The Nostalgia Issue (Fall 2022)

Behind the Cover

by Alex Moon @alexmoon_art Junior, ComD Illustration

When I was a kid, I understood that all that was in the world would soon pass. I wasn’t very content with where I was in life and was in a perpetual state of “in between”, waiting for things to pass. Nothing would speed up the change I wanted and nothing would slow it either, so the only thing to do at the time was to wait. To endure. To bide my time for my chance in the sun.

While working on the cover, I felt that a surreal feeling was absolutely necessary to capturing nostalgia. Many of us have had many memories centered around the golden hour whether it be watching the sunset with past friends or waiting for a new episode to air in the small hours on Saturdays. With this, I hope that the ambiguity will help bring out emotions in the reader rather than to pin a singular definition of nostalgia onto the rest of the articles.

2. 6. 8. 10. 12. 14. 18. 20. 22. 24. 26. 27. 28. 30.

by Amber Duan & Naomi Desai

Reconsidered

Amber and Naomi are junior ComD students and besties. Amber is originally from Seattle, Washington, and is a Chinese Canadian immigrant. Naomi is from the Bay Area in California and is a second-generation South Asian American. They’re sitting down to talk about their experiences with nostalgia in a predominantly white culture as Asian Americans.

Naomi: Okay, Amber, what makes you nostalgic?

Amber: For me, a lot of specific Chinese cultural experiences. Like going back to China to visit my grandparents’ home and the food that my mom made for me when I was a kid. Going to the Asian grocery store and getting snacks. It’s very specific stuff that white people couldn’t relate to.

Naomi: I feel like it’s definitely the same for me. I spent a lot of time in my grandparents’ house growing up and eating the food my mom makes. But also that’s only one very specific part of my life–– being Asian ––and then the other part is being American and growing up here. It’s hard, those are two very different experiences

Illustration: Amber Duan

and things that make you nostalgic coming from two very different places. It makes it hard to decide what is truly nostalgic to me.

Amber: I feel like the only parts of mainstream pop culture that I was really exposed to was just like PBS, Cartoon Network, stuff like that. No pop music until I was in middle school or, high school. So the early 2000s was kind of a wash for me.

Naomi: Well, you were just born, haha. For me, my brother and I watched so much TV growing up, like we were glued to the television. That is pop culture: Disney Channel and Nickelodeon. But it’s not representative of me now. So it’s like, is it really nostalgic? Or is it just what I was exposed to at the time and felt like I needed to watch to keep up with white people trends.

Amber: Yeah. I think we often feel like nostalgia is supposed to be a good feeling but it’s also kind of bittersweet. Sometimes there are things from your past you don’t have fondness for anymore.

Naomi: So, how is nostalgia whitewashed?

Amber: Well, I guess, just remembering all the shows and media consumed when I was a kid, I barely saw any POC on screen. And when there were POC, they were either stereotyped or didn’t show the whole picture.

Naomi: Definitely not on Disney Channel. Hannah Montana did not have any POC energy.

Amber: And music that people consider nostalgic like, mainstream pop is very white dominant. People that enjoy music considered nostalgic from the 80s or from their parents are all like white, British men.

Naomi: Yeah it’s white dad music! Like we didn’t have white dads so that’s not nostalgic to us.

Amber: Yeah, I have Chinese rock ballads that my mom played. That’s cringey nostalgia to me.

Naomi: Going back to TV, the 2020 show on Netflix Never Have I Ever is supposed to show South Asian American culture. But that’s not me. It’s really disappointing because how often is there going to be a show with a South Asian woman as the lead?

Amber: I feel like whenever there’s media that casts specific diverse leads, that’s the only chance we’ll ever get. White people have had so many different forms of media that they can have “bad” media and “good” media. That’s fine because they have a lot to choose from, but we don’t. Everything is much higher stakes for us.

Naomi: Like it has to be good otherwise it’s never gonna happen again.

Amber: Obviously, it would be great if more shows were created and we had that range to choose from, but we live in a capitalist society. If it’s not good, it’s not going to get funded.

Naomi: I feel like a lot of things have come far though. Like music has come very far from white dad music.

Amber: Yeah, we’re seeing more people of color and queer people get mainstream attention. I can’t relate to people who subscribe to the idea of the “good old days”. We don’t need to go back. When a lot of people during the pandemic were talking about revisiting childhood favorites and media, I couldn’t connect to them because I don’t really want to watch those shows or listen to that music.

Naomi: Some people have this desire or need to relive that time, but that’s not relatable for me because that’s a time when I felt like I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t white enough. Like, I can’t see myself in those stories at all so why would I go back to them?

