Issue
In This
andrew liu 2
Warming Up to the Apocalypse
Nicole fegan 4
Slice of Heaven Post- Turkeys 4
Giving Thanks Robert Capron 5
Too Old for Horsin' Around Griffin Plaag 5
That Is All
That Is All,
postCover by Lauren Marin
NOV 16
VOL 23 —
ISSUE 10
FEATURE
Warming Up to the Apocalypse Gratitude in the Face of Climate Change By Andrew Liu
W
Illustrated by Molly Young
hen I was 12, I loved conspiracy theories. Often, I would scour YouTube for mysterious videos that claimed to uncover a spectacular truth hidden from the public. Whether it was the banks, the Illuminati, or even corrupt lizard humanoids that ran the world, I would become a staunch believer. One theory that I was particularly obsessed with was the doomsday prophecy, which predicted the end of the world on December 21, 2012. The date was the last day that the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar included, a calendar that had no cycles. I would preach to my family about Mayan scriptures, ancient prophecies, and solar alignments that told us to prepare for the end. I’m not sure if I subconsciously knew we would all be fine, but I had a lot of fun entertaining the thought. When the day finally came, and the world passed all 24 hours unscathed, I was oddly disappointed, as if I’d been denied some cheap thrill that came with the end of the world. Now 20 years old, I’ve learned to go about my days
with a healthier load of skepticism than when I was a kid. For the first time in years, however, I believed a headline instantly. This time, I could appreciate what the end of the world actually meant. Several weeks ago, a news notification appeared on my phone with the headline, “We have 12 years to limit climate change catastrophe, warns UN.” I remember just feeling a cold, cutting chill slice through me as I read the article, as if some truth I had entertained in my head was finally said. For a few years I had heard about how our climate was starting to approach a critical juncture and about how, from that point on, natural disasters would escalate out of control. I had heard about how the Paris climate accord’s goal of limiting global warming to 1.5ºC to 2.0ºC was impossible to achieve, but I chose instead to focus on the celebrations of such a monumental agreement. However, internalizing the headline in front of me, there was no choice but to acknowledge that there was a real doomsday scenario approaching us. The report, created by the Intergovernmental
Letter from the Editor Here at post-, we’re completely sick of Thanksgiving. By now, everyone knows what’s going to happen: footballs will get kicked, racist histories will go unaddressed, and those stupid beltbuckle hats will continue to be a fashion disaster. We think the holiday has grown sterile, trenched and predictable in its repetitive ways. What you call respect for tradition, we’d call a serious crisis—our nation’s great spiritual imprisonment. So before we crash your party, replace your turkey with chicken, your cranberry sauce with ranch dressing, and your stuffing with a copy of Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, we’re gonna
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shake things up at homebase. Though you may count it among your blessings to read our magazine each week, we’ve combed this issue for five things that’ll make you feel unthankful for post-. Though such great writing made our task difficult, we’re confident you’ll put down this newspaper cursing your rotten luck. At top, Andrew Liu’s plea not to despair in the face of climate change will give you one less reason to be sad all the time. Dang! Now your sinuses will dry up. And after reading Nicole Fegan’s touching memoir of friendship and pancakes at College Hill’s La Creperie, you’ll be so starved for companionship
Panel on Climate Change, included 91 authors from 40 countries and over 6,000 references to scientific studies and journals. Its main emphasis was on limiting global warming to 1.5ºC above preindustrial levels in the 19th century. If we allowed the Earth to warm by the 2ºC allowed by the Paris accord, we would lose all coral reefs, potentially all ice in the Arctic Ocean, and up to three million tons of marine wildlife. On top of that, rising ocean levels would displace hundreds of millions of human lives, leading to inevitable war over resource shortages and mass migration as well as trillions of dollars lost in the global economy. If we limit the warming to 1.5ºC, we simply lessen the effects of these catastrophic outcomes. The report called for an unprecedented acceleration and remodeling of our world in terms of energy, transportation, business, land, and industry, with the target set at net zero carbon emissions by 2050. It states that “the next years are probably the most important in our history.” The report also includes hundreds of pages
