PROCESS:

We wrote about three memories, sketched ideas inspired by each, and selected one to expand upon and base the project on. 

1.

It was a normal morning in Miami, except I had woken up much earlier than the 11:30am alarm that my parents encouraged me to set for weekends to keep me “productive”. Usually, I would turn it off, waste a half hour in bed on my phone then eventually surface for some breakfast, but that day I walked out into the kitchen to find the sound of the nutri-bullet tearing through the living room as my mother made strawberry-banana smoothies. When she finished making them, I took mine and sat out on the balcony to watch the sunrise. The view from my 17th floor apartment was lined up perfectly so that no other buildings blocked the sun peeking out over the sea. The clear sky was tinted with different shades of pink and orange, and specks of the same rich colors were mirrored in the water. I can still remember how fresh the salty air feels in the morning after a full night of rain. As I scrolled through unread texts from my new friend group, the anchor’s voice from my dad’s favorite news show seeped outside through the slightly opened window to compete with the sound of construction below me. Collins Avenue was still relatively quiet as the city slowly began to wake up and start the day, so the sound of traffic that I usually wake up to was absent. It was a simple moment of feeling at home in a foreign country, but what made it a significant one is my history of moving around my entire life and the recurring feelings of uneasiness and unfamiliarity in each new city. Realizing that that feeling was over, and that I was settled in was such a warm, calm, comfortable feeling.

2.

I was in line at the airport by myself at 4:50am. I hadn’t slept much that night because I was with my friends until I absolutely had to leave in fear of missing my flight. Luggage in hand, I listened to “My Kind of Woman” by Mac Demarco and looked at my blank phone– all of my Miami friends were in bed. My bag was filled to the brim with clothes, dorm essentials, art supplies, and nick-nacks from my friends, family and boyfriend to hang on my wall. The airport staff was yelling and attempting to replace at least some of the chaos in the area with order, while crowds of people followed their instructions like sheep. As I watched mothers say goodbye to other college students, like me, and watched dazed-looking travellers with headphones in and sweatpants on, I realized that that was it. I would never see my friends in the same setting on a daily basis again. I wouldn’t experience the ease of being able to text my mom my preference for dinner every night anymore. I wouldn’t get to yell at my brother for leaving my bedroom door slightly open anymore. These weren’t the only thoughts in my head, though. My mind was also swarming with images of New York City– my dream since the sixth grade– of the newfound sense of independence I’d have, of all the opportunities that would emerge, all the coffee I’d drink, and all the art I’d make. A whirlwind of anticipation, giddiness, nostalgia, pain, and guilt all hit me at the same time and I didn’t know how to handle myself.

3.

I distinctly remember the frustration that burned through my body as I sat at a table full of people who were all laughing hysterically at a joke told in a language I don’t speak. I also distinctly remember my cheeks flushing red and struggling to keep a straight face– what kind of international school students are okay with excluding the new kid? I soon came to realize, however, that Bilkent Laboratory and International School was no international school by the standards I had become familiar with. They didn’t accept change with open arms, nor was their first instinct to talk to the person sitting on their own at lunch. Helping new students find their way both physically and socially were exceptions rather than the norm. As I watched the smiles and hands over open mouths and raised eyebrows, all I could hear was laughter and an unclear blur of “yorum” and “benim” and other fractions of Turkish words and phrases that might’ve been funny if I understood. The repetitive rhythm of their laughter played for much longer than the amount of time that I was comfortable sitting in silence for. The issue wasn’t that they didn’t speak English eloquently enough to be able to use it in social situations, it was just that they refused to. In fact, there was an unmistakable divide between the few internationals and the overwhelming amount of Turkish students. While I understand that it’s more comfortable for everyone to speak in their native tongue, a language barrier was not what caused this divide. After being told that we’re just “guests in their country,” it gets a little clearer that we’re not all that welcome to some. It was in small moments of exclusion like this one– and the lack of effort to change them– that our differences felt most prominent.

