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CONTENTS 11-12 2 13-14 3-4 15-18 5-6 7-10 Letter from the editors

Sophia Somin Yoo: A curator’s voice

Molly Scharlin Ben-Hamoo embraces her inner weird

Angela Daudu on her songwriting process: My music as refuge

Stella Smyth is the electro-pop artist you need to watch

LGBTQ+ photographers in NYC decolonize the lens

Q&A: Tattoo artists on the human canvas

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS You may think art has no limitations, rules or pressures. After all, isn’t it meant to be about personal expression? However, such an assumption could not be further from the truth. As a society, we tend to overvalue conventions of western art and critics’ opinions, creating one-dimensional expectations for what qualifies as good art: realistic paintings on canvases, heterosexual love stories, pop music you can belt in the car, Hollywood films — the list goes on. While these examples are certainly enjoyable, they are not the only pieces of art worth consuming. In fact, they only represent a small fraction of what artists have to offer. This semester’s Arts Issue explores unconventional art — work that is often overlooked or does not conform to the conventions that the discipline typically demands. Each of the featured artists forces us to question what qualifies as art, and more importantly, impactful art. Conventionality is often associated with safety, thinking inside the box, accepting boundaries rather than challenging them. There’s a comfort in those lines, a boundary in which an artist can decide the relationship between themselves and the viewer. The best artists and most impactful artwork blur or omit that boundary. We hope that this issue will do exactly that. By celebrating overlooked and un-

derappreciated art, this issue provides a platform for both student and professional artists whose works deserve to be seen. Through artist profiles, we offer an opportunity to connect with the compelling works that these individuals pour themselves into for hours on end. Most importantly, we hope that after reading this issue, you come away with a desire to challenge our society’s standards for what makes good art and to search for a variety of artistic mediums you have yet to discover. Visit galleries. Listen to the music echoing down the street. Notice the sketches on the sidewalk. Drop a dollar in a performer’s hat. Support the artists around you who are crafting new and exciting work. We would like to thank our fellow editors on the Arts Desk — Yas Akdag, Isabella Armus and JP Pak — who devote the utmost passion, kindness and compassion that allow our writers and content to flourish. We are proud of the work you do each day and could not be more appreciative to have you as co-editors and friends. Due to the hard work of those listed above, Under the Arch and others, we are thrilled to share this issue with you.

Sasha Cohen

Ana Cubas

ARTS EDITOR

Thank you for supporting the arts.

Molly Scharlin Ben-Hamoo embraces her inner weird

The promotional poster for Scharlin’s upcoming interactive theatrical experience “Boohbah: The Rise and Fall of an Empire.”

Isabella Armus DEPUTY ARTS EDITOR

Airing from the years 2003 to 2006, the British children’s television series “Boohbah” and its mute, fuzzy creatures who exercise in space could’ve been lost to the sands of time — but for NYU student Molly Scharlin Ben-Hamoo, it’s a source of divine inspiration. “It’s literally the most terrifying show I’ve ever seen,” Scharlin said in

a coffee shop between classes. “I just had to come up with a title and make a project about it, whatever it’s going to be.” The title in question is “Boohbah: The Rise and Fall of an Empire,” Scharlin’s upcoming interactive theatrical experience that she’s creating with 10 collaborators. Her friends and Instagram followers are also a part of the show’s conception, as they’re encouraged to follow clues and updates on the @boohbah_riseandfall Instagram pro-

file. Although the event and its many moving parts seem to possess an air of practiced confidence, it’s completely outside of Scharlin’s comfort zone. “I am usually just a writer and have only been interested in behind the scenes stuff,” Scharlin said. “I’ve never written anything like this before or worked with this many people on one project … it’s all one big thought experiment for me.” Scharlin grew up in Aspen, Colorado, where streets and restaurants became deserted during off-season months, which made writing the perfect way to kill time. Though most kids enjoyed outdoor activities such as hiking or skiing, Scharlin was more of an introverted type whose three siblings, including a fraternal twin, left her seeking an outlet for creative expression and self discovery. “My mind just wandered a lot,” Scharlin said. “I was always floating between groups in high school so I felt slightly misunderstood by everyone, and I was always compared to my twin who’s extremely smart — so I just decided I’d be the funny one. I actually ended up being the only person who was into writing in high school.” This distinctive space Scharlin carved out for herself led her to the dramatic writing program at the Tisch School of the Arts where she mainly focuses on writing dark comedy pilots. Though her scripts can be far from reality at times, the thematic threads in most of her writing tend to embed some personal truth for Scharlin, the production of “Boohbah” included. “It all started when I rediscovered ‘Boohbah’,” Scharlin said. “My siblings remember me watching it when I was around 2 years old, so I of course didn’t remember it, but I was genuinely shocked by how scary it was … It got me thinking about how we passively view children’s programming, and how we don’t assign any meaning to it. Watching it now, all I see is writers clearly hooked on psychedelics … I feel like I wanted to put something on that represents that loss of innocence, or when everything starts to become sort of perverted.” Intrigued by the idea of how dark-

