Godartet January 2015 by Godartet

NORDIC CULTURE MAGAZINE

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EDITORIAL T

he appreciation of art is something we all have in common. We all have different tastes, we come from different backgrounds and we differ in what we find beautiful but we appreciate all the same. It is this appreciation of the arts and the broad cultural backgrounds which provide the frame of reference for art to be created that was the inspiration for Godartet Magazine. As we all know all too well, the times are hard and euros are tough to come by for any of us. This is especially true for the artists, who try to make a living by creating new work of wonder that makes life so much sweeter. At Godartet, we wish to make it so that people do not forget those sweet moments when you listen to your favorite song or look at a painting, mesmerized. If those moments were to disappear, it would be a great loss. We provide you, the reader, with insight into the different aspects of the broad term â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;cultureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. Every month we discuss different cultural phenomena, art forms and artists and since the artists are the ones delivering us new experiences time and time again, we want to give them the attention they deserve. You will be able to get to know them and their work by reading through these pages and seeing for yourself what a large amount of talent there is, just waiting to be discovered. And if you discover an artist you wish to support, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hesitate to contact them. They will surely be happy to hear from you. Just tell them we sent you.

ust like the artists that we present, we at Godartet also wish to be discovered by you. So if you enjoy what we do, tell your friends and let them know there is something interesting happening in this remote and forgotten part of the internet. We are just getting started and

we know we can deliver quality content that will keep you coming back for more. The only thing we ask of you is that you keep coming back and if you have some feedback, please let us know. Oh, and tell a friend. We at Godartet like friends.

o read on, friend. There are no hidden fees or other tricks up our sleeves that we know would drive you away because they sure as hell would drive us away. We have only the good stuff and we will deliver more of it in the months to come. Just you wait and read.

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JANUARY INTERVIEW 4 POEM OF THE MONTH Ari-Pekka Leinonen 7 REVIEW Mirage 38 10 COLUMN Fanny Grazzo 12 GODARTET GOES GONZO The Hallowed Cruise 13 ESSAY Juha Heikkinen 20 SHORT STORY Ville Koski 24 COLUMN Ville Koski 34 THE ARTIST 36 Tessa Astre 38 Jenna Ervasti 46 Midnight Sun Burlesque 52 Jouni Porsanger 60 Piritta Pynnรถnen 64 LISTINGS 74 BATHROOMSTALL WALL 76 LAST PAGE 77

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MEETING THE MAKERS In this first-ever interview section of Godartets, Godartet sits down to talk with some truly special people; the makers of Godartet, Ville Koski and Juha Heikkinen. In this rare interview, both men open up things that lead to Godartet, what is the driving force in making tha magazine and also talk about money.

Where did this idea come from? Ville: About 2 months ago me and Juha worked in a same place and were both on the verge of losing our jobs. On fridays, we used to go to have a couple of pints and one friday night pondered on some ideas what we could do with all the time on our hands. Around that time I had also ordered myself a new computer and was thrilled to see how easy it is to do and publish stuff online, so after a brief consideration, the idea of a cultural magazine covering nordic art and culture was born. Basically we just wanted to do something.

Juha: As Ville said, we were not sure what we were going to be doing with ourselves after two weeks and we were not looking forward to be unemployed. We wanted something new and exciting, something to pursue our creative interests with and maybe even make some money with. Ville was talking about how easy it was to publish pretty much anything. You just â&#x20AC;&#x153;produce the contentâ&#x20AC;?, the computer does the rest. Well, essentially anyway. So, short story short, Ville suggested trying to make something of a magazine and I got pretty excited about it.

Ville has a hat. Ville likes hats.

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than in the almighty internet? Nowhere. Since our interests in culture are as varied as the term culture itself (one might argue that it is too varied for a little magazine to cover), making a magazine is actually the obvious answer. It’s the perfect medium for us to cover all kinds of topics.

Ville: Literature is my everlasting love when it comes to culture, but I do keep pretty much everything visual as my mistresses. When I was younger, I used to love movies, but with the decay of their modern quality in storytelling, television drama is my main interest What do you want to accomplish with Godartet? in that field these days as series such as Mad Men, Game of Thrones and The Bridge are proving how Ville: amazing TV just can be. I’m an avid videogamer as One of our main goals of the paper is to give aspirwell, albeit it is concerning how greed and money is ing new artists room for publicity on our paper, and it threatening the possibilities videogames have as a would be freaking amazing if someone would notice storytelling medium. Of course I love all forms of art one these artists on our paper and think “man, that’s and music (except electronic “music”), but literature something!” and contact them to do business/buy and moving visuals tend to take most of my free time. their art/etc… And of course promoting the modern Juha: culture of Scandinavia and Literature in all of its age- “It’s about time to make things Estonia without all the usuold glory is the form of art al cliches and stereotypes that makes you focus on the more local and see what we can see to the world is what we are story, the themes, the char- when we just look close enough” aiming for. Hopefully Goacters and everything the dartet will connect some author attempts to place great talents and thinkers in front of you. There is no sort of reading through and something completely new and beautiful hapa book while you’re washing the dishes, no skipping pens, who knows? through the pages. It’s just you and the book. The rest Juha: of the world can wait until you’re ready to come back We’re promoting our cultural neighbourhood and to it. As a different kind of literature I also love comic hoping to get to know our neighbours even better books or graphic novels or whatever you wish to call in the process. It’s just too easy to forget what the it. The combination of visual art and written word of- people next to you have done and only focus on the ten makes for a truly fantastic experience. American side of things for example. It’s about time to make things more local and see what we can see Why did you decide to start a magazine? when we just look close enough. We have all of this amazing talent just waiting to be discovered and if Ville: we can help them get noticed, that would really be If there is any media that is truly facing a massive something. change, that’s newspapers and magazines. Everything is going online and people tend to want their online materials for free. Since we have no money to invest, we figured that a almost-free-to-make and absolutely-free-to-read magazine would be a fun way to hop into this sinking ship called journalism! Seeriously though, as said we wanted to do something and our only expertise comes from the fields of language and culture, so with these skills in mind, a newspaper was a solid choice. Also, we felt that there was a need for something like Godartet in the world. Juha: Where else could we talk about the things we love and beg people to like it without appearing needy

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T What makes Godartet stand out? Ville: I think our greatest strength is that we are filling a void of something missing from the Scandinavian culture field, which is a proper medium for new artists to get publicity. We also analyze and discuss todays most interesting cultural phenomena and happenings in Scandinavia and all this is edited. Of course the internet is full of places for artists to promote themselves for free, but they tend to lack proper editing and certain respect. I also like to think that our long, thoughtful stories would be a refreshing touch these days, we’re not just click-fishing, but delivering content and thought. Juha: I think the way we give plenty of attention to artists so they can find new possibilities through us, is something to be proud of. Also, the cultural area that we cover is quite unique and I think we stand out because of it. You mix the things mentioned above with our will to write excellent articles and our lack of understanding what can and what cannot be done, we will go far!

don’t care how long the paper is in pages, as long as it is good. Also, most newspapers and magazines are nowadays read in iPads, smart phones and computers, so we’re just following our times. And being online is pretty much the only way to get international readers. How come is the paper free of charge? Ville: We made Godartet a free magazine because we want people to read it. In the online world, even a small price will scare off potential readers and may actually be way too much in these hard times the world is facing. We figure that since we’re not getting any money out of this and we’re not paying for anyone to do this, it’s only fair that no one should be charged to read this. And hey, who doesn’t love free shit?

Juha: Who wants to pay even a cent for something they can live without? I’m pretty sure the answer is close to no one. We want every random browser to discover us and feel free to read Why publish online? everything we have made without the annoying ad Juha: coming up, demanding Print media is a thing of that if you want to read furLadies. the past, and we want to ther, you have to pay. Well be a part of the next genwe say no more! Read it all, eration of publishing. The ecological advantages of over and over if you want to! only existing online aside, the costs are low or there are none, which is perfect for us aspiring millionaires. We don’t want your money! Also, we are able to reach people from all around the world instead of just our neighbours. Ville: Shortly after this interview Ville got a fullBecause money and because modern times. Without time job that actually pays and Juha decided having to consider the pressing cost of old timey pato move to Poland. Godartet is in good hands per, we don’t have to limit ourselves in any ways, we

indeed.

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POEM OF THE MONTH ARI-PEKKA LEINONEN

A TEMPTATION OF SAYING YES AS A STEP OUT OF APATHY PART I This is a third take This is a materialization of my thought process a process that takes me into a new places as I think out loud I type this text by pressing buttons on my laptop the text editor, white sheet of text editor program will fill up with black materia that is hopefully the truth of this moment of my thought process and by doing this risky business of exposing my weakness I will allow myself to forget what I wanted to say as the last sentence or a line shows I lost the track of my thought by doing this, I risk myself like I risk myself, every time that I say yes by saying yes I will have to do something do an action step out of apathy take the deceive step out of the comfort and step with fearless mind into the unknown what will happen is full exposure of weaknesses that prohibits me of being myself and when I allow myself for failing I find myself again my trueself by saying yes I con con confront the unknown and by saying yes I happened to write this this poem is called the temptation of saying yes as a step out of apathy

A TEMPTATION OF SAYING YES AS A STEP OUT OF APATHY PART II Last night I said to myself, while sweating in sauna, yes I will wake up in the morning by saying yes and by saying yes in the morning I must wake up. But what I also said in addition to “yes”, was (that) the fact that yes means initiative to write after waking up the purest thoughts on this, in this, by this, with this notebook trying to pursue the same level of honesty as I tried to reach with my previous attempt in search of the truth. By knowing this, I have to remind myself to follow the very first impulse of next word in search of the purest form of my thinking process. As we already know it seems to proceed very slowly only describing the framework of the process itself without releasing the accustomed idea, at least for myself, of poetry with all the round and symbolic metaphors of beauty, despair, love, death, life, disgust, hate and mostly love. Love requires yes. Without yes, love is torment within the core of soul, like a spike on a … like spike on a flesh of bad poet who lacks with naturally outbursting metaphors when talking or writing about profound or mystical in the twilight frost. But rather than being poet this morning, I happen to become truth seeker who might not allow himself to construct beauty because he said yes to this idea of following the first possible idea, the first trait of thought. Fish with hunger I follow my head in the ocean, as hungry as this morning for my breakfast, the ritual, the moment of salvation form the earthly death of hunger, which I feel strongly while scratching my head as I happen to lose my thought as I let go off from the beauty that I once be able to hold. Do I say NO then or is the word infamous YES? It puzzles the very silent one this morning only hearing the contact of this pen on this paper and echoes of the lost love. Well yes or no, at least now the answer was yes for this paper sheet to filled with murmur of/in me.

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R TA TEMPTATION OF SAYING YES AS A STEP OUT OF APATHY PART III I said yes. And I had to write in English. All I had in my head was an idea to write about saying yes. Meanwhile I said yes to many other things and did not write in English. I drank beer in bars spent days in mariâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s haze loved a girl at night I was supposed to write just because I suggested myself becoming a yes-man a man daring to say maybe, leaning more to the yes a man of danger and vulnerability a modern man who lost control for the events of Chaplin movie for the door leading to another door revealing the hidden world of coincidences opening up in the horizon by itself. I said yes to the experiments probably to escape the burden of conventional writing. Because all I had to say was about saying yes, and following it. First there was a vision, and I said yes. Seek the truth by thinking out loud and write the purest thoughts. Next there I was sitting in a sauna, and I said yes again. When I wake up next morning, no matter what, I write about saying yes. And now, I risk myself, my invisibility, by saying yes, by revealing the secrets the intentions and the outcome out here, away the comfort of silence.

When not writing poetry, Ari-Pekka does amazing things with sound in both art and music! He has a website you should definitely check out at http://ari-pekkaleinonen.com/

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REVIEW MIRAGE 38 JUHA HEIKKINEN

n 2014, The Finnish novelist Kjell Westö won the Nordic Council Literature Prize for his novel Mirage 38.Westö and his work represent the Swedish-speaking part of the Finnish cultural background and, one can say, identity. Westö’s earlier work includes five other novels, the third one of which won him the Finlandia literature prize. He has also published poetry and short stories and his work has been translated into English, German and Spanish to name only a few.

notable feature about Westö and his work is that as his native language is Swedish, he writes his novels in Swedish. This creates the possibility to comment on the translation of the novel as well, as the version read for this review was in Finnish. Does the fact that it is a translation show? The characters are mostly speakers of Swedish who stereotypically come from a wealthier background than the average Finnish speaker, hence the phrase ”bättre folk”, better people. Starting the novel, it was interesting to see what old Helsinki was to the characters and how it differed from the Helsinki I have lived in.

irage 38 is simply put a story of two people. Klaes Thune is a well-to-do lawyer who runs a law firm that, to his mother’s constant annoyance, is only doing fairly well. The annoyance is due to the fact that she borrowed Klaes the money to start his firm and is still waiting to get it back. The other main character, Mrs. Wiik, is Mr. Thune’s personal assistant who manages the daily affairs of the office. As the two become closer and start opening up to each other, it becomes apparent that Mrs. Wiik has a strict facade that hides a part of her that she does not want others to see. The reader is given glimpses into the minds of both protagonists and my personal opinion is that Mrs. Wiik’s secrecy, which is subtly implied throughout the novel, was by far the stronger storyline of the two, even though it is pointless to talk about two distinct storylines as the two are strongly linked together. How the two personal stories moved around each other, at times connecting and finally clashing dramatically was a beautiful dance that moved its way slowly and effortlessly towards the end.

