amber chong

Interviewed by Yosan Alemu 

Photographs by Caitlyn Stachura

Amber Chong is a junior at Barnard College studying sociology and education in the Urban Teaching Program.

What is the ceramic process like? What's your favorite part of the process, if you do have one? 

What is the process like? Well, I usually start out by sketching the general shape that I want to make, and then you decide how much clay you need for that. You wedge it—the clay—and get all the air bubbles out of it. And I make a lot of stuff on the wheel. So I'll smush the clay onto the wheel and get it centered. See, you want [the clay] at the very center of the wheel so that your piece will be symmetrical. This part usually takes the most time to learn, and the most time to get it actually there on the center. After, you sort of just pull the clay around into the shape you want while still being mindful of the center. Also, a lot of my pieces have hand-built attachments, so I build those separately and kind of pop them onto the piece. Then the piece goes through the bisque kiln. It gets fired until the clay hardens, and then I glaze it! I really like the glazing process, because there's a little bit of unpredictability with it—and I make a lot of the glazes because I work at the studio, and part of the job is to mix [them]. It's become really exciting now that I understand the chemistry behind it. So after I glaze it, I put it into the glaze fire and just kind of hope for the best!

Can you explain the relationship between your hands and the clay? Compared to other mediums—like photo or like painting—there's obviously involvement with your body and your work. 

I think your hands, in a lot of ways, are like the most powerful [part] of this medium. When you're throwing, when you're at the wheel, it's nice that it requires your absolute focus. It's nice that it makes you really present. You know, if your hands slip, the whole thing can flop over or get smushed. So you have to be very conscious about every microscopic hand movement, because the tiniest little bit of pressure could change the entire shape. It makes you really self-aware of your body in relation to the clay, and in relation to everything around you. 

I really do like the idea of noticing, with absolute focus, your body, your hands, in relation to the clay and piece at work. When you're making your pieces, what do you have in mind in terms of style and inspiration? 

Working in ceramics brings out this childlike energy in me. It reminds me of days way back in art class—of just messing around but then creating something out of this frenzy. And I like to bring that childlike energy into the work. I like big, friendly looking forms, and a lot of really bright colors. A lot of vibrant glazes. When I'm making pieces, I like to think about what's going to make me happy, and what's going to make others happy. Whether it be sitting around the room, or used for meals—I really want to be able to use my pieces and to share them with others. For instance, I have an elephant teapot with flower designs that I love and use practically everyday.

What are you trying to convey to yourself and to those looking or using your work? Is there a story behind each piece? 

 A lot of the pieces I've been making lately—because I'm working at this studio near campus, where I also teach—have been made as examples or to show someone how to do something. So that's kind of exciting to me. I really enjoy working alongside people and using pieces as a tool for teaching. That's one of my favorite parts about the ceramics I'm doing right now, especially because I'm studying education. I like to use my art and the process as a way to possibly unlock new teaching methods, or to think more about hands-on learning. As for the story behind each piece, I think each piece just reminds me of the meticulous work that went [into it]. You can look at some of the handled pieces and you can see every carve, every line on the leaves—like on the teapot that I made. Or even think back to every single chemical you had to mix to get the right glaze mixture. It's just cool to look at a piece for which you have been so involved in the process. Everything from the glaze to the firing technique requires careful work. For example, some of the pieces that I do are roku, which means you take the piece out of the kiln when it's at the peak temperature, 1700 degrees. And the glaze is still molten. Then you put it in this trash can full of combustibles like leaves and newspapers, and you put your piece in the can and watch it burst into flames. When you take your piece out, it's got all of these weird markings from being exposed to the fire. So yes, I tend to look at my pieces and see the work, awareness, and the care that went into its making.

What's your favorite piece? 

That's a good question. I have this one mug where the glaze just came out really unexpectedly. The interesting thing is when you combine glazes, you could have like a yellow and blue—and when you layer them together, instead of making green, the colors can make red just because the chemicals interact weirdly. That's one of the best parts for me, when you get this super random, unintentional color. On my mug I had a deep green, and this kind of reddish glaze over it. Where they met, there was this really bright turquoise color. So, it's just this mug with a huge turquoise spot at the bottom. And that's what I drink my coffee and tea out of every morning. That's my favorite—my green, red, turquoise spotted mug. 

How has pottery and ceramics influenced your life? Everyday experiences? 

 I've been working with pottery and ceramics since high school. It's opened up a lot of job opportunities for me. Like this summer, I was teaching pottery in Washington State, and now I'm working at a studio. I would say these opportunities have really allowed me to see how my artistic interests and my education interests collide and collaborate with one another. More recently, they have really begun to inform each other. I feel like I'm learning a lot about teaching pottery that can be applied to other forms of teaching.

Absolutely! It's really interesting to see that translation. Could you give an example of where your art and teaching interact?

I teach the kids class at the studio, and some of them are very young. I'm learning that when you put this piece of clay in front of a child, they're not going to listen to anything that you have to say. All they're going to want to do is play [with] and squish the clay, and you really can't blame them. But that's part of the magic about the clay, you know? It's exciting to see sheer joy just because of a tiny piece of clay. I guess channeling that excitement about the task and clay at hand is something I feel like can apply to any arena of education, because you’re working with children and are helping them create something by the end of the class. And as I said earlier, creating a pottery piece is difficult, and requires careful attention to the work. It's amazing to see how the children's excitement for the clay is transformed to this sort of eager attention and focus. 

This idea of intimacy, whether it be your own work or teaching children, is integral to your process. Like you said, every step is important and has to be dealt with with awareness and attention. Could you elaborate more on the intimacy aspect? 

Yes! Every step and every curve, every color that comes out in the blaze, every task you perform, every bit of work you put into your piece and its process, is an intimate kind of work. So at the end, I feel as if I become really tied to these pieces. Like it holds some part of myself. And especially in my case, I love using my pieces for the everyday. Being able to use and be in contact with your work further shows this intimacy. My pieces become part of my life. Intimacy lies there. 

What was your favorite art class at Barnard or Columbia? 

I've only taken one, actually, but I took Sculpture I freshman year with Kambui Olujimi and he was a really wonderful professor. I initially thought that we were going to be making little things out of clay, and that the class would be a sort of de-stressor. And it wasn't! It was one of the most stressful classes I've ever taken. We weren’t working with clay, we were working with metal. I literally learned how to weld! 

Really? Oh my god! 

Yes, really! On the top floor of Prentis, they have these metal shops. You get these sheets of steel, your big mask, your plasma cutter, and you're just welding! Once for the class, I made this metal wall that had all of these windows that opened up. [For] some of the windows you'd be able to see through to the other side, while others had mirrors. If you saw one on the opposite side, it was like you were playing hide-and-seek, but sometimes you were only finding yourself. The assignment was to make a mask, and that wall was my mask. That class was so much more work than I thought it was going to be, but it was really worth it. It was fun and inspiring being surrounded by people that were also invested in making these really crazy structures and sculptures. Also, working with a professor who is doing art in the real world was amazing. It was such a fascinating class. I would take it again and again and again. To be completely honest, I think I spent more time working for that class than I have for any class since then. 

What would be your ideal, dream piece? What would you make? 

My ceramics teacher in high school, Bob, who wore Crocs and a kimono to class all of the time, always talked about this friend he had in Oregon who threw ceramic hot tubs that were completely massive. He said that his friend kept breaking his wrist—because when you're throwing that much clay, if you have your hand slightly at the wrong angle, it'll literally just snap. Which is crazy. Sometimes I dream about throwing or creating a piece that massive. Maybe I'll make a fountain, or just grand monuments, and place them in random locations. That would be a dream piece. A massive structure placed—gently, of course—in random places everywhere I go. 

olivia treynor

In conversation with Elizabeth Meyer

Photographs by Ellis Sandro Shapiro-Barnum

Could you start by telling me a little bit about yourself, whatever that means to you?

My name is Olivia, I’m from California. My biggest identities [that] influence my art are being a young person, being a girl, and being queer. I don’t monopolize identities, but I feel part of these communities based on those [identities], and they definitely kind of influence how I perceive things, and think about things, and interact with things.

Is photography your main medium?

Yes. I started doing photography and filmmaking in high school. I wasn’t introduced to photography in a clinical art school way, I was introduced to it as something my peers were doing and that girls that felt like my peers were doing. I grew up with Rookie magazine and that was this great equalizer [to me]. [It] really emphasized young queer voices and female voices and non male voices. To me, it felt like “Of course I could take pictures!” It felt like there were so many people that were doing [it] and they were doing it so well and so beautifully and so powerfully. I just understood things as yes, the female gaze is something that of course I am going to try to reclaim and explore what that means

I [also] took an art class [in high school] where you had to put together a portfolio with all different mediums, so I put together a sewing project, which was out of my element. I’ve done some drawing and other things  But mainly photography and filmmaking are my big artistic practices. I’ve been doing creative writing more recently, but I’m still feeling that one out.

What is your definition of perception, and how does that fit into creation—especially through photography?

I think that photography is a medium about looking. Photography is so rooted in reality and observing reality, that there is less freedom inherent in the medium to make it about inner emotional content. To some extent, photography is always documentary because you have to work with what exists in the real, tangible world—and then distort that in some way to create an artistic statement. I think [in] the way photography is thought of, we imagine that the camera is your eye, and that's what’s dominant. The most important part of taking a photo is thinking about how the camera views something and, to me, that feels distant from what I think good photography is. I hope to use my photography as an empathetic, bodily observation rather than an objectifying tool. I’m trying to reframe ideas that the camera is the most important tool. [When taking photos of someone] I think about how I would naturally perceive and interact with them. The camera comes ranked lower in importance than my personal, empathetic, human gaze.

How do you take your photos?

I’m not thinking [about doing] something that’s never been done before or what the queer/female way of looking at [a subject is]. I retrospectively look back at things and be like “Oh, I looked at that thing in a way that is different from how another person would look at it,” but I don't think that’s an active goal of mine, to counter some sort of hegemony in the photo world. I’m just like “What makes sense in this [photo]?”, and then I can write an artist’s statement that applies that [sense] onto [the photo]. 

[In photography], I really believe that bodily intuition is much more important than being a rational thinker. That may just be an art thing but, to me, feeling comes over technical competence or objective analysis or trying to do something the “best” way. Being the “best” at something is so emphasized [in our society], and I think you can technically be the “best,” but that doesn't necessarily give you the skill to create an empathetic photo which, to me, is the most important part of photography. The best picture is the one that is most empathetic. So I'm cognizant of trying to look at things in a way that is bodily first and technical second. Photography, in a lot of ways, is dominated by the male gaze because its been appropriated as a tool for the male gaze but i don't think it has to be like that but I think the goal of a female photographer or anyone who is trying to conceive a photograph that exists outside of the male gaze has to think about it as an empathetic tool rather than an objectifying tool.

How do you form an empathetic connection with a subject when photographing individuals whose identities differ from your own? 

I think that empathy is not bound by identities. I think that I need to acknowledge that there are narratives that I won’t necessarily perceive that the person I’m photographing perceives because of their role or how they exist in society. As empowering as it is to be a young, queer woman, it means that I have not existed in a lot of different identities. I think acknowledging that, and believing that the photographer is not the most important person when taking a photo, is crucial. Like, [when I’m taking pictures], I feel like I’m a medium somehow, or messenger. The act [of photography] is of an interaction. I try to take photos that feel like they are an exchange rather than something that’s imposing on someone or taking from someone. doesn’t have to be about giving or receiving. It can be something mutual, not a give or take exchange. 

viola hibbett

In conversation with Uma Halsted

Photographs by Zita Surprenant

Introduce yourself.

I’m Viola. I’m a junior at Barnard, doing a philosophy major. I’m from Central Massachusetts—part rural, part suburban.

Describe your work in three words. Describe yourself in three words.

My work: Irrelevant Ransom Note. Me: Short Imposter Ginger. 

Do you have any favorite artists that inspire you?

For animation, Terry Gilliam, the “Monty Python” animator.

When did you start making art, conscious of it being a product?

Probably not until the end of freshman year here. Before, I was indoctrinated into the STEM world. I came in as a physics major, switched to math at the end of my freshman year, and then to philosophy at the end of my sophomore year. 

Did you notice any shifts in what you were interested in artistically as your academic focus changed?

When I was doing a physics track, anything that wasn’t [physics] felt like a side project. Whereas, once I started doing more non-STEM things, I was like, “Oh, this can actually be a thing that I can think about, and put work and time into.”

Do you find that holding onto, and relinquishing, control comes into play in that kind of creative process?

When you try to hold onto the idea of something turning out the way it should in your mind, it always ends up winding up a little off. And then that ‘being off’ seems disnoble—[it] turns into feeling worthless. But then you realize that chain of reasoning doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter whether one little thing’s at an angle or not.

Do you have a first memory of creating when you were young?

Honestly, not so much. I do have some memories of making weird drinks to consume as a kid, with a bunch of lemon juice and vanilla extract—with kids putting all of [the] other spices into a liquid and then being like, “Let’s drink it!” So that was probably my entry into creating.

When you are physically making the work, do you feel like you snap into the experience of being removed from reality? Or are you usually quite grounded in reality, and just recalling past experiences and ideas?

I’m not super floaty or whatever. I’m definitely there. I do tend to get super drawn into it though, as in I forget about other things. 

You talk about detaching from reality and from the need to make a ‘good’ product. And then having the space to be silly and fun, and not take yourself too seriously. I am wondering what that looks like when you’re making your art. What does that look and feel like for you as the creator?

We’re all raised in the capitalist world, and so we’re all taught that your value is tied to you producing things—producing things which are good and can be marketed, or which serve some sort of purpose in that world. Once you realize that that’s nonsense, it opens things up a lot more.

Do you feel like you can ever fully detach yourself from that world?

No… I don’t know. I’ve had some times where I’ve legitimately detached from reality, and my brain’s doing interesting kinds of moves. In those times… yeah. I can [detach] and I have. There are other things that you don’t want to detach from. But at the same time, when you’re in that kind of space—thinking about production and making things that are good, and would have a high monetary value—is just so ridiculous and out there that it seems entirely foreign.

What did you end up doing in that space? Was there any connection to making art?

Try to be calm and wait until eventually things settle down. And then they did. Since then, I’ve done some artwork in which part of what I’m thinking about are those experiences I’ve had. I did one where I was trying to capture the feeling of being in one of those photo stand-ins, with the cut-out faces. It’s like that, but the whole world is just that board. And then it’s just your eyes looking out.

Who or what are you making your art for? And because of that, how does your process change?

When I’m making things, I like to be having fun with it, and let things be silly. Then when I have something that’s done and I’m going to give it to someone, it’s almost more like comics—like, “Here’s something that will make you laugh.” If I stay in a fun mindset, then hopefully [my work] winds up more light than if not. 

Why do you want your art to be light?

Not everything that I’ve made is intended to be light. But I feel like everything is so meaningless, or crap like that. So why not have things that are fun and light?

lorenzo barajas

Photographs by Maya Hertz

Interviewed by Isabella Rafky

Tell me a little bit about yourself. 

This was definitely the hardest question for me to answer, because I am interested in so many different things. I’m an art history and english major, and other than that I just recently finished up work as a florist and vendor in Abingdon Square, which was a really fun job for me. Previously, I’ve been a bagel store employee — you know, just getting it done. Other than that, it's really hard to say. I feel like I’m coming to grips with the fact that I’m a quiet, but dramatic person. Kind of an oddball; I like going to really weird events, like Pickle Day. I’m from San Diego. I’m a poet and a visual artist. 

What motivates you to write poetry and create visual art? Are they different forces of motivation?

They are definitely very different forces for each genre. Visual art, to me, is more performative. I’m really kind of a show-off with my visual art: I’ll put it on my walls, I’ll give it as gifts to friends, I’ll do anything with it. Whereas my poetry, or any of my writing, is definitely more guarded. I’m working on a poetry anthology right now that I’m trying to submit to the APR’s First Book contest — so I’m trying to crank out a piece [each] day.

Where do you get your inspiration from? (i.e., Magic 8 Ball Python coding)

All of my work is just an amalgamation of everything that I’m interested in. Everything that I’ve read — poets like Anne Carson, [writers like] Cormac McCarthy. Movies like “The Matrix” — so many different things. I think mainly what I feel is that everyone in all of these works is trying to get at what forces govern a person’s life — what kind of biological, or technological, or celestial forces? And I am really interested in getting at what those could be.

What celestial forces do you feel get at you?

I don’t know! It’s really hard to say (laughs). I definitely am interested in so many different aspects of different religions and incorporating that into my work — like the idea of reincarnation. I come from a Catholic background, so that does come into my work a bit.

If your final actions were to be a “Choose Your Own Adventure,” like in “Oat Milk Forever,” what would they be?

These are all very hard questions (laughs). I feel that life is essentially like a “Choose Your Own Adventure.” Everything that we do is so dictated by choices, and those choices are influenced by different things. But at the end, it’s your own decision. But if it was like, a final decision, I guess maybe I would publish my work — because I feel like it is really representational of who I am as a person, and it would be a good way to memorialize myself.

How do you best express fragmentation? Do you treat each fragment as a whole, or do the fragments form a whole themselves? 

I feel that [fragmentation] is mostly expressed through surrealism as a genre in my writing — because at the root of it, I think feeling disoriented and misrepresented is really reflective of my experience as a minority of any sort. I’m just trying to represent that experience through surrealism as a genre. And to the second question, I feel like each fragment is a whole. I feel that there is a finality to every piece, and it’s hard to put them next to each other if they each have their own circularity to them.

Talk to me more about your surrealism. How did you come to it? Have you always been a surrealist poet? How do you see surrealism in your own work?

I definitely did not start out as a surrealist poet. I started doing open mics in high school, and that sort of work was very activism-based. It was very, like — I don't know what the right word is — but it was very set in stone, very... rebellious. I don’t know if that’s the right word (laughs) but it definitely didn’t have a genre that I can ascribe to it other than performative. And then after that, I started to get into different poets that had worked within surrealism, and I just became completely obsessed with how that genre operated — especially like Césaire. I just found it strangely beautiful, almost like a fever dream. I’m really interested in how [surrealism] works, and how it’s such a unique genre of poetry. I feel like surrealism in art just operates differently than it does in writing. I don’t know if there is anything in particular that caught my eye to it, I just really love it.

Besides fragmentation, what are other themes you touch on in your work, and why? Why does fragmentation call to you?

I think within my work, I’m still trying to figure out a genre that works for me, and I switch very often between different modes, different perspectives — just trying to parse out exactly what I want to do with my work, and where it’s going. That has definitely lent itself to the fragmentation, just due to the experience of writing itself. I think it’s also reflective of where I am as a person right now. I’m on the cusp of being 20; I’m just trying to figure out exactly what I want to do, and I want my work to reflect where I am as a person as well as what I’m interested in thematically. As for different themes, I feel that my work is definitely trying to resist being themed. I don’t know how well it’s doing that — but fragmentation is obviously something that is very identifiable. I’m just trying to create something that anyone can draw out of, whatever they want. There’s this quote by a famous artist that I really like, Fred Tomaselli: “I’m not trying to be anyone’s cop for my artwork.” 

I just want my audience to get out of my work what they want to get out of it and if it is like therapy for them to read my work and relate to something that's great! If it’s just reading something that’s aesthetically pleasing that’s also great. I’m not trying to create a universal truth in my work. 

Are there any spaces on campus that you go to find inspiration or to be creative?

That’s a hard question, because I run in so many different circles. Freshman year I offhandedly decided to join the marching band, so there’s this kinda offbeat circle I’m a part of—just like, community and friends coming together and making music. I play cowbell. But it’s still just [about] relating to other people. Other than that, I’ve been really trying to figure out where those spaces are. Artistically, I’m not really involved very much in any kind of scene. So I often end up wandering with my friends through galleries. There isn’t a cohesive space that I go to to find community. I just end up taking a lot of different classes—I took a class over the summer at the Muji Pottery Studio. I don’t think there’s one thing that’s home to me. I do definitely have a lot of different writing spots that are conducive to getting things out. I end up going to any place that has any natural element, like the park by Saint John’s Cathedral. I don’t know exactly what it is, but the fountain is an area that I just like. I go there and I’m able to write and write for hours. 

