Twofold Magazine

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twofold

is a collaborative print and online project that collects work from a creative community of student artists, writers, designers, photographers and chefs. Twofold curates high quality, sentimental pieces of work that represent feelings, ideas and the vision of our communal culture. In our pages you will find generations-old recipes, lyrical essays detailing morning routines and daily commutes, critiques, poetry, interviews and how-tos alongside photography, art or design to illustrate its written counterpart. Designed to provide a process-based experience for contributors, one edition of Twofold will be published each semester in order to ensure a most cohesive, aesthetically pleasing, detail and design oriented final product. table of Contents

3................... stuck in the middle with you 11................. to my last little brother, Jed 13.................... in defense of looking down 17.............................. bookends playlist 19................... biggest lesson from a book 21............ chocolate fudge cake (my favorite) 27.................. paris, new york, los angeles 33.............................. english meringue 41..................... how to enjoy the process Editors-in-Chief

Contributors

Asal Ehsanipour & Candice Navi

Sean Drake, Jessy Escobedo, Nick Hazelton, Emma Katz, Steve Posner, Sridevi Reddy, Aaron Taxy, Michelle Yousefzadeh, Keely Weiss

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Cover Photo by Candice Navi

Twofold was born in late summer 2013 during a stroll shared between two friends through San Francisco’s Ferry Building Marketplace. Overlooking the bay, underneath the bridge dwelled the aroma of artisan olive oil, fresh cheeses and Blue Bottle coffee. We bounced from one merchant’s shop to the next, browsing through coffee table books and quarterly magazines, admiring the care with which each publication celebrates art. Like a coffee shop, the busy hum of both locals and tourists stimulated our creativity. Our senses still soaring from a semester abroad in London and Amsterdam, and with profound confidence in the creative ability of our friends, we discovered that together we wanted to produce something like the works we so admired.

With the help of our most talented, and often, our most busy friends, we built a publication from the ground up. Our goal was that it would reflect the art of making something, something to celebrate the simple pleasures at every corner. Experiences come in waves, highs and lows, just like a story. Beginning, middle and end. Twofold reflects the beauty in all of it.

Our theme, “bookends” represents balance, curiosity and self-discovery. We recognize the cliché that is our contributors’ collective situation. Rising seniors when Twofold was incepted, we were soon to aboard a one-way ticket to the real world. “Bookends,” both at the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood; we embody both the start and the finish.

A time of innocence, a time of confidences.

In noticing our transient adolescence—though many may argue it disappeared years ago—we resolved to spend our last year at university carrying out our creative potential. Too often are we busy doing things we don’t want to do. Too busy to doodle, write, reflect, sit, enjoy a conversation. Too busy to cook a meal, draw a picture.

Through Twofold, we reject this reality. And, in doing so, we have created a memento, a scrapbook made by ourselves and for ourselves to hone our craft and to channel our creative energy.

Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.

Sincerely, Candice Navi and Asal Ehsanipour

C. Navi

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By Keely Weiss Photos by Candice Navi 24

stuck in the middle with you

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here were no identifiable signposts guiding me toward the eventual discovery of my sexual identity: no whitebordered sheets of metal proclaiming that “you are here”; no shimmering rainbow lights reassuring me that “you are queer”.

Trying to ascertain “the moment” is like trying to find the starting point of the threads in a couch’s upholstery. Yet people often ask me when I knew, as though I could gift-wrap and present them with the book-end that neatly divided my life as a straight girl from my life as a queer woman.

Sometimes I tell them about the crush I had on my best friend in ninth grade: a sucking, immediate need that terrified me not because she was “she” but because I knew that in my heart of hearts I thought I was above her, that I was too intelligent—sophisticated—special to fall for someone as pedestrian as she was. Sometimes I tell them about the first time I slept with a girl: a threesome in my freshman year of college during which I was more interested in my female friend’s nether regions than in the ministrations of the fraternity boy playing third wheel. Sometimes I tell them about the fact that, the first time I had sex with a guy, Showgirls was playing on my roommate’s gargantuan TV set and my thoughts kept returning to the grocery list I had been compiling for the next day’s Trader Joe’s run.

