CHERRY ISSUE 3
O B S E S S I O N
First thing’s first: an apology for the lateness of this issue. When the part of your brain you rely on to be creative and motivated decides to come and go sporadically, producing anything becomes extremely difficult. I’ve fallen into a repetitive pattern which has become, ironically, an almost obsessive routine of starting the day with Gossip Girl, then moping around my house in frustration (sometimes venturing outside to do this) and finishing the day with more Gossip Girl. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do when I finish all the episodes. As tragic as it sounds, I couldn’t put my heart into what I was doing, so I didn’t do it. The fear of producing something I wasn’t proud of and felt didn’t do the work in it justice has been enough to make me put off finishing this issue. But the Cherry team have been supportive of my mopeyness, and listening to One Direction makes me realise how much I want to share my obsessions with you and how much I want to share other people’s obsessions and how much I want to share this issue. So I hope you enjoy issue 3, and I leave you with some 1D lyrics that might just be my new words to live by: Shake off the weight of the world from your shoulders, oh, we got nothing to prove. Cheesy and relevant.
Heroes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 6 Things I Love About Ewan McGregor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Weapon Of Choice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Just Ride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Polaroid Summer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Journals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Morning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 In My Room. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Katie Hillier Illustrations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Miss Depp . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
The Fault in Our Idols. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Fangirl Forever . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Best Songs Ever . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Minaj Madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Conflicting Sexualities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 North . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Advice Witch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 Selfie-Obsessed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Most People Are Other People. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Beauty Rituals. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
6 things I love about Ewan McGregor
His friendship with Jude Law (which I'm not going to illustrate bec
cause I'm in a hurry)
WEAPON OF CHOICE
BY LIV THURLEY
JUST RIDE Words by Kasia, collage by Pamela
When Beth announced that this month’s theme would be Obsession, I freaked out. Do you know that scene in Elf in which Will Ferrell gets so excited about Santa coming? That sums me up really well in that moment. Questions started popping up in my mind: What am I gonna write about? Should I pick Axl Rose or Anthony Kiedis? Wait, how about I pick Patti Smith instead? Should I tell people about all the guys I’ve been obsessed with? Will there be enough space in this issue for my writing? Because of all those questions, I couldn’t make up my mind. I became obsessed with obsession so much that I just couldn’t pick the right subject. And then the answer came to me. School has been a drag for me during the last few years. I figured out that whenever I am forced to do something, even if I want to do it, I feel so much pressure I become paralyzed. What other people find motivating, I see it as something depressing and weighing heavily on me. I have my final exams coming in a week. I know I’ll be fine and I’ll probably pass but I also know that if I’d managed to sit at my desk two weeks ago, I’d be 100% ready by now. But whenever something complicated happens in my life, I try to avoid it. I just don’t let it get to my head. There’s this wall between my exams and me that I don’t want to break through. So I do what feels right in moments like this… I just ride.
Two weeks ago I got a call from my friend. “Are you home? We’re kidnapping you.” Who is she talking about? Why is she calling me in the middle of the night? I didn’t really want to go. But lately I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to not think. But that doesn’t stop me from spending my days at one pub in my town, with people I met not so long ago, with whom I am obsessed. I go there every single day, I arrive at 11 AM and I leave at 9 PM or later. They’re all laughing at me, except for one guy. They’re always saying I live there, and at first it felt funny, but now it’s just another thing that makes me feel misunderstood. They don’t get it that I’d rather sit there with them and watch them get drunk than go home and have to face my fears. So after thinking it over, I walked out the door and got into the car. That was the moment when my life changed. I met the most beautiful people ever and since that night, we’ve been driving aimlessly almost every day. I’m obsessed with it. I had always wanted to go on a road trip with amazing people, just drive and never look back. And now, as destructive as it’s become for me knowing that I should be doing something else, I have it and I’m not planning on giving it up. People get addicted to alcohol and drugs, and I am addicted to night drives and this bunch of freaks. I love them because they’re still strangers to me but they’re saving me, just because they like me.
