John Kopp

Every so often, when the air is rife with tension, the first to shift are the plates of style. Whether you view it as a source of panic or an exercise in renewal, few shifts are truly as tectonic (and as inevitable) as a youthquake. The young always will, no doubt, inherit the future, and, therefore, lay claim to the cartography of its culture.

Part of any coming-of-age story is the age-old warning to keep clear of mischief. And yet, for all the forewarnings and cautionary tales, there’s something undeniably irresistible about breaking a few rules. Call it a right of passage. Call it formative. You can try and dub it whatever you like, but there’s a loophole to the brain’s system of reward that’s privy to risk—and it’s an itch that simply begs to be scratched. But what would going rogue be without an accomplice?

Marcel Proust once said, "Perfume is that last and best reserve of the past, the one which, when all our tears have run dry, can make us cry again.” But it’s not just perfume that can bring us back to our past, is it? Light a candle, sit back, and watch as the walls of your home fade away and in their stead rises a place so distant, only memory possesses the key to unlock. The realm behind the door? Somewhere sensations long since gone burn with the intensity of the here and now.