How do you think San Diego has affected your writing or your person? 

I think just the experience of being in San Diego is so vastly different from being here—it for sure has affected my personhood. Growing up there, I was really close to the border, which was really interesting being half-Mexican and half-American. I was able to relate so much to my surroundings, but still felt kind of distant from my Mexican identity—which is something I found in both [Mexico and America]. I don’t really feel that here, because [New York City] is so far from Mexico. I ended up learning Spanish, but that's still a big difference from having a native language as a solid part of your identity. I definitely do miss [San Diego]. To me, it’s so much more relaxed. Going back home is like a palate cleanser. Whereas [in New York], I was just exposed to so many different things. And it definitely helped to shape who I am as a person, because when you're exposed to so many different things you end up drawing what you will from them. 

xixi wang

Photographs by Margaret Maguire

In Conversation with Morgan Becker

Could you introduce yourself? 

My name is Xixi Wang, I’m a sophomore at Barnard College. I do acrylic paintings and graphite drawings on the side sometimes. I was raised in Vancouver, Canada, and for the majority of my life I was really focused on music. I was a competitive pianist for a really long time, so when I moved to New York five years ago, that was when I really started honing in on my artwork. I always loved drawing—painting not so much (laughs). But when I got to New York, that’s when I really found my love for it and put my music to the side. During the era of Instagram, my friends started suggesting that I post my stuff online. That’s where my art career began—I just drew whatever I wanted. I mainly started off with, like, celebrity portraits and Disney caricatures, and I would just post everything that I drew on Instagram. And slowly, my following started to build. Here we are today. 

Would you say that your music has an influence on the work that you do? Or was a clean break from one form of art to the other? 

I felt like it was more of a break-off. Because music was really something that my parents pushed me to pursue, and art was more of a side thing. I really liked art classes at school, but other than that, it was music all the time. People at school knew me as the musician, the pianist, who spends all her time doing that. And then when I moved to New York—it was also at a point where I couldn’t really do anything else with music. I could pursue it professionally, or not. So I kind of just dropped it—or it at least became a less important part of my life. I still love music to this day.

Did music ever feel creative to you? 

I don’t think so. No, because I was so classically trained. A lot of it was, like, taking examinations—in Canada, you have Royal Conservatory examinations. So a lot of it was taking exams until you reach a certain level. I did take composition classes and music history classes, but it never got to a point at which I felt like I had creative freedom over my music. 

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From what I see from your work, you do a lot of painting of bodies—literally and figuratively. Where does the fascination come from? 

This is a fascination that has evolved very recently. As I mentioned before, my past artwork was a lot of pop-culture stuff. That was when I mostly considered myself a ‘drawer.’ When I dove into painting, that’s when I created my own sense of style as an artist. I just kind of paint subject matter that I gravitate toward. I never force myself to branch out, or paint something that I don’t speak with. So, why bodies? Now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t really know why. For a long time I loved painting pieces that made you think, and that made you feel something. A lot of the issues that I’m passionate about concern gender, or sexuality. I think that I reflect that through the work I create. 

In what ways do you think femininity is shown through the body? 

I mean, there are ways that we dress ourselves—but that’s unrelated to the pieces that I create. I do more bare bodies, and minimalistic stuff. So in terms of my pieces specifically, I try to strip away gender. My models are usually female. I haven’t really painted male bodies or faces. But I feel like my style is very feminine, if that makes sense? A lot of the colors that I use are pastel, and the way that I work my paint—there’s an elegant texture to it, but it’s also a bit rough. I don’t know, I feel like the feminine aspect for me is more the style of the work, rather than the body being portrayed on the canvas. 

I notice that a lot of the work is also segmented. You never paint a full portrait. Is there a reason for that? 

I love zooming in, close-ups in general. It’s a very intimate way to showcase a woman’s body. And it also provides mystery, and gives me more of a sense of creative freedom. I paint however I want to paint, if that makes sense? If you’re painting a model, their entire body, proportions are really important. Making it look like the actual figure is really important. Which is kind of why I stray from portraits. It gets too much into, ‘Oh, who are you painting?’ ‘Why did you choose this model?’ et cetera. So I tend to zoom into parts of the body where you don’t necessarily know who the person is, and you don’t have that necessity to compare. 

What does touch mean to you? 

Exploring touch has been a fairly recent thing of mine, but I love painting hands. It’s something that I’ve had an obsession with for a long time. I know for many artists, it’s a pain in the ass. But it’s actually one of my favorite things to paint. And through all of the pieces of hands that I’ve created, I feel like there’s a similar theme centered around human relationships. Touch has a lot to do with that. I mentioned this in my artist bio, but I think that touch—out of all the five senses—is the most interesting. It has the most layers to it. It’s so complex. But overall, the main reason why—this is going to sound cheesy, but it connects the mind and the heart in a way that sounds, or smells, can’t do. There’s a very emotional side to touch, as well as physical. It’s a fundamental sense that connects us together as human beings. Imagine never hugging someone, and losing that sense of comfort. I think touch encompasses so many emotions that I like to reflect through painting. At the end of the day, my painting aren’t just hands. They reflect a deeper sense of emotional value and make you think about what the hands are doing, and how they’re interacting with each other to make you feel a certain way. 

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Do you think touch is inherently intimate? 

I think there’s definitely an intimate aspect to it. I don’t think it’s inherent—it’s intimate if you want it to be intimate. But in my pieces specifically, I try to find that intimate level. Like, I really do want that intimacy between the viewer and the painting itself. 

Do you tend to base those painting off your own relationships? Models? What do you use for reference? 

I do some of both. A lot of it is Google searching, and finding non-copyrighted material. A lot of it uses my own body as a reference. Especially for hands, that’s definitely easier. I’ll just take photos of them from different angles, changing the lighting as I go. Also, there is an app where you can take a hand model and basically rotate it however you want, but it isn’t the most realistic. So I just tend to take my own reference images—if for some reason I can’t, I’ll just go off of Google. 

Tell me about your work with temporary tattoos, and how it came about. 

So I work with this company called Inkbox, and they do semi-permanent tattoos. They last from eight to eighteen day. They’re from a fruit-based ink, very similar to henna but completely different ingredients. I design a lot of the tattoos on their website, and I also do freehand, which is where you work with a bottle of ink and apply the tattoo similarly to henna. Wherever you’re getting the tattoo, it’ll take 24 hours to fully develop, and it’ll stay for roughly two to three weeks. 

How I got into it is kind of a long story. Ever since I was a teenager I was really into tattooing—not getting tattoos myself, but the industry in general, and tattooing as an art form. Tattoo artists are so talented, to be able to create these gorgeous pieces of artwork on someone’s body, using the human as a canvas. Having their art carried around forever. So I’d always told myself that I wanted to learn how to tattoo. Someday! But that hasn’t happened yet. I’m still crossing my fingers. I found out about Inkbox roughly three years ago. They had just launched a kickstarter and completely blew up. I started as one of their purchasers, just trying their products. I thought they were really cool as a company, and as a general concept. And then, maybe a year into it, they were looking for artists to design tattoos. I applied, got the position, and ever since then I’ve been in contact with their team. They know that I live in New York, so whenever they have pop-up events they’ll shoot me a text and ask if I can work for them. 

It’s interesting that you said tattoos are a form of art that are carried around forever. I get that they’re permanent—but people are typically less permanent than say an actual painting on the wall. What are you thoughts on that? 

I get that. Wow, never really thought about that. I guess when you create a tattoo, it’s personalized. The tattooists that I follow, who are artistically very good—their work is really personalized toward the person getting the piece, either based on a story that they want to tell, or something that has deep emotional meaning to it. Sometimes, it can just be aesthetically nice to look at, but it always connects with the person. In terms of permanence, tattoos don’t last as long as, say, a painting on a canvas. But it’s completely different, because it’s connected—the person who’s wearing that tattoo gives it meaning. Whereas the canvas can’t really give the paint meaning. 

So the person adds something. I wonder then, when you create a tattoo, is it your work? Or does it belong to the person who has it on their body? Do you share it? 

I do think you share it. First of all, if you’re a good tattoo artist, you’re not copying work from anybody else. You’re creating your own stuff. The best clients know to give their tattoo artists creative freedom, to take the idea however they want, to showcase their creativity through this art form. It’s a collaboration, because someone could also come in knowing what they want. The artist kind of builds that up and creates an end result. 

You said that you post a lot of your art online. Do you also gain inspiration from social media? 

So when I started posting work, I found a community of artists who I was able to share my passions with, who I could throw ideas around with, and I could see the pieces that they were creating. Through that, I was introduced to the hub of art in social media. But I do think that the art I see on social media isn’t the most perfect representation of contemporary art in general. Obviously I believe that seeing a work online is so different from seeing it in person. In terms of finding inspiration, my first source is going to museums and physically seeing art. Or just walking around, looking at architecture, that kind of stuff. When I go onto social media, I look at artists who I already know—who I’ve learned about by going to the MoMA, or taking a class. So a lot of the artists I follow I haven’t found solely through social media. Instagram though, has really become the space for artists who want to become professional. If you want to be a professional artist, you’ve got to post your stuff on Instagram. It has now literally become a portfolio for us. So I think that it’s a useful place to find inspiration—but it’s not my sole space. 

What’s the last exhibition you saw? 

The Whitney Biennial, over the summer. I actually haven’t been to anything really recently, but I was taking a class at Sotheby's about the market of contemporary art. We were talking about big events like EXPO Chicago and the Vienna Biennial. I wasn’t that amazed—nothing at the Biennial really stood out to me. I was really just going because I’m an artist and I like contemporary art. I felt like I needed to go see it. It’s only here once every two years. 

What are you working on now? 

So over the summer, I really wanted to rethink my overall artist statement. About my overall aesthetic. That’s how I started exploring touch, bare bodies, sexuality, femininity. And so most recently, I’m working on a series of hands holding sex toys, which I’m completely in love with. It’s a ten-piece series, and I don’t really know where the inspiration came from. It kind of just hit me—I want to incorporate hands. I want to touch on female sexual empowerment. I want to talk about self-love. So I did a series on dildos, vibrators, and it evolved. The majority of the hands are my own, and I’ve taken reference images of different types of sex toys from Google. I jokingly say that I want to be in that income bracket where I can comfortably afford to buy all of my props and take the photos myself—but I’m not at that point yet. It’s still in the works. Four of the ten are completely done. The other six are on canvases but not finished, and I’m working on them all at the same time. It’s been really fun, really educational, and everyone has been responding so well—better than I thought. People have been DMing me, saying how they love the concept, that they love my work. The series is about female self-empowerment, and exploring your own sexuality. And I know the privileges of going to Barnard and being in a very liberal space. Since we’re a woman-heavy environment, my friends have been so encouraging. At the same time, it’s a subject matter that can be very taboo, very touchy for some people. I want the work itself to make people feel uncomfortable—if it’s a subject matter that you would be uncomfortable with otherwise. At the end of the day—although they’re very aesthetically pleasing—I also want there to be conversation around it. My parents know that I’m painting, and they have very different views than I do, so it sparks some conversation. 

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Have you heard of Helen Beard? She does pornographic art, often involving sex toys. It reminds me of your work, but much more sexually graphic. I guess my question is, why still the hands? Of course they have a lot to do with sex—but when it comes down to it, so do many other parts of the body. 

Yes, I’ve seen that! First take, I love painting hands and I’m good at painting hands. That came first, and then I got down to the other reasons behind why I chose them. In a way, having it be just the hand isn’t as sexualized as depicting the genitals. It’s almost more powerful to just see the hand holding this toy—if that makes sense—against a white backdrop. It’s very in-your-face. There's nothing else to focus on. There’s no other skin; it’s removed from relationship with the body, and really is just about the toy itself. The hand is raising it up, as if showing the product. The series itself almost looks like promotional work for like, Adam & Eve. In a way, I wanted it to be more about the taboo behind using sex toys, especially in relation to women. All the toys that I chose were mainly catered toward females. The reason why I chose to use the hand is because it strips the toy away from the body while keeping that human touch.

I can see how these subjects, imposed on a stark-white background, would be evocative. Especially because they aren’t hyperrealistic, per se. How are they colored? 

So, all of my hands are painted with the same colors. The toys themselves are vibrant, saturated, in-your-face. Some of them I even used gold, silver, metallic colors. I don’t think that there’s a ‘better’ way—images being very graphic or less-so—neither of those methods of painting stands out over the other. They’re just completely different ways of addressing sexuality. Both have their merits, both are very powerful. 

And I guess that once they’re on the Internet, it’s very easy to start comparing people directly. Whereas you wouldn’t necessarily go to two different rooms of a museum and say ‘This person did the female figure better.’ Do you feel competition, putting yourself online and kind of quantifying your art? 

I definitely did, before. I grew up being on Instagram, like 24/7. I loved that I was able to find a place to share what I like to do, and find a community of people who supported me. But it turned into me asking my followers what they wanted to see instead of asking myself what I wanted to make. It got to a point where I was like, ‘I need to have x-amount of followers by this point, it needs to increase at x-rate.’ I was comparing myself to artists who were at my same age, and doing similar types of work. I used those numbers to qualify how good my art was, when in reality it meant absolutely nothing. Some really brilliant artists right now have under 100,000 followers on Instagram right now. Some of my favorites have only like, 20,000. So numbers, at the end of the day, don’t mean much. It does create more of an outreach, and the likelihood of selling a piece becomes higher. That also goes along with galleries that might want to represent your work, or curators who are looking for artists. [Numbers] can then show that you have an established audience and that you’re pretty reputable. I’d like to believe that it should be more about content and meaning. 

Closing remarks? 

You can find me on Instagram @xixiwangartist, or on Facebook. My website—which I just launched this summer—is xixiwangartist.com. You can see all the stuff that I’ve created over the past three years. 

charlie blodnieks

Photographs by Eliza Jouin 

In conversation with Yosan Alemu

Charlie Blodnieks is a Junior at Columbia College studying English. They are also on the Columbia/Barnard slam poetry team, the Editor in Chief of Quarto Magazine, and they really love the Bee Movie. 

What is your writing process like and how does it differ from other creative mediums, especially in relation to your visual work? So how is writing visual? 

Those are good questions. I think my writing process is sporadic. Before I became more developed as a poet, I used to just write out all of my feelings, sort of like a frantic emotional process without really editing or tending to the pieces beyond that point. And it’s not to say that’s necessarily a bad thing, but I’m glad I’m moving towards really defining and refining my craft in terms of careful editing. 

And when I’m editing, I think about the audience, about the performance of the piece—if there will be one—and I want to always be mindful about my work, for me and for the reader. I want to be responsible, and make poetry that is responsible. Being on the slam poetry team and editing for Quarto, a literature magazine, has really helped me in terms of reading, and looking at the ways in which the reading process of both author and reader is just as crucial as the writing process itself. I've been writing a lot recently on mental health and particularly writing about sexual violence and survivorship. And I am always thinking about the way those works need to be written and read about in responsible ways. I want to use writing as an artistic space for healing, but also for advocacy, and the practice of poetry and editing is one way to do this. 

How do you think writing can be visual? 

Poetry is visual! Especially in my written poetry, I care a lot about spacing and how the words look a certain way on a blank piece of paper. I want to take up space purposefully, and I want the spaces to be created in meaningful ways.

Do you edit your visual work? 

I actually don’t edit my visual work. I usually upload a visual piece to photoshop once I’ve physically made it, and I literally splice the image and rearrange it. If you consider that editing, I guess it is! The piece I submitted to Ratrock is super rearranged, and it’s sourced from three pages of random sketchbook lines. In terms of actual visual work, I care more about how I am feeling and [how I] use the visual medium as an outlet. It’s more fun. I think I take my poetry more seriously and that is why I’m editing a piece for months at a time, while my visual pieces can be completed quickly. 

Reading over the work you submitted to Ratrock, I really loved your “Psalm For God's Mother” piece [originally published in Muzzle magazine]. If you would like to share, what inspired you to write it? How did you write it? Why?

The poem was actually my individual CUPSI poem from last year. So CUPSI is the College Union's Poetry Slam Invitational that the Barnard/Columbia slam team goes to every year. That poem was initially three minutes, and I performed it with other members on the team. My best friend Taylor Thompson was singing Moses Sumney’s “Plastic” while I performed the piece. I think that poem has a lot to do with the specific moments of my transition last year, which was around this exact time actually. I had just come out to my family as trans, and I just started requesting people use my correct pronouns. That was really, for me, coming into my own moment, my own self. I was thinking a lot about space, and how to request and demand space for yourself. A large part of the poem also got me attached to Icarus imagery, of flying too close to the sun, especially in terms of space and proximity. I’m always really anxious about taking up too much space, and I felt very uncomfortable with asserting my gender identity and my transness—I had a lot of complicated feelings about it. I still do. The poem also dealt with my relationship with my family, and me announcing to them and the world that I can do these things on my own, I can transition on my own, I can do it myself. Even though there is a lot of sadness to it, there is also some power hidden within it. It might be quiet, but still deeply comforting.

When you were talking about Icarus and flying too close to the sun, that reminded me of your other visual works that depicted flight and movement in the form of birds. Could you explain that a little more? 

I actually haven't thought deeply about the question of “Why birds?” It does come up a lot, and I do think it has to do with flight and escaping, of freely moving and not wanting to be bound by fear and by the world at large. 

You also have mentioned the slam poetry team a few times. How is that like? 

Slam poetry. Oh boy. I love the slam poetry team. That is where I met the bulk of my friends, and that is also where I met my partner. It is definitely the most loving space I have ever been in on campus, and the team means so much to me. So, so much. The team has been so formative in part for my writing but also about collaborating together as a team. I think this is the first place that I've really learned how to have loving friendships and to have loving work within those friendships. Thinking about the power of caring and caring about other people, and what that can do for us, I have found everyone on the team to be that caring and careful, of always helping and wanting the best for each other, and always deeply loving one another. 

When you’re performing a piece for the slam poetry team, how do aspects of body-ship and space production factor into the performance? 

In one of the pieces that we are performing for, it deals a lot with the body and of taking up space, of moving in and out of frames. The goal of the poem is to reckon with the fact that despite how much I want to obscure my body and imaging all I want, I am a person in a body. And then at the end of the piece, I thank all of the people who have impacted my life and my perception of life. I thank Taylor, and Asha, and others, and I feel like the end of the piece really  is rooted in this collective power of being held, and of holding others.

ivanna rodriguez-rojas

Photographs by Morgana Van Peebles

Interview by Isabella Rafky

Ivanna C. Rodríguez is a Mexican-Cuban artist that was born in Montreal, Canada and raised in Mexico City and Miami. She is a Barnard Sophomore majoring in Art History and is a poet, photographer, fiction writer, and founder of the South Florida Arts Collective. The collective is a safe space for Floridian artists of all mediums to be featured and build community.

What is your relationship with art? Any artists, spaces etc you look up to, engage with?

I consider myself very close to art since my childhood because I have two uncles and one aunt who are working artists in Mexico. Since I was a child I had the luck to be in constant contact to museums and exhibitions in many places in the world, so I feel like I'm very familiar with art. When it comes to artists, I find a lot of inspiration in photographers like Graciela Iturbide who is this Mexican photographer and is known to take a lot of street photography, specifically of mestizx and indigenous peoples-and that really influences me. As I said before, my uncles Felix Ayurnamat, Juan Barron, and my aunt Ines Barron are all sources of inspiration for me as well.

Apart from that, I look up to a lot of my friends who are all wonderful artists. I believe that people shy away from choosing colleagues as inspiration. I don't know if there’s this culture built around not uplifting fellow artists, or not admitting that you get inspired by people our age, but I feel like I am most inspired by young people. On top of that, I love Frida Kahlo, so much, she has shaped the way I view myself. From selfies to self-portraits or any kind of self analysis, I definitely look at it through that type of abstract lens, but I also love Bosch because he was insanely Avant-Garde for a Renaissance artist. In terms of spaces, I really enjoy visiting museums. Any museum, you can catch me there and if they’re free.. even better.

