While you’re giving everyone gift subscriptions to Vanity Fair in the name of Donald Trump, you might want to check out a magazine that launched just a few days ago. It’s called DRØME (Scandinavian-stlye slashed Os are totally trending) and it has already hipped us to a short film featuring Eric Wareheim as a mutant Haribo bear.
Arriving in New York City, she immediately realized things were going to be different. “I was so relieved and excited that there were people like me, like, everywhere. I was like, ‘This is a dream!” And yet, she realized there was something missing from the scene. “I just felt like there really needed to be a platform that showed all kinds of voices and aesthetics,” she said.
When I first heard about a one-off art show and serial online publication called Young, Colored & Angry, the name really stuck with me. There really couldn’t be a better moment to discuss such a fraught label. The term might not be instantly recognizable, but the implications are all too familiar particularly in the label’s application to protestors in various cities as of late. It can be used as a way to dismiss, delegitimize, and patronize grievances related to race relations in the U.S., particularly those between people of color and the police. But Young, Colored & Angry the publication–which, by the way, is run by two self-proclaimed young, colored, and angry individuals, 22-year-old Ashley Rahimi Syed and 21-year-old Elliott Brown, Jr.– is less explicitly about the now-politics of race and the police and more about the artistic expression that is inevitably steeped in similar experiences and other instances of discrimination.
When first you glance at Mouthfeel and prepare to take it all in, you might think: it couldn’t get more niche than this. And in some ways, you might be right. A food magazine dedicated to queer identity and hardcore punk complete with recipes and sexy photos of dudes? Huh. That’s a first. But even if you’re not a pansexual chef who fronts a band called the Putrid Ooze Squad in whatever spare time you’ve got after prepping kohlrabi espuma all day, this magazine will probably be quite attractive to you.
Sometime last week, supposedly in the dead of night, a few hundred copies of a new free magazine were quietly “made available” in select areas of Williamsburg and downtown Manhattan. It was an inscrutable, auspicious beginning, kind of like a plague of raspberry scones. No, we’re not stroking out, we’re just responding to the offbeat humor—like, way past syncopated—of this first issue of Hausfrau we’ve been reading.