Bustier and pants, Harlyn. Top, Madewell. Scarf, Fort Makers. Bangles, Andy Lifschutz. Sandals, Paul & Joe. Photography by Joshua Allen Styling by Callista Wilson Hair by Dakota Heman Makeup by Konstanze Zeller Set Design by Gozde Eker Model: Kely Ferr at Supreme Management Stylist's Assistant: Beth Hitchcock Left: Sweater, Harlyn. Necklace, Hannah Shaw. Tote, stylist’s own. Hat, Clyde. Right: Top, Harlyn. Shorts, Madewell. Cuff, Andy Lifschutz. Earrings, Wanderlust. Socks, Strathcona. Scarf (in background), H&M. Click "Read More" for additional images. Bikini top, Lauren Moffatt. Skirt, Paul & Joe. Scarf, J. Crew. Necklace, Wanderlust. Necklace (worn as bracelet), Hannah Shaw.  Left: Bikini top, H&M. Cardigan, J.Crew. Shorts, Zara. Hat and scarf, stylist’s own. Necklace and bracelet, Hannah Shaw. Right: Bustier, Lauren Moffatt. Pants, H&M. Fabric (worn as headscarf), Mood Fabrics. Necklace, Zara. Bracelet, Hannah Shaw. T-shirt, Madewell. Shorst, Harlyn. Hat, Target. Blue necklace, Fort Makers. Wooden necklace, vintage. Ring, Lady Grey. Left: Bikini top, Target. Kimono, vintage (stylist’s own). Belt, Fort Makers. Necklace, Lady Grey. Sandals, Prabal Gurung for Target. Right: Fabric (worn as top), Mood Fabrics. Skirt, vintage (stylist’s own). Bag, Paul and Joe. Earrings, Andy Lifschutz.

A year after launching a Kick-starter for their book project, artists Yael Malka and Cait Oppermann are celebrating the release of their self-published book titled Sea Blues.  Tonight, May 17th, they are having a book release event at Molasses Books. The duo traveled across Turkey, Morocco and numerous European countries for 70 days, photographing their experiences interactions, and surroundings. Above images by Cait Oppermann; below images by Yael Malka 

Down at Portland’s Central Precinct, down three floors, three cops sit slack-jawed staring at the biggest flat screen TV I have ever seen. A deep TV narrator voice says, "Lil' Rick's crippin' had gone too far. The balancing act was torture."

 

It's 10 til four, and the cops lounge around a long table, the kind we use at work for important meetings. Lil' Rick is a man now, but on the History Channel, he's still a Los Angeles teenager wielding big guns and blue handkerchiefs. Being a Crip, he says, meant hating everything red -- even strawberry soda.

 

I’m here for a ride-along with Officer Chad Stensgaard -- a cop who spent a day in court last month after parking in a no-parking zone to eat dinner and watch the Blazers game. I’m a newspaper reporter, new to the night cops beat after spending a few years writing about education. Tonight, Chad’s going to take me through the dilapidated part of downtown known as Old Town, show me how the crack addicts have migrated north again. Two years ago, the police chief had declared victory: The big raid had sent 158 dealers or users to jail. Crack was gone.

 

"It just went downtown for a few years," Chad says, handing over a bullet-proof vest. "Now we've been policing downtown, so it's moved back here."

 

I put on the vest. It's extra-large, the only size they have. I just topped 110, and the vest hangs off with arm holes so big I could step through them.

 

Chad is young, studly with a spikey handsome-man haircut. He spends the first hour rolling slowly through the streets, coolly telling me about this or that time he arrested someone. He drives by a hair salon twice, tells me his wife works there. The shop is part of the new, remodeled plaza that city officials had said would turn Old Town around. It’s upscale, but close enough to the downscale area that Chad likes to check in on his wife. The car windows are down, and Chad says a police-like "Hello" to nearly everyone we pass. People are quick to greet him back, as if an officer's hello mandates a respectful reply. "Good evening, officer."

 

It's 5:30, a Thursday night in the middle of June. Nothing is going on yet. I only have a few hours, and I feel impatient for some kind of action, something I can go back to work and write down so my bosses will think I’m a go-getter. I’m the youngest person on staff, and I want to stop feeling like I’ll never catch up to the other reporters.

 

“The commander thought I could use some good publicity,” Chad tells me. “That’s why I agreed to take a reporter with me tonight.”

