At The Librarian’s Desk: A Conversation with Cristina Napoleone, The Founder of TERRAIN



Originally published in Farrago Magazine


Originally planning to speak to an ‘expert’ at random, I visit on a random Sunday—not expecting for Cristina herself to be behind the counter. With earnest excitement, she says the timing is perfect: Recently released is her guest podcast on Camille Allen’s I Want Your Job, so the script is rehearsed and ready to go.

To step inside Terrain is to step through a silver door and onto a deep electric-blue floor. A rough, rock-like finish covers the walls of the store, painted with a wash of cold white paint. Sheets of matte aluminum are cut into blob-like organic shapes—a motif integrated into the shelves on the walls, the benches in the centre of the room and the counter. Atop the bench sits a Monstera plant, propagated into a wide vase.

To start, Cristina tells me what she told Camille—that her project was fortified over four years of local rejection, then hit a turning point when she was referred to an investor whilst working in Berkeley, California as a UniMelb exchange student.
“The guys I was working with were basically like, we've just lined you up with a meeting with our philanthropy partners next week—tell them what you told us. I was like, oh my god, shut the front door… then put together what was a very, I would say, slapdash pitch on my computer. Luckily I had years worth of failed pitches on my computer…”

“Almost like your research process,” I offer.

“Like research! Every time it gets rejected, you’ve then created this, like, edited piece of writing that’s forced you to think or critique it. So it’s refinement as you go. And I guess when I got to that time I was pretty sure of where it was, and they just understood it and said, Australia really needs that. Here’s the money. Which was crazy.”

Cristina says that for this to all happen in her twenties is a miracle, and marvels at how her once-crazy journey now looks like young people entering the Fitzroy store and thanking her for creating the space.

“In that interview that just came out, I said my industry secret is that the right door will always open. And if it doesn’t, you need to kick down the door or create your own. But what I didn’t say, is that you need to then hold that door open for others. Now that Terrain’s created the groundwork to get that door open in the space, the people that come in next–like, younger me, [who] would have walked in here and been like, yay!”

She credits the lineage of mentors she’s had over the years and quotes a Navajo elder in California who advised that before the beginnings of a project, a person should ask themselves: what kind of ancestor they would like to be?

“It’s like the orienting of time. How does this shift and what could those ripples be?

The ethos Cristina works around is one of curiosity and immaterial praxis. She recalls feeling that such a space would support her way of thinking, and that she couldn’t be the only person thinking that way.

“We constantly focus on– and it’s really important that we do– on the kind of technological aspect and the material solutions affiliated with what it means to sustain sustainability transitions (the world economy, systems, the way we live), but we don’t talk about immaterial sustainability, which is hard to quantify and otherwise hard to implement into the kinds of frameworks that we have, and that’s stuff like… human empathy, compassion; our relationship to anything beyond the self.”

“When you remove the boundary and almost diffuse or redefine what the human self is, and it encompasses all the definitions of nature… how do we behave in that way… that’s actually the work that needs to be done as an undercurrent to enable the longevity of the solutions that we enact on a material level.”

She describes the common occurrence of people entering the store and this philosophy immediately clicking for them.

“... the reason why it [previously] didn't get there is because the language was around addressing immaterial sustainability; about addressing a relationship with the more-than-human world, which is completely intangible in a way. And we're struggling to find energy in recycling!”

It’s this previous lack of understanding in Australia, Cristina reasons, that explains the four years of rejection her Terrain proposal received from “every funding body who you would actually think would be the ones funding this.”

“I tried to hold those rejections and not let them, you know, make me want to give up. Because that amount of rejection does make you feel a bit crazy. But to now have undergrad students coming in and confirming that this is supporting their curiosity, rather than it being denied… that’s awesome.”

I ask about the vision Cristina originally had for Terrain, and whether what it’s evolved into now matches up with it. In Four Years of Rejection-Land, what does an expectation even look like? Can the immaterial results of a project be accounted for?

