When I think of retro, I think of 
my parents. 
I think of photos of them when 
my brother and I were just kids, 
wearing complimentary ’80s color 
block windbreakers (my brother and 
I were born in the ’90s and 2000s, 
but my parents have always been 
old school). I think about the film, 
television and music my parents 
showed me growing up — the same 
stuff they grew up on, just 8,000 
miles away in Rangpur, Bangladesh, 
instead of Louisville, Ky. There’s 
a lot that gets lost in translation 
when you’re born so far from where 
your parents are from, but “Butch 
Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” 
Rabindranath Tagore and Boney M. 
spoke with perfect clarity.
There’s just something about the 
wild charm of the Sundance Kid 
and the groovy beats of “Daddy 
Cool” that inspires the imagination, 

even about the people you’ve spent 
every day of your life with. They 
provide new (and by new I mean 
old) versions of my parents that had 
faded behind the mirage of family 
dinners and car rides to soccer 
practice. I no longer saw my mom 
as the woman that wouldn’t let me 
leave the house without breakfast 
no matter the circumstances or my 
dad as the man that sneezed loud 
enough to wake me up from the 
other side of the apartment — I saw 
them young, free of responsibility 
and of the wear of the years. I 
imagined my teenage dad jumping 
out of his seat when shots rang from 
his favorite outlaw’s gun. I imagined 
my mom singing and dancing in her 
childhood bedroom.
Like a serum of immortality or 
portal through time, experiencing 
my parents’ favorite things and 
finding that they sparked joy in me 
too revived a part of them I thought 
was long gone. And it made me 
wonder what I will pass on to my 
future kids — what my serum is. 

What proverbial torch will I pass on 
when I finally become retro? 
What 
struck 
me 
is 
how 
comprehensively the world had 
changed from one generation to the 
next, and how much it will continue 
to change until I one day show my 
kids, I don’t know, The Strokes or 
something. I felt unequipped to 
process the passage of time as it 
applies to myself. And as I do with 
all things too big to process on my 
own, I turned to art.
I watched films about getting 
older 
(“The 
Fabelmans”), 
I 
watched films about being a parent 
(“Aftersun”), 
I 
watched 
films 
about dying (“Steel Magnolias”). 
I watched films about being old 
and reflecting on being young 
(“Titanic”). I watched films about 
being young while actually being 
old (“The Curious Case of Benjamin 
Button”). I listened to old songs 
about getting old (“When I’m Sixty-
Four”) and new songs about being 
young (“Young, Wild & Free”). 
Some of it was helpful (“Ida”), some 
of it less so (“P.S. I Love You”). In the 
end, the only conclusive result from 
my research was a headache.
I called my parents.
“Remember when we used to 
watch westerns on the weekends?” 
I mused.
“What, like ‘Butch Cassidy?’ ” my 
dad replied, immediately.
“Yeah,” I laughed. “Like that.”
“What 
about 
it?” 
my 
dad 
responded.
I paused for a minute, unsure 
how to proceed. Until finally:
“Want to watch it when I come 
home next weekend?”
Suddenly, there wasn’t much else 
to research. 

Design by Leah Hoogterp

The title of “rock star” is 
attached with a narrative — the 
debaucherous, drug-fueled lifestyle, 
the charisma and swagger, the epic 
struggles of defying the system and 
“making it big” — summed up nicely 
by the “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll” 
motto.
But today, that quality is stripped 
away. Rock music’s sparkling deities 
have been perverted — not by age 
or by degradation of talent, but by 
the internet’s mystique-destroying 
powers. Household names from 
the gilded era of rock ‘n’ roll have 
Twitter accounts now. We see them 
without stage makeup and the 
mystery is gone. Many of them are 
abandoning the ineffable coolness 
they once possessed: Slash of Guns 
‘N’ Roses squeezes out the “Sweet 
Child O’ Mine” riff in a Capital 
One ad, Elton John adds absolutely 
nothing as a guest star in a mediocre 
spy comedy, Julian Casablancas of 
The Strokes reposts TikToks to his 
Instagram.
None of these people are the 
otherworldly, glamorous, inhuman 
monuments they used to be. None 
of them are cool anymore. It’s 
unfair — cruel, maybe — to knock 
down these figures for just being 
seen as regular people. But it would 
be disappointing to accept that rock 
stars were always uncool, to reject 
the mythology that enraptured 
entire generations.
Take the British punk movement 
of the ’70s — Sex Pistols, the Clash, 
Buzzcocks — which was first 

