Aoibhinn Mitchell Walsh is Deputy Chair of Cumann Gaelach and Treasurer for Trinity TV. She also contributed to Misc. ’s previous issue.
Brenna Byrne is co-Erasmus Editor of Misc. She was the librarian of the Trinity Belles from 20232024 and is currently on Erasmus in Paris.
Caden Elsesser has also contributed to The University Times, Studio Defa and Yuzin magazines. Eliora Abramson is the Assistant Editor of Misc. and The University
Monday, November 25th, 2024
CONTRIBUTORS
Times, as well as Article Editor for
The Trinity Journal of Histories.
Emily Formstone is Misc.’s Science Editor. She has also written for The New Statesman and Times Literary Supplement.
Jayna Rohslau is Misc.’s Online
Editor, previously serving as its Political Editor and as Arts and Culture Editor for Trinity News. She has written for CNN, Modern Luxury, Icaru and No Kill Magazine
Lucia Orsi is Misc.’s Community Editor. She has also contributed to
ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY
Jessica Sharkey
Eve Smith
Alannah Maxwell
Louise Norris
Pages 4, 6, 12, 19, 20, 25, 27
Page 8
Page 23
Pages 17,18
Photography
Models (front cover)
TN2 and The University Times.
Meabh Scahill is a final year student studying History and History of Art and Archietcture. She has also written for Trinity News.
Phoebe Pascoe is Misc’s Editor-in-Chief. She was previously the Assistant Editor of Misc. and of The University Times. She has written for Trinity News, TN2, Oxygen.ie and Mission Magazine. Sadhbh Long is a first time contributor to Misc. She is also Music co-Editor of TN2 and has written for Trinity News.
COVER
Margot Guilhot Desoldato
Cara Protopopov-Power
Eve Martin
Lucia Orsi
Philip Gray
Song Kinsman
Stephen Conneely
Models (back cover)
With thanks to
Song Kinsman
Eve Martin
Rose Slocock, Conor Healy
CONTENTS
Phoebe Pascoe
Editor's Letter
The Misc Matrix
Eliora Abramson
Dating by Numbers
Some dates end in a kiss, others in ghosting, others in... a spreadsheet?
Aoibhinn Mitchell Walsh
Brenna Byrne
Emily Formstone
Lucia Orsi
Caden Elsesser
Meabh Scahill
Jayna Rohslau
Sabhdh Long
The Last Club on Harcourt Street
The past and future of Club Chonradh
Home and Away
How to embrace a new culture when you never really left your old one
Ex Machina
Chat GPT stole this writer’s job
Women on the Wall
A conversation with modern art curatorand Trinity alumna - Janet McLean
Dance Revolution
Searching for boogie nights in Dublin
Pride of Trinity
The Sexual Liberation Movement’s on-campus roots
Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay
Is it possible to have the best of both worlds?
The students of the Dual BA weigh in
Latrinalia
Fieldnotes from a bathroom stall
Dating in Dublin: Students’ Stories
EDITOR'S LETTER
Thebest time to go to the cinema is in November. Specifically, the best time to go to the cinema is in November at 4pm. This is not because so many films are released in November, or because us students have so much work we should be doing that shirking it to watch a film before dinner-time feels unabashadly luxurious. November at 4pm is the best time to go to the cinema because when you enter the theatre it is light, and by the time you emerge it is completely dark. Ever-earlier sunsets are, of course, one of the worst things about this time of year. But not in this instance. When you watch a good movie you - or, at least, I - feel that the world has changed a little bit. Your perspective has shifted, if only by a fraction of an inch. When you watch a good movie on a November afternoon, you walk out of the cinema and the world has changed. While you have been sat inside, cut off from the external environment, everything around you has altered to a state of near unrecognisability. I love that feeling when it comes to the cinema, but the sense that everything is moving too quickly to fathom is also one which com pounds, I think, during this month. Essays, exams, elections - the small things and the big can all feel impossible to keep up with. Trying to keep up with change, to some extent, is also the purpose of a print magazine.
Misc. ’s archives reach back nearly 130 years, which makes it something of a time capsule. Laying out the final page of this issue, which contains readers’ stories of dating in Dub lin, I wondered how dated (pun intended) these tales of students’ romantic exploits would feel if they were plucked from the back of a dusty cupboard a few decades from now. Perhaps the reader would be horrified by these sordid, salacious and, in one case, literally shitty tales. Maybe they’d look upon it as a bygone age of golden romance (I doubt it). An yhow, it acts as a snapshot of one aspect of the stu dent experience as we currently know it.
We also thought about change on a myopic level when putting together this magazine: which of the articles submit ted to us in September would still be rel evant at the end of November? What did
we think would happen in the coming weeks and months that might be worth reflecting in print?
When I checked over our Contents Page for the final time this morning, the only real link I could find between the articles in this issue was change. There are endings - Aoibhinn Mitchell Walsh writes about Club Chonradh’s closing and Emily Formstone shares how she was fired and replaced by Chat GPT. There are transitions, too - Jayna Rohslau speaks with students from the Dual BA, who leave Trinity after two years to study at Columbia in New York. There are also allusions to more significant changes which have happened on campus; this issue includes references to the newly christened Eavan Boland library (the first building on campus to be named after a woman) and hears from a founder of the 1970s Sexual Liberation Movement, which started on Trinity’s grounds. Then, in her article on ‘Latrinalia’ - the academic study of toilet grafitti - Sabhdh Long reflects how students alter the campus they exist on, little by little, over the years they spend here. So if, amidst all this change, you have chosen to spend a minute or more flipping through this issue of Misc. then I hope it acts as a respite from and a reflection of all that is going on around you. And if we’ve missed any big changes, maybe you can tell us about them in
THE MISC. MATRIX
Want to contribute to Misc?
We are always on the lookout for new writers and artists.
To get involved, email us directly at editor@miscmagazine.ie ; join our writers' group chats through Instagram, @tcdmiscmagazine, or head to miscmagazine.ie and fill out our 'contact' form.
DATING BY NUMBERS
Some dates end in a kiss, others in ghosting, others in... a spreadsheet? Eliora Abramson’s new romantic guru is a Google Sheet.
Imet him for the first time one brutally and uncharacteristically warm day towards the beginning of April. His hair was shorter than his photo, buzzed down to his skull. He laughed when I pointed this out and abashedly admitted he had thought of warning me. I didn’t tell him it wouldn’t have made a difference – he was still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. The first encounter was lovely if slightly unremarkable. Coffee and stilted but sweet conversation. A walk around a striking ly green garden with stone benches and remarks that would over time be come inside jokes, the kind that are only fun ny to those who share them.
We began to see each other every day. With him, it was something rich, something cavernous and unexplored. It was fingers interlaced, kisses on the jaw and eye contact that felt like touching souls. I look back at the serene half-reality half-hazy dreamscape and remember only calm. A ship that had finally found waveless tranquillity amidst a current close to capizing. It was unfounded, unrelatable, and completely unexpected. The days began to grow longer and questions approached along with the warmer weather. What were we to one another? I knew my answer but not his. I can bear, I thought, the not knowing. I tried to convince myself that it would be better to live with uncertainty and him next to me than to know and lose him. But the doubt began to spread through me until my fingers and toes ached with the precariousness. I kept waiting for him to bring it up, to confirm my most far-fetched fantasies or my quickly-con suming dread. But he never did. It ate at me until I could no longer nore the cessant iety of a awash ambiguity. So and reworked the phrasing and tone and killed myself over the timing. As if it would matter, as if I could say it per fectly in the right place and at the right time and it would change his answer. Of
course, the tightrope we were treading on snapped and he said that a relationship wasn’t possible between us. I was devastated and shocked. I stayed in bed for days, then cried to my friends and drank a few too many pints. I was stuck in this state for weeks before a friend asked, kindly but firmly, “what was so special about this guy?”
And despite how heartbroken I felt, I couldn’t really say.
As the months went on and time stitched up the broken edges of my heart, I realised that I had created an idealised version of him. While our time together had been good, it wasn’t earth shattering or even comfortable. I had never felt like myself around him and he had never truly opened up to me. So why had I been so hung up on something that wasn’t right? How could I stop myself from being so hurt by something so wrong in the future?
In my own experience and for my oth- er single friends, dating in Dublin has caused immense damage to our psyches. We often laugh and de scribe our friends in lov ing and healthy relation ships as having caught the last helicopter out of Viet nam. I far find my mined by a moustache and a mullet is active on Instagram but not replying to my texts. I have
spent hours debating whether TikTok reposts were smoke signals or merely coincidental. Pouring over playlists and analys ing the lyrics of each song. My quality of life has, at times, been completely depend ent on whether or not I was getting the atten tion I craved. I would go through these easi predictable cycles: the meeting, the limerence, the disappointment. It was all-consuming and quite frankly exhaust ing. I realised that if I were to continue to date, something need ed to change, and quickly.
night, I was scrolling on TikTok and came across a girl explaining a spreadsheet she had made to help her approach dating through a less personal lens. At first, I scoffed at the idea. Dating is inherently personal, that’s what makes it exciting and worthwhile. But, at that point, I was willing to try anything to make the dating experience less painful. I began by making my own spreadsheet. The idea is to create questions to ask yourself after a first date to evaluate whether or not this person is an ideal partner or even somebody you would want to see again. This is critical as, personally, even if I didn’t have a good time on a first date I catch myself wanting to go out with a person again purely for the feeling of being wanted and ‘courted’. Asking objective questions helps me to gauge whether or not it was a positive experience and disconnects the part of my brain that immediately jumps to looking at every date through rose-coloured glasses.