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big part of the novel is how he links personal stories with the broad history of Helsinki and the western world. The book is set in the year 1938, hence the 38 in the title. The characters move through parts of Helsinki that must have offered quite a different range of sights and sounds compared to the Helsinki of today. However, the characters also discuss current events and, given the year, Hitler and his politics are naturally involved. Westö has also given these discussions a clever twist, as one character, a fragile artist friend of Klaes Thune’s, is Jewish. In a time when anti semitic thoughts can be seen even in an isolated country such as Finland, he struggles with the cold and intellectual approach by other characters and the society as a whole to an issue that, in retrospect, does not deserve rationalising. This is a touch that makes the novel feel bigger. We are not only talking about the personal issues of a couple of people who live in a country that, during that time, was not a significant player internationally. The book has a feeling of connection with the rest of the world, a connection that I am not sure was actually felt by those living in Finland or Helsinki at the time. Klaes Thune is a cosmopolite. His views are not always welcome, as the word of the times is patriotism, a word that forces one to ignore the undeniable similarities we share with other people no matter the nationality or ethnicity. In a time of political turmoil, pacifism tends to be the ideology that is easily pushed down if not altogether crushed. The possibility of war is something that is shared by members of both language groups and the demands of patriotism, which must have been a strong force at the time, can be felt on both sides of the language barrier. All of these larger issues aside, it is still impossible not to dwell on one’s own past and present, be it a wife who left you for another man or some deeper emotional scars that you are struggling to keep in check.

s Swedish is the original language of the novel, it would have been interesting to read the original as well as for example the Finnish translation and compare the two. However, the Finnish version did not have the ”feel” of a translation. There were no obvious mistakes that would necessarily trigger the reader to look for further clues about the translation being a translation. And that is, one can argue, proof that the translation is successful. When the reader is lulled to feel that they are reading the original words of the author, the translator has done their job and can be satisfied in the fact that nobody realized that there ever was a translator involved. There is a point in the book where the novel breaks the illusion that the characters speak the same language the book is translated into: There is a reference to the characters speaking Swedish when to the reader of the Finnish version it seems they are speaking Finnish. This realization was not a negative one, but it was actually fascinating to see how the language was effortlessly transferred. It was enough to refer to the language used by the characters to create the illusion that the reader was part of a group of people he/she could actually not be able to quite relate to in terms of language, status or cultural heritage.

irage 38 progresses with a steady, slow pace that may understandably feel boring for some readers. The way Westö has sprinkled small, important pieces of history and local colour on the pages is however quite elegant and enviable for anyone aspiring to accomplish what he has. For anyone interested in understanding Finnish culture and the daily life of people living in Helsinki, Mirage 38 is a good way to start. For anyone interested in enjoying a well-written, albeit slow-paced story from an author who knows his craft and delivers what is expected of him, Mirage 38 is an excellent choice.

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COLUMN Fanny Grazzo

OH, BOY

, OH BOY, OH BOY! When I heard that these fine gentlemen were about to make a magazine, this beautifully crafted little Godartet, I immediately sent my carrier pigeons on their way so I could participate in this. And now that I’m writing this, it reminds me of my younger days in Erbauliche Monaths Unterredungen. Those were the days, and those days sure were something! Did I ever tell you about the time I was locked in jail for indecent - well of course I did NOT! I have only introduced myself to you - No I haven’t! Fanny Grazzo is my name and an amusing life of aMAZEment is my game! How ever do you do! But I shall keep this column serious and focus on the subject, I do loathe those columnists who centre everything around themselves and fill the text with ridiculous anecdotes. Oh but I must mention the one night of absolute debauchery with Johann Rist, oh what a truly marvelous chap, I tell you! A little bit on the posh side, but then again, shouldn’t you be, that’s what I always say, shouldn’t you be. But where was I… Oh yes! Being innovative and monthly, Godartet is a bit like having periods, I would assume, and reading this neat little paper must be just as fun as having PMS! And do I remember my first contact with this human factor painted in blood? Oh, darling, yes, that was some weekend. And even though the black pudding was nice and all, I just really had to spend the next ten years in a circus as therapy for my tender mind. Circus has elephants, elephants drink water, Water for the Elephants was a god-awful film and then comes little old I, the greatest lion tamer you have ever known.

One day we opened a window at Godartet headquarter and a carrying pigeon flew in with this. We don’t know who Fanny Grazzo is or whether he/she is real or sober or not, but we’re kind of scared. These writing are published here monthly.

Simba was his name, my old puss… How we made the audience gasp in fright and wonder as I placed myself in peril night after night. They did not know that Simba was as dangerous as the common cold. Frightened of absolutely everything, I tell you! Inbreeding does that to you, you know. Oh and how the clowns picked on poor Simba. Nobody likes clowns, nor should they! Absolutely dreadful creatures! Twisted faces, always up to something! Look at poor Dumbo! Oh how the clowns humiliated that poor elephant. But he (is he a he or a she? Hmm) did have those ridiculous ears… What is a boy/girl to do, I wonder… I remember one special night. I was having a drink or two (or three, haha!) with the director. He, fat as he was, sat on my make-up chair and just destroyed the whole thing! SMASH CRASH like an old Batman film it went! I never knew what happened to the remains of that chair, which bothers me still. It was a nice chair. I could have rebuilt it. And now, to get to the point, in these difficult economic times and the escalating political situation in, oh my goodness, am I running out of space already? What luck! Well, my dear readers, my darlings, whom I love almost as much as you love me, good old Fanny must run along now, otherwise the journalistic smurfs will come and take me away for breaking the golden rule of column writing (it had something to do with bonsai trees, if my little old memory serves me correctly) and that would just be dull. So, carry on, lovables! Arrivederci!

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THE HALLOWED CRUISE In this first gonzo-style reportage, Godartet reports from their journey across the baltic sea to the glorious city of Stockholm. They wanted to taste the grandness of cruising and spread the word of godartet, but how did it all end up ? Why did the two men search walls in Stockholm? Is Juhaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s coat still damp? Did Ville succumb to the beauty of JokerPoker sirens? Read further and find out!

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ur voyage was meant to be as any other: Our destination was the royal city of Stockholm, where we were supposed to promote our cause, the Godartet cause, which we felt was destined for greatness beyond the borders of our humble homeland. On the day of our scheduled departure, which was also the day of our fantastic revelation to the world, we were overjoyed and excited as we marched up the ramps to our ship, the M/S Silja Symphony. However, as we entered the ship, we realized something was not right. There was an emptiness on the ship that emanated from the very walls and chilled our bones to the core.

s we took the lift to the lower decks, we realized the entirety of our isolation. We had entered the realm of the dead. No living soul was meant to walk these halls and sleep in these beds. They were not meant for us. They were meant for those that are no more. We knew that we could not stay in our cabin and so, even though we feared for our immortal souls, we decided to explore the ship that would be our home and captor for the duration of our journey. We first realised that the realm of the dead, in which our small tomb was located, was not just any deck, but a labyrinthian limbo, almost impassable for any human being. With each narrow hall and quick turn we only found more narrow halls, quick turns and dead ends. We did not even dare to think of the possibility that these halls would become our tomb, that we could be prisons inside this narrow corridor. However, fortune smiled upon us as we found the elevator. The sliding doors of the machine that was doomed forever to transport lost souls between floors were filled with scratches and inked words - the sleepless ghouls were trying to warn us of our quarters. We took the elevator and rose from our tomb to the once luxurious main corridor filled with light, where we heard the metallic yet alluring sounds of slot machines. “Good fortune, that is what we require”, we thought and with a sigh both of us placed a coin in the slot. But alas! Juha’s coin merely passed through the insides of the contraption and into the coin tray. Without a moment’s hesitation, Juha picked up his coin and instantly realized that it was dripping some sort of liquid. He placed the coin back into the coin tray and smelled his hand. It had the subtle aroma of stale lager beer. Or so we hoped. This was clearly not the sign we were hoping for. Cursing his bad luck, Juha went to the lav14

atory to wash his hands, without knowing how the wet stain was to become his curse that would follow him through the entire journey.

aving dried himself, Juha re-entered the promenade where Ville had lost his pennies to the winking beauty from the JokerPoker isles. We took a closer look to the main corridor, the avenue of beauty and light.

here was a primal beat coming from somewhere in the corridor, which was accompanied by a metallic instrument of sorts. As we walked towards the source of the sound, we saw, standing upon a pedestal, two male figures who were producing both melody and rhythm. What scared us was not the two men but the absence of listeners. We were the only ones witnessing the consert in that vast, echoing promenade in a moment when both of us had to doubt our own existence. Hunger had crept into our bodies unnoticed and so we had to trust that our bodies, not our minds, provided the proof that we truly were of the world we left behind rather than spectres doomed to walk these halls for all eternity, thrilled to receive complimentary items from the duty free shop. However, at the market place that had remained untouched by taxation, we experienced yet another oddity. It was not entirely out of this world as we were approached by a young man who approached us with a question: “Would you boys like some free cigarettes?”. Last time we heard this we were small children and the figure asking this question was a suspicious man wearing a large trench coat. The nostalgia of this image vanished as we realized that the voice belonged to a young man, dare we say dude, whose only purpose on the ship was to parade some small cigars in front us. Baffled, we took these gifts and wondered what kind of a land of unrealities this was as free cigarettes were not crushed by the hand of the law. We made the mandatory acquisitions of lager beer and chocolates, brought them back to our tomb and headed back to the promenade, hoping to find some food. Having filled our bodies with the nourishment they had required, we left only to be confronted by another exotic sound. This time the sound belonged to four male figures who were wailing in a manner most terrifying manner. As we walked away from the unbearable howling, we could make out their message that could be taken as nothing else than a warning: “The winner takes it all.” But to whom the warning was directed remained a

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E mystery, as there was no one to hear it but a young female, standing by a camera-apparatus, inviting us to take a picture of ourselves using the aforementioned apparatus. “A selfie-matic,” she said, “to share with your friends and family”. We declined her offer, hesitant to be part of her ominous plans. We do not know what she wished to do with our portrait or where the poor souls of those that took part went. We felt it was best to head for our cabin to recuperate and to get to the bottom of the situation we had quite willingly put ourselves into. To make our predicament even worse, we realised that our cabin was far beyond the reach of any type of communication with the outside world. Even most of the elevators refused to travel so deep into the pits of hell, as only one elevator was designed to endure that kind of travel as it was unsuitable for men of honour. Therefore we had to spend our time by delving into an intellectual discussion as well as listening to the occasional musical tune from Ville’s playlist, which he had fortunately made listenable offline on Spotify.

