The Burrow by The Badger

The Burrow Image & Identity 2021/2022

Edited and collated by Molly Openshaw and Alice Stevens

W E L C O M E THE

BURROW

IMAGE

2021/2022

IDENTITY

Hello, hello! Welcome to The Burrow, it is so lovely to be able to print our long awaited pull out of The Badger. After a long year of publishing online, we are back! The theme for this edition of The Burrow is Image & Identity. We thought it would be a good theme to introduce our team and their creativity. In this collection, we have some incredible work, which you can navigate using the contents page below. I would like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has contributed their work, it is all brilliant and you should be so proud of yourselves, and a thank you to Georgia Keetch, our Editor-in-Chief, for allowing me to take full creative freedom in this! There will be two more editions of The Burrow, so keep an eye out for more in the next few months... Happy reading! Molly Openshaw- Arts Print Editor

Contents 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

The Poems 1 Tattooing and Image by Edie Bea The Poems 2 Ikram Arief by Ali Arief Music, My Family and Me by Dylan Bryant Sunset Silhouettes by Rob Barrie Sunset Silhouettes by Rob Barrie The Poems 3 Comparisons by Dylan Bryant and Charlie Batten Words About the Little Things by Eloise Armary Squigglyman by Dara Brennan The Poems 4 Who are you really? by Molly Openshaw Images by Rob Barrie

one Hold Me Tightly by Eloise Armary

Can I get any closer to you by Molly Openshaw

i hold this necklace a turquoise gem held by three golden leaves one of them fell down it is only two now on my neck from my grand aunt held by my mother in a wooden box

We lay there, intertwined A beautiful assortment of legs and My arms numb from holding your weight. Your breath is mimicking mine as we become Breathless and relaxed all at the same time. Your heartbeat and the ticking of your stupid clock Are the lullaby as I drift off, And wonder can get any closer to you?

Can I get any closer to you As our bodies lie together With my arms tucked under your shirt And our heads so close together That each breath I take is just the soft exhale of your own. Could I climb into this thing we share And somehow tend to this restlessness I feel From just not being close enough

you see a pretty colour that contrasts a black shirt i see a memory of my jewishness that no one can take away but by ripping my skin i see all the suffering and the resilience the broken knees and the strength to stand back up

though, i am not jewish i know nothing of the torah or hebrew or the - i am sure delicious meals

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Us, the stardust residuals by Rob Barie

We are not stemmed from two, not a cell, not a particle, no lineage exists to respond, for there is no beauty in divinity and no wonder in the beyond. To see is to believe, when believing cannot be seen. A rare celestial dreaming for our place amongst the stars, a home of tranquillity, repose, peace – Of meaning.

my ancestors never said it very loud but they have been shamed for who they were that is why they whispered i am not even talking i prefer to show and smile with my almond-shaped eyes the stone is held by a golden lace given by my godfather catholic i am not christian either but believing in jesus is what held my mother when her knees were broken how can i not love what is important to the ones who hold me tightly and make who i am

The Poems *

For to love the stars, is to love life itself. No inhibition of yearning. No suppression of fear. No reluctance of purpose. Shining together, year upon year. Dimmed with time, perhaps. Faded by fate, maybe. But we are united, glimmering – so let us be collective in our songs, and shared in our rituals, for we are, each and every one of us, stardust residuals.

Edie Bea Tattoos

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---------I’m a resident tattoo artist in Stars and Moon Tattoo - Hove. I have illustrated all my life and studied at art university for four years. I began hand poking through the lockdowns and fell in love with the art of putting ink into skin. I now work alongside an incredible artist - @cloudy.ink who believed in my art and proudly took me on board as a new tattoo artist. The stars must have been aligned the day I met Klaudia. I love to create tattoos that are based around the female form, embracing every curve and bump our bodies were born with.

I have recently bought a machine to begin my big plans for bigger tattoos. I plan on creating tattoos that imitate victorian etchings, inspired by The Illustrated Police News. Many of these stories discuss women doing mediocre things yet they’re being described as ‘scandalous’. I want my tattoos to have a sense of empowerment and dignity with women’s history woven into them. So far my tattoos have been playful and and fairly simple, 2022 will be my year to really focus my craft and style in tattooing.

