Not-So-Sober October

by Taylor Ball I had my very first sip of alcohol in my third year of university. Before that, the strongest drink I ever had was Kombucha which was (and still is) my go-to party drink. This first drink was followed by my Not-SoSober October, during which I rebelliously lived the life of a typical university student: I drank alcohol at parties. Wild, I know. Prior to thatmonth, I’d been sober at every single party, social gathering, and date of my life. My sobriety felt like a deep, dark secret. When I told my close friends that I not only don’t drink but have never drank, they often reacted as if I just confessed to first-degree murder. I didn’t have any deep-seated reasons for my sobriety, just a lot of little ones. It all started with a bet I had made with my parents.

If I didn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs by the time I was 18, I would get a pretty substantial amount of money: $1000 for not drinking, $1000 for not smoking and $500 for not doing drugs. According to my dad’s logic, if he was paying so much for the gateway drugs, he should get a discount for the hard stuff. This family pact was dubbed accordingly: “No Drinks, Drags, or Drugs”. $2500 was a lot of money, and I was motivated to uphold my end of the bargain.

But when I started Queen’s with my wallet heavy, I surprised myself by sticking to it. Now, I feel obligated to inform you that I’m fun. The dancelike-nobody’s-watching, sing-likethe-microphone-is-muted, act-likea-complete-idiot kind of fun. But, you still don’t believe me, do you?

You’re thinking “Sure, she says that but she’s probably reserved or judg-

mental.” I get this a lot and so I am pretty secretive about my partying habits. When people find out I don’t drink they usually react in one of three ways. First, they pressure me to try “just one sip.” This is often accompanied by them informing the whole party of my situation, in an effort to exert some good old-fashioned peer pressure. I am now a world-renowned expert at turning down drinks. The second reaction is to interrogate and find out why I’ve strayed so far from the norm.

Typically , it’s well-intentioned, but, nonetheless, the decision is soon debated by a jury of my peers. It’s a hard topic to discuss because people inevitably feel judged by me. In reality, just as I would never want someone to judge me for not drinking, I would never judge someone for choosing differently.

The third reaction is, perhaps, the worst: to scrutinize. People doubt I’ll be enough fun and spend the night analyzing my every move. For all these reasons, I rarely tell people I don’t drink and when I do it’s only after multiple nights out. “If you’re this fun sober, I can’t wait to get you drunk,” they say. I used to laugh it off because I didn’t see myself ever drinking. I imagined one day telling my sober life story to Oprah. Then, things started to change. The peer pressure started to get to me and my sobriety became something whispered in secret. It pains me to admit this but, my self-confidence faltered and I desperately wanted to fit in. I thought drinking could help with some of my insecurities. Would it make me more outgoing? More

flirtatious? More fun? In short, no. I treated my Not-So-Sober October as one big science experiment. I wanted answers. Surrounded by friends, I tried my first sip and then spent the next month drinking. The experience was enlightening: vodka coolers are surprisingly sweet, drinking makes you dizzy, and liquid courage isn’t as instantaneous as movies make it seem. The biggest surprise was how quickly the effects of alcohol wore off, and I began chasing that fleeting feeling. Every time I drank, I got drunk. At the end of my Not-SoSober October, I reverted back to my old, sober ways. I know for a lot of people, drinking is a huge part of socializing. It makes them feel confident, outgoing and bold. However, for me, it was the opposite. I was self-conscious as my friends excitedly waited for Drunk Taylor’s arrival.

I wasn’t more outgoing, just louder and less coordinated. I spent most of the month embarrassing myself. It was a month of lowered inhibitions, excessive PDA, and admittedly more vomit than I would care to disclose.

Alcohol just isn’t my cup of tea.

Nonetheless, I’m glad I tried it and found some answers. And although drinking may not be that appealing to me, the party atmosphere is. It doesn’t seem to matter if I’m sober or drunk; if I’m at a party, I’m more goofy, outgoing, and forward. But not drinking means I always have my wits about me and can skip the hangover. So, I raise my glass (most likely filled with kombucha) and toast to a fun night out, with or without alcohol.

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MUSE MAGAZINE

Falling in Love with my Gay Best Friend

by Kimberly Ng Have you ever been in love with someone you knew couldn’t love you back? And is love different if unrequited? Despite her suspicions about his sexuality, this writer remained hopelessly in love with her best friend. She chronicles her butterflies, her brave admission, her brutal heartbreak, and her bittersweet goodbye. Her experience shows us that even unrequited love can teach us lessons. And even when the line between platonic and romantic blurs, friendship is a form of love in itself.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY NOELLE OCHOCINSKI

ISSUE XVIII

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in love.

If not, this is what it’s like: Your insides churn like butter’s being made, every cliché becomes a holy mantra, you bundle yourself up in blankets to substitute their hugs. Suddenly, your mind becomes a time machine that portals you through universes of your future; you, laughing on the peeling grey couch he found on the side of a quiet street. “It’s in good condition,” he’ll say, before twisting you into a warm pretzel hug.

That was the feeling I lived with for two and a half years. I wanted to burst into a thousand confetti pieces, but we were such great friends, and no one wants to ruin a solid friendship by confessing their undying love. Also, I had some suspicions about his sexuality, so I ended up tucking away my feelings and playing the “we’re just friends” card.

In reality, every time he asked to hang out, I imagined a date. Every time our hands brushed, I wanted to hold on. I was crushing hard, and so, at the end of high school, after graduation, hands shaking, palms sweating, I dialed his number.

When he picked up, I finally said the words I’d only whispered to myself, “I like you.”

There was no awkward silence, no shock in his tone.

He said something along the lines of “thank you” or “I know.” He didn’t say it dismissively; I could tell he was genuinely flattered, but that was that. While I knew his lack of response was a rejection, our friendship continued the way it always had and I appreciated his casualness.

After high school, we attended different universities and grew apart.

Two years later, he messaged me: “Let’s meet up.”

So, we did. And, as soon as we started talking, the small batch of butterflies that I thought had disappeared quickly migrated back into my chest.

He told me about a guy - someone he had been casually seeing. Although I knew, this was the first time he had openly confessed his sexuality to me.

Hearing the words out loud felt like someone had jerked the rug from beneath me: knowing I was falling but unaware of the impact, until I felt the jolting pain of my knees hitting the hard cement.

A hurricane of feelings stirred within me: embarrassment that I liked someone who was gay; embarrassment from not knowing he was gay; embarrassment from being rejected without even getting a chance. Feelings of hurt and betrayal from him, from myself, from the fact that I never stood a chance, that I analyzed all the signs and situations completely wrong; the fact that he never felt or would feel the same heart-wrenching excitement for me that I felt for him.

I felt betrayed by my lack of ability to detect romantic affection from friendship-affection. The fact that, although I suspected he didn’t like girls, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling what I felt for him. I wanted to deny ever liking him, I wanted to convince myself that had I known he was gay, things would’ve been different. I wanted to downplay my feelings for him, crush them, and bury them out of existence.

As we walked side-by-side, even after all those years of absence, I still felt a sour mix of hurt, hate, and embarrassment. Rejection from someone is one thing, but rejection from someone who doesn’t like girls stirred something else.

When I look back at the four-page letter he gave me after we graduated, his words never fail to transport me back in time: “I thought you were a shameless idiot in Grade 9. But you changed me, step by step, to become a person who (sometimes) thinks in other perspectives when conflicts occur. You always say I’m fake; I actually disagree with you. Maybe I used to be really fake but now I’m at least 70% real. I am trying my best to defend others (e.g. I fight for Lena* when people try to cut in line). But Kim, you have to be more confident with your thoughts and ideas, don’t be afraid to speak up if you disagree with something. Believe in yourself and follow your heart.”

It’s cringey, it’s cheesy, and there are some grammatical errors I’m itching to fix. But his words feel like a time capsule—tangible evidence of a once close relationship. While we may not talk anymore, his letter reminds me of a time of innocence and genuine friendship, for which I’ll always be grateful. *Names have been changed

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MUSE MAGAZINE

why pursuing your passions is overhyped

by Varya Genkin

Confucius once said, “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.”