ness can muddle itself into nostalgia, Scharlin came up with her show’s snappy title in May 2021. When she finally landed on the concept, she decided to immediately announce the project before even beginning to write it. The promotional poster for “Boohbah: The Rise and Fall of an Empire” shows Scharlin posed in front of a cloudy blue background and wearing glasses with “Boohbah” characters photoshopped into the lenses. Soon after uploading the poster onto her Instagram account, a ton of her artistically-inclined friends and peers responded. “It’s cool how into it all my friends have been,” Scharlin said. “Writing is usually such a solitary activity, but I want to push myself … I’m surrounded by a lot of talented and super motivated people so it always makes me want to do the same sort of things they’ve been doing. My friends are going to do stuff like set design and music production.” She described the potential set design to be both colorful and psychedelic, with five actors wearing simplistic costumes to represent the main “Boohbah” characters. “It’s just going to be a fun opportunity to just let loose and collaborate on something bizarre,” Scharlin said. As excited as Scharlin is about the event, when pressed for even more details about the project, she stayed quiet. She wants the audience to figure out what the event is right alongside her. “I want to maintain an element of surprise, and I’m still working out the mechanics, but it’s going to be an immersive experience, similar to that of watching ‘Boohbah’ on YouTube and feeling like you’re on drugs,” Scharlin said. “It’s going to have improv along with pre-written parts … it’s one big party in a weird way.” This unconventional method of working backwards is actually pretty standard for an artist like Scharlin. She cites her anxiety as her driving inspiration. “It forces me to do the work,” Scharlin said. “I often tell my friends and my family that I’m working on something even if I haven’t touched my computer. It makes me motivated to not make it a lie anymore. I come up with the title first 90% of the time and just write whatever fits into that concept. I need that type of structure.” Despite working backwards, there’s a surprising rigidity to the way Scharlin works. For an artist so enamored with darker, conflicting feelings, the strict routine of her schedule is actually what allows her to explore her strangest ideas freely. In a competitive program and a generation of endless content, Scharlin also isn’t afraid to admit that ideas don’t happen naturally all of the time.

“I mean, you get so caught up in the professional grind where you think you have to be writing all the time in order to ‘make it’ in the real world,” Scharlin said. “I had to get out of that mentality and make small goals for myself that will hopefully work out for a project like this.” A project like “Boohbah” feels strangely pure when thinking about the monetary pressures young artists face and often consider when trying to create. Besides the consistent references to psychedelics, Scharlin has a relaxed approach to the way she’s beginning this project. “What’s been really fun to me is getting into the mind of a 2-year-old, like that’s why I write in general,” Scharlin said. “I started when I was 15 and everything was just more simple and I was doing this for fun, and now I’m graduating and Scharlin with her cousin Tali, another performer in the show there’s this pressure to for a perfect tribute to the resilience and find a job but the work doesn’t have to the radical shapeshifting artists had to do feel that way … there’s literally no way during a difficult period. that ‘Boohbah’ can have any financial “Post-pandemic, you realize how success anyways because its just so bibad things can actually get, and it’s such a zarre, and it’s not necessarily what I want privilege to be an artist and a college stuto do in the future for my career or anydent,” Scharlin said. “I just had to realize thing, so it’s something that I don’t think that it’s a thing that makes people happy.” has to be that deep and it will hopefully Remembering the past and being be funny and people will like it.” able to freely interpret the future is what At Tisch, it’s taught that art is an Scharlin is doing with her project. She’s industry and you have to find your place pulling in fragments of different mediums, within it. While Scharlin acknowledges platforms and the creativity of her peers that this aspect is true and important in order to rectify her contrasting ideas — to think about, she makes a salient point all while relinquishing the things she can’t when discussing her project. control. “I mean I’ll probably be working “It doesn’t have to be that deep in as an assistant out of graduation which the grand scheme of things,” Scharlin said. might not be something I’m exactly pas“It’s not logical to think about if my script sionate about, so creating art for art’s is Emmy-worthy or not, I’ll ideally be able sake and not just for networking or adto do this for my career and it’ll be great. vancing my career during those periods But for now, I just want to be able to just of my life is really all I’ll have,” Scharlin breathe and make shit.” said. “Boohbah: The Rise and Fall of an The unconventionality within her Empire” will be premiering in spring 2022. work and artistic process is a culmination For more updates on Scharlin’s work, she of both her time training as a writer at can be found on Instgram at @mollyschar NYU and being a student during the height or @boohbah_riseandfall. of quarantine in 2020. Though the initial weirdness of a project like “Boohbah” could be questionable to pass- Contact Isabella Armus ing onlookers, the project actually makes at iarmus@nyunews.com

Stella Smyth is the electro-pop artist you need to watch By Yas Akdag Music Editor

As a musician with a growing TikTok fanbase, Stella Smyth has been gaining attention for her songwriting and production style.

Singer-songwriter-producer Stella Smyth blew up on TikTok — not because people loved her music, but because they hated it. In fall 2020, the NYU student posted teaser clips of her single, “Bored,” ahead of the release of her album, “Everest.” The song’s chorus, “And in my head I went/Fuck/I-I-I-I was just bored,” became the soundtrack to hundreds of TikTok videos, some positive but most negative. Listeners left hate comments on Smyth’s since-deleted TikTok video, where she first promoted the song. Despite people’s distaste for the song, “Bored” has since accumulated over 229,000 streams on Spotify. Ultimately, Smyth didn’t mind the negative comments. “[It’s] one of the most honest songs I’ve ever fucking written,” she said. “You don’t have to like it, but that means I don’t have to hide any part of myself now.” Not only did the song offer Smyth creative liberty, it also delivered her a growing fanbase, which she fondly refers to as “the Stelletos.” “I still talk to them every day. We have a Discord server. They’re like my best friends,” Smyth shared. “They have a fucking Linktree [to my music] in their bio and stuff.” Smyth is a fangirl herself. When I asked how she got into writing and who her influences were, one name came up repeatedly: Taylor Swift.

