V Magazine Spring 2023

BITE

Photographers: Luca Pfeiffer, Domenick Fini

Videographers: Liv Quintero, Rachel Mulvaney, Aniella Weinberger

Styling: Mack Blaylock

Props: Kendall Lehman, Rachel Mulvaney

Hair/Makeup: Charlotte Giff, Mack Blaylock

Set Design: Domenick Fini

Creative Direction: Mia Gualtieri, Andrew Zhou

Social Media: Kendall Lehman, Cassius Vuong

Models: Jasmyne Zu, Lauren Dalban, Mack Blaylock, Zain Bankwalla

Rage is like coal. It burns dirty. The particulate matter enters my lungs and leaves me gasping for breath. I saw you today. You looked completely different, but I’d recognize you anywhere, instantly, which is why I felt the gut punch before I even understood the reason. And there’s the rage again, because I can’t let this go, I can’t let this die. There’s more shrapnel in my chest for every lie I find out you’re telling about me.

When I saw you, my body reacted before my brain did. I froze, flyers in hand, then bolted. I don’t like how out of control I felt. For all the lovers that betrayed me, there were none that physically propelled me out of a room. I don’t know if you saw me; I turned and ran too fast.

But what if I’d stayed? Waited until you noticed me? What would have been in your eyes, eyes that once looked at me with such reverence? Would it have been anger? Hatred? Sadness? Would you have been sorry? You should be sorry. Your vitriolic acid has burned into my skin, leaving me disfigured. Your careless words have sliced across my face and left me pouring blood.

It was the first time I’d seen you since three weeks before it ended. A part of me wanted to keep it that way, to never see you again. That way the last time we breathed the same air would be back when we were still in love, and I would never have to face the person you’ve changed into.

I want to cry, but I can’t, so the weight stays with me. That shell-shock nausea that leaves me on an island that’s sinking, sinking into the ocean, and though I can swim there’s nowhere to swim to. So I let the water lap at my feet until it swallows me whole.

We danced among the constellations. We were like a riot. And when you told me you would take a bullet for me, I believed you. You said you wanted to spend your life on someone who would do something good, and you trusted me to make that happen. Would you still trust me? Did you ever fathom that it might be your gun that sounded, your bullet lodged in my ribcage? What would the you and me we were then say if they saw us now? Would they try to stop it? Would they succeed? Or was this inevitable? At the end of the day you can make your promises and tell me your beliefs, but in the end, O atheist, O truth-seeker, what do you stand for? Because in the end, it wasn’t me.

Wht’s Your NM?

“What’s your name?”

You ask, and I gulp as the world around me crawls to a halt the same way it always does when I hear those damn three words while I go rooting through my right pocket for an answer to give you.

ere’s a gi She came to the mossy tombstone of a great-grandfather I will never meet, stole his surname to turn it into a making o I put it in my bag, hoping that he’ll be happy to have his last name back a

Under that, I with my last name, with my father’s signature. I’m about to give it, but instincts kick in, and before I know it, I choke up. We lock eyes as he sees me crumple it up, disrespecting the family name, throwing it away the way I did. My chest pounds against its prison cell, its ribcage, at this mirage, he’s fuming now, turning red now, whining at my behavior. is is not a glass of white wine, no, this isn’t chardonnay. is is petite sirah, pinot noir, something

“What’s your name?”

You ask as I realize there’s still something le I try to be honest, try to push it out of my throat but like Sisyphus’ boulder it falls back down to hide in the bloody depths of Hades and, oh, how I hate how these moments keep happening.

Memories of every boulder I’ve let fall consume me now. Of asking my family to stop mentioning how handsome I look,

“

e me in the closet?”

I couldn’t come up with a lie for that in the end. Instead, I’d always choke up, ush, unfortunately not of the royal variety, but the fruity kind you’d nd in the produce aisle while I became cherries, I became apples, I was becoming-

“What’s your name?”

You ask as I start to wonder why I’m worried in the rst place only to remember that I have no idea what I’m doing and that I still have so much to do about myself a er this and that I could easily change my mind tomorrow and that I could easily regret this all today and that, I should probably ask to change the topic of the conversation.

“Can we change the conversavtion?”

I ask as you happily oblige, thank god, and you go on to ask something new.

“What’s your favorite color?”

