Clothes that are traditionally feminine in aesthetic need not conform to traditional ideals of femininity. There is perhaps no better proof of this principle than British designer Molly Goddard and the sweetly saccharine, frilly tulle smock dresses that constitute the bulk of her collections.

There are countless ways to portray femininity through clothes, but in 1947 there was really only one—by heeding the waist-constricting, boob- and hip-enhancing silhouettes of Christian Dior’s “New Look.” To be feminine, according to these celebrated silhouettes, was to wear skirts too full to pass through any average doorway, to constrict your waist until breathing was no longer an involuntary act. To be bogged down by the very clothes you wore, essentially. And bear in mind that this was all conceived of by a man. So it was only natural for women to eventually defy such silhouettes with masculine, tomboy-skewed clothes.

In hindsight, responding in such a way feels inadequate, as if we let the oppressive “New Look” win in defining femininity. Which is why the resurgence of traditionally feminine clothes we’ve been seeing in the last couple seasons feels so vital and powerful. And if there’s anyone to thank for helping spearhead this trend, it’s Goddard.

Crowd me out of every portal

The bell designs a ring at most

Are we more the sculpture or the ghost?

Flirtatious juicer can’t be mortal, 

Can’t be trusted, can’t behave

Are humans more the heat or the microwave?

And who are the administrators? 

And who will speak? 

And who'll refrain?

Can a puppet be purified by pain?

While we witness with wet neuron mirrors Its doesn’t hit or scrape or squeeze

Do I say “God bless I” when you sneeze?

Somewhere in Brooklyn, Maggie Rogers answers the phone. I immediately take note of her voice—it’s soft and small, almost like a faint flute, and more delicate than the breathy falsetto that launched her into viral stardom. The video of Maggie playing a recording of her unfinished song for a supremely impressed Pharrell Williams during a masterclass he was teaching at NYU is one of the few joyous things the internet gave us this tumultuous year, and its popularity brought immediate success to the 22-year-old singer- songwriter. And while the 21st century Cinderella story is nothing new, there seems to be something different about Rogers’ rise to the public eye, a sincerity of sorts. After all, Maggie wasn’t looking for fame, she was looking to make music, and the impulse to listen to her instincts is ultimately what set her apart in a room of other talented musicians.

Perhaps it’s this sincerity that matters most on the day we talk. It’s the Monday after an emotional weekend filled with collective grief and nationwide post-election protests, and even though we don’t intend to make our conversation political, it’s inevitable. “Music”, Maggie says, “brings release, and it gives people something to turn to.” With an active intention to bridge the gap between pop and music with a bit more depth, Maggie might just have the voice to succeed.

This guy must be a total fucking sleaze, right? As Mark shuffles across the parking lot in his bare feet to greet me, I judge. There’s the gut, the receding hairline and the ill- fitting clothes, all uncomfortably characteristic of a man who arranges for women half his age to be filmed performing ungodly sex acts for profit. And the poor girls. Right? Surely they’re young and impressionable, lured in to the work and exploited only to later find themselves penniless and humiliated. Right?

The movie Moonlight is discussed in hushed, reverent tones, the way people might speak after a religious service—a funeral maybe, depending on how hard it hits you. It is both gut-wrenching and gossamer, gentle and terrifying; a small-scale story of monumental ideas. I’ve seen the thing multiple times, and after each screening I look around with damp eyes, brattily judging anyone who doesn’t seem at least slightly shattered. But that’s exactly the opposite of what Moonlight wants you to feel. Above all else, the movie is empathetic—a clear-eyed, sensitive, and unfussy examination of its characters. Director Barry Jenkins might make an excellent psychologist.

Moonlight is about a lot of things, but simply put it’s about Chiron, a boy grappling with his sexuality in the projects of Liberty City, Miami. The film is an adaptation of Tarell Alvin McCraney’s semi-autobiographical play In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue—the play’s title pops up during a meaningful moment in the film, and the phrase embodies the sort of dreamy profundity that defines the movie.

