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Clare Market Review The London School of Economics East Building 203, Houghton Street London, WC2A 2AE editor@claremarketreview.co.uk www.claremarketreview.co.uk
The Journal of the London School of Economics Students’ Union Volume CVII, Issue II
Editor-in-Chief Aleona Krechetova Director of Design Grace Fletcher Contents Editor Alexander Young Production Manager Shreya Krishnan Design Editors Cassandra Padget Anne-Sophie Pawlowski Literary Editors Katie Carr Isabella Silver Diana Yu Development Manager Ehae Longe Cover Artist Nick Gentry
VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2
I
William Henry Beveridge (1879-1963) was a student at the London School of Economics in 1903-04 and its Director from 1919-37 Courtesy of the LSE Library Archives
II
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editorial As yet another term comes to a close, Clare looks to recapture the essence of the LSE community and its immediate surroundings. With a task as difficult as explaining the plotline of Donny Darko, we revert back to our roots for guidance. From animals in bread, to three-eyed Jesuses, and dinosaurs made out of buildings, we embrace the kooky side of living, just as our alumni taught us to do. Lord William Beveridge went skinny-dipping and played tennis barefoot, but he also helped found the National Health Service. With his help we remember the importance of being frivolous. Often the most serious of issues are concealed by a light motif to entertain the observer, and it’s the peeling back of idiosyncrasies that gives us a more interesting perspective. Consumerism of the 21st century, the burden of an LGBT label, LSE100, and using the Holocaust as inspiration for a fashion show: these are the things that matter to us, no matter how light-hearted they may seem at first glance. Don’t let Lord Beveridge’s cheek fool you. This issue includes the top three entries in the LSESU Literature Society poetry competition. The winners received their prizes at the LSE Literary Festival award ceremony on 1st March, and we have chosen to showcase their talent in this issue of Clare. We are also pleased to feature work from our friends at the Just Us collective [Ed. www.justusdesigncollective.com/] – it’s been almost three years since our first collaboration with this talented group of illustrators, and we welcome them back into Clare’s world of whimsical thought with open arms. Enjoy the ride, Clare NB – Not everything appearing in this issue is meant to be thought-provoking. Sometimes things appear to be weird, because they just are. Embrace it.
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Contents
03 An Interview with Dr. Elsie Van Hundert Iain Ramsay and Adam Wright 07 Are You Free Srishti Mukherji 10 Closet Nostalgia Joseph O’Connell 13 Alien Invasion Diana Aidan 14 Progression Emma Hamilton 17 Creation Joseph Pearson 21 West of Now Elizabeth Pfeister 24 Fishing Sam Williams IV
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33 Sunday Gabriel Everington
37 Here’s to You, Anger Liner Andrew Sivanesan 40 David Cooper Anson Clark 49 The Modern Laugh Anonymous 53 Dreams of Salvador Dali Elizabeth Pfiester 55 Tree Elizabeth Pfiester 57 Controversy Hits London Fashion Week Grace Fletcher
clare
Contents
f e at u r e d a rt i s t s 01, 02 Lorna Scobie
26, 52 Rich Gemmell
04 Steven Jarvis
27, 31 Andy Council
06, 25, 49 James Fisher
34 Katie Carr
07, 14, 19, 54 Nadja Ashgar
35, 36 Megan Eckman
08 Katarina Ilkovicova
38 Emily Boon Ying Tan
09, 12 Jenny Cox
39 Lucy Freegard
13 Thomas Keegan
41 Pete & Jo
15, 16 Kyle Smart
45 Kate Jones
21 Jamie Avis
50 Luke Waller
22 Lucy Sherston
51 Gabriella Barouch
23 Shreya Krishnan
56 Paniz Gederi 58 Grace Fletcher
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What the world would look like with contraception...
....and without. by Lorna Scobie JUST US
An interview with Dr. Elsie Van-Hundert:
LSE100’s hallowed creator By Iain Ramsay and Adam Wright
We sit in silence, hardly able to contain our excitement as we wait for the arrival of the famous doctor herself. A quiet, but authoritative knock on the door tells us that she has arrived. Holding a coffee in one hand and with a collection of formative assessments in the other, the doctor sits down and it’s quite clear; she doesn’t really understand the causes of why she is here. A brief, summative explanation informs her that she is to be interviewed about her new autobiography: ‘Elsie Van-Hundert: A journey to understanding the causes of things - you’d understand me if you knew me,’ already colloquially known by fans as ‘EVHAJTUTCOTYUMIYKN’; which has sold more than 25 copies, far outstripping the publisher’s expectations. She assures us that the interview will last two hours with a ten-minute break, but we reassure her that the content can be covered in one.
Q: Hi Elsie. First of all, would you like to tell us a little about your book? EVH: Hello. Well, my book doesn’t really count for anything, and employers don’t care about it, but I’m just happy that as a result of writing this book, I am a more rounded individual. I open with Chapter 1: ‘Understanding the causes of me;’ a summative explanation of my conception and a step-by-step analysis of my mother’s labour: it lasted two hours - but I was born a week early, and my birth totally ruined the end of my mother’s Christmas holiday. Q: The rest of the book’s initial chapters came across as condescending and lacklustre. But Chapter 7 is, in contrast, an emotionally charged piece; did you struggle writing it? EVH: Ah yes, Chapter 7 ‘Understanding these feelings that I have.’ The focus here was on my early twenties which was a difficult time for me; the Cold War had just ended but 03 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
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I wasn’t sure why. My degree in General Studies was proving insufficient in the jobs market and my love life lacked teamworking skills. I endured those tough years until I was offered a highly respectable job designing ‘The Primary School course’; a subject designed to make children leaving primary schools more rounded individuals, as secondary schools felt the lessons that pupils had studied lacked variety. Topics that were covered included ‘Why did Humpty Dumpty fall off the wall?’, ‘Predicting great events: why does Christmas only come once a year?’, and ‘Does play-dough matter?’ Unfortunately, I was ‘relieved’ of my role after just one year. One of the topics covered was ‘A cultural analysis of Sleeping Beauty’, but a particularly militant group of Year 2 feminists expressed dismay at the portrayal of women as ‘lazy’, ‘idle’ and ‘sex objects’. Events rapidly developed into the infamous ‘play time strikes’, and things only got worse when one of the primary school’s incredibly popular headmasters was forced out of his job after it was discovered that a Year 3 spelling test was ghost written. But I never gave up, and Chapter 9: ‘I’ll understand, understand and understand again’ covers my enormous passion for understanding the causes of things and plots my fall from grace and my subsequent rise to the role of LSE100 course creator. Q: We were left a little baffled by Chapter 10...? EVH: I felt that a demographic description of Ghana would really break the book up. Q: Tell us more about the creation of LSE100. Chapter 11: ‘Understanding the causes of LSE 100’ gives an excellent insight into the conception of the LSE100 course. I will never forget those gruelling late night library sessions spent agonising over course content. Eventually we had achieved what many had said was impossible and had decided on 6 modules that were sure to grab the attention and spark the interest of every undergraduate at LSE. The ‘Sexy Six’, as they came to be known, had been narrowed down from a long list which had included topics such as ‘Predicting Great Events: When will I get laid?’, ‘Why did Goldman Sachs reject my application?’, ‘LSE Students: Oxbridge rejects or Wanker Bankers?’, ‘How should we manage morning glory?’, and ‘Which seat should Rebecca Black have taken?’. These topics are in fact included in the LSE100 expansion course; (optional to all third year students) entitled LSE150: Understanding the causes of the origins of the foundations of the things. Naturally I didn’t come up with these 05 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
ideas on my own; ‘The Fellowship of the LSE100,’ as we were known back then, helped formulate the course content. This challenging process inspired me to write Chapter 16: ‘My love affair with teamwork.’ Q: Thank you for your time Dr Van-Hundert; the interview is almost over but we have one final question. EVH: Fire away. Q: Students have come to the LSE to study the subjects they are passionate about, having honed their individual skills throughout their A-levels, whilst pushing themselves to the limit to get a place at the LSE to study Law, Economics, Geography or Anthropology. Some of them just can’t quite comprehend why they are now being made to study a generic, patronising and dumbed down course; they just don’t understand, Elsie Van Hundert. What do you have to say to this? EVH: I don’t quite understand the question.