You ask as I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, a question I can answer since the answer is so close to my heart. My favorite color is the color of my heart, the color of freshly fallen leaves on the ground, ush skin you get when you say I think I like you, the color of love, of passion, of sin, of imperfection, the color of beauty in spite of any blemishes. I smile and reach into my right pocket, reaching past where I let all those other dead names lay to rest to nally say, “Scarlet.”

The night I forgot how to pray

by Lauren Mesina

I licked my palms to know what the road felt like—how the slick-wet slob of Earth— we drove through—managed to hold us. I remember someone in the back asking me about Christianity and all I could think about was where I put my rosary—how I needed it to know water beading down vision, the way sweat performs for your attention, asking you to recognize yourself in the slow rolling. Sometimes I can feel it. The Mother, I mean, and Jesus— he let us lick every crumb of communion, he was a mother, too.

I think a prayer is here somewhere.

HIDE AND HUNT

Photographers

Liv Quintero, Domenick Fini, Aniella Weinberger

Videographers

Liv Quintero, Rachel Mulvaney

Styling

Mack Blaylock, Gabe Sirak

Models

Ola Mohamed, Grace Theriot, Mary Kurbanov

Props

Rachel Mulvaney

Hair/Makeup

Mack Blaylock, Mary Kurbanov, Mahum Hashmi

Set Design

Cassius Vuong

Creative Direction

Charlotte Giff, Zain Bankwalla

Social Media

Mack Blaylock, Zain Bankwalla

La Petite Anglaise by

Lauren Dalban

The familiar greeting is leveled at me by my paternal aunts, uncles, and cousins everytime I return to the little corner of the Hexagon my father still calls home. There she is, the little English girl, back again from her travels across the Channel, and now across the pond. As a teenager still trying to understand my identity, I found it condescending — I viewed it as a denial of my Frenchness, of my relation to them. But when I hear it today, as an adult, the phrase envelops me like a warm embrace, reminding me of where I came from, of the language and culture I knew best up until I was thirteen.

Now, French sits differently within me than it did when I was young. The words feel a little less sure of themselves — always drifting a little too far out for me to catch them. I sometimes have to go looking for them now. The long trek I must make through my neurons to locate the space reserved for my father’s language has felt longer every year since I came to college. My little cousin giggles as I struggle to understand the new slang she uses, or as I stumble over my explanations of what I do in college.

Every summer, when I return to see her and the rest of my family, I feel myself return to another version of myself. I shed the underlying anxiety of a semester at U.Va. and the darker colors of my London garments, instead donning the relaxed, unfazed attitude of my teenage years. I wear white button-ups over my swimsuits, and long flowing blue skirts, to blend in with the sea. French summers in the South emanate ease — the beaches and old narrow alleyways fill with sweaty locals and tourists. Their accessories include a towel, a drink, and a cigarette. During the day, people lounge outside cafes and restaurants for a short reprieve from the scorching sun, their light-colored summer clothing clashing with the red-orange of the old alleyway walls. When the night comes, the families go home, and the young adults take over the beaches and the town square in droves. They sit in circles, a speaker in between them, playing endless amounts of JUUL, Aya Nakamura, and KobaLaD. The cicadas sing their season-long song, and the youth chatter about their days. They all wear long jeans and dresses at night, to avoid the mosquitoes. On these evenings, with the French rap blaring, the loud gossip, and the sea in its endless to-and-fro, I feel incredibly young.

On nights like these, I often find myself smiling at the humor of young French people. It’s understated, full of pointed banter—its edges are sharp, often revealing calculated observation. Their well-crafted jabs and quips ricochet across the beaches, their laughs drowned out by the sea. That subtle honesty is one of my compatriots best attributes, though likely enjoyed a lot less by those not accustomed to it. You see evidence of it all across their media, from more recent shows like Dix Pourcent and Mortel, all the way back to the classic 1962 film Cléo de 5 à 7.

“Encore de retour, la petite Anglaise!”¹

French will never really leave me, but every year I feel it fade from me just a little. And I feel this ache for the language I called home for so long. What if the rest of my connection to my father’s country fades with it? What if I stop talking to the French girls I’ve known since early childhood, their smiles, their habits, dissipating in my mind like smoke? What if I forget the recipe to my aunt’s taboule, or my uncle’s secret stories about his rebellious youth? The language slips through my fingers like sand as I talk to my father on the phone, thousands of miles away, and I wonder if he will someday too.