that you might just eat your friends. Rats! Cannibalism gets life imprisonment in Rhode Island. Turning to the arts section as you await trial, you’ll be compelled by Griffin Plaag’s glowing recommendation of Aviary, the new Julia Holter album. Sit down to listen and plot twist—it’s 90 minutes long. You were gonna use that time to finish your essay! Too late now! Expelled from Brown, you flip, despondent, to Robert Capron’s stunning tale of a redemption found in Bojack Horseman. "This could be my salvation," you’ll think. But wait, oh no—you sold your Netflix subscription to pay for lunch! Returning at night to your pitiful shelter, you pull our issue over you as a
makeshift blanket. As it drapes your eyes, you notice a piece you haven’t read yet: a modest collection of the people, places, and little pleasures our staff is grateful for. A snag catches in your throat; you too had things to be thankful for, once. As you start to cry uncontrollably, the wet newspaper disintegrates in your arms. post- has stolen everything from you, and now it is gone. Happy Thanksgiving. So turn the page, if you dare. Best case-scenario: you’ll read too fast and get a paper cut. Happy Thanksgiving,
Julian
managing editor of arts & culture
detailing necessary protocols for policymakers to pursue. It remains doubtful what actions will be taken. Despite one of the greatest pleas for action in scientific history, those in charge seem to have greater priorities, at least in the United States. The coal and fossil fuel industry still has several years of lucrative profits ahead, and policymakers (often funded by these massive corporations) intend to milk every drop for their re-elections and local economies. We live in a system almost entirely based on these short-term gains. Manufacturing and industry, America's greatest strengths since World War II, largely dictate the lobbying and influence of our politicians, who lose elections the moment they bring up carbon taxes or decreases in coal use. I appreciate America’s values of ambition and progress, but not when it entails blackening skies and rigs drilled deep into the earth. There is a difference between progress and transgression. We have always suspected that taking megatons of carbon that have been stored deep underground for millions of years and then pumping them into the sky was perhaps not the best option for the environment, but such logic has so far been pointless when there are greenbacks to be earned. Indeed, President Trump has withdrawn from the Paris agreement in favor of the coal and fossil fuel industry, and the United States is not alone in prioritizing the economy over the environment. Jair Bolsonaro, the recent President-elect of Brazil, claimed during his campaign that he would ramp up agribusiness in the Amazon rainforest if elected, leading not only to the demise of massive portions of the forest but also the potential genocide of its indigenous peoples. The government of Saudi Arabia has proposed no plan to steer the country away from exploiting its rich oil reserves, and it remains to be seen if they will stay true to their commitment to the Paris agreement. Under their current carbon emissions growth rate, the country’s greenhouse gas emissions are projected to double by 2030. For me, the scariest aspect of the Paris report is how it destroys normalcy in my life. All the excitement in the future pursuits of my education, career, and passions is now completely put out of frame; my worries about deadlines, assignments, and exams now feel meaningless when our planet’s delicate ecosystem is on the brink of collapse. All the dystopian and apocalyptic prophecies that I used to be fascinated with may now very well become reality, and suddenly they no longer seem so fun to entertain. A few days ago, I discovered a source of hope. My favorite view on campus is the path between MacMillan and Marston Hall that heads toward Soldier’s Arch. A few days ago, with colorful leaves floating in the breeze and strewn all over the ground, the scene looked absolutely stunning. I’d been thinking about the report for a long time, but in that moment, I realized that the picturesque scene before me was more vivid than usual: The air felt clearer, and the sun was just the right complement of warmth to the cool breeze. After seeing the report, I realized that everyday scenes like this have become
extraordinary for me. Now, I find myself carrying a large store of gratitude for the perfectly normal days we have left. Moving forward, I hope to go outside more. I have always been a bit of a homebody, but I have also assumed the days of traveling or even taking a walk outside would always be there for me in the future. I’ve recently noticed how amazing it is that we have heat and electricity in the midst of increasingly violent rainstorms and windy days, but I also imagine how much energy I must be sapping every second for that comfort. I’ve become more aware of times when I have consumed more resources than needed, of times when I needlessly enlarged my own carbon footprint. I am now aware of so many luxuries I took for granted when I was a kid and am extremely grateful to have had a childhood where I could speculate about armageddon, knowing it was just speculation.
