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tribe

INTERNATIONAL CREATIVE  ARTS  MAGAZINE

2009


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Editor In  Chief Mark  Doyle Editor Ali  Donkin Creative  Writing  Editor Tilly  Craig Marketing  &  PR Steve  Clement-­‐Large Cover Ralph  Steadman Contributors Ralph  Steadman,  Kate  MccGwire,   Victoria  Ustinova,  Sarah  Ahmad,  Ali   Gardiner,  Ali  Donkin,  Tilly  Craig,  Mark   Doyle,  Allicette  Torres,  Dom  Moore,  

A life  lived  for  art  ... “Why  don’t  you  get  a  proper  career,  like  a  doctor  or  a  teacher,  instead  you’re   studying  art...What  can  you  do  with  art?”  During  a  recent  visit  home  this   derogatory  remark  was  aimed  at  a  friend  of  mine,  who  is  also  an  undergraduate   art  student.  Her  purported  fumbling  over  her  words  as  she  racked  her  mind  for   an  intelligent  and  thought-­‐through  comeback,  sparked  a  debate  that  oPen  rears   its  ugly  head  in  our  own  house  as  well  as  I’m  sure  the  lives  of  many  others.  As  an   undergraduate  student  myself,  I  have  found  that  it  is  a  frequent  occurrence  to   find  oneself  caught  up  in  a  need  to  jusTfy  life  decisions  to  those  who  feel  it  is   their  obligaTon  to  offer  their  bombasTc  opinions  as  fact.  OPen  I  will  find  myself   caught  in  a  cycle  of  worrying  about  whether  it  is  possible  to  become  an  arTst-­‐  is   it  feasible  in  an  unknown  financial  situaTon?  Am  I  studying  enough?  And  most   potently,  in  a  world  with  an  increasing  populaTon,  how  can  I  create  an  individual   style?  I  hope  this  doubt  does  not  seep  into  the  lives  of  generaTons  to  come,  in  a   world  where  an  overnight  celebrity  status  and  desire  to  emulate  the  rich  and   famous  serves  a  more  important  role    to  aspire  to.  Thus,  when  you  doubt   yourself,  as  I,  and  so  many  arTsts  do,  I  have  found  the  words  of  Leonardo  Da   Vinci  a  great  comfort:  “  That  painter  who  has  no  doubts  will  achieve  very  liWle”.

Lucio Villani,  Sam  Stenning,  Donna   Kuhn,  Deivis  Slavinskas,  Vanessa   Louzon,  Sam  Walker-­‐Smart,  Peter  Ike   Amadi,  Eva  Dolgyra,  Kathryn   Mackrory,  Luke  Prater,  Harriet  Lacey CONTACT To  submit  work: submit@tribemagazine.org To  say  hello: contact@tribemagazine.org Full  submission  details  can  be  found   on  our  website: www.tribemagazine.org Artists  have  given  permission for  their  work  to  be  displayed in  tribe  magazine.  No  part  of this  publication  may  be reproduced  without  the permission  of  the  copyright

So to  those  who  struggle  to  comprehend  the  field  of  art  as  a  legiTmate  career,  I   ask  where  would  we  be  without  art?  The  cards  you  receive  from  loved  ones   would  be  blank  senTments  devoid  of  colourful  fonts  and  emoTve  drawings  as   well  as  the  books  whose  covers  enTce  you  to  read  them,  the  games  we  play  or   the  symbolic  art  of  religion.  One  can  look  to  the  work  of  Galileo  and  his   proficiency  in  Chiaroscuro,  or  even  further  back  to  cave  painTngs  or  anatomical   illustraTons  of  from  nineteenth  century,  all  of  which  have  aided  our  cultural   understanding  and  medical  knowledge.  Perhaps  most  importantly,  without  art   culture  loses  its  meaning.  I  do  not  mean  art  as  a  creaTve  industry  to  aWract  mass   markets,  but  alternaTvely  art  as  a  honing  of  individual  creaTve  expression.  I   would  be  lying  to  let  you  believe  that  I  don’t  oPen  quesTon  the  meaning  of  art   as  a  pracTce.  I  feel  that  on  some  level,  those  individuals  who  refute  art   completely  would  feel  differently  if  they  looked  more  closely  at  the  skill  and   craPsmanship  that  goes  into  art,  as  exhibited  by  the  arTsts  of  tribe.  Perhaps  it  is   because  when  we  walks  into  a  gallery  one  is  oPen  confronted  with  a  noTon  of   what  art  ‘is’.  We  are  met  by  a  piece  of  rope  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  or   perhaps  layers  of  mouldy  bread  presented  in  a  Perspex  box  with  an   accompanying  ‘explanaTon’.  Hence,  hopefully  when  someone  is  asked  in  the   foreseeable  future  what  purpose  art  can  serve  in  today’s  society,  they  will  cease   to  fumble  over  their  words  but  to  remind  those  in  quesTon  to  see  art  as  more   than  something  restricted  by  the  confines  of  the  museum  and  point  to  its   prominence  in  our  daily  lives.  “ The  purpose  of  art  is  washing  the  dust  of  daily  life   off  our  souls.”  Pablo  Picasso So  embrace  the  escapism  that  art  provides,  sit  back  with  a  cup  of  tea  and  cast   your  eyes  over  an  array  of  inspiring  arTsts  from  around  the  world...

holder(s)

Francesca Didymus,  tribe  correspondent

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Iraq War

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Sitting Elk


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Norma Harriet Lacey

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Small Celebrations In  honour  of  Tribeʼ’s  one  year  anniversary  the  team  has  decided  to  let  the  celebratory  mood  take  us  and  to   use  this  issue  to  give  some  much  needed  adulation  to  things  often  over  looked  in  life,  those  influential  linch-‐‑‒ pins  and  hidden  sparklers  of  creative  culture.  Our  picks  may  not  get  awards,  may  only  be  greeted  with  blank   stairs  and  head  scratches  when  discussed  but  each  have,  we  feel,  made  a  serious  cultural  contribution  and  in   their  own  way  been  overlooked.  We  think  they  are  owed  a  few  Champagne  corks  popping  in  their  direction.

