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Interpol Announce New Album ‘This Mirror Weighs a Ton’, Share New Songs

Interpol have announced their eighth studio album, This Mirror Weighs a Ton. Arriving on August 28, the follow-up to 2022’s The Other Side of Make-Believe marks their debut release with Partisan Records. The band has also shared two songs from the album, the slow-burning title track and ‘See Out Loud’, the latter of which features guitarist Daniel Kessler’s first vocal since Turn on the Bright Lights‘ ‘PDA’. Take a listen below.

This Mirror Weighs a Ton was recorded with producer Andrew Wyatt at his downtown Manhattan studio. Dave Fridmann mixed the album, whose cover artwork features an Addie Wagenknecht piece currently held in the Whitney’s permanent collection.

“I wondered what it would be like to keep the parts perfectly legible, because everyone in that band writes such great parts, and to add some different spatial dimensions to it,” Wyatt said in a press release. “It was something almost a little bit more like chamber music — the musical ideas bear scrutiny without needing the sonic treatment of it to carry all the weight. It was also nice to add a trick or two I picked up over a couple decades of making pop records.”

Kessler commented, “I was right next to Andrew when he started doing these incredible things with the sound design, and it was just so exciting. I remember thinking, I don’t have context for what kind of music this is — these big crashes happening before Paul even had a vocal. Logic would have said maybe this is an instrumental. Then Paul just got up, went into the back room and started singing those melodies — and suddenly it was clearly not going to be.”

This Mirror Weighs a Ton Cover Artwork:

Interpol

This Mirror Weighs a Ton Tracklist:

1. This Mirror Weighs a Ton
2. See Out Loud
3. Iron City
4. Wounded Soldier
5. Wings On Fire
6. Ever The Actor
7. So Rides The Reindeer
8. Darling Thoughts
9. Wake Up
10. Enemy
11. Bird and The Serpent
12. Sudden

Pulling Apart Pink Pony Club: An Empowerment Anthem For a Generation

Chappel Roan’s ‘Pink Pony Club’ is one of those songs that is instantly recognisable from the first few bars. You probably throw your hands in the air and head to the dancefloor as soon as you hear those familiar dulcet tones announcing ‘I know you wanted me to stay’. 

After all, this song is as lovable as Chappell Roan herself, and like Roan with her striking style and self-assured uniqueness, it also speaks broadly to a generation who just want to be themselves. 

Interestingly, though, the song was far from an overnight success. In this article, we’re going to deep-dive into the song’s history and themes, as well as asking one key question – how exactly has it managed to capture the hearts of an entire generation? Keep on reading as we explore!

Understanding the Song’s Origins

You only need to glimpse the video for Pink Pony Club to get a feel for its LGBTQ vibes and fabulous message, but what exactly are the song’s origins? Well, it all started when Roan first visited a gay bar in West Hollywood, where she saw firsthand a level of self-acceptance that she’d simply never experienced before that point. Interestingly, though, Roan used the inspiration of a hot pink strip club in her hometown of Missouri as the stylish backdrop for the song that we’ve all seen in the video. But what about those heavy synth tones and iconic pop layers, which Roan’s label at the time actually dissuaded her from using? Well, that’s self-explanatory, isn’t it? When better to be yourself than when getting lost in a pop power ballad that makes you want to reach right for your hairbrush?

Why wasn’t it an Immediate Hit?

As mentioned, Pink Pony Club might have made its fame after the release of Roan’s debut studio album ‘The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess’, but its history spans way back to April 2020, when, we’ll be honest, it didn’t immediately reach a huge audience. This was due to a few unfortunate issues, the majority of which stemmed from Roan’s label at the time, Atlantic Records, which resisted the song for around a year, and then dropped Roan shortly after its poorly timed release. It’s also fair to say that the world might just not have been ready for an empowering pop anthem of this degree back then. Thankfully, five years later, the truth couldn’t be more different. 


What we Love About Pink Pony Club in 2026

Three years on from a second release that still didn’t exactly take the charts by storm, Pink Pony Club has been streamed well over a million times on Spotify. More than that, there’s a strong argument that this is the empowerment anthem of our generation. Not only does it perfectly capture the supportive, sassy self-acceptance that we could all do with practising right now, but it’s also paved the way for a new musical era, complete with unashamed synthesisers, power pop vibes, and a sound that really is irresistible!

Artist Interview: Macarena Rojas Osterling

Macarena Rojas was born in 1985 in Lima, Peru. She studied Architecture at the Universidad Peruana de Ciencias Aplicadas and subsequently transferred to the Communications Department, where she graduated in 2009. In 2012 she did the General Studies in Photography Program at the International Center of Photography in New York and in 2017 she received her Masters in Fine Arts at The Royal College of Art in London. Her work has been exhibited in Black Box Projects Cromwell Place London (2022), Crisis Galería Lima (2019), Art Lima (2018), Museo AMANO Lima (2018), Camden Arts Center London (2017), Edinburgh College of Art (2016), Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Lima (2016), ArtBo Bogotá (2016), Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, Santiago de Chile (2014), Wu Galería (2014-2015), International Center of Photography New York (2012), Triskelion Arts New York (2013), amongst other public and privately held exhibitions.

She lives and works in Lima.

Rojas Osterling’s work can currently be viewed in Look How Brightly, a group exhibition at London’s Britannia Row curated by Jenn Ellis and Alex Mills, which brings together artists whose practices interrogate questions of identity, absence and presence, fragmentation, and transcendence. Osterling’s solo exhibition In The Whitewater is currently on view at Praxis in New York through July 10, unfolding a body of work that moves between pressure and release, where forms seem to dissolve and re-emerge in shifting states.

You were based in the UK for many years before returning to Peru. How has being in your home country affected your artistic practice?