The questions that I came up with reflect what’s important to me, both initially and for a longer-term connection. They start more objectively: ‘Did he confirm the day of?’; ‘Was there good eye contact?’; ‘Did he ask good questions?’ They then veer towards introspection: ‘Did we laugh and have a good time together?’; ‘Was he my type?’; ‘Was I looking for ward to physical contact?’. Finally, I ask myself, ‘Do you want to go on a second date?’ This final question may seem redundant, but after answering all of the above and really considering whether I enjoyed myself, it allows me to answer more truth ly, even if it’s just to myself.
The key to these questions is to create them with a yes or no frame- work. That way, one can proceed to answer them on a scale of one to three. One being yes or good, two being neutral
or average, and three being bad or no. Answering each question with a one, two, or three then creates an average for the date. Because one denotes the net positive answer, the closer to one the date scores, the better it went and the better the connection is – objectively. Because not all questions will apply to all dates (e.g a question about whether he was kind to waiters or if the kiss at the end of the night was good), one can also leave the answer to that question blank and it won’t impact the average.
Initially, I was hesitant to try this after a date. How would I feel if I found out my date was scoring me? It felt reductive and slightly inhumane. I was worried that I would spend the entire date making checklists in my head and getting lost in the numbers rather than the chemistry. But the anxiety that would creep into every aspect of my life when I wasn’t getting a text back was enough to push me over the edge. It helped that the first time I filled out the spreadsheet, the date averaged a 1.1, an extremely good score. It also helped that I ended up seeing this guy for a while before it ended circumstantially. If anything, having his score as the first in the sheet created a standard for the other dates that has allowed me to truly only accept being treated well – something that I, and everyone else, deserve. The spread sheet, as anal and even crazy as it is, has saved my feelings in more than one situation. Even after a date that scored an average of a 1.5, I found myself with a bruised ego when he said he didn’t think there was a romantic con nection. While I hadn’t been dying for another date with him, the rejection naturally stung. Looking at the spreadsheet and seeing the cold hard facts that it wasn’t such a great date brought me back to reality and not a dream world in which he and I live happily ever after.
I’m still not sure, after all of this, if I condone the use of a spreadsheet when it comes to dating. It’s helped me, but I can’t shake a slight feeling of guilt when I fill out the numbers. What if they had been having an off day and I misjudged them? It has been crucial for me to sustain a level of humanity with the scores, an understanding that a number can never truly represent a person. Deciding whether or not to see someone again based on a score might be sociopathic but, as a hopeless romantic with their head in the clouds of delusion, the numbers have helped me to see things as they are, which isn’t always something worth losing sleep over.
THE LAST CLUB ON HARCOURT STREET
What does the closing of Club Chonradh mean for the Irish language in Dublin, asks Aoibhinn Mitchell Walsh
Club Chonradh na Gaeilge shut its doors for the last time in the wee hours of the morning on Sunday, September 29th this year. The last time, that is, until the vague promises of reopening after major renovations come to fruition.
The entire building at No. 6 Harcourt Street is now closed for the first time since it became Conradh na Gaeilge’s headquarters in 1966. Conradh na Gaeilge, known in English as the Gaelic League, was founded in 1893 by Douglas Hyde, Ireland’s first president. It played a foundational role in the Gaelic Revival and to this day is the main Irish language institution rooted in activism and education.
The headquarters on Harcourt Street included Chonradh na Gaeilge’s offices, Rí Rá radio station, Siopa Leabhar (the Irish language
bookshop) on the ground floor and Club Chonradh, the pub in the basement. The news that Chonradh had to close almost immediately following an inspection by the Office of Public Works came as no surprise to anyone who has availed of their biohazardous bathrooms. However, the minimum three years estimated before it will reopen hints of an indefinite closure or at least of the children’s hospital-construction productivity rate our country is known for.
The entire building – four stories above a basement – will be entirely rearranged while obeying protected structure regulations. The plans for the building are inspired by the Cultúrlann Mac Adam Ó Fiaich in Belfast, a similarly protected structure, except it boasts a cafe and exhibition space in addition to Chonradh’s pre-existing facilities.
Siopa Leabhar and Chonradh na Gaeilge’s offices will be relocated while no.6 Harcourt Street undergoes renovation; but at present, there is no plan to reopen Club Chonradh, or provide an alternative Irish language social space in the meantime. There has been a lot of discourse about third spaces and their decline in our current phase of modernity. Social spaces separate from the home or the workplace are increasingly difficult to come by these days, especially for young people who simply can’t afford to avail of them in this cost-of-living crisis. Club Chonradh is the only Irish language-specific third space in Dublin, aside from designated society rooms in universities. This labyrinthine pub in the basement of No.6 Harcourt Street holds a dear place in my heart. It has
undoubtedly left an impression on its many customers and visitors over the years, one that is as varied as its clientele. On the one hand, despite being a poky little pub with empty kegs lining its corridor (probably a health hazard) and toilets which have been known to leak through the ceiling (definitely a health hazard) the space has been used to its maximum potential. I’ve witnessed céilís, raves, music showcases, seisiúns, poetry readings, craft markets and, one time, a false funeral take place in this badly laid out bunker. This mixed bag of events, as well as Club Chonradh’s function as a regular pub, draws in a diverse range of Gaeilgeoirs – from auld fellas whose first language is Irish to teenagers from Gaelscoils, fans of an institution which doesn’t closely examine Age Cards.
The age range of its customers and its anti-aesthetic decor – faded red cushioned benches, mismatched stools, sticky tables and a yellow-keyed piano – bring to mind a country pub without the self-aggrandising notions of Dublin’s late bars and Drury Street attendees. It has a homely sense to it, and not just because of the energy-saving light bulbs.
Who doesn’t line the walls of their home with pop art prints of Douglas Hyde and Christy Moore? Most nights as you walk from St. Stephen’s Green to Chonradh the old whistler with the long white beard is perched beneath the scaffolding at RCSI playing mystical tunes on his tin whistle. The music acts as a portal, transporting you to the magical world of Chonradh as the wind carries the sound as far as its doorstep. Club Chonradh feels like an escape from the mania of the city centre, a secret refuge from the outside world hidden between Camden Street and St. Stephen’s Green. Aside from the homely at-
mosphere, range of events and being home to the cheapest (and bubbliest) Guinness in Dublin, Club Chonradh is the only Irish language space that is specifically social or, I should say, was. The use of Irish was not enforced or policed, but facilitated and encouraged. It was a space open to learners and fluent speakers, provided you could name the drink you wanted (there were only four operational taps at any given time) and follow with “please” and “thank you” as Gaeilge. Two aspects of Club Chonradh made it so unique: the Irish language and that it was a brilliantly bad pub with culturally focused events for all ages.
I’ve witnessed céilís, raves, music showcases, seisiúns, poetry readings, craft markets and, one time, a false funeral take place in this badly laid out bunker
Club Chonradh is the only Irish language space that is specifically social
The millennial almanac Lovin Dublin published an article in 2017 titled ‘8 Places in Dublin City Centre Where You Can Speak Irish With Ease’. Two of these places were Club Chonradh and Siopa Leabhar, both of which were located in the same building. A third place was Trinity, and the rest of the list named Temple Bar, Murphy’s ice cream parlour and a handful of pubs where the staff would take orders in Irish. Although Lovin Dublin has never been a huge source of inspiration for me personally, I found this article particularly disheartening. Irish isn’t an activity confined to certain locations in Dublin. It’s a living language which you should be able to speak ‘with ease’ anywhere, in any space be it public or private. An article detailing places where Irish ‘can’ be spoken implies that there are places where it cannot. Club Chon-
radh’s purpose wasn’t to be the sole place where Irish ‘can’ be spoken in the city but to be a pub and event space where everything is facilitated through Irish. It had a purpose as a space – Irish was simply the means through which this purpose was enacted and enjoyed. In the meantime, Dublin is deprived of an alternative purposeful space dedicated to Irish that is not educational or a place of business. Without a space (or spaces) devoted to socialising through Irish – be it a cafe, pub, or simply a room indoors open to the public – Lovin Dublin’s idea that Irish is only fit to be used transactionally or tokenistically may become a reality in Ireland’s capital city. It’s truly disappointing that there is no alternative space provided to replace Club Chonradh during its closure, not to mention that it was the only one of its kind in the first place. The survival of Irish, our native language, as a social language shouldn’t rely on individual effort. It should be propagated through public spaces where it will flourish without it being their sole function. Club Chonradh will re-open eventually but it will be different. It could come back in the form of a cafe or event space or even possibly as a good, functional and clean pub – that is entirely up to the collaborative efforts of the OPW and Chonradh na Gaeilge. I hope for my own sake and that of my fellow Gaelgeoirs that we will be reunited with Club Chonradh as soon as possible and that her reincarnation will not diminish her former glory. Chun an alt seo a léimh as Gaeilge, téigh go https://miscmagazine.ie/2024/11/20/ an-club-deireanach-ar-shraid-fhearchair/
HOME AND AWAY
Brenna Byrne on moving to Paris but never straying from Ireland
“Here’s another Irish 20-something, desperate to escape Ireland’s so-called stifling familiarity, only to end up at the only Irish pub on the Albufeira strip, playing GAA in Australia, or living on the one street in Paris named after the Irish.” Yes, this may be true to a point. But there’s something to be said for this fate we Irish seem drawn to again and again of seeking out our own culture just as we are surrounded by a new one. Is it a testament to our deep-rooted culture, or simply the urge to see the world without ever truly leaving home behind?
