V Magazine Spring 2022 by V Magazine UVA

editors’ note Here we are. The end of our time as editors in chief. Don’t cry, because if you cry, we’ll cry! It’s been a whirlwind, a magical tapestry of student creativity and care. Working as your editors has been rewarding and fruitful for our imaginations and creativity. Through collaboration with our wonderful team and external organizations, we have been able to put together stellar issues and events such as our first ever fashion gala (shoutout the Fralin and FFA) that we should all be proud of. Amidst the chaos of publication and organizing photoshoots, it was hard to take the time to appreciate the rewards of our position as well as the work of the V Mag staff. With this final note, we hope to extend our gratitude to our editors, designers, production team, models, photographers, stylists, and social media teams who have made this year of V Mag happen. Coming out of the pandemic like a bolt of lightning, we hit the ground running and haven’t stopped since. As we leave the university and hand over our positions to two brilliant minds, we take with us a piece of that lightning. What looked like a glimmer in the dark is now shining in our faces, and will soon be behind us. V Mag 2021-22 has been, no offense to previous years, a phenomenal body of work, and we are so proud of it. Speaking as two little outcasts who have felt out of place at the university at one point or another, V Mag has been a stable post for us to hold onto, and for our roles and involvement to have evolved in the past four years has been a great gift. For the fellow outsiders who may not know the entire “Good Ol’ Song” or haven’t felt acclimatized to UVA, we hope you have been able to find some sanctuary in our magazine, and we dedicate this issue to you. With the theme of “Déraciné” we imagined a space in which those who feel pushed to the margins can be centered. From our editorial pieces to creative ones, our photoshoots to our digital designs, we hoped to convey the feelings of being on the outside looking in and just how enriching that experience can be. Here at V Mag, we cherish that collective shared feelings of discordance. Continue to be strange and against the grain! As for the coming year, we are excited to pass over our positions to Charlotte Giff and Mia Gualtieri, two beautiful minds that have been instrumental to the prosperity of V Mag this year. Both have been polymaths for the magazine; Charlotte has managed our social media presence, while also being a model, production team member, and photographer and Mia has been our videographer, production team member, and incoming designer. We have great faith in their ability to maintain the innovation of our magazine for the 2022-23 school year, by assembling a diverse team and churning out great ideas. Best of luck to them!!!

With hugs and kisses, Myka and Emily

contents dé • ra• ci• né

adj: uprooted or displaced from one's geographical or social environment noun: a person who has been or feels displaced SHHO + VMAG playlist. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Creative Writing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Decadent Discordance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 “Making X-Rays into Lemonade”. . . . . . . . . . . . 23 . “What’s Your Sign”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11 “Christopher Columbus is the Enemy”. . . . . . . . 27 “Decolonize This Space”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 “The Timing and Totality of Twiggy”. . . . . . . . . .31 Half-Pipe Visions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

staff editors in chief: Emily Bekker and Myka Greene features editors: Loree Seitz, Katherine Hansen, Chloe Becker,

Lu MacKenzie

creative writing editors: Jo Clark, Lauren Dalban, Liz Kraisinger designers: Annabel Gleason, Rachel Crawford, Mia Gualtieri, Alex Yun, Macy Brandon stylists: Kennedy Davidson, Mesina social media: Charlotte Giff

VMAG & SHHO PRESENT

THE PLAYLIST When curating this playlist with Abreale Hopkins, the other co-president of Student Hip Hop Organization, we were inspired by the a range of upbeat and minimal genres. Ranging from a variety of music scenes in boom bap, Russian post-punk, a little bit of grimewave, and lots of deconstructed club music, this playlist will transport you to another dimension. Without losing roots in what brought SHHO and VMAG together in holy matrimony, this playlist also has experimental hip hop and pop, made sure to keep your ears in seventh heaven. If this playlist doesn’t want make you want to book a spontaneous one way ticket to Berlin, I don’t know what will.

