Museum of the Mundane

Museum of the Mundane: A Showcase of the Commonplace

This is a display of only our lightest tragedies, gentlest dramas, and the occasional, ever-exciting pleasantry. 

We are forced, every day, to feel every moment. Forced to place our concrete feet on the ground and lift them up again. We shuffle across our tiny rooms and begin our tiny lives and we say I can’t and then— like every other day— we do. We mask and lift our bricks once again; we exchange small talk in the elevators and glances on the sidewalk.

No matter how deep you scrub, your floors are still filthy. And your bread is still rotting, your trash is piling up. There is no more room for skeletons, the closet is full. You can hide the gritty but in doing so you only create the underbelly. 

So, here it is— what is swept under the rug, hidden beneath fresh paint, washed down the drain (and snaked out again). Because when you unearth the shockingly filthy or the unnervingly ordinary you once hid away and become comfortable with its presence, you can begin to revel in the mundane. 

Please, peruse our exhibition of the quotidian. We present to you, a Museum of the Mundane: A Showcase of the Commonplace.

Enjoy,

Sam Goodman

Museum Curator

Her Last Goodbye

Abigail Ross

She sends a wide smile in my direction. Her honey-colored eyes exhaust when I frown, returning a remorseful gaze. Don’t worry about me. A cigarette hangs between pursed lips, the long tobacco-stem quivering between shaking fingertips. Red and ashy, the tip illuminates when she inhales. I close my eyes and I feel the burden of her breath. A fierce wind whips and spins, as a chill falls all the way down my spine. The sound of pavement cracks beneath her worn, sunken sneakers. She fidgets in silence, twirling a single strand of blonde hair. This is a fallen dream, somewhere—in a life filled with mundanity. I open my eyes and she pivots, this time walking away forever. Her head bobbing up and down in acceptance of this fate. She exhales, nose pointed toward the dark sky in disbelief. When gray smoke ascends in the air, she weaves and curls her hands in the atmosphere. Destiny calls when quiet church bells ring in the foreground. With each step further away, she does not hear them. But her footsteps drift, straying in the distance, and I say a prayer. It reminds me of God. I know this is goodbye.

In Hiding

Jess Ferguson

I wake up some mornings feeling disconnected from my body, like two puzzle pieces that can sort of fit together if you squish them into place, but they don’t quite match up. I’ve spent so many mornings staring at myself in front of my Colonial dresser mirror (that has to be propped open with something else, otherwise it’ll slam closed. I toss different outfit combinations all over my floor and bed, hating every one. No, I can’t wear those jeans— they emphasize my stomach. No, I can’t wear that dress— it shows off my arms too much. I convince myself that if I just find the right outfit combination, my body will somehow morph, my body fat will shrink. It’s not just about wearing flattering clothes. I can hide what my body actually looks like, trick everyone into thinking that I’m not actually the size I am. I never find that outfit. Maybe if I contour my face the right way, cut my hair the right way, stand the right way, suck in the right way, I can sell a different version of myself. I never do. I’ve spent countless mornings picking apart everything until there’s nothing left. Rummaging through my belongings to transform myself into someone I’m not. It’s exhausting. I sit on the edge of my twin XL bed and groan in frustration. I start feeling tears forming and dab them away with a beauty sponge so as not to disrupt my makeup, feeling very much like Nina from “Black Swan.” Back to the drawing boards, this time with a different approach: what outfit do I want to wear? I settle on a rainbow striped sweater, a proud Depop find, my staple flared jeans, gold jewelry, and my trusty Air Force 1s. I’m done hiding. My outfit doesn’t hide my body— it can’t. Instead, my outfit is me. My body is me.

Weather Appropriate

Leah Heath

Today, I wanted to make vodka pasta, something my roommate whom I love (though I am not in love with) taught me how to make. It was 43 degrees out today, so warmer than normal. I was not planning on putting a jacket over a hoodie over a t-shirt. Instead I decided a hoodie was enough. Usually I walk fifteen minutes down Commonwealth to the grocery store, because I honestly don’t think it’s that bad. But I remembered how because of Thanksgiving week I didn’t use my T-Pass for half that week. So I decided to take the train two stops to the grocery store. Honestly, with the wait, I could have just walked. But I was already regretting the solo hoodie combination with the frigid air. My fingers do this thing in the cold where I can bend them but they just feel numb. I hate that feeling, especially with my hands curled around a new phone case. And  I hate gloves that aren’t disposable. My grocery shopping wasn’t anything special, but I regretted choosing check out lane 13. There were two people in front of me and I had just happened to choose the one where someone’s nitpicky grandma decided to badger the cashier about her unclipped coupons. But with two people behind me and all lanes bleeding into the aisles I felt stuck. 

Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner 

Mary Kassel

Open the box. It smells like cardboard. Yeah…because it’s a cardboard box. The noodles also smell like cardboard. Noodles don’t really have a smell. The powdered cheese is locked away in its little pouch. Okay, not, like, locked away. I just have to rip it open. It’s really not that deep. I couldn’t find the lid for the pot, so the water’s going to take longer to boil. Fuck. I definitely could’ve just found the lid if I looked harder, but I literally just decided to “take the L”. Now the water is starting to boil and I haven’t even gotten the milk out yet. Or the colander. Jesus, how did this become stressful? Is it stupid to use oat milk if there’s real cheese already in it? Okay, now the noodles are in. I don’t even know what al dente means, but I feel like that’s probably fine. We only have wooden spoons, which are probably better for the environment, but I leave them in the sink too long and they start to rot. The box says it takes eight minutes, but it always takes way longer. This wouldn’t happen if we had a gas stovetop. Now I’m on TikTok watching someone cut up actual vegetables for an actual meal. I haven’t eaten vegetables or gone grocery shopping in a month. I think the pasta is probably ready now. I try a noodle, but it’s way too hot and I burn my tongue. I pour the water out and accidentally splash on my hand. I can’t yell because my roommates are asleep. I add too much milk and there isn’t enough cheese in the packet. Now, I can eat an entire box of mac and cheese. 

Bedroom Queen

Sam Goodman

In the mornings I slip into nude pumps- the largest I could find. I learned to walk in them; when I took my first steps I stumbled and fell, but since I’ve found my center. So, at 9:38 a.m.— with the blinds shut— I’ll find it again. Pose on 1, shift weight on 2, turn to find my light. I twist and jive, dip and dive, spin and kick, strut and buck. Under me, my feet begin to sweat and swell. The shoes become slippery, they skin my ankles, I lose my center. My soles are red and wet, sticking to the inside of the cheap pump as I peel it away from raw skin. 

In the evenings I shave. If I don’t, whiskers grow and I begin to itch. But the more you shave, the quicker it grows. I’ll have to remember that the next time I swipe the blade across the ridges of my chin, praying the hair will never grow back. Because it always will— thick and course— above my brow bone and underneath my arms. I can shave until the skin is smooth but still, hair will still grow. And besides, it’s never smooth enough; just under the surface, more hair waits to sprout and in the morning, I’ll have to start all over again.