Amber: Yeah, I’m not rereading Harry Potter anytime soon.

Naomi: I guess that’s kind of the problem with trends. Nostalgia has become a trend now. And that’s subjecting so many people to a single concept.

Amber: Obviously, my experiences with being a second generation immigrant are not universal. Another Chinese American might have a wildly different experience from what I find nostalgic. There are so many subsections of marginalization and there are so many people who have different experiences and ties to nostalgia. So when we talk about nostalgia, as a trend, all those things get lost.

Naomi: It’s like a spectrum from Asian to American and we are somewhere on this spectrum. Nobody is going to be in the same spot on that spectrum

because we have different ties to those sides of ourselves. That makes it really hard to think about what is nostalgic for us. Whereas, I feel like other people, specifically –white people, –have it much easier because everything is referring to their experience. Everything is made for them.

Amber: For us, when we talk about things from our childhoods, we kind of have to talk about white media if we want it to connect with other people. That kind of sucks. If we talk about specific cultural things that are nostalgic for us, it’s alienating.

Naomi: Anything else you want to add, final thoughts?

Amber: I guess my closing thoughts are, to reiterate, that our specific experiences and struggles with the concept of nostalgia, are not reflective of all immigrants. So it’s good to be aware that there are many different perspectives.

Naomi: There’s a lot of pressure to follow trends and we need to critically analyze them instead of letting the media tell us what to consume. Nostalgia is very white-centric, and as minorities we don’t want to look towards the past; we’re looking towards the future. t

Poetry

by Brooke Miller Illustration by Caroline Mealia

There is a part of me that blames my young naive mind and bright blue eyes for being so blind.

To not remember every moment of you.

To only have a few cassettes left of your face in the fuzzy film of the video camera from 2000 that Mama used to hold with smooth hands.

I was so blind. I wasn’t able to recount how many threads were weaved to create your white T-shirt and the exact shade of your skin.

I want to remember the sound of your voice, not the muffled laugh I hear when I play scratched up film of you and I catching butterflies on the front lawn. The sole memories of you and I now lay in boxes of dust.

I have nothing but a few small cassettes with bleeding ink that I keep under the bed. Monsters, clawing out to me, trying to pull those memories from my brain.

But my three year-old self was too young, too blind.

I don’t remember each thread of your T-shirt or the dimples in your cheeks. All I remember of you is the static of your voice. I should have been able to see every laugh, every blink, with much more than just a clip. -home videos

by Sarah Durkin

If you’ve needed to go anywhere in the city, you probably have one with you: That mustard yellow background behind, shadowed blue lettering, leading the eye to a peculiarly chopped corner one truly cannot guess the purpose of. It’s been a key part of New York culture for decades, an iconic symbol of the city’s power as a public transportation giant. The MetroCard, invented in the early ‘90’s, has become the symbol of the city’s subway and bus systems. It came from a desire in New York to replace the slow, cost-inefficient token system – imagine paying with a Chuck-ECheese- like token for every subway ride you take – with a more modern, less expensive, easily accessible form of fare collection. The MetroCard was born out of over ten years of brainstorming and planning, truly stepping into its own with the creation of its vending machine, now

a staple in all subway stations. It’s easy to acquire, even easier to use, and soon it’ll no longer exist.

The MTA’s push towards the new tap-based OMNY system has been apparent even before the pandemic brought service to new lows, but in the past year over 50 million dollars have been spent on advertising the MetroCard alternative. A large portion of this was devoted towards an extensive campaign promoting OMNY’s fare capping initiative. Lining their subways and buses with strings of repetitive ads, the MTA they touted the new system’s rule of allowing the customer free rides for the rest of the week after paying for 12 rides with OMNY. Meanwhile, the MTA has not shown interest as of late in fixing malfunctioning MetroCard machines, leaving customers without the ability to tap at a loss. While for many the digitization of currency has only been convenient, the process of acquiring an OMNY card, a device far more complicated to produce than the polyester of the standard MetroCard, is anything but. Without the easy operation of the user-friendly card booth comes specialized locations the rider has to seek out in order to obtain theirs, making those in possession of solely cash or a non-tap based debit card out of luck. With the MTA simultaneously spending $249 million on increasing NYPD presence within their subway system, the question comes to mind of how

public they want this transportation to be.