Perhaps unfortunately when trying to think of under celebrated things I came up with a long list ranging from Lord Bryon’s daughter, Ada Lovelace, who despite laying down the foundations of computing gets less recognition than her philandering father, to American sit-coms, symphonies and even artistic icons like paint-by-numbers. However my choice for overdue attention has to go to a technology that was once the centre of our cultural world and despite taking a side step out of the limelight still remains relevant and indispensible, a fact we seem to have forgotten. My celebration is for radio and in particularly its contribution to British comedy. Somewhere along the line I seem to have accumulated a lot of radio’s, a fact I only became aware of having acquired the nickname “radio lady” from my local flea market. I plead mitigating circumstances and say that half of them don’t work, but I’m pretty sure that makes it worse somehow. I also never realised how much I did actually listen to radio shows, the reason for doing so often being a lack of anything interesting on TV. Have a little explore and you can find anything on the radio schedules and lots of it too but best of all is the amount of good comedy there is. With the invention of something new there so often seems to be an assumption that all that went before it will become obsolete, so people thought about radio with the invention of TV, but rather than being bulldozed by ever advancing plasma, 3D, HD, flat screen, wide screen technology, radio’s apparent weakness has become its fundamental strength, aferall it provides a cheap, low risk, low budget playschool for new comedy talent before they go of to hang out with the big kids at television house. Radio has provided a start for many of the countries best comedic talents yet doesn’t get the recognition it deserves. Shows that have radio origins are rarely know about even by fans of the TV versions, let alone their screenless gestation period actually being listened to. Lets not look at what we’re missing visually and celebrate what the lack of a screen does for great comedy. First to benefit from radio are the controversial comedies - shows that are either niche in their target audience or propagate a radical sense of humour which tends not to

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The Goon Show, BBC

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translate to an instant ratings smash. Radio allows experimentation to take place, without the big investments and big gambles of a TV budget radio commissioners can take risks on their schedules, if a fringe show finds its audience there it can move on to “bigger” things, such was the case with The League of Gentleman with it’s abrasive twisted surrealism which would scare away even the most deep pocketed, strong backboned of TV commissioners, similarly Goodness Gracious Me aimed squarely at the Asian community, quality writing and performances earned it fans across the board but despite this pitching to what is on the face of it such a small market it’s not an easy sell in TV land. Radio means not only can a show prove its plausibility for TV but it also gives a new show a ready-made audience to follow to its TV transition. It goes the other way too. Though not strictly speaking radio as they were thought too crude for release, Peter Cook and Dudley Moor found recording their Derek and Clive sketches the only outlet for their more extreme material, material that would only have made it onto screens if it had been made several decades later and even then would have been relegated to late night. That’s not to say however, that radio is just for training shows for TV, there are comedies which have found their permanent home on radio and have inspired TV to follow, with the adoption of the panel game format for example (though oddly many more women seem to feature on radio panels than their TV counterparts). Television is just playing catch up. Perhaps the group of comedians who most readily adopted radio is the surrealists. Radio has proved its self as a trial ground for new shows but it has its own virtues as a medium too. ‘The Goon’ show is one of the most iconic radio comedy shows of all time and was where Spike Milligan was let of his leash to create a fun anarchic new breed of comedy which whilst being a success in its day was surpassed by ‘Monty Python’s’ TV success which undeniably had its roots with The Goons. The benefit of the medium is its limitless possibilities, whilst a trip to the moon on magic carpets is big budget stuff on TV, a table of peculiar sounding odds and ends will get you there on radio. The boys from The Mighty Boosh particularly lamented the loss of freedom when their show made the TV jump, no longer able to create magical journeys at the drop of a hat, if you want to make a rainforest on TV, sets, costumes and an army of workers are needed on radio grab a cardboard tube, some dried peas and you’re there! Flight of the Concords too needed to find a home on HBO before getting the budget to fund elaborate visual musical numbers, outside of their mock-doc radio show origin the musical interludes could get seriously dull unless accompanied by some pricy set pieces to keep your eyes as well as your ears entertained. Red Dwarf too, an initial expensive outlay to pay for a spaceship interior could only be justified by the show’s audience brought from its radio origins. Aside from the expense, radio comedy can often show off an actors talents better than

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the television adaptations. Sketch shows like That Mitchell and Webb Sound and Little Britain in their original radio formats, free from prosthetics and wigs to show character change, had only their thespian nous to rely on and ultimately, in my opinion that’s the better way. As amusing as fat suits and fake teeth can be, on occasion more often than not they are just distractions from talented actors giving great performances. Losing one sense rely does increase the others, you notice things in a performance you never would from a television show. In both the above cases there is also the feeling that somewhere along the line some TV execs have mentioned ‘catch phrases and snappy timing, oh and also let’s lose the long words guys, this is prime time TV’ as there seems to be a certain amount of dumming down along the line, apparently audiences can’t multi task, eyes, ears and brain is just one function too far. Completely with out hyperbole, radio has to be one of the key reasons Britain created some of the most ground-breaking comedy in the world. The US system of “Pilot season”, commissioning one off episodes to see how they fare is miles above British broadcasters pay grade and even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t allow those slow burn, quirky comedies to find the following they need to take them through to a whole TV series. This “training ground for new talent” line is one the BBC seems to trot out to justify BBC 3 yet they don’t seem to be putting up such a glorious fight for their long running creative springboard which has proved its self time and time again as the fountainhead for new comedy, maybe it’s about time the BBC start singing radio’s praises. Ali Donkin

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Lucio Villani

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Kate MccGwire

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Can you  sum  up  your  ar5s5c  journey  to  date?  Where  did  it  start?  Are  you  

where you  thought  you  would  be  at  this  5me? It’s  a  long  story  and  a  long  road.  I  worked  for  years  as  a  freelance  designer   before  I  decided  to  go  to  Art  College  as  a  mature  student.  Gecng  into  the   Royal  College  was  a  real  turning  point  for  me  as  it  was  when  I  started  to   believe  that  I  could  finally  make  a  career  out  of  something  I  cared  so   passionately  about.  All  I  needed  to  do  was  work  my  socks  off  and  that’s   what  I  sTll  do  now!  You  have  to  keep  that  drive  as  an  arTst  because  the   momentum  is  crucial  at  any  point  in  your  career. Do  you  plan  your  works  me5culously  before  you  begin  them  or  do  you   prefer  to  take  a  more  relaxed  approach  to  your  work? The  forms  of  my  sculptures  are  always  meTculously  planned.  They  are   sketched  first  in  charcoal,  which  enables  me  to  have  free  rein  of  shape  and   scale.  On  paper  I  can  sketch  an  idea  and  save  it  for  later  if  necessary.   However  once  a  piece  is  ready  to  be  feathered  the  process  becomes  much   more  like  painTng,  fluid  and  expressive  but  meTculous  and  meditaTve.  I   oPen  become  completely  immersed  in  the  act  of  making  and  oPen  look   back  at  a  finished  piece  of  work  and  think  ‘did  I  make  that?’  It’s  like  they   have  a  life  of  their  own. In  the  majority  of  your  work  your  primary  medium  is  feathers,  I’d  imagine   that  this  can  be  very  5me-­‐consuming.  Approximately,  how  long  does  it   take  you  to  make  one  piece  of  work?  Do  you  work  on  more  than  one  at  a   5me? In  a  way  it  is  a  sort  of  endless  process,  a  repeTTous  cycle  of  collecTon  and   creaTon.  While  the  making  can  take  anywhere  between  a  couple  of  weeks   to  a  few  months  the  collecTon  can  take  years.  I  oPen  work  on  more  than  