It is far too easy to shout at the world and expect things to change, and it is far too easy to be angry and turn a blind eye to all the good in the world. Instead, perhaps the true message of the climate change report is not one of panic or resignation, but of encouragement to find an unprecedented unity with each other. In a strange way, the climate change report allows us to see the small miracles in the world around us more clearly. Whether it is the cool mornings, the tiny robins hopping outside my dorm, or the squirrels that never seem to be afraid of me, I realize how lucky we are to be able to take such things for granted. At the same time, I realize how heart-wrenching it would be if they began to fade away, replaced by unpredictable storms, collapsed ecosystems, and silent forests and oceans. It is an amazing thing that we often only see how beautiful and valuable things are when we also realize that they are temporary. Today, circumstances are far more grim, and it falls on each of us to take responsibility. We must be grateful rather than despairing for what we have today, for only then can we have the hope and inspiration to improve. For my part, I will try to use less electricity, eat less meat, and affect policy in any way I can. These are meager contributions to a problem dozens of orders of magnitude larger than I am, but collectively, if each one of us takes this responsibility, I believe we can make a sizable difference.
I have always been someone who tries to find happiness in the worst of any situation and make any positive outcome seem like a luxury. I think it is one of the reasons why I could stomach so many conspiracy and armageddon theories as a kid. Recently, whether out of maturity or confusion, I’ve found myself becoming more cynical, having less hope, and feeling especially annoyed by the people in tinfoil hats. I realize now that there is no progress or hope in that approach. It is far too easy to shout at the world and expect things to change, and it is far too easy to be angry and turn a blind eye to all the good in the world. Instead, perhaps the true message of the climate change report is not one of panic or resignation, but of encouragement to find an unprecedented unity with each other. We must feel gratitude and compassion for all life with whom we share this planet. Perhaps then we can lead our lives with responsibility not only for ourselves but also for everyone else. This Thanksgiving, I hope we can all find a larger source of gratitude than ever before. I encourage each of us to be more aware of the beautiful fall leaves, the brisk air, and each one of our family members, no matter how they might ruin the conversation at the dinner table. Because everything, including the very ground we stand on and the sun that shines every morning, is far more fragile than we once thought, and we can take none of it for granted. This Thanksgiving, I hope we can turn that into a blessing in disguise with a deeper and more poignant sense of gratitude for our food, family, and friends. Here at Brown, we are part of the generation that will be the most equipped to positively impact our climate within the next decade. When I go through each day on campus, I have no doubt that we will. I see the most supportive groups of students helping each other through tough times, keeping their spirits full of hope despite this overwhelming time of year when everything happens at once. When we graduate, we should not forget to keep our hearts open and extend our gratitude for each other to the communities and ecosystems that we will impact. The world just might depend on it.
Slice of Heaven Crepes and Friends
By Nicole fegan Illustrated by katya labowe-stoll
A “
re you kidding me? It’s like a pocket full of goodness.” We are bent over four Nutella crepes, tucked inside the best hidden place in all of Providence: La Creperie on Fones Alley. Over the past few weeks, we have made our way through all of the Brown University staples, including Baja’s, Bagel Gourmet, and even Jo’s. Tonight, it is my turn to choose the spot; I could think of nothing more joyful than a crepe dinner and dessert in this perfect little nook I discovered over a year ago.
