Clare Market Review by Clare Market Review

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Clare Market Review The London School of Economics East Building 203, Houghton Street London, WC2A 2AE su.claremarketreview@lse.ac.uk www.claremarketreview.com

The Journal of the London School of Economics Studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Union Volume CVI, Issue 1

Editor-in-Chief Alexandra Kane Creative Director Elli Graham Contents Editors Phyllis Lui James Callender Design Editors Ann-Marie Eu Will Baskin-Gerwitz Aaron Davis Copy Editors Susannah Hamilton Roshni Rajan Development Manager Alice Pearson Associate Copy Editor Naomi Littlejohn Cover Artist Alice Leah Fyfe

VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1

Charlotte and George Bernard Shaw seated centre, Beatrice and Sidney Webb seated either side. Leaving for a trip to Russia. 1932. Courtesy of the LSE archives.

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Wanderlust. Core. Catharsis. Absolutely nothing in common, just like David Cameron and Nick Clegg. For the first time since Clare was relaunched, themes were abolished in order for creative juices to be spilt across pages. An experiment that has certainly been fascinating, to say the least…

In this issue of Clare, you will find pieces ranging from ambition (or the lack thereof) in London’s architecture to the portrayal of lesbians in the media, from the Hong Kong International Deaf Film Festival to the ubiquity of glue found on Mombasa’s streets. Those familiar with Clare will notice that she looks a bit different – a cleaner, simpler aesthetic. A mini-renovation for a house which we hope you will feel at home in. For those not familiar with Clare, we have only been around for 106 years and publishing such minor figures as the Webbs, George Bernard Shaw and Ralph Miliband. Beyond the grandeur of our illustrious history, Clare is a collective that embraces students, artists, academics, professionals, ramblers, raconteur and rakes. It will be a long dreary winter; we hope this issue of Clare will provide moments of distraction, excitement and pleasure. Happy reading, Clare VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 III

Contents WANDERLUST

CORE

03 JĂcaro Alice Miranda Ollstein

17 Ambition in Architecture Karl Sharro

08 Young Iraque Girl Marko Grba

22 Skeleton Case Grace Fletcher

09 Wordless Zoe Leung

29 Lesbians in the Media Rasha Touqan

14 Untitled Sophie Boutilier

35 Burning Dross JAH

clare IV

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Contents CATHARSIS

39 Unsubstantiated Rumours Are Good Enough For Me (To Base My Life Upon) Anonymous 42 I Whip My Hair Back and Forth Nathan Briant 45 Wax, Sugar, Pewter... An Interview with Ayako Kanari 49 Stating the Obvious James Callender 53 The Book of Numbers Stephanie Oula 57 The Pathway Saffaan Qadir

2, 16, 38 Sasha Salmon 12, 34 Ann-Marie Eu 43 Giancarlo de Vera 52 James Callender 58 Matilda Williams

FEATURED ARTISTS

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wanderlust

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Jícaro

Words and photos by Alice Miranda Ollstein Each dawn of my stay in Nicaragua, the staccato of Jacinta’s palms against masa and wood pulled me from my sleep. I would lie for just a few more minutes beneath the mosquito net, breathing, listening and preparing myself for the long day ahead. One final breath and I slipped out of my cocoon and padded into the kitchen. Assuming my place beside Jacinta, I would groggily take up whatever implements she placed in my hands, and try my best to help and not hinder her housework. A few days into my stay, antsy from my confinement to the home, I asked if I could see their land. “Later, when the air isn’t so hot,” Jacinta said, wiping her brow as she poked another branch into the clay, wood-burning stove. She twisted her slender neck and coughed as black 03

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smoke billowed out from under the pot of beans. I hacked at an onion with a dull knife, my eyes stinging and clouding. We passed that day as we had most of the others — her bustling authoritatively around the dirt-floor kitchen, me repeatedly asking her how I could help, then clumsily tackling each small task she assigned. Sometimes we worked in silence — broken by the crackle of the fire, by the faroff whack of machete on wood or whip on cow-hide. Sometimes we spoke. Dogs, cats, roosters and pigs ambled around our ankles searching for scraps. When the sun had slipped past its cruel peak and a mellow glow had settled over the town of Parsila, Jacinta handed me a bucket and motioned towards the door. She barked for her husband Ernesto — ya

vamos, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;nesto â&#x20AC;&#x201D; who had just returned from another day driving their cattle and beating their harvest of millet to separate the seed from the chaff. He silently picked up his machete and followed us down the road. The dusty path traced the

curves of the river, which had shriveled to a trickle in the recent drought. We turned off the main road, stepped through a narrow opening in the barbed wire fence, and marched through the corn VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 04

and bean fields, which were barren following gathering their meagre harvest yield for the year. It was the farthest I’d been from the house since arriving. We scrambled up an embankment to find scraggly trees resolutely jutting out of the hard, dry ground. Their branches were laden with unidentifiable green, yellow and brown pods, and the brownest specimens lay scattered around the roots. I stared blankly at the alien spheres. “Jícaro,” Ernesto explained with his usual economy of words. “We’re collecting jícaro.” I started to toss the biggest and brownest into the bucket, prompting laughter from the couple. Biting back a smile, Ernesto shook

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his head and motioned for me to squat next to him. He placed the jícaro on hard earth and with a sharp stone split its shell. It sounded like breaking bones. A putrid smell washed over us. He pulled apart the shattered halves and extracted a black, pulpy sphere. “Jícaro,” he repeated, and tossed the fruit into the bucket. We squatted like that together as the sun dipped towards the horizon, cracking jícaro as Jacinta rooted around for the ripest ones and bowled them to us. When the bucket grew heavy and sicklysweet I heaved it onto my hip and we headed home. Panting at the weight, I asked if one ate the pulp. “Dios mio, no,”

said Jacinta. “But you can make cough syrup out of it.” I was about to ask if we were planning on making an industrial amount of cough syrup when she added, “What we really want are the seeds.” To extract the seeds we first had to let the fleshy orbs soak in water overnight. The next morning, Jacinta swilled her hand in the inky soup, feeling how swollen and tender the jícaro had grown. She nodded, I hoisted the bucket once again and we made for the river. There, under her watchful eye, I dug my fingers into the fruits, combing the pulp for seeds. My arms were dyed black up to the elbow and my nails took on a yellowish tinge. She knelt beside me and plunged her arms in to move the process along. This particular bend of the river was exclusively for women, so we stripped down to our undergarments. The sun roasted my exposed skin. Mosquitoes landed on my arms and legs and I slapped at them, speckling myself with pitch. She instructed me to toss the scraps of seedless flesh onto the riverbank, because a certain cow of hers was wild for jícaro. A few minutes later the cow in question, lured by the strong odour, ambled over and began munching at the soggy pile. “What did I tell you?” Jacinta crowed. “He’s just crazy about it.” After washing the jícaro we brought out our dirty laundry. In the time it took me to scrub my few articles against a stone, Jacinta had washed, wrung out and folded all of her own and Ernesto’s clothes. “Good thing my sons have wives to wash

their laundry now,” she laughed as we struggled up the path with our assorted buckets. “I used to be down at this cursed river all afternoon.” Our hours of labour yielded, perhaps, a pound of jícaro seeds, which we painstakingly washed, letting the shallow river flow through Jacinta’s rusty kitchen colander. The next morning we waited in line at the electric mill until every woman in Parsila had ground the corn for their day’s tortillas. When the last of them departed, Jacinta strode forward, bucket of masa perched on top of her head, and presented our jícaro to the mill’s operator. The woman’s eyebrows rose. “From my trees,” said Jacinta. The woman pursed her lips at me. “She washed them.” A lavender paste poured into the bucket as the woman fed the wet seeds into the machine. Jacinta sent me across the street to trade Doña Rosita two eggs for a small pitcher of milk. We heated the thick, fatty milk over the fire and stirred in the jícaro meal. In a miracle of rural alchemy the mixture turned purple and frothy. They pulled a wooden stool into the kitchen, sat me down, and insisted I have the first cup. They scrutinized my expression as I brought it to my lips. I tasted an earthy sweetness but also the days of toil behind it. All that gathering, cracking, soaking, washing and grinding just so I could try a local delicacy. Overcome, I sipped in silence. Jacinta’s eyebrows leapt together. “Is it okay? Should I add sugar?” I assured her that it was perfect. VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 06

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Young Iraque girl By Marko Grba

Impossible children! Voices coming from all directions Rumbling! In the brain, long after the sound of the bell. But stronger is the crying voice, the voice of a young girl, Commanding: I have no longer a future!