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one piece  at  a  Tme  as  I  find  while  I’m  in  the  middle  of  making  one  I  will   have  ideas  about  other  pieces.  They  evolve  from  one  another. Your  current  works  FINE  and  Beguile  have  recently  been  exhibited  in   the  London  exhibi5on  Metamorphosis:  The  Transforma1on  of  Being   that  contained  both  old  and  modern  masters  from  Albrecht  Dürer  to   Francis  Picabia.  How  does  it  feel  to  have  your  work  exhibited  next  to   ar5s5c  greats  such  as  this? I  am  of  course  enormously  flaWered  and  thrilled.  It’s  a  fantasTc  feeling   and  something  I  never  really  expected  to  happen.  As  well  as   Metamorphosis  I  was  recently  in  another  group  show  called  Sculptors’   Drawings  at  The  Pangolin  Gallery,  Kings  Cross,  which  showed  my  work   alongside  arTsts  such  as  Phyllida  Barlow,  Lynn  Chadwick,  Anthony  Caro,   Alberto  Giacomec,  Antony  Gormley  and  Pablo  Picasso! You’ve  men5oned  in  previous  interviews  that  you  source  your   feathers  by  people  sending  them  to  you.  To  what  extent  is  it  vital  to   receive  these  dona5ons?  Do  you  get  sent  a  lot  of  one  par5cular  kind? These  donaTons  are  absolutely  vital;  my  work  would  literally  not  be   possible  without  them,  parTcularly  in  relaTon  to  pigeon  feathers  as   there  is  nowhere  to  buy  them.  Luckily  pigeon  feathers  are  also  my  most   frequent  donaTon.  I  do  also  get  some  more  unusual  donaTons,   someone  once  sent  me  10  years  worth  of  moulted  feathers  from  their   budgie,  which  were  beauTful,  but  unfortunately  too  small  to  use.   Nevertheless,  I  appreciate  every  donaTon  and  hope  one  day  to  make   an  installaTon  of  all  the  lovely  leWers  and  envelopes  I  have  been  sent   over  the  years.

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Can one  also  assume  a  connec5on  between  your  work  and  fashion   design? Though  I  see  the  synergy  between  my  work  and  fashion  design,  I  am   very  wary  of  drawing  a  close  connecTon.  Fashion  is  notoriously  fickle   and  although  I  think  the  sensual  textures  and  contours  of  my  pieces   compliment  the  human  form  I  want  my  work  to  have  longevity  and   reach  beyond  an  Autumn/Winter  collecTon.   What  advice  would  you  give  to  aspiring  ar5sts? Say  yes  to  everything  at  the  start,  being  in  shows  forces  you  to  make   new  work  and  pushes  your  pracTce  forward.  You  never  know  who  will   be  there  and  what  will  happen  but  you’ll  meet  fascinaTng  people   along  the  way.  Take  a  few  risks,  as  even  a  bad  experience  will  be  useful   in  the  long  run.  A  career  is  a  marathon  not  a  sprint. What  can  we  expect  from  you  in  the  near  future? My  largest  solo  exhibiTon  to  date,  Lure,  will  be  opening  at  All  Visual   Arts  on  November  22nd.  The  majority  of  my  year  has  been  spent   making  sculptures  for  this  exhibiTon,  which  includes  a  host  of  new   cabinet  pieces,  wall-­‐mounted  works  and  a  monumental  installaTon. Interview  by  Francesca  Didymus

katemccgwire.com LURE:  Solo  show All  Visual  Arts,  London 22nd  November  2012  -­‐  January  2013 www.allvisualarts.org  

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Sam Stenning

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Temporada De Patos A film for anyone who’s ever spent a Sunday afternoon doing nothing and learning everything

Temporada De  Patos  (2004,  English  translaTon:  Duck  Season)  is  a  Mexican  movie  that   follows  the  exploits  of  Flama  and  Moko,  two  young  boys  living  in  an  estate  in  a  borough  of   Mexico  City,  during  one  long,  lazy  Sunday.  They  have  everything  they  could  possibly  want  for   the  aPernoon:  a  large  boWle  of  cola,  money  for  pizza  delivery,  a  games  console  and,  most   importantly,  no  parents.  The  peripety,  when  it  eventually  happens,  appears  to  be  quite  a   trivial  one,  but  for  a  couple  of  kids  such  as  these  it  presents  a  preWy  big  problem:  the  power   cuts  out.  Without  video  games  to  keep  them  entertained,  they  are  forced  to  improvise  and,   along  with  the  girl  next  door  who  comes  over  to  use  the  oven  and  a  pizza  guy  who  refuses  to   leave  without  being  paid,  they  embark  on  a  minor  adventure. Temporada  De  Patos  was  the  debut  movie  from  Fernando  Eimbcke,  which,  upon  release,   received  almost  unanimous  praise  from  criTcs  and  filmmakers  including  Alfonso  Cuarón  (Y  Tu   Mamá  También,  Children  of  Men)  and  Guillermo  del  Toro  (The  Devil's  Backbone,  Pan's  