Sometimes I tell them about the first time I referred to myself as 4

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queer—the meat of the word thick and full in my mouth, its juices dribbling down my chin.

Sometimes I tell them about the girl I fell in love with—a seismic life shift that took place about a month after I had come out first to myself and then to my family. I looked at her clipped fingernails, her stained teeth, her rapturous reverence for the books she lived amongst, and from those details I refashioned my mental image of “home”. She didn’t love me back, so in my desperation I spilled gallons of tears along the riverbank and verses of mismatched words onto sheaves of paper.

My mother called me the other day while I was in the parking lot of PetCo. (For those who want a more definitive description of my identity than “queer”, maybe this will suffice: I recently assumed the role of separated lesbian cat mom—in partnership with the straightest female friend I’ve ever had—of a five-month-old female kitten named after Ronan Farrow.) There was panic in her voice, as well as a knot of tears in her throat, and it took me a few minutes before I figured out that she was calling to berate me for my choice of sexual-orientation label. Twenty years ago, you see, “queer” was the word they called you before they ensnared you in a headlock and pulled the teeth from your mouth by the fistful. “Gay” she could handle; “lesbian” she could endure; “bisexual” she could live with—anything, she begged, but “queer”.

But there is no other word to describe this thing that I am. In high school I pined desperately after a boy who described himself as a Jewish-Japanese mutt; my admiration for him remains tangible to this day. On OkCupid I list myself as “gay”, but I still appreciate the beauty of a squared cheekbone, a well-maintained beard. And, given my abject disinterest in dating men at present, words like “bisexual” and “pansexual” fit me no better than would a twenty-year-old Perry Ellis shirt from the men’s section of a thrift store in a New Jersey church basement. My sexuality and my self-identity exist in a land without borders or demarcations. It is the erasure of those lines, far more than any given combination of them, with which I identify.

I sometimes say I chose to be queer: a lifetime of perceived heterosexuality, after all, would not have suffocated me. The assertion that we are all indiscriminately “born this way” coagulates within the valves of my heart, shortening my breath, functioning as a denial of my agency. I did not choose the people who have wrecked me.

But I did choose to be their satellites—to reject the stratifications of sexuality and self-comportment in favor of cobbling together a personal truth on nobody’s terms but my own. “Queer”, in all its elusive mutability, is the most solid, honest identity I have ever known.

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to my last little brother, Jed

By Emma Katz Little monkey from Morocco, come five years will you remember me— your big sister from far away America?

If I knock on your door, will you run and shout, dance and welcome me into your home?

you said you missed me in my weekends away? Â Well let me tell you: now, so far east I say the same You closed this Maghrib chapter so sweetly, so here: take a banana. Or the whole bunch

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in defense of looking

By Asal Ehsanipour

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down

C. Navi

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t’s the stuff of cowards on tall towers and bashful girls lowering their eyes toward a book or a cup of coffee.

Those three words of advice—“Don’t look down”—are drilled into every child’s head from too early an age. But I’m going to be honest when I say I don’t understand when looking below became a weakness, nor when we collectively decided that looking up is somehow more omnipotent, more captivating than looking down.

I remember walking with a friend six years ago through a trail in Yosemite, along a path within an isolated meadow.

“Stop,” I told her mid-step. I normally look down when I walk to avoid tripping on cracks in the street or over something unexpected in my path. But this time I noticed a misappropriated flash of color, a dash of red within the green leaves beneath our feet. We knelt down to examine what I’d thought I’d seen: it was a set of three ladybugs on a leaf. Three hidden good luck charms.

All manner of unknown treasures may find their home on the ground: friendship bracelets that fall from unknowing wrists; miniature trap doors carved into the edge of restaurants in San Francisco; love notes and postcards from across the country that may have blown from within apartment windows. You’d miss these treasures if you never looked down— both the life and the stories. To think the sunsets and stars up above are life’s only otherworldly majesties is limiting.

There is a world beneath our feet that has become difficult to remember. We find ourselves so concerned with looking up that life’s literal and figurative roots have gone neglected. My mother once said that as a little girl she spent hours observing ant farms. She liked the way they collaborated and shared the food they’d laboriously carry on their backs. She said she thinks we have something to learn from the ants. I say we have something to learn from my mom.