What’s your artistic process like?

My artistic process can be either spontaneous or planned– it varies usually, so I never know what to expect. Honestly, it really depends on my mood, but it usually starts with restlessness. I always write when I'm restless. I’m a very busy person so, in general, I don't have time nowadays to produce art but maybe in the past, I could actually decide to make something from my imagination. If I see something in the street that I really like I will jot it down on my phone [in] a couple of notes and then I will compose a poem. I also try to carry either one of my two cameras around whenever I go out because New York is such a powerful place for photography. But if I am not able to, I have an iPhone and even though the quality that is pretty mediocre I capture anything that catches my eye.

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Are you spiritual? How has spirituality and language affected you and your writing?

I think that’s actually a really funny question because in my poetry seminar last week I just submitted a poem about my relationship to five different religions that have been close to me in my life through[out] different moments, but also continuously. I have finally come to the realization that while I am not a religious person, I’m a person full of faith. I have so much faith, and I would never consider myself an atheist. I do notice a pattern of spirituality and faith in a lot of my work whether it's photography or writing. I was raised Catholic from my mother’s side and through my father’s side, the Cuban side, some family practice Santería. As you can see, right now, I'm wearing a gold cross and a Yemaya ilde on my wrist. I don’t go to church often, but I do pray sometimes or light my candles to Yemaya and La Virgen de Guadalupe. I think there’s this powerful hybrid of religious identity within me, just as many of my other identities are hybrid, but I definitely am very spiritual. I think I just have an appreciation for faith; it’s very beautiful, and I think it’s something very powerful in art and life in general.

Which languages do you speak? What about language intrigues you? What do you associate with each language?

I speak English, hablo Español, et je parle français. I think that this year, I am able to finally say that I'm trilingual, but prior to that, I was most fluent in English and Spanish. I think what intrigues me about language is how you can convey the same things so differently, and I think a lot about how words vary from region to region - even Spanish varies so much! My Mexican Spanish is nothing like my Cuban Spanish. It’s really beautiful. I am interested in dialects, accents, colloquialisms, and any other particularities of language. My mom learned French in Canada, I always understood that type of French, but when studying French at Columbia, I was taught French from France, which is entirely different.

I feel the same way about English. English from the south is so different than English in New York. I associate languages with people and places. Spanish feels like home to me because most of my family speaks it. French feels like this powerful yet foreign thing to me. That, since I was born in Canada, from the destiny and fate of my parents’ lives, happens to be as much mine as any other language. English is just very easy to navigate and comfortable for me to communicate with in this school. Recently, I started using my photography and putting bits of my poems on top of it. I want to keep exploring that because I want to see what I link my words to visually.

Tell me about the arts collective you founded.

With the help of two of my friends– last September, we realized that not a lot was being done for artists that have not yet been established: so, young artists, artists with marginalized identity, or artists with low budgets, etc. in Miami but also in the greater south Florida area. While I'm not too fond of the name, and I might want to explore the possibility of changing it later, we realized that in order to get ourselves out there and be accessible,we had to come up with something pragmatic. We titled it South Florida Art Collective, SFAC for short. It’s easy, it's precise, and it does its job. There’s an application process to be featured, and while we accept everyone, we like to have a more business-like manner in which artists can submit a portfolio because we want to treat them as professional artists. We have over thirty five different artists on our page right now, and I am on a little hiatus with it right now because I am busy with work, my own art, and school in general. But I definitely want it to continue and for it to grow. We are about to hit two hundred followers, which is honestly more than I thought it would ever get. There's a lot of enthusiasm from friends and strangers, alike. I even received a submission from someone in Orlando, which is totally not south Florida. I think it just goes to show [that] artists from Florida, or people from the south, yearn to have a platform to show their work and meet other people. They deserve the world.

What are the distinctions between South Florida and Miami? Why do you feel like South Florida needed a space art-wise?

Miami is this very huge bubble that has more exposure to the rest of the world artistically and culturally than the rest of South Florida does. For instance Ft. Lauderdale, Palm Beach, Pompano, etc. are really big cities in the state of Florida, and they have a huge population but compared to Miami in terms of global access and recognition, they don’t have as much. It would be very selfish of me to exclude artists from Broward County, which is right next to Dade county, when the artists are just as capable and talented to be showcased. On top of that there is this mini-rivalry between the counties, and I just wanted to do something where we can all feel like we are part of this community. We are not Broward vs. Dade, we are just this huge part of the whole state of Florida that are getting together to promote each other, network with each other, and do something for the greater good of the state.

¿Cuánto afecta Miami a tu arte? ¿Cuánto extrañas a Miami?

Yo extraño a Miami con todo mi ser, es mi hogar––y pienso sobre él diariamente. No creo que mis padres entienden lo cuanto que amo a Miami! En términos de mi poesia y fotografia, pienso que aunque no todo lo que produzco está directamente vinculado con mi ciudad, de alguna manera refleja alguna parte de mi personalidad. Llevo casi catorce años viviendo en la Florida, así que aunque no quiera hacerlo intencionalmente, me influencia muchísimo. Miami, tal como yo es un lugar cálido, colorido, y lleno de vida––espero que mi arte también tenga el poder de evocar estos sentimientos tropicales y únicos de mi amada península.

Did where you grow up influence your artistic practice? How so?

Yeah, definitely. I really take into account the fact that I spent the first six and a half years of my life in Mexico City because that really influences my artistic practice and foundation. For the other thirteen to fourteen years of my life, growing up in Miami definitely made my art more... tropical isn’t the right word, but my art is very warm; I tend to lean to a warm color palette in photography. A lot of the images in my poetry are soaked with sun, and you can just feel this vibrancy that really resonates with Miami even if I’m not talking about Miami. I feel like the places I grew up in, made me be the type of person I am and that translates into all of the work I am making, whether I want it to or not.

How would you describe your poetry?

I have actually been writing poetry probably longer than I have been doing any other medium of art. I’ve kept a journal since literally the eighth grade. It is full of poems, not many of them are good, a lot of them are very angsty. Around ninth grade was when I started acknowledging that what I was doing was definitely poetry, and I started taking it more seriously. I feel like I have since departed from love poetry and more dramatic things and [started to] focus more on my identity and how I navigate spaces as the person I am, or how I view the world because of the way that I am. But I have been trying to play around with different themes that I am not super comfortable with. I just wrote a piece on religion, and I wrote a poem on my tattoos yesterday-it’s something that’s superficial. I like to reflect more in my poetry but now I'm just starting to allow myself to write about everyday things because they are just as valid. I don’t think I have a favorite poem, but I definitely am proud of the ones that I have gotten published; they are my babies. Like “La Sagrada Familia”, featured in my Ratrock portfolio, but I hope to get more of it out there.

What’s your series “La Sagrada Familia” about?

The title comes from, well “La Sagrada Familia,” the Spanish term for Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. I am obviously not Jesus, but that’s a family of three and I [was like] ‘hey, I have a family of three!’ La Sagrada Familia is also this huge basilica in Barcelona that’s unfinished. The fact that it’s unfinished is so striking to me; I have been lucky to be there before, and it’s so magnificent that I was inspired.

My poem has nothing to do with the architecture, but it gave me the title. It’s a three-part poem. The first part is “El Padre,” which talks about my relationship to Mexico where my mother was born. Since my mother is Mexican, Mexico is my father in that sense. The second part [is] “La Madre,” which is about Cuba since my father is Cuban. Cuba is my mother, and it just talks about my relationship to the island and how I have only been able to be there once in my life - despite it being a forty-five minute flight from Miami. Due to government issues and my dad having to pay to renew his passport to go... it’s just an issue. I am hoping to go there soon though.

The last part, “La Hija” is about Montreal, I am the daughter. I feel like it was probably the hardest piece to write because when I wrote it I had only been to Montreal once since my parents were deported in 1999. I still resented Montreal. I fell in love with the city– it’s a gorgeous place– but I was so mad because I felt robbed that I didn't get to grow up there. I felt the need to write about my relationship it. Since then I was able to go again. I spent my twentieth birthday there and I realized that I don't feel so angry at it anymore. So maybe I will write a part two, but who knows. It definitely is a heartfelt poem and shows how much I love my three nationalities differently, but tremendously.

How did you get started with photography? What do you prefer photographing?

I got into photography from as young as I could remember, just because my mom has always been so passionate about it. I don't know anyone else on this earth [who] has more albums of baby pictures than I do; my family loves recording our history through images. We still have all of my mom’s film negatives and there are probably five different cameras lying around in my house. I was gifted my first camera when I was ten. It was this tiny Fujifilm. It wasn’t until I got to college [that] I started to take it more seriously as an art form. One of my dearest friends loaned me their spare Sony A7 when I mentioned I wanted to improve my skills, so I shoot with that camera now. Just recently I got a film camera of my own, and I love it so much. I like capturing organic moments and candids in the street. I feel like that really immortalizes personalities and moments, and it can make even strangers feel intimate. A more constructed or curated shoot is just as fun to come up with, but is definitely more orchestrated. Telling a model how to pose doesn't feel fake at all, but I do enjoy capturing a natural moment vs a posed moment.

How has your identity influenced your artistic practice? What motivates you to keep going?

I am latinx. I feel that it’s very uplifting to get so much attention, love, and great feedback for my art because I feel like in a white-dominated space I would just be shrugged off and ignored or considered sub-par. I do feel that specifically, while I am Latinx, I am also mestizx. I am not Afro-Latinx, I am not indigenous. I feel like that specific identity branch that I belong to is also...misinterpreted, and misrepresented. A mestizx is the result of colonization and intermixing with indigenous peoples. Latin America is a massive agglomeration of different identities. While latinidad itself is not monolithic, many people wrongly interpret it as such. Accepting my ethnic/racial identity has been a long process, but now I know my place and what I am able to say and what I am not. And that has definitely facilitated my artistic practice and the thematics of my practice. My own happiness and my parents’ happiness [motivates me to keep going]. It is just so satisfying, like when my mom read my published poem she was like ‘this is really good’ (and my mom is that type of person who does not give compliments out for free). When I got into Barnard she was like, ‘okay good, now where’s the financial aid?’ and that was her response . I think that that [it] is very motivating that I can make work that will make my family proud and make me happy; it's really all I need.

How do you want your work to be shown or experienced?

Well, it really depends on the space [the work] would be featured [in]. I like showing my photography in print, rather than it being digital, just because I encourage people to feel the texture of the photo paper I use. I get really nervous reading my poetry out loud to this day. Today, I had to read my poem out loud in class, and I was shaking the whole time. I don't know why I shake because I know nobody's ever gonna tell me something bad or make fun of me, but I think that I have been exploring [doing a] pre-recording of me reading my work and just implementing it on top of video, so that people can experience my true voice. I love when people read my work in general, but I do want people to hear my voice: it's more powerful that way.

Do you see yourself as an artist? Do you imagine working professionally as an artist?

I finally have come to accept that I am an artist and that I am going to take up all the space I want, as an artist. I am an art history major, and I have been planning on being an Art History major for a couple of years before I got to Barnard. I feel like I always shied away from labeling myself as an artist just because I didn't really have a solid portfolio. Now that I do, it’s good to feel like you are an artist and that you have been accepted among a community of artists. I don't know if I would imagine myself just being an artist, I do want to be a teaching artist, which is why I'm minoring in education. I hope to work in the education department at a museum, so I can teach while implementing my craft and pedagogy. I would also love to continue freelancing and creating on the low. I would just love to keep creating and selling prints if possible and make a little side money off of it– it would be very gratifying.

Why did you submit to Ratrock?

I submitted to Ratrock because Isabella Rafky told me to submit to Ratrock. No, truly it’s why I did. I went to the Ratrock site and was like wait ‘this is so cool; all these people are so cool.’ I definitely felt like I was not deserving of sharing such a cool space with such talented people, but I'm glad Ms. Isabella Rafky told me to submit because now I'm here.

natalie tischler

Photographs by Nico Lopez-Alegria

In conversation with Nigel Telman II

The private life of photographer Natalie Tischler is very important to her. Taking on her world independently, her photos offer viewers a glimpse into the beautiful and ever-changing life she leads. To Natalie these photos are a window: imperfect moments captured through her camera’s lens. On April 18th, I got a chance to experience a slice of Natalie’s academic world in the Diana Center, where we spoke on social media, the fleetingness of time and the moments that shape her.

Could you give us an introduction of yourself?

Of course. My name is Natalie Tischler. I am currently a sophomore at Barnard, majoring in Architecture, potentially minoring in Sociology if I take enough classes, and I’m from upstate New York. Woodstock.

That was a very all-encompassing intro, we got everything! What are three words you would use to describe yourself? That’s always a tough one, I know.

Just three words? Huh… I would definitely say independent as one of them - in that I know what I like and know what I don’t like. But not in an annoying way. I don’t know, I feel like any words I say are going to be kind of egotistic!

It’s definitely okay to be egoistic sometimes!

Well, if I’m being egotistic, I would say independent, straightforward and real.

Why was independent the first word you immediately thought of?

I’ve just always thought of myself that way. I think I’m independent because I just have my own way of doing things. I don’t let other people get in the way of that, and I’m just very okay with being with myself. I think that’s a thing a lot of people struggle with - especially at this age. Everyone gets wrapped up in campus and cliques and groups - they very much care what other people think.

That’s definitely something I’ve thought about too. I’ve had to have these moments of coming to terms with being happy on my own, but I felt weird about it for a long time.

It’s just something you’re pressured to feel insecure about. Especially with social media, everyone has followers and they’re posting all this stuff with their friends - no one takes the time to say ‘I’m alone and I’m okay with this.’

It’s interesting that you have this sort of anti-social-media vibe yet photography is a medium that has been well adopted by social media. How do you feel about the close relationship between photography and social media?

I was actually just thinking about this when we were talking about film earlier. I primarily shoot on film, but that gets converted digitally and then posted. I definitely go in waves of using instagram… I really only post things that I like. I wouldn’t say I’m anti social media, but I do think that the way people use it and how pervasive it is is kind of insane.

I think that’s definitely fair to say. It fits with this idea of capturing fleeting moments that you talked about in your artist statement; social media tends to cement moments and put them on display forever. Is that part of your aversion to it?

I don’t think so. I definitely post things that are like - for example, when I post a selfie I’m just like ‘what am I doing this for.’ It’s not like I want to share myself but that’s what I do when I share photos and I definitely share more photos than I do selfies. It is fleeting, instant gratification, when I take and share photos. And the reciprocity I get from people when they like it is kind of flattering.

From the pictures you take and share on instagram, both photos and selfies, which one do you feel captures more of you?

I’m not aspiring to post things that make me look a certain way to other people. I post things I think are aesthetically pleasing, or things that I’m proud of. I just posted today on my story an architecture project I worked on all night. I was like ‘yeah, I can post this.’

Obviously, physically, the selfie captures me [laughs]. But I do think that the photos I post of things I see are probably more representative of myself. I definitely put less effort into it - I craft it less. Taking a selfie takes effort, you’re constantly worried about what people think of it. I’m definitely guilty of it though. I think that the image a person creates on instagram - I mean it can be just about selfies and posts - but I think it’s more about portraying what they think. It’s kind of like my photos: it’s portraying how I see the world and what I value aesthetically.

So how long have you actually been doing photography? And what got you started?

Well my dad, he does photography. That's not his job, that’s just [what he does] on the side. And my sister used to do photography too, so I was surrounded by it. In eighth or ninth grade I took a black and white film class, but before that I was mostly doing digital. I went to some day camps for it and I think that’s when I really started getting into it. I didn’t get into doing photography for myself until I started shooting film. That started when I did a mentorship in ninth or tenth grade. I strictly shot film and I had never done that before. The mentorship was organized through my high school with this local photographer who was super big into film. That was where film started for me, and from then on I would just take photos of my friends. Since moving to the city, there’s been way more opportunities for photos.

How has photography helped you engage with the city? I know you’re from Woodstock; that’s a very different environment!

Yes, there’s no engagement [in Woodstock]. I think it makes me explore for things more. Sometimes I want to do a photoshoot at a specific site that I think is really cool, or at a concert with a little band so I can be like ‘hey, do you need a photographer?’ which isn’t something I would normally do. It definitely gives me a better appreciation for the city. I feel like I look through a lens of photography - imagining everything as being a photo - and it’s interesting. It’s subconscious at this point - I don’t notice it until I notice it - but then I’m like ‘oh that would make a good photo!’

So you’ve started observing all of life through this gaze?

I mean yes and no. It’s not like I see something and I’m like ‘oh I’m making a mental note to go back here,’ but maybe it’ll inspire me for a future shoot. Also looking at other artists’ work in the city, especially street photography, is easier to do in the city. And the people you meet! I did a project recently called “Love in Dumbo.” We had to go around and take photos of strangers and ask them ‘what does love mean to you.’ It was really interesting because I'll rarely see a stranger and ask to take their photo. It's, like, a little uncomfortable. But for that I had a purpose so it was fun.

Now you say you rarely do it but when you do ask strangers for photos how does it feel?

I think in the ideal situation I wouldn't want to ask the person because it'd change how they would act. What I see is the position I want them to be in. So if I am asking them - which I don't usually do, I'm kind of like a creep from afar - but if I do ask them it's not that weird. I don't do it that often.

Why not? What is it about the candid photo that speaks to you more?

Doing a photoshoot for Ratrock, for example, vs. just bringing my camera when I go out one night - is just a completely different mindset. If I'm taking a shoot for someone I need to have an idea for location, natural light, composition and ideas for body positions. But when I'm randomly taking photos it's a lot more fun. When you plan a shoot more the results are more like ‘okay I know this is how I framed the photo.’

It's more what you expected it to be?

Not exactly. With film it's always iffy. I think that's the better part of candids: it's totally random and I'm not taking them for any sort of value. I'm taking them to get one or two good ones that I can send to my friends and say ‘oh this is cute.’ Which is something I really like doing, sharing those photos with my friends. Because they're candid no one knows what they're going to look like.

It’s just there for a moment.

Yeah, and there's no pressure for them to be perfect. I feel like those are some of the best images I've taken. Something else I really enjoy about film over digital is taking a bunch of photos and then kind of - well I have this whole philosophy about film versus digital photography.

Oh, I'd like to hear that actually! What is your philosophy on film vs. digital photography?

When I take digital photos, depending on what I'm shooting, I take at least two hundred to three hundred. If it's an event probably more. But when I take film I use one or two rolls which is at most sixty. I think that, after going through them and selecting them, you just end up much less satisfied with the digital ones because there are so many options. Comparing two images that are so similar becomes so nitpicky. Those small details shouldn’t even matter, but I have too many options so I'm never going to be satisfied. But say you have a blurry shot on film. If I had that on digital I would immediately discard it. But if I have it on film it has the potential to be cooler and more artistic because it's just a happenstance of film.

So when you limit yourself you feel more creative?

Yeah. I mean I have to think about what I'm shooting more because I don't have the freedom of taking five hundred photos. It definitely makes me more conscious of what I'm taking. I'm also just more content with what I'm shooting. I appreciate each photo more. Because they're all so different. It's like a paradox of choice. It doesn't mean that film is better than digital; I'm just more satisfied with film. And I'm more satisfied with mess ups that can happen.

I kind of feel the same way because I feel like a lot of really great art can come from mistakes. Sometimes the weirdness is what makes it better. I want to switch gears now and talk about your composed shots a little more. What kinds of techniques do you use to capture moments and feelings?

Well for Spec [the technique I use] is limited because it's going into the newspaper. So a lot of the time it's just a portrait and a story that goes along with it, so I have to tie the two together. It's not super free, especially if it's an event. You can try and get cool angles, but that's about it. But in terms of Ratrock shoots, they're very free. You're paired with the artist, and you shoot them with their trust. Obviously you want to represent the person, but you can also have your own creative vision.

