The (In)visibility Issue (Fall 2021) by The Prattler

Table of Contents

MAIN FEATURE

SCRATCHES ON THE FLOOR Lavanya Goyal examines the seemingly invisible scratches on Stabile Hall’s floors and explains how they add to a legacy larger than we may realize.

THEY DON’T KNOW Comic by Dizzy Starfie

AROUND CAMPUS

BEYOND THE ADS: GENDER VISIBILITY & COMMUNITY ON CAMPUS Natalie Helsel critiques the hypervisibility of gender in art and advertising, and presents ways we can combat this both on campus and in our work.

HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR ART? Ayla Ellenbogan interviews various Pratt students about how they view their work, and what this says about the visibility of our art in the future.

IDENTIFYING THE MASK Morrison Haslock writes about the challenge of recognizing peers on campus, and how this semester calls for new, inventive ways of getting to know one another again.

AROUND THE CITY

SAVE THE ELIZABETH STREET GARDEN! Madeleine Triff advocates for preserving the Elizabeth Street Garden, as well as the importance of other natural sanctuaries in the city.

THE HIDDEN GEMS Samantha Kalinowski provides a list of some of the best independent bookstores in Brooklyn, and expresses the value of these literary havens.

OPINIONS

THREE CHEERS FOR ‘SEX EDUCATION’’S TROMBONER Ingrid Jones addresses how Netflix comedy “Sex Education” is breaking representation barriers, and why viewers should tune into its latest season.

Lavanya Goyal

Throughout all of this putter and tinker, my roommate and I inadvertently created many scratches on the floor. These scratches looked like souvenirs, similar to those left behind by the many students that came before us. As we stood in the room after the endeavor, I began to think about how each time

we’d look at the scratches we created in the future, we’d be reminded of the fun we had while moving in as freshmen. We’d laugh at our indecisiveness and our goof-ups and, eventually, cry once we’d graduated, looking back on these fond memories. One thing was certain, though:

ILLUSTRATION | Lolo Walker

After the initial excitement of being on our own settled down, my roommate and I started rearranging our dorm furniture in the midst of orientation week. What began with a casual “Let’s move the desk a little to the left,” slowly transitioned into “Wait! Maybe we should raise the beds?,” and, eventually, ended up as, “We have to move the drawers out from under the bed to create more storage space!” We dragged and pushed and pulled the furniture across the room. Someone tripped on the rug and got their hand stuck in the bed frame.

MAIN FEATURE our story would live forever in that room for those who chose to look. The floor in Stabile Hall is covered in lines and scratches. What looks like a pattern in the granite is a constellation of uneven marks. They differ in length

and depth; a never ending variety, collected over the years. As the novice value of the stories bound with those scratches fades, the old marks may stop being visible to us. That is, of course, until someone points them out or we consciously sit and observe them.

This phenomenon is related to a term called selective visibility. Selective visibility is intriguing; it’s guided by the perspective and horizon of the viewer’s mind, much like tunnel vision. An example relates to Mr. Boggle, a character in my kindergarten picture book, who, while peeping out of a small window, thought it was raining. As he stepped out with his umbrella, he realized it was someone washing his car! This was my first introduction to selective perception. Now that I’m older, I realize that we often see what we want to see. It’s like peering through a narrow tube where you overlook the surroundings and constrict yourself to seeing only a part of it in isolation. Sometimes, we can’t see the things that are right in front of us, simply because we’re moving too fast to really, truly look. It feels like time is in a constant rush, and we’re always chasing it, trying to catch up. During my first week at Pratt, I felt like I only started high school on Monday, and then, all of a sudden, I was moving into my college dorm by Friday.