I might be extremely sad, but then I get a call: “We’ll pick you up in three seconds.” It doesn’t matter how I look –– I don’t need make-up, my hair may be greasy and I can wear sweatpants. I just get into that car, say hi to everybody and in five minutes I become a different person. Only once we drank Jack Daniel’s in the backseat, just because I kind of had this deal with one guy that we’d share a bottle of Jack one day, but we never need alcohol or any substances to feel high. All we do is have each other, modern hits, old rock and roll songs and the most embarrassing tracks ever, we sing along to all of them, we dance, we watch the city lights, we go to different towns, visit playgrounds and take pictures. Whenever we’re somewhere and one of us knows someone who lives nearby, we visit them and they become road dogs, just like us.
Drive My Car - The Beatles tous les memes - Stromae Things We Lost in the Fire - Bastille #SELFIE - The Chainsmokers Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys Dominique - Singing Nun It's Time - Imagine Dragons Royals - Lorde Happy - Pharrell Williams Dark Horse - Katy Perry Summer - Calvin Harris
Shoes - Tiga I See Fire - Ed Sheeran Pea - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Thunderstruck - AC/DC To forget about the exams and all Counting Stars - OneRepublic of my problems, I think of all the good things this obsession, just like I Wonder - Rodriguez any other, has given me. I got to hang I Don't Want to Miss a Thing - Aerout with a boy I care about, I made osmith friends with strangers and I got to Summertime Sadness - Lana Del Rey know people I had met better, I visited a lot of new places, I learned that Best Day of My Life - American Authors getting lost is really about finding Around the World - Daft Punk yourself, I memorized the worst lyrics Dibby Dibby Sound - DJ Fresh vs. Jay ever, I managed to live in the moment, Fray feat. Ms Dynamite I had one of my biggest dreams (finding freedom on the open road) Tsunami - DVBBS & Borgeous come true and I found inspiration. Love Me Again - John Newman Cause when I’m at war with myself I ride, I just ride. I leave you with a playlist of what we listen to. It’s a beautiful mix of the worst and the best songs in the world, so get ready!
MORNING By Amelia Holt Wake up. Sit up. Two steps. Tap. One. Two. Three times. Four steps. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Two steps. Turn tap. Water runs. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Turn tap. Water stops. Two steps. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Three steps. Down the stair. Up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Reach the bottom. Up. Down. Up. Down. Four steps. Into the kitchen. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Three steps- or- Or was it four? Back. Three. Two. One. Yes. It was three. Three steps. Towards the cupboard. Open the door. Close. Open. Close. Open. Boxes straight. Cornflakes. Bowl. Pour. One. Two. Three seconds. Close the door. Open. Close. Open. Close. Two steps. Open the fridge. Close. Open. Close. Open. Milk. One cap full. Two. Three. Two steps. Table. Wipe spoon. One. Two. Three. Eat. Empty bowl. Two steps. Sink. Turn tap. Water runs. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Turn tap. Water stops. Six steps. In the hall. Turn the handle. One. Two. Three times. Four steps. Up the stair. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Up. Up. Reach the top. Three steps. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Unbutton pyjamas. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Clothes. Shirt. Skirt. Tights. Tie. Shoes. Blazer. Two steps. Tap. One. Two. Three times. Brush hair. One. Thirty. Fifty. Eighty. One hundred strokes. Three steps. Pull sheets. Straighten Pillow. Flatten duvet. Two steps. Window shut. Wardrobe shut. Drawers shut. Cupboard shut. Five steps. Turn the handle. One. Two. Three times. Four steps. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Turn tap. Water runs. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Tooth brush. Tooth paste. Two minutes. Turn the handle. One. Two. Three times. Three steps. Down the stair. Up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Reach the bottom. Up. Down. Up. Down. Bag off hook. Clasp shut. Two steps. Keys. Books. Pencil case. Water. Money. Phone. At the door. Turn the handle. Once. Twice. Three times. Close. Key in lock. Click. Six steps. Round the corner. Twelve steps. Wait. One. Five. Eight. Twelve. Sixteen seconds. Five steps. Wait. Count. One. Twenty. Forty-five. Eighty. One hundred and twenty. Two hundred and eighteen seconds. Bus. Money out. Four twenty ps. Two ten ps. One pound coin. Queen side up. Seat by the window. Four red cars. Good day. Six black cars. Bad day. Eighteen silver cars. Normal day. Count. One. Three. Five. Six black cars. Stop. Down the three steps. Twenty seven steps. At the gate. School.