“I started making music after I really fell in love with ‘1989’ by Taylor,” Smyth said. “I was 13 when that record came out. It was such a genre defining record. I was watching the ‘The 1989 World Tour’ [documentary] this morning.” TikTok commenters deemed “The Bluffs” — Smyth’s next release following “Everest” — to be Swift-esque. Over a gentle and floating acoustic guitar, tambourine hits, hand claps and Smyth’s signature synth flourishes, she sings, “And I found somebody else/And it might have been the realest thing I’ve ever felt.” The song’s soft, acoustic production is a noticeable shift from the gritty, electronic sound that defined “Everest.” Smyth’s songwriting and production process is somewhat unconventional. Many songwriters, producers and artists start with one component — a beat, chords and melody, or lyrics — before putting everything together. Smyth doesn’t operate like that. “I view production and songwriting as one and the same,” she said. “I feel like they both aid each other and they’re both moving parts of the same organism. I’ll be writing a melody for a synth part or something and then I’ll hear a melody for the lead vocal.” Smyth used this writing and production style for “Everest.” With few distractions during the pandemic, Smyth holed up in her house in Los Angeles for three months, rarely seeing or talking to anyone. “Every day I would wake up, write a song, mix and master it the next day and then write another one and another one,” she said. The concept for “Everest” came from “227,” a song off of her previous EP, “Vienna.” “There’s this lyric,” Smyth said. “And it was like, ‘I saw a hammer/It was bedazzled and I was enamored/And I bought it cause if I hit myself with it enough/Maybe I’d become someone else.’” This bedazzled hammer imagery formed the basis of “Everest” — in the album’s cover art, Smyth wields it, staring straight into the camera. She stands against a backdrop of dark mountains and an unnaturally saturated blue sky, with the sun peeking out from behind. I asked Smyth what the hammer represented. “I feel like at a certain point in my life, I was really untapping the potential to do more harm than good,” Smyth said. The hammer was a metaphor for this stage in her life. It was a weapon, and only she could decide how to use it. I would say that using it as the concept for “Everest” was a good decision. Since the release of “Everest” and “The Bluffs,” Smyth has garnered recognition beyond TikTok. She recently won the Music Forward Foundation’s LGBTQ+ Emerging Artist Award. As a result, she received $10,000, watched H.E.R. perform and was on the TODAY show. She said she put the money towards new music. “I filmed three music videos this summer and also got an OP-1, which is in my bag right now,” Smyth said. “I have not been able to stop fucking with [it]. Yeah. Good shit.” For non-music nerds, an OP-1 is a portable synthesizer, sampler and controller that usually goes

for over $1000. It produces quirky, electronic and often ethereal sounds. I wondered if Smyth believed queerness to be an important part of her songwriting and artistry. Without missing a beat, she answered yes. “It’s really integral to [one’s] identity,” she said. “I feel like listening to queer musicians’ work speaks to me on a level that not a lot of other things do. In terms of my queerness, my identity, my music, the Stelletos are honestly giving me a chance to be the person that I feel like I needed when I was growing up.” The artist also strives toward equality in places other than her music. In 2020, she founded the club Producers Against Misogyny with her classmate, Lily Oppenheim. Smyth and Oppenheim are both students at the Clive Davis Institute of Recorded Music. Smyth recalled how the idea for the club was formed. “Lily and I were just complaining about how there have been so many times where I’ve talked to male producers and someone’s sitting right next to me and I’m asking them like, oh, what’s your favorite plugin? And they actively ignore me and ask the same question to the guy next to me,” Smyth said. “They’ll make sure that I don’t have room [at the console], make backhanded comments, not want to work with me or degrade my work because of my various intersections of identity.” Thus, they founded PAM, so that Clive Davis students could talk about production in a safe space that centers the conversation on marginalization. The club has only been active for a year, but they have already held events with successful musicians such as Jacob Collier, Weyes Blood and Jack Antonoff. On hosting events at PAM, Smyth said, “The music industry is terrible, you know, but I think there are things that we can all do to actively combat that.” Smyth was secretive about her upcoming projects, but shared that her new music had a quirky sound. “I judge it based off how much I can understand it. When I listen back and have no idea what I’ve just made, I kind of like it.” Since our interview, Smyth has released a single titled “Everything.” It’s a hyperpop track that recalls Charli XCX and Caroline Polachek, two of Smyth’s influences. Drums scatter and bass crunches as Smyth — intentionally drenched in Auto-Tune — sings “Onomatopoeia do I really wanna see ya/Do I really wanna be okay?/Why would I drag the knife on the scar?/ I’m a little tipsy, think I’m seeing stars.” Smyth runs through these melodies quickly, and as she crescendos, there’s no doubt this section is the apex of the song. Regarding her new music, Smyth told me, “I feel like I have a lot of things to say, and I’m not going to say them quietly.” Upon hearing “Everything,” it’s clear she means it. Stella Smyth’s music is available on all major streaming platforms. Contact Yas Akdag at yakdag@nyunews.com

Q&A: Tattoo artists on the human canvas

SARA ARABZADEH

By Sara Arabzadeh CONTRIBUTING WRITER

Getting a tattoo is relatively common, especially in New York City, but it is not typically considered a form of fine art. Although tattooing involves commissioning artists to create dynamic illustrations and graphics like a painter, the art is displayed on an unconventional canvas — the human body — and thus does not receive the recognition it deserves.

nent piece of body art. Get to know the intimate artistry behind the medium as four New York City tattoo artists share their experiences.