Collection of Toys by James Fisher JUST US VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 06
Are You Free? By Srishti Mukherji
“Would you like to be free?”, asked the swallow to the cherry tree. The tree then had his case to defend, It said, “I am free, my dear friend!”
“But I am free to bear blossoms!”, said the tree with some, inkling of hesitation in his voice, wondering if it was really his choice!
“What freedom is this?”, said the swallow, “there’s certainly something amiss!
The swallow twittered with contempt and said, “But could you choose when they went into their silent graves in the sand into the heart of this strange land...”
You say you’re free, but can you visit your brother tree where he stands two nights away from here and remembers you with a gentle tear...”
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In and Out by Jenny Cox JUST US 09
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Closet Nostalgia: being a queen can be such a drag By Joseph O’Connell
be getting away with it, as least for now. No, the crazy world that puts me back in the closet is the crazy world of how we are getting away with it: gay culture. In short, and with a tongue in cheek: if you are young, gay and male and if you’re not partial to Gaga or Glee, well, you may as First, let’s be clear: the outside is well learn to be. People are going to think pretty crazy. I am currently and sado- you are anyway. masochistically subscribed to updates from a gay news outlet on Facebook, That’s a crude exaggeration, sure, but forcing myself everyday to read the the reality of gay cultural stereotyping is bleak, pink news: a conference in Belfast barely more refined, even if it does usually this month for “cured” gay Christians come served with a smile. If I had a penny called ‘The Lepers Among Us’; David for every time I have heard: “What do you Burrowes MP thinking that from his mean you don’t know who [any female opposition to marriage equality “it does celebrity] is?”, often followed by an inane not at all follow that I am anti gay and “You’re gay” (to jog my memory), then homophobic” (disagree); and guess who I would have enough pennies to buy a one US Republican presidential contender fabulous pair of Christian Louboutins... claims “robs children” of a ‘normal’ except of course I wouldn’t. Having upbringing? That’s right, gay parents said this, in my experience, these awful stereotypes are completely justified and (#bitemericksantorum). represent a large amount of truth about But, despite being cast as a leprotic thief- gay culture. Judy Garland. Liza Minnelli. cum-child-abuser, it is not this crazy Madonna. Kylie. Beyoncé. Gaga. Bang outside world that evokes the closet Bang Bang. The same basic principle nostalgia. After all, the rest of the world manifested over and over. Fabulous female is a far rougher place for homosexuals singer, squealing gay male fans. Those of than in Britain or America, where these us who don’t squeal (or, at least like to new stories are from. For those of us in the think we don’t) are left feeling positively heterosexual. So, what’s the point going to West, we are the lucky ones and seem to There is one thing I miss about the closet—it is not the isolation and it is definitely not the constant fear of the door being wrenched open by someone else. In the closet you are, at least, insulated from the crazy gay world outside.
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all that effort to leave the relative stability of the closet and identify as gay when, in a strange way, you’re not ‘gay’ at all? The problem is the way the fake-tan-nosepiercing stereotypes have crystallised— arms outstretched and legs akimbo, screaming ‘Single Ladies’ so loud that there is little hope of any alternative being seen or heard. Gay culture is thus received wholly one-dimensionally, as a subclass of pop culture, but in reality it is completely distinct and anything but uniform. So, why are gay politics, art, science, comedy and history buried deep under the mound of fast music, sleazy clubs and taboo sex? Why is Pride just about rainbows and men in skirts? How about Sappho, Tennessee Williams and Harvey Milk, Bang Bang Bang? Tell me we are proud of these giants - at least as well as Chi Chi LaRue. In fact, how many of those in attendance at Pride even know why drag queens such as Chi Chi (Ms. LaRue?) are a tradition on marches? Not just a colourful staple to gay pride celebrations, drag queens led the Stonewall riots in 1969, resulting in the first Pride march the following year as a commemoration. If gay history were a more dynamic and prominent dimension to gay culture, maybe we could all (straight and gay) understand what it is we are proud of..This is a small example but in truth, the sheer scale of what is being overshadowed is embarrassing. Polari, Margaret Cho, Lawrence vs. Texas, AIDs, same-sex marriage, Christopher Isherwood’s work, Wilde’s crime, the Holocaust, Whitman and his ‘We two boys together clinging’, the nature vs. Nurture debate, Section 28, the GLF, the entire city of San Francisco... and, yes, then there’s Broadway, drag, 11 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
fashion, diva-worship, and the faghag. If ‘gay’ just means Gaga, then I may have made a mistake coming out of the closet because it turns out I’m not gay after all! Unfortunately, I don’t hold much hope for a revolution and, even more unfortunately, I have no reason to be haughty or snobbish about this, having given up on my own mission to educate myself in the LSE library within five minutes. I don’t know very much about Queer Theory but from a quick browse of the titles available (classmark HQ on the second floor, if you’re interested) it is my impression that it is not the most rigorously academic of disciplines. ‘Mummy Queerest’ and ‘Margaret Mead Made Me Gay’ are two that spring to mind. Just the titles charitably we might describe them as “eye-catching”- are enough to tell me that (1) even if you have the inclination to see gay culture from another perspective it is going to be a challenge and (2) that by the time new life trickles down into vacuous gay culture from the ivory towers, I might already be reaching for the mascara in desperation. Where are the inspiring gay tomes? The esteemed gay academics? Even the name, ‘Queer Theory’ reeks of a joke. OK, I don’t really miss the closet. It is a dark place and it can do a lot of damage to those who are checked-in there overlong. And OK, no matter how bad it gets, I’m not going to start applying mascara to fit in. But would just the faintest trace of a soul in our culture as we continue to strive for equality, and an end to homophobia in the crazy world outside the closet be such a weighty burden? I really don’t think so.
