Summer 2023

Dearest readers,

We’ve been boiling, grilling, and harvesting ingredients from all over the world for the past three months and it’s finally started to smell good. So buckle up for a scrumptious summer feast!

Since releasing the last issue in December 2022, we went on a tumultuous journey questioning our identity as Napkins [and maybe we’ll always be questioning 🍓(that's camp)]. For some #context, we organized a really delicious interactive art exhibition called Fractal in Taipei last November. That put us through a phase where we felt Napkins would be better off focusing on events.

In retrospect, our decision, which we were dead convinced was not a phase, was probably a result of the stress (trauma) cumulated from organizing Fractal and having to push out a magazine immediately after the back-breaking work.

But as you can deduce/induce/abduct by now, we missed having the magazine. They were right when they said your first would be unforgettable. The magazine was our first, serious baby.

Except that we thought it was an adult at first, and put all the pressures of an adult on that issue. We even expected it to be financially independent. Seeing it for what it was—a tender, curious, and confused as hell child—has helped us realize that we need to walk at its pace and listen to it. And same went for our approach to working with our contributors.

Everything you read in this issue is, as always, a dance between the editors and the contributors. What set it apart from previous issues was that we now have a much more diverse team of editors—different niches, different backgrounds, different editorial styles to accompany the diverse different talent of our contributors.

It is always difficult to foresee how each issue would end up looking. We agreed on setting a theme that was general enough to encourage running imagination but narrow enough for the galloping to not go astray. What you will see from this summer spread then is a collage of different people’s summer experiences and musings made under the summer weather.

There are warm memories from childhood seasoned with fresh sea salt, wild strawberries on controversial plates, sandwiches crumpled in pockets, empanadas from hot bus rides, and much, much more…

Welcome to the Napkins Summer of 2023. Enjoy your meal and leave space for dessert!

Смачного and 趁热吃,
Dasha & Zhi Zhi x

P.S. Find the Dessert on the website.

JAGAE: Jagae, also known as mother-of-pearl, is a pure Korean word that refers to the shell of clams, abalones, and mollusks.

In a world of ever-changing trends and modernity, certain things hold a significance that transcends their practicality. For me, that special item is a beautiful, useless box I took from my grandfather's room when I was just six years old. The black box, adorned with glowing rainbow curves, looked enchanting as it displayed different shades of color when I moved it around under various lights. It transported me to the beach, making me feel like I was discovering clam shells of different colors and shapes.

Despite sitting empty and covered in a layer of dust for the past fifteen years, I cannot bring myself to throw it away.

This box represents the reality of tradition, crafted from a material known as Jaegae. This material has now become a beautiful relic of the past. It has lost its original purpose and is no longer in use. The debate between tradition and modernity has been an interesting issue for me. And my summer internship helped me to seriously think about how we can create harmony between the past and present so that we can preserve a tradition that is out of use.

Over the past two months, I have been actively engaged in a project called the "Mother of Pearl (Jagae) Project". The project's mission is to preserve traditional material while infusing it with modern designs, ultimately making it relevant on a global scale. Jagae, derived from the shell of clams, undergoes a long and intricate production process, which in the past made it a material of great value accessible only to the royals in the past.

Since the 16th century, Jagae has been known for its trickiness, with only trained masters being able to craft it. Jagae is cut into a specific shape so that it can be attached onto the wooden frames that are already coated with lacquer. The surface is repeatedly coated with lacquer until it is firmly secured. Even for the project I participated in, the process of applying Jagae to the table itself took at least two weeks for one table. The whole process of designing the tables, creating wooden frames, putting Jagae onto the frame, and shipping took more than six months.

However, the pride associated with Jagae has dwindled in the 21st century. Once cherished for its warm connection to grandparents and traditional heritage, Jagae now feels out of place in modern interior designs. The Jagae closets and tables are tossed aside like forgotten relics. Furthermore, the market is flooded with cheap imitations of Jagae, further diminishing its authenticity. Thus, our primary objective was to elevate awareness surrounding Jagae and restore its rightful place of pride.

Collaborating with six modern designers from Italy and Korea, our gallery set out to interpret and design Jagae tables in their unique styles. These designs were eventually exhibited at the prestigious Trinalle Museum in Milano, Italy, drawing visitors from all walks of life to witness the beauty and creativity inherent in these tables.