Sara Arabzadeh: How did you get into tattooing? Hazel DeMarco: I first started getting tattooed when I was 15 years old. It was always something that I was super interested in. I grew up in NYC, so I often saw people walking around with really cool, beautiful tattoos. So, after I got my first tattoo, I immediately started getting tattooed a lot and going to different artists, figuring out The act of getting a tattoo is revealing a piece of oneself what art I wanted to put on my body. But then it also afwhile entrusting another to skillfully create a perma- fected my art style; I started drawing more, specifically

designs that I knew would translate well from paper to a privilege and accessibility thing. Not everybody has the skin. money to get an apprenticeship. Aaron Ginsberg: In 2000, when I was 16, there was this show on MSNBC called “Tattoos: Skin Deep.” It inspired me to pierce myself and buy tattoo magazines and get equipment. The point where I was able to start making tattoos didn’t happen until way later through a random turn of events. But skateboarding, punk music and magazines got me into tattooing.

SA: Is there a new age of tattooing with Gen Z? PS: Definitely, there are a lot more self-taught artists, queer artists and artists of color. It has completely changed the social norms of tattooing. AG: I look at ’70s, ’80s, ’90s tattooing as a sort of codified thing, and Gen Z, Instagram, DIY tattooing is its own scene. It’s some movement, like handmade stuff, small stuff, linework. It’s a departure from original tattooing, SA: How would you describe what you do? but still rooted in the idea of people who are outside Esther McGregor: My main goal is to show that tattoos the establishment that want to put carbon underneath are an extension of oneself. You don’t have much choice people’s skin with a sharp object. when it comes to physical appearance, but with tattoos, you can alter your body. I want to enhance the way peo- SA: How would you describe the bond between a tattoo ple look at themselves and make people feel more com- artist and the person getting tattooed? fortable in their own skin. PS: It’s a consent thing. Tattooing is permanent and it’s HD: It’s definitely an art form, but it’s also a service in- akin to something really dangerous. Someone is trusting dustry, so you have to build a clientele, build a repertoire, you to be safe and make good enough art. have people recommend you to their friends. That’s real- HD: I am a service provider for the most part; I’m here to ly important. give a client what they want. Treating your client as just a canvas doesn’t go anywhere. It’s definitely intrinsic in SA: What’s your favorite part about being a its own ways. I find it really special when people come tattoo artist? back to get multiple tattoos by me. It makes me feel like Phoebe Satterwhite: Meeting new people every day and a part of their lives past just surface-level artist-client hearing all their stories. Everybody tells me so much relations. Sometimes we’ll even become friends. about their life and it’s so interesting to listen to. HD: Job freedom. I can tattoo part-time and then I have SA: There’s a level of vulnerability attached to having time to explore art outside of tattooing, like painting tattoos, presenting pieces of oneself externally for and printmaking, which I’m really interested in. I don’t anyone to see. As a tattoo artist, I’m sure you get to let tattooing completely take over my art style, and the know people on a deeper level. How does it feel to be freedom to explore other art forms while still maintain- trusted with not only a permanent piece of body art, ing a job in the art scene is really cool. but also the sentiment behind the tattoo? EM: It’s a visceral feeling. It’s something that you SA: What obstacles have you encountered within your search for in a lot of different areas and relationships in career path? your life, but you immediately get when you’re getting EM: Not being taken seriously. I’ve been shut down mul- trusted with a tattoo. It’s gratifying. People ask me if I tiple times and talked to quite rudely. A lot of tattoo get nervous before tattooing, but I believe that trust artists are older, so I am often seen as a child. I’m 19, in yourself is important to the process. It’s definitely a but I practice every day. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think lot, but it feels nice to be trusted with parts of people’s I was good at it. There’s a lot of male presence, so it’s lives. hard to make your name known as a female artist. When HD: It definitely makes me feel really good that people I was first looking for an apprenticeship, I was rejected are willing to get my art, even if it doesn’t have a speby three male tattoo artists and got much warmer re- cific meaning. It takes on meaning by wearing it. A lot sponses from female artists. of times people come to me because a certain design PS: As a self-taught artist, there’s a lot of stigma around sticks out to them, and they might resonate with it in the fact that I wasn’t taught professionally, but it’s just a way that I don’t, but it means something to them.

It’s also empowering when someone is a collector of tat- ly. It’s not just one skill. When I’m tattooing, I can’t toos and thinks my work is good enough to put in their think of anything else — I’ve never been so focused in my life. I really feed off of that because it is one of collection of other amazing tattoo artists. the only art forms that gives me such a level of focus. Being in that moment for a long period of time and SA: How would you describe your style of tattooing? EM: It’s sketch-like. I do a lot of line work. I can do talking to someone meanwhile allows me to be fully whatever, but I am really trying to hone in on my own present. A lot of clarity comes as a result. style so that you can recognize one of my tattoos as PS: I’d say so. I have learned that I am able to be more my own. I love bizarre concepts because that’s how I vulnerable with people I don’t know. draw best. I look for what feels the best for me. PS: Playful and trippy. I do hand-poked because it’s SA: How do tattoos serve as a form of self-expression cheaper not having to buy the machine and other ac- for you? cessories with it. It’s easier to travel with and it feels EM: In general, I think that my art has been a refleca lot more intimate and precise. Every dot counts. The tion of myself. With tattoos, it’s not only for me. It takes that selfishness out of the art. You have to start origins of tattooing come from hand-poking. thinking about other people and creating things with SA: Making art is already such a vulnerable and inti- your audience in mind, not just what is geared toward mate act, so to have a permanent piece of body art your likes. elevates that to a profound form of vulnerability. Do HD: I like being tattooed, the look is really cool. But you believe the level of vulnerability entwined with also, I do it so that when clients come to me, they tattooing lends itself to understanding oneself bet- see that I’m tattooed and that I’ve experienced the pain that they’re going through. It’s definitely a form ter? EM: Definitely. It tests you in a lot of different ways, of self-expression as well because I identify with all especially when you get into tattooing professional- the art in my body because they’re a part of me now.