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Labyrinth). The  reason  I  think  it  needs  celebraTng  is  that,  these  few  fesTvals  aside,  no  one   has  seen  it.  It  grossed  approximately  $155  000  at  the  box  office,  and  only  about  $5000  of  this   outside  of  Mexico.  During  my  three  years  studying  film  at  university  I  have  never  heard  a   lecturer  menTon  it,  nor  met  a  student  who  has  seen  it.  I  can  only  suppose  this  is  due  to  a   failure  on  the  part  of  the  distributers. And  this  is  a  real  shame,  because  it  truly  is  a  coming-­‐of-­‐age  tale  that  deserves  to  be  regarded   alongside  such  classics  of  the  genre  as  The  Breakfast  Club  and  Stand  By  Me.  Unlike  these,   however,  this  is  no  shiny  Hollywood  venture;    this  is  cinema  stripped  to  its  bones,  shot  in   starkly  minimal  black  and  white,  using  only  four  actors  (none  of  whom  are  professionals),   and  set  almost  enTrely  within  a  single  flat.  Comically  speaking  it  is  deadpan  to  the  core  –  at   Tmes  it  feels  like  Eimbcke  could  be  a  Mexican  incarnaTon  of  Jim  Jarmusch.  It  equally  feels   like  a  film  that  could  sit  comfortably  alongside  Superbad,  indeed  it  totally  succeeds  in   dramaTcally  portraying  the  lives  of  two  male  youths  with  both  humour  and  pathos.  In  terms   of  the  lessons  learnt  at  the  end  of  the  films  85  minute  running  Tme…  well,  some  may  feel   that  they’re  not  worth  a  feature  length  film,  but  most  will  understand  that  the  things  that   affect  the  liWle  lives  of  Duck  Seasons’  humble  characters  are  perhaps  the  things  that  maWer   most.  Temporada  De  Patos  is  heart-­‐warming  gem  and  makes  you  long  for  those  lost,  hazy,   lazy  days  of  youth. By  Alistair  Gardner  

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Sarah Ahmad Sarah Ahmad art work connects her and the viewer to architecture, buildings and forms. The world she creates through her drawings, is real, and yet brings fantasy, itintermingles the playful spirit in us with the forms we live in, things that exist and an abstracted view of the same. Diverse people, cultures, their architecture, thoughts and the coming together of all in one life is what her work embodies. Her work which is created by free hand line drawings includes abstract sculptural buildings, trains and bridges, old built houses with new age forms and a view of urban life and cityscapes. The medium is mostly black penink, dry pastel and other media on paper. The black and white in most of her art works is a depiction of colourful lands and lively cityscapes. The concept itself adds colour, thus a simple black and white palette just paints an outline to the theme. surmritgallery.com/artists-work/sarah-ahmad.html

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Deivis Slavinskas

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Ralph Steadman is a legendary illustrator. Famous for illustrating the works of Hunter S Thompson, Ralph has an instantly recognisable and distinctive pen and ink style.

Recently, Ralph submitted 7 unpublished illustrations for tribe to showcase. Enjoy!

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Donna Kuhn

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SWORDS, ELVES AND ARGUMENTS Back i n   1 984,   t here   wasn't   m uch   to   e ntertain   a n   excitable   1 3   year   o ld.   I t's   h ard   t o   c onvey   j ust   h ow   l ittle   t here   was   b ack   then,   e ven   t hough   i t   s eems   j ust   a   s hort   r ide   b ack   i n   t ime.   We   live   i n   a   t ime   o f   p lenty   e ntertainment   w ise   -­‐   b ack   i n   1 984   t he   TV   still   f inished   a t   1 pm   m ost   n ights   a nd   you   h ad   t o   wait   u ntil   6am   a nd   t he   O pen   U niversity   p rograms   i f   you   n eeded   a   f urther   TV   f ix.   I   i mmersed   myself   i n   b ooks   ( fiction   a nd   n on-­‐fiction)   a nd   music   a s   a n   e scape   f rom   t he   d ull   reality   o f   s uburban   w orking   class   l ife. Then,   m idway   t hrough   1 984,   a   f riend   o f   m ine   t old   m e   a bout   Dungeons   a nd   D ragons.   At   f irst   I   was   d ubious.   I   wasn't   really   into   t he   w hole   s word   a nd   s orcery   m alarky,   b eing   f irmly   a   d ie   hard   s ci-­‐fi   fan   -­‐   I   o wned   very   few   fantasy   n ovels   a nd   I   d idn't   like   t hem   very   m uch.   D espite   my   fantasy   p rejudices,   I   was   p ersuaded   t o   attend   a   game   o f   D &D   a t   C arl's   h ouse,   a   n otorious   s pod   f rom   s chool.   I   h ad   little   t o   n o   street   c red   s o   i t   m attered   not   t hat   I   was   s ocialising   w ith   t he   schools   u bernerd.   W hat   u nfolded   t hat   evening   was,   m etaphorically   a nd   literally,   m agical.   W hen   t he   b ickering   stopped   t hat   i s. Bickering   i s   a   h uge   p art   o f   D &D,   a nd   probably   still   i s.   I t's   t he   d rawback   o f   playing   a   game   t hat   exists   l argely   i n   the   m ind   a nd   i magination   o f   t he   players.   B ut,   t hat   very   t hing   i s   a lso   what   m akes   D &D   a nd   t he   stories   t hat   unfolded   a s   w e   p layed   t hrough   t he   various   d ungeons   ( dungeons   a re   t he   worlds   i n   D &D   a nd   a re   n ot   l iterally   dungeons.   S ometimes   t hey   a re,   b ut   most   t imes   t hey   a re   n ot)   s o   i ncredibly   immersive.   A fter   s everal   8   h our   l ong   sessions,   I   w ould   l eave   e ach   game   buzzing   w ith   i deas   a nd   a lso   m entally   exhausted.   I n   D &D   you   c reate   a  