While relying on external systems to charge for subway fare will save the MTA money on maintaining and producing so many single-use MetroCards, its replacement feels half-baked in its ability to truly provide for a city already dealing with constant delays and outages in its modes of transport. With the pandemic came a rise in personal vehicles among permanent residents, with more and more cars slowing bus movement and filling up bike lanes. Rather than adjust for this in any discernible way, the MTA has decided to implement a system that is less friendly to those who need the subway and buses to get to work on time and less accessible for those unable to pay through a cell phone app.

The MetroCard was never perfect; its magnetic strip only worked when swiped through at exactly the right speed, and it generated a fair amount of waste in a city that certainly doesn’t need any more. What it was, however, was accessible and reliable, an efficient way to get as many people where they needed to go as possible. It was inclusive public infrastructure personified, and the not-so-distant day they print the last MetroCard will mark the end of an era in New York history. n

Illustration: Serena Cheng

Franklin Furnace The Making of

Here on Pratt’s campus, nestled between two classrooms on the second floor of the ISC building, lies an archive with over four thousand artists’ books and documentations of experimental artwork. It’s a treasure trove of the past, with avant-garde relics existing from 1976 onwards, many of which are works that have been overlooked or gone unseen. The Franklin Furnace Archive exists to preserve and support time-based art of the past in its archival efforts, as well as uplift emerging artists with grants and funding. This way, they create art history.

Harley Spiller, the Executive Ken Dewey Director, has been with the nonprofit since 1986 and was hired directly by the founder, Martha Wilson. In his words, “Franklin Furnace is Martha Wilson. Martha founded this place. I am now the Ken Dewey Executive Director

by Avery

of Franklin Furnace, but Franklin Furnace Archive was and always will be Martha Wilson. It’s her baby. It’s her concept.” Spiller has what feels like an encyclopedic memory, recounting stories upon stories about the history of the archive, his own involvement, and various artists he has worked with over the years. He says one of his first interactions with Wilson, her work, and the archive was with a book she made called 1. Truck, 2. Fuck, 3. Muck. In the piece, she recounts an autobiographical experience where she hitched rides with truckers across Canada whilst trying to make it as an artist. Spiller enjoyed the experience of the book but noticed the last two pages were upside down. He pointed this out to Wilson who responded with, “I know. I did that on purpose.” Perfectly encapsulating the power of the medium and what Franklin Furnace is all about.

Furnace Archive of Art History

In addition to artists’ books, Franklin Furnace is dedicated to the documentation of performance art. Spiller recounts an experience working with an anonymous artist “who asked for money to and support to pray and fast for one month in a home-built mini monastery in our space. The guy is not going to eat for 31 days.” Spiller says they did sponsor this artist, after a doctor’s visit of course, and the artisty went into the structure and stayed there for a month alone. They were “praying and fasting in an effort to see God. It was not a success in that respect, but we documented all of it.” Jeff Matsuno eventually took credit for the work, but in the archive, it is still credited to “Anonymous.”

Franklin Furnace has been here at Pratt since 2014. They utilized their position on the campus by working with several

other school organizations, professors, and departments. One notable example is their annual exhibition with the Pratt Library, called Live at the Library, that they have done for the past seven years. Currently on view is “46: Artists’ Books from Franklin Furnace Archive, 19762022” curated by Fang-Yu Liu and Nicole Rosengurt. It includes one book from each year of Franklin Furnace’s existence on display. u

If you want to learn more about Franklin Furnace, peruse their momentous digital archives, or subscribe to their newsletter, please go to https:// franklinfurnace.org/. You can also make an appointment to visit the physical archive of artist’s books on campus by emailing mail@franklinfurnace.org.

Avery Slezak

The Anonymous Artist, Ad Interiori Deserti, 1987, Franklin Furnace, New York. Image courtesy of Franklin Furnace Archive, Inc.

By Jordan Anna Torres

Illustration: Seb Torrens

by Eli Nadler

The last few days of Summer 2022 are coming to a close and the nostalgia that’s been brewing settles in.

A trip to the Rooftop Cinema Club marks one of those evenings for me. ‘The self-proclaimed ‘Ultimate Open-Air Film Experience,’ located in Midtown, sets itself apart from other theaters by way of its curated selection. It’s a simple concept that originates from the 1950s drive-ins, where the fresh air and summer night ambiance enhances the movie experience. Further setting themselves apart, the Rooftop Cinema Club doesn’t follow the traditional line-up of seasonal releases, instead opting for timeless New York rom coms from the 90s to early 2000s. Many are rom-coms and, to keep it close to home, set in New York. Playing a good balance of cult classics and the occasional new release, The Rooftop Cinema Club offers a prime opportunity to revisit movies that remain timeless.