SA: How do you personally decide what you want to get tattooed? PS: I’ll find an artist’s flash sheet and just get it the day of, but I’ll figure out who I am going to be tattooed by before. AG: I was obsessed with certain tattoo artists so I went for particular people, and it just so happened that a lot of the work that those people do relates to mortality. I definitely express myself through the more morose, mortal imagery. SA: Do you have one tattoo that particularly stands out in its closeness to you as a person? EM: I have hydrangeas on my upper arm. My grandfather passed away when I was in sixth grade and he was my best friend. He taught me most things that I know and he had the most beautiful flowers in his garden. So when I would go visit my family, he would make me a bouquet from his garden. PS: The first tattoo I did because it reminds me of that time in my life and how far I have come since then.

HD: I have two tattoos from an ex-boyfriend and my current boyfriend that were their first tattoos that they ever did. I was able to walk them through it and teach them how to tattoo. Even if someone isn’t part of my life anymore, the fact that they were able to put something on my body, I’ll always remember that. AG: I was lucky to be getting tattooed a lot in the 2000s when a lot of special artists were more available. This artist, who just got back into tattooing a couple years ago, tattooed “anguish” across my throat. He’s someone who opened some doors for me to learn more about what I love. Follow Esther McGregor (@mcgregortattoo), Phoebe Satterwhite (@uncle.phoebe), Hazel DeMarco (@harddeparted) and Aaron Ginsberg (@aaron.ginsberg) on Instagram. Contact Sara Arabzadeh at arts@nyunews.com

Sophia Somin Yoo: A curator’s voice

SOPHIA SOMIN YOO

Yoo’s interest in aesthetic philosophy was a significant source of her inspiration in her crafts.

By JP Pak FILM & TV EDITOR

As of the COVID-19 pandemic forced independent art galleries to consider closing their businesses, curator and ceramicist Sophia Somin Yoo saw an opportunity to begin something new. “It [began] during the pandemic, actually, when so much of the world was going into lockdown,” she said. “We were just feeling both claustrophobic and energetic about doing something that would stretch us creatively, but also be helpful to our friends and network.” Thus began the story of Accessible Objects, a Brooklyn-based independent curatorial

platform that celebrates the work of emerging creators through periodic online exhibitions. The organization showcases artwork in collections released on their website. It’s a project that has been informed by Yoo’s numerous creative vocations: besides her career as a product designer, she also works as an art curator, ceramicist and interior design tastemaker on Instagram. Though these roles exist in separate spheres of her life, they all stem from the same place in her upbringing. “Arts and creative activities have always been a part of my life,” Yoo said. “My grandfather was a painter, and I was always encouraged to use my imagination and stretch myself creatively. And so in college, I majored in art history, just given my interest in the humanities and aesthetic philosophy ... I feel really grateful to be able to exercise so much of that today.” The pandemic gave Yoo an opportunity to use her keen eye for design to promote the work of artists in her social and professional circles, a cause that formed the ethos of Accessible Objects. Between honing her craft as a ceramicist for eight or nine hours a day — a stunning feat on its own — she released the platform’s inaugural edition as a way of giving a broader voice to thinkers and artists in her circle. The “First Edition” of Accessible Objects set the tone for the project. In curating it, Yoo and her business partner, Chloé Vadot, looked to those in their network engaging with “nascent practices and experimental projects,” as the curator’s statement puts it. Among these artists was “babyman studio,” from Rockland, Maine, whose sculpture “prayer” — a chunk of alabaster carved in oscillating degrees of finish to resemble a pair of cupped hands — stands out in its non finito approach to stone carving. More practically aimed, but no less artistic, is “Easy Man” by Izel Maras, a 3D sculpture of a stickman designed to be used as an augmented reality companion for those enduring the pandemic alone. The collection “exude[s] a sense of softness and definitive connection to nature, as a place where materials grow and become molded into art,” as written in the curator’s statement. While the works stand out on their own, Yoo’s voice as a curator is clearly discernible in the attention to the various ways we define the word “object.” Curation, in her eyes, is an act of artistry. “I think the act of selecting is in itself a decision,” Yoo said, regarding the curatorial process. “When an artist creates work, every creative act they do to make something come into being is a decision that they either consciously or unconsciously exercise in that mo-

