The Menteur Summer Issue 2014 by The Menteur

PARIS LITERARY MAGAZINE

THE

N째 3 Spring 2014

MentEUR

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Inside 4 | PHOTO STORY: Three Possibilities by Maansi Jain 11 | INTERVIEW: Cover Artist Vicky Gallardo by Christine Stadler & Caitlin Duerler 16 | NONFICTION: Winter is Coming by Daniel Burt Cuban Siesta by Adwait Singh Opinion by Nicholas Barrett 25 | FICTION: Jaggary by Bea Hyde-Owens One and the Same by Rebecca Fatharly 33 | POETRY: Seven Young Poets

The Menteurs Editor in Chief . Kadidja Naief Art Director . Kaitlin Meisse Fiction Editor . Lara Horton Poetry Editor . Alyssia MacAlister Non-fiction Editor . Alex Hough Interview Editors . Christine Stadler & Caitlin Duerler Copy Editor . Pauline McGonagle Managing Editor . David Van Roon Published and produced in association with the University of Kent Visit us on: thementeur.com For submissions and enquiries: editors@thementeur.com 2

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Cover Image by Vicky Gallardo Photo by Aleksei Drakos

Dear Reader, It is summer and we are back with yet another beautiful edition of The Menteur, bursting with talented writing and art! In many ways, our summer edition is a look at urban space and what it means to be (up)rooted. Our two-city workspace of Canterbury and Paris has been extended though. Young voices from all over the world have contributed to this collection of inspiring photography and fresh writing. From London to New York and Miami, over to Havana, JĹ?etsu and Berlin, we are bridging continents of creativity. This issue in your hands is truly brimming with an urban spirit! Alas, now that the academic year has come to an end, it is also a goodbye from this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s editorial team. Looking back, producing these editions certainly has been demanding. To coordinate a team split between two cities next to a full-time occupation, it is essential to communicate with editors and contributors alongside a precise schedule. The biggest challenge thereby is to balance a friend-relationship with a leadership position. It is all the more rewarding to finish an entire issue from outline to print, and finally hold it in your hands. A lot of time and effort goes into acquiring and selecting clear content and polishing a clean design. We hope you enjoy a summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day, be it out in the sun or inside by rain, and plunge into our new edition. From us here in Canterbury and Paris: Have a lovely summer! And to the new editorial team next year: It is an honour to do this. Good luck and enjoy the ride!

The Menteurs

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Three Possibilities by Maansi Jain

Three Possibilities was shot on film in Delhi, India in February 2014 by Maansi Jain. The series gets its title from the three countries and cultures which form the artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heritage and inform her worldview most: India, America, and Germany (where her parents are from, where she grew up, and where she was born and currently lives, respectively). The photographs are part of a continuing exploration of what it means to be from somewhere.

The Menteur, Summer 2014

1. three possibilities. 2. she saw an army of gods and stayed with them, hoping for help. 3. is that a new paint job, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slick. 4. laundry and the beatles. 5. they were like, uh, smell ya l8r. 6. the usual. 7. there was a dog too. 8. she was only a little skeptical. 9. the woman who dared. 10. keep the sun out, theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re sleeping. 11. the sheet.

All photos by Maansi Jain 8

The Menteur, Summer 2014

10.

The Menteur, Summer 2014

11.

Re/Fashioning

Urbania an interview with Miami-based artist Vicky Gallardo

by Christine Stadler & Caitlin Duerler

icky Gallardo is a young urban artist from Miami, Florida. Her work shows a great variety of talent, ranging from graphite drawings and oil paintings to experimental visual art and fashion design. Our editors Christine Stadler and Caitlin Duerler interviewed Vicky, and found out more about her artistic background and the creative processes behind her work.

The Menteur, Summer 2014

t what time in your life did you realize that you wanted to follow an artistic calling?

Art was always a hobby of mine growing up. I never came to the realization in any specific moment in time. It was tragic events throughout my life that inspired me not to stop. I used art as liberation from reality. For hours I would get lost in my work. I would forget who I was, where I came from, and all the problems that surrounded me. Throughout the years I gradually developed my skills. When I saw people starting to take interest in my art, I realized it was who I was meant to be: an artist.

Not

initially coming from an artistic background, how did you approach working towards a foundation of establishing yourself as an artist as well as developing confidence to display your designs and artwork?

At the age of thirteen I had an art teacher named Cathi Rivera. A caring woman who only filled her students with a warm heart. She saw something in me that no one else did at the time and encouraged me to apply to art magnet schools. She started preparing me for exams, gave me ideas on creating my portfolio, and I was eventually accepted into Design and Architecture Senior High (DASH) in Miami. That’s where my artistic ability began to flourish. At DASH, I learned to see colour, and to create movement and shape. I learned about different artists, movies, and developed the knowledge and confidence of how to properly display and present an art piece.

Who or what are your inspirations? Are you partial to any particular artistic movements, old masters, contemporary artists, fashion designers, musicians, public persona, philosophers, writers, photographers etc?

I draw a lot of inspiration from the impressionist movement. I don’t focus on painting to make an image, but to create a textural movement with the image. I studied Monet, Renoir, Sargent and contemporary artists such as Ann Gale and Jenny Saville to create my earlier works. Music also plays a big role in my art, especially folk music, with artists such as Simon and Garfunkel, Judy Collins, and Bob Dylan. I take their lyrics and interpret them in my own way to create personal drawings, used as a foundation for my later series. At the moment I’m trying to get involved with performance art. I began to be fascinated by human-to-human interaction and one’s own thoughts. I also take inspiration from Marina Abramović, Yoko Ono, and Janet Cardiff’s audio pieces.

Which

are your preferred mediums and what do you like about working with them?

I’ve discovered I don’t prefer any one medium in particular. I create art with any resources that are available to me. I try to expand my knowledge on how different mediums work with one another.

You have New York

studied and lived in Florida, and Paris. How has the urban environment influenced you artistically? Have you been able to connect with other artists in these cities?

Each environment is different in its own way. Florida, being my home, influenced me to use nature in a more profound way: to get inspiration from the land itself and the people within it. New York gave me the opportunity to meet different people from all over the world who share common interests. Paris was a bit different. In Paris I felt isolated from materials I was familiar with, but it opened the door to new mediums I hadn’t worked with before. It was a completely different environment and culture. I didn’t feel influenced to create anything. I felt the need to obtain knowledge on historical aspects of France. It was more about an artistic thought process than the final outcome. I did have the opportunity to connect with local artists and students who had an interest in art in different fields though. We exchanged techniques, taught each other how to use different software and they gave me suggestions about how to enhance my ideas. We all have different ways of thinking, different perspectives and means of representation to achieve certain effects.