On Getting Ghosted (By My Mom)

Sophia Kriegel

There’s a hollow ten seconds in between dialing my mother’s number and the sound of her voice upon answering. The low ring. The chatter of a child walking past, asking questions her parents can’t answer. Honking cars. Gossipping teens recounting a weekend of mischief in that candid, loud way that makes passerby’s roll their eyes and brand them neive. It’s a call I make everytime I walk the fourteen minutes to work, perfectly timed out to have a quick but meaningful conversation about the daily happenings of my chaotic college life. Sometimes, I go the whole fourteen minutes talking about myself and then I arrive and I remember she barely got a word in so who is this all really for? In the ten second waiting period, there’s a sudden realization that there is a very real possibility that she might not answer. Which spirals into a panic that she may never answer. I don’t know why I’m so afraid that my mother, who birthed me and loves me and always leaves a voicemail when I don’t pick up, will ghost me. But in those ten seconds, everyday, I think it might be the day she decides she doesn’t want to hear what I have to say anymore. I think she’s tired of me talking and talking, only allowing her space for the occasional affirmation or word of agreement. I think she’s tired of me. I type in the digits that will spur this anxiety. Click on that green button that puts the act in motion. Hold my jaw tight, waiting. Wondering if I'm the type of person that even my mother could get exhausted of. Convincing myself it’s true. She answers. 

With ICA’s “The Visitors,” We’re Alone Together

by Jess Ferguson

Over the past several weeks, many of us have likely sought comfort in something — whether it’s reading, watching New Girl for the tenth time (no judgment), or taking time to learn a new hobby. But for some, art can be one of the greatest sources of comfort.

The Institute of Contemporary Art’s latest exhibition, Ragnar Kjartansson’s “The Visitors,” explores the idea of being alone together in a way that isn’t sad, but rather, poetic and comforting. The piece combines audio and visual elements and features musicians performing in different areas of the same 43-room New York estate that ICA visitor assistant Kelly Chen said is “decaying in the most beautiful way.” While it was recorded in 2012, the piece’s themes are arguably more topical now than ever.

“I definitely got that feeling of the loneliness during the pandemic,” sophomore Business of Creative Enterprises major Gabby D’Ostilio said. “It kind of took me back to what it felt like to be alone in my house for months. I got a melancholy feeling, but I also thought it was so beautiful — it even made me feel happy. It was a range of different emotions rather than just one interpretation.”

D’Ostilio is not alone in this feeling. “It’s definitely presented in a very different context right now because we’ve all been stuck in our rooms for months,” Chen said. “We’re supposed to be viewing it as sort of a comforting or healing piece, and it definitely is.”

The “Visitors” exhibition lasts 64 minutes and takes guests on a complete journey, from before the musicians start performing in their individual spaces, to an ending walking through the fields of upstate New York. Throughout the piece, musicians move into rooms with others, stop playing, and switch instruments. 

“Knowing that something’s going to be an hour long in a museum is kind of daunting, but I was so entranced, and it didn’t even feel like I was watching for an hour,” D’Ostilio said. “When you’re just looking at a regular painting, you interpret it however you want to, and then there’s not much else to do. With ‘The Visitors,’ it was more like you were watching a movie — I had different reactions at different times.”

Unlike more sedentary pieces typical of a museum, the exhibition is both dynamic and accessible to a wide audience. Its popularity is reflected in the ICA’s number of guests since “The Visitors”’ September 30 opening.

“It was super duper quiet here when this wasn’t open,” Chen said. “It’s like a crowd favorite, so we’ve gotten rushes of people coming in for this sort of piece. It’s very entry-level, and very physically immersive.”

Even the sound, which seems to envelop you as you stand in the dimly-lit room, feels like a metaphoric hug. At one point about halfway through, the performers collectively reach a climax in the piece that feels like an ascension into heaven. Afterwards, they pause for a moment, allowing both the musicians and the audience to simultaneously process everything before continuing. Because of these breaks — some longer than others — the audience never feels overwhelmed, which can be difficult to accomplish in a longer-form piece.

One of the more poignant aspects of the exhibition is the vulnerability of the musicians. Nothing feels scripted or contrived, even though the music itself is arranged and practiced. Furthermore, the music isn’t even the main attraction, as the same couple of lines are repeated for the majority of the exhibition. Instead, the subjects are the focus.

By the end, guests feel connected to the musicians and almost have a greater sense of who they are, despite barely hearing these artists converse. Between full-frontal nudes, explosions, mental distress, drinking, and smoking, there is a sense of raw authenticity the audience may find themselves relating to in unexpected ways. A traditional portrait can only go so far to capture the essence of a person; “The Visitors” wholly encapsulates lived experiences and our shared humanity.

Because different musicians are presented on different screens, it’s impossible for viewers to take everything in at once — which could be for the best. Consequently, viewers like D’Ostilio may decide to come back for a new perspective. “I might go see it again because I liked it so much,” she said. Entering the experience with fresh eyes and seeing it just once may result in an entirely different viewing experience, compared to watching it in full multiple times. Each repeated viewing allows the audience to pick up on more nuances.

“The Visitors” may also connect with Emerson students, particularly those in the Visual and Media Arts department. Art, especially in a museum setting, does not have to be limited to paintings and sculptures. In fact, we may continue to see longer-form video installations gain traction in fine arts settings going forward.

“A lot of Emerson students in particular could appreciate it,” D’Ostilio said. “There’s various aspects of the exhibition that Emerson students across all departments would like — there’s the music, the visual aspect, the message.”

It looks like “The Visitors” can — and should be — visited by everyone before next August.

Mallory Drive

by Sophia Kriegel

Is it selfish to want to leave home? Is that what makes me a child? My mother asks why everyone needs to get out so bad. But how far is my mother from the city that birthed her? (The answer: 1,470.3 miles)

I’ve got a few baby teeth stuck in the pipes, somewhere. My mother has a lock of my hair in a velvet pouch beneath her mother’s pearls. Check the carpet for my fingernail clippings. Check the concrete for my blood. Check the finger paintings and the photo albums and the retainer I forgot to bring to school. What I’m trying to say is, I am a ghost before I am dead.

What I really mean is, we all want to get out. But there’s a stack of half-used journals on the nightstand of my childhood bedroom. And a tiny tooth trapped in the drain. Is it the wanting to go that makes us children? Or is it convincing ourselves that we could ever really be gone?

I came out screaming. We all did. Our mothers in their hospital gowns, pushing as hard as they could, only to be comforted by the sound of our dissatisfaction. Even then, life was never good enough.

I’m sitting at a party filled with kids I’ve known my whole life. We all knew everyone. And yet, nobody knew anyone at all. We all lived different lives, and yet, we all lived the same life. Suburban children squeezed into our mother’s sedans, screaming at the top of our lungs.

The party is at Sarah’s house. I’ve spoken to Sarah a total of three times in the ten years that we’ve gone to school together. That’s the charm of a suburban childhood — the familiarity that has fermented inside each of us for far longer than we would have hoped. Sarah lives a few streets down from my house. The model is the same, though. In this town there are three blueprints for houses, the extent of variety being the color that the shutters are painted. There is a through street — Mallory Drive — the central vein of a city that loops around itself until it is dizzy. Sarah’s house is off of it. So is mine. So is all of ours. 

You can only travel up and down the same street so many times before you start blaming it for every sadness in your life. 

I’m 11 and walking down Mallory towards Stevenson Ranch Elementary. It is the first day of school and Ella and I are wearing matching outfits. Plaid schoolgirl skirts with matching argyle sweater vests, hers pink and mine blue. My father walks us to the building just as he always has. Each of us holding one of his hands. Now, the city feels as big as his palms. Stretches as wide as his hugs. Wide enough to swallow me whole. He gifts us a sliver of responsibility, shaving off an inch of the city's size. He lets us walk home from school alone.