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Alien Invasion By Diana Aidan
I didn’t know you a year ago. If I had walked past you on Oxford Street, Or bumped and grazed against you on the Tube, I wouldn’t have known you. One year later and you have taken over. Every inch of my life shows traces of your presence. I can’t escape you. The place we first met that drunken night, The Pret where we had our first date, The Belgian place we first had lunch, Those places I never knew before, but now are like temples of sentiment. It’s funny how I now know you. I know every peak and trough of your body. Every freckle, every hair I know every expression your face can pull. You’re no longer an alien. But like an alien, you invaded my world in a year. A welcome invasion. But you know those films when the Aliens retreat and leave the world in disarray? Please don’t you ever do that to me. Don’t withdraw your troops I want to still know you next year. Different Lifeforms by Thomas Keegan JUST US 13 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
Progression By Emma Hamilton
A blank screen. ‘They’ said the first line was the hardest part. Whoever ‘they’ are, they were right. Tap, rat-a-tat, tap. Words begin to stream from my fingers, Moving in rhythms, beats, time signatures.
Why does nothing work? I throw the mouse; the cat will get it. The hard drive hums a monotonous chord. Hard drive: the bit you can kick – Which I do. The screen goes blank… Shit.
Point, evidence, comment. Every paragraph, a different point. Brain waves conclude: why bother? The screen is static. STATIC. Frozen in time. Still to the last pixel.
A flickering screen. Phrases racing with each flicker, Recovering data. I wish it was that easy in life: Development of ideas: concision is essential! Quote, then comment. Nothing is relevant. VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 14
Creation
By Joseph Pearson When I was younger, I used to play with Lego. I’d get down the whole box and tip it all over the carpet, spreading out my materials in a maniacal junkyard of primary coloured plastic. Pieces would be stuck together in irregular shapes and patterns almost at random. I would build and build until my construction began to take the shape of something I recognised. A castle; a tractor; a killer robot from the future. I would line my creations up along the mantelpiece, ready for my mum to come home and inspect my work.
myself in my own little world, brought feelings to the forefront of my mind I had forgotten, and revelled in the freedom it allowed me.
I gave my story in as my creative writing homework. The teacher left her comments. “A rip-roaring yarn to be sure, but you could make progress on your spelling and grammar. B+” Beautiful as I found it, my creation was flawed. Gone were my Da Vinci days. Now I must do better. She would rather I had remembered to use She did, and she smiled. She picked me a semicolon. up and told me that every one of them was a masterpiece. Each grotesque mound of Then older still, I began to paint. I painted plastic was another of my magna opera, feelings, conceptions, abstract confusions my gift to the world. I would become Da and distortions of the truth. I painted a Vinci, Gaudi, Mozart, except using the woman, the apple of my eye, the joy in medium of little toy bricks. my life. I created love within her, and she She would think each one was perfect, within me. We grew inseparable, together even if the next day they would be always. She adored my painting, and forgotten, discarded, broken in a rage after encouraged me to create again. Eventually, I couldn’t find the right red six spot brick, I created a marriage proposal and she said or cannibalised for the newest creation: a yes. fire engine or a dinosaur. On our wedding day, I painted a pure Then I was older, sitting in a class room embodiment of undying love, and of twenty other teenagers, finding it displayed it upon a canvas. I took it to an difficult to find creativity in third order art dealer, hoping he would hang it in a integrals or diffractive maxima. I found gallery. solace in writing, and crafted a story from He said he didn’t like it. my head, an epic tale of pirates and ninjas, He would rather I had painted a bowl of adventures and damsels in distress. I lost fruit. 17 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
One day, I grew up. I sat at my desk in the office where I worked, fiddling with a paperclip. As I stared around the grey room, I saw little beauty or belief, no spirit or spark. I decided to make that change.
As I became wrinkled and grey, so my children grew strong and healthy. We saw each other now and then, on Thursday nights and alternate weekends.
Until one day, after years of hard work, my daughter graduated. The same day as the ceremony, I was sat in my bedroom, strumming on my guitar. I created sweet music, a tale of trials, tribulation, lust, life and love. I sang it to her the next day, but she didn’t listen. She told me I was never there when she needed me. When my son got married, I was painting the sunset. They would both rather I had created less Then I started on the bank statements, the of a sense of disappointment. chequebooks and the contracts. I began to forge them into something new. I Until one day I died and was buried six folded and folded, transforming each into feet underground in a little wooden box. a different origami sculpture, until my My former family all attended the service; desk was full of cranes and giraffes and they came from far and wide to pay their little rows of people holding hands. They last respects, my mother, now old and danced in the shimmering paperclip lights. frail, my teacher, still grading her papers, I went and got my boss and showed him my boss, who had long retired, my wife, my efforts, the product of a true hard day’s with her new partner, my two children, work. He wasn’t impressed. He tore the who hadn’t spoken in ten years. Within chains from the wall and swept the models them I created feelings of guilt, and regret, and sentimentality. I created hatred, and to the ground. He fired me on the spot. He would rather I had created a conflict, and unresolved issues. I created sadness, and confusion, and only a small spreadsheet. That night I went home, and told my wife amount of love. what I had made at work. I would rather I had created Lego She told me it was a waste of time. dinosaurs. She told me I had failed. I started small. I took my paperclip and linked it to another, and then to a third. I made chain after chain of the things, linking each together like lego bricks, or fragments of a story. I didn’t stop until I had used them all, and covered my workspace in my design, which sparkled and shimmered and brought life back to the greyness.