All works by Vicky Gallardo

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Several

of your visual art pieces, such as your collection “Branches” incorporate found objects in nature. Would you say that you intended this collection to have a narrative thread or does each piece stand alone?

“Branches” is a series of my thoughts, analysis and fears of the world. Each piece has a different meaning that allows it to stand alone but together it’s a series of my thoughts.

Do you approach your art with a specific idea to represent or do you often let the piece develop as you work?

They all start off with an idea, but slowly they develop in their own way, transforming themselves into something greater than what I had in mind. It’s something I can’t control.

You

have a fashion portfolio that is inspired by some attractive locations, such as Giverny, that have produced great artists and fashion. How do you translate visual elements of representative art such as colour combinations and textures of the medium (whether it is oil painting, water-colours, etc) into your fashion pieces?

Every design comes from an inspiration, whether it’s an environment, season, colour etc. My fashion illustrations are only experimental things at the moment with subjects I draw inspiration from, such as Giverny, China, paintings etc. I use each image to convey a colour story and textiles to relate to a season. I use the objects found within the image to create shape and form to my garments, like the rooftops in China to create pleats for my dress. When I draw, I try to capture the essence of a fabric, whether it’s light or a heavy weight, a weave or a print. I use markers and layering with slight touches of colour pencil to achieve this approach.

Why

do you find it significant to convey emotion through your artworks? In your biography on your ‘Cargo Collective’ profile you mention that you often like to expose fear and discomfort in your work. Why is it important for the spectator to confront these emotions when regarding your creations?

Conveying emotion gives an artwork a deeper meaning, which gives the spectator a better understanding and a memorable experience. Every individual is different. We all have different ways of living, acting and different encounters. I don’t declare a meaning to my pieces. I make them so a person may create their own interpretation. What fascinates me is the possibility to touch upon the beauty of a memory and bring back, or create a personal

experience we have yet to know. I recently started to expose fear and discomfort in my works. I feel that these emotions cause us to be more aware and intimate when reacting to and interacting with a piece.

You

also mention that music is an important influence. How is music transcribed into your art works and fashion designs?

In my artwork music is more of an experimental state of mind I’m trying to discover. I’m stimulated by the concept of sound: the undeniable emotional power that can take place and the different experiences one has when engaged in music. The experiences can be infinite, depending on one’s individual personality, culture, and state of mind. It sets a mood, tells a story and causes emotion, whether it’s artwork or fashion. In my current piece, I take my subjects deeper into their inner thoughts, evoking a memory or sensation of a dream. I want to create an environment of solitude and isolation from our usual surroundings in a dark room with only music playing. This is to enable each viewer to let their own individual thoughts flow. This music consists of major and minor keys evoking mixed emotions of fear, discomfort, and at the same time happiness. I recorded each individual experience with a written statement of what they imagined or thought in that moment. With those stories I created a natural sound that one could connect to and yet have the same emotional effect. This installation was only a psychological experiment for myself to discover a deeper understanding on the way music triggers memory, causes emotion, or loses us from the world into our thoughts for a split minute, or even second, in time.

What do you like most about being an artist? Have you experienced any aspects of being an artist that you did not initially anticipate?

What I enjoy most is connecting with other artists and sharing ideas, thoughts and life experiences. I never expected myself to be surrounded by talented people and making lasting friendships with them. Another thing I didn’t anticipate was the impact a piece of art could have on an individual, at least for a slight period of time. It’s something powerful all artists seem to have in common.

What are your plans for the future? Do you have any future gallery exhibitions?

I try not to focus so much on what the future holds for me but make the most of what I have in this moment. To make a future, I occupy my time with personal projects or try to get involved with other artists and designers located in the area. I personally don’t see myself as an artist in the future, but as a designer. I don’t want my designs to be frivolous. I want to use my ability to cause awareness, bring culture, and focus on real problems

The Menteur, Summer 2014

developing in the world. I want to give society something they haven’t experienced before. Right now I’m trying to get myself involved in more exhibitions. I have a video piece exhibited in a group show “Movements/Movements” named “Fragments” that can also be seen on my website. The exhibition is located in the Parsons Paris Gallery at 45 Rue SaintRoch. M

To see more of Vicky Gallardo’s art, visit her website at cargocollective.com/vickygallardo

The Menteur, Summer 2014

ION NON-FIC T 16

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Hei Yang Lau

Winter is Coming By Daniel Burt

anuary 17th 2008, Jōetsu City in the Niigata prefecture of Japan. A thick snow covered the ground, it was cold and it was impenetrable. Nothing could thrive here. The English literature students are, no doubt, rolling their eyes at my heavy-handed use of the pathetic fallacy. However, it is apt. I had started my second teaching position around this time - a small English language school with only two other employees - and my only knowledge of the one other teacher was that she was ‘very serious’. ‘Very serious’… in every sense is a pejorative description; on no occasion has someone uttered the following “I really hope that very serious person is coming to Rachel’s party tonight!” In any case, I’m an anathema to serious people. I don’t really work that hard, at the wizened age of thirtytwo I still laugh at Dumb and Dumber, and I have an unfortunate Northern English accent that makes everything I say sound sarcastic to the untrained ear (the ‘very serious’ teacher I was working with was from California and I think many nu-ances of the English sensibility were lost on her). If I might thematically return to the weather-based opening of this entry, I’d say that it had been a frosty three weeks working together. That said, I’m not one

who’s easily embarrassed (to give some context to that remark I should mention that I’ve played a gig on the drums wearing a one-piece gold cat suit with a substantial crotch wig, pic-ture that if you will) and, one especially taciturn morning I thought I’d inject some levity into a particularly glacial Tuesday (the Japanese receptionist had left for the morning, meaning the other teacher and I were both sat at the same table, stoically preparing our lesson plans). After a brief pause, in which I had spent convincing myself this was abso-lutely the right thing to do, I announced “Knock, knock!” There was a silence. I thought that just through some basic level of social conditioning, even just an instinctual comic reflex, might have caused her to respond. But no, just those uncompromisingly serious eyes. Eyes that willed there to, once again, be silence. “Knock, knock!” I persisted. “Who’s there?” She responded, more out of a sense of wanting this awkward cajoling to be over than any real desire to find out who was there. “Objective pronoun.” I answered. “Objective pronoun who?” “Objective pronoun whom!” The silence resumed. Outside the snow began, once again, to fall.