ment. And I think curation can be very much the same way.” Accessible Objects pulls together the overlapping tastes of its two founders to make its own articulate style, which she defines as an “expression of what we think to be important to our moments, or interesting about our friends, that we want to share with the world.” Beyond Yoo’s and Vadot’s creative voice, the platform distinguishes itself through its location online. While many brick and mortar art galleries could not foster artistic dialogue during the pandemic, Accessible Objects functioned in the short-term as a place to showcase and view emerging creators online. In the long-term, the platform aims to use the same internet-driven structure as a more practical way of cultivating engagement with art in the internet era. Yoo was quick to point out that this goal is manifested in the platform’s name Accessible Objects. “The two words actually play really tightly together,” Yoo said. “Our approach to this platform was to really ensure that it is accessible in all the ways that that word can be used — for creators, in helping them access a broader audience and getting their work out there, but also for audiences to access really interesting new ideas and innovative creations to enrich their own lives.” The word “object” is also crucial to the ethos of the platform, which doesn’t conform its creators to any boundaries. To an artist — especially one whose practices and projects are experimental — there’s something very comforting in the broadness of “object,” a term that doesn’t impose preconceived limitations on creative work. Besides her curatorial work through Accessible Objects, Yoo also takes comfort in this definition as an artist herself. In the past few years, her identity as a ceramicist has grown from a hobbyist to a serious, independent artist producing commissioned work. Although she sees ceramics and curation as different practices, they both occur at the intersection of people and objects. “At the end of the day, a lot of [my work] is about my relationships with other people and also my desire to help other people, both for Accessible Objects and for ceramics,” Yoo said. “Accessible Objects is digital and intangible in the ways that we interact with it right now. Ceramics has been a physical medium for me to just connect with my own physicality and the physicality of the clay.” Yoo’s creations — some of which can be found on her website — are of an enviable simplicity. The minimalist, elegant products of her practice are featured

In addition to her work as a curator, Yoo has turned her ceramics from a hobby into commissioned work. on her studio’s Instagram account, a window of sorts into one of the great joys of her life. All Yoo knows about the future of Accessible Objects is that she wants her creative, people-driven spirit — the same one channeled in her ceramics work — to continue to define the platform. Yet, when asked about the future of the platform, she had an open-ended perspective. “Chloé and I are open to where this platform organically grows,” she said. “I think we are excited to just put together our third and our fourth editions and see how those editions and those objects are conversing with editions from the past.” Though Accessible Objects’ identity may take a new shape in the future, Yoo’s motivation for contextualizing the objects that fascinate her will undoubtedly stay the same. Her aim as a curator is eloquently summarized in the platform’s most recent edition, a passage that gives us something to think about as we wait to see what Accessible Objects does next. “The stories that each object narrates are endless, subjective, delicate, transformative,” Yoo said. “We invite you to dig into them, to take time with each of them, to think of where they’ve come from, where they are, and where they will go.” For more of Yoo’s work, visit Accessible Object’s archive. Contact JP Pak at jpak@nyunews.com

Singer-songwriter Angela Daudu performing at Talent Nation in 2019.

OWEN MERTENS PHOTOGRAPHY

Angela Daudu on her songwriting process: My music as refuge By Angela Daudu

CONTRIBUTING WRITER

My experience with music has always been an intimate one. I remember the transformative sensation of listening to choir members express pure joy at church in Nigeria. I remember watching video after video of singers such as Whitney Houston, Beyoncé and Yolanda Adams and thinking, “I want to do that.” Just like that, I decided I would. I remember when I first learned that I could write my own songs. I remember the quirky 30-second-long

tunes I created about beautiful butterflies flying in the sky or the pitter-patter of rain and thunder. I remember how feeling music and interacting with it through a creative lens grounded me in the realization that I had a space where I would always be welcome. In this space, I can express the simplest observations or my deepest fears and desires. I can imagine and inhabit a universe different from or similar to the one I know as I desire. Music and songwriting have always given me this — they have gifted me with a liberation, an escape, a level of contemplation that I am yet to find anywhere else.

I am an 18-year-old sophomore at Gallatin and my working concentration is “A Sociological Approach to Human Development through Social Media and Music.” Of course, it is subject to change, but right now, I am interested in learning about the nuances of 21st-century Western society and how social media and music have been and can be actualized as active, socially and politically motivating tools. My learning over the past couple of years always brings me back to two root questions: “To what extent can music be politically influential?” and “Under what conditions should media be regulated, if at all?” The answers to these questions are still unknown, but what do I know is that, personally, music — whether it be the music that I create or the music that I listen to — provides me with refuge, insight and a heightened sense of connection to myself and with others. Music is my most genuine means of reflection on myself and the world, and until this year, I never realized how necessary it was. I recognized that music was important to me, of course, but only after living through these past few years have I recognized that music — specifically my ability to write music — is a very significant part of what makes me whole. Growing into adulthood as a Black woman is challenging enough. Add the stress of the pandemic and the growing reaction to racial violence and police brutality, not only here in America but also in Nigeria, where I grew up, and various other places around the world. I know things were not nearly as bad for me as they were for many others; I had a home to come back to, food to eat and a healthy family to support me. However, believe me when I say that had I not had songwriting as my escape from society, I don’t know how I would’ve survived. I wrote the song “More Than This” on May 28, 2020. I had spent days on the internet watching people express the deepest heartbreak and resentment in response to the death of George Floyd. Many of these people were met with compassion, empathy and a drive to change this world for the better, but many were also met with the most disgusting and insensitive expressions of invalidation and racism. Of course, it was during this time that we also saw an uptick of internet advocacy the likes of which I had never seen before. I liked and scrolled past post after post ranging from informative to artistic — posts from which the genuineness of the sharer could not be determined — and found myself growing tired. What resonated most with me were the infographics. Something about the synthesis of so many lives into statistics, statistics that were inevitably disposed to grow, hit me hard. So I turned on my

keyboard, began playing a chord progression and started writing: It gets to be a bit frustrating when no one really cares about us When no one wants to hear our voice again I get to feel a bit frustrated, but then again, it’s not surprising that no one really wants to hear us talk How many more disasters? How many more? I’m fed up How many ‘til you think that it’s enough? ’Cause I wanna be more than just a number I wanna be more than just a threat I wanna be more than just a memory I wanna be more than dead I wanna be more It happens when I least expect it, forgot that I was so neglected and no one really wants to see us loved And since it’s working in your favour to fetishize and steal behavior I guess we’re gonna to put this in our hands How many more reactions? How many more ‘I can’t breathe’? How many ’til you think we’ve bled enough? ’Cause I wanna be more than just a number I wanna be more than just a threat I wanna be more than just a memory I wanna be more than dead I wanna be more