LICK IT N SPLIT . . . . . Zebra Katz, Shygirl Дорогой Человек . . . . . PERMSKY KRAY Nitevision . . . . . BAMBII, Pamputtae Discreet . . . . . Sami Baha, Dimzy Возвращайся . . . . . angel vox Monthly . . . . . Your Old Droog Be My Lover . . . . . La Bouche Drop . . . . . Cecile Believe late nite . . . . . [bsd.u] Brokeup . . . . . Arca I Must . . . . . Pincey Skoowup . . . . . Scuti Dynamic . . . . . KSLV Noh The Analyst . . . . . Nikki Nair Whole House . . . . . Lolawolf Girlfriend . . . . . Knifehandchop Stormy Mayweather . . . . . Neana Admin 2000-2001 . . . . . Taskforce Final Form . . . . . Sampa the Great Mother Nature’s Bitch . . . . . Okay Kaya DOOM Unto Others . . . . . CZARFACE, MF DOOM

Statues

by Angel Swain

I spent some time away waiting for the day you raise from dead. I’m laughing out every cry as a child stuck in the chamber with a silver lining. My grandparents had this old-school box television. If you pressed your face on its face you could get lost being connected to a machine. There’s a heartbeat. It’s a girl if God allows and that was death in the empty channels of the sonogram. I’d always be fascinated with the layer of static it would twinkle as I sat on the itching carpet, next to chiseled doll houses. I was told by a friend about a call she listened in on. A son had been struck in the rain-cut fields of lighting. I am sure every vessel in his body swelled for a moment, every blade of grass erect and elect and the mother was wailing. I want to be with my mother. She wants the feeling of her head in the static. I fantasize about the things I want to feel. I have never been diagnosed with anything. I am sure I was divined with this in mind. A couple of hours out of the warm womb-light staring at my mother’s drunken clavicle rocking slowly becoming petrified. I want to be with my family. They are all dead.

“Allow Me to Explain Myself ” by Allison Kinney

Essentially, I am an accident. I leave a blank sheet of paper

on a bare table in an empty room and call it

I am a building that Elvis has left. I am the skin a cicada stepped out of. I am a telephone pole stippled with the staples of ten thousand torn down flyers.

"Self-Portrait of a Smart-Ass."

* There is no spring, but there is the rocky throat of the spring, and the water coming through the spring, and otters playing in the spring, and shorebirds inscribing the soft mud around the spring, and trees reaching their long shadows over the spring, and midges freckling the surface of the spring, and a single red flip-flop fading in the sun beside the spring, and the limestone plateau fizzing with groundwater feeding innumerable springs, and a water molecule that not long ago was the exhalation of a bird on the other side of the world, coming through the spring – Do the otters carry thev spring into their burrows underground? Do palms, swamp oaks and cypress launch the spring as clouds? Does the flip-flop, picked up and thrown away, wait in the landfill as a satellite of the spring? Is the spring in my mouth when I name the spring? Everything an endless spring, and no spring left to speak of. * Dude in a car hollers at me and an image of myself is pinned in place, a "Hello my name is" sticker dropped on the sidewalk. Meanwhile I ride shotgun as an afterimage. Didn't anyone tell you a name is an invitation? Now you have a sidewalk dyke of your own making in the car with you. Be haunted! I am just walking. * My mother told me not to, but when the phone rings, I answer, "Yes?"

A love letter to an ex-home in bunica’s kitchen we peel potatoes and I watch her oily wrinkles move like waves across her face. everything she says is a leaden command she asks why my nails are painted that it’s so American of me I respond in her language and my tongue delights in its rolling cadence her brow raises disdainfully and she corrects my grammar I want to demonstrate how I could write a love letter just by saying hello I look at her and I see every reason mami left -her stony embrace the way she shuns what she doesn’t know still, in my heart I am home. amidst the broken beer bottles strewn across the street, stray dogs growling in the alley I love this overgrown messy place but I fear it’s unrequited still I sing into the empty streets still the words pour forth from my thirsting mouth te iubesc, te ador…

by Charlotte Giff

Achingly beautiful how we bloom crimson in darkness After Gabrielle Calvocoressi It really did take this long to notice that my mother only smiled past 8, as though the melting daylight drowned out the memory of a long day’s sin. That final buttery breath of sun before, gasping, day collapsed into night. I never understood her eagerness to switch off the lights. A flick of the wrist, fluid turn of the lock as she whispered farewell. I was the good child & so in the absence of a man she brought me with her. Hand in small, aching hand. These are the nights I remember as I lay in someone else’s bed. His eyes an invitation into obscurity, hands reaching to envelop us in darkness. The first time I tried not to wince but the blood gave me away. Small patches of light to make me wonder how she did it. Over and over, nights just like this remind me that I am a woman, that to be a woman in day is to be ashamed. I could never tell my mother that I understand now, that it wasn’t the memory but the anticipation of oblivion that brought her joy. Achingly beautiful how we blossom behind closed doors. Smiling, she & I are not so different after all. Flashes of pleasure sear my subconscious & I gasp. The memory of my mother shrouds me in darkness. by Maddie Stokes

