In Kids, 1995 New York City doesn't look like a film set. It simply seems to exist. More than the plot itself, it is this feeling that explains why the movie directed by Larry Clark and written by Harmony Korine continues to hold such a unique place in youth culture's collective memory. Kids doesn't observe adolescence from afar. It sticks to it. It follows it through Washington Square Park, suffocating apartments, streets, parties, and aimless afternoons, building a world th

Hongdae as an Open-Air Laboratory The symbolic epicenter of this narrative is the Hongdae district, an area that grew around Hongik University and its renowned arts community. For years, art schools, underground clubs, live venues, night markets, and independent businesses have generated a creative density here that refuses to be boxed into a single discipline.

There was tease-backed, gravity-defying hair, hot pink and leopard-print streaks, heavy black eyeliner, skin-tight skinny jeans, and high-angle photos shot with a blinding flash right into the face. But above all, there was a personal profile page to bu In mid-twentieth-century America, dominant beauty standards were still deeply molded by Eurocentric traits. For many Black people, and particularly Black women, straightening their hair had long been tied to respectability an

When Natural Becomes Political In mid-twentieth-century America, dominant beauty standards were still deeply molded by Eurocentric traits. For many Black people, and particularly Black women, straightening their hair had long been tied to respectability and social acceptance.

A red dot. Then another. Then a hundred, a thousand, until the surface almost ceases to exist and all that remains is repetition. In Yayoi Kusama’s work, viewing often means losing your sense of space for a moment—no longer knowing where the artwork ends and the viewer begins.

Inside Studio 54, dressing up wasn't just about looking elegant. It meant becoming part of the show. A woman crosses the dance floor wrapped in sequins, the fabric catching the light and seemingly dissolving into movement. Just a few feet away, someone is wearing running shorts, knee-high socks, and barely anything else. There is no shared dress code—only the unspoken rule of bringing your body to the peak of its presence.

The core of Joseph Rodriguez’s work resides in the imperceptible distance between the photographer and his subjects. Born and raised in Brooklyn, and trained at the School of Visual Arts and the International Center of Photography's photojournalism program, Rodriguez dedicated a crucial portion of his practice to Spanish Harlem—also known as East Harlem or El Barrio.

Against the Baggy Clothes, Thrashed Shoes, and Open Plazas: The Identity of 90s Skate Culture

Against the Obsession with Major Milestones: The Quiet Return to the Beauty of Ordinary Life

Women's Surfing Has Already Shifted—Now the Way We Tell Its Story Must Change

Nonna-Maxxing: The Viral Trend Making Gen Z Fall in Love with Italian Grandmothers @ostras_pedrin Valencia

In a Culture Obsessed with the Answer, Listening has Become a Countercultural ActWe live inside ever-faster conversations.

Vans: The Shoe Transformed by Skateboarding into a Global Language

Posters, Clothes, and Clutter: The Emotional Archive of a Pre-Social Media Generation

Doodles Become a Language: How Joe Whale Turned a Schoolhouse Scolding into a Visual Narrative

Today, summer is synonymous with the sea, aperitifs at sunset, and days without a schedule. But the very concept of a vacation is much more recent than one might think. For centuries, travel was not for leisure: it was for education, trade, or necessity.

One blue eye wide open, the other closed. Her mouth twisted into a grimace created in post-production, her teeth painted white against a gradient carmine-red background, almost clown-like. Half the face in color, half in black and white. It is *Untitled #632*, one of the images with which Cindy Sherman—who turned seventy-two in January—once again tackles the theme that our image-obsessed society continues to treat as a taboo: aging.

There is a photograph in which everything seems on the verge of collapsing. Two bodies close together, a direct gaze, the dim light of an ordinary interior. There is no distance, no protection. Nan Goldin wasn’t merely observing that scene—she was part of it. The same is true of Mark Morrisroe, who, in his self-portraits, transformed his own existence into visual material—unfiltered, defenseless. In the 1980s, between New York and Boston, photography ceased to be a document a

A red car packed with kids, the tailgate open on a country road. A ball rolling down a cobblestone alley while two kids play tennis with a single racket. Hands stained with tomato breaking off pieces of bruschetta in the sun. A ride on a Vespa along the waterfront, without a helmet. The images scroll by, all looking the same, especially in the summer, across dozens of accounts: grainy film, low light, no smartphones in sight. The caption, almost always, says the same thing. O

There were clubs without specific signs, concerts announced with poorly photocopied flyers, hand-duplicated cassettes, and DJs who became legends without ever showing their faces. Music, before being content, was an environment. A physical space to navigate. It took time to enter it: you had to know where to go, who to follow, what to look for. Today, music is everywhere. It flows continuously through TikTok, algorithmic playlists, Reels, fifteen-second snippets, and weekl