Welcome to the Rhetoric! For those of you for whom this is your first time opening the Rhetoric, this lovely place is a non-profit open collaboration project created by contributors worldwide. (We’re on about sixteen countries at this point!) This magazine is the result of our diverse interpretations of the theme “good ideas gone bad”. I invite you to visit the Observatory, where our heads can get lost in the stars. There you will find a guide of how to eat alone in a restaurant, as well as a short-cut formula to become a superhero. In the Studio, you will find an interview with our featured musician, Patrick Dorie, (that’s him you hear in the background!) If you venture off into the Drawing Room, you will find musings on ideal places from our artists, as well as a photo series of very dangerous ideas. At the very back of our mansion, you will find the Parlour, where, amongst the pool tables and whiskey conversations, lie discussions on the global drug war, tributes to democracy, and musings on our world as a perpetual sinister carnival. To unachieved idealism!
Nelly Matorina
LETTER FROM THE
Producer
an idea. Resilient; highly contagious. The kind of idea that keeps you up at night as your mind whirs and refuses to shut down. That feeling of an undefinable element in the innermost corners of your mind, unexplainable, indestructible, eating away at your rationality, your sanity. Distracting you, diverting your attention until suddenly, you look around you and you cannot determine if the world is different, or if you are just looking at it differently. An idea can take any form. Often, it is a stroke of inspiration, creating an itch in your fingers to expose some undefined concept that has yet to exist in the real world. It can be a sudden fit of ambition to be something you are not, be it a state (of being awake, of being alive, of being immortal), to capture a piece of knowledge (an urge to explain the how’s and the why’s) or discover a solution (creating other problems, demanding other solutions). An idea can come in the form of a wish; a wish for catharsis, a wish to not be alone, a wish for peace, be it the inner- or the worldly kind.
Once an idea has taken hold of the mind, it is almost impossible to eradicate. In this issue of Rhetoric Magazine, we set out to explore the realm of ideas: their origins, their growth and their consequences. We asked our contributors for their ideas and interpretations. Today, these ideas are collected and available in this 203page magazine-turned-novel for your perusal. We hope that you do not lose patience -
No idea is simple when you need to implant it in someone’s mind - so that by the time you turn over the last page, you will find in the corners of your mind something, which was never there before, and you’ll know what it is and what to do with it. Enjoy,
Jennifer Pham
Fragile thing
Break Bad?
Conservatory
Fragile By: Malashree Suvedi
Thing
am still young, but age has nothing to do with love. I understand the concept a lot better than others.
anyway. They think I don’t understand, -----they think my mind’s too filled with shit. That my head doesn’t work straight. The doctors think so, my family thinks so, my parents think so, my teachers think so, my classmates think so.
. , they say.
.
, they say. But they often forget about all the other things they call me: .
. Still, I could be wrong. I have never been in love. Until now, I suppose. No one told me, as a woman, that I could very well fall in love with another. But that doesn’t surprise me. Nobody tells me anything,
Hey
,
, .
hey are wrong, of course. Or well, they are right, but the poor state of my mind in no way hinders my ability to comprehend basic concepts such as the fact that life has no meaning, we’re all going to die, and that women can and do fall in love with other women. But should I talk to her? She doesn’t even know I exist. Which is a given, since I didn’t know she existed until 3 minutes ago when
,
,
` ` `.
,
’
.
keep coming back to this place even if it always reminds me of how miserable I am, but it also reminds me of how grateful I am that other people can write and I can read.
should talk to her, really. It isn’t every day that you fall in love.
’ . ’ , . But as if to add to my difficulty, the woman I am in love with leaves the store. I must follow her, I have decided, but I must also be careful.
On my way here I was excited about the sale that the bookstore was supposedly holding. I ran as fast as I could, it felt marvellous, but then I tripped and bruised myself. I began bleeding; only a bit, but blood instantly makes me queasy. What was the point? I almost puked, I couldn’t see any signs of a proper sale, and I now have to deal with the burden of being in love with a woman I saw but 7 minutes ago.
’ ,
.
,
’ ,
. .
, .
, ven laughter has its repercussion s. Once, at a family dinner and how I hate family dinners mostly because everyone hates me
,
.
las, I should have chosen not to find the irony in that particular situation, or at least postponed it to when we were not eating at the dinner table, because
, ,
.
Everyone looked at me with disappoint -ment. They would never trust someone like me. Irony should be left for solitude, I decided. But that’s how it is, everything has a flip side.
.
And I wonder, if I should even follow her. She might be the love of my life, but it isn’t worth the pain. But then I remember the Dostoevsky neatly tucked in her bag.
, ,
, ,
, .
.
M
CREATIVE WRITING
MI DN IGH T CI TY By liz stolpovska
MIDNIGHT CITY
ya
PHOTOS AND ART BY LUCY HENSHALL
1. When staring at the ceiling takes up the time for sleeping, When silence all around disturbs me by its sound – Dissolving through the cracks, I have an inspiring feelingTo be a part of a colorful and animated crowd.
2. The people are in pairs; they’re sitting in high chairs In midnight cocktail lounges where neon lighting burns. In the sparkling atmosphere, in fact, no one cares What time it is – they are all here ‘till dawn.
3
I’m gazing at whose whisper She stole his and she will s The feeling it’s hard for h He’s used to he’ll never
CREATIVE WRITING
4.
3.
t the couple r is so secret — s look and heart steal his soul, g is so strong him to quit it, o the idea that r be alone.
MIDNIGHT CITY
The words assume the color make them sound brighter, The tone of voice reminds us of dreams we’ve had before – Some of them turned real, and others have shattered So we do not recall misfortunes anymore.
5. This city drives me crazy, so much is forbidden, Seductive and attractive I can’t help but watch it. I wish that some confessions would remain unhidden And there’d be certain truths that people could omit
PHOTO BY LUCY HENSHALL
THE LURE CULT OF THE
AILSA ANDERSON
CREATIVE WRIITING
LURE OF THE CULT
Worshipped are those three colours, as if nothing else in the universe ever existed, as if someone, somewhere, isn’t grazing a newly sharpened knife against their wrist. Any concept of death or depression is consumed by unity, by the ignorant preaching of history that escaped the books and truths uttered by fallible tongues.
Truths espoused by rabid supporters, afraid to stop, to think. They’re tattooed with dates of fictional importance and statues of supposedly greater men, their support catalysed by biblical notions of good and evil, the demonization of those who do not agree. All is forgotten in the oblivion of this place, all they follow is a corrupt idea.
HANNAH USTUN
CREATIVE WRIITING The fraudulent puppets are exchanged, the puppeteers swapped for a more profit-motivated management. The remnants of which is the same mutual dependency, the same mutual exploitation as before, the economy of an idea, the manipulation of a population. What is worshipped here is not the reality of what is in front of them, but illusions of sustaining ideas.
She is almost proselytised. Profound statements and lyrics are sung and her mind screams, infuriated by the pretention. What is so fucking profound about syllables and baritones that rationalise their violence, figurative and otherwise? She is partial to a baritone.
Well, who IS delusional now? Then there are the indoctrinated children making filthy gestures to the opponents’ supporters, playing gunshots with reality, sweetheart, there is no way out of this now, your every utterance is now dictated by this ignorance, there is no exit. The child gains his father’s attention and kisses him on the cheek, whilst mocking her, “well, at least I have this”. She imagines his stare, for now sweetheart, love, we will get to that another time, give it five years, and you will not even want it then. “Thank fuck I got out of this while I could.” Ears reverberate with the screams of success, he whispered in her ear. “That’s commitment” she thought, but never remarked “or delusion” the battle lay between curiosity and belonging, between subjective happiness and the misery of her perceived objectivity. Whistles are blown, this is my heroin, this my addiction, my affliction, what do you have?
LURE OF THE CULT
HANNAH USTUN
AGUSS BALLESTER
CREATIVE WRIITING
LURE OF THE CULT
By Maia Taylor Photography by Dana Lescinere
CREATIVE WRITING
WE ARE IN THE SAME BED BUT HAVE DIFFERENT DREAMS
W
e lie close, your arms encircling me. You are asleep with deep, steady breaths and mutters, that are incomprehensible prophesies of what is to come. I know you will not remember them but I hope that when they come true you will know them and be reassured. You pull me tighter, as if in fear. I will never run away though, not if we are like this,
with no one to disturb our peace, just the two of us forever.
CREATIVE WRITING
T
he first light breaks. I keep my eyes shut, for with my eyes shut I can hear the patter of small feet and laughter. It sends chills down my spine, and I know that you could be the one.
WE ARE IN THE SAME BED BUT HAVE DIFFERENT DREAMS
I want you to be, I think you are. You stir and turn to me, let’s be like this forever you whisper.