Costume Party By Reed Williams

Let’s play dress up, I’ll be the older sister, obviously. Dishrags tied to sweaty head With headache-y headbands Flounce with style in my new wig. I’m a cool teenager. I own a flip phone And paint my toenails And talk about boys Don’t worry, we’re just pretending To like cheetah print crop tops And ruffled skirts. My pretend clothes reside In a discrete chest At the bottom of my closet But I’m a cool teenage girl With flirty eyelashes And a driver’s license Beep beep let’s go to the mall Find the latest haute couture At the children’s store Hot pink striped arm warmers With special loops for the thumb I’m literally a model Feather boas and sunglasses Stolen red lipstick And cheap scarves meant for purse handles And toy poodles. Maybe I had a gift for prophecy When the pretend extends To my dreams And the costumes felt like home And smelled like me.

Watching Korean dramas with my mother, and by Ellaina Jung Lying beside her on plush blankets on the floor, I can feel her breathing. She inhales with her whole torso, her silhouette growing big and small. Sometimes she is still, but I know she keeps breathing because I can hear it. On the TV, the girls’ faces fall when they decipher their mother has menopause. So does mine, in guilty shock. As the daughters get medicine, write delicate notes, remember to kiss their mother, my cheeks burn. I didn’t know it was a big deal. I learn it’s called 폐경기, pyeh gyong gi. The roof of my mouth is awkward when saying it. My mom bemoans the accuracy of the show. When it began, she couldn’t sleep either. She taps me lightly and says this was painful to her. What use is it having sons when you go through something like this? The actors say it like it’s an old proverb. What use is it having an American daughter? The question lingers in the air like some toxic gas. And all I can find myself to do is hold my breath and her hand.

Roadmaps

iii. I pay bottlecaps, dollar Sacagawea silver dollars, and gray nails to the fireplace whenever I cry. It is meant as a joke, but it is also maybe something more like jealousy that the chimney cannot spare so many tears.

by Isabel Galgano i. I am living between the houses inmyheadandthehousesIsitwith in the daylight. They morph together instrangeways,theirdoorwaysmelt together and their bricks pose gentle questions.

I dream of radical acts of hospitality. These may make it onto the light wood of the real, round table one day. Shared everything on blue flowered china. And only the little forks to eat with.

I dream giant bathtubs of creekwater and garages infested with roaches. I live as a stowaway in my childhood home, making bracelets that cause earthquakes andbarringmyselfin withHotWheelstracks and paperhouses in the hallways.

Everyone who enters here leaves their emotions in the walls. And they seep out into me, shared, heavy. Only to emerge later, uncontrollably. iv. I do not pray at night for dreams. They only come on their own and sit a while, as if on a porch for a story in a thunderstorm.

I walk through hilly strawberry fields to find a room with shelves thatIknow. The notebooks have my handwriting next to my father’s, bothofourscriptsgrowingolder.

I dream that I am within her dreams. They are hazy as if the signal cannot quite reach from her sleeping mind to mine. But I see sheets of yellow around me and floating petals from clothes lines.

ii. This house is a thing of pieces, layered, pressed bits put together like a love song. She is in the most important nooks, every place that it is easiest to breathe. She gives me a map to where I already was. And another map to where she might be, or perhaps where I might want to find myself.

It is not totally clear who it is, the master of my dream house. Rocking chairs and old log cabins set circumstances for lingering stories like these.

There is already a map here of my internal organs. Appendectomy. Thoracotomy. Break me open and put it all back together. There is a real room with poems about birds on the walls. In my dream, it is an ocean. The lulling of the water is what saves me again and again.