“Cruciferous vegetables smell exactly how they sound.” " Are we saying that vegans are humans?” “It’s like the NJ speed limit—no one can get a bad November 16, 2018 3
NARRATIVE
Giving Thanks (And Serving Tea)
By post- turkeys Illustrated by Rémy Poisson
Exhausted one evening after hours of setbuilding for a PW show, I had sauntered down Thayer Street in search of some semblance of solace. In a cramped, lively eatery and a chicken and mushroom crepe, I found it. Since then, La Creperie has become my biweekly treat, an indulgence for when academia bogs me down, and this night is no different. It is a classic October evening with friends, filled with food, general tomfoolery, a Red Sox game, and friendly yet not-so-subtle digs at my inexplicable quirks. As I cut a corner slice from my Nutella-strawberry crepe and pick it up with my hands, I am greeted with a cacophony of wonder and disgust. “Nicole, what are you doing?” “Hey, I just like to pick it up sometimes. It’s easier to eat this way!” Griffin gives me a look of loving confusion. Henry laughs at Griffin’s mockery of me. Matt, who often shares my oddities, nods his head in approval. We are two months into my junior year and finally, it feels like perhaps I have found my niche —my boyfriend Griffin, his two friends from high school, Henry and Matt, and Matt's girlfriend Kelsey, a wonderful former-Chicagoan who now works in Providence (and is as invaluable as the rest despite not having experienced the crepes). Brown University has given me people I will hopefully be friends with forever, but there is something special about off-campus friends. With them, it feels like the entire Northeast is ours to explore. On the weekends, we slip away to places I lay no claim over—a tradition that I have merely latched onto. Apple cider donuts on a faraway farm, Newbury Comics trips that last too long and result in unnecessary purchases, Friendsgiving bowling expeditions and movie viewings. If the objective of our time on this planet is to consume as much life as possible, then I am constantly succeeding with them, even if it just means playing Rummy and listening to Miles Davis with the lights dimmed in a stuffy Grad Center dorm room. In the quiet moments when my mind betrays me, I waste energy thinking about how these traditions existed before me and may exist after me. Sitting down to write this piece, I began with an anecdote taking place in La Creperie as opposed to one from Geoff’s Superlative Sandwiches. That’s another Providence staple we often frequent, but Geoff’s is not mine to write about. Sophomore year, Griffin and Matt spent their Fridays attempting to try all of the dozens of options Geoff ’s has to offer. Maybe I am only incidental, and who am I to wax poetic about a friendship that does not require 4 post–
me? Despite the impulse to frame myself as an observer, writing a love letter to people who are not my own, my fear over being unneeded quells once I remember how we all became friends. It is absurd to me that I ever experienced Brown University without Griffin. A whole semester passed before we clumsily stumbled into a friendship thanks to a Jacques Khalip lecture. The first time I met Matt, I had tried to jump on a wall and sit on top of it, but I missed and instead gave myself bruises and scratches on my elbow (of which I can still see the scars)—not quite a picture-perfect beginning. Henry, for a long time was “the quiet friend, ” but now I realize he probably understands all the secrets of the universe. And I didn’t even meet Kelsey until a few months ago, but already, when I see flowers blooming despite the autumn coldness, I think of her. This friendship was haphazard until one day it wasn’t, and I’m lucky to be a part of that.
If the objective of our time on this planet is to consume as much life as possible, then I am constantly succeeding with them, even if it just means playing Rummy and listening to Miles Davis with the lights dimmed in a stuffy Grad Center dorm room. We leave La Creperie and walk across campus back to our dorm to watch the Red Sox win yet another game (thanks in large part to Henry’s lucky hat, which has not failed us this postseason); there is wackiness and lightness galore. Matt refuses to stop quoting lines about the Sopranos character “Uncle Pussy,” a joke that understandably confuses to every passerby on the sidewalk. I trail behind a few steps, lost in the nighttime clouds with Big Star’s song “September Gurls” stuck in my head. I hear the line, “December boys got it bad” over and over, and in it, I instead see myself—a girl born in December falling in love with the music of our collective footsteps crunching the autumn leaves. I am consumed with the notion that perhaps beauty is not abounding but localized—all centered in this one mundane moment that feels like everything all at once as we walk southwards, together.
