severine bernard
nathan harkins
jenny macdonald
natasha galbraith
lauren maclaren
lucy stobie
shay fallon
evie glen
jamie burns
adam clarke
ellie delahunt
coralee holder
ailbhe ní mhurchú
sophie taylor davies
caragh-rose macfeeters
fleur kas
rachel smith
ailsa morgan
andrew taylor rachel smith
toyah jane stoker
tilly holt
morven taggart
yang yang cao
kaichun hu
aymara blinkenberg
tèa niamh hume
katarina dulude
I’m so happy and excited to welcome you all to our summer issue. This is the first issue brought to you by our new editorial team, and although we can’t always be in the same place at the same time, it feels like the perfect time of year for our first issue together.
Lots of us are far apart right now, separated from our friends and the pleasantly familiar faces we see in term-time. We’ve gone home, or gone abroad, or gone to work, and so summer always seems a bit like a world of its own. In its hazy, lukewarm months, we lose track of the date, we eat at odd times, we’re reunited with family we haven’t seen all year. Everything feels slightly unreal, and slightly absent as well. We can’t feel the regular rhythm of the semester moving us forward, and its absence always used to feel a bit like limbo for me. I would always be waiting for September, for autumn to kick my life into place again. But now I am finding that having the summer to yourself, really means hav- ing the freedom to figure out how to keep your own beat going. I don’t find fear in the absence of routine anymore, just room for exploration. This summer, I’ve been having a rather good time exploring the little world that only exists for me when the semester ends. In there, I find that I have lots left in me.
A big thanks to everyone reading this right now…. This is our summer charity issue, and all our proceeds for it will go towards Maggie’s Centres, a charity devoted to cancer care and support. In Features, one of our own editorial team, Ailbhe Ni Mhurchú, talks about our visit to Maggie’s Glasgow and her own personal experience with the charity. Lauren McLaren also discusses our enduring interest in physical media and nostalgia culture in her piece on dig- ital photography, and Jenny MacDonald takes on Glasgow’s nightlife with her piece on the simple joys of tasteless clubbing. In our News and Poli- tics section, Natasha Gailbraith talks Eurovision and how deep the competition’s commitment to “political neutrality” really runs.
Over in Lifestyle, Coralee Holder ex- plores her ideas around different kinds of home in her piece about country vs city life, and Fleur Kas discusses the resurgence of Y2K and its relationship with body positivity, while in our Music section, Jamie Burns, Ella Delahunt, and Adam Clarke review a busy weekend of Glasgow gigs. In Arts and Culture, Sophie Taylor-Davies takes a look at the ‘Guerilla Girls’ art movement and whether protest art holds the power it once did, and Caragh-Rose MacFeeters reviews the book that changed her life, Sharp Objects. In our Film section, Lucy Stobie discusses the Letterboxd state of mind in her article on the cinephile’s app, and of course, the issue wouldn’t be complete without a selec- tion of amazing creative writing pieces from Shay Fallon, Nathan Harkins, and Caragh-Rose MacFeeters.
A massive thank you to the loveliest team of editors, artists, and contributors who worked hard to put this issue together! If you’re interested in getting involved with the magazine, we’ll be resuming our weekly meetings in the QMU boardroom on Wednesdays at 5.30 once the university semester starts. Alternatively, you can visit our Face- book group “QMU Publications Com- mittee”, where our editorial team post their pitches, or get in touch with us at qmunicate.online@gmail.com. If you’re an artist/photographer and want your visuals in the magazine, don’t hesitate to email us your work at qmunicate.illus- tration@gmail.com.
I LOVE YOU, -Ailsa
by A.Morgan
J.Macdonald
Rising from the groundswell of the pandemic like a Brandy-Melville-clad phoenix from the ashes, ‘The Girlblogger’ has emerged as one of the internet’s largest phenomena. The aesthetic first appeared on Pinterest and Tumblr in 2020 but skyrocketed to notoriety with the emergence of Tik Tok. It is most simply defined by Morgan Blair in her essay Dissociative Gaze Into Into The Abyss as any “social media account run by a girl in her late teens/early twenties’’ whose focal point is hyper-feminine aesthetics, but the term has become synonymous with other internet subcultures such as waif, femcel and coquette. Girlbloggers are commonly characterised by their dissociative pouts, cynical intellectualism and tongue-in-cheek delusion served on a cold, yet scalloped-edged and floral plate. But what makes the aesthetic appealing to so many young women? As someone who spent her 2020 summer listening to Lana Del Rey’s Born to Die (Paradise Edition) on vinyl whilst sipping a cherry coke zero and writing my English A-level coursework on Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita I think it’s safe to say: I fell victim to the Girlblogger aesthetic. And during this time I discovered a community of jaded, witty and despondent women creating safe spaces in the cesspit that is the internet. But will this endure? Will the Girlblogger be able to withstand the ruthless trend cycles that so many subcultures succumb to after a few months?
The success of the Girlblogger can be attributed to several factors. Primarily its creation of what the subculture has coined a ‘divine feminine’ space. Hordes of accounts showcasing white pointelle tops, Dior lip oils and Chanel perfumes are (excuse the generalisation) a natural deterrent for those with traditionally masculine interests, thus sealing themselves off from male ridicule. Moreover, advertising these interests online enables people to band together and create smaller pockets of community. My own groupchat is called ‘Feeble Women’ surrounded by a plethora of sparkle and ribbon emojis, a playful reclaiming of misogynistic stereotypes. In it, memes from our favourite female content creators are shared alongside book recommendations and excitement about the upcoming Barbie movie. Therefore, by engaging with an almost exclusively feminine audience the protective bubble of “the divine feminine” is maintained and interests that have historically been sneered at due to their femininity are now being celebrated.
Another factor that draws many to the aesthetic is its aspiration for both beauty and intellect. Girlbloggers promote having so much confidence in your physical appearance that it borders on delusion, a refreshing attitude in an age where women are conditioned to find fault with their body. Furthermore, by focusing on hyper-feminine aesthetics, she inadvertently celebrates all things female. However, the Girlblogger is not just a pretty face, like any good cult the aesthetic has its seminal texts. She is always up to date on the latest Ottessa Moshfegh release, alongside classics like ‘The Bell Jar’ ‘The Virgin Suicides’ and ‘Valley of the Dolls’. These are gateway texts to the world of women’s fiction (the exception being The Virgin Suicides which I’ve included due to the films director being Girlblogger icon Sofia Coppola). These texts revolve around women who are intelligent, witty and self-aware, and whilst they definitely don’t make the smartest decisions, at least they make their own. At the same time, these women don’t forgo beauty for brains. There’s no ‘pick me girl’ behaviour in Sussan’s novel because all the characters have both. In a society centred on tearing women down on social media for sport, the appeal is palpable.
Girlblogging is also a celebration of life’s small joys. As we scroll through our feeds absorbing relentless information on irreversible climate damage, global conflict and celebrity scandal, it’s understandable why so many people are choosing to fill their feeds with cryptic memes about female divinity. In a post lifted from the seminal account girlblogger2008 Helena (the account’s admin) claims “I am not chronically online, I am a princess trapped inside my chamber and the internet is my only weapon”. Whilst the post has all the tongue in cheek levity of a typical Girlblogger meme, it touches on the desire to use blogging as a means to provide respite to the internet’s predominantly miserable content. Or at least the desire to romanticise even the most undesirable habits to make life worthwhile.
On the other hand, the aesthetic is exclusionary, obviously for men (for which I am not concerned in the slightest) but also for many women. Like many other subcultures, its icons are upper-middle class, thin, white, European and American women. Moreover, the aesthetic undeniably romanticises mental illness and encourages intellectual snobbery. Not to mention that purchasing all the hailed brands of the girlblogger (think Cop Copine, Miu Miu and Repetto) requires a certain level of financial stability atypical of the teenage demographic the aesthetic is targeted towards. Girlbloggers often aspire to be like their favourite dysfunctional literary protagonists, who are unable to maintain healthy relationships and whose perception of success centres around monetary gain and academic achievement. However, there is a quantifiable difference between aesthetic and action and it’s worth pointing out that the act of girlblogging does not require engagement in any of the self-destructive behaviour above.