Decadent Discordance In collaboration with CRAVE Clothes from Arsenic & Old Lace

Photographer: Domenick Fini Creative Directors: Myka Greene and Emily Bekker Models: Chantal Hernandez, Mohammed Mohammed, May Shamsid-Deen

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EDITORIAL 2

E M U SI C

”

“BON

Making X-Rays into Lemonade by Mary Kurbanov

Perusing the many wares held in a local Urban Outfitters can be an exciting activity, especially when listing through the vinyl record section. Somehow these large, fantastically thin discs hold whole albums-worth of music. Though the record shelves are often packed with artists ranging from Lana del Ray to Sade, the presence of vinyls raises the question of what music really means for consumers nowadays. Owning a vinyl may signal ultimate dedication to an artist, as consumers commit to both the artistry and lyricism of the physical manifestation of music. A record may also just be a collectible, or something to buy and then resell when the time is right. But at its core, a vinyl is a tool to listen to music, a captivating echo of the past to when it was the only provider of recorded song. Amidst the current abundance of curated tunes and playlists, a record can serve as a reminder of the perseverance of listeners in being able to access music and art, significantly in the context of counter-culture rebellion in the Soviet Union. Following World War II, the communist party in the Soviet Union grew fearful of Western influence corrupting the cultural ecosystem of their country. In the mid to late 40’s, policies like Zhdanovschina called for stricter government control and the promotion of anti-Western views. Cultural products – like poems, plays, and music – that fell out of line were deemed inappropriate and an attack to Soviet life. According to author Gleb Tsipursky in his article Jazz, Power, and Soviet Youth in the Early Cold War, 1948–1953, the Propaganda Department of Komsomol expressed “concerns about youth dancing to jazz in Moscow,” solidifying the demand of certain Soviet organizations and higher-ups to impose mass censorship.

Of course, this would not stop the rebellious youth, like the stilyagi. The stilyagi were a collective of young people who were obsessed with everything Western – colorful clothing, bright make-up, jazz, rock ‘n’ roll, and more. Going against the grain, the stilyagi and others refused to succumb to flagrant strikes on their ability to follow music trends, listen to new artists, and be a part of the global music scene that was going on around them. To go around the uncompromising, overseeing eyes of the Soviet regime, bootleggers developed a way for smuggling in, developing, and distributing forbidden records:“bone music.”

Bone music”

“

a strange title describing an even stranger concept. According to an article written by the Smithsonian Magazine, bone music makers sourced cheap and plentiful vinyl from old x-rays, which they would use to make “cheap copies using standard wax disc cutters to duplicate smuggled records.” Compared to real records, the quality was often awful, with some records only being playable a few times before they went bust. Bootleggers and sellers would even have to make the spindle holes themselves by “pressing a lit cigarette in the disc’s center.” But the system worked. No matter where the records were sold – dark alleyways, in front of stores, at street corners – Soviet citizens were willing to pay. And it helped that the records were dirt cheap, too. Though the incentives to purchase these kinds of records were enticing, “bone music” was still incredibly illegal, with those caught creating, selling, or buying being fined or even jailed. To groove to the sweet sounds of Ella Fitzgerald or Frank Sinatra always required risk. And so, the underlying poignancy of the story of “bone music” lies in the very fact that art was something worth fighting for. The systems in place that attempted to dictate what people should or should not listen to could only do so much to prevent innate human curiosity for the novel. By entrenching themselves in the black market in the hopes of finding a new tune, the stilyagi and other Soviet citizens proved that music was an incredibly valuable aspect of life, regardless of the cost to acquire it. It begs the question – when thinking of the present day slew of available songs – if music means as much today as it did back then.