I was based in the UK for many years — I did my master’s at the RCA — and honestly I still feel like I’ve only just returned home. I think the thing I’ve valued most about being back in Lima is having the Pacific Ocean five minutes away from me. In many ways, I think the ocean completely infiltrated the newer works.

It probably drew me toward the glass sculptures first. They appear very different from the drawings because they’re pristine, almost clinically clean — no scratches, no visible chaos — but the process itself is actually incredibly intuitive and messy. Even when I’m trying to extract or hold a very specific gesture of water, the making process involves surrender and unpredictability.

The same happens in the collage paintings. They carry traces of sand, salt, erosion, water damage… The papers almost feel as if they’ve been submerged in the ocean for years. There’s a fragility to them that interests me a lot.

I think returning to Peru affected the newer works more directly. The drawings are different because drawing is something I’ve done my entire life. They almost transcend geography for me. They mutate in language, density or form, but the impulse behind them remains very constant wherever I am.

Photo credit: Claire Esparros

Your art expresses and embraces the effects of ADHD, and the chaotic nature of motherhood. What has it meant for you to make work that reflects the way your mind actually functions?

Motherhood was a difficult experience to process, especially with a brain like mine, which really struggles to compress information into simple conclusions. I always feel I have too many answers to everything. My mind doesn’t work in straight lines — everything becomes slightly labyrinthine, slightly contradictory. I tend to see things in shades of grey.

For a long time, I was insecure about speaking openly about the way my mind functions because I carried this almost stereotypical ‘Latin American artist complex’ — this feeling that I should be speaking about something more politically urgent or externally important. I felt guilty making work that was so rooted in my own inner life.

But at the same time, I’m a very instinctive and honest artist. I don’t really know how to make work about subjects that don’t genuinely belong to me emotionally. I can research something intellectually, of course, but art for me is much more visceral than that. I need to feel some kind of authorship over the experience.

Eventually I realised that the personal isn’t isolated from the collective. The way we think, fracture, parent, fail, obsess, or experience overwhelm is shared by many people. So at some point I stopped resisting it. Speaking about motherhood, ADHD, chaos, fragmentation — it ended up feeling like the most natural thing I could make work about.”

I love how your art embeds everyday fragments like grocery lists, notes or your children’s writing. The work becomes a very genuine mosaic of your life. What do those personal elements represent to you? 

They’re traces of a very specific moment in time. Grocery lists, children’s notes, ticket stubs, reminders — as banal as they may seem — are actually part of the psychological landscape I was living inside of.

For me, they reflect the day-to-day reality of a mother’s brain, especially during those years of raising young children, where everything is happening simultaneously. You’re trying to work, parent, organise, remember, survive emotionally… all at once. The boundaries between creative life and domestic life completely collapse.

It’s funny because I think many mothers probably experience this mentally — corporate mothers answering emails while managing ten invisible layers of thought at the same time — but in my work it becomes very visual and exposed.

A lot of these drawings were also made while navigating separation, moving countries, midlife, exhaustion, and transformation. So the works become accumulations of thought, memory, anxiety, logistics, affection, language… all compressed into one surface.

What interests me is precisely that rawness. I want the work to remain immediate, and deeply connected to the moment I’m living through. Even the most ordinary human experiences can carry enormous emotional weight.

Shapes of the Whitewater III by Macarena Rojas Osterling, 2026 Drawing on Paper 45 x 71.5 inches (114.3 × 181.6 cm) Framed in stained wood, optium Photo Credit Ian Tong

On the other hand, works like La Muna feel like almost like an architectural representation of your mind – sequences, data… Parts of it look like something out of an ECG printout. Does the act of that visual mapping bring relief?

That’s a very interesting question because I’ve often felt there are certain expectations placed on Latin American artists — almost preconceived ideas about what our work should look like, what subjects we should address, even what emotional or visual language we should use.

But interestingly, I think my attraction to systems, sequencing, repetition, mapping, and structure comes precisely from growing up surrounded by instability. Part of that was personal — my own family dynamics — but part of it was also the experience of growing up in Peru during a very unstable period. There was terrorism, hyperinflation, unpredictability. You never really knew what was coming next, economically or emotionally.

So in many ways, these works are probably a response to that. The grids, the data-like structures, the almost architectural mapping of thought… yes, I think they do bring a certain sense of relief or containment. When you grow up surrounded by chaos, you become very attracted to systems that can organise, predict, measure, or hold experience together.

What interests me is that this impulse coexists with a very emotional and intuitive practice.

La Muna II by Macarena Rojas Osterling, 2026 Drawing on Paper 18×24 inches (46×61 cm) Framed in stained wood, optium Photo Credit Ian Tong

Many people experience competing thoughts or unfinished tasks as obstacles to productivity, but you’ve transformed those experiences into the artistic process itself. When did you realise that these interruptions weren’t something to work against, but could actually become the work?

I think I really began embracing chaos during my MFA. At that point I realised it was impossible to operate under the same conditions as many of my peers. I was a very young mother, and I simply couldn’t stay for every lecture, attend every opening, socialise constantly, or fully immerse myself in the art world ecosystem because I had a child waiting for me at home. At first, that felt like a limitation and even a kind of failure.

But eventually I understood that making art for me wasn’t optional: I’ve never really known myself without making work. So instead of trying to separate my life from the practice, I intuitively started absorbing all of it into the work itself: my son, exhaustion, fragmentation, interruptions, emotional overload, unfinished thoughts. At some point I stopped seeing those interruptions as something preventing the work and realised they actually were the work.

I think motherhood also changed my relationship to honesty as an artist. Before that, I still felt pressure to speak about subjects that perhaps seemed more intellectually or politically legitimate. But becoming a mother made me realise that the experiences closest to us can also contain enormous complexity and universality. It suddenly felt much more honest to speak about emotional overload, vulnerability, domestic chaos, attachment, and the fragmentation of everyday life. As my children have grown older, the work has evolved beyond motherhood itself into broader emotional experiences, but the core idea remains the same: the more honestly we speak about our inner lives, the more other people recognise themselves inside the work.”