At the end of the day brands and products are simply a way of marketing a lifestyle, but these products aren’t what motivates women to seek a sense of community. Which is why I believe that even if the Girlblogger aesthetic as we know it ceases to be, women will never truly be stopped from writing and communicating with one another, whether that’s through the internet, literature or media. This is what I believe makes the aesthetic so enduring. Women are constantly having to prove themselves worthy in cis male-dominated spaces so I say “Long live the Girlblogger ‘’ at the close of my first official article doing just that.
July 21st
A crow found me on my walk today. It was lying there in the middle of my path; unavoidable. The thick blades of grass spanned the horizon, standing firm to the height of my stomach, and the path I walked was the only one cut in the entire field. I don’t know what killed the crow. It was split open down the middle, but not due to any injuries sustained from a predator I could tell. No, the crack down the middle of the bird must have been from decomposition, like how bread rises and cracks in the oven. It was a hot day after all; hotter than any other day before. Everything was baking under the sun. I was. Henry thought a walk in the field out back would be good for me. He told me to take advantage of such a nice day. “Maybe it’ll do you some good.” Don’t you just love older brothers (and their constant need to remind you how badly you’re wasting your days)? He didn’t even offer to come on the walk with me. He had “work” to do. I shouldn’t be too hard on him. He is giving me a place to stay in all fairness, and he never stops reminding me that he is trying his utmost to make a home for me. The bird had squatters. What looked like worms or maggots were inhabiting the carrion’s softest parts, nestled in the parting of its stomach. I could practically smell them; rising above the rotting carcass of the crow. It was potent. Their wriggling and writhing were so loud I could swear I felt a headache come on. Disgusting little creatures.
July 22nd
I’ve been reflecting. I might’ve been too harsh on those maggots, or worms, or whatever they are. I mean, they’re only trying to survive. And it’s not as if the bird cares. It’s the circle of life, I suppose. I’m willing to keep an open mind. Keeping an open mind is what made me so good at my old job. “You can’t teach if you don’t expect to learn the odd thing from your students.”that’s what they say.
I miss the academy. I was useful there. I’m not sure if anyone there actually liked me, but at least I had a purpose. All that ended when Henry moved us out here to the middle of nowhere. He ignored their advice and said I just needed to be away from people for a while; get some time to myself. I shouldn’t have to rely on him. I should have my own place which I’m comfortable calling “home.” It’s funny how somewhere surrounded by nothing but a field manages to make me feel so trapped. Even in the height of the summer this house manages to be cold. At least that bird probably felt warm to live in.
I think I picked up something from that crow. I’m certain I didn’t touch it. Why would I? Sure, the meat looked tender and comfortable, but I’d have to be crazy to just dive right in there and stick, for instance, my hand inside. No, I’m certain I didn’t touch it. Yet, as I write this, I can feel something wiggling around in me. It’s audible. I told Henry, and even asked if it was a good idea to get antibiotics of some kind, but he just brushed it off; said it’s nothing. He never believes me. Besides, this wouldn’t be the first time he told me I didn’t need medication.
I’m an educated man. I’m no fool. I can tell fact from fiction. However, it’s hard to rule this as fantasy when I can hear this thing inside me just as loudly as I could hear those things inside the bird. I’m as certain of this just as I am of not having touched that crow.
July 24th
The bug was talking to me again. It calmed me down, and made things so clear to me. Those were obviously maggots inside of that bird. They were using that crow as a vessel to transition into the next stage of their life.
The crow and I were preordained to meet. What are the chances that it would die from seemingly natural causes while mid-air, fall, and land perfectly on the only path in the whole field, completely unbothered by predators until I arrived? The bug chose me, and I am eternally honoured. Finally, for the first time in a long while, I have purpose. I can feel it; the hotness under my skin. Finally, this house is starting to heat up.
July 25th
I have had a revelation. There isn’t a bug gestating somewhere inside of me. It is absolutely ludicrous to even conceive the notion that a bug was going to hatch from my body. My head mustn’t have been right when I came to that conclusion. Instead I’ve discovered the truth; it isn’t a bug at all, and in fact, it’s not even a separate entity to myself. That’s why I felt such a kinship to those maggots, because deep down inside of this hollow shell I call “my body” is the real me, waiting to emerge.
The maggots weren’t the only thing baking on that hot day. So was I. The heat was forcing me to change, to begin my transformation, like dough into bread. Gone will be this excuse for a body for which I have nothing but disdain, and out will soar something beautiful. A butterfly from a caterpillar.
I thought I was the carcass, but no, I am the maggot. This leaves one problem however; I need a carcass.
Henry always wanted to make a home for me, and I suppose he has.
I told Henry that I was thinking of finding my own place, and he wasn’t very happy about it. He seemed pretty horrified by my appearance. Growing up, he always was the worst with blood out of the two of us. What I did was necessary. I couldn’t wait any longer. If I wanted wings, then I’d have to go digging for them.
Henry just blabbered on about how much I “need” him and how they said I’m not fit to care for myself. I know what it’s really all about. It’s always been the same thing with Henry. He just doesn’t believe in me. He didn’t believe me during everything that happened at the academy, and he didn’t believe me today.
We’ve all heard of second chances, but this is the epitome. All anyone could ever hope for; a true second chance. A second chance at life, at being a new person. I should have known Henry wouldn’t understand. Even now he continues to stare at me from the corner of the room with those wide eyes, always judging, but never understanding.
Sometimes I wonder if he would still be letting me live with him if some judge hadn’t forced him to. He seems to think that you can ignore a problem until it goes away. I don’t, and I think I proved that to him by making him into the perfect carcass. He was always hollow, I just made sure of it.
I never thought I’d hurt anyone again, but I was wrong. What happened at the academy was a mistake; a momentary lapse of sense, but it’s okay. It wasn’t really me who did that. Soon that person will be gone.
Henry was holding me down; the last thing chaining me to this world, preventing me from flying away.
That’s all over now. Now it is time for me to take my place inside my Henry-Husk.
Society appears to have accepted veganism as the new way forward. Whether it’s fast-food giants launching plant-based alternatives of their staples or Hermès creating a fungus “leather” bag; business knows that the future is vegan. Capitalism has begun to absorb the vegan movement like it does everything profitable, leaving those unable to afford it in the dust. So, whilst the Vegan Society reports a quadrupling in British participants and the UK is a world leader in interest in the diet, veganism remains a privileged choice and obstructs entry to people without such advantages.
For many, achieving a nutritionally adequate diet is enough of a hardship without adding the constraints of veganism. The price of fruit and vegetables continues to rise whilst processed foods, often containing animal products, remain comparably stable and make up calorific needs for less. 15.5% of all UK households were food insecure in April 2022 and this figure will only increase. In times of economic hardship, items deemed as luxuries - fruit and vegetables - are the first to go. Yet veganism is about more than just fresh fruit and vegetables. Not every vegan is Freelee the Banana Girl, and necessary carbs and proteins can come from cheap grains. However, these cheap grains can take time and energy to prepare, a fact that may not deter the ethically-minded student but could make the diet inaccessible to someone working multiple jobs or living in and out of poverty.
Time poverty does not just mean that you cannot soak chickpeas or make your own kombucha. It forces people to resort to processed foods that are quick to prepare. These foods are often not vegan, and when they are they are usually pricier, making them less economically accessible. Despite my earlier claim that capitalism has embraced veganism, the reductions in output and share price for processed vegan brands including Beyond Meat, Oatly, and Heck in 2019 mean that vegan food remains a somewhat niche, and subsequently more costly, market. Veganuary has made the diet a fad, and capitalism views it as such, meaning accessible vegan foods that would satisfy the needs of the working and lower class simply do not exist. This is not a flaw in the commercial vegan market but an integral part of its design.
Food gentrification makes low waste diets like veganism less accessible to the poor yet keeps them culturally prestigious enough to be bought into by the wealthy. The dominant face of British veganism is white and rich, despite vegan diets having been historically practised in less affluent, often ethnic minority communities. Yet the ethical weight of the diet, has been exploited to justify increased charges, which could price out those who historically ate plant-based diets.
Veganism should never be a privilege. Ethical eating should not be confined to those with money. However, as with many idealistic philosophies, veganism does notaddress the inherent economic inequalities found in our society and at the core of its growing popularity. Some elements of the vegan community resort to consumer activism instead of wider critique of capitalism - a mindset that often excludes those who do not have the financial means to ‘vote with their wallet’. Whilst the future may be vegan, it is still unequal.