So, when the time comes for Ella and I to begin the two-block trek, we meet outside the cafeteria. Our feet climbing up Mallory, the same Mallory that we walked that morning, but there is less magic here. The sidewalk is not a red-carpet like my father made it feel like. It is just a sidewalk. I never realized how grey the cement was before.

I’m 16 and take a left off of my street onto Mallory. My father is in the passenger seat giving cautious yet stern directions — this is my first time driving on a residential road. I’m too cocky to be nervous. My father, aware of my narcissism, does his best to humble me in the hopes of making it home in one piece. I’m cruising down the street at a crisp speed of 34 miles per hour, the most momentum my hands have mustered in their weathered life.

“Make a right here,” my father says.

I turn my head. I hear him late and make a delayed right turn off of Mallory. I almost hit a pedestrian, a moving vehicle, and a parked car. And now I’m sobbing. My father is yelling. My hands are shaking. It’s not my fault. If only the street went on for longer. If only the road told me to turn quicker. My dad drives home. I don’t say anything the whole ride; I just look out the window, past my elementary school and the park and the pavement, tears staining my cheeks, red with adolescent resentment.

I’m 18 and in the passenger seat of my sister’s car while she drives up Mallory. It is 2 a.m. and we’re on our way home from a party. I drank too much. I did it on purpose. But now, Ella and I are fighting. Screaming at one another, something about how we can’t wait to be far away from from this town and these people and each other. I can’t take it anymore. I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for the door handle.

“I’ll jump. I’ll do it,” I tell her.

The child lock stops me. 

I wonder if that street would have caught me. If it would have wrapped me in its arms and warded off any severe injuries. Or if it would have let me break my legs. Punishment for my passionate rage towards it. The time I yelled that I couldn’t stand this stupid town with its stupid streets and suffocating mentalities. It heard me. It knows I hate it. We all hate it. How can we not? The pavement on which we scraped our knees, fell flat on our faces, ran from home, cursed our lives. Begged to leave. 

We’ve taught ourselves to resent the roads we learned to walk on. Situate our anger at our mothers and our school teachers and the cashier at the supermarket who used to hand us lollipops when we were kids, but now, doesn’t even recognize us beneath our angst. We are angry. We are so angry at the suburb for stripping us of some sort of dreamlike city life where everything is beautiful because we do not know it.

I’m 19 and driving up Mallory on my way home from the airport. It’s my first time back since moving across the country. I realize that the suburb had sunk its teeth into my neck and left an imprint I will never be able to shake. I want, desperately, to feel like a stranger again. I want to prove to myself that we are not one — that suburb and I. So, as I drive up the street I’ve driven up one million times — the pathway home where all the homes look the same and all the children hate their parents too — I close my eyes. I want to crash. I want to prove that I do not know the twists of this town like the back of my hand. That I could not navigate this monotony with my eyes closed. That I could leave and forget and be more than Mallory Drive.

I don’t crash. 

After months and months of being away, I could drive up that hill, eyes closed, in the pitch black, all the way home. I’m angry because I hate this town. But I think I am this town. And I always will be.

Purity Culture as Seen in Cuties Outrage

by Georgia Moore

As online reviews of Maïmouna Doucouré’s Netflix original Cuties are amassing, it is remarkable to witness the irony of critique swelling precisely around the themes the film attempts to bring to light through a critical lens. The majority of those commenting admit to having not even seen the film; rather, they viewed a poorly-executed trailer. A Twitter trend emerged to #CancelNetflix for the objectification of a group of 11-year-old French girls who train for a dance competition that involves “scandalous” hip and butt giration. The hashtag has a dual, coinciding meaning, calling those to join in the social phenomenon of cancel culture, as well as the termination of their Netflix subscriptions.

The small movement is seemingly successful, as “disconnects were running at nearly 8x the daily levels observed in August,” according to Yahoo!Finance. 1 The girls in this film, much like in real life, are scandalized, yes. However, with the exception of a few dicey stylistic choices here and there (up close shots of the children’s butts in sparkly spandex, for example), I don’t believe all this panic is warranted. Instead, I believe it to be extremely misdirected.

One particular comment, in Tweet format, from the U.S. Democratic Representative Tusli Gabbard, set the discussion ablaze: “.@netflix child porn “Cuties” will certainly whet the appetite of pedophiles & help fuel the child sex trafficking trade. 1 in 4 victims of trafficking are children. It happened to my friend’s 13 year old daughter. Netflix, you are now complicit. #CancelNetflix.” 2

My point is not to ignore the very real, devastatingly violent way girls and women continue to be brutalized. Violence against women and girls, including sex trafficking, is deeply prevalent across the world. In Massachusetts, “the attorney general alone has prosecuted more than 50 people for trafficking at massage parlors, hotels, and brothels,” according to the Boston Globe. 3 Young people, especially young girls, are reminded of their vulnerability to exploitation and violence through constant indicators of their potential victimhood. Dress codes (the three finger rule for straps), reminders not to walk alone, and billboards with public service announcements confronting Intimate Partner Violence both raise awareness and instill fear.

But I ask, is picking a fight with Netflix the most effective route when tackling this issue? (If we are to demand a platform is shut down for being complicit in the actions Gabbard mentioned in her Tweet, we should probably start with Pornhub, a site notorious for distributing monetized content of actual child abuse and trafficking).

Ultimately, everything about young girls’ bodies seems to be so escalated that there is no actual space to talk about their coming-of-age without the hysteria of oversexualization. How did the message behind Cuties instantly become about pedophiles’ behavior and not about the girls in the film themselves? There isn’t a “socially appropriate” way to talk about the objectification girls face from a very young age, but there needs to be a dialogue for these issues specifically, especially in mass media, where outreach is generous and influential. 

The sexual exploitation of girls is ubiquitous, and even seemingly mundane sites that are marketed to this demographic can be “read” as pornographic, where vlogs of young girls shopping for bras may suffice as explicit or exploitative content to some. An article in the New York Times shed light on pedophilia in the digital age, stating: “predators were using the comment section of YouTube videos with children to guide other pedophiles,” after a video of two 10-year-old girls in bikinis amassed a suspicious amount of views and created a warranted panic about Internet algorithms. 4

Young girls are being sexualized and pornified no matter what they do — if they are in a movie that’s trying to examine their victimization, if they shop for bras, if they wear tank tops to school, if they walk after dark — and in a weird twist, they are also blamed for it. It’s time to talk about how there are no safe venues for girls to experiment with sexuality, and we must address this issue because said practice of providing no safe forum creates further trauma. It should not be “taboo” to analyze girls’ exploitation, but a difficult yet completely necessary conversation. 

We should be uncomfortable watching a movie like Cuties. But we should not dismiss it as child pornography when Doucouré aims to condemn exactly that. Her film conveys very real examples of the ways young girls face exploitation as a way of raising awareness and creating a dialogue about the issue at hand. A response that demands the film’s instant removal from the public eye creates a false consciousness for girls who did experiment and are experimenting with sexuality at a young age, particularly when it comes to clothes and “risqué” media (like popular or “scandalous” dancing trends).