The Menteur, Summer 2014

CubanSiesta By Adwait Singh

fter having impatiently waited for our checkedin baggage to arrive for nearly an hour, we finally came out of the rather primitivelooking and predominantly orange airport. Carving a way through the humdrum of enterprising cabdrivers with our excessive baggage in tow, we finally managed to withdraw some local currency (CUCs) to get us a cab to our lodgings. It was a pleasant evening, made more pleasant by the soothing breeze and marred only by an unprecedented emission from those stylish old cars, which had become a metonymy of Cuba for us. Ana quickly struck up a conversation with our cab driver, putting her Spanish to use, while Rhi and I sat back in our seats, enjoying the world through our shades. Overall, it was a jolly ride, full of expectations and excitement for the days that awaited us, multiplying at each recognition of a sign flying past the window of the car: a Che Guevara poster, the Cuban flag, a familiar phrase. The weariness of the 10 hour flight was all but forgotten. Finally, we drove past the University of Havana and turned in opposite Havana Libre, where the car stopped, signaling the arrival at our destination. We were greeted at the door by our landlady Norma and were surprised there was an elevator in the building. We were shown to our rooms, which were quite cozy, complete with air conditioners and a tiny refrigerator. Unpacking and a hot/cold shower later we found ourselves a couple of streets away in a colorful little restaurant called La Roca. It looked all decked up as if for a wedding with its tessellated chairs draped in yellow,

The Menteur, Summer 2014

green and pink satin, and disco lights playing to the loud feet-tapping music bursting out from the speakers. There were even smoke screens that had me momentarily worried about a fire alarm. We had jar de limonada frappéd with ice cream to drink. When our paella finally arrived, it was extravagant and garnished with watermelons and pineapples. It was enough to feed five ravenous people, and the several helpings that each of us ate were not nearly enough to exhaust it. Towards the end, we were so drunk on the music and the ingratiating cares of the young waiter that we could hardly keep our bodies from moving to the beats of Reggaeton. Alas, weariness got the better of us and we didn’t wait for the announced show, which had no sign of commencing. We took an early night off.

Isolation and art The next morning, we awoke to a sumptuous breakfast tailored to each of our dietary requirements: a riot of tropical fruits, some of which like ‘mameya’ I had never tasted before. We could hardly contain our glee from digging into luscious mangoes and ate with gusto. Ana had taken upon herself to teach us some basic Spanish, which served us well and, together with our hosts’ broken English, we got on pretty well. Ana was a new personality with her fluent and chatty Spanish self. It would have been difficult to explain all the dietary requirements and to enquire about something particular without her. She could find us the best places to eat and

visit, places to exchange CUCs into pesos, and get us around in town economically in collective cabs with her perfect imitation of “Havana?!!” in a Cuban accent whilst we kept our mouths sealed. From our balcony, we could see the deep blue of the sea separating the light blue of the sky at the horizon, broken by skyscrapers and houses at intervals. After breakfast, we went to Havana Libre, our Wifi hotspot for the remainder of the trip. You can pay 10 CUCs for an hour of Internet valid for three days, the only point of connection to the outside world. This sense of being cut off, of being isolated, gets stronger as time passes by in Cuba, and gradually we lost sense of time itself, with our itinerary the only marker of progress. Ever since the embargo imposed by the United States and the fall of the Soviet Union, this sense of isolation has become stronger in Cuba. This isolation is also reflected in the themes of several Cuban artists, principal among them being Sandra Ramos with her bridges spanning between the Cuban Island and the rest of the world, and Abel Barroso with his woodworks expressing desires of a more globalised world ‘sans frontiers’. In Cuba, art is everywhere. One can find it adorning sacred niches in hotel lobbies, in the murals or the graffiti on the walls, on pavements, on public buildings and establishments of street artists. In fact, the façade of Havana Libre is a large painting executed by Amelia

Peláez and the first floor has a mural by Sosa Bravo. It was time to explore the area around our house. We walked down 23rd street until it opened onto the Malecón - Havana’s iconic walk overlooking the Havana Bay. We measured its length between the 23rd and the American embassy, then back to the José Martí sculpture and Hotel Nacional de Cuba with its colonial architecture complete with two Persian spires. We met Dennys, who was to be our translator for the colloquium, early next morning. He showed us vital information on using public transport followed by a tour of Plaza de la Catedral from Capitol through Calle San Ignacio, and then left us at our destination: the Wilfredo Lam Center. The Center had two exhibitions, one a photographic exposition of landscapes by Tomás Sánchez and another of sculptures by celebrated Agustín Cárdenas with a pronounced Brancusi influence. We got a brief interview with the subdirector, Margarita Gonzalez Lorente, who shared her experiences of organising the Havana Biennial - an art exhibition promoting underrepresented non-Western contemporary art - and running the Wilfredo Lam Center. We started walking down the Malecón, passed through the Plaza de Armas, browsed the fares in the local shops and peeped into an art gallery every now and then. It was a fairly long walk, but nonetheless agreeable. That night we dined in at the patio of lovely Cuba Paccione, which was to be our most frequented haunt for the major part

The Menteur, Summer 2014

of our trip with its succulent aubergines, tangy pastas and refreshing cocktails. We had an appointment at Casa de las Americas the next day where Nyala briefed us about the history of the institution, and the current and upcoming projects. The cultural center was the second to be founded to smooth over the Cuban relations with the rest of Latin America after the triumph of the revolution. It was interesting to discover the spirit of cooperation with which art institutions work in Cuba, where art has to be free and private sponsorships are discouraged by government policies. Consequently, the main source of income for the institution, apart from government funding, is proceeds from the sale of merchandise and publications. After finishing up at Casa de las Americas, we went in search of the Cuban National Ballet to find out about the upcoming programs. The irregularities in internet access made this really difficult, and as it turned out, we had just missed the last performance by a day. As for the next one, no one had any clue! Slightly disappointed, we got a taxi to Havana and had a belated lunch at the famous La Bodeguita del Medio, which had been patronized by the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Salvador Allende, Pablo Neruda and Josignacio. The cheerful music floated

The Menteur, Summer 2014

in from the bar as we contentedly sipped our mojitos, gazing at the walls covered in scribbled signatures and photographs of the celebrities who had visited the place. After lunch, we ambled around the streets of Havana Vieja, visiting engravings and print factories, art galleries and other places. We navigated our course from Plaza de la Catedral through the Plaza de San Francisco to the Plaza Vieja. The streets offered plenty of curiosities: appareled dogs, woven grass-hut souvenirs with a grasshopper perched on the roof, snake men, oriental spice shops, perfumeries with old-style equipment on display, gothic-themed restaurants, cool merchandise, and a Roberto Fabelo sculpture of a naked bald woman sitting astride a one-legged rooster and a fork the size of a pitchfork in her hand.