Jenny Macdonald (she/her) @jennywmac(without the capital ‘V’)
‘It’s all political!’ The classic British response to Eurovision. Usually an explanation of our poor performance at the competition. Like most international competitions, the Eurovision Song Contest is meant to be apolitical. Eurovision aims to bring together different nations, giving them an opportunity to share their culture with one another in a weird and wonderful manner, free from the strains of the political system. In fact, being apolitical is a stated aim of the contest, with both participants and broadcasters alike being prohibited from political engagement in the course of the competition. So, does the competition really achieve its apolitical goals or does the classic British excuse for Eurovision failure have a foot in reality? I’ll skip to it, yes, Eurovision is very much political.
First, a bit of background for those uninitiated: Eurovision is an annual international music competition that brings together the nations of Europe, and for some reason Israel and Australia, in weird and wonderful competition. Participating countries submit an original song which must be performed live as they advance through the competition and the winner is determined through a system of voting. This system has evolved over the years. In the 2023 final, there were three systems of voting. First, the traditional jury vote, where a pre-assembled panel of music professionals award points on behalf of their country. Secondly, the viewers of competing countries get to vote and their country awards points accordingly. Thirdly, a new feature of the 2023 competition, the Rest of World vote. This saw viewers from non-competing nations - like the US - getting to vote, with overall votes from the rest of the world being treated as the votes of one competing country.
The background of Eurovision is important, as the jury vote is at the heart of accusations of politicism. A general rule of the contest is that countries vote overwhelmingly in favour of their geographical neighbours. As a nation of islands, we have only one neighbour, the Republic of Ireland. Historically, we have relied greatly on their support in the competition. Countries also tend to vote for the nations they are allied or ‘friends’ with. We may be ‘friendly’ with much of Europe, but as a country (and similarly to Boris Johnson), we’re that irritating and self-assured weirdo who people exchange pleasantries with and try their hardest to escape. And let’s face it, we are hardly beloved internationally, especially by the rest of Europe. It must be said that our poor performances did seem to correlate with ongoing Brexit tensions and negotiations with the EU, whilst the UK’s poor performance in 2003 (0 points) was attributed to international discontent following the invasion of Iraq.
The international reach of the competition, demonstrated by the new Rest of World vote, makes it an important vector for change. The Eurovision stage allows countries to highlight the problems they face to the international community, gaining their support. All non-political international events, like Eurovision, have a role to play in international relations. Eurovision’s role in international politics has been demonstrated throughout its existence.
Banning a country from participating in an international event is a way for nations to display their disapproval and even punish their foreign counterparts. Russia has faced this recourse many times. Following their 2022 invasion of Ukraine, Russia was banned from participating in both the 2022 and 2023 editions of Eurovision. Initially both countries were allowed to compete as Eurovision asserted their non-political nature but following complaints from other nations, the competition U-turned. Prior to this, Russia’s act was prohibited from entering Ukraine to compete after she entered Crimea, following her country’s illegal occupation.
Even at its inception, Eurovision was a western idea and a divisive issue among certain European nations. Following the Second World War, Germany was split into two opposing countries, East and West Germany. Whilst West Germany participated in Eurovision, East Germany did not. Instead, it took part in the highly politicised InterVision song contest. The InterVision song contest was the communist alternative to the Eurovision song contest servicing the Eastern bloc countries. Entries were very promotive of their political ideologies with songs promoting communist ideology.
Eurovision is claiming neutrality, but the contest has repeatedly acted as a political arena, an opportunity for the international community to share their support and condemmnation. Although not actively political, it just fails completely in its aim to maintain apolitical competition, allowing performance politics provided that the competition can retain plausible deniability and that the politics is in line with the current views and values of the Western European collective. Essentially, Eurovision allows countries to use it as a political tool; nations use the competition to promote not just their culture but their agenda. Eurovision may take a politically neutral stance, but as soon as its members dissent, it cracks under pressure and falls into line.
You might have noticed a little piece of outdated technology creeping back into social spaces recently, followed by an increase in photos on social media that look about fifteen years old. The digital camera of the 2000s has made a pret- ty significant resurgence over the last couple of years, in spite of the conven- ience and abundance of smartphones. To some, it might appear to be just another fleeting hipster fad. But there is more to this trend than aesthetics; it indicates that in a frighteningly fast-moving world, many young people desire to conserve old, simple pieces of technology that hold sentimental and artistic value.
To begin with, cheap digital cameras are genuinely very practical. I’m a real advocate for bringing one along to a holiday, a get-together with friends, or especially at a festival (where you want nice photos without draining your phone battery). And in spite of their dated quality, I also think that the photos they take of people are better than those taken on expensive camera phones. This might be partially because those tired old lenses smooth everything out, but there is also some- thing different about what their images capture. The photos are just more fun! When someone has an iPhone shoved in their face for a photo, it’s a recipe for self-consciousness. Is this a video? Is it going to be posted for all the world to see? People become too aware of themselves, and things can turn into a photoshoot. But with a digital camera, all of that feels so far away. It’s just a dumb photo. And for that reason, in my experience at least, the photos that they take are a little more dynamic and much less serious.
It also feels better to mess around with a shitty little camera at a party than to hold out your phone all night trying to capture the moment - even though the difference is actually fairly arbitrary. Photos taken on cameras may feel more earnest and special because extra care has been taken to bring something just for the sake of capturing valuable memories. The extreme accessibility of photography - huge storage, as many photos as you want, a little tap on your screen - takes almost all of the magic out of it, making pictures feel mundane. While our iPhone camera rolls may contain photos of picturesque scenery and groups of friends, they are also used to document booking confirmations and flat viewings. Sometimes it’s nice to separate that really important stuff. The appeal of these cameras also has a lot to do with our relationship to the past. Somehow there is an underlying sense of sincerity and emotion when it comes to the images of a point-and-shoot digital, as the grain and blurred colour is reminiscent of our generation’s childhood photos. Looking at them feels like flicking through a photo album. A lot of us may be attempting to infuse today’s photographs with the same bittersweet feelings conjured by a family photo from 2006, and moving from the perceived lack of authenticity in polished, Instagram-ready smartphone photos. It’s almost like manufactured nostalgia.
Along with the explosion of second-hand clothing and the vinyl revival, this wistful use of digital cameras is part of an increasing dedication to ‘vintage’. Uninspired by the present and afraid of the future, our culture has turned to the past. As a result, we are stuck in a weird blank spot in time that lacks identity. Of course this isn’t the first era to recycle fashions of the past, but this time it is really all-encompassing. As the trend-cycle shrinks, our search for nostalgia broadens, and even items that were popular only a decade ago are branded as ‘retro’.
This phenomenon is perfectly captured by today’s trends in photography, especially since the digital camera is not the first old relic to resurge in popularity. In the early 2010s, polaroid cameras came back in style, providing small, blurry instant printouts for sticking on bedroom walls. People even started adding filters to their iPhone photos, attempting to create an impression of film photography while still using novel tech. Soon, 35millimetres stopped collecting dust in attics, as film photography became the new cool thing for that authentic, nostalgic feel.
All these trends prove that convenience isn’t everything to consumers. Today, there seems to be a push-and-pull between two very different attitudes towards technology. On one hand, there is AI, self-driving cars, and virtual reality, and then there’s a bunch of kids searching for record players and cheap old cameras. The other day I saw a teenage girl posting about her new Walkman. Technological advancements have given us the power to compress everything we need onto one streamlined, handheld device, and yet items of physical media, like books, continue to be bought. Even as iPhone cameras get exponentially better, those high-resolution shots and powerful lenses just cannot deter twenty-first-century luddites from scouring eBay for ‘cheap vintage 2000s digital cameras’. Maybe this culture of nostalgia for the so-called ‘simpler times’ is connected to more serious things. It may just be an attempt to distract ourselves from what seems like a pretty bleak future, an antidote for fears about climate change, late-stage capitalism and all those things you already know and worry about. In spite of this, I also think that the trend of handheld digital cameras
Lauren Maclaren (she/her)
Letterboxd is a social media platform for film lovers to rate and review movies, which has built an ever-expanding community of over 8 million users thus far. Similarly to other forms of social media, Letterboxd offers users the ability to build a personalised, public profile that advertises your own personal taste in film to other users. As someone who has never previously had any involvement in a film community, Letterboxd has hugely influenced my own taste in film. However, like most social media, I’ve also found myself tailoring my profile to the digital gaze.