What’s Your Sign? By Adina Mobin By the way, astrology is a load of bullshit,” said the soft-spoken astronomy professor in my second year of college, and the class roared in laughter because a professor said a curse word in our first lecture. Oof. I took Introduction to the Sky and the Solar System because I naively hoped in my heart I would learn something valuable about astrology, something empirical that proved it was real. Though, I did find out that there was the thirteenth star sign in the tropical zodiac called Ophiucus, which is situated somewhere between Scorpio and Capricorn. I was heartbroken. I also ended up getting one of the lowest grades I have ever received at UVA in that class, but that is beside the point. Astrology was meaningful to me at the time–and still is today–because it allowed me to construct the world and its people in a way that made sense to me. It was an act of design thinking, almost critical and reflective. What qualities did I unconsciously seek out in people? How could I dissect their good habits, their communication skills, and their emotional availability? On top of that, I always felt curious about the science of space and how it connected to spirituality. I grew up with a mother who often got her birth chart read when she was uncertain about major life milestones and my favorite Muslim holiday, Eid al-Fitr, changed every year based on the moon’s cycle. Though, I have come to realize that not only was my professor incorrect but I was, too. For one, astrology is entirely real and has been practiced for centuries in African, Asian, and Middle Eastern cultures. Advanced scientists, mathematicians, cartographers, and geographers used astrology to successfully learn about the Earth and space. Non-western science, spirituality, and philosophy have historically been marginalized, persecuted, and dismissed because people in the Western world value rationality. This practice of ethnocentrism, or the criticism of other cultures entrenched in one’s own understanding of culture, continues today as many critics of astrology call it a ‘pseudoscience.’ The Western world is guided by evidence or what they believe to be concrete facts that are easily provable. In turn, any concept that is not based in empiricism is thought to be a ‘belief.’ As a rational person, you can believe certain things to be true, but you must trust facts (Western facts), scholars think. Though, the same beliefs that Western scholars have told society to dismiss are the ones that are appropriated and repackaged to

EDITORIAL 4

be more accessible to and digestible for people who do not belong to the cultures that created them. Thus, the communities of colonized countries and its diasporic peoples are looked down upon for practicing their customs, sacred rituals, and sciences that are deeply rooted in their culture and people’s history, while others are praised. Secondly, I was viewing astrology elementarily by not knowing its cultural backgrounds, its complexities, its true implications about the religious world and beyond, among other things. The astrology I knew and consumed was the astrology I saw on Co-Star and recently TikTok. Co-Star is a popular astrology app with a social media component where users can access their birth chart and quirky horoscopes like “Go out tonight” or “Don’t: Aloe vera, gossip, and dancing in the rain.” The app uses data from artificial intelligence and NASA to chart the movements of the planets and stars. Professional astrologists have criticized the app for its repackaging of astrology to be more attractive to its millennial audience, which has made its readings and depiction of astrology inaccurate. The app’s founder and developer, Banu Guler, stated that the daily horoscopes are crafted to poke fun at its users, people who may or may not take astrology seriously already. TikTok, on the other hand, catapulted astrology’s popularity in the U.S.’s mainstream discourse. This over-accessibility of astrology has invited thousands of TikTok accounts whose sole purpose is to distribute information about different zodiac signs’ personalities traits and the meanings of important astrological conjunctures. Now, astrology has become a tacky, hyper-commodified trend to companies with its zodiac-themed tote bags, candle scents, and drink options. Because of its oversaturation in mainstream entertainment, people and corporations have overlooked or simply failed to research how astrology is significant to other cultures. It is a matter of respect that is rarely not offered outside of Eurocentric standards. What people fail to realize is the distinction between cultural appreciation and cultural appropriation is context. Selecting aspects from other cultures and co-opting those practices without choosing to understand the culture in its entirety is insensitive and threatens the most sacred aspects of those cultures. It is the responsibility of people who do not belong to the cultures that these practices or sciences originate from to educate themselves before consuming fads or posting videos; and that respect extends beyond astrology, of course. I, myself, am choosing to learn more about the history of astrology and how it is practiced today by experts and traditional astrologists; and I have most definitely deleted Co-Star.

