Tŷ Celf 2015

2015

T킷 CELF PHOTOGRAPHY - WRITING - ARTWORK

editor’s Note

T Ŷ CeLf

So, here we are again! Welcome to this year’s Ty Celf, a collection of artwork, photography and literature from the talented and creative students at Cardiff University. You might have found Ty Celf (which means ‘House of Art’ or ‘Art House’ in Welsh) in the Gair Rhydd in past years, but this year it has moved to Quench, where we hope to provide a happy home for some of the incredible creative work contributed by students.

My special thanks go to Sum Sze Tam for allowing me to take the reigns and never having any doubts (or at least never letting on to them) in the potential of the magazine, Simon Brown for saving our front cover, Amy Barrington for being so helpful in recuiting art submissions and to everyone who submitted their work for the magazine. You gave us endless hours of reading and viewing material and blew us away with your talent.

— CHlOE mAy 2

PHOTOGRAPHy - JUliA dAlRymPlE

Unfortunately for me I was not blessed with the same creativity that inspires the work on these pages. Artwork was never my forte, most of the photographs saved on my computer have the outline of a thumb in the corner and while reading has been the single most valuable pastime in my 20 years of life, spilling out words into a way that amuses, stirs and touches the reader has never been one of my skills (the feedback on my essays pay good homage to that). It is hard for me to believe that anything creative could ever come naturally, but seeing some of the submissions we’ve received my only reasonable outcome is that our university is blessed with some naturally talented individuals. I hope you enjoy their work as much as I did.

T Ŷ celf

PHOTOGRAPhy - Jamila Gandhi

This House [magick] This house vibrates with the rhythm of poetry; whistling through the windows and around the house with the scent of the fresh breeze.

Wind whipping my curls, free and loose, over my face.

Rustling trees whisper [magick].

This house stands tall on top of the ridge, staring down at the haphazard houses, and beyond, turquoise of the sea hazing and blurring with the azure sky.

Planes fly in low overhead.

Uncle Kamau sits, smiling, [magick] in the very timbre of his voice the careful choice of when to put thoughts to voice, and when to hold silence.

Monkeys frolick and play unseen outside, while Uncle Kamau sits, commanding his ridge.

Speaking of ancient times. lands. myths. spirits. [magick].

He tell us, “you brought the day”.

Wild, warm, ancient winds, speak of times long passed.

The bright, old sun shines down. Close your eyes.

Listen to the ancient rhythm.

Dedicated to my uncle, the Caribbean poet Kamau Brathwaite.

writing - naomi abrams 3

Please ring the bell to enter the gallery

At this point the elderly lady removed her wire-framed glasses and half got up

from her seat.

Stephen obeyed accordingly. After a few seconds, a buzzer went off somewhere upstairs

“Can I offer you anything – tea, coffee?”

in the gallery and the latch on the door clicked. Stephen removed his coat and entered.

Steven refused her proposal, with all but a smile. He was just here to look at the

paintings.

gallery alongside him, and Stephen started. Examining his own reflection, he noticed

a small spot just underneath and to the right of his left eyebrow. He fingered it for a

up, so if there are any you fancy which don’t have a price, let me know and I’ll tell you,” and

moment.

with that the middle-aged, chubby, sort-of-happy gentleman went back to his previous

writing - james alston

THE GALLERY

4

A wall-length mirror to his left gave the impression of a person entering the

The stairway was tight and steep, and Steven’s coat brushed the sides of the

“Well, enjoy them. They’re all for sale – we’re just putting the last of the prices

job of putting paintings in frames and hanging them on muddy-beige walls.

walls, leaving a wet, aphotic smear over their beige exterior. Empty frames hung on the

walls, their maple – or was it oak? – bodies giving a look of grandeur to the building.

pointed to a small landing just past the top of the staircase – “and loop back around.”

By the time he reached the pinnacle of the staircase, Stephen was dripping both with

rainwater and perspiration.

landing, observing the paintings which hung in various sizes to his right. There were lots

“Hello!” An elderly lady sitting behind the desk had greeted him with a smile

of farmyard animals – hens, dogs, cows – and many more of farmers and agricultural

and a wave, and a middle-aged man who had been in the process of inserting pictures

equipment. One, in pencil, showed just a farmer, looking down at a big, fat belly, fat from

into frames and hanging them on the now a musky-cream colour walls, faded from half

beer and good, farm meat, the sleeves of his arms billowing past the canvas and out of the

a century of use, turned and observed Stephen with a look of mild interest. He stopped

frame.

what he was doing and opened the door.

by a small wall, and a third person sat behind the desk. She eyed Stephen with a cautionary

“Nice weather for ducks.” He had a kind, chubby face – the face of a man who

The lady smiled. “You can come through here, or go back that way” – she

Turning his back, Stephen opted for the latter option and ventured down the

Through the loop, there was a second reception opposite the first, partitioned

isn’t fat, but runs because he knows he could be; the face of a man who has had a life of

and suspicious air.

rebutting artists stuck in a surreality of poverty and bohemianism when they contest that

their painting is worth twice the price he’s offered for it; the face of a man who appreciates,

down with frowning eyebrows, even though she was barely metres away.

but is sick of, art.

