ISSUE NO. 1// VOLUME NO. 1Â
WELCOME TO RETROGRADE. Several times a year, it appears as if Mercury is going backwards; Mercury goes into retrograde. This time is traditionally associated with confusion and chaos. Retrograde publishes artists and writers whose process and work embody the effect of retrograde; after all, the best work comes out of chaos.
Photo by Portia Hubregsen
contents table of contents
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Eva Chang // @mintcacti
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Isha Chirimar // @ishachiri
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"A Trick of Light" // Clio Rose
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"I Won't Buy It" // Eva Chang
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"Tender Thoughts" // Erin Murphy, @evxnescent_
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Berlin // Cath Lei, @cathalysted
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2018 Lookbook // Lisette Vincent, @lisettevincent
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Not Torments Teeter Totter // Alexis Karr, @lexi_jude
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2017 Favorites // Sera Snyder, @serasnyder
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Sweet Dreams // Maggie Hill, @m.aggiehill
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"Artificial" // Kathryn Klein, @katekleiin // Art by Sonya Alfano,
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@sci.burr Lieve Otter // @noisyvelvetness "Lost" // D.B Meg, @d.b.megpoetry
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"Closed" // Lucia Rochwerger
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"Make Love to Your Sadness" // Phoenix Byrned, @phoenixbyrned
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Emma Cheshire // @emmacheshire Below my Window" // Sean Martin // Art by Dylan Lee, @vaultthestars Eva Chang "Tomorrow" // Clio Rose
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37-38
41-51 52 53-55 56
Abby Berger // abbyb3rg3r
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"Obsolete" // Clio Rose
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"Soft Body Tokyo", "Untitled" // Dylan Lee, @vaultthestars
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Collage by Kathryn Klein
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Art by Eva Chang
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Art by Isha Chirimar
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a trick of light
The sun filtered through the foliage and dappled the moss with light. Ferns curled, fronds extended swaying elegantly in the breeze The frail silk sagged under the weight of suspended dew droplets, As its resident wove pensively. The strands wafted back and forth in the wind. A small fly fluttered forward attracted by the shimmering light, and soothing sway. Within seconds it was stuck, entrapped in the pale threads. The host raised its many eyes, silently watching the insect thrash. And then for a moment, all was still. -Clio Rose
Art by Isha Chirimar
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Art by Eva Chang
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tender thoughts
“I am never what I want, but I believe that someday I will be what I need. I believe in the person I am becoming. With these photos I wanted to capture the personal reflection I am constantly feeling, and the constant state of thoughtfulness I am in." Art and Writing by Erin Murphy
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BERLIN
A short story by Cath Lei
I used to be part of a band. We didn’t have a name, and we were okay with that. Alex Chang was the best saxophone player in our school band, and Wesley Liu was a madman on the keys. Me? I played guitar. We worked at a record store called Off the Record just off the highway, small and broken down. If you didn’t look hard enough, you wouldn’t see it. It was covered in moss and vines, and I always imagined what it would have looked like when they first built it. It wasn’t as if it needed to change, just that I needed to see what it used to be - bustling in the golden age of jazz. That’s how it all started. “You boys want to hear a story?” My boss asked from behind the counter. He didn’t need to raise his voice above a whisper.
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“As long as it isn’t about Diana Ross.” Wesley muttered. “Nah. It’s about the store. Pops brought me here everyday when I was little. We’d sit in the back and watch the guys play, back when this place used to be a club. I remember looking at Jeff Chan like he was this god.” He sighed, gazing longingly at an old poster on the wall. “Maybe I’ll bring it back. I’d give anything to bring it back, but nobody comes to our little jazz joint anymore, you know?” There were times when I thought Mr. Switz was a little out of his mind, but he always joked that all jazz lovers were more than a little weird. He was the grandfather everyone joked about - you know, the one with all the wartime stories and tales starting with “one time I met this famous person’s cousin’s housekeeper’s wife’s dog.”
“What if we play?” Alex asked, flipping through sheet music. “I mean, people could watch us play.” “I’ll let you boys take care of it, then.” Mr. Switz chuckled and left us to think about what we signed up for.
Off the Record needed us. It needed to happen; Switz wanted us to keep playing. We started to care about everyone else, and perhaps a little too much. I don’t know if it was a product of how our parents were, or if it was something that came with being an artist, or if it was simply a product of being human.
Our school’s music room was this single trailer in the back of the school. It wasn’t that our school chose not to fund music, it was simply that we couldn’t afford much to begin with. If I closed my eyes, it was like sitting in the store, just smaller and a little less rusty. It was always jazz scales and trivia in that room.
Months later, it was finally opening night, and it was as cold as it could get in Concord, California. Deep breaths were taken, instruments were tuned, and yet, something was off.
“Ryan.” Alex set down his saxophone and ran a hand through his black hair. “What’s the best jazz record of all time?”