I smile, not forever, I think.
entering the world of coffee BY JENNIFER PHAM
like a superhero.
Particularly on those days where the snooze button is hit two (or ten) times too many; where the sun is not a blessing, but a curse that prickles at your eyes until all you see is sizzling red. Those days that are spent lugging heavy books around campus, home-to-lecture-hall, lecture-hall-to-library, library-tolaboratory, and you long to just lie down in that clean-looking patch of grass and tune out everything. Those days where staying awake for a whole PowerPoint slide is a battle, and lectures are wars, and you think to yourself (true to tradition), “you may win the battle, but you cannot win the war.” On those days, I like to order a double – sometimes triple – shot of boilingwa te r -p oure d-th rough - fin e ground-Arabica-coffee-beans, also known as
Whether the effect is actually physical or merely psychological, you undergo a marked change. Your fingertips flinch, your eyes dart around, and your face breaks into a manic grin as you say, “Oh god, I needed that”. Most of all, your heart begins to thump madly, pressing hard against your ribs. You wonder irrationally if you’re in risk of heart puncture, recalling the way that a tire sometimes punctures if you go too fast. You decide that, right now, it is worth the risk, because right now it is absolutely necessary. You make a silent vow to stop as soon as it ceases to be. If the caffeine level is high enough, its effects are far from subtle or inconsequential. In many ways, an espresso shot is comparable to being bitten by a radioactive spider: slightly uncomfortable. Then your vision clears. Suddenly, things that previously seemed impossible are suddenly not only possible, but even quite within reach.
However, should we choose to consume that amount of caffeine on a daily basis, we inevitably lose our superpowers. Either we cease to feel any effect at all, or we realise, in true superhero fashion, that we are nothing without our biggest enemy (a solid night of sleep).
Everybody loves a
but that does not mean that we should always strive to be one. At times, we have to realise the necessity of something light, like a foamy cafĂŠ latte, something sweet, like a white chocolate mocha, or even something seemingly meaningless, like decaf.
Only in those circumstances do we allow ourselves to lean back, close our eyes, and let the world around us slow down. If espresso makes us superheroes, then these drinks make us the characters that we saw in oldschool Disney productions – those characters that were content just sitting back –
If God was a Bee BY MALASHREE SUVEDI If God was a bee We would always hear a constant buzzing From the undergrowth of trees, And from the openings of skies. Therefore, we would always believe, Our faith would depend on a noise, That would end up like jargon.
But isn’t that what the universe is already? If God was a bee, The semi liquid honey we walked on Would hold us tight, Would absorb us quick. Until we swam or drowned, Until we struggled or let go.
If God was a bee, Everything would be Organised and fixed, Goals would be transfixed. If God was a Bee, Nectar would taste so sweet, So strange, So sad
CREATIVE WRITING
ELISAVETA NIKOLAEVNA
IF GOD WAS A BEE
CREATIVE WRITING
IF GOD WAS A BEE: SORT OF A LOVE STORY, KIND OF A COMEDY, MORE OF A TRAGEDY
He, the one with the straight hair, said: “Forget the solar system, Forget the light, Remember the darkness, And how it bled out, Of your rusting veins. Forego life, forego truth, Forego myths such as stars, Forego, darling, O Young, Look up, It will rain thoughtlessly, And mercilessly, But, oh sweet, You are not Moses, You are not God’s Child”
Then she pondered: “He likes dancing to the sound of my voice, Especially when I call out his name, I string him along to a winter wonderland, Where everybody is bored and no one ever dies. I hold his hand, then run as fast as I can, I would love to take him flying, But he only sings of the land.
OFELIA WINTER
I look at my palms and cry, He stands in front of the mirror and smiles. I swallow constellations for better or for worse, And breathe them out. He questions the very existence of the stars. He refuses to believe in the sky, I am but a slave to it.”
CREATIVE WRITING
Then there was him, the one with the wavy hair: “She is, rumour has it, Made up of stars. Yes, those, Big, gaseous, balls of hydrogen, And helium, That forever twinkle in the abyss of distance. Distance between you and I, Between you and I, Between you and I. And between me and her, The Earth and the sky. She looks up, sometimes, Then she even cries, albeit rarely. She smells like an eternity’s worth of sleep; Always dreaming, never here.” She, under grave pressure from her love, the one with the straight hair, couldn’t hear the one with the wavy hair: “The clear blue sky calls out to me, And I feel like dying.” He looks at me and says, “Why can’t you be more grounded?”
He says “Solid ground is important” I move my lips but say nothing. “So incidentally” I finally say, As a bird caws from the distance, “Water isn’t solid either”
IF GOD WAS A BEE: SORT OF A LOVE STORY, KIND OF A COMEDY, MORE OF A TRAGEDY
TEGAN RUSH
I look at him and move my lips, But say nothing. He rows further, And the lake is clear.
He ran his hand through his beautiful wavy hair, and sighed: “There is always a glimmer of relentless, Reluctant hope, That never leaves the human mind. And I pseudo-calculate the chances of Being saved. I am tired, and lonely, I wonder what freedom from time feels like.” He hid his face behind his hair, as straight as the back of a soldier: “Darkness, That’s all, That’s out there. That’s all, That’s out anywhere. Darkness.” She accepted his premises, but wished she could see his face: “It is like fear, except worse, Because it is beautiful, It is divine, It is pure.
OFELIA WINTER
Therefore, it is alluring. It touches you, In a deep, obscure place, Within your soul; The darkness within connects with the darkness outside” He stood in front of the mirror and observed his naked body and his wavy hair, and cried out loud: “Done, destined, deal, We’re doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed I am doomed.” She said with a kind of ephemeral smile that neither belonged here nor there: “Stars are not just beautiful, They are pure and kind. They feed the universe. They are the universe.”
CREATIVE WRITING He, with his straight hair still covering his face, cynically replied: “Humans have this never-ending, Strong, intense, awe-inspiring, Breathtaking, painful, Overwhelming urge, Nay, Need to touch the stars, To become a part of them. This longing stings, for no matter, How far you reach out, No matter how Fast you run, You’ll never truly belong, You’ll never get there fast enough.” She sighed, not from defeat, but from exhaustion: “I know. I understand. No matter how small you feel, You can always feel smaller. But despite that, Or maybe even because of that, I’ll hold out my tongue, Like a toddler in her first snowy winter. And hope that the stars will fall, and instead of burning my tongue It’ll taste sweet Like nectar if God was a bee” He, with his waves and his gentle lips, finally found a way to get her to listen; and he stayed beside her all night: “And we sat there, gazing at the stars, Millions of them lit the sky. And they burned on and on, Incessantly.
She glowed. Surrounded by light, Thousands of years old, Even I felt immortal. I had eternity within my palms.
IF GOD WAS A BEE: SORT OF A LOVE STORY, KIND OF A COMEDY, MORE OF A TRAGEDY
TEGAN RUSH
Her eyes: Big and brown, And tender and caring. They were filled with pain.
I fell in love with her, I wasn’t supposed to, Not here, Not like this. But I did.” She gazed at the beautiful boy and his beautiful waves: “We flew, albeit not too far from the land, Hand in hand, as our fingers entangled each other’s. We laughed, We aimed for the stars but could only reach the electric wires, But it’s okay, We didn’t have to walk. At least we didn’t walk. Our eyelids fluttered, We bit our lips, But we always held hands, We even flew, but only a little” He knew she didn’t love him anymore, his face still hidden under his straight hair, he cried out: “Done, destined, deal, We’re doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed. We are doomed I am doomed.”
OFELIA WINTER
CREATIVE WRITING
She, with all her faults and all her dreams, cried too, leaving him with one piece of advice: Yellow trees, Yellow streets, Yellow houses, Yellow skies. Forever breathtaking, Forever serendipitous, Forever there, Forever dying. Go, run, Go, run towards, Go, run towards it, Go, run towards it fast. Apropos, you’re no hero, Apropos, they’re dying, Apropos, so are you. Apropos, so what? The whispers that you hear, The whispers that are always there, The whispers that burn, The whispers that hurt, Are the voices of Gods Jump, jump, Jump, higher, Jump, faster, Jump, stronger. It is not a lie, Although it might seem so, It is the truest truth, It is in you. There are stars out there.
IF GOD WAS A BEE: SORT OF A LOVE STORY, KIND OF A COMEDY, MORE OF A TRAGEDY
The Great Leap Forward
N
ot having skydived, I couldn’t tell you that this is what it feels like, but I think it might be. Plunging headfirst into the unknown, not sure if the parachute works and knowing that there will be no solid ground under your feet. When I went paragliding, the first thing I had to do was run off a cliff. It felt irrational, it went against all my instincts, and I had to force myself to take a leap into thin air. It felt wrong, until I
was airborne, flying. I find it reassuring that I was scared though; it would be alarming if there wasn’t the slightest bit of anticipation; if my body didn’t scream in protest against something so unnatural.