EDIOTIRAL 4

Christopher Columbus is the Enemy By Shade I know we’re not supposed to say this, but, sometimes, things don’t change and neither do people. History repeats itself because generations of people stay the same and make similar choices as their ancestors. For instance, colonization, or the foundation of American history, might vary in tactic and in captives, but the displacement of a group of a people is an unwavering consequence of erasing their language. # In pursuit of writing a poem based on the extinction of Afrikan and Indigenous languages, during, or because of, European colonization of the Americas and the American slave trade, I sought out scholarship that discussed this very topic. I initially wanted testaments from people that belong [ed] to a community with a lost language, but I do not know where to meet such people, let alone did I have time to hold interviews, so scholarship and online works by authors affected by the erasure of their culture, were my best resources. Realistically, I would not have found all, if any, of the languages wiped off by the Europeans. I expected, however, to be enraged by what I learned, as is common when I engage with the effects of slavery, as well as the genocide of Indigenous peoples. More than enraged, I was nervous that this editorial would expose that I am a pessimist. We will never be able to recover all the languages banned from, or beaten out of, groups of people that preserved a decent portion of their culture through oral traditions. Language is a double-edged sword. One side is Unity and the other is Division. Throughout my research, I felt stabbed, repeatedly, by Division, but poked only once by Unity. The latter occurred because of pidgins, or a tool for people to communicate that don’t share a language. Pidgins may seem beneficial but wouldn’t have been necessary if the Europeans had never forced Afrikans and Indigenous peoples to betray their mother tongues in the first place. English, French, Portuguese, and Spanish tampered with native languages such as Guaraní, Zulu, Kinyarwanda, Lenca, and Oshiwambo. (I use “tampered” instead of “replaced” to acknowledge that there are

different affects to erasure. For example, Chilanga, or Salvadoran Lenca, is presumably extinct, while Honduran Lenca is presumably endangered. Guaraní, however, is spoken in Paraguay, Brazil, Argentina, and Bolivia, today.) This list is not exhaustive. In fact, the list of languages affected by colonization could never be completed because erased languages are not artifacts to be excavated. 15th century Europeans wanted the languages of their captives forgotten, and that’s what happened. I had the opportunity to conduct physical research on an alleged endangered language from the previously colonized country, Nigeria. This research took place in my family with my Nigerian mother. About a month ago, I began spelling “Africa” with a K. I’m not sure where I first saw “Afrika” or why this spelling seemed right, but I wanted to swap the letters, regardless. Before I committed to this change, I had to confirm that “Afrika” wasn’t causing damage to the continent’s history. Briefly returning to the Internet, I learned that the “C” spelling is another product of European colonization, and “Afrika” is closer to the name of the continent than “Africa” because some Afrikan alphabets don’t have a “C.” My mother informed me that Yoruba (the “endangered” language) has such an alphabet. The Yoruba alphabet reads, A B D E E F G GB I H O O P K R T U W Y, which not only validated my spelling of Afrika but made me scrutinize the spelling of my name. When I was younger, I was told that the “H” in my name was put there so people (and we know the type) wouldn’t pronounce “Sade,” — how my name would be spelled in Nigeria— as “Sadie.” (Granted, with my spelling, I get called “Shade,” like what you stand under on a hot day.) Although I understand the purpose of my name’s spelling, I would be irresponsible not to call it assimilation, one of the objectives of colonization. The effects of colonization and American slavery permeate every inch of American society, including my life, so I was unchanged by this connection. Actually, I was thankful that my research became personal as it brought me back to poetry.

We were forced to mourn alone at the funerals held in our souls for our good friend, Language, who was seen as a weapon and, Cultural Expression, who died shortly after. Erasure, masked as education, was the murder tactic. The new world was a bottomless casket.