ILLUSTRATION BY ANN-MARIE EU VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 08

Wordless By Zoe Leung

“You just went to the WHAT?” This was not the first time that I’d encountered such a wide-eyed question from my friends. “I just went to the Deaf People Film Festival.” It was small, and the first of such festivals in my home city of Hong Kong, known in the region as the ‘Cultural Desert’ (while ironically being known as the Pearl of the Orient worldwide). Impressively, an NGO working with deaf people had managed to assemble films made by deaf people, not only from Hong Kong, but also from the United States, Austria, Finland, Italy and Britain.

the cinema was extremely humbling. As someone who is neither deaf nor capable of communicating in sign language, I felt awkward and ashamed of myself for the 15 minutes that I sat waiting for the film to begin. The difficulty interacting with deaf people in the audience lay in the lack of external signs indicating deafness or knowledge of sign language. I stood for a girl who was trying to pass and clumsily dropped my coat onto the floor. She picked it up for me, gave it back and smiled without saying a word. I instinctively whispered a thank you and immediately realised that I had exposed myself as an outsider.

I have no idea why but I decided to attend a screening called ‘European Specials’. The mere experience of being in

As the clock ticked on and more people came in, I felt a burning need to understand what was going on. Most were ei-

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ther hearing impaired or social workers. They all seemed really excited about being at the film screening and chatting cheerfully in sign language. There were definitely more conversations, and more lively ones (as indicated by the gesticulations), than in normal cinemas. Finally, the lights dimmed and the first short film came on. It was a documentary about the oppression of the physically challenged during the Nazi period, which only forced me to acknowledge my ignorance of deaf peoples’ experience again. The documentary was very informative except… there was no background music at all. Is it necessary to have background music if the film is made for deaf people? I do believe that deaf people can enjoy music. (In all honesty, it was a bit dry for someone used to listening to music). For the first time I began to appreciate the way deaf people perceive the world. The second and third screenings were newly made music videos (to my delight) by Marko Vuoriheimo, known as Signmark, and directed by his brother Sami Vuoriheimo. Signmark is a deaf rapper from Finland known for his vivid facial expression and his near-dancing style as he ‘raps’ in sign language (listen to his ‘Speakerbox’ on YouTube). The latter relates to the history of forced sterilisation of deaf people in Finland. It was feared both in and outside Finland that physically challenged people would pass on their ‘bad genes’ to their children if they had any, eventually leading to the degen-

eration of the Finnish nation. Therefore, before two physically challenged people married, the woman had to agree to undergo sterilisation. Certain places, like Virginia, passed a law in 1924 allowing sterilization without the consent of the individuals concerned. It was not until the 1980s that the US government began setting up laws to prevent discrimination against those with physical impairments.1 The music videos were followed by four short films produced by a deaf Italian filmmaker. The production quality had room for improvement - the storylines predictable and lacking depth, the acting somewhat unnatural. I wondered whether the poor quality was due to a lack of talent or a failure to use existing talent well. I propose the latter, along with our general ignorance of deaf films. I have yet to explain what makes films produced by deaf people so special. Most films produced for deaf audiences portray deaf people as ‘normal’ protagonists, as opposed to the stereotypically isolated and tragic roles they are assigned to in mainstream films such as Babel.2 I was initially confused as to whether deaf people’s films are made by deaf people, made for deaf people, made for all or a combination of the three. Wayne Betts Jr., a deaf filmmaker, wrote in the credits of the film, Rangeland Romances, (available legally online): ‘“There is no audio in this short film. This film is made by Deaf filmmakers. It is created from a Deaf perspective. Thank you.”’ VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 10

This has led me to believe that deaf people’s films are not exclusive but meant to give everyone else a better understanding of the world that they inhabit. An analogy can be made between the part played by deaf people in films and the role of African-Americans in films. For example, despite Hattie McDaniel’s brilliant performance in Gone with the Wind, she will forever be remembered as ‘the maid.’ British deaf filmmaker Bim Ajadi, who attended the festival, challenges this legacy with his films. Identifying with both his physical impairment and African roots, he relishes the opportunity to bring deaf black films into the mainstream circuit.3 His newest movie, Dead Money (legally available on-line), is about a poker hustler caught between debt and losing a family member. The trailer suggests a technically superb film, not surprising given Bim’s wide experience in the film and television industries and his status as an award-winning director. The controversy remains, however, as to whether deaf people’s films should include background music - essential for integration with the mainstream film industry. To stress the emotions on-screen and to compensate for the lack of music, Wayne Bettz zooms in and out quickly, tilting the camera suddenly. Others, like Bim and Alessandro Merlini, opt to incorporate music into their films. Both sides are justified. As a novice in the industry, I wouldn’t dare decide for them, but I would like to reiterate that deaf people can enjoy music. 11

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Evelyn Glennie is a Scottish Grammywinning percussionist. She has been nearly deaf since the age of 12. On the subject of how to listen to music with your whole body, she said, “I think I also hear music through the ears. But I also hear it through my hands, through my arms, cheekbones, my skull, my tummy, my chest and my legs and so on.” Her body can feel the distinct vibrations when different notes are played. She takes off her shoes whenever she performs with the orchestra in order to better feel the vibrations from the ground! After all, it is said that Beethoven did the same by putting his ear close to the floor. If you are the kind of person who always wonders what it feels like to be someone else, watching a deaf people’s film without the music on would probably the best way to find out. Even if you could not care less about ‘being someone else’, please check out some of the above titles or people - their stories would amaze you.

1. Perspectives of the Historical Treatment of People with Disabilities, http://www.life.arizona.edu/ residentassistants/programming/diversity/Ability/ Ability.Hist.pdf 2. Through Deaf Eyes, PBS Previews, http://www. pbs.org/previews/throughdeafeyes/ 3. http://www.deadmoneyfilm.com/about/

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ILLUSTRATION BY ANN-MARIE EU

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Untitled

By Sophie Boutilier when i was a child (am i one still?) glue held things together forming bonds and attachments patchworks pressed by short sticky fingers bearing construction paper fibres but for you you divided, torn, tugging pieces of old and young, tough and tender to your small warped body disjointed anointed with this substance for you the only thing that sticks is glue

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core

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Ambition in Architecture By Karl Sharro

As the distinctive profile of The Shard continues to rise over London Bridge, it’s worth contemplating what this latest addition to London’s skyline signifies. The Shard, an elegant tapering glass skyscraper designed by Italian architect Renzo Piano, is set to become the tallest building in London when completed in a few months’ time. At 300 metres tall, it’s well outside the international recordbreaking club of skyscrapers dominated by the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, which stands at a staggering 828 metres. Regardless of its relatively modest size, this is an example of the quality of architecture that London deserves but doesn’t often get. Why is this energetic city, which attracts creative talent from all over the world, deprived of such highly-ambitious works of architecture? 17