I took photos of Kosta Karakashyan, who's a dancer, for Ratrock. We had really good natural lighting, and the [body] positions [he used] were cool. There were a lot of different positions and angles to get, but I feel like that's what I try to get anyway, shooting from really low angles or really close up or kind of distorting a normal portrait because I get bored with them. There's only so much you can do.

I don't think I can truly capture the essence of a person in a photo. I think that [capturing that] is more about how you interact with the person. If they're uncomfortable it’s just going to be a very uncomfortable shoot, and they're not going to act normal. I never start a shoot with ‘you're going to do that and then you're going to do this.’ I don't go into shoots with major expectations. It definitely depends on who you're shooting; it's a huge collaboration. When I'm taking portraits it's very collaborative.

I’ve heard you currently work for Vice; that's crazy! What’s it like working for them?

Yeah! I'm working at Vice this semester in their creative ad agency. It's called Virtue. It's not something I ever thought I'd get into. You think of marketing and ad agencies and you're like ‘that's so boring,’ or at least I do. I don't think I would've applied for an advertising internship anywhere else but Vice because they're trying to change the way ads are made and broadcasted, so you actually enjoy watching them. It's been fun, and it's kept me very busy this semester, but it's ending soon.

Where do you see photography in your future?

I never really thought of photography as a job for me, so I don't ever see myself doing it as a career focus; but I would love to do photos for magazines. I have friends who do it, and there are so many magazines and opportunities. I don't want to major in visual arts because I don't want to study it; it's more of a personal thing. I don't know exactly [how], but I know it will always be with me. My camera will always be on me.

How do you want people to perceive your work?

I honestly don't know. I think there are different types of photography for different purposes: expository photography, journalistic photography, photography that's trying to make a statement. I don't think that my photos are like that but I definitely think I would like to do more things like that, that have a purpose or serve to send some sort of message of evoke something. But I think in just my regular work portraits or photos of my friends, it's just aesthetically something to look at. I don't know what that does for other people. The important part is I like it. There's no pressure on it for me, so I think it's nice that I have something I objectively value. I can keep it if I like it and discard it if I don't.

Unless they’re for something, I don't plan on taking photos. I bring my camera places but I'll only take it out if I'm in a situation I want to take photos in. In that way it's for documenting not important parts of my life but parts of my life that clearly provoked me to take a photo. And then I have a memory of that. It's like I'm carrying a journal. Photography is really just for me.

luis collado

Interview by Zöe Sottile

Photos by Pedro Damasceno

Luis Collado is a junior from Chicago studying Electrical Engineering in SEAS. He’s also the technical director for WBAR, an engineer at CU Records, and plays guitar, drums, and bass. His music mixes elements of rock, garage, punk, and psychedelic styles to engage with questions of desire and attainment.

When did you start making music?

I started by making beats around freshman year, after eighth grade. I got my first Ableton software the summer after eighth grade. I was really into dubstep [laughs]. So I entered a remix competition for a Lollapalooza artist with my friend Noah. And I had a general idea of resonance and frequency and filter control to make things sound dubstep-y. I bought Ableton for that, and I ended up forgetting about it. And then I plugged my guitar straight into my computer and started making really, really bad sounding, slimey, loose, glassy, recordings of me playing guitar over programmed drum tracks that were more like tests. And then I played in a couple bands that were very bad and classic rock-oriented. But I started getting a feel for recording and what sounded good where.

I tabled that for a bit and then I brought my interface to Columbia. I would make songs when I didn’t have anything to do at night, and I got a little better, but I still wasn’t getting the whole idea. And then I started doing CU Records, and started realizing okay, the recording experience that I have lines up with what I’ve been learning in my classes, but I’m still not really good at mixing. I downloaded a couple plug-ins and figured out how multi-band compression works, and then mixed FRET BUZZ’s album. And then I just started recording things of various levels of shittiness and hi-fi-ness and just messing around with techniques to try to make them sound better. And now I try to make at least one song a month if not more.

When did that goal start?

At the beginning of this semester. I was having a conversation with my friend Leo, and he [asked] ‘can you just make songs,’ and I was like yeah, and he said, ‘if I was you I would be nonstop making songs.’ And so I [realized] I should probably do that. I have all this time and all these people to collaborate with, so there’s no reason not to take advantage of that. Mostly because I derive a lot more purpose and happiness from producing things rather than chilling or going out. Don’t get me wrong, I love chilling and going out. But I think it’s much more lasting to make something that remains.

Do you usually make music regularly or does inspiration come spontaneously?

I get inspired and then I take it too far. I’ll sit down for a bit and really want to record something and then I’ll probably record three songs. Maybe one I’ll mix while I’m recording it; but for the most part, I’ll just be recording things and be like, ‘oh I’ll mix it later.’ And then if I’m bored doing homework I’ll be like ‘alright, study break’ and pull up the files from whenever and mix them. I’ll end up spending an hour or an hour and a half on that study break. I don’t do it like homework - it definitely ends up being spontaneous. It’s a pain in the ass to get everything set up; but once everything’s set up, I try to just get all the ideas [out]. I keep a ton of Voice Memos and all of them are waiting to be turned into a song. It’s just a question of the time.

Tell me about your involvement with CU Records.

I got involved with CU records because it was adjacent to Rare Candy, and then it really became different. I feel like people try to talk a big game about recording being difficult. Expensive recording is expensive, but that’s it. If you know your way around a limiter and reverb and compressor, then you can make something that doesn’t sound that bad. I’ve been trying to impart that framework towards recording onto other people. The [message of the] place is like: there’s mics here, record it no matter how bad it sounds. And maybe that makes you trust your band more when you have a physical product of your own demo.

How does your schoolwork intersect with your music?

There are a ton of intersections, at least with recording and mixing. You learn how to make amplifiers in the classes that I’m taking now. If I were to go to grad school, I would learn to make digital-to-analog converters and analog-to-digital converters. It really demystifies [recording] - it’s really why I treat a lot of things with disrespect, because they’re not very blackboxed. I’m like, ‘oh this thing is actually kind of cheap, it just looks big and fancy.’

The reason that I’m an engineer is that academically I like questions that are puzzles, rather than things that you yourself are trying to work through [like] an essay. Part of me being able to do things for WBAR and do things for CU Records and record stuff is directly related to the intuition built through Electrical Engineering in particular.

What was it like to transition from mostly making music alone to performing for an audience?

Dude, it’s so hard to sing and play guitar at the same time. That shit is impossible. I tried to sing a song for my girlfriend in high school, and it was so difficult to just say anything while playing the guitar. It was like walking and chewing gum at the same time. I also didn’t know how important it was to be able to hear yourself while you sang. There’s a video of me at Snock just not hitting the right notes. And everyone was very supportive, but I was really screwing up. It was tough to do the singing thing, and it was tough to be yourself on stage, because a lot of the time stage fright makes you avoid doing things that are wacky or funny or otherwise in character in favor of not messing up. So you can seem closed off and stressed out on stage. And then letting go - knowing that you’re yelling and not feeling weird about it. Those were all tough, but it’s super fun and everyone is super supportive. Once you do it once, you [see] alright cool, I can do it again.

Do you like performing now?

Yeah. I was super stressed about it in the beginning, I would tremble. Now I still kind of tremble, but I’m a little better. It’s no longer my first rodeo.

You mentioned the importance of knowing what you sound like. Can you expand on that?  

The expression that you’re doing, playing the notes, is so different from the expression that everybody else is picking up from the amplified sound. I wish I could clone myself at events, so I could have me doing whatever instrument I’m doing, and then one of me front row, and then one at the back of the room, and have their input. I have a certain idea in mind, and I’ve become nitpicky about it by running sound at so many events. I want to play the bass, but I also want to know how the bass sounds. You need to reconcile the two. Ultimately, what it comes down to is having a sound person as part of your band, which is difficult.

Tell me about how your EP, FRET BUZZ, came to be.

I met Ryan [Render], the drummer, at a party, and he had just gotten out of a psych[edelic rock] band. I thought that was so cool. For him it was old news, but for me it was new news. And then I ran into him at a CU Records meeting. We got assigned to be engineers together. Our first recording session together, we laid down the first track, and we kept coming back with Voice Memos. Then his roommate [Luke Kowalczyk] joined in on bass and Charlotte Force joined in on vocals. We recorded the EP over spring break [of sophomore year]. How strong we vibed ended up being the root of a lot of the songs. It was the first thing I really put out. I’m pretty proud of it. Once I had that out, I was like, ‘now I can do anything.’

Genre?

What’s cool about Spotify now is artists’ playlists, because you can see the ways ideas behind the music are related across certain genres. Genre is useful, but I think understanding what the band is going for is also critical, or understanding the goals that they have: what they were trying to communicate and not just sound like. Making things just about genre can be reductive. When I try to use well-defined genres to describe the mix that I like to go for, I end up naming seven genres, none of which I incorporate strongly enough to be visible. Which is why I end up going for moods. I’ll be like ‘this song is sunglasses, foggy night.’

Tell me about your new band, Working Out.

I made solo music all of fall semester. Spring semester, I was like, ‘okay, new band time.’ I met Maddy [Tipp] freshman year, and she was super dope from the get-go because she’d already been in bands for a bit. I forget who contacted who, but Maddy and I decided to make music together and then I met Joey Recker. We had the first practice, and it was cool that we all vibed with each other; we understood the music but also got along. And then since I was so excited to expand on these ideas I just blurted out a ton of things. I gave them like fifty five percent and they filled in the rest, and Joey brought in songs. We tweaked the half-baked ideas and practiced, practiced, practiced. Now I’m pretty excited for this blend of [music that is] danceable but says something new and also [is] contemporary, in that it converses with current music. There’s high energy songs and lower energy songs. And it’s cool because I can say we’re “Working Out.”

Luis curated a playlist of his major musical inspirations just for Ratrock. Check it out below.

A collection of songs that I find myself drawing from a lot when I make music!

jazmin maco

Personal Statement by Jazmin Maco

My work is a negotiation of self - my past self, my present self, my future self. In my poems, I reflect on my experiences and put pen to paper about them. My identity as a black queer woman informs my poetry. My Caribbean heritage is also integral to my work because of the specific tension that I feel between cultures, between places, between selves. Even though I was born in America, I have never identified as African-American because I was raised, surrounded by and steeped in Jamaican culture. My poetry presents a negotiation between what is home, and between what is mine to claim and what isn’t. I use my poems as a way to work through these multiplicities and give myself the space to hear my own voice.

The selection of poems on my Ratrock featured artist page is a collection that I compiled over winter break.  I have been writing poetry almost all of my life, but after high school I took a break from writing. I think I was  stuck. I kept looking at my past work and doubting myself, reluctant to return to something that had meant so much to me without the support of my high school English teachers or the structure of a class setting. But this past summer, I was living in the city with a lot of time to myself to grow and think and become an independent being. I intentionally kept a little notebook with me, in which I would write down whatever thoughts came to me as I walked through the city. I continued this pattern on my trip back to Jamaica with my family, where I also took a lot of the photos you see on my artist page. This past break, I decided that I wanted to push myself to put my work out there and engage in the creative scene on campus, so I returned to that notebook and used the fragmented  thoughts and half poems inside as inspiration to write this new collection. These poems have been born and born again - first, when they were conceived during walks through Central Park, then, when I pieced them together to create full poems, when I sat with them and tweaked lines or scrapped them completely and started anew, and finally, when I shared them with the world.

Though I haven’t given this collection a name, it does have a specific order in which it is meant to be read:

1. In the Cite of the Body

2. Witness

3. Lesson in Living

4. Frida’s Footprints: Burning

5. CRACK

6. Aching by god

7. What the Women Know

8. Frieda

9. The Red Dirt in Our Lungs

10. Jam-ai-ca

Through these poems, I incorporate various themes that are born out of my identities and experiences. If read in the intended order, you will move from ideas of introspection to memory to trauma to the body to blackness to womanhood to history to death to adolescence to family to home to space and place.

In writing about myself and my past, I make a concerted effort to bear witness to my many selves. As you read my poems, I hope that you can feel my words, that you can feel what I have felt, and that you can be a part of this visceral experience. Beyond this invitation, my poems are very distinctly for me. I am talking to and about myself and my life. By directing the conversation within myself, I am able to own my narrative and access traumatic experiences without feeling like I am on display for everyone. My poems are not for anyone else. They are about me, from me, and I am the one who has the power to invite you to be a part of them. I am proud of this collection because it has taken me a long time to get to a place where I could confront my past traumas within myself, let alone write about them. Through my poems, I see myself and I give myself the space to truly feel and heal. By allowing myself to hear my own voice, I affirm that I am still able to move forward.

My poetry is an exploration of and conversation with my past and present selves. Through my poems, I give myself the space to openly and loudly express the emotions and experiences that typify my everyday. I find influence and inspiration to explore personal conversations of identity, trauma, resilience, and sense of place in the books I read, in the conversations I have with the women in my life, in the places I call home, and in the moments I spend in communion with myself. For me, learning to love, accept, and hold myself has been a journey - a long and hard journey, a journey for which I am forever grateful, a journey without which my poems would not and could not exist. My work is a representation of myself in all of my multiplicities.

OPEN LETTER: ON THE INTERVIEW OF JAZMIN MACO

tuesday smith

Photographs by Emily Sures

Interview by Louise Sandback

Tuesday Smith is a sophomore at Barnard College from Seattle, Washington, studying Chemistry and Art History. In addition to her own art practice of drawing and painting, Tuesday is interested in art conservation and works as a scientific research assistant at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

What has been your experience with art conservation thus far?

I’m working at the Met this year as a scientific research assistant in their conservation lab. We have been working with polyurethane samples from American fabrics collections from the nineteen sixties to eighties. So anything that’s a plasticy fabric—faux leather, for example. Since polyurethane is relatively new (compared to a lot of other materials) in the collection, they’ve only recently started to degrade and no one knows how to prevent that. So I’m working with those and figuring out how we might conserve them.

Has the opportunity to do that, and your work in art conservation, informed your artwork at all?

It hasn’t so much yet. I’ve found myself incorporating geometric shapes and doing more drawings of things reflecting because I have to do that for chemistry. I’ve gotten more interested in using those kinds of ideas in my art, but I haven’t had much time to make art recently. I’m hoping to make my own paint this summer. I love oil paints but I’m hesitant of the cost and time commitment, so I think making my own would be really fun and would motivate me to actually use the paints because it’s easy to just leave paints in the corner and not break them out and annoy your roommate.

Do you identify as an artist? If so, when did you first begin to?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, because I don’t know if I ever really thought of myself as an artist. I always thought of myself as being artistic but artist felt too professional, and like I had to do that for a living. I also just didn’t feel intentioned enough because artmaking is kind of more spontaneous for me and I kind of doing it just to process things happening around me. So I never really felt like an artist even though that’s what an artist is. I didn’t think of myself as one until I stopped drawing last year which made me realize that making art is a huge part of my identity.

What has been your process of self-teaching?

When I was really little I was obsessed with drawing books like ‘How to draw cats in three steps.’ I’d just be like ‘okay!’ and I’d just practice that and draw the same thing over, and over, and over again. It was all about realism when I was younger. So I eventually got good at that. Then I got really into cartoons, so I started copying from graphic novels like “Coraline” and, “Smile” by Raina Telgemeier. As a kid I just made copies of work by other artists. That’s kind of where I got started drawing and ever since then I haven’t really stopped.

What purpose does your artwork serve for you personally?

I think since coming to college most of my art has been tied to journaling, so it’s all very personal. It’s like self-therapy. When you journal with writing it makes you think about different things in your life and realize what’s bothering you and what’s making you feel off at certain times. So that’s kind of what art does for me. A lot of my art I can’t share because it’s just, like, personal ramblings. It also helps me because chemistry can be very analytical, and I’m now taking a lot of quantitative classes which is not how my brain works usually. So it makes me loosen up a little bit and feel like myself again.

Can you describe your artistic process?

I didn’t know how I’d describe this, so I got my friends to give me some words: spontaneous and melty were two. I’m also methodical once I get started because I get kind of consumed by [my art]. It takes me awhile to get started, but once I do everything falls into place. I like melty because I don’t use erasers and work in pen so every mistake gets incorporated. That’s why I make so many distorted faces. It’s part style part laziness.

What would you say is your main medium?

I use brush pens the most. I’ve been using paper more—just collaging a little bit. My favorite mediums are probably pastels or drypoint etchings—I really like drypoint etchings, but I don’t have the materials for that. I want to get more into printmaking more.

What do you find yourself representing the most?

I think I usually represent people and bodies. In high school I did a lot with public transportation and how people relate in public spaces. Thinking about times when you’re alone but [are] still around other people, and how that changes how you position yourself in space. I’ve always thought [a lot] about touch without touching.

Do you do your preliminary sketches while you’re on public transportation?

I still do that sometimes because I think it’s fun, but I think it’s a little more obvious when you’re sketching people on the subways so it can get weird fast. So I take a lot of photos—not of people, but of angles and objects. I have a lot of photos in my phone that I like to go back to and mush together.

I like drawing in parks too. If you go to those rocks in Central Park, those big ones you can sit down on, I like drawing from there a lot.

Do you ever think of yourself and how you relate in those spaces?

I think about it a little bit. I like watching how other people interact more, especially in a city like New York where so many people are packed into such a small place. I mostly think about how other people are interacting. When I draw in public I think more about who I am inside and how that differs from the person I am presenting.

How would you describe your artistic practice in one sentence?

I feel like ‘spacey with a purpose’ is pretty good. I don’t really know how to describe my art because it varies so much. That’s something I’m insecure about in my art—just that I’m all over the place and I don’t really have a set style or a set medium because I’m just making it for whatever I have going on in my life right then and with whatever materials I have. I don’t really feel that it’s very focused ever, so it’s kind of hard to describe in a sentence.

What’s one work that you’re particularly proud of or particularly enjoyed the process of making?

I made a piece called “Green Arrow” during my junior year of high school. It focused on public transportation, and it’s of some people getting onto a bus and paying their fares and then starting to walk back. It was such an exciting piece for me because I just got really in the zone when making it; I was listening to new music, and I was using a new medium—well it was color pencil, so it wasn’t a new medium, but it was on black paper. I didn’t really do a preliminary sketch for it, which is something I don’t do anymore at all, but I used to do it a lot back then. That was also the first time I stopped making myself do preliminary sketches and just let myself go. I entered the piece into the Congressional Art Competition ended up going to DC as the winner for my district in Seattle. So it was a big turning point for my art in so many ways.

Have you been involved in the Columbia arts community at all?

Not really. I feel like I haven’t been involved in it at all which is kind of why I wanted to apply to Ratrock. I like going to galleries and museums in my free time, so I feel like I’m more involved with the art scene outside of Columbia.

That’s actually what I hear from a lot of people. Would you say that your being a STEM major has contributed to this?

Yeah, it’s kind of heartbreaking. I feel like—as you said, a lot of [STEM majors] have that same struggle, but there’s not really a way to connect people unless you go out of your way to try to get involved. I have my art account on instagram, and I posted on my story one day that I want to talk to other people who are STEM majors and doing art. I got so many responses from STEM majors [who] felt isolated in a similar way from this part of their identity, and it made me more committed to finding a better way to find a balance between the two and a support system for people who are confused about where they stand between them.

Art and science are not mutually exclusive and even at a liberal arts college I feel like they’re treated as such. I think you suffer if you neglect either side of that divide and I’m really interested in talking to more people about this and organizing ways to allow for better interaction between different disciplines here.

Are there any other significant sources of inspiration for you?

Yes, Alice Neel. I really like how she represents people in their interactions with each other because it’s like that distance but closeness at the same time. So they’re both so distorted that they could kind of be in their own world, and I really enjoy that about it, and it’s something that I like to represent in my own work too.

Have you done any other design/illustration work?

[I made] a few little things [for] a gallery I interned at in Seattle over the summer. Other than that, illustrating for newspapers—like my high school newspaper and ones here. I designed a couple tattoos. That was fun. I did one for my mom’s friend but don’t know if they ever used it, and then small things for other friends.