The Centre Culturel Irlandais (CCI) is an Irish haven in the heart of Paris. Nestled in 5 Rue des Irlandais, its iconic turquoise doors are a beacon for any Irish soul wandering far from home, and for good reason. Officially billed by the Irish government as a “showcase for Ireland and its contemporary culture at the heart of Europe”, the centre is a curious blend of history, art and home comforts. For Irish students on Erasmus, some of whom (myself included) live in CCI, stepping into its courtyard is like walking into a pocket of Ireland. But is it a home-away-from-home, or simply, well, home? Long before Erasmus programmes, the roots of Irish people in Paris were planted during a far darker time. Fleeing anti-Catholic sentiment and laws in the 16th and 17th centuries, Irish priests, artists and scholars sought refuge on the Continent. Paris became a vibrant centre of Irish academia and artistry, with a growing Irish college established by Louis XIV in 1677 on Rue des Carmes. Over the centuries, these walls housed influential minds who would return to Ireland to inspire others with the skills and stories they had gathered in Paris. After its collegiate heyday, the site went through many transformations, serving as a hospital during the Franco-Prussian War and even as a refuge for the American army in 1945. It became a seminary for Polish priests in 1945 before the Irish gov-
Is it a testament to our deep-rooted culture, or simply the urge to see the world without ever truly leaving home behind?
ernment reclaimed it in 2002 for its present-day purpose. This history is an indelible presence as you step into the courtyard. While we use this space to gossip about which €3 wine tastes the least rancid, or to ring our worried mothers at home, it also serves as a contemplative space to reflect on the many important conversations that took place here. The centre may have modernised over the years, but it remains a vivid reminder of the Irish diaspora’s past. The centre’s chapel, based on Armagh Cathedral, holds weekly masses which serve as a mini reunion over tea and biscuits. Dotted around the courtyard are plaques from every town in Ireland that houses a cathedral, along with a poetry jukebox from renowned modern Irish poets.The médiatheque offers a variety of books, with endless opportunities to learn more about your own heritage, not to mention the incredible Old Library with its ancient Irish manuscripts. The artistic touches around the centre celebrate each of the 32 counties of Ireland; portraits line the spiralling staircase, each a gentle reminder of home. There’s also a ‘Carte Rose’ that grants exclusive membership to the famed Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève, a nearby academic library perfect for those studying at the Sorbonne Panthéon just a stone’s throw away. There’s an undeniable romance to Paris—the architecture, the aroma of baked goods wafting from bou-
langeries at any given hour. However, the city also comes with inevitable cultural challenges. Between attempting to master rapid-fire philosophical debates in French law classes at the Sorbonne and facing the quiet reality that maybe Emily in Paris left out a few inconvenient truths, it’s easy to feel adrift here. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that Emily’s apartment is set a mere street apart from the CCI. After a long day of ordering your croissant in French only to be barked back at in English, narrowly avoiding death by cyclists and (failing to) combat imposter syndrome in your 3 hour lecture, a comforting anchor awaits amidst this sea of newness. The homesickness fades slightly, albeit with the ironic twist of only really feeling fully Irish after leaving Ireland. I can’t count on my hand the amount of conversations I’ve had with fellow residents here in which everyone is astonished by just how ‘Irish’ they feel upon moving to Paris, and to the CCI specifically. In Rue des Irlandais, time seems to stand still, permitting you to process just how big of a change you have undertaken. For Irish students, CCI is both an artistic outlet and a gateway into Irish culture. Classes as Gaeilge draw Parisians along with lifelong Irish expats who have called Paris home for decades without ever returning to Ireland. In the C1 level class, I have met Parisians who have dedicated the last few years of life to improving their Irish, which honestly puts a lot of us who have grown up learning it to shame. The welcoming atmosphere of the Centre draws in a large international audience as well - locals fascinated by Ireland or who have some link to Irish heritage are drawn here, sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes out of connection, but always with an open mind.
Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt, but rather a sense of comfort
Here, Irish creativity thrives, whether through regular performances, art exhibits, or traditional music sessions. As one of the many Irish Erasmus students in Paris, I never imagined I’d find myself so deeply rooted in my heritage, which we all profess to celebrate but, in reality, our daily commitments don’t allow us to fully focus on. Suddenly, I’m meeting artists I would never have the opportunity to meet at home, attending professional recitals and open-air performances for free and forming unusual friendships over the free daily continental breakfast before 8am lectures. Though the downsides of living here are few, if you’re seeking immersion in French life, CCI is so culturally comfortable it can be hard to venture beyond its walls. With language classes right there, social events in English and an array of Irish friends who share your cultural shorthand, it’s easy to see how students can stay cocooned in this little Irish bubble. Like Robert Frost, I found myself standing at a divergence of two paths: complete independence in my own Parisian apartment,
or shared living in the CCI. Unlike Frost, it could be said that I chose the path most travelled by. Yet it has still made all the difference, but in the best ways. As an international student in Paris, it can be hard to make friends with Parisian students, who, naturally, would rather stick with their own friendship groups. Moving here was undoubtedly made easier by arriving with a few friends, and we quickly developed a routine of evening tea in “our room” (my room). Living in a dorm-like space with a shared kitchen for 20 people sounds like chaos - and it is - but it’s also a lovely one. Every mealtime turns into a communal moment; there’s always someone willing to share an ingredient we inevitably forgot at the shops, a baked good, or, even better, a listening ear to a problem they can almost always relate to. Some of my closest friendships have blossomed here, with people whom I might never have met otherwise. Forced proximity might not sound ideal but, in this case, it can be the perfect recipe for building bonds. As a harpist, the chapel has become my sanctuary for practice, a silent reminder of home that feels like a gift. Life at the CCI has also been marked by events, each bringing a sense of excitement to the days here: piano recitals, open-air performances, traditional Irish nights and even the massive Fête de la Patrimoine, where live music and food vans brought the courtyard to life. Along with that come weekly meet-ups after Sunday mass, group movie nights and student dinners. The staff and other students are another layer of support. Between the 24/7 security and the community’s open-heartedness, there’s a steady reassurance that’s makes the prospect of private rentals hard to justify. If there’s one word to sum up my experience here, it’s “resilience.” The initial weeks were admittedly tough: grappling with the language, adjusting to different teaching styles and nagging “What am I doing here?” moments. But, as time goes by, it becomes clear that these challenges are the very essence of Erasmus. They shape us into more resilient individuals, prepared for whatever comes after we return. For those of us who’ve never felt quite as Irish as we do now, staying at the CCI is an experience that transcends study abroad. The Centre Culturel Irlandais is an incredible anchor, but it doesn’t keep you from growing, exploring, or stumbling—only from doing so alone. It’s a reminder that the Irish have an uncanny ability to bring warmth and welcome wherever they go, even in the middle of one of the world’s busiest cities. Whilst nothing compares to experiencing Irish culture at its epicentre, for an Erasmus student like myself, sometimes familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt, but rather a sense of comfort and warmth at a time where these concepts can feel hard to come by.
EX MACHINA
Chat GPT stole Emily Formstone’s job. She doesn’t blame it.
I’m not the only one to lose out; Goldman Sachs recently reported that AI is currently set to replace approximately 300 million full-time jobs in the next 10 years. This trend of machines supplanting the quantitative skills of humans seems to be exemplified, even allegorised, in the case of the word ‘computer’. Coming from the Latin putare, it originally meant ‘to think’ (in the sense of calculating or balancing an account). It started to be used as a noun around the 17th century, when it referred to people who carried out calculations, whether simple or complex. The term wasn’t christened with its current meaning until the 1940s, following Alan Turing and his team’s work at Bletchley Park. Now, at least in my mind, the word provokes the image of a 2004-issued, cream-coloured box set desktop. To others it might be a laptop or gaming set-up. I highly doubt that anyone automatically pictures a human being when asked what a computer is. But, not so long ago, they would have. Maybe in a couple of decades’ time we’ll picture a MacBook when someone asks us what a copywriter is. Maybe it will only take a couple of years. Terrifyingly, the reason it’s so easy for AI to replace these workers — for ChatGPT to strip me of my pocket-money — is because the daily tasks of a significant portion of the workforce require them to act as machines. Editing spreadsheets, identifying grammar mistakes, and scheduling social media posts are but a few of the tasks that require no human creativity or agency. But surely creative jobs are vulnerable too, you might say. It depends how you define creativity, I would reply. The Classicist in me wants to cling to the fact that creativity is etymologically linked to the idea of creating something physical, whether that’s a vase or a child. As we know, Chat GPT doesn’t create, but ‘transforms’, moving pre-loaded information around into different shiny formats, artificial collages, if you will. I suppose this means that, to me, creativity is in originality, in channelling lived experience into work. And I’m optimistic that people will continue to want to know who’s at the end of the line, who’s on the other side of the poem, who’s the voice behind the article.