Landscapes and academia Come morning, we all got up excited for the beach! Dennys and his friends Sergio and Ecto joined us at the Capitol, and together we made a party large enough to have a cab all to ourselves. We arrived at the Santa Maria beach, about half an hourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s drive from Havana. The water was the most perfect shade of Caribbean blue that

The Menteur, Summer 2014

A retreat to the countryside The evening before our last, we had a dinner with our sponsor, John, and the next morning a final rendezvous with the faculty at the School of Arts, University of Havana. After bidding our thanks and farewell, we left to spend the remainder of our time at John’s house in a small town called Viñales. Viñales proved to be a marvelous city retreat located in a valley. It had many pleasant walks to offer that took us up the hills, down overgrown meadows and through narrow tracts of red earth dotted with tall coconut pines and solitary water bodies, punctuated by stops at tiny shops offering refreshments. We went fishing, swimming in the lake, tasted wild berries and fruits on the way, danced in the open courtyard every evening under the starry night sky, explored caves and sheltered lakes, went mountaineering and picnicking. In the end, we grew quite fond of our host family, and the goodbyes left us all with heavy hearts as we made our way towards the airport, full of remembrances and experiences that were to change us in ways yet unknown.

All photos by Adwait Singh

receded into darker depths and the sand was white and fine as snow. We spread our towels and laid down to bask in the sun, but before long we were all gamboling in the waves. We stayed there until the sun set and peeled ourselves away with some reluctance. After taking a shower, we went to the Art Factory - an old factory turned into a place for movie screenings and social gatherings. As the minutes edged closer to Ana’s birthday, we were beside ourselves with celebration and took it down to the Malecón where we sat by the sea, playing dumb-charades. The coming few days were packed with academic activities. We attended a three day colloquium on Arts organized by the University of Havana in collaboration with the University of Mexico. The colloquium comprised several lectures covering a wide range of topics from Japanese Shunga art and Ukiyo-e, to lectures on Aesthetics, Philosophy and Cinema. The colloquium concluded with a contemporary dance performance by Compañía Danza Teatro Retazos in the courtyard of the Mexico House, followed by refreshments at the Victor Hugo House. That evening, we joined our party to that of lovely Karen’s from the University of Mexico, and went to a place where they teach salsa, dancing away the evening. The evening after that was spent at the Morro Castle, witnessing the Cannon Shot Ceremony, a ceremonial firing of a single cannon shot to announce the closing of the bay for the night, which has continued since colonial times. We had to cross the sea in a ferry to reach the island, which had a giant statue of Jesus at one end and a lighthouse at the other. The view from the terrace was breathtaking. On the following day, we went to visit the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de La Habana, which housed a rich collection of Cuban art from colonial times to the present. There was a special installation by the Cuban artist Kcho in the shape of a prison to stimulate the living conditions of the Cuban Five during their interment. It invited audience participation, challenging us to experience the lives of these artists in prison for five minutes. We finally went to the Plaza de la Revolución the next day. It had Havana’s tallest building in the center and others next to it, flying Cuban flags and displaying Cuban leaders such as Che Guevara and Raul Castro. From there we walked to the necropolis before taking a cab home. The rest of the days were occupied with artist visits as we met various Cuban contemporary artists in their workshops and interviewed them about their work. The theme of a city frozen in time, like an old masterpiece which time discolors, cracks and changes and yet upon which it bestows an immaculate maturity, was a constant recurrence throughout our time in Havana.

Livingand NotLiving inthe AgeofExperience As a generation shift their desires away from material goods towards experience, an unprecedented s social arms race has emerged, exposing and expanding a gap between who we want to be and who really are. by Nicholas Barrett

tuffocation is a book about the burden of material ownership. The author, James Wallman, examines the history and impending twilight of the material age before going out in search of an alternative. After the Second World War, the Western world found itself living in a time of unprecedented prosperity. In America, the average baby boomer was $10,000 better off than their parents and for the first time ever, almost everybody could realistically dream of owning almost anything they wanted. An entire generation found a new kind of freedom in a mountain of material wealth their predecessors could hardly have imagined. Cars, televisions, fridges, and washing machines became affordable and soon improved models were affordable too. At the same time, the idea of the welfare state allowed families and individuals to spend without worrying too much about the financial traumas of illness, unemployment, and education. As this generation slowly loses its hair, teeth and influence, the novelty of material wealth has started to wear off and values are slowly starting to change. To the so-called Millennials, who grew up with an abundance

of “stuff”, the idea of “more stuff” isn’t quite as thrilling as it once was. Wallman has recognised a long-term alternative to material accumulation – and he’s not alone in his conclusion. Studies are now showing that young people, born into abundance, are increasingly underwhelmed by expensive products and now value experiences over possessions. Why buy an iPad to cherish for a year to two, when you could spend roughly the same amount of money on a modest holiday you will remember forever? As Wallman puts it, “memories live longer than dreams,” and this, he tells us, is worth appreciating because experiences help us develop as human beings. But will what Wallman describes as ‘experientialism’ really set us free or will living for verbs frustrate us in ways that nouns never could? Stuffocation is not an anti-consumerism book and Wallman is not Epicurus. He has argued that social media has dramatically facilitated the shift from ownership to experience because we can now brand ourselves with experiences and share them to achieve social status. The walls of Facebook must be decorated in holiday photos,