defined by its delinquent, foul-
mouthed response to economic 
injustices and categorical rejection 
of 
“The 
Establishment.” 
The 
rhetoric struck a resonant frequency 
with younger demographics — 
one struggling for authenticity, 
desperate to physically distance 
themselves from the adult world. 
Music was so closely aligned with 
societal discontent that political 
figures became enemies, and their 
vilification summoned militias of 
spiky-haired, leather-clad teenagers 
to join the counterculture. The 
attitude is seen slightly later in the 
Margaret Thatcher-tinted gloom 
of The Smiths, Elvis Costello and 
others.
]Roughly a decade later, The 
Beatles’ 1968 song “Back In The 
U.S.S.R.” made its way to the 
generation that saw the collapse 
of the Soviet Union — as a totem 
of Western ideology, the band was 
even credited for preparing the 
Eastern Bloc youth for a new life. 

Listening to Western rock music 
was an ideological practice, a way 
to participate in counterculture. 
Following 
the 
Soviet 
Union’s 
collapse, 
Czechoslovakian 
dissident-turned-President Václav 
Havel fostered friendships with 
The Rolling Stones and Lou Reed of 
the Velvet Underground. Rock stars 
weren’t just musicians; they had 
developed a verve of resistance and 
dynamism. 
To a lesser magnitude, rock stars 
have at the very least been known 
for their unique artistic presence — 
bands like The Strokes still carried 
forward the ideology set by their 
forefathers. The Strokes made 
waves for the stylish arrogance 
and post-punk influences that 
constituted 
their 
indisputable 
coolness. Their public presence 
was just as important as their 
music in granting them the rock 
star quality.

6 — Wednesday, March 15, 2023
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

I had a Pinterest board when 
I was 13 titled “Retro Quotes” — 
which, if the name didn’t make 
it obvious, was full of quotes 
from classic Hollywood stars 
like Marilyn Monroe, Audrey 
Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor. It’s 
worth noting that I had never seen 
any of their movies at the time, 
but the words attributed to these 
women spoke to my younger self. 
Their quotes became my words to 
live by: “If you cant’t handle me at 
my worst, then you don’t deserve 
me at my best.” “Happy girls are 
the prettiest girls.” “Pour yourself 
a drink, put on some lipstick and 
pull yourself together.” These 
women exuded femininity and 
elegance 
years 
after 
passing, 
through something as simple as a 
low-quality social media post. 
As I’ve grown older and become 
more appreciative of my identity 
as a woman, I still try to live by 
their words in a way. I’m lucky 
enough to have people in my 

life who love me at my worst. I 
feel much more confident about 
myself when I’m happy. I don’t 
usually wear lipstick, but at least I 
can legally drink now. Where my 
so-called relationship with these 
women has changed, however, 
is that I’ve become more aware 
of how much popular culture 
has aestheticized them. I’ve read 
books that were clearly based 
on 
Taylor’s 
many 
marriages; 
Hepburn’s iconic black dress in 
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” frequently 
ends 
up 
on 
DIY 
Halloween 
costume lists; Monroe remains 
a popular subject in movies (for 
better or for worse). I began to see 
that the reasons we consider these 
women iconic are only a small 
part of their lives. It seems to me 
that society has blurred the line 
between legacy and reality, and I 
want to understand exactly what 
that means.
Marilyn Monroe is primarily 
remembered for either her movie-
star status or her downward 
spiral at the early end of her life. 
Or, at least, I had only ever heard 
her discussed this way. I knew 