Since joining the site, I’ve found that one of my favourite parts of watching a movie has become logging it on my profile the second it’s over. The app feels like my own personal movie diary. There’s a real satisfaction to it, and it’s even become a running joke amongst my friends after finishing a film together at the cinema; we’ll stand up from our recliner chairs and remark “that’s one for the Letterboxd!”.
The site has greatly boosted my general film knowledge and has introduced me to many of my current favourite movies, actors and directors. Admittedly, before Letterboxd, I would not have been able to tell you that I have only watched exactly 11% of the 85 films Adam Sandler has acted in (I could’ve sworn I’d seen more), nor would I be able to tell you who on Earth Sofia Coppola is - one of my now-favourite directors!
However, like all social-media, I’ve found there to be a definite, unspoken toxicity to Letterboxd. Although getting involved in the platform has hugely expanded my interests, simultaneously I feel it warped them in a rather negative way, wherein I often catch myself caring a little too much about how they’ll be perceived. Despite being new to any form of film community, since joining Letterboxd I have begun to feel a real sense of pressure to craft the perfect set of ‘top four’ movies. It’s the first thing anyone can see when clicking on your profile- your top four favourite films, so it must be well curated, devised for others approval.
I imagine how my profile will be perceived from an outsider’s perspective. I must consider if my top four are ‘artsy’ enough? Are they well-rounded enough? Do they convey enough media literacy and intellectualism? It’s untasteful to admit that my genuine favourite film is Night at the Museum 2, unless of course, I post it ironically as my number one film, so that I come across as funny or relatable. But to balance this out, I’ll need to follow it up with three more ornamental films, except that then they also need to be really niche and experimental. If I want my profile to impress, featuring a director as predictable as Wes Anderson will simply not cut it. This is the point when I get a sudden jolt of self-awareness and find myself turning off the app. I can’t help but realise how painstakingly pretentious it all is.
I can’t help but feel that even the ‘review’ section under each movie no longer aims to keep users well-informed, but instead has devolved into an echo-chamber of one-liners where everyone ferociously competes for the wittiest comment that’ll receive the most up-votes. And of course, no matter how enjoyable the movie is, if it’s too ‘mainstream’ the comments will utterly trash it because although I’m sure we all enjoyed Man of Steel, it’s definitely cooler to pretend we didn’t.
Despite the platform being great for film enthusiasts, it undeniably has quite a pretentious user base. I’ve found that the more seriously I start to take myself on the app, the less I enjoy using it, and my profile begins to stray away from my genuine interests. It’s an aspect of Letterboxd that ultimately takes away from its wholesome nature, which prompted me to join and engage in the first place. This elitism and approval-seeking within this film community is a strange phenomenon that since joining I’ve found myself certainly guilty of feeding into. Yet once I take a step back, and turn off the app, I realise how silly it all sounds.
It’s warmer this year. You love the red of it alllike a predator, you lunge at my exhaustion and
and then I won’t. I’ll chew on the matches
it gets me smiling. It gets me gnashing my teeth my sleep. It gets blood rushing purple and you’re just another mosquito. A vampire bite which I’ll take home. Thank God to be alive.
and wear a red shirt; all they’ll smell is gas. In the backseat wondering when the barbeque begins. It’s the body of Christ for supper, and you make me hungry. A lynx in heat.
Then I’ll eat
In April of this year, lo-fi bedroom-pop slackers and nostalgic early twenty-somethings were invited on a dazed meander through their teenage years when Mac Demarco casually dropped One Wayne G. However, at nine and a half hours long, this colossal album was less a fleetingly escapist trip back to halcyon Salad Days, than it was merely an unsatisfying over-indulgence in nostalgia. Comprising of 199 tracks of instrumental music, almost all with spartan names simply referring to their numerical save-file, the album seems as if created to be ignored. Yet, in the market of algorithm-generated mood playlists, perhaps the modern music industry favours an album that plays like the silent soundtrack of our daily lives, unnoticed until it stops.
It is no novel concern that younger generations of listeners tend to favour the playlist over the album. Be that the playlist painstakingly handcrafted to make you punctually sob by the third song and dry your eyes by the seventh, or Spotify’s attempt to convince you that, yes, there will come a time when you long to listen to a ‘Funeral Doom Mix’. In either case, there is an emphasis on music as a service. It is music with a purpose, because listening to an hour-long album in full for no reason other than to listen to the album is apparently ludicrous. Perhaps this functionalising of music is the result of a capitalist agenda that posits the active consumption of music as unproductive and thereby pointless, or perhaps our shortening attention spans are to blame. I am not quite sure, though I imagine it is some combination of the two that makes the modern music consumer unsatisfied with just music.
Gone too are the days of the one-hit wonder, popular music is awash with one-verse wonders fired like bullets from the industry’s machine gun that is TikTok. These singles gain popularity from something other than the song itself. Often, they feature cha-cha slide-esque dance instructions or a particularly lip-syncable line, accompany the latest trending identity construction (are you ‘okay’ or ‘lala’?), or are the product of a viral personality (à la famed rapper, Louis Theroux’s runaway hit). Take Lewis Capaldi: an internet comedian who also sings piano ballads. Though undoubtedly reaching international treasure territory, his popularity is not the result of his two pop albums, but the sense of familiarity constructedconstructed by his casual demeanour. A kind of meta-popstar who satirises 80s heartthrob music videos, mocks celebrity rivalries and acknowledges his own fame, Capaldi breaks the fourth wall between the musician and the listener. In so doing, he nourishes a para-social relationship that sells far more than music alone. Through the release of One Wayne G, Mac Demarco does a similar thing.
Demarco’s latest release is largely a collection of unfinished demos, instrumental cuttings and abandoned ideas. By some accounts, it is the contents of a GaragebandGarageBand recycling bin, but by others (namely that of his fans) it is a compelling insight into Demarco’s creative process. It is not an album as such, but rather the equivalent of a behind-the-scenes documentary in a similar vein to the studio episodes of The Beatles: Get Back. It is a project created for his fans who can recognise a track like “I Like Her” as the same one he teased at a 2020 gig, for his bedroom-pop fans who would listen to an ambient album only if Mac Demarco made it. Through this release, he pulls himself away from indie-pop stardom, humanising himself by revealing his creative process. As such, the album is not necessarily to be enjoyed for its music, but for how it demystifies its creator and satisfies our over-consumptive desire.
In their latest release, The Smashing Pumpkins similarly recognised this insatiable desire and responded by releasing a 33-song album, ATUM, described by Pitchfork as a ‘podcast-augmented three-part intergalactic techno-libertarian rock drama!’ This multi-conjunctive epic is a master class in how to spoil your fans. Not satisfied with releasing an ‘album within an album’ over the course of seven months, the band also released an accompanying ‘lyrical handbook’ of narrative explanations for each song as well as a series of podcast episodes during which frontman William Patrick Corgan further contextualises the album. As if anticipating the waning attention span of listeners to a two-and-a-half hour-long album, the band provides countless further hours of content across various mediums. In this, there seems an implicit recognition of the paradox of over-consumption. That is the inability to focus on just one piece of content for some time, and the subsequent need to differentiate methods of consumption over a comparatively longer period.
I wager that this paradox contributes to the rise of the playlist album. Such albums, like One Wayne G, are longer and designed to be shuffled or cut up and spliced into a playlist. Not only is this method of music consumption compatible with our shortening attention spans, keeping us stimulated for longer, it also allows us to listen to music on our own terms. While there is another debate to be had between the anti-shuffle purists who claim we ought to listen to an album the way the artist intended, and those who see no issue with arbitrary listening, I would argue either method maintains some appreciation of the music. While we might not notice the music as it plays, the fact we notice when it does not surely must count for something.
From the 22nd to the 25th of June, Glasgow saw several internationally loved and hugely successful artists performing in many venues all over the city. From pummelling noise-hop to soulful ballads, there was a great variety of gigs that made this weekend memorable. The following reviews will discuss the performances of Death Grips , Muse , the Black Keys , Arctic Monkeys and Hozier .