I had been replaced so easily by a machine because I had spent a year working as one
ChatGPT is clearly gaining employee of the month status, and for this I applaud it. In fact, I am thankful
When racking my human brain for other jobs where people are worked like machines, I thought of Owen Jones’ condemnation of call centres in his book, Chavs: The Demonisation of the Working Class. Jones wrote about the often robotic daily routine of following scripts and being refused breaks. This mechanised way of working was designed to increase workforce efficiency, with Jones proposing that call centres are the new job markets for the working class. But his focus on their perpetuation of “the lack of workers’ autonomy in the workplace” felt pertinent to this issue, too: workplaces and school systems encourage workers and students alike to act as unconscious, uncreative, non-individual entities. We are taught to rote learn, paid to enact near-automated tasks. I spoke to a current final year medical student at Oxford University, who volunteered at a medical call centre as part of her degree, to try and get a sense of the machine-like treatment of workers. She told me the experience was “incredibly draining”, that workers were “advised very specifically to use the exact wording on the script and not [to] change it at all, which makes [the working day] incredibly dull.” She also affirmed that there was “certainly no creativity or individuality involved” and that the job was “mindless”. Following a physical script at a medical helpline is an extreme example of workers being treated as machines, but I’d encourage you to think about the literal and figurative scripts you’re asked to follow in your current or future jobs. That isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with a job like this, but that an automated work life lends itself to AI-replacement vulnerability, if I can call it that. I think we’re pushing people out of work by placing them in roles with such a lack of creativity and individuality, to such heightened automation, that there’s no reason not to replace them with machines. As you can probably guess, my (former) boss did not keep in touch “on a more adhoc basis”. ChatGPT is clearly gaining employee of the month status, and for this I applaud it. In fact, I am thankful to ChatGPT for pushing me into temporary unemployment and, luckily, more creative channels of income.
WOMEN ON THE WALL
Lucia Orsi hangs out at the National Gallery with Trinity alumna and Modern Art Curator Janet McLean
Tuckedaround the corner from Trinity’s campus, overlooking the greenery of Merrion Square, the National Gallery of Ireland stands guard, beckoning visitors with its striking white facade. With the beautiful collection of pieces and its proximity to campus, Trinity College students can often be found pursuing the exhibitions and scouring the Gift Shop for another postcard to add to their walls, or tote bag for their collection. Both Trinity and the National Gallery are major contributors to Dublin’s cultural landscape and, in a somewhat serendipitous turn, both
have recently been attempting to recognise the work of women artists. The renaming of the Eavan Boland library coincided with the conclusion of the National Gallery’s ‘Women Impressionists’ exhibition, organised by modern art curator Janet McLean, a former Trinity student. Misc spoke with McLean in October to discuss the curation of women’s art and its growing popularity. As a modern art curator, McLean’s major focus lies within art produced from the 19th to the 20th centuries. During this time, the Western world underwent major po-
litical, social and economic shifts that were in turn reflected in the artistic sphere. From Impressionism to Expressionism, Cubism to Surrealism, modern art was ever-changing and ever-growing; for the female artists of this explosive period, their position within the artistic community was also continuously shifting. Of course, the situation for modern female artists depended on the specific period, place and culture within which they practised. For women within the Impressionist sphere, McLean pointed out that “many of them were studying at that time and had undergone some sort of artistic training”, a luxury that women of lower classes and positions were not afforded. However, certain restrictions still inhibited many of these female artists from fully exercising their skill or profiting from their art. Marriage, for example, usually put an end to their artistic careers as the demands of family life prevented them from continuing work after they had a husband and children. Much like Virginia Woolf would highlight in her seminal text ‘A Room of One’s Own’ in 1929, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write,” McLean noted that these female Impressionists “needed the head space and physical space to work” – two things that marriage rarely afforded. Reduced to the world of the domestic, it was also deemed inappropriate for married women to exhibit and sell their art during this period. However, certain women forged spaces for themselves amidst the confines of marriage, such as Berthe Morisot. Married to the younger brother of Édouard Manet, Morisot was able to practise her art and showcase her work in exhibitions with the support of her husband. He not only consented to her profession, but actively encouraged her success and devoted much of his time to supporting her work. Restrictions upon women artists from the 1920s and onwards were not as overt or potent. Though marriage no longer translated to an almost certain conclusion of their
careers, gendered social conventions continued to persist and affect the lives and art of women. Art historians and curators, as well as enjoyers, must consider the varied positions that women of the modern art period held from a curative perspective; how did their position affect their art, and should this information be detailed within an exhibition?
Art curation, in the broadest sense, can be boiled down to two major components: the acquisition of art and its subsequent exhibition. Relative to their speciality, curators bear the responsibility of sourcing, purchasing, researching and displaying art pieces to the public. Theoretically, this process remains unchanged regardless of an artist’s gender, but McLean has found that certain aspects of curation greatly differ for women’s art. When she began her career with the National Gallery, she found that art by women was generally easier to acquire than it is today: “People have begun reassessing women’s careers and buying more of their art, meaning there is more available on the market but its popularity makes it more difficult to acquire.” As the public’s interest in women’s art continues to increase, curators must find different avenues to access and exhibit women’s art. McLean gave the example of Hannah Höch, whose vibrant painting ‘Duft’ she recently acquired for the Gallery. Best known for her visionary photomontages, Höch’s paintings are comparatively less sought after and usually sell for lower prices. This provided McLean with an alternative route to accessing Höch’s work, opening up a less familiar area of her artistic output for the public to admire and appreciate. By seeking out other elements of women’s creative productions, curators can continue to source and display women’s art, navigating the difficulties that its relatively new popularity has presented. Rifling through the Gallery’s Gift Shop after visiting the Women
Impressionists Exhibition, I bumped into my friend and her mother. After initially voicing her disappointment that my friend had falsely advertised the exhibition as Women Expressionists, not Impressionists, my friend’s mother conceded that she had noted the abundance of women’s art within the Gallery, something she found lacking in many other galleries. McLean similarly recognised the Gallery’s dedication to curating art by women; “The National Gallery has been acquiring women’s art for years… as curators, we don’t have resistance from our directors as long as the art is good.”
As an institution, the curation of women’s art and its prevalence within exhibitions is facilitated both by the work of the Gallery’s curators and the system that they operate within. It is one thing to acquire
and valued their work, “the Impressionist men were hugely supportive of women and they all took inspiration from each other.” While it is easy to fall into a black-and-white tale of gender opposition and derision, it is rarely an accurate portrayal of the reality faced by these women artists – many of them did receive support from male counterparts and held the position of an artistic equal within these circles. Curators bear the responsibility of portraying the nuances of these relationships and struggles, striking a balance between the acknowledgement of patriarchal oppression whilst celebrating the support that women received for their work.
People have begun reassessing women’s careers and buying more of their art
art, but its exhibition and presentation is also a major part of the work of a curator. In the construction of visual narratives, choices are made concerning the placement of pieces to create a story for visitors, and the small inscriptions that accompany works must encapsulate the essence of the art whilst illuminating a portion of its history. In the exhibition of women’s art, there is usually a recognition of the particularly gendered obstacles faced by the artists, whilst simultaneously setting them within the wider context of their artistic circles. When speaking about this, McLean emphasised the importance of “finding a balance” between these two elements of women’s stories. An exhibition must acknowledge the difficulties that women artists have tackled, but it should not completely divide them from the support they received, particularly when dealing with artists of the modern age. In general, avant-garde spaces were much more receptive to women
The 19th to 20th-century art spheres were incredibly rich, coloured by an abundance of artistic movements and contemporary influences that often reflected the turbulent political and social developments unfolding throughout this period. The life of one artist could bear witness to the rise and fall of multiple movements, each of which may have shaped the style and imagination of those living through it. McLean highlighted the importance of acknowledging the breadth of these influences whilst situating them within a specific moment; “We are very conscious of placing artists in the context of the social world, art world, and their own personal lives … It is important to anchor them in a context in order to give them justice.”
As she showed me around the gallery, McLean pointed out a painting by Alice Neel, a much-renowned portraitist of the 20th century. This particular painting depicts a snowy New York, rooftops drenched in a white that starkly contrasts the grey and red hues of the buildings. It was painted in a hotel room, where Neel had fled after her partner had destroyed most of her work in a burst of anger. “This painting marked a new beginning for Neel,” the inscription states. For McLean, the specific personal context of this painting, as well
as Neel’s notable departure from her usual portraits, are integral to the appreciation of this piece. Women’s art in particular benefits from contextualisation; as the social and political status of women changed rapidly in the 20th century, art was often a tool for exploring these shifts, as well as a more personal means of self-expression.