Your glass works appear very different from the density of the drawings. What drew you toward glass as a material?

I had been wanting to portray water for a very long time, and I felt the drawings had certain limitations in terms of capturing that physicality. Glass suddenly allowed me to hold gestures of water in a much more spontaneous way. The result was actually quite unexpected because it was my first time working with the material, but I love that many people read the sculptures almost as ice fragments or frozen water formations. Even when people don’t consciously think about the ocean, they still emotionally connect the works back to water, which feels very meaningful to me.

I also think the glass works operate almost like a form of breathing space in relation to the drawings. The drawings are psychologically dens.  Sometimes I need relief from that intensity myself, which is probably also why I started making the collage works and more spatial pieces. The glass introduces silence and pause into the practice while still speaking about fragility and instability I guess.

Installation view of
In The White Water
at Praxis, May 7
July 10, 2026
Photo Credit: Ian Tong

Are there any exhibitions or artists that have nourished you creatively lately?

I’ve recently been very inspired by the work of Jacqueline Qiu and  Elise Peroi. Both are weavers, and you can feel the final work is very intuitive, and the thread has a life of its own.

It’s interesting because people often become confused by my drawings. Some think they’re textiles or thread rather than drawings because the way I build surfaces is so repetitive and layered that it almost resembles weaving. So I think I’m naturally attracted to weaving as a medium.

Beyond visual art, reading nourishes me creatively a lot. Recently I’ve been very immersed in the writing of Rachel Cusk. I’m deeply drawn to confessional literature and to writers who can transform emotional experiences — especially around relationships, identity, motherhood, or separation — into something intellectually sharp but still vulnerable. I think I connect very strongly to middle aged female writers in general because we are all going through a bit the same.

Where Words Evaporate: Jiaying Gao’s Vapour Words Disappear

At first, it is not entirely clear whether Jiaying Gao is writing or dancing. A long brush touches the floor. Water darkens the surface for a moment. A line appears, lengthens, thickens, trembles, and begins to vanish. The dancer’s body follows the brush, or perhaps the brush follows the body. What begins as calligraphy gradually becomes choreography; what looks like writing soon becomes drawing, painting, breathing, and remembering.

This ambiguity is one of the work’s strengths. Gao does not simply combine dance and calligraphy as two separate art forms placed beside one another. Rather, she turns writing itself into a choreographic event. Each stroke is produced not only by the hand, but by the whole body: the rotation of the torso, the transfer of weight, the suspension of breath, the pressure of the feet against the floor, and the controlled release of force through the arm into the brush. The result is not calligraphy accompanied by dance, but a choreography of inscription.

In Vapour Words Disappear, Gao performs with water and brush on the floor, creating an ephemeral script that never settles into permanence. Some marks resemble Chinese characters; others dissolve into abstract strokes, curves, pools, and fading traces. At moments, she writes large characters with the solemn concentration of a scholar; at others, she draws with the intuitive freedom of a painter. Yet the work never becomes simply a demonstration of calligraphic skill. Gao keeps a precise distance from the marks she makes. She does not illustrate language. She approaches it, withdraws from it, circles around it, and lets it disappear.

The most compelling moments occur when the marks become difficult to read. Some do not look fully like words, Chinese characters, or paintings. They hover between script and image, between linguistic sign and bodily trace. This illegibility is not a weakness, but one of the work’s most generous gestures. It allows writing to be experienced beyond language, as pressure, rhythm, density, direction, and disappearance. For viewers who cannot read Chinese, the work remains open: not as a text to be decoded, but as a physical and atmospheric event.

This openness gives the floor a strangely pictorial quality. It becomes less a writing surface than a landscape. Like ink in Chinese painting, the water creates an ambiguous spatial field: near and far, full and empty, visible and fading. There is no colour, and yet one senses tonal variation. A saturated stroke feels close, almost bodily; a drying trace recedes, becoming pale, atmospheric, nearly unreachable. The work produces depth not through perspective, but through disappearance.

Sound plays an unexpected role. When the brush is newly filled, the stroke is smooth and quiet, almost liquid. But as the water begins to run out, friction starts to speak. The brush scratches against the floor; the stroke becomes hollow, broken, no longer full. One hears the dryness before one fully sees it. The material condition of the brush changes the movement, and the movement changes the meaning of the writing. Gao does not conceal this depletion. She performs it.

This attention to friction gives the work a tactile intelligence. The audience is not only watching the line; they are sensing its resistance. The floor is no longer a neutral stage but an active surface, one that receives, absorbs, refuses, and erases. In this sense, the work changes how dance is watched. Attention moves between the dancer’s body and the trace it leaves behind, between the gesture and its afterlife, between movement and the floor’s slow return to emptiness.

The work’s tempo is equally subtle. At the beginning, one might expect the whole performance to unfold slowly, in a meditative rhythm. But Vapour Words Disappear has its own inner pulse. Sometimes Gao moves with extreme slowness, allowing the audience to watch the stroke grow wider and wider beneath the brush. At other times she accelerates, moving faster than the water can hold. The trace cannot always keep up with the body. The gesture arrives, but the mark is already failing. The dance becomes a negotiation between intention and evaporation.

The atmosphere of the space becomes part of that negotiation. In warm conditions, the words disappear quickly. Heat, air, humidity, and floor texture become quiet co-performers, determining how long each mark can survive. Gao’s authorship is therefore never absolute. Each word is made in collaboration with the environment, and each disappearance is partly choreographed by the room itself.