Founded in 1996, New York’s Team Gallery was conceived as a venue for art that virtually couldn’t be sold—unwieldy sculpture, multimedia, and other works that eschewed classic forms and confounded collectors. Challenging conventional notions of art and exhibition, and thanks to the relentlessly adaptive dealings of Team cofounder and owner José Freire, the gallery has withstood the vicissitudes of a fickle market for twenty years, moving from Chelsea to SoHo and in recent years expanding to LA. Throughout that time the gallery has stayed faithful to its defiant original mission, in the process coming to represent a vanguard of artists including Cory Arcangel, Banks Violette, Pierre Bismuth and Ryan McGinley.

Office spoke with Gallery Director Todd von Ammon about his work at Team, the shifting sands of the New York gallery scene, and the idiosyncrasies of modern-day art consumption.

“Start with that one, darling. I had a bagel this morning,” Jake Dibeler says in a tone fit for Mariah Carey. He’s just let out two aggressive burps that elicit a grin and a slight eye roll from his friend and bandmate Simon Leahy, despite him being in the direct path of the bagel’s odor. He must be used to it. As Simon and Jake strut through the Market Hotel in Bushwick, they sound more like an acid-tongued old married couple than bandmates— albeit a couple with a soft spot for lace-front wigs and twelve-inch platforms.

Together the powerhouse duo form Brooklyn-based electroqueer band Bottoms—and yes, they’re as ready to talk anal sex as you’d expect. It’s not all fun, games and lubricant though. While Simon provides the otherworldly electronic sound, Jake screams his way through songs about HIV and AIDS. It’s the sonic equivalent of going to a party at Spectrum and giving head to someone dressed like an alien while trying to watch How to Survive a Plague on Netflix. Which actually doesn’t sound half bad.

It’s an energy that literally bleeds through in their work—their stage presence does occasionally involve some well-placed fake blood. As demanding as it is to throw on their wigs and tour Europe, they’re just as busy with a seemingly endless list of side projects. Whether it’s Jake scaring—and arousing—the public with his radical performance art pieces or Simon planning the next iteration of New York’s drag mecca Bushwig and the New York City Porn Festival, they never seem to hit the sheets. Well, for sleep at least.

Kevin Abstract was barely a teenager when he decided to be an artist. Growing up black and queer in Texas, without a sufficiently relatable local art scene, he took to the internet to find like-minded kids, developing a virtual friendship with a group scattered across the country and the world. The more adventurous of these online friends made the decision to band together in person, converging in Texas and later moving to South Central LA to form Brockhampton House, a sort of dorm, studio and clubhouse for the crew.

Along the way Abstract and the Brockhampton collective have been making art—music in particular. Much of Kevin’s output has fit into various classifications of rap, but the recently released American Boyfriend: A Suburban Love Story, is a departure, an emotional alternative pop album touching on themes of love, individuality, and the alienation of adolescence. His first official solo record, it is an impressive addition to the ambitious twenty-year-old artist’s growing discography.

Sitting amongst his cohort in the common room at Brockhampton House, I ask Kevin where he’d feel most comfortable speaking to me. He doesn’t hesitate. “Outside.” So we sit on a ragged couch in the driveway and discuss what’s on his mind.

Duo of the same tribe, birds of a feather, meant to be. Are they sisters? Lovers? The details, nonessential. They made it here and there is no looking back.

I’d briefly met the two before, but never exchanged more than a few words with either of them. Today, we broke the ice—fast.

These are the Days My Friends and These are the Days

For Christopher Knowles, time is a landscape, a visual pattern. The poet and artist collects alarm clocks, he carries at least one wristwatch, and when he meets an acquaintance he might tell her: It’s been 3,782 hours since I last saw you. If she counts the days and hours she will find that he is correct. If you tell Knowles your birthday, he will tell you what day of week you were born, and for any historical date he can tell you exactly what phase the moon was in. Like a person on a hilltop surveying the landscape, Knowles seems to visualize the years and days and hours spreading out before him.

“There are patterns in his mind that organize time and space,” says Robert Wilson, the renowned avant-garde theater artist who has worked with Knowles for more than forty years. “I don’t know exactly how Chris’s mind is organized, but he can visualize time and language. Sometimes, if you record his sentences and listen carefully, you will find that every fourth word is ‘it’ and every tenth word is ‘with’ or that you can read the sentences backwards. There are structures at play.”