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character, a  personality  that  you  become  very  attached  to.  You  see  and   engage   w ith   t he   i magined   w orld   t hrough   t he   e yes   o f   t his   c haracter,   and   t he   w orld   you   a re   e ngaging   w ith   i s   a lso   o ne   t hat   your   a re   b uilding   and   s haping   -­‐   you   c reate   t he   myths,   t he   l egends,   t he   d ialogue   a nd   storylines  (although  the  outlines  are  created  by  the  person  running  the   game,   t he   referee   i f   you   l ike,   c alled   t he   D ungeon   M aster).   T he   Dungeon   M aster   p lays   a   p ivotal   p art   i n   t he   experience;   h e/she   s hapes   the   w orld,   c reates   t he   m ood   a nd   a tmosphere,   d rives   t he   storyline   along,   reacts   to   c hanges   a nd   p rovides   v ivid   d escriptions   o f   t he   environment.   T he   c haracters   t hen   c omplete   t he   story.   What   I   l oved   s o   m uch   a bout   D &D   was   t he   way   i n   w hich   i t   e ngaged   w ith   the   i maginative   p arts   o f   my   b rain   i n   a   way   b ooks,   v ideogames   o r   f ilms   failed   t o   d o.   S omehow   t he   v isual,   v isceral   a spects   o f   m odern   o nline   fantasy   games   fail   t o   a ctivate   a nd   stimulate   my   i magination   i n   q uite   the   s ame   way   a s   D &D   d id.   A   g ood   game   o f   D &D,   l ess   t he   b ickering,   i s   one  of  the  most  under-­‐rated,  misunderstood  and  maligned  pleasures  in   life.   I t   m arries   story-­‐telling,   d ialogue,   c haracter   i nteraction,   imagination,   c reativity,   spontaneity,   a nd   a ction   a nd   a   way   t hat   n othing   e lse   I   h ave   experienced   e ver   h as.   D &D   should   b e   c elebrated   m ore   a s   a   c atalyst   for   c reativity   a nd   a s   fuel   for   t he   i magination.   D &D   is   n ot   a   p assive   experience,   like   l istening   t o   m usic,   watching   a   f ilm   o r   reading   a   book,   i t   i s   p articipatory   a nd   immersive,   a nd   e ach   p layer   i s   part   o f   t he   u nfolding   story.   I've   n ot   p layed   D &D   s ince   I   was   1 5   years   o ld,   b ut   I   still   remember   t he   games,   t he   scenarios,   s ome   o f   t he   dialogue   a nd   t he   storylines   2 5   years   o n.   I   c an't   s ay   t he   s ame   thing   a bout   m ost   o f   t he   b ooks   I   h ave   read   o r   t he   f ilms   I   h ave   seen.     I   t hink   i ts   t ime   w e   a ll   re-­‐ evaluated   t he   m erits   o f   D &D   as   a   c reative   a nd   i magainative   catalyst. Mark   ‘ Oakenshield’   D oyle,   b ane   of   t he   Wastelands   o f   G ggrtth

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Victoria Ustinova

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What inspires and motivates the work you create? The architecture, people, the nature inspires me. My primary motivator is an inner impulse that pushes to take a pencil and embody the image matured in the head.

Can you describe where you are in your artistic career? I am in the beginning. I always knew what I wanted to be, but just now I am ready for this. It's time to turn ideas into reality.

Can you describe your creative process? where does it start for you? I start with a search for a surface that I see as a potential picture. Technically this is the most difficult part, all the rest appears itself.

How would describe your work? do you think it fits into a genre? The work is my perception of the world. It’s an attempt to transmit a vision of reality in the extra dimensions by the graphic funds.

Can you offer any advice to those looking to make a career in art? In any situation, keep self-reliance and not spare yourself.

Does all architecture inspire you or certain types? for example does the age or style impacts how much it inspires you to create? I have favourite styles. Proportions, techniques, used means of expressiveness that inherent to them stimulate my imagination. Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, the Chicago School, the Deconstructivism. The monumental embodiment of charm.

How important, to your work, is the element of time that you represent through different materials? In my opinion, the element of time is an integral part of any creative process. Author's inner sense of time and signs of actual reality where he exists are mixed and transformed so created work has its own dimension of time. How do you intend your work to be seen? on the wall, in a book? are you trying to reach any particular audience? I suppose the different ways of their presentation. In the frames on the walls, as illustrations in the books, the prints and the rapports for tissues, enlarged and printed on firewalls. Yes, I’m trying.

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How do you want your work to impact your audience? I wish my work causes people’s curiosity and inspires them. What direction do you see your work taking in the future? The development. Addition of a motion, a volume, a scaling-up. Synthesis with the other forms of creativity.

То, что вдохновляет и мотивирует работу, которую вы создаете? Архитектура, люди, природа вдохновляют меня. Основной мотиватор - это внутренний импульс, который побуждает меня взять карандаш и воплотить образ, созревающий в голове.

Можете ли вы описать, где вы находитесь в вашей художественной карьере? В начале. Я всегда знала, кем хочу быть, но только сейчас я готова к этому. Пришло время превратить идеи в реальность.

Вы можете описать Ваш творческий процесс? где она начинается для вас? Я начинаю с поисков поверхности, в которой я увижу потенциальную картину. Технически это самая сложная часть, все остальное происходит само.

Как бы описать вашу работу? как вы думаете, она вписывается в жанре? Мои работы - это мое восприятие мира. Попытка передать видение реальности в дополнительных измерениях графическими средствами. Вы можете предложить какие-либо советы для тех, кто хочет сделать карьеру в искусстве? В любой ситуации сохранять уверенность в своих силах и не жалеть себя.

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Все архитектуры вдохновить вас или определенные типы? Например

ли возраст или стиль влияет на сколько это вдохновляет вас создать? У меня есть любимые стили. Пропорции, техники, используемые средства выразительности, которые им присущи, стимулируют мое воображение. Романский стиль, Готика, Ренессанс, Чикагская школа, Деконструктивизм. Монументальное воплощение обаяния.

Как важно, для вашей работы, это элемент времени что вы

представлять через различные материалы? По моему мнению, элемент времени является неотъемлемой частью любого творческого процесса. Внутреннее чувство времени автора и признаки актуальной реальности, в которой он существует, переплетаются и трансформируются таким образом, что создаваемая работа имеет свое собственное измерение времени.

Как вы намерены вашей работы, чтобы увидеть? на стене в книге? являются Вы пытаетесь достичь какой-либо конкретной аудитории? Я предполагаю разные пути представления моих работ. В рамах на стенах, как иллюстрации в книге, принт или раппорт для ткани, увеличенными нанесенные на брандмауэры. Да, я пытаюсь.

Как вы хотите вашу работу для воздействия вашей аудитории? Я бы хотела, чтобы мои работы вызывали у людей любопытство и вдохновляли.

Какие направления вы видите ваши работы в будущем? Развитие. Добавление движения, объема, увеличение масштаба. Синтез с другими формами творчества.