We did look at how women were depicted in pictures, but this art wasn’t by women
Strolling around a gallery, moving from room to room, we are mere victims to the curators’ choices – where they have placed the art, and chosen which pieces to hang side by side determines where our gaze is led. An exhibition must be physically composed to reflect certain messages or stories that the curator wishes to convey. When handling women’s art, curators must address a major question; should their work be explicitly divided from the work of men? For McLean, finding a balance between celebrating the work of women and allowing them to exist alongside their male contemporaries is integral to adequately appreciating and exhibiting the work of these women. I would have to agree with her. The separation of art on a gender basis is useful in many ways, such as to provide a space for female artists who may not have been showcased otherwise, and attracts audiences particularly interested in women’s art. However, if this is taken to an extreme, I fear that we might lose an appreciation for the genius of the art itself, blinded by the context of its artist’s gender. It raises the question: is women’s art not worthy of hanging alongside other works in and of itself? The Tate Britain has just concluded an exhibition titled, ‘Now You See Us: Women Artists in Britain 1520–1920’ which celebrated the work of British female artists across a period of 400 years. Whilst the showcasing of women’s art should be encouraged, I do wonder if there is something amiss by grouping a whole
bunch of women artists together, from very different periods and backgrounds, as the Tate has done, simply for the fact that they are women. Have we not yet moved past this naive form of representation? Are women artists not worthy of more nuance? Personally, I think that this issue can only be avoided by incorporating women’s art into a wider narrative, as well as a gendered one. As McLean noted, at the National Gallery, they “try to integrate the pieces into a wider space and we believe that they stand out on their own.” By creating specific exhibitions such as ‘Women Impressionists’, which combine gender and artistic contexts, while also integrating women’s art into permanent collections, curators can simultaneously acknowledge the struggles of women artists whilst demonstrating their value parallel to the work of men. While we were discussing the changing attitudes surrounding women artists, the topic of Trinity’s recently renamed Eavan Boland library came up. As the first building on Trinity Campus to be named after a woman, it marks a significant turning point in the recognition of women in academia, sparking wider conversations about what progress can continue to be made to champion the achievements of women. McLean recalled her own time in Trinity, where Art History was still dominated by an exclusively male canon: “When I studied Art History in Trinity, I
can’t remember studying any women artists ... we did look at how women were depicted in pictures but this art wasn’t by women.” Whilst this was symptomatic of a wider attitude that diminished or undervalued the work of women, McLean noted that this issue was not just institutional, but rather a systematic failure to acknowledge female art. “The information wasn’t there or as available as it is now. It was a bigger issue than Trinity.” As more research has been carried out to uncover the lives, stories, and works of women artists, academics and the public alike have finally been afforded more opportunities to regard and appreciate women’s art. The availability of information concerning these works has been made even more accessible via digitalisation – the internet has undoubtedly contributed to the popularity of women’s work that we see today. The demand for women’s art is only growing. Curators such as McLean have the tools to allow women’s art to no longer merely persist against a male-dominated canon, but to let it flourish. The National Gallery of Ireland, and its dedicated curators, bear the responsibility of giving justice to women’s work and affording their lives the nuance it deserves.
DANCE REVOLUTION
Caden Elsesser returns from Granada in search of Dublin’s best boogie
Imiss dancing, man. All the ways people move in a crowded, sweaty place. Even when clubs felt like hell – I was way in over my head, having drunk too much of the mystery drink from the funny looking man in the bathroom and all I wanted to do was leave. I miss it. Even the times I’d pitifully claw my way from person to person, blocked by the wall of people in the sardine-like club as they subconsciously kept note of that ¾ rhythm, leaving me to suffer in the middle of their sweaty movements. Dancing can allow miracles. The unification of two lovers or it doesn’t they are lin have this dance culture. At least not like the one above, the rienced in Spain. I get it: guy goes away for a year to a try and comes Moses going and then
Exposure to a lively and latenight dance mindset in Spanish culture made me quite the righteous prick when it came to choosing where I danced
coming back saying that God picked him. Yet, during my Erasmus experience in Granada, I danced more in ten months than I have in my entire life. Never had I danced so much sober, or while intoxicated to the point of no return. The truth is my state of sobriety didn’t matter. Neither did how densely populated the clubs were: it was a matter of music. There are, obviously, some key differences between Dublin and Granada. Granada as a city is quite small, but the actual ‘downtown’ is even smaller; everything is nearly a ten minute walk from each other. In one night out, you could hit four to five places to dance, all easily accessible from one another. On top of that, these walks aren’t like your average Dublin pilgrimage – the ones on windy November nights through the Liberties when you wonder why you continue to do this everyday. Instead, in Granada, moving between venues was a warm journey through narrow, pretty Spanish streets. Walls hug you as you pass through the alleys. You can hear the celebrations and cavedrums of humans in the distance. Even so, such exposure to a lively and latenight dance mindset in Spanish culture made me quite the righteous prick when it came to choosing where I danced on my return. I suddenly had something that I had never experienced during my early years in LA or recently in Dublin: a high abundance of quality nightlife. I think, in Dublin, we take what we can get. If somewhere happens to be open at 2 AM playing some recession pop and still serving
drinks, we’re happy to exist at that mo-
the bar was placed in relation to the dance floor, or how fast I could escape if necessary. The space and layout of the club gave me requirements to live by. The feeling of the sound system could determine whether I would leave or stay. But of course, the music itself was also a factor. Granada is teeming with variety: Reggae, cumbia, salsa, techno, rock and jazz. The range of different characters there reflected the special nature of the clubs themselves.
I don’t think I realised how lucky I was in Granada. Only now, back in Dublin, am I realising that I don’t have this privilege anymore. And because of this absence, I’m not dancing anywhere near as much as I want to. I find myself just taking whatever it is I can get one of the rare nights out that I find the courage to imbibe Dublin’s hollow dance culture. Even the literal feeling of dancing here seems different. The unavailability of clubs almost reflects how shy and reserved people are when they dance. It’s almost cliquey, like: “I’ll dance here and you dance all the way over there. Mind ya fuckin business.” Maybe I sound like a whiny boy who’s just mad because he isn’t in the know. Maybe it boils down to the fact that I don’t know where is good and where isn’t, and I’m really just sour about not being invited. But that’s exactly my point. In Granada, and many places in the world, you don’t need to be in the exclusive circle of knowledge of where to dance and where not to. It is open to everyone. And I think that’s the very nature of dancing - everyone should be allowed to do it. There’s no invitation or exclusion, just an open invitation to come and boogie if you feel like it.
Maybe it boils down to the fact that I don’t know where is good and where isn’t, and I’m really just sour about not being invited. But that’s exactly my point
There was a pirate-themed bar that played lots of disco and reggae where I was frequently offered swinger sex. At a small music venue turned night-club, a friend of mine danced with a hippie man who kept flicking a bag of LSD in his face on the dancefloor. It was all a part of the beautiful ambiance that made Granada.
“Where is the love?” I cry and moan to Dublin. “Where is the passion?” I sing from the bottom of my weak heart. I’m not saying it all lies in Granada, or that it is completely gone in Dublin. There has to be some good here – maybe I’m just too conceited and judgmental to see it right under my nose. All I’m saying is that I miss an open dancing culture. Maybe a sudden revolution will come along, liberating the scared bodies of Dublin. Saving me having to spend my last year at Trinity at Pawn Shop on a Thursday – or, musically malnourished and depraved as a last resort, upstairs at Doyle’s – when I have an itch to boogie.
PRIDE OF TRINITY
Meabh Scahill hears from Micheál Kerrigan about Dublin’s 1970s Sexual Liberation Movement
In October 1973 the first meeting of Ireland’s Sexual Liberation Movement (SLM) took place at Trinity. What started as a small meeting in House 5 would see the organisation of Ireland’s first gay disco, a landmark symposium on gay rights in Regent’s House and the Republic of Ireland’s very first ‘Pride’ demonstration in June 1974. Some fifty years after that initial meeting, the foundational place of SLM in the history of LGBTQ+ Rights in Ireland, and Trinity’s place in it, has been widely recognised. In 2023, Trinity’s LGBTQ+ Staff Network and The Provost of College highlighted the history of the Sexual Liberation Movement at the College’s annual Pride Celebrations. It was there that I had the privilege of meeting Micheál Kerrigan, one of the founding members. Kerrigan, now a celebrated playwright, author, and activist, was born in the Bogside in Derry. In 1972 he was awarded a scholarship to attend Trinity and, ignoring protests from the local Catholic Bishop, arrived on campus armed with only “a tub of lard, a bag of spuds, and a chip pan.” In Kerrigan’s own words, he was “completely and utterly, out of [his] depth.”
We were trying to make sense of the world and to connect everything up. It was a very exciting time
Finding his feet and figuring out his identity in between working shifts in the student bar in the Buttery, Kerrigan was one of ten – Ruth Riddick, Mary Dorcey, Mark McWilliams, Gerry McNamara, Hugo McManus, Peter Bradley, David Norris, Irene Brady and Edmund Lynch – who began meeting weekly in Front Square under the moniker ‘Sexual Liberation Movement’ in October 1973.
In a 2021 interview with Edmund Lynch, Kerrigan told the story of the group’s inception: “I was working in the bar in Trinity, collecting glasses and cleaning up. And this very strange group of people came in. They were different, you know, and they were all sat in the corner, and I was sort of attracted to them… So I went over and I talked. Peter said, ‘We have just started this sexual liberation movement, and it’s every…’ I’m not sure, was it Tuesday I think? At eight o’clock, you know, in Front Square, as you came in the gate and turn right. ‘So would you fancy coming?’ So, I did.”