Thanks to Sammie Jo for modelling 27
Words and photos by Fauve, illustrations by Beth I always go back. I get so swept up in the buzzing whirlwind of new and exciting music. But I always go back. I just can’t seem to help myself, it’s a subconscious act. As those first few familiar notes swarm my ears I can feel the stress that weighs down my shoulders temporarily lifted and time loses meaning. I feel a smile pitch at the corners of my mouth; I let it take control as it never fails to appear when I listen to them.
sounds of his voice so that you never want to wake up.
My heart squeezes, the love is so intense. I don’t remember consciously telling my mouth to move but I know that I’m singing the lyrics that have been graffiti in the back of many school books over the years. I’ve often mused over their sound; it’s so unique, a genre entirely of their own, a bit of this and a bit of that thrown together to form perfection. In my search for new music I’d come across many copy cats but no matter how good they may be It’s been a decade now of listening to and musically loving this band. A decade of knowing they lack those magical that lyrics off spark of magic by heart. that my love have. Knowing every time change. Of Then, as the next song clicks on, my heart watching the video play out behind my eye- misses a beat as I recognize it within lids. seconds. I sink into the song, letting it devour me, letting his voice and words I’ve only ever came close to describing alone fill my usually chaotic mind. I let this feeling once before, this instant joy the organ and bass squeeze at my heart as I get from their music. drums move my body and the guitar follows It feels like going home. suit. It’s like travelling the world, taking in so much you can feel your mind expanding with wonderful new experiences and knowledge and then going home, instantly surrounded my familiar smells, sounds and sights. You immediately find your favorite film and spot on the sofa. Your senses are overwhelmed by this happiness filling you, this sense of calm and safety. And then he starts to sing. My entire mind is filled to bursting point with that first thought 6 year old me had when listening for the very first time. Ohmigod his voice. He creeps into your heart and very soul with his words and haunts your dreams with the
I feel a single tear run down my check, a strange cocktail of emotions. This song, these lyrics and most of all, this band have helped me through my darkest most desperate hours. All that matters in this moment is this music. How the drums and bass keep a constant tempo that make my body need to move to it. How the guitar seems to do as it pleases while also following a strict beat and all those weird but wonderful sounds that surround you. I still can’t make out how they made some of them.
As the rest of the songs play, I close my eyes and relax trustingly into it, losing sense of time and reality happily. I lose myself to another world. A calm silence fills my room as it takes me a moment to regain control of my senses and realize that the CD had finished.
It takes a few moments to get used to the real world again. I was curled up in the corner of my box like room, surrounded by cushions I’d collected over the years, my back against the hot radiator. I slid my chunky purple head phones off as I shuffled forward and away from the hot radiator. Night time sounds registered in my ears and I could smell faint traces of Lavender. A car from the main road passed by, the familiar distant sound grounded me to this room as I watch it cast bizarre shadows across my ceiling. A harsh mid-Winter wind howled unearthly outside my window, echoing across the chimney and seem to travel down to my fireplace. Floorboards creaked menacingly outside my door as if someone was pacing outside. I shivered and pulled my cream thick robe closer around me as fear etched it way up my spine. I shook my head and the silly notion away as I turned to select the next CD. My silver Sony CD/ Tape player was sat to my right; it buzzed in anticipation for my next choice. I turned to my left where I’d laid out
my favorite albums by The Cure. I smiled to myself. I place Seventeen Seconds in my CD player and tugged my headphones back over my ears. I wanted to escape from tonight’s eerie sounds and sense of fear only to realize what a mistake I’d made as the gothic synths filled my ears, but there was no going back now. I turned it up, closed my eyes, sank in my corner of pillows and fell in love with The Cure and Robert Smiths voice all over again
Confessions of a One Direction fan. By Beth I am a 17 year old girl and I am a One Di- but the fact that this is something young rection fan. These are both difficult girls were thinking demonstrates that things to be. these were problematic lyrics. I thought Originally, like many others, I was con- the appropriate reaction to this was to never ever listen to One Direction again, vinced I was immune to the seemingly contagious craze; but as soon as I heard as I had disagreed with the message of those angelic harmonies and saw the ir- their music – it took me a while to realise that this wasn’t necessary and I actually resistible humour and genuine friendcould listen to (and like) problematic ship these beautiful Brits share, I was music. I listen to One Direction because I hooked. To the disbelief of many, I am stuck to the upbeat feel of ‘Happily’, the love the songs, not because I agree with their lyrics, but how can I justify this? adrenaline-filled rhythm of ‘Best Song I’m still trying to figure this out, but I’ll Ever’ and the pumping melody of ‘Midnight Memories’. However, no great attempt to explain what I can. band is without its flaws. It has become clear that a lot of these songs I listen to religiously have a similar message: loving yourself isn’t that important if you have a boy who loves you. Addressing the topic of a girl’s self-love is tricky subject, especially for five young men well known for their good looks.