I sincerely thank every human who has had a tattoo from me, you’re making me the tattoo artist I’m intended to be. I also look forward to meeting my new clientele in 2022. Find

Edie’s

work

@ediebea

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A certain kind of nostalgia by Emma Norris The feeling where I would gash with the summer tarmac, Get a grass-stain on my knee from bending down with the ants I still sometimes wonder what it would be like to be one - and I Would cry when I missed you cry if I was having too much fun Wait for the bell to ring and eat my sandwiches in tiny trianglesI told you when I was younger that I wanted to be a doctor, Cried for a plaster on my grazed knee, spilt baked beans Over my checked dress, I had long hair then and it was Always a mess so I begged for it to be cut-off, but you said No and I think I miss dependence most of all, miss The protection in the bell and the hair and the Way you said goodnight.

* Ireland,

1999

Gabriel

Magill

I’m sitting in the kitchen of the widow down the road after I’ve just helped unload her shopping. We’re drinking tea with a sugar cube and a splash of milk. It tastes like unsweetened grey silk. “It was nice of old Mickey to help drive it,” she says, taking a sip from her glass mug. “Lord knows, it’s too much for me to take at my age.” I take a sip from my own brew and say, “Aye, he’s a good one, old Mickey, so he is.” I cross my hands gingerly on my lap, and ask, “You ever paid a thought to remarrying, Nan? Oul’ Mickey’s always askin’ after you, y’know.” Nan laughs softly, with her sweet little tenor. “God! Heavens no child. Mickey’s grand enough, to be sure, ‘n’ I know he’d snap me up like that, but no, I could never do that to my Liam. Aye, he’s been nine years gone now, but I’ve still got love for him, after all that.” She looks at me tenderly, and I smile back, still holding my hands together tight, as they rest across my navel. “Why’d you and Liam ever get married in the first place, anyways, Nan?” I ask, as my knuckles grow a shade paler. Nan smiles. “Well, it wasn’t for the love of him when we met, I’ll tell you that! He was a bit rough, you know what they’re like, boys like that when they’ve just hit that age, when beer, and then birds, first appear!” Nan laughs again, her eyes aglow with reminiscence. “But no, he was a soft one at heart, really. Used to bring me flow-

---------i tried praying for the answer by Anna/Ru Wells i tried praying for the answer (am i trans man)( yes/no/yes/no/yes/no AHHHHHHH yes/no/yes/no/yes AHHHHH) couldn’t be clearer i am Wordsworth but with less rhymes and craving getting prescribed hormones or some masculinisation of appearance i am lovato we have the same mental illness(es) i don’t like their music though

i am typing in bed as i know in 4 minutes my bedtime will become and i will want to cry if i go over that time and now it is 3 minutes and maybe the rules i create for myself didn’t really diminish they only changed and speaking of i cocoon this baby room of names i hate how americans have fucking gender reveal parties i will have one myself i will come out a big cake and scream at the top of my lungs who i am (by then i may know) (If gender = a large part of personality, and lately it does) i will scream at the top of my lungs i am i am i am

ers when I come out the factory, still covered in muck from the fields! Didn’t know his way round a woman, not a lick, but still, he was sweet enough, so I saw a fair bit of ‘im, you know, as kids do.” She drinks another bit of tea, and snaps a garibaldi in half. “But then, as it happens, he goes and knocks me up! And then, well, you know, I was stuck with him, ‘n’ thought I’d be wise to make the best of it.” My nail start to dig into the backs of my hands, and Nan, pretending she doesn’t notice, dips the other half of her biscuit in her mug. “But, luck would have it, he was a good man. We had a small wedding, not that we could afford anything fancy, and when the wee’un arrived, aye, he was grand with it. Helped out what he could, learned to change her, and this and that, though he never did learn to wash himself off properly! He’d always come home covered in more mess than I’d find in our Aoife’s backside!” The wrinkles beside her eyes pop out to greet me, and, gently, she says, “And what about you, my dear, when the little one comes?” The marks on my hands are now beet red, and my tea has gone cold.

Ikram Arief by Ali Arief I cannot imagine my grandfather. Though pictures and memories of him exist and continue in the story of my family, his face, his voice and who he was as a human being exists outside of my comprehension. Ikram Arief exists as a memory now. However, I know that my grandfather’s character lives in his children and his grandchildren. All I know about him, in terms of factual lived experiences, is that Ikram Arief was born in Malaysia, to native born Uzbekistani parents, the son of a well-respected Iman. He lived in Malaysia with a house full of brothers, and his Mother Isha (my great-grandmother) was a tiny religious woman full of strength and character. There are tales of her riding camels early in the morning to fetch food for her six children. I know that he spoke Arabic and English fluently, loved fashion and had a keen interest in buisness, him and his brothers turning a tiny greengrocer’s market stall in Jeddah into a fullfledged grocery goods retail store. It’s hard to build up a character profile of him. I’ve asked countless questions to both my Mum and my Nan, asking about his character, what he liked and loved, where he grew up. The story often changes ever so slightly every time I ask, as this is family folklore; none of this was ever written down, nor are there any records of his existence. Hearing family folklore like this has built up an identity for me. Though I was born in England, I carry a surname that Ikram carried, of which his grandfather carried which was given to him in Uzbekistan. I adore my surname as it carries so much cultural significance and importance to me. It wasn’t until I grew older that I researched what my surname meant and found out it meant ‘Wise Man’ in Urdu. It’s something that always brings a smile to my face whenever I think about it, as I often try my hardest to be as wise and as informed as I can. Ikram was able to bestow some family folklore onto my Mum, my aunties, and my uncle too. He would often tell them that before my family’s name was Arief, it was Khan, Khan meaning Tiger. He would also often talk about