I knew girls like this. It’s not like they don’t exist. Their stories are just as valid as any other. I certainly took risks like this when I was young, as I was conditioned to! It’s interesting to see so many folks write off experiences like these as pedophilic when so many mass media outlets promote and engage in content that is actually exploitative, unlike Doucouré’s film. (It is also important to note that these same media outlets have no problem depicting young boys’ coming-of-age and sexuality).

Few people seem to support Cuties as an accurate representation of some girls’ realities, but those who do support the film — be it through Twitter, YouTube, or the press — call out the hypocrisy and irony of the hysteria surrounding it. One sex educator, Rukiat, took to her YouTube channel in a video titled: “CUTIES was brilliant. Here’s why,” to explore some of the key themes comprising the criticisms of Doucouré’s film. Rukiat states: “When you enforce purity culture onto young girls and you suppress their sexuality, that curiosity within them is left unnurtured.” 5 Her argument exposes what the Cuties outrage perpetuates. The reaction to Cuties further propagates the sentiment: just when someone starts to talk about girls’ sexuality, they get shut down, instantly written off as “taboo.”

Overall, it seems there are two things happening in opposition: the notion that Cuties as a critique of the sexualization of girls is actually reinforcing the sexualization of girls, and also, that there is no way to have a conversation without being accused of pornifying girls. Whether or not Cuties is a masterpiece or a flunk, Doucouré is sending us a plea to open up the conversation surrounding the plight young girls must endure as they come into their own sexuality while simultaneously being exploited every which way.

Therefore, it is imperative that we view Cuties as a worthy indictment of a very serious issue in our society — an issue that has a chance of dissipating, but only if it is openly talked about first.

ENDNOTES

1 Canal, Alexandra. “Netflix Cancellations Surge ‘Materially’ in the Wake of ‘Cuties’ Controversy, Data Shows.” Yahoo! Finance, Yahoo!, 19 Sept. 2020, finance.yahoo.com/news/netflix-cancellations-surge-following-cuties-controversy-data-hows-114312558.html?guccounter=1.   

2 Gabbard, Tulsi (@TulsiGabbard). “.@netflix child porn "Cuties" will certainly whet the appetite of pedophiles & help fuel the child sex trafficking trade. 1 in 4 victims of trafficking are children. It happened to my friend's 13 year old daughter. Netflix, you are now complicit. #CancelNetflix.” 11 Sept. 2020, 9:09PM. Tweet. 

3 Ebbert, Stephanie. “Sex Trafficking Is in Plain Sight in Massachusetts Communities.” BostonGlobe.com, The Boston Globe, 9 Mar. 2019, www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2019/03/09/mass-authorities-face-steep-hurdles-shutting-down-sex-trafficking/yFW40bBEEN9QtuIHaqTrmM/story.html.

4 Fisher, Max, and Amanda Taub. “On YouTube's Digital Playground, an Open Gate for Pedophiles.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 3 June 2019, www.nytimes.com/2019/06/03/world/americas/youtube-pedophiles.html. 

5 RUKIAT. “CUTIES was brilliant. Here’s why.” Youtube. 30 Sept 2020, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAssHJmKNDg.

The Spirit of She

by Sam Goodman

Photography by Jessica O’Donoghue

She is the Sublime. Incorporeal, the primordial energy, She defies mind, body, and spirit. She knows and sees that which we cannot. Keeper of wisdom, prophet of posterity, She is Woman, the omnipotent spirit of She. 

And I am Jacob, climbing the ladder between earth and heaven, a humble worshiper of all that is holy. 

. . .

After coming out of the closet at 15, I was adopted into a community of like-minded queer people who spent their final years of adolescence being emotionally honest, sexually expressive, outright clowns. This small circle consisted of a variety of me and various queer women with whom I developed a strong bond. They represented safety, strength, and courage in a world entirely confusing for gay people who were coming of age. 

I let these women be my guiding light through an otherwise daunting and uninviting community. As we traversed this unfamiliar territory, we slowly uncovered artifacts of queer history that began to form our identities. 

. . .

I know queerness because She taught it to me. Lepore, Venus, Divine, clerics of the queer commandments.

She, Queen of the Club, instructed on shocking glamour and the freedom inherent in radical beauty. 

She, from the House of Xtravaganza, preached that nerve isn’t a suggestion, it’s a tool for survival. 

She, The Notorious Beauty, patron of filth, pinnacle of depravity, and paragon of authenticity, illuminated the raw nature of the underbelly.

. . .

 My virgin queer eyes marveled at these women, posters on the wall. They were everything I wanted to be: real, unapologetic, bold. And yet, my attempt at defining their essence is entirely insufficient. Their aura, indescribable, unnamable, and enigmatic, is, in many ways, godly. But, this sanctity can only be defined through the lack thereof; the divine feminine aura can only be identified due to its absence. 

This absence is evident, for example, during most interactions I’ve had with gay men counterparts. I’ve found it difficult to connect with and find my place beside men, despite common queerness, due to the inherent lack of indescribable female energy.

. . .

She opened the gates to Eden and I was fashioned from her rib. This one shall be called Man because from Woman he was taken.

. . .

I continue to surround myself with queer women, marveling at their ability to display a feminine aura I will never truly understand. I have not lived as a woman, I have not walked in those shoes, and I can’t help but admire their quiet strength.

They threw me in platform boots, a rusty-red eye, and coffee lip liner and pushed me onto the proverbial stage, encouraging me to not only come into my own but to own every bit of me. Everything about me I was told was slightly odd or considerably disturbing was celebrated by the queer women in my life.

 And in times that called for it, these women were, and continue to be, enduring, fierce, and protective. 

. . .

She is my Rock, my Fortress, the foundation beneath my feet.

She is the Absolute above, provides manna to test my faith. I follow as she envelopes me in her Glory. She shields me from the red hot sun and cools the scorching sand beneath my feet.

. . .

However, the admiration and appreciation I have for the queer women in my life is not something I recognize in most gay men I meet. The gay community, dominated by these men, has been historically unkind to women. As mentioned in Lesbophobia: Gay Men and Misogyny, the 1995 pamphlet by writer Megan Radclyffe, many early lesbian activists left the Gay Liberation Front in the early ‘70s as a result of the misogynistic behavior of gay men. 1 Early gay rights movements, though led by lesbians and trans women, were dominated by gay men who pursued sexual liberation at the expense of a gender revolution.

Lesbians and trans women continue to be excluded from pride celebrations, gay bars and clubs, and other queer spaces that are controlled by men who would rather fill those spaces with their male counterparts.

 As queer and trans women continue to defy traditional gender norms and standard expectations of sexuality, they fall victim to intracommunity transmisogyny that seems to be excused because it’s being performed by other queer people. The portrayal of the queer community as inclusive and accepting allows for a shocking amount of complacency in addressing the toxic culture surrounding gay perceptions of feminity, womanhood, and female sexuality.

Having formed my identity through the lens of queer womanhood, I am now able to better understand the complex nature of my own community. My relationships with queer women have shown me the widespread, pervasive sexism and transphobia that LGBTQ+ spaces are not immune from. I understand my position as a non-female queer person and recognize how much I owe to the queer women both in my life and in the world around me. Without these women, I would be missing an essential part of my queer being that only materialized because of the unnamable, undefinable, enigmatic female spirit. 

. . .

Protector of her children, She blesses the land and promises fruit, dew, and sunlight. Beloved, builder of ancient mountains and eternal hills, She is the moon and the tide, the crown and the head, the beast and the wild. She is Woman.