On June 22nd, Death Grips throttled through their second sold-out night at the Barrowland Ballroom. The all-things-heavy hip-hop trio came on stage promptly, immediately blaring through an unrelenting set that made their performance feel like one 70-minute song. The combination of MC Ride’s violent delivery of cryptic lyrics, the high-stamina yet nuanced style of drummer-savant Zach Hill, and the exclusively red lighting that covered the most intense and enthusiastic crowd I have ever been part of, made the concert feel like a thunderous underworld. They opened with “System Blower” from their comparatively accessible breakout The Money Store, the rendition as heavy and manic as their hardest cuts due to the anger infusing their performance. The highlight of the concert was “No Love”. The loudness of the beats and rhythms coming from Zach Hill and producer Flatlander enhanced the song’s unsettling vibe. MC Ride’s vocal delivery roars more terrifying than the studio cut, his screams more blood curdling and low growls more earth-shaking. The gig ended on an energetic high as the crowd mass rapped while a colossal mosh commenced alongside the blaring synth arpeggios of 2010s indie anthem ”Hacker”. Death Grips brought their all to the Barras in an unparalleled performance that matched the energy and aggression of a metal concert - and then some. - Jamie
On the 24th, Muse kicked off the first of Bellahouston Park’s ‘Summer Sessions’, where despite the heavy downpour they put on an electric display of showmanship. A crowd-splitting ramp allowed interaction from the band, and as flames and confetti spurted throughout the set, it was hard to imagine the enthusiastic crowd was being bombarded with rain at all. Compared to other shows on the tour, Glasgow was given a shorter festival setlist, but despite this the band created an impressive balance between old favourites such as “Supermassive Black Hole” and songs from the newer albums such as “Will of the People”, catering to both casual and dedicated fans. However, I simply cannot ignore the fact that “Bliss” was cut, a personal favourite that fell victim to the shorter setlist. Despite this, the whole night was a demonstration of the renowned technical skill found in their discography, such as the iconic “Hysteria” bass line, “Plug-In Baby’s” guitar intro, and even a harmonica solo before the closing song “Knight of Cydonia”. As a lifelong listener and fan, the performance itself is all I could ask for from a gig. It is no surprise that Muse are regarded as one of the best live acts today, and through their performance in Glasgow it is clear that even if you aren’t a huge fan you should definitely go for the experience, even if it is pouring - just don’t forget the waterproofs! -Adam
By Jamie Burns (he/him), Adam Clarke (he/him), Ellie Delahunt (she/her)
The Hydro Arena was also treated on the 24th, with a night of thumping garage-blues hits from the Black Keys. Guitarist and singer Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney, along with an extensive backing band of guitarists and keyboard-players, performed a set bursting with iconic hits from the last thirteen years, including several classics from their underground days before their breakthrough, blues-rock defining 2010 album “Brothers”. While I wasn’t thrilled about early favourites like “Thickfreakness”, “Midnight In Her Eyes” and “Set You Free” being omitted from the set, the band made up for it with the quality of their live sound. Dan’s soulful yet gritty vocals demanded attention as he overcame his guitar’s fuzzedup riffs and Patrick’s booming drums. The rhythms were catchy but not at all simplistic, engaging everyone as even most of the seated area was dancing. The blues-rock riffs hit particularly hard during bangers “Howlin For You”, “Tighten Up”, “Long Gone” and “Next Girl”, the effective use of added guitar distortion fostering an effortless arena rock feel. Certainly the best moment of the night was their performance of my personal favourite, “Weight Of Love.” The smooth blues track sounded massive but still maintained the undercurrent of subtlety that makes the song as powerful as it is. Dan, alongside his backup guitarist, blew me away with the faithful recreation of the song’s intense and conclusory guitar solo duet. In a truly overdue concert for me, The Black Keys came ready to rock; bringing extra musicians, extra distortion and many extra guitar solos, elaborating on their established style in an epic and monumental way. - Jamie
The weekend of Bellahouston Park’s musical magic closed when the Arctic Monkeys visited on the last stop of their long-running European tour. The day began as dreich as Glasgow can be, but stayed dry and warm for the performance, leaving many in the crowd comically overdressed with ponchos in hand and wellies on feet. The band performed songs from all corners of their career, with throwbacks (“Teddy Picker”), big hits (“R U Mine”) and new material (“There Better Be a Mirrorball”). This was imperative to the amazing experience, allowing me to discover their new material and rediscover their most popular. While Alex Turner, the band’s frontman, nowadays tends to perform slower renditions of their raucous classics - often provoking frustration from baying crowds - he was able to keep up with his former self on several occasions. As the great buzz surrounding the opening bassline of “Crying Lightning” showed, the crowds were certainly still under his spell. The more recent cuts even came across better than they did in the studio! Turner’s slower delivery is no reason to avoid experiencing an Arctic Monkeys gig. To enjoy revisiting cult classics, even if (like myself) you are not the biggest fan; the atmosphere outweighs any negatives, and delivers an unforgettable experience.
- AdamA devout congregation awaited Hozier on Sunday in the Glasgow drizzle for his first concert of his Unreal Unearth tour at Queens Park. A singer with flawless control over his striking vocals, he began with the lead single “Eat Your Young” from his upcoming album. With reverence the crowd listened as he weaved his way through the dazzling songs of From Eden and Would That I, roaring through the guitar heavy “Francesca,” the gut-wrenching “Cherry Wine,” then culminating before the encore with his classic “Take Me to Church.” Hozier displayed the tremendous power of skilful and personal songwriting, his extraordinary vocals demanding full attention - not that you would ever want to look away. What is clear is that the Irish singer does not take the seemingly unconditional love from his fans for granted. Perhaps what was most telling of this near devotion was that many in the crowd already knew the words to “Unknown/Nth;” a song only released two days prior. An endearing humbleness flowed from every address to the audience, alongside a clear appreciation for the supporting band and stellar opening acts Victoria Canal and Allison Russell, inviting the latter to sing alongside him during the encore. Despite the forgivable offence of identifying what was a tent in Queens Park as the Hydro on his Instagram, there was clear adoration on both sides of the stage. His fans, lapping up every lyric and sonorous guitar strum, and a singer on the road to his third album with no sign of letting up the quality that led to his cult following. - Ellie
Moving to university is a difficult adjustment for everyone. Opening the door to your new accommodation and filling the empty space with memories from your new life is exciting. However, this transition from the familiar to the unknown is just as strange as this new life we are forced to adapt to. As someone who lives with horses down the end of my street, knowing only my small market town and its friendly community, coming to a city with everything at my fingertips was certainly a change from the norm. The country feel of the place I once called home has taken a toll on how I feel about bustling streets and late-night outings. Anyone who understands having to travel 30 minutes to get to a club, and Pryzm at that, will understand the strange feeling of living a stone’s throw away from the city’s nightlife centre.
Living with those who came from big cities is also puzzling. Them being able to navigate through so many forms of public transport and knowing the exact street name of arandom coffee shop we visited once is bizarre. For contrast, I know exactly which tree on my walk means I’m almost home, or the fear of my dad speeding down the tiny two-way country lane. Nevertheless, we all learn to adapt, and as we swap muddy grass for paved pathways and small cottages for modern flats, we find ourselves changing to fit this new environment. This may be through developing a preference for the bar over house parties, or swapping your morning alarm from birdsong to drunk gibberish from the street outside. And then, just when we think we have cracked the city code, can remember all the street names and understand the vast number of buses - we are plunged back into rural habits when we return for the summer.
Returning home can be as challenging as moving away. Not being able to see the friends we have grown accustomed to seeing daily and possibly the serenity of being on our own being swapped for familial living arrangements, is an unwanted adjustment. And, for the three months of the summer holidays, we will be navigating the streets; once loaded with memories, now void of meaning. Home is being a stranger to your beloved nature walks and favourite trees, yet also missing sunsets over buildings, the sunlight bouncing off windows into busy, breezy roads.
As difficult as this may be, life will always present us with changes; just like when we swapped welly boots and waterproofs for high heels and short dresses. But, finding a place for both is a reflection of the duality in our lives. So, enjoy the sunrises over the hills and those countryside views and when you return in time for autumn, maybe, the city won’t seem like a stranger.
It will, once again, feel like home.