 

I’m not sure what to say back to him, so I don’t say anything. Chad turns the radio on -- the pop station, not the police scanner -- and sings softly as he drives. I look out the window, wondering what people think when they see me in the passenger seat. After half an hour, Chad jerks the car into an old Burger King parking lot. Someone burned the insides out long ago. The sign is gone, but its essential Burger Kingness -- the drive-through, the mission-tile roof -- is intact. I try not to smile. Maybe this will be something.

 

Chad pulls up next to a No Trespassing sign alongside a curb in front of the restaurant. He says some code into his police radio then motions to a group of five people -- all black, maybe homeless, maybe in their 40s -- a few feet away. They’re standing in a line, leaning against the building. Chad swaggers out of the car. Outside, he looks bigger. His blue, short-sleeved uniform clings to his bicep as he walks toward the group. He doesn't tell me to get out, so I don't, but I hold my notebook out the window and write descriptions of the trespassers: over-sized t-shirts, sweat pants, windbreaker. The woman on the end of the line is all teeth chattery and bouncing in white tennis shoes. While Chad checks IDs, she sneaks away, tip-toes through a crosswalk and is gone.

 

"Officer, there may be a discrepancy with my address," another woman says.

 

She says her name is Angela. She's wearing the kind of pants suit I’d expect to find at Sunday School. She has a brand new bicycle, a nice voice and a felony warrant out for her arrest. Next in line is Yvonne. Later, Chad shows me Yvonne’s license: She's 5'4, 260 pounds, it says. In person, her hair is short and wild, natural. Her license shows a woman with smoother, longer hair. Chad tells Yvonne to turn her pockets inside out then he runs a gloved hand over her pocket, holds his hand up to eye-level.

 

"Is this all the crack you have?" he asks Yvonne. "Or am I going to find more?"

 

"No, sir, I just had a little something this morning," she answers. Two officers show up on bicycles. One, a female, is wearing shorts. Chad asks her to frisk Yvonne.

 

Something -- Was that a tooth? I think -- falls out of Yvonne's mouth. The officer ignores it.

 

"I'm going to frisk the front of you, make sure you don't have anything, OK?" she tells Yvonne.

 

Yvonne pulls up her shirt and her bra, revealing no drugs, only large, dark breasts. A studious-looking man walks by the scene and hollers to the cops, "Don't be startled; I'm just a black man walking behind you."

 

I scribble his quote down in my notebook. Oh that’s good, I think.

 

Half a decade ago, when I was 20 and working in Mississippi, I spent my nights hanging out with black men who hated cops. I was on their side, I told them. I wanted to tell their stories. I was white and never had any run-ins with cops, but I felt more comfortable with black people in the South. My family was poor, just like theirs. I was against privilege and the establishment. I idolized the Freedom Riders.

 

When I first moved to Portland, every black person reminded me of home. I’d tell black grocery store check-out workers that I’m from the South, hoping they’d understand how similar we are.

 

“Never been there,” they’d say.

 

Outside the old Burger King, the female cop handcuffs Yvonne then guides her to the curb, right outside my window. Yvonne tells the cops that her tongue ring fell out. Can an officer screw it back on for her?

 

Not a tooth, I write in my notebook.

 

The female cop picks a little knob off the asphalt and bends down to tighten it onto Yvonne's tongue. She jumps back when she realizes she's stepped in human shit. The other bike cop cackles. "Those are your new shoes, right?" He’s eating a granola bar.

 

"Yvonne," Chad says sweetly. "What's moving around in your purse?"

 

"A dildo vibrator," she says, glowering.

 

Chad helps Yvonne into the backseat of the police car. He leaves her alone with me. I hide the notebook. I don’t want her to know I’ve been writing. I don’t want her to think I’ve been judging her.

 

"It's just crumbs," she says -- to me? I’m not sure. "Ain't a whole lotta dope. Just three crumbs. Shit."

 

The granola-eating cop tells one of Yvonne's friends, the only guy in the group, to break a crack pipe found in Yvonne's purse.

 

"Man, shit," Yvonne says. "There isn't nothing wrong with that pipe. Wasn't even used."

 

"They told me I hafta," the guy says, then places the pipe on the curb a foot away from me. He steps on the pipe. Parts of it fly through the window and land on my button-down shirt. I’m not sure if I should wipe it off.

 

Chad guides Angela to the back of the car, too. She's handcuffed, but after Chad leaves, she wiggles around until she's holding a cell phone up. She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m sitting in the front seat.

 

"Hey, I'm going to jail," she says into the phone.

 

A few minutes later, Chad slides in the driver's seat. Yvonne asks, "Why are you wasting your time on me? There a lotta dope out there."