But should we be cautious when taking his advice?

During a recent conversation with my mother about my very uncertain future, I noticed a remarkable difference in the way we each approached choosing a career. Throughout the years, I’ve heard many times the importance of finding my passion and pursuing it.

Living in a time in which career opportunities are vast and virtually anything can become a job, it has always seemed rather unreasonable not to pursue a career I strongly admire. Conversely, my mother had never approached choosing a job as a matter of selecting the right option, but rather taking the opportunity as it presented itself. Growing up in Soviet Russia, she wasn’t endowed with the

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same opportunities that I enjoy. Because she had a family to provide for, job satisfaction was never a priority.

Compared to our parents, millennials boast the largest amount of resources ever known. The Internet has enabled the emergence of careers that never before existed. A quick Google search makes a list of job vacancies readily available.

A business venture can be brought to life from the comfort of our own couches. Given all this, why would we refrain from pursuing our passions?

Despite popular notions that “the more, the merrier,” I’ve found abundance isn’t always a positive thing, and it can generate unnecessary stress. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve begun scrolling through my Netflix recommendations and found myself an hour later still wrecked with indecision. When it comes to deciding on a career, abundance can be debilitating.

With so many options available, the pressure to make

the right choice inevitably increases. Unfortunately, more opportunity comes with heightened expectations regarding the outcome.

Ultimately, passion is as fleeting as it is powerful.

Is what you are passionate about now the same thing you loved five or 10 years ago? Choosing to rely on passion is assuming a job will be easier to maintain if you are passionate about it. We too often forget that passion does not replace the necessity for hard work.

Passion can develop within any career and can be found in any task–it’s just a matter of looking for it.

Making your passion your job also means that it’s no longer solely a source of enjoyment–it now requires diligent work and consistent effort. Doing this may make you resent the very thing you were once passionate about.

Maybe there is a larger lesson to be learned here. So often we focus on the bigger picture, our end goals, that we forget to appreciate the process in its greater detail. Perhaps, the fulfillment that we’re all looking for can sometimes be found right in front of us.

ISSUE XVIII

THE PHILOSOPHY OF CHANGING APPEARANCES

by Tiasha Bhuiyan A haircut sends a message. Chopping off locks shows a woman is moving on, bangs show she’s all business, and a new colour signifies she is no longer the same person. But can a pair of scissors and a bottle of hair dye really change who you are?

It’s no secret that many women feel in some way attached to their hair. As dramatic as it sounds, even a trim can signify change. We’ve been led to believe that changes in appearance will eventually manifest into real life changes, rather than the other way around.

Sometimes, a haircut is a cry for help. We’ve all seen some crazy stress-dye situations around exams. When you feel out of control in a situation, controlling anything, even hair, can be therapeutic.

Turns out, in contrast to women, haircuts are solely practical experiences for men. In an article by Express, a study showed that, on average, women change their hair every 18 months. Contrastingly, men tend to change their hair only four times throughout their adult lives. Of course, this difference could be due to the absence of “What Your Fade Says About You” articles from Men’s Health, compared to those in women’s magazines. Recent promotion of male grooming has led men to look for more options for hairstyles, but they still lack the emotional connection most women have with their hair.

So, if men do not use haircuts as a coping mechanism or as a pathway to self-discovery, what do they use instead? Society sees men as less emotional, so we could be oblivious to subtle cues of their distress. In fact, a change in appearance is a common coping mechanism for stress even if that change isn’t a haircut. New tattoos, piercings, clothes, or cars can be outlets for men’s stress relief.

Other lifestyle changes in both men and women can indicate unstable mental health. Does your friend who used to love partying suddenly want to stay in every

night? Did they switch from applying for career-related summer internships to wanting to drop out of school?

Of course, lifestyle changes could also be signalling a positive change in a person’s values. Your friend could drop out and want to pursue a music career seriously, or give up the party lifestyle to spend time on another worthwhile interest.

I don’t believe that haircuts, tattoos, or any other physical changes actually change who you are, nor do I think they solve any underlying issues. I do, however, think that we are constantly changing as we gain life experience. Our interests, views on relationships, and perceptions of ourselves are not constant. Sometimes, it may be easier to show people your new self through a haircut rather than a sermon. It’s important, however, that these changes signify embracing your new self, rather than running away from the old you.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCAS MCCOMB

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CHARLOTTE

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ISSUE XVIII

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY ZOE ZIMMERMAN Creative direction by Victoria Chan Creative team Karina Rebellato, Gabriella Banhara, Brianna Horton Makeup by Lauren Thompson

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUIS MANGUBAT

ISSUE XVIII

MORE THAN MULAN

by Mariana Uemura

When I was in kindergarten, my teacher asked us to draw self-portraits. I drew a girl with long, flowing blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

I am Asian. And I had a bowl cut.

While I don’t remember doing this, when my mother told me the story a few years ago, it didn’t completely surprise me.

As a child, my favourite Disney princess was Aurora from Sleeping Beauty. I was obsessed with Barbie dolls until about the age of 12 and I spent countless hours listening to Hannah Montana and Hilary Duff. As I got older, I became enamoured with fashion and watched countless hours of Gisele Bundchen and Kate Moss strut on Fashion TV. I had literally spent my entire childhood admiring blonde, blue-eyed, white women. So, when my mom told me the story about my self-portrait I thought, “Yup, sounds about right.”

Now, I don’t blame my parents for my identity crisis as a toddler. Race, culture, and identity can be confusing to navigate, especially when they mix, as they do in my case. My grandparents were Japanese immigrants who moved to Brazil. My parents were then born in Sao Paulo, Brazil and immigrated to Canada four months after I was born. So, when people ask me, “What are you?”

I never really know what to say. However, what I do know is that once my parents moved to North America, they were tasked with the impossible: teach me to embrace myself in a society that didn’t.

In the 2000s, pop culture was thriving, but it lacked diversity. From 2007 to 2015, Asian actors represented only 3.9% of speaking roles in films. Crazy Rich Asians was the first Hollywood movie in 25 years with an allAsian cast. But the problem isn’t that there aren’t any roles for Asians. Hollywood was, and often still is, notorious for casting white actors in minority roles. It makes no sense at all and yet continues to happen to this day.

As frustrating as it seems, I didn’t understand the importance of representation until I felt seen on the silver screen. Last summer, while I watched Crazy Rich Asians, I cried at the most random times of the film.

The same thing happened when I saw To All the Boys I Loved Before. Until now, I didn’t know how to articulate the overwhelming feelings I had. And as I write this, I’m still not 100% sure that I do.

I have come a long way in embracing my multiculturalism. I spent most of my childhood and adolescence minimizing my Asian-ness in hopes that it would make me more likeable, attractive, and relatable to my peers. Growing up, had I seen movie stars, celebrities, and models that looked more like me, I may not have believed myself to be the ugliest of my friends.

Had I known that guys like Peter Kavinsky could fall in love with girls who look like Lara-Jean Covey, I may have had more confidence. Had I realized that Asians could be strong, well-liked lead characters, I may have stopped reverting to being the sidekick, if not trying to blend into the background.

I needed films like Crazy Rich Asians and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before five or ten years ago. I am immensely hopeful for all the young girls who can now look up to Lana Condor, Constance Wu, Gemma Chan, and Awkwafina as they grow up. They will be able to bring their rice cracker snacks and bento-box lunches to school with pride and without being bullied. They will have movie characters to dress up as for Halloween and red-carpet beauty inspiration for prom. And they will finally have an answer to the question, “If your life were a movie, who would play you?”

Halloween costumes and lunchtime snacks may seem trivial, but the accumulation of these moments leads to the resentment of Asian culture. My whole life, I was mostly surrounded by white people both in real life and in the media. As a result, I always felt left out. For too long, Asian characters were only presented to tick the diversity box and usually perpetuated a certain stereotype. But that’s slowly changing. So long as representation becomes more and more prevalent, young girls can no longer minimize their Asian-ness but instead embrace it. And soon, they will feel like the star of their own narrative.