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the family’s lineage descending way back to the days of Genghis Khan, of which he remarked that we had a distant relation to. I love living my life knowing that outside of England, my family has descended back for generations in Central Asia, and I want to visit the places where my family have their origins and their roots. Feeling cultural conflicts is something of which many mixed race people face in Britain. It’s not that I feel out of place in England, but I distinctly remember noticing many cultural differences between me and my friends when I entered secondary school and sixth form college. From a heavy emphasis being placed on respecting your elders, to the different types of food we would eat, and Arabic being spoken at home, to the energetic and often loud ways my family would express themselves through dance and song, I realised when I entered school that my home wasn’t ‘typically English’. I learned quickly how to challenge Islamophobia and racism when it was targeted towards my family, as well as unlearning biases within myself, and now I welcome the label of being mixed race and I am proud of the heritage

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that I come from. Whereas before it was a source of confusion for me, I am now piecing it all together bit by bit and figuring just how it makes up my identity and how I see myself. When I think of my grandad Ikram, I often think about a story my Mum once told me. She told me about how when she was a little girl, Ikram, her Dad, took her into their local Butchers one morning. Mum was saying that he got chatting to one of the men behind the counter who remarked “Cor, I love your coat there Mr. Arief!” and, without a moment’s thought or notice, my grandad took the coat off his shoulders and gave it to the Butcher. Knowing how kind and generous of a man my grandfather was inspires me to be a better person every day. I see so much of myself in him, despite the fact I never met him. I have his interest in fashion, buisness and I’d like to think I have his sunny and happy disposition. I am truly proud to be his grandchild, and so grateful for life that he started over here in England so that his children and his grandchildren could be born.

Music, My Family and Me by Dylan Bryant

five

Music fascinates me. How does an accumulation of dots on a page have the power to bring total strangers together and move someone to tears? Obviously, ‘music’ is a massively popular phenomenon and most people subscribe to specific genres and artists that they listen to which contributes to their selfimage and identity. However, I believe that my passion for music and its importance in my life might actually be genetic! Music has always been in my life and lately I

have begun to wonder if this stems from my family and their involvement in the music industry. My parents met when they worked together at a radio station. My dad still works in radio today and the radio was actually on when I was born! I have very early memories of him bringing home promotional CDs from the likes of ‘The Stone Roses’ and ‘The Strokes’ and I’d listen to them on my sister’s ‘handme-down’ Sony Walkman, feeling super cool. Our house was never silent and there were radios in every room. As I got older, my mum encouraged me to learn to play an instrument. I started with drums, then progressed

to guitar and piano, which ultimately led to hours of wasted GCSE revision time. As well as my parents, my Grandad worked in the music industry as a producer and artist manager. After landing a job as a plugger for EMI records in 1966, he worked for Dick James Records where he met Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Together they recorded Elton’s first album, Empty sky, in 1969. My grandad stayed with Elton as his music coordinator and he worked with many other artists including Kiki Dee and Ralph McTell. From one brother to another – my mum’s uncle Pete was also in the music industry and worked with Queen in the early days.

My sister now works in radio and has a new music podcast (which I can thoroughly recommend by the way - ‘Jodie Bryant’s Discover Monthly’) and my uncle Dan also works in the music industry and I have hordes of cousins who are accomplished musicians. In the words of Louis Armstrong ‘Music is life itself’, maybe not quite, but my life would certainly not be the same without it.

Sunset Sihouettes by Rob Barrie

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“Light is therefore colour” was the remark of renowned 19th century romanticist painter, JMW Turner. Turner, of course, was referring to his paintings, but I think the same conclusion is applicable to modern photography. The sun’s true colour is white – innately colourless – and yet it illuminates the sky in a myriad of hues. Photons scatter amongst Earth’s atmospheric gases and particles, creating explosions of colour. Despite this magical phenomenon, the true subjects of my series of photographs are not the sunset skies, but rather the anonymous people. This is why I disagree with Turner’s premise. Sometimes it is the absence of light which is the most poignant: silhouettes, of course, are someone, but they can be anyone, both with and without identity. Therefore, in these photographs, a rich luminosity of colours emanates from the shadows.