The Menteur, Summer 2014

celebrity encounters, and (for some reason) mountains of food. Evidence of experience and variety are the new certificates of personal validation. ‘I live, therefore I am, and I need my friends and followers to know all about it.’ In 2012, Adam Phillips published a collection of essays called Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life. The assertion of this book is that many of us waste our limited time on Earth by daydreaming about the lives we do not live. That each of us is haunted by the idea of the person we wish we had (or might yet) become. A superior person, one who has achieved success and experienced the world, but one who does not exist. This person may frustrate us forever and represent everything we never accomplished: the education, partners, careers, and lifestyles we never got our hands on. Many of us, Phillips argues, are terminally teased by the ghost of our own potential. This feeling is as old as it is universal, and no amount of success seems to be able to remedy it. The power of Phillips lies in the subtitle, ”In Praise of the Unlived Life.” This is a book that encourages us to understand and cherish the lives we do have and could serve as a highly therapeutic read for anybody suffering from the side-effects of fading ambitions. We now increasingly seem to believe that we owe ourselves pleasure and to miss out on this pleasure is to miss out on life itself. But reality is not geared towards pleasure. The lived life is contaminated with illness, aging, death, disappointment, and boredom. Phillips argues that these harsh and tedious realities mean that harbouring our personal spectre as well as a personal debt to our own hedonism can become harrowing lifelong burdens. This baggage can be easily exacerbated by the insidious side effects of social media. What researchers have crudely described as “Facebook envy” is a natural consequence of an online culture that evolution could never have prepared us for. A culture that encourages users to selectively edit, publish, and vaingloriously promote the scattered photogenic highlights of their personal progress. Websites like Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter have become vapid cascading catalogues of seemingly happy people doing everything within their power to associate themselves with interesting, exotic, and successful experiences. Do we ask ourselves why we are posting and (just as importantly) ‘liking’ these images? Probably not, because if we did, every other decision we made online would be a psychological minefield of envy, validation and overcompensation. What most of us know (but often fail to process) is that the pictures being painted on these websites are largely illusional. The mass of people continue to lead quiet lives of quiet desperation and because social media users seldom want to share details of their daily frustrating challenges, the casual

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Facebook scrollers, bombarded with selected highlights, are compounded by inadequacy. So what do we do? In an effort to impress our peers, we race to add our own fascinating images to the endless galleries of our hypersocialized society, but naturally (and economically) this can be a lot harder for some than it is for others. Like material wealth, experiential wealth can depend heavily on the size of a person’s bank balance. If you are upper-middle class, you will have a greater ability to experience the world than those without a disposable income, and most of us know that we may never be able to post a photograph of ourselves admiring a Patagonian sunset. During a recent talk at the Royal Society of Arts, Wallman was asked if experiences had become “just another form of competition with your neighbor.” Wallman agreed, describing experientialism as “a different way of competing than with material goods.” He then argued that experiences are harder to compare because the ones that go wrong “are the best because then you get to tell that story” and that ultimately this is a good thing, presumably because getting it wrong can make us more interesting as individuals. In a strange way, Wallman’s idea is a victim of its own success. He is right in saying that experiences are vastly superior to possessions, but if our culture continues to encourage us to live in the pursuit of status and to gleefully publicise our efforts to pursue these experiences, then our collective experience of real everyday life is not going to get any better. The experience of not experiencing a well-lived life will inevitably deteriorate further and this is precisely what Adam Phillips is trying to warn us about. In Missing Out he describes this telling encounter: “I remember a child telling me in a session – a child who believed as many children do, that being an adult is the solution to being a child – that the reason he wanted to be bigger was because he wouldn’t have to want to be bigger.” Is this not a perfect metaphor for the rest of us? We seem to live loudly, so we don’t have to desire living prominently. When we do live out our desires, we rush to undermine the value of our common every-day existence, an existence that millions of us will never escape from. But whether one does or does not live one’s dreams the world will continue to turn and, as sure as anything, the minute hand will gradually tick its way into the human heart until the gaping wound it creates is impossible to ignore. The universal sense of urgency, liberation and reflection this feeling creates is quite possibly the true experiential equalizer.

ict

F ion Photo by Hei Yang Lau

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Aleksei Drakos

One Same and the

By Rebecca Fatharly

e doesn’t want anyone to know. I think he wants everything to remain as normal as possible, which suits me. It’s almost as if we can pretend it’s not happening. That is, until his first vomiting incident. It sounds violent and painful, and there is nothing I can do except care for him, rub his back, and hold his weak body as it begins to break. ... We were shopping for the weekly groceries, getting whatever we fancied and chucking them into the trolley. We finished up in the sweet aisle, collecting treats for our Lord of The Rings Marathon. His choice. We always argue about the merits of sweet vs salty popcorn, and this time I won (for once). We got sweet. He began to load up the conveyor with the ingredients for the delicious lasagne he was going to make for us whilst I moved to the end of the till to start packing up. Unfortunately there were no carrier bags. I tried to gain the attention of the young woman on the till, but she was clearly too busy checking him out. Her eyes raked

over his face, moving greedily over his features as a smile blossomed on her lips. I bristled, but let it slide. It’s not like he noticed anyway. Once the items were checked through, the woman finally did something useful and bagged up our shopping for us. But the whole time, she kept looking up and smiling at him. Flicking her blonde tresses with each turn of her head, she began to over-compliment his looks. ‘What is someone as good-looking as you doing here on a Friday night?’ He laughs. What is he doing? ‘Just picking up some bits for a meal tonight. It’s a special occasion.’ The cashier’s drawn-on eyebrows prick up with interest. ‘Oh, you can cook? That’s a great skill! You must have all the women chasing after you.’ ‘I’m right here you know,’ I said pointedly, but she ignored me. What was her problem? He noticed and shot me a sly smile, before focusing his attention on her to pay for the food. ‘That’ll be £54.94,’ the till girl said as she winked at him.

Background photo by Lisa Plymell https://www.flickr.com/photos/thepurpledog1031/12648364133 (CC BY 2.0) - transparency added by The Menteur 26 The Menteur, Summer 2014