The pamphlet advertising the SLM was aimed at homosexuals, announcing “there is a group for gay women and men in this area.” However, the group’s discussions were broadly intersectional, ranging from dis-
cussion of poetry, literature and art, to feminism, racism, gay rights, and colonialism. Contraception, divorce and homosexuality were all key concerns. Over the phone, Micheál reflected on the importance of the wider context of activism at the time: “At that time in the late sixties and seventies, you had the civil rights movement in America, the Troubles, you had the feminist movement… We were trying to make sense of the world and to connect everything up. It was a very exciting time.” The broad scope of the concerns of the Sexual Liberation Movement was reflected in its members, which consisted of both heterosexual and homosexual individuals. Similarly, though the group met at and were based out of Trinity’s campus. Except for Kerrigan (then an undergraduate), Peter Bradley (a postgrad) and David Norris (then a junior lecturer in the English department), most members were not associated with the college. Despite this, Trinity remained at the centre of the group’s operations; in February 1974, SLM landmark twoposium on ual rights in The group commandeered Regent’s House - at the time the Junior Common Room - hosting discussions with var ious speakers on the legal and social sta tus of homosexuality in Ireland. The symposium sought to draw attention to the ‘Gross Indecency’ law that criminalised homosexuality, a holdover from the pre-independence 1885 Labouchère amendment enacted
across the British Empire. Reports in the Evening Herald on February 17th 1974, noted some 200 people in attendance at the symposium. Speakers included former Minister for Health Dr Noel Browne, psychiatrist Rose Robertson of Parent’s Inquiry and Professor of Theology at Maynooth University Fr Ena McDonagh. However, it was the testimony of LGBTQ+ speakers like Babs Todd, Editor of Sappho Magazine, that were truly radical. For Kerrigan, the symposium organised by SLM marked the birth of gay liberation in Ireland.
“We had Babs Todd get up to the podium in the afternoon. She said, ‘Thank you for inviting me here as a lesbian woman.’ Now that mightn’t sound earth-shattering today, but she was the first person who got up on the podium and identified as gay. Well, the crowd got up and everybody applauded, and it was like a really uplifting thing, you know. This woman said she’s here, she’s in Dublin and she’s queer. It was great. It was just one of those spontaneous rounds of applause, and people got up and ap-
She said “Thank you for inviting me here as a lesbian woman.” Now that mightn’t sound earth-shattering today, but she was the first person who got up on the podium and identified as gay. Well, the crowd got up and everybody applauded
premises on Westland Row. With no support from College and no functional electricity in the building, SLM rerouted electricity from next door, sourced up a record player and danced to Diana Ross by candlelight. In June 1974, the Norwegian gay organisation Det Norske Forbundet declared that year’s Gay Liberation Day, June 27th, would be dedicated to the people of Ireland. In a demonstration of solidarity, members of Det Norske Forbundet picketed the British embassy in Oslo protesting the colonial law still in place in Ireland. Encouraged by their Norwegian counterparts, 12 SLM members - Kerrigan among them - picketed outside the British embassy in Dublin before mov-
ing to the Department of Justice carrying placards emblazoned with the slogans ‘homosexuals are revolting’, ‘gay is good’, and ‘lesbian love’. This was the Republic of Ireland’s first Pride demonstration.
The Sexual Liberation Movement was short lived; by the end of 1974, the group had split, with members David Norris and Edmund Lynch leaving to form the Irish Gay Rights Movement, aimed specifically at law reform. The road to reform would be long. It was only in 1993 that the law criminalising homosexual acts was repealed. With the establishment of the Hirschfeld Gay Centre in Temple Bar in 1979, and the first official Pride March in 1983 culminating outside the GPO, the theatre of protest moved out of Trinity Campus into the wider city. For the year of its existence however, Trinity campus served as the central backdrop for the Sexual Liberation Movement and all its shenanigans. In his latest play ‘Nancy Boy Shenanigans’, launched at Derry’s Playhouse theatre this past August, Micheál Kerrigan returned to explore his formative years as a student. Speaking over (a somewhat garbled) phone line, myself and Kerrigan digressed from my list of questions to reflect on the ephemeral nature of a single student’s experience on campus. With the student body refreshed in full every four years, memories of students and movements which have come before fade out of view and into history. In June 2024, Trinity Trails launched a series of ‘pride’ tours of campus that highlighted the little-known history of the SLM, among other LGBTQ+ facets of Trinity’s history, across campus. With Trinity Trails largely the domain of tourists however, one has to wonder whether a more permanent, student-oriented form of commemoration is needed.
THOSE WHO LEAVE AND THOSE WHO STAY
Jayna Rohslau delves into the Dual BA, hearing from the students who split themselves between Trinity and Columbia University.
The stereotypical Dual BA student is a creature known to dwell in the Arts Bloc, the GMB and Kavanagh Court. It comes with an international background and an entitlement swathed within generic niceties. If you give an American Dual BA student a Guinness, it will attempt an Irish accent and not cease running its mouth until the Liffey runs dry.
As an American Dual BA student myself, I can neither confirm nor deny these rumours. I arrived at Trinity at the age of 18 with a truckload of clothes and a mission—to be a “global citizen”, an enviable distinction, and one that I sincerely hoped I would attain, to quote the words of countryman John F. Kennedy. This distinction carried me through my Fresher experience, finding a community at Trinity, both in the Dual BA and through student journalism. Should I stay or should I go? That’s the question many students in the Dual BA have asked themselves, wondering if they are willing to commit to a programmeme that entails two years at Trinity before dropping their lives, friends and pint of cider or Guinness to move to New York for the next two years – where they may not even be of legal drinking age.
Multiple peers of mine, including a close friend, decided to drop out
culty of making friends outside the Dual BA at my new university. Admittedly, as a third-year student, it is difficult to find the motivation to reach out to acquaintances, wizened crone that I am. Competition is part of life, but I have found it difficult — the sense that I am no longer a respectably-sized fish across the pond and instead am a minnow expected to walk on land. Despite considerable experience, I was rejected from several publications at Columbia by interviewers my own age. I couldn’t help but think that if I was at Trinity I would be in their position instead of flopping around, a hapless Freshman in the body of a Junior. What would life be like if I stayed? To find out, I decided to speak with students who decided to stay at Trinity. Many deliberated for a long time before making the decision to leave the programmeme, citing social and economic factors as the primary reasons behind their choice.
Columbia’s core curriculum. Participation in the Dual BA necessitates taking certain classes to fulfil the core, regardless of your degree. She cites the bureaucracy as another factor in her decision to leave, noting Trinity did not make it easy to fulfil the core requirements. Multiple students expressed their frustration at a lack of clarity in this respect, with the Dean in charge of administering student affairs changing at a rate that mirrors the constantly shifting rotation of Defence Against the Dark Arts professors in the Harry Potter saga. I also spoke to students who made the change to Columbia, but nevertheless voiced frustrations with the programmeme. Some of these students found issues with their language requirements, as the Dual BA programme requires two years of a language, recommended to be taken at Trinity.
One English third year student noted that she had wanted to take one language after studying it for five years in previous schools, only to be put in Italian. She finally decided on Latin.
Multiple peers of mine, including a close friend, decided to drop out. That was early on, and made me confront for the first time that thought which had previously lingered in obscurity, only now making itself obnoxiously apparent, like a seagull or tourist in Front Square: our time together was finite. So, till Dual BA do us part. It is worthwhile saying that I have not found the transition to Columbia easy. I miss my friends and, even as a New Yorker, there was no preparation for the diffi-
“I was just getting settled in Dublin, and realised that I didn’t really want to have a big transition and have to learn a new city”, recalls Keegan Ryan, a third year Classics student who left the Dual BA shortly after second year began. She loved her small, non-competitive classes and was reluctant to go from Archaeology to courses dedicated to the hard-sciences in
The Dual BA program has only been around since 2018 and has all the dysfunctionality of a young person struggling to navigate the world for the first time
“From the beginning, it wasn’t put on our official schedules on the Trinity Live app,” says the student, recalling how the students in Latin resorted to “constantly emailing several different people, both
the English advisor for undergrads and also the Dual BA advisor for English and also the Dual BA people” and went to office hours for the undergrad English advisor at Trinity.
“But she was in a meeting and she ignored me and was like ‘what are
you doing here?’… She was very, very dismissive, [saying] all you Dual BA people are always asking about your languages, and we’re figuring it out.” She continues, “but they were not.”
It wasn’t until this March that a meeting was called with a general Dual BA advisor in attendance. It was proposed that as the programmeme requires two years of a language but Latin fulfils double the credit requirements, schedules were falsified to show Latin on both the students’ first and second year schedules.
The third-year didn’t take issue with this approach, as she was “just chilling” during second year when she didn’t have to take a language, but she found the administration frustrating and expressed that this problem would have been “easily avoidable if they had said to us—don’t take Latin.” Latin will not be an option for incoming Dual BA students in the future, and it’s not difficult to see why.
the woods in the middle of Ontario for a night, “ Ferri says, recalling how there was no running water, heating, and an outdoors bathroom, “but it was one of the most amazing experiences of my life.”
“I knew that two years [in Dublin] wouldn’t be enough for me, and moving to New York in such little time would have made everything too rushed”, she says. To some extent, the Dual BA sounds great in practice,
My literature class, ‘Desire and Metamorphosis’ is taught by a New York Times columnist who was parodied on SNL
but in actuality entails the agony of separating from friends and the severing connections you have forged with professors, classmates and societies.
know yourself and your innate abilities to cope with your new surroundings. What about the poor saps sucked into paying approximately four times the Trinity international fees? Yes, I’m talking about the students who joined the Dual BA programme after being admitted to Trinity on a ‘normal’ four year course. Multiple students agreed to speak to Misc. about what spurred their leap in magical thinking, not to forget the substantial increase in tuition payments. It is worth noting that this year is the first students have been allowed to join halfway through their degrees, as members of the class of 2025 had to join the class of 2026.