“Can I help you?” Stephen was sure he saw her squint at him, look him up and

Stephen shook his head, and nearly stood on a fully-grown black Labrador

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lying in a blanket-bed. As he bent to pet, the dog bared its teeth. Stephen pulled his hand

and rabid pit-bulls chew on raw meat and leave the leftovers for the homeless

back and grimaced at it, before wandering back the way he had come.

“That darkness under your eyes – what does that mean? What do those red

“If you’d like a leaflet, there are some on the-”

marks signify – are you happy?”

There was a third floor. The staircase was as tight as the previous set, and

as the police cower behind riot shields, and locked up in the the riot vans, the

Stephen had to hold his coat above his head in order to not deface any artwork.

politicians, crying for their families

The artwork up here was of a different calibre to the others – not necessarily

“What do those shadows cover up on the chaise? What are you hiding? What’s

better technically, but better somehow. The floor consisted only of nudes, of both sexes,

underneath them?”

and one in particular had caught Stephen’s eye – a woman, wearing a long white gown,

one breast only slightly protruding from underneath, and lying behind her on the chaise

getting through this as one big community

a man, bare except for the hair on his head and the tuft by his groin. Something about the

dark shades under the subjects’ eyes, the shadows thrown over the back of the seat and

me, forever making him wait, forever with those dark eyes.”

over the gown, the honesty in nakedness of a man, and a woman, seated together, all their

together, one big community working together to-

red marks and purple blotches available to the world; the intensity – the tension.

“Excuse me, are you all right?”

Stephen was breathing heavily, one hand staining the dry wall wet and the other

“You like this one, huh? It’s one of my favourites too. Four hundred and

in a vapid mess of insane waffle about getting through this as a community,

“But you can’t answer me. You’re just standing there, forever, forever ignoring

seventy-five pounds. That’s if you want to buy it, of course.”

grasping at his collar, fiddling with his buttons. Sweat dripped off his forehead onto the

floor. As the man came over to see what Stephen had been observing, the rioters moved

The middle-aged man had entered the top floor without so much as the squeak

of a loose floorboard. Stephen literally jumped. He could all but feel the man’s breath

off down the street, the police followed, the tide went out and the rain began again.

down the back of his neck, pulling goosebumps up from their previously-flat resting place

“Ah. Still such God-awful weather. Well, anyway. I’ll leave you to it.” He left.

on his spine.

Stephen returned to the charcoal drawing. On the wall, next to the silent

“The subject is really something, huh?” He gazed upon the picture with

something like nostalgic melancholy. “I feel like he’s waiting – waiting for her to tell

subject with her forever-longing man were the words qui tacet consentire videtur

him something, or do something – and it just never comes. And she just stands there – motionless – forever.”

At this point, Stephen’s skin went cold. All the hairs which still lay inert stood

to attention and sweat trickled down rivers on his back, settling in their reservoir above the label of his jeans. Outside, something was happening – something big. Stephen had to see what it was. Had to look out the window and experience it – be in it.

“And they’re just so beautiful. So real. So pained. What is it you’re waiting for?

What is it that you want her to do?”

The man was paying no notice of the commotion through the window. He was

dumbstruck – mesmerised by the beauty of the subject and her waiting lover.

“I just wish I could tell her to turn around and talk to him – to touch to him –

to feel him.”

Stephen shuffled away from him, and went over to the small, submarine-like

window which looked out onto the street. Outside, the world was falling into the ocean and the hells were spurting liquid death onto the streets.

“But you can’t, can you? Because you’re just a picture. Just some model the

artist has picked out of a catalogue because he thought you’d look good under charcoal.”

White, white-collar, masculine workers take to the streets, arms in hand,

looting, smashing windows, bashing pakis, yelling oaths,

“And you – what are you waiting for? Touch her. She’ll let you. I know she will.

You’re hers. Hers forever, now. Immortalised on canvas.”

PHOTOGRAPhy - alex stewart 5

artwork - yue guan

6

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Bloodletting I knew that when we made love you would die first, spent, laboured and bleeding.

I lay quite still as you ghost over my frozen eyes & plead that I be absolutely human.

Your face: a balanced, tidy acre or a painting hung on a gallery wall, watches as I winter.