‘Excuse me, that’s my boyfriend you’re objectifying.’ Again, I was ignored. I rolled my eyes, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet. I just wanted to get out of there and back to the sanctuary of our flat. He got out his wallet and put his card into the machine. He typed in his pin, frowning. ‘Sorry, I’ve done it wrong. Could you reset it please?’ He asked the cashier. She smiled. ‘Of course, sweetheart.’ When he caught my angry glare, he stifled a laugh. But apparently, the cashier thought he was laughing along with her, which really got under my skin. Seriously, was I invisible? Or did she just think I was dumb? He typed in his pin number again, but was confronted with the same problem. His frown returned. As I took in his expressions, I realised something was wrong. His fingers slowly erased the wrong digits and tried to replace them. He smiled sheepishly at the cashier, as he handed over the machine. ‘I’m so sorry, reset again?’ He said, a little embarrassed. Her flirtatiousness towards him began to decline, but she obliged. His third attempt caused frustration. His fourth caused dawning realisation. His fifth was the final straw. The cashier was already getting bored, but by the fifth time she was becoming seriously annoyed. Each time he incorrectly typed in his pin code, she would tap her long, tatty nails against the till, with her sighs of impatience becoming louder and more pronounced. ‘Look mate, there’s a queue. I haven’t got time for this!’ His hands began to shake as he withdrew his card for the final time. He opened his mouth to apologise, but nothing came out. His face contorted in panic, his eyes widening. He tried again. Nothing. The cashier wasn’t having any of it. ‘For god’s sake, what’s your problem?’ she yelled at him. He turned to me in sheer panic, when his words began to come back to him - but not in the right order. ‘Tell her... sorry... speak... can’t... pin wrong... remember... cacan’t… sorry...’ He was trying so hard to communicate with me and I knew what he wanted, but one of the customers broke our communication. ‘Move on you retard!’ yelled a teenage boy, who wore his joggers so low they almost fell off. The cashier tried to make the chav shut up, but it was too late. With one look at me, mortification written all over his face, he fled the shop and ran towards the exit. I balled my hands into fists, ready to hit something in anger. Instead, I swore at the teenager and gave chase. Needless to say, neither of us ate that night. … He moves into the kitchen, still ignoring my presence. I follow him, still perplexed as to how to proceed.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I nod, relieved he’s still acknowledging me. He flicks the switch on the kettle, bringing it bubbling into life. He keeps his back turned to me, his knuckles clenching the counter so tightly that they turn white. I move towards him, but am still too scared to touch him. I don’t want him to shrug me off and run away. The kettle clicks and the bubbling stops. He moves to the cupboard, reaches in and brings out two mugs. He sets them on the counter and begins to prepare the brew. His hands shake as he pours the water, and I’m scared he’s going to burn himself. ‘Can you pass the...’ He pauses. ‘Pass the...’ We are both silent. Willing him to try again. To write it off as accidental memory loss. As something everyone experiences. ‘Pass the...’ He slams the mug down on the counter, splashing hot water over the sides. His whole body begins to tremble. His knuckles find the counter and hold on tight as he lowers his head to his chest, his sobs coming out silently. He’s trying to reign it in. I finally come up behind him, and wrap my arms around his waist. I rest my head between his shoulder blades, trying to contain the sobs. Tears flow freely from my ducts, staining his shirt. I thought we would have more time. But we don’t. It’s already started. ... He stumbles around the flat, and manages to sit, or rather fall down on the sofa next to me. He turns on the television and watches it silently. I keep my eye on him, pretending I’m not looking at him even though he knows I am. Periodically, he shuts his eyes for a couple of seconds, then snaps them open again. He repeats this several times, until finally, he reaches his conclusion. ‘I can’t see out of my left eye.’ I reach over to take his hand in mine. … ‘I want to die on my terms.’ His words hit me like a gun-shot. It’s the first time either of us has brought up that word. We have both avoided using it, probably for the sake of the other. His words pierce me like a shard of glass. ‘You - you mean…’ I can’t say it. And he knows what I mean. We’ve always had an uncanny skill of deciphering each other’s needs without verbal communication. We are one and the same. ‘No, no.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want to end it myself. What I mean is… I’m not going to hospital. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ He looks me straight in the eyes, and I know there is no changing his mind. So I nod and remain silent. I place my hand on top of his

The Menteur, Summer 2014

knee, and squeeze reassurance. Of course I understand. Relief floods his eyes and for the first time since the news broke, he manages a small smile. ... Three days later he is on fire. His temperature is burning far too highly and he has an agonising headache, causing him to writhe about on the bed. I try everything. I want him to see a doctor. I know he wants to do this on his terms, but this is ridiculous. He could have weeks left, rather than hours. I scream at him, vent and cry, as reality crashes down around us. But nothing can be done. It is inoperable. At first he yells at me, retaliates against my helplessness, when a headache so violent strikes him that the fight is instantly forgotten. We hold each other, silence filling the void. ...

beginning to loosen, and every time it does, I feel his body tense as he struggles to cling on. My own body tenses as tight as a bowstring in reaction to his lack of strength. ‘I need to see you.’ I pull back slightly. His breathing is becoming more staggered. He’s fighting to stay. He reaches up, hand shaking, and pushes a few stray strands away from my face. A weak smile forms, quirked into a sideways manner. His usual smile when he sees me. I commit him to memory, imprinting his image. Suddenly he looks frightened. His pupils dilate as he reaches for me. His grabbing hands pass through me, reaching for stability. ‘Don’t go! Please don’t leave me alone!’ I move my hand to reach him. His eyes are flickering, his breathing slowing. ‘Come back! Come back! Don’t vanish!’ I try to reassure him. ‘I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.’ His eyes slip shut, his last breath evacuating from his body. He disappears from my view.

We both know it’s coming. We act as if it’s not. ... ‘Can we go out?’ he asks me. Even in his state, how can I refuse him? ‘Of course, where do you want to go?’ I manage to say without a tremor. I’ve become good at hiding my fear. ‘I want to say goodbye to all the places that are important to me.’ I swallow the lump in my throat. Goodbye. ‘Sure.’ He’s been given a wheel-chair, which he refuses to let me push along the street. He insists on exerting himself, to prove that his body is not failing him. ... It’s coming tonight. He turns to me, his right eye focusing on my face. His left eye flickers aimlessly, desperately searching for something to cling on to. His breathing is becoming slightly ragged, but he manages to speak anyway. ‘I’ve had my forever. I’m so grateful I had you to share it with.’ His face blurs and I quickly wipe the tears so that I don’t miss a second of his life. I bump my forehead against his, attempting to remain as close to him as possible. He feels so fragile in my arms, like he might shatter, if I grip onto him any tighter. He senses my apprehension, and wraps me up, hard, into his embrace. ‘I need you.’ I whisper so quietly, I’m not sure he has heard me. But he has. His hand rubs over my back in response, fingers moving over my body in a piano concerto. He lets out a shaky breath, becoming more ragged as time passes on. His tight grip on me is

Background by Lisa Plymell https://www.flickr.com/photos/thepurple28 photo The Menteur, Summer 2014 dog1031/12648364133 (CC BY 2.0) - transparency added by The Menteur