Thank you to my phone alarm—without you, I quite literally would not be here. Thank you to the SciLi; at first you were intimidating, then dreary, then stressful, but slowly and surely, you’ve become home. Thank you, Hillel—you ease my mother’s heart when I lie and tell her I go to you. Thank you, Blueno’s lamp, for being a dependable, albeit slightly unsettling source of light on cold, dark winter nights. You light up my world like nobody else. Thank you to all the BUDS workers serving dinner for students staying on campus during the holidays. Thank you to the Jo’s workers who always give me extra fries, as long as I ask. Thank you to the young man standing beside the Sharpe Refectory pickle jar last Tuesday; you saw I wanted a pickle, and you reached in and handed me one. Thank you, Ratty plantains, for being the underrated star of all dining hall options. Thank you, Walt Whitman, the greatest ‘Murican poet! Thank you, Twenty One Pilots, for creating quality existential music for my life. Thank you to every friend who has stayed with me this long and every friend that has left, too. Thank you to my roommate for shushing yourself when you close the door too loudly after stumbling home drunk at 2 a.m. Thank you, Kathy. You know what you did. Thank you to my toaster oven for being the only piece of kitchen equipment I need. Thank you, Thanksgiving, for giving me time to study my French. Bone apple teeth! Thanks, Providence rainstorms, for consistently destroying every umbrella on campus. Thank you to the Great British Bake Off for helping me procrastinate and dream of dampfnudels. Thank you, November, for making it (finally!) socially acceptable to play non-stop holiday music— because this is exactly what I plan to do. Thank you to my shower flip-flops for protecting me from other people’s hair and other rank substances. Thank you to the construction on Thayer for giving me even less of a reason to look both ways before crossing the street. ~“Shout out to my ex, you're really quite the man. You made my heart break and that made me who I am.”~ Thank you, Ex, for setting the bar so damn low. Thank you, FedEx, for being more reliable than my ex. Thank you to the person who wrote me a BBA and never followed up on it. Thank you to all the cute boys who have swiped right and stroked my ego. Thank you, social awkwardness, for ruining every encounter I’ve ever had with a cute boy.
ARTS&CULTURE Thank you, God, for making me a cute boy though I don’t understand why people keep running away from me???? Thank you, cute boys, for being aesthetically pleasing, even if none of you know how to flirt. Thank you to the boy sitting in the window of Shiru. It was a Wednesday afternoon when I first saw you. You were wearing a red cap and the steam from your hot chocolate fogged up your black-rimmed glasses. I tripped on the uneven sidewalk outside, and you looked up at me with bright, coffee-colored eyes. You mouthed something, but I could not tell what you said. Did you say, “I love you”? I wanted to tell you I loved you. I wasn’t sure why. I saw you again a few days later. You were still wearing a red cap. “Thank u, next.”