Listening to music for fun is not a bad thing, not every song you listen to has to have a deep, spiritual meaning in your heart, and listening to problematic music is not a bad thing so long as you don’t take it seriously. I can enjoy listening to ‘Little Things’ but not agree that ‘you’ll never love yourself half as much as I love you / and you’ll never treat yourself Initially I boycotted the boy band altogether after hearing the lyrics to the song right, darling, but I don’t want you to’ is ‘What Makes You Beautiful’: ‘You don’t a healthy message to be sending out to an audience of predominantly young know you’re beautiful, that’s what girls. Everyone should try to love themmakes you beautiful’. Whilst many got the impression that this was a harmless selves and treat themselves right, and way of complimenting a girl, I (and many people should support that, but I am not compromising my beliefs by listening to others) got the impression that this this song. meant not loving yourself is attractive. Questions like ‘does this mean if a girl Moving onto loving the band themselves has self-confidence it is seen as an unde- – this is a different issue. I love Harry sirable trait?’ were raised by this hit Styles, but seeing as I don’t personally song, which of course the answer is no, know the real Harry Styles, I love the
idea of him I’ve created in my head. I took his image, then filled it with all these thoughts I have collected him and I end up seeing him the way I see him: a mixture of the way he is portrayed through the media and the way I want to see him. Through the idolisation process, the idol becomes less of a person and more of an idea, thus when this idol’s flaws are revealed, it can be hard to process as it doesn’t fit with the perfect image you’ve created. So when thinking about Harry Styles (a lot of the time), I have to remind myself that he is a person, he has flaws like everyone else, and the real Harry and the Harry I see are two completely different things. In conclusion: listen to whatever music makes you feel good; don’t follow the lyrics religiously, music is FUN; and the Harry Styles I’ve created in my head is my favourite imaginary friend ever.
MINAJ MADNESS Bethy talks Nicki Minaj, teen girls and obsessions with authenticity. Words by Bethy, illustration by Garrison On the drive to Philly to get the last of our shit, Colin played me a Radiolab short about hip hop/authenticity/ Nicki Minaj. Now, I’m already not a huge fan of Radiolab (grossly overproduced, if you ask me. So far no one has, though), but that particular ep made me cry angry tears of blood and shout at the car radio for, like, 15 minutes straight. Nothing could be more out of touch than an NPR podcast weighing in on the state of hip hop, except this: NPR rereportage of a New Yorker story about a whiteboy radio DJ on named Pete Rosenberg. One dead medium summarizing another dead medium’s commentary on the first dead medium. So I get that this shit is not relevant and should not piss me off. But Pete Rosenberg denigrated teenage girls, so it’s fucking on. I ride hard for teenage girls, because part of me will always be a teenage girl in my most secret heart of hearts. It’s what happens when your childhood heroes are Buffy and Daria. Teen girls never die, they just get killed on TV to add pathos. But I digress. The program was about Nicki’s beef with Hot 97, which was instigated by their DJ, the aforementioned Pete Rosenberg, shading Nicki’s fans as not real hip hop fans but just “some chicks here waiting to sing 'Starships' later.” Rosenberg’s complaint was that Nicki Minaj was
“selling out” with Starships, and that she was capable of much more than being another pop princess. I wasn’t thoroughly stoked on that song when it came out, but I feel no need to slam people who like it, especially if those people happen to be the population most frequently and publicly mocked for their fandom. If a new would-be tastemaker wants to earn some critic points, he takes a pot shot at teen girls. Pete Rosenberg wasn’t exactly breaking new ground with his trenchant sociopolitical observations. It was dickish, but probably wouldn’t have started shit if he hadn’t said it on a Summer Jam festival stage that was streaming live on Nicki’s website. Predictably, the internet went bonkers. Now, if it’s a crime to laugh gleefully at the thought of teen girls clamoring for the blood of a dumbfuck, then I’m guilty. And if it is also a crime to kinda hope there are still Regina Georges out there cyber-arguing with this dumbfuck, then I’m guilty of that too. All I’m saying is, you come for teenage girls, I’m coming for your whole family. If the only way you can hype yourself is to put down the enthusiasm of one of society’s most vulnerable demographics, fuck you. Have fun rereading Watchmen and being dead inside. Numerous times in the Radiolab episode, Rosenberg defined himself as the White Hip Hop Guy, and bragged about
how that made him cool. Now, I’m going to take an intuitive leap here, and guess that this dude has always secretly resented the good relationship he had with his parents. Hip hop was a way to Other himself. There’s very little else in this world worse than white bros who use hip hop fandom to claim hardness/realness, except maybe Urban Outfitters “injun” headdresses. They’re a photo finish.
