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

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Spring 2019

  1. From the Editors
  2. A Room without a View: Reflections on Studio Practice from a Privileged Poor Chantal Feitosa
  3. Between the Battlements Jeremy Wolin

  4. Accessing Color: Dissecting the Harvard Art Museum’s Forbes Pigment Collection Makoto Kumasaka
  5. British Club Tattoos Nasser Alzayani
  6. Making Space: Creativity and Resilience in War-Time Sri Lanka Elizabeth Dean Hermann
  7. How to Become Trans: A Proposal for the Modern-Day Gender-Agnostic Asher White
  8. Making It Up: A Conversation with Kent Kleinman Wen Zhuang
  9. “In Peace”: A Conversation with Matthew Shenoda Mays Albaik
  10. Suburbia_hours.mov Nora Mayer
  11. Negative Spaces Emily Wright
  12. Centerfold: Urgency Lab
  13. Rise Up: The Sunrise Movement Takes Root in Rhode Island Irina V. Wang
  14. After Strand Nafis White and García Sinclair
  15. Soldiers of Love? Karen Schiff
  16. Decoding Ghosts Molly Hastings
  17. An Annotated Bibliography Eli Backer
  18. Jesus, Marilyn, and Britney: Relationships between Religion and Celebrity Culture Nina Yuchi
  19. The Social (Antique) Network: Empathy in the Age of Digital Antiquing Zola Anderson
  20. My Little Episodes Michael Brandes
  21. Seeking Fair Game on Hidden Fields Reilly Blum
  22. The Should Be Here Is Not Here Joss Liao
  23. Index of Agency Sophie Chien
  24. Don’t Eat the Models Barbara Stehle
  25. Hypothetical Drink Personality Test: Who Said What, and When? Eliza Chen
  26. Dear Arabic Mohammed Nassem


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

Hypothetical Drink Personality Test:
Who Said What, and When?

Eliza Chen (BFA GD 2019)


You are at home and open your fridge to pull out a drink. What is the beverage? Mine: apple cider, cloudy in the jug, its color that of road dust kicked up by back wheels, and to boot it teeters on rancid. A discerning voiceover might note a faintly alcoholic undertone to the clove and apple profiles. I suddenly recall the Boxcar Children series of grade-school chapter books. The books loom huge in my youth, little me, when one-hundred pages were long. I recall with particular force the story where the siblings are taken on as seasonal laborers at a family-owned apple farm. What is their work? How, exactly, are they treated? I cannot remember. But in the end, after an indeterminate amount of labor, the children have some kind of dinner al fresco where they eat apple dumplings.

Up until that disorienting moment in my childhood when I first heard of apple dumplings, I’d conceived of the dumpling as an exclusively savory construction which was either boiled or fried in the jiaozi-gyoza-manju format, a loose meatball skinned with a light eggless peel, homemade or coming frozen out of bags. Chive and shrimp, pork and chive, pork and cabbage, beef and diced onion, mushroom-carrot-vermicelli, boiling water, hissing oil, steaming on a plate. Like some kind of movie, I remember the vast majority of the dumpling-called dumplings I’ve had, Rolodex of dumplings eaten in this life, and the color that accompanies the flavor is juicy, Morton-Salt blue.

I pause in this high-quality daydream to check some facts. Which book was this, even? Initial questions posed to the browser yield vague, unsatisfactory results. The only Boxcar Children book set in an apple orchard makes no mention of communal meals or farm work. Most of the dumpling-related hits come from a companion 1991 Boxcar Children cookbook. In the “Desserts” section, the last recipe is “Mary’s Cherry Dumplings.” In a sparkling burst of clarity, I remember that none of the children are named Mary. A blog post on the topic asserts that the recipe is extrapolated from the end of the very first book, the original, wherein the children encounter a country doctor who also owns a cherry orchard. This first book, eponymous inauguration of the 149-volume Boxcar Children saga, is available through Project Gutenberg, as it was published in 1924. Somehow, classic children’s books are always older. Older than? Just older. I find the passage about the orchard with its cherries and its dumplings, and I discover that the core facts of this memory were all contained within a single chapter. They’d spilled over my brain’s fields and crevices into a whole fraught saga. What actually happens is that the children arrive on a casual invitation and, in the naive-pastoral way, they are allowed to work one day of the cherry harvest in exchange for a cute but sustaining wage.

It’s “Irish Mary,” the cook of the orchard-doctor’s family, who bakes cherry dumplings for the household. These are dumplings in the pastry sense, as in buttery dough filled with fruit compote; as in crust pinched up and covered in sugar that crusts golden-brown while baking. This dumpling composition is assumed within the book’s latent understanding of foods that exist; the dumplings are called dumplings and not further explained. It’s only reading this now, as a non-child, that I perceive the pastry associations at once. But the same non-child me is surprised to find that the dwelt-up procedure in this part of the book is when Irish Mary makes something called cherry slump. This is a sweet cherry stew, a dessert served only to the laborers. The cherry dumplings are bestowed an extra special glow because it’s uncommon that the Boxcar children, random kids from who-knows-where, are allowed to eat them. The children devour the sweet baked dumplings with superlative relish. The two adult orchard workers have slump.

So it wasn’t apples—cherries instead. When I was a child, I didn’t know that cherries could be cooked. I’d only eaten them raw, and even then not so often, because the stone pit was so big and locked in the fruit that my teeth couldn’t maneuver around it. Cooking cherries seemed like an impossibility. Cherries couldn’t be stewed any more than whole grapes or peeled oranges. How would you cook a fruit like that, which contains its juices in a watertight skin? There would be no liquid to simmer in the fashion of stews. The possibility of crushing the fruit was obviously beyond me. And in marveling at my ridiculous lack of imagination as a child, I remember how the fruits were switched. Apple for cherry, apple then ossifying into the false pillar of this real memory. The first thing I ever baked from instructions not given by a box or my mother was apple turnovers. It was cinnamon sugar and diced apple paste nestled inside re-formed croissant dough from the can, the entity then baked into something my Home Economics teacher called “apple dumplings.” A revelation. I didn’t know that this type of food, more often called “turnovers,” could also have another name with such different associations. It’s all somewhat ridiculous, and Wikipedia reveals that most “dumplings” are boiled or steamed or savory, having numerous combinations of non-turnover characteristics. But in this life I reach into the refrigerator for apple cider, thinking of apple, apple, apple dumpling. Then the whole sequence of confusions and false names and misdirections returns to me, inexorable like a flavor.


Eliza Chen is excited to eat everything in the future.