But then, my Spotify playlist will shuffle onto a song from my childhood, like MC Solaar’s “RMI” or Lomepal’s “Regarde-moi”, and I am overwhelmed with thoughts of my elementary school friends and of my father’s city. Memories flood behind my eyes, and I feel at home, for a moment at least. As one grows older, many memories become obscured, and thinking back to them often feels like deciphering shadows in the dark. Though the memories may dim, however, I have found that much of the language stays, ready to greet me, hesitantly, like an old friend unsure of how long I’ll stay. I rejoice that this connection only frays, it is never severed.

I often feel that a piece of myself resides perpetually among the pebble beaches and the narrow colorful streets of that seaside town in which so much of my family resides. To them, I will likely always be “la petite Anglaise”, the little English girl who stumbles across conversations and reaches longingly for words she has forgotten. But they will always call to me in that language of my childhood — it will always be there for me, waiting, when I return. And I will always return.

The Enduring Power of Red: Finding the Nexus of Psychology and Fashion

Across disparate cultural contexts and temporal distributions, the color red has maintained a position of pivotal importance. Red has become emblematic of cultural norms and served as a visual foundation to social movements. Depending on where one is from, interpretations of this color may di er. In Western countries, red’s meaning has become multiple: love and hate, Cupid and Erida. Valor. Power. Sex. One thing remains obvious; red exerts an insurmountably powerful in uence on our collective psyche, and is intimately connected to our emotionality. Furthermore, fashion and visual presentation are crucial to perception. e fashion industry garners billions of dollars in revenue yearly, all to aid in the curation of the “self”. Color remains a critical element of fashion, and plays a major role in setting the tone of a piece of clothing, or collection. us, understanding the psychological mechanisms behind reactions to the color red can help inform our continued obsession with the iconic red looks highlighted in this piece. Although the psychology of reactions to color is still a highly researched topic, a host of studies have demonstrated the unique psychological and physiological e ects of the color red. Red is highlighted to invoke the strongest emotional reaction of any color. Due to its wavelength, it tends to be one of the most easily visible colors on the spectrum, according to Verywell Mind. Perhaps we humans are attuned to the frequency of red because of its unique relevance to us; a er all, blood is red! Other studies have even demonstrated that exposure to the color red can elevate blood pressure, increase heart rate, and increase respiration rate. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that the fashion industry has harnessed this knowledge. Red can help facilitate the creation of a memorable emotion-inducing fashion statement.

Red has dominated women’s fashion, and has served as the foundation for some of the most iconic looks in fashion history. e e ect of each red out t has proven unique to both the individual, and the particular style of their out t. is is demonstrated in the image of actress Marylin Monroe, seen sporting a stunning red dress from her movie ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’, with a cinched waisted and low cut bosom. e adjoining image shows the cover of ‘Ebony’ Magazine, where actress and singer Abbey Lincoln is seen wearing the same dress. Monroe — known for her acting, looks, and style — was highly sexualized by the media. Red was an extension of Monroe’s identity; it served to seal her boldness, femininity, and power. It was no surprise, therefore, that when Lincoln wore her dress, she was suddenly subjected to the same overt sexualization that had characterized Monroe’s career. Lincoln described the waves made in her career as a result of this particular fashion choice as ‘insincere’, and quickly resorted to burning the dress to ensure that she’d never wear it again.

‘Pretty Woman’, a film which made waves with its ‘ragsto-riches’ narrative starring Julia Roberts as Vivian Ward, seems like the perfect film for a ‘red’ moment, with its obvious referenc es to power and beauty. The film covered themes of beauty, sex, power, and class, implicating the male lead played by Richard Gere (Edward Lewis) as the archaic ‘male savior’ to Vivian’s life of prostitution. Indeed, one of the film’s most iconic looks was Vivi an’s red dress, worn the evening of her and Edward’s first date. The stunning dress served as a visual cue to the audience that Vivian’s lifestyle was about to change. Its bold nature is not only memorable, but also flashy, and contrasts with the elegant design of dress and gloves. The dress embodied a pivotal moment in the film, where Vivian begins to solidify her relationship to Edward, and begins to actualize her new life as a woman with newfound privilege.