I created anger within her, and was rewarded with an argument, which led to a fight, which led to, after many months, a divorce. She would rather I had created a steady income, and enough food for our children. VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 18
West of Now By Elizabeth Pfeister
When I was twelve years old, I traipsed around in a pair of cowboy boots. I was an oversized yodeling head atop a miniature body whirling and clomping my way to the ranch in our playroom. The boots were my father’s and they never fit me quite right. He kept them for a reason. Looking at the size of them now I realize I must have been much younger than twelve at the time. They are so small. How did my feet ever manage to slide into those leathery stomping machines? Everything looked bigger then. When I could no longer squeeze my little toes within the walls of my cowgirl persona I cried. How could I become that honky-tonk lady with such ease and grace as those boots had provided? I would like to have seen the look on my Pa’s face when his own gateway to the West was blocked by the villain of growing up. by Jamie Avis JUST US 21 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
by Lucy Sherston JUST US VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 22
Photography by Shreya Krishnan
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Fishing
By Sam Williams The pond squats, inky black, cut into the bowels of the deep, cold wood. But for the ghoulish whining of the leaves, the wind-whipped hissing of the trees, And the presence of a stooped and anorak-clad man with a rod and a hook, The desolation is complete. Above the wood, the bruise-purple sky is bloodied with quick and muscular clouds Conveyed in lurid and rarefied current Across the stark, bald face of the moon. The hook slips beneath the surface. The line, delicate as a shaft of light, lowers it, A fine white tendril probing into a dark and cavernous aquatic abyss, Oblivious to the pressure of nothingness quietly constricting its throat. The hook stops. It can go no further. On the bank, the man with chilled lips and murder in his eyes Sits and holds the rod death still. Still. Still. A pulse of fin. Through the icy water, lit to a spirituous blue by the weak gleam of the moon High above, A body glides; quick and arrow-straight. A pulse of fin.
Sleek, aqua-polished flesh slices through the Heavy, silken liquid at the bottom of the pond. Particles jump mystified—electrified—in the watery wound. A flash of black, and gone. Above, in a higher, clearer strata of the pond, The hook sits deathly still. Curved to a lethal violin barb And handcrafted to kill, It hangs in patient and precipitous wait. It smells cold blood. The fish re-emerges from the towering urban tangle At the bottom of the pond. The big, strong fish. Magnesium eyes burning through the cold Black; it stops. A glint of metal. The filtered light of the moon distils to a prick. The rhythmic music of the gills stops still.
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The man on the bank is a pallid white. Frozen by the frigid forest wind and protected only by a thin anorak, The light from his red eyes is whipped away into the night. The fish pauses, and swims on. Gone. The man is left behind. Alone.
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The Dinosaur of Crouch End
By Andy Council
A Jurassic Moment With Andy Council
What inspired you to begin illustration? I have always drawn, and it has always been my main skill; I’m not all that good at much else! From a young age I was creating artwork for my schoolmates in return for sweets and stuff. So it seemed natural for me to pursue a career in artwork. I studied Animation and tried to get into that, but it didn’t really happen. I worked a few dead-end jobs after graduating, but I got fed up as it wasn’t really going anywhere. A few illustration opportunities came up whilst I was on the dole and it kind of grew from there. I need to do it - for money, but also for myself and for my sanity. Why dinosaurs? The dinosaur thing kind of happened by accident. I was commissioned to do a poster campaign to promote recycling in Bristol. The posters featured a monster made up of rubbish called ‘Scrapzilla’. I did a few of them, and people looking through my portfolio would always comment on them. I decided to do more that were made up of other thing, like Bristol landmarks. The rest is, as they say, history. Or pre-history, perhaps. I like the fact that there are still loads of things that we don’t know about dinosaurs; there’s lots of room for the imagination to fill in the gaps of our knowledge. I’ve started studying them more since drawing them, and have based my recent pieces on types of dinosaurs that are less well known. New kinds are discovered all the time, so I may never run out of inspiration. You marry man-made structures and objects with natural shapes. Is there a meaning behind this, or is it an aesthetic preference? With the creatures made out of buildings, I like to represent an area as a living entity: its energy and soul perhaps. Sometimes I like the creatures in the pieces to be relevant in some way to the area the buildings are in. I also like the contrast of the man-made and natural. A city could be seen as being a monster of sorts: huge, and eating up the surrounding countryside. It is also an aesthetic preference; natural forms are iconic and easily recognisable. 29 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
Tell us a bit about your methods.... If I am creating a dinosaur based on a certain place I try to go to the area and do a research trip. I take lots of photos and make lots of sketches of buildings and landmarks. I then go back and make more sketches, reference maps, draw out a dinosaur shape, and start fitting the buildings into it. It’s like doing a puzzle. Your work seems to challenge the idea of scale - using a boat for a creature’s mouth, for example. Is this one of the main points of interest for you when working? Yeah, I love imagining things that are absolutely huge, totally mind blowing in scale, and perhaps would not physically exist. It makes my journeys on the bus looking out of the window more...interesting. If you see a building you like the look of, do you feel the need to grab a pen and bring it to life? I like certain shapes of buildings I see, and I make a note of them. Some of the buildings I like and that I find beautiful are too complex to put into a beast. I think that quite a few buildings go overlooked as they are in narrow streets, so I can’t take the whole thing in. I think I get most of my inspiration from brutalist modern 60’s buildings. They are ugly, but the shapes are bold and lend themselves to dinosaur parts! Does music influence your work? If so, what have you been listening to lately? I do listen to a fair bit of music; I guess it does influence my work in terms of the sound and complexity. I suppose a fair bit of music I listen to can sound pretty hectic, heavy and dense, like a city or giant creature. Lately I have been listening to Colin Stetson, BEAK>, The Horrors, Open Mike Eagles, Pole, Sun o))), Ornette Coleman, Nation Of Ulysses and The Tuss to name a few.... If you were to do album artwork for a band/artist...who would it be and why? I would love to do album artwork for a one of my favourite bands, like Sonic Youth, but I don’t know if what I do would suit their look and sound. I guess my stuff would fit more with something electronic perhaps.
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A lot of your work is street art; where is your favourite place to spray? The places I paint vary quite a bit and have their own unique charms, I suppose! I like keeping it different and engaging with passers-by in different places. I have painted down by the M32 in Bristol a fair bit. There’s a legal spot there that is easy to get to, but I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite place to be. I recently painted down a storm drain by ASDA in Frome. This was a lot nicer than it sounds as it is on a nature reserve with lots of wildlife. It was really peaceful there and I had herons, the local youth, and my friends keeping me company! Lame question, but is it ever dangerous? Pretty much all my work is done legally, so risk of arrest isn’t really an issue. There are lots of designated places you can paint in Bristol, which suits me as I’m not really one for going out in the middle of night, working on rooftops and having to look over my shoulder! Saying all that, it can still be a stressful thing to do: going up and down ladders in the rain, dealing with people off their head on drink and drugs, have-a-go heroes who think you are breaking the law…stuff like that. Any New Years’ Resolutions for 2012? I want to try to do more fine art painterly pieces, and add more movement to the pieces. Other than that, drink a bit less and do more work outside of Bristol if possible... Do you think there could be a Dinolympic in the pipeline for the London games? There has been talk of this. I’d love to be commissioned to do this! I want to do more London dinosaurs this year, that’s for sure!