Among the six pieces, my favorite piece is a rounded oval-shaped table with a flower design made of Jagae. It has a low height but works perfectly as a tea table, and I can imagine it fitting seamlessly into various modern designs, alongside black and silver folding chairs. The Jagae flowers bloom with colors that create a rainbow reflection on the floor from the sunlight. I was always excited at the thought of placing this piece in different locations, such as the lobby of a 5-star hotel, traditional Korean houses, a minimalistic black and white apartment living room, or even in the garden. I truly enjoyed participating in this project to brainstorm on how this outdated material can be beautifully presented in so many locations in various formats in the modern world.

Before doing this project, I had never thought of why Jagae products like the box from my grandfather were devalued in society. But I guess, it was too easy to obtain in the present times, which diminished the legacy from the past. The abundance of Jagae led to a decline in its perceived worth. Currently, Korea preserves tradition as it is by showcasing it in museums and explaining its value through textbook photographs. However, if we let this situation persist, Jagae would fade away as a fame of the past.

Of course, the origin should be preserved, but we need a revolutionary way of keeping the tradition alive. For this, we have to preserve tradition through culture and revive it with new life. Our gallery has chosen the latter, planning a follow-up project that designs and sells new, practical products catered to the needs of young people. Jagae is no longer an old, traditional, and outdated material. Jagae is a fancy, modern, and trendy material.

The Mother of Pearl (Jagae) Project is not just about preserving the original; it's about honoring our heritage, finding new ways to appreciate the past, and integrating it into the fabric of our contemporary lives. Through art, we aim to bridge the gap between tradition and modernity. By combining the beauty of tradition with the ingenuity of modern design, we strive to keep the flame of Jagae burning brightly for generations to come.

The journey of the Mother of Pearl (Jagae) Project has been a testament to the power of art in preserving tradition and breathing new life into the past. With passion and creativity, we seek to forge a path where tradition and modernity can coexist harmoniously, bridging the gap between what was and what is yet to be. As we continue to navigate the ever-changing landscape of the 21st century, let us remember that the legacy of our ancestors is a treasure worth cherishing, and through art, we can keep it alive for a brighter future.

Description:

During this summer break, I encountered numerous challenges that pushed me beyond my comfort zone. This illustration depicts one of these experiences: traveling abroad with my friend without the assistance of our parents. Surprisingly, our trip to Vietnam was far more enjoyable than I had expected!

This collection of pictures illuminates a sense of hidden beauty and hues that is unexpected. Conventionally, daytime is when colors and vitality blossom; however, another world of vibrance awaits to be discovered as the night befalls.

In a similar manner, traversing beyond conventionalism has always been the cardinal force behind every societal and technological advancement.

As an imminent student of Minerva University, I believe certain resembling motifs exist between the two. A stimulating and cerebral education does not have to exist in a traditional institution. We Minervans are able to see beyond the social expectations of following a linear path for education, and pioneer into a new realm of opportunities, excitement, and exuberance.

Rugged sweaters—gray and blue—chipping logos, stray papers, smudged charcoal clashing with red ink; linoleum floors and fluorescent lights, the strong, sweet smell of stress and expectation and competition, strong in the hallways, but stronger still in classrooms, behind wooden desks and doors blacked out with shades. Sweet like envy, sweet like poison, overwhelming but addicting all the same; it drives the machines in circles, promises of fulfillment leading them up stairwells and into closed-stall bathrooms, parking lots and laboratories.

Hands meant for play molded to thumbing through textbooks, cramped around a mechanical pencil; red-rimmed eyes bloodied by expectation, brains hard-wired to chase grades, not dreams, promised later happiness in exchange for present boredom. Intellectual minds dulled by repetition after repetition, structure after structure—killer of creativity. But in a world where success is measured by conformity, there is no room for individuality.

Every ninety minutes the machines come to life, pouring into the halls, floors paved by those who came before them—generations after generations framed on the second-floor walls, smiling faces, successful products worthy of praise. Soon, they will be just that: a memory, a faint ghost hovering, spirits lingering, tied by the unfulfilling weight of regret.

4 years and it’s not enough but too much all at once, 1,600 souls machines in the pursuit of happiness; forever searching for the right thing in all the wrong places.

Rugged sweaters—gray and blue—chipping logos, stray papers, smudged charcoal clashing with red ink; linoleum floors and fluorescent lights, the strong, sweet smell of stress and expectation and competition, strong in the hallways, but stronger still in classrooms, behind wooden desks and doors blacked out with shades. Sweet like envy, sweet like poison, overwhelming but addicting all the same; it drives the machines in circles, promises of fulfillment leading them up stairwells and into closed-stall bathrooms, parking lots and laboratories.