It’s hard to reflect on, she admits. “I still feel like I'm so in it. Like, I haven't had too many pauses since it's been opened to even take the distance or space to take a full gaze outward…”

“In saying that, like... the way that people hang around here or interact, I think, has... totally blown out my expectations… I knew it would be a social space, but the actual people within Terrain’s orbit are so cool and interesting and curious and openminded, intellectual, sharp, and it's really beautiful. Like, that's something you can only plan so much.”

Cristina explains that the intention of the space was to bring people back into their sensorial bodies through the choice of materials, which encourage sensory curiosity and exploration.

“We’ve taken ourselves so far out of our bodies these days in modern culture. We’ve really separated ourselves, like, drawn ourselves into screens and forgotten that the world is sensorial. There's many senses that can be engaged, and just by the act of engaging you bring yourself back into the present, which, in a way, is like bringing yourself into a meditative state. And when you're in that kind of state, all kinds of wonderful things can happen. You have great thoughts, you can engage with compassion, you can have space for people, and think with consideration and… all kinds of things.

… Starting there, getting people back into that frequency, is really important. That goal went into the design and the concept. People walk in from the street and they're drawn into this strange looking interior design, [and] they are immediately entering the space with a frame of curiosity. So by entering with a state of awe, kind of joy, wonder, curiosity, we're actually positioned to take on ideas and value-based change, which is exactly what we need to do, to enable the kind of change that's needed. So, that was all research that went into the design, and then just observing the way that people now interact—everybody's very much doing those things.

They're asking questions, they're asking about the materials, they're asking why these books, what are the topics, which is awesome. And then whoever is in the bookshop has, like, got some kind of knowledge around an answer to these questions, so they can kind of direct, you know, attention or curiosity in that way.

The act of discovery is really powerful, because if they've then discovered a book themselves, in that mindset, that's actually, like, more of a way to take on information as well. Because you found it, like, you discovered it. It wasn't prescribed.

A lot of the time, something that's also surprised me is that people come in, and they'll pick out a book, and then they'll ask me or whoever's sitting here for a recommendation, and then you make some suggestions based on their niche topic, and then they always go back to the first book that they picked up. Like it's some kind of magical oracle card they found. And that's, honestly, a big prop as well, to the beauty of physical bookshops, and having brick and mortar and physical spaces—and how important they are, because that experience, even with an algorithm, you can't really match that randomness.

Like, there is also no randomness in ‘algorithmic random’. Even, I think, Cloudflare, the tech company, are the ones that created the best randomiser algorithmically. And it's actually based on real world objects. It's with the room that they have at their data centre, with a whole wall of lava lamps. So that was actually how they generate random security keys and funnily enough, it's based on physical objects. So I think there's something to be said there about the importance of physical spaces.”










INTERVIEW WITH KOPICATS: On Heritage, Hanging Out and Singapore’s ‘Weird DJ’ Epidemic



Originally published in Farrago Magazine


It’s around midday when I meet with Kopicats over Zoom. Claudia and Axel are completing their morning routines in Singapore–the former still in bed, the latter eating a breakfast of dumplings and coffee–and Aaditya sets his phone down somewhere in his UK accommodation to join the call while he washes the dishes. On the tail end of a summer of gig-upon-gig, the members of this DJ-events collective are settling into their respective lives of school, work and artistic projects. Claudia Park, the founding logistics manager and ‘big boss’ of the Kopicats operation, works as a filmmaker and production designer by day. Axel Timothy Chee, resident DJ and correspondent, is an emerging creative studying fashion design in our very own Melbourne while Aaditya Sundar, resident DJ and copywriter, is a photographer and agriculture student in Reading. 

Together, they are the ‘masters of the mid-afternoon’; a group of independent event curators making a name for themselves with their daytime music sessions hosted in heritage and sentimental locations across the island. Their name is, of course, a play on  ‘copycats’ (though one mustn't be fooled–the group’s unserious charm and unique, earnest personalisation earns them trendsetter status as vanguards of the local scene). ‘Kopi’ translates directly into ‘coffee’ from Malay, but refers specifically to the strong, sweet Nanyang coffee found in hawker centres and cafes across Southeast Asia. After chancing upon a YouTube video of Vietnamese DJs spinning in a barbershop, the group developed a  founding ethos of community-building and ‘just hanging out’. 