And I must admit that I would be worried if I plunged into everything with the same enthusiasm as I do a tub of ice cream.
Yet I find it amazing that do. Even when I predisposed to run the way, I have the strength for it. Why? Is it
I still am other to go
the adrenaline rush, the feeling of really being alive, the blood pumping in my veins, the thought could this be it? I think we forget how to be alive sometimes, we get too comfortable, because it is so much easier going through life denying that we are scared. But life is scary, this moment right here is scary as hell, but I
know that I have to do it, take the step and try at least once even though it is the last thing I want to do.
Because when it goes wrong, it goes so wrong. It hurts like you wouldn’t even know what hit you. And it won’t just kick you once, are you crazy? It will come at you again and again till you can barely get up. And then it will punch and pinch until you scream for it to stop, and you crawl away. And you get over it, or so you think, but trust me, you’re not really over it, you never will be. It will
come back. It will whisper in your ear, pull your hair and twist the soft skin on the inside of your elbow just to remind you that it hasn’t, and will never, forget you completely.
So is it worth it? I wouldn’t know for sure, no one does. It will be hard, really hard sometimes, and there will be days where I will want to give up, to lie down and let it eat me. And there will be nights where I fight so bravely I should have a medal and a big trophy with my name and achievements carved into it, so that I could prove that I really did fight. I may come in second place sometimes, but at
least I will have my trophy to prove that my participation was appreciated. And maybe there will only be one single day where I feel it is worth it. That this is what I was meant to be doing all along. Maybe there will be several; maybe they will come in abundance. I don’t know. At this point I don’t know anything at all and I think I like it like that. It is part of the thrill, part of the jump. I will
take the great leap forward at my own pace though and see where that takes me.
MUSIC
MUSIC ALL PHOTOS BY AMANDA WAGNER
BY HAMY NGUYEN
It’s mid-November and slightly chilly. I am waiting for Patrick Dorie to arrive, and hope to catch him before he begins his show at the Horseshoe Tavern in downtown Toronto. The cozy and soft-lit nightclub on Queen Street West is known for its support of and role as a career springboard for many beloved Canadian acts such as Bryan Adams, Blue Rodeo, The Tragically Hip, and Our Lady Peace. As the first act of the night begins to take the stage, Patrick arrives.
PATRICK DORIE
Wide-eyed, plaid shirted, beanie’d and wielding a beer, the Whitby artist strikes me as a little shy, but doesn’t seem to mind the attention — someone who hates the city, but doesn’t mind the stage. This makes sense when I later ask him what he would have been, had he not been a musician. “I’d probably be a lumberjack,” he deadpanned, “I’d probably already be living in a cabin in the woods on a lake. That’s my honest answer.”
Like a good idea, gone bad, “Don’t Don’t try to put yourself in disastrous situations just to get one song out of it”.
MUSIC He took me back to where it all began. In grade five, his aunt and uncle had moved in with his family for a few months. Patrick credits his uncle, who was a guitar teacher, for introducing him to music and instruments. Bob came along like a revelation a little later. “In high school, I found my dad’s old record player. He showed me how to set it up, handed me a record and told me to put it on,” he gushes. “It was the album Blood on the Tracks by Bob Dylan. That’s the one that got me into music.” To this day, the album remains a fundamental part of his music and drive to create art. You can hear Dylan’s heavy influence, eminent in Dorie’s songs through raw, vivid and nuanced lyrical narratives woven almost effortlessly into his folk repertoire. Drawing inspiration from everyday
PATRICK DORIE
life, “mostly when [he’s] upset about something”, his own worst critic, Patrick says that out of every 100 songs he writes, he probably scratches off 98. Nonetheless, his best ‘keeper’ songs are all penned under fifteen minutes. Music first or lyrics first? Both at the same time, neither one’s first, neither one’s later. Taking another sip of his beer, he describes the worst thing that can happen to a writer: “When you don’t feel anything, when you’re in that neutral zone,” he rants, “You’ve got nothing, you just can’t write a song.” Well, what do you do to get out of that? “Live my everyday life and hope that something happens that makes me feel more than neutral again.” Like a good idea, gone bad, “Don’t try to put yourself in disastrous situations just to get one song out of it,” he advises, chucks his beer and excuses himself to get ready to take the stage.
Recorded with The Stellas in Nashville, Patrick’s latest LP, Goodbye Expectations, is a nine-track crooner about love and death, but most prominently, being lost. Patrick calls on the second track on the album, Sleep Where the Dead Dogs Lie, to illustrate this theme. Lost, not as in having something taken away or broken, but as in having no direction, the aimless search for something meaningful, from “travel[ling] where my fortune takes me” to “float[ing] of the step like a trainwreck”. Patrick searches for purpose – “the apple of my eye” – and a fight to pursue that purpose. But whether he is wrestling with feeling lost, or death or love, music is an outlet, a cathartic and therapeutic way to work out what can only be ex-
pressed in lyrics and melodies. So for 30 minutes, Patrick Dorie and band, The Honest Thieves, entertained the headbobbing, feet-tapping, and sing -along-ing audience of the Horseshoe Tavern with the aftermath of wrestling – music. A natural entertainer, he threw an occasional self-depreciating joke every now and then, and polled the audience to see if he should keep the beanie on or take it off. He kept it on. Patrick Dorie seems to have somehow found a way to make ugly things a little less ugly, upsetting things a little more pleasant. He somehow found a way to make things work, and work pretty well.
MUSIC
THE CONTRADICTIVE SOUL
ALL PHOTOS BY HANNAH USTUN Pain – the only thing worth living for – anything of substance, anyway. It’s everything that we derive from, and all of our conclusions. Not pain in the common sense of the word, but pain as in life in its entirety. Any emotion or provocation, anything that makes you stop for those extra seconds of contemplation, those necessary seconds of revelation. That’s all he gave to the world. Not drugs, sex or rock ’n roll, but something that stretches far beyond the surface of the overused media diatribe that surrounded him. The vestigial apparitions of their souls slept with him, within the crevices and seams of his skin, they caressed and rattled his tongue into ridiculous motions. They cradled and distorted his mind and words, born of manipulation, of the eradication of pure innocence. An enlightenment of sorts, disguised as a curse, perceived as corruption. He was described
as transcendent, a demi-god and antichrist beautifully entwined into a creature of fascination. That happens when you have something different to say. Something that indents scars into their pretty little physiques and creases in their perfect little ties. His insight, his imagination, his own life and death tortured by his innocence, and his aptitude. He was something too beautiful to live. His death could only bring light, for in death ‘everyone shines’. Everyone’s words are listened to that little bit more. It was from seeing death that he saw the world, from seeing pain that he sought such exuberant numbness – the kind only felt when wholly alive. The others snarled at his romanticised ideology, his adolescent wit. People needed to be torn apart, wrought, their terrors and weaknesses exposed and laughed at. Make them feel something by taking them into the unknown.
MUSIC
THE CONTRADICTIVE SOUL
The only way he could ever exist was through a derangement of the senses; they took you to the unknown, through the Doors, doors carved with words and sexual provocation. Tell all the little girls to go fuck their fathers and all the little boys to go fuck their mothers, torture their innocence, like those apparitions torture his every day. Oh, such a sad little boy, mummy and daddy didn’t love me? His loneliness only ever existed surrounded by distraction and light, his existence became a retaliation of that light. People draw lines around themselves in the sand and repel everything they love and fear the most. For him the lights and people only exacerbated his solitude,
‘Drivin' down your freeways, Midnight alleys roam, Cops in cars, the topless bars Never saw a woman... So alone, so alone, so alone, so alone’ - JIM MORRISON So what if your petite mind screams? Surround yourself with people that say normal things, people capable of a socially accepted way of loving, how to conclude that this is a good idea gone bad, be exceptionally normal, ignorance is key, repetition is key, watch a lot of television sweetheart. If this touches some tiny underdeveloped sense of humanity, that sense of tortured artistic martyrdom, come on board. Know that nothing can ever be considered normal again, not by the rules they dictate.
MUSIC
“watch a lot of television sweetheart.”
THE CONTRADICTIVE SOUL
Get naked every so often; articulate the sickness in your synapses. Avoid editing, avoid everything they want you to be, avoid making sense, avoid the mirror. Death is what saves you, death is not the enemy, your reflection is, contest it, you are one single moment of spontaneous consciousness. Your words and sound a complete reflection of this, the only true representation of reality.