because that was his job. “The Next Episode” was the soundtrack to every party I went to in high school, and at least half the parties in college. The ones with beer pong. If you know all the words, you’re not special. You’re average. I know all the words too. So does everyone. They played that shit on B97, the local Top 40 station, immediately followed by Britney Spears. Because it’s pop music.
He also said something about hip hop being objectionable/offensive, and that was part of what attracted him to the genre. Dude, stop doing my job for me. I barely need to call out your racist and sexist shenanigans because you’re proudly shouting them from the rooftops. You know who’s into traditionally black music because it’s objectionable? Racists. People who object to the existence of black people, deep down inside. It must be super easy to appropriate the struggles of others and actually get paid for your fear-based erections. Of course, this con only works if hip hop stays marginal and dangerous, which it hasn’t. Hip hop and its descendants are the most popular genres of music in the world today. It’s fucking normal to like hip hop. All millennials were issued a copy of The Chronic on a flashdrive when they got their measles immunizations.
Every word of “Hot in Herre” is etched on my brain because B97 played it constantly the summer of 2002. As I was shuttled from ludicrously bougie activity to ludicrously bougie activity in my parents’ minivan, Nelly blared from the speakers. Once on the way to tai chi, then from tai chi to horseback riding, then from horseback riding to Shakespeare in the park rehearsals. If it happens in a Taco Bell drive thru on the way to play Mustardseed in a 80s musical version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, it is categorically not thug. It cannot confer hardness upon you. And that’s FINE. Because “Hot in Herre” a great pop song and we’re all better for having heard it.
Here’s the crux of Pete Rosenberg’s mainstream phobia: if hip hop is the dominant pop genre (it is), and everyone listens to it (they do), then Pete Rosenberg is just like all the other Working at the wing place, this white sheeple from high school (he is). “But fratty dude put on a 90s gangsta rap if hip hop’s not scary anymore, how Pandora station. I thought this could will I piss off Daddy?” he seems to only improve my situation, good music ask frantically. Idk man, face tattemporarily distracting me from my toos, I guess? But don’t try to neg 13 terrible job. But no. This dude had to -year-old girls for liking great shit ruin it by trying to make meaningful just cuz you’re insecure in your preeye contact with me while rapping cious snowflake status. along to “The Next Episode.” Like I was supposed to be impressed. Like I Pete Rosenberg’s brand is all about wasn’t supposed to be rapping along, “realness,” a concept so bullshit I
have to quarantine it in quotation marks. It’s an obvious ploy to jockey for authority within a world that has very little time for one such as he. This dude, this muy blanco bro from Chevy Chase, MD, the bougiest of DC’s many bougie suburbs, is OBSESSED with authenticity. Blergh. This question of authenticity, this question of selling out vs. staying true to the music or w/e, it’s a privileged question. Primarily a white baby boomer dude question. In a genre in which it’s not uncommon for someone to wear a blinged out record label logo around his or her neck, don’t you think the question of selling out is at least somewhat misplaced?
