Edition 6 is available for purchase in print and for digital download.
Welcome back, folks! The Dilettante took a brief four-and-a-half-year hiatus, but we’re back. I hope you missed us.
This edition comes in the form of a goodbye of sorts. I have lived in New Orleans for almost eight years, but the dead of summer will see me out. Spanish moss and thick blankets of humidity have cradled me as I’ve grown into a full-fledged adult; this city has seen me at my worst, my most dreadful, my loneliest. I would like to say she has seen me at my best as well, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
New Orleans and I have a complicated relationship. Although it is the home I’ve created for myself, I’m not sure it’s the best home for me. She is beautiful, and she is magical; she is filled with moments of joy like no other, hidden in wrinkles of time between the stress and the chaos and the violence. She is crawfish boils and live music and the smell of jasmine in the spring and endless festivals and what seems to be an absurd number of lizards darting across the sidewalk as you take each step and carjackings and gun violence and celebrations of life and death. She is not mine, and I am not hers—nor will I ever claim to be. I know her in the way that only a transplant can; my roots don’t permeate her wet, sunken earth. I will always feel like a stranger in her cracked, pothole-filled streets, despite all attempts to build a place for myself. I have come to accept that it is time for me to move on.
In anticipation of leaving the only home I’ve ever known as an adult, I’ve found myself reflecting a lot on time: the passage of time, its non-linearity, our cultural obsession with time as a resource. I think of my loved ones who have passed, my seventeen-year-old self. Would they be proud of who I am today? Am I proud of how time has changed me?
The return of The Dilettante also serves as a return to myself. I’m on year four of my quarter-life crisis, and I am fucking exhausted. Life ebbs and flows, as it does, but the past few years have found me feeling like a stranger to myself, often forgetting the human that I am and the things that make me feel like a person in the world. The past few months, I have focused my energy, as much as one can with a full-time job that feels like a spout that drains my life force, on returning to my hobbies and creative outlets. A sixth edition of The Dilettante seemed like a natural extension of that.
For those of you who don’t know: The Dilettante was born in October 2018, when I was a sophomore in college. The first edition comprised only my own works, an arrangement of photography and writing primarily created during my high school tenure. The following year, with the release of Edition 2 in November 2019, The Dilettante transformed into what it is today—a collection of works from multiple artists, mostly my friends at first, that adhered to a certain theme. After the release of Edition 5 in November 2020 and my graduation from undergrad in May 2021, this project fell by the wayside, as I lost much of the sense of community and camaraderie that college provided. I was swallowed by a graduate program, and my creative efforts became nothing more than another side hustle, a necessary stream of income to keep me afloat as I juggled the various responsibilities that composed my life. I stopped writing altogether, aside from academic papers for my coursework, and photography became work alone. Not to be dramatic (level: impossible), but life became dull and grey. Without engaging in my sense of creativity, my world seemed to lose its shine. I became entrapped in the rote underbelly of a world centered on labor and money. It is true, it seems, that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
I have spent a lot of time and energy clawing my way out of this hole. Last year, on my 25th birthday, I released Proof of Existence, an archival zine that—similarly to the first edition of The Dilettante—sought to make sense of my emotions and existence in the world through the construction of a creative narrative. (Note: I’m coming to realize that all of my art seeks to achieve the same goal—making sense of the turmoil of my mind. As said by Maria Popova, “Art is the music we make from the bewildered cry of being alive.”) It brought me closer to myself for a while, but without a meaningful sense of community in New Orleans, I quickly found myself drifting aimlessly again. While I do believe that a change of environment will help in finding the reconnection to self and others I’m seeking, I also despise the idea of leaving this home of mine without creating something to bookend my time here. Thus, the idea for Edition 6 was born.
The passage of time deeply perturbs me. Memories of the past—my childhood, my father—float further away with each passing day. I am terrified of forgetting, and I am terrified of growing distant from the version(s) of myself I once loved, of moving toward a reflection I don’t recognize. The person I was when I came to this city in 2017 feels like a stranger to myself today. I know change is inevitable and, arguably, one of the greater blessings in life, but what if I don’t like who I’ve become? I can only move forward in time, but sometimes I’d like to freeze, to go back, to visit a place that was before and no longer is.
In the darkest depths of my existentialist thought, when my emotional turmoil feels like a form of suffering unique to myself, I am grateful for the reminder that I’m really not all that special. My trials and tribulations, the war that wages within my own mind, is not a new facet of the human experience, nor is it the only facet of life. A great solace of this project is the diversity of ways artists interpret a theme. Sometimes I get so stuck in my own fog, it becomes the only thing I can see. The community I have built through this publication—and the breadth of expression that flows through it—reminds me that the world is so much greater than what lives in my field of vision.
In the face of my own neurosis, I can’t help but wonder: is there anyone that finds solace in the passage of time, the unidirectionality of it? Is my terror unique, or is it just part of the human condition? I need to know that I am not alone in my fears, that I am not just a lost creature, but a human like the rest of you.
—Victoria Conway,
editor-in-chief
P.S. In case you were wondering, my departure from New Orleans will not mark the end of The Dilettante. Planning and creating this edition reminded me of my love for publication and print media, and so I plan to continue publishing future editions from my new home base of New Jersey. To stay updated on upcoming editions, calls for submissions, and other news, please sign up for our newsletter online at www.dilettantezine.com.
The Dilettante 