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MUSE MAGAZINE

Those Darn Funny Books COMIC VS. THE FILM INDUSTRY

by Samantha Stellato In an age where comic books have been relegated to the plastic sleeves of obscure hobby shops and the end cards of fan-favourite films, how can we reconcile this modern medium with the post-modern world? Shadowed by dominant media of the 21st century, comic book sales are on the decline. Though the film industry emerged just decades before the comic book, almost 100 years later, their disparities could not be more pronounced: while the film industry is a multi-billion dollar enterprise, no one is lining up at midnight for the latest comic book release. Every few years, modern technology threatens to reinvent the film industry yet again. In the content-saturated world of the free Internet, there can be hardly anything left to justify the production of comic books. The comic book was moulded by its insufficiencies; for example, the socalled ‘comic book font’ developed from the cost-effective tracing of typescript onto its flimsy pages. Its rise into mainstream consciousness is attributed to the allure of superheroes, enticing readers to spend a few extra dollars and encouraging

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growth in its own production value.

These surreal landscapes eventually ‘ran out of page,’ as the industry crashed when it failed to compete with film technology in the 1990s— at this point, the two mediums were telling the same stories. Since the 1950s, comic book superheroes have been refurbished for the big screen.

Superman was the first in a long— and continuing—line of adaptations, drawing the staples of the comic book industry into new territories without the restriction of theprint medium. The critical trend that was only emerging then is fully formed today in the blockbuster Marvel and DC films that consistently draw in a larger profit than their comic book antecedents; it appears film can do ‘comic book’ better than the comic book itself. Marvel’s Spiderman: Into the Spider-Verseuses the comic book’s distinct style alongside its Marvel-sized budget to capture what the comic book has marketed for decades. It indulges in text bubbles and panelling to emphasize particular shots and integrate movement into an otherwise static form. Beyond gimmicky additions, this film

renders the signaturered and blue 3D glasses effect on screen, without the 3D. The tinted images are placed side-by-side—not overlaid— to produce a vibrant and nostalgic design, reminiscent of those quirks still associated with the comic book form. Although the film industry has proved its ability to perform the comic book style on screen, the ‘medium specificity’ of the actual comic book prevails. Comic bookscraft stories to utilize their form, rather than to compensate for it. In Batman Vol. 1: The Court of Owls (New 52), as Batman loses his sanity, readers are compelled to slowly turn the page upside-down in order to read the dialogue, thereby appearing insane themselves. Partially, however, what still drives consumers to spend probably too much on comics is that same thing which incites us to brush the dust off our parents’ record players. It’s a nostalgia for a time few are old enough to remember, or have even ever lived through; it’s a mentality that imagines a parental figure leaning in, and badgering us to stop reading those darn funny books.

ISSUE XVIII

PHOTOGRAPHY BY NOELLE OCHOCINSKI

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MUSE MAGAZINE

HOW COUNTRY CAN SAVE THE FUTURE

by Angus Merry Before I delve into my spiel about Country and how I feel it can change the industry in coming years, I first want you to re-evaluate what music means to you. Not what it means to your friends, or your family, or whomever else might impact your disposition when it comes to the music you pump through your shiny new Air Pods – but you, the reader. So much of how we view things is impacted by others, and rather than consulting our own position on such topics, we often join the mob – pointing and yelling with torches in hands– never realizing why we actually do so. Hell, I’m guilty of this. I hate One Direction and I have absolutely no idea why. So, with what I’m about to talk about, in all of its cultural volatility, please attempt to read forth with an open mind.

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Back in 2017, Post Malone came under fire for certain comments that some felt undermined the sentimental depth of hip-hop as a wider genre. “If you’re looking for lyrics, if you’re looking to cry, if you’re looking to think about life, don’t listen to hip-hop.” Obviously, some people felt that these comments were absolutely ridiculous, considering Post has garnered his fame solely from the same genre he so easily criticized – but I can’t help but feel these comments were taken out of context. From reading further, it seemed that he was trying to say that today, much of what falls under the category of ‘hip-hop’ isn’t nearly as lyrical, or emotional as it used to be. And in that regard, I very much agree with him.

ISSUE XVIII

OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY. Now this doesn’t just apply to hip-hop, it applies to virtually everything in the music industry these days – even Country. Right now, literally anyone can post something on Soundcloud and become a musical superstar. Post Malone did. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?

Yes, there are obvious benefits, but the takeaways follow close behind. The biggest of which being an obvious lack of such musical elements that made old(er) music characteristically more advanced than most of what is produced today. Which brings us to Country.

If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even like country music that much. My argument is that so much music in the mainstream has gotten substantially worse in recent years, and for it to get better, it needs to look in places other than just the past. I think country mu-

sic is that place. Yes, it too has its space among genres that have taken a qualitative nosedive in certain areas.

However, even within songs that talk about dirt roads, Ford trucks, and Bud Light, there lies a deep and damning emotional honesty that other genres should be wise enough to learn from.

So, who knows? Maybe the next time you open Spotify, you’ll try listening to Tim McGraw’s greatest hits instead of bumping Tekashi 6ix9nine’s new album. If not though, please use your Air Pods. Nobody wants to hear that stuff out loud.

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like comment subscribe

by Sam Turnbull We all have these deep-rooted YouTube memories. Whether it be sitting in your best friend’s basement watching the newest FЯEDvideo or that Can I Have Your Number? clipover and over, we all can say that this website has a hold on parts of our childhoods. YouTube is 14 years old in 2019. In the midst of its pubescent rebellion, this video-platform has already been through its share of phases. There was live streaming, 3D clips, and even the completely unnecessary 360º videos. There’s also the famous YouTube Red, where we now can pay for videos we would otherwise watch for free. Talk about a moody teenager. Interestingly enough, one of its current endeavours has brought a new level of seriousness to its content. Moving past covers of “Riptide” and cringe-worthy American Idol auditions, YouTubers are now able to publish videos longer than the default 15-minute limit. This has brought about a new twist on the classic documentary. In the form of a heavily edited,

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found-footage-esque film, YouTubers are creating a new genre of entertainment. Last summer, we were all glued to our phones waiting for the newest parts of Shane Dawson’s investigative pieces on other Internet-celebs. This gave us, the common-folk, an inside look at the lives of some pretty controversial people. These were a step above standard click-bait, and a step in a new direction. With a combined total of almost 280 million views, Dawson’s free Internet content could have brought in an extreme amount of money at the box office. Or could it have? Maybe the reason we were so excited was due to the medium.

Maybe it was the price. The thing is, YouTube feels personal. It provides an effect that a traditional documentary can’t. These “films” are formatted as if we’re having a conversation with someone, and they’re telling us a secret. It’s relatable, and it works. There’s a reason YouTube Red isn’t as popular as Netflix. It’s not the platform we want to pay for.

ILLUSTRATION BY CHARLOTTE SMITH

We have other means of watching Ross and Rachel debate the existence of their break. YouTube is still that raw, real platform we grew up with. In some way, it makes us feel at home. YouTube has evolved from a place where we watch Charlie bite his brother’s finger to a legitimate business platform on which people make their living. It’s even brought us a new form of the documentary, where we as viewers feel as though we’re part of the cast. It’s strange to think that videos with puppets of Harry Potter characters or a duck looking for some grapes can bring back such vivid memories. It’s also strange to think that ‘regular people’ are able to produce feature-length films from their laptops. All I know is YouTube will continue to bloom in its never-ending search for the ultimate form of entertainment, and we’ll continue to stream it. As if it’s our very own younger sibling, we’ve all been able to watch this site grow up, and we’re not abandoning it any time soon.

ISSUE XVIII

TV ON THE BRAIN

by Jonathan Karr I’ve long grown up hearing from peers and adults that watching too much television would turn my brain to mush. As high school progressed and the number of shows that I religiously watched increased, I felt I needed to downplay how important television was in my life. I’d pretend to feel sorry for myself, sitting on the couch watching TV on a Saturday night, while, on the inside, I was in fact thrilled. From the comfort of my own living room, I could travel through different times and places, taking on perspectives I’d never be offered in real life.