The seas collapse under the weight of your stare but I do not drown into you.

The surf is skinned with oil & I am beached to this blank shore.

I suck your blood & snap a rib as a souvenir.

I will never be put together entirely so neither shall you.

You wear my burden on your breath, weakened & voiceless, in spite of yourself.

Your waters waver & I make earrings of your fluted bones.

sophie moss

Remove For Charlotte Gainsbourg She cut it off.

Her. Herself.

She cut it off, a sexual-surgical removal; only that’s not a real name.

Call it a name.

Try to find one.

Find a name for removing.

But with a word that isn’t removing.

I word that doesn’t mean removing.

I word that means a movement away from her.

It’s not about pleasure.

It is about her.

How else can I put in but “her”?

Yet again maybe it wasn’t “her”; or at least the whole her.

It was what made her a her, and she removed it, but she’s still there, and she wouldn’t have been if she’d kept it.

So was it only the removal of some kind of tumour?

Not her at all.

But a piece flesh that only betrays.

All those nerve cells, yes, the clitoris, and they only caused her pain.

It was pain because of unwanted pleasure.

Now it is pain because of a pair of scissors.

If she hadn’t done it.

The Removal. Herself.

It would be FGM. An evil acronym.

But it was her, who put an ending to her.

She had always known she had to do it.

She had always been… obsessive.

sarah gonnet

7

artwork - GEORGIA HAMER

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Bass

&

Lobster Nut Ice Dash of syrup Crystal bowls And china plates.

In the kitchen, the sous-chef prepares, What the sea has to offer him.

Ruthlessly cracks a lobster carcass, Discards an opened shell, Only what lies inside is his delight.

Pea-green pistachio A secret crunch in a smooth gulp Vanilla pod pips lie subtle Under the milky sheen Of ivory iced cream.

I indulge in the guilty taste, As I take a bite of the pearl shaped scoop, But then I see Large brown eyes indulge in me From above, on the wall, Long eyelashes unblink.

A doe, chin and ears erect Severed at the neck.

Her mate, a proud stag, hangs across the room, Sturdy crown held aloft From each side of his head, Nature’s living branches, now dead Adorned with swinging trinkets.

Ah, they dined like us, once, Free and careless, On a forest’s rich green, Until the hunter came.

Now they are poised, frozen, To gaze among us hunters As we eat our rich desserts.

Unjust.

writing - Alexandra Chapman 9

PHOTOGRAPhy - Julia Dalrymple

10

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The night,

it feels like velvet

The night, it feels like velvet against your eyes, shut, that hallucinate broken glass amongst the sand and shards stuck between your toes; at each cut your teeth grind until they’re worn into dust that falls from between them, then dissolves on your tongue.

Consume yourself like the houses on the cliff edge waiting to be sacrificed to the sea built on the chalk that writes their kaddish; and in corrosion, nakedness, in red pooled at your feet, in the velvet pall of night, be warmed by madness and, brain-dead, sleep.

writing - Sadia Pineda Hameed

11

PHOTOGRAPHy - Jasper Wilkins

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Returning to the water wasn’t easy. For a while, I was terrified that it would happen again. That the water would engulf me. It would travel through my lungs at a rate too fast for my brain to process.

H2O wasn’t my friend that day. It didn’t relax me when the summer days were too hot. Those days I spent more time under the shower head or making plans to go to the lake instead. It didn’t embrace me in its warmth, wrapping me up like a blanket to get through the coldest days in winter.

It attacked me until I couldn’t breathe. It was a one man battle as I struggle to get a punch in.

Gallons of water replace air that I didn’t want to exchange. There was no way of communication.

No way of telling my younger brother that it would be okay. I was alone in my thoughts. How was I going to survive this? The only thing that saved me was my mind telling me to keep going, to not let the water be superior. I won’t let the water be the destroyer of the trust my brother put in me. I continued to repeat to myself: I am in control. If I fall into the pit of the unknown or find my way out of this, it will be a story I’ll tell to my future kids. My heart raced faster than the waterfalls I imagined I was falling through. The impact was the fear of hitting the bottom of the unknown dark depths.

But my focus was getting my brother to safety. If someone had to fall to the bottom, let it be me.

Let my brother live the life he wants without having this terrible memory haunt him. One second I was holding onto his legs, his own arms wrapped around my neck. The next, I’m extending my hand as far as I can to reach for his small, young one. His eyes showed flash of fear from being away from me, trying to find a way to communicate on the surface of the water. His dark brown eyes also showed signs of confusion.

He didn’t come with a mindset of drowning nor did I. Not today. We belong at the surface, where the green leaves of summer float in the water and the light is familiar to me when it touches my face and body. The water was once a friend and now it takes away my sense of awareness, of calmness that I used to feel every time my body hit the water.