They think they know reality, society; it’s to somehow to make you important, to program the idea that your identity is some sort of external entity; it is merely nothingness, but your pain resonating into all other mutable landscapes.
MUSIC
THE CONTRADICTIVE SOUL
THE STORY OF THE FREE ART MACHINE
FEATURE
FREE ART MACHINE
Max Goldman •
•
•
•
•
Artisan and science enthusiast Has a degree in chemistry from Roosevelt university Lived in the Himalayan mountains in the Buddhist commune for two years Formulates soap and pink hair products Teaches regular chemistry classes for kids
FIVE thin
ngs ABOUT
FEATURE
Leo Rosen •
•
•
•
•
FREE ART MACHINE
Photographer, videographer, studio artist Majored in film at Columbia college Mother is a painter, father is a commercial director Takes photographs for cafes and galleries Inspired by public art projects and utilizing “unused” space in urban settings
“I have a business, but no space to do it in!” said Leo. “I have a space, but no business!” said Max.
FEATURE
We were doing monthly shows, featuring different artists. Then we got this idea of bringing affordable art to people, and breaking the old gallery model where everything has to cost $20,000. Untouchable, sort of intimidating. How can we make a really cheap piece of art, we asked ourselves. How cheap can we make it and still have it be interesting and attractive – a piece of art you would want?
It got down to the $1 mark. Then we thought, that is so cheap, we could give away 100 pieces and that would only cost $100. We started accumulating the collection of Chicago the Beautiful Library, and at our opening show, we debuted a wall of 300 free art pieces. All these people came out and we emptied the wall twice. We gave away 600 pieces that day. People’s reactions were mostly just “Why?” It’s a dollar, but the effect is huge. It changes the room. On top of that, we made all the money back through the donation box. At the end of the night, there is always magically exactly how much money we put into the free art in the donation box.
FREE ART MACHINE
Leo: One of the biggest things we are trying to say is that although art is not usually free, it is here. Art is free in the sense that you create value in a photo and a piece of wood. You look at it and make it beautiful with your mind. You make beauty and overlay it on the object instead of it radiating out towards you. It’s taking back the control. We’re reminding people that they have that ability, that by having an artistic mind, you can develop a vocabulary to discern the kind of things you like and the kind of things you don’t. When people are at the wall and they have to choose which one to take home with them, they have to look at every single one. They sit at the wall for 3 hours and pick which one they like, thereby developing their artistic eye. It mimics the whole process of art buying on a smaller scale. Max: You’re exercising this part of someone’s mind that they’re normally not using. When you’re watching television, it’s just going in. Choosing between different channels is not much of a choice. This, you really get to express yourself, it’s artistic in a way. Some people are terrified, and can’t believe we’re giving them something.
FEATURE
Art is free in the sense that you create value in a photo and a piece of wood. You look at it and make it beautiful with your mind.
FREE ART MACHINE
You don’t have to be a photographer with a huge repertoire of work. amateurs take great photographs all the time.
FEATURE
HOW MANY CONTRIBUTIONS HAVE YOU RECEIVED? We’ve received thousands of pieces of artwork. Some people submit 300 images at once. There is no limit to how many you can submit. We have over 20 GB of submissions we need to go through, all in .jpeg!
Is it just the two of you looking through these pictures? Yeah, right on. We just project it on a giant TV screen and go like, “yes, no, yes, no…” It’s really cool though, because if you at least somewhat consider yourself a photographer, that means you have at least a few photographs you really like. Every photographer has at least one or two. You don’t have to be a photographer with a huge repertoire of work. Amateurs take great photographs all the time.
But you’re gonna hire people to help, aren’t you? Yeah! There are lots of artisans around, mostly those who enjoy the idea so much that they want to volunteer. There’s a new energy that comes out of volunteering. Here’s this money, we trust you, go do what you do!
FREE ART MACHINE
Is it anonymous? Leo: The back of the blocks are stamped with the initials of the artist or photographer. If you go to our website, you can find more information about them, and ways to buy artwork of theirs. The idea is that we expose and empower artists and get them money. Max: Art is not a very respected profession. It is seen by many as a cop-out, a lazy career choice. That’s really missing the whole point. I would like to do whatever I can to make art a stronger part of society.
Where do you see the Free Art Machine going? Leo: The Free Art Machine will continue forever! We plan on making little resin sculptures that will cost maybe 30 cents to make. We’ll have people come in with their designs from home and create free art that way. There are lots of cool ways to expand the Free Art Machine, to spread it out, to change it. If we get $25,000 [from kickstarter.com] we can commission artists that we really like and say something like, “Here’s $500, make 500 pieces of free art”. That is super exciting for me, who knows what they are going to come up with? Max: It may transform into all kinds of things that are not even under “Chicago the Beautiful”, stuff like “Moscow the beautiful” and so on. It’s not our idea: it’s an idea. Leo: The experiment runs as long as we keep getting the money back.
For more information about the Free Art Machine, check out the following link: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/615529996/the-free-art-machine
FEATURE
“It’s not our idea. it’s an idea.”
FREE ART MACHINE
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INSIGHT illustrators|photographers|painters
We gave four of our contributors an unlimited budget, all the time of the world and some magic powers, and asked them where they would live. Meet Hannah, Aguss, Sofia and Sally through their dream homes (and feel a bit jealous!)
Oregon Maple Trees, also known as Acer macrophyllum, are large deciduous trees that can grow up to 48 meters tall. Weeping Willows can grow up to 15 meters in height and develop a large fan of overhanging branches carrying long and fine pale green leaves. I have always had such a love for trees, in particular the Oregon Maple and the Weeping Willow, which define my idyllic paradise so well. Perhaps my love has its roots in the films I used to watch as a child, especially Disney's Fantasia and the all-time classics, The Jungle Book and Peter Pan. I remember watching the centaurs and the dance of the sugar plum fairy with the mesmerizing sensation I still feel in this imaginary realm I so desperately want to be part of.
My world would be similar to Disney’s in its origins. I would reside deep within an enchanted forest, one which would be even more spectacular than anything previously imagined.
I travel to Turkey a lot to visit my family and soak up some sun and culture. I thrive in its timeless surroundings: magnificient Mosques and cosmopolitan culture. I also love travelling abroad to music festivals, experiencing music in different and often inspiring surroundings. I have always felt more at ease in the sun and the sea than I have wandering the streets of Sheffield and Edinburgh, however much they are my home. I would take this essence with me and hold it in a prolonged moment in time, in a quiet, tranquil and vast setting. My forest would stretch on for miles, harmless and beautiful. Gorges, rivers and waterfalls. Shores, sunsets and lagoons.
Hidden abandoned temple sites with Greek Ionic structures and sculptural monuments. Random, electric splashes of colour cover everything, with planes of short grass and cherry blossom trees, littered with tree houses and tent dens. I realise that this does not reflect my work very well. However, it is an alternate reality. I am sure that if I lived and breathed in a place like the one created in my mind, my work would be very different due to this influence. That said, maybe there is a project or two, rooted in my obsession with Fantasia, which have yet to come‌
Nature is the balm for a city-worn spirit. My dream place would be somewhere quiet; a place where I could hear the crunching of snow and the breath of the land. My dream house has more to do with a dream of a garden than an actual house. The garden is the embodiment of organized chaos, a harmony of plants that support and nourish each other and me. Vegetables shoot up from the ground, herbs spill from large porcelain pots, wild grass and flowers and bushes full of berries grow wherever they can. Fruit trees, swaying gently from afar, guarding me watchfully with their silent shadows.
When I was little, I talked to the trees. And to the bushes and flowers and everything else - but mostly the trees. They seemed so wise and strong, and I always imagined that they would protect me. Maybe you think I am crazy. And maybe I will tell you that I never really had a father. But the trees still whisper to me, and they are telling me to come back, that the city is claiming my sanity and salvation is not to be found in others’ versions of life. My dream place would be somewhere quiet.
I am an Indian girl with a camera. I speak in three languages. Write in two. Dream in one
Sally Annice Peter. Sal, Nandu (which means crab in tamil). 19 years Mumbai, India. I was 10, I guess. I think it takes a creative person to properly express art or emotions in some way or other. I started off as a highly ambitious poet, and failed at it. I like to turn moments into memories. a Canon 550D, 18-55 mm and 55-250 mm
“There it is, on the far shore of the dancing mirror. The shore where the sun shines forever and little showers moisten the soft grass and leave diamonds on the rose buds. You could take a boat, park along the front. If you’re lucky you may even catch them with their coffee. Otherwise you can go around, along the shore. With the soft green grass that smells like first rain, push past that field of daisies and you will see a little house, a happy house. If you’re lucky enough to go unnoticed you might witness a few Labrador pups wrestling in the grass bursting with glee, the German Shepherd and the Golden Retriever dozing and the suspiciously Garfield-
ish, fat, happy cats grooming themselves. But look, oh weary traveller, if the horses are not tethered to their post, you are too late. They have left for their dreams. Then return, stranger, for it is of no avail to follow the
scars in the grass. It does not matter what business reckons you to those white walls, which are caressed by the mountain breeze. It will have to wait, for they have gone to their dreams.”