But to be “authentic,” you can pretty much only be the simplest sketch of yourself. A thug. Thugs are good branding. Pete Rosenberg is scared of girlishness rubbing off on him like thugness used to. If teenage girls like hip hop, and Pete Rosenberg likes hip hop, then Pete Rosenberg is a teenage girl. Faulty logic, to be sure, but this dude is so dumb he doesn’t realize it’s a bad idea to slag off a multimillion dollar recording artist in front of her most ardent fans. If Pete Rosenberg were smart, he wouldn’t say shit like this,
“You know nothing. You don’t draw the I was listening to a Russell Simmons map. You need people like us to draw interview on Bullseye, and he kept us- the map or there’s nothing. Or what’s ing the words “brand” and “authentic,” here? If we don’t get to determine almost interchangeably. That’s pretty certain things, who does? We should telling. Firstly because it supports leave this to the crazed 13-year-old my “sellout is a meaningless insult to girls who may not even like this artsomeone focused on literally selling ist in two years?” out of their record” argument, and also because Simmons–-I think unknowing- without clearly defining who “we” is. ly–-is admitting that the teeny sliver Radio hosts? Industry insiders? Adult of the self society labels “authentic” men? White people? You’ve given me a or “real” is just as constructed an MadLib, sir, with quite unfortunate image as any Katy Perry cupcake tit implications. monstrosity. Russell Simmons is someone whose business acumen shaped hip If you want rap to stay dangerous so hop. In the interview, he said what danger can rub off on you like body set Def Jam apart from other labels glitter at a rave, whatever. But was the conscious branding of its art- you’re not going to get shot for lisists with an eye to longevity through tening to “thug” music. Your culture appearing “authentic.” Authenticity policing has real life implications meant veering away from the very obvi- for black people, young boys and girls ous costumes of funk and disco to a who will be killed for knocking on the subtler but equally artificial getup. wrong door in distress, or getting out Simmons called it the Hood Costume: their wallet, or wearing a hoodie. Obtrack suits and Kangols, leather suits viously we cannot/should not blame all and Adidas shell toes. In the disco racist violence on how hip hop has mode, you could be a Fireman or a been marketed. But it is definitely a Space Freak or a, sigh, Indian Chief. product of racism, and a propagator of
racism's continuation that every image you like" disseminates through society of black America in mainstream culture because a song is catchy as hell. Nevis menacing. er mind all the people who like the song, who escape whatever they're goGod forbid a black woman in charge of ing through for three minutes by dancher life and her career frolics on a ing their fucking faces off, who are beach for one fucking song. God forbid just big fans of wigs. Pete Rosenberg young girls find something to get is scared of feeling girly. We should stoked on, something to blast as they probably tailor the entirety of human try makeup for the first time, or experience to his personal tastes. Afpractice ollies, or whatever because ter all, he's real. they're not limiting their experience yet to what's "real." God forbid the Get fucked, gatekeeper. line "fuck who you want and fuck who
CONFLICTING Stills from a video piece by Georgia G
The photography pieces in here are from a project I've been working on for college titled 'Conflicting Sexualities'. Throughout this project I've looked at and created work based on different types of sexualities and landed upon this idea for my final piece. My main focus has indeed landed on something that wouldn't have been brought to mind originally by the title “conflicting” I was assigned for class, but is important to me nonetheless— the sexuality of the housewife. Society had such an extreme obsession with housewives and the woman's role of being a housewife, though we are drifting away from it now. Every time I think of the word, advertisements from the 60s and 70s pop into my head; blond perky housewives smiling in their apron, washing dishes with bright yellow gloves and dead eyes that say "my husband falls asleep as soon as he comes home every night.”
The housewife is stereotypically female, submissive and silent, but never sexual. I became extremely interested in this obsession with housewives who became not lovers to their husbands, but workers, whose sexuality became dormant upon entering the marriage, and how this reflects on women in general. Over the course of my project I researched women of the 50s and 60s, and spoke to middle aged women I personally knew who were stuck in marriages with the wrong person and even the wrong gender, women who looked towards a form of release . . . that kind of release, yes. My main focus has become women from the past and present who secretly own sex toys to overcome their sexual oppression. I have expressed this overlooked aspect of the housewife through photography and ceramic works. georgiagracegibson.tumblr.com
THESE PICTURES ARE TAKEN AT MY DEAD GRANDMOTHER’S BEAUTIFUL HOUSE, IN THE NORTH OF NORWAY.
