Last May, I spent some time in Berlin for a study abroad program. As part of it, we were asked to explore our creative “practice.” Slightly embarrassing to admit now, but at the time, I had no idea what that really meant. I sat with the question for a while and realized something: my work — intentionally or not — has always revolved around people.

The semester before, I’d completed a thesis project researching a fashion subculture and its ties to radicalism and individuality. Maybe that’s why fashion was on my mind in Berlin — I was still thinking about what people wear and what it says about them.

I told my peers I wanted to focus on what Berliners were wearing. Basically just people watching, but with extra steps. And Berlin did not disappoint. From people in sparkly mesh tops walking home at 7 AM from the club, to a young woman with “SEX SYMBOL” blazoned across her shirt, there was something irreverent, even fearless, in the way Berliners dressed. I often felt too plain by comparison.

Artist's rendition of the young woman/sex symbol in question.

I kept a journal while I was there, and looking back, I kept writing about a certain absence. Something was missing. I was observing people, sure. but I wasn’t interacting with them.

My weekends were mostly spent at flea markets, where I spent too much time (and money) rummaging through vintage clothes. What’s stuck with me most isn’t what I bought, but the way vendors engaged with me. Not only did they let me try things on, they helped me. More than once, someone physically helped me into a garment. An older man selling surplus jackets held one open, gesturing for me to slip my arms in. A woman helped me pull a crochet top over my head, gently squeezing my arms through the sleeves. She said just one word during the entire exchange: “Schön.”

There was an unexpected intimacy in these moments. It’s such a small gesture – helping someone into clothes — but I can’t remember the last time a person, let alone a completete stranger, did that for me.

A TikTok that showed up for me the night of a flea market visit. I also purchased unwearable things.

Eventually, I realized what I had been neglecting: the people right in front of me: my peers, and their relationship to clothes. One torrentially rainy day, two friends and I were determined to go skirt shopping. What I didn’t tell them was that I hadn’t worn a skirt in years. But seeing them wear ones they had picked up from the same shop a few days earlier gave me the quiet encouragement I needed.

In Berlin, it’s common for people to leave unwanted items on their stoops for others to take. One day, my friend and I picked up two hideous, 100% polyester, matching fish hoodies — quite possibly the ugliest thing I’ve ever worn... But something about putting them on together, laughing at how absurd we looked, filled something in me that I had been missing the rest of the trip.

It’s your peers showing up on the last day of class all wearing the same shades of blue, unintentionally coordinated like a moody early-2000s Rolling Stone “Artists of the Year” spread. It’s your friend drunkenly spilling curry ketchup on your absolute favorite pair of pants, and you both burst into laughter because what else can you do?

Fashion in Berlin became more than something I observed from the outside. I became part of it, organically, intimately. I connected with people, just as I’ve always aimed to do through my art.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about, a year later.

Photo from fashion photographer Helmut Newton's estate. His subjects are quite fashionable.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I might be aromantic. It’s weird I didn’t seriously consider it before, because looking back, the signs have always been there — I don’t enjoy typical couple-y things, I rarely notice when someone’s flirting with me, and on the rare occasion I do, it just makes me uneasy. According to the internet, those seem like some pretty classic aromantic traits.

I took a few “Am I aromantic?” quizzes (the kind that were probably made by a preteen in 2012) and each one told me, “Congrats! You are likely aromantic :)” Thanks, I guess?

What’s been most eye-opening is remembering that aromanticism exists on a spectrum. I knew that before, I just never thought about where I might fall on it. What I do know is that I’ve always thought of dating as super super best friends, but with extra steps. Romance never really factors into it for me — I’m already fulfilled by the platonic side of relationships. If I did have a partner, I’d probably treat them the same way I do my dearest friends. And maybe that’s just how I understand love — through closeness, comfort, and care, without the romance part.

Anyway, I’m gonna stop before I get too philosophical about it all…

Last night I learned what grind fiction is — and turns out, a bunch of my favorite series (Scott Pilgrim, Persona, FLCL, etc.) fall under that label. Aside from being a kickass name, what does it actually mean?

A poster on an obscure forum summed it up perfectly in five words: Youths Having Fun Being Fantastic. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Grind fiction is everything from aliens, street punks, goths, emos, good old-fashioned hand-to-hand combat, and mega corporations, to cel-shaded art styles, sprawling cities, and, most of all, being young and having fun.

I came across this existential Tumblr essay about grind fiction, and it got me thinking — is that really all there is to it? To be young and to have fun? That’s what these characters seem to be doing, when they’re not fighting gods with their fists or winning battles through the sheer power of friendship. And honestly, sometimes… that’s all you can do.

All these stories — Persona, Scott Pilgrim, FLCL — have this core theme: every character is driven by a kind of quiet wonder that keeps them going. That spark, that thing that pushes them forward, paired with being surrounded by people who care about them, gives them momentum. Their journeys are emotional, stylish, chaotic — but they’re always moving, always growing.

When I played Persona 5 in 2020, it changed my life. And I mean that in the most melodramatic, but absolutely sincere way. It taught me (very stylishly) that to be radical is to:

1. say “fuck you” to authority, and
2. have fun — and take your time.

Those lessons sound so simple, it’s ridiculous I didn’t absorb them sooner. But there’s something brilliant about how Persona blends the surreal with the everyday. One minute you’re battling monsters and the next you’re debating whether to spend your day doing laundry or hang out with a friend. Grind fiction lives in that balance — the extraordinary sitting right next to the mundane.

What grind fiction has ultimately taught me is that radicalism isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s just choosing to live fully. To be young, to have fun, and to treat that as something worth fighting for.

I’ll end with a quote from the original grind fiction essay:

“It’s okay running off the beaten path, away from the sidewalks, in the middle of a city, just to find what’s around the corner. It’s okay to like the fact it’s okay. It’s okay to take pride in liking this fact. It’s okay that you like having fun, expressing yourself, and kickstarting a revolution. That, my friend, is what Grind Fiction is all about.”