Because the weather is warm, the words vanish almost as soon as they are formed. This gives the performance a quiet urgency. Gao repeatedly attempts to write a large word, but the act is always threatened by its own disappearance. There is something almost Sisyphean in this effort: the repeated return to the floor, the refilling of the brush, the attempt to write again what cannot remain. Yet the work is not tragic in any simple sense. Its repetition becomes remembrance, resistance, and release. The point is not to preserve the word, but to inhabit the time of its appearing.

The work reveals Gao’s calligraphic skill, but it also reveals something more internal than technique. The brushwork carries the memory of training: control of weight, wrist, breath, centre, rhythm, and force. At the same time, it exposes the instability of all such control. A stroke may begin with authority, then fracture. A character may appear legible, then turn into mist. The performer’s discipline is visible precisely because the medium refuses permanence.

Although Gao evokes the image of the scholar-calligrapher, she does not simply reproduce a traditional literati practice. She relocates it through the dancing body, through public space, and through a contemporary performance vocabulary. What might historically be associated with the solitary, often masculine figure of the calligrapher is here reworked through embodied authorship, breath, labour, and exposure. Tradition is not presented as heritage to be preserved intact, but as a practice to be tested through movement, disappearance, and relation.

There is a strong sense of breathing throughout the work. The words breathe. The dancer breathes. The floor seems to inhale and exhale through moisture and dryness. Presence and absence are not opposites here, but phases of the same movement. A stroke appears, expands, thins, evaporates. The body returns. The brush is refilled. Another mark begins. The work quietly evokes a yin-yang logic: fullness and emptiness, memory and forgetting, action and erasure, expression and silence.

As the performance continues, the audience’s attention shifts from what is written to when it disappears. One begins to watch time itself. When will Gao return to the place where the first word has already vanished? When will the brush need water again? When does a stroke stop being a word and become only a trace? These questions make the work almost meditative, not because it is still, but because it trains perception. The audience is invited to notice the smallest transformations: a dark line becoming grey, a wet surface turning matte, a gesture outlasting its material evidence.

At certain moments, audience members come forward and write their own words on the floor. Some use Chinese; others write in different languages. The surface gradually becomes a collective script, a place where people leave what they want to say, or perhaps what they cannot say elsewhere. Yet every contribution shares the same fate. It will dry, fade, and disappear.

Here the floor becomes a temporary archive of private utterances. It is an archive without storage, a record that refuses to remain. Its value lies not in preservation, but in the shared act of release. The audience does not merely observe the work; they enter its fragile economy of appearance and disappearance. Their words are held briefly by the floor, then returned to air.

This gives Vapour Words Disappear a quiet politics of erasure and memory. Beneath its meditative surface, the work asks what kinds of language are allowed to remain, what forms of expression vanish before they are recognised, and how memory might persist even when material evidence has disappeared. It is a question that extends beyond calligraphy. What do we remember when we express ourselves? What do we remember when we dance? What remains when a temporary art form leaves the space almost exactly as it found it?

By the end, what remains is not the word itself. Nor is it the completed image of writing. The floor is almost clean again, as if the performance has performed a kind of spiritual and visual cleansing. Yet something has shifted. The traces may have vanished from the surface, but they linger in the eye, the ear, and the body of the spectator. Perhaps they have already vapoured into memory. Perhaps that is enough.

What is striking about Gao’s work is its refusal to choose between discipline and fragility, tradition and experiment, writing and dancing, visibility and disappearance. Vapour Words Disappear is at once a performance, a painting process, a calligraphic meditation, and a participatory ritual. It leaves almost nothing behind, and yet its disappearance is precisely what gives it force. For a brief time, dancer, water, brush, floor, and audience share the same air. In that shared temporality, the work finds its most delicate and persuasive form.

Why Fantasy and Escapism Are Reshaping Modern Intimacy

Fantasy has always been part of human culture, but its function is shifting. What once served primarily as storytelling or entertainment is increasingly becoming a framework for identity, emotion, and even intimacy. As digital culture evolves, fantasy is no longer just something people consume — it is something they actively use to reshape personal experience.

One of the clearest places this shift is visible is in the design of intimacy products.

For much of the past two decades, the industry leaned heavily toward minimalism and discretion. Products were often designed to be neutral, ergonomic, and non-threatening: soft silicone, muted colors, and forms that avoided drawing attention. The goal was to normalize use while still respecting a lingering sense of taboo.

Today, that design language is changing. Increasingly, products are being created not just to function, but to evoke. Sculptural forms, bold colors, and highly stylized aesthetics are becoming more common, reflecting a broader cultural move toward expressive, identity-driven consumption. In this context, intimacy products are beginning to resemble objects of design and storytelling rather than purely private tools.

This shift closely mirrors the rise of online subcultures where fantasy aesthetics have long been central.

Different communities, in particular, have shaped distinct visual and emotional approaches to fantasy. In anime and manga-influenced spaces, designs often emphasize exaggeration and stylization — smooth forms, vibrant colors, and a sense of playfulness. In furry communities, the focus tends to be on anthropomorphism and emotional connection, blending human and non-human traits in ways that emphasize identity exploration. Meanwhile, RPG and Western fantasy traditions often draw from mythology and monster lore, favoring textures, asymmetry, and “otherworldly” forms that feel less familiar and more immersive.

These aesthetic differences are not just visual — they shape how fantasy is experienced. Some emphasize comfort and identity, others novelty and transformation. Together, they have helped build a visual language that is now moving beyond niche communities and into broader consumer culture.

There are also measurable signals behind this shift. Online platforms like Reddit, Discord, and niche marketplaces have seen steady growth in communities centered around fantasy design, creature art, and alternative aesthetics. Search interest in terms related to “fantasy-inspired” products and “non-human design” has trended upward over recent years, reflecting a wider curiosity that extends beyond traditional fandom spaces. What was once highly specialized is becoming increasingly visible.

But the deeper shift is psychological.