IT SYMBOLIZES BOTH THE FREEDOM AND THE REBELLION AT THIS LITTLE ISLAND WHERE SHE LIVED. IT MEANS A LOT TO ME.
Hi Advice Witch, I have a problem. I have this big stupid crush on this guy who's a junior and very cool and is in this cool band. I'm barely a freshman. Every time I think about him I get that smushy feeling, but every time I think of this whole thing I feel stupid. The thing is i seriously think he likes me??? Like I don't know if I'm just a dumb kid in denial or what. He friended me on Facebook when we first met when I was 12, and i think he gets his friends to stalk me on instagram??? because i thought these random guys were just liking then unliking my old pictures but the i see him hanging out with them. idk i feel like I'm insane. Sincerely, hopeless and confused about boys
Random likes on Instagram are definitely a good sign. That is probably happening because he’s trying to show pictures of you to his friends. I could be wrong
about that, but it’s the most likely explanation.
I say confess your feels to this dude. That’s what I did with almost every crush I had in high school and college. Worst Case Scenario, it’s mildly awk for a bit till you ‘re embarrassed out of your crush. Best Case: the last crush I confessed to is now my husband. Real life grown shit, y’all. Say yes to life.
But more important than whether this dude likes you is whether YOU like you. Who cares if you’re barely a freshman? I bet you’ve got some cool shit going on for you. You’re obviously clued in to the emerging feminist punk/art online community. That’s pretty hip. This aesthetic is so fresh it’s barely been co-opted by advertisers! Revel in your baller status, and the guys will follow.
My best friend wants to transfer from our college. How should I advise her? Would a scholarship with a weak arts program be more important than a good arts program that costs a lot of money???
[FULL DISCLOSURE: I was an art major at a school with a pretty weak program, so there’s probs some bias inherent in this advice.]
fine). So let’s table the money part of the equation.
A lot of what you can learn at art school, you could potentially teach yourself. Google exists, so new techniques and undiscovered artists are pretty much always at your fingertips. Being in school for art is mainly about the connections and the access to resources. My school had mad resources but precious few connections. I am not hooked up in the way I’d like to be, and that’s partially my hippie dippy, wealth -shunning school’s fault. Also profound social anxiety. But they did have all the scrap metal you could fuck with and a darkroom I miss every day. Oh, and there was no limit to how much shit you could print out. That was the best.
Cost benefit analysis of an arts education is probably the wrong way to look at it. Book learning ain’t shit, but artists should get used to debt/financial insecurity. It’s important to accept that you’re probably never going to make $$$ off your art. Otherwise paper chasing will affect your vision. You don’t want to tailor your sensibilities to a paycheck (unless you’re like literally a commercial artist, then I think the most important thing whatevs that’s yr life and it’s for a developing artist (whatever that means, cuz hopefully you
never stop developing) is having the right ratio of support to challenge. This balance is gonna be different for everyone, because personal psychology and shit. I need a lot of support and encouragement, because I’m a fucking baby. Other people need art drill sergeants kicking their ass 24/7. Your friend needs to figure out what’s most important to them: status, buds, yelling, cash money, or something else entirely, and go from there.
Help! What do I get my twin little cousins for their birthday? They’re turning 15 and are very different. One tries really hard to be a bro, but he has a secret stash of magnets and other science stuff. The other one spends pretty much all his time either playing baseball or recording music at his dad’s studio. I can’t get him musical equipment/ instruments because he has access to basically everything imaginable. What do I get them???
As a guider of youth, your sole duty is to keep all the young dudes away from Ayn Rand. We just have to give them stuff to obsess over that’s not The Fountainhead.
If the Music-Baseball!Bro already has all the instruments, just inspire his face off with some cool media. Does he have Please Kill Me yet? That is a totes croosh book. Does he hate reading? What about The Mighty Boosh on DVD? That’s a good intro to alt comedy, as well as just a very rich feast for the eyes/ears. It’s important to strike that balance between “good” and “achievable” when you’re trying to inspire the art of others. Punk and Boosh are both lo-fi and thus do not inspire “oh god I could never do that” feelings in the consumer.