Decolonize This Space: Artwashing and UVA Complacency in Israeli Apartheid

In May of 2016, artists and activists flooded the Brooklyn Museum in New York to protest an exhibition called This Place, organized by the artist Frederic Brenner. The photography exhibition, intended to view “Israel and the West Bank as ‘place and metaphor’,” drew criticism for its lack of Palestinian participation, explicit desire to evade the specifics of the Israeli imposed apartheid and the sources of its masssive amount of funding. In planning for the project, Brenner did attempt to invite Palestinan photographers, but found that none would collaborate with him. One explanation could have been Brenner’s commitment to excluding artists who felt “anger” in response to the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Another explanation may have been the commitment by a large portion of Palestinan cultural workers to boycott cultural and academic institutions that legitimize the state of Israel despite its illegal occupation of Palestinian land. Artwashing is the use of art or artists in a politically neutral or positive way to distract from, neutralize, or legitimize harmful actions taken by individuals, governments, or institutions. The term is often used in the context of gentrification but it applies equally to contemporary struggles against settler colonialism, such as the intentional depoliticizing and watering down of Israel’s occupation of Palestine within exhibitions such as This Place. This past spring, the Jewish Studies Program (JSP) at UVA and the Virginia Center for the Study of Religion co-sponsored an in-person residency and workshop with Brenner. The 1-credit workshop included a moderated discussion titled “Unfamiliar Homelands: The Archeology of Visualizing Israel and Palestine.” The workshop description failed to mention any of the discussion’s participants, but JSP representatives admitted no Palestinians were involved. The original advertisement for the workshop included a long list of collaborating faculty from across the University and an endorsement from the UVA Art Department. When local artists familiar with the criticism of This Place began reaching out to those listed as collaborating faculty, it became clear that JSP had failed to inform them of Brenner’s controversial history with This Place. One by one, collaborating faculty had their names removed from the residency’s webpage and the Art Department withdrew its endorsement. In early March, a private back-and-forth between critics of the residency and the JSP was unfolding in what seemed like a productive direction. Asher Biemann, Professor of Religious Studies and organizer of Brenner’s residency, agreed to meet with students and local artists to discuss concerns. Concurrently, representatives of Student Council addressed the broader institutional issue of the Israeli apartheid by calling for solidarity with Palestinians and for a University-wide commitment to withdraw support for entities, groups, institutions and programs that legitimize the Israeli appartheid state (in alignment with the BDS movement). The only demand specific to Brenner’s residency programming asked that any language related to offering a Palestinian perspective be removed, citing previous criticism of This Place and the lack of Palestinian participation.

Student Council Representatives introduced the Resolution on Friday, Mar. 11 in preparation for a vote on Tuesday, Mar. 15. On Mar. 14, the unsigned generic “Arguments Against BDS”, a one-pager full of bad-faith generalizations, was emailed to Student Council Representatives. Although it failed to directly address most of the Resolution’s actual content, it functioned successfully as a scare tactic and the Resolution was withdrawn. Meanwhile, the private conversation between Biemman and critics of Brenner’s residency was scheduled for Wednesday, Mar. 16. On Mar. 14, hopes for that conversation were dashed when Biemman postponed the meeting, promising to reschedule by Mar. 16. The date passed with no word from Biemman. Instead, the residency’s webpage read that the in-person component of the residency was postponed until Fall 2022 “due to unforeseen circumstances.” Shortly after, Brenner and Biemman issued a statement expressing, ironically, their desire for “respectful conversation with these diverse viewpoints included” as they moved forward with planning for the Fall. The statement expressed a willingness to accept “legitimate criticism of the project for the sake of open and critical intellectual discourse about a controversial topic.” Their failure to follow through with the previously scheduled meeting or to acknowledge that the demand was simply to remove the offering of a Palestinian perspective implies that they see the critique as illegitimate. Further, the statement reiterated that This Place is neither pro nor anti-Israel. Positing “place” (Israelioccupied Palestine) as neutral while ignoring the settler-colonial reality of the apartheid is unethical. The familiar empty calls for “conversation” and “dialogue” fall especially flat as the state of Israel unlawfully evicts Palestinians from their homes and demolishes them, restricts movement within Palestinian neighborhoods daily and responds to protest with disproportionate, deadly violence. There is overwhelming evidence documented in reports from Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, B’Tselem and the UN Human Rights Council that Israeli-occuppied Palestine is an apartheid state and that the state of Israel is committing genocide against the Palestinian people, according to the UN definition of both words. Our universities, museums and cultural organizations should not participate in legitimizing the violence of any state, whether by artwashing or otherwise. More education is needed for faculty and students at UVa to end programming that legitimizes settlercolonial violence. It is our responsibility as students, artists, faculty and community members to mobilize against the legitimization of such violence.

Follow @decolonize_uva on Instagram for updates on this situation and more at UVa. Written by Kendall King Additional support by Morgan Ashcom The authors Co-Direct Visible Records, a community space, artists studios, and gallery in Charlottesville, Virginia. Kendall is an alumni of the University of Virginia (CLAS ‘20).