Fantasy in intimacy is not only about novelty or escapism in the conventional sense. It can also create distance from real-world expectations — particularly those tied to body image, gender roles, and performance. Non-human or creature-inspired designs remove familiar reference points, which can reduce comparison and judgment. Without those benchmarks, the experience becomes less about meeting expectations and more about exploration.

This is part of what makes the trend compelling, but it also raises more complex questions.

If fantasy allows individuals to step outside of real-world frameworks, does it also reshape what they expect from intimacy itself? Does repeated engagement with highly stylized or non-human aesthetics change how desire is formed or expressed? And as these experiences become more immersive, where does the boundary between imaginative play and emotional reliance begin to blur?

These are not necessarily negative developments, but they suggest that the rise of fantasy intimacy is not purely aesthetic. It reflects a broader renegotiation of how people relate to their own desires.

Independent creators and smaller brands have been particularly influential in this space, often drawing directly from internet-native aesthetics rather than traditional product design norms. Instead of prioritizing subtlety, many embrace bold, creature-inspired forms and detailed sculpting that reference mythology, sci-fi, or entirely original worlds.

Brands like JulietToys, for example, illustrate how this approach is entering more mainstream visibility, particularly among companies exploring creature-inspired and fantasy-driven design systems. By focusing on fantasy-driven design systems — including creature-inspired forms and highly stylized collections — they align closely with the visual culture emerging from online communities. In these cases, the product is not just an object, but part of a larger imaginative framework.

Its fantasy products collection reflects the growing appeal of mythology, sci-fi, and creature-inspired aesthetics in intimacy design. This aligns with a broader shift in consumer behavior. Younger audiences, in particular, tend to value products that reflect identity, taste, and narrative context. Across fashion, home design, and digital goods, there is a growing preference for items that feel curated and expressive rather than neutral or purely functional. Intimacy products are increasingly part of that same ecosystem.

At the same time, fantasy itself is becoming more culturally normalized. The aesthetics of games, anime, and digital art are now deeply embedded in mainstream design trends, influencing everything from collectibles to interior decor. As these visual languages become more familiar, their presence in more personal categories feels less surprising.

What is changing is not just what people buy, but how they relate to those choices.

Fantasy, in this context, is less about escaping reality and more about expanding it. It offers alternative ways of engaging with identity, emotion, and desire — ones that are less constrained by convention and more open to interpretation. Whether this ultimately leads to greater freedom, new forms of dependency, or simply a broader spectrum of experience remains an open question.

What is clear is that intimacy, like many other areas of modern life, is becoming more expressive, more aesthetic, and more intertwined with imagination.

Sarah Pidgeon Gets a New York Minute and Balenciaga Gets Three

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Fashion follows a calendar that bears little resemblance to the one hanging in your kitchen. With the first bikini-defrosting of the year, fall campaigns begin colonizing your feed. One minute you’re working on your first sunburn, the next you’re being sold coats the size of studio apartments. Not exactly what you want to see between horizontal sips of a martini and poor SPF decisions. Nobody respects time less than fashion. Except, of course, New York. A ten-minute errand becomes a five-minute errand, even in kitten heels. A run to the closest subway station takes three minutes, even when Google Maps insists on seven. Being late somehow requires arriving early. Even coffee brews faster. Balenciaga understands that rhythm.

But Chanel did too, staging its Métiers d’Art show in a subway station. A slightly bizarre choice, until you remember that Gucci took over Times Square. Too much New York? Try a museum. Louis Vuitton picked The Frick as a gentler alternative. Pick your fighter, just make sure it’s somewhere within Manhattan. The American luxury customer has been in a particularly good mood lately, and the pattern doesn’t really feel accidental. Balenciaga’s version of the city comes in a campaign of three one-minute clips, titled A New York Minute. At the center of it is Sarah Pidgeon, who recently introduced herself to a much larger audience as Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy in Love Story. Behind the scenes is Oscar-nominated filmmaker Celine Song, and Pierpaolo Piccioli’s vision for the label.

The shorts follow Pidgeon through a series of city moments. Taxi rides. Taxi drivers shouting that you forgot your bag. Dry-cleaning runs. Dry cleaners suggesting you’ve forgotten your ticket. Walks that somehow get interrupted by movie scenes. Naturally, there’s a common thread running through all of them. Besides the city’s accelerated sense of time, there’s always a Balenciaga bag in the frame. A Le City here. A Rodeo there. A Le 7 Bowling somewhere in between. Each clip ends with a peek behind the curtain, though there’s more of that over at @keeppprolling, where Pierpaolo Piccioli occasionally swaps creative direction for photography, joined by Monaris and Zora Sicher.

What Makes a Themed Slot Feel Coherent From the First Spin

In a crowded casino lobby, most slot games get only a quick glance. A player scrolls, pauses for a second, maybe opens the demo, and makes a decision almost on instinct. Some games look sharp right away. Others feel cluttered or forgettable. It does not take long to decide whether a title deserves more than a few spins.

That reaction is not only about jackpots or stacked bonus features. It is more basic than that. Do the symbols make sense together? Does the music suit the theme, or does it feel random? Does the bonus round feel like part of the same idea, or like something dropped in just to tick a box?

This is why demo mode still has a purpose. A short free session lets you get a feel for the game without pressure. You notice small things. Are the icons clear on a small screen? Does the pace feel comfortable? Does the feature round fit naturally with the base play? Those details matter more than most marketing blurbs.

For players who care about design and atmosphere, a quick test is usually enough. You either fall into the game’s rhythm or you do not. It is usually as simple as that.

Theme Is More Than a Skin

The best themed slots do more than dress a nice image behind the reels. They build  a useful and  a clear theme with its own palette, pace, logic and style that all match. If a game based on folklore, romance, mystery, or adventure, that same  idea should show up through the symbols, the reel animation, the way wins are shown, and the bonus features too. When those parts do not connect well, the game can feel thrown together instead of properly designed. 