Back then, these TV shows didn’t need to be high-brow. Since middle school, I’ve been obsessed with Survivor. Observing the interactions between people from different walks of life has brought me new perspectives, and allowed me to connect with people vastly different from myself. Today, This Is Us—often pegged as just a wine-and-cry show for moms—features characters coping with problems ranging mental illness, grief, addiction, adoption, racism, and body image issues.

While it may present a romanticized version of these journeys in which everything ends up okay, the show still creates a space for mass audi-

ences to think and talk about these issues. And while the government strips sex education from primary schools, shows like Sex Education and Big Mouth step in to educate on topics ranging from puberty to birth control options.

Our generation has seen a shift in TV. We were raised on shows like Friends and The Big Bang Theory in which only white actors were featured and the occasional nonstraight character was exhaustingly over-stereotyped. Throughout our time as teenagers, however, shows like Transparent and Dear White People have countered these narratives, shedding light on social inequalities and experiences of marginalized groups. As the face of TV grows, it’s awesome that more people are now finding television characters with whom they can identify. It’s also awesome that more people are now finding television characters from whom they differ, and from whom they can learn.

I’m not saying TV is the most important way of understanding other peo-

ple, nor should you prioritize it over other aspects of your life. Talking to people with lived experiences will likely always be more authentic than the romanticized stories put on television. It’s time, however, to move on from the narrative that nothing is to be gained from television. The past decade has shown us than TV consumers and creators are not lazy people, and movements like #MeToo and #TimesUp have proven it. While we can find some sort of educational aspect to any form television, its recent push for diversity has granted us the opportunity to admit how much we love it. I’m no longer ashamed to be honest about how much TV matters in my life; it’s a way to relax, but it’s also a way to learn, and don’t let anyone shame you for it.

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PAULA PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCY WELSH Creative directon by Gabriella Banhara Creative team Victoria Chan, Karina Rebellato, Donavan Williams Makeup by Jasmine Modupe

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MUSE MAGAZINE

ENGAGING THE MODERN EYE

by Grace Guest A few months ago, I stepped inside one of my favourite places. As an Art History major, the AGO feels like nothing short of a home. During this final year of my studies, the topic of public engagement has been particularly relevant, especially as we broach discussions of what comes next for our studies, careers, and futures. I might be comfortable with the basics of the history of Art, but what of this ominous future? The minds of Edward Burtynsky, Jennifer Baichwal, and Nicholas de Pencier seemed to pose a similar question in their brain child Anthropocene.

The exhibit, which was comprised of tremendous, high-definition photographs as well as interactive multi-media, focused on our “human signature.” In spite of the subject of human error and destruction, the work chose to illuminate rather than criticize. It used technology – hand-held devices that showed augmented reality (AR) installations – as a tool to literally place the public into the art, to implicate us in a tangible way.

Some have remembered the AR installations as lacklustre, overcrowded, and ultimately disappointing.

Despite these reviews, it’s difficult for me to deem the exhibit anything short of an invocation. I remember the advertisements peppered around Toronto, each emblazoned with the words, ‘COME SEE THE ART YOU HELPED CREATE.’ Maintaining a ‘we’ narrative throughout the experience, the curatorial focus on the collective still managed to leave room for individual perspectives and feedback. At its conclusion, the creators asked their patrons to choose a word that

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reflected the experience. They admitted that, in spite of the exhibit’s magnitude, their hope was not to hammer down criticisms and concepts on the public, but rather to breed fascination, awe, and curiosity. I am excited by this prospect of furthering conversation outside the gallery, about this new technology’s catalyzing potential for the newest art admirers.

Attention must be paid to the exit space of an entirely different display, in Yayoi Kusama’s profound Infinity Mirrors. The show was brought to a close in a white room, within which visitors could place colourful, spherical stickers in places of their choosing. Trivial to some, I found it intriguing that the artist chose to white-wash our familiar, everyday objects.

The focus was once again on the creative collective, on the value of art as it provides as much of a spectacle as it does an opportunity.

We are invited in, so we step inside. We are asked to interact with the work, and we comply, leaving our mark. It’s nice to think of our imprint on these kinds of exhibits as two-fold, with participation promising more memorable results. The idea of a human imprint Anthropocene so vividly highlighted might stay longer with the average viewer.

Beyond the clever marketing campaign, these technologies and creative modes might be changing the way we think about art on a day to day basis.

More and more exhibits are using apps like Anthropocene’s for their programming, making it possible for the public to bring the art–and more importantly the ideas behind it–home.

© EDWARD BURTYNSKY, COURTESY NICHOLAS METIVIER GALLERY, TORONTO

ISSUE XVIII

THE ART OF DESTRUCTION

by Taylor Ball The definition of street art has come to be both nuanced, and entirely controversial. Similar to graffiti, street art is often anonymous, public, and usually illegal. Both styles are known for their subversive commentary and ephemeral nature. However, a graffiti artist’s tag is usually created for other artists, while street art is intended for the public’s consideration. The first modern graffiti artist is believed to be Darryl McCray, also known as Cornbread. In 1967, the young high school student tried to impress his crush by writing his name all over town, going so far as to break into the Philadelphia Zoo to spray paint “Cornbread Lives” on the side of an elephant. Street art has wonhearts and minds by providing a platform for lovesick teenagers and cultural commentators alike. Keith Haring’s work examines issues like AIDS, drug addiction, and apartheid; Jean-Michel Basquiat’s creations explore dichotomies such as wealth versus poverty. Banksy, an England-based street artist, continues to provide a deeply cynical look at the commercialization and widespread popularity of street art.

To Banksy, public perception and appreciation of art is closely tied to the piece’s worth and the art-

ist’s name. The visual aspect of the art is of little importance. To prove this, in 2014, Banksy sold original, signed prints for $60 each in Central Park, New York. Only four people bought his work, the rest not realizing its authenticity and value.

In October 2018, Banksy’s iconic piece, Girl with Balloon, auctioned for $1.4 million. Seconds after the final bid, a shredder built into the print’s frame was triggered, and the work was partially destroyed.

Banksy documented the process with a video captioned: “‘The urgeto destroy is also a creative urge’ -Picasso.”

The destroyed piece, now titled Love is in the Bin, is estimated to be worth significantly more than the original price, due to Banksy’s viral video. His elaborate prank to criticize commercialism may have backfired. The art of destructionwas given new meaning. In 1995, street artist Kaws painted over bus stop advertisements. Calvin Klein models were groped by snakelike figures, while DKNY women were depicted with alien heads. The alterations, although foreign to the original ads, would have created waves and drastically influenced consumer attitudes towards the companies. Street artists are often

critical of advertising, especially when marketers appropriate their unique styles. However, graffiti and advertising are inherently similar: both occupy public spaces and beg for attention through repetition.

President Obama famously incorporated street art into his campaign. The iconic Hope poster was created by street artist Shepard Fairey. Some have marked this promotion as the catalyst to street art’s transition into mainstream culture.

The incorporation of street art into the mainstream gives me hope. Artists might always have a message to share, however, the medium through which they share it should be as open for interpretation as the art itself. In order to create something new, artists must have the confidence to break from the current practices and standards.However, these practices and standards will still leave remnants, as all of art is inspired by what has come before it. As Picasso famously stated, “Good artists copy; great artists steal.” To create great art, we must be crazy enough to steal inspiration from the world around us, be it bus stop ads, paper shredders, or even an elephant’s backside.

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I’m not very in touch with my Indian heritage. This isn’t too surprising considering my family has lived here for a few generations, but it’s still confusing when you look like you should belong to a culture from which you feel so disconnected. It really doesn’t help that the mainstream Western media, that continues to shape me, has a definitive lack of South Asian representation. Don’t get me wrong, the South Asian diasporic or “Desi” community has seen major breakthroughs these past few years. We see icons like Rupi Kaur and Mindy Kaling creating “brown” spaces within Western pop-culture, however, it seems as though the talent of South Asian creatives (namely, within the art world) is still relatively overlooked and underappreciated.

