LETTERS FROM THE CREATIVE DIRECTORS

My family members are terrible bookkeepers. Only the oldest of our photos are scattered among unkempt photo albums and manilla envelopes: my parents’ wedding, Vietnam, baby pictures (of course), and other familial relics. In 2007, my mom began to upload all her photos to Facebook and would reminisce about past days. I found this beautiful. Not the photos themselves—they were horrendously blurry and awkward—but thRe act of archiving and the indulgence in it.

I believe that everyone has an affinity for the archival. What I mean is that if you look at your camera roll, however chaotic it may be, patterns emerge. Patterns that reveal the way you view and capture the world, the things you find beautiful, funny, disgusting, and strange. Taking and loving what you experience and just simply keeping it close in our pockets—that is the awesomeness of iCloud.

The beauty in the archival shows us that our lives are artful, no matter what our creative interest may be. In our heads we create rules and stick to them. Each of us has unique rules that show us how we traverse and visualize our lives. The habits that create our archives preserve these rules and unabashedly display them either for us or others to see.

When I look back at my own archive, I get immersed in my world that I’ve curated. Everyone I love and everything I admire shows through. The compactness of it gives me energy and clarifies my vision. It’s strange how I see through my chaos. Designing for the Observer has shown me that heart is at the core of all my design, and my heart can be seen in my archive.

I hope this inspires you to look back at your own archive, wherever it may be. In your camera roll, photo album, or any other collection you’ve built. Because they are all trace patterns of you!

You’re the best, Bao

A few springs ago, I was rifling through the drawers in my mother’s old childhood bedroom in the house where my grandma still lives. I sifted through stacks of candy-colored birthday cards (Love, Aunt Toni & Uncle Norman), journals from camp (the food here is terrible), and yellowed letters from friends (Sealed With A Kiss). Through these papers, smooth and golden with age, I was able to see my mother as another version of herself, a part that was tucked away in a drawer with painted flowers, near the closet where her wedding dress now hangs.

From the bottom of this accidental time capsule, I pulled out an edition of her high school’s newspaper from 1983. I don’t remember the front page now; it was something about homecoming or graduation, a commemoration of some mark in time that rendered it worthy of keeping. She had held on to that student newspaper for almost 40 years. Having gone to the same high school as my mother, it was the same newspaper for which I, at the time, was an editor.

Journalism is about keeping people informed. It allows us to learn about our community, to feel like we’re a part of it, and to understand what’s going on around us in our day-to-day lives. But journalism is also a record, encapsulating the people and events that came before us. Like that high school newspaper, the Tufts Observer will live on: forgotten among stacks of books, filed away in desk drawers, shoved into boxes marked “college.” Some issues will make it to the first move from college, fewer still the second. All will be immortalized online, and some treasured editions may be saved for lifetimes.

So, to anyone reading this 20 or 30 years from now, or on Monday, May 2, I hope you find some joy in this issue, learn something new, or be a part of the Tufts community as we left it. Until then, the Observer will be here, waiting for you in the archive.

Cheers, Julia