Wes let out a sigh, and no melody could recreate the plethora of emotions we felt in that moment of silence.
“You already know my answer,” I smiled, thinking about the first track I ever listened to. “Kind of Blue. Miles Davis. Hands down. The B sides are better, though.”
Every artist had their critics, the little nagging voices in the back of their mind telling them how awful they are - you know, their inner Nat Hentoff. What Wesley had was his dad. It wasn’t like Mr. Liu was a ruthless demon, because he wasn’t. He was as human as the rest of us. He just had his expectations, and they seemed to all rest on the summit of Everest.
“No way!” Wesley’s hands froze on the keys. The room was silent. “It’s gotta be Coltrane! Like, My Favourite Things or But Not For Me.” It felt like we only existed when there was music - when there was jazz. It didn’t matter what everyone else thought of us - that was the beauty in it all. There were no scripts and roles to play: we didn’t need to be pitch perfect and harmonious - jazz could be loud, and it didn’t have to make sense. A month into practice sessions and improvised pieces, Mr. Switz passed away. For the longest time, we didn’t care about the outside looking in, but right then and there,
It was the lack of the Switz magic.
“Wes,” I said, putting down my guitar. “I know your dad’s coming, but we need you.” “Thanks,” Wesley muttered. “What if I mess up? What if he’s not proud of me?” “You’re like, bloody Jeff Chan reincarnated!” Alex shouted. “Screw your inner Nat Hentoff. You’re gonna kill it.” “The song is you,” I picked up my guitar again,
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knowing that my Joe Bonner reference had lifted the mood. “Your dad’s no jazz critic, you know? Surviving Hentoff means you can survive your dad.” “Yeah. We play for Switz.” Wesley placed his hands on the keys, and then the first note was played, the first riff rang through the still air, and for a moment, we felt eternal almost as eternal as jazz. When I imagined Off the Record in its’ golden years, I didn’t imagine it like that. There were no secret shows and revolutions. It wasn’t Berlin, it wasn’t Chicago, but it was all we needed. Concord was our Berlin, and jazz was the heart of it all. When I was 18, I left the band to chase down my own dreams. There were no plans, no scripts - just improvisation and the basics. It was jazz; who needed to have a plan? Sometimes I like to go back - to remind myself of what it used to be, and I try to imagine if Off the Record had stayed a little record store right off of the highway for the rest of time. I still find myself drifting back to that little jazz club. Sometimes I’ll see Alex and Wesley sitting in the crowd together, and sometimes they’re dancing. It wasn’t Berlin, but it was enough.
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2018 lookbook By Lisette Vincent By Lissette Vincent
Shoes: Converse Jeans, Sweater: Urban Outfitters Jean Jacket: Brandy Melville Sunglasses: Crap Eyeware
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Turtleneck: Forever 21 Pants: Forever 21 Boots: Forever 21 Jacket: Zara Sunglasses: Urban Outfitters Beret: Forever 21
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Boots: Lulu's Dress: Urban Outfitters Sweater: Urban Outfitters Beret: Urban Outfitters
Boots: Forever 21 Sweater: Forever 21 Pants: H&M Hat: Forever 21
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Photo by 19
Not Torments Teeter Totter Rising Up From The Self-Inflicted Body Image Addiction
"This photo series is about the most transparent and vulnerable side of myself that I tend to lock and neglect until it undoubtedly was brought to the surface. A lot of the time I feel in a funk or a somewhat lackluster daze of self-confliction, confusion, and loathing. I have never been open about the internal battle I face against my reflection; My war with body dysmorphia. It stems from a long history of mental disorders where I acted on my self-loathing due to my insecurities and desire of something unobtainable. It was almost like a glitch in time when I came face to face with my reflection like I couldn't recognize who I saw or felt a disconnect between my visual being. I started to have a depersonalization and emptiness to own identity due to my skewed and irrational ideas about my appearance which I was a human being. I use to think there was no real escape from the savage, desperate, and miserable demons that feed off my thriving insecurities and anxiety filled thoughts. I allowed them to continue to quietly crawl and twist my ease only allowing me to plea to feel any real authentic emotion, for the chaos to end, and for the numbness to picked and prodded at until I could feel again. But not because of the selfinflicted addiction but because I allowed feel everything all at once. I allowed myself to be vulnerable and honest with the raw, imperfect, flawed human reflected in front of me; For she was never a projection or fictional character brought out from my abnormality, from the digital world, or from society. Â I had to become blunt and honest with myself. Accept, embrace, and adore that I am unique and different. Try to let go of the taunting, overactive, endlessly anxious thoughts; for that is not living." Photography and Writing by Alexis Karr
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2017 favorites 2017 has been a year of immense creativity and innovation with many new and diverse trends in the fashion and beauty world. Over the course of 2017, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite fashion-forward looks, as well as the beauty products that have saved my life this year! While there are too many to name, here are just a few of my favorite fashion and beauty trends to hit the scene in 2017:
fishnets & ripped jeans The combination of fishnet tights peeking through a pair of ripped jeans has been all over everyone’s Instagram timeline this year, and for good reason. This look gives a regular pair of ripped jeans a more edgy and dressed up vibe. This look goes perfect with a pair of heels and a solid-colored shirt that can be worn as street wear or dressed up for a night out.