 

"There is a lot of dope out there," Chad says. He emphasizes the is, but doesn’t turn to look at Yvonne. "You're part of the problem. If you didn't buy it, dealers wouldn't be able to sell it."

 

"I didn't buy it," Yvonne says. "Somebody bought it for me."

 

"Anyway," she adds, "if there wasn't dealers, there wouldn't be anyone to buy from. "

 

“New dealers would just come around,” Chad says, looking down at arrest forms. "Alright, I'm going to read you your rights."

 

I’m mad at Chad. He’s putting on a show for me, I think. This arrest won’t solve anything. I look back at my notebook. This isn’t a story. I had wanted a story, and there isn’t one, and I am mad at Chad for arresting people so that I can have a story. So that he can have some good publicity. So that I can look good for my bosses.

 

A few minutes later, Angela clears her throat. Her phone is hidden again. She has been crying. “I’ve lost everything I’ve ever worked for," she says.

 

“What’s that?” Chad asks. He's filling out paperwork and hasn't really been listening.

 

“Nothing,” she mutters.

 

“She said she’s lost everything she’s worked for,” I tell Chad. My voice is stern but quiet. “She’s sad about the bike.”

 

“I don’t care about my bike,” she snaps. “I’m going to lose my job, my house, my fiancee, over something I did 10 years ago. I tried to get it taken care of in court, but I couldn’t get a document from Florida.”

 

Chad turns to me. “The warrant is over a dangerous drug possession.”

 

She doesn't look like the threat he is implying. I feel uncomfortable, witnessing the ruining of Angela's life. The day Angela lost everything won’t warrant even a brief in my newspaper. I feel, suddenly, like a different person than I used to be. When did I switch teams?

 

“Am I going to get a bail?” Angela asks Chad.

 

“Uhh, no,” he says, eyeing a processing paper. “Hey, Yvonne, what’s your address?”

 

She’s silent. “You not talking to me anymore?” he asks.

 

I look back at Yvonne, but she's staring out the window, biting her lower lip. I’m due back at work. There’s crack pipe on my shirt.

 

Chad's headed to the jail, but he drops me off first. I’m not ready to go into the newsroom yet, so I walk to the grocery store, buy a sandwich, read The New Yorker. Two weeks later, I see Yvonne again. I’m biking home from work, late at night, and she's sitting on a bench with a new group of friends. I stop at a red light and she looks up. We stare at each other. I’m not scared, but the light turns green, and I pedal -- quickly -- north. The next night, and every night after, I take a different route.

Casey Parks is a reporter at The Oregonian Newspaper. She grew up in Louisiana with library fines in four cities. She is directing a documentary, The Diary of a Misfit, that traces the mysterious beginnings and endings of a woman who lived as a man in Delhi, Louisana. 