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Sunday
By Gabriel Everington The crackling was punctuated occasionally by muffled considerations; I remained there in the hope that persistence might convince him. There was a long period of silence, interrupted when breathing took over. He answered, and now it was my turn to avoid committing to this... Eventually I collected the courage to attempt further noise: I ignored the courtesy of detailed greeting, we both knew the other Everyone knew him, and he knew everyone, Which is when I thought: he must get so many of these a day; And then he explained that he was sorry I’d had to wait so long, He didn’t hide that I had been put on hold, that there were more in the queue. I took a breath that was slightly too deep and fought back a cough. He told me to cough, but not on the receiver, to think of others, And then I forged ahead with the original point of this exercise. If my opening gambit had been weak, now I could hear my voice shrinking. Suddenly I was very aware of the room where I was standing, The wall at which I’d stared blankly now in sharp focus, The phone for so long agonised over, heavy in a sweaty palm. There was no encouragement in the form of a courteous ‘yeah’; A feigned understanding or suggestion of agreement forgotten instantly. But the crystal reply came firm without having to try to be fierce, The storm had damaged the wires in our close, but reception now cut Clean and crisp, clearer than if nestling cheek to cheek in one-time wonder. I’d never heard anything so well, and I knew I would remember it then. Having convinced me of his answer on its own simple merit, he hung up.
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Here’s to you, Anger Liner By Andrew Sivanesan
Comrades, brethren. friends: raise your glasses and join me in a toast to one of the most positive individuals at the LSE; a girl who teaches us more in two hours than our professors do in forty; the original “diamond in the rough.” Here’s to you, Miss Anger Liner. Thank you for providing one of the few spaces in my universe in which I can freely express myself. Thank you for welcoming me with open arms, and for treating me like a somebody, even though I was a nobody. Thank you for not judging me when I got things wrong, and for smiling encouragingly when I got things right. Thank you for inspiring me to be passionate and fearless. Thank you for having drinks with us on Thursday evenings: the small things really do count. Thank you for removing the fear of failure from my belly. Thank you for showing me that you don’t need to be a shark in the turbulent waters of LSE life to be respected. Thank you for supporting my comedy work: it is people like you that keep me going. Thank you for introducing me to swing dance: my dirty little secret over the last few months. Thank you for teaching me to be bolder: both on the dance floor and in life. Thank you for giving me the confidence to try new things. Thank you for holding together a group of kindred spirits, ensuring that birds of a feather stick together. We all wish we had met you sooner, but why waste time with regrets? Time is limited, so let’s enjoy what we have in front of us. Life’s a game, so let’s play. Right? So here’s to your future. Here’s to your health. Here’s to you, Miss Anger Liner.
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Leon by Emily Boon Ying Tan JUST US
‘Albert, I Think We Need A Bigger Tree’ Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s family tree by Lucy Freegard - Just Us
David Cooper By Anson Clark
David Cooper was a radical psychiatrist. He died in nineteen eighty six. This story is not about him. The dining room of High Ridge Psychiatric Hospital was crowded, which was usual for a Sunday. Sunday’s menu was turkey and roast potatoes, and everyone loved turkey and roast potatoes. Maxwell, whose catchphrase was Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer was busy pouring salt onto his left hand. Grandma Mollie was staring at the wall, wearing the kind of smile one would usually expect if confronted by Jesus. Murphy, who was loudly munching on some pretzels, was manically looking around, desperately looking for fresh meat to mock. Seated next to him was Patrick. He was wearing an out of season reindeer and sleigh sweater and was rocking, slowly but dutifully, back and forth in his chair. Sammy’s bulging eyes were transfixed by a fly, innocently meandering across the table. “How can anyone dislike America? I mean, how can anyone actively hate a country that produces a guy like Chevy Chase? There is nothing but good in the man. The guy is the archetypal ‘everyman’. Hell, he could even have been a character in The Canterbury Tales.” Murphy then flicked a pretzel onto Grandma Mollie’s lap.
“That’s too right, though I didn’t get The Canterbury Tales reference.” Sammy was a little confused. “Remember, I was educated at Yale.” “I thought it was Stanford.” Sammy was even more confused. “Yale, Smale. Stanford, Blanford. What’s the difference?” “I love the theme song… Holiday Ro-oo-o-o-o-o-o—oad.” Patrick loved a good tune. “European Vacation was the best movie of eighty five.” Maxwell said whilst gouging at his left eye. “Eighty five? My friends, you are mistaken. The year is nineteen eighty four. Tomorrow I will be released from this hospital and I will watch the first screening of Brian De Palma’s new movie; his latest masterpiece, Body Double.” The Man reduced the room to silence. He was naked but everyone thought that he was wearing clothes. Murphy laughed – “Are you finally going to get laid?” “You say you’re going to get released and watch Body Double every Sunday. It’s not nineteen eighty four. You are not going to get released tomorrow, and you’re never VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 40
going to watch that damn film. It’s too violent for this place. And you’re never going to leave this psycho hospital.” Sammy loved ripping into the Man. “Turkey time! It’s five! Turkey time!” Grandma Mollie cackled, sounding a little like the older Bob Dylan. *** Dr Helliswell was a man of the greatest probity and punctuality. His meetings, though admittedly as exciting as a piece of soggy bread, were admired for their clarity and comprehensiveness. No stone was ever left unturned when Dr Helliswell was in full flow. But the meeting of Wednesday the twenty fourth was different. It was four minutes past twelve, and the meeting had not yet begun. Dr Helliswell coughed and looked at his watch. Suddenly the door opened and the new nurse, Mary Magdalen entered. She looked sheepish and felt like the class fool for being late. Under normal circumstances, Dr Helliswell would have started the meeting at exactly twelve o’clock but since this was her first meeting, he was of the opinion that she should hear everything and so not miss out on any pearls of wisdom he and the nurses, social workers, and (less likely) student doctors had to offer. After Mary had introduced herself to the group, Dr Helliswell briefly discussed each of the ward patients under his care. The last patient to be discussed was the Man. His back story shocked Mary, in particular his false suicide note to his parents which
resulted in his mother taking her own life. Dr Helliswell referred to the Man’s current fixed belief that he was… Jesus. *** “Why is there no turkey today? It’s five o’clock and five o’clock is turkey time.” “You can’t have turkey for dinner everyday, Mollie. You would get sick of it.” Mary was trying to be understanding, yet logical. “I’ll never get sick of turkey. Turkey is what I cooked for my man before he walked out on me. And if I stopped eating turkey he might never come back.” “Listen to yourself – you’re not making sense, Mollie.” “‘Sense?’ You white coat people are always talking about ‘sense’. The walls are on fire – that’s sense for you!” *** The Man stood naked by the bed in his room. He was meditating, which he thought was normal practice for a divine being. He felt sorry for everyone else. He had a direct line to the Almighty and was given divine instructions on a twenty four/ seven basis. Being in the world had made him stupid and corrupt – the voice was a guide whose words were a textbook of the infinite. Sometimes the Man felt like James Bond and the voice would joke, “You’re not the only spy out there.” There was, however, conflict within his mind. He was perfect and divine from birth – he was born with a Buddha birthmark on his forehead – but found it difficult to reconcile this with the fact that he had caused the death of his mother. How could someone so ‘perfect’ VOLUME VOLUMECVII, CVI, ISSUE 21 42 44
have been responsible for such a terrible occurrence? When such doubts threatened to overwhelm him he would look to the Bible and read the descriptions of the devil’s temptation of his former self. Such doubts were a test; his mother an unwitting pawn in a bigger game. If he gave in to the devil her death would have been for nothing. He also promised himself that when his true nature was revealed to the world; when he was recognized as Jesus himself, God and son of God, his mother would be resurrected and they would embrace, hold hands and stuff. Stones would turn into bread. He would hold back the water with his fiery staff and the dead would become living. To turn back time’s bullet could only be achieved with the best, purest and most balanced mind. The Man considered himself to be still in training, but perfection was just around the corner. There was a knock on the door.