We then expanded on one idea…

A Memory

It was 4:50am. I was in line by myself at the airport. I could feel my eyes glazing over and my body swaying with fatigue as I stood there waiting. The night before I hadn’t met my bed for longer than a half hour because my night was entirely consumed with frantic thoughts like “our last night together is supposed to be fun” while I stared blankly at the paintings in Kassandra’s living room sipping my drink and “I hope he can’t tell I’m crying” as I buried myself in his chest hoping for a few more borrowed moments. I was tired. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have spent the night forcing myself to enjoy it while a permanently furrowed brow, a churning stomach, and an increasingly unbearable feeling of loss festered behind my eyes.

Luggage in hand, I listened to “My Kind of Woman” by Mac Demarco and looked at my blank phone– all of my Miami friends were in bed. Outside the window, I could already see drops of light flooding the sky with lighter shades than the navy I had gazed at in the car ride here. Even from the outside of the luggage, the outline of my lavender drawstring gym bag jutted out a little on account of there being absolutely no room for it. This didn’t stop me from jamming it in anyway. I refused to leave that practically unneeded but simultaneously essential collection of nick-nacks from the people I love at home– it was a care package. They said Id need it when the big city got a little too hard to swallow. Despite my adherence to this small bag of pictures, necklaces, safety pins, shot glasses, and other mementos, I still think home-sickness is bullshit. Any time someone would warn me of the dangers of it, I’d laugh or sigh and confidently blurt out that I’ve lived in six different cities, attended eight different schools, and that I don’t even know which home I would be “sick” about missing. In that moment in the airport, I wasn’t feeling homesick, but I was already feeling terribly people sick. That’s what it should be called. I already missed the way my mother could tell if I was upset from the curve of my brow, the slightest dip in my chin, or a certain blankness in my stare. I already missed the way my boyfriend ran his fingers along the skin on the back of my hand like it was gold. I already missed the way I didn’t have to think or worry or stress around any of the people that lovingly signed their names on colored paper in my lavender bag with bad jokes, a survey of our year together, and flickering images of our potential futures.

Snapping out of a daze, I realized that the airport staff was yelling and attempting to replace at least some of the chaos in the area with order, while crowds of people followed their instructions like sheep. As I watched mothers say goodbye to other college students, like me, and watched dazed-looking travellers with headphones in and sweatpants on, I realized that that was it. I would never see my friends in the same setting on a daily basis again. I wouldn’t experience the ease of being able to text my mom my preference for dinner every night anymore. I wouldn’t get to yell at my brother for leaving my bedroom door slightly open anymore. These weren’t the only thoughts in my head, though. My mind was also swarming with images of New York City– my dream since the sixth grade– of the newfound sense of independence I’d have, of all the opportunities that would emerge, all the coffee I’d drink, and all the art I’d make. A whirlwind of anticipation, giddiness, nostalgia, pain, and guilt all hit me at the same time and I didn’t know how to handle myself.

Paper Mockup Trial 1:

Paper Mockup Trial 2:

Final prosthetic on the “prosthetic video” post…

FINAL ERASURES:

Erasure 1:

It was 4:50am. I was in line by myself at the airport. I could feel my eyes glazing over. Fatigue. The night before was entirely consumed with, “our last night together is supposed to be fun” and “I hope he can’t tell I’m crying.” I was tired. A permanently furrowed brow, a churning stomach, and an increasingly unbearable feeling of loss festered behind my eyes. I looked at my blank phone– all of my Miami friends were in bed. Drops of light flooded the sky with lighter shades than the navy I had gazed at in the car ride here. I refused to leave the nick-nacks from the people I love at home. I had a care package. They said I’d need it when the big city got a little too hard to swallow. I still think home-sickness is bullshit. I’ve lived in six different cities, attended eight different schools, and that I don’t even know which home I would be “sick” about missing. But I was already feeling terribly people sick. That’s what it should be called. My mother could tell if I was upset from the curve of my brow, the slightest dip in my chin, or a certain blankness in my stare. My boyfriend ran his fingers along the skin on the back of my hand like it was gold. I didn’t have to think or worry or stress around any of the people that lovingly signed their names on colored paper in my lavender gym-bag-care-package with bad jokes and flickering images of our futures. The airport staff was yelling. Crowds of people followed like sheep. I watched mothers say goodbye to other college students. I watched dazed-looking travelers with headphones in. And that was it. I wouldn’t see my friends on a daily basis anymore. I wouldn’t text my mom my preference for dinner every night anymore. I wouldn’t yell at my brother for leaving my bedroom door slightly open anymore. These weren’t the only thoughts in my head, though. New York City– my dream since the sixth grade. The newfound sense of independence, all the opportunities, the coffee, the art I’d make! Anticipation. Giddiness. Nostalgia. Pain. Guilt. A whirlwind. I didn’t know how to handle myself.