One more contemporary example of the influential nature of the color red was seen not long ago, on the SuperBowl stage. Unsurprisingly, Rihanna’s iconic red look stood at the forefront of cultural zeitgeist, and attracted commentary from thousands upon thousands of people. Her outfit, which consisted of Loewe jumpsuit, a trailing Alaia coat, and a pair of MM6 Maison Margiela x Solomon sneakers was both comfortable and chic — a testament to her unique ability to redefine maternity wear as comfortable and stylish. Her SuperBowl performance, which marked her first performance in six years, was the quintessential expression of Rihanna’s sartorial expertise. Singlehandedly revealing her new pregnancy while embarking on a musical journey that covered the span of her top hits, Rihanna’s SuperBowl performance was anything but forgettable. To seal the deal, of course, her red outfit left a lasting impression, one reminiscent of Rihanna’s femininity, power, and newfound motherhood.

From Rihanna’s SuperBowl outfit, to Lincoln and Monroe’s red dress, to Robert’s iconic look in ‘Pretty Woman’, the color red has maintained its dominance in women’s fashion. Red’s ability to spark an immediate and noticeable psychological reaction makes red outfits that much more powerful. Red’s demonstrably strong influence can be harnessed to convey a variety of messages. Whether that power is used to convey sex, power, or femininity, red has a timeless quality that will always remain relevant in the world of fashion and media.

F A S H I O N

by Mary Kurbanov

Where ChatGPT threatens to displace writers in their craft, A.I. (artificial intelligence) has been clawing after artists’ works for years now. Many have had enough. In a New Yorker piece released earlier this year, a group of artists — Kelly McKernan, Sarah Andersen, and Karla Oritz — claimed that there is a fight to be had, evidenced by their class-action lawsuit against A.I. imagery generators Midjourney, Stable Diffusion, and Dream Up.

Truly nefarious or just unexpected, A.I. art poses a host of ethical questions about its use. Art thievery is one of them, as stated before. A.I. imagery generation necessitates an algorithm to “learn” a specific aesthetic or artistic genre by analyzing thousands upon thousands of images, according to American Scientist. Creatives fear that their work will be taken from their sites and filtered into these algorithms, their labor becoming a pawn in the crude generation of shallow images.

Often, A.I. “artists” argue that their process of appropriation is not novel. Roman sculptors fashioned their pieces based around the ideas of ancient Greeks. Even now, sampling songs is deemed as an art form, where decades old tunes can be reimagined to fit modern tastes. But A.I. art is decidedly different for reasons of scale and human involvement.

For one, A.I. artwork generation and creation of aesthetics depends on hundreds of thousands of images and the hours of labor which go along with it. Where one artist may take inspiration from the work of another, the infringement of A.I. is almost infinite in comparison. And since users from all over the world can use A.I. image generators with ease, tracking which works have been stolen from who gets more and more arduous.

In a similar vein, A.I. art is merely a regurgitation — a rudimentary blending — of styles that creatives may have spent decades perfecting and defining. The process of A.I. art rejects soul at its essence; it contains no remolding or adaptation, no real new thought, no human depth and originality. Where people will create regardless of each other, A.I. art’s existence relies on humanity to survive. In each rapidly produced reimagining of a realistic Bart Simpson or a pair of futuristic twins, there can never be the heart of an artist. There will only be the curiosity and desires of an experimenter.

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Perhaps the most pernicious aspect of A.I. art is its grotesque extension of female objectification, often to lengths that are disturbing to gaze upon. One scroll through the #aiart hashtag says enough. In between images of magical beasts and renaissance-esque cartoons are depictions of women in the uncanny valley with body proportions aimed to ignite sexual desires.

Just as fanservice in anime favors enormous breasts over female intelligence and character arcs, A.I. art demeans womanhood by reifying the same sexist ideals permeating the digital world in video games, social media, and T.V. Women exist only for pleasure, and A.I. art perpetuates this idea — now, at a much, much wider scale.

It is vital here to emphasize how such technologies are not created in a vacuum. It is people who create the algorithms A.I. art is based on. It is people who choose the thousands of images that refine the algorithm and help it “learn” a particular aesthetic. And it is people who engage in art thievery, who create unrecognizable visions of the “perfect” woman, and who use these digital tools to reify sexism instead of finding avenues for empowerment. Yes, there is an endless list of programmers, designers, and consumers who may continue to degrade the creative space if nothing changes.

This is not to say that misogyny and art have not been in- tertwined for some time, well before the advent of A.I. technologies. Great artists like Georgia O’keeffe and Lauren Greenfield had to fight for their place in the male dominated world of artistry, thus amplifying female voices over sexist ideations. This is also not to say that such individuals will fall out of favor with the public and will lose their ability to influence others with their works. However, with A.I. art — through its blending of works and its perpetuation of sexism — significant, feminist pieces may get lost in the background in the search for the feminine “ideal”. Audiences may turn their eyes to instant gratification, like the overexaggerated female form, rather than human-driven art.