Claudia tells me that a background in production design and filmmaking equipped her with the planning experience to develop Kopicats. Her experience with logistics and event planning was apt preparation for the challenges and limitations the group are met with, and must work with (or, often, around). 

She says that the location for their first ‘volume’ is the place where she gets coffee before her haircuts: Tong Ah Eating House on Keong Saik Road. “Really?” Axel interjects. “That’s the lore? I didn’t know that was where you cut your hair. I thought you just picked a place with a lot of heritage and shit, what the fuck.” Aaditya laughs. “Yeah, me too.”

Heritage venues define Kopicats’ novel atmosphere, and I am eager to inquire further. Why had they decided to DJ in all these niche historic venues? 

Their answer is simple : these are all locations with personal significance. Places they have ‘already been …  and have personal connections to,’ says Claudia. Axel shares that the venue for their second event, Basheer Graphic Books, is an independent bookstore frequented by local creatives; one that the group “personally all go to… to peruse the materials”.As the only indie bookstore  in Singapore, it  has special meaning. Likewise, their fourth venue, Good Year Seafood Restaurant, is an establishment in the East that happens to be the collective’s go-to dinner spot. It’s a casual family restaurant that Claudia says has “Chinese New Year vibes”, with big, round tables to host large groups of guests and a location ‘in the middle of nowhere’, which allows them to be loud and have fun. They’re such regulars at this place that the owners recognise them as “the kids that came here last month”. The sharing of these spaces which are “important to [the group], or important to the heritage of Singapore”, invites people to involve themselves in each location’s cultural significance. 

The group muses that the intersection of old and new has serendipitously come to characterise Kopicats.. “One of the things I realised,” Claudia reflects, “is that… before we ask the location owners for permission, they’re usually quite wary…  but after the event happens, you’ll always see them very, very happy…  And this happens almost consistently…  not only the people who come for Kopicats, but people who we intrude upon, are usually very happy to be intruded upon… We also talk to the uncles and aunties who are there, and people walk past and they dance, and these are very unexpected occurrences… I wouldn’t say that we specifically sought out to merge the elderly and the young, but it happened naturally, which was very beautiful. 

It’s something that eclipses entirely the question of keeping up with current trends, the current trend being the epidemic of ‘unconventional’ or party projects populating the nation. We’ve seen DJs in hawker stalls, DJs in coffee joints, DJs in moving convertibles, DJs in… toilets? Whatever (literal or otherwise) hole in the wall artsy Singaporeans can fit a set of decks into–they are probably considering it as a venue for their next live-streamed event. Some of these seem like genuinely ‘DIY’ initiatives, and others come off as slightly gimmicky, as if the absurd aesthetics are just a lucrative marketing ploy. I hypothesise that the phenomenon also arises from a lack of local accessible creative and social spaces, and Kopicats agree. 

“Historically, there’s never been much support for the arts [here],” Aaditya says, “but what’s good is that people have found a way to navigate past it, and find their own ways of having fun, as we’ve done. I’m glad there are more people doing it.’ No flex though, but I think we were one of the first…” 

Axel elaborates. “After we did our first edition, others started coming out and advertising themselves as like, ‘hey, we’re doing stuff in the afternoon at a coffee shop’, and it’s… a bit too coincidental”…” (Aaditya indulges him with a laugh) “... that they all came out at the same time. Like … that’s all I’m saying.” He puts his hands up and laughs. 

Claudia has not previously considered Kopicats a part of this movement, but now that it’s mentioned, she agrees that they are. “As we previously mentioned, it’s just about sharing spaces. We travel around to different places, but it’s out of necessity. Again, Singapore doesn’t really support the arts, but that’s actually what I like about it. We have restrictions … but the unique thing about Singaporean artists is we are always trying to fight these restrictions and there’s always this little rebellion …  If we were in another city, like New York or something, we’d just be doing these events in like… like a club or something.  Being punk and rebellious is a very important thing.” Axel scoffs and does a punk hand sign. 

Claudia continues. “I don’t think all the DJs should like… come together and fight the government lah… it’s just the little acts … Creating Kopicats is our way of saying: This is what I want, and if nobody is going to support me, I’m going to do it my own way.”