Spending time in our dungeon, the only way we know how.

ithout any knowledge of the outside world, we started consuming our tax free treasures. Still we wondered what should be done about our situation. Fortunately, the ship offered us a small piece of information, a treasure map if you will, explaining all the entertainment that was offered during these hours

while the ship was crossing these treacherous waters. We noticed that at midnight there would be an amazing show, but already at seven we would be able to see a small teaser at the bar. As there was nothing else that we could productively do with our time, we decided to go and see. The nightclub was dark, the bar empty, the silence mesmerising. We made sure we were there at the right time and carefully walked closer to the balcony to see what was happening on the main stage. According to the pamphlet, we would bear witness to a pre-show, a small taster of something amazing and wonderful, something filled with glitter, lights and excitement. Needless to say, we were both eager to see it as well as and frightened. As we gazed upon the stage we saw - to our surprise just one dude coughing. After only a second or so we felt we had seen enough of this chilling spectacle and decided to make use of the other small treasure the ship had offered us, some slightly cheaper Gin&Tonic at the bar on other side of the promenade. Once we arrived at the bar we realized we had forgotten our vouchers for the said Gin&Tonic, so we thought it would be best to enjoy a warm cup of coffee instead since we were sure to have a long night ahead of us. With the coffee in hand, we sat down in an empty corner close to a piano player. Once we were seated, the pianist greeted us: “Gentlemen, I will be playing for you this evening”. As we could not come up with fitting response, Juha merely commented with a light tone: “Good for you”, to which the player responded with the same air of amusement: “No, good for you”. After this comment he resumed playing for two songs. It is difficult to say how long he had been playing, but oddly enough, he left the piano and disappeared behind the corner. Were we disturbing him? Did he wish to be left alone, playing for the empty halls of this once magnificent bar? These questions may remain forever unanswered, as we left after a few cups of coffee, heading for the highest part of the ship, the moonlight alley. As expected, it was deserted. We strolled through this glass-roofed promenade with the darkness all around us. We were truly alone. Even though we had suspected that we were the only living creatures in this floating Hades, we were not sure of it until now. Shocked by our certainty, headed back to our cabin to search for wisdom in wine.

fter consuming quite a bit of wisdom and some lager beer, we grabbed the vouchers we left behind

C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T O

The empty halls were truly frightening .

earlier and went back to the bar. The bar was of the Irish persuasion, which meant that the place had quite a homely feel to it. In one corner, there was a rather cheerful gentleman, who was singing and strumming his guitar. Lifted by the atmosphere, we spent some time in this place that felt like the first warm space during the entire evening. In here, Fortuna favored Juha as he was positioned in a way that he allowed him to watch women’s volleyball on the television, while Ville was forced to bear witness to the brutish cage gladiator fight of two sweaty men. However, our morale was uplifted as we were finally able to make contact with the outside world and to our amazement we realised that within a few hours, Godartet’s Facebook page had received over 100 likes. Thrilled as we were, we posted an uplifting photograph of our celebratory moment to the world. As the time, which seemed to be distorted beyond recognition, closed to midnight, it was time for us to finally go and witness the midnight show, the preview of which had left us puzzled. Could it be more than the coughing man? Once again we marched through the never-ending promenade to the other side. By the time we arrived, the spectacle had already begun. We purchased our drinks and positioned ourselves so that we could see the entire show. And what a show did we witness. A matinee of what people apparently consider as youth music these days, accompanied by a group of young persons of both sexes who were clothed quite inappropriately considering the average temperature of the season. However, there was something about the ship, the mood or the dancers’ sensual movements that prevented us from seeing the mistakes in chore16

ography that these fine specimens of the next generation may have made and we fully enjoyed the show that surprisingly included no coughing at all. After this mesmerizing show had ended, the stage was quickly surrendered to a group of musicians who were completely dressed in black. The leader of this pack had the eternal smile of a thousand suns on her face at all times and our pure, innocent souls were, for the lack of a better word, enchanted by these sirens. Despite the oddly growing haze in our eyes and our minds that seemed to have some correlation with the amount of empty pints on our table, we soon realised that all this was just a mirage of the ship that tried to lure our souls into the never-ending cruise. We must have been under the siren’s spell as we decided to wander into the club located high above the promenade. The spell wore off quite fast as we realized we had been tricked. This club was perhaps the emptiest corner of our god-forsaken prison. We had to resume our strength and we sat down for a much-needed cold beverage. As we sat there, a group of people arrived. We soon realized they were the very same people who had been dancing for us only moments before. Now they were before us, transformed. And like a touch breaks the image on the still lake surface, this transformation broke all the spells this vessel had cast upon us as we understood we were the only people keeping civilization and humanity alive. We needed strength to survive and so we left this sad, empty discoteque to head back to the promenade and to a small inn that provided us with a slice of pizza. After this, we went back to our chamber and set our clocks to wake us up at 07:30 the next day, so we would have enough time to make ourselves presentable again before setting our feet upon Swedish soil. We quickly fell into a deep slumber, accompanied by the spirits of the ship.

s expected, our frail minds and bodies were too weak to cope with the ambitious plans we had set for the following day. As the bell rang at 07:30, we could not find the strength to get up At first we could not even locate the bell. We had not choice but to succumb to our weakness. The ship was quite close to shore when we finally awoke. This time we had no choice but to finally get up and be the dedicated journalists we knew we were . As we arrived upstairs, we realized to our relief that daylight had crept inside the ship and as we sat down and savoured our breakfasts, we knew that the day would be an adventure like no

O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E other. Stepping out of the ship, we had to make a dif- and nothing could dissuade us. We had made it this ficult choice: Do we endure the elements and attempt far, through the lonesome voyage across the soulless to make it to the city center on foot? The fact that we vessel which we would be forced to board later that did not know how long the walk would take or where same evening. When we finally stepped out of the the city center was located did not at first make us for- vehicle that kept on going, unaware of our existence sake our bold plan. As we went to buy tape, however, even when we had in fact occupied its interior, we for the flyers that we planned to spread across Stock- had to find a place to actually distribute our flyers. holm, a most polite, curious salesman convinced us This did not seem as easy a task as we first expected. that given the time we had in this city and our possi- After some wandering we felt it was time to search for ble lack of energy, which may have been self-inflict- nourishment, which came in the form of an established, it would be best to opt for public transportation. ment that sold hamburgers. Hamburgers are widely Despite his viciously insulting suspicion towards our considered to be a most potent remedy for similar physical strength regarding the march, opt for pub- conditions, so we felt the break was most welcome. lic transport we did. But, like in any adventure, one fter the meal, we ventured into a building that solution to our problems only gave birth to another seemed to be the first truly promising destinaone as we needed to find some tickets to these automobiles aimed for public use. At the local super- tion of the day. The building was Kulturhuset, a culmarket, a young gentleman desperately tried to sell tural center located in the heart of Stockholm that provides visitors with art us some, but as his exhibitions, dance and machine somemusic shows and all how broke down sorts of other activities. as we entered the If we were we going to establishment, succeed in our journey, his battle against this, if any, was the place modern technolowhere we would expegy slowed our prorience our first success. gress quite a while. And what a success it In the end the man was! The first flyer was managed to sell us placed in mere minutes two tickets and off after entering the comwe were to wait at plex. We went deepthe bus stop! After er into the building to a while that was search for more walls. more than just a Walls, those were to bewhile, our mean of come our one source of transportation arjoy during this entire trip. rived and politely Downstairs there was a picked us up. The wall dedicated to the act tickets were reof creation, and as Ville markable, as they happily noticed in his were merely piecsudden time of need, es of paper, but conveniently located they still to connext to a public outtained some form Metaphor.. house. The wall was truly a shrine that of nanotechnology that responded to the apparatus that was located next to the entrance. can not be seen as anything else than a testament to After a moment of pure awe we took our seats. It was the wonders of the imagination that we all possessd. a most comfortable ride, one that we felt we could The moment could have been a pious one, but the have stayed on for quite some time. But we were on laughing Jokers of the past were to come haunt us, as a mission to promote our cause, the Godartet cause, Juha searched his trouser pockets. What he felt was

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T not the usual, dry denim, but something unexpected, something horrifying, something damp. “No.... No… No!” was the pitiful exclamation that escaped Juha’s lips. On closer inspection the stain proved to be water, but Juha’s dignity had already experienced a devastating blow. As Ville escaped Juha’s brief downfall to the lavatory, Juha sat on a bench next to the shrine. It is quite impossible to describe the horror he felt And so the first flyer had been put up! when he felt another stain, this time on his jacket. He lifted the hemline of the coat to his face and sniffed. Thank the heavens! It was only water. He had not managed to truly disgrace himself, despite the fact that he must have looked like a defeated man the as he was smelling his dampened clothes next to a public restroom. But as he watched the shrine to which they themselves had made a contribution, he chuckled at the contrast between his current state and their glorious cultural undertaking that was supposed to yield an end-result in only a few weeks’ time. Meanwhile, Ville found Stockholm’s approach to toilets quite refreshing, as they were clean, hygienic, comforting and oddly unisex while at it. Never had he seen a toilet that clean in his life! As Ville danced out with a light step, he found that Juha had won his battle against odd stains and our victorious duo once again marched on, feeling victorious as some flyers had already been successfully taped.

he success we experienced in Kulturhuset was the first but it was not the last. Outside the building we once again faced the same problem: Nowhere in sight were there posters or flyers, unlike in Helsinki, where every garbage bin and lamp post is covered in different kinds of posts advertising events and everything else the human mind can imagine. And since we were guests in this great kingdom ruled by house Bernadotte, we did not wish to litter the city by taping our joyful words into places they did not belong to. But oh, then our eagle-sharp minds that had

not lost their razor sharp quality unlocked the city’s code and everything fell into place! Stockholm had truly understood how the system of public word was to be operated. There were designated walls placed all around the city, only put up for poster-taggers. At the first wall we posted our little manifesto between a paper where a man explained something unintelligible about his stroke and how the hemorrhaging in his brain enabled him to see the truth, and a massive poster for a pugilistic event. We truly were in great company. As we continued, a joyous “yahoo!” escaped our lips every time we encountered a wall. We scouted the old town of Stockholm and although the aforementioned walls were a rarity, they were there and we could also enjoy the wonderful atmosphere of the town Stockholm had once been. One part of our adventure lead us stumbling through the back door

And there our heroes were, trying to find their way back to the ship.

of a museum, frightened, as we could see no one and we seriously doubted if we had permission to be there. We quickly taped one of our flyers to the wall of an elevator and made our way outside. Stockholm was truly a marvellous destination for wandering. After what must have been hours of walking, we were spent. We had no choice but to locate ourselves on the map and find ourselves back to our ship. It was time to head back home. After some time spent turn-

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E ing the map around to get our bearings, we somehow found our way back to the bus stop and even back to the harbour and, perhaps a bit depressingly, to our ship. As we boarded our ship, we felt the same uneasiness return even though something had changed. It seemed that we were not the only living on board! People were coming with us to Helsinki. Soon after boarding the ship we realized how truly exhausted we were. It was impossible to keep our eyes open. Therefore we decided to return to our cabin for some well-deserved rest and we would resume enjoying the wonderful entertainment the ship had to offer. So we hopped on to our bunks, shut down the lights and with great pleasure closed our eyes for some deep, welcome sleep. Unfortunately, the spirits of the vessel whispered “Oh, hell no!” to our small idea and kicked the ship’s motors on. The wall between our dungeon and the motors were perhaps only 5 cm thick and made of cardboard, as the sounds of the engine, roaring like the marble chariots of Poseidon himself, shook the entire cabin and naturally attacked our eardrums while denying us our sleep. Laying down for even a few moments did wonders and a little later we were once again ready to face all the entertainment the naval company had prepared for us to enjoy.

aving spent all the excitement we could from aimless wandering through all the cabin corridors of every floor and having many, many cigarettes just to spend time, we returned to the tax-free world, as Juha had a mission of a true gentleman; to buy a fine cigar for his friend whose significant other was with child. Unfortunately, as Juha is a man of many virtues, with keeping up his health by not smoking being one of them, and as Ville would define himself as having no virtues whatsoever, neither of us had any expertise in the world of cigars. Fortunately for Juha the young gentleman we had met earlier at the cigar stand was there again, and Juha could ask for his advice in this business while Ville went to find the cheapest smokes like a true barbarian. But Fortuna had no sympathy for us. Right after Juha had bought the cigar the young man had recommended for him, a shift change occurred and a lovely young lady came to the cigar stand and released the young man. And by the looks of her, she must have known much more about cigars than the young man! Juha and Ville both cursed their luck and their horrible timing. The spirits of the vessel truly hated us.

fter the incident at the tax free establishment, we took our shopping back to our chambers and, without anything else to do, emptied a bottle of wine to keep our spirits up. With some soothing in our bellies, we went back to the grande colosseum where we had been the night before, only to witness the very same dance show. This time our eyes were not clouded and we both realised that the sirens had turned back to people, everyday folk like anyone else. After this depressing notion and some even more depressing moments at the upper level nightclub where we judged people who were singing karaoke and the karaoke host was calling other ships at the sea “little shits” in the most unappreciative way, we closed the door of our cabin for the night and let the darkness of sleep come upon us.

he next morning, the last day of our odyssey, came with a morale decay so low we could not bare it. Tired, smelly, damp, we packed our belongings and left the lower level dungeons for the last time. But with the morning coffee came a beautiful sight, the archipelago of Helsinki surrounding our ghostly vessel and the sun smiling upon everything. Only a few more moments until we could step on Finnish soil! Our fears of waking up to the same day for all eternity had not come true, we had walked through the darkness among the lost souls and survived! But the gods of travel still had their last trick upon Ville. Having landed, we joyfully departed at the tram stop and Ville saw Juha’s tram roll in precisely on time, with his own tram magnificently 20 minutes late and full of people. But not even this could lower his morale, as they had won. They had spread the word of Godartet through Stockholm, they had beaten the odds. They had done it, and they would never have to do it again. But little did they know, as both men went to sleep in their homes, that the foghorn of damned souls shouted for them all through the night, searching, calling, waiting. And it has all the time in the world for us.