The Dual BA programmeme has only been around since 2018 and has all the dysfunctionality of a young person struggling to navigate the world for the first time—understandable until you consider that the programme was conceived by adults with fully-developed prefrontal cortexes, presumably no longer adrift in their twenties.
To be sure, many bureaucratic frustrations are not innate to the Dual BA programme, but prevalent in Trinity and higher education as a whole. Still, no students who had left the programme expressed regret, which testifies to the considerable opportunities that come with staying at Trinity—including additional opportunities to travel. Virginia Ferri, my friend who dropped out in the first term of first year, is currently partaking in an international exchange at McGill in Montreal, an opportunity she would not have been able to undertake had she remained in the Dual BA programme.
As a result, she has travelled widely around Canada and, when visiting me, enthusiastically observed that she understood the experience of Americans studying abroad at Trinity, who are known to go wild with Ryanair perks during Reading Weeks.
“A couple of weeks ago, my two flatmates and I drove out to a cabin in
Ryan has been active in DU Archaeological Society and has been able to attain a leadership position, which does not come to the most wildly ambitious new arrivals to campus. Ferri has been engaged in the music scene within Trinity. Studying at McGill, she finds the workload “a bit more” intense; at Columbia this would be substantially more. Every student I spoke to cited the financial component of the Dual BA as a major reason why they decided to leave the programme. The cost of Columbia tuition—$65k without factoring in living expenses—is tremendous even if you have the means, frequently requiring sacrifice on the part of your family and making it more difficult to pursue further education beyond college.
The actual process of dropping out remains quite simple. Ferri noted that the only part that was “awkward” was “talking to the Dual BA advisor and having to explain to him that I wanted to drop out — but he was chill about it.” Another student said that they decided to leave the programme last minute, citing parental pressures as a factor that contributed to their indecision. It was emphasised throughout my conversations with students that it is a highly subjective decision to make, and it is important to consider how you as an individual are equipped to handle the transition. While tempting to rely on the opinions of family and friends, ultimately you should
Olivia Bulis joined the programme out of her “desire to engage in two diverse academic settings”. Although she initially thought “a highly specialised and focused European model of education” entirely focused on English would best suit her goals, she came to the conclusion that she wanted to explore how her subject intercepts with others. “No area of study exists in a vacuum, and rather calls itself to converse with other academic spheres and schools of thought,” says Bulis. “I am really grateful that the Dual BA exists, wherein I was able to subsume myself in English studies for my first two years, and yet, at Columbia, I have relished the opportunity to take courses outside my course.”
Bulis plans to double major in Anthropology, which would be impossible given Trinity’s focus on the predetermined discipline students choose before setting foot on campus. Columbia allows students to experiment with other fields, as is traditional of a liberal arts college in the US, and even requires it given the core curriculum which necessitates classes outside your major and across the sciences and humanities.
Melina Rosehkhan also decided to join the programme out of a desire to challenge herself. It perfectly aligns with her career aspirations, as at Trinity she studied languages through her Middle Eastern Language and Cultural Studies (MELC) degree while at Columbia she is able to earn a Political Science degree, learning foundational concepts she lacked at Trinity.
How have students found
the transition? It is certainly true that the academic culture at Trinity differs greatly from the culture at Columbia. Many students feel they have reaped the benefits of this transition, noting the “incredible privilege” of having access to the opportunities at Columbia, an Ivy League institution, and within New York City as well, getting off campus to attend concerts and events.
It does entail a lot more work, but most students view this shift as part of the trade-off to the programme, an aspect of adjustment they took for granted as part of the transition process. “I’m someone who feels more work doesn’t have to be a bad thing”, says Rosehkhan, citing “more growth and challenges in order to grow — Trinity was too chill for me.”
Third-year Amelia Hemmings, an American studying English through the programme, says the city didn’t take a lot to get used to since she’s from Los Angeles. While academically there’s been a lot to get used to, “the good thing is I feel like I’m learning so much… my brain is working more than it has in a long time.”
Most have not noticed an in-
crease in annoying individuals, with the caveat that this may be because us Dual BA students are the problem at Trinity. “I haven’t met anyone who’s too intense”, says Hemmings, before commenting, somewhat forebodingly, “I know they’re out there.”
She is happy with her experience now, although she notes that “if you asked me during midterms, I’d be crying.” Indeed, this period after midterms indicates the variability between student experiences, as Columbia entails both midterms and continuous assessment to an extent that some majors at Trinity lack—in English, our entire module grade usually comes down to a singular end-of-term assignment. Other majors have been more accustomed to constant assessment, which is not to say that the workload has been easy. The sheer variability between testimonies speaks to the unique pathways available to students at Columbia. Most appreciate the increased attention from professors, as the concept of a “coffee chat” or close relationships are not as normalised at Trinity, although not unprecedented. Bulis is one of several who
has taken graduate level courses and is pursuing a major or minor in another discipline, in addition to benefiting from this personalised attention level. By comparison, the ratio of students to professors is rapidly increasing at Trinity, with an Irish Independent article last year calling out this as a hindrance to its otherwise stellar reputation. Noting an upcoming research publication, Bulis says that she will “be forever grateful” for the opportunity to collaborate with the professor. “One thing I have found to be very different here is that my professors take a vested interest in their students… I have never felt more validated, and simultaneously pushed and challenged academically.” Classes at Columbia are also quirkier—Louisa Sophia Filmer, a third year studying Political Science, recalls an instance of “close-reading a poem seven times”, ending with the exercise where students had to “sing whatever word speaks to you”. In her case, this was “Christopher Columbus.” My literature class Desire and Metamorphosis is taught by a New York Times columnist who was parodied on SNL, with a final project rewriting
a ten page essay on a ‘metamorphosis’ we have experienced in our lives. She also plays The Kinks and sings.
There is less of a society-driven culture at Columbia, due to the intense nature of studies. “I have not been very able to get involved in extracurriculars”, says Hemmings, whereas at Trinity, “I was doing shows and stage-managing a lot.” Rosehkhan, while noting the tremendous opportunities available, says the sheer quantity “can be overwhelming”, concluding, “I learned to set my priorities, otherwise you won’t survive.”
That said, if you’re struggling with the transition, getting involved in club culture or outside campus activities can be a valuable outlet for meeting people and getting situated. Travelling within the US is also worthwhile, and it can be more affordable than you might think. Rosehkhan has travelled widely and inexpensively, and thinks this opportunity is also something to take advantage of, as “it’s easier than most people think.” She took a Flex bus to Boston for “60 bucks back and forth”, DC for “40” and has plans to travel to Chicago for Thanksgiving and Costa Rica for holiday break. While not Ryanair pricing, it’s not too shabby. Culture shock frequently reflects wider cultural differences. “Here people are really grinding”, says Rosehkhan, they “are hustling and already applying to internships.” She finds this to be a general trend in American culture, rather than a reflection of Trinity and Columbia as institutions. “It’s cool… makes you motivated to continue and have some grit.”
A year on, Flood has found her experience “amazing.” In addition to “getting exposure” to other international students (Columbia has a number of other dual degree programmes) as well as leading academics, “you’re 20 or 21 and you’re in New York… once you settle in, you embrace that. It’s so fun.”
You’re 20 or 21 and you’re in New York... Once you settle in, you embrace that
She says that the close-knit environment in the Dual BA is a plus, noting that students come in with preexisting friend groups which students in a more conventional study abroad programme don’t necessarily have. Flood has found her friends in the Dual BA “to be a massive source of fun and comfort” as well as a “source of stability” during her time at Columbia.
One memorable moment was when her friends from Trinity came to New York to visit for ten days after the end of Columbia finals in May. “We’d go for ride bikes and do all the New Yorker-y things,” she reminisces, “I was like… I’m so lucky to have this, I have my friends from both sides of the programme and they both know each other and get on so well.”
The propensity of these connections strikes Flood—and I—as a notable highlight. The Dual BA “teaches you to keep connected across so many different places”, says Flood. “That’s such an incredible skill because it takes the fear out of moving when you’re older and [prevents relocation] from scaring you when you’re an adult.”
now, not knowing what to expect — in Europe, I could never imagine that.”
Personal relationships are also disastrous to maintain through online connection— I can think of at least three couples either broken up or suffering due to the physical distance imposed by attendance in the Dual BA, tales of agony fit to launch a remake of Normal People, albeit one that only Americans would watch.
It’s not all doom and gloom, as once students adjust, New York is unparalleled. Jess Flood, a fourthyear English major, speaks to the cohort of 2025’s experience, feeling ambivalence especially to a lack of information prior to the transition.
“I thought it was so crazy”, she says, advising students to “look at [third-year in the Dual BA] as starting again and going into a whole new experience” rather than assuming that they know exactly what Columbia entails based on Trinity student life.
There is a definite elephant in the room when it comes to life in the US: The 2024 US Presidential Election. Rosehkhan was in DC on election day, and feels that she “witnessed history”.
“There was a protest and people were like, either believe in Jesus or burn in hell.” She recalls the process of going with her friends as they voted. “I found it unbelievable”, she says, as she had “never been in a country where I felt like people were so divided… we’re living in a dystopia.”