You do tattoos? Just having looked at your art—they would make sick tattoos.

You want a tattoo?

I would literally commission a tattoo.

I would love to do more tattoos. That could be really fun.

I feel like you could have a real audience for that here. It would be a good dorm hustle.

Yeah. I could dye hair, learn to do stick-and-pokes. My parents are going to love this.

If you could only artistically represent one subject for the rest of your life what would it be?

I think it would be touch. I feel like that’s broad enough that I wouldn’t get bored. Because that could be—I don’t know... I feel like [for] a lot of [humans] navigating public transportation is [about] trying not to touch, or moments before touch, or rebounding when you’re forced into it. I think that art that overlays images of movement is really interesting, like Jenny Saville. She’s like a big inspiration, and her’s are all about motherhood, femininity, bodies, and gender and a lot of things about touch and relationships. I think that’s something that I really enjoy representing and I enjoy looking at. Just people. And distortion.

naomi chang

Photographs by Margaret Maguire

Interview by Morgan Becker

Introduce yourself and your art.

I’m Naomi, I’m an artist working in 2D and digital media like drawing, painting, and photo/collage; I also like to build sculptures and ceramic objects. I’m a sophomore at Barnard, majoring in art history with a concentration in visual arts.

In my work, I explore how artifacts, images, symbols and the body can be vehicles for expressing and exploring aspects and levels of identity. I also think about things like the nature of physical, mental, spiritual and divine energy and how they function eternally, and in our own experiences of [an] inner and [an] outer universe. That stuff is pretty incomprehensible, but it keeps me grounded to explore questions I have about it through art.

Tell me about the bigger components of your identity. Where did you grow up? Who are the most important people in your life?

I was born in New York and my family moved to London when I was in primary school, and then to New Haven, Connecticut, which has been home for me since high school. Throughout growing up, moving around, and finding my place and sense of identity as a first-generation American, I’ve always been able to come back to my family. The cultures of my South Korean mother and Jamaican father ground and support me in a sense of community and belonging. I’m so grateful for my family, both gifted and chosen, especially the powerful and nurturing female and femme forces that inspire me and guide me. It’s like a tribe—that’s been really important to me.

You talk about art’s ability to heal—has it always been a restorative practice for you, or did you come to realize those effects as time has progressed?

Art has been something that has been really helpful for me to come back to, and use as a healing practice, to deal with mental, emotional, and spiritual issues in my life. I’ve been realizing that a lot of the questions or hurt I might encounter when dealing with those things comes in cycles. My relationship with art has evolved with me and continued to teach me throughout those cycles, so I know that this practice will be part of my life for a while. Often I’ll return to a piece after making it and learn things about myself and parts of my mind that I wasn’t consciously exploring while making it.

For me, creating art and building things helps me to make sense of this current experience I’m having—existing in this body, in this life, I mean. It helps me to recognize, appreciate, and understand the encounters, desires, fears, and traumas that make me who I am, and cause me to feel and act a certain way. It’s really interesting to me to recognize patterns of symbols and ideas that sneak out of my subconscious and manifest in my work. I’m realizing how effective the visual language that I’m developing is as a means of expressing my ideas about the world, and existence as a whole—as well as my personal place in the context of everything.

In your artist statement, you bring up dreams as an influence in your work. It seems like you also draw from the natural world and its tangible, living aspects. Do you feel like there’s a tension to navigate between the subconscious and reality?

The process of making art, for me, is similar to dreaming because I’m taking elements of my experience in real life—interactions with the natural, physical world, and with people around me—and repurposing them. A lot of the time, going into creating work, I’m not really thinking about what I want to do specifically. Sometimes different symbols or scenes will come to mind, and I’ll arrange them in a way that makes sense to me. Or I’ll base the way that those elements interact on my observations of how things work in real life, if that makes sense. I feel like that is a similar process to how my dreams take shape. So the process of making art isn’t really a conscious thing for me. I can see and understand how my mind works after I’ve made something, go back to it, and try to make sense of it.

Is it difficult for you to do commissioned work then, when someone already has an idea of what they want you to create?

It’s definitely a different experience, making my own work and doing commissioned work, because my art deals with very personal themes. With commissions, I focus more on making work that is appropriate for the context of the space and the goals of who I’m making the work for.

Recently, I did a commissioned piece for an office space in San Diego, and I definitely needed to alter my style. With that project I had a lot of creative freedom, and that was awesome, but it didn’t mean I was going to, like, paint a giant mural of a naked earth lady on their wall, because that might have been confusing to have in a professional office space—even though I would have loved to do that.

For that piece, I ended up doing something on the surface of three canvases using textured acrylic paint, paper, and fabric. I included elements of my personal collage style to make three separate pieces that can stand alone but work and move together in a way that is characteristic of my style. I really enjoyed working on it, and I think that I made something that makes sense for the space and speaks to everyone.

Do you still feel the same connection to those pieces?

Yes, even in exploring techniques or content that I don’t usually work with in order to create something that other people can appreciate in their own personal way, I don’t feel like I’m going against my style. It’s a fun challenge to push a style that I might not usually use, and I’m always learning more through practice. I connect with myself and my work through the process of creating and building things, even if the content of a piece doesn’t explicitly communicate something that is very personal.

Is color important to you, and to your work?

Different colors, symbols, textures and forms hold different vibrations. In different contexts and states of interaction with each other, this vibration or energy that they hold can communicate so much meaning and emotion, at least to me. These things are central to the visual language that I’m trying to build in order to express myself, and emotions that might be hard to deal with or communicate in words or in other ways.

Do different colors have different set associations for you?

Yes, I think so. I know that there are some colors that I identify with more—maybe they’re part of my aura. I haven’t had my aura read like in a photo or anything, but for some reason I identify quite deeply with deep purples and indigos, and orange as well. Or indigo-y purple and golden-yellow, because they’re complimentary. It’s really nice and calming for me to explore the balance between different colors to create a harmony. And then lately, especially in my ‘snake-nom’ self portraits, it really only made sense for me to use a lot of green. Maybe that’s because, when reflecting on those pieces, they speak to me about nurturing energy and emotional self-preservation—and those things are connected to the some shades of green. To me, green communicates growth and health, and I associate it with the heart.

How does your work grapple with femininity? Sexuality? Spirituality? Do you associate certain colors with these abstract terms?

When I depict or talk about things like femininity, spirituality, or sexuality in my work, it’s a personal exploration of my experience with those things. I’m not trying to universally define what it means to be feminine, or how to practice spirituality and sexuality, or how to deal with trauma. A lot of the time, my art is just an inward exploration of what different things I encounter in my experience of life mean to me. I do associate different colors with, like, different energy centers in the body—as well as themes in my mind. So that [association] is useful in helping me to figure out where I need to direct my focus and energy in order to learn and to heal. But that is more of a personal device than something I’m trying to use formally in my art.

Specifically, how does your interpretation of the female form manifest in your 2D work?

I really enjoy creating wonky proportions and mangled looking positions in the bodies that I draw. I see it as a way of trying to break out of some kind of box, or challenge a set of ideas about what bodies are supposed to look like and how they are supposed to function. Identity is a super expansive concept that goes past our physical vessels, and even manifestations of our personal expression of gender. I think it’s interesting to push what that means visually.

Rather than interpreting the female form specifically, I’m exploring the function of bodies as containers for our spiritual selves and how they can feel confining at times. I draw female forms often [because] I think that they are very beautiful—and also, a body’s potential to support and birth a whole person is so incredible. Thinking about that helps me to comprehend how we are all connected at some level as parts of one constantly and eternally-evolving organism that we probably won’t ever understand.

A lot of your 3D art incorporates different textiles and textures. What’s the value in creating an object that appeals to touch, over, say, a flat drawing or photograph?

I definitely want people to interact with and respond to my work in ways that feel right for them. I’m okay with people touching things; and if you feel like a piece is asking you to explore it through touch, then I’m cool with that as long as you ask.

In ceramics, it’s really interesting to experiment with texture because it’s an index of movement, like a trace of a physical thing being there and imprinting itself in the clay with the force of the energy it was holding at the time. And then once that piece is fired, that index is there forever-  or for a really long time, and can be returned to in different contexts, like a memory.

When did you start working with digital art? How has it changed your perspective or practice?

I started working with Photoshop a while ago, and it was awesome to learn how to use all of the tools to make things look [as] wild as I wanted. But I think I actually learned the most when my computer crashed, and I lost all of those programs that I used to make digital work. Because instead of re-downloading the programs again immediately, I took a little time to try and recreate certain effects through physical media. When I started exploring the how different materials could be utilized and manipulated in order to make an image to look like it had been Photoshopped, I discovered so many [material] techniques that I use all the time now.

You work within so many different mediums. What makes you decide to photograph something, rather than incorporate it into painting or ceramics? Or vice versa.

Sometimes I start with inspiration to make or communicate something specific, and if I have different options for the medium, it's about deciding which would be most effective in making that happen. But sometimes I just start with a certain material, and through working with it and exploring its visual and tactile qualities, and the different ways that it can function and speak... that’s how some things end up being produced. It really just depends, and it’s nice to not tie myself down to one technique or material. I would be pretty sad if I had to do that.

Is art more about self-expression or invoking something within the viewer?

I really love when people resonate with my art and respond to it. I make art as part of my own personal journey of self-exploration, and it’s so nice to know that others can also feel something when they experience it. It reminds me that although our experiences and ways of dealing with life are different, there is so much room for—and benefit from—us connecting with and learning from each other, our surroundings, and the universe.

How do you see your artistic style developing from where you are now?

I’m not sure, but I’m excited to see where it goes! I definitely want to work with sculpture more as well as wearable things that can be used in performance. I interested in creating work that is an immersive experience, that engages different senses as well.

Closing remarks?

I’m showing work in a group show in May, more information about that will be out later. It’s in Greenpoint on May 3rd. I post updates and things on Instagram, so people can follow if they are interested. Also, if anyone wants buy original work or commission something, they can find my portfolio and information on how to get in touch with me on either Instagram (@naomoart) or my website. And thanks to Ratrock for giving me the space to show and talk about my art!

taelor scott

Taelor Scott in conversation with Yosan Alemu

Photographs by Cameron Downey

Taelor Scott is a senior at Barnard College, studying anthropology. Her artistic focus centers on photography, film, and visual arts more generally as they relate to culture and its respective production.

YA: What is your photo making process like? What feelings do you get when looking at an image?

TS: That's [a] good one. I think that I started making photos, or rather, the reason why I wanted to start making photos is because I would see images and would think to myself, “This needs to be captured.” But also, I would see these same images, and felt as if something was missing, as if other images and stories were missing. There are a lot of people who I live around who I didn’t see represented in photography that I admired. And it occurred to me, that if I wasn’t going to see these images created by others, I would have to start making photos myself. What else was I to do?

I started by taking obnoxious pictures of my family all of the time—taking and taking and taking pictures. In retrospect, despite my early picture-taking habits being fairly annoying and in-your-face, taking pictures of people I cared about, like my family, helped me develop a sense of caring and intimacy when taking pictures of strangers, or people I have hardly talked to. It’s really quite hard to take a picture of someone [you don’t know] and portray it as if they are someone you deeply care about; and capturing that sweet spot of care, of loving someone without knowing them, has become so integral to my work now. Every time I take a picture I want [to] also create a story for that subject in the frame.

YA: Combing back to your last note on creating a story for every subject you capture; what is the narrative you are trying to tell? Is it a humanizing process?

TS: Storytelling has been one of my biggest interests since I was very small, and I found that I could combine my passions with visual art, like drawing (but it didn’t take me long to figure out that I could not draw for the life of me). With photo work, the camera, for me, helped me capture and create images that were always stuck in my head. Using the camera has been an ongoing learning process, and I really admire the discipline that comes with it. There is always so much more to learn. I don’t know everything there is to know about digital photography, or analog, or large format. I rather enjoy my position as a student of photography, because I always get to be learning, improving, and changing.

YA: Student of photography, rather than photographer—I like that. And so, when you create images, how do you want people to feel or react when viewing them? Is there an affective response to your work that you're trying to capture? Are you trying to create a dialogue with your visual work?

TS: When I’m taking a picture of someone, it usually involves a sort of conversation between me and them, because in that conversation I’m trying to find a little piece of them that I can capture within the inner workings of the image. In taking a good image of someone, you do end up capturing a little piece of them. And even if you’re taking pictures that don’t involve people, you still have to work to create or find that moment that makes the image feel special, makes the photographer, subject, and viewer feel close and connected.

For me, when I’m sitting down, selecting and editing my shots, I am always consciously choosing the photos that display the humanity of the people within them. So that, even if I don’t necessarily know the person in the photo, I still feel like I do know them, am connected to them by this simple photograph.

YA: Do you ever create images that will intentionally make the viewer feel uneasy or uncomfortable?

TS: You know, I’ve actually been thinking a lot about uneasiness and of the different registers of response that are created in an image. I always try to keep the audience in mind when I’m making photos, but I think my next project will solely be about the audience. How can I make them feel certain things, react in a certain way?

Right now, the project I’m working on deals with me finding all of the boys I’ve had crushes on since I was four years old. Basically, I find them, and we tell each other our experiences of love and infatuation. So with this project, I’m not concerned with the audience, but rather, I’m concerned with myself and the subjects. In a way, this project is asking myself and the subject to get uncomfortable and uneasy. I really do think there is something amazing in trying to understand someone’s discomfort, and trying to capture those moments. It’s like being disoriented from yourself in order to really understand or comprehend the image or moment at all.

YA: You’ve mentioned finding instances that matter to you most, or instances that can be developed to have meaning. Who are your biggest inspirations when it comes to photography and what are you inspired by?

TS: My Biggest inspiration—so much packed in that. Helen Levitt, Gordon Parks, Roy DeCarava. Oh god, DeCarava. There was this copy of “the sweet flypaper of life” that I first saw in a bookstore, and I was completely speechless. I also feel as if the youth art community here in New York can be very exclusive at times, and I’m really appreciative that I’ve been able to find some older mentors who have taught me quite literally everything I know, especially artistic integrity.

For instance, Patrice Helmer graduated from the MFA program here, in photography, and she has taught me so much. Knowing people like you, or are around your age in close proximity is so meaningful when it comes to tending to your craft. And even more so, knowing and being influenced by people that are close to you, in my opinion, makes making art all the better.

Like right now, I’m really interested by the notion of girlhood, of my own girlhood, and of others around me. Flushing out this interest has brought be back to my days as a sixteen and seventeen year old where everything around me felt impossible and possible all at once—typical teen angst. But I so clearly remember being that anxious and awkward teenager, and having the camera be a direct extension of how I could see and make sense of the world.

I’m also working with the Black Motherhood Project, and in our work, I’ve really been confronted by the idea that as black girls you are either being looked at, or you are being ignored, [or] made to be invisible. And for me, when I’m shooting, I am always trying to find the moments where I can make these black girls feel seen, not necessarily being looked at, but seen.

YA: This is a great segway into the next question. I’ve noticed that a lot of your work deals with moments of intimacy and care, of liminality, space and instances of waiting. What do they mean to you? Why are they important to you and your work?

TS: I actually have a good answer for this one. The spaces of liminality and waiting are two concepts that have become very important to me, because I used to see them as somewhere I was trying to get to. I didn’t like being in moments of waiting or spaces of insecurity and unknowing, of things not being at the right time. But the spaces of liminality and waiting is where the living and the inspiration for living comes from. That when you’re at an impasse: you really have to appreciate being stuck; or maybe not appreciate, but come to terms with that stuckness as a means of understanding and living through being stuck.

YA: So perhaps in the acknowledging of being stuck and in impasse, that can create for the potentiality to move, to escape?

TS: Maybe. But also, I think that even when you are in an impasse, you are still moving. That your thinking and imagining can become a form of movement. It might be slow, but you’re still moving!

YA: Still moving while being stuck reminds me of Lauren Berlant’s understanding of the precarious present, and her own theorizations of impasse. Does your academic background in anthropology influence your work? Do you think of photography and imaging as an academic practice?

TS: I’ve actually written my thesis about a combination of photography and anthropology, and I think the starting point for my interest in taking pictures is related to my interest in the ethnographic, in that I talk to my subjects a lot even when I don’t know them very well. To me, when I’m taking someone’s picture, it’s like creating a mini ethnography.

And I do think I look at photographs somewhat academically because academics has really influenced my desire to be hyper-ethical in the work that I produce; because at the end of the day, if you’re only making images that benefit you at the expense of someone or something, that is simply wrong, and very cheap. Also, the idea of radical sameness is very important to me and my photographs, of trying to capture the moments that are universal.

YA: Radical sameness as opposed to radical difference?

TS: Yes. Radical sameness in that I’m always trying to capture moments that are universal, where people can connect to my images, even if they do not know who I am, or who the subject is.

YA: So you’re graduating! How was the Columbia/Barnard art scene experience? Would you change anything, would you have wanted things to be different?

TS: So Controversial! Well, I do have a lot of thoughts. I would say I am grateful for Columbia’s darkroom—it’s incredible. I’m also grateful for learning and refining my photography practice at Columbia. I’m very much convinced every sixth grader should learn how to process and make photos, because it requires so much patience. When you’re in the darkroom developing your images, any small mishap and an image can totally be ruined, so patience and care are essential to the work being done. And at the end, the image, and all of the labor that was done in achieving it, becomes so meaningful.

YA: Every sixth grader! Okay, last question. Give me three words you want for the future, or the world, or even new worlds to look like. Just three words.

TS: Contextualized, illuminated, and responsible.

nathan farrell

Photographs by Sabine Jean-Baptiste

Interview by Noa Levy-Baron

Nathan Farrell is a sophomore at CC, singer-songwriter and saxophone player. He is thinking about majoring in Public Health and Economics. Nathan primarily defines himself as a jazz musician, but other genres constantly inform and influence his work in his bands Farrose and Glass Room and as solo artist.  

Favorite artist currently.

Right now I would say my favorite artist is probably H.E.R. She is fantastic! I really appreciate the music that she makes because usually, in a lot of mainstream pop, artists are reduced to a crafted image they are projecting on themselves. With H.E.R, it just feels very genuine. I also really like the fact that she writes most of her music is also a musician: she sings and she plays guitar, bass and piano. The writing is also very soulful, very raw. I've been really enjoying her these last two months. I’m listening to her albums on repeat.

Favorite song currently.

A song that I've been listening to a lot and that I really like is actually Yo No Se Mañana by Luis Enrique. It’s latin pop and has a little salsa to it. I like to think a lot about versatility within music. For example, right now my favorite artist is very different from my favorite song. I think it is really important to keep an open mind with music taste because that also makes you more versatile with the music you are creating.

How did music first enter your life? How has your relationship to it evolved since then?

I think my first real experience with music was because I really enjoyed Spongebob as kid and as I watched Squidward playing the clarinet I always thought I could do better than this! So I picked up clarinet and then I moved to flute and saxophone. As I started to move through woodwinds instruments I also figured out that I could kind of sing too. So I trained in different instruments and that gave me a basis in a lot of the music theory and the basic knowledge in music to then be able to create with. From there I let my own personal tastes and preferences dictate where I wanted to take the music that I make specifically.

I am a jazz musician. I play saxophone, and I try to incorporate that into my music a lot. But I would not say my primary musical pursuits are specifically within jazz. I like the liberties I can take in how I am creating in not restraining myself to one genre. Being able to craft  your own thing completely is something [that] is very important, and to do that, it can be beneficial to set aside conventions that bind you to specific genres.

Do you collaborate often with other musicians or do you often work alone? Can you tell me about your band Farrose?

Lately I've been focusing a lot on the collaborative aspect because, I mean, it's fun! Farrose is a band that I had in High School. We still play together sometimes, but it's only when we get back on breaks as the members are all in different parts of the country right now. It was a project we started because a friend wanted to dabble in production; eventually we began getting together to jam and write songs every week.