AGUSTINA BALLESTER Argentina
My dream place, if it were a town, would have to be one containing the streets of Paris, a bit of the Belle Époque, and petit cafÊs on almost every corner. Cobblestone roads and old houses. The vehicles of the town would have to be pastelcolored Cadillacs (although I would love to see beautiful old carriages passing through). The vintage atmosphere would be so lovely. Regarding the fashion of the place, every piece of clothing would have to be inspired by the big and sumptuous dresses of the 1800s, the era of Marie Antoinette ( imagine the Queen of France driving a Cadillac!), but with a Tim-Burtonian twist. I would love to add to those dresses a touch of violet, strong colours, and pieces of lace and tiny skulls.
The governor or president of the country would be the cinema director, Sofia Coppola, because everything she directs is absolutely beautiful, naïve and delicate, The aesthetics of objects would have to be retro, with lots of pastel touches, and lots of 50’s designs, like the pin-up posters and -calendars in bars. If I were there, I would probably be at a pin-up style café,
watching the cobblestone roads through the window, wearing a majestic, flowered, violet rococo dress with little skull details. On my table, my camera, and a chocolate and strawberry milkshake. In one hand, I would have "The Tell-tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe, and in the other, I would have the car keys of the Cadillac that would be parked outside. A perfect life.
Serial PHotographers These next pages will show you some dangerous ideas. They were spotted all over the world. From a backbend in the middle of the street to someone trying to bring dinosaurs back to life or sitting in a tennis court. How dangerous are your ideas?
Всего понемножку
BEAUTY OF NATURE
B
eauty of nature is often under-appreciated by youth. The tragedy of the negligence of nature is that we take it for granted. We exploit our freedom to touch the cold water, to smell the fresh air, to see the site of budding flowers. Instead, we subject ourselves and our given landscape to careless behavior. As if we are entitled to the peace we find in nature. As if our negligence to the preservation of nature will not chase away the life that colours our world. As if there will be no consequence for the mistreatment of our environment. The tragedy is that we forget, from time to time, that we do not own the planet, but are privileged to be granted our time here.
Portsmouth
MEGAN
PHIPPS
At the Zoo
DANA LESCINERE
PAPER AND PENCIL Rhetoric Illustrators: Ofelia Botella and Tegan Rush
OFELIA
BOTELLA
This bag contains 200 grams of good ideas; once opened, store in creative and challenging spaces. Best before‌
O F E L I A B OT E L L A
PanthĂŠon, Paris
Blue Fish, Blue Moon
Sunken Stories TEGAN RUSH
She’d committed herself entirely to the books, aspiring to be closer to each word than the thousands of readers before her. She’d opened up to them, and they had opened up to her. Unfortunately, books, like people, got jealous, and being only one among thousands wasn’t good enough for anyone.
That morning she’d wanted to feel the prickle of salt on her arms, and the elusive fingers of sunlight moving through the deep, so she’d chosen this volume. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she had picked it up, and she didn’t feel the brooding envy beneath its brittle, salt scented binding.
The room was heavy, the books saturated, bloated, ink smeared, or seeping into the cotton seams. The book had only wanted her full attention, without the distraction of these shelves of stories, these other friends, but would the girl herself survive the sinking?
Turn the page to find out what inspired Tegan and the techniques she used for Sunken Stories!
TEGAN
RUSH
Self portrait
About Sunken Stories This piece was done with the children’s book illustrations of Chris Van Allsburg in mind. I wanted to capture the luminosity that he always achieves in his pencil and charcoal work. My piece is done in varying hardness of pencil on card. I used my eraser extensively, to cut light into the image. I was able to get clean, defined lines, and high contrast between touching shapes, by blocking off areas with another piece of paper, and working along the edge. While I worked on this image I was absorbed by the movement of light through the room, and I think this added a great deal to its atmosphere. The story-like nature of this piece reflects the idea of good ideas gone bad. Opening a book to the potential adventure it holds will always seem like a good idea, but of course, this would not be the case if the book had an intelligent and malicious mind of its own.
COMMENTARY
Carnival BY ROMAN SUVOROV
I'd like to say I'm not afraid of anything, but that simply isn’t true. I often find myself scared to simply check the news. Fifteen seconds on BBC or CNN is enough to make my stomach turn. Dozens of civilians dead in the Middle East. Increasingly oppressive police round up the last few human rights activists in Russia.
Two teenage girls shot to death in Texas. Just your typical news day. A well-dressed, pretty woman on T.V. smiles gently and says:
Advise us all you want, but we just can't seem to look away. Sick vicarious pleasure or a natural need, an echo of ancient survival instincts? No, I'm not here to argue about what true human nature is that's a task best left to Hobbes and Rousseau. But I do sometimes wonder if violence and immorality have become an accepted part of media and pop culture in all of its forms. I fear that we have become dependent on it.
Maybe the taste for blood was always there, and the media simply does its job in satisfying a natural craving. Or maybe today's age of "information overload" makes it hard to sell a story unless it's got a bit of gore to it. Doesn't matter if the story relates to our real world or a fantasy land - it'd be dull unless the audience can be exposed to all the twisted details. Take "Game of Thrones", a critically acclaimed TV show with great writing, deep characters and an engaging plot yet it is most famous for graphic violence and extensive sex scenes. So lose yourself among the armies of kingdoms of Westeros that raid each other's lands, burn each other's cities and rape each other's women.
Or take control of the flawed hero of a hit video game "Max Payne 3" - a cynical, misanthropic part-time mercenary, part-time alcoholic. Make him shoot countless other mercs in slow motion, following each bullet's path from your gun through their flesh. Or take the night off, relax and head down to see "The Hunger Games" at your local movie theatre to watch teenagers kill each other to earn the right to live. I can understand that true journalism sometimes needs to expose the cruelty of our own world,
but do we have to bring it into the worlds we create as well?
Our civilization achieves higher and higher levels of technological progress every day, but is that progress reflected in our true feelings, ambitions, cravings, our very nature? One may argue that evolution moves painfully slow, and that modern people are still controlled by beastly instincts, despite wielding almost godlike powers.
Perhaps that's true, but we've already seized control of many aspects of our species' evolution. Medicine and biotechnology promise to make us healthier, smarter, faster, stronger – could they also make us kinder and more compassionate? Or would that change affect who we really are maybe the struggle against weakness is what makes us truly human?
Questions without answers. Not so long ago, our ancestors didn't even have the luxury of hoping to one day overcome the negative aspects of our nature – so instead of exorcising these demons, they kept them on a leash... most of the time. Last century's French philosopher René Guénon describes our ancestors' use of carnivals as an outlet for their proverbial "dark side" in a controlled environment. From Saturnalia to The Feast of Fools, carnivals weren't just big parties, but rather valves meant to periodically release society's internal pressure that naturally builds up over time. For that brief period, people were allowed to mock the church to the point of blatant sacrilege, slaves switched places with masters and rampant drunken chaos was the norm. Guénon said that the carnivals were no longer needed: the liberal nature of modern society is, in fact, in the state of a "perpetual sinister carnival".
I can't help but see the traces of this carnival everywhere I go, hear it in the words of people I listen to and smell it in the air I breathe. Liberalism brought us freedom, but it's never enough – could it be that in the quest of its absolutism, we've unleashed much darker desires that we'd normally keep under wraps in a more conservative society?
Who knows, maybe someday this spiritual progress that so far evades our hearts will catch up to the technological progress our minds have already set in motion. Maybe then we'll forget the notions of war, poverty and cruelty even existed. But until then we'd be well advised to not get lost in the intoxicating madness of this perpetual sinister carnival.
SACRIFICES AND A BIRTHDAY WISH BY EKATERINA MANOYLENKO
before blowing out the candles on his birthday cake, my sixyear-old brother made a beautiful and earnest wish – he asked for the members of our family to live forever.
He announced his wish proudly, like it was within his ability to prevent our deaths, as if sacrificing his birthday wish was enough to prevent us from one day disappearing off the earth. My parents and I were incredibly touched, so we thanked him, and made him feel proud of having spent his wish on us, instead of asking for a new race car or whatever else he might have wanted before he discovered the existence of death. This situation made me wonder – how many of us find it hard to accept the existence of death and live without fearing it? Why do we embrace life so passionately? We know we will all succumb to death eventually, and that the fruits of our persistence and hard work will most likely be forgotten in less than a decade after we are gone. And I remembered a time, a few months ago, when I had felt completely lost, and so scared that I might never find the answers to that last question. I remember feeling like I was in “a dark place”, always questioning the effort I put into loving the things and people around me, because there was no point. And again, now, I remember how those times were so unbearably hard.