By Coralee Holder (she/her) @coralee.holder
All the profits from this issue will be going towards Maggies, to help with their mission to provide cancer support for patients, survivors, and their loved ones. We want to extend a big thank-you to the team at Maggies and particularly to Iain, who showed us around and took the time to speak to us. To learn more about Maggies, you can visit their website at www.maggies.org, or find them on Instagram @maggiesglasgow.
Despite being a mere few hundred meters from the Beatson West of Scotland Cancer Centre, the wooded path that leads up Maggie’s Centre Glasgow feels a million miles away from a hospital. I walked up that path for the first time as a twelve-year-old and felt utterly transported from a world of waiting rooms, pamphlets and the confusingly-named treatments they were performing on my father. Nearly eight years later, and with my father’s cancer diagnoses thankfully a distant nightmare of the past, Maggie’s still retains its same calming, serene quality.
Founded in Edinburgh in 1996 by designers Charles and Maggie Jencks, Maggie’s is a cancer support charity that runs 17 centers on the grounds of NHS hospitals. Jencks conceived the idea for the centers after receiving a terminal breast cancer diagnosis and was left to process this news in a long, windowless corridor in a hospital. Both her and Charles believed cancer patients simply deserved better. They deserved a space to breathe and think and escape the morbidity of the hospital. And thus Maggie’s was born.
Sheltered in a beautiful garden, hidden behind trees, the Maggie’s centre in Gartnavel is bright and beautiful and exactly the opposite of the dim windowless corridor Maggie Jencks had hoped to change. The kitchen table in Maggie’s is the heart of the center. It is where people gather between appointments, where stories are shared and friends are made. It is like the hearth of the home, epito-
I had written down a question prior to our interview that asked how Maggie’s, as a charity first founded in Edinburgh, had a uniquely Scottish perspective, or in the least a special tie to the Scottish people. I didn’t even have to ask the question before it was answered for me. The kitchen table at Maggie’s in Gartnavel had become so crowded that they had to bring in a second table. A space that values community, support and the power of human relationships certainly does have a very Scottish feel to it.
Whilst writing the first few drafts of this article, I thought it perhaps best to omit my own personal connection to the charity. But truthfully I cannot write about Maggie’s without at least touching on the unbelievably positive impact they had on my family during one of the hardest times of our lives. No one helped my Dad deal with the pain he was going through quite like the team at Maggie’s. Cancer is not one singular kind of pain - it is every kind of pain, everywhere, all at once. It spreads its tendrils into every aspect of the lives of those who suffer from it and the people who love them. Work, mental health, personal relationships. Nothing really escapes cancer. But Maggie’s understands this.
Iain, one of the center’s fundraising organisers, explains to me on our visit the many different services Maggie’s offer as a charity to deal with incredibly varied and expansive impact of cancer of patients’ lives.
The team includes three cancer support specialists, individuals with experience in oncology who can help patients and their families understand the ins-and-outs of incomprehensible cancer related terminology and confusing treatments. Maggie’s also offers crucial counselling, both one-to-one and in group sessions. The psychological impacts of suffering from serious and terminal illnesses can often be overshadowed by physical symptoms. But one of my most persistent memories from my Dad’s treatment is not the medication or the sickness but rather the lingering sense of immense grief and sadness that existed throughout the whole ordeal. These intense feelings lasted long after he had recovered and I cannot fathom how much longer they would have lasted had it not been for the psychological support he was offered at Maggie’s.
Iain also explains the role of the centre’s benefits advisors - staff tasked with helping patients with financial struggles over the course of their treatment and after. The financial stress of suffering from such a life altering illness as cancer is certainly not something those not in that position might immediately think of. In fact, so much of what is done at Maggie’s is not necessarily the first thing many people think of when they think of cancer support. But in many ways that’s why it is so important.
Cancer patients deserve financial advice, they deserve counselling, they deserve to benefit from the range activities the center puts on. Most importantly they deserve community. And that is exactly what Maggie’s is.
By Ailbhe Ni Mhurchú (she/her) @ailvhe
CLUBBING CAN SUCK. Whether you’ve paid 15 quid at Berkeley Suite only to realise you don’t like techno or overdone it on cheap drinks at Firewater, you can have a bad time anywhere. While this sounds super discouraging, it doesn’t have to be. The fact that optimum clubbing conditions don’t guarantee an amazing night should be freeing. You don’t have to dress up like it’s Berghain or tell all your friends where you go clubbing; you can drink and dance and listen to music you don’t like anywhere. Just embrace that it might be a bit trashy and get on with it.
Easier said than done, I know. My clubbing experience is limited but even I have raised an eyebrow when my friends said they went to Manuka or Bamboo. Their pleas that I would enjoy it fell on the deaf ears of someone believing the myth that if the dress code is Pretty Little Thing, then a club wasn’t worth going to. That’s just club snobbery though, isn’t it? The naïve belief that music and dress sense is what separates people into different clubs when monetary incentives are far more important. Entry to Sub Club can be double that of Garage and cocktails in Berkeley Suite are five times the price of those in Bamboo. As a student I can’t justify spending that much aside from the abstract concept of a ‘better night’ which isn’t necessarily achieved. Checking clubbing classism is more than just saving money though, it’s about feelings of safety and inclusion.
Why does the camaraderie of a night of clubbing with friends fade from collective memory so fast? We all know that the main reason to go out is to sing and dance with our friends, but we pretend to ourselves that clubbing is for the ‘vibes’ or the DJ because we’re embarrassed by the simplicity of our intentions. Being with your friends is always more important than being somewhere ‘cool’, as proven by the rapid loss of club loyalty in a group whenever one of your friends is kicked out. Being with your pals also provides security and a level of freedom as you all look out for one another. We need to stop telling ourselves lies to get through a night out. Not only the lie that expensive clubbing guarantees a good time but also the lie that socialising isn’t our main priority. Friends make going out worth it and unnecessary club worship blinds us from this reality.
Many of us don’t feel comfortable dancing to techno or the current UK charts. Too pretentious to enjoy Jess Glynne but woefully unprepared for whatever niche cut will be thrown out by a ‘good’ DJ. Straddling this middle ground means you’ll get the same out of most clubs unless you willingly embrace cheesy clubbing. Dip your toes in the warm waters of the Sugababes and Jessie J. Glide through Vengaboys and Scissor Sisters with a reasonably priced drink in your hand. The tropical oasis of cheesy pop is so refreshing and relaxing that it can wash away a thousand mistimed beat drops. Clubbing with a playful sense of humour will always be better because your expectations and pretensions are checked at the door. No one wants to fight at an ABBA night, and no one can judge you when they’re also singing along to McFly. My personal experience is that cheesy pop makes me feel safe. Clubbing still feels new after a year and if it takes Cher playing in Polo for me to start having a good time so be it.
What if you enjoy ‘good’ clubs though? What if the idea of never returning to the hallowed halls of Berkeley Suite makes you break out in hives? Personally, I know I will continue going to those clubs even as I begin to explore everywhere else on offer. There is no point, and little likelihood, of overcorrecting our understanding of ‘good’ clubs to the extent that we forget what these places have to offer. Going forward, we should all be more conscious of why we go to certain places and not allow habit or fear of perceived judgement to decide how we spend our nights out. Some of my friends stayed in Berkeley Suite an entire night despite the lights being broken and being unable to see each other. They’d already paid for entry earlier that week and the hype of the night out made them unwilling to give up so early. Maybe the suggestion of leaving a pitch-black club wouldn’t have seemed so wild if everyone admitted that just because a club is ‘good’ doesn’t guarantee your night will be good. Checking our mindsets on clubbing is an ongoing effort of being constantly vigilant about the safety and enjoyment of yourself and others. Recognising that even in ‘good’ clubs, bad things happen and that every person’s experience of clubbing is varied and unpredictable. Embracing tasteless clubbing is just the first step.
So, open your mind to tasteless and trashy clubbing. Let go of performative nights out and stop looking at your night from the perspective of others. Enjoy cheesy pop and dressing down. Don’t allow a club’s reputation to blind you to the reality of your own enjoyment and leave when the club (literally or metaphorically) doesn’t have any lights on.
jenny macdonald (she/her)
GUERRILLA GIRLS (GG) are a radical feminist arts collective that formed in 1985 to expose the misogyny, racism and corruption rooted within institutional art spaces, specifically the lack of art in major art galleries by women and artists of colour. The group stemmed from a picket action against The Museum of Modern Art in New York (MoMA) in 1984 and was made up of feminist artists, art historians and curators.