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The question certainly extends beyond the lack of iconic skyscrapers. Most Londoners still live in Victorian terraced houses, while the less fortunate have to make do with dilapidated post-war social housing that leaves much to be desired. House completions have declined to a record low, and the phrase ‘new build’ has become synonymous with mediocrity and low quality. For most people, the idea of building their own home is prohibitively risky and expensive. Within a century, British housing went from being the object of universal admiration, such as in Hermann Muthesius’ Das englische Haus, to a historical relic. It is ironic that this decline has happened while London has become a global architectural centre. Many innovative inter-

national architects have set up offices in London, while British practices grew to become global leaders in the field. British architectural schools attract the best students from all over the world and many new ideas in architecture and urbanism originate in the UK. However, most British architects and UK-based practices are doing their best work abroad and many have not yet built any significant projects in the UK. In the last five years, the RIBA Stirling Prize was awarded three times to projects outside the UK. So how is it that we find ourselves in this curious situation? It is all too easy to blame the planning system, as many architects often do, for stifling the development of architecture in Britain. But to do so would be to miss the point that the lack of ambitious architecture results from numerous cultural, political and economic shortcomings. Although the planning system is rigid and restrictive, this reflects the broader cultural mindset when it comes to experimentation, innovation and risk-taking. The planning system is not itself the barrier to the development of ambitious architecture, but the conduit through which cultural and political biases that stifle development are expressed. Established in 1955 as a way of containing the growth of cities and protecting the countryside, green belts are a good example of this. Despite all the protests about ‘concreting the countryside’, the green belt has actually doubled in size since it was established. In fact, because of the

dense patterns of development in Britain, only 10% of its total area is developed, one of the lowest ratios in Europe. Given the increasing demand for housing in the UK, especially in the South, the availability of land should be seen as an opportunity. Instead, the green belt has become a legal instrument to create an artificial scarcity of land open for development. Development policies across the UK seem to be formulated in a way that increases this level of artificial scarcity. For example, the policy of prioritising development on brownfield land (land that had been previously developed) is being promoted through various national and regional strategies. This policy increases the costs, risks and viability of development with the consequence of less and less housing being built. But such policies are not the product of technical decisions by planning bodies; they are a manifestation of a cultural mindset that sees development itself as problematic. This is particularly sensitive when it comes to building on greenfield land. Greenfield developments are seen by many as tantamount to environmental vandalism, violating nature and increasing the impact of human ‘footprint’. This outlook is both naive and backward-looking. Naive because it makes misguided assumptions about what is ‘natural’, and backwards for it rejects the idea that humans can shape their physical environment in a positive manner.

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The definition of what constitutes ‘natural’ is particularly problematic. For example, the bulk of the increase in green belt land has come through the reclassification of derelict agricultural land. Over the past few decades the increase in productivity of agricultural land thanks to the Green Revolution has meant that we need less land to produce more food. Conservation bodies have been able to buy large areas of this land at very cheap prices as it is neither agriculturally productive nor available for development. However, to claim that this land is ‘natural’ is simplistic. This is land that has been used for agriculture for thousands of years and has been fundamentally altered by humans over this long period. In that sense, using it for industrialised agriculture or other forms of development is not fundamentally different. The real distinction is in the social meaning and value that we attribute to this land, and today we seem to be saying that we would value it more as derelict land than one that is redeveloped for human habitation. The result is that millions of people are locked out of decent housing whilst the green belt continues to expand. This misguided deference towards nature is echoed in our attitude to heritage, further complicating the context in which architecture is produced. The question of heritage is now being addressed primarily through conservation, an expression of how we seem to value the past over the present. Development in London, for 19

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example, is governed by a series of ‘strategic views’ that cut across the capital, most of which are centred on St. Paul’s Cathedral, with the aim of preserving ‘historic’ views. The absurdity of this strategy lies in the fact that most such views in London are accidental, unlike Paris where avenues were designed to visually connect important landmarks. But the real problem lies in the fact that the strategy doesn’t seem to recognise how contemporary additions to London’s skyline could be valuable in their own right. Much like building on greenfield land, if we believed that what we were building now is valuable, we wouldn’t feel so precious about building there. After all, people have been altering the skyline and have done so for centuries. The irony is that Wren’s design of St Paul’s Cathedral was criticised at the time because it was too great a divergence from existing churches. Similarly, when the much-loved Victorian terraced houses were being built, there were many objections raised along the lines to the protests against development we hear today. Thankfully those protests didn’t succeed in neither instance. It seems that our predecessors had much more self-confidence than we have today. This is the central problem we must address when it comes to the lack of ambitious architecture in the UK: the failure of nerve and the lack of self-confidence and imagination to shape our physical environment in bold and innovative

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ways. This failure of nerve manifests in too much deference to nature; to the past and an institutional mindset that is excessively risk-averse and fearful of change. Of course it would be a blanket generalisation to claim that this means a complete absence of innovation and ambition in architecture today. There are superb and inspirational examples of architecture being constructed today, but they are possible only because of the determination of the creative minds behind them, and developers have to negotiate through lengthy and complicated processes. As I write these words, the facilities for the London 2012 Olympics are quickly nearing completion. After a decade in which we caught glimpses of what the creative talents in London are capable of, the Olympics would have been a great opportunity to showcase the best of this talent. Instead, we went down the risk-averse route and opted for ‘budget’ Olympics. The question of ‘legacy’ came to prevail at the expense of staging great games with impressive facilities. But it’s worth contemplating what ‘legacy’ actually means. Had Christopher Wren’s generation followed the same line of thinking, we would have probably ended up with a modest cathedral that would have stood in stark contrast to the extraordinary St Paul’s that tourists flock to today. Doesn’t the legacy of our generation deserve to be conceived with an equal amount of ambition? ARTWORK BY WILL BASKIN-GERWITZ AND AARON DAVIS

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Lesbians in the Media By Rasha Touqan

Gay culture has been hitting the mainstream in waves over the course of the last forty or so years. Gradually, it has become a part of our media cultural consciousness. What could only be hinted at or insinuated in the 1970s was flashed bright and clear in the 1980s. Since then, media representation of the gay community has slowly grown and evolved. Graduating from the fields of taboo or deprecating humor, the homosexual image has softened. Rarely are gay men portrayed as villainous, paedophilic or infantile as in previous decades. Otherwise, there would be a very public outrage. For example, if Ace Ventura was made in this decade, Jim Carrey would not be hurling a plunger at his face for the mere idea that he just might have unbeknownst to him kissed a man. 29

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In fact, there is a lot of tongue in cheek involved with an insinuation like this nowadays. The gay image has definitely come a long way. Yet the main focus here is the gay male image; what about the lesbian image? With Katy Perry’s somewhat controversial song, “I Kissed a Girl”, the lesbian image has come to a crossroads. The aforementioned song was controversial not for the reasons we might think. Naturally, the Christian Right took offence and voiced its opinion freely, but it was the gay community’s reaction that made papers. Media outlets were more than happy to pat society on the back saying how far homosexuality in mainstream media has come, considering the fact that a pop chart single featured a some-

what lesbian theme. Yet, many in the gay community have voiced their discontent, stating how the song fuelled this “Girls Gone Wild” mentality about lesbianism. This was publically voiced by gay celebrities such as The Gossip’s Beth Ditto, who called the song a “boner dyke anthem”. After all, Katy Perry isn’t gay and the character she portrays in the song is merely “curious”, saying “hope my boyfriend don’t mind it”. Perry portrays lesbianism as a fun experiment, which could quite possibly be for the benefit of her obviously watching boyfriend. This song isn’t the only work that portrays lesbians in this manner; it is one of many and it feeds into one of the two main representations of lesbianism in the media. One of which is the she-male, butch lesbian; the other is that of the lipstick lesbian, who is the attractive, sexy, wild, occasionally bisexual lesbian and is into oversharing her “kinky” sex life. The former has been prominent as a form of a joke in media. Usually, this character is portrayed as rebellious, desexualised, sometimes feminist, semi-political and man-hating. The best way to form a characterisation is through an example, take the character of Tammy in the dark comedy, Election. Although the film is not about homosexuality, Tammy’s lesbianism acts as a catalyst in the film. Her former lover decides that she’s not a lesbian, it was all a phase and that she wants nothing to do with Tammy, and goes after Tammy’s adoptive brother Paul instead.