asked in a deceptively blank way. “Yes, my first team meeting was earlier today; and silly me, I was late. It’s every new worker’s nightmare to be late on their first day.”
“Enter,” the man declared as if he was a Roman senator or nobleman. The door opened; it was Mary. The Man’s eyes widened – it was love. Of course, being Jesus meant that the Man was not interested in carnal pleasures; this was a pure, angelic type of love.
The Man loved her hair, her eyes, her choice of clothes. He framed her face as if it was a picture. He felt as if there was nothing he could add. He had found his Mona Lisa. There was so much he could tell her. “You can wash my feet with oils.” “Maybe some other time…” “Because I respect you I will put on some clothes.”
“I’m just checking to see if everything’s ok.” “You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you before. Yes, you’re new. I never forget a face.” The Man’s calm voice disguised the bubbling emotion inside. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Mary. This is my first day.” “Have you met Dr Helliswell?” the man 43 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
“I forgive you. Come, join me in the center of the room.” Mary rather sheepishly meandered over to the middle of the room. “I feel that I have known you for many years; that you are an old friend.” There was a tremble in the Man’s voice. “Even though I am wearing no clothes, you do not mock me.” Mary was rather taken aback by this. “You do know you’re fully clothed.” “You are too kind. Do you see the painting of the ship on the wall?” “Yes, it looks like a very peaceful situation.” “The water hides things.” “Yes. Yes it does.”
Mary wasn’t sure whether to go along with his fantasy or to burst his bubble and tell him the truth. Her first day had certainly been eventful. In our world it seemed as if the Man was not putting on his clothes but taking them off.
“You’re taking off your clothes. I think I’d better leave.” Mary was alarmed. The Man began to wash her feet with oils – in his world. But in our world he made a clumsy attempt to kiss her. “Er… Bye.” Mary darted out of the room. And the Man was alone, once more. She had spurned his divine love. She was flawed. She was not good enough for his love. Only an unrepentant sinner would run away from Jesus. “Yes, she’s evil,” he thought. Then there was a moment of clarity, of realization. It suddenly all became clear. Only Judas would betray Jesus in such a way. She was Judas. *** There was a knock on the door of Juliet Heaven’s office. The Man had an important duty to fulfill – the punishment of Judas. “Come in.” The Man entered. Juliet Heaven, a rather heavy woman, was seated at a rather large desk. In front of her were numerous documents. Even though she was Head Nurse, and took great pride in this fact, she spent most of her time dealing with paperwork. She looked up at the Man. “Yes?” The Man proceeded to tell her his version of what had happened. He made sure he spoke both calmly and slowly, though there was a quivering in his voice. He accused Mary of making a pass at him. To make his story more believable, he said that there was the smell of alcohol on her breath. Juliet Heaven throughout
looked rather grave and wished the Man to declare that what he was saying really happened. He said that was he was saying was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At the end he said “I swear on my dead mother’s grave that what I have said is true.” Then he left the office and Juliet Heaven had the face of someone who, for a brief moment at least, wished to be doing paperwork and nothing else. The Man’s waltzed through ward twenty seven with a great beaming smile on his face. In his eyes he had carried out the judgment of God. Just before reaching his room, he heard voices emanating from the medicine room. The voices belonged to Mary and Patrick. For a moment the Man considered ignoring the petty talk of such heathen but out of possibly divine curiosity, he decided to listen in. He stood behind the door which was slightly ajar and peered through the gap. Patrick was seated on a stool and looked like he was in considerable pain. His feet were bare and were covered in blood and shards of glass. He had been walking on broken glass again. Mary was kneeling in front of him and was plucking the glass from his feet with a pair of tweezers. “You have such lovely feet, Patrick. Why do you wish to ruin them?” “I don’t know, Mary. I don’t know.” “We’ll make your feet as good as new in no time.” The Man then had a vision; Mary was not plucking glass from Patrick’s feet, she was washing them with oils. And they both were wearing biblical clothing. Mary then looked at the Man and smiled. Smiled like VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 44
his mother used to smile. This woman was not Judas, the Man thought; he was Judas. Mary was both sinless and blameless. She was Jesus. And then a terrible thought crossed his mind. He had lied to his mother and she had killed herself. He had repeated the same mistake; lied again. And the result was going to be disastrous, again.