Too Old for Horsin’ Around:
A Former Child Star’s Odd Kinship with An Alcoholic Horse By Robert Capron Illustrated by monika hedman
H
ave you ever looked in the mirror and seen a drunken middle-aged horse staring back at you? As a relatively recent fan of the Netflix Original Series BoJack Horseman—which just released its fifth season—I find its wide appeal equal parts fascinating and chilling. The chronically depressed, selfdestructive BoJack (brilliantly voiced by Will Arnett) is a problematic yet empathetic protagonist, one whose obnoxious attitude, debilitating drug problem and moral failings are counterbalanced by his desire to be better. The glimpses of BoJack’s past that are provided often offer context (though not justification) for his behaviors–a necessary element, as on the surface level he appears very privileged. You see, back in the 90’s, he was in a very famous TV show: a cheesy family sitcom called Horsin’ Around. Now the show is a dated relic, his career is in the toilet, and he’s paralyzed by self-doubt and fears of irrelevancy and inadequacy—fears I faced myself when walking through the Van Wickle gates two years ago. For I too have a history with acting, and while BoJack would likely take offense if you didn’t know his name, I’d be surprised if you recognized me at first glance. Though my claim to fame, the Diary of a Wimpy Kid films, proved enormously successful amongst preteen crowds (and has maintained some relevance through nostalgia as its audience has aged), the characters easily eclipse their actors in name recognition. I’m not Robert Capron, famous Hollywood personality or award-winning actor. Instead, I am Rowley: the innocent, fat best friend of the titular Wimpy Kid, a role complete with a silly catchphrase to garner the affections of children everywhere: “ZOO WEE MAMA!” To say this casting changed my life would be a gross understatement. For all intents and purposes, this role is my life—a feeling that has grown more twisted with age. That I now feel such a strong connection with a fictional middle-aged horse suffering from depression is a testament to that. And why shouldn’t I? It’s one thing to be a “child star,” regarded with awe and wonder by your friends, the world at your feet before you even knew what that means. It’s another to be a twenty-something who feels most confident around people half his age and whose star-power burns off the dwindling embers from a decade-old role. With every passing day, I feel my personal connection to these films become more tenuous, their right to dominate my life passing with
time. A compulsive need to demonstrate my abilities and prove to those around me that I was more than Rowley took hold even before I had even left middle school. Resting on laurels won at the age of thirteen didn’t appeal to me. My time at Brown would be more than Rowley—it would be me. Except it wasn’t. Parties and coffee dates would turn into amateur interviews, new environments where I’d get the same-old questions and give the same-old bullshit answers to hide my festering anxieties. Allow me to present a little sampler: Q: “Why aren’t you fat anymore?” A: (Eating disorders, but I don’t know you, so...) “Exercise!” Q: “Do you keep in touch with the rest of the cast?” A: (They’ve all either totally eclipsed me or been sorely let down by my lack of communication, which has mostly been my own fault, because I’m often too busy with things I perceive to be more important but in actuality aren’t, so…) “We talk once in a while!”
With every poor decision BoJack made came an understanding that, unless I properly addressed these issues, my own fate would be quite similar Q: “Why don’t you act anymore?” A: (Well, I haven’t booked a new project in quite some time, but to concede that would be to admit my crippling insecurities regarding my acting ability, so…) “I’m focusing on my education!” Q: Are you depressed? A: Is it that obvious? Of course, I’m aware these complaints come off as privileged. Who am I to find issues in a life so wondrous, so full of opportunity? The places I’ve been, the people I’ve met—I wouldn’t, couldn’t change a thing. Still, it’s painful to think that I no longer occupy the platform I once did–and that when I had it, I never recognized what it meant. I fear that this role will define me forever—the former fat kid, the has-been, a gimmick who’s already had his fifteen seconds. You probably understand now that BoJack Horseman was an out-of-body experience for me. BoJack drowning out the noise at a bar, a random woman in the back whispering about him being “the horse from Horsin’ Around,” laughing about how fat he looks; me, sprawled out in a half-drunken stupor, nodding along as I’m introduced as the “fat kid from the movie” and questioned as to why I quit acting. I saw a
kindred spirit in this sad humanoid horse. For the first time, I began to see the issues I had been dealing with as actual issues, not just symptoms of ingratitude. My refusal to acknowledge the effect of my career on my mental health was now being contested before my eyes. And with every poor decision BoJack made came an understanding that, unless I properly addressed these issues, our fates could be quite similar. More anxieties began to arise: was this a sort of prophecy for my own path? Was I condemned to feel this way forever? If BoJack couldn’t escape his past, could I? Only now, after many frank discussions with friends, family and professionals, can I see the dangers of such close identification. This show, more than anything I’ve seen recently, has the potential to dramatically affect how people like me see themselves. But there remains, I think, a point where viewers must separate from the show and interrogate how its message can best be interpreted in relation to his or her own lives. We tell stories not to define who we are, but to inform who we are, and shape ourselves accordingly. I can still keep Bojack Horseman around, but not too close. I’ll let it remind me that I still desperately wish to remain in filmmaking, and of the the steps I must now take to stand on my own. In the most recent season’s stand-out episode, “Free Churro,” BoJack concludes that the truth about life is that “you never get a happy ending because there’s always more show.” Perhaps. But you also don’t have a group of writers dictating where that show goes from here. You’re the writer all on your own, not a passive character. In the end, it’s just you and the person you want to be. And I know, thanks to the wonderful community I have assembled here, that that person is not named Rowley or BoJack. He’s named Robert.