As a result, Tammy runs for the student council as revenge. She embodies the clichéd elements of a butch lesbian. Most of the men in her life are portrayed as misunderstanding jerks, including her domineering, white collar father. She is also rebellious, an atheist and anti-authoritative, but not in any way that is effective or relevant. Her portrayal shows her to be naïve, selfish and not too bright. Although not all characters should be empathetic, and in that particular film most of the characters are not, she is meant to be the one we most hold connection to because her reasons for running for election are relatively pure. All the other characters we can understand to some degree, even if we don’t necessarily approve of or justify their actions. Yet she is placed in a position where you can never connect with her. The main portrayal of the lesbian in the media is not that of the desexualized butch lesbian, but the lipstick lesbian. There has always been a male fascination with the idea of the lesbian as a sexual fantasy. It is difficult to say when this had began, but it is definitely easy to pinpoint portrayals over the course of the last thirty years. One of the most controversial was Sharon Stone’s portrayal of a bisexual novelist, who is more than comfortable with her sexuality, and who may or may not have killed someone. The film’s portrayal of bisexual and homosexual women was publically criticized by the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 30

(GLAAD), who ran a very fervent and media savvy smear campaign on the film. The main character, Catherine Tramell, is shown as manipulative, cruel, sexually aggressive and deviant in the heteronormative sense. One of the defining moments of the film is the scene where she proceeds to flash the â&#x20AC;&#x153;goodsâ&#x20AC;? when interrogated by the all-male authorities by uncrossing and then crossing her legs. Her character cemented the lipstick lesbian as the ultimate tease and male fantasy. 31

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There have been other portrayals where lesbian characters are depicted as fickle and uncertain. Examples of this are the show Sex and the City and the indie rom-com, Kissing Jessica Stein. The former has a storyline where the infamous, sexually charged character of Samantha Jones goes on to have a brief lesbian relationship. Their union is portrayed as the relationship equivalent of a pity date. Samantha feels bad that this woman is in love with her, so she decides to pursue

a relationship with her in order to somehow salvage their friendship. This is not the only time where lesbians have been portrayed negatively on that show. One episode portrays the character of Charlotte befriending a lesbian and trying to be involved in the lesbian community. After showing her admiration and desire to be there, one of the women says that she doesn’t have place amongst them since she doesn’t “eat pussy”. The lesbians here are portrayed as forceful, close minded, unfriendly and cold. It is a double-edged sword. Either the lesbian is portrayed as a frigid ice princess who is part of a members only club, or a complete tease. Another culprit is the aforementioned Kissing Jessica Stein, where an obviously straight young woman looking for love decides to try going out with women. The film portrays it as a life choice like picking out a sofa, as opposed to something you are born with. She decides to endeavor into lesbianism out of sheer desperation, as the heterosexual dating pool has turned into a murky puddle. Although the film lauds itself for addressing this issue, it is offensive in the sense that it undermines lesbianism as mere experimentalism. Furthermore, the main character winces her way through the film, treating her near lesbian encounters with fear and obvious disgust. It makes you wonder why she bothered at all if she finds the idea so horrible.

This type of negative portrayal can also be seen in Kevin Smith’s indie classic Chasing Amy. Although critics have praised the film for its sensitive portrayal of a straight man who falls for a lesbian woman, it does fall into the same issues as before. Alyssa, the main object of affection, is once again portrayed within the realm of the oversexed character, talking openly of oral sex in one scene. She again falls under the whole heteronormative condemnation when Holden, the main character, discovers about her spotty sexual past. The film deals less with her lesbianism and turns into a narrative dealing with the male insecurity of having a more experienced partner. The film doesn’t portray Alyssa as a “normal” everyday person. She is still an oversexualized entity, in spite of Smith’s effort to root the plot back into reality. The film does try to redeem itself with the scene when upon hearing Holden’s suggestion to resolve their problems by having a threesome with him and his jealous roommate, she slaps him and announces that she isn’t his whore. A more positive portrayal of a similar situation is in the teen novel, Hard Love. The main character may fall in love with a lesbian, but she stands her ground. She is what she is. She can’t change for him or suddenly change who she is because he has fallen for her. The main female character, Marisol, isn’t portrayed as a tease. She places it all on the table that she will always be his friend, but it will never evolve into anything else. VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 32

There is no denial that the portrayal of homosexual characters has come a long way. We are seeing more homosexual characters in books, films, television and other forms of media. There is still a lot that isn’t quite right. It seems that the homosexual male has come a greater distance in this sprint towards fair representational equality. It appears that the gay man is more commonly portrayed as the loveable best friend. Yet the lesbian is still portrayed as the kinky, cool and distant temptress, who, really, is just a

more indecisive and insecure version of the straight woman. The other stereotype is that of the asexual butch lesbian, who is slightly political, yet her politics, opinions and passions are made redundant. It seems that the lesbian cannot be portrayed as “normal”, if such a classification exists. Although she is characterised as strong, her strength is undermined since she rejects heternormative convention. As a result, she is either merely a sexual entity or completely desexualized. There is very little middle ground.

ILLUSTRATIONS AND OPPOSITE ARTWORK BY ANN-MARIE EU

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Burning Dross By JAH

This time I didn’t ante in, betting on myself, or gamble Grace would forget I took Her for granted again. This time I folded my hands, turned away, cashed nothing, dropped my anchor at its command in stillness I see I’m lost. Doubt sailed in before, now Defeat has come down from my high mountains a destructive meeting at the water’s shore. Each spectre talking, miming plans, signing agreements on an overturned ding boat, they’ll carve out this land at any cost. On a bank I sit with a pen absorbing every detail I see, that bleeds out of cuts I try but can’t bind, yet forms on my page into fine cursive lines. I’m seen and they scoff, “You can’t write us away” What do I say in hope’s loss?

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It was once on this perch, reclined toward the sky, constellating lines to the divine, I saw a path to the Holy Church. By night, from the black canopy, Grace was cut, a crescent-shaped sliver, of lunar arcs; I ever-tried to teach Her the paths I drew, but drifting west, over each, She passed across. The din of mutiny aboard my Peace, focuses my thoughts to shore; the spectreâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s theatre is in an encore. So I grip my pen and gaze East. And there again Grace does shine, floating on Her celestial current home. So I too raise my anchor and shove off, knowing a battle not fought is neither won nor lost. And as I pass from that land, I look down, at a place where I grew cold, and watch those two spectres become like coarse grains in the sand. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s this skyway that makes it so, all destruction below is naught because on the tail of Grace, we shed our albatross.

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catharsis

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Unsubstantiated Rumours Are Good Enough For Me (To Base My Life Upon) By Anonymous

Those who know me know I neither enjoy the LSE nor believe it is a good institution. When confronted with questions as to why I find my time here so stressful and dissatisfying, I find little more to say than that the initial problem lies in the LSE’s narrow-mindedness and inability to expand students’ intellectual horizons, as well as the incongruity between teaching quality relative to its international status as a social sciences institution. For having one of the largest social sciences libraries, the ‘resources available’ to us undergraduates are shocking – where, exactly, is our money? No, actually, do you know what really makes me wonder about the quality of this institution?