Since it is people who are producing such ethical conundrums in need of analysis, it must be the same people who paint a brighter picture of the future. After all, it doesn’t seem that A.I. art is going anywhere anytime soon. A.I. advocates must listen closely to the struggles of current creatives, so the market may be habitable for both parties. They must introduce some restrictions on the kind of pieces that can be produced, or at least take a firm stance against exploitative, misogynistic art.

The path ahead looks bleak. Artists are still vying to be heard by the general public and the image generators taking advantage of their hard work. Regardless of what the outcome may be, it is imperative that A.I. artists keep real creators in mind when trying to make A.I. art mainstream. After all, art is nothing without the hard work of people expressing themselves and helping others do the same.

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Blue and Orange Are Out:

to Domenick's 'red' brain

by Nolan Deja

There is a red-light flickering among the abundance of red brick here at the University of Virginia. The small light on the camera signals that the flash is ready. This light can be seen for only a brief moment before the flash goes off, capturing a frame on Domenick Fini’s camera. Walking around Grounds, Domenick finds himself amongst the crowd of dull North Face backpacks and gray faded ‘Virginia’ sweatshirts. Where is the red?

The red can be found with VMAG. Domenick is the production lead for VMAG – he delegates tasks, discusses inspiration, and manages all of the photoshoots. Domenick is a second-year media studies major who has captured many portraits and scenes here on grounds. From VMAG shoots to graduation pictures to weddings, Domenick has worked in many different environments. However, shooting for VMAG’s red issue is distinct and exciting.

The Red Issue sparked Domenick’s creative thoughts – he mused on the different ways to incorporate the color, spurning convention. From themes such as vampires and blood to red crayons, red fruits, and “Little Red Riding Hood,” the inspiration is endless – and that is what makes it so freeing. While reflecting on what the color means to him, Domenick answered “Red is so metaphorical and just has so much symbolism behind it.” For him, it’s theatrical, dramatic, and childish – and this is what he aims to capture.

Domenick does not show up to a photoshoot without planning beforehand. Scrolling Pinterest and Instagram, he searches for how he will bring the Red issue to life. For the first photo shoot for this issue, Domenick focused on the Victorian Era. The inspiration for this theme included blood, gore, and vampires. To execute this vision, he decided to shoot in a studio with a black backdrop. The typical dark colors of the Victorian era helped highlight, through contrast, the red props and items that were used during the photo shoot. The models wore mostly black and white clothes, with

FE RTILITY FERFTILITY ERT ILITY

The color red is something viscerally maternal. In the context of this work, it can represent a confiscation of childhood, a loss of innocence. The woman in this painting is turned inside out, defined solely by her reproductive organs, reduced to the identity of a beast because she is only valued for her child rearing abilities. The color red, like motherhood, can be a beautiful thing–but it can also be violently detrimental, just as the female role can be reduced to an exclusively sexual and reproductive one.

"Baby's First Ciggie"

Linoleum reduction relief print on paper

As an artist, my main subjects of interest are dolls and babies. I like to place them in contexts that have absurd and sarcastic undertones. In this print, I included a fetal form smoking a dart. The words “Baby’s First Ciggie” encompass the figure, referencing the common adages of “Baby’s First Christmas” or “Baby’s First Word,” etc. What does this have to do with the theme of “red”? As a begrudged cigarette enjoyer, I imagined the fetus smoking a Marlboro Red – my go-to brand.

Tori White by

Red provides a visual intensity that is not quite comparable to other hues. Anger, love, violence, and passion – some of the most penetrating, extreme facets of the human experience – have become synonymous with the color. For me, red has an air of uncertainty and fear to such an intense degree it almost becomes laughable. In this painting, I was thinking a lot about the uncertaint y in death. For most of my life, I have been so fearful of death, despite the fact it is a natural and arguably beautiful part of existence. I began to think about how absurd and frankly funny this fear is. To that end, I painted a figure emulating what I imagine a personified version of death would look like. By including the doll, I aimed to subvert the power the figure desired to radiate, mitigating it with a childhood plaything. The red surrounding the figures aims to intensify these feelings.

"Damned"

Oil on panel