T Ŷ CELF
2016 WRIT ING - ART WORK - PHOTO G R APHY - FIL M
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ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: LIAM MOWER INTERVIEW: WHY IT’S OKAY TO RUN WITH SCISSORS P.20
MODELLING: NOT JUST A PRETTY FACE P.24 STREET FOOD: WE’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT ROADKILL, WE PROMISE P.70
EDITORS’ NOTE BEAU WILLIAM BEAKHOUSE
COVER BY ALED GOODWIN
& SADIA PINEDA HAMEED
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Pronounced ‘tee-celv’, this anthology’s title means ‘arthouse’ or ‘house of art’ and it has been a showcase of Cardiff University’s creative work for over six years. Originally Tŷ Celf was called ‘Creativity’, but in 2013 the editor Luke Slade rejected the design and the mindset behind the original which was full of pseudo-artistic graphics - in favour of a sparse and minimalistic layout that put the content first. Here we have chosen to continue this tradition. The content is kept to a bare minimum. There is almost no artificiality in the design, with a lot of free space around the text and whole pages dedicated to single images. We wanted the magazine to be clear; separated in some way from the confusion of university and modern city life, where each piece is given its own uninterrupted amount of time. This year we added film to the types of medium included within the magazine, alongside writing, artwork and photography. Hoping to encourage future filmmakers and to give a small amount of exposure to DiffFilms & the Cardiff University Film society, we also felt that it reflects film’s place as an established art form. The submissions included here are not limited to experiences of Cardiff, but all the pieces are in some way filtered through the experiences of those living in the city. For most students, living in Cardiff is temporary, but for these three or more years it feels permanent. In part these pieces are a reminder of the much wider scope of thoughts and experience outside of Cardiff. Tŷ Celf is a capturing of the moments we experience, presented in a dedicated space to be communicated, shared, and re-experienced. We hope you enjoy all the pieces featured, and that this collection encourages you to create, to continue creating, or to experience in new and novel ways.
T 킷 CELF
PHOTOGRAPHY BY SAMAN IZADYAR
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PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALED GOODWIN
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T Ŷ CELF
In Appreciation You slept beside me As I watched the city go by Through your window. Every metal tower I saw there Was drenched in the absinthe I had let burn my lips. Sometimes I wonder If this city breathes life Into me the same way you do. Stars above are blotted out And you are dead to the world, Adrift in a sea of green dreams. I hope that when morning comes You awake in the same colour As the lights that flicker below. CONNOR VAN BUSSEL
The morning after, in a pine forest The last time I woke up After an illegal rave The mind of the early day felt Withdrawn and cerebral. The dawn had brought With it a dew by my head, Condensation in the tent That yearned to drip down On the bodies sleeping there. I clambered over limbs To unzip the paper door and Peak out at how different The chaos looked in the daylight. The pine forest felt as if it Was churning, waiting For something in the south To bring it warm solace. The music still played, Although it was likely nothing but An imprint burned into my skull. With my hand planted down On the wet earth beneath me I looked around in an attempt To make the morning go faster. The day ticked on, and I watched A fox pass by me. She looked at me as if to say, ‘What are you doing In my quiet pine forest?’ All I could do was look back, And project my feelings Onto what was nothing but A fox wandering the forest floor. I ask - do you know the feeling Of that early morning blur? CONNOR VAN BUSSEL
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Cross leaf contamination “Don’t do that” she said, shuffling one tea bag away from the other. “It’ll produce cross-leaf contamination. And that’s fatal.” What is cross-leaf contamination, exactly? I never found out that day, as we sat on the cold kitchen floor, warming ourselves with cups of tea because the heater broke down. And in that appreciative state of warmth, my contented mind couldn’t care less. In hindsight, it didn’t matter anyway - my own definition evoked a much more vivid explanation; a kaleidoscope of events that, by some rare miracle, fitted together and morphed into a meaning of its own. Cross leaf contamination. What an odd mixture of familiar words. The marriage of three familiarities to produce a singular unfamiliarity: Cross. Leaf. Contamination. Cross: I remember the first time I crossed the pedestrian by myself. It was at a notorious
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intersection - no lights, no policemen, and certainly, no zebra-crossings in sight. It was like going in for the jump rope; staring at the eternal string going around and around, trying to memorize the momentum while drowning out the ricochet of emotion. As the cars unforgivingly sped past, I remembered clearly the anticipation. The fear. The thrill of being threatened, of being vaguely closer to death. The rebellious smugness of breaking the rules afterwards. The sense of selfsustained independency; a pre-eminent rite of passage. Welcome to tween-hood. Leaf: There is nothing quite like seeing fall for the first time. The way the leaves turn golden and scarlet is irreproducible by any other palette, and its ephemerality is preciously unmatched. Here, right in front of me, fall was happening in the most magnificent
T Ŷ CELF
ARTWORK BY LUCY APRAHAMIAN