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I’ll set the scene: I’m in my first year, excitable, intrigued, slightly apathetic still, but not yet beyond all scope of motivation – that happened in my second year; I spent it drunk, still don’t remember much (managed to make it through, funny that). Anyway, back to first year. I enrol myself on a philosophy course entitled ‘Reason, Knowledge and Values’ – fantastic, I think; a course in which a group of us will be able to delve into a false sense of profundity concerning the intricacies of human ethics and behaviour. Wrong! Well, sorry, no, the pretentious I’m-going-to-attempt-and-fail-to-outdoyour-attempted-and-failed-sound-philosophical-evaluation was there, don’t get me wrong, but the actual beauty of philosophy wasn’t there. What’s the beauty of philosophy? There. Is. No. Box.

Two occurrences formed the bomb that shattered any hopes I had for the LSE as an establishment to respect; as a place in which I thought I could develop a stringent and matured frame of mind. First: when I hand in a piece of work, criticism is welcome. Everyone agrees with constructive criticism. Let’s not lie, we’d prefer unfettered praise, but advice for improvement is always welcome. I got neither – instead, I was accused of ‘thinking too much outside of the box’. That fucking box haunts me. I sat opposite my teacher in shock for a good two minutes, wondering where I had been when this philosophical box confining THOUGHT had been created. I almost felt like being a typical LSE student with ‘connections’ and labelling this moronic, considering I had two generations of philosophers behind me, including a father who used to ask how I could be sure that a table was a table…when I was six. Second: towards the end of the year, I was given the pleasure of studying my father – joy, hate his philosophy, think he’s a bit of an idiot in general. Wrote an essay destroying his ideas (the man does not believe you can ever be responsible for your actions, need I say more? He does not believe in free will. Excuses…) Anyway, I wrote the essay, exploited my father’s position and had him verify that I had given a credible counter-argument to his, albeit that he wouldn’t agree with me either way. Fine, done. What did my ‘teacher’ do? He disagreed. Wholly.

Where I had been assured my argument was strong against my father’s, my teacher argued he wasn’t convinced. When I asked my teacher if he had marked it based on whether it was a credible argument or according to his personal views – his answer? Personal bias and persuasion: 1; impartiality when marking: NIL! How can this benefit one’s education? This is war. Trust me; I made all mental efforts possible to escape. Having finalised issues with the School, future housemates and future landlords, I had one last tackle, my mother. She, understandably, finds value in the prestigious reputation of the school and the prospects that it offers. Her refusal to accept my reasons for wishing to leave left me with the choice between abandoning a relationship with my mother or remaining here at the LSE. I decided to maintain the former and persevere with my degree. However, my main qualm with the LSE is its student body. Houghton Street is a bizarre catwalk at 9am on a Monday morning. Never have I met such a plethora of people so self indulgent and plain rude. There is a sense of inevitable social judgement and academic discrimination. Perhaps naively, one leaves school under the false impression that university will reward you with a real sense of adventure and independence, together with friends you will know and love for the rest of your life. No. It’s simply a bigger stage for people to vent their personal beliefs and opinions as though they were scripVOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 40

ture. It’s constant. It’s unbearable. So far, my memories of this place amount to being dismissed as obviously being of a ‘lower class’ in conversation, along with shocking some future investment banker slash failed fifth member of JLS by throwing him across the dance floor after he squared right up to me, nose to nose (the more I think about it, the more I feel as though we could have had something). All these students and their ‘societies’: here you all are fighting for socialist reform, women’s rights, democracy blaaaahhh blah blah – wake the fuck up. You are pretty much sprinting into a world in which a socialist revolution is a joke, gender equality is a long, long fight away from achieving a fraction of universal recognition and international acclaim, and democracy does not exist. These student societies…these are instrumental factors in defining who you are at this place, because you just have to be somebody. Who will you be when you are gone? I’d prefer to be considered a nobody. I’ve always been a cynic. More than a cynic, a vehement pessimist, understanding that we are all flawed and all naturally self-interested, just to different degrees. Personally, I consider this to fulfil my conception of reality. The lack of genuine care, loyalty and regard here has just reinforced my distaste for human behaviour. Sure, someone could read this and argue that I am not one to speak, as I am just as bad as everyone else – yeah, I probably 41

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am. Writing this probably has not helped. We are not the best judges of ourselves. But then, I generally do not think that we, as humans, are very good judges at all. I think that was something I decided when I took my beloved philosophy course. It’s just sad, really. This world is a sad place. My initial discontent at LSE helped me understand that social freedom, civil liberty, acceptance and tolerance do not exist, have not existed, and quite possibly, can never exist. Shame. Well, I guess I learnt something at least.

I Whip My Hair Back and Forth By Nathan Briant

First of all, getting my hair cut is never a priority. I’d far rather push it to the side until it’s of a ridiculous length and then get it so short I don’t need to relive the horror of a hairdresser for another six months. Secondly, I get on with my parents relatively well. Much of that’s probably down to my relatively placid character: sitting upstairs, music on blaring through headphones or reading in total silence isn’t that controversial compared to what other chums might get up to, seeing the sights, feeling alright. But one thing they can’t abide (one being a regular churchgoer the other having, basically, the social attitudes of Lord Alfred Tennyson) is their son - me - having long, or even relatively long, hair. They don’t want their son seen in the city’s shopping centre by Doreen ‘looking like a tramp’.

Regarding the length, it’s only when it gets uncontrollable, only when a swarming mess - ‘a bird’s nest’, as my sister said once - is sitting on my head, do I act. I curse my curly hair, but proceed for weeks, if not months, until I decide: that’s it, it’s got to go. I could compare myself to Carlos Valaderrama here. The last time this happened was a fortnight ago on Tuesday. I won’t forget it in a hurry - the experience was so disastrous. Let me set the scene. I lived in Camden last year and, despite its general bohemianism, I really liked it. This year we ended up getting a flat in Kilburn, which isn’t nearly as nice. So, having been in Kilburn for about six weeks, I started to yearn for my old walk. Knowing I needed a haircut, I remembered the place on the VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 42

high street which did haircuts for very reasonable prices, and set off from the LSE to look reasonable again. My messy appearance was realised only the weekend before, when I’d been home, and the first thing that my parents had said to me at Trent Valley station was something about my hair: ‘Nathan, that hair: get it cut, for Christ’s sake!’. If I’d have been at home, say, and they’d been complaining about my hair during the summer holidays I would have told them where to go; but when you’re away from home, it’s easy to get a touch sentimental and try to do what they want you to do. For a few days or so. So, since the ‘few days or so’ thing was still in force, I got to this cheap barbers’ place. After I set foot in there, I immediately knew it was a mistake. Three men with fashionable hairstyles, if that’s indeed what they were (I have to question what fashion is these days, to be honest), were dancing around the salon to (again, if that’s the term) “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. Not the best start. I was looking for a staid, serious barber taking care of my hair, not Disco Dave chopping carelessly to the beat. It got worse. I felt okay finally getting in there, despite the singing and jiving business, until he got the razor - an implement not used on my hair since about 2002. He used it so quickly that, within a minute, my hair tumbled away to reveal a rather odd, err, look. I was speechless.