Hands meant for play molded to thumbing through textbooks, cramped around a mechanical pencil; red-rimmed eyes bloodied by expectation, brains hard-wired to chase grades, not dreams, promised later happiness in exchange for present boredom. Intellectual minds dulled by repetition after repetition, structure after structure—killer of creativity. But in a world where success is measured by conformity, there is no room for individuality.

Every ninety minutes the machines come to life, pouring into the halls, floors paved by those who came before them—generations after generations framed on the second-floor walls, smiling faces, successful products worthy of praise. Soon, they will be just that: a memory, a faint ghost hovering, spirits lingering, tied by the unfulfilling weight of regret.

4 years and it’s not enough but too much all at once, 1,600 souls machines in the pursuit of happiness; forever searching for the right thing in all the wrong places.

The conflict between the being and the non-being of things, of the eternal change and permanence of beings. Of the complementary duality between ephemerality and longevity: Heraclitus and Parmenides.

Embraced in this eternal being and becoming is what motivates me to live. I thought for a long time that putting down roots would be the same as being and living—form to justify my reality. As an ancient tree with nests, vines and different species of birds feeding on its fruit creates a stable ecosystem, I thought that was how life should be: going to college, finding a job, having a partner, having kids, dying. That was the formula of living sold to and bought by me for a long time. Happiness would come from dedication and faithfulness to routine and rites. However, looking closely at this ecosystem, we see that the birds are not the same.

The branches die and fall. The leaves change. The roots decay. The tree is in constant modification. Its immutability is a macroscopic and chronological illusion. One must get closer to see that happiness is not built from recipes and steps already defined. It is a daily choice.

It takes time to realize that everything transforms, even in small steps.

Leaving my family and meeting people from different backgrounds and perspectives made me see that there is so much similarity between so many different peoples and beliefs—just like branches in a big tree. And like a bird, I fled my home and tried to nest in other trees. Many welcomed me— – many did not. They changed and so did I. I met other birds looking out for the greatest metamorphosis. Just like me, they did not know it was already inside of them. Mustard seeds ready to germinate.

In a society driven by instant consumerism where everything is disposable, we find ourselves trapped in this volatile lifestyle. Never taking roots. Always flying. Never stopping and enjoying the raindrops that glisten on the ground. But always moving, getting wet and dry and wet again.

Loneliness lies there. In that gap between the ephemeral being and the eternal becoming of self.

For the first time, I made my solo trip. In Bangkok, I created nests. Local and foreign friends welcomed me with a warmth that I thought belonged to the restlessness. Working in a hostel teaches you about the transience of encounters. Some went unnoticed if they left too soon—others, like me, took a while. Became rooted. Some already had well-established roots. In them, I created nests, and when I flew, they were empty.

What is life if not the embrace of what will exist and what has already existed? I read from a fellow countrywoman that living is more than accepting the lack, it is wanting it not to go away. Empty nests are necessary for a living tree. They indicate there was life, and always will be. Although, each branch is an endless possibility – the drunkard's walk.

Then I flew to Costa Rica.

The certainty that I would fly again did not stop me from making my home with people and letting them live with me. Fear is important, but if not handled well, it becomes a great enemy. It paralyzes rooting and prevents first-throw momentum. It stagnates. Fear is part of life, and the stagnation it generates must be temporary, otherwise there is no life. Its liveliness is created from its being and becoming. Here is a sacred continuum. The Brazilian romanticist, Adelia Prado, used to say that what seems static, waits; and what seems dead, fertilizes. Just like stagnation and death, fear can still be a valuable pathway to something greater.

Accepting and embarking on this paradoxical motion is a constant learning process. EARTH University— – where I engaged with different differences. Coming from Brazil, it was a great joy for me to meet the diversity of people and peoples that I had always heard about but had never spoken to. People that have always been around me unnoticed: Peruvians, Paraguayans, Ecuadorians, Bolivians, Caribbeans, Kenyans, Rwandans. Open-veins bodies. Everyone was there. Not idealized, their presences were acts of resistance. Not transient, not static. Constant. They taught me a lot about their lives. And I listened.

I also found a Brazilian community that welcomed me like a returning son. I could not understand this feeling of home away from home. In my life, its concept has changed. Sometimes I wanted it to be like a foundation stone, other times, like a holy dance.

After all, everything passes—and they did. However, I have learned that some things stay. Pieces of my heart remained. I planted them. Roots and nests.

I flew and I did not look back—or perhaps, I did, but my friends did not notice. They were receiving new birds and I was creating new nests.