Interview by  Hannah  Lewis

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Allicette Torres

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The Sacrificial Muse: How Surrealism b e t r ay e d L e o n a D e lc o u rt By Tilly Craig

In 1928 Leona Delcourt was to become a defining aspect of the French Surrealist movement, yet her name was almost lost forever. The renowned founder of Surrealism, Andre Breton’s semi-autobiographical work, ‘Nadja’ examines his intensive courtship of the eponymous Nadja over ten days. Though the novel bears her name, little is really explored of Nadja the woman. Her unaffected traits mirrored Breton’s definition of the surrealist mind as, “Dictated by the thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern" and so she became symbolic; the archetypal Surrealist image. Breton saw in her a new breed, a naturally perfect mind and ready-made vessel, carrying the fundamental ideals of surrealism; minimal self-censorship and freedom through automatism. Nadja herself, however, remains loosely sketched and vague throughout the pages of the novel, ensuring the reader remembers it is only Breton’s interpretation of her that enchants us. Breton met the beguiling young woman on the 4th October 1926, and consequently began their intense affair. She chose to call herself Nadja, "because in Russian it is the beginning of the word hope, but only the beginning.” And so Breton seemed like a beacon of hope to her, but only as they began. For many years the woman who inspired such a compulsive obsession in Breton continued to be a mystery. She was long rumored to be fantasy, a character drawn from his own mind, while the many letters she wrote to Breton remained unpublished. After decades of obscurity, Dutch author Hester Albach’s intricate research eventually led him to discover a cache of letters alongside Breton’s original manuscript of ‘Nadja’. From these he uncovered the true identity of Nadja; a young woman named Leona Delcourt. Albach found that Leona’s fraught existence was spent drifting between bars, dancehalls and the streets of Paris, subsisting upon the patronage of her admirers. He published   ‘Leona, heroin du surrealism’ in 2009, however it is currently only available in French and Dutch.

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Leona’s reality held a far greater tragedy than ‘Nadja’ alone ever revealed, for what Breton had also documented was his own hand in her mental deterioration, aged just 25. In a letter to Breton dated November 1926 she decried the early notes he had take for ‘Nadja’ as a “distorted portrait of myself.” Breton’s interest in Leona waned quickly as he realised that the qualities he had initially perceived as her guileless nature, were in fact the dark tendrils of mental illness. He began to distance himself from the ‘mad’ woman he discovered her to be, whilst her letters to him became increasingly agitated. 28th January, "You are a powerful magician, sometimes quicker than the lightning that surrounds you like a god…and I feel lost if you leave me.” 30th January, “You made me become so beautiful, André…why did you destroy the other Nadja?” On the 21st March 1927, several months after their affair had ended, Leona suffered a mental breakdown, or to Breton’s mind, “indulged herself in…eccentricities”. His complete lack of compassion exemplifies that she remained to him no more than a creative process, a means to an end. After being taken to a psychiatric hospital, she was diagnosed with various mental disorders, notably “polymorphous psychic troubles”, depression and anxiety. She remained institutionalized until her death, 14 years later from ‘wasting neoplastic’, or cancer. There is no record of Breton ever visiting Delcourt during her confinement. Breton wrote, “I do not suppose there can be much difference for Nadja between the inside of a sanitarium and the outside.” Perhaps these words eased his conscience, for he had committed the ultimate betrayal. He had allowed this lost, broken girl to believe her fragility was power, whilst never giving her the stability and support she needed to survive in the real world. He drained her spirit, immortalizing in ‘Nadja’ the vulnerability that he mistook for beauty, before discarding the broken remnants of her struggling physicality to fade into the dark corners of an asylum. Surrealism danced the line between insanity and idiosyncrasy, with Dali’s claim that, “There is only one difference between a madman and I. I am not mad." This fondness for eccentricities and affectations allowed the Surrealist set to play at insanity, whilst still keeping a safe distance from clinical insanity. Well-articulated madness appealed to the pioneering Surrealists, a loosening of the reins caused satisfying confusion within the stuffy, refined upper circles of 1920s Paris. Madness without limits, without control, remained firmly the vulgar territory of mental wards. Leona stumbled all too easily over to that frightening, unfashionable side. Her fall from grace was as swift as her rise, but weeks prior to her breakdown she gathered the strength and clarity of thought to call out Breton for the callous cruelty his creative circle displayed in one of her final letters to him, “I hate your game, and your clique.”

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Vanessa Louzon

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E ff e r v e s c e n t P r e s e n t s

THE FISH HEARTED BRIDE

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A kiss will bring her back to life. That's how it works in stories like these.

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Nobody cared for Rapunzel's opinion, nobody needed her conversation; she was just a bauble.

Rapunzel the Fair. Â Beauty s bound to cause trouble.

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A salty sea he a r t o n i c e fo r y e a r s, b r o ught b a c k t o e a r t h to save my l o ve . I t ' s p e r fe c t.

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The

The Fish Hearted Bride, a dark fairy tale for adults and brave children, runs from the 13th to the 17th February at The National Marine Aquarium, Plymouth. Tickets available form the Aquarium or visit fi s h h e a r t e d b r i d e . c o . u k Photography by Dom Moore

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A Michael "Excuse me, are you Michael?" He looked up from his work, annoyed to be stopped mid glorious sentence. She was tall and slim and possessed a smile that he was sure had won some hearts in the past. Her hair, cropped in the style of a silent movie star, shone like in that one shampoo commercial that always plagued his television. She was older but not much so and her eyes revealed a kindness so often absent in city dwellers. He paused.  Could he be a Michael? After all what was she expecting?  A date? Business associate? Industry insider with some juicy, career ending gossip? The possibilities were endless but still the fact remained that she knew not Michael's appearance. Why couldn't he be a Michael? Maybe they would hit it off? Fill the void in each other’s lives and truly complete one another.  They would holiday in the Alps and, in time, possess a charming cottage, with its own herb garden naturally. Their children would understand the importance of reading, never know that taste of an E number and behave like angels. What if she didn't want kids? This thought warmed him more.  But the lie, oh the lie. How long could he maintain this double life? How long before the she discovered his true face...the face of a Patrick. The pressure would build; the nights would become endless sweat soaked affairs. So much would have to be concealed. He knew he didn't have the stomach for that. Not in the long run.  It would be just like those stories you read in the morning paper, 'Ruined Businessman Takes Own Life in Garage', crushed by the secret, desperate to maintain the lifestyle his trophy misses was accustomed to. No, not this chump, he wasn't going to lay down for such foolishness.  He placed his pen down and pleasantly smiled.  "No I'm not Michael, sorry" "Ok, thank you" she walked away slightly embarrassed, heels tip tapping with urgency.  "Lucky escape" thought Patrick sipping his coffee, "Lucky escape".  Pen touched paper once more.

