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The typical routine of a Penn student likely looks like this: an endless rotation of classes, extracurriculars, social events, and mediocre dining hall meals. For Jason Xu, this was also the case—until he decided to leave Penn a quarter of the way through his sophomore year.
This season, we watched fashion’s most storied maisons get handed over like relay batons—Demna at Gucci, Jonathan Anderson at Dior, Blazy at Chanel, Jack and Lazaro at Loewe, PPP at Balenciaga, and a wave of lesser–known but just–as–high–stakes appointments. It was a game of musical chairs so dizzying it felt like the end of an era—and the start of a new one. But in a landscape increasingly driven by quarterly earnings, social media virality, and sheer aesthetic fatigue, the real question is: does anything actually matter anymore?
In 1878, English photographer Eadweard Muybridge (yes, that is really how his name is spelled) assembled a series of photos depicting the movements of a horse as it galloped across a stage. Though he didn’t know it at the time, these “electro–photographs” would eventually lead to the development of the first movie camera, paving the way for photography to move from capturing moments to telling stories on screen.
Food, I believe, is a love language all of its own. What is more loving than my mom cooking me chicken–less noodle soup when I’m feeling down, than a friend swiping me into a dining hall knowing I’ve been too busy and stressed to properly feed myself, than bonding with my fellow Kelly Writers House co–workers joking that we’re on the “Writer’s House dining plan"?
Obsessive–compulsive disorder, which affects 3.8% of young Americans, is often misrepresented throughout our culture, from movies that show repetitive handwashing as the end–all be–all of compulsions to that one girl in your class who swears she’s “so OCD” because she likes her room clean. Today, a new generation of therapists and creators alike are flocking to TikTok and Instagram to call attention to what really goes on in the brain of someone who has OCD, while also showing audiences that those pesky four–hour rumination sessions and perfectionist tendencies have a clinical diagnosis. Significantly, they extoll the virtues of exposure and response prevention therapy (ERP), a powerful tool for new and returning patients.
Come the final Thursday of November, my dining room table bears a feast of contrasts. We have your typical Thanksgiving staples: mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and, of course, the turkey. But seated between the stuffing and brussel sprouts is my mother’s Moro de Habichuelas, Arroz Blanco, and fried plantains. Their comforting aroma is a quiet rebellion amidst the most conventional of American holidays. But a little foreign perspective has made the celebration an open door. In my mother’s eyes, Thanksgiving is adoptive, a happy assemblage of American custom and her steadfast Dominican roots, emblematic of the open disposition that has carried her through her immigration to her life here, in this little corner of the country.
Canadian rapper–songwriter–influencer bbno$ seems to have haunted the feeds of scrollers everywhere for nearly six years. Since his 2019 hit single “Lalala” with Y2K, he's built a massive following through both his music and his strong online presence. Although this article is an album review, I will first discuss his digital persona, as the main avenue of promotion for his latest album, bbno$, has been his prolific posting.
Superheroes used to save the world. Now they’re just trying to survive it. That’s the central theme of the two biggest comic book hits of the last year, Marvel’s Ultimate line and DC’s Absolute universe. These runs exploded in popularity, offering storylines that were easy to jump into and required no prior knowledge of complicated canons and decades of sprawling superhero history. At face value, to any executive, the key to modern–day comic book success seems to be accessibility. But what really makes these books land so well is the way they capture our real–world disillusionment with systems built before our lifetime in stories where fan–favorite heroes wrestle with stolen time, corrupt institutions, and violent extremism. Instead of escape, they offer readers catharsis—forcing us to reckon with the fact that the world we live in was built by forces we cannot change, but can try our best to fix.
On April 2, Philadelphia’s Rosenbach Museum and Library received a notice from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH). It spelled out the cancellation of nearly $331,000 in federal funding for the museum’s lighting upgrade project. “Your grant’s immediate termination is necessary to safeguard the interests of the federal government, including its fiscal priorities,” the letter read. It continued that the change “represents an urgent priority for the administration, and due to exceptional circumstances, adherence to the traditional notification process is not possible.”