I wouldn’t have minded too much about the razor business, except an event at secondary school barred me from allowing razors to be used ‘on the sides’ which left me being called several names reminiscent of a character from Full Metal Jacket - precisely what Disco Dave had proceeded to do. But I did. And I have. And I will have for weeks, months. The trauma of the haircut continued. I was so shocked at what I actually looked like, what I had inflicted on myself. ‘Like mine?’ he asked. Unfortunately, I was still in shock. My head looks like an egg - spherical - round at the sides, with some stupid wasted hair on the top for a silly quiff-thing which he had. total disaster. I came out, shell-shocked. I went in a hair-ball but came out an egg. Even for seven quid, it was awful. It’ll grow back, I know that. But I’m concerned that the egg-comparisons might take a few weeks to cease. But at least I know not to do it again. Until the next time, that is. The process starts now; and the next disaster will take place about April 2011. I’m on tenterhooks thinking about it even now.

OPPOSITE ARTWORK BY GIANCARLO DE VERA

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Wax, Sugar, Pewter… An interview with Ayako Kanari

This ring is the final result from an initial concept based on the phrase ‘sugar-coating.’ 31 objects, relating to 31 people in my life, were made out of sand-cast pewter and coated with icing sugar to represent the ‘sugar-coating’ on my words to these select people. The ring is the wearable final piece from this project, made out of pewter (cast in a crystal-like shape) and PVC. 45

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The aim to make a ‘wearable piece’ seems to come quite late in the creative process of your jewellery. Does the aspect of the body often enter later? To be honest, commercial jewellery design isn’t something I consider as my strongest skill. I tend to focus on how I can tell a story through my jewellery rather than how pretty it looks. I usually

get inspired by words/stories/phrases/ proverbs etc, and I rarely start from a visual source. I feel that pre-existing shapes limit my creativity when I develop concepts... On the other hand, I tend to get stuck with the concept and find it hard to visualise it as a physical piece of jewellery. Though I want my piece to have a message, jewellery is also about the relationship between the object and the body... It’s a difficult medium of expression, but that’s what I’m interested in, and that’s why I chose to study jewellery design and not fine art. You created 31 pieces of sugar-coated jewellery based on your relationships with people in your life. How well have the pieces made from icing sugar lasted? Do you think there is any significant difference between the pieces that can decay and the more resilient ones? The icing sugar pieces are actually pretty durable if I keep them in ’a cool, dry place’, as you would treat sweets. I did have to wash off the sugar and re-coat all the pieces again for a photo shoot because I didn’t take good care of them, and they started melting in the early summer. As to how they differ from PVC jewellery, I think they attract a different audience. The sugar coated ones are more for exhibition than for wearing – they are something you see and want to learn the story behind. This may sound like a contradiction to my belief that jewellery is about the relationship between an object and the body, but I think that as

long as the piece takes a shape, the audience will imagine what it would be like to wear it. The sugar pieces are also lickable, (even pewter, it’s is used to make cookery tools)! So, in a sense, the sugar jewellery could potentially have a elicit a stronger relationship with the audience. I am aware that there are a lot of artists/ designers who deal with the concept of decay, but I really wasn’t addressing the topic here. It is true that the nature of the sugar-coating forces me to retouch the pieces often, usually resulting in a slightly different design. As they are based on my relationships with people, this may seem problematic. Yet my relationships with the 31 people I chose may change over time too, so it’s not an issue. I just need to reflect on each of the people whenever I do the icing. I feel the PVC one was successfully transformed into a wearable piece. Although the original concept isn’t as clearly shown, and I can’t offer an explanation for this piece in isolation from the ones made out of sugar, people don’t normally ask for an explanation when buying jewellery. I only had to make sure that it functions and that it looks good when worn. This project gave me the opportunity to experiment with a variety of materials and methods to recreate the sugar jewellery. I tried different kinds of thread and I initially looked for materials to coat the pewter bits. I thought the coating process was a very personal part of the previous project and that I could leave it undone for the customers. I also VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 46

produced 30 of the same design, so I had to make sure that I could make them all the same. That was new to me and so it was very difficult. Have you given any of the pieces to your 31 people? No, I haven’t. I actually had problems when I explained the 31 pieces to the people I had based them on. My mother really wanted to know which one was about her, but I didn’t tell her. If she sees it, she would require an explanation as to how it’s sugar-coated, why I did it that way, what it means and so on. My project was about making a bitter truth look pretty, and if I started explaining each piece, they wouldn’t look as good anymore!

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One of the pieces was about my ex-boyfriend. I actually melted down the silver accessories he had given me to make the core bit instead of using pewter. I couldn’t throw them away but I didn’t want to wear them either and I think it was the best thing I did to them. This secret is sugar coated too and he should never know.

Ayako Kanari is a final year jewellery design student at Central St Martins. Her favourite places to visit for inspiration are the Wellcome Collection and the Hunterian Museum.

Stating The Obvious By James Callender

There are some things that are so crushingly obvious that no one is willing to even acknowledge them. Everyone takes drugs and they do it because drugs are straight-up fun, nothing more, nothing less. Tibet will never, ever, be free and the Dalai Lama would make better use of his time marketing men’s fashion. We all have to do our bit to halt climate change, but not if it means going to Scotland rather than Spain or doing anything that might actually substantially reduce our environmental impact. Bringing about (always temporary) social change is hard work and has only 49

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ever been the result of patient, disciplined and, most often, violent mass organisation that presents a distinct threat to how society is run. This does not mean thought-provoking puppet shows, anticorporate clothing, loving music while hating racism, demanding that something unpleasant not be in your name, or awareness-raising anything. No one with even a primary school education is going to dispute any of these facts, but it’s rare to hear anyone mentioning them. It looks puzzling, but it’s actually quite simple. We all, each and every one of us, deep down cling onto the infantile belief that we in some way matter, that we can have hope for the future because what we do

during our short lives somehow counts for something. This belief stops us from seeing the obvious because, on the one hand, we want to believe that we can save the rainforest and it won’t be too much of a bother. On the other hand, we are reluctant to take responsibility for living in a modern, tolerant society that places teenagers in prison for simply having a good time. So we reuse our plastic bags, we never talk about drugs as anything othernever talk about drugs as anything but a problem and carry on living within our comfortable but delusional frame of reference. This misapprehension about our own importance has been around since the homosapiens decided to take a break from trees and check out flat-land real estate. Religious types think that life’s a game, that someone is actually keeping score and that it’ll be tallied up prior to a giant awards show in the sky. Those with a more materialist take on the world look back at countless millennia of suffering, brutality and malice (remember that the first thing the homosapiens did after hitting the ground was to go out and lynch a Neanderthal) and then announce that, if we just put in a bit of effort, earthly paradise is just around the corner. Today we hang the prayer flags on our walls, put the stickers on our windows and attend that fundraising concert even though just the tiniest amount of reflection would remind us that no one in the PRC could give the slightest fuck.