The sense of familiarity every time my toes takes a sneak peek is just a memory. As I fell deeper, my sense of touch heightened. I began to ask questions: Where am I? Am I too deep to swim up? Is the water too much for me to call for help?

Is my brother okay? My vision blacked out by the water pushing me down, the sound of moving water becoming more apparent.

It was faith and patience that saved my brother and I. If it wasn’t for my determination of

writing - Chelsea Candelario

grabbing hold of my brother’s hand and bringing him to the edge, where the surface was prominent, I don’t know what would have happened. With the help from others, I was able to reach back to the surface, the surface I began to appreciate that it existed. That day I ignored the water, I defeated the water and I wanted no part of it’s new plans for me. All I cared about at the moment was that my brother would have a memory of how much I went through to save him rather than having the haunted nightmare of drowning.

But today, the water is cooperating with me. It asks for my forgiveness and to become my friend rather than an enemy. I won’t let the water be the king and I, the peasant that abides by the rules it governs. I’m alone, but content as my body is surrounded by lake. I close my eyes and let the sun’s rays touch my skin and mark me. I used to be able to float, to enjoy the water brushing against my back and the feeling of security. I would let the small ripples move me across like the leaves fallen from the trees. I used to control the water as my own. Now, I let my legs fall down a bit deeper than before, letting them feel what I felt when my upper body was weighed down. I thought I was an expert in the water; a fish, one with the icy blue, sometimes mysterious surrounding area.

The thought makes my heart heavy, my mind racing with guilt. Why did I let the water engulf me and then reached towards my brother? Why must I remember a memory of fear and panic while he lives everyday like it didn’t happen, like I didn’t risk his life for a chance to be Neptune or Poseidon of the sea with the power to control and care for him. The day still haunts me, but I refuse to be a victim. Why should I fear the water when my brother passes through like a forgiving soul?

He jumps into the water with open arms while I’m still weary. I refuse as I lay one hand on my heart, feeling the beat move at a steady pace. I’m okay and I will continue to learn and be in control of my own life.

The Water

&

Me 13

writing - Sanja Dragojlov

PHOTOGRAPHY - ALEX STEWART

14

They burn as they fall, painting the sky with glowing embers so resplendent that even the comets would be put to shame.

In the dark they fly no angels but vampires, devils creatures of the night.

The most handsome looks on with velvet eyes silvery hair astray he fixes a crooked smile and hooks on the girl with cinders in her hair weaving weary promises through her heart his is gray, like the oncoming twilight the gloom that sets on over the forest just before dawn.

He is the morning star, and in the fall he steals a painful kiss in the dark they embrace.

He is young, an hourglass forever spilling sand and counting time she is black and red and bright.

Hell is cold, the Earth is ice together they fall through darkness and shadows black wings breathing the night insatiable creatures drinking in feelings, like happiness, despair and dread they inhale them all sucking in insecurities, loss and pain they want nothing and yet everything mortal hearts and mortal thoughts they cling as they fall desperate hands and claws he grips her hand they fly, they fall, they kiss the night black wings burning, incinerating ripping from skin until they’re naked bodies

Lilith and Lucifer

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Lumina.

Sulfuric skies bleed through veins run dry overhanging clouds poisoned with cyanide glowing blue and green the atmosphere is wrecked while thoughts swim in dilapidated air, disconnected.

Bright, bright, Oh unstarry night cosmic storms are at war and the sun watches from its throne sparking luminescence so full with light that it perforates through the storms and splinters of night.

Lumina, they call it lonely planet dressed in the finest of wear where the sky is alive and poison reeks in the air.

artwork - jasper wilkins

White, gray suits come and go like flightless swans and geese in barren, lake-less lands towers and spires pierce the dark heart of sky.

Twisting needles jab and cut through deep veinslightning strikes and rain falls like violent rubies wounding the atmosphere corrugated metal aluminum umbrellas burst like flowers against the onslaught.

Lumina is magnificent a metallic, deathless empire white cages-suits among cosmic entropy.

writing - Sanja Dragojlov

15

Acknowledgements

EDITOR Chloe May ART/PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS Lubna Anani Georgia Hamer LITERATURE EDITORS Taliesin Davies Becci Guymer Sophie Moss DESIGN EDITORS Naomi Brown Bryn Evans COVER Jasper Wilkins CONTRIBUTORS Naomi Abrams Chelsea Candelario Alexandra Chapman Julia Dalrymple Sanja Dragojlov Jamila Gandhi Sarah Gonnet Georgia Hamer Sophie Moss Sadia Pineda Levina Raharja Alex Stewart Jasper Wilkins

artwork - Levina Raharja