Sam Walker-Smart

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Shadows Of A Di The scorpion emerged from the ragged crack in the filthy, cobweb-strewn ceiling boards and crawled down the faded walls to the floor. The room was dark, the pale curtain of dusk covering the remains of the day like an anonymous corpse. The distant hills, visible through the stained glass louvers of the only window in the room, had already swallowed up the reddish-yellow orb of the sinking sun. The heat was unbearable. It had refused to dissipate with the demise of the day and it promised to make the night a long and miserable one, not that there would be any respite in the morning anyway. There was an endless hum of monstrous mosquitoes, endlessly hovering in the still air hungering for the copper taste of human blood. The night was their day; the flies had already retired for the night. The scorpion moved around the dusty floors as if confused. Maybe it was looking for a cool spot to escape the relentless heat. But maybe it had another agenda. It could be looking for a place to hide from the woman. The woman lived in the room. She left in the mornings and came back in the evenings. She hardly ever stayed a full day unless it was Sunday. Then she would lie on the tattered mattress and stare at the ceiling for hours. The woman had wiped out the scorpion's family both nuclear and extended. Mum, Dad, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and even her own children. The scorpion was left alone. Of course there were other families, other communities that abounded in the scorched rocks outside. The woman could not kill them all. But all hers were gone. She was alone. Maybe the scorpion desires revenge. Does she feel emotion? In her small, arachnid mind, is there hate? If a scorpion is cornered and sees that its destruction is inevitable, it will commit suicide with its own sting. It can feel terror, enough of it to push it to take its own life. Is terror not an emotion? Maybe she desires revenge. If she can feel fear then maybe she can feel grief. And hate.

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stant Morning The scorpion is not designed to kill. It’s poison is meant to cause extreme pain. A young man had once described the sting of a scorpion after being jabbed in the right heel with its lethal tail: "It was like someone stabbed my foot with a knife and was driving it up, through my body, straight to my brain." Another scorpion in the same room had stung a tough lady, a friend of the woman. She had to be carried on the woman's back and she screamed all the way to the hospital. Not cried but screamed. Pain. That is the scorpion's merchandise. But she could not kill. Not unless the woman was stung on the heart. There is a type of scorpion that people said could kill. It is known as the black scorpion. A man once said that if a black scorpion stung you; you would fall flat on the ground, paralyzed by the pain. But a black scorpion was shy and rarely showed his face, which was just as well for the woman. The scorpion climbed the woman's mattress and crawled under the tattered, emaciated pillow. Maybe when the woman laid her head to sleep, she would crawl out, climb her hair to her ear and‌or maybe down to her neck, just above her throbbing pulse. The scorpion would wait and see how the evening would favor her. It wasn't long before a key could be heard turning in the lock. As the door opened, a sudden rush of cooler air gave brief relief to the oppressive heat. The long shadow of the woman stretched into the room. She did not enter immediately but paused as if to sniff the air before coming in and leaving the door open. There was a click as a switch was pressed and the room was bathed in the harsh yellow light from the 60 watt bulb that hung like a condemned man from the ceiling. The woman stood in the center of the room and despite the light; the room seemed to darken the more, as if she was a black hole in space sucking in

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everything in its path. In quick, automatic movements she began to strip, tossing the discarded clothes on the mattress. Her sweat soaked blouse landed on the pillow. The scorpion stirred. The woman was tall and seemed carved from ebony. Her body was hard and sinewy, her taut muscles rippled with each movement, her jet black skin slick with sweat. Her breasts were pointed and firm, two ripe pears tipped with black stones begging to be ravished by a hungry mouth. Her navel was deep, her hips wide. Her legs looked like they belonged to an antelope with buttocks that remained unbelievably hard despite their size. She could not be called pretty, yet her stony face with the high, sharp cheekbones had an attractiveness that could not be denied. Her black eyes had the watchfulness of a natural predator, portals into a soul completely bereft of pity or tenderness. Her kinky, black hair was cropped close to the skull giving her the look of a pagan image. She was a being that radiated a sensual malevolence, the sophisticated beauty of a black widow spider. With the grace of a big cat she picked up her bath kit and left the room. Moments later running water could be heard and after that a harshly sung hymn. A few minutes passed. A strange figure slipped into the room. The watcher had arrived. The watcher had watched the woman for months. Every evening he would hide in the shadows and watch the woman's window. That window was more precious to him than any television set could ever be. He would crouch in the dry, brittle bushes outside and watch her every move. He had watched her undress as he had done every evening for the past three months. He had discovered the window by accident one evening on his way home from another miserable day at work. He had been forlorn, morose and angry, the emotions stirring up his brain in a lethal mix that would sooner or later push him over the edge. As he passed the window at some distance he heard her singing. The song was an old Christian hymn and her voice was not exactly angelic. But she sang from the heart and he could feel her contentment. That contentment contrasted so deeply with his frustration.

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He stopped to look and suddenly saw her. She was stark naked and fresh from a bath and she was vigorously rubbing herself dry with a well-worn towel. Her face was not pretty. It was too hard. Her eyes were like chips of granite, her nose flat and upturned and her mouth when not singing would be turned perpetually down at the corners. But all these features only served to entice him more. The sight of her stirred a deep longing he had rarely felt before. He sought a word to describe her... Raw. She did not know she was being watched and carried on in careless abandon. It was only when she eventually switched off the light that he reluctantly moved on. His previous storm of emotions had dispelled and he felt refreshed. The sight of her had rejuvenated him. He trudged off home to his borderline existence, an emaciated ghost of a man in a dirty white caftan. Ever since that night he was hooked. There were many times he wanted to stop watching her but he came back every night. The days became too long as he waited for nightfall. Soon he was as desperate as a drug addict trying to get his next fix. The watcher knew she was driving him mad. He had made enquiries about her. He was told she avoided men. She was always alone. She was a sociopath. He had tried meeting her once and was snubbed viciously. He had nearly gone mad. But tonight he would reason with her. He would convince her that he had fallen in love with her. He lay on the mattress and began to wait. The woman normally took notoriously long baths. He picked up the wet blouse from the pillow and held it to his nose. He breathed in the stink of her sweat, savoring it like the smell of a fine stew. Immediately he was aroused. He sighed. Suddenly he felt the presence of his life long enemy: doubt. Supposing she lashed out at him? Accused him of trying to rape her? The disgrace would be terrible. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

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The scorpion crawled out from under the pillow and got entangled in the watcher's thick, curly hair. She didn't struggle much. The watcher lost his confidence and decided to leave. He convinced himself he was just content to watch her. He got up hurriedly and left the room. He went back to his usual outpost. The woman came back into the room busily drying her body with her godforsaken towel. She began to sing another hymn. She knew dozens of them by heart from her days as a choirgirl. That was millennia ago when she still had her innocence. Her innocence was long deceased. A hideous scream pierced the hot, choking air and cut short her singing. She froze, her hand flying to her mouth, goose pimples breaking out over her skin. Her heart was filled with fear as she hastily switched off the light and went to the window to peer outside. She couldn't see anything. She was terrified of leaving her room to investigate. She convinced herself that if she just went to bed and stayed still it would be okay. But the morning was a long way away and she knew she would never sleep. She would be suspicious of every shadow she saw that night. Until she saw those brought by the rising sun.