the basics: She was blonde and 
beautiful. She starred in movies 
like “The Seven Year Itch” and 
“Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” She 
may or may not have had an affair 
with John F. Kennedy. She died of 
a drug overdose at only 36 years 
old. But Monroe was obviously 
a more well-rounded individual 
beyond being a beautiful but 
troubled actress. Just while doing 
research for this article, I learned 
that she had a difficult childhood, 
was in and out of several foster 
homes and experienced sexual 
abuse during that time. She wasn’t 
even a natural blonde. She started 
her own production company, 
which some say aided the collapse 
of the studio system. Yes, she 
struggled with addiction, but 
also suffered from several mental 
health conditions and possibly 
even endometriosis. 
But the piece of information I 
was most surprised to learn was 
that she disliked playing a “dumb 
blonde” or “sex roles” — which 
happened often. Her most famous 
movies were marketed using her 
sex appeal, and that exploitation 

of her image is one of the biggest 
things I still see happening to 
her today. The Michigan Theater 
screened “Some Like It Hot” for 
Valentine’s Day, and I can attest 
that several people in the theater 
either giggled or whistled almost 
every time Monroe was on screen. 
Typecasting unfortunately still 
happens in the entertainment 
industry, but Monroe was at more 
of a disadvantage considering her 
contract originally kept her from 
choosing her own projects. She did 
eventually earn that right after a 
year-long fight with 20th Century 
Fox, as well as the opportunity 
to show off more of her range, 
but this knowledge makes her 
cemented status as a bombshell 
all the more frustrating. She was 
much more talented and bright 
than people gave her credit for, 
and yet I still don’t see enough 
conversation about her outside of 
her appearance.
Elizabeth 
Taylor 
was 
considered one of the first modern 
celebrities. Starring in movies like 
“Cleopatra,” “Cat on a Hot Tin 
Roof” and “Father of the Bride,” 

she, like Monroe, had several of 
her films promoted using her sex 
appeal. Due to sensationalized 
rumors, 
public 
attention 
was 
frequently drawn to her personal 
life. Taylor hated her fame. She 
felt that the films she received 
the most acclaim for cut scenes 
that displayed the core of her 
characters, disliked how much 
control the studio had over her 

and found it hard to be viewed as 
herself rather than the roles she 
played.
Still, Taylor recognized that she 
had been given a platform, which 
she used to drive her philanthropic 
efforts. She was one of the first 
celebrities to take part in HIV/
AIDS activism, helping to found 

Only some of my sisters are dead; I 
wear their clothes. I remember them 
in the red canvas skirt I wore today, 
in the denim jacket that’s almost a 
bathrobe and almost too long, in the 
windbreaker patterned with Time 
Magazine covers. If I have met these 
sisters, I am not aware of it. Their 
clothing is washed, stains scrubbed 
out, worn or loose threads replaced 
with new, strong ones and knotted 
to keep their hems intact by the time 
I find it on a rack in a vintage store, 
slotted between others that aren’t 
my style or wouldn’t fit me. 
Why is vintage clothing special 
to me? I told myself I would stop 
buying fast fashion at the end of 
high school, but proceeded to slip up 
whenever I saw something through 
a store window and immediately 
went from thinking it was cute to 
thinking I couldn’t live without it. I 
still guiltily returned to the Urban 
Outfitters website at the end of 
stressful days. In the past year, this 
has stopped happening. I enter a 
traditional clothing store and find 
nothing I like. Everything feels sort 
of false, like it’s not really clothing 
at all but pieces of flimsy, unworn 
materials that I worry would cause 
me to lose all sense of identity should 
I put them on.
When clothing feels like it could 
fall apart at any moment, I worry 
that life and wear will destroy it; 
when I know there are hundreds 

of identical copies of that piece of 
clothing, I worry that I can’t give it 
a distinguishable meaning before its 
seams break or its frail threads rip. 
When I look through a vintage 
store, the clothing already has an 
identity. It often has lived decades 
longer than I have. I can trust it 
not to fall apart. Even if it is not one 
of a kind, its path has diverged so 
much from any copies that it feels 
unique anyway. Fingerprints stay 
in clothing; the DNA of people who 
made and wore it remains in the 
fibers. There is care sewn into it, 
from the original maker, the vintage 
store owners who rescued it from 
death in a landfill and the previous 
owners, who cared for the clothing 
before it got to me. Those owners are 
the sisters I mention. We have not 
met, but we share the same clothing, 
we care for the same clothing and 
the life of that clothing binds our 
lives together. Vintage clothing is 
not immortal; no clothing is. But it 
is less mortal than I am. Wearing 
something that I will likely outlive 
makes me uneasy. Receding into the 
vintage denim coat that drops to my 
ankles, my mortality is extended by 
its enclosure in something that will 
live on. My life merges with those 
who have worn it before and will 
wear it after me.
I like things to outlive me. Maybe 
I want to avoid dealing with loss and 
would prefer everything to stick 
around at least until I’m gone. If you 
read “clothing” and “sisterhood” 
and were waiting for me to mention 
“The Sisterhood of the Traveling 