ENDNOTES

1 Radclyffe, Megan. Lesbophobia: Gay Men and Misogyny. London, Continuum International Publishing Group, Ltd., 1995.

The Controversial Side of Shopping Second Hand

by Molly Goodrich

Illustrations by Queenn McKend

If Gen Z is going to be known for anything, it might as well be their activism, for better or for worse.

One of the issues that has been delved into recently is the gentrification of thrift shopping. For many years, shopping second hand was almost considered “gross” and “dirty,” and was often looked down upon. You would never publicly advertise that you got your clothes from Goodwill or Savers because you likely didn’t want anyone knowing you possibly couldn’t afford clothes from a major clothing outlet. However, within the last five or so years, thrift shopping has become more trendy than ever. Still, depending on who you ask, you can either be saving the world or damaging low income communities via this practice.

For some, thrift shopping is a cheap and eco-friendly way of purchasing clothes, even though, realistically, they can go to American Eagle or other fast fashion brands. For others, it’s quite literally their only option. Other people believe that if you can afford to purchase clothes elsewhere, you shouldn’t be taking clothes away from the communities that need it.

“I grew up shopping in thrift stores and always remember feeling super ashamed about it,” an Emerson student, who wishes to remain anonymous, reported. “Now, kids who are usually middle class or higher, will raid thrift stores and sell them for a much higher mark-up on Depop. It can really take away from people who actually need these clothes.”

Unfortunately, Depop thrift shoppers do, in fact, run rampant. Depop, an app created for selling secondhand clothing (essentially an online thrift store), is full of people who mark up “vintage” or “Y2K” clothes that they could have gotten in the Goodwill bin for $2. While many Depop sellers have been called out for this kind of business, they claim that many thrift stores end up discarding around 90% of their stock. They assert that purchasing these clothes to sell is better for the environment.

This is not untrue. According to Newsweek, 84% of all unwanted clothes end up in a landfill. 1 If they don’t get sold at a second hand store, textiles are often bundled up and sent to East Asian countries such as Pakistan and Malaysia, where again, they either end up in landfills or overwhelm the population of people in these countries who don’t need or want these extra clothes.

Clearly, this is a more complex issue than can be solved in a 60-second Tik Tok or an Instagram graphic, which is what many people try to do. There is no easy solution to this crisis, and no right way to shop, especially if you can’t afford the nicer, higher-quality brands that are fair trade. Many experts say that there are simply too many textiles in the world right now. Going zero waste isn’t a long term solution, either.

The best solution for right now? You have to do what’s best for you. Shopping for yourself at a thrift store, even if you can afford other shops, isn’t necessarily “bad,” and isn’t something to be ashamed of. If environmental concerns are at the forefront of your mind, remember that 100 companies account for 71% of global emissions, according to The Guardian. 2

Although we should always be thinking about our own carbon footprint, and the fact that individuals do make a difference, being scared to shop at a thrift store should be low on your list of things to worry about right now.

ENDNOTES

1 Wicker, Alden. “Fast Fashion Is Creating an Environmental Crisis.” Newsweek, 1 Sept. 2016, www.newsweek.com/2016/09/09/old-clothes-fashion-waste-crisis-494824.html.

2 Riley, Tess. “Just 100 Companies Responsible for 71% of Global Emissions, Study Says.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 10 July 2017, www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/2017/jul/10/100-fossil-fuel-companies-investors-responsible-71-global-emissions-cdp-study-climate-change.

Label-Less Love

by Faith Bugenhagen

Photography by Surya Sundararajan

There is a countdown clock on the The New York Times building, our generation’s save-the-date for when the climate catastrophe ends the world. Masks cloak our faces, ironic considering our generation’s need for validation based on our appearances. It’s as if the universe is serving us one colossal “fuck-you,” a kiss on the ass before it sends us all into our own versions of hell. 

And yet, we prevail. We prevail by living every day as if none of this is occurring. We block out the bad with the good, maybe to a fault, but that’s up for debate. Is it distraction, or a desire to live radically while everything around us is crumbling towards death? 

We live: by laughing, crying, loving, and hating. We meet for picnics and conferences and dates. We spend time with people despite dire restrictions to keep ourselves socially-distanced and safe. We normalize the new ways of living as if they have always been inherent to us.

It’s special how humans adapt. It’s been a sight to see these past, peculiar months. We’ve stood six feet apart, we’ve been touch-deprived and intimacy-starved. However, we’ve still dated, prioritizing feeling loved or desired in a time when those feelings may create a false sense of security. 

“False sense of security,” a pessimistic phrase some would argue, but isn’t that what these emotional and/or sexual connections are? These relationships are tiny bits and pieces of hope that put us back together, reminding us that the world we live in is still inhabitable, that our lives can continue in spite of what the news feeds us. What reminds us, though, distracts us, and that’s where the negativity ensues. 

Our stomachs are bottomless pits and our brains ache as we read articles telling us that we’re only living to die. Lapses in judgements and misunderstandings cloud our brains when they bear witness to an entire population of people who love each other. So we create a “consumable love” through manifestations of these fragmented situations that aren’t quite relationships, but rather “situation-ships.” 

Situation-ships: the in-between of casually dating or being friends versus actually being together in a relationship. Girlfriends, boyfriends, significant others: this is what we are now trying to avoid. We’ve constructed the idea that materializing commitment and embracing a relationship will become the largest inhibitor to our existences. 

We lie in beds in spaces that aren’t our own, without any right to do so. We spend hours of time, each and every day, with each other, without actually ever being anything to each other. Is it because we have experienced such colossal disaster in every aspect of our lives that we are now actually birthing it?

I’m not arguing that being both intimate and unattached to someone doesn’t work. In a perfect world, it could. But we don’t live in a utopia. We are not a happy, healthy population of individuals living today. We survive but we don’t thrive.  How could we possibly tackle being cool, distant, and unfeeling?

That is what our world wants us to be. Unempathetic. It is a dog-eat-dog experience that comes at our expense. To be unemotional means to be adaptable in this world. 

In reality, we are creating our own escape routes through microdoses of love and intimacy; we have rewritten what it is to experience these things. There is no inherent issue with this “in-between” we facilitate. However, we must remember that we are human... not devoid of emotion, or a desire to be truly and radically loved. 

Create and construct your own situation-ship to how you see fit, because we are all trying to keep our heads above water, swimming through the days. But wanting to communicate, to have more, to be selfish for a moment and desire greater fulfillment, will return us to regularity. It will remind us of our humanity.

Shelley Duvall: The Woman Every Working Artist Should Thank

by Matt McKinzie

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Many people who know me know that I am a huge Shelley Duvall fan. Often times they furrow their brow in bewilderment when I gush about the actress. You mean the woman from The Shining who just cries all of the time? Yes, that woman. The woman from The Shining who cries all of the time, and who was perhaps one of the greatest actors of 1970s American cinema--and of cinema at large.