Luckily, I came across a book which changed my perspective on life, death and existence in the peak of those hard times. It changed my idea of the relationship between dreaming and doing, love and indifference, and it made me see the point, the one so many of us search for. The book was titled “All Men Are Mortal”, written by a French philosopher, Simone de Beauvoir, in 1946. It tells the incredible story of Raimon Fosca’s prolonged existence, from the time he was born in the 13th century, until he meets the ambitious actress Regina sometime in the early nineteen-hundreds. Trapped in immortality by choice, he was unable to experience passion or anger. Forever, he was stuck in the body of a man who could never feel fulfilled, could never feel brave, and could never love someone completely. He could not do those humanly things, because he had nothing to sacrifice – he had all the time in the world, and his reversible two-minute death held no meaning or significance. We all have such short time on Earth and we all sacrifice our time
for the things we believe to be important. But he could not give; he could not sacrifice that, which was most valuable in his existence – his life. I came to a liberating conclusion the sacrifices that we make in our daily life, or in difficult and conflicting situations, are actually what give value and meaning to our lives. We take them for granted or, even worse, complain about having to make them. But these sacrifices are the most important decisions in making us who we are, decisions which complete us and let us feel fulfilled. Whether it is the big sacrifice of donating an organ to a stranger, or the small one of a birthday wish – both of those sacrifices define us, challenge us and let us live a life of value. This wise story of a bored immortal man taught me to value my life and accept the fact that it must eventually come to an end.
now i see mortality as a gift, which makes my existence on this planet meaningful, real and full of taste.
A TRIBUTE TO DEMOCRACY BY TATE CHONG
A world wrecked by misuse of power, Abusing the mind of the common man. Then came his belief to restore our lives, To save the individual with a brilliant plan. So break down the chains of censorship. Take down the corrupt who refuse to share. Destroy their selfish monuments, And construct from scratch something fair and square. Teach all to think, to invent, to speak, Extend a hand to those who crawl. Give out ideas, some muses, some dreams. Hand out equality on the streets for all. Short-sighted the dissenters, surely they’ll fail; For only He can see what we truly need. Why bother indulging in the act of thought, When His plan already proves efficiency. Follow the example, just listen and smile, And you, too, will roll in the vines of Eden. Dare not digress from our noble path, Else, you state traitor, you shall be beaten. A world wrecked by misuse of power, Abusing the mind of the common man. Then came my belief to restore our lives, To save the individual with a brilliant plan.
COMMENTARY
ALL OTHER PHOTOS BY LUCY HENSHALL
DANA LESCINERE
DANA LESCINERE
A TRIBUTE TO DEMOCRACY
BY LUCY TURNER
Change is what many people left scattered in the dusty remains spend every passing day waiting for. There is much left to be desired in Zimbabwe. The days of pride when Zimbabwe was more self-sufficient, known as ‘the bread basket of southern Africa’ up until 2000, have long since passed. According to the International Organization for Migration, half a million people have left the country in the last fifteen years through official channels, chased out by corruption and insecurity. The face that the country shows to the outside world is one of relative stability,
No political change, even for the better, comes without suffering. As the saying goes, it has to get worse before it can get better. Looking at Egypt, you can see how much struggle they went though, with at least 846 people killed and 6000 people injured during the protests, all in the name of change.
Months after the former President Mubarak was overthrown, the storm has not yet blown over. In June, thousands of protesters gathered in Tahrir Square to demonstrate against the outcome of the recent presidential election. Following the protests, the Muslim Brotherhood’s Mohamed Morsi took office. However, although Morsi had previously been very critical of Mubarak’s authoritarian control of state-owned media, now that the tables have turned, he is said to be going down the same road.
This has become the story of success in overthrowing dictatorial presidents, but stability and “clean slates” are not achieved that easily. Zimbabwe might be more stable, due to its fixed government and lack of protests. However, the question remains: is the corruption worth the stability?
In Libya, political unrest continues, as thirty-two members of a network loyal to the deposed leader, Gaddafi, were recently arrested in connection to bombings on the anniversary of the fall of Tripoli to rebel fighters.
The people in Zimbabwe quietly suffer, as the country struggles with no recognition from the rest of the world.
With its harsh media censorship, the reality of the local Zimbabwean does not make it past the borders. Due to its 95% unemployment rate, poverty lurks through the streets. Even the judicial branch is undercompensated, creating an optimal environment for corruption. Since 2004, Zimbabwe has suffered food shortages, With its harsh media censorship, the reality of the local Zimbabwean does not make it past the borders. Due to its 95% unemployment rate, poverty lurks through the streets. Even the judicial branch is undercompensated, creating an optimal environment for corruption. Since 2004, Zimbabwe has suffered food shortages, which
which have been blamed on Mugabe’s aggressive land reforms. On August 1st, 2012, The Guardian reported that food shortages in Zimbabwe could leave 1.6 million in need of aid by 2013. Similarly, electricity and water shortages are frequent. The struggles are not limited to the physical, but extend to the restriction of freedoms, such as sexual orientation. Four months ago, rumours circulated that Zimbabwean ministers were encouraging local chiefs to continue the eviction of homosexuals, never to be disclosed in international news.
It is hard to say what Zimbabwe’s next steps will be. In 1980, Zimbabwe gained its independence from the United Kingdom. Thirty-two years later, Mugabe preached about peaceful elections in his Independence Day speech. However, the Zimbabwean people remain critical of his promises, and considering his twenty-four years as Zimbabwe’s head of state, rightly so.
A formal transition from an autocracy to democracy would undoubtedly lower the corruption. This means change and therefore temporary instability, but instability that would slowly begin to approach recovery.
NOTHING BUT CHEMISTRY HERE BY ROMAN SUVOROV
ART BY OTIS FRAMPTON WWW.OTISFRAMPTON.COM
“Breaking Bad'' is one hell of a disturbing show. Not just because it is about Walter White, a 50-year old, brilliant chemist who uses his knowledge to manufacture crystal meth, a powerful and addictive synthetic drug, whose fast rise in the black market in the last 15 years has been nothing short of a pandemic. Not just because his original reasons to tread this dark path were arguably noble: diagnosed with advanced lung cancer and burdened with massive medical bills, he still had to support his wife and two children. Not just because the show is painfully realistic
NOTHING BUT CHEMISTRY HERE
COMMENTARY
in its portrayal of the way drug trade and use can destroy individuals, families and communities. And not even because one can see how easily this terrible drug may be made by anyone with just a basic understanding of organic chemistry. The show is unwavering in showing that one's actions have consequences, and it is those actions that ultimately make us who we are, good or bad. Circumstances play a role, but being good or bad is a result of one's conscious choice - often a complicated one, but a choice nonetheless.
As morally gray as the original premise was, Walt's path has unquestionably grown darker and darker. “Breaking Bad'' has never been shy in conveying this — be it through subtle symbolism of critically acclaimed cinematography or blatant, crude scenes of graphic violence, such as the first time Walt and his partner-in-crime, Jesse, have to get rid of a body by dissolving it in sulfuric acid. Jesse, a street-wise kid who failed
chemistry in high school, does the deed in his bathtub and the corrosive acid predictably eats right through it, spilling the remains of what used to be a human being all over the house. As Walt and his knucklehead partner clean up the mess, he flashes back to his younger days when he discussed the makeup of human body with a colleague:
- Let's break it down. H: 63%. O: 26%. C: 9%. N: 1.25%. Ca: .25%. Na: .04%. P: .19%. Cl: .20%. S: .05%. We're just under .02% shy and yet it just seems like there's something missing. There's got to be more to a human being than that. - What about the soul? - The soul? There is nothing but chemistry here.
COMMENTARY The childishly naive question asked by Walt's colleague is met with a cold, logical answer - and a sarcastic chuckle. We are nothing but sixty-three percent hydrogen, twenty-six percent oxygen, nine percent carbon, one-and-aquarter percent nitrogen and other trace elements held together with covalent bonds into molecules that form cells, tissue and organs. There is zero percent of this “soul'' element, no double helix regulating “emotions'', no organ responsible for compassion. Walt's physicalism is perfectly justifiable in the chemistry lab, but it is a foreshadowing of soonto-come dark times when he starts experimenting with human lives the same way he experiments with acids, ethers and al-
dehydes. The use of sulfuric acid to dissolve the evidence of his crimes throughout the show is symbolic: the highly corrosive substance easily eats through ceramics, metal, and yes, flesh and bone — similar to the way consequences of Walt's decisions corrode his very soul. Dozens of people dead, many of them innocent; lives of loved ones put at risk; a marriage falling apart — it all spirals out of control very quickly. Walt is appalled by his actions at first and terrified by how quickly the evil spreads though his life. However, he is able to justify it all by the simultaneous spreading of cancer through his body, the imminent demise it implies, and a desperate need to provide for his family before he is gone.