That experience was really important for me to grow as an individual artist. I then brought what I learnt to other musical groups that I am a part of. I have another band right now with college friends and some of my High School friends who go to Julliard, which is in the city as well. We get together once a week, and we try to perform, write songs and do gigs. Right now, our name is Glass Room. It's really hard to find a name for a band because it has to fit so perfectly, but I’m quite comfortable with this one.

Is there a difference between your solo work and work with Farrose and Glass Room? Is there any crossover?

Definitely! And I think it’s because when you are just coming together and making music with other people, you have everyone's voices coming into play even if they are not writing it. If I am bringing a song that I wrote by myself completely, fully charted, and I give it to all of the musicians; it is going to sound completely different depending on the band or even the musician I’m giving it to. This is not the case in every way, but there will be nuances and I really like that. I think with a band, you'll definitely hear more voices coming through. I try to keep that in mind while I write  for specific cases: I would probably not write the same things for Midnight Blue than for Farrose or for just myself.

I have always been fascinated by the way musicians combine lyrics and melodies and create something very pleasant and enjoyable to listen to. How would you describe your creative process? Which part do you start with? Are you first composing the melody, creating the lyrics or focusing on the instrumental part?

I am also super fascinated by that, and I'm still obviously trying to figure everything out and get better in all those things. I think what has been more successful for me though is to build everything “down-up.” It's quite intuitive, but it is not always clear what part of it is the down and what part is the up. For me at least, the “up” tends to be the lyrics, because this is what you see on the surface at first - especially for someone who is not necessarily as well versed in musical intricacies or in the theory working behind all the chords. So usually, lyrics will be the last thing I do.

I like to start with chord progressions and see what it is evoking in me. Then I'll play with the melody and when I find something catchy, I record that melody and I listen to it again and think about what could the song be about. Then, I'll come up with a lyric to match it. It usually functions that way, and it is what I find I consistently do most, but it is not set and stone. I've done it the opposite way, I've also done mixes. Sometimes I want to write specifically about something, I'll have one lyric in mind, I'll put it on the table and think about a chord progression.

When, where and how do you prefer to listen to music?

I definitely prefer to listen to music while I'm chilling, especially in my bed. For me, listening to music is almost like reading a book. I'm not necessarily doing an analysis; but I'm usually trying to figure out how all of the pieces are coming together, where the artists are coming from and what they are trying to convey. I break apart the melody, the lyrics, the chorus and that is really interesting and fun to do. This is hard if you are not sitting, chilling out in a space where you are comfortable and just listening.

Would you describe yourself as a performer? What do you feel like when you perform?

I would definitely describe myself as a performer because that is most often the medium in which I will be relaying my art. I think music composition and performance are two distinct art forms. A lot of performing is learning to be you in the most authentic way. It is about putting it all out there and that is something that I do a lot in general. So for me, performing is something that I have a little bit of an inclination for, but it's also something that I am still developing when I perform on or off campus.

I found that I'm best at performing when I don't really view it as being on a stage, on an elevated platform. I perform better when I am literally not on a stage because it's almost as if I was talking to others in a different way. I think it is very hard to perform on huge stages, like stadiums, in a way that a lot of very big stars will do because you cannot connect to your audience as well.

It is interesting what you describe about authenticity because when we think about people on stage, we often think of them as playing a role, as being something else other than themselves…

That's also a part of it because sometimes your performance does not have to necessarily correspond to how you feel in the moment. If I am feeling sad one day, I don't necessarily want to be performing something sad and make everyone sad. A performance can be performative. If I'm sad and performing at a party, I have to draw on other feelings. But, even if it's performative, I think there is always something genuine about it because to successfully do it, you have to draw on a genuine part of you. There is a little bit of a tension there, but I think it is still ultimately authentic.

Are there music genres you are particularly attached to ?

I'm definitely very attached to Jazz and R&B, and I think this is mostly out of personal preferences. But, ultimately it's all the same. You're putting a combination of sound and silence together, and you're saying something on top of it. I know this view is not popular, but I wish more people did see it that way because it would make for a lot more collaboration, a lot more open-mindedness and community in the music community itself.

I think I view it that way because of my experience in many different pools: I'm a trained Jazz musician, I also like to do R&B, I used to play classical, and I have a lot of friends that are really into Indie/Rock - so I have a little experience in everything. I realized that ultimately all music genres are the same thing. It's the same foundation of chords; you're putting a melody over it, and sometimes you're putting words over it. Sometimes I'll find in Jazz the baseline of chord progressions that might have a bit more harmonic and melodic complexity, but you could bring that anywhere. There are a lot of different pop songs that have a lot of different chords moving, especially musicians like Stevie Wonder. This is also why a lot of Jazz musicians will say they like Stevie Wonder even if they don't like pop, but Stevie Wonder is a pop musician, he is funk, R&B, soul but also pop ultimately.

Do you have any people, musicians or artists who particularly inspire you?

I don't like to idolize specific artists. To me, the most important things that musicians can pick up come from more than just listening to recorded music- interacting with peers, and people who aren’t so much like you at all, is a defining aspect of the musical experience too. For inspiration I look more at people that I've met and interacted with musically, notably because I’ve had a lot of musical mentors. A big influence for me was my saxophone teacher because he really taught me to put forward the voice and the sound that was true to me. And this is something that I've not just carried with me in music but in my everyday interactions. So the most influential sources of inspiration are truly people that I know and meet.

Is there another medium of art you work in?

I wouldn't say that I am actively working on it; but - as I'm half Puerto Rican - salsa and latin music has been a huge part of my life. Unfortunately, I can't really dance that well, but I took Afro-Cuban dance here for my PE requirement. So I got to hone a lot of those skills and make my family proud. In that [class] I learned that dance is also sort of structured similarly, with foundation and aspects of a solo or group voice. The foundation is still the chord and the rhythm, but rather than a melody it's the technique that you employ or where you're gonna move. And then rather than the lyrics, it's how you're gonna move. So I just find it's just essentially the same: you're putting different combinations of different things on top of each other in order to express something that is true to you. So that's a fun thing that I've learned also through getting a little bit of dancing experience in there. And that also informed the way I think of other arts too. I don't think it is different for painting for instance.

What words would you use to describe yourself and your work?

I would only give one word, which is really important to me: open-mindedness. It's everything that I am approaching everything with. You can't dismiss something because you don't have experience with it or because you have bad experiences with it; it’s always going to be more complex than that. This is how I approach the music that I make, the music that I listen to, and how I perform.

How does your art relate to your identity? How has your life influenced your work?

I am from New Jersey and growing up with New York City as something that was there for me to use as a resource to see music, learn about music, and become a better musician definitely had an impact. I think it is impossible to separate your work from who you are, even if you try really hard because ultimately, it's your voice. It's still hard for me to fully answer that question though because I still feel I'm in that big-artist-development ramp that I have to get over to really establish myself.  

On another note, has making music changed anything in your life? If so what?

Music has definitely made me reflect on a lot of things because it provided me with a different perspective. In the same way that you talk to your friend about your issues: when you hear it coming out of your mouth and when you hear them trying to conceptualize what is going on, you sometimes will think about it differently than you do in you. I think it is really important. In the same that going to therapy is really important Having another way to see what you are feeling and experiencing is very important for your own development because when you are just in your head, it is a lot. So if I'm just writing a song about it or drawing a certain experience or emotion in a song, I think that can definitely provide another perspective to what is going on. It can give you a broader lens to what you are actually feeling and experiencing.

Do you view yourself as a musician? Has making music changed the way you relate to or see yourself?

It's also a hard question. I mean, of course I am thinking of myself as a musician, but then I am thinking about how do you define a musician?! I personally think anyone can be a musician at any point. There are definitely varying levels of skill within being a musician, but perfectly mastering the technique is not absolutely essential. A lot of people will feel pretentious about being a musician because it becomes a huge part of their lives. They want to to take ownership over this because they feel it belongs to them. But it also belongs to everyone else!

Being a musician has been a huge thing socially, I've met some of my closest friends through music. I find that over time friendships shift and change,. But even if externally the friendships I have within music change, I always feel a connection to the musicians I worked with. It is a kind of vulnerability and connection that doesn't just go away. In making music together, you're really seeing another aspect of others and their stories. I almost think of it as a different social currency. My friendships might change with other musicians externally, but I'll ultimately feel close to them just because of the music we made together. The music is still there. It still exists, we could reproduce it if we wanted to. Music [has] definitely informed the way I socially interact all the time.

Has being at Columbia changed anything in the way you create and feature your work?

Columbia has definitely changed it. College in general is a very introspective experience where you are meeting people from a lot of different experiences and backgrounds, and you are learning the things that you value and why you value them. I also think Columbia is very good with the Core [Curriculum]. I know this is going to sound so “Columbia cliché,” but I do think that it brings light to your inner tensions. My toolbox of how I want to express myself and the ways that I understand the world have gotten better, I feel that my art has also gone up.

Specifically, not that where I grew up wasn't a diverse place; but as someone who is mixed-race, it was not something that was really prevalent where I am from. There were a lot of white and black people; but as I am asian and latino, they were not many of those communities where I was from growing up. I saw diversity but not necessarily me and that was something that was hard. Coming to Columbia definitely allowed me to better consolidate my identity and that also informed the way that I make music because it is about bringing your story [and putting it] out there.

Nathan - "Can't" Released June 9th, 2017 Follow Nathan - instagram: www.instagram.com/nathan0014/ soundcloud: @nathanfarrose writing: @coltranetunes, alex rosen production: @coltranetunes vocals: nathan farrell guitar: alex rosen

Are you working on anything currently? Do you have plans for future projects?

Yes! Here we go. I'm really trying to get a solo release under my own name out there. I've got to a point where I definitely consolidated my identity and the message and story I want to tell. I got more comfortable in my own skin, navigating the world. I'd like to have a place where I can have a "progress report." I am currently trying to get by the end of the semester, a concrete release of a song that is mine. Hopefully before may.

Are there any lyrics from one of your song particularly meaningful to you that you would like to share as a conclusion?

Actually, I wrote a line last night: "All I need is to see that view, and I'm on my feet, I hope tonight brings something new." I feel it embodies the experience of putting things into perspective: “all I need is to see the view,”' to broaden my perspective. And that is what I do with music; all I need is to see the bigger picture. I think we all need to take a step back when we get into trouble in order to decide what to do next. I’m glad I wrote that because I think it encompasses that experience well, and it’s also about Manhattan, where you can always find opportunities to broaden your point of view.

Anything else?

Be ready because more is always coming!

calvin liang

Photographs by Santiago Peuser

Interview by Morgan Becker

Introduce yourself, and your art.

My name is Calvin Liang. I am a senior in Columbia College, majoring in architecture, also studying sustainable development and civil engineering. Most of my art is architectural photography and some portraiture photography, which is done both digitally and on thirty-five millimeter film. I also do sculptural work and casting, which is tied into the architectural work that I do.

Are there specific facets of your identity that you consider essential, or particularly influential, in your work?

In terms of my family, I was always kind of the oddball in the sense that I was doing my own thing, and they had a very different mentality. I’ve always looked at things differently than a lot of my peers growing up. I’m from Arizona, from a pretty conservative high school and town. I think that growing up with that kind of cookie-cutter community, and my weekly routine being so mundane, I tried to find some way to let my inner expression speak for itself.

Tell me about some of your inspirations. Who introduced you to art, and who pushes you to continue today?

My family background is not so artistic. My parents both work in very much the STEM, science fields, but from a very early age I had a creative side. Whether that was in a school art class or music class, I always tried to find a way to have some form of self-expression, that was never really within the stereotypically ‘academic’ fields. So I was always kind of looking for ways to express myself. And that is kind of what’s continued to inspire me till now: is finding an outlet for creativity outside of my academic responsibilities.

Photograph by Calvin Liang

What has influenced your gravitation toward architecture as an art form?

My inspiration for architecture actually came from a lot of traveling that I did. I’m a fencer, and I fence for Columbia. But before college, I was competing for the US team, and it took me to a lot of interesting places around the world; going to Asia, South America, and Europe, and seeing all these different buildings and different ways of living that were so foreign to me—both in a literal sense and a metaphorical sense. Seeing how those communities operated, how those cultures operated, was the first push for me to think about expressing my artistic tastes in this kind of practical construction that is architecture. And the dialogue between art and architecture is something that I’m always working with in my artistic and academic work.

Would you say there’s one place that has influenced you most in terms of architecture?

I think Japan was the big place [of influence] for me. I have family there, but I never really thought about Japanese architecture until I started studying it as a discipline. I ended up working in Japan last summer at an architectural firm and realized that its architecture manifests itself in so many different ways. It literally has completely re-informed how their social lives work, and how they operate, both on an infrastructure level and on a socio-familial level. You see Japanese architects kind of going in the same direction of taking architecture, not necessarily as an academic discipline, but as more of an artistic discipline—expressing artistic moves or going for radical interpretations of what space can be.

What’s your creative process like? Do you know what a piece might end up looking like before you begin?

Whenever I do architecture photography, I’m always thinking about detail. It’s not too often that I try to take a picture of the whole building on its own, or a whole scene on its own. A lot of times the focus is on either some material detail, or lighting detail, or architectural form that I find in a structure or building that makes you think. And that always is something that I strive to do. I want people to really think about the spaces that we occupy. Similar to sculptural work and casting where I don’t necessarily have a direction, it’s a lot about trying to create new language with materials, for example. Whether that means making something solid, like concrete, or wood, look fluid; or making something fluid, like water, feel solid. But I never have like, a hard idea in my mind.

How much planning goes into the architectural projects that require more technical attention?

In that ‘academic’ work, there’s a very formal process that always ends up happening. Whether that’s going through actual structural diagramming, or thinking about basic logistics that are fundamental to any architectural project. A lot of times, especially in more conceptual architectural work, you don’t actually have to think too much about that structural detailing. It’s actually more about your creative expression and developing your concept. And that closely ties into what we call ‘visual arts,’ where it’s a lot more self-expression, or trying to express some kind of idea through form. Those questions of technicality get answered later on [in the process].

Do you have an audience in mind when you work? If yes, does it ever change?

In architecture, there’s always an audience, whether it’s a client or someone else I’m designing for. In terms of photography or sculpture, my content is for everyone. It’s a lot about showing people a side of architecture, or a side of their daily lives even, that they may not notice at first glance—or making them think about the relationships that exist in our daily lives that we take for granted.

Photograph by Calvin Liang

You say you want to make people think in new ways. Do you have an example of a piece you’ve done that embodies that desire?

A lot of the photography that I’ve done, particularly in Japan and the West Coast of the United States, was about discovering the substitutions for things that occur in nature with [a] man-made structure. Whether hills were being replaced by circular buildings, or in the case of a place I visited in San Francisco, where the beach was replaced by this sloped concrete sidewalk that sloped into the water [with] the waves crashing on it; I took a picture of it, just to take a picture of the wave. But when I looked back at it later, it became a picture of a beach, the sand replaced by concrete. These relationships between man made materials and natural materials were some things that I tried to highlight when I went back to the West Coast over the last two breaks.

Do you find yourself working with certain materials more than others? Are there any that you see a big future with in architecture?

Throughout all my work, wood has been the most pervasive. And that’s just because, over generations and cultures, everyone has used wood as a form of housing or as a form of construction. I think there is a reason for that. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that it comes from the Earth and that it can go back into the Earth; whereas, with concrete or metal, there isn’t that same longevity. It doesn’t have a positive impact on the environment. Now I think people are trying to find ways that we can push the use of wood. In the artistic sense, thinking about how we can express something like a wooden house in a way that is inspiring, that isn’t boring—that’s the challenge that we’re faced with now.

What are the merits of sculpture and architecture over two-dimensional arts, like photography or drawing? Or vice-versa.

Architecture, for me, is art that’s trying to solve a problem. With other [artistic] mediums, I don’t believe that problem-solving is necessarily the goal. I can posit questions, or bring attention to details, but I don’t necessarily have to have a solution. I think the beauty of art is that you get people to think about issues, or even just things that exist in their natural state. Different issues and different problems have different mediums. I don’t necessarily have a bias over material or representation. It does come kind of case-by-case for me, really. My sculptures are mostly castings, or types of ‘outside-of-a-scale’ studies of construction. So the result of that is they answer very abstract thoughts, or attempt to resolve very abstract notions or concepts. And so I don’t see myself ever really working with a sculpture that would just be the ‘solution.’ For me, that would be kind of antithetical to my thought process.

Would you consider architecture to be representative sculpture?

You’ve hit it on the head. Architecture is the final product—the final model that’s a cumulation of these sculptures and castings and material studies and fabrications that you do. It's the summation of all those questions you’ve asked. Architecture is always toeing the line of art and science, academic and artistic, and that’s what I think is really beautiful about incorporating art into the process.

What constitutes a successful photograph?

A successful photograph isn’t just taking a photo of an object. I think there should always be something that you’re trying to bring attention to that takes more that, maybe, a quick glance. That might mean that you have to circle back to the photo in a week, or a day, even. What I want a photograph to do is bring attention—or even evoke a feeling. That doesn’t have to be super serious, but even just getting people to be like, “Oh, that’s really cool.” Bringing [up] an emotion, basically, should be the goal of a photograph.

When you say ‘circle back,’ do you mean that you can come back to a photo and realize that it evokes something? Or do you know prior to taking it that it’s going to have a desired effect?

I think the former is what I was going for. That’s a very technical thing that I’m not the authority to speak on; but for me, what’s great about photographs is that you have a slice of time that you’ve frozen there. And you might be able to circle back and say, “On this day, the light that filtered through this window was super beautiful;” but when you took it, maybe you weren’t focused on that, maybe you were focused on something completely different. And what’s nice about photographs is that you get to look back on moments and really think about what that day was like. It’s a lot of reflection, and I think that is the beauty of it.

Outside of the visual arts community, what are some of your biggest influences?

In general, having a separate space within architecture has been really interesting and eye-opening for me, to think about what kinds of questions I ask. That mainly stems from first coming here, and not really knowing what I was going to do and doing photography and sculptural art without really any direction. The great thing about Barnard’s architecture department is that all the other students are also working in other disciplines. The richness of that is you get to draw from their walks of life, and see how they’ve interpreted types of architecture. From that, you can circle back to other constructs and notions. That’s definitely a community that I treasure a lot. Also, music has always played a role in terms of evoking a feeling that I want to emulate in my work. Figuring out where the music starts in something visual or tangible is a fun thing to play around with.

Are you working on anything currently?

Currently, I am working on a small, independent architectural project [in] which my friends and I have decided to let loose of the reigns of convention. We’re designing houses for extreme situations, like, what does a house for just two cats look like? Or, how do we fit three generations of family in a forty foot by twenty foot New York apartment? It’s just pushing the extreme questions of architecture [so] that people would be like, “Oh, that’ll never happen.” But the reality is that sometimes these are cases that exist. It’s this exquisite corpse of absurd questions that people don’t think about when we think about the space that we live in. That’s kind of the move that I’m always trying to go for.

Photograph by Calvin Liang

Anything else that you’d like to add? Closing remarks?

If students are interested in submitting architectural work, or commentary on architecture, the Columbia Barnard Architecture Society does do a publication at the end of the year that they can submit to. And that’s at bcarchitecturesociety@gmail.com. Other than that, people can find me on Instagram.

Sarah Courville

Photographs by Pedro Damasceno

Interview by Uma Halsted

Introduce yourself.

I'm Sarah. I grew up in South Carolina. I study urban studies and public health as a senior at Barnard. I have a big family. I have a pet python -- not here, unfortunately. I love to bake, and I like mid-twentieth century country music, like anything from Hank Williams to Patsy Cline to Kitty Wells. I do a 30s and 40s country music show for WKCR. And I make collages.

What are you a part of on campus and in New York?

I'm really not a part of many things on campus per se. I've been programming for WKCR since my first year, and that’s been consistent, but I like to get away from the bubble of Morningside Heights. I'm a bit separated from campus, I left for my whole junior year to study at Freie Universität Berlin and came back this year.