Every single act of reform – be it Victorian philanthropists setting up libraries, the masses grasping the franchise or a fearful elite establishing a national health service – was set in motion by misguided souls who thought that they and their actions would matter and that they could actually transform our lot in this world. The fact that their achievements are under siege today is simply a reflection of the fact that, decades later, we’re still mired in pain and it’s getting harder and harder to keep up the earlier pretence. We maintain the illusion of our own importance because, for most, fully accepting the truth of our situation would have us hanging from the rafters in no time and - there’s the rub - most of us are too cowardly to take that road. Everyone knows that ‘To be or not to be’ is the question, but not that many stop to think about what Hamlet’s clearly talking about. The spoiled Danish brat takes a look at his life and sees nothing but a desert of agony, but the only thing that’s stopping him from ending it is the cowering fear that there might actually be something worse waiting for him on the other side. (Again, this stems from the mistaken intuition that we matter enough for something somewhere to take the time and money to make a whole other world for us to visit after we die). Throughout the centuries, only a few of the more honest philosophers, writers and a handful of the cooler musicians have been willing to tackle the obvious VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 50

in an truthful manner - them and the Buddhists; not the robe-wearing, vegetarian hipsters of popular imagination, but the noble and solemn people who, having realised that life is all pain, set themselves the goal of achieving anti-life. As John Dolan puts it: “‘Nirvana’: a quaint Buddhist term, taken by most American bohemians to mean something like ‘nice peaceful feeling’. But that’s not what it means at all: ‘nirvana’ literally means ‘the blowing out of a candle’; Extinction, a return to stillness. Poor Cobain! He took it seriously, and made Nirvana for himself...”1 You’re probably wondering where this article is going; when I’m going to make ‘that’ point, the point that justifies all this doom and gloom and turns your perspective around completely, leaving you with a positive message.

cape despair in this world is/What it is, what it is to be free”, and they did in two minutes, three chords and bouncy rhythm - what took the old German goat 350 convoluted pages. All the culture, all the intimate moments, all the positive endeavours are temporary distractions from the awful truth and that’s the best we can do. We start families, make friends, join societies, play games and head to the pub, our ancestors gathered around fires in caves; each one of us desperately huddling together for warmth in a world that will always be cold and indifferent.

If you are wondering that, you haven’t been paying attention. There is no escape. This is what there is. All that we can hope for in this cosmic prison cell is to have the odd experience here or there that allows us to temporarily forget what is. Schopenhauer was right when beauty “...discloses itself suddenly to our view, it almost always succeeds in delivering us, though it may be only for a moment, from subjectivity, from the slavery of the will, and in raising us to the state of pure knowing.”2 But so were Operation Ivy when they sang, “To es51

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1. Dolan, J.; “The Case for Nuclear Winter”, http:// exiledonline.com/feature-story-the-case-for-nuclear-winter/ 2. Schopenhauer, A.; “The World as Will and Representation”.

OPPOSITE PHOTOGRAPH BY JAMES CALLENDER

The Book of Numbers By Stephanie Oula

XXV

what is it when a boy whispers to your hair, to the curve of your neck that he wants you, and this sense of power courses through your veins, mercuryshot, fluid and silver, as you hold him to you, pressing your fingers in his hair, eyes closed, as his lips form words on your bare skin — the light is soft and yellow and holy and you’d rather not open your eyes, though you do from time to time, stealing glances of his face, and (you must say) that you like the pressure of his body against yours, as he twines his hands in your hair, along your back, and you wonder what you yourself feel like to him, as he searches for your heart in your mouth— 53

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but he cannot find it there and so one by one, articles of clothing come off, and you like the freckles on his shoulders and you can’t help but exhale when he takes your small breast in his mouth, but you still like it best when he kisses your neck, because then your shoulder rises up involuntarily, and your breathing becomes labored, but pleasured, incredibly pleasured as he tells you he wants you— and perhaps you don’t even hear it, but you feel it, as his lips move to make the syllables there on the perfect curve of your neck, Anne Sullivan signing words into Helen Keller’s hands, and you want to say I want you too, but you don’t, because something pulls you back— the music in the background swells and dips, fades and brightens, but in the end is just noise, as your breathing and his breathing become the main sounds of the night—

for it is night, though you don’t know it, whether the moon is out, or the stars are visible, because you’re in a tiny little dorm room, with character, it must be said, and a window, but the funny thing is that you’re on a bed about four feet off the ground, and you don’t feel as if you’re anywhere at all, not on the bed, not in the room, not in the school, not in the city, maybe not even anywhere at all — because where you are is everywhere your two bodies meet, hands, legs, feet, fingers, lips, skin, that is where you are right now and you can’t ever remember being anywhere else— and maybe, you haven’t ever been anywhere else—just here, held tightly in the arms of someone who wants you—and it is enough and it is more than enough.

III

He always knows just what to say, the sense of wit, banter, charm, a general smoothness, this becomes disarming after a while, disarming because you’ve stopped believing what he says because he always seems to know exactly what to say — and while you knew coming into this that you could very well be one of a million, you hoped against all odds that you were not, although you never admitted it, not even to yourself— and the last person you will admit this to is him, because the last time you admitted

something to him, you got that look—was it pity? but you didn’t like — weeks and weeks before, you had a dream where he looked at you with that same look, what does it mean that this look escaped from your dream, your nightmare, and materialized there, on his face, in the tepid gray sunshinewhen he caressed your bare knee under your tulle skirt and told you honestly, truthfully, brutally, that he didn’t “do” emotions — well that was just fine and dandy, wasn’t it, and you agreed not to do emotions together, and then he kissed and kissed and kissed you and it was chilly and his hand was on your knee and you were confused, so confused — but he does all the right things too? you know there is someone else, supposedly, and you don’t know what to think of her, of him, of her and him, you wonder idly, curiously, fervently if they too are sleeping together, if he repeats the same actions, the same words, the same music to her, and you wonder why you care, if neither of you are supposed to be doing emotions — as if emotions can be done, like people; you wish you didn’t care, good lord, you wish you didn’t care— but how not to wonder? do you simply savor the small moments alone, where you imagine those are yours and yours alone, but how can you be sure? there’s the rub, you can’t, you can’t, and even if you ask, you can’t be sure he’s being truthful with you, oh what a tangled web of deceit we weave, how complicated, VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 54

how strange, how messy, how not what you wanted, not at all, is this your chance to play Jackie, just as you’ve always wanted to do? is it easier to turn the other cheek, to remain a beautiful fixture in his life, but nothing more, to take what you must from him and give what you would in return, but nothing more? is it easier not to ask?— yet you’re so certain when you’re with him that it can be nothing else but you and him, this, this gripping of two people, tightly entwined, and together, simply, definitely together, you dream a reality that is anything but realistic, this idea of two, twisted again each other, two together for this moment, for this pause in time, just for now—is that enough?—is it? you think you maybe know the answer and it is yes. for now.

When I think of us, the word that comes to mind is madness—a fearsome madness—I’m moving again, across land, it’s night: wide-eyed pinpricks of light in the darkness: the thought of touch; the idea of forgetting; actually forgetting—I can’t remember your face anymore, but I miss you—I miss the way you are in my memory or what is left of you there— what we left in our wake were a series of incomplete thoughts, unsaid words—but we were bound by a strange desperation 55

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for each other—madness—and yet: drive me mad, “kiss me quite insane,” make me terribly miserable, do what you will—but let us live, yes? let everything be brutal, brilliant, life to the utmost extreme, life to the utmost brink of things—press on against the current of acceptability, of functionality and let us be magnificent and young and ridiculous and terribly courageous together— we are quite lost, it’s true—when you both grow up reading too many books and watching too many movies and distill a literary and cinematic concept of life that is different from life itself—there’s a tendency towards morbid self-examination, narcissism, naval-gazing, writing, always writing (especially when you both have lost parents: a mother, a father respectively) it breeds thought into you, introspection, continual examination—death and life and all that bullshit—death and life and sex and fucking and no emotions and sex and desperation and madness and sex and bullshit and immortality, at the end of all things: there in your bed, we suspended time— we lost our awareness, lost our mortal consciousness, our limitations, our boundaries, we went into different worlds—and we forgot about life and forgot about death and all we could feel was the moment, the moment, the instant immediate present, and everything was limitless, and what is immortality if not that? a glimpse of eternity, there, in your arms.

how strange that I should believe in the existence of something more in the midst of an act that defines our mortality, how strange to find faith in an afterlife during the very motions which produce life—but it was there, I saw it, and it was a white country, filled with light—it filled me with light—I was light—I was immortal, just for an instant, for the quickest pause in time as you raised me up to that country without letting me go—but for now, if you must go, it is enough that you took me there first and set me so gently upon its silver shores and I will always bless you for that— still moving, against the darkness, the landscape rushing by me, I press my face to the window, this moment, the cold of the glass, the feeling of movement, the forward motion of everything as I stay perfectly still, wish I could capture it— all the same constellations, all the same stories, existing far beyond our small lives, stretching all the way back, to the beginning of it all, time, the world, everything—when we first met, how immortal we are, after all. filled, with immeasurable hope—a strange belief in the faith of kisses, of embrace, of sex, and more than sex: transcendence—hold me as you do and I will find something to believe in.