Their infamous name is derived from the tactic of Guerrilla warfare - an irregular form of warfare. Though historically used in battles, the concept of guerrilla communication has long been co-opted by social justice groups. GG’s most favoured strategy is known as ‘culture jamming’: a form of anti-consumerist protest with the intention to disrupt mainstream media and its institutions by taking their own slogans, popular language, and symbols, using them to critique the art establishment. GG did this through a variety of mediums: posters, books, billboards, lectures, and interviews. They quickly became known for their iconic slogans, plastered on street posters and illicitly painted across billboards during the night. Their most infamous slogans include: ‘DO WOMEN HAVE TO BE NAKED TO GET INTO THE MET MUSEUM?’ referring to the way the naked female body has been objectified in art and ‘WHEN RACISM AND SEXISM ARE NO LONGER FASHIONABLE, WHAT
Their artwork often targeted specific institutions and artists, exposing their enablement of gender and racial disparities in art spaces. They were bold, direct, and crude, yet always included specific sources and statistics. This approach proved largely successful: since 2005, the collective has received countless commissions and have had their work exhibited in major galleries and public spaces worldwide - ironically, some of their most famous pieces are exhibited in the very institutions they were protesting against.
In juxtaposition to their bold and conspicuous protest art, the individual Guerrilla members have maintained anonymity since the 1980s. The group achieved this through wearing Gorilla masks during public appearances and using pseudonyms- names of dead female artists such as Frida Kahlo and Kathe Kollwitz when conducting individual interviews. During one such interview, a guerrilla girl explained that this was not solely for anonymity purposes, but also ‘a way to honour brilliant artists, many of whom were left out of art history, even if they were successful in their own time.’
Guerrilla Girls were not the first collective to utilise this notion of the graphic protest successfully. Over the past century, protest art has been used to initiate social change. As early as 1914, suffragist Mary Richardson walked into London’s National Gallery and slashed Velazquez’s 1650 painting Rokeby Venus in protest at Emmeline Pankhurst’s arrest.
During the AID’s epidemic of the 1980’s, graphic protest proved a popular form of activism and communication. Artists such as Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz used their art mediums to generate activism and awareness surrounding AID’s. The utilisation of art as a method of protest has not lost its legacy and remains a productive form of activism - in 2022, Just Stop Oil campaign members Anna Holland and Phoebe Plummer threw a tin of soup at Van Gogh’s famous Sunflowers. Using art as protest is powerful- it’s immediately attention grabbing whilst still remaining non-violent and peaceful.
However, one question that must be asked is to what extent does protest art remain a force for change when it itself becomes co-opted into the mainstream? This week, Glasgow’s Gallery of Modern Art (GOMA) hosts ‘Cut And Run’, an exhibition of Banksy’s stencils from 1998-2023. He himself alludes to this problem in the following quote: ‘I’ve kept these stencils hidden away for years, mindful they could be used as evidence in a charge of criminal damage. But that moment seems to have passed, so now I’m exhibiting them in a gallery as works of art. I’m not sure which is the greater crime.’
AMY MARCH, with her upturned nose and finery, has got the short end of the stick in most adaptions of Louisa May Alcott’s tale. That is, until Greta Gerwig’s wildly ambitious yet cosy and heartful 2019 version.
Little Women and its subsequent adaptions have resonated with generations of women in its timeless themes of femininity, family and growth. Yet, none have quite captured the original text with such ardour as Gerwig. Saoirse Ronan shines as our beloved tomboy protagonist Jo; a militant writer who begrudges ballgowns and lace. Gerwig, a Little Women scholar, pays special attention to her foil. Florence Pugh stuns as elegant yet fervently ambitious Amy who dreams of paintings, Europe and high society. I admire the Jo’s of the world, but to be honest, I am not one. I may well never be. I am finicky and frilly and like to think I’m more refined than I probably am. 2019’s Little Women has made me okay with that.
Pretty and proud, with a penchant for getting her way, Amy is in many ways the quintessential youngest sibling. She is encompassed by her pre-adolescent bouts of comedic spite and spoiled behaviour. Previous movies and readers, in tandem, recall Amy for her childhood sin of taking Jo’s manuscript - a product of loving tenacity, meticulously penned through the years - and vindictively burning it over a tiny infraction. Up until now, this has been her defining moment, solidifying her as a caricature of herself, which hardly seems fair. Gerwig’s Amy is so much more.
Gerwig’s film imagining of Little Women scarcely tweaks the source material, but rather plucks and refines it. Her one divergence from the novel lies in the film’s plot intersecting through dual timelines, sewing together various colours and experiences of girlhood. I find it powerful that many of Amy’s stand-out moments (“I want to be great or nothing,” “the world is hard on ambitious girls”) were directly lifted from the novel. It is the unyielding spirit of Alcott (whom Jo is a self-insert of, funnily) that assists in highlighting Amy’s volition and pragmatism; the sisters, who are not so different, serve the story in symbiosis, depicting the contrasting ways society undercuts girls who just want more. Greta Gerwig tenderly uproots the ever-lasting story and plants its eternal seeds into modern soil, allowing Amy’s coming of age to blossom like never before. As the film closes, Jo asks her, “when did you get so wise?” The youngest sister, with her smug little smile, says, “I always have been, you were just too busy noticing my faults.”
In recent years, Y2K has seen a return to the mainstream, permeating the latest fashion trends and pop-culture moments. But is this obsession solely because of fashion? As I witnsessed the aesthetic’s resurgence during the pandemic, it evoked instant childhood nostalgia - yet I simultaneously cringed at many of the trends. In hindsight, it was not so much that I didn’t like it; rather, I was reluctant to try the trends out of fear they would not suit my body type. As writer Meaghan Wray notes in an article she published in Fashion Magazine, “[Y2K] was less about fashion and more about celebrating thin bodies. In fact, the body was the fashion”. However, in a time when body image is more openly discussed than in the early 2000’s, could the current comeback of Y2K be more about fashion and less about the body?
On the one hand, many of us still consider Y2K clothing items such as low-waisted jeans and micro-mini skirts to only be ‘flattering’ on thin bodies. I’d like to note that I put ‘flattering’ in quotation marks as it’s highly subjective - not to mention it feels as though this term has become synonymous with hiding curves or body fat. Despite the rise of body positivity movements within the past twenty years, thinness has continued to be glorified between the early two-thousands and now. Take the Tumblr grunge aesthetic that defined 2014: although pieces such as high-waisted jeans and skater skirts re-emerged, items considered more conventionally ‘flattering’ on bigger bodies than Y2K trends, the photos that gained most popularity on the platform were of tall, thin white girls. Regardless of the jeans or skirt cut, the harmful narrative that thinness is a requirement to be fashionable persists, and social media often reinforces this norm.
The role that media and culture played then and now has shifted a great deal. Whereas Kate Moss notoriously said ‘Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels’ back in 2009, an influencer would likely be ‘cancelled’ were they to say that now due to their expectations and responsibilities for promoting a healthy body image. In addition, there is greater diversity in terms of race and gender when it comes to our current Y2K style icons which helps to make the aesthetic more inclusive: think of creators such as @loserthrift and @alexconsani, for instance. However, the wider fashion industry continues to be extremely fatphobic, with iconic brands still tending to partner with thin influencers, overshadowing the representation of other body types. Until there is a drastic change in the fashion industry, I sadly think there will continue to be a close relationship between aesthetics such as Y2K and thinness.
Fortunately, on the other side of the heroin chic thunderstorm is a rainbow of slogan t-shirts, Hannah Montana merchandise and flip phones, all of which allow us to tap into our childhood joys. For Zoomers, this reminds us of a time when we were unconcerned about our bodies but could simply dress up and have fun. However, we must be considerate of millennials who experienced the aesthetic at an impressionable, adolescent age, making them highly susceptible to the fatphobia and diet culture that was candidly promoted back then. Whilst our generation also struggles with this, we are aware of the barbed irony of many Y2K trends and jokingly use the term as an adjective in our daily language. We should not turn a blind eye to the problematic history of Y2K, but we can reclaim the positive sides of the aesthetic by recognizing the potential of its absurdity.