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A. Ehsanipour

A. Ehsanipour

ps i am still in love with you 16

C. 24 Navi

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what is the biggest lesson a book has taught you?

I read Another Country by James Baldwin when I was in another country, both physically and emotionally, from that in which I had previously spent my entire life. Baldwin’s characters are ugly, they are messy, they are deeply flawed, but above all—and most beautifully—they are tangibly human. I read Another Country at a time during which I felt I had no coherent identity, no intrinsic place in the world, and it taught me that I am allowed to exist between borders. Human beings aren’t dictionary entries, after all; they’re entire goddamn encyclopedias—we are all countries unto ourselves.

—Keely Weiss

My first assigned reading as a college freshman was Plato’s Apology, in which the Greek philosopher Socrates admits that he knows nothing except for the fact that he knows nothing. One could discuss at length the deep epistemological implications of this confession, and scholars have certainly done so. But on a more practical, everyday level, I learned from Socrates’ words the value of reserving judgment.

It may be only human to jump into forming beliefs prematurely; one seeks the peace of mind that comes with having his mind made up about something, and perhaps the social prestige of knowing the “truth.”

Yet, despite their appeal, these beliefs are the ones which cause the most damage when we desperately struggle to defend them against reason, and leave us the greatest shame when we finally admit their emptiness, just as Socrates’ prosecutors experienced in the Apology.

—Sean Drake 19

Virginia Woolf taught me to stop over thinking and simply live. To say what I want to say, do what I want to do and be who I want to be.

“Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.”

Woolf’s Clarissa Dalloway taught me that life does not exist in chapters or volumes; it is an ongoing, neverending stream of consciousness, unremitting. Clarissa was obsessed with the passage of time—as illustrated by the motif of chiming clocks—which perfectly mimicked my life-in-transition as a high school senior.

Clarissa watched me fall in love for the first time and my struggle with endings, beginnings and the inbetween. Her tussle with time taught me to live life rather than watch it disappear.

—Candice Navi

In Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse tells us about a young man who leaves the comfort of his family to seek the knowledge that culminates in wisdom and the unfolding of kindness. I read this tale while still in my teens, early in my own determination to set home and comfort aside in a quest for the answer to the why of things.

Now in my sixties, I watch young men and women pass through my writing course semester after semester, eager to find what I too sought while reading this book. Throughout the rigors of writing and revision, I remind my students of what Siddhartha gradually came to know: “Seeing through the world, explaining it, despising it may be crucial to great thinking,” the aged seer tells us in the book’s final chapter. “But all I care about is to be able to love the world, not to despise it, not to hate it or myself, to be able to view it and myself and all beings with love and admiration and awe.”

Hesse points towards an eventual triumph of generosity over honor. He ends his novel with Siddhartha’s reawakening. Hesse’s ending is the one I sought four decades ago and the one I seek today. It’s the one I want my students to achieve while I busily teach them ways to write and think, and ways to stay smart and kind.

— Professor Steve Posner:

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chocolate fudge cake (my favorite)

Cake by Aaron Taxy Photos by Nick Hazelton Art direction by Asal Ehsanipour 24

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C. Navi

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paris, france

By Keely Weiss Graphics by Sridevi Reddy

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new york, new york

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C. Navi

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A. Ehsanipour

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los angeles, california

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english meringue Cookies by Michelle Yousefzadeh Photos by Nick Hazelton & Candice Navi

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Michelle Yousefzadeh first visited Borough Market the day after she landed in London. She remembers the atmosphere was comfortable yet still exciting, still something new. Amidst vibrant vendors and the bustling crowds, Borough Market was like a colorful bazaar. During each visit Michelle noticed meringues—pillowy clouds of sugar—stacked to the ceiling. Enormous and fluffy, some swirled with chocolate, others with fruit.

She hadn’t seen anything like it before.

Michelle stayed in London that summer to work at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. Each morning she took the 46 bus from Doughty Street in Bloomsbury, once home to Charles Dickens, T.S. Eliot and J.M. Barrie’s beloved Darling family. She would reconnect at Shabbat dinner with family of her own, Nahid Lipman, her great aunt. Nahid shared stories about her emigration from Iran to London at 13 years old. Nahid later married an Englishman, with whom she raised two children. They were no ordinary nuclear family. Nahid’s feminism was apparent; brave is the woman who leaves home alone at such a young age. During their weekly dinners Michelle learned that Persian and English culture shared values of hospitality and traditions. Just as her great aunt had decades ago, Michelle found a home in London.