While we were away from Penn for the summer, a Wonder food hall was setting up shop across the street. It opened this past September on Walnut Street, nestled between a Sweetgreen and a Bank of America. The storefront features eight meager white tables, clustered to the left–hand side. The remaining area is effectively a waiting room, featuring a long, lonely expanse of vinyl wood planks. This view is interrupted only by a pair of five–tier shelves for delivery and pickup orders and two counters, where you can order your food from a tablet while discussing your options with a green–aproned staff member. The kitchen is out of sight, out of mind.
I don’t know how to drive. In fact, I refuse to learn. Why should I? I was born and raised in New York, and I fully intend to raise my own kids in cities like it.
The 2300 Arena is sequestered in a lonely area of South Philly. Locating it by public transport involves navigating a convoluted matrix of bus lines, many of which begin far into West Philly before diverting across the Schuylkill. The arena itself is unassuming; it sits within a corrugated facade, bounded by narrow unlit streets. Yet inside is one of the best places in the city to experience the odd alchemical magic of pro wrestling.
While walking down Locust Walk last week, I came to a blood–chilling realization that stopped me in my tracks: there were several people wearing the exact same outfit as me. It’s truly the worst nightmare of someone who prides herself on her niche, Pinterest board–curated fashion repertoire, but I only had myself to blame. Like a significant number of Penn students, I found myself at the Xfinity Mobile Arena on Sept. 30 and fell victim to the allure of an overpriced polyester t–shirt I would only later realize was not as cool as I believed—but isn’t that the definition of being a Lorde fan? Cultivated, audience–tested, and thoroughly–vetted nicheness is the manufactured rebellion we as a society revere.
Recently, the sneaker community has been incredibly divided.
I met Lou Reed through a boy with pale blue eyes—which is to say I fell in love for the first time—and even if he only played The Velvet Underground for the bit, I kept listening long after he was gone. The Velvet Underground didn’t sound like The Beatles or The Stones or anything glossy. They sounded like rot, like sex, like you could bleed out in the East Village and the record would keep spinning. Reed, the group’s principal songwriter, died on Oct. 27, 2013, and he would’ve hated this article.
After the Hunt arrived at the New York Film Festival as a thriller that’s less about crime than it is about perception, power, and the institutions that shape both. Set in the cloistered world of an Ivy League university (Yale, luckily, and not Penn), the film follows Alma (Julia Roberts), a tenured professor who finds herself entangled in accusations, betrayals, and the unforgiving politics of elite education.
“Alas Poor Yorick” slashes across the page of the March 31, 1941 edition of the Appleton Post–Crescent. “John Reed of Philadelphia realized his life’s ambition to appear on the stage after he was in the grave!”
“It’s our National Day. We are happy and gay!” proclaims one line high above the frames of the Arthur Ross Gallery. “When I grew up, we were expected to be happy and gay, by the government, by the Party,” cries out another. Read once, the words sound chirpy. Read twice, they leave a bad taste in the mouth, like a smile that was rehearsed too many times. That is the structure of Hung Liu: Happy and Gay—a promise, then a question.
From his pocket, One An (C ’27) takes out a deck of cards, each one bearing either a black–and–white or colored image. He asks me to shuffle the deck, pick a card, then spread the rest face up in front of him. He looks at the cards for just three seconds before I gather the deck, turn it over, face down, and hand it back to him. He splits the deck into four groups. I don’t realize what he is doing until he turns each section of cards over—he’s sorting the cards by color and the object they depict. After a quick perusal, One proceeds to name which card I took out of the deck, explaining that it is just a trick of practiced memorization. Though he makes the trick seem simple in its execution, it’s hard not to be impressed.
“I’m a steward of these clothes,” Keesean Moore says. “My goal isn’t just to sell them—it's to make sure they find the right home, the right person.”
Solutions by The State News