The sorcery behind this mechanical paper was left unsolved.

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T

ESSAY Juha Heikkinen TRANSLATORS ANONYMOUS JUHA HEIKKINEN

n Finland, the consumption of translation literature is not doing very well. People prefer Finnish literature from Finnish writers and the publishers are naturally going along with the trend, as buying the rights to publish and paying for the translation is costly and the publishers are not willing to take the risk when people are simply not buying. First of all, there is absolutely nothing wrong with reading literature originally written in your native language. I do it quite often. Reading words written by people from your own background may help you understand who you are and where you fit in the society as a whole. Or maybe you just want to be entertained, which is again completely fine. It’s more than fine. It’s fantastic. However, to get back to the matter at hand, translated literature deserves recognition and translators should be seen as the important cultural professionals they are.

aving grown up in the middle of an onslaught of American and British television programmes, films, video games etc., I take the idea of consuming translations on a daily basis for granted. Films and television programmes are subtitled and even video games are properly translated, something that was only done for children’s games when I grew up. When it comes to reading literature, it seems quite common, at

least for my fellow translators, to prefer to read the original one instead of the translation, as there is always a feeling that the translation just isn’t the same. The nuances of the language that the writer had purposefully placed in their work are, even if the translation has done a great job, still in a different language with a completely different set of rules of expression. Fortunately, the amount of languages one can master is limited, so there will always be a need for translators.

he translator’s part is actually quite sad: A translation is considered successful when the reader does not feel he/she is reading a translation. The translator’s job is to rewrite the entire work in a different language in a way that leaves the reader thinking they are communicating with the author without any intermediaries. More often than not the only critique is negative and even more often the translations that are criticized are produced by overworked, underpaid people who may not even have access to the entire work, and they are forced to deal with a lack of context that will almost inevitably lead to poor translations. But again, there are circumstances that the translator has no control over and they are often blamed unfairly when in fact they are only victims of circumstance.

he translator of literature needs to get inside the writer’s head and understand what they

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E are saying and why in order to produce fluent language that feels like it came from the original pen if the owner of that pen were to write in that particular language. They are in a way like ghost writers whose presence should not be felt.

ut what about the actual experience of reading a successful literary translation? All critique aside, familiarizing yourself with an author whose language you could not understand is something we tend to take for granted. Had someone not translated the works of Milan Kundera, the Czech author whose novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being was a somewhat semi religious experience for me, I would not have discovered this giant of a man. In fact, Kundera was the first author I have read to have mixed essays into the narration of his novel, coming out of the story to discuss an idea, no matter how irrelevant it was to the actual story. But oh how it did spark a fire in a young lad’s mind! Another writer whose work has essayistic digressions is a Norwegian one. Karl Ove Knausgård, whose autobiographical, monstrous 6 volume novel series Min Kamp (My Struggle) has ramblings, if you will, about art and almost anything else. Knausgård mixes his essays into the text a bit more seamlessly than Kundera and in one of the books he actually criticizes the Czech for breaking the illusion of the story by coming out of the pages. Knausgård’s comment can be criticized in that in his books, he is the narrator of his own story, a story which he occasionally steps out of in order to take the reader somewhere else in the story or to discuss an idea. In Kundera’s stories, on the other hand, the writer is the all-seeing creator, who only presents the characters, he himself is not them. Therefore when explicitly bringing out his own thoughts, he has to break the barriers and reveal the face behind the story, whereas Knausgård only adds to the wonderful mix of storyteller-protagonist by revealing himself. So it can be said that there is an advantage in writing about yourself. All of the faces you reveal only

make the character you wish to portray stronger. Another thing to consider when writing a story.

he digression above would not have been written were it not for translators with enough knowledge of the target languages to make justice to the ideas, digressions and moving personal stories that the writers knew and felt when they wrote what they wrote. If I ever knew the names of the translators who translated these texts that have influenced me so profoundly, I have long forgotten them. Literature offers us glimpses to a world beyond our own that can have a profound effect on the way we think and how we perceive the world. Through reading translated literature, we build our understanding of the many ways our language can be used to express. We also learn of the unique voices to whom we would remain deaf were it not for intermediaries. If you excuse my colorful simile, reading translated literature is like traveling without the physical action of travelling. If we were only to reach for the words found in our own cultural neighbourhood, we would be unable to understand everything there is to understand in this world and that is just plain sad. The world and everything it has to offer, from the smell of baguette coming from the French corner bakery at six in the morning and the old man walking inside, smelling of freshly smoked tobacco to the view from the highest mountain in the Himalayas, can easily be recorded on the pages of a novel and they are easily accessible from the comfort of your own living room. If you have the possibility to see and taste, why not use it? You don’t have to pay the price of a plain ticket. Just sit down and let the words inspire you, taking you places and letting you see things you wish to see.

hose who work in between cultures and languages have the luxury of not portraying their own ideas and artistic interests. Granted, a translator may recommend a book or a writer to the 21

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T publisher that they find worth translating. And of course the translatorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own skills are put to the test every time the publisher gives them a contract. They have to use their knowledge of two languages and cultures and this in a way exposes them. At the end of the day, however, it is the writer who gets the praise as well as the criticism for his/her work, no matter what the language. A poor translation can also affect the audienceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attitude towards the writer. In these cases it is almost as if there were no one in between, no one to do the poor work. Somehow it is the writer who has done a poor job to begin with and their lack of talent is just taken overseas and rewritten in French. So you could say there are advantages to being invisible. However, it is the invisible that we tend to forget and when the time comes to cut costs, no one is there to defend the invisible, as is the case in Finland and, I am sure, around the world. The translator works for the love of the arts, for the culture and culture does not need compensation. Having recommended a text to the publisher and spent a large amount of time and energy to translate that text so that others would be able to appreciate it as much as the translator has, the translator damn well deserves compensation for their work that they can live on and that enables them to carry on working with what they know and love. Demanding for handouts undeservedly is one thing, not getting what is rightfully yours is another.

ith the current economical situation, it is no surprise that people prioritize their consumption and the arts are surely an area that suffers from this. When the value of a profession is only measured in mathematical terms, the value of art is easily not appreciated. I could go into a rant about how art elevates us and differentiates us from creatures working only on instinct. But then again, what else is the drive to create than pure instinct, something abstract that we filter through our conscious minds in order to make something of value? When looking at a painting

that speaks to me, I cannot find a logical explanation to why I am drawn to it and maybe I am better off not understanding. What good would it do to be able to understand the entire process of appreciating a work of art? And here I go, sounding like Yeats, complaining about the scientists destroying the magic of the rainbow and destroying its magic by explaining and categorizing it. We should always attempt to understand everything. Nothing is ever less beautiful or less important through dissection and therefore I may be forced to take back my previous statement. What could possibly be the harm in understanding the entire working process of our brain as we appreciate art? The answer is simple: Nothing. But then again, will it affect the way I appreciate what I appreciate? Of course not. Or at least I hope not. Maybe I could even appreciate it more, knowing the sheer complexity of the process that is involved in appreciating it. I seem to have ended up in a dead end end, so I will just leave it at that and let you decide for yourselves.

o what was the point of all of this? To have fun writing an essay, jumping from one topic to the next without fear of being graded poorly due to lack of focus; To speak for the importance of quality translations and for the value of the people working to create these translations. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just take my word for it. Go to the library and grab a book that has been translated with love by your friendly neighborhood translator. You might not be able to pick them out of a line up but they are there, hoping you will enjoy their work as much as they have.

Juha is a translator and editor at Godartet currently working out of Krakow, Poland.

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E

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Have you done some interesting work in your field and need a place to promote it? Godartet is here for you! We are a new culture magazine promoting new nordic artists and their work and we want to give you the chance to make it! Our magazine is online only and completely free. In each issue we introduce 5 new and talented artists from Norway, Sweden, Finland and Estonia and we would like to include you. Since we are a free magazine (and not getting paid to do this), we won't be able to pay you, but we won't charge you for anything either. All of the copyrights will also stay with you. We also take in essays, poems, comics and stories of all kinds so do contact us at godartetmagazine@gmail.com ! The first issue will be out on January 15th 2015 at issuu.com/godartet. Stay tuned and tell your friends (Except Steve. Steve sucks)! godartetmagazine.com

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E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T

SHORT STORY Ville Koski

HUNGER COMES LATE IN THE NORTH

lonely white wagtail sat in a tree, singing and chirping in the brisk but warm springtime sun. His song was barely audible from the roaring of buses and cars and the screeching of trams, but whenever the traffic cooled down due to red lights, the bird’s small ode to spring could barely be heard by those able to pay attention. It was a small moment like this when Peter could have heard it had he not blasted music directly to his eardrums from his iPod as he walked under the white wagtail on his way to the medical faculty’s library. He would not have paid attention to it anyhow, though, for he was too happy to pay attention to such details. Everything in life was going smooth for Peter that spring. He was among the best in his class, and would start his first apprentice as a doctoral candidate next summer. Peter had just spent the 5,000 euros his dad gave him for his birthday in a new Mac Pro computer, which he only used for Facebooking, essay writing and porn-watching and therefore was way too powerful and expensive for him, but Peter did not know this and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. He only knew that it was sexy and it was expensive, which suited his world perfectly. Peter had big plans for his life and was not going to settle in anything less, even the mandatory candidature work in the public hospitals felt like an unnecessary cruel punishment, a purgatory of sneezing elderly people that he had to cross in order to start his specialisation studies in neurology in the fall. Peter would then graduate in record time, go work in some of the better private hospitals in town to gather money and then start his own private clinic. From there, he could just focus on cleaner, more important work such as research and writing articles for renowned medical publications and doing special lectures to universities around the world. Yes, his plan was so thorough, so solid that he could almost reach and grab it. The future was glittering in Peter’s mind that bright morning of late april as he made his way to the library, while the white wagtail sat and sang on his branch, wondrous of the bustling world around it.

eter was the youngest of three children his parents had seen to the world. His father was a successful businessman, owning his own import company that he inherited from Peter’s grandfather. Peter’s mother had never worked a day in her life, but spent her days in clubs, associations and with other voluntary work, while also keeping up the house. She had a daughter and two sons. The eldest, daughter, had already moved to England and graduated from Cambridge and now worked in London stock exchange while the middle-one was bound to inherit her husband’s company to keep the legacy alive. Her only worry had always been Peter, who was born small and never seemed to have the same ambitious qualities that had shaped his siblings to success. In the perfect settings his parents had built, Peter was the only source of suspicion. “A man must always have two plans” his father said,“one to know what he wants and another to get it. Both must always end in triumph”. Peter never had a plan. He wasn’t strong enough for sports as a kid and had

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E too much laziness in him to aim for truly big things. Peter wanted big things, but never wanted to work for them, so in his growing years he developed a behavioral model of planning to minimize all work. Peter wasn’t stupid and was more than willing to work double today if it meant no work for tomorrow. With this peculiar way he shuffled his way through high school and the mandatory army, but when the time came to choose a college, his mind was blank. As the youngest, Peter had always been a subject of a healthy amount of ridicule from his siblings, which molded seriousness and stubbornness into his character, qualities that made him unapologetic and blind to irony or sarcasm. What he really would have wanted to do was to go to an economy school and become a CEO of a major company, but his pride didn’t allow him to even seemingly follow the path of his sister. It would have looked like he just mimicked his siblings and that would not do for Peter, who envied his brother who never even had to decide anything, but had their father’s company given to him. So when the time came to decide what to do with his life, Peter figured that between law and medicine, the two professions he saw as successful, it was easier to gain people’s respect through medicine than law and applied for medical school. Nobody could have guessed that Peter actually could make it through the entrance exams, but the outspoken doubts about this made by his family whipped Peter into such anger that he forced himself to study everything so that he not only passed, but had the second-best results among all of the applicants. For Peter, even better than being triumphant in the tests and making it to school was the confusion of his family as they witnessed what had happened. He felt that he had showed them, for once they had to admit they were wrong. This was the attitude, the primus motor of Peter’s motivation in school. He didn’t want to make his family proud, he wanted to humiliate them, prove them wrong and make them know he was something more than just the little brother. The joy of succeeding was never completely pure for Peter, but always added with a pinch of glee. And this spring, this Friday night, he felt he was on the top of the world.