Concert Extravaganza: A Review of DPR’s Melbourne Show



Originally published in Farrago Magazine


My friend Tristen and I have the setlist playing in the car on our way to Festival Hall. There are a few songs on it that we’ve heard before, a couple more that we know and like, and the rest, we decide, will sound better live.

Standard protocol for a concert like this one is playing the ‘I wonder if they’re going the same place as we are’ game as you walk the streets surrounding the venue. Sure enough: the youngish-looking Asian boys in black hoodies and baggy jeans walking behind us, and the girls with rave tops and chunky silver jewellery walking in front of us are also beelining towards the queue which, by our 6:30 arrival, has wrapped itself neatly around the block.

After the box office manages to produce a guestlist and our tickets, Tristen and I are headed to the tail end of the line, situated in a dark spot under a bridge. On the way down, I survey the sea of grungy-but-also-church-appropriate black outfits. They seem to match the moody, dreamy genre salad that is the DPR style.

Before we know it, the line moves and we settle into the theatre’s audience, divided into three seated sections and standing General Admission (GA), which is where we go.

DPR, which stands for Dream Perfect Regime, is a multi-genre music and arts collective and production company based in Seoul. Known for their edgy branding and—it seems from the crowd’s excited pre-show murmurs— charming front man Christian Yu (DPR IAN). Tonight, the collective brings three of their acts: DPR ARTIC, DPR CREAM and DPR IAN.

ARTIC’s item is a clubby techno set to open up the show. The graphics behind him feature a collection of both abstract and urban graphics animations, actualising the spacey but grounded beats in the music. The lighting design is a highlight of the concert, but in this set it it’s especially impressive, synching so closely to every sound that your eyes and ears feel like a singular organ. It's perhaps worth mentioning, though, that the set feels more catered to the GA section, who get a more immersive experience. Even then, the crowd around us stands notably still. The guy standing on Tristen’s other side pulls out his phone to film clips of the stage, and then proceeds to open chess.com and play a couple of games. I personally enjoy ARTIC’s set, but techno non-believer Tristen muses that maybe people need a few more drinks in them to get into the show a bit more. 

CREAM notices this lack of energy and does a bit more crowd-prompting to get the audience more engaged. His set is a rap and vocal one, characterized by that stylistic autotune frequented by many K-R&B and K-pop musicians. It's not so much my taste, but the people around me are starting to warm up and move around a bit more. Perhaps it's because of my lack of appreciation for this sound in particular that the songs seem to blend into one slightly monotonous playlist; perhaps it is the production itself. Though the crowd is more expressive at this point of the night, it seems to be equal parts restlessness—like the first two artists are openers for the next act.

IAN’s set is almost twice the duration of the previous two artists’ combined, and the production is markedly different in style. Traces of his K-pop background are evident in his performance, which include choreography and costume changes accompanying his vocals, as well as a four-piece band. However, his stage presence seems to have metamorphosed from this history of his, with a tongue-in-cheek rockstar-like quality that is distinctly his own. The backing dancers are truly incredible throughout this section, bringing diverse, personable and moving stories to the stage that made every song its own special world.

Unsurprisingly, the crowd consensus at this point of the night is that everybody is enamoured with IAN. Unsurprisingly because I was already vaguely aware of his spunky heartthrob reputation prior to the concert, but also because when I see him onstage, I get it. Hailing originally from Western Australia (which he explains between sets) he's able to connect with the audience on a far more personal level, sharing humorous anecdotes from his upbringing and moving stories about his personal growth and identity—themes explored in his music. Before singing an unreleased track from his upcoming album, he reassures the audience that ‘if you're feeling lost, I hope you're not scared’, which pulls a couple of tears and murmurs of ‘omg… I needed that’ out of the crowd.

It's especially during the later songs of IAN’s performances that the four piece band really shines, particularly in songs like the finale, ‘Ballroom Extravaganza’, which has even Tristen singing along to every single word.

We decide that we are DPR converts by the end of the night, and a week later I get in Tristen’s car to hear the second verse of IAN’s ‘Calico’.