ART BY OTIS FRAMPTON WWW.OTISFRAMPTON.COM NOTHING BUT CHEMISTRY HERE
“When the devil wants to dance with you, you'd better say never because the dance with the devil might last you forever.� Walt's cancer goes into remission, but having had a taste of real money and, more importantly, pure adrenaline of his new lifestyle, so drastically different from his previously bland existence, he does not give up his new life of crime. It slowly changes everything about him, from demeanor and appearance to even his name. The alias “Heisenberg'', which he starts using for the purposes of drug trade, is a reference to a German scientist who discovered a fundamental law of quantum mechanics, The Uncertainty Principle. It states that the more precise one determines the position of a particle, the less certain can one be of its momentum, and vice versa. Similarly, the deeper our former protagonist slides along this downward spiral, the less there is left of Walter White, an old school teacher, husband and father, modest and soft -spoken man. Instead, we see more and more of Heisenberg, possessed by the young lust of money and the power it brings, alone at his mountaintop, unquestionably evil in his unrelenting quest to get what he wants. The consequences of Walt's actions are horrible and there can be no debate on whether they are ethical. However, the show touches on a much more worthy debate: what is ethical? It firmly rejects consequentialism, the belief that it is the ultimate consequences of one's actions that are the basis of the judgment of their rightness - or, more colloquially, that the ends justify the means. The original purpose of Walt's scheme was to provide for
COMMENTARY
his family, which he quickly accomplishes. In fact, he makes so much money that his wife, Skyler, forced to launder the ill-gotten riches, begins simply stacking it up in a storage unit. And even though the ever-growing pile of money now contains enough for “ten lifetimes'', it brings them no happiness. “I want my life back'', Skyler says simply. No theory of ethics provides us with the definite answer, as the purpose of philosophy is not finding the answers, but rather searching for them. However, one school of thought always appealed to me - that of Immanuel Kant, who famously advised us to treat each other as “ends in themselves'' as opposed to merely means to other ends. Human beings are more than just hydrogen, oxygen, carbon and nitrogen held together by mysterious forces, and as soon as one starts routinely thinking of people this way, there is no coming back - it is the proverbial point of no return when one truly “breaks bad''. It has nothing to do with drugs or crime - one could have an absolutely normal life, which is similarly absolutely devoid of higher meaning if fellow human beings become nothing but stepping stones on the way to some ultimate goal - and the nobility of that goal does not matter. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. The realization that your actions have real consequences that affect other people around you - and each action is a result of your conscious choice between light and darkness - is quite scary as it places the responsibility squarely on your shoulders. But it can also be liberating, for at least the choice is always yours.
NOTHING BUT CHEMISTRY HERE
PHOTOGRAPH BY OFELIA BOTELLA
COMMENTARY
BOOKS PLAYLIST BY MALASHREE SUVEDI
BOOKS PLAYLIST
Searching or I will find what I Am looking for once I know what that is: The Picture of Dorian Gray. Anne of Green Gables. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle.
Aguss Ballester
COMMENTARY
MOLLY GERTENBACH
Nostalgia or I miss everything about there and I do not want to be here: Norwegian Wood. Everything is illuminated. The Great Gatsby. BOOKS PLAYLIST
Doubt or I Am so small - oh no I am having an existential crisis again: The Metamorphosis. The Unbearable lightness of being. The Little Prince. Dance Dance Dance.
MOLLY GERTENBACH
COMMENTARY
HANNAH USTUN
Sadness or when I Am alone - I Am confused but when I Am with anyone, I am ever more confused: The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. Sputnik Sweetheart. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.
BOOKS PLAYLIST
Innocence or a perfect world does not exist, let Us make one: HANNAH USTUN
Fahrenheit 451. Catcher in the Rye. The Giver.
COMMENTARY
HANNAH USTUN
Loneliness or can I find beauty in this emptiness? The Book of Longing. The Little Prince. Kafka on the Shore.
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OFELIA BOTELLA
COMMENTARY
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For as long as it has been recorded, Homo Sapiens have had free time. This has led to the desire to explore things for fun. One of these things has been the consumption of narcotics. Nearly hand-inhand with this arise the conservative motions to regulate and outlaw the activity. These motions are historically evident, not to mention the countermeasures taken to enjoy the nowillicit substances in question. Take for example The Prohibition Era (mid 1800searly 1900s) in which alcohol was restricted, as it was seen as dangerous. Even after the introduction of characters such as Elliot Ness and President Hoover, the desire for illegal substances grew. Indeed, in the case of The Prohibition, this restriction simply gave way to an entire culture that held
alcohol at its base: a microcosm of ‘speakeasies’ and sexy outlaw lifestyles that did exactly the opposite of what the state intended. As a result, The Prohibition was lifted. Even now, if you venture to Southern USA, you can get hold of some good old-fashioned moonshine! Fast forward a decade or so, and you will witness a situation somewhat similar, although arguably more bloody. Now we are faced with a slightly more extreme conflict being waged between governments and everyone who is (in)directly involved with perception-altering substances. State enforcement agencies, like Canada’s RCMP, CSIS, as well as the DEA and FBI in the USA, are all fighting tirelessly to win the ‘battle’. But this battle is futile, because to fight it is essentially to fight human desire.
Not to mention the fact that the majority of – if not all – illegal drugs can and will be produced continuously in a manner that eludes authorities. Two outstanding examples of this are that of Canada and Mexico. In Canada, groups such as Hells Angels have a monopoly on domestic and international drug production and trade. This creates a jurisdiction nightmare for law enforcement. According to the Parliament of Canada’s website: “It is estimated that substance use cost more than $18.4 billion in Canada in 1992 ($649 per capita), which is 2.7% of the Gross Domestic Product”. This is just one of countless statistics that stand as a testament to the cost of this conservative struggle. Along with Canada, we can consider the case of Mexico and the horrific violence that is a direct result of the drug war. Due to issues of poverty in Mexico, many areas are creating cartels in an attempt to gain monopoly over the illicit substances throughout the state. This leads to escalation and unspeakable violence between cartels, leaving people in fear. By 2011, four cartels controlled Mexican drug traffic, and any territory not under immediate control was fought for. Mexican presidents have taken countermeasures, specifically Vincente Fox (2000) and Felipe Calderon (2006), the former preaching liberal approaches while the latter favoring authority and violence. If this is not enough evidence that the war is futile, there are videos on the Internet of federal agents being killed by cartels in order to scare authority figures and the public. This is the problem of escalation; violence will always beget violence. It is
apparent that this is at the heart of our worldwide struggle for control. Then we have pop culture. It seems that most music is far better when high than lucid – such is the case with Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd. We live in an environment where it is all right to light up and toke, so long as the cops don’t show up. We have movies like ‘Half-Baked’ that glorify drug use, but on the flip side, we also have films that demonstrate the tolls that it can take on the human psyche and body. Then again, it really is in the eye of the beholder – if you want to drop acid and trip out to Jefferson Airplane, then be my guest. More often than not, it becomes a case of simply being able to know your limit when possible addiction is staring you in the face. So after all this, it is clear that the global war on drugs is not something that can be won with power, but rather policy. Drugs are everywhere; they permeate society and even our language. The idea that this conflict has risen to such a desperate point is a clear example of how this is a good idea gone awry. Logically, it seems that whatever the state has been doing to stem the tide of substance abuse has not been working out so well for them. Why not just let it be? ‘The U.S. federal government spent over $15 billion dollars in 2010 on the War on Drugs, at a rate of about $500 per second.’ – Office of National Drug Control Policy
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PER ASPERA AD ASTERA BY ROMAN SUVOROV
I love basketball. NBA's “where amazing happens” tagline may seem pretentious, but has been hard to question since 2010. Professional basketball showcases are not just incredible in skill and athleticism, but also in relentless competitiveness and leadership, and rely on superstars to do more than in any other sport. True leaders are few and far between - not enough for NBA's thirty teams to share, so you'd be lucky to have one. That's why two years ago, the landscape of the league changed forever. LeBron James and all of his 203 cm and 113 kilos of amazing talent and freakish athleticism left the native town of Cleveland (that is mostly known for having a river so polluted it once caught on fire) for the bright lights of Miami — one of the most glamorous cities in the world. “Relentless competitiveness” be damned, he teamed up with two other superstars, Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh. Adding insult to injury, the newly-formed Big Three threw a lavish party and promised “not four, not five ..” but eight championships over the skylights beaming through smoke screens above the crazed South Beach crowd. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, everything had changed. James went from a beloved hometown hero to a univer-
sally despised villain after a one-hour primeTV special formally announcing his bolting from Cleveland. He never accepted this role; turns out that when you're used to being The Good Guy everybody cheers for, it's tough to embrace the “me against the world” attitude. Wade's always been the alpha dog and never wanted to be LeBron's sidekick. And Bosh just never fit in, never at the same level as Wade and James: “The Big Three is more like Two and a Half Men” jokes just kept coming. Be careful what you wish for, King James - and yes, that's a self-appointed nickname. If Cleveland's dull street lamps never shed enough light on LeBron's personality, the skylights of Miami certainly cleared the fog. The Heat's season turned into a media circus: every play scrutinized, every quote analyzed, every ridiculous outfit retweeted. But no press is bad press when all you crave is attention, right? “The Heatles” - and yes, that is also self-appointed - started their tour. Hoops junkies stayed away from the spectacle - and for all its shallowness, Miami's talent was undeniable. They crushed the young Philadelphia 76’ers team, put the proud Boston Celtics
PHOTO BY KEITH ALLISON VIA FLIKR
PHOTO BY KEITH ALLISON VIA FLIKR to the sword, pulled away from the Chicago Bulls and got to The Finals. Love them or hate them, the combined force of Miami's Big Three conquered the Eastern Conference and was just four wins away from basketball immortality. The East was predictable, but the Wild Wild West lived up to its name. Regular season powerhouse Spurs lost in the first round to the gritty Memphis Grizzlies team, which moved on to the semis. There was that one night at a tequila bar in San Antonio, on a (supposedly) work conference, when Memphis took the young guns of Oklahoma City Thunder to the limit, and Game 6 went into triple overtime. A few of us probably regretted the promise to keep drinking until the game was over - a hot, humid Texas night seemed unbearably hot from the intensity of the game (and probably all of that tequila too), and the tension seemed to emanate from every glowing screen around us.