Their selection of self-proclaimed ‘Iconic movies’ acts as their North Star, which puts them in the perfect position to capture the attention of TikTok and foster an audience of millennials and Gen Z, myself included. Eager to re-watch classics on the big screen, I headed to the Rooftop Cinema Club to see 13 Going on 30, a 2004 rom-com starring Jennifer Garner. The last time I saw 13 Going on 30, I must have been in middle school. While I was familiar with the film, it wasn’t in recent memory. This made the movie going experience that much more exciting–– and on the big screen no less!

What gives a film weight and meaning is how it affects an audience emotionally. The movies we grow up with hold emotion for us because of how we remember feeling at the time of watching (and rewatching) when we were young and in ‘simpler’ times. Are these throwbacks all great films? Probably not. They surprise us as adults, when we can now identify problematic Hollywood cliches and attitudes. This in itself is why re-watching a film is so compelling. Realizing what has changed since we first saw the film and identifying what would be justifiably different today. But nostalgia, for better or worse, sometimes puts us in the mindset to unconditionally love something that would be disturbing to watch as a brand new release in 2022.

Being a part of an audience, on a relaxed patio furniture with a distinct backyard vibe - you feel a stronger audience connection to those around you than you do when in a pitch black theater. A full dinner menu, movie-watching snacks and a summer sunset pair extremely well with a throwback. It’s almost like a kickback, and TikTok’s made around the experience at the theater definitely picked up on the good vibes.

Now that you know which theater to head to for something familiar that you know you’ll enjoy, you’re ready to indulge in the experience of the Rooftop Cinema Club. I hope you can catch at least one more flick before our rooftops are covered in snow and our movie nights become an individual and indoor affair. l

by

Avery Slezak

PhotoS By Beatriz Gonzalez AND YoTian Chu

Memories From Eden

by Beatriz Gonzalez

Between dark coffee and bliss, laid a heavenly chapter within. Suddenly, in a way most unforeseen, misery waved, our brew turned cold and stiff.

In me, you found your sun. In you, I found a missing piece, my silver heart. I wish you had warned me how fast it would race. I wish I had known you would leave a scar.

3 A.M. empty diner conversations, lamenting life’s cruelty, subtle hints of what would bring us together, only to force us apart. Slowly morphing into each other, we became volatile, and I was too close to withstand.

Resembling the moon, after grasping everything from me, you left, in return, a dulling beam a hurting soul.

Gone are the days when I would wake up to the smell of you and fresh brew. Your reflection in the french press slowly fades away as my empty bed mourns your perfume.

Our bodies meshed together, intermingling. The notion of your love, only lingers in me, as I watch it leave in you.

Sunday morning laziness and future plans as we put off breakfast together. Time did not exist in our world. A bubble I thought would never burst, a past I thought would last for long.

Through the idyllic, I believed we were one. We were we. Staring blankly, now I see my psyche belongs to half, belongs to me.

Sincerity is Scary

by Natalie Helsel

“What passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human [...] is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic.” -David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

As humans, we happily place ourselves in every coming-of-age film made in the 2010s, as we project ourselves on to characters while they sit in parking lots with their first love or skip 5th period. We tend to play out one of these gutwrenching scenes in our head until we realize we are being…generally pathetic. These fairly stereotypical tropes evoke a nostalgic feeling; all relatable markers that we’re living a life worthwhile.

Surely, we share some sort of collective consciousness, as we allow ourselves small increments of sentiment in the form of nostalgia. We boil down the intricacies of our most vulnerable and cherished moments into an acceptable coming-ofage film. But in reality, the individual memories one encapsulates are unique. Although our experiences differ, we cannot escape that warm and gooey feeling.

I often get that feeling while walking along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. My mind runs through every person I’ve walked it with. I stroll past the carousel, the swings, and the Statue of Liberty; recounting the snide remarks we had to say about them. Past conversations about the stand-alone skyscraper we said looks like a JUUL, cushion the present moment. I ruminate on this for awhile, slowly tuning out the affectionate couples and

screaming children that surround me. As the familiar September sunlight caresses me, I melt into a gooey puddle.

My stomach drops and I catch myself smiling with unfocused eyes at whatever blurry object is directly in front of me. I feel that the strangers around me can sense my pathetic-ness. To ground myself, I sit down on a bench looking out onto the river. There’s a man in front of me, blocking my view of the city. His erect posture and DSLR camera tell me he means business–he’s determined to document the present moment. He’s definitely just admiring the architecture across the river, contemplating the subject of his next photograph.