At Dossier, we’ve had the pleasure of collaborating with Elle Muliarchyk a number of times on fashion editorials. Each time, the result has been a complex and highly saturated tale---both in color and character. So when Elle wrote me with news of her latest project, “Escapes from Paradise,” with a subject line reading: My most special project ever!!! I was intrigued, by both her passion and her subsequent description of the project as a multimedia interactive online gallery/blog/diary. Elle, a model/photographer and much more than those words signify, has never been easy to place in a box; it made sense that this personal project would be equally enigmatic. But multimedia understates its innovation. "Escapes From Paradise" is a sensorial experience (comprising artwork, photographs, GIFS and original music compositions). It is lacking only aroma, which is easily appended if the viewers immerse themselves enough into the project and their own subconscious to conjure elapsed memories of starry nights and surreal moments, and the associated scents of these recollections. For Elle, “Escapes” served as a creative cleanse that enabled her to reset her internal compass. For viewers, it serves as a reminder that in order to develop we need to dream, and do. We have included a short preview of stills here, but to sponge advice from the artist herself: We highly recommend that you visit the site , make it full screen and use headphones. Erin Dixon: What was the catalyst for the trip? Elle Muliarchyk: I had been visiting Chadwick Bell's studio while he was working on his Spring ’13 collection. I was inspired by the woman he imagined. I saw her as a romantic ideal of myself: a 2013 Georgia O'Keeffe---a city girl, an artist, escaping into the desert to find clarity and reinvent herself. I hadn't really left the city for at least six years, and I thought it was perfect timing to become the fantasy woman Chadwick had invented. I thought of the trip as a fashion experiment and a performance, but it turned into something more intimate. Erin: How did you decide upon the route? Elle: Chadwick was inspired by the 1920s photography of the serene, vast desert, so I started in Arizona and Utah. From then on, my journey was nearly as spontaneous as Jack Kerouac's On The Road. I traveled the West and East Coasts seeking magical, yet understated landscapes. Erin: How did the contrast of tailored clothing and nature activate your creativity or inform the character? Elle: The fashion industry thrives on characters. It manufactures a plethora of fictional personages that we happily inhabit. We are so seduced and over stimulated by them that we never think of discovering and creating a character of our own. Having been a model and a photographer in New York City, I'd accumulated so many masks that my creativity became diluted. I wanted to strip off those masks and create something new. That is why I am unidentifiable in the photographs. I want anyone be able to invent his or her own character or story while they're on the website. I don't want them to see “Elle Muliarchyk in a black wig.” Erin: How did the collection influence the shots? Elle: I wanted to be an observer blending into the environment. For example: In the image with the big cactus, I'm wearing a dress with similar vertical ridges. I'm wearing a snow-white jumpsuit next to a snow-white adobe church. Erin: Did the words come before, after or during the trip? Elle: It happened simultaneously. I had never kept a diary until this trip. Every few days, I'd send a new entry to the writer Anne B Kelly. She would then weave it into a single fiction story and send her progress back to me. Her words inspired me for the images to follow. Erin: What was the most challenging medium in which to work? Elle: It was the layout. I worked with my team to recreate individual elements that evoked my experiences from the trip, be we needed to put them back together! I guess it's like synthesizing various scents and combining them artfully into a perfume. It would have never happened without Jacob Wildschiødtz’s art direction. Erin: Is there any part of the experience not featured in the project? Elle: Time! I wish I could make the website feel like you're on a several months' journey, while keeping the reader captivated. Even Marcel Proust hardly succeeded at it. Our attention span is so short---but that's the side effect of our age... My hope is that people will linger on the website and actually take time to read the story. Take time for magic in your life! Erin: How did the project help you evolve as an artist? Elle: On one hand, I absolutely thrive on collaboration and believe that you can create greater things working together. On another hand, with collaboration there is always feedback that taints your creative instincts. Often the final creation is just a sum of compromises. Even when you work alone (let's say photographing a friend to feature on a blog), you're always creating a “product” for a particular audience. The “feedback” is always in the back of your mind. However, they say the true “geniuses” are “selfish.” They are ignorant of external opinions and don't bother to “please” anyone but themselves. For “Escapes,” I decided to suspend the approval/feedback-seeking desire and just create images I loved. In fact, I wasn't planning to share and publish them until halfway into the journey. I would recommend this exercise to every creative person. It's like a reset button. I feel like I rediscovered and reinvented myself creatively on this journey. I have more faith in my visual language and message. Erin: Did you learn any fundamental truths about humanity or human nature? What was the most surprising thing you learned about yourself? Elle: I think we've become cyborgs. Even when we get together with friends, our conversation mirrors the technology. We either "reblog" (recycle old information or gossip) or "Instagram" (report the events from our lives, tinting them with our favorite "filters"). I discovered the magic of fashion for the first time in my life seven years ago, when I secretly took self-portraits in hundreds of changing rooms. I didn't try on those expensive garments in order to post the photos on my blog---there were no fashion blogs then! I was captivated by the transformative power of fashion. I discovered that my mission now is to inspire women to discover and experience the magic of fashion on their own terms. Dress for yourself, try to not think whether what you wear would be snapped or snubbed by a street-style photographer. Erin: What place were you most affected by and why? What is your favorite shot from the trip and why? Elle: Perhaps it was in the middle of the night, on the rocky beach on the East Coast (the shot with white umbrella). There was a tiny harbor with sailboats chiming in the wind. It sounded like a hundred little churches were ringing their bells. t actually happens when the lines lightly bump against the mast. I'd never heard this sound before and it was magical. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTP9Y8bGKaA Erin: Where will you go next? Elle: I'm preparing for a similar collaboration with another designer and model I love. I want to continue creating these little “fashion wormholes” through which you can transport yourself into a fairytale---or you can crawl in bed with it as with your favorite book. Photography by Elle Muliarchyk. Art Direction by Jacob Wildschiødtz. Story by Anne B Kelly. Music by Superflux. Covers artwork by Tarik Mikou . Website design: Plume.net.