I, along with Zac Geinzer and Brenna Rodriguez, created a soft ballad that, instrumentally, was meant to support my lyrics and not overpower them. The process was straightforward. I sent a recording to Geinzer and saw the completed piece for the first time at the showcase. Accompanying my performance was a timelapse of a portrait of George Floyd being drawn by artist Denise Anthony. The lyrics came simultaneously — almost automatically — with the formulation of my melody. However, this is not how the songwriting process always goes. Sometimes, I start with music software, such as Logic Pro X, which is what I did with my song “Another Year.” Sometimes, I create an instrumental or a beat first, and other times I have lyrics written down that I incorporate into a larger project. This is one of the many aspects of songwriting I appreciate; the process is so dynamic, meaning that no two songs will ever be the same. I take time to create them and make sure that their melodic, instrumental and structural composition are distinct. In the same way that the musical elements of my songs are different, so are the subject matters. I often have trouble recognizing that whatever I create, whether it be politically motivated, personal or imaginative, is a valid representation of myself as an artist and valuable to those I share it with. I once thought that it is an artist’s responsibility to reflect the world that they are living in and to inspire change. However, I have now come to see that as only part of the story. An artist must have the liberty to create whatever nonsense they desire, and I say “nonsense” in the most complimentary manner. This new understanding has fueled the exploration of my skills this past year, motivating my desire to share more music, perform live again, and make music connections both within and outside of NYU. Music is an integral part of who I am as an individual, but it is also essential to who we are as beings on this earth because it is another form of communication. When I sing, when I listen to music, when I create music, there is an unnameable magic that is felt, an interpersonal connection that is established between the listener and the creator. I am in awe of that sensation, and that is why my greatest hope is for people to feel something when they hear my work. Music is a transformative form of communication. Each interaction with it is, therefore, an attempt to comprehend, contribute to and master the ever-changing, entirely accepting musical language. So I am honored to speak it, however minutely, and I take the responsibility very seriously.

Before long, I completed a song, but I didn’t know what to do with it. I recorded a video, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share it. It said everything that I had been struggling to express for days. It was a frighteningly vulnerable, personal and real perspective. However, this perspective came from someone who remained relatively untouched by such blatant forms of physical racism. I began to question whether I should share it at all. Was I only adding more to the performative collection of social media posts that I had quickly grown tired of? Was I taking a significant moment and making it about myself? Had I completely missed the point? I spoke candidly with friends and family about these doubts, ultimately realizing that all that mattered was my intention. All that mattered was that I was sharing my voice as a Black woman and that in itself is valid. That should never be silenced. I uploaded my song. It would later be re-recorded as a collaborative project for Contact Angela Daudu NYUnited: The All-University Variety Show. at arts@nyunews.com.

LGBTQ+ photographers in NYC decolonize the lens By Ava Emilione

CONTRIBUTING WRITER

My photography journey began in fifth grade with an iPhone 4 and a very open-minded group of friends. I forced them to model in front of my rudimentary lens at the local park, at the beach and during sleepovers. By the time I received my first DSLR for Christmas at 13, I had developed an affinity for capturing moments that represented my daily experience. I began to film myself interviewing my peers about their lives, capturing them nose-tonose with their significant others and documenting the limbs, eyes, mouths and expressions of people I found beautiful, who were often LGBTQ+ people of color. In some ways, my time as a photographer parallels my experience of coming out. Both began with me falling in love, continued through an exploration of the world around me, and allowed me to tell stories in a more sophisticated way. However, the link between photography and self-exploration doesn’t begin or end with me. In New York City, a brilliant community of young LGBTQ+ photographers are using their views of art, community and social justice to decolonize their lens through abstract visuals. Speaking to a few such photographers cannot come close to telling the entire story of queer photography in New York, but they offered insights into the vital place that unconventional visual media has in LGBTQ+ communities. Despite their technical expertise, none of the four photographers I spoke with define their craft through one specific piece of equipment, aesthetic or technique. Instead, they view their work as a holistic exploration of and connection to their communities. Pratt Institute first-year and Istanbul native Nur Guzeldere views photography as a relationship instead of an exchange. “I see photography as a collaboration between the photographer and the model, instead of just taking the photo,” Guzeldere said. “So I love talking to my models [and asking] ‘What do you want to do? Or how do you feel?’ I try to give them more creative freedom, rather than just saying, ‘Let’s do this. Let’s do that.’” Guzeldere’s photography is lovely; with soft, wrapping light, flowy costuming and glowing colors, the photos are as elegant as her outlook. Guzeldere’s willingness to relinquish control and allow room for creative freedom represents a deconstruction of heteronormative NUR GUZELDERE power structures.