The artists I’m thinking of are those who are unafraid of sharing their cultural duality, those who are celebrating it. Consider the Pakistan-born Canadian pop artist Maria Qamar, for example. Popularly known under the name “Hatecopy,” Qamar effortlessly blends her Pakistani roots with contemporary North American sensibilities. She creates comical yet pointed commentaries about being a brown woman in the Western world. Her style fuses the banality and emotional exaggeration of Roy Lichtenstein with the pithy intricacies of Desi culture—all within the confines of a two-dimensional canvas. Consider also Babneet Lakhesar (AKA Babbuthepainter), an OCAD graduate who continues to subvert Indian stereotypes. Lakhesar creatively combines Hinduism and punk pop-art, translating vintage Bollywood movie posters onto the backs of oversized vintage denim jackets. These South Asian visionaries 28

effectively challenge preexisting mainstream representation, and have emerged as powerful creative forces to be reckoned with.

I didn’t expect to be so excited when I saw Lakhesar’s bold-browed and bindi-clad Indian girls at the forefront of her work, nor did I ever think I would experience such a perverted sense of comradery with Qamar’s comedic depictions (showing the struggles of living in a white patriarchal society). These artists have reignited a personal sense of pride for my heritage. Their work and their art help me in finding a balance between my cultural past and my cultural present.

There is nothing subtle about the messages these artists are sending. In fact, what is so refreshing about their work is just how unapologetic they are about their respective cultures. In pushing their heritage to the forefront of the public eye, they invite the contemporary viewer to peer into the inside jokes, the complexities of a part of the world that is often overlooked by mainstream pop culture. Both Qamar and Lakhesar are able to effortlessly portray a reverence for their roots.

They do this while simultaneously hybridizing these roots into something both contemporary and consumable to a modern Western demographic.

It’s easy enough, as an increasingly open-minded Western community, to believe we have done our due diligence. We look at popular brown celebrities as the be-all and end-all of mainstream South Asian representation, but beyond the milk-and-honeyed words of Kaur or the quirkiness of Kaling lies a trove of brilliant Desi creatives that can no longer be ignored.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY VANESSA HEINS, TORONTO LIFE

ISSUE XVIII

THE NEW SPICE GIRLS

by Henna Mohan 29

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCAS MCCOMB

ISSUE XVIII

CANADIAN RADIO LAWS ARE CRUCIAL TO PRESERVE CULTURE

by Maggie Gowland As the daughter of the ultimate Tragically Hip fan, I have always appreciated – and have on occasion been perplexed by – my dad’s affinity for Canadian artists.

My confusion subsided only after considering my own favourite artist, Dallas Green.

Dallas Green started his solo act of City and Colour in 2005. Having devoted myself to City and Colour’s career through nine years, six concerts, and five new LPs, I was surprised to learn that his music has little reach outside Canada.

Part of the problem with Canadian music culture is that people don’t realize it is Canadian. Canada’s music industry is the sixth largest in the world, producing international icons like Drake, Michael Bublé, and Shania Twain. Simultaneously, it introduces nationally popular artists that we take for granted, such as the Arkells, the Bahamas, or Marianas Trench—bands we are familiar with, who we don’t recognize as being Canadian.

The Canadian radio laws dictate that commercial radio stations must broadcast Canadian content for at least 35% of their weekly prime-time programming.

CBC radio ensures that 50% of their music selections are Canadian content. For some, this means less time listening to their favourite songs or their regular playlists—but it’s crucial for the Canadian music industry’s survival. In a world dominated by social media that draws exorbitantly on American culture, these laws allow room for Canadian artists to thrive.

For bands looking to start their careers, there is a dependence on community support. Characteristically,

they’ll play at local venues, and advertise themselves in local magazines—until they get noticed by someone willing to give them their big break. This applies to Canadian artists of all forms.

Although radio is not everyone’s preferred method of music consumption, it offers the opportunity of exposure for those small-time artists who catch some radio-play. People begin to recognize songs or names from hearing them in the media, whether it be Discover Weekly on Spotify or speakers in the grocery store.

Without realizing, people develop an appetite for these tracks.

When the Tragically Hip played their final Canadian show here in Kingston, 11 million people tuned in, uniting one third of the country’s population. The band – active for 33 years before Downie’s untimely passing – were inducted into Canada’s Walk of Fame and the Canadian Music Hall of Fame, won 16 Junos, and released 14 LPs. They never won an American music award, and their highest Billboard charting was No. 16 [with “Courage (for Hugh MacLennan)]. The Hip represents the pinnacle of Canadian music culture—and yet we see artists like Drake and Justin Bieber who were propelled to the international stage, arguably by their American connections (Lil Wayne and Usher respectively).

These radio laws allow Canada to both retain and form new aspects of a culture independent from the dominion of international music. They help Canada find confidence in their homegrown talents and voices.

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JEFFERY

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ZOE ZIMMERMAN Creative directon by Donovan Williams Creative team Victoria Chan, Gabriella Banhara, Ben Evans-Durรกn, Brianna Horton

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BRITNEY, JUSTIN, AND THE DENIM DREAM

by Claudia Rupnik Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake had been dating for more than a year when they walked the 2001 American Music Awards red carpet in coordinating denim-on-denim ensembles. Spears wore a patchwork, floor-length denim dress with a sweetheart neckline; Timberlake wore a Canadian tuxedo with an embroidered pocket detail and a matching fedora.

Coordinating fashion extends beyond the realm of the rich and famous—the concept of couples wearing similar clothing at the same time is a universal phenomenon that arises from the inherent human need for social belonging.

According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, following the primary requirements of physiological health and physical safety, the third level of human needs is a sense of “interpersonal belongingness.” Belonging can be obtained in many ways, including close relationships with family, friends, and romantic partners.

The need to belong is so vital to the human psyche that Maslow notes it can supersede the two primary needs for many people.

Psychologist David McClelland reaffirmed this concept when he proposed Need Theory, asserting that everyone is primarily motivated by one of three main objectives: need for achievement, need for power, and need for affiliation. Those motivated by a need for affiliation thrive with a sense of social security, and typically adhere to cultural norms and collaborative action as a result of their desire to feel loved and accepted.

Everyone wants to belong to something, and, moreover, they want other people to know they belong.

Fashion-wise, the conscious effort to dress like one’s

significant other is driven by a need to publicly convey the sense of belonging felt with that person.

Clothing is a form of visual communication that speaks volumes about the wearer; when the world first glimpsed Spears and Timberlake in their matching denim, they intrinsically understood that the popstar couple were attending the event together.

From boys that purchase ties in the same colour as their prom dates’ dresses to girl squads in matching crop tops and jeans to sports teams in matching jerseys, coordinating fashion is a means of organizing people according to exactly where they belong within various social realms.

In South Korea, this phenomenon is taken to the next level. In the first season of Style Out There, Refinery29 reported that “young and fashionable South Koreans are showing off their relationships through carefully coordinated clothing.”

The trend, which started in the 1990s, is cited as a means of celebrating their love in a subtle, but public manner that separates individuals in relationships from those who are single—demonstrating their place of belonging through coordinating colours, patterns, and silhouettes.

This trend is the result of a conscious effort from each South Korean couple—however, coordinating fashion can also be the subconscious product of spending a lot of time with a certain person. As the relationship develops, the rules and general vibe are established and it becomes natural to select articles of clothing that reflect the dynamic.

There are many ways to say “I belong with you,” and matching fashion might just be the most creative.

A deep dive into the psychology behind couples that match

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ISSUE XVIII

THE NAME GAME

by Sam Turnbull

The first time I did it, I was nervous. It was something I wasn’t used to and I didn’t know how to go about it. I was afraid people would think of me differently. Would they judge me if they found out?

Get your head out of the gutter—I’m talking about sewing.

I love clothes—I dare you to ask me how many pairs of pants I have. As a university student, however, it’s not in the budget for me to shop as much as I do; continuing to fill my retail-void and also afford groceries

is becoming an arduous task. It’s hard to keep up with which brand is in and which is on its way out, while still maintaining your own style.