of ways. The maples tumbled as if they’re falling in love with the ground and the mellow sunlight shone through the thin layers of cloud, like a stained glass window. As I walked home, the cool breeze gently nipped at me, kissing my lips, while grazing me with its fingertips, tantalizing me to stay at the front step for just a second more. It wants me to fall in love all over again. I picked up some fallen leaves, pressed them into a book, hoping to suspend them in an eternity of crimson. Sure enough, a week later they were all cracking brown. But it didn’t matter. It reminded me of what once was. And what will never be. And after falling into that realization, I was perfectly content. Memento mori. Remember you will die. Contamination: People say my Thai accent has been tinged. It didn’t sound like it came from
someone who had black hairs and dark brown eyes. No, it was certainly molded by something foreign, some Americanization lurking in background, something impure. Contaminated. But the defiance of social expectations and pre-conceived notions was worth the sacrifice. I never felt more like myself. In resistance to following rigidity, I’d rather die trying. I couldn’t care less if cross leaf contamination was fatal. The most romantic thing about being alive is the realization that you will eventually die. PAKINEE POOPRASERT
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Kaleidoscope Eyes He had watched her nearly every day since the day he first saw her. She was skipping with a rope and had caught him watching. “Jump,” she had said, handing the rope to him. The voices of children echoed around them. All he saw were kaleidoscope eyes of green. She never spoke to him again but he clung to that moment. Now they were nineteen and had suspiciously wound up in the same university; studying the same subject. But more than anything, he studied her. It was her eyes that had first enticed him and it was her eyes that enticed him still. He longed now to look into them properly; to not just peer into the glass through cupped hands but to truly fall into them and walk around inside of her head. Instead he merely speculated the thoughts that resided within the whirlpool of her mind. Throughout his years of watching, he noticed she was almost always alone. Perhaps this stood out to him because he too was often alone - a drifting ghost unnoticed by others. Passing from class to class to coffee shop to library; going about his day sometimes without uttering a word to anyone. Just residing inside of his head. Observing or reading or simply designing ideals in his mind, a space where anything was possible; where he could talk, touch… kiss…her. Occasionally their eyes would meet. They took many of the same literature workshops, and sometimes, if he was vigilant enough, he could claim the seat diagonally across from hers so that he could catch her within his peripheries. On a good day she would look up and notice him watching and their gazes would become entwined. For a fleeting moment they were connected by some magnetic force; part of a private, inward world. He was often so convinced of a mutual infatuation that he would toy with the idea of furthering his feelings and transitioning his abstract fantasies into reality. But this confidence was too often dampened by the sceptical voice of doubt; a dark-cloaked force that convinced him it was all an illusion, that he would be rejected and would then have nothing to cling to at all. He knew deep down that this was true. If she rejected him, then both his fantasy and his pride would shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces. It seemed foolish to risk everything. It was safer to keep her at a
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distance and study her from afar rather than to see her more closely and have her distort his shining ideal. So he went on as the lonesome observer, and she continued as his silent muse - reading Plath alone in the library and smoking cigarettes on the stone steps of the arts building, or writing in class with a head tilted to the side and a hand that glided with grace. And he would never be far away. Watching innocently in the background like some paradoxical presence; invisibly visible. Though the more vividly inscribed in his mind she became, the less she appeared in his reality. It started with the odd absence and then deteriorated into days at a time until suddenly he found himself trying to pinpoint the last time he saw her in the flesh. Then one day, after a week of consistent deprivation, he found himself holding her face in his hands. Just as he had always desired. But it did not feel how he suspected it would. She was paper-thin and painted monotone, her kaleidoscope eyes drained of their emerald gleam. She had been reduced to a small square photograph that was some years old, accompanied by a thin strip of impassive journalism. Lost in the midst of newspaper pages. She did not want to live so she threw her life to the water instead. His heart pounded violently, and then it plummeted into his stomach. Then he too sank into a meaningless abyss. He felt limp and lost and drowned in guilt. He cried silently because he had sensed her isolation yet did not reach out to help her. They were both drifting ghosts; forever separated by an invisible barrier of glass: identifiable, yet untouchable to one another. He wanted to keep her at a distance and study her from afar instead. He walks to the bridge and assesses the distance to the water below. He drops a pebble and watches it shrink to a speck and become enveloped by the ravenous river. He feels a presence at his side. He has lost ability to detect reality from fantasy. A stone cold hand touches his. Someone leans close and he feels hair brush against his cheek. Sweet breath upon his ear. Then a soft, caressing voice wraps itself around him; “jump,” she whispers. FAITH RHIANNON CLARKE
T Ŷ CELF
The Liffey You meander through your city directly through the heart of the town, gazing up at the locals and tourists all admiring your reflecting body. You - the original settler. Strong belts buckle across parts of your chest, joining the main land together, from O’Connell to Grafton street the North and South united. The days are bright and busy, workers hurry by allowing you peace barely acknowledging your presence, which has become all too familiar. Yet there are those that stroll above you, staring down upon your mirroring surface, speaking in foreign tongues and flashing devices at your bare skin, voyeuristic and intrusive to the unfamiliar.