This matters because slots are read fast. Players do not sit through a long tutorial or a gradual build the way they might with console games  like wild hearts and the witcher 3. They pick up the rules by watching the screen. If the theme does not help explain the game, it is only decoration. A good slot uses theme as shorthand for how the whole experience should feel. Even a title as simple as Wild Hearts already suggests a mood, so players expect the reels and feature design to support that feeling from the start.

The First Minute Tells You Whether the Design Holds Together

Symbol Logic and Contrast

Start with the basics: can you tell premium symbols from low-value ones without squinting? Do the wild and scatter icons stand out straight away? Is the background doing too much? Clear visual hierarchy matters, especially on mobile, where ornate artwork can turn readable reels into visual fog. A polished slot gives each important element enough contrast and enough space to breathe.

Paytable language matters too. RTP is an average measured over a large number of plays, not a result you should expect from one short session. That is useful context when you are judging a demo, because the point of those first spins is not to prove what you will win. It is to see how the game communicates its rules, pace, and feature structure.

Sound, Tempo, and Feature Cadence

Audio often decides whether a theme feels complete. Good sound design creates a pulse without bullying the player. A light romantic theme should not sound like a combat game. A darker title should not celebrate small line wins with the same blast it uses for a major feature. During demo play, you notice fast whether the soundtrack supports the setting or simply fills silence.

Pace matters just as much. Some slots rush from spin to spin with no room to absorb the result. Others drag. The most satisfying titles find a middle ground, where animation adds tension but does not slow the whole session down. That timing becomes even more important when a bonus round lands. If the transition is smooth, the feature feels earned. If it arrives like a completely different product, the theme breaks.

Why Demo Mode Still Has Real Editorial Value

Demo play is useful because it strips away the pressure to chase a result. When there is no deposit behind each spin, you are freer to notice texture, readability, and flow. That makes demo mode a better test of craft than many marketing pages, which tend to talk about RTP, multipliers, and free spins without showing how the game actually behaves from moment to moment.

A short session with the Wild Hearts demo slot on Betandplay Casino can show more than a list of features ever will. You quickly see how  the reels set in motion, how often the wild symbols appears,  whether the paytable is easy to follow,  and whether the bonus rounds fit feels natural. If that harmony is missing in demo mode, it rarely improves when real money enters the picture.

Mobile Is Where Many Slots Win or Lose Attention

A slot can look strong on desktop screenshots and still feel clumsy on a phone. Touch targets may be too small. Reel windows may crowd the text. Menus may hide the rules behind too many taps. Since so much casual play now begins on mobile, demo mode is the quickest way to spot that friction. If a title is hard to read or awkward to control on a smaller screen, the problem shows up almost at once.

This is also where restraint pays off. Some developers treat every empty corner as a place for sparkles, counters, or side animations. On mobile, that clutter adds up fast. Cleaner layouts tend to age better because they let the theme come through without drowning the player in motion. Good mobile slot design follows the same principles seen in broader digital product design: clarity, balance, and ease of use matter more than visual noise.

The Small Details That Separate Polished Slots From Forgettable Ones

Look at how the game teaches itself. Are bonus triggers easy to understand? Does the paytable explain side mechanics in plain language? Are the reel stops legible enough that wins feel earned rather than arbitrary? Players do not need academic precision from a casual slot, but they do need coherence. If the game cannot explain its own rules cleanly, the theme loses force.

Then look at what happens after a few minutes. Does the title still feel distinct, or has it already become a blur of generic sounds and interchangeable symbols? Strong slots keep a sense of identity even in ordinary spins. That is usually a sign that the designer cared about more than the headline feature. It means the base game has texture, not just the bonus round. When a game like Wild Hearts is sold as a themed experience, the reels and feature flow should make that identity clear without extra explanation.

What Good Themed Slots Borrow From Other Culture Formats

The best modern slots often take cues from film, pop art, and mobile game design without simply copying them. They use poster-like framing, album-style colour, and the kind of quick pacing people expect from short mobile games. That mix helps themed slots still feel current, even in a crowded market. They are not just gambling products. They are small pieces of digital entertainment, competing for attention with everything else on the screen.

That is also why players notice when a slot feels cheap. A weak theme reads like filler because people are now used to polished visual systems everywhere, from streaming apps  to mobile games. A good themed slot respects that standard. It gives the player a clear mood, a readable interface, and a bonus structure that belongs to the same world as the reels.

First Impressions Still Count

Demo slots stay useful because they help players judge feel before they judge outcome. The first few spins tell you whether the symbols make sense, whether the sound is doing real work, and whether the feature design fits the theme. That is enough to separate a thoughtful title from one that relies on surface flash.

For readers who move between games, apps, art, and music with the same eye for presentation, that test remains worthwhile. A slot does not need to shout to be memorable. It needs to know what it is, and every part of the screen has to support that answer.

Between Two Production Cultures: The Visual Storytelling Work of Anakin Li

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Most viewers do not leave a film thinking about the walls in a room, the shape of a hallway, or the objects sitting quietly in the background of a scene. What they remember is the feeling. Tension. Isolation. Warmth. Pressure. Production design helps create those emotions long before the audience realizes why they feel them.

Production Designer and Art Director Anakin Li has made that intangible aspect of storytelling the center of his career. Working across two distinct creative systems, he has contributed to independent films, commercial campaigns, immersive cultural environments, and feature film productions in both China and the United States. 

It takes place from film sets to branded narratives to massive public settings, but it’s always about making a space emotionally real. 

“Audience members may not consciously notice the design first,” Li says. “But they can feel when a space feels believable.”

Early Interest in Visual Storytelling

Li’s interest in production design began when he was around sixteen years old. He was first drawn to drawing and visual composition, but what stayed with him was the way film could make an imagined world feel physically real. A room, a street, or a fictional city could carry emotion, history, and social meaning before a character even spoke.