The solution wasn’t even mine— my mom came up with the idea while we were shopping for jeans at Value Village. I was frustrated that the pairs with designer labels weren’t cute, whereas those I liked were made by brands no one cares about. My mom suggested I buy the ones I liked and simply strip the logos from others to make it seem like

I had purchased designer jeans. In the end, it would cost me less than $20 for a pair of pants that was listed for $120 at Urban Outfitters.

At first, I let the idea slide because I was sure people would notice I was faking. However, when I tested it out, the opposite happened.

The first day I wore my fake Tommy Hilfiger mom-jeans, I received numerous compliments, even from people I didn’t know. No one knew they were gawking at second-hand men’s pants originally from Walmart with a designer logo sewn on the waist. The reaction wasn’t because the pants look any different than the other mom-jeans I own; it’s because they were labelled with a big name.

It soon became a social experiment.

The more pants, shorts, and skirts I made, the more praise I received.

I’d wear a particular pair of pants sans-logo, and then again, with the new label sewn on. The exact same garment, styled the exact same way, elicited 10 times more compliments with a logo stuck on the back.

My experiment illustrated that we often see the brand before the item.

It was like wearing a counterfeit Chanel bag, except this time, everyone believed me. As time went on, I started to feel naked without the logo on my clothing. It became impossible to ignore the power logos have over our opinions on fashion.

Consumer-culture is a dangerous game—we need to be careful about what determines our values and opinions. I can’t say I’ll stop wearing my jeans, real or fake, but I will be more conscious of my spending habits It’s unrealistic for students to spend $100 on a piece of clothing just for the name attached to it. Brands come and go, but with my needle and thread on hand, I’ll be ready for the next in thing.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUIS MANGUBAT

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THE RISE OF THE WIDE-LEGGED PANT

by Claudia Rupnik For most of my life, I’ve been a skinny-jean advocate, however, a recent shift in pant design has caused my allegiance to sway.

A few years ago, my brother and I were standing in front of a wall of jeans in the back of Bluenotes, when he paused and stated that his ideal pant “doesn’t actually touch [his] leg.” This idea was appalling. It was 2014, and my teenage wardrobe was built around the necessity of wearing skin-tight, high-waisted American Apparel jeans every day.

Flash forward to earlier this year: I was standing in the change room of my local thrift store, staring at the collection of pants I’d selected from the racks. They were cropped, high-waisted, and notably, wide-legged.

Upon trying them on, I realized that none of them actually touched my leg, and, worse, I loved it.

I couldn’t recall the last time I’d purchased a pair of skinny jeans.

I remember the sad departure of my Topshop Joni jeans in the eleventh grade and the gradual disappearance of my skinnies-with-knee-slits a few weeks before graduation—mostly, I remember buying boyfriend-cut jeans, straight-legged trousers, and cropped flares.

Sidney Morgan-Petro, retail analyst at trend forecasting firm WGSN, told The Washington Post that the widelegged style is entering the mainstream of women’s fashion, describing the trend as having “pushed past the initial ‘early adopter’ stage in 2016 & 2017 into more mass commercial appeal in 2018.”

This shift in consumer preference can be understood through an analysis of micro and macro fashion trends: micro-trends are seasonal shifts in fabrication and colour, whereas macro-trends are gradual shifts in proportion and silhouette that occur over years.

The modern skinny jean became the choice for female consumers in the mid-2000s. For Gen-Z-ers, skinny jeans feel like an impermeable style basic however, they’re just one of many major trends in the last few decades. In reality, pant styles shift approximately every ten years, allowing them enough time to become symbolic of the decade in which they’re popular—think bell bottoms in the ’70s, tapered jeans 38

PHOTOGRAPHY BY GENEVIEVE NGO

in the ’80s, and boot-cuts in the ’90s. The skinny jean is just one pant macro-trend in a line of design shifts over the century.

There are a couple of reasons this particular style has become popular in recent years. The trend is, in part, a reaction to shifts in other recent changes in fashion macro-trends, including footwear. For example, chunky heels and bulky sneakers are better suited to looser silhouettes, and so pant design has changed to accommodate for the new demand.

Moreover, the wider silhouette provides practical physical comfort in a socially acceptable form that appeals to the athleisure crowd, who prioritizes functionality in their clothing. The wide-leg allows the wearer to move freely, while still, aesthetically, evoking a timeless elegance reminiscent of 20th-century fashion icons, like Bianca Jagger, Diane Keaton, and Julia Roberts.

After staring at my wide-legged reflection in the mirror of the change room, I swallowed my pride and purchased the pants. The skinny jean might not be dead as of yet, but it certainly has wide competition.

ISSUE XVIII

SURVIVAL OF THE CHICEST

by Jane Bradshaw

Fashion Week launches everyone into a fantasy world where it’s acceptable to sport a chiffon gown with a leather harness or thigh high snakeskin boots with a pilled cashmere tunic. My seven-season runway career was filled with new and exciting experiences. I walked in my first show at 15 years old, for New York-based designer Joseph Altuzarra.

It was held in an art gallery, where the van Goghs made a perfect backdrop for his velvet and silk patchwork daywear. When I was 16, I had my strapless bra unhooked by a male showhand backstage at Mikhael Kalebecause it could be seen through my dress—it was the first time someone else undressed me. At 17, I was given just a few hours’ notice before my flight to Milan for Fashion Week.

This was my first time in the famous city, and it was nothing less than chic— women floated across the cobblestone streets in leather Aquatalia stilettos, and men gathered around coffee stands in exquisitely tailored navy suits.

The southern canals were lined by the great Italian ateliers: Prada, Versace, Armani, Miu Miu, and Fendi.

In the week leading up to the show, I worked 18 to 20-hour days in order to make it to over 20 casting appointments. Some castings took a few minutes, while others involved waiting with a hundred girls in a stairwell for hours as the directors gossiped over cappuccinos with their assistants. When Fashion Week finally arrived, I had call times as early as 5AM.

In the streets, I had to fight my way through crowds of photographers to squeeze backstage, where my attention was pulled in every direction as my nails were painted, hair pulled up, and lipstick applied.

Then, we got called to line up and take “candid” shots with other models, hugging them and laughing, even though we were complete strangers.

Throughout my career, I learned that Fashion Week has a darker side. In the lead up to the main event, a new kind of chaos is unleashed upon an already frantic industry.

As a runway model, I witnessed desperate design teams treat us like cattle, and desperate models willing to bear the questionable eccentricities just to be a part of the flawless façade. In my most challenging moments, I think back to these weeks.

The hours spent sitting in a socialite’s house as editors circled around, sipping champagne and admiring the pajamas we modelled; the anxious moments spent watching a designer wear the shirt from my outfit to film a TV segment, and getting it back just seconds before walking onto the runway. It built a confidence that allows me to face any situation, no matter how difficult it may seem. All I have to do is take a deep breath and go back to those few seconds before I’d go on the runway: shoulders back, head up, slight squint, and then, when it’s time, step out from behind the wall and into the light, to momentarily embrace the glamour conjured up by Fashion Week.

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Liam

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCAS MCCOMB

Creative direction by Aisha Khalaf Creative team Victoria Chan, Karina Rebellato, Donavan Williams, Gabriella Banhara, Ben Evans-Durรกn, Brianna Horton, Martin Zhang Makeup by Smriti Shyam

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after the storm

by Hannah Quarin

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCY WELSH

ISSUE XVIII

He reaches out to hold my hand. I flinch. He goes to kiss me. I purse my lips. He starts to remove my shirt. I hold my breath.

He asks if I want to have sex.

I go numb. I flashback to the night my body was stolen by my rapist.

It took me more than a year to have sex after I was raped. I was given tools for therapy and legal aid, yet conversations about repairing my relationship with sex were left mute. For those who have fallen victim to sexual violence, your thoughts and impressions of sex are not felt in isolation. My rapist saw my innocence as an opportunity. He corrupted every thought I had about my sexuality. For years, I no longer welcomed intimacy, instead recognizing the touch of a man as a virus. I would shut down to a state of paralysis as my body disintegrated into a lifeless object. I had no sex drive. I found no pleasure in any act of sex. When I looked in the mirror, I wouldn’t recognize myself. I would hear my friends describing their mind-blowing sexual experiences as rough, kinky, and passionate.