& g n i m i T The ity of Total

TWIGGY

By Lu MacKenzie

the world quickly followed suit; despite her petite frame, she overshadowed the traditional image of femininity and its previously-beloved housewife. Twiggy arrived in New York City in March 1967 and from the second her plane touched down, she soared. The next month, her appearance on the cover of Vogue heralded her rise to stardom. The headline that bordered her wide-eyed, frecklefaced headshot was “Great New Looks: With More Than a Dash of Flattery.” Twiggy became an instant icon, the catalyst for transformation in the fashion industry as well as the pioneer for a new way of living that was more than before. In hindsight, this more was, and continues to be, two-pronged. In one respect, the shift in beauty standards is freeing. Women can feel confident ditching their perfectly pristine housewife stereotype: professionalism outside the bounds of domesticity lies in the cards for them. Having a body that mirrors the goddess of love, beauty, desire, sex and fertility is no longer the unattainable criteria of womanhood because different is okay, different can be beautiful. On the other hand, Twiggy at the forefront of this progression meant a new set of limitations. More from this perspective is a harsher and increasingly unrealistic physical ideal to strive towards. With the invention of the computer, the internet and social media trailing Twiggy’s claim to fame, the desire to be thin has universalized rather than dissipated. These repercussions were felt most prominently in the 90’s and 00’s, decades known for a waifish “heroin chic” look and models like Kate Moss promoting restricted eating. It was within this period that Tyra identified Twiggy as iconic and legendary, not only for her fame, but for the physique that got her there. Even with the presentday progress of the body inclusivity movement, we have yet to completely abandon the “skinnier equals better” mentality. Victoria’s Secret fashion shows still display a procession of women who starved themselves in preparation and TikTok videos with thin creators still receive the most applause. Twiggy herself has said that she does not believe high fashion will ever move completely away from slimness, but she is the same woman who hated her appearance prior to making it big. She is the same woman who succeeded countless Venuses with polar opposite features. She is the same woman who was once the antithesis of attractive. Yet Twiggy pushed the relentless pendulum of beauty standards in a different direction, leaving feminine plagues in her wake just to make room for new ones.

“Fashion icon and living legend” was the phrase Tyra Banks always used to introduce Twiggy as a judge on America’s Next Top Model. On every episode of every season between 2005 and 2007, these words were repeated like scripture, both for the contestants pursuing entrance into the industry and for those watching on television. Twiggy’s rise to stardom was the blueprint; her pervasive esteem was the objective. But how did she become an exemplar of admiration in the modeling business? What standards preceded her and how has her influence endured through today? The year is 1486 and Sandro Botticelli has just completed his painting The Birth of Venus. A pure embodiment of western beauty, the illustrated Roman goddess stood for all that was desirable. Her curvaceous nude proportions and flawless pearly skin exuded softness and eroticism. Her billowing gold curls enhanced this sensual aura as they cascaded perfectly around her face and down her body. She was every artist’s muse, every woman’s ideal. Flash forward a tad to the post-World War II era of booming prosperity. The epitome of womanhood in the 1950s and early 1960s was long wavy hair, a nurturing personality and a voluptuous figure. Sound familiar? Though preferences and ideals fluctuated within the span of four centuries, what was considered beautiful in the eyes of a medieval person did not veer too far from midcentury feminine fads. Weight-gain advertisements circulated the media, the glitz and glam aesthetic of Hollywood infiltrated white American suburbia and bright red lipstick flew off the shelves at every cosmetics store. Women sought the flawless complexion and full, hourglass body type flaunted by Marilyn Monroe, their own version of Venus. Of these wishful women was Leslie Hornby, a teenager and high school dropout from London that would soon adopt her new persona as Twiggy. With small breasts, bony shoulders and a pixie haircut, Twiggy was the negative image of everything a woman was supposed to look like. Instead of the classically curvaceous fitand-flare style, she wore a simple shift dress that negated her skinny silhouette and spotlighted her long, thin legs. Instead of posing with grace and poise, she contorted her body into sharp angles and played with dimension. Instead of voluminously elegant, she was androgynously editorial. She was everything unfeminine in a way that proved strangely appealing. Designers liked the way she photographed in their clothes and

Half-Pipe Visions Photographer: Leo Zhang Creative Directors: Emily Bekker and Myka Greene Models: Sara Makarem, Sadia Ahmadi, Dominic Rosenthal