s Peter walked into the library, picked a book about neurology to eye some of the vocabulary and basic diseases of the field to have some understanding before the real specialisation would start next fall, he was joyful enough to even forget his worries regarding the evenings parties. It was the Friday that marked the end of that spring’s all major tests and Peter’s class had planned a major party to celebrate that, which originally had put Peter on guard. He wasn’t a big party animal, had never been, but had had more than his share of student parties. There was just always a little something about the parties he didn’t quite understand, something that kept him feeling outside of everyone else. Whether it was the jokes, the subjects of discussion or something else, Peter did not know, but he never felt quite at ease at these parties. He hadn’t made any close friends in his time but many acquaintances, most of whom he regretted meeting in the first year of studying. Now Peter had happily forgotten the evening altogether, until he saw his classmate Jesse walking into the library to return some books and pay an overdue fee. Immediately upon seeing Jesse, Peter felt awkwardness flow through him as he remembered the party. Peter tried to avoid Jesse’s eyes by focusing on the book, but when Jesse saw him, Peter could feel him approaching. Peter didn’t really like Jesse, who was organizing the party with his roommate and classmate Leevi in their already legendary party apartment. They had a massive, three-bedroom place in a nice part of town, where all of the greatest parties were held throughout the years and that Peter envied with all his heart. The flat was in a beautiful, old building with a high and elegant ceiling. Peter himself had a grey, modern dormitory that he shared with some engineer student who constantly smelled like sweat. Peter felt he should have had the nice apartment Leevi and Jesse had, he could appreciate it more than those two party animals. Peter was bitter for their existence. Both Jesse and Leevi were happy, joyful people who somehow managed to be both the centers of all the parties and also do really well in their studies. Leevi was especially loathed by Peter, because he was also going to specialise in neurology and somehow managed to do better than Peter in pretty much every class, who then felt that he had to study more than him only to still be worse than him. Jesse on the other hand was even more of a party animal than Leevi and still doing fine, but it didn’t matter to Peter, because Jesse was 25

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T planning to specialise in psychiatry, which Peter considered a pseudoscience. Even more annoyingly, both of these guys were nice and cool to Peter, who then had to hide his disgust when they greeted him. Now Peter tried to pretend reading as Jesse walked to him. ”Hey, Petey-dude, what’s up?” Jesse started while taking a seat right in front of Peter. ”Oh, hi, Jesse, nothing much, just doing some reading”, Peter greeted him as seriously as he could, while trying to hide the book’s cover and save himself from possible ridicule. ” Reading? Man, the test period is over, didn’t anyone tell you!” Jesse laughed without paying any attention to what Peter was reading, ”but hey, you are coming to the parties tonight, right? It’s the last party this spring and everybody’s going to be there.” ”I dunno, I’ve been feeling kind of tired lately and…” Peter tried to dock the question, but was interrupted. ”Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! I even got my friend to get us some of that sweet medical spirit, you have to get a taste of the drinks we make of that! Everyone’s going to be there me, Leevi, Henna, Melissa….,” Jesse’s voice was genuine as he tried to lure Peter into the party, but the mention of Melissa had Peter burning in both annoyance and interest. She was Peter’s crush, had been for a good half a year already and Peter knew that this might just be his last chance of seeing her in a while. ”Why would I care if Henna or Melissa was there?” Peter tried to save himself, ”but I might just pop in for the medical booze, depends on how I feel”. He tried to act as cool as possible, failing miserably. He hated how he couldn’t always be the master of his emotions and sometimes felt this childish blush inside. His breathing sped up and blood rushed to his cheeks - and when thinking of Melissa, to his penis. ”Well, hope to see you tonight! I gotta go clean up the place before the evening. Merry readings!” Jesse stood up and left Peter to sit alone with his concentration lost to the idea of Melissa. Peter had had a romantic interest toward her since last fall, when they somehow started talking at some parties and added each other as Facebook friends, where they also kept talking. She was a year younger than Peter and had some qualities Peter disliked about her, such as her plan to work only in public hospitals and her vegetarianism and all those ideals about conserving nature, but her smile was pure and eyes warm enough to keep Peter awake for many nights. Sometimes she had even hinted that she might also have some feelings for Peter as well, but her methods in this were just too feminine and subtle for Peter to really notice. Many times had he tried to gather courage to ask Melissa for a date, but had lost the courage at the last minute. This annoyed Peter to an absurd degree. He could not understand what a chicken he was in the matter. After all, he was anything but a rookie in the field of women. Many times he had picked up some girl from the club during the midnight hours and taken a cab to their place, and he had never felt any discouraged in these situations. However, with Melissa something was different. Peter saw her in a different light than the women he met at the club, for him those broads were just some humanists and art chicks who men like like him didn’t have to care about, but Melissa was a pure, innocent soul that needed protection. Protection from people like Jesse or Leevi or pretty much anyone else than Peter. So now Peter had his chance and could finally charm her with his wits and abilities. Actually, it would be a perfect moment as Melissa could see what dorks Leevi and Jesse were and see how good a man Peter was. Ideas flew inside Peter’s head and as love gripped his stomach, he decided that he wasn’t hungry and went home to get some sleep and a shower before the evening.

he party was set to start at 8 and Peter woke up after a short nap at 6. He felt dizzy and stupid, and after loading the coffee machine, he went to the shower to wake himself up. In the shower, his mind wandered to Melissa, and knowing that masturbation would help him concentrate in the evening, he rubbed one off picturing Melissa in all sorts of positions and pieces clothing no woman in the planet would actually wear. After the shower Peter picked up his favourite shirt and a Lacoste pullover and had some coffee. He figured that by leaving at seven o’clock he could go buy some wine for himself and still roll to Jesse’s place by eight. The thought of seeing Melissa, talking to her, perhaps even hugging her tickled Peter’s guts like an atom bomb full of butterflies. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure to make his move. He 26

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E would admit his interest in her, Melissa would be surprised but thrilled and they would spend a beautiful night at her place and then wake up and have an infinite number of beautiful days. What these days would consist of wasn’t clear for Peter, who had never really been in a relationship, but he felt that sunshine and admiration would be parts of them. Sometimes they would argue, of course, but then Melissa would come to her senses and apologize and they would cuddle and have some amazing make up sex. There would be dinners, movies, actually fancy parties instead of those stupid fiestas that Leevi and Jesse had and everything would be fine. Melissa and Peter could move in together and everyone would admire what a beautiful couple they were. They would walk down the street and people would just stare and say: “Those are some successful people!” Peter daydreamed of all this while combing his hair with gel and washing his teeth. Then Peter checked himself in the mirror, readjusted his leather belt on his jeans, put on his spring jacket and walked out of the house.

utside the sun had started to set and the air was brisk, but it was still nice and bright and warm. The wind had that spring feel in it, which went unnoticed to Peter, but still managed to lift his mood on a subconscious level. Walking his way to the liquor store, Peter felt a small hunger and when passing the local hamburger restaurant, realized that he might as well eat before the party and stepped in. Immediately after opening the restaurant door, Peter saw that the lines at all three cash registers had at least three people waiting, so Peter, who truly hated waiting in line, quickly turned and again was on his way. After buying half a dozen pints and a bottle of nice wine, Peter hopped in a bus and made his way to Jesse’s place. He felt a certain uneasiness as he walked up the stairway and to the door and when he finally rang the doorbell, his nerves made his guts shaking both because of the party itself and because of the possibility of meeting Melissa. The door opened. “Hey, Peter!” Leevi, who answered the door, greeted seemingly surprised, “Here already! Get in, we’re almost ready.” Peter was slightly embarrassed as he realised he had come too early. The clock ticked at 20:10 and he was the first to arrive. Situations like these were a part of those unspoken social rules he could never get his head around: When people said that parties would start at 8, they didn’t even expect anyone to arrive that soon, but around nine at best. Peter, on the other hand, was always on time and always felt as stupid for being on time. Wondering how this would look in Melissa’s eyes, Peter removed his shoes and jacket and with a plastic bag full of beer and wine walked into the apartment. The place was magnificent, both guys had their own rooms and in the middle of it all was a big living room, which Peter stepped into from the small vestibule. Being familiar with the place, Peter went straight to the small kitchenette next to Leevi’s room to place his beers into the fridge. Jesse was there, mixing dip for the chips. “Hey dude, you’re early”, Jesse said, quickly glancing at Peter while focusing on the dip. “ Yeah, I’m always on time everywhere. May I use the fridge?” Peter tried to sound cheerful. “Of course, there should be room. Take a seat and relax, others should come in soon.” Jesse nodded and after putting the beers in the fridge Peter took one and went back to the living room. He took a seat in the massive old sofa and opened the drink. Leevi had disappeared somewhere in his room and Jesse was still in the kitchen, so Peter sat alone, sipping his beer and looking around. The main thing in the living room was a 50-inch flat screen TV, with gaming consoles under it. There were posters of Scarface and Foo Fighters on the wall and the general feel around the room could be described as quickly cleaned. Peter felt bitter for the fact that these two losers had such a great house. He would never disgrace such an apartment with something as childish as gaming consoles or posters. The TV was nice though, Peter gave them that. After a while, Jesse appeared from the kitchen and tactically placed a couple of dips made directly into the plastic cream cups on the table alongside with a few bags of chips and landed himself into an armchair next to the couch and opened a beer. “So, Petey, how’s it hanging?” Jesse started. 27

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S “Okay, I guess, how’re you?” Peter answered, trying to be cool and casual. “ Pretty good. Still hanging with Julia and got the summer job at the asylum.” “Asylum? But you haven’t even started your specialisation yet!” “No, but they also need some everyday doctors, and luckily I got there. It’s nice because now I can also see a bit how the psychiatric things work in real life before starting the specialising studies.” Jesse took a sip of his cheap beer, happy and content for himself and his life. “Well, good for you. But now I need to use the toilet, excuse me.” Peter was furiously jealous. He could feel his cheeks turn red and eyes gain moist and escaped to the bathroom to recollect himself. So unfair! How could a jackass like Jesse land in such a perfect position while Peter had to spend his summer in a normal hospital with all the smelly, whiny old people sneezing on him. Peter’s mind raced as he pissed. He tried to calm himself by thinking about his future and quickly revising some neurological stuff he had read earlier. While at it he could hear the doorbell ringing, Leevi and Jesse’s voices and some other people’s as well. Washing his hands, Peter looked at himself in the mirror, deciding to let that depressing fact go by and have a successful evening. He stepped out of the bathroom, saw that three more people had come and joined them in the living room.

he following couple of hours went like the first hours of every party. People who barely knew each other or knew each other too well appeared little by little and, while still sober, tried awkwardly to start conversations which all died before taking fire. But, as people became more and more drunk, laughter and merriness slowly increased and people started to talk more openly. The volume of the room rose and the sounds of opening beers, ciders and pouring liquor mixed in with the music. Even Peter had unwound and was genuinely having fun while arguing whether or not House was a realistic show with some diagnostic student. Earlier he had made first contact with Melissa by nodding at her as a greeting when she arrived and felt great about his cool approach to the matter. Now Peter was just enjoying the mood, feeling a bit jealous to Hanne and Pia, who were in Leevi’s room talking with Melissa. He wished they would leave her alone for a minute for him to take action and charm her. However, the idea of this possibility tensed him up a bit. Nervously, he drank more.

bout half an hour before midnight, Peter saw his chance. Melissa was standing alone next to the wall, and Peter wasn’t actively talking to anyone. He went to her. “Hey, Melissa, how you doing?” Peter asked and realised he was more drunk than he had thought, speaking wasn’t as easy and the words came out with a slight slur. “Hi, Peter, I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” Melissa didn’t seem all that happy about seeing Peter, but was as charming and kind as ever. She had blonde hair that went a little over her shoulders, small almond eyes and a face that was little bit higher on the left. Her style had always been somewhat safe, usually blue jeans or one-coloured skirts that ran beyond her knees, combined with Benetton shirts or sweaters and a thin layer of make-up and subtle lipsticks.This time Melissa’s style had more attitude, her jeans were tight and black and her T-shirt under the red and black flannel shirt was black. Melissa’s breasts seemed a bit higher than usual as well. Peter was sensing something in this sudden change of style, but wasn’t sure what it was. He only knew that she was sexy as hell, and continued. “Cool party, huh?” he said. “Yeah, it’s okay, I guess.” You could sense the boredom for all these platitudes from Melissa’s voice. She could see right through them and, at that moment, Peter wasn’t on the top of her list of people to think about. “So, umm, what’s your plan for the summer?” Peter hated the way he had to push for the words to come through his intoxication, and trying to remain cool, he raised his hand to lean to the wall above Melissa’s head. 28