Recently, I sat on the floor of my dorm room in Stabile with a mitre box, ready to cut basswood sticks for my second week of technics class. As I made my way through the woodwork I still wasn’t used to, I hit the floor with the saw over and over again. Despite knowing the damage I was causing, I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about the marks I accidentally created. They blended in with hundreds of others just like them. I thought, “Perhaps those ones have been made by architecture students, too.”Over time, these dorm room floors become your self-healing cutting mat. You’re no longer afraid to add to the heap of marks. Each time you look at the floor, you begin to wonder about things. Did those before me also use the floor as a cutting mat? Did they also hit the tip of their X-Acto knife on the floor enough times to make it blunt in a week? As we add our own scratches to the floor, we become part of a larger story. When we move out, we’ll leave behind our own little traces of our legacy that will remain engraved in Pratt’s floors

ILLUSTRATION | Lolo Walker

for as long as the dorms remain. Even though we’ll be long gone one day, somehow, we’ll still manage to live in this school forever, immortalized in the scratches on the floor. Someday, someone will stop for long enough. They will look at the ground, and think about how we were here. They will wonder, just as I did, about those who called this place home before them.

Stabile has its defects. Despite the flaws, though, I can’t help but feel at home in the building. It is home away from home—6000 miles away from home, to be precise. But those pieces of others’ lives, permanent in these floors, are comforting. They’re reminders that someone else lived through this before me, and I too, like them, will be alright.

COMIC | Dizzy Starfie

Natalie Helsel

Beyond The Ads Gender Visibility and Community on Campus Men’s and women’s hygiene ads are one culprit upholding gender norms. While big corporations advertise men’s products to convey dominance, women’s products convey gentleness. To not address my gender feels almost impossible when gender expectations are so visible and everything I consume is defined by it. It’s also important to consider as students creating work for a new generation.

As a Pratt student, I can’t help but notice the intersection between making art and tackling social and systemic issues. Our art can bring social change, but often, if our work isn’t deemed profitable, it isn’t seen at all. Advertising campaigns are the biggest example of art under capitalism. As students deconstructing gender, it’s hard to bring change into the industry. “That’s why many of my students come from fashion design or other creative industries...the gender question is absolutely central to the way we create these regimes of power,” says Zhivka Valiavicharska, Associate Professor of Political and Social Theory at Pratt Institute.

“Many artists here go into industrial production, so it is important to intervene,” says Valiavicharska. “When we have an industrially-produced product that has the capacity to reach millions of people... it’s important to work harder in terms of offering alternative ways of visualizing [gender].” Pratt offers courses that allow us to do so. Classes such as Gender & Capitalism or Theories of Gender aim to broaden our perspectives and provide us with an inclusive space to create. They are also a great way to fill your 15 required credits of general studies electives. With gender being such an integral part of consumption and advertisement, spending time in places where corporations benefit from this also leaves me with a longing for community. Since gender is an intersectional. While big corporations advertise men’s products to convey dominance, women’s products convey gentleness. To not address my gender feels almost impossible when gender expectations are so visible

and everything I consume is defined by it. It’s also important to consider as students creating work for a new generation. “Many artists here go into industrial production, so it is important to intervene,” says Valiavicharska. “When we have an industrially-produced product that has the capacity to reach millions of people...it’s important to work harder in terms of offering alternative ways of visualizing [gender].” Pratt offers courses that allow us to do so. Classes such as Gender & Capitalism or Theories of Gender aim to broaden our perspectives and provide us with an inclusive space to create. They are also a great way to fill your 15 required credits of general studies electives. With gender being such an integral part of consumption and advertisement, spending time in places where corporations benefit from this also leaves me with a longing for community. Since gender is an intersectional topic, it’s important to find groups that discuss it close to home. At Pratt, student organizations like Black Student Union, Chinese Student Scholars Association and National Organization of Minority Architecture Students, among others, are available to join through Pratt Engage. “[Community] is where one can anchor themselves...where one can restore the energies that are needed in order to live in these conditions of violence,” says Valiavicharska. “In autonomous spaces, you are free to share without the gaze of the

ILLUSTRATION | Mara Nicolaie LAYOUT | Brianna Carlini

oppressor...this is where the conditions for liberation begin.” With the support of our peers, faculty and chosen families at Pratt, we can create art that breaks gender norms and encourages the visibility of gender expression.

ILLUSTRATION | Yoo Young Chun

Have You Seen Your Art?