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ARTWORK BY MATILDA WILLIAMS

The Pathway By Saffaan Qadir

Is it enough? Nay, Punish they, those who speak For there is more one may After having reached the peak Swallow as does the night Of reason while they glorify When it sips out the light The senseless and petrify Leaving the night-dwellers Those who stand aside Satiated as swillers And those who wish not to abide While the ignorant sleep By the currents of preference Ordered by a ghost like sheep And by the tides of adherence Through a storm Though their hate of the inquisitive, Of the form The upbeat and the positive Called the figment Stems but because they are gleeful Of the mind; like a dark pigment Unlike the clueless who are just baneful In the depths, it rests For the prudent have unlocked a door Aloof from reason, it jests And set off to bliss using an oar At prudence, mocking As it does the flocking Which has but this Herds which answer the call Written on it in bold so as not to miss They think had a heavenly fall â&#x20AC;&#x153;Realise your true self But never which existed and the seat And seek not the material pelfâ&#x20AC;? If it withstood time, a feat, Would cackle too at the masses Which continue in their idiocy as time passes

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Contributors Sophie Boutilier spent nine months living in Mombasa. During her time, she passed many young, homeless boys passed out on sidewalks with no other possessions besides a bottle of glue. From here her poem is inspired.

Ann-Marie Eu uses art as a last minute stress reliever and space filler. You can find her in the Garrick (don’t bother with the library), where she recently re-discovered Photoshop, and kissed her degree good-bye.

Nathan Briant is Willow Smith’s biggest fan, which is why his new look was so distressing for him. He likes to jump out and scare people on Houghton Street whilst shoving a copy of the Beaver into their hands – or any other gaping holes. He’s also a massive fan of Walsall FC.

Grace Fletcher studies social anthropology at LSE having dramatically changing from an art degree to an academic one. She is interested in the anatomies of animals. Her favourite bones are from dinosaurs. The funniest bones are from a tortoise.

James Callender spends most of his time in the library reading about IR stuff. He occasionally puts pen to paper to deal with things that have been annoying him lately. He is often right, but would rather be wrong than boring. Giancarlo de Vera hails from the ‘land down under’ where there are sandy beaches aplenty. He lives around the corner from a bakery that sells crème brulee tarts. While he might appear to be like any other student, he’s actually part of the Justice League.

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Marko Grba was born and educated in Croatia and obtained an MSc in physics form the University of Zagreb. He is now studying for a further MSc in Philosophy of Science. He has been published in literary journals in Croatia and at Poetry. Magazine.com JAH came from New Orleans where he happened to be employed working on a shrimping boat just outside Delacroix.

Contributors Zoe Leung is a second year student studying IR and history. In addition to her interest in politics, she is a regular gallery, theatre, and concert go-er. Alice Ollstein is a freelance radio and print reporter in Washington, D.C. She also works on media campaigns for organizations that oppose the U.S. military and economic oppression of Latin America. The story “Jicaro” chronicles her second stay in the town of Parcila in Nicaragua. Stephanie Oula wears dresses and has poor time management skills. A native of the mythical land of New York she is an IR General Course student, and when she isn’t thinking of ways to take over the world, she is writing. Saffaan Qadir is a first year Philosophy and Economics student from Lahore, Pakistan. He has always been an avid reader of fiction but in recent years that fascination has evolved into a passion for writing - a hobby which he now keenly pursues.

Sasha Salmon is a London girl who somehow ended up in LSE doing Law and Anthropology. She’s scatty, wears silly clothes and loves doodling. She is a frequent friend to Clare. Karl Sharro is an architect and writer based in London. He is co-founder of Mantownhuman, the group behind Manifesto: Towards a New Humanism in Architecture. He blogs at Karl reMarks. (karlremarks.blogspot.com) He is also an LSE alumnus. Rasha Touqan is a postgraduate student studying Gender, Media and Culture. She did her undergraduate at Keele University, studying IR and Media, Communications and Culture. She’s from Jordan, but has lived all over the place. Matilda Williams is currently in third year studying anthropology at LSE. She loves travelling and ink drawings, and has spent many days combining the two. She has great plans to head back out into the wide world, filling sketchbooks as she goes. For now, she counts down the days till Christmas, hoping that she’s not too old for a stocking.

VOLUME CVI, ISSUE 1 60

On the Cover

Leaves on Powder Blue Alice Leah Fyfe

I always start any project, artistic or academic in one of two ways: with meticulous perfectionism, planned down to the last detail, or with absolutely no idea whatsoever as to its implementation. I guess maybe that’s why I’m studying Maths and Stats here, but spend most of my spare time day dreaming or experimenting with different visuals: fashion, painting, architecture, drawing. This piece is actually a rare occasion when I combined the two. The main motif reflected around the spine comes from a pencil drawing I did when I was 16. Back then I always made my Christmas cards, ranging from arranged sweet wrappers to more sophisticated still life or landscape paintings. Christmas 2005 was more abstract though. I had created this fluid ‘angel’ inspired image. But I remember it as being one of my favourites. When Clare asked me to design a cover for the Michaelmas edition, I immediately thought of a blustery autumnal design and experimented with some collages of leaves and lace. I have always been fascinated by the structured intricacy found in the vital parts of anatomy: the circulatory system, the roots, the skeleton. I remembered the pencil drawing I had done and wondered if I could reinvent it five years down the 63

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line. Although completely composed from imagination, the motif was very much like a windblown leaf or petal, so I decided to extend the image with a thicker marker pen to accentuate certain parts of the graphite precision. This would lend itself to bolder, more noticeable colour manipulation later on. A lot of artwork I do also incorporates complex layering; not quite knowing where one image starts and another finishes. Perhaps I am inspired by surrealists like Dali and Escher in that respect; the calculated precision of Escher’s morphing tessellations astounds me. I once tried to put that into practice with an image of a violin… maybe I’ll take that up again one day. This piece was nowhere near as complicated as that, Or as premeditated. Once I had extended the image, I knew the quickest way to achieve a layered look was to use some textured acetate. I happened to have some translucent embossed sheets in various colours. Scattered over the page in squares of different sizes, it immediately created a three dimensional quality to the otherwise flat drawing and mimicked the fluidity of the pencil lines. The colour palette was very interchangeable, although now I can’t really imagine it in

any other scheme. I knew I wanted a dark, smoky background, topped with more vibrant yet still autumnal highlights. The monotone reflection underneath provides more depth, yet again echoing and accumulating the frantic layers of warmer hues above, a juxtaposition of the anticipation of winter’s sobriety with the sporadic dazzle of a weakened but ubiquitous sun. Subconsciously, I think I was also influenced by the Glasser debut album cover which I’d just bought the same week as I produced this, which draws inspiration from

stained glass. Have a listen the music goes pretty well with what I like to think of as the fruition of an ethereal misty-low-wintersun reverie; a kaleidoscopic whirlwind of leaves, both tangible and imaginary. Ah, who am I kidding? It’s just a collage that turned out pretty well. I hope you like it! *