When people think of the “greats,” some names immediately come to mind: Brando, Hepburn, Streep, Davis, De Niro. And the list goes on. Rarely is the name “Shelley Duvall” uttered on that list. That’s because Shelley Duvall was, and is, exactly what the greats weren’t--and in spectacular and equal measure. She slipped in and out of polar opposite roles without having to change a single thing about her physical appearance. One moment she is the meek and unassuming daughter of a gas station attendant in Thieves Like Us, and the next minute she is a fast-talking New York journalist upstaging Woody Allen (ugh) in Annie Hall. On Monday, she is Millie Lammoreaux, the glamorous, delusional, and slowly-disillusioned rehab nurse in 3 Women, but by Friday she is the hysterical and markedly unglamorous wife of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. By Saturday, she is quite literally a cartoon character--transforming, before our eyes, into Popeye’s Olive Oyl, playing cheerful bride to none other than Robin Williams.

illustration by Elinor Bonifant

She achieves all of this--prolificity, tremendous versatility--practically without batting an eye. Sure, there were a few costume changes here and there (who can forget that iconic yellow dress from 3 Women? With the yellow wallpaper to match?). But the one thing that never--ever--changed was her face. In an industry overflowing with prosthetics and practical effects--enough to make Christian Bale quite literally become Dick Cheney--Shelley Duvall never abandoned a makeup-free, utterly natural state. This considered, it is also important to recognize that she did not fit into the movie star mold. She was never considered a “glamour girl” in the traditional sense. Her large eyes, superfluous smile, towering presence, and syrupy Southern drawl rarely matched the look and persona of her contemporaries. She scarcely fit a certain “type”--never playing the ingenue, the love interest, the “femme fatale.” But these qualities made her one-of-a-kind, and filled each performance she delivered with a charming and completely captivating sense of singularity. No one could be Shelley Duvall but Shelley Duvall. And no one other than Shelley Duvall could give a Shelley Duvall performance; a performance style where, much like Bale becoming Cheney, she became each distinct character she assumed, but never abandoned a sense of vulnerability, a tactile earthiness, and a complete naturalism that allowed her to stay utterly true to herself in a business built on a love affair with facades. Simply put, there was nothing standing between her and the camera. Everything about her was and is so...immediate.

It is these qualities that often finds Duvall at the mercy of some extreme vitriol. Her unwillingness to fit into a specific mold or industry norm bewilders those who place weight on such silliness. Furthermore, Stephen King blames his hatred for The Shining on Duvall’s performance, noting, “she’s basically just there to scream and be stupid.” Here, King is failing to realize three things: the strength, willpower, and ultimate sensitivity it takes a person to go to such extreme emotional lengths; the fact that Duvall was put through absolute hell on set by director Stanley Kubrick; and the fact that--amid all of this--she quite literally saves the film. Our ability to identify with Duvall’s poignant, palpable expression of terror turns what could have otherwise become a camp comedy (considering the often cartoonish nature of Nicholson’s performance) into what is now considered one of the greatest horror films ever made.

So who is Shelley Duvall? Yes, she is the screaming wife of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. But because of that, she is also a supreme torch-carrier for the role and importance of women in the horror genre. Beyond this, she is easily one of the most talented and underappreciated actors of the American New Wave--and American cinema in general. And ultimately, she is an artist who (as trite as it sounds) never abandoned her authentic self, in the face of forces that asked her to abandon (and too often attacked her for not abandoning) everything that made Shelley Duvall...well...Shelley Duvall.

In that way, let her be an inspiration to us all.

Deteriorating is a Becoming Event

Photos by Yuhan Cheng

Words by Carly McGoldrick

The last few weeks have felt particularly heavy. There’s a certain bleakness, now, as the city turns colder and old snow accumulates along the sidewalks. Puddles are getting cloudier, and I haven’t been able to go outside for more than ten minutes without freezing. Time is moving more slowly. I wish the sun didn’t set so early in the day.

I’ve been spending a lot of time swaying in the darkness of my room, blinds closed, half-comatose. I clutch my arms so tightly to my torso to contend with the cold, and also to avoid letting any important pieces of myself fall out.

There’s a nervousness and a fear, for whatever reason, that as the seasons change, and the snow freezes, and then melts and then falls again, that some piece of my identity is getting lost along the way.

It’s sort of indescribable, the feeling of deterioration. If nature is collapsing in on itself, why can’t I?

I exist in many forms.

It’s taken me awhile to believe that.

For years, I’ve suppressed my multitudes as a means of becoming

more digestible by other people.

It’s frightening to come to the realization

That I had been shaping myself so exhaustively

To satisfy the likes of others,

Rather than developing my own identity.

To instead become a shell of expectations, rather than a whole person.

I‘ve always liked to see myself reflected in my environment.

Now, instead of changing myself,

I change the things I see.

I go on walks.

I admire the water as it freezes and thaws,

Allowing its smooth form to run alongside its more jagged one,

Not fearful of the way in which its two versions are different.

Like that water,

I coexist with myself.

I am not fully one thing, but rather, I am many,

And I am transforming constantly.

I remember speaking to my mother on the phone in the airport terminal a month or two ago, before my flight home to Ohio. I had tears streaming down my face. At that time in my life, even the temporary change of a location, like the one from Massachusetts to Ohio, was disorienting. I didn’t want to go. I’m currently learning to adapt to that kind of infinitesimal change.

It was raining that day, and I remember how the raindrops framed the grime on the terminal windows, illuminating the planes and the runways and the workers and the luggage, all battling the storm outside. It’s funny how something so normal and so harmless, like water, can be such a nuisance.

When I got to Ohio that evening, it was snowing. I missed the rain in Massachusetts, but I would imagine I was glad to be see that Midwestern snow I had known and loved my whole life.

I’ve learned, or am currently learning, that there’s much to be learned from water, in all its forms. There’s power in deteriorating, in the ability to break oneself down, to then build oneself back up in another form. Like rain in one place, turning cold in another, I seek to become more comfortable with change. There lies much power in fluidity, and I’m learning to embrace that.

The Rise of Stick and Poke Tattooing

By Erin Christie and Mica Kendall

Personal anecdotes provided by Erin Christie

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The stylistic trend of “Do it Yourself” art has extended its notoriety within millennial culture from not only basement DIY music to DIY pinterest craft making. In the same vein as DIY, the art of tattooing isn’t nearly a new concept, let alone one that’ll be stopping anytime soon. One thing that might be evolving, though, is the mass production of the practice, the “DIY-ness” of it, and how accessible it is for just about anyone with the means to sterilize a needle and a pot of ink to accomplish their own makeshift career. This subset of DIY, referred to as “stick and pokes tattooing” due to the nature in which they are crafted-- with a needle being used to repeatedly poke ink into the skin-- is, as Vogue describes, “the new septum piercings,” with stick and poke tattoos becoming increasingly preferred over the traditional tattoo gun in tattoo parlors.

When I first started getting tattoos, myself, I was extremely intimidated by the prospect of going into a tattoo parlor, and  the prices that were oftentimes attached to the service. Of course, you’re paying an artist to do their job, and that requires some sort of payout in exchange, but for a college student, the idea of wanting art on your body and being able to afford it is a whole different story. Despite this, I was determined to save up with the sole intention of ink.

When I got my second tattoo, I did so on an absolute whim of spontaneity. Hidden in a small alcove attached to a Brooklyn shop that sold anything from drug paraphernalia to sex toys laid “Fantasy Party Tattoo,” also known as two professional artists sitting at a countertop, tattoo guns in hand. Sat atop a teeny stool, I watched the tattoo artist (whose name I can’t even remember) drag the single needle-clad gun across my inner forearm and winced at the sting. The process, in entirety, was quick, easy, and unapologetic—simply an exchange of payment for a lifelong piece of artwork.