Ayla Ellenbogen

In September, fellow “Prattler” reporter Natalie Helsel and I asked members of the Pratt community what it means to be visible as artists.

First year student Evelyn was excited by the opportunities Pratt could provide her. She spoke of the joy she found in seeing people support her. To her, visibility is this support.

“There’s no guarantee that any of your work, regardless of what it is, is ever going to get off the ground,” an anonymous Industrial Design student responded. They described their strategy as “Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best,” emphasizing the lack of control they feel in finding visibility within the larger art world. At Pratt, they said they feel seen by their professors and peers.

Riley, a junior film student, stating, “exposure isn’t the top thing, but quality and respect for the level of detail and attention.” For Riley, visibility is respect from peers, professionals and himself. Respect elevates work and lets these metaphorical animals walk a little further.

“But,” they continued, “Pratt is a closed community that’s not a fair comparison to the rest of the world.” Another student described visibility as getting your work out, while another called it exposure. These artists describe the want to make their art visible like a wild animal needing to be set free. But who, or what, decides to let these animals out? And how does the meaning of visibility and exposure change from community to art world? Pratt is a testing ground where these animals can run. We’re all here, working late nights, covering our desks with paint and droplets of coffee, to be part of a community that has left the cage door ajar. We’re here because we’ve been seen and accepted into the institutional arena, which puts new obstacles in front of us.

Deb Johnson, an Industrial Design professor, thinks of visibility online. She often feels overwhelmed with Instagram and the amount of work on the app. Johnson resolves to see Instagram as “a world that people are creating that you want to participate in, [that’s] not about owning the whole show.” This competition is exemplified by institutional tradition and elite galleries perpetuating the idea that there’s only space for so few artists. Visibility is ever changing, and will mean different things as we grow as artists. For me, being seen as an artist is enough for right now. I’m grateful to have the will and privilege to create, and I feel incredibly excited by the “responsibility” that comes with it. What does visibility mean for you?

ILLUSTRATION | Alex Moon

Morrison Haslock

e’re all looking for recognisable faces as we arrive back at Pratt. Some might be searching for f riends from a time before face coverings, while others might be looking for classmates that they only know from a Zoom meeting. In the end, though, we’re all searching for that pair of eyes that seems to say, “Hey, it’s me! Someone you know!” As I returned to campus for the first time in a year, I was surprised by how many people recognized me. I couldn’t help wondering what hinted that it was me. For one thing, I wear glasses, but I know that these f rames aren’t the same ones that I left campus with so long ago. I also usually wear my favorite jeans, but it’s been a while since anyone has noticed my clothes, let alone cared. There is also an obvious factor that identifies me: a physical disability that affects my hands. All of this inspired me to keep track of how I recognized others. I came up with five ways to spot those I knew every time I stepped out of my dorm: eye wear, hair style, clothing choices, height and voice. None of these are particularly easy things to pick out of a crowd. However, often with overlap between these categories,

I’ve found several friends while walking to the mail center, on campus or by a nearby coffee shop. I’ve begun to recognize others by their masks, too. Whether it be their single use black mask or a unique, homemade cloth one, I’m able to match pattern to person the longer we’re on campus. You’ll always find me wearing a solid colored mask that matches my outfit. I find other people do the same. My suitemate, Grace, is a sophomore in her first semester on campus. I asked her thoughts on meeting and recognizing other students now that we’re in person. “It’s definitely easier already knowing what they look like over Zoom, [and] to then recognise them with a mask,” she states. “But art students change their appearances so often. I definitely wouldn’t be able to recognise them if they had drastically changed their appearance.” Regardless, it’s great to see everyone on campus, greeting each other and sharing a physical space once again. It’s an invitation for all of us to become that pair of eyes that says, “Hey, it’s me! Someone you know!”

Save The Elizabeth Street Garden! Madeleine Triff

Gardens have been implemented into our artwork, entertainment and lifestyle for centuries. From botanical gardens to the garden in the movie “Hercules,” these locations are symbols of peace, solitude and sanctuary for those who find parks too loud. They are invisible in the most visible of places, and, though they are hard to come by, play a vital role in communities. I stumbled across Elizabeth Street Garden after a trip to find a Banh Mi sandwich, which, ironically, is in Little Italy. I wanted a picturesque place to eat, but amongst the hustle and bustle of NYC, I almost gave in to having lunch on the sidewalk like a rat. That’s when I saw a small entryway between two large greenery-covered gates.