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cropped hoodies Zendaya is just one of the many celebs this year that has been seen in a cropped, hooded sweatshirt. It gives you all the comfort and warmth of a normal sweatshirt, but in a more fashionable way. This piece goes great with just about anything; from leggings, jeans, to even a bodycon skirt like Zendaya!
vintage band t-shirts Although graphic tees and band apparel are nothing new to the fashion scene, this past year, countless celebs have been seen in vintage band t-shirts. Such as Gigi Hadid, who has been seen wearing an AC/DC shirt. These vintage tees are so versatile that they can go with just about anyone’s style and make a great casual daytime outfit!
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oversized patch denim jacket Denim is one of those things that will never cease to be in style, and as of recently, the patched denim jacket look has made its way back into the scene. Adding patches to an oversized denim jacket gives your look a sense of originality and sets you apart from the crowd. This is a great statement piece for any outfit!
velvet scrunchies Scrunchies have slowly been making their comeback these past few years, but the newest thing is velvet-like scrunchies. They make a bold statement whether you choose to wear them simply as a wrist accessory or use it as a hair band, you will not go unnoticed with one of these!
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mario badescu facial spray This facial spray makes for the perfect setting spray or just for daily moisturizing. With its combination of aloe, herbs, and rosewater, this spray leaves your skin feeling renewed, refreshed, and smelling as sweet as a rose.
lush snow fairy show gel
This shower gel from Lush is perfect, especially for the holiday season. Its bubblegum and sweet vanilla scent will draw you in from the moment you smell it. Its all natural ingredients and plasticfree shimmer dust make it that much better! Use this shower gel to clean yourself off, or make the most amazing, sparkly, bubble bath you’ve ever seen!
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sweet dreams
I've always been interested in dreams, what they mean and how they happen, and I've recently noticed their duality. They have power for both good and evil, comfort and pain. We use the word dream to describe our goals, our very being. We look towards the future with positivity and excitement, but dreams can become nightmares. They can leave us terrified and unsatisfied. Dreams are a journey, a mystery we're forced to solve in sleep. That's what these photos are. They're, in my opinion, unsettling and unorthodox. They make sense to some and none to others. These photos are dreams, sweet dreams. Photography and Statement by Maggie Hill
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artificial.
BY KATHRYN KLEIN she always seemed to be glowing not in that cliche sort of way more like someone had forgotten to turn off a light in a forgotten room inside her head so while her eyes sparkled like all of poetry’s pretty girls her cheeks did as well and her entire face seemed like a paper lantern just before the candle went out she wasn’t pretty not really that wasn’t enough she was luminous she was otherworldly as if she was not one of us mere mortals but rather something else entirely she also it appeared was like a jazz baby in a book by Fitzgerald or some other romantic of the 20’s she danced when normal people would have collapsed entirely and then somehow managed to run back to the table fall into the seat beside me and laugh about how the night is even younger than we are and there were still places for us to wander to and boys for us to toy with she always had a drink in one hand in a glamorous sort of way rather than the way an older man drinks to forget she drank to remember
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she claimed the bubbles in champagne were the last relic of magic that had died out centuries ago i thought instead that she was the relic of magic i merely wanted to stand next to her so some of her light might illuminate my normalcy and most days i wished that i were her instead of the figure in her shadow never quite as bright that was until i stood beside her as she shattered in the bathroom of some club in some city her jewel like eyes marred by redness and black makeup running down her face like rain in the cracks of pavement it appeared as if her entire being was disintegrating it was then that i realized that her iridescence was some shimmery sort of rouge that had been smeared on her face but that the tears had now left streaked and out of place and the way that she had laughed was in actuality a convincing ploy to hide the breaking in her voice i later discovered that her utterance about champagne had been snatched from the pages of some poet no one remembers she felt like a shooting star for the shortest moment you see one and you’re elated and feel lucky just to have seen it but then it disappears and you can’t even remember exactly what it looked like
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or you discover that the star was in fact not a star at all and was instead a shuttle departing from JFK just after midnight the star was artificial just like the words she claimed or the glitter painted on her cheeks.