Kpop in Melbourne: A Youth Culture Persisting



Originally published in Farrago Magazine



In this interview, I chat with my friend Swarnim Bomzan, leader and co-founder of Cypher Dance Crew (est. 2019).

“How much of this do you know already? No, I’ll just repeat it all,” Bomzan begins, as we make our way through the Swanston crowds. “I’m 22, a K-pop dancer, and I’ve been doing covers since high school… It started off with me copying the moves in music videos alone in my room, and then my best friend and I danced together in the school’s empty studios — we were about… fourteen then.” This is a common path for K-pop dancers — the emphasis on dance and accessibility of practice videos online means many begin self-taught. For Bomzan, sharing this hobby with her classmate meant bringing it outside of her room and into the wider world. At the time, her friend’s sister was actively dancing in a crew and planning to enter a dance competition in Sydney: thus began Bomzan’s group cover days. Dancing alone turned into receiving an invitation to compete interstate, followed by regularly producing covers with the team upon their return home. “It might be a bit cringe of me to say but… this changed my life,” she says.

The production and performance of K-pop dance covers in cities worldwide is a strikingly ‘DIY’ phenomenon. Tight communities are formed through this hobby, and with this network, resources such as videography, lighting, speaker systems and post-production editing are shared. Most dancers are self-taught and learn to edit and publish online content themselves. It’s a stark contrast to elitist classical styles like ballet, which require years of (often expensive) training and conformity to razor-sharp standards for performance opportunities. Street dancing — in this case, ‘K-pop In Public’ — allows hobbyists to try out dance outside of these stricter bounds.

Bomzan left her initial crew due to leadership conflicts, but was able to remain dancing in covers due to the connections she had made in the Melbourne community. It was when she wanted to organise a cover of BTS’s ‘Danger in 2019, that she entertained the idea of starting a team of her own. “It was like…” she gestures with wide eyes and an incredulous smile, “like woah… because I’d never been a leader before. Like, if there were ever group projects at school I’d always be the quiet one sitting and listening. With Cypher, I don’t know what happened to me. I was so nervous when pitching the idea to (co-founder) Hannah, but it really changed me.”

“Leading a crew and all these [performance] projects has given me so much experience working with different types of people. When I think of myself now, I actually see leadership as one of my primary skills. I use it in all aspects of my life — in work, and in uni too.” To say that Bomzan leads well is an understatement. Towards the end of last year, I danced in one of Cypher’s publics, participating in a fourteen-member ensemble. Within a fortnight, she’d deftly organised roles and standardised choreography, transposed blocking and corrected, corrected, corrected with the coordination only the most experienced of leaders could hope to execute.

Street dance culture took a hit when the pandemic and lockdowns arrived in 2020, as communities were forced to disperse into social isolation. Despite this, Melbourne’s K-pop dancers found ways to connect with their community whilst safely distancing themselves at home. Cypher adapted to these social adjustments when producing their quarantine covers — with individual members recording their dancing from home, Bomzan sending them notes with corrections and standardisations, and their editor Leroi putting the clips together for YouTube videos. They also uploaded dance tutorials, short individual covers and, most notably, a Random Play Dance session in collaboration with their friends from other crews, extending outside of Melbourne as well. RPD is a uniquely K-pop tradition, which brings fans together by shuffling a playlist of song clips to dance to in a flash mob-esque public setting. “Distance was no longer an issue with this online video, since everyone was by themselves at home anyway,” Bomzan explains. “So that was a really fun way for us to bring everyone together, whether they were in the outer suburbs, overseas or interstate with their families, or even the friends we made competing in Sydney.”

She shows me the beginning of the video, which collates clips of dancers showing the time on their clocks or phones. “This made it so we could really all be dancing together, just like an RDP in real life.” Despite their separation during these uncertain times, the community embraced the challenge to remain connected in their shared hobby.

Today, Cypher prepares to compete in Sydney again, and Melbourne’s K-pop community continues to flourish, connecting young souls through shared interests and the opportunity to evolve.