Painting by Vicky Gallardo

Jaggary By Bea Hyde-Owens

aggary Black sits against the wall. The apartment stretches around her; no walls except a thin partition for the kitchen, and dressed lightly in empty bottles and ash-filled cups. There is no landlord (or at least he is in Taiwan and has no idea that this space is being occupied). A smoking roll-up is suspended in her left hand, as if forgotten. She stares up at the beams. Her legs are splayed out in front of her. They are long and undernourished and sit awkwardly on the wooden boards. All of her limbs have a kind of detached look about them, and when she moves them they obey as if it were an afterthought. She is waiting for someone; for Stevie with the messy hair and the smoker’s cough, who usually sits with her Doc Martins on Jag’s plastic table, bottle of wine in hand. When she comes in (she never knocks), she will probably start talking about some bitch who short-changed her at Casa de Vino, or the guy she had to anaesthetise in order to get away from his apartment this morning, and Jaggary will sit and look at her stockings and smile imperceptibly but not say a word. Then Stevie will cross the room to the cupboard under the sink and complain

about the shit Jag insists on drinking, before helping herself to a half-empty bottle of Rioja or Villanueves or, if there really is nothing else, Côtes du Rhône. “I fucking hate French wine,” she’ll say. “Why do you continue to buy it?” But today Stevie doesn’t come. It is already three o’clock and she is usually round by one thirty. Jag starts on the Côtes Du Rhône alone and squats over the sheet of canvas that covers a large part of the attic floor. On it is painted Atticus, a stray tom with crooked teeth and a lamentable curiosity for the unknown. Jaggary is just starting to write a description of Atticus’ psyche (words come almost at random: independent, reckless, scared) over a tyranny of black and red paint when there’s a knock at the door. She crosses out ‘scared’ and waits patiently for whoever is at the door to either come in or go away. They do neither, and after a polite pause there is another feeble knock. Jaggary rolls another cigarette and lights it on the embers of the last. “Is anyone there?” An unsure voice from the other side of the door. Male,

The Menteur, Summer 2014

young, with an English public-school accent. Jaggary writes ‘mistrustful’ over Atticus’ third eye. From behind the door someone coughs. Near the centre of the webbed canvas Jaggary paints a black question-mark. Atticus has never known his family. There’s a flurry of heavy footsteps up the stairs and then Stevie’s voice: “What the fuck are you hanging around for, just go in you over-bred twat!” She slams the door open. Her hair is silhouetted like black fire around her head and Jaggary sees a stain of red lipstick on her cheek. Her shorts are ripped. “Oh, what - you’ve started on the wine? Ah, it’s only Côtes Du Rhône, you ponce. This is Albert, I found him wandering the streets last night.” Albert takes one small step into the room and shudders. He wears a white shirt that’s slightly too big for him and his shoes are clean. “Hello, nice to meet you,” he says. Jaggary looks up. Her cigarette has gone out. Albert pulls a Zippo from his pocket and holds it out. It is brass with a faded coat of arms on it. Jag pulls herself upright and walks over. She grabs the Zippo and thrusts the bottle of Côtes Du Rhône in his direction. “Oh, uh, what time is it?” He chuckles, looking around for support, but Stevie has already found some dregs of Valdepeñas and regards him with disgust from

The Menteur, Summer 2014

behind the bottle. There is a moment in which nothing happens. Albert looks at his pristine shoes. They stand out against the black sticky floor. He shifts them. “Well, I... I am on holiday, eh, girls?” He says at last and pries the bottle from Jag’s hand. * They sit on the kitchen floor. Jag sits under the skylight and connects the clouds in her mind with a paintbrush. Albert is playing with his Zippo. The coat of arms is almost invisible from years of opening and closing. Jag knows hers was the first cigarette it lit. Stevie ricochets between counters and breaks a teapot. “Bloody Hell, Al, look what you’ve done now,” she chastises, but Albert is looking at Jaggary. Jag turns her head to him abruptly and for a second their faces reflect in one another’s glasses. “So what’s your story, Al?” asks Stevie. Atticus thinks that Al doesn’t like the nickname. He can tell by the way his shoulder tenses and Jaggary agrees. Albert doesn’t reply. “Why are you here?” insists Stevie. “What’s the big game-plan? Me n’ Jag are travelling the world, fightin’ prejudice wherever it rears its ugly head.” Here she picks up a rag and flicks it at Al’s face. He winces and raises a thin arm in protest. Stevie continues, “We met on the

smiles at the memory, but Stevie is fixing him with a disapproving stare. “Did you just say gauche? What the fuck is that, like Italian or something?” “Uh, no, it’s-” “Aah, who cares? JAG! Al’s sidetracking!” Atticus knows that gauche is actually French. His mother had an affair with a cat from Marseille, and she went through a stage of dropping ‘gauche’ and ‘maladroit’ into conversation. Jaggary traces these words through the red wine that is seeping through her creation and Al continues talking. “Ok, well... one day she was gone. I was about seven at the time, I didn’t really understand what was going on. They sent out a search party for her, but she was clever. We never found her.” “How do you know she ain’t been murdered by some kiddie-fiddler?” Al looks at her for a moment. “I just know. She ran away. After that our whole family fell apart.” “Yeah yeah booze and gambling, right?” Albert sips his wine. “So what the fuck are you doing here anyway?” “Dad died. I came to find my sister.” “Yeah, so where is she?” Jaggary erases the black question-mark.

Photo by Kadidja Naief

road in Romania, didn’t we Jag? Yeah, good times, she was runnin’ away from something or other, I swooped in like a hawk and saved her from her shitty life, eh Jag? Just like a kestrel from on high. Somehow we ended up here... We don’t like to stick around. You got any brothers or sisters, Al?” “Yes, my little brother’s three and I have an older sister.” “Oh yeah is she a ponce like you?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean you don’t know-” She stretches over the balcony and flicks a cigarette butt with conviction in the direction of an unseen figure - “ HEY ASSHOLE DON’T BE PISSIN ON MY GIRL’S DOORSTEP, DON’T THINK I DON’T SEE YOU!” “Uh, well... she left us. Quite a long time ago, actually.” There is the chink of glass on wood as Jag knocks over the wine. They both look at her. “If that was Rioja, I’d kick your ass!” Stevie yells at her retreating back. Jag is standing above Atticus and slowly pouring Côtes Du Rhône over his mind. Stevie shrugs. “Why’d she leave?” “I don’t know. I think she didn’t really agree with my family’s values. She wasn’t interested in money or society. To be honest I think she was a bit autistic or something, she was always very gauche at dinner parties.” He

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Kaitlin Meisse

‘A Deck Of 51’ Piled up suitcases in the trunk of your car, clothes tightly packed with no room to breathe, suffocating fabrics don’t plead for help, or bleed. If inanimate objects could scream, could cry, they’d cry and scream until the now solemn paintings left their frames. They’d moan and wail until the walls themselves collapsed, until the house you left had left with you.