I believe our generation can debunk the myth that the Y2K aesthetic is only suited for thin bodies. As a rebellion against the fashion industry’s beauty standards, why not try out some Y2K trends even if they are ‘unflattering’ or ridiculously tacky? Let’s have fun with fashion, but first and foremost nurture the appreciation of our own bodies, so that the next time Y2K resurges, it can be approached as purely an aesthetic and not as a gateway to toxicity.
Caragh-Rose MacFeeters (she/her)
When asked to think of a book that changed my life, I immediately thought of Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn. A nasty little story, Sharp Objects is not an easily digestible book - It’s full of wretched, depraved, wicked women and I love it. I will warn you, grave spoilers follow.
Among these depraved women, our main character Camille Preaker is a self harmer, a jaded journalist with an affection for self-destruction, downing bottles of trauma as she battles the demons of her hometown. Which isn’t helped by the child murders under her investigation. Camille’s not a likeable protagonist, but that’s what makes her so damn appealing. She’s allowed her wit, her sharp tongue, but not at the expense of authenticity. Then there’s Amma - potentially my favourite character in the history of literature, ever. A precocious and wild teenage step-sister, stocked up on sadistic proclivities, a penchant for watching pigs be slaughtered. A thirst for drugs, for sex, for mayhem, but at home, she is a porcelain doll, clothed in florals. Amma is, in Flynn’s own words, “incorrigible”. Adora, their mother, is the town matriarch with the elegance of a queen and the cold sharp cuttingness of a guillotine, doting and cruel, frail and toxic - no wonder her children end up so disturbed. None of the women in Sharp Objects are palatable and thank God for that. It’s a story about many things: trauma, victimisation, control, but most of all it centres on femininity, its deconstruction, and the inherent trauma of womanhood and how it is passed around in a cycle of violence:
“Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.” (Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects).
The community that the book is set in, Wind Gap, Missouri, is insular and vicious in its provinciality. When the corpses of Ann Nash and Natalie Keene are found with their teeth yanked out, the perpetrator is assumed to be a man. It has to be a man, right? Such animalistic detachment and brutality - why, it only makes sense. A woman could never. Of course, we as readers know better. For much of the novel, I shared the common sentiment that Adora must be the culprit. Flynn is a master of the red herring, feeding us breadcrumbs of truth while leading us into a dark, dark forest. We never do see the officers’ reaction to the truth. I mean, who expects a little girl? Amma’s dollhouse - a mimicry of her mother’s esteemed estate, a bid for her attention - is floored with pearly whites. Beneath the construct of delicacy and coquetry is raging madness, frustration, and the weaponisation of expectation - pure, chaotic subversion tied down with baby pink lace. Amma, just like the women before her, is two things at once; both a victim and an abuser. I’ll never forget the words of the book, “Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them.”
I am tired of shallow female-empowerment narratives - Gillian Flynn’s gritty and gory debut is a catharsis. How many truly evil female villains can you name on your hand? How many female characters are permitted to just be genuinely icky and gross? We love to apply flimsy archetypes to women and then act as if they are incapable of fulfilling them, boxing them up in that same label. Sharp Objects rips off the bubblegum band aid of “girlpower”, and revels in the bloody wound left behind.
by Ailbhe Ní Mhurchú (she/her)
In 2016, when I was twelve years old, the Irish Museum of Modern Art in Dublin secured a significant five-year loan of 50 works by one of the 20th century’s most prominent portrait artists, Lucian Freud. The collection ranged from some of Freud’s most prominent works to sketchbooks and developmental drawings. It was an impressive feat for an Irish gallery to acquire such a formidable collection of work, and no one was more enamoured than my twelve year old self. Upon reflection, I have no doubt that seeing Lucian Freud’s work had a lasting impact on my adolescent brain.
It was remarkable to me that a collection of someone’s art acted almost as a portal to their thoughts and feelings. Just as his grandfather (the famous and infamous Sigmund Freud) had explored the human psyche through his revolutionary work on psychoanalysis, Lucian Freud’s art paints an alluring portrait of rich emotional intimacy. The importance of the relationship between artist and subject is glaringly evident. Whether it is the wide-eyed gaze of his naked lovers, tangled in bedsheets, or the cold determination on the face of his self portraits, I was keenly aware of the presence of the man standing behind the easel.
This, I realised - although I certainly couldn’t have put it into words at the time - was the beauty of portraiture. The ability to view a human being through the eyes of another. A successful portrait is, to me at least, not an image but a feeling. And art truly is feeling. Art is love: it is empathy, it is understanding, it is even seething unfiltered rage.
Now I’m not saying I was rife with these pretensions as a twelve year old. But seeing Lucian Freud’s work is the earliest memory I have of an awareness of artistic intention and emotional impact. It was the first time I can recall art truly moving me and these feelings certainly acted as a catalyst to my further exploration of the arts. From that day onward I hoped that one day, somewhere, someone would stand before something I had created and feel the things I had felt. I still live in hope that my art can be a mirror to my soul, and that there are people out there who will be able to feel the connection between us through my art. Because what does it mean to be alive if not to be connected?
this briny dish makes itself a skull in it, an oyster served like a pearl spits itself in my mouth served with crystal champagne by the sand I’ve heard it called an orgasm from the ocean, a saline kiss - quick salt, tequila, lime the upper lip of a nervous snog
photo by Katarina Dulude (she/they)
@katarina.dulude
Smith (she/her) @sillyviaplath
like I’d washed ashore and kissed stone the sea sits in my neck as if the tide might rebel against the moon and throw itself back into a toilet bowl they don’t have a central nervous system they’re practically vegetarian, I guess so they might have feelings and emotion but they don’t know what to think of them
There is a hole in a tree, deep in the lilac wood. It’s a hop past the babbling brook, by the butterflies and buttercups, then through the veil. I have not been here in years.
Once, I was a wild little girl-thing with bramble bunches, daisy crowns, and sticks for swords. Not quite here, not quite there. Worm-bitten fingers and a face flecked with freckles. I spoke to animals and air and birch, conjuring wonderful concoctions of mud, petals, and grass! I believed fiercely: in strawberry milk, glitter, and the little things. I believed in cereal-box fairy houses, Enid Blyton, and berry-picking with my dad. Ask any self-respecting child, and truly, they will tell you: a forest isn’t really a forest; it’s a portal, tucked between the stars and the rose kiss of dawn. Beyond, where the twinkling lights skip out of the sky and dance like dandelion wishes. We’ve all been there. You still know the way yourself; you’ve just forgotten, that’s all. It happens.
Children are odd. They see the things big, clumsy grown-ups trample right over, then forget once they’ve sprouted up.
I’ll find my way back.
At some point in the haze of there and back again, I find myself in my old living room. I am eight years old, and I must learn my first hard truth: Santa. Now, this truth comes to me a tad late - after all, I take the whole magic business quite seriously. On a December afternoon, my mother sits me down and breaks the news. Hysterics ensue. Fat dewdrop tears dollop down my face, down and down, passing through a frail spiderweb. I am little, and just for a moment, all the hope in the world has turned to dust. My mother, who seems wise as the moon and young as spring, slips a small silver key into my soft little fingers. Every grown-up has one of these, I know. They tend to get lost in dusty boxes of clunky, big things like commonsense and brunch, but they never leave. Not really. Not much does. “Listen to me,” she says softly, her words sparkling with sincerity, as she tells me the first proper truth I’ll ever remember: magic persists, beyond its instruments, beyond understanding, it never stops being magic. That’s me. That’s you. We are all made of stardust.
I am eighteen, a wilting girl, stumbling through the city centre to the subway. My pink tote bag, freshly stuffed with uni supplies, pulls at my shoulder. Glasgow’s buildings stand stern upon the stone-slabbed ground, an impregnable empire of grey. It’s home to Harvard referencing and over-priced morning coffee, wet and heavy as iron. A girl could die. But I have my key in my pocket and wishes in a pom-pom pen. I learn to believe in things again strawberry bubble tea and sparkly gel pens, fuzzy grey squirrels that scurry as quick as a wind whistle around the campus. I believe in my treasury of fairy tales and Taylor Swift, in strawberries with granola and yoghurt every morning. I believe in dragons and elves and goodness, in leafing through Yeats while the woods whisper fae-song. I believe in adventures and my yellowed copy of Peter Pan.
I never really left.
Small Joys by Caragh-Rose Macfeeters
art by Tilly. H