At night you stare out across the buildings that lace your edges, lit up against the harsh black sky that cloaks you in darkness. You fall asleep listening to songs of generations spilling out of pubs; and are woken by those repeating the melodies as they stagger home. As you retreat from the centre, factories begin to dominate the skyline, smoke protruding from chimneys, polluting the black night. You become surrounded by heady aromas of stout from nearby storehouses, and stand proudly for your part in creating the town’s famous drink. You think back to your birthplace in the Wicklow mountains, and your journey through countryside Kildare. Leinsters rural communities now merely far off peaks in the backdrop of this industrial capital. You stretch widely as you near your mouth, accommodating for the ferrys and ships ahead, illuminated against a picture of nothingness. The dockyards seem to be empty and grey in the winter afternoon and you feel a biting chill as you journey nearer to the sea. Silence seems to fall as you reach the port, magic of the free city centre evaporating into the bitter air, and solemness overcoming you as you drift closer to the borders of your home. The Irish sea welcomes you coldly and you meander on, leaving your beloved city behind you, like that of Joyce and Stoker. Behind you the monument of light is still visible, bidding you ‘Slán go fóill Liffey.’ For you will return. Return to the free state. You - the main artery of Baile Átha Cliath. You - the original settler. LOUISE BELCHER
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I want to write about England like Ginsberg writes about America. Cornwall: the manky toe England hopes will fall off if she ignores it long enough Wraps a rubber band around the Tamar, cutting off the blood supply until it falls away into the sea, And yet, Holding on like a vicious mother she keeps her claws in. Trapped under Westminster’s pie filthy thumb Ancient earth nothing but dirt under fingernails from clawing, crawling, crawling our way up but ever trodden down The Sowsnek boot breaks our backs and as we scream ancient curses she laughs and thinks us inbred fisherchild inferiors. London sucks our lifeblood to fuel its bustling cocaine veins We can only hope the taste of our poverty will displease him Schrödinger’s country We only exist when they are lacking culture Otherwise invisible small print An asterisk on South West England How nice it must be to grow up surrounded by sea Sand Second homes Seeking my second-rate education in the Big City... Truro Visit Cornwall! Consume your fill of Rick Stein’s wet dream Summerland Oh look how the council estates add character to the landscape Look how the souvenir landmarks you came for have been shattered, by the sea You came for Look how Cameron cares for the place you came for The people You came to feed on. How funny the locals are! Thinking they have a language Thinking they have a voice! What funny little traditions Pasties and cream All arbitrary of course I mean We’re all English here. DEMELZA MONK
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TŶ CELF
PHOTOGRAPHY BY TUDOR POPESCU
The Dark Room (2015)
DIR. HOLLY TIBBLE
Running Time: 8 minutes. Directed by HOLLY TIBBLE, written and edited by HOLLY TIBBLE, produced by MATT TRASK, ALEXANDER TAYLOR, starring KATYA MOSKVINA and RICHARD BURNETT, a DiffFilms production. DiffFilms is Cardiff University’s student-run production company. Click the above image to watch the film.
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PHOTOGRAPHY BY ALED GOODWIN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS EDITORS Beau William Beakhouse Sadia Pineda Hameed DESIGN EDITORS Beau William Beakhouse Sadia Pineda Hameed CONTRIBUTORS Aled Goodwin Saman Izadyar Connor van Bussel Pakinee Pooprasert Lucy Aprahamian Faith Rhiannon Clarke Louise Belcher Demelza Monk Tudor Popescu Holly Tibble
THANKS TO Emily Giblett Eleanor Parkyn Nicola Bassett Christina Thatcher Joseph Lumber Munzir Quraishy CARDIFF UNIVERSITY: DiffFilms Film Society Creative Writing Society English Literature Society Book Club Art Society Photography Society And thanks to all those that sent in their contributions