One night for dessert, Nahid laid out a tray of meringues, of course smaller than those Michelle saw in Borough Market, albeit no less impressive. Michelle remembers they tasted both crispy and chewy, like sweet vanilla air with a nutty bite. On Michelle’s last day in London, Nahid gave her a stack of recipes, including one for the meringues.

4 egg whites 8 ounces caster sugar 1 cup ground hazelnut 3 drops vanilla extract 1 teaspoon bakers vinegar or ¼ teaspoon cream of tartar pinch of salt Whip egg whites and cream of tartar until they form firm peaks.

Fold in the sugar, vanilla, hazelnut and a pinch of salt.

Pipe the mixture into circular pillows of even sizes and place in a preheated 200 degree oven.

Remove when the meringues don’t indent when touched.

Enjoy with whipped cream and fruit or on its own.

Nahid gave Michelle only the recipe’s ingredients, with no exact instructions, and upon her return to America, Michelle attempted to replicate her great aunt’s recipe. What was first a series of failed attempts became a meringue variation of Michelle’s own, inspired by her stay in London. The current rendition is a cross-cultural, transatlantic emblem of history; a reunion of family.

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how to enjoy the process

By Asal Ehsanipour I was enrolled in a creativity workshop this time last year. On the first day of class, the young professor relayed a message to her students that her father instilled in her growing up. It was to fail really, drastically hard at something every year. And with barely enough time to process the depth in meaning of “failure,” my professor launched into a second lesson. This time, it was that the process is sexy. Not the beginning and not the end, but everything in the middle. And while the middle is where twists and turns and ups and downs all dwell together, sometimes it’s where failure lives, too.

A year later, I challenged myself creatively and professionally by taking a free-fall plunge into reporting for radio, uncharted territory for me. As I slowly trudged my way through the experience each week, I admit that in the beginning my fistful accomplishments were plagued by failures. I found myself so beleaguered by self-doubt that I both disliked and distrusted the benefits of the very process I’d welcomed some months ago.

I notice that opposite ends of this experiment in radio reporting— the beginning and the end—are saturated in such optimism that the middle’s rising action, climax and invariable falling action all seemed somewhat disheartened by comparison. I tried to sidestep each pitfall like a dip in the sidewalk, only to clumsily trip over myself anyway.

While I spent some weeks waist-deep in self-pity, it was during moments like these that I remembered my hopeful professor’s two mantras: “Fail hard” and “the process is sexy.”

If this very process—never mind how drenched in failure it might have been—was actually so miserable, how could I learn to enjoy it? I asked everybody I knew for help; here’s what they said: 1. Make the challenges a game 2. Seize mentors to guide and uplift you 3. Reward yourself after reaching checkpoints you set 4. Rely on, vent to, and ask advice from your friends 5. Forgive yourself for making mistakes 6. Believe in your ability to learn, and have faith it will work out 7. Sometimes, bask in the discomfort 41

E. Katz Taking this advice to heart was a process within itself. But once I learned to internalize my peers’ wisdom did things start to change for me. I’d go to bed early, wake up early, and with a coffee at hand, I went into each week of radio as a fresh start. In the days between each story, I reviewed my previous stories and highlighted parts that needed improvement. Most importantly, I became friends with my advisers and my radio journalist peers. Together we exchanged tips on how to improve, laughed at the stress of it all and commiserated over the perfection we only dared to expect of ourselves.

As my stint in radio reporting soon comes to a close, I already see the benefits of an experience during which I was, quite honestly, initially very unprepared. I feel both pride and joy at the steps I’ve taken to become better.

When the learning curve is high and the deadlines are rigid, you have no other choice. Skills seem to form out of nowhere. And before you know it, you actually start to get good. Hell, you may even start to love what you do.

So, let the process carry you in its rhythm, thrill you with spontaneous delight and, sometimes, let it defeat you. You’ll only walk out of it better. But more than that, you’ll walk through it better; “with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.”

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