Rachel Libeskind recently dreamed that her teeth were dissolving in her mouth, coming out every time she tried to breathe “life puffs of dust.” For those familiar with Rachel’s work, it should come as no surprise that she has anxiety-ridden dreams. In fact, it’s impossible to ignore the similarities between her dream and the title of her blog, Mouth Without A Tongue. Deeply embedded in Rachel’s conscience is a profound anxiety about oppression, which makes sense given her ancestry and cultural background. She is the daughter of renowned architect Daniel Libeskind, and her family suffered through the Nazi and Soviet regimes. The Wild West, Rachel’s third solo exhibit, opened this past Thursday at Hansel and Gretel Picture Garden. The title refers to the bygone Western civilization where, as Rachel thoughtfully puts it, “We had zero awareness of anything but the white man and his strong and influential penis.” The title also refers to West Berlin, where Rachel grew up before migrating to New York City for high school. Finally, it represents the myth we have come to regard as The Wild West. Rachel’s biggest grievance—and the subject of her show—seems to be the senseless violence inflicted upon her family, and the era of violence we continue to live in. “It’s also kind of funny,” she adds, “And honest. And sometimes coy.” Upon walking into the gallery and seeing the first of five large-scale untitled works, one is immediately consumed with the same oppressive sensations afflicting Rachel’s dreams. Reminiscent of Rauschenberg, the first piece combines disparate and abstract found clippings to tell a complete narrative. From afar, the shellacked collage looks like a pollution-ridden sunset, a blend of psychedelic, pleasing colors. Up close however, the individual images of stiff soldiers, underwear, and flapper girls are discernible. Much like the smaller scale works, in which slabs of plexiglass tightly sandwich found clippings, the shellac gives the impression that these images are mired in a thick paste. of oppression. It’s almost like a massive discharge of lechery, oppression and all the other byproducts of war. On the adjacent wall hangs another large-scale piece. Collage and paint give way to an embryonic Harpy-looking creature. Again, Rachel imbues her work with a visceral oppression, this time in the form of bodiless, numbered female heads. Their faces are all painted green and their eyes red, suggesting a hypnotizing monster of oppression. Rachel is an honest artist, whose character and history is threaded into the cloth of her artwork. The way The Wild West is installed appears noticeably crude and, as Rachel justifies, was meant to be “reminiscent of the way that they were made on the walls and tables in my studio.” It’s a testament to the transparency of her creative process, not unlike the schizophrenic John Nash’s studio in A Beautiful Mind. The largest and most impressive piece that is strikingly Guernica in appearance is adorned with arrows and vectors, evoking a Goldberg machine of sorts. However, follow these arrows and one will quickly notice that they are arbitrary and lead nowhere. “I’m not trying to convey anything specific other than the perversion and banality of violence, ” Rachel says, “Most of those arrows point to and from genitalia.” What’s more, Rachel leaves all of her pieces untitled so they aren’t confined to particular meanings. “Titling a piece can really cement it’s meaning… you sort of have to be sure that you’re getting it right,” she explains. Rachel may not be communicating anything specific in her creations, but she does reveal coping mechanisms that have helped ameliorate her anxiety and indignation. Most noticeable and arresting is her tendency to mock historical figures, which apparently stems from her need to exact revenge upon the people who brutalized her family and culture. The Guernica-looking piece, hung on the back wall of the gallery, boasts clippings of fascist soldiers sticking their hands up women’s skirts. “Mocking historical figures is a cathartic experience. The impulse to do it is childish and immature, and yet I feel endowed with immense power when I get to juxtapose a sleeping Stalin with an anthropomorphized tank-penis-peasant hybrid,” Rachel jeers. Perhaps most impressive for a 24-year-old who has presented her art around the world and is the daughter of the architect behind Ground Zero, is her modesty. At the opening, she came up to me and said, “This is horrific,” referring to the glaring spotlight following her around all night. Rachel knows this is a singular opportunity and is aware of the relevant impact her work is liable to have. The decision to work with collage is a poignant and particularly impactful one—it conveys the purgatory her generation is living in, borrowing from past generations, and unclear as to where they fit in. “We are living in a time when violence is accepted,” she tells me, “And we are struggling to get through the rubble of the bloody 20th century while we are inundated by fear of the future.” It makes sense, then, that she sums up her show quite mysteriously, “I’m a cowboy in a deserted land.” Photos by Ackime Snow

To coincide with the opening of the 2013 Urs Fischer exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, MOCAtv commissioned director Tara Subkoff to make a short film about LA. The end result, Magic Hour, was written by Tara Subkoff and Tatiana von Furtsentberg, stars Chloe Sevigny and Alexander Yulish, and features music by Lissy Trulie (a lot of New Yorkers for a film about LA, but maybe that makes sense since nobody in LA is really from there anyway). The film looks at isolation versus intimacy, and how Los Angeles reinforces and adds to this stagnation.