Curious, I walked through. On the other

a beautiful, private space to come and

side was a scene from a fairytale. Luscious

escape the noisy streets free of charge.

bushes, flowers and chipped statues

It allows students, couples and families

sprinkled the area. Rusting metal tables and

the right to their own place of refuge and

chairs lounged about the walkways, and

peace.

disguised, romantic entryways lay behind small trees.

Gardens like Elizabeth Street Garden are a haven from bustling city life. These

Created from an abandoned lot, Elizabeth

former abandoned lots take the “ugly”

Street Garden was founded in 1991 by Allen

parts of NYC and create intricate places

Reiver. He replaced the former junkyard with

that support the wellbeing of our people.

trees and greenery. It has thrived with the

Whether you go to the garden to read,

love he has shared with visitors that found it

converse or enjoy a safe space, it is an

as I did.

escape from a distracting city existence:

However, the construction of a new building complex is set to destroy Elizabeth Street Garden, even though there is another suitable lot, with five times the space, close by. This would be devastating to the surrounding community. Located near Little Italy and Chinatown, the area is mostly residential and business buildings. All gardens are important to preserve in NYC, but destroying this private piece of sanctuary would only pave the way to the delusional theory that gardens are less important than architectural endeavors. Elizabeth Street Garden is integral to the neighborhood. It gives each busy worker

an invisible place full of truly visible impact. PHOTO | Sean Kozak LAYOUT | Naomi Hawkins

The Hidden Gems Samantha Kalinowski

When I first moved to New York City, it was difficult to find bookstores in the area. In this guide, I hope to help others find bookstores close to Pratt’s campus. Books Are Magic is located at 225 Smith Street, four G train stops away from our Brooklyn campus. Exiting Bergen Station, you’ll find a small bookstore with old wooden doors and a colorful mural. Pushing those doors open is like entering a sanctuary. The space has skylights and bright walls, but the store’s many colorful book covers make it feel cozy. Books Are Magic specializes in author events for

children’s books. It’s a nice place to go when you’re looking for a relaxing read or to spend a day with family. Unnameable Books is at 600 Vanderbilt Avenue. I discovered this bookstore when one of my studio classes was held in its basement. A thirty minute walk from Willoughby Hall, the store is set to move across the street, though no one knows when. The cramped, yet cozy, store sells new and used books alike. Entering the place is like entering a maze of literature. The store’s yellow hue makes the whole place feel as if it were underground. I would

recommend Unnameable Books to find books off the beaten path. Greenlight Bookstore is a staple of NYC indie bookstores. It was the one bookstore people often told me about during my freshman year at Pratt. The closest location is at 686 Fulton Street. Greenlight is well-known for its author events and open floor plan. They even have a shelf that highlights small press books. Greenlight also provides a discount for Pratt students and tries to stock books that are needed for classes. It’s a great place to go when you’ve never been to an indie bookstore before. It’s easy to navigate, close to campus and has helpful staff. Bookstores are a special part of this city. Brooklyn has so many indie bookstores to see, and the few I provided are just some of my favorites. Hopefully, this guide proves helpful in figuring out a new favorite place to find the books you love.

PHOTO | Samantha Kalinowski

Three Cheers for Sex Education’s Tromboner Many shows addressing teenage sexuality open no real conversations about relationships, queer sex or mental health. The days are long gone when programs should be praised for flashing a same-sex side plot for brownie points. Representation is not going down the “woke” checklist and choosing whatever is most digestible to a white, cis-het audience. The show that’s best breaking barriers today is Netflix’s “Sex Education.” It’s a coming-of-age comedy-drama revolving around Otis (Asa Butterfield), the son of a sex therapist, as he analyzes his peers in his own underground sex clinic. The highly anticipated third season of this raunchy

comedy launched September 17, 2021. Faithful to its genre, “Sex Education” is chockfull of banter, eye-catching fashion and sex. At first glance, it goes through all the tired stereotypes we’ve seen forever: jock, mean girl and GBF (Gay Best Friend), among others. The show, however, does this intentionally, luring viewers into familiarity just to flip the script and deliver multifaceted, contradictory storylines about real people. The shy virgin is our straight male lead, the popular clique is mostly made up of BIPOC, and “Romeo and Juliet” can totally be performed in an alternate universe setting by aliens with dick hands (and it is, vividly).