Growing up in an environment shaped by engineering and technical thinking, Li was surrounded by people who valued building, calculating, and solving practical problems. That background gave him a deep respect for technology, but it also led him to a different question: before people build machines, systems, or cities, who imagines what they might become?

“I grew up around many engineers,” Li says. “That made me interested in the question of what people imagine before they build. I wanted to work in a field that could give form to those dreams.”

For him, cinema became a way to explore that question visually. Production design offered a bridge between imagination and construction: a way to turn abstract ideas about the future, society, and human emotion into spaces that people could see and feel.

Learning Across Two Film Traditions

Li studied first at the Beijing Film Academy, one of China’s most established film schools, where he trained in the Art Department. The program focused on visual atmosphere, composition, and the interplay between film imagery and culture.

After several years of work in Beijing he then attended the American Film Institute Conservatory in Los Angeles, where he earned his MFA in Production Design. At AFI, the emphasis shifted toward collaboration, production workflow, visual communication, and the practical demands of filmmaking within the American studio tradition.

Adjustment was not just an aesthetic issue when moving between the two environments.  Different production cultures often come with different communication styles, workflows, and creative expectations.

“In one environment, people may approach storytelling emotionally first,” Li explains. “In another, the conversation may begin from structure and production practicality. Learning both helped me understand how many ways there are to build the same story.”

That experience would later become one of the defining parts of his professional identity.

Cultural Memory and Emotional Space

Before relocating to the United States, Li worked across independent films, commercial projects, and immersive cultural environments in China. Those experiences shaped his understanding of production design as a way to carry atmosphere, memory, and cultural meaning through space.

One project that influenced this perspective was Wuyi Menghua Lu, a large-scale cultural tourism environment that applied cinematic design methods to a walkable public space. Because visitors moved through the environment rather than watching it from a fixed frame, the design had to communicate through texture, architecture, movement, and atmosphere.

“The audience was not watching the world from outside,” Li says. “They were inside it.”

Li saw a similar lesson in an Apple China youth film campaign created as part of the Shot on iPhone initiative. Built around a realistic coming-of-age story, the project relied on familiar everyday spaces rather than overly visible design. For him, it showed how small details can carry emotion and cultural specificity without calling attention to themselves.

These projects gave Li a foundation in designing spaces that feel emotionally and culturally grounded, a perspective that would later complement his experience in the American production system.

“A small detail inside a room can sometimes tell you more about a character than something visually complicated,” he says.

Entering the American Art Department System

After moving to the United States, Li continued developing his work through independent productions, commercial projects, and union-level film environments.

An important step came through his work on the union feature film Nightwatching, where he experienced the structure, pace, and logistical demands of a larger American art department system. The role involved research, drafting, stage coordination, construction communication, and collaboration across multiple departments working under production deadlines.

At that scale, design becomes deeply collaborative.

“A design has to serve the story, fit the frame, be buildable, and survive the schedule,” Li says.

His current responsibilities often include concept development, visual research, drafting, spatial planning, and helping ideas move clearly between directors, production designers, cinematographers, and construction teams.

For Li, communication has become just as important as visual creativity.

“You are translating ideas constantly,” he explains. “You are helping different departments understand the same space before it exists.”

Combining Traditional Design and New Technology

Alongside traditional production design methods, Li also incorporates digital workflows and emerging tools into his process, including SketchUp, Rhino, Vectorworks, Twinmotion, Photoshop, Procreate, and 3D printing.

His interest in practical technology later led to an invitation from the Art Directors Guild Education Department to present on 3D-printing workflows in art departments.

Still, he approaches technology carefully. For him, software and tools only matter if they help storytelling feel more human and more precise.

“The technology should support the emotional logic of the environment,” he says. “The audience still responds to story first.”

Looking Toward the Future

Now based in the United States, Li continues to build experience in professional film and art department environments while pursuing his long-term creative goals.

He hopes to eventually contribute to original cultural works that explore how technology is changing society and human experience. As artificial intelligence and digital systems increasingly shape daily life, he believes visual storytelling still plays an important cultural role.

To Li, production design is the art of allowing an audience to enter a world, whether through a film frame, a constructed set, or an immersive environment.

To Li, production design is the art of letting the audience enter a world, whether through the screen of a film, architecture, or even an immersive space. 

If it works, the viewer might not be able to tell why a scene is believable.  They simply feel that it does.

About the Author

Daniel Harper is a film, visual storytelling, and contemporary creative industries culture writer based in Los Angeles. His interest in the crossover between cinema, design & cultural change has included a particular focus on how artists operate in international creative contexts. 

How to Download HD Quality Instagram Photos with Snapgram, Easy and Free

Have you ever screenshotted a photo on Instagram, only to find that when you opened it in your gallery, the image was blurry, notifications were captured, and the image was pixelated when you zoomed in? That’s understandable. 

While screenshots are not a way to save photos in their original quality, relying on screen recording instead of an actual Instagram Reels Downloader will leave you with similarly degraded video files.

If you need a way to download Instagram photos in HD quality without such drama, there’s a much cleaner solution: downloading IG videos and various other types of content directly through Snapgram.

Why Screenshots of Instagram Photos Always Disappoint You

Before getting into the solution, it is worth noting that saving IG photos and securing a high-quality Instagram Story download can be accomplished in a much better way.

But it’s important to first understand why the most common methods fail from the start. 

Screenshots capture the screen display, not the original file stored on Instagram’s servers. Your phone’s screen has a specific resolution, and that’s its limit. 

The original photo uploaded to Instagram may have a much higher resolution, but what is captured is only a “scaled down” version that fits within the pixels of your screen.

Imagine you want to print photos for design or documentation purposes.

A screenshot that looks “good enough” on a cellphone screen can immediately look broken when printed in A5 size or above. 

It’s not about the quality of the phone camera, but about the data source, which is limited from the start.