For three years, I described sex as terrifying.

I wish that when I disclosed my assault, someone sat me down and told me what I know now. By virtue of all-consuming panic attacks, self-loathing, and experimenting with my boundaries, I now stand stronger than ever before. Every survivor’s journey is unique, but it does not need to be braved alone.

The discussion of sex after sexual violence has become taboo. People forget to tell you that sexual dysfunction is normal after trauma. Your psychologist may fail to mention that most assault survivors will feel excruciating pain while having sex, or will be incapable of reaching an orgasm. When you go in for an STI test after assault, your doctor may forget to tell you that you may seize up and cry on the table during examination. There are no pamphlets indicating the rush of guilt you will feel the first time you start to like someone again. Self-help books tend to gloss over the fact that your first time having sex after assault will be awful. The first time I had sex after my assault was worse than losing my virginity. I was awkward, nervous, and could only handle it for about two minutes. The journey is tough, it has ups and downs, and sometimes it will feel unbearable. However, it’s worth every second of the wait.

I have currently been a survivor for almost four years.

Who I am now versus who I was then is essentially

incomparable. I still struggle with the demons my rapist instilled in me, but now they’re much smaller and come by less frequently. Still, I will never be able to go into a shower with a man because all I see is my rapist—when he found me hiding in my dorm room shower and pinned me against the wall. Forming romantic relationships is still an obstacle for me, because my rapist broke all the faith I had in men. It’s strange to think that a single person had the power to break all the trust I had in an entire gender.

Yet, I am not ashamed of this.

From my own personal experience, I’ll leave you with a few tips: The first time you have sex again, do it with someone you trust and never be embarrassed to share your story. Their reaction will tell you if they are worth your time.

Masturbate. Learning to love yourself and your body may make you feel more at ease with the idea of intimacy with someone else.

Watch porn in bouts you are comfortable with.

Experiment and allow yourself to be vulnerable. It is not a weakness or a fault; vulnerability is something you can use daily to feel empowered and liberated.

Sex is not a burden for me anymore. My sex life is healthy, my libido is through the roof, and intimacy is now something I crave rather than fear.

To all my fellow survivors, I am here to assure you that your sex life can be rewritten into something beautiful once again. Rape has a rippling effect. It creates the fear that every person who looks at you the wrong way is a predator. But do not let your assailant’s selfish act become their legacy. What we tend to forget is that rape is not a form of sex, it is a form of violence. While it may take you one day, six months, or 10 years to find pleasure in sex again, I promise the day will come where all you want to say to your partner is “more.”

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCY WELSH

ISSUE XVIII

ROOM OF WATER

by Téa Stewart

This piece encapsulates the desolation and solitude that can arise in very simple and recurring moments, such as the coming of morning. These moments are sometimes hopeful and inspiring, and other times filled with despair.

This disparity manifests in the way we treat the people around us, as well as how we treat ourselves. It shows in the way we choose to crawl back under the covers, instead of putting on a pair of jeans and going downstairs for breakfast. We’ve all experienced these debilitating emotions, and I have tried to put these emotions into words. I describe a typical morning in the life of a teenager, a morning without any tragic circumstance, but for some reason riddled with difficulty.

I open my eyes.

It’s 8am, just in time to hear my mom knock on my bedroom door. She knocks every weekday just after 8 am to make sure I’m on time for school. It’s like clockwork.

I always wake up a couple minutes before she knocks, hoping to soften the shock. In awaiting her arrival, I can enjoy a couple minutes of silence while the morning sun creeps in through my window blinds that sit half-open. I’ve convinced myself of the substance that these minutes hold, and so I hang onto them with dear life. But they hang onto me with a tighter grip. They lie close beside me. And they remind me of their brevity by ripping off my clothes and slamming the door. I watch them slip from my fingertips as the noise of my mother’s footsteps pollutes my silence. The footsteps stop, and I prepare myself for the unsettling, yet very familiar, noise of my mother’s knock. All at once, I let go of the silence.

I let go of the silence, and the day begins.

No matter how familiar this morning routine becomes, the way it disturbs my repose always comes as a surprise. I have put much thought into how something so familiar can be equally as shocking and disquieting. It’s the same way we become so familiarized with the feeling of heartbreak, and we understand the inevitability

of its recurrence in our lives. Yet, its ability to surprise us is unremitting. You’d think that with experience, we would gain some sort of ability to be less agitated by these sorts of things. Still, I find myself jumping into cold water on the first day of summer for the millionth time, somehow still feeling the same rush as I did the very first. This is what waking up this morning feels like.

Jumping into cold water that doesn’t seem to get any warmer, nor any cooler.

It just stays cold.

My mother knocks.

She awaits a reply. I muster up a small groan or an insincere “Good morning, Mom”, so she’ll leave me alone.

Of course she deserves a much more loving response, but I can’t seem to give her one. Instead, I study the way the sun’s rays creep in through my somewhat-parted blinds and I stare at the stripes of light they paint in my room. My previously bleak wall turns into a canvas. And suddenly, I’m paralyzed by the fear of letting this delicate and indefinite beauty slip through my fingers, the same way I let those moments of blissful silence escape me. The fear of letting my eyes stray from the canvas envelops my body. And so, I stay in bed, and I stare at the painting until the cold water doesn’t feel so cold.

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BIBA

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ZOE ZIMMERMAN Creative direction by Karina Rebellato Creative team Victoria Chan, Aisha Khalaf, Brianna Horton Makeup by Smriti Shyam

MUSE MAGAZINE

THE 36-YEAR FINISH LINE WHAT IT MEANS TO FINISH YOUR DEGREE AT THE SAME TIME AS YOUR DAUGHTER

by Dorothy Engelman I am a mature Queen’s student. When I say “mature” though, I don’t mean this stopped me from staying out too late one Friday night at Ale, drinking tequila shots with my fourth-year daughter and her amazing housemates. What I really mean is, “mature” in chronological age.

I recently handed in my final assignment for ARTH250.

This would complete the last credit I needed to graduate…36 years after I first left Queen’s. In 1982, a credit short, and a year earlier than planned, I headed to the big city, and to what I hoped would be a big job.

Before every interview, I’d have this sick feeling. I was terrified I’d be found out, branded a loser, a dropout.

When I was starting out, my resume read: 1982, Queen’s University, Film Studies. I didn’t lie, but I also didn’t clarify if people assumed I had graduated.

Luckily, I landed one of those important jobs in an industry where most employers really only care about work experience. And there I was: with a dash of luck, the benefit of good timing, and a lot of hard work, I went on to become a success in my field.

Throughout my career I was frequently asked to speak with students interested in getting into the industry.

Inevitably, the first question was usually, “Where did you go to school?” With a lot of false bravado, I’d say, “I didn’t graduate. It’s not a big deal. Tons of successful people like Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were dropouts.”

The degree didn’t really count, or did it? If I’m honest, this sense of “incomplete” dangled over my head.

The nail in the coffin came when my daughter and I were touring Queen’s. I pointed out a few landmarks, and someone asked how I knew the campus so well.

My daughter jumped in with, “She went to Queen’s…” *big dramatic pause* “…but she didn’t graduate.” I was gutted. Destroyed. The one person I wanted to be the perfect mom for had touched on my insecurity. I was supposed to be her role model, her entrepreneur, her feminist figure, but it felt like all she saw was my failure to finish.

It was the tough love I needed. It took me a few years to sort out how exactly I would finish, but throughout the whole process, my biggest cheerleader was my daughter.

We all need support, for so many things. Know that people are there for you. Everyone wants you to succeed, and finish what you set out to complete. Don’t forget to ask for help when you hit the inevitable roadblocks you will face. While I don’t believe regret is a particularly healthy emotion, there’s a part of me that’s always regretted not completing that final credit, or that final year. Not because a B.A. is the most important thing, but because finishing what you start is…even if it takes a lifetime.