ILLUSTRATION | Avery Slezak

Ingrid Jones While familiar tropes can provide visibility and comfort to those who resonate with them, when they oversaturate without being subverted, it pushes those they represent into one-dimensional stereotypes. This is why the greatest character in this series is Eric Effiong, played by Ncuti Gatwa. Eric is Otis’ Nigerian GBF who is overly fond of mismatched patterns. There’s no tired “coming out” or homophobic parent storyline for him, but that doesn’t detract him from demonstrating everyday queer bravery. In one season alone, Eric deals with bullies and a hate crime, coming out stronger and prouder because of it. In season two, Eric navigates complex romantic relationships with both closeted

and straight men. He also reconnects with his church and spirituality after temporarily losing faith in God. GBF’s are typically present in stories with female protagonists because they’re an easy way to be inclusive without threatening male love interests. “Sex Education” not only gives us a close masculine depiction of a gay-straight friendship, but it’s not weird or played up for laughs. Season three promises to expand upon Eric’s romance, friendships and identity, but he is just one of dozens of equally spectacular characters. So, what are you waiting for? Tune in!

Letter From the Editor ILLUSTRATION | Pujarini Ghosh

Prattlers, (In)Visibility has been on the forefront of many of our minds as we return back to campus. It’s strange to be perceived by others in-person after so much time alone, and to not feel invisible amongst the bustle of Brooklyn again. As we reacclimate to our surroundings and busy workloads, it’s important to take note of all that goes noticed and unnoticed within our school, our city, and ourselves. These thoughts are the core of our first Prattler issue of the fall 2021 semester, “Visibility and Invisibility.” Within these pages are thoughtful and thought-provoking articles, essays and criticism about what it means to be seen, and not seen, today. Whether that is through Brooklyn’s hidden bookstores, the power of representation in Netflix comedies, or an in-depth look at the legacies left behind in our dorm rooms, these articles speak to our student body’s perspectives on perception. Perhaps, they will change yours as well. Welcome back, Pratt, and thank you for reading. Best,

Carly Tagen-Dye Carly Tagen-Dye Editor-in-Chief

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER

ADVISORS

Carly Tagen-Dye

Naomi Desai

Christopher Calderhead David Gordon

MANAGING EDITOR

WEBSITE DESIGNER

Nina Martineck

Christina Park

CREATIVE DIRECTORS

LAYOUT ASSISTANCE

Tien Servidio Amber Duan

YoTian Chu

Ryan Nelson

COVER BY

SOCIALS

prattleronline.com Instagram: @Prattler theprattler@gmail.com

Cover Story Ryan Nelson

aving a balance between texture, color, and form has always been important to my art, and even more so when I transitioned from traditional media into digital. Finding ways to replicate the effects of a scratchy pencil on my iPad was always a struggle. Where is the right brush? How do I use it in the right way? Is it too much? These are all questions that I still have no answer to after using digital software for two years. But it became less of a concern, and more of a freedom to not have these answers. I enjoy working with digital textures and brushes due to their versatility, and I love seeing how they change a simple color or shape in seconds. This cover piece was an effort to combine all of these techniques mentioned above to create a message about (in) visibility. Often, on the subways, we are looking down, around, or at our phones. Everyone has unique schedules, different stops, destinations. In a sense, masks have united people on the subway, while at the same time rendering part of the face invisible. What is left visible communicates who these people are, how they are, where they are. For me, it has not only become about what we see but also about what we don’t see.

PRATT INSTITUTE 2021