Outside of campus, I'm involved in the harm reduction community of New York. I work at the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center, which is a needle exchange downtown in the Lower East Side/Chinatown. Same with Berlin, I was working in a needle exchange van there, with this group Fixpunkt, so I would say that larger sphere of harm reduction is what I'm a part of.

How did your time in Berlin shape your art?

I really didn't start collaging until I got to Germany. I guess the winter came, and I had to figure out a coping mechanism or a way to kind of track my mental, physical, and emotional health, channel it into something. And in Germany in the winter, the sun sets at like 3:45 pm, so everyone lives mostly in darkness, indoors.

 My collaging was totally shaped by being in Berlin. There are lots of these secondhand bookstores in the city that sell old magazines, books, newspapers, and the like. I picked up a couple things at one of these shops, just because I like images and old things. Then I began thinking about the images and texts through a different lens and found that it was a good channel to develop my creative thoughts.

Berlin for me was extremely conducive to creating. The cost of living there is relatively low, compared to New York, so the quality of life is has the potential to be higher. And the stress culture is different. There’s no living on campus; everyone commutes. University is not your entire life. So I had a lot of time to work on my art. Outside my windows was a Friedhof, a little forest-y park/ graveyard. Just having windows not blocked by other buildings and actual nature sounds, it's very conducive to understanding oneself and one’s creative process. So I think it entirely shaped the way I create.

I was also surrounded by other artists and creative people constantly. There’s this amazing queer haircutting project called Butch Cut, run by Hank Bobbitt, who does donation-based haircuts for queers in Berlin. I was baking for their events while living in Germany and participating in the larger community of queer artists and performers who flocked to Butch Cut. And I worked at a record store/ cafe/ performance space called Rita Records, where I was also a baker, and constantly meeting exceptional people who inspired my work.

Describe an early moment of creating when you were young. What did you produce?

The earliest one that I can remember is from my house in Florida. I was born in Florida, but I always say I grew up in South Carolina because I moved there when I was six. I don't necessarily remember Florida all that much. But one of my first memories of creating is from there.

My parents' house was this small, one-story house. It was basically just a big square, and the rooms were reflected in that as well. And one side of the house had all of these sliding glass doors, because the house used to be an indoor pool. And so we would paint on the sliding glass doors and wash them off when we were done. Thinking about it now, it's very interesting because I love transparent things and negative space and light.

Have any specific life experiences shaped your personal view of or the way you want to create your work?

I try to channel my disability and queerness through my art, and I guess it's been interesting to think about because it was never my initial intention to focus on the body. But it subconsciously becomes nearly every single piece of art that I create.

As someone who's chronically ill, it feels like my body is violating me constantly. I've had chronic intractable migraine for a decade now, and that's the way I know how to function. I realize that it's this constant process of feeling like I'm not in control of my body, but there's a way to sort of channel that through ascribing these futures to the body and projecting myself onto the work that I'm doing. This violation has forced me to think about flesh in other ways and investigate the body as a site of potentiality.

And also with queerness. Growing up in the South as a queer person was not the most comfortable, so that also created a feeling for a long time of another violation of the self. And so I sort of subconsciously try to channel those things. I think it's just that the images that I end of creating are focused on the body. But being chronically ill and queer have shaped sort of how I create, definitely.

Do you think that exploring the body in your work is an act of giving yourself back control of the body?

Totally. It’s the same reason I like having tattoos on my body. When you exist in a body that you can't control -- and me it's like ninety percent of the time I can't control it -- you are forced to seek agency in other ways. And I'm attracted to images of the body. So a lot of the magazines and things that I've collected over years have to do with the body in some way. I have old Playboy magazines, and I have amazing German magazines on Freikörperkultur [free body culture], books on body language, anatomy.

Are you drawn to other subjects?

Besides bodies I'm drawn to shapes and architecture. The other thing I have a lot of is old German architecture magazines from the 60s. There's this sort of order and disorder playing with each other in my work, and it's a way of being able to give myself calculated control and calculated loss of control in some way.

When I'm doing a piece, it's not really planned out. I'm like a collector of images. I have these clippings all over, hundreds of hundreds of things. I have an entire miniature bookshelf of magazines I use. There's just images everywhere. And if I see something that I like, whether it's the texture of it or the color of it or the image itself or a shape or angle, then I'll kind of put it on my desk. And I go through this process of reacquainting myself with all of the images that I have. So it's kind of this puzzle. And as my week or my month goes on, and I think more about the images subconsciously.

With this work of mine, I had these two images, these two eyes, for a really long time. And they were sitting on my desk, and I had no idea what to do with them. And I had this other large piece from Life Magazine 1940 with these people building a house that I wanted to do something with. I hadn't looked at the Life Magazine one for a really long time, and I kept looking at those eyes. I had a piece of cardboard, and then it just kind of came together.

I was actually really sick when I was doing the piece of work. When I'm really sick, because my body is not functional, I feel like maybe my vision will be functional, or I can do something that can translate like my bodily feeling onto a piece of art. And that actually is a big part of the process, being able to dissociate from the images that I've been looking at for a long time. So it's disconnecting myself from the image and then being able to reconstruct it in some way.

 Why collage? What is the power of repurposing text and image in the work you create?

That's a good question. We consume images constantly; that's what human beings do. I have a lot of anxiety around over-stimulation, especially in this city, and I think that translates into my work. I want to be stimulated in a way that's somewhat controlled but still allows me to give myself up to a something. I can construct something that is supported by the existence of another image, shape, or color. I do other things; I do a little bit of sculpture and stonework. But I think collaging, it's an expression either an emotion or bodily feeling. But it kind of seems like the easiest way for me to control what I'm seeing and have it make sense to me.

Your also taking from and reusing images that originally had different intentions attached to them. Do you think that gives you more agency?

Yes. The ability to pair images with other images to reconstruct meaning or reconstruct how something looks is powerful--being able to look at something and pair it with all of these other shapes and angles and texts and different geometry and things that can come together to mean something totally different.

Can you elaborate on your use of negative space in your artwork, as you discussed in your artist's statement?

In a lot of collaging, you use negative space to play on existing forms. It's a way to layer images and be able to have space between them. One of my pieces, it's this piece that's sewn together with bookbinding wax thread, and it's a bunch of these little pieces of paper, and it's sort of collapsable in your hand.

The interplay of spaces is really thrilling, and also something that I was doing a lot of in Germany. Because they have have amazing print shops there that are very cheap, and there're tons of artists, I was printing a lot of my collages on transparent paper. I gave them all away, because it was mostly just an experiment to start. But that added another element of negative space, as being able to look at something with the background of whatever's in front of you - and also how it plays with light and movement. I like to make hanging things and things that move, like this piece used to be up on my wall near my window in my bedroom in Germany. And it would just sort of sway constantly.

What space do words hold in your collages?

Less now, but when I was living in Germany, words played a huge role in my work because my life was in this constant state of translation and moving between languages. I was studying at the university solely in German, working solely in German. But then I would come home to my partner, who I was speaking English with, and with some of my German friends or friends who spoke German, we would speak what they call “Denglisch,” this mixture of English and German.

In German the nouns are really amazing, and in English, you have better adjectives. Certain German words would stick out to me when I was there. You ascribe meaning to words when you're learning a language or getting better at communicating in a language. I went to Germany already speaking a good amount of German, but never having lived in a German-speaking country for more than a month. So I didn't know how to function in German yet.

Also a lot of the collaging materials I was getting were in German. One of the first pieces that I did there- it was this really small little piece with a woman in two planes, and it said "isoliert" (isolated), and it had an exclamation point, and it was from some advertisement. But I really liked the text.

Language occurs in this weird kind of liminal space, when you're living somewhere that people aren't speaking your native language, and you're communicating sort of half of your life in German and half in English. It kind of lends itself to language being important. I probably used about half and half English words and German words in my art. In the beginning, I wasn't sure if I wanted to incorporate words or if I felt that need to at all. But there were so many interesting words in German that I had some attachment to, or that I or people around me would use frequently. So it kind of lent itself to this interesting combination. The pieces I produce now tend to have less words.

Which artists are you most inspired by?

One of my favorite artists is an Austrian artist whose name is Valie Export. She's in her seventies now, but she was big in this movement called Viennese Actionism. She makes these amazing films where it's like constant image manipulation. She has this one, and I think the English title of it is "Invisible Adversaries." It's similar to Sci-Fi; it's very experimental. But I just love consuming her images.

There's this collective in Berlin that I'm very inspired by called the Objects of Desire Collective. It's a sex worker-led collective, and I became really close with the curators of this big project, when I was baking for Butch Cut. They're putting on a really big show at the Schwules Museum in Berlin, which is the first gay museum in the world . They collect objects from sex workers and stories from sex workers themselves, so it's like archival work and narrative work, and it's really powerful.

Some of my other favorite artists are David Henry Nobody Jr., Emma Kohlmann, Milf City (formerly Lance Romance), and dollargenderstore.

What's the last song you listened to?

I actually listened to a great song this morning. It's called "Marry the State" by this Berlin band called Gesture. And it's a really amazing synth-punk song. Super good.

Do you have a favorite movie or book?

That changes all the time. I do have a favorite book; it's Near to the Wild Heart by Clarice Lispector. She's maybe my favorite author. My favorite film changes constantly. But one that's stayed pretty consistent is by this artist Valie Export. Invisible Adversaries is the film.

Describe yourself in three words. Describe your work in three words.

Empathetic, deliberate, unstructured.  Bodily, communicative, reflective.

Myles Zhang

Photographed by Eliza Jouin

Written by Elizabeth Meyer

There is movement in cities that creates a spontaneity, a grittiness, and an identity that many artists have attempted to capture. In his project, Ten Days Walking in Manhattan, Myles Zhang, a senior at Columbia college majoring in the History and Theory of Architecture, creates a collage of representations through watercolors, photography, and large-scale maps.

His artwork reflects the movement of the inhabitants of Manhattan as well as the flow of the city from one unique neighborhood to the next. Myles walked from Chinatown to Harlem and captured what he saw in spontaneous watercolors while painting on the sidewalk or sitting on benches, as well as vast, intricately detailed maps created in his studio. The project, though titled Ten Days Walking in Manhattan, took Myles three years on and off.

Myles prefers the experience of walking through a city because, according to him, “We usually look at cities from an aerial perspective of maps, but the way we experience architecture and cities is from a human level of around five or six feet. Walking around New York City on the street gives a different perspective than looking at maps.”

Myles brought me back to each area of Manhattan that he explored in his project. In each neighborhood we visited, Myles relived how his perception of it has shifted as he has grown up living in proximity and now within the city: from as a child in Newark, NJ to a student at Columbia University. Myles detailed how the art created for Ten Days Walking in Manhattan has become a part of his personal archive. For each of his “days” in the city, Myles explained what he saw and the art that the neighborhood inspired.

Photograph by Eliza Jouin

Day One: Chinatown

I feel I have a close affinity to Chinatown. I have a Chinese last name and a Chinese father. As a child I would do grocery shopping in Chinatown with my parents. It is an intimate neighborhood, and though I cannot speak the language, I feel deeply associated to it.

I wanted to communicate a sense of separation between the foreground and background in this image because the short buildings of Chinatown are surrounded by large skyscrapers that physically tower over the small neighborhood of structures.

As I child, I would walk down the streets and look at the individual signs on the stores, so I copied these sign fronts onto the map. The map is an exact representation from above, and I could get from one location to another by looking at it.

Day Two: SoHo

SoHo is a neighborhood that I associate with my childhood experiences on scooter and bike, touring NYC with my parents. I think SoHo, more than any other neighborhood, has a beautiful chiaroscuro - play of light and darkness - when you walk down the street. Lower Manhattan has all of these big skyscrapers -- they’re flat, like boxes -- but SoHo has extruded forms of arches and columns. A lot of classical architecture in SoHo is inspired from buildings in Rome and Renaissance Italy as well as ancient Greece. There is a visual language that references Greek and Roman architecture in the arches, Palladian windows, and Corinthian columns. When I walk around, I try to play a guessing game - identifying specific buildings with their ancient sources of inspiration. The old architecture has a kind of permanence for me.

Day Three: The East & West Villages

I pick the spots I paint in based on whatever interests me on that day, the size of the paper I’m going to work with, how fast I can complete the painting, and the weather. I prefer to paint in watercolors because they convey a sense of spontaneity that I am trying to capture in the city. You have five or ten minutes to complete the painting, so the process is more dynamic than if you were sitting in a studio.

This image of Washington Square Park arch might be the same dimension of the image of SoHo or Chinatown, but they each took different lengths of time to paint and the process of creating them was different. Doing a painting on the sidewalk like the image of Washington Square Park is very different from painting it in the studio like I did for the map of Chinatown.

Day Four: The High Line

I think the High Line is a distinctly New York phenomenon. It’s called a park, but it’s a strip of concrete elevated above the ground. I think the High Line is a victim of its own success. Due to gentrification, a lot of what makes the High Line unique and interesting is being lost. The industrial edge, the grittiness, the taxi cab rental services and car garages are being taken over by fashion stores and multinational organizations. I don’t think I succeed in representing this dichotomy of grittiness and gentrification in my art. I think a lot of the spontaneity of New York City is difficult to capture in art - particularly two-dimensional art that is static on the page. I think the quality of my work done in the studio is lower; I am more intrigued with my work that is done spontaneously on the sidewalk.

Day Five: Madison Square

The Flatiron building is at the intersection of Broadway and 23rd street. It almost looks like a cartoon of a building because it takes all of the qualities that we associate with a skyscraper like narrowness, thinness, and height, and exaggerates them. For me, the Flatiron building is like the prow of a ship that plows down the street. I don’t know if I succeeded in representing this idea in my painting. As I painted the Flatiron building I thought about how the two streets on the side of the building, Broadway and Fifth avenue, diverge like parting waves.

Day Six: Midtown

Midtown is one one of my least favorite neighborhoods in Manhattan because it embodies the worst qualities that we associate with Manhattan: it’s busy, dense, crowded, overwhelming. It is not as comfortable of a place to draw or paint as Chinatown or the Village because it’s busier; it’s hard to find a place to sit or stand. The kinds of people you are going to meet are very different from those neighborhoods as well. There are a lot of religious missionaries in Midtown. I took a photo of a Korean lady closing her eyes and handing out flyers about the salvation of Jesus and of a Muslim man reading from the Quar’an. I don’t associate Midtown with a neighborhood people live in, more a neighborhood people pass through.

Day Seven: Central Park

Central Park is beautiful; there are nice people there; it is pleasant, but it doesn’t have that sense of grittiness or fast paced-ness that I associate with many other New York City neighborhoods. I personally prefer the small pocket parks like Washington Square Park because the city is always there.

Day Eight: Riverside Drive

That watercolor was done around 69th street on Riverside Drive. There is an old industrial area adjacent to Midtown with rusted derricks that were used for ships. In this image of the Hudson River, there is an old derrick [industrial crane] in the foreground. Before there were tunnels for trains beneath the river, ships carrying freight cars would unload onto the derricks. The train cars would roll onto the tracks, and the tracks would deliver the trains into Manhattan. The derrick that I painted is not in use anymore, but it’s preserved there as a monument.

Day Nine: Morningside Heights

At each stage of my life and at each place that I’ve visited, I want to have some kind of souvenir. I made architectural models of every school that I’ve attended, my high school, my university, the university I studied abroad at. My hope is that twenty or thirty years from now, I’ll look back and have a model or a drawing of the place to remind me of it. This detailed drawing that I’ve made of Columbia University is a very personal thing. The drawing is so scrupulously detailed, it is like a map that I can look at in twenty years and remember: where my dorm was, where I went to class, where I met trouble.

Day Ten: Harlem

This is an image of the 125th street viaduct [bridge-like structure that carries a road or railroad across a valley]. The composition is based on the spiraling arc of the Golden Rectangle, a rectangle whose side lengths are in the golden ratio of 1:phi. On the top of the image, I have painted the viaduct itself. I painted the viaduct from two different perspectives in this piece, from beneath the viaduct and from above it. I’ve always been interested in engineering projects. When we look at a bridge like the 125th street viaduct, we see something structurally pure, something that is not cloaked by plaster, cardboard, and concrete the way a building is. When we look at the viaduct, we see all of the lines of tension in the structure - the engineering of it.

As Myles took me through his ten days in Manhattan, I gained insight on how the city has influenced both his creative process and his artistic growth. Myles makes the vastness and remoteness of the city intimate through his art and memories. The beauty of Ten Days in Manhattan is that the project tells the story of Manhattan through the individuality of Myles’ experience, allowing the viewer to feel as if they are on close terms with the impersonal city.

Aside from Ten Days Walking in Manhattan, Myles uses his art to become involved with community activism. He is currently designing an exhibit about a vacant former jail in his hometown of Newark, New Jersey. Another project Myles is working on involves using data to visualize distribution of lead in water pipelines in Newark.

Myles has also utilized data to create a visual representation of the New York City subway ridership over the course of 24 hours. The project combines the sound of a human heartbeat with the pulsing of human activity on MTA train lines over the course of a week and can be watched here.

Kosta Karakashyan

Photographed by Natalie Tischler

Interviewed by Zoe Sottile

Hi! Can you introduce yourself?

I’m Kosta Karakashyan. I am a senior in CC majoring in Dance, and I’m from Bulgaria. I’m half-Bulgarian, half-Armenian. I’ve been dancing since I was five.

What made you want to pursue dance?

When I was five, I had a girlfriend in kindergarten, and she was going to start dance lessons. My parents signed me up because of her, and then she never made it to the first class. But I went, and I liked it, so I stayed.

When I was in high school, I got an offer to join Dancing with the Stars in Vietnam as one of the pro dancers. I was 18 and had no clue what I was doing. I was the youngest ever pro on the show there. We had to work with a team to pick the music and choreograph and work with the lighting designer and that’s when I started liking this whole production side of [dance]. And now I’m not done with performing, but I’m more interested in creating something on stage that other people with more virtuosic bodies can express.

What was the first piece of art that really inspired you?

The thing that I respond most to is books and reading and storytelling. A lot of the dance work I do now is more narrative-based. Of course, I loved Harry Potter like everyone. I think I was the same age as Harry Potter when the books were coming out. There was this contest -- I made a clay dementor, and I sent it in, and I won a free book. That’s one of the first things I made. I was maybe 13.

What are some artists or creators that inspire you?

In terms of film, I love Baz Luhrmann. He has a reputation that he meddles in every department of his productions, and it produces a very clear visual style in his work.

Is that similar to how you work?

Yeah, I like to give my collaborators a lot of freedom but then at the end I want to shape the edges of everything so it fits the story we’re going for. There’s an Israeli choreographer that I’m super obsessed with right now. Her name is Sharon Eyal and she makes these really alien, weird, sensual, sexy, tortured movements. I just did a review of one of her pieces. I like a lot of disparate elements from different people. I think nothing is original. So I like to draw inspiration from a lot of old things and a lot of new things. Music is always a big inspiration. I like a lot of classical composers like Erik Satie.

Can you speak about the senior thesis you’re working on?

It’s a solo, but I ended up involving a lot of people. Allison Costa and I are the inaugural student artists-in-residence at the Movement Lab at Barnard. I’m using the space to develop the thesis. I want to make a piece that’s about the anxiety and the stress that we collectively face on campus, because I think dance is a good medium for sticking it into the audience’s heart a little more than just reading about it. You can feel it more when you see something visceral on stage. Movement-wise, it’s a contemporary flamenco fusion. I’m working with the flamenco professor at Barnard, Melinda Marquez. Guy DeLancey, the technical director of the Movement Lab and LaJuné, the current artist-in-residence are working with me on creating lighting that responds to my heartbeat in real time on stage. I am working with Antoine Assayas, a composer from France who I met on Instagram, and I’m trying to get another costume person -- it has all these moving parts.

Why does stress culture figure so prominently in your work?

