v.1 is RISD’s student–led publication. Its form and content change from year to year (it’s always “volume 1”).

Info & Submission Guidelines ︎


Fall 2018 
  1. From the Editors
  2. How to Make a Person: A Recipe Mays Albaik
  3. Providence Votes Marcus Peabody
  4. Encounters with the Codex: Redefining Forms of Publication June Yoon
  5. How to Encounter a Puddle Anny Li
  6. A Brief List of Premises from a Maker Stuck with Paper, Politics, and Performance Yasi Alipour
  7. Art Writing and the Place of the “I” Randy Kennedy
  8. Written in Stone: Lineage, Legacy, and Letterforms Irina V. Wang
  9. The Unbearable Whiteness of Being (a Graphic Designer) Tiger Dingsun
  10. Colliers/Necklaces Théïa Flynn
  11. When One Door Closes: Examining Issues of Space and Student Curation on Campus Wen Zhuang
  12. Addressing the Empty Plinth: Lessons from Gallery Shows and Public Art Jeremy Wolin
  13. Modern Usage: In Conversation with Remeike Forbes Eliza Chen and Tiger Dingsun
  14. Dangling Threads: Remaining Unclear in Capital Everett Epstein
  15. A Vagabond Viking Voyage and Midsummer Daydream Mike Fink
  16. Everything is Interdependent Angela Dufresne
  17. La Bolita Elaine Lopez
  18. Bread Day Olive B. Godlee
  19. Against the Archive Satpreet Kahlon


2017 - 2018 
  1. Birds, Bees, and Beyond: The Nature Lab Evolves
  2. Concrete Mixer Drum Solo
  3. Negative Spaces
  4. “Printer Prosthetics” at NYABF
  5. On Writing: Nader Tehrani and Katie Faulkner
  6. On Writing: Marie Law Adams and Dan Adams
  7. On Writing: Kunlé Adeyemi
  8. Connecting Food and Design
  9. Remixing Architectural Discourse
  10. Genesis : 1: Beret Shit
  11. “No voy a actuar en el mundo antes de entenderlo”: Una conversación con Alfredo Jaar
  12. “I Will Not Act in the World Before Understanding the World”: A Conversation with Alfredo Jaar
  13. Imagining Irmgard
  14. Afterwords: Bite
  15. Afterwords: Portals
  16. Afterwords: Calendar
  17. Seeking Drafts
Mark

Genesis : 1 : Beret Shit

Christina Schaller (MArch 2018)

Julia Gutman, Untitled, from the series "Decrotivas," 2017, found scraps

In the beginning a shit beret lay dormant on the side walk. Someone had worn it once. Regrettably. A freshman’s first poetry slam. The freshman traded it in for an ironic dad hat when they realized Kerouac died a long time ago.  And other things were there, old scraps without form, void; and darkness was upon the face of the stuff. A dilapidated couch. An old bathtub. Pastel pink leather gloves, retired from a life of charity events and dinner parties, forced to live out their days as thrift store ornamentation and understudies in B Grade theatrical costume depositories.

And there were softballs, fraying from contact with the striking of fierce women. And there were New Yorker Totes, so many New Yorker totes. And they had been sent to New New Yorker subscribers and Old New Yorker subscribers who had decided to Unsubscribe. And they heaped in piles, piles of shirts and shoes and hats and scarves, of all American things made in China.

And they all started to fuck each other. And It was good. They grew new limbs, new sounds, new teeth. And they became the Decrotivas. And the Decrotivas said ‘let there be softness.’ And they stuck back together the light and the darkness. And they took what was the day, and what was the night, and sewed it with yarn to create the in-between. And in the in-between they lived. It was soft and terrifying, seductive and gross. And it was good.

Julia Gutman, Untitled, from the series "Decrotivas," 2017, found scraps




Mark