She is sympathetic for people likely to feel the direct impacts of the president-elect’s policies, saying that she “can’t imagine what [undocumented immigrants] are feeling right
Most students in the programme I spoke to experienced varying degrees of difficulty in adjusting to life after Trinity. If you had asked me two months ago what I thought of the Dual BA, I would offer a very different answer as to the nature of the programme than I would now. It takes time to adapt and I’m much happier now than I was only a short time ago, more or less settled in. It is a natural urge for overthinkers to romanticise the roads not taken, and to elevate these alternative pathways within their imaginations as superior to the existing trail. Still, most who left did not ultimately express regrets even if they had a tough time transitioning to life at Columbia, much as the students who stayed in the programme voiced their gratitude for Trinity. That said, it’s easy for students, particularly those who have stayed in the Dual BA, to enter into a fog of nostalgia for our former lives. I can certainly sympathise. At Trinity, it’s not like I was having the time of my life. Still, the culture was lit and we had T-ball, to misappropriate Lana Del Rey. Overall, it was a comparatively unpretentious environment encouraging us to have more of a work-life balance. Now, I go to the library in the mornings and it is not uncommon to leave after midnight. Yes, college is supposed to be the time of your life. We are undeniably lucky to have this opportunity and an Ivy League education while still having experienced Trinity, all of that trad. Nevertheless, let the American dream. It remains invariably tempting, the concept of a portal from Dublin to New York that involves actual teleportation, rather than glimpsing the bare asses of strangers. This, of course, is what occurred in the actual portal set up last summer, a potential contrast between expectations and reality that perhaps best encapsulates what it means to be a “global citizen”, the truth laid naked if unafraid.
LATRINALIA
Sadhbh Long writes field notes from a bathroom stall
The pleasure of joining a queue that curves out the door, standing between tourist and classmate, is one familiar to the common victim of the Arts Block women’s bathrooms. There are only so many ‘ten minute’ breaks one can spend queuing for half an hour before realising it is quicker to climb a few sets of stairs to the stalls of the upper floors – a higher ground that promises fewer Americans gushing over a life affirming ten second glance at the Book of Kells. Besides the lack of tourists, however, the
The gospel according to the college bathroom walls contains a plethora of worthwhile advice: “Do not date a BESS man”
moting stickers, half-torn play posters and a couple dozen QR codes begging you to take part in a research project, what little free space remains on these walls is filled with the wisdom of arts students long-departed, scribbled and scratched into the chipping paint. Women’s bathrooms are a sacred space in and of themselves. Taking a step away from a frantic night out, one can always rely on those they will meet in front of the mirrors to back them up, to agree he is treating you ly and you should totally leave him, or that your best friend and you’ll make up, it’s all ing to be okay. They will remind you how you look, will tell you if your makeup needs and gladly do this fixing for you. Something about the space permits a blurring of the boundaries set by our usual social conventions, allowing for this characteristic camaraderie to blossom in their place. Nowhere else is it so natural to weigh in on the next big life decision of a total stranger, or simply to compliment their outfit. In secondary school, the aura of the girls’ bathrooms allowed the veil of social politics and teen awkwardness to temporarily slip. As the only acceptable place in school to have a good cry, it was never uncommon for whichever girl happened to find (or hear) you first to intervene with whatever advice, comfort, or tissues she had. When I first entered Trinity, I was genuinely troubled by the loss of my tried-and-tested secondary school cry spot. The four walls of those girls’ bathroom cubicles reeked of teen angst and hormone-infused melodrama, but they were a reliable comfort. I was crushed upon the realisation that not only would my tears have a queuing audience, but that I’d have to wait between the tourists to get to them. Thankfully, that spirit of this universal, boundary-blurring space is not localised to any one bathroom and, in the case of the Arts Block, was just a set of stairs away.
Apart from the endearing characters, an integral promise of the women’s bathroom is the reading material it provides. The Arts Block is no exception. We have all skimmed this genre of stall writing carved, scribbled, or printed in all caps on the walls around us. Before our beloved Trinder, Tringe, and Trossip Girl, there were the Arts Block’s bathroom walls. Trying to explain my concept for this article to friends, I was met with some confused looks. What I wasn’t expecting to find was a whole field of academia dedicated to this niche obsession. Sociolinguistic studies of the writings and imagery we leave in bathroom stalls have coined an academic term for this phenomenon: Latrinalia. And to any amateur researcher interested in the field, let me tell you, the Arts Block is a linguistic treasure trove. Inscribed on these walls is the collective philosophy of all who have passed through them. These words feel like a mix between a motivational pinterest board and a secret vent account, yet predate the intangibility of such internet posting. Accompanying Latrinalia is the comforting knowledge that those who wrote these messages were once exactly where you are, both in location and in life. The gospel according to the college bathroom walls contains a plethora of worthwhile advice: “Do not date a BESS man”, one writer warns. On the theme of love, couples’ initials can be found encased within arrow-struck hearts, as if on an ancient tree. However, contrary to the reports of a recent Piranha gag, the majority of Trinity’s latrinalia more than passes the Bechdel test. Most of the inscriptions are motivational in nature, left from one visitor for another. Occupants are reminded that “You deserve better than having to beg for kindness”, implored to “Listen to screentime notifs, you’re worth more than the media you consume”, and reassured that “Bad things all pass, or you learn to live with them. Hang in there”. The bathroom stall is an escape, a space to drop one’s mask of composure for just a moment in the fast-paced world of college life. While the sentiments of such latrinalia may feel trite, these messages can find their right audience in the right space.This feeling is summarised by one of the writers themselves, stating “I really needed to read these today - thank you women”.
These words feel like a mix between a motivational Pinterest board and a secret vent account, yet predate the intangibility of such internet posting
Written conversations mimic the brief, impactful and mystifying discussions between strangers that take place aloud in these same spaces, fossilised on the walls for future days
What is particularly interesting about toilet stall graffiti is its departure from the art form’s conventions. These micro-acts of deviant behaviour, permitted by the privacy bathrooms require, are unlike the flashy displays of classic tagging. In most cases, Latrinalia is anonymous, without a name or pseudonym to attribute it to. It leaves only a message. While it is a natural desire to state “I was here”, such art says “I was here, so let me tell you”. What is entered into through this art, while remaining fully anonymous, is a constant and enduring conversation between the women of the college. This is not only a conversation in the conceptual sense. In the Arts Block stalls, back and forth discussions are documented and old ones painted over. New readers add to the sharpied dialogue in their own scratchy ball-point pen. In many cases, like the Ship of Theseus, replies remain long after the original message has been chipped away. These conversations mimic the brief, impactful and mystifying discussions between strangers that take place aloud in these same spaces, fossilised on the walls for future days. “I’ve learned more from toilet walls than I’ve learned from these words of yours”. This mocking phrase dominates the bridge of indie-rock band Los Campesinos’ 2010 track ‘We’ve Got Your Back’. Clearly intended as a dig at the literary quality of bathroom stall graffiti, I can’t help but wonder if this sentiment would have been different were lead singer Gareth Paisey a girl in her twenties. From my observations, besides written words, the most common mark left on the Arts Block women’s bathroom walls is a heart. This, I believe, encapsulates the motivation behind the majority of this space’s latrinalia – among the seemingly arbitrary scribbles, a continual concern for the welfare of others is expressed. Whether one has come to seek or provide comfort, to scream into the void or reply to such shouts, this community noticeboard offers its space to us all. In an anonymous, everlasting conversation, the women of Trinity say to each other: “You’re gonna be okay”
“You are loved, I promise”
“Have a lovely day, beautiful”.
Went on a Hinge date with a physiotherapist after I’d hurt my knee skiing. Let’s just say he gave me a free treatment – he even offered to send me the manual of exercises to do.
He told me he was named after the type of car he was conceived in.
He went to pay for our drinks and started screaming at the bartender that it was a rip off and he wasn’t paying. He did the same with our second round. Later, he tried to stay at mine because he had a flight the next morning (his mum called him, angry, because he hadn’t checked in). When I said no he asked to use my Leap Card to get to the airport.
My friend met a man who opened by telling her a story of how he shit himself in Trafalgar Square 6 months ago.
DATING in DUBLIN
Trinners’ latest trysts, as told to Misc. by all of you
In first year I went on a date with an older doctor, hoping for maturity… and financial support. He bought Normal People from my Depop so I had no choice but to turn up and deliver it. He turned up in a filthy white denim jacket, talked about his children in private school, his failed marriage and how he wanted to go to Lost Lane. After running up his tab drinking mojitos I decided we would leave. He took one of my flavoured cigarettes and cycled away. Later – after I’d blocked him on everything – he left a glowing review of Normal People on my Depop
During a beach date to Howth he explained to be that it was okay for women to have more body fat than men because of biology. He later called me a whale.
I brought my situationship back to my flat and said I was going to the bathroom. He walked in when I was pulling my underwear up and saw my bare ass. We never saw each other again.
Went on a date with a guy I thought was around my age. Turned out he was ten years older – I ran away swiftly.
A girl I had been texting from an app invited me out for pints with her friends. When I arrived, she was begging one of her friends for a bump of coke and he was saying “No, you’re six months clean!”
A man asked me how tall I was – 5’9 in my booties – and proceeded to tell me, while we were standing at eye level, that he was 6’2. I must have made a face because he then said he’d been to see his doctor the week before, who’d told him he was 6’2.