The West Finals saw OKC finally fall to Dallas Mavericks, who unexpectedly destroyed a glamorous Los Angeles squad 4-0 in the previous round. Dallas was hardly a Cinderella team, but no one expected them to advance so easily, this time 4-1. The Mavericks was indeed a fitting name for a team led by Dirk Nowitzki, a seven-foot tall blonde German who can barely jump, plays the violin and has never won a title, repeatedly falling short despite being one of the best shooters in history. His supporting cast included a 38-year old point guard Jason Kidd and a defensive menace Tyson Chandler that had just been traded from Charlotte, a club that a year later would be known as The Worst Team Ever. The Mavericks were a team of rejects, misfits and oddballs, and no one expected them to beat Miami, but they played together. They played their hearts out and they never quit.
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Basketball is not random. Men lie, women lie, numbers don't. There's a science to every play drawn on the coaches' whiteboards.
Basketball is not random. Men lie, women lie, numbers don't. There's a science to every play drawn on the coaches' whiteboards. There's a reason the heavy favourite usually wins. And the Heat were heavily favoured, but sometimes, the numbers are meaningless as there is no way to measure a team's spirit and synergy. The agony of previous defeats led the aging Nowitzki and his team to the desperation of proving the doubters wrong. Miami won Game 1 easily, and Dirk injured the ring finger on his shooting hand. In Game 2 Wade hit a three that put the Heat up by 15 with six minutes to go. He stuck out his shooting hand and gave the Mavericks a long, arrogant stare. LeBron met him at half-court as they danced around in a premature celebration. It ain't over until it's over though: Nowitzki, playing on painkillers and sheer determination, hit a few ridiculous, one-footed, awkward-looking step-back jumpers while grimacing in pain and the Mavs completed an improbable comeback to steal Game 2 and quiet the raucous Florida crowd. Miami's stars were too much in Game 3. Nowitzki was in obvious pain
every time he shot the ball and, to make matters worse, had the flu. LeBron and Wade mocked him in pregame interviews, but there's nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. Despite a 103-degree fever, Dirk scored 10 points in the decisive fourth quarter of Game 4 and willed his team to tie the series at 2. Mavs caught fire from long range in Game 5 and pushed Miami to the brink of elimination. As Nowitzki was putting his team on his back at the end of every game, LeBron shrunk at the moment, afraid of the responsibility, letting his teammates take the big shots so they could shoulder some of the blame. Back in Miami, Game 6 started with Dirk shooting poorly, but now no one was surprised to see him rise to the moment yet again. As it all ended with Nowitzki leading his team of mavericks to a third straight win and the first title in Dallas history! no streamers fell from Miami's arena rafters when the game clock expired. The crowd was dead quiet in disbelief. It was over. Dirk put a towel over his head, escaped the reporters, closed the door of his locker room and broke down in relief - he waited for this moment for thirteen years.
Those Finals were about so much more than these two particular teams. Hell, they were about more than basketball or even sports. They were about years of hard work finally paying off. They were about leading by example. They were about proving all your doubters wrong. They were about the synergy of a true team, about it being more than just the sum of the player's individual talents. And that's the ultimate reward for playing or watching sports - being part of something that is so much larger than you. The fallout from Miami's collapse sent out waves through the basketball world. NBA team owners were appalled at the notion of superstars joining forces to form superteams and locked out the players, willing to lose the first three months of the season to restore competitive balance. LeBron was widely criticized for his late-game failures and lack of leadership and became stronger than ever, physically and emotionally. No true progress can be made without pain, and he experienced it plenty. Well-deserved or not, the criticism piled upon him made him a better player. In the next season, the Heat won the East again, dispatching New York, Indiana and Boston. Penultimate game of the series against his old nemesis, Boston Celtics, saw him put up numbers not seen in decades: 45 points on 70% shooting, 15 rebounds, 5 assists, but one stood out: zero. Zero smiles, zero taunts - business instead of game. Had he embraced the role of the villain? No -
that's simply not in his nature. Had he embraced the role of the leader? Undoubtedly. Many analysts and basketball fans around the world immediately hailed this performance as one of the best in NBA payoffs ever, and it was just the beginning of a dominant stretch that brought James his first title. The West produced a new champion: the young Thunder led by a 23-year old Kevin Durant, a sublimely talented yet humble superstar. The Thunder dispatched three teams that won the conference the previous 13 years, starting with Nowitzki's Mavs, then Kobe Bryant's Lakers and the well -organized, surgically precise Spurs. A new theme emerged: the changing of the guard, with the old giving way to the young. The Finals couldn't have been set up better: Thunder versus Heat. Durant versus LeBron. Maybe even Good versus Evil? Conveniently placed cameras paint a simplistic black-and-white picture. There's LeBron shrouded in darkness, facing off with his old nemesis Celtics, unblinking eyes wide open and a scowl on his face, while Durant happily smiles and gets a kiss from his mom for good luck before the last game against the Spurs. With the sports pundits following the players' every move and Twitter taking over the world it was easy to get caught up in that dominant storyline. An old NBA wisdom is that no championship
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PHOTO BY TIM SHELBY VIA FLIKR team prevails without getting a bitter taste of defeat first, and basketball purists knew it. Most intriguing was how LeBron would take all the criticism, well-deserved or not, letting the pain of last year's failure would motivate him. The answer exceeded all expectations. LeBron was simply a man on a mission: scoring, rebounding, assisting - he'd simply do whatever his team needed to win, prevailing 4-1 in the championship series and capturing his first title. As the last minutes of a blowout Game 5 victory faded away, he jumped around the arena, screaming and hugging everyone around him, without a hint of arrogance - just a kid trapped in a transcendent athlete's body, happy to share his joy with everyone else. Maybe he is still just a big kid — a good-hearted child that happened to be spoiled by fame, money and success that came too easy, too quickly. Was it necessary for him to alienate the whole nation in a fit of arrogance and selfishness to learn the lessons of humility, re-
sponsibility and leadership? Probably not. Were these lessons themselves necessary? Absolutely. Because progress never comes without pain. As the Heat poured onto the court among the deafening roars of an ecstatic Miami crowd, Durant congratulated his rival and quietly left to the locker room. The inevitable cycle continues - the anguish of defeat will keep him going in the long hours of practice in an empty gym. Who knows if he will win a title next year; what we do know is that he will only get better, making progress as a basketball player and, more importantly, as a person and a leader. Pain and progress, remember that. After all, it is just a game. A game that, unlike any other, shows us the values of leadership and togetherness, persistence and dedication. No matter how gifted you are, true progress comes from within - and it never comes without pain.