From a colonial perspective that frames all human interaction as transactional, portrait photography is fairly straightforward: The subject exchanges their body for the photographer’s images of their body. The power dynamic between the voyeur, or photographer, and the subject has parallels between that of a typical colonial male — the watcher/desirer — and the colonial woman. The colonial man dominates power structures while the colonial woman must be an object of voyeuristic desire for men. LGBTQ+ photographers such as Guzeldere subvert heteronormative ideas of voyeurism by distributing the power of bearing witness more evenly between themselves and their subjects. This subversion is not an abstraction — it is something that is personal and deeply felt for members of the LGBTQ+ community who resist limiting ideals of gender, power and sexuality. A Tisch Film & TV junior and photographer who asked to remain anonymous reflects on the emotional experience of photographing beautiful subjects through a decolonized lens. “Not being white or straight, I think there’s a lot … in life that requires a lot of self exploration … I think because of that, I’m interested in exploring other people, too,” they said. “I think as I’ve come into myself, it almost feels cathartic to take photos of … queer people … I’m accepting myself through showing that, because that’s how I show what I think is beautiful.” Ideas of beauty, community and relationships often emerged in my discussion with each photographer. I noticed how similar factors define my own queer experience — my appreciation of the beauty of being LGBTQ+, the sense of community I find with my queer peers and the fruitful relationships that I and my LGBTQ+ friends and partner have cultivated. It is no surprise that these personal and community-based themes also apply to how LGBTQ+ photographers approach their work. Queer relationships are a driving force in photographer and Tisch junior Carlos Hernandez’s “Queer Alienism,” a photo series capturing queer people in otherworldly and abstract extraterrestrial settings. Hernandez reflected on how queerness unites him with his subjects. “I quickly think about my ongoing project ‘Queer Alienism’ and the things that I have learned as I’ve developed the work,” Hernandez said. “These images embody the various relationships that I’ve experienced with queer people which have so deeply affected my under-

CARLOS HERNANDEZ

standings of my pride. They have also helped me in understanding the universal aspects of the queer experience … we have shared a common understanding of how our queerness has acted as a defining factor in how we move throughout the world.” In a society that positions being white, straight and cisgender as the axis for normality, deviating from that axis can be extremely alienating. Hernandez captures this experience through painting the skin of his “Queer Alienism” subjects with unnatural, alien-like colors such as red, green or purple. Simultaneously, Hernandez photographs in pairs. They place their alienated pairs in intimate, heart-wrenching poses: hugging, kissing or reaching out to one another. Viewers get the sense that Hernandez’s subjects are as close to each other as they are alone, oscillating between isolation and intimacy. Witnessing Hernandez’s series feels like experiencing two contrasting emotions at once, as if I’m seeing the world for all its beauty while being a victim of its oppression. Experiencing the duality between loneliness and community, and finding beauty in society while critiquing its flaws, is shared across LGBTQ+ photographers. Tisch Film & TV junior Moby Pavlow discusses how duality informs their work.

“

… we have shared a common understanding of how our queerness has acted as a defining factor in how we move throughout the world.”

MOBY PAVLOW

“

While my style in both photography and filmmaking is often described to be rather romantic and floral, I am no delicate flower,”

Pavlow said. “I can play both the knight and the dragon: a firebreather with bold opinions and a formidable attitude, and while I enjoy working in today’s media industry, it is also my responsibility to critique and improve it … I believe every photographer and filmmaker should be held responsible for taking action against these shortcomings.” Pavlow is passionate about capturing nature, fantasy and folklore, where the possibilities for duality are plentiful. Their photos reveal the intimate folds of nature with images so close-up they are almost tangible — the gleam of a goat’s eyes and the sheen of a snail’s shell become real through their lens. Romance is also a central aspect of their photography. Pavlow said, “I want to — through the use of images — create and bring to life queer love stories which depict the humour, intimacy and magic within every relationship.” Despite Pavlow’s whimsical focus, the ultimate aim of their photography is as powerful as nature itself. The

goal of the same anonymous NYU film student and photographer I spoke with centers around bringing visibility to different cultures and types of people. “I want to just teach people about humanity and about other kinds of people … it all goes back to ... the school and the communities that I grew up in and how I was made aware that a lot of people don’t know anything about the lives that aren’t theirs,” the junior said. “I think photography is a good way to capture what’s outside of some people’s bubble.” Even with New York’s wealth of diversity, connections and resources, there exists a bubble that cannot be ignored. Hernandez reflects on misconceptions surrounding queerness in New York City. “Living in New York, I’ve sometimes felt a dissonance within the ways that people address LGBTQ+ issues as a matter of the past when homophobia and transphobia remain pertinent systemically and socially as a means of upholding white supremacy,” Hernandez said.

CARLOS HERNANDEZ

LGBTQ+ photographers like Hernandez are using their unconventional artistic styles and social awareness to decolonize their lenses and their communities. Curiosity, pride and a dedication to their communities lie at the heart of their work. Through their eyes, I regard photography as a continuous oscillation between an artist’s inner life and their reactions to a complex outer world. They are storytellers — incredible ones at that. But through my conversations with them I came to see them primarily as explorers — searching for the humanity and soul of their subjects for the audience to feel and reflect upon. Their photography is not a mere visual representation of their surroundings — it is an extension of the photographer. Using the city as their studio, they are passionate about using their art for both representation and resistance. With queer and trans voices having been silenced over the centuries, the photographic visual experience of queer people is an amalgamation of all that is unsaid but deeply felt. Fashion,

expression, positioning and light tell a deeply necessary story that is a first step in decolonizing our understanding of photography. Hernandez shares the mission of his photography, which runs parallel to that of many LGBTQ+ photographers in New York City. “Finding the lens as a tool towards liberation has thus allowed me to reimagine my own positioning in the world, as well as that of my peers and loved ones, in order to demand the space which we deserve,” Hernandez said. Contact Ava Emilione at arts@nyunews.com