By Ben McKenna

12/18 I sat, mostly drunk, looking around at those looking around. Once in a while when I sit for a moment --Unhindered by the obligation of predicament-My thoughts become responsively profound. Not profound in their content, Yet I am ostensibly aware of their inherent profoundness. (They are profound for having existed at all) I sat and looked from face to face--eye to eye And wondered; Who too was feeling as profound as I? And was it merely the recognition of existence, As we glided in our metal sausage through the coils of intestines beneath earth’s surface? I sat and looked from face to face--eye to eye And wondered; Who too was feeling as profound as I? Those mighty thoughts their eyes betray--lied outside the skin or in? Had nothing to do with me and mine? My own face and my own eyes? For the foundation of my profound lies anchored in their silent thoughts--made sound.

By Jesse Liam McCormick

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Citizen’s Advice ‘I’ve had some complaints,’ you tell her. ‘People say my hands are cold, but they’re only cold from standing in shopping aisles and rummaging through packages of meat. They say I frown too much, but it’s only because there are too many headlights and street lamps – too much flash photography.’ She scribbles notes, underlines MEAT, FROWNING. ‘Yesterday, I heard the saying terms and conditions apply as if for the first time,’ you say. ‘I’m not really sure what that means. Also, the sound of my clock keeps me awake at night. Every tick threatens like a pregnancy scare.’ She notes PREGNANT CONDITIONS. ‘Is that all?’ ‘No,’ you say. ‘I want to know why my radiator scorches my clothes and why I feel nauseous when I see my pockets are lined with used bus tickets and why Werner Herzog thinks that chickens are the most cannibalistic, nightmarish creatures in the world.’ She writes SCORCHED CHICKEN POCKETS, leaves the room with her notes, returns with a sheet of phone numbers, highlighted in rust orange. ‘Try these numbers,’ she says. ‘I’m sure they’ll have some suggestions for you. Will you fill in this survey about our service?’ She hands you the sheet and watches the movement of the pen for every tick. A model citizen, you mark ‘Very satisfied’ for every answer.

By Thomas Cox

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Kadidja Naief

Meeting Medusa Walking down Prince of Wales Road on Tuesday night I caught a glimpse of Medusa Slithering around between some bins. I don’t even know what I was doing there. I mean, I knew it was a dive, this road, But this just takes the biscuit. Anyway, She was slipping around in there Like a beautiful eel. I think she had a victim. I could see his trainers Sticking out from under her scales. Can’t really blame the lad, I thought, Who wouldn’t wanna catch a sneaky peek? I put on some shades, all casual like. Doesn’t like shades, Medusa. Makes you immune. She turned around, the sneak. Must’ve sensed my desire. She was livid when she saw my Ray-Bans: Freaking out, hissing All over the shop. I’ve never seen such A sexy set of snakes in all my life. And those eyes. Mad, they were. All I wanted to do Was take off those damn shades, And give myself up to the truth. Then Gaz pops up and says something crass, like: ‘WEEEEY! Get in there, son!’ Properly ruins the moment. He didn’t even look at her.

By Bea Hyde-Owens

The Menteur, Summer 2014

aleatory Just as I expected, everything has come out not the way I had expected. -Vera Pavlova They are playing hangman in my country while the children in Palestine will grow up not knowing the fear of quiet implosions Helium becomes a wall climbing liquid at -27 degree Celsius Where I live the smog hasn’t lifted for a week. It hangs like a dirty cloak All my poets are dead I dreamt of a massacre in a bar the other day. I lost her in the stampede I still do not understand my grandfather’s political sympathies Congress is a collective noun for a large group of baboons They’re walking their dogs in the dark In this picture, I’m loveless, smiling and my heart has just been blown to smithereens in the burst of pale streetlights bleeding in a yellow mist •

How is pain measured?

It comes and goes in waves. That’s the way I’ve experienced it. Why do you ask? I don’t think I can give you a satisfactory answer. By Rohan Chhetri

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Aleksei Drakos

Yam He heard warriors rushing towards battle, but it was the wind lifting the dead yams. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d begun their adventure. Or ended it. Growing, growing, growing. Tall as the sky (if you looked from below) 4.9 feet, 3-6 inches wide. Growing, growing, growing. Dark brown and light pink. Seeds planted in Africa and Asia, thrown with cereals and vegetables. Is a yam a vegetable? Harvested by hand, sticks, spades and diggers. Wood tools preferred, not metallic. Stand, squat, sit and bend. And then, barbecued, grilled, roasted, fried, boiled, baked, smoked, grated. A life ended. A long life - six to ten months in soil, two months sleeping. But he cut their adventure short. A massacre against the yams. He hacked them at the heel, they curled head down without their roots. The yams sobbed, their roots were gone. Sap trickled from their open wounds as they realised they would never get to end their adventure.

By Charlotte Foister

The Menteur, Summer 2014

Photo by Kaitlin Meisse

New York, 1963. To Joel Meyerowitz Electronic parts as small as the head of a pin have been made

A camera could go through

the hollow

of a hollow

needle.

Follow?

Soon “Big Brother” may be able to sit in front of a T.V.

What will he see?

What good is there in the

American character?

All seats $2.00/

[What can he be thinking, with his featureless face]

[There is so much beige]

[Stillness talk too much]

Pepsi, 7Up, A&W – all available. A tower of commerce, reflected. All seats $2.00 and New York is so alone. The gallery. The audience. The show will last forever before collapse

By Ben Said Scott

The Menteur, Summer 2014

LIVE AND STUDY IN PARIS, IN ENGLISH Students don’t need to speak fluent French to study at the University of Kent at Paris as all teaching is in English. French lessons are provided before and during the stay in Paris and living in the city helps students to gain valuable language skills and experience.

ATTRACTIVE HISTORIC SURROUNDINGS The University of Kent at Paris is based at Reid Hall, a beautiful 19th century building in the heart of Montparnasse, just minutes by foot from the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Latin Quarter and Saint- Germain-des-Prés. With trips to major museums happening most weeks, students really do get to see the best of Paris.

WORLD-LEADING RESEARCH AT THE UK’S EUROPEAN UNIVERSITY We are among the best research-intensive universities in the UK with staff engaged in research of international and world-class standing. Kent has specialist postgraduate centres in Brussels, Paris, Athens and Rome as well as long-standing partnerships with over 100 European universities.

UNIVERSITY OF KENT 40AT PARIS The Menteur, Summer 2014

To find out more, please visit www.kent.ac.uk/paris To find out more, please visit www.kent.ac.uk/paris