The conversation, connection, and creation that took place can only be characterized as extraordinary. Discussion about the shared freelance editorial experience, doodles about fulfilling art, and organic images through different lenses filled the room all evening.
How did eighteen guests who didn’t know one another find genuine connection? Well that’s something that you just had to be there for. The Satiated community conversation is privy to the dinner table… but that doesn’t mean we can’t share bits and pieces with you in visual and literary editorial from the perspective of our inspired guests. Introducing, Satiated Magazine’s Issue No. 1.
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The Yellow Square
I stroll from the Lower East Side to the Hudson River every Sunday evening. Dusk is the best time to do so; the sun casts its last orange, purple and pink rays down the city’s narrow streets, filling each block up with a pool of golden light. Darkness follows, shrouding the city in a blanket of black.
And then: yellow squares begin to dot the night. A warm glow emanates from each, some revealing dancing figures, wine glasses in hand. Music seeps through their window panes; laughter harmonizes with the melodies. I peek into these yellow squares on Sundays, wishing someone would welcome me in, would satiate me.
Finally, someone did. At 7:30 pm on a quiet FiDi corner, hidden among glass towers and vacant storefronts, a yellow square illuminated Beaver Street. Basking in its glow were seven creative souls and I, awaiting Satiated Magazine’s Sova Supper. We were a sea of Vintage Moschino and Gaultier, Badgley Mishka, Det Blev Sent, and more, a sartorial reflection of when fashion, art and words collide. I beamed up at the yellow square one last time, then headed straight into it.
It was a scene out of Peter Greenway’s “The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover”; a long dining table stood in the middle of a warmly lit loft. Blood red candles flickered gracefully down its center. A primary-colored poster of French clowns hung above an elegant seating area. An infinite stream of floral “Resort Spritzes” and “Spring/Summer Martinis” kept spirits high all night long.
I once threw a dinner party with my roommates in our newly furnished Lower East Side apartment. We decorated our cheap wooden Ikea table with two half-burnt candles and a stained vintage runner. Our overhead fluorescent lights beat down on us the whole night because we didn't have the calm glow of a lamp yet. We made curry in our cramped kitchen, the spices spilling all over our floors, and drank Barefoot wine from plastic cups. I think of that
nineteen-year-old girl in this moment, how blissfully she ate from old freshman dorm plates, how terrified she was of what the future held. I wish I could show her the yellow square I found myself in now. She wouldn’t believe anyone could ever welcome her inside one.
In New York, it’s easy to slip into bouts of isolation. We curl up in our crammed apartments and watch the world unfold on the streets below us, wondering how, in this vast city of transplants and hundreds of niches, people find each other. But here, on the sixth floor of an unassuming building, we break bread. Between bagged green beans and pesto fettuccine, we talk art and culture. McKenzie Wark is a prophetic raver. Luca Guadagnino is an erotic thriller mastermind. Joanna Walsh poetically theorizes style. We all want Vaquera jeans. We exchange numbers and names and jobs and hugs.
I’m catching up with Neptune on the couch and feel my internal alarm clock alerting me that it’s time to go. I say bye to new and old friends, and part ways with the yellow square, smiling and satiated.
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