Mary walked up to him. She was smiling, which was often the case. In her hand was a copy of Body Double. She held it up so the Man could see. “Anyone for popcorn and a movie tonight?” First of all, getting my hair cut is never
He then decided to turn back the hands of time. He raced through the ward, saw both demons and daggers, and arrived at Juliet Heaven’s office. He knocked loudly three times. Before she had time to answer he threw open the door and raced to the center of the office. “I… I lied, Nurse Heaven. It was all a lie. Mary Madgalen never tried to kiss me. I made it all up.” “I see. Are you sure this time?” “Yes. Yes, Nurse Heaven. I’m sure.” Juliet Heaven did not look too pleased. “You know, I’ll have to talk to Dr Helliswell about your behaviour today. Telling false stories is what children do.” “I know, nurse Heaven. I know.” Then for some inexplicable reason, he picked up some of Juliet Heaven’s paperwork, screwed it into a ball and tried to put it into his mouth. *** Many weeks later. Turkey. It was always turkey on a Sunday. The Man was sitting alone in a corner of the dining room. VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 2 46
Poetry Competition Finalists: The Modern Laugh
3rd Place
By Anonymous
So, my friend, is this a modern world? In the flowers, the structure of humanity Reveals itself, waiting for a yearning lady To pluck them and uncover their subterranean logic.
My eyes were bleak and growing out Out of fear, sprouting their unquietness And piercing through the cornea, were two potato roots.
My friend, I’ve not understood your ideas Your philosophy smells of rotten moths It has seemed to me that you’ve searched For truth but waited for the establishment To approve your actions. I thought you were meant to be much more, I thought you were meant to save us, And so lying on the tarmac I wonder, Where have all the messiahs gone?
My friend, I’ve missed the sound of your body, And in this time of chaos I think I’ve begged modernity to Spare me. I told her: Let me sleep a bit more. Kneeling down I looked at her in the eyes And I told her You can speak with seriousness and drive a vehicle Manufactured for the Indians, You can build towers in which the sea cauterizes its wounds And lick the salt accumulated around the window panes And you can create images that distorts the idea of perception, Shrinking geographies that fall upon humans (And many of them will be broken, many of them will be crushed);
Is this a modern world? Sometimes I wonder where the savage wars and the rituals Have gone. Disseminated, like flowers too. In the Western world, I’ve seen men fighting wars In trading rooms,
I said to her in another life I was a Farsi merchant With seven children, aligned along a wall They did not have to wait for food to be fed. So I know what it is to be strong and wealthy. And there in the streets of Mumbai,
On the faces, clean, shaved and ready To face the climate of air conditioned rooms, You can still see the pledges, those furrows Circular and in motion, Adornments that resembles the mouths Of Brazilian tribes, We’re all Caduveos.
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A hundred years ago, I was you, modernity. And I listened to the sound of your body From a gramophone, And my neighbours wanted to behead me for that. I was well beyond my peers. Modernity, you can shape us with your hands, You can shape our bodies, bodies with less hair And slender bones You can frame our ideas, to cycle faster down the lanes Modernity, you shall do all that to us And experiment with our discoveries in The shades of scientific lives But the path you’re treading is a solitary one, Modernity: Never forget that after all, we’re all man. And so for us time is counted and there will not be time To rehearse in new costumes. Modernity, if I may intervene, I would advise you to create one man out of us all So that at least, one modern man remains, To laugh at the burden of our knowledge. One modern man with itching legs, Arched feet and bleached teeth, Every morning he starts a letter.
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VOLUME CVII, ISSUE 1
28
Dreams of Salvador Dali By Elizabeth Pfiester
Lately, I have bumped into Salvador Dalí’s dreams. A shuddering storm cloud flashes into an inflated parachute that transports the dangling red and blue jump-suited miniature men to a not-so-safe haven. My concrete path inadvertently pops into grey and black balloons and they burst as I scamper along to get home. I am going to be late. Then it is one of those ‘this is my house, but it’s not really my house’ dreams. It’s the skeleton of what the place would have been a century ago. The same underpainting with different layers. Similar outlines, but varying colors. Peeling and dull, flower-patterned wall paper moonlights as the soft blue walls I know to be our fancy eating room. I’m home, but not quite. I tell myself to blink hard -the canvas will be expunged so that a more familiar version of home will appear. The warm yellow of our living room should melt back into view. 53 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
2nd Place
Or was it beige? I can never choose my preferred hue. I am awake now. The world of certainty and truth at hand no less than a moment ago melts away. But the encounter hangs over me like an orb of condensation, dissolving as the day progresses. When we go to sleep forever we will dream forever too, I suppose. Then I can ask DalĂ how he melted time.
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Winner Tree
By Elizabeth Pfiester There is a tree in me, growing. It was petite at first, with only splintery little branches evident. I didn’t think it was going to take off. It was potted at an improper time of year. The frail and modest stem had little hope of survival. The circumstances would not normally permit such a plant to take root. But somehow its baby feet found residence in the embers of my abdomen.
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And its bark matured toward my chest. Now each limb twists eloquently along my spinal passage. My heart is encaged in a nest of its twigs. Soon I will be seeing leaves, and their veins will become my veins. The roots have taken hold. They grow down my legs, spurting through my feet planting me firmly down. There is a tree in me, blooming.
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Controversy Hits London Fashion Week By Grace Fletcher
Choosing the Holocaust as the theme for any moneymaking venture is pretty distasteful. Using it as inspiration for a new fashion line is, in my mind, disgraceful. The last time I attended London Fashion Week was when I worked as a waitress, spending 10 hours a day for 7 days giving out free champagne and goodie bags to the rich and famous. This time I was sitting in the front row with my own kir royale and a bag of treats beside my best friend. With a sense of satisfaction and the nice feeling when you realize your life is progressing, I sat back and waited for the show to commence. Smoke immediately filled the catwalk, imitating the gas chambers of concentration camps and eerie music for accompaniment. One by one the models made their way onto the catwalk, looking sicker than normal, with pale faces, huge backcombed hair and heavy black eye make up. The weirdest part was their posture, as they had their shoulders pushed back in a force manner, and walked slowly down the catwalk like zombies. The designer, Carlotta Actis Barone, wrote a short press release explaining how she had based her AW/12 collection
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on the slogan ‘Arbeit macht frei’ – ‘work liberates’, which were the words written on the gates of Auschwitz. She also mentioned that the reason for the somber colour pattern was to “emphasise the seriousness of the theme and to keep the tone of sobriety necessary to remember these events”. Valid point. However, I couldn’t think of anything worse than going to a party dressed in expensive clothes, with words written all over them associated with Auschwitz. I don’t think we should start redefining our associations with arguably the most terrible human doings known to civilization. The Holocaust should be something that should only be presented in a 100 per cent serious way, and pointed out as black-andwhite evil, not recreated into fashion. I have scoured the web to look for reviews on the show and was completely shocked to find that everyone loves it…Who’s Jack reports, “Somehow, Carlotte Actis Barone has managed to take something that will forever tarnish the reputation of humanity, and turn it into something beautiful”...The point is it should NEVER be turned into something beautiful.