P.S. A month after I finished my B.A., I submitted my application for an MFA at King’s College. The lesson?

You never know where finishing will land you!

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ISSUE XVIII

PAINTING PATCHES

by Tanisha Amarakoon

Coping, acknowledging, and refocusing are key steps when addressing vulnerabilities. My own struggle has been with vitiligo, an autoimmune disease that destroys the melanocytes in the skin, leaving it without pigment.

In 2008, shortly after my diagnosis, I visited a skin matching clinic. I watched as a technician smeared various shades of brown foundation over my white patches. I left the store with five foundation products that would become familiar to me during my teenage years.

Vitiligo was never easy to hide. Although a non-dangerous condition in nature, having white patches on dark skin often sparked the curiosity of strangers. To avoid answering difficult questions and my voids of silence that typically followed, I covered my patches.

Since vitiligo is a condition that can’t be controlled, the patches that began on my legs appeared on my feet, wrists, arms, and mid-body. Through the transition, the relationship I had developed with my makeup only deepened. My foundation was a portable, seclusive shield that I could use to avoid awkward gazing, unwanted questions, and every feeling I had in between.

It was my form of coping.

University sparked my transition from coping to acknowledging when I decided not to paint my patches in residence. Although at first this was nerve-wracking, I was pleased not only to be greeted with positive reactions, but admiration. Suddenly I found myself in a confusing relationship with the products that had once brought me comfort. I began to feel guilty about hiding something that was a core part of who I was, and who I’d become. I started viewing my foundation as a double-edged sword—something that protected me, yet prevented me from seeing any hopes of a silver lining.

Thereafter, I began the process of refocusing. I challenged myself to divert my energy away from my condition. I began walking the halls of residence with ease, and later in my first year, I stopped covering my patches altogether. I started appreciating the lessons of openness, compassion, and non-judgement that vitiligo brought me. I dealt with the newfound guilt that

I had developed over my foundation by acknowledging that vulnerabilities and our coping mechanisms for them are complex, multi-faceted, and forever evolving.

Although I previously found comfort in my makeup, I now have friends, colleagues, books, and new hobbies to help me acknowledge an inescapable part of myself without letting it define me.

My foundation still has a place in my belongings. I like to remind myself of a lesson learned when I occasionally go to reach for it: our vulnerabilities and how we choose to deal with them can change from day to day.

We may have a love/hate relationship with our coping mechanisms. We may be talkative about our vulnerabilities one day and quiet about them the next. More importantly, we’re allowed to occasionally forget parts of who we are, suddenly embrace parts of who we are, or some days wake up and cover up parts of who we are, without ever dis-acknowledging who we are.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY GENEVIEVE NGO

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SPEAK & STAY SILENT

WHEN TO

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WHEN TO

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY NOELLE OCHOCINSKI

ISSUE XVIII

by Maddie Ward When do you speak?

I know this is a silly question. We speak every day to loved ones and friends. But, when do you really speak and say what’s on your mind?

Shortly after my grandmother died, I started to really think about the idea of life and living it to the fullest.

Through introspection, I realized a situation that I had spent the majority of my life repressing. I finally wanted to break free from the lies and tell everyone what was going on. However, it wasn’t entirely my story to tell.

I looked up to two people in my life. I truly thought they were perfect. It never occurred to me what I was doing was wrong.

Sick and tired of the lies, I told my father the secret I had been keeping from him: my mother had been cheating on him for the better half of my life. The worst part is, he had no clue. While I thought it was the “right” thing to do for myself and for him, I never really considered the repercussions for my mother. How could I have turned my back on her?

When my father confronted my mom, he swore he wouldn’t tell her I told him what happened. But as soon as you tell someone the truth, it’s hard to stop. My mother figured out that I let the secret out. She was extremely mad at me and said that what I told him was not my secret to tell. But how could it not be? They’re both my parents and they both mean so much to me.

These questions reappeared in my head recently when a friend told me that the boy she’d been seeing—who I always had suspicions about—was living a complete other life from the one she knew. ‘I knew it,’ I thought, immediately regretting the thought as it came. I never even told her. Could I have saved her from the heartbreak she felt, or would it have ruined our relationship?

I know that what happened was not my fault, but the lingering guilt resides. When my friends question their relationships with their significant others, should I tell them what I really think or say what I think they want to hear? I usually go with the latter, but where does one draw the line?

To me, that line resides in your morals and what you classify as right and wrong. This idea can be applied to more than just relationships: for example, writing essays that you don’t agree with just to align with a professor’s values. We often contradict our own values to get a good mark.

The next time you come across information that may not be rightfully yours, ask yourself: Where do I align my values? And, is it worth compromising them?

Unfortunately, there’s no easy answer to these questions.

The relationship I had with my mother changed in the weeks following this news. My parents separated and it was almost unbearable to be in the same room as my mother. We both hurt so much because, in a way, we both betrayed each other.

What really got me through this time was talking someone else through my emotions. It helped to talk about what made me break free from the lies that I lived in. My mother is not a bad person. She is a hurt person, and so was I. We forgave each other and our relationship is now better than ever. However, almost five years later, I am again confronted with the question of when to speak up. I’m again faced with deciding whether I should tell someone that what is happening to them is wrong, or remain silent and supportive. I find this especially true when my friends get into new relationships. How do you tell someone their boyfriend or girlfriend is using them or cheating on them? Do you even tell them at all? How can you tell someone you don’t really know that you saw their boyfriend on Tinder? Do you only tell a close friend? Is there a scale based on what type of friendship you have with someone? The questions are endless.

I don’t really have an answer to any of these. I just know the guilt of doing both.

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ISSUE XVIII

Empty Bodies a poem by Sarah Tripp

My name is Winston Smith I am 90% gin 10% saltwater I have never tasted the ocean But I imagine my tears offer the same lonely essence Maybe if I slit my wrists Enough saltwater would pour out That I could drown in an ocean of my own making I’ve never made anything before What a wonderful thing to imagine

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARSHALL MCCANN | EDITED BY PAIGE THOMPSON

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY LUCY WELSH Creative directon by Karina Rebellato Creative team Victoria Chan, Donavan Williams, Aisha Khalaf, Gabriella Banhara, Ben Evans-Durรกn, Brianna Horton, Martin Zhang Makeup by April Christiansen

ISABELLE

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MUSE MAGAZINE AT QUEEN’S D IRECTO RS Editor-In-Chief Lucie Quinlan Creative Director Karina Rebellato Business Director Laura Anderson Online Director Jane Bradshaw HEAD S Photography Zoe Zimmerman Creative Editorials Victoria Chan Editorial Samantha Fink Layout Paige Thompson Marketing Ryleigh Ebron Events Anna McAlpine Finance Stefan Negus

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EDI TOR I AL Lifestyle Editor Varya Genkin Fashion Editor Claudia Rupnik Entertainment Editor Jonathan Karr Arts Editor Grace Guest MUSE’ings Editor Sam Turnbull CR E ATI VE Donavan Williams Aisha Khalaf Gabriella Banhara Interns Ben Evans-Durán Brianna Horton Martin Zhang P H OTOGRA P H Y Lucy Welsh Genevive Ngo Lucas McComb Jeremy Marasigan Luis Mangubat Noelle Ochocinski LAYOU T Hannah Quarin Ella O’Connell Liat Fainman-Adelman Hareer Al-Qaragolie Natasja Diab Frannie Shen Victoria Pitoscia

MAKEUP April Christiansen Jasmine Modupe Lauren Thompson Smriti Shyam G RA P H I C D E S I G N E R Eric Chen V I D E O G RA P H E RS Chiara Manchia Lan Macdonald Brandon Royce MARKETING Abby Stewart Léa Lotey-Goodman Judy Walters Erin Macintosh S P O N S O RS H I P Katie Glover Molly Marland Lauchland Lee Business Interns Sierra Holas Savidi Edirisinghe E V E N TS Brodie Latimer Alexandra Chapleau

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ISSUE XVIII

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ZOE ZIMMERMAN 65

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