Peter Ike Amadi Illustration by Eva Dolgyra

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Come Together… The silence was almost tangible, heavy with musings. Before us was a table littered with half empty wine bottles, empty crisp packets, cake, bits of screwed up paper and notebooks. It was about ten o’clock at night and we were huddled around a table in the Writer’s Room at the University of Warwick. Two of our group were outside smoking. The rest of us were deep in thought having just heard the first reading of a brand new poem entitled Batman that was apparently “still in the stages of drafting”. Some were simply mulling it over in our heads, enjoying what it had evoked only moments ago; others were preparing their comments and advice about what needed changing. The poet in question may well have been nervous about the critical onslaught they were about to endure, but outwardly they looked calm and relaxed. And rightly so. The above describes an average meeting of The John Hurt Kerfuffle, the collective of poets, dramatists and novelists of which I am a part of. The group was formed late in 2011 after one of the first lectures we had in the ‘Practice of Poetry’ – the module that brought us together. Our lecturer had essentially demanded of us that we form a group that meet on a regular basis outside of university hours to share our work with each other. He told us that the group must be made up only of students on the ‘Practice of Poetry’ course at the University of Warwick and that the collective must be elitist, snobbish and totally exclusive. This may give the impression of arrogance, intolerance even… however this is far from the truth. The purpose of this specification was to make the group as tight-knit as possible; to create

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a sense of a closed community; to give us, not arrogance, but confidence. It became clear that what he intended was that we were to make our literary blunders before this group of trusted individuals and use their criticism to better ourselves as writers. Of course, the Kerfuffle is not the only group of its kind at Warwick – almost anyone who’s taken a course in the creative writing department of Warwick in the past few years will have heard of the Ugly Cousins Club. Like the Kerfuffle, they used to meet up on a regular basis around campus with a few bottles of wine and share poems, flash and short fiction, and improvised theatre. Most of them had graduated before we were even students, but stories of their Slam Poetry Performance sessions still drift around Warwick’s writing scene. If you were to search for The Ugly Cousins Club with Google you would find nothing; the group themselves did very little beyond the confines of University life. This, however, was not their aim. There are many writing collectives who do make their mark in history: The Beats, for example, who were based in San Francisco in the 50s and included well-known writers Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs. Prior to them, one can look back to 1920s Paris and to the Literary Expatriates, whose company included Hemmingway, Joyce and Pound. Look back even further and note that Wordsworth wrote with Coleridge and between them they began the Romantic Era in the late 18th Century. And this is by no means confined to just literature: examples from other artistic practices include The Surrealists, the Movie Brats of New Hollywood, The Dutch Masters etc… And so throughout history, collectives have come together and succeeded in changing the cultural landscapes of their chosen art. But this is all largely beside the point. The aim of writing collectives like The Ugly Cousins and The John Hurt Kerfuffle was never to achieve fame or a place in history. The benefits of being part of a group like the Kerfuffle are both more intimate and modest – but just as important. First and foremost is the company it provides. Writing can be an intensely lonely activity; locked up in a room, really sweating over sentences or even individual words. Being part of a writing collective forces you from your cave on a regular basis and into a welcome babble (probably all suffering similar psychoses and equally pleased to be relieved of them).

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The second benefit is of course the feedback that you receive during these meetings. Good feedback is hard to come by for a writer. Friends and family tend to use infuriating phrases like “very good” or “I really like it”. These comments are usually born out of affection and a desire not to hurt your feelings and they can often be translated as “I didn’t really get it” or “I’m simply proud that you’ve actually written a full length play”. Support of this kind is, of course, beyond value, but it does nothing to improve your writing. Showing your work to a large group of writers, whom you trust and who understand the difficulty of getting decent feedback, means that you get the criticism you need in order to accomplish what you really set out to with your piece. Spending an evening both giving and receiving such criticism can also lead to something further - possibly the most sought after of experiences for a writer : inspiration. Regular meetings with your collective will keep you on your toes and give you an opportunity to discuss your work in depth with people who will actually listen. This can (and will) lead you to develop and cultivate your work extensively and/or unleash thoughts trapped deep in your subconscious that offer up fresh and exciting projects. And if this intrigues your fellow writers, other doors may open in the form of collaboration. There is nothing more exciting than finding another writer who shares your interests or passions, and to collectively work on a writing project can be rewarding beyond any kind of individual work. This leads me to the final objective of any meeting – enjoyment. These meetings would be pointless if you left them without the buzz and energy provided by a night of friends, wine and art. Indeed, the scene I described at the beginning of this feature ended with us throwing ourselves out into the night, filled with fresh creativity and the pleasure of having shared the evening with the words and ideas of such an exciting group of people. I’d rather that than sweating over a sonnet any day.

Alistair Gardiner Illustration by Kathryn Mackrory

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Twenty-Seven If death is an absence of life, at twenty-seven, I was alleywayed alongside. Lying, unafraid, catching a fox’s bark – that eerie cry for carnal comfort – around the copse across the track. I wasn’t to be taken back to Earth and Sky; neither was the fox. Morning light split my face and drove all nocturnes down. Cobain’s split by double-barrel, self-prescribed for the deepdarksink; Jimi, Janis, Morrison’s by uppers, downers and bangdownupside vomit. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven. Read the news today (oh boy). Amy Winehouse, twenty-seven. Rolling out and unfolding the appled silverback, announcing online, with every ounce of gravity cyberspace allowed ‘I survived twenty-seven’. Luke Prater

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Tribe Issue 13  

Tribe international creative arts magazine: tribe is submissions driven publication

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