S T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E “I’m going to the ward at….” “Hello, everybody!” Melissa was interrupted by Leevi, calling everyone’s attention. “Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it is now time to enjoy the legendary, earth-shaking, mountain-moving, face-palming, God-forbidding, Leevi and Jesse’s suuuuuuuper punch!” As Leevi was shouting out, Jesse appeared from the kitchen with a huge bowl with some orange juice boxes in it. People applauded some and Leevi continued. “Here are the ingredients! Three liters of the sweetest, cheapest orange juice you can get!” While Leevi shouted, Jesse introduced everyone to the cartridge and poured its orange content into the bowl. Melissa looked at this show with a wide, sunny smile on her face, while Peter felt only mildly offended. His discussion had been interrupted by these two jokers and their stupid show. He also hated that the juice he always bought had been labeled as cheap, even though everyone else also bought it and just because it was cheap. The show went on. “And now,” Leevi turned his voice into whisper, “as my beautiful assistant has emptied the cheap tonic into the mix, we add the most important, secret ingredient!” His hands disappeared somewhere under the coffee table and produced a transparent glass jar of clear liquid. “Spiritus fortus!” Leevi yelled dramatically while holding the jar up. Everyone cheered and laughed and applauded. “Pure 99,5 percent alcohol, straight from the deepest pits of hell, made by the Devil himself! Or from our esteemed medical school stock, I dunno. I could tell you how I got it, but then I’d have to kill you.” People laughed and watched Leevi pour the spirit into the bowl, turning it into an extremely strong punch. “I’m getting drunk just by smelling that!” someone yelled. “Liar, you’re drunk by watching it!” another one replied. “I’m drunk already!” a third one yelled and everybody laughed. Jesse and Leevi started to dispense the magical drink into cardboard cups and share them with everybody. Melissa and Peter went and took theirs and stayed near the table, along with the crowd. “And now, to us,” Leevi raised his mug, “who pledge to protect and prolong all human life except our own livers! Cheers!” Everyone cheered and took a drink from their mugs. Peter could feel the burning sensation in his throat as he took a longer drink than anyone else, but tried to remain cool. Melissa’s face turned funnily when she lowered the mug from her lips. “Whoa!” she smiled to Peter. “It ain’t it so tough as they claim.” Peter said, fighting back a cough. “Oh, I dunno, I think it is.” Melissa said, unimpressed by Peter’s words. “But excuse me now.” She said and headed for the bathroom, leaving Peter to stand alone in the crowd with his mug.

s the evening continued, Peter had finished all his beers and his wine and had moved on to just drinking the punch. Some people had already left and a handful of party people, Melissa included, were left. They were discussing where to continue. Peter poured himself another mug of punch and suggested the Trumpet, a popular club in the center of town. Some objections arose, claiming it was expensive and boring. “How about the Birdie?” Henna suggested. “Sounds cool to me.” Leevi replied. “Depends on the DJ, some of them play complete shit in Birdie” Melissa added. “What’s wrong with the Trumpet?” Peter asked, annoyed of being rejected so fast. “I’m fine with it.” Jesse said jovially. “It costs like 15 euros to get in and they only play that shitty top list hip hop and electronic bullshit there.” Henna’s voice was tight, she wasn’t going to give up on this one. Peter had never liked her. She had short, black hair and unprofessional clothes with band names in them and she used to talk about women’s rights and wage-differences and such in an annoying tone. Peter had often thought that Henna was a lesbian, that would explain it all in his mind. Now he was both confused and annoyed, he liked Trumpet and had had many fun, drunken nights in there and didn’t think of it as expensive but as luxurious. It had golden wall 29

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S ornaments and all. Birdie was a dirty, shaggy place in his opinion, a place for those who just want the cheap drinks instead of class. Peter had also scored some nice women in the Trumpet, so the place got that thing going for it. But this time, he wanted to see what Melissa thought before saying anything more. “15 euros just to get in and then 8 euros for a drink is pretty expensive”, Melissa said. “I think Birdie is better anyways.” Peter felt a pinch of disappointment in his heart. “So let it be Birdie!” Leevi concluded the discussion, receiving some approving mumblings as a response and after a short discussion whether or not they should take a taxi or not, people started to put on their jackets and shoes. Peter was already in a wavy condition and had to use the wall for support while putting on his shoes. While at it, he noticed that Leevi gave another jar of medical spirit for Melissa to carry in her handbag, “in case it was needed” and almost wondered if there was some flirtation going on between them. His thought was cut short as Jesse patted him on the back, complimenting on how cool it was that Peter had showed up. Soon they were all outside. Peter felt the fresh air in his nose, and with it he could taste the alcohol in his mouth. Someone noted how it was past midnight, but not completely dark and even warm. How beautiful the spring could be. The city was silent as they walked their way to the other side of town with only a few cabs and buses passing them in the beautiful spring night. Leevi walked first with two of his friends, followed by Henna and Melissa and finally Peter and Jesse. Jesse had accompanied Peter and kept talking about how cool he was and how beautiful the night was and how everything was open for him, for Peter, for all. Peter didn’t care about Jesse’s jabbering and wished he could walk with Melissa instead, but was still happy that it was going to happen, eventually. He tried to listen in on Melissa and Henna’s conversation, but could only pick up some bits and pieces. Apparently someone wasn’t worth someone. A mild hunger groaned in Peter’s stomach as they passed a small grill and he almost thought about stopping for a quick snack. He didn’t even have time to think about it when Jesse pulled out a pocket-size bottle of whisky and offered it to him. The warm drink lifted Peter’s spirit, and for a moment he felt joy in his veins again. The happy group walked, talking loudly and laughing on its way to Birdie in the warmth of the spring night, watched by a white wagtail and protected by the naivety of youth. They felt as no evil could ever break through into their lives.

he line to get inside Birdie was long, but they made it inside within 20 minutes. The DJ was playing hit songs from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, the crowd was sufficient for fun but small enough for getting a drink without a hassle. Everything was perfect, if evenings like that were one’s cup of tea. On arrival, Jesse bought everyone a round of Fisherman’s Friend shots, after which everyone hung around with pints of beer or cider. Leevi and one of his friends had reached that point of intoxication where they were very serious and they talked some “deep shit” with each other at the sofas in the corner, while Melissa and Henna were dancing. Peter stood alone near the bar as Jesse and his friends went for a smoke. Apparently his friend had something else to smoke than just nicotine, and Peter tried to be casual while watching the people around him, especially Melissa, dancing in her tight jeans. But his eyes weren’t loyal. They wandered around other women, in skirts, in heels, in stockings. Peter was a bit angry at Melissa, who didn’t dress sexy like them. He swallowed it as he hazily realised Melissa and Henna stopped dancing when the song changed and they came up to him. “Why are you standing here alone?” Melissa asked when approaching him. “Jesse and the others went smoking, I don’t smoke you know, it’s bad for the lungs and stuff” Peter said, drunk. “You should’ve come dancing with us!” Melissa smiled, catching Peter off-guard, making him immediately regret that he didn’t. “I don’t know, I didn’t like that song”, he tried to defend himself. “What? Who doesn’t like Daft Punk?” Henna asked. 30

S T O R Y C O L U M L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E “Well, I don’t.” Peter replied, almost angrily, even though he didn’t even know the band. “Man, you’re totally weird!” Henna laughed. Peter was almost saying something when Melissa asked Henna to join her in the bathroom and so they were gone, much to Peter’s disappointment. At the same time Jesse and his friends came back to Peter with red eyes and a mellow mood, talking whatever gibberish came to their heads. Now the shot had kicked in and Peter saw the guys in two, could barely speak and didn’t like the way he couldn’t follow their talk about planets being the eyes of the universe and that people were just cones flowing on their vitreous. Angrily, he tried to argue with them, but his opponents were too drunk and high and happy to even notice that. Having noticed that his comments had gone to waste, Peter went to the toilet. Involuntarily, the smell of the urinal made him vomit. One hand on the wall, the other on his shirt, he puked clean liquid out of his system in forceful bursts, feeling lucky that no one was there to see him. After this he sort of washed his hands and drank some water out of the dirty sink and went back to the bar. Having ordered, he noticed that Henna was alone at the other end of the bar. Peter quickly asked himself where Melissa was and as he turned to look for her, he saw her talking to some long-haired guy. She didn’t seem happy and neither did the guy, who also did most of the talking, but Peter felt a pang of desperation. Who the hell was that dude and why was he talking to Melissa? And why was Melissa talking to him? Peter took a long sip from his pint and observed the situation until Melissa just tipped her head to the man with the long hair and walked out of the discussion and went to Leevi and his friends. Peter walked to the group as well, arriving in mid-sentence as Melissa was talking to Leevi. “... so I think I’ll just go home now, thanks for everything, it was a nice evening.” Melissa said. “Oh, man, sorry to hear that. You sure you wanna go? We were just talking about having the after-party at our flat, this place kind of sucks.” Leevi said as heart-warmingly as anyone had ever been. “Where’s the afterparty?” Peter joined the conversation. “At our place, we’re probably leaving soon.” Leevi answered, confused of Peter’s hasty arrival to the conversation. “Well, anyways, thanks and hope to see you in the summer!” Melissa said directly to Leevi. “Don’t mention it, hope to see you too.” Leevi said and they hugged, “are you sure you get home alone safe?” He added. “Yes, I can walk. It’s so bright out there anyway!” Melissa said with a forced smile. “I can see you home!” Peter added, realising his chance. “But you have the after-party to go to…” Melissa asked. “I can see you home first and then go there.” Peter tried to focus his eyes on Melissa, whose eyes were going around in Peter’s vision. “Well, okay then. See you guys!” Melissa waved to the rest of them and headed for the cloakroom. “I’ll see you later.” Peter said to Leevi and followed Melissa after quickly drinking his pint empty. “You go, chevalier!” Leevi smirked. Melissa and Peter got their coats and walked out of the bar.

hey walked a long way without saying a word, Melissa with her eyes on the landscape, Peter with his eyes on the ground, focusing to stay on track. He had drunk more than anyone else and was more drunk than probably ever before. Melissa noticed this, she could smell vomit on him but was too subtle to mention it. She didn’t want to hurt Peter’s feelings. “It’s really nice out here, the air at the bar was really bad”, she opened the conversation. “Yeah, it was. Really… bad air. Shit music too.” Peter mumbled. “I thought the music was nice. Danceable”, she said, and a silence fell back on the two. Peter’s mind was in turmoil, his heart was beating, he tried to make up something wise and cool to say, but only bits and pieces flew around like explosion debris in his mind. Only half-quotes and small anecdotes of movies, teachers or music popped in and out his head. Some time had passed since that last sip of beer he 31

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T had and a downer started to fall. Peter felt it was unfair that the one time he had a chance with Melissa, fate takes all the usual, trusty lines out of his head and replaces them with sweaty hands and an increased heartbeat. He also felt a bit sick and had to fight to hold back the vomit when the smell of fried grease got into his nose from some grill nearby. Peter didn’t know where they were going, but seeing apartment buildings closing, he knew he had to act. “You know you’re really nice and all…” Peter finally mumbled as they were getting near Melissa’s building. “Could I just quickly visit your place, talk a bit.” Never have words felt so hard for him as now. Melissa didn’t answer as they walked to the outer doors of her 6-story building. Peter opened the door, which was left open by the last person walking in. “Why can’t people shut the door properly, now anyone could walk in”, Melissa said while entering. Peter followed her as she walked the steps to her door in the third floor. She turned to him. “Well, thanks for walking me home, you’re sweet”, Melissa said reaching her handbag. “ No... problem, it pleasure, it, was. My pleasure.” Peter was waving like a tree, trying to save his evening, “Can I just come in for a second?” he said while making his move, reaching his hand to Melissa’s shoulder. Melissa stopped, tense. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea”, she said, avoiding Peter’s eyes. “You know I just broke up with Miikka and I think I need some time alone to get my feelings together.” Peter’s mind rushed, who was Miikka? Melissa continued, “You’re really nice and all and I don’t want to ruin our friendship with something that might be really stupid right now, and you’re actually quite drunk so I think you should just go home. We could see in the summer, maybe. Ok, Peter?” But Peter didn’t listen, his mind had blown with this Miikka-guy. Who was he? The shitbird with long hair at the bar? Some other guy? Peter didn’t know anyone named Miikka, how could she? Peter realised he had been silent for a while. “So… Is that like a, OK as a yes or like a…” He wanted to make sure he understood right. “No, it’s a no”, Melissa said, emphasizing. “Yeah… Ok.. That’s ok, really. Maybe we’ll see, like, someday”, he muttered like a kid who didn’t even feel like dancing at the high school prom anyway. “You’re so cool, thanks”, Melissa happily said while sticking her hand in the handbag looking for her keys, “oh hey, the spirit is still here!” She took out the jar Leevi had given her. “You should take it to the afterparty, you’ll be the saviour of the evening!” she smiled while handing the jar to Peter. “Yeah, thanks”, He mumbled. “Ok, tell them I love them, good night.” Melissa gave Peter a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared inside her apartment, leaving Peter to stand alone in the staircase. His mind was blank. Of all the possible options he had thought of for the evening, none of them ended in him standing alone. She rejected him. She said no. A vast, cold emptiness blew through Peter, quickly turning from sadness to anger. He took a couple of waving steps down, but felt too weak and drunk to walk, so he sat down, putting the jar next to him. Peter buried his heavy head between his knees and shut his eyes. Flashy images of the evening flipped in his eyes, how Hanne and Pia had taken the best moment to talk with Melissa away from him, how Jesse had interrupted their conversation with his baboon-like shouting, how everything could’ve gone well if they all just had gone to the Trumpet instead of that fucking Birdie. And who the hell was that guy Melissa talked to in there? And who’s this Miikka and how chould Peter have known him? Were they in such an public relationship that everyone knew? Did they have such loud sex that everyone must’ve heard it? Did… Oh, God, did they… Peter had to open his eyes to stop images of that long-haired man sweating, twitching, moaning on Melissa. Peter watched the wall before him and remembered the spirit he had with him. In his jealous anger, Peter decided not to go back to the after party, but to drink their moonshine himself. He opened the can, felt the liquid burning on his hand, took a mouthful and painfully swallowed most of it, simultaneously coughing half of it out through his teeth. Everything started to get blurry, slower, heavier. For a second, Peter thought about getting some sleep there on the stairs, but a single sound destroyed that idea. At first it was 32