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Photos by Sonya Alfano
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Art by Lieve Otter
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lost being lost is just another word for, trying to be found  ~D.B. Meg
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Art by Lucia Rochwerger
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Make Make Love Love to to Your Your Sadness Sadness Make love to your sadness. Give yourself permission to feel, and feel it deeply, you must. Allow it to nip at the base of your neck and tug against your heart. You must allow your sadness to be heard. This is how you heal. - Phoenix Byrned
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EMMA EMMA CHESHIRE CHESHIRE
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By Sean Martin Below my window on the 13th floor, the city slumbers, purring, curled up tight warming it's hind against the fire of a simmering sky but before she retreats she heats up the night you can hear the clouds moan as she burns them to smoke and the city, left cloaked in charcoal stirs awake, a million quiet eyes blinking up at the black absence of the day wondering why the sky had to go away.
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 Eva's art currently centers around characters and expressions. To her, characters should be three-dimentional and have realistic personalities, goals, and relationships with one another. Having only begun technical art training three years ago, Eva believes that she still has a lot to learn. As of right now, she is working on sketching faster and experimenting with different mediums and colors. By building up more technical skills, Eva aims to put her characters in even more convincing and captivating settings. Creativity is still the core of her work, alongside any technical skills she works to polish. Eva tries to come up with ideas for illustrations and stories daily, among many other types of art. By using art, she hopes to inspire others.
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tomorrow By Clio Rose
I have always disliked the morning, Not the breakfast cereal and alarm-clock morning, Rather the time when tomorrow becomes today, And today a mere whisper of yesterday. I used to think of it as magic; That when I closed my eyes in the dark And woke up to the tender light of dawn, I had begun a new time: A new existence. Nothing could ever pass the boundary of tomorrow, I would fall asleep today And wake up in my newest today, Refilled with exuberance and life. The first time I stayed up until tomorrow, I expected some unavoidable stupor to overcome me Without my control, simply because it had to. But it never did; And, despite my presence, Today silently slipped into tomorrow.
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ABBY BERGER cover feature
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Obsolete By Clio Rose
They had had a nice life, in that park, Lamp Post, Fountain, Phone Booth, and Bench. They would often talk all night, long after the people had gone, lit only by the ephemeral stars And Lamp Post’s weak bulb. Bench was the first one to go. They had seen it coming for weeks, ever since the pale green mold, had wormed its way into the grains of his spongy wood. After the diagnosis by Fountain, he decayed rather dramatically. It took a toll on him, when the people stopped sitting, and talking, and caring. He had an in loving memory plaque, a highly valued commodity in the local seating community, but after the news, the brass didn’t shine quite so brightly. But, the inevitability of his demise prepared him to say goodbye. Fountain was next, she left quickly. She was bulldozed for more walking room, for the people. There was no time for her to prepare Her final words, Or wish everyone well, Simply to say goodnight, As she always did. Lamp Post noted that the people in the hard hats and fluorescent vests didn’t seem to care about all the wishes made by small people with coins, as they ripped Fountain’s elegant granite from the ground.
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From then on, it was just Phone Booth and Lamp Post, Lamp Post and Phone Booth.
Every evening Lamp Post would boast, “They would never get rid of a lamppost. How else would the people see?” And he would brighten his bulb importantly, hoping for someone to notice him. But one day, a storm hit; wild and tempestuous, it shook Phone Booth’s delicate glass panes and made Lamp Post’s bulb flicker in accordance with the temperamental power lines. That storm knocked over Lamp Post, bending him out of shape and breaking his bulb. He was replaced later that month, by a less talkative light fixture, who would shine and shine, without saying a word to Phone Booth. Years passed, and Phone Booth became overgrown with ivy and low-hanging wisteria. He hoped that one day someone would use him again, he couldn’t see how else the people would talk. He grew rusty, and his red paint peeled off in long strips revealing untreated, splintering wood and oxidizing metal. And he waited. Another storm hit, not as violent as the first, but sudden, and very wet. The brassy drops resonated within him, working their way down from his roof to his base.
That was when the girl arrived, she was shaking and soaked to the bone, when she opened his door. She slammed it behind her, and, after regaining her composure, reached her hand into her coat pocket. Phone Booth rejoiced! He knew this move, she was going to search for a coin and then stick it into the designated slot. He tried to make himself seem more useful, his brittle cord, springier, his dusty handle, shiner, and his stiff, unmoving buttons more supple and forgiving. She pulled out a glowing rectangle from her pocket and danced her thin fingers across the moving lights. She put it to her ear, and spoke into it, the way people used to speak to him. A dull, persistent ache began in his very center. And in that moment, he realised, that like all of his companions, he too, had become
obsolete
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Art by Dylan Lee
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Art by Dylan Lee
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masthead editorial board Isha Chirimar Kathryn Klein Cath Lei Portia Hubregsen
Editor in Chief Managing Editor Brand Consultant Director of Photography
staff Lucia Rochwerger Sonya Alfano
Contributing Illustrator Contributing Illustrator