At least in my personal experience, getting stick and poke tattoos has been a practice that has a completely different energy.  

In a GQ article entitled “The Stylish Rise of Stick and Poke Tattoos,” writer Liza Corsillo says, “What were once known as ‘jail tattoos’ have become exceedingly popular among young creative types with a different view of tattooing.” Stick and poke has a strong emphasis on the intimacy behind the craft: as opposed to a tattoo gun, hand-poking is done by just that: by hand, with each “poke” of ink into the skin packed with meaning.  

From an artist and client perspective, it is important to note the financial benefits of stick and poking: not only are the materials much cheaper and accessible, but the work itself typically is, too. Not only are stick and pokes a cheaper alternative to the common $100 minimum at tattoo parlors, but the appeal in stick and pokes are centered around the intimate and more personalized experience between one and the stick and poke artist. Stick and poke tattoos are traditionally given in the artist’s own personal space, like their apartments or art studios. Thus, not only are you obtaining a personalized experience and getting a one of a kind, hand-drawn stick and poke design, but your experience is also much more laid back and personal considering the atmosphere (as opposed to the hectic, customer-ridden experience that comes with going to a tattoo parlor).

When I met Joo (jpcff on Instagram), I immediately felt an aura of warmth, despite how freezing it had been outside at the time. It was November, and I was visiting Joo with the intention of getting my first ever stick and poke, my third tattoo in total.  

Joo’s Somerville space was decorated with an assortment of flash sheets that I had seen on their Instagram, as well as other various sketches and tattoo designs. Apart from a traditional studio space, I felt at ease in Joo’s small bedroom-turned-tattoo parlor. During the session, we talked about everything from their plans to eventually branch out and start their own studio in New York City to the trials that I experience at my job at Urban Outfitters, all whilst Ariana Grande’s then newest, “Thank U, Next” played softly in the background.

As opposed to my personal past experiences, which felt much more business-like and formal, this was an entirely different experience, one that felt more like a meeting of two friends, each connected by art and the practice of inking homemade tattoos.

Aside from professional stick and poke artists, the art of stick and poke is very much a college milestone, in a way, especially within the Boston scene. Avery Kelly (@friendsround), a Northeastern Sophomore from Portland, Oregon recalls her stick and poke beginnings fondly, but not without cringing at her past self:

“So, I started because I was fifteen and wanted a tattoo for the 1975 (lol), but after realizing how accessible and expressive it is, started actually getting into it,” she said.  “I really love the community that comes with it; it’s probably why I started expanding my pokes to people other than my friends and started asking for payment.”

As she noted, a friend, Dylan (@violentwire), became a kind of mentor in terms of hand-poking when they met this past summer. They traded tattoos and he taught her a lot about technique and the community as a whole. “I love being able to trade art with people and decorate others as well as myself, and I see it as a sort of permanent jewelry,” Kelly said.

Throughout her time with the craft, she recalls her most memorable tattoo appointments:

“As for people I’ve poked, the most memorable is definitely Hinds!! The girls were on tour in the US, and their photographer posted on their story that they were looking for tour tats. I reached out, and we met up at the venue before the show and I gave Carlotta, Amber, their photog Neelam, and Emmett from Goodbye Honolulu lil tour mementos. They were super inviting and open and made me feel like my art was a valid form of tattooing!”

Though, the stick and poke tattoo process is more tedious and time consuming compared to the “one and done” technique of using a tattoo gun, the results are more individualized and meaningful. In essence, if you intend to support independent artists, stick and poke tattoos are a great alternative in terms of your ink needs, especially if you want to help artists get their start in the tattooing industry. What many people don’t realize is just how communal the art of stick and poking is: it’s not isolated to a specific area of the world, nor is it exclusive in any way, shape or form: it’s available to anyone who’s interested, and is loved by all who either poke themselves (like Avery and Joo) or enjoy receiving them (like myself).

A note for aspiring stick and poke artists: If you are an artist yourself, many companies offer stick and poke starter kits which are available to order online (i.e. at www.stick@poketattookit.com). Prices range from $44 to $68 a kit, but the kit comes with everything essential to conducting your own stick and poke tattoo.

The Men That Lead

by Nada Alturki

illustration by Pixie Kolesa

The wind blew in
And the Mercedes-Benz dragged in creatures of conspicuous self-worth
Who reek of high-end cologne
Ringing laughter
Traced with beer
and the comfort of unlimited credit cards And daddy’s paychecks
Masked in pink slapped skin they call a tan Their eyes see in a one-dimensional thrill Because their surroundings have been Molded to adjust just that
They walk around
With feet that stomp
Limbs that grope
Eyes that choke
And dicks that throb
For anything that looks
Exotic
Or not
It really doesn’t matter
As long as they fit into a size 6
And these are the same men
That teach our kids
And entertain our screens
And rule our countries

Illustration by Pixie Kolesa

How Did We Get Here

by Leah Heath

They step up and close their eyes, pulling their entire selves into this moment. Complete and totally. Anticipating the final resurgence for the crowd. They begin by first moving their arms. Bones moving smoothly under their skin, shoulder blades moving…IN…OUT.

The crowd wonders what they’ve seen to get to this point. What memories flash through these women’s eyes to make them move the way they do. They create these images for the crowds as well though. One man thinks of his wife’s arm, sliding across the cream bedsheet. A woman sees her mom slam a stick near her feet in a heated act to prompt removal of one’s presence from the room.

Breathe in so loud, everyone can hear you. Hands skyrocket. Make sure not to point your toes. This is not ballet and life is not so graceful a dance as to be thought so. Snap into position, noting positions of yourself and those around the room, as well as a moment for the audience to think about that one movement, and continue.. Open lungs meet with open ribs. We make sure to put our entire selves into this dance. Giving ourselves to these strangers, who will then go home to sleep with these memories we make for them.

A man in the hall just outside finds a sharp piece of mirror. He picks it up and wraps it into his hand. Sliding the shard into his pocket but make sure to keep its grip. Slide into the crowd and experience this bewitchment first-hand. Crazy, right! You feel the rhythm. How is this not creating a chain reaction with the audience? The man with the mirror piece decides to be the first of the chain.

Stepping out of the audience and up to the edge of the stage. He stands up there with his fist raised, and within it a shard of the mirror. Everyone stops and stares. The dancers stand straight backed with hands at their sides waiting to see what he’ll do. He stands, still with all eyes on him, and slams the shard to the ground. Bursting ethereally across the dance floor. Oh no! They’ll cut their feet now, he thinks. He looks at the main dancer, inhales and steps onto the shattered mirror bits, creating a sheering sound against the ground. He starts his own dance to invoke them all. This…this is how it is supposed to be done.

Enticing the rest of the crowd, they get up and start in this flowing dance. Individually they figure out how to move their bodies in this chaotic way. Feeling the rhythm, one woman crouches low to the ground and picks up one of the mirror shards and laughs. Laughing, everyone continues, as the dancers watch. We’ve ruined this game for them, unable to dance; they could, of course, make a choice. Stay outside of what was once their box, or mar their feet forever to be a part of this one beautiful and unrelenting night full of the movement in their bones. The choice is yours.