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E just a clonk, then a more constant humming coming through the wall. Peter listened to the sound, wondering why people lived in these crappy old houses that had all sorts of weird noises, until he realised the source of the sound. It was the plumbing. It was a shower. Melissa had gone to the shower. For Peter’s burning brain, this was the last straw, the idea of her right now, right there, just under a meter away from her, naked, touching herself all over and letting the water flow in her every part was killing Peter. And the insult of it. After a heartbreaking discussion and rejection just minutes ago, how could she do something that ordinary already? How could she even think about it? A sick, twisted idea grew in Peter’s mind, a thought of Melissa as a emotionless whore, who just changed men like those dull shirts she wore, without thinking, without caring how they felt. With this idea, Peter was angrily happy, considering himself lucky to have avoided her. He didn’t need her and she most certainly didn’t deserve him. He stood up and started walking down, trying to take a sip of the booze while at it. But the spirit was too strong for him now, and Peter couldn’t take it anymore and just threw the glass jar against the name-list on the wall, shattering both. “That’ll teach’em, I don’t have to give a fuck”, he thought, tumbling out.

hat was the point when Peter’s mind gave up to alcohol, from which on even the tiniest bits of memory were gone. The truth, which was never fully discovered afterwards, was that he had walked back to the Birdie, only to see that it had closed almost an hour ago. It was there that Peter finally realised that he was hungry, had been all day. The chips and beer had covered it up until now, but now his stomach moaned painfully and Peter decided to go the nearest grill. The grill had a line of 8 people waiting when Peter made it there and in front of him was a tipsy couple sharing sweet words to each other, words that Peter didn’t hear, but at that point their mere presence was enough to enrage him. Drunk as he was, Peter stumbled and accidentally pushed the man in front of him, hearing the “Sorry, buddy” coming out of the man’s mouth and at that precise moment, only for a quarter of a second, Peter’s mind short circuited. He didn’t know this man, and this man had no right calling him “buddy”, goddamnit. Peter regained his balance, leaned back for force and with some bizarre mix of his rage and medical knowledge, hit the man in a certain weak spot in the neck, crushing his trachea, in one clean hit. The man passed out and died almost instantly. Peter took some drunken steps back and then he fell and passed out without hearing the girl’s screams, other people’s wondering curses and, eventually, the sirens. The next day he woke up at the police lockup, without a memory of the evening’s events, without freedom, without a future but full of regret and confusion. And only because he had forgotten what alcohol and low blood sugar do to a person. Hunger came too late for Peter.

eanwhile, at the lock up’s reception, two policemen talked about the white wagtail they had seen earlier, while picking up Peter. “Doesn’t that mean summer is here?” “No, it means it’s almost here. Almost.”

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T In this column monthly Ville and Juha take turns in commenting on issues they find interesting, relevant and worth discussing in more depth.

COLUMN

VILLE KOSKI

his first column of mine was originally supposed to be about artist’s independence and money and how these two never really work together, but with the tragic events in France just last week (at the time of writing), I had to change course. As probably everyone already knows, a French satire magazine Charlie Hebdo was brutally attacked, leaving 12 people dead for using their freedom of speech in way that insulted someone else. Of course, murdering innocent people and attacking freedom of speech are absolutely disgusting and horrifying things in itself, but what struck me personally the most was the the fact that humour and comedy was -once again- under attack. The people striking against laughter are not just trying to take away our freedom of speech, but our freedom of thinking and being human.

or me, humour, comedy and laughter have always been the most holy, untouchable things in human life. They are purely uncorrupt and -if some claims are to be believed- one of the things that separate us from animals and if that is to be true, for me it’s the most important thing to justify human intelligence’s appearance on earth. Because think about it; when you laugh, really laugh (not like the small smirks you do when someone posts funny cat pictures or the disgusted expression of disbelief that you have while reading Godartet’s jokes) so hard its uncontrollable, you are untouchable to anything evil. When laughing, no other thought or feeling

or emotion has room in you and the only thing you have is joy, if even for a few seconds, but still, only joy. Laughter is good for both chemically and mentally, releasing serotonin and making you less stressed. It also shows to other people that you are not a complete dick.

aughter also has its societal importance, which I think is the main reason it gets attacked and censored so often. Humour is one of the strongest weapons, if not the strongest, when fighting authorities and totalitarianism. Under ridicule, leaders lose grasp of their power and serious image, which leads to people re-evaluating their belief in said leader. Through jokes, cartoons and comedy, we can face even terrible issues a bit easier and therefore rethink the matter at hand. Like the saying goes, all jokes have a part of truth in them, so basically suppressing laughter is suppressing the truth. In a joke, the truth is that there is something laughable, something imperfect in the subject of a joke and for any kind of autocracy, that is an impossible factor to have in their minds. Trying to forbid anyone from laughing at you implies that not only are you unable to understand how humour and human interaction works, but also that you see yourself above everyone else, beyond people’s ridicule no matter how innocent or fun it may be. You become the bully who has the last say on what can you laugh and what you can’t. Which leads us to the next issue.

n the aftermath of the Charlie Hebdo -attack, a massive discussions stirred up and pretty soon

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E almost every possible angle on the matter was covered in all possible medias. The most beautiful response was of course all the comic writers around the world picking up their pens and showing support both to Charlie Hebdo and freedom of speech in the best way possible, their art. From The Simpsons to Albert Uderzo, artists drew their comics, thus proving that while guns may come and go, pen will always be mightier. It wasn’t about who attacked, but what got attacked, although in the other, nastier barrel of the discussion, some ignorants saw a chance at hate speech and used it. However, one of the most baffling comments I saw, wasn’t even related to hate, but one person on Facebook claiming that freedom of speech doesn’t mean you have to insult and offend other people’s beliefs. Partially, he was right, no, you don’t have to, that’s the freedom part. However, you can, that’s also in the freedom part. I’m not saying that anyone should do racists/misogynist/homophobic jokes anywhere, because that’s bloody stupid, but if society wishes to keep the free-speech going, we must allow even that. Some people may object to this, but there’s two things that they may have not thought; one is that they will also have the right to say some jokes suck and the person making those jokes has maneuver for brains, and second, comedy in general tends to be self-policing. Humour is never only one-sided, the maker of the joke not only picks fun of someone/ something else, but actively puts his/her beliefs and worldview to a test. People don’t laugh unless something is actually funny and jokes that have some serious, hidden agenda tend to be boring and see-through, and then they just die. Rarely, if ever, is humour a danger in a sense it could bring out something evil. Attacking or censoring humour, with guns, money, politics, whatever, in the other hand, is always evil. Those who

feel that some jokes shouldn’t be made because someone might get insulted, in my opinion, should re-evaluate their thought process really hard. Stephen Fry has some great thought about being offended (“so fucking what?”), which to I agree very much. Because when it comes to comedy, we are generally always laughing at someone, and someone might just get offended. If you like to laugh at Charlie Chaplin’s movies, I might just argue that I’m offended by you laughing at poor, homeless tramps falling down the stairs (you monster!). When it comes to irony, we’re laughing at the man joking about himself. Rare are the jokes that couldn’t possibly hurt anyones feelings. And even if someone would get offended by something that really is only meant for offending, they would still have a right to say so. If we would limit what we can joke about and what not, we would also have to limit our right to say back to jokers. Now that’s offending to me!

n the end, as depressing and tragic attacks such as the one against Charlie Hebdo are, it’s comforting to know that laughter and happiness will eventually always win. It’s frightening that even today people must die for what they have said, but as long as we as people never, ever give in to anyone’s censorship, no matter who tries it, a day may come when nobody has to die for their laughs and civilization will be more joyful and less serious. Because I believe that way before anything we know today existed, when the very first people walked on earth, wondering where the hell they are and who are they (solid questions for them, by the way), someone saw a mammoth pooping and found it hilarious. We are laughing animals, may nothing ever take that from us.

mile!

Ville is a Jack of All Trades in the art department and the editor-in-chief at Godartet who finds himself thinking serious thoughts way more often than he would like. 35

THE

RTISTS So, here it is. Our pride and joy, the artist segment. In the following pages we shall present five new amazing talents and some of the works of their choosing. Ranging from photography to painting and acting, these great creators are the driving force of our magazine and definitely some of the names you will be reading about in the future. Enjoy in awe!

T A

E S

S T I

DON’T like to box myself into a specific art form with a label that says I could only master one media. I could say I’m a painter and a drawer, but as much I feel like being a performer and a poet.

I work and live in Rovaniemi, Lapland, Finland. Most of the year we have kaamos, the time-lapse when the sun doesn’t rise at all. Kaamos makes people and time sincere and less shallow. I’m a mother of two, stepmother of two more. I live with my partner, a sculptor and a bright soul. I welcome all the raptures in my life, and try to live as I teach through my art. With my art, I want to question norms and bring out humane issues in most sincere ways. Thanatos and Eros often visit my pictures and stages. I want to celebrate life in all its absurd ways. I grew up in a single-parent household with a troubled childhood. At a young age I discovered different perspectives for observing people, nature, relationships and a sense of great depression. I learned to bring these observations and emotions alive through drawing and singing. 38

S T (

)

S R

A E

I hate the loneliness that is included in the fine arts. A caricature of a master artist working in solitude creating a masterpiece doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit for me. I always try to find new ways to cooperate with people and build up a community. Painting portraits has been one solution. To see a person and create a reflection from that soul is an unselfish way to have a dialogue through an art piece. Making an art piece, items that fill those identifiable norms, has often been easy as breathing for me. The main reasons that keep me from doing more are my family circumstances. Yet I feel that if I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get to smell my daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair and watch my sons play, I would have nothing to mirror into my art. I was engaged to the theatre when I first came to Rovaniemi, eight years ago. Since then, I have studied, lead and produced plays and performances as well as performed myself, recently with the burlesque group Midnight Sun Burlesque with my alter ego Regiina Dieder. I study Art Education in the University of Lapland. Becoming a teacher, observer and director is a choice I have made to provide for my art - both in mental and financial ways.

You can find me also in: http://tessaastre.portfoliobox.me/

Grandmother and the kids, 2014 70x70 Woodcutting plate

Absinthe Memoirs I, 2014 80x120 Aquarelle and pen on wood

Next page: The Pendant of Sion, 2012 120x60 Aquarelle and ink on paper 41

PinkBaby, 2013 40 x 26 Aquarelle and ink on paper

My portrait methods follow quick techniques, ink and watercolour. These portraits are croquis, done in one session.

J R E E

V A

S NEW MEDIA ART

My background is in textile theory.

By using material thinking and knowledge I have refined my working techniques towards immateriality. My animations involve abstract audiovisual compositions and digital sculpting. Color and technology inspire me. Pixel is my medium.

A T

www.technologicalharassment.tumbrl.com 2014 Website 48

www.textilerepresentation.com textile representation - new media art based on textile theory 2014 Website 50

M I D N I G S U N B U R 52

G H T

L E S Q U E PERFORMANCE GROUP

WOMAN with messy hair and a bloody knife comes screaming through the audience. She jumps on stage, falls down the stairs but elegantly climbs back up again. Ulrika von Diesel truly knows how to make an audience catch their breath. The ambience turns tangible when Duo Amazonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s (Finn. Duo Amatsonit) version of an evil captor, an almost innocent girl and the Stockholm syndrome gives me goose bumps. What about this one 54

then? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when later the chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany appears on stage, giving birth to 30 miniature planet Earths. We are at the Halloween Creepshow, proudly presented by Midnight Sun Burlesque, and by far the creepiest creature of the evening has just shown up. It’s creepy because it’s true. Regiina Dieder leaves the stage accompanied by cheering laughs and whistles, and the next dark lady is ready to rock the stage. 55

ERE is only a sample of a single show, but it tells a lot about Midnight Sun Burlesque, the northernmost burlesque group in the world. We have a group of nearly 20 members and we let all the flowers bloom. During the cold, dark and long winters of Lapland we truly need all the sparkle there is to light our way. Some of us get inspired by gothic looks, some can create masterpiece costumes themselves. Some want to fit in some critical aspects about our society or politricks, some love dancing. Some want to have fun on the stage and bring joy to the audience, some play with genders. These objects of affection get their fleshly appearance in burlesque characters. Characters become an alter ego we put on backstage and which we have named in sometimes pretty descriptive ways. How would you imagine HoneyYummy or Olivia Occulto to be like?