Contributors
Iain Ramsay and Adam Wright
Adam Wright is an International History student; Iain Ramsay, a Geography student on the Crayola scholarship. Both are in their second year at the LSE. Having met, they came to blows over a six-pack of Petit Filous. Iain believes he has ancestral claims to the Malaysian throne. Adam Wright refutes this claim.
Joseph O’Connell
Halfway through a degree in Politics and Philosophy at LSE, he was born in Swindon, lives in Seven Sisters and aspires to eventually live somewhere nice. He is the only student at LSE not to have an exotic family/ethnic/linguistic background to pad out his biographies. Luckily, he has the Global Brigades Society to shamelessly promote.
Sam Williams
is a third year student reading Politics and Philosophy. He is particularly interested in moral and political philosophy, which manifests itself in his tendency to see a latent ethical debate in almost every conversation—especially when there isn’t one. Sam grew up in Austria, Jordan and England, but has forgotten all his German and Arabic.
Gabriel Everington
As far back as he can remember, he always wanted to be a gangster before realising that the Lucchese family had just got too popular. Now he spends his time subverting the mainstream, and attempting to carve out a niche as an ‘alt. gangster’ working mainly in the post-Italo genre. You won’t have heard of it.
Joseph Pearson
is a slightly dishevelled-looking second year, with a love of writing but a short attention span. Despite its fluffy appearance, he would rather you didn’t ruffle his hair. He lives in an attic overseen by a mural of a huge green girl and her turquoise, pipe smoking father.He comes from Norwich: he doesn’t think you should hold that against him.
Anson Clark
studied English at University and was a student psychiatric nurse for some time. Loves American TV: anything anarchic with a good heart. His favourite writers include Bret Easton Ellis and Zadie Smith. He likes anyone interesting.
Elizabeth Pfiester
is an MSc International Development and Humanitarian Emergencies at the LSE. She hails from a small town in the United States, surrounded by cornfields. She enjoys all forms of wordplay and is inspired by the works of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Additionally, her hobbies include painting and drawing, traveling and learning, live music and theatre, and silliness.
Srishti Mukherji
Day time occupation: MSc Economics student at LSE. But when not surrounded by Bellmans and Hamiltonians, she loves to read, write poetry, sing and dance. She has led the nomadic life of a defence brat and enjoyed every moment of it. She wants to travel the world and hopes to keep writing while she’s at it!
Jamie Avis
Contributors
spends a large amount of his time crying in the bath. When he’s not crying in the bath, he’s trying to reach his true artistic potential. Other interests include flouncing about as a connoisseur of depressing music, and eating everything in his path. Toilet trained.
Kyle Smart
A recent graduate in Illustration from UWE, currently residing in Bristol. Alongside Kyle’s Illustration work he also helps teach at UWE as an Illustration intern and is involved with the Drawn In Bristol collective, putting on regular exhibitions around the South West.
Jenny Cox
Nadja Asghar
Lucy Sherston
Thomas Keegan
A freelance illustrator currently based in Cumbria. Enjoys advertising illustration from the 60’s, Nordic and Dutch design, and traditional British folk art. She works in digital collage to combine analogue drawing methods to create her illustration work. Visual Communication student currently studying in Leeds. Her aim is to create emotive illustrations that portray feeling and character. Wants to learn more about the world. She’s influenced by discovering different ways of life and other cultures, as well as the mundane and life’s little simplicities.
Paniz Gederi
Second year Management undergrad and the current president of the LSESU Visual Arts Society. Our world is full of beauty and this deserves to be celebrated – Paniz tries to do her best with her photography and artwork. Her main inspiration is Vincent Van Gogh – especially his painting ‘Starry Night’. That’s her fave.
has been a vegetarian for a few years, all to justify eating insane amounts of cheese, and is addicted to the gym (= reading Charles Bukowski on the cross trainer, or knitting whilst cycling). Has a slight obsession with everything Russell Brand- and Noel Fielding-related. An illustrator based in Somerset who loves old Disney films, Heineken, jelly babies, spray painting, power cuts during storms, afternoon naps, whisky and ginger ale, old shoes, marzipan, the smell of rain, my job, sweet potatoes, forest gump, www.tkillustration.co.uk
Grace Fletcher
studies social anthropology at LSE having dramatically switched from an art degree to an academic one. She is interested in the anatomies of animals. Her favourite bones are from dinosaurs. The funniest bones are from a tortoise.
Submit to Clare Volume CVII, Issue 3:
THE FOOD CHAIN: Where are you?
Producer? Consumer? Or Pug-loaf? Tell us about it.
Stop loafing around!!! Submissions deadline for written/art work is
June 15th
Email to Submissions@claremarketreview.co.uk
On the Cover
Save It On Your Hard-Drive Nick Gentry’s Take on Floppy Disks Our cover artist, Nick Gentry, sees art as a fun and direct way of expressing himself. His artistic journey began when, at a young age, he spent a lot of his time drawing. Since then, he has experimented with other mediums, including the floppy disks that appear on the cover. These floppy disks allow Nick to explore many of his main interests in life: identity and memories, consumerism, and the technological revolution. Nick takes the basic traditional portraiture approach – of focusing on the face as the subject, and using the canvas merely as a setting for that – and essentially flips that on its head. The faces in his work are only the vessel in which he can present the much more important subject – the assemblage of the disks. Nick tends to take inspiration from his day-to-day life in London, and his work benefits from his natural tendency for close observation. His favourite London spot is on the top of a sunny Primrose Hill. He feels at his calmest in London’s green areas, insulated from the buzzing city that is waiting to be explored. He also finds inspiration in music, and enjoys listening to Burial and Massive Attack whilst he works. When creating his artwork, Nick begins by arranging the disks into positions that 63 CLARE MARKET REVIEW
reflect the tonal range of the face. Then he constructs the canvas, and masks off the edges with paint to create a silhouette. He then adds the final features and details, but likes to be very sparing with the paint, so as to leave the labels of the disks clearly visible. The floppy disks are donated to him by people who see his paintings online and at exhibitions. This is a crucial part of Nick’s working practice, and many people find it satisfying to play a small part in the creative process. To Nick, the fact that the donators can see their memories embedded in the paintings represents a satisfying completion of a circle of imagination and expression. Nick is looking forward to an exciting year ahead. Some of his paintings will be featuring at SCOPE Art Fair in New York in March, and the following month he is looking forward to a solo show in Miami. Always the realist, he claims that New Years’ resolutions aren’t really his thing, but we’re certainly predicting a year full of success for our cover artist!