Thanksgiving Traditions
1.Fighting over politics 2.Awkward hugs with grandparents 3.Trying to remember who that is in front of the 4.pumpkin pie 5.Cranberry sauce! 6.Saying how thankful we are for non-material things, like family, love, and joy, and then immediately barreling to Walmart for Black Friday deals 7.Prepping your Christmas playlist 8.Missing the Ratty, for some reason 9.Dumping that boy from high school 10. Ignoring the long history of genocide of Indigenous Peoples
November 16, 2018 5
ARTS&CULTURE
That Is All, That Is All
A review of Julia Holter's new album Aviary By Griffin Plaag illustrated by lauren marin
I
, like many other musically minded people with an at least moderate inclination toward aesthetic observation, have a thing for the city at night. Did that sound pretentious? That's good; it was meant to. Understanding the appeal of art-pop musician Julia Holter's meandering and frustratingly abstract discography requires one to put on the cap of the aesthete; her music, which shrinks the gap between the profoundly minimalist and the lushly orchestral, was designed for neon-lit voyeurism. To the nighttime people-watchers of the world, Holter offers a distinct brand of aural salvation. Therefore, the October release of her album Aviary was exciting for me. I’d heard two other Holter albums—2013’s Loud City Song and 2015’s Have You in My Wilderness—and found that both captured feelings of deep loneliness and sorrowful disaffection with rare concision. The former, Holter's loose adaptation of the novella/musical Gigi, saw her juxtapose the odd, claustrophobic horror of the cityscape with lilting sax lines a la Steely Dan's "Deacon Blues," The Blue Nile's "The Downtown Lights," or pretty much any grandiose paean to late-night languor and purplelit lounge brocade you can summon to mind. Hazy, bleary, seen and not seen, lonely and surrounded, the entire listening experience is disheartening, cold, and disturbingly empty for all its orchestration. It's sort of like living in a particularly cynical Lite-Brite creation. Have You in My Wilderness, meanwhile, takes a completely different approach, masquerading as what exclaim! Critic Cam Lindsay calls "warm, breezy pop music" despite concealing deep longing. It's more immediate to me than its predecessor, as Holter eschews Loud City Song’s atmospheric, ambientleaning sensibility for songs that are catchier and even
(gasp) pop-oriented. But there's just as much poignant, bird's-eye-view storytelling happening here, even if it’s conveyed more through precise lyricism than elaborate soundscapes. Part of what fascinates about Aviary is that it flies in the face of what Holter's pop songs had accomplished and instead doubles down on her exploration of the vast and intangible. If, as Pitchfork's Winston CookWilson writes, Have You in My Wilderness "embraces the specific, rather than the eternal," Aviary appears fixed on doing exactly the opposite. This isn't to say, of course, that Holter hasn't been expertly vague before; there's really no answering why a sentiment like "he lights his cigarette with nothing" is so emotionally impactful (though it definitely is). But Aviary, which is twice as long as its two predecessors s, has no interest in grounding its sprawling aspirations; instead, it seeks to immerse, to inundate, to elevate. Though a return to Holter's rain-slicked sidewalk variety of roomy ambient, I think to read Aviary as retreading the form and style of Loud City Song would be a mistake. First of all, there's something mobilizing and frenetic underneath the late night soupiness this time; where Loud City Song's opener, "World," created its scattered effect through an absence of accoutrements, Aviary's "Turn the Light On” immediately plunges the listener into a miasma of sounds before segueing into the more restrained “Whether,” which, like many of Aviary’s tracks, comes across delicate and sparse. Though the midnight malaise Holter's introduced us to in the past is being revisited here, there's clearly something more at play—a certain finesse, a certain clear-headedness, a distinctive and incisive creative voice that has been given room to breathe. Her vocal performance is more central, more confident. Her melodic decisions feel studied and exact. She isn't just making you feel like you've