For Closeted Science!Bro, we should nurture that love of magnets etc. by making them hip and edgy. A metal bong covered in Bucky Balls and Cosmos on DVD, perhaps. (JK about the bong, probably. I don’t know your life.) The US military’s Improvised Munitions Handbook also has a bunch of fun science experiments/crimes for the budding Tony Stark in all of us.
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Words by Sophie, collage by Beth Oscar Wilde once truthfully said that ‘most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.’ The search for complete originality is rather a futile one, as people have been pointing out for some time. It is far easier to let other people’s traits permeate into our being.
am Edie Sedgwick. Just a slightly less cool version. I have an obsession for each of these people I call my ‘heroes.’ They are my idols, my influences, the books I read, the music I listen to. And I do not hesitate to say that without them I would not be the same person I am today.
When I sit down to write I always feel stunted by the fact that the people I look up to are so much better at writing and cooler and funnier and more talented than I am in every way. I have stuck quotations from my favourite people all around my room with hope that I will somehow absorb their genius. I even wrote a Wilde quote in my maths GCSE exam. It was an impossibly difficult question that I had no hope with even trying to answer so I simply scrawled, “In examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot answer’- Oscar Wilde.’
However, where must we decide to draw the line with how much these strangers influence our lives? We are constantly bombarded with reasons why celebrities like Lindsey Lohan and Pete Doherty are negative role models but many still idolise them and their lifestyles. Then of course there was that ridiculous and inconceivably insensitive ‘cut for Bieber’ trend on Twitter last year. Celebrity culture is weird and sort of messed up. With the decline in religion dominating the media, people are turning more and more to their favourite celebrity to comfort them and give them guidance.
I am other people. I am my parents, who raised me, friends from the past, who influenced me, friends of the present, whose mannerisms subtly slip into my own behaviour. However, (without discrediting those people who I know in person) more than anything I am Coco Chanel. I am Morrissey. I am Allen Ginsberg. I am Oscar Wilde. I am Tavi Gevinson. I am James Dean. I
A friend once told me that she was glad that I was obsessed with Coco Chanel and James Dean as opposed to Justin Bieber or Nicki Minaj. However, Coco Chanel was allegedly a Nazi and was constantly embroiled in affairs with married men. James Dean had an often unpredictable personality and, somewhat ironically, was a dangerous driver. Hardly ideal role models, right?
There’s admiration and then there’s imitation and sometimes I worry that I’m slipping into the latter category. It was Morrissey who penned, “If you must write prose and poems, the words you use should be your own” but it is sometimes so tempting to want to fully become the people you look up to. I even managed to paraphrase two Morrissey lyrics into my English Literature exam last year. Morrissey himself wrote the anti-plagiarism line in response to being harangued about using the line, “I dreamt about you last night and I fell out of bed twice” in an early Smiths’ song ‘Reel Around the Fountain’ as the line originally came from Shelagh Delaney’s play ‘A Taste of Honey’.
I love the idea of escaping myself to become somebody else. Coco Chanel once said “How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone.” I cut my hair to imitate Coco Chanel. I sometimes find myself daydreaming about styling it in a quiff like the teens imitating Morrissey in The Smiths’ ‘Stop Me If You Think That You’ve Heard This One Before’ music video. I want a bongo drum and perhaps a motorcycle like James Dean. I want a collection of fashion books as vast as Bill Cunningham’s. I want to dress like Tavi Gevinson. I want to write poetry like Patti Smith. I want to make witty quips in conversation like Oscar Wilde. I will just have to live my life with the worry that one day I may perhaps be serenaded with the song ‘Lighten Up Morrissey.’ I am definitely other people and my life is mimicry, my passions a quotation. However, I have not altogether lost my individuality because I am yet to find another person influenced my all these exact same people. Sometimes I feel like I am having a com plete identity crisis but, at the end of the day, aren’t we all a product of the things that we love? The things we like can be just as telling about a person as what we are like and because of this I think we should move forwards and imitate whoever the hell we want to.
BEAUTY RITUALS BY LOUISA ROGERS MODELS: KATY BENNETT, NINA BRENNAN, CHLOE CORDERO
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