We Are Not Teaching Empathy



Originally published in Farrago Magazine



This subject will teach you life skills’, seems to be the go-to line for many English tutors and teachers to reluctant VCE kids. As a casual member of the former group, I’ve recently been prompted to ponder the promise of analytical skills, communication skills, media literacy skills and (new!) empathy skills (?) that glimmer beyond the horizon of the study design.

This year, a change in the English curriculum sees the addition of a ‘crafting texts’ unit, which asks students to write about themes such as conflict, protest and connection to country in creative writing form. The students I tutored were encouraged to research different protest events in history and write from the (fictional) perspectives of people involved.

At first, it appeared like a productive change from a curriculum that was largely literature-based and seemed rather removed from real life application: Putting more of an emphasis on creative writing whilst involving real world issues could mean that students would, somewhat, be forced into relatively further awareness of politics and society. It was when I had to actually teach the unit, however, that I started to feel a bit… off about it.

I think it would be unfair to claim that high school students don’t care about world issues. (It would also be untrue). The problem more so lies with the gamified structure of VCE, which inevitably pushes kids to funnel their learning into study score points, filling as many rubric boxes as possible to optimise study scores. Students writing pieces about overseas issues may adopt racist accents to fulfil ‘character voice’ points. Serious events get aestheticised and romanticised — reduced to scenes and themes for students to exploit in their pretend-speeches and narratives.

It bears a lot of similarities to critiques of the American college application letter — the culture surrounding which has been observed to pressure applicants into sharing their suffering for a compelling ‘backstory’ (‘trauma porn’).

My friend Shriya, who is a first-year student at UC Berkeley, recounts social media being a factor that influenced approaches to admissions essays:

“There’s the aspect of it that’s the dissemination of information — there are a million-and-one TikTok tutors now, who will guide you through every aspect of the admissions process; oftentimes, I have heard them explain that a well-written explanation of hardship can redeem a poor GPA or a lack of extracurriculars.

But then there’s the other aspect of it, the virality, the clout, that bleeds into the typical inspiration porn territory. A lot of people heard that essay about the letter “S,” where this lovely girl talks very sincerely about not having both of her parents around, and how arduous that was for her throughout her childhood. Unfortunately, I think that a lot of people seized onto the appeal of the “sob story” — and the plethora of acceptances she received after sending out that essay — and have started milking every aspect of their lives to create this pity-laden narrative for their college applications.”

Interestingly, she tells me about the ‘flip side of this… when students who really haven’t struggled very much try their hardest to wrangle themselves into a sob story’:

“I grew up in a rather affluent, fairly white community — which is not to say that everyone’s life is perfect, but rather to say that I saw a lot of kids with perfect lives capitalise off of the fact that other people’s weren’t. As in — I’m wealthy, but this experience made me realise how the other half lives. (Eyeroll). This was when I realised racism existed for the first time. I built a home in Haiti. I went on a mission trip to Tijuana. I knitted a billion socks for the NICU. I played violin at the senior citizens’ home. If they didn’t have their own trauma, they often resorted to capitalising off of others. I’m not saying that they were necessarily terrible people for having done that, but I think the paradigm that forces 17-year-olds into this dramatisation of their life stories is, indeed, a pretty terrible one.”

I think it’s pretty clear to see how the local study design change could move in the same exploitative trajectory, considering the instructive documents themselves don’t include anything that could possibly prevent it. Despite the categories ‘Country’ and ‘Protest’ being so inherently linked with the experiences of marginalised groups and individuals, there’s no section at least warning educators about issues of cultural sensitivity. The way I’ve now seen the curriculum being interpreted makes me realise how easily the assessment could fall into the trap of conveying to students: ‘Pick the most tragic incident you’ve heard of… Now pick a victim to imagine being.’ Not only does it sensationalise the suffering of others, it also waters down the integrity and political dynamics of these events and experiences.

From my experience, students tend to be armed with a nearly-all-encompassing sense of self awareness regarding their roles in the VCE rat race — or so they’d like to think, anyway. I’d like to think that from this new unit, they’d be learning new skills, and maybe — possibly — opening their minds, but if they are, it would definitely not be from pretending to learn empathy.







© Chiaki Chng