wandered into the aftermidnight lounge atmosphere of a Roxy Music album cover; she's deconstructing the very notion of why her music makes you feel that way, employing every conceivable technical flourish to create her desired effect. The heady, cerebral philosophical explorations of Have You in My Wilderness and the nocturnal disaffection of Loud City Song have been synthesized into a work of such breadth as to make those excellent albums look banal. Let me elaborate; it isn't just that Aviary is an hour and a half long, or subjects you to long segments of eldritch, chanted-not-sung vocalization, or features, among other instruments, many startling, loudlymixed bagpipes. It's that it does all of those things while at the same time exploring the empty beauty of artificial-lights on a river and the harrowing, abyssal labyrinth of human emotions undergirding the reasons for that beauty. It takes the aesthetic and turns it into an exploration of psychic discomfort, questioning the notion that a kaleidoscopic reflection of a city grid could be beautiful for its own sake and instead forcing us to ask why. Why do buildings full of people make us so
“Maybe in fifty years, our daughters won’t pine after the smelly cretins in their middle school Spanish classes because they’ll know better.” Annabelle Woodward, Redneck Heartbreak 11.16.17
“The time has come to let go of social media as the girl you love to hate and instead usher it in as an (albeit slightly too clingy) best friend.” Rebecca Ellis 11.19.09
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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Jennifer Osborne a FEATURE Managing Editor Anita Sheih Section Editors Kathy Luo Sydney Lo ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Julian Towers Section Editors Josh Wartel Liza Edwards-Levin
profoundly sad when we meander by them, observing in white light each separate exhibition? Why does The Blue Nile's famous invocation of "empty streets, empty nights, the downtown lights," pair so well with their imploring question: "How do I know you feel it? How do I know it's true?" And most importantly: why are we so obsessively interested in this brand of lonely sadness at all, to the point that we seek it for a kind of perverse pleasure? The point of Aviary, if I might make a sweeping statement about a sweeping album, is to construct something so austere in its artistic perfection as to be able to turn around on itself and subvert its own aesthetic function midway through. Only an artist as technically proficient as Julia Holter could make the moves she does without it seeming a miscalculation; in other words, Holter could recreate the atmosphere of Steely Dan's Aja, or The Blue Nile's Hats, and it would sound just as coldly beautiful as any of those three manage to—but she doesn't. Instead, she loads her album with those aforementioned bagpipe drones and hypnagogic vocal overlays and a hell of a lot of other weird stuff. She's not just recreating the city-at-night effect that aesthetes have been eating up for years; she's demonstrating her capability of creating such a project and then subverting those tropes with uncanny, jarring sounds to evoke a unique trapped-under-glass brand of horror.
With every poor decision BoJack made came an understanding that, unless I properly addressed these issues, my own fate would be quite similar
Perhaps the best way to cap this recursive adulation of Aviary's product is to let it speak for itself. That's not to say "stop reading, go listen to it" (although you really should do that, if you get a chance), but rather to say that Holter's simple lyrics make a similar claim. Don’t take my word for it; take the words of “I Shall Love 2,” which most concisely communicate the uselessness of language to capture the lonely feeling that Aviary wishes to underscore: That is all, that is all There is nothing else I am in love What can I do? Oh, I am in love What can I do? That is all, that is all There is nothing else. What more can Aviary, or anyone else, convey about the human condition than that?
NARRATIVE Managing Editor Celina Sun Section Editors Divya Santhanam Jasmine Ngai COPY CHIEF Amanda Ngo Assistant Copy Editors Mohima Sattar Sonya Bui HEAD OF MEDIA Samantha Haigood
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