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God are you listening, it’s me…is he? by Issy Anthony God I would like to ask if this is it? Maybe you could send someone, Gabriel will do, to tell me if this okay-ness is the whole point Then I think I would hurry to bed and watch a lot of TV because clearly I have nothing to strive forGOD ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? I assume you hear your name shouted quite a lot, I have a similar thing when people say ‘Is he?’ It sounds like Issy but I am in fact talking to you. You might remember me from my baptism? I was wearing an ugly dress because my mum’s friend borrowed ours and never gave it back -you can note that down for your hell list if you like. I think I came back a few times throughout the years, Yes, I am a Christmas Christian but isn’t that the most important day anyway? I admit I have a tendency to date devout atheists and the way they talk about it really is their own religion, don’t you think? I think I was made for religion, God, With the obsessive brain you gave me It’s wired to act so bad things won’t happen If I had been raised right maybe I’d pray so I didn’t go to hell Instead of touch things so I don’t die But I guess it’s all the same to you, some strange magnetic power controlling me. Anyway, let me know about the whole life thing any sign would be good, look forward to hearing from you.

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Fuck your opinion; it was my reality by Georgia Keetch It’s a funny old thing One pill or a quick surgery but it divides most I have no regret or remorse And I shouldn’t I thought I was pro choice before, but abortion has moulded me into the biggest pro choicer you could ever dream of. Don’t ever think I should feel guilty, I have access and I’ll use it Bodily autonomy is a privilege but should be a right; don’t ever get that twisted Fuck your opinion; it was my reality

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What I Wouldn’t Do by Simon Hauwaerts

he’s sitting on the couch & he’s white & cis & straight & ablebodied &&&&cetera (you know how it is and oh how original so does he) and that’s why he turns to me with all my labels hanging from my useless ears like a cow’s piercing signaling ownership (by who? not by this boy necessarily, but by someone-something-not-me nonetheless which turns me into the someone-something which this boy faces) & asks what would you do if you were me?

& I blow out the cigarette smoke & I look him in the eye & I try to force the diameter of my pupils down & I wipe a bit of dust of his jacket, its twin hanging in my closet a size too big label by amy crabb & I raise my eyebrows at the bottle that lies i don’t want a label in the crook of his arm like a sleeping baby with it’s string around my neck where i am someone who is frowned & I say all this & I mean it upon or something to neglect but he does not speak sign language i don’t want a label & so he says with words that lie or labels that are shameful sorry and perceptions that cannot die (away) I get it i don’t need a label when i can simply be myself if you don’t want to answer the question and not a labelled object that sits upon the shelf i don’t need a label that brings me shame one that re-brands me and erases my name.

Words about the little things by Eloise Armary ‘Feel and

the early morning smell the sweet

sun on touch

her of

skin, the soft, warm wind in her grass and lavender in the

ten

hair, air.’

These words are bits of a short story written by Alice Pierre. They were physically written on my body, although I’m not sure if they actually were because my body couldn’t hold the whole short story. I modelled for her exhibition ‘write me a novel’. After the photoshoot, I thought: it’s pretty, words on bodies. Words shape our life. We write them on paper, we release them in the air, we hold them inside us, but we rarely write them on paper. Words have always been important to me. I started reading before I have been taught and I never stopped ever since. I read everything on sight. Words in novels make me live the life of others, words in non-fiction help me better understand the world, I write words myself to better understand my own life. Words are so pretty. Little circles and lines help us communicate with each other. It made a lot of sense to me to keep words on my body, with me always. So I flicked through Alice’s short story to choose what words I wanted, and I found these. Actually, I wrote down a longer quote. It follows as such: ‘The same smell arising from the chopping board at this very moment, only mixed with that of garlic and fresh basil.’ In the story, this young woman feels anxious, so she cooks. The smells of the food reminded her of nice summer memories in the south of France. I related to this paragraph. Cooking relaxes me, my whole body is stimulated by the texture, the smells and the sounds in the kitchen. It is a meditation. Cooking reminds me of the Wednesdays with my mother, when I was up on a chair pushing the carrots into the electric grater and shaking the vinaigrette with my very small hands. Cooking means baking a chocolate cake that smells in the whole house and that I cannot wait to share with people I love. Cooking means family, love and belonging. I have been taught and I teach recipes – I keep on traditions and start my owns. It’s after I had the tattoo done that I realised the deeper meaning of having these words marked on my body. The sentence is perceiving the world through all my bodily senses. What makes who I am is not my thoughts – though this is how I define myself most of the time. All these thoughts though can bring me a lot of anxiety, I sometimes feel as though I am floating in the air, bodiless, navigating in thoughts. But how happy do I feel when I notice light when I feel the heat when I smell the fresh air. This is all life is about. I don’t need to be more because I am already a part of the world. So I got a tattoo, now words about the little things move with me each day on my back.