Erasure 2:

It was 4:50am. I was in line by myself at the airport. I could feel my eyes glazing over and my body swaying with fatigue as I stood there waiting. Numb. The night before I hadn’t met my bed for longer than a half hour because my night was entirely consumed with frantic thoughts like “our last night together is supposed to be fun” while I stared blankly at the paintings in Kassandra’s living room sipping my drink and “I hope he can’t tell I’m crying” as I buried myself in his chest hoping for a few more borrowed moments. I was tired.  Numb. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have spent the night forcing myself to enjoy it while a permanently furrowed brow, a churning stomach, and an increasingly unbearable feeling of loss festered behind my eyes. Numb.

Luggage in hand, I listened to “My Kind of Woman” by Mac Demarco and looked at my blank phone– all of my Miami friends were in bed. Outside the window, I could already see drops of light flooding the sky with lighter shades than the navy I had gazed at in the car ride here. Numb. Even from the outside of the luggage, the outline of my lavender drawstring gym bag jutted out a little on account of there being absolutely no room for it. Numb. This didn’t stop me from jamming it in anyway. I refused to leave that practically unneeded but simultaneously essential collection of nick-nacks from the people I love at home– it was a care package. They said Id need it when the big city got a little too hard to swallow. Numb. Despite my adherence to this small bag of pictures, necklaces, safety pins, shot glasses, and other mementos, I still think home-sickness is bullshit. Any time someone would warn me of the dangers of it, I’d laugh or sigh and confidently blurt out that I’ve lived in six different cities, attended eight different schools, and that I don’t even know which home I would be “sick” about missing. Numb. In that moment in the airport, I wasn’t feeling homesick, but I was already feeling terribly people sick. That’s what it should be called. I already missed the way my mother could tell if I was upset from the curve of my brow, the slightest dip in my chin, or a certain blankness in my stare. I already missed the way my boyfriend ran his fingers along the skin on the back of my hand like it was gold. Numb. I already missed the way I didn’t have to think or worry or stress around any of the people that lovingly signed their names on colored paper in my lavender bag with bad jokes, a survey of our year together, and flickering images of our potential futures. Numb.

Snapping out of a daze, I realized that the airport staff was yelling and attempting to replace at least some of the chaos in the area with order, while crowds of people followed their instructions like sheep. Numb. As I watched mothers say goodbye to other college students, like me, and watched dazed-looking travelers with headphones in and sweatpants on, I realized that that was it. I would never see my friends in the same setting on a daily basis again. Numb. I wouldn’t experience the ease of being able to text my mom my preference for dinner every night anymore. Numb. I wouldn’t get to yell at my brother for leaving my bedroom door slightly open anymore. Numb. These weren’t the only thoughts in my head, though. My mind was also swarming with images of New York City– my dream since the sixth grade– of the newfound sense of independence I’d have, of all the opportunities that would emerge, all the coffee I’d drink, and all the art I’d make. Numb. A whirlwind of anticipation, giddiness, nostalgia, pain, and guilt all hit me at the same time and I didn’t know how to handle myself. Numb. Numb. Numb.

 

Ultimately, I chose erasure 1 because I liked how concise it was, and how it seemed to display the “blank” feeling I get when I’m upset or have mixed emotions but am unable to process anything.