Illustration by Queenn Mckend

Goth Glam on Instagram

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telling myself ur the sh*t to build up my spirit but also u ain’t sh*t to keep me humble and grounded :———-) :—-(

A post shared by 𝖏𝖔𝖘𝖊𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖊 진주 𝖑𝖊𝖊 (@princessgollum) on May 30, 2018 at 2:05pm PDT

You probably already know of Josephine Lee, model and artist of @princessgollum fame. Josephine is currently serving as a Dazed Beauty Player, representing the “future of beauty” on Dazed Magazine’s new beauty platform.

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motherfucker im i’ll

A post shared by J•E•THЯEE (@darkwebhorsegirl) on Aug 9, 2018 at 4:55pm PDT

“Not a girl but a horse girl” (They/Them)

Jay gives us CONSISTENT intricate goth makeup looks with spiders, barbed wire, centipedes and more. They have beautiful pet rats and frequently change the color of their mullet. They also share about their journey of recover and sobriety which is EXTREMELY bad ass and goth! Follow for vulnerability, honestly, inspiration, looks and RATS.

art by Enne Goldstein

Jay told em, “My account isn’t a dedicated makeup page, or health food page, or any type of account that I could see people wanting to follow. It’s literally just my life, and I guess 18,000 people take interest in that. I feel like people recognize that I try to be honest about the fact that while social media only shows your audience what you want them to see, my life isn’t perfect. I work a minimum wage job and live paycheck to paycheck. I’m in recovery from alcoholism and drug addiction. I watch too much WWE and I’ve found that many people find that inspiring—that’s important to me. If I can use the slight following that I have (saying that makes me feel weird and icky but I guess it’s the case) to be a positive influence of some sort and of service to others, then I’m gonna keep doing what I’m doing.”

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frizzy hair madness

A post shared by louis (@slaytrixx) on Sep 16, 2018 at 6:00am PDT

63 Likes, 3 Comments - louis (@slaytrixx) on Instagram: "frizzy hair madness"

Here at em Magazine we LOVE to see local Bostonians lighting up the Instagram feed with goth glamour. Louis of @slaytrixx frequently sports studs, chains and leather but isn’t limited to one look. His Instagram also frequently features art, with details from paintings, sculptures and photographs for a bit of macabre inspiration. Louis told em Mag, “I would describe my style as glamour mixed with gritty, raw punk and goth influences. Many of which include Lou reed, Nico from the Velvet Underground, Rozz Williams and the British punk rock movement. Androgyne is a huge aspect of my style, I like to alter my form and appearance every single day, I never leave the house looking the same as I did before, almost taking on the form of someone else, it’s very invigorating for me.”

Proximity

by Maya Pontone

Illustration by Coco Luan

The first thing I noticed was his height.

Before I had left for school in August, I was used to resting my chin on top of my brother’s head whenever he gave me a hug. But when Carter greeted me at the front door with that awkward side-hug so many 13 year-olds give, I was startled when the scruff of his dirty blonde hair brushed up against my cheek and ears. It had only been three months since I’d last seen him, but in that short time frame, I had clearly missed a lot. Now he was nearly as tall as me.

I can distinctly remember, in the weeks leading up to my first year of school, dreading the changes in my relationship with my family. I knew that while leaving home would give me the freedom to be my own person, it also meant separation from the people I saw every day from my first days of preschool to my last days of high school. As the oldest of three younger siblings, I wasn’t fully aware of the impact their daily presence had on my growth until I realized what my absence during some of the most formative years of their lives meant.

It suddenly hit me that I wouldn’t be there to offer guidance during their awkward middle school years, or to comfort them during the frustrating chaos of high school. Family group chats and phone calls could never replace sitting next to them at the kitchen counter while they struggled with Algebra homework, or listening to them from the front seat of the car while complained about some text a stupid boy sent them, or teasing them in the bathroom when they drunkenly brushed their teeth after their first party. Visits home over breaks wouldn’t just be vacations, but desperate attempts to play catch-up on all that I had missed in my siblings’ lives in the months I had been gone.

I never understood the true extent of everyone’s temporary presence in each of our lives until I realized those closest to me were no longer with me. I always considered my family to be permanent. But in reality, no one is meant to last forever. Regardless of how intertwined our lives may be with others, we are all leading separate lives; this truth can be hard to remember sometimes when we become unconsciously reliant on others’ unwavering presence.

Illustration by Coco Luan

Growing up, there were times when I felt overwhelmed by my family’s close proximity. It did not matter if I fled upstairs to my bedroom or snuck downstairs into the basement—there was no corner of the house where I could escape the noise of my family’s incessant yelling, laughing, crying, bickering, whining, and barking. I didn’t know then how much I would eventually yearn for this chaos when faced with the loneliness of individual silence

The Pirate Ship

by Sam Bratkon

art by Nic Sugrue

She’s much taller than most kids her age. Her feet are actually bigger than mine. From a height standpoint she was big enough to go on every ride at the beachfront carnival, but intellectually she’s right where she should be, 6-years-old. Myself being 15 years her elder, I often felt more like a mom than a big sister. Regardless, I was naturally uneasy when during our vacation to the beachfront carnival she insisted on riding the pirate ship.

I’ll go on almost every ride but that was where I drew the line. Rides with big drops or anything with movements resembling the Tower of Terror are a no-go for me. I feared the sensation that makes my feet squirm, of my bladder in my throat, that makes me count the seconds until I’m back on solid ground.

But she insisted on riding, announcing that she had been on a pirate ship before and was not afraid. A friend of mine volunteered to ride with her. My sister beamed a gap-tooth smile with every swoop, flaunting her enjoyment in the midst of my doubt.   

In addition to the nights spent at the waterfront carnival, on the last day of our vacation I took her to an amusement park about ten minutes from the house we were staying at. We went with some of my friends after lunch that day. She had a ham and cheese sandwich for the third day in a row. The meal would become a staple of her diet in the coming weeks.

The day was filled with high pitched screams, winning stuffed pigs from carnival games, and the sun glistening off her round brown eyes.

As we made our way around the park, our group approached the park’s pirate ship. Much to the insistence of her and my friends, I strapped into the ride, right in the center row. My sister decided to sit all the way in the back. Once the ride began I found myself surprisingly enjoying it. With the fear faded, I kept turning my head back to watch her shriek with joy as she experienced the ride.  

We filled the following hours with snacks and screams and spins.

I promised her one last ride at the end of our adventure and of course she requested the pirate ship. Having previously in the day conquered my fear of riding it, I chose to sit one row closer to the back to heighten the sensation of each swoop. After our bar was secured the ride took off and began gaining momentum. This time, sitting beside me, my sister admitted she was afraid. She began begging to get off as the ship ascended towards the clouds. I couldn’t understand why she was so upset this time around, considering she had pleaded with me to ride a few nights before.

I wrapped my arms around her head, pulling her into my chest, and asked her to close her eyes. I sang to her gently, to no song, in particular, just making up words about how it would all be over soon and attempting to murmur her shouts that arose with each swing.

When the bars released she ran off and looked up at me with those big brown eyes, swollen from tears, as we walked out the exit. I again promised her one more ride. Followed by one more game. And maybe a snack later. Because I can’t stand to disappoint her.

Although I decided years ago that I never wish to bear children of my own, I can equate to no other the pride I felt when the cashier at TJ Maxx asked if she is my daughter the week before our vacation. The possibility that something so beautiful and pure could be brought forth from me is humbling.