Squigglyman- Dara Brennan

eleven

twelve one

and

sometimes

two

Rosie

Cook

Routine is my religion hope it doesn’t crack before I do. Wake up workout waddle to shower with overworked legs drag heavy head from being over read. Squat to get thighs like hers read to get brain like - tick every box hoping to cross off the embers in my chest about to flare up crack and snap fireworks underneath my breast. To fracture routine is to fracture mind like a broken bone half of me becomes missing and wounded. A chronology to success. Tick every box be every person. I like it I promise it makes me feel like I’m going somewhere sitting in a seat for hours but going somewhere. I like it all I do. Routine is my religion worship every day pray to pave the way. This sounds like I hate it I don’t I love it. Addicted to being better healthier faster mind bigger bugger forgot to post that parcel for mother. Intoxicated by achievement words from them saying I’m good enough glug it down not coming up for air -it’s not just in my head string words together like it’s my job not

* We all share an ‘e’ at least by J-Day

yet. Laying naked on the cloud of future pink like the ones in Peter Pan he never wanted to grow up I listened but did it anyway. Life isn’t true unless I’m doing something or thinking about doing something or planning to think about doing something. I’m afraid of nothing. All somethings that will lead to my delicious success lick my lips as I binge on being the best. Revelling in the possibility of my delectability admire my spread then pick me apart indulge on my canapés packed up perfectly neat little parcels of productivity serenading the centre piece of my body – vegan though I’m doing that right. Everything particularly placed but looks spontaneous that’s the point like I’m carefree I just shit success don’t even have to think about it. Now Inspect the walls of every box I’ve ticked. Routine is my religion.

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The image of a word I don’t want to be a letter I ask people not to conjure me when they speak Not existing on a fabricated plane With others of my kin There is no word for me but the one I gave you now No image that contains me but the form I show you Except sometimes my heart lives in pictures of my own designation Through which you can just peek at me Pictures live inside me I pick them as they Come I can’t blame you for thinking I can be contained I’ve tried to fit in a jug before, A bucket, A bath When I should have been in the Soil Growing an image To fit the container of me

twelve one

and

sometimes

two

Rosie

Cook

* We all share an ‘e’ at least by J-Day

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Who are you really? by Molly Openshaw

thirteen

Who are you really? Are you the person you pretend to be to other people: kind, confident, excited and ready to socialise? Are you the same person when you crawl under your covers after, burnt out, less? Are you the same person when you look in the mirror when you wake up: wrinkled pyjamas, hair out of place and a little shabby? What about when you have showered. What about when you brush out your hair and put on your costume for the day. Who will you be today when you pick your outfit. What version of yourself will you add to the rotation? My wardrobe has evolved into something is that really you? Are you less worthy because your lips will never really be that perfect shade of red, your eyelashes never as long or curly as they are with mascara on? Do you recognise yourself at the end of the day when you wipe it off? When your day old, crumbling mascara falls on your cheek in the morning and drips into a black ink spill in the shower. What happens when you shower? Restoration back to factory settings. What version of yourself will you be today when you question “who are you really?”. that my childhood self could only dream of. Endless options and combinations to choose from, endless characters to become. This uniform I don myself in, sometimes feels like a second skin, a protective armour. At other moments, I wish I could wear my skin as comfortably as I slip into my clothes each morning. My skin wouldn’t ladder the same way my cheap tights do or dig into my stomach when I’ve eaten too much. Who are you really, when you paint your skin each morning, when you hide these imperfect marks on your skin and replace it with something not your skin colour, but an artificial, lifeless veneer. What colour will your eyelids be today? Do you hate the way you look underneath,

The Creatives responsible:

Ali Arief Alice Stevens Amy Crabb Amy Stanborough Bonnie Price Charlie Batten Dara Brennan Dylan Bryant Edie Bea Eloise Armary Emma Norris Gabriel Magill Georgia Keetch Isaac Halle Issy Anthony Leah Hardcastle Molly Openshaw Rob Barrie Saskia May Simon Hauwaerts Tom Keer Thank you to everyone who has contributed, inspired, distributed and read The Burrow! Images by Rob Barrie