E all have our unique ways of expressing what we are inside, but we are united by the process of building up a performance. It usually starts with what else than a piece of music that inspires us from head to toe. Legendary characters such as Chaplin, Marilyn or even the boogeyman might also work as a muse. Pretty soon after inspiration sparkles, the structure of the show starts to build up on clothing. What to wear, and more precisely what to take off, in what order and in which way. Lets say it: What makes burlesque is the art of revealing your body or parts of it to the audience with a variety of ways without forgetting the flirt. The louder the people are cheering, the more powerful is the experience to the performer and to the audience itself. What makes burlesque performers different from strippers is the non-commercial bodies and looks that we celebrate publicly. You will find us in all shapes, sizes and ages, with all kinds of different hair and talents. Imagine a curvy, hazel-brown skinned woman singing “It’s a man’s world” with a strong, beautiful tone. She is wearing a black beard and a moustache and she is elegantly taking off her red dress. Yeah, that’s Miss Boo T…

Like one regular male spectator once said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;The best thing in burlesque is that you are all normal women who stop being normal when you walk on stage.â&#x20AC;? It is the magic and beauty of nudity that keeps people of all ages coming back, no matter what their gender or status. And what keeps us taking the step onto the stage is the direct, communicative relationship with the audience. Together with the people present in the moment, we create an intense

moment in that specific moment in time, in that specific space. After the music fades away and people are cheering, that piece of art will never exist the same way again. You know you have been able to move something within a person when she, sometimes even he, comes to ask you how to join.

IDNIGHT Sun Burlesque offers these sensations mostly in Rovaniemi and northern Lapland. We cooperate closely with nearby colleague groups by inviting each others to perform in our cities and letting each other know of any open opportunities to have a gig somewhere. Lately we have been pleased to also conquer cities in Southern Finland with our silken gloves.

Hearts and kisses! Yours, True Lilith, better known as Heli Honkasilta

P O R S A 60

I (1987) PHOTOGRAPHER

OMEHOW my personal photography has shifted more and more towards landscapes. I think this is because most of my professional work is journalistic and people are usually the subject. That means taking photographs up close. For me landscapes are about slowing down and taking a few steps back. Usually those steps also mean stepping out of the urban environment and going where the actions and marks of human interaction play a smaller role. That role and its relationship with the landscape is something I’m interested in.

IN MY PHOTOGRAPHS, I try to convey the atmosphere of the space and subject and my own feelings towards it. I think it’s easy to see when a photograph works, but another thing is to understand why it works and write about it. I like the idea of not entirely understanding the process of taking photographs. If I would understand it I wouldn’t have a reason to do it.

Pyhäjärvi, 2014

www.jouniporsanger.com

A N G E R 61

Top: Kevoj채rvi, 2011

Bottom: Snowmobile tracks, 2013

Top: First Snow, 2013

Bottom: Grouse Hunter, 2012

I R I T T Y N N

(

)

P A I N T E R

hy do I make art?

For me as an artist, painting is a method to re-create an idea or a memory. Remembering the mood of an evening, capturing a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s expression or a declaration of pure feeling. When painting a picture, my goal is to communicate without words and touch the feelings of the beholder. I found that everything, even the smallest being, has value and should be recognized for that reason. It gives me great pleasure to find beauty in small details. I find those little quirky things that are a little bit out of place intriguing. To be alive and to be conscious of your surroundings and yourself is a precious gift. I want to celebrate that fact with my art. My paintings are a rendition of my inner world. When making art, I play with color and materials. I can choose a different base to paint on, like velvet or veneer plywood, to give more depth to the painting. For applying the paint on canvas, I use tools like aerosol paint cans, palette knives and brushes of all sorts, to give layers and texture. Painting makes me happy. And I will continue to make art until I get bored with it.

T A N Ö N E N

Photo: Jenni Särmä

Hematoma I, 2010 93x103 Mixed technique on velvet

Self Portrait, 2011 96 x 140 Textile color on velvet

Breath, 2014 89x113 Acrylic paint on canvas

Self Portrait, 2011 96x140 Acrylic paint on canvas

Meeting, 2013 40x60 Acrylic paint on canvas

Ghost, 2014 40x60 Acrylic paint on canvas

Toning in Grey, Please! 2014

On Tuesday it rained, 2014 91.5x140 Mixed techicue, MDF

Hg, 2014 75x152.5 Mixed techicue, birch plywood

Seepage a 75x152.5 M birch plyw

area, 2014 Mixed techicue, wood

Trombi, 2014 75x152.5 Mixed techicue, birch plywood

Kaolinite, 2014 75x152.5 Mixed techicue, birch plywood

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T

LISTINGS THIS MONTH NORWAY Tromso International Film Festival 12.-18.1.2014 CINEMA Tromso Holy crap, it’s already going! Run! Anyways, another amazing film festival, but set in the very far north in the small mountain town of Tromso. Showing and premiering a whole lot of interesting and challenging new films and a beautiful amount of small, independent short films from scandinavia and other countries. Considering the temperatures up there, cool is the word to use with TIFF. http://www.tiff.no/en Norwegian Contemporary Photography 12.2.-12.4.2014 PHOTOGRAPHY Sørlandets Kunstmuseum, Kristiansund Situated in the city of Kristiansund, the Sørlandets Kunstmuseum has an interesting exhibition opening with their Norwegian contemporary photography collection. As photography is one of the quickest ways to get to know a culture, we would definitely check this out if we were near Kristiansund. ESTONIA Gatsby / La Dolce Vita BALLET Tartu Vanemuine Teater 25.01.2015 Premiere Two short-ballet shows, Gatsby’s story is based on the characters and romances of F. Scott Fitzgerald’ book The Great Gatsby and La Dolce Vita has fun with the joyful attitude of Federico Fellini’s movie of the the same title. We have no idea what’s it gonna be, but sounds cool! http://www.vanemuine.ee/repertuaar/gatsby-la-dolce-vita/ DocPoint 30.1.-2.2.2015 CINEMA Tallinn Like all good deeds, DocPoint has spread its way to Tallinn as well! For the fifth time, DocPoint has screenings, discussion panels and all-around documentary time in Tallinn as well.

SWEDEN Göteborg Film Festival 23.1. - 2.2.2015 CINEMA Gothenburg The biggest and prettiest film festival in Scandinavia, Göteborg Film Festival is growing bigger and stronger every year, and this year should not be an exception. The schedule and guests were yet to be announced at the time of writing, but one can expect great things from here. Stockholm Design Week 2.-8.2.2015 DESIGN Stockholm Almost an institution already, the Stockholm Design Week once again highlights the brightest and most beautiful of modern design world. A massive amount of designers and studios line up alongside with sassy cocktail parties and panel seminars. Also at the same time, the Stockholm Furniture and Light fair. http://www.stockholmdesignweek.com/

FINLAND DocPoint 27.1. - 1.2.2015 CINEMA HELSINKI A great film festival dedicated for documentary films celebrates its 14th year in action and once again brings seminars, discussions and of course a whole lot of great films to town. The whole schedule wasn’t yet released at the time of writing, but we at Godartet look forward to seeing at least the real life thriller CITIZENFOUR about Edward Snowden and some of Jacques Cousteau’s classic sea voyages. Recommendation of the month! http://docpoint.info/en/ Edvard Munch: Dance of Life - 2.1.2015 ART Didrichsen Art Museum, Helsinki Godartets favourite Norwegian painter Edvard Munch is well presented in this exhibition, which is the first proper Munch-exhibition in Finland in 15 years. Didrichsen is also an interesting place for a museum, for the building itself was the home for Didrichsen art family and was drawn by Viljo Revell. Last call! http://www.didrichsenmuseum.fi/eng/

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T N I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E

This is Rufus. He has an average job with his own cubicle and all, a dump of an apartment and a shitload of student loans from back in the day. But somehow, he still feels empty.

Like every saturday night, Rufus sits in his regular bar and listens to the happy, beautiful, successful people who are laughing and having fun while he himself is giving a 1000-mile-stare to his cheap shot of Bourbon.

But this time Rufus has had one shot too many and he starts talking to the indifferent barman. “I used to have some dreams, man” Rufus mumbles, “I could’ve been somebody”. “I wonder who that loser’s talking to,” wonders the barman.

And then, while Rufus is wallowing in selfpity, a beautiful fairy appears to him! “WHAT THE HELL, MAN!” yells Rufus before realising something: the fairy is all his dreams, hopes and wishes materialized, and all of a sudden it starts to float away! Rufus decides to follow it.

So off he goes, following the ever-flickering light of his hopes and dreams. He runs as fast as he can and jumps as high as he can and stretches as far as he can, but Rufus never quite catches the fairy. Until suddenly...

And so, the next monday Rufus finds himself in his cubicle of asbestos, staring at the bleak light of spreadsheets while silently sighing in realization; ... he jumps and falls and actually gets hold of the fairy of hopes and dreams! But oh, it isn’t a fairy at all. Just an ordinary firefly and clumsy old Rufus has killed it while catching it. No more fly. No more light.

“I should’ve never tried to follow my dreams.” THE END.

E D I T O R I A L I N T E R V I E W P O E M R E V I E W C O L U M N G O N Z O E S S AY S H O R T S T

ACTUAL QUOTES ABOUT GODARTET

T O R Y C O L U M N L I S T I N G S C O M I C S B AT H R O O M S TA L LW A L L L A S T PA G E One more thing, just for you, our dear

Norwegian/Swedish/Finnish/Estonian reader! Are you an artist, or do you know any artists or thoughtful people in some other fields? Yes? Wow, that is so cool! If you or your friends wish to see their names in this magazine, that can easily be arranged! Here’s what we’re looking for:

WRITERS!

Artists!

Essays, short stories, poems. You name it, we’ll take it! If you have anything in your drawer just waiting to see the light of day, send it to us and we might just publish it. We’re not telling you how to write your stuff, but in essays we’re looking for something that’s related to Nordic arts or culture. Poems and short stories are of course a free-roam, but local point of view is preferred. We don’t have any word or character limitations like those silly professionals, but we hope that you remain in a maximum of 15 A4 pages with some basic size 12 font. Also, no politics, religion, sports or other unrelated boredom!

This is why we do this, to give visibility to amazing artists. Whatever is your medium, from painting to sculpture and photography to textile design, we’re willing to let you promote yourself. In each number we have room for 5 artists and each artist gets a total of 6 spreads to promote themselves (1 spread is a mandatory cover, so 5 is just for art) that you can use any way you wish. Not all of them have to be used, of course. We’ll take care of the lay-out and the end result will always be approved by you before publishing and all the copyrights remain with you.

Tips!

Readers!

Do you have local knowledge of the best culture events in your town that nobody else knows? Or maybe you have a great idea for a feature story, Gonzo-concept or otherwise great ideas on how to make Godartet a better magazine? If so, do contact us! We’re eager to know what’s happening out there.

If you don’t have anything to contribute, but just like to read our nifty little paper, do share us with the world! We’re on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Issuu, we have our own webpage and a YouTube channel so there are many ways for spreading the word about Godartet. And for this, we salute you! Sharing is daring... Or something like that.

And just for all to know, we can’t compensate for your writings, as Godartet works purely on voluntary work (this includes Ville and Juha). However, we also won’t be charging you for anything, and we hope to help you in any way we can. Also, don’t worry about your English, because Godartet has a professional proofreader, who makes sure your words are solid. Hope to hear from you soon! www.godartetmagazine.com

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LEGAL INFORMATION Godartet is a non-commercial, non-profit magazine aiming to support, spread and analyse art and culture from Norway, Sweden, Finland and Estonia. The magazine is based in Helsinki, Finland. Editor-in-Chief: Ville Koski. Senior Editor: Juha Heikkinen. Everything published in Godartet is protected by copyright and all of the copyrights belong to their respective makers unless specifically marked otherwise. Do not copy, alter, share or in other ways use the material in Godartet without the permission of the specific copyright owner, whom you may contact directly or through Godartet Magazine. Anyone breaking these rules will be caught, found and - for your information - we think Lannister is the coolest house in Game of Thrones. Any questions or comments can be sent to godartetmagazine@gmail.com. Happy readings!