Last semester I was reflecting and thinking about my art practice, and I realized that everything I’ve made or everything I’m planning to make revolves around anxiety. I realized this is clearly getting to me and I need to externalize it in some way. So I choreographed a piece for the Columbia Ballet Collaborative about four friends who are there for each other, but then get whisked away in their own problems. One of them has a breakdown. It jolts the others out of their own things to come together and lift her up. I think there’s a power to acknowledging [anxiety] and reclaiming it and being okay with knowing how that feels instead of trying to convince yourself that everything is fine. Of course Columbia as an institution needs to do a lot more, but the things we can control are our reactions; I’m interested in making things that give back some agency to people.

How is dance different from other media, like film and writing, that you work in?

The most important thing about a dance is a title, because that’s the one place where you can guide the audience. It’s always overlooked. I think context is really important. When I approach making art, I don’t necessarily like to be vague or confusing just for the sake of it. I like art that will take you with it so that it doesn’t exclude the audience. Dance is already a little bit underappreciated, and I think it’s because people feel scared that they don’t “get” it. You can do service to your audience and present it in a way that’s understandable.

One of your interdisciplinary projects is the music video for “Drips” by Acrilics, in which you worked both as a choreographer, director, and editor. How did that project come to be?

The way that video came to be was quite random. A friend of mine -- who I haven’t talked to in years -- randomly reached out to me and said, ‘I saw you’re directing things; do you want to make a music video for me and my friend?’ And I said, ‘yeah, sure.’ It was the Sunday before finals. I grabbed all of my class’s dance majors. It was very last minute. I found the director of photography, Xuelong Mu. I’d never worked with him, but he was down. We rented a camera, we found a makeup artist, I went to H&M at Times Square. I always style people from there because it’s open till 1 am. So I went at midnight the night before, got a bunch of clothes, and then we just made everything happen on the set. We had six hours in Diana. It was something out of nothing. The girls were so good. I had prompts or ideas for them but they improvised everything on set and they looked great.

How do you navigate between dance films like that project and live performances?

For me, if I use film for a project, it’s usually because I want it to be more shareable with people. I think film is good for sending a message or making something that serves a specific purpose.

For stage I work really collaboratively. I want to make sure that everyone who’s going to be performing it feels really comfortable with the material and that they feel invested in it. If it’s film I control a little bit more. I have a clear vision in my head; it’s more detail-oriented in a way.

You also created a film about the LGBTQ+ persecution in Chechnya, “Waiting for Color”. What inspired that piece?

I remember when news first started coming out about the situation in Chechnya, it was so horrible and I wanted to do something about it. So I joined the activist group here in NY, Voices for Chechnya, but I also wanted to make something that confronts people with the situation. It’s based on these 33 anonymous stories of people who were tortured and then released. It’s from a report published by the Russian LGBT Network. [The film has] gotten a pretty amazing reach. In the U.S. it was featured by GLAAD and by Conde Nast. Now I’m presenting it at Short Waves, a festival in Poland, in March. I did a presentation in my home country [Bulgaria], which is still pretty homophobic, but surprisingly the media was really into it. I ended up doing seven interviews in five days. Sadly, it’s still relevant: now, there’s a new wave of violence. I think now my next projects are going to be in that social realm as well.

How does it feel to speak to such a large platform?

It feels like the more and more I talk about it the more energized I get. It’s a really tough topic. Now when I watch the film I feel so distant from it. I can’t believe I actually made that. I edited it and have watched it so many times that I can’t objectively look at it anymore. I just know it’s out there. It’s not necessarily easy to talk about, but I know that publicity brings awareness to the situation. I’m thankful to be able to bring more light to what’s going on there and hopefully it helps in some way.

What is your experience like as a “working artist”?

My plans now after graduation are to move back to Europe, where there’s a lot more state funding [for art]. In New York it’s really disheartening to see successful people who already have a career still barely scraping together budgets and things. It’s a really sad reality. I don’t like that the expectation that you should love your art so much that you should have a shitty lifestyle to do it. Of course, it’s not easy everywhere. But there are places that are more accepting and more supportive.

Gisela Levy

Photography by Margaret Maguire

Interviewed by Louise Sandback

Introduce yourself.

I’m Gisela Levy, I’m a sophomore at CC. I’m studying East Asian languages and cultures, and I paper cut. Paper cuts are drawings cut out of a single sheet of paper and are a common folk art around the world. Personally, I use a variety of small knives to cut my own drawings out of white rice paper or colored light drawing paper.

Where did you grow up?

I grew up in the Washington D.C. area, in Maryland, but also in Brazil when I was little, until I was 7 years old. So that was a big move for me—when I was seven I moved to the U.S and learned English, and that’s definitely influenced me as a person, though I’m not sure where it is in my art.

What is your favorite word right now?

I don’t know if it’s my favorite word, but the word that’s on my mind is brilliant. And also the phrase in sweeping motions. I don’t know, that’s been stuck in my head.

Any particular reason?

For brilliant, it was a part of a conversation I was having with someone and their choice of words really struck me, so I’ve been trying to think about why they said it and what it meant in that context. In sweeping motions is one of those things … sometimes you hear something and it feels like the first time you’ve heard it. I wrote it on my board and put it up in my room to try to incorporate it into something, but I haven’t yet. So it’s just like, there.

What is your approach to incorporating words and text into your art?

Usually my motivation for making a piece of art is that something is stuck in my head. Something about my life or about the world … it’s in there and it’s not coming out. I’m constantly thinking about it, and I have to say everything that I want to say otherwise it will be stuck in this rotation in my head. When I get it on the paper, or cut out of the paper, I feel like my head gets emptier, and I’ve processed what it is that I’m thinking.

Where do these words come from?

So a lot of the words that are physically in my pieces, they are often things people have said to me or written to me in messages, sometimes they’re captions from my instagram posts, and I just cut them out of paper. They’re how I think about the world. It’s a very particular type of language -- it’s not something that I’d be able to say to someone, and it’s not something I would be able to write into a poem. It’s so disjointed that it actually feels more visual than verbal.

When did you first start making art?

I started paper-cutting when I moved to China for a year as a study abroad [student] in high school. I had never paper-cut before then, so I think that that was probably the biggest influence on [my] artwork. But I’ve been drawing and making art my whole life, casually, not professionally. I’ve just always been in art classes and enjoyed that kind of space [and] trying on different mediums.

A lot of people didn’t like that about art class, having these constraints about what kind of materials to use or what kind of subject to draw, but I always felt that it enriched whatever I was doing. Because one way or another I always brought my style to it. So it just helped me discover what it was I was trying to do by pushing it in a different direction.

How did you come about developing your unique style?

When I was in China learning to paper cut, I was working with very traditional designs and methods. The only thing I had done with cut paper before then were snowflakes, which I still really enjoy doing. It’s a fun thing to do, to cut out really intricate snowflakes. But that was something that was completely devoid of all emotion or personality. It was more like: how complicated can I make this?

Then, when I was learning to cut with a knife and build compositions, I started thinking about space. A lot of traditional paper cuts, I think, need to have lots of different images that are separate—either because they tell a story or because there is an in-built symbolism—and they have to come together in different scales. You have to manipulate how everything comes together to fill up the space completely in an aesthetically pleasant way. That was something I was already doing in my doodles. I really enjoy filling up a whole page with a drawing, and in order to do that you have to manipulate the space so that there’s a good balance of black and white, of positive and negative [space], etc.

How has your time learning to papercut in China influenced your practice today?

I consider traditional Chinese paper-cuts and patterns to be an influence on my art, but they work mainly aesthetically and compositionally. I am not trying to lay claim on any of the cultural meaning of these designs beyond my personal experience with them as an artist and as a student in China. I hope that this comes across when I incorporate personal elements like words and faces which are totally separate from that tradition.

What was the first papercut in which you incorporated these personal elements?

The first more personal paper cut I ever made — I feel like it might have been one called Rose. That was the first time [my personal style and traditional training] came together: I added the face, and that made it personal, but I kept this kind of boundary of the themes and motifs that I had been working with before. Then it just exploded from there.

What are some projects you’re looking towards in the future?

One of the things I want to try making is mobiles which sounds really hard. I have one mobile in the submission, but that one was more of an accident, actually. I had written this sort of rambling poem. It was a disjointed piece of prose, and it wouldn’t have made sense as a poem so I was like: “I’ll cut it out of paper and then it will make sense.” I was working on that in a high school art classroom, and this girl spilled a bottle of turpentine on the piece. I was about halfway done cutting it; it had taken me weeks, and she spilled a bottle of turpentine on it which ruined the paper.

So I got really upset and frustrated, and I just took my knife and I started kind of sheering these things and trying to get the pieces of turpentine off. It got very weird and I was like “well, the piece is ruined.” But then I picked it up to throw it away and the way it folded — all the strips fell behind the words and I loved the way it looked. And I was like, “this is better than what I was going to do.” I really enjoyed manipulating it so that it fell exactly how I wanted it to fall, and then I spent a long time photographing it and figuring out what I was doing with the light and the closeups, and how the organic words were mixing with the turpentine strips. It’s called Ruins because my friend said it was too rude to call it Rebecca Ruined It, which is what I wanted to call it, because, well, Rebecca did ruin it.

What kinds of intentional mobiles do you foresee yourself making?

I’m moving towards making portraits into mobiles. A lot of the portraits that I do are single line drawings, and when you pick those up the paper is very fragile and it will bend. Sometimes the hook of a nose will catch on a cheekbone or lip and that’s kind of what I want to play with. I want to figure out how to make those cuts so that they purposefully form a shape in 3D. It sounds impossible but, that’s kind of what I’m moving towards.

Is there anything else you want to add?

One of the things that I was really thinking about since being selected to be a Featured Artist is, like: am I a fraud? Am I really an artist? I haven’t been as prolific as I was in the past; I have a lot of other stuff going on here at school. [I’ve been having] these feelings of “my art isn’t done yet, it’s not ready to be shown, and is anything I’m doing even worth it for other people?” So many of my friends who are artists themselves, have been reassuring me, saying it’s okay to present your art and to be proud of it. But they’re not doing it with their own art.

So I just want people who read this interview, and who see Ratrock as a space for like only “artist” people, and who think “I’m just me, doing my own stuff over here, and that’s not the same:” it is the same. Just put your stuff out there and be proud of it, and be confident in the fact that you’re doing something at all. That’s all it takes. If you view your art as important and value the act of making it… that’s it, that’s what makes you an artist.

Anton Zhou

Photographs by Lola Lafia

Interviewed by Isabella Rafky

Tell me a little bit about yourself and your work.

I’m a sophomore [at CC] studying visual arts, and I plan on minoring in business management as well. I'm primarily an oil painter: I started oil painting when I was seven, which is a bit early for oil painting; but at the same time, I had a drawing foundation I have been working on since age four.

I’d say I come from a very artsy family, my father enjoys to paint as well and that has definitely passed on to me. My early work was representational, but slowly I feel like my style and focus have evolved. A lot of my recent pieces revolve around the human condition and the concept of ephemerality.

How do you like the visual arts major?

Quite frankly, it's very different from what I expected, it’s very theoretical: they definitely push you to organize and articulate your thoughts. Which is something I really appreciate because, before college, a lot of my classes made me feel like a machine, churning out art for the sake of a grade. Here at Columbia, professors really push you to think carefully about your work and really explore different opportunities. It doesn't matter if you fail or you don't like your work. These experiences add up, and you learn from them. That’s something I’m really enjoying so far.

How does it feel to be an artist at Columbia? What are your creative outlets on campus?

I appreciate all the student-led groups devoted to the arts on campus. Being an artist at Columbia, I’m not so focused on learning how to paint or draw, but rather learning from other individuals around me who are interested in related disciplines. I often myself collaborating with filmers or photographers. I think the collaboration between creatives is the best part of being a student artist at Columbia.

Photograph by Lola Lafia

What’s an art piece you wish you made?

Several really. But I think one, in particular, is Monet’s Impression Sunrise. It's not the most technically amazing or astounding piece, but what he’s able to achieve with such simple yet powerful strokes is incredible. I’ve been on a mission to simplify information in references for my work and create more with less. I often find myself studying Monet’s work if I feel like my work is lacking dynamicism, or if it feels “overdone”.

If you could have coffee with anyone living or dead who would it be?

I look up to a lot of classical oil painters, my favorite being Rembrandt. I would love to talk to him about how he approaches portraits. Because I absolutely love his self-portraits and the texture he is able to achieve with paint; it’s just so tangible.

If I'm thinking of people who are alive now who I really want to meet, I’d choose J. Cole (the rapper). He is always on repeat when I paint in the studio, and I love his deep and insightful lyricism. I think I’m drawn to his music because it feels genuine. He keeps it real and always has a nice balance between pure musicality and meaning. He's not just focused on delivering a message but also [on] making it very appealing to the ears.

Where is a place you go to be alone?

Of course, my studio is a very secluded place - if you want to call my dorm a studio. But a lot of the times I will go into the city, with or without friends. I’ll have my camera with me and go around documenting city life. So I guess you could say I’m not alone if I’m out there. But mentally I'm in a zone where I can just think freely, thinking about what really appeals to me when I observe things like the colors, the contrast in the lights, and some of the often overlooked details of city life. These are observations that inspire a lot of the environments you see in my paintings. Sometimes just going out late at night is a good way to feed your artistic inspiration.

Are you into photography or do you take photos to paint?

Actually, I just recently got into photography. I am excited to experiment with my new camera. In the past, I never really relied on reference images, but now I’m starting to realize how quality photos can influence my thought process. I’m not saying you have to have the perfect image to make a painting, but your sources definitely have a huge impact on the end result. I want to gain more meaningful content and stories through photography and use this towards a larger blueprint for various projects.

What is your favorite material? Why?

I would say oil paint is my favorite medium. In terms of mixed media, charcoal and oil have always been a very fascinating combination to me because I like to sketch in charcoal first and then layer on top with the oil paint. These two mediums are very compatible, and you achieve a lot of depth and volume.

I have also been trying to experiment more with technical tools, which is where the camera comes in. I have been getting more into cinematography as well. I think learning about the technical aspects of photography and cinematography creates a better understanding of light, which is crucial to my artistic practice because I like to render form - especially for humans - in a natural way.

Three words to describe your work.

Spontaneous, juxtaposing, and layered. When I think of juxtaposing, I think about infusing classical painting approaches with contemporary elements based on color, texture, things like that. I like to say my work is layered, both in terms of meaning and the actual application of paint; I think these characteristics combined make a painting very profound. In most of my paintings, you will never see the white of the canvas showing too much. The pigment always makes its presence known.

Three words to describe yourself.

Disciplined. As an artist who has a very active lifestyle, discipline helps me get up for the day and get ideas flowing. I think it’s important that I have the drive to get up every day and paint. And I’m not too concerned about whether I like something I make immediately. I would rather make ten bad paintings and have those learning experiences help me in making one masterpiece.

I’d also say I’m extremely self-critical. Looking back at a lot of pieces I wish I’d done something different. It’s hard for me to call something finished. I wouldn’t say I’m a perfectionist in the sense that I don’t strive to render every minute detail. I feel like most of the time I find myself brooding over the composition of a piece. I might tell myself I’ll spend an hour the next day doing final touches, but then I end up spending a whole week rethinking the composition.

The third way I would describe myself [is] as a student: a student of art, a student at Columbia University, a student of many activities. I think it’s easy to become good at something, but to reach the next level requires a lot of devotion. I study masterpieces at museums a lot and read a lot of books on fundamentals as well. I never was a fan of learning how to paint or draw from videos.

How do you relax? Is making art an extension of that?

Not really. I think the process of making art amplifies whatever energy I start with. I never sit down in my studio. I am very engaged with the piece, and it lets you interact with the material much more. Sitting down gives you tunnel vision as well. When I was young, I was taught to step back and evaluate the big picture. The thing is - and I still struggle with this -  I sometimes get too caught up in one part of the piece, then realize something in the opposite corner feels off. It can be a nonstop train of thought.

Music also makes a big difference. It creates a mood for you -- different types of music push me to paint at different paces. Sometimes I’ll start [painting] a piece very rigorously because of an upbeat tempo. But when I get to the final stages of a painting, I'll slow down [and] listen to very tranquil and peaceful music to make sure every mark I put down is what I want to be on there. Sometimes, I just forget the music at this stage.

Would you say painting is more of a mental or physical activity? Is it both? How do they interact?

I think it’s definitely both. I think one aspect of painting that deserves attention, is the performance aspect of it. Not saying that I intentionally make a performance when I’m painting, but you know if I get into the music, and I move along with the rhythm; my brush is an extension of that rhythm onto the canvas. Everything is so intertwined - all these art forms - music, dance, performance art, studio art, I think it all comes together when you’re a studio artist. That’s something I really appreciate about being an artist, just being able to indulge in all these art forms and let it steer you in different directions where you never know what the end result will be, but that’s what makes art so exciting.

We already talked about this a little bit, but what is your history with art? How did you get into painting specifically?

My father worked a lot with Chinese ink and calligraphy. His passion for that passed on to me, but I found myself more interested in paint, mainly because of all the color combinations. I was learning painting and drawing at the same time. Some people would say to focus on a drawing foundation first and then move onto [working with] color. But for me I thought no, why not take an unconventional way of learning art because there is no right way to learn art. I was drawn to Monet and other impressionist artists when I was young. I think I was just fascinated by color and texture. I think my practice has matured and taken some detours towards academic training; but still, I feel like a lot of my current work is reminiscent of early inspiration.

How has your work and your perspective towards art changed over time?

My early work was impressionistic: lots of bold colors and texture on canvas. I wouldn’t say I’ve completely departed from this. I guess I’d describe my work now as impressionistic, narrative realism. People have become my primary subject matter, and I am always trying to position my subjects in an environment - sometimes it’s real and sometimes it’s ambiguous. It’s just this idea of ephemerality that I am so interested in. Painting the human condition in an immersive environment speaks to me. It’s intrinsic and conveys something natural. I’d say my work feels realistic, not through a photographic lens, but rather a tangible reality. I’m not focusing on pure realism, but rather something that you can feel in front of you.

What does style mean to you? How do drawing and painting differ? Does the genre dictate the form that you are working in?

Style is something that can’t be artificially created, you can’t force it upon yourself. That’s why there is debate about whether or not it’s helpful to actually copy old masters. You can build technical skill but not style. I think style is a reflection of experiences and observations; it’s something that doesn’t require much planning, something crude that needs to be laid out on the canvas or drawing pad; I think that’s how you preserve [your] authenticity.

How do you want your work to be seen? What do you notice? What do you want others to notice?

I want people to get up close and personal with the artwork and really see every stroke and layer of paint that went into that piece. It’s not just the overall image that’s important [or] that is what captures a viewer’s eye, but what makes you really appreciate a piece is the work that the artist puts in and the intimacy you have with the piece.

In making a piece, what’s the hardest part of the process for you?

Honestly, it’s very taxing on the body. When you devote literally three months to one painting or one drawing, your mind just becomes so clouded with just this work of art. You think, “could I pull this off?” “can I finish it?” That’s honestly the hardest part: just knowing do you have what it takes to finish a piece. I remember I did this one drawing last semester where I would stay in Dodge every night until two AM right before finals week. I wanted to make the drawing as real and tangible as possible. There have definitely been moments when I wanted to give up on a piece, but having devotion led to an end product that I really enjoyed.

When is a work finished?

For me, there are definitely moments when I feel I can close the curtains on a piece. But deciding this point can be difficult. I think different levels of finish tell different stories. I can paint a decent hand in ten strokes, or I can go on for maybe a hundred, or two hundred. When do I draw the line? It’s a decision you have to make. I think about what aesthetic and feeling I am trying to go for. I’m always cautious of overdoing something.

What are you trying to capture in a portrait? How would you describe your type of portraiture?

With every portrait, I try to leave something to be desired. I never paint a full-on portrait. I don’t think it’s the best way to capture someone’s face. Sometimes I’ll omit an ear or leave out a nose, or really develop the eyes and forget everything else. I want viewers to engage with the face and search for missing pieces.