Snapgram works differently. This platform takes files directly from the source, not from the screen. 

The result? You can download Instagram Reels, photos, videos, and even carousel content in the same quality as when the creator uploaded them, without additional compression or watermarks.

Screen recording has a similar problem. The quality depends on the recording resolution setting, and the result is still not the original file. 

There’s also the risk of recording notification sounds, or the video cutting out due to the screen turning off. In short: these old methods aren’t reliable solutions for quality content.

Getting to Know Snapgram, How It Works and Its Featured Features

Designed as a web-based IG content download platform, Snapgram can be accessed directly at its official domain.

No need to create an account. No need to log in to Instagram. No app installation. Simply open your browser, paste the link to the content you want to download, and Snapgram will do the rest.

What sets Snapgram apart from just another “download site” is the range of features it offers. 

In one platform, you can download almost all types of content on Instagram:

Single photos, including photos in regular posts, can be downloaded at their original resolution. Carousels or albums of all photos in a single post can be downloaded at once. 

Video feeds are videos posted on an account’s homepage, in their original quality. Reels are short videos that are often the most difficult to save using traditional methods. 

Story content, which is normally only active for 24 hours, can be saved before disappearing. Profile photos are full-size, not the small thumbnail versions that typically appear in the app.

The interface is designed to be very minimalist. There are no fake buttons to trick clicks, no pop-up ads that suddenly appear in the middle of a process. 

Even first-time users usually immediately understand what to do.

One thing that’s rarely discussed but quite useful: Snapgram can be added to the device’s home screen, so it can be accessed like an app without having to type the URL each time. 

Small detail, but makes a difference if you use it often.

How to Download HD Quality Instagram Photos Using Snapgram

The process is short. There are no complicated steps.

Step one: Open Instagram and find the photo you want to save. Tap the three-dot icon in the top-right corner of the post, then select “Copy Link.”

Step two: Open a browser on your phone or PC, then visit snapgram.io. On the main page, there’s a single input box that immediately stands out.

Step three: Paste the copied link into the box, then press the “Download” button. Snapgram will process the download in a few seconds.

Step four: A preview of the content will appear. Click the download button, and the file will be saved directly to your device.

For Android users, files usually appear directly in the gallery or Downloads folder. 

For iPhone users, the file may first go to the Files app from there you can click the share icon and select “Save Image” so that the photo appears in the Camera Roll.

One tip that is often overlooked: if you want to download photos from a carousel post (an album with many photos), Snapgram will display all the photos in that album at once. 

Select them one by one or download them all as needed. This is much more efficient than taking screenshots individually for each slide.

The same process applies to videos. Downloading Instagram photos in HD quality with Snapgram is identical to downloading videos in one stream, for all types of content.

Snapgram for Downloading Videos and Reels, Not Just Photos

Most people come to Snapgram with one specific mission: save this photo. 

But after using it once, they usually realize the platform can do so much more.

Downloading video feeds and Reels via Snapgram follows exactly the same process as downloading photos. 

Copy the link from Instagram, paste it into Snapgram, and click download. The process remains the same, only the file type will be saved on your device.

What’s interesting about Reels: many Instagram content download sites have difficulty handling Reels because the format and link structure are different from regular video feeds. 

Snapgram handles both without requiring additional settings from the user. 

You don’t need to know or care about the technical differences, just paste the link, and Snapgram will figure out the rest.

For Stories, there is one thing to note: Stories that can be downloaded are Stories from public accounts. 

Private accounts that you don’t follow cannot be accessed, because Snapgram doesn’t require login and doesn’t store your account data, so access to private content is not possible by design.

Safe, Free, and No Installation 

A natural question that arises whenever using a third-party service: is it safe? 

Snapgram doesn’t require you to log in with your Instagram account, doesn’t store your download history, and doesn’t collect any personal data. The process is anonymous from the user’s perspective.

In terms of device access, Snapgram runs entirely within the browser. No camera, microphone, contacts, or storage permissions are requested because there’s no app to install. 

The downloaded files go through the normal browser download mechanism just like you would download an image from any site.

As for the cost: it’s completely free. There are no download limits, no features locked behind a paywall, and no prompts to upgrade after a certain number of uses. The first experience and the hundredth experience feel the same.

Compatibility is also an underrated advantage. 

Snapgram works on all modern browsers—Chrome, Safari, Firefox, and more—on all devices: Android, iPhone, tablets, laptops, and even desktop PCs. There are no platform-specific versions. One URL, all devices.

Conclusion

Photos that you could previously only view on the screen, and which ended up pixelated when screenshotted, can now be saved in full resolution directly to your gallery. Snapgram solves this problem from the root, not by taking screenshots, but by grabbing the original files directly from the source.

How to download Instagram photos in HD quality with Snapgram is not complicated: just copy the content link from Instagram, open snapgram.io in the browser, paste it, and download. 

Four steps. No accounts, no additional apps, no fees. The process is equally fast on Android, iPhone, and PC.

More importantly, Snapgram isn’t just about photos. Videos, Reels, Stories, carousels, and profile photos can all be managed from one place. 

If you’ve been switching between sites or apps to download different types of Instagram content, Snapgram simplifies it into one URL you can rely on.

Try it once, and you’ll likely never go back to the screenshot method again.

Porches Shares New Song in Tribute to Late Baby’s All Right Owner Billy Jones

Porches has released a new song called ‘Angel’. The delicate piano ballad arrived via Bandcamp on Sunday, exactly one year after the passing of Billy Jones, the co-founder and owner of the Brooklyn venue Baby’s All Right. “lots of love to everyone missing him today,” he wrote on Instagram. “i feel like he’s with us all the time.” Listen to it below.

Porches recently unveiled a new mixtape, MASK, and co-produced Kim Petras’ ‘Jeep’, one of the best songs of May. Revisit our 2024 interview with Porches.