In the present, we’re often immune to sentiment. We would rather portray the transcendence of sentiment: be apathetic, resilient, and indifferent. All words I would use to describe the man standing in front of me. But as he lets his upper body rest on the railing, I wonder if he too is starting to melt. If the sunlight reminiscent of a summer’s day last year is also causing him to flow between the cracks of the wooden planks beneath him. If he wishes he could harden onto those wooden planks; forever glued to the place he fondly remembers.

How do we allow ourselves to become collectively and presently goo-prone? Our self-indulgent reminiscing sparks that naïve and goo-prone feeling we crave, but still fear to express to others. Although I yearn to convey vulnerability, sentiment is still too scary for the present. v

Illustration by Sude Kurban

Suburban Nostalgia

Reace Dedon

Sweet Things

Zev Marinoff

Goodbye to the Decade: Fashion Post-Tech

by Reace Dedon

The constant injection of influencer opinions and poorly-made fast fashion has led to a wardrobe of confusion. Micro-trends cycle weekly with the help of platforms such as Instagram and TikTok, but because they are almost exclusively headed by white influencers, these trends fail to incorporate all ages, lower income groups, and plussize communities. It is becoming harder to pinpoint which fashion trends will later define us. As we move further into the third stretch of twenty-first century decades, we

must ask ourselves: how will we recognize our ten-year spans? Is it too early to tell, or has the insurgence of social media brought the downfall of decade iconography?

In order for influencers to remain relevant, not only do they have to look the part, but they must also sell “the look” to their audience.

In a constant battle over followers and sponsorships, influencers must be constantly introducing new ideas. Thus, the flurry of micro-trends emerges. There are currently

thousands of predominantly young, white, and thin influencers curating a look they hope will set themselves apart from their competitors. New trends emerge weekly, and the old ones die just as quickly. The “clean girl” look was a relatively new trend that included slicked back hair, white tees, and hoop earrings. It was a desirable aesthetic, started by white influencers, that was swiftly called out for mimicking cultural styles of black and latino women. The trend died within a few weeks, and online shopping carts full of hair gel and hoops were abandoned just as quickly.

Fashion has often been described as cyclical, but it would be better described as a coiling spring. As time goes on, fashion trends loop forward. To say a trend is new is not to say it hasn’t already been done but has been reinvisioned.

“Vintage,” which refers to anything created between 1965-2000, is in. When trends cycle weekly, maintaining the most popular look becomes impossible. The resurgence of vintage has become a timeless solution, likely because it is sustainable, thriftable, and replicable. It is a subversion of the modern coil, which continues to shrink, and provides stability in an ever-changing world of fashion.

Concerns arise when our current timeline eventually evolves into “vintage.” Will the 2020s and beyond produce recognizable, iconic fashion? Moreover, will our current clothing be able to survive the weathering of time?

Fast fashion has contributed to discourse about environmental change, and vintage is

an alternative. According to The Business Research Company, notoriously brutal fast fashion factories owned by companies like Shein, Uniqlo, and Urban Outfitters will rake in nearly 100 billion dollars combined in revenue this year. One could argue that these companies are simply producing an equivalent supply for the rising demand; a demand once controlled by major designers but is now in the hands of social media influencers.

Voyeuristic self-presentation is essential in the world of social media, and fashion markets are susceptible to persuasion. More often, we find ourselves saying, just wear what you want, and if you’re lucky enough it’ll be the next trend tomorrow– if it’s not already halfway out the door. l

Illustration: Dizzy Starfie

BY PAIGE DANIEL

Dear Prattlers,

Happy Fall, readers! We’ve officially entered the season of yearning and wistfulness. There is a delightful and melancholic tension in the crisp air as we observe nature’s beautiful cycle of decay. Therefore, it seemed the perfect time for the “Nostalgia” issue. This theme was born within a period of needless reboots, the re-popularization of fashion subcultures each week and “Twilight” once again haunting the timeline.

It can be scientifically proven that when the world feels like it’s in a particular state of chaos, humans tend to revisit the things/people/places that brought them past comfort as an emotional security blanket. For this issue, we asked our writers to explore the root of nostalgia and the power of their memories. We wanted to know: why can’t humans let go of the past or rather, a romanticized version of it?

Firstly, I want to thank the rest of the officers for their hard work and openness to rebooting the Prattler. I also want to thank and dedicate this issue to my Granny and Papa. Your house encapsulates my childhood: the days spent burying plastic animals in the sandbox, my grandmother’s stories about her old horse whispered late into the night and driving around town in search of the newest Webkinz. Thank you for your never-ending belief in me and the support that made it so I could be writing this now.

Yours, Ingrid Jones Editor-in-Chief

Sentimentally