Pants,” I will. I read this book and 
the next three in the series in middle 
school, when I had to walk to the 
library after school and stay there 
until my mom finished working and 
could retrieve me. I sat in one of the 
chairs in the library’s minuscule 
“teen” section and read, noted my 
place and returned to my book the 
next day. I never checked a book out. 
The four friends (“sisters”) between 
whom the pants travel agree that 
they shouldn’t be able to fit in the 
same pair of jeans. I assume this 
magic is not present in the vintage 
clothes I wear. I can only picture 
their previous owners by the fact 
that they fit into something that 
also fits me. They are outlines, at 
best. Maybe I know their waist 
measurements, but not their height. 
Perhaps we have similar genetics in 
some way, giving us similar bodies, 
perhaps we molded our bodies into 
similar shapes of our own accord or 
perhaps we don’t look similar at all — 
maybe one sister bought something 
too small, another too large.
Sisterhood 
is 
a 
form 
of 
immortality, or at least prolonged 
mortality. By sisterhood, I mean 
connection 
and 
friendship. 
Sisterhoods don’t have to be founded 
in material objects, but these can 
help with that mortality. They 
inherently involve sharing things — 
ourselves, our lives, our jokes, our 
flaws. Tying people together via a 
more durable, stable material object 
can create something less tenuous. 
I have been involved in several 
“sisterhoods” of traveling objects. 

I bought the book “Kiki Man Ray” 
by Mark Braude and told my friends 
they would all have to read it — the 
sisterhood of the traveling “Kiki 
Man Ray.” Other film writers and 
I went to The Getup Vintage on 
State Street and I saw a Beatles shirt 
hanging high on the wall, white with 
colorful squares across it. It cost 
more than $100, too much for even 
me to justify spending on a T-shirt. 
What if we all bought it? We could 
share it. (Well, I could technically 
own it and lend it to other writers if 
they so desired).
“Sisterhood 
of 
the 
traveling 
Beatles shirt,” texted one writer. 
One sister. 

“Exactly.”
I bought the softest pair of jeans 
that I own at Malofta Vintage, a 
vintage store in Kerrytown. The 
jeans are so well-worn that the 
waistband is fuzzy in places. The 
measurement listed on the tag 
would have been too small for me, 
but because they seem to have been 
some previous owner’s favorite 
jeans, they fit comfortably. The 
sisterhood of vintage clothing is 
not necessarily a way to have my 
presence or body remembered, 
but a way of being remembered by 
sharing something, some part of 
myself and my life, intertwined with 
those of others. There is — or there 

was — someone out there with not 
just the same favorite brand or style 
of jeans, but the same pair of jeans 
as me. 
Clothing can be a box. It is created 
with limits of fabric and thread, and 
I must find the clothing that can 
properly contain me in particular. 
I like fitting into things. Clothing. 
The red skirt. And friendships. 
Communities. 
Sisterhoods. 
I 
like to create them using shared 
objects because of those objects’ 
immortality — that feeling that 
there is a way of making space for 
myself in the world.

Remembering Marilyn, Elizabeth and Audrey for the right reasons

ERIN EVANS
Senior Arts Editor

Only some of my sisters are dead

What happened to rock stars?

HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI
Daily Arts Writer

LAINE BROTHERTON
Managing Arts Editor

On becoming retro

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

SARAH RAHMAN
Managing Arts Editor

Design by Francie Ahrens

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Design by Tye Kalinovic

Design by Grace Filbin

