New College Arts Anthology by New College Arts

NEW COLLEGE ARTS ANTHOLOGY 2020

NEW COLLEGE ARTS WEEK COMMITTEE 2020 NOORIE ABBAS SOPHIE BENBELAID FLORA DAVIES LIZ DAVIES ADAM DEAN GEORGE ELWORTHY MIRIAM FELDMAN ALEX FLEMING-BROWN IZZY MERRIMAN AYNA TAIRA

FRONT COVER BY MADDY PAGE

FROM THE EDITORS Since its inception in early Hilary, this Anthology, much like our own lives, has changed a great deal. Starting out as a celebration of New College’s 40th anniversary of admitting women with the theme of women and feminism in art at New College, this Anthology has grown into something more fundamental: an exploration of New College’s present and past in art. We felt that producing something that might evoke fond memories of the now slightly empty old place would be very welcome in the strange times we find oursevles in. We are very grateful to the talented New College members who submitted, to the Warden for his support of Arts Week each year, and to this year’s Arts Week committee of for all the Zoom meetings and hours of independent work putting together a wonderful set of events. In particular, we would like to thank the SCR for granting us access to the historic depictions of New College in the Anthology. It has been so exciting to publish a glimpse of the extensive art collection held within New College and to present it alongside the work of Old Members and current students. As we all figure out how to navigate this Trinity Term apart—even our little editorial team spans three countries and a 9-hour time difference—we hope this collection brings you a little closer to Holywell Street. With love, Noorie Abbas, Arts Week President [History & Politics, m. 2018] George Elworthy, Arts Week VP [Chemistry, m. 2017] Miriam Feldman, Editor-in-Chief & Arts Week VP [PPE, m. 2018]

‘Sketch of Warden’s Barn’ Edmund Hort [SCR collection]

‘New College Bell Tower’ Edmund Hort & Bernard Cecil Gotch [SCR collection]

‘Warden’s Welcome’ Miles Young [History, m. 1973]

‘Before Daybreak’ Ayna Taira [Philosophy & German, m. 2019] ‘Painting of Old Quad’ Alex Brodersen [Engineering Science, m. 2017] ‘Painting of Hall’ Lamis Mutka [Maths, m. 2017]

‘A Postcard from Trinity Term’ Alice Shedd [History, m. 2017]

‘The Second Staircase Insurrection’ Mia Cameron [m. 2019]

‘The Academic Pursuits of Omar Khan’ Roopa Farooki [PPE, m. 1992] ‘Sketch of Two in the Cloisters’ Rinda Naresh [Medicine, m. 2017]

‘Old New College’ Maddy Page [PPE, m. 2017]

‘Chaundler Manuscript’ [SCR Collection]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

‘Medicine and Literature’ Grace Ofori-Attah [Medicine, m. 2005]

‘No Bloody Way!’ Duncan Gillies MacLaurin [Classics, m. 1981]

‘Act 2’ Grace Ofori-Attah [Medicine, m. 2005]

‘Photo of Formal Hall’ Luke Wintour [PPL, m. 2016]

37 ‘The College of St Mary of Winchester’ Edmund Hort [SCR Collection] ‘Fantasia Annotated Plan’ Grace Ofori-Attah [Medicine, m. 2005]

‘Painting of JCR’ Jessica Robb [Biomedical Sciences, m. 2018]

‘Painting of Tutors’ Garden Walk’ Joey Ricciardiello [History, m. 2019]

‘Photo of Man at Night’ Agata Gwincinska [Medicine, m. 2019]

‘Reflections’ Sophie Kinsella [PPE, m. 1988]

‘Where Did the Boys Go’ Rory Wilson [English, m. 2017]

‘Magical, Heady, Intoxicating Photos’ Rachel Laing [Maths & Statistics, m. 2018] Sabine Raaf [Visting, m. 2019] Luke Wintour [PPL, m. 2016], Agata Gwincinska [Medicine, m. 2019] Ayna Taira [Philosophy & German, m. 2019]

53 ‘Interview with Charlotte Mikkelborg’ Flora Davies [French & German, m. 2019], Charlotte Mikkelborg [PPE, m. 1995] ‘Photos’ Ellie Wilkins [French & Linguistics, m. 2018], Luke Wintour [PPL, m. 2016]

‘Interview with Alev Scott’ Flora Davies [French & German, m. 2019], Alev Scott [Classics, m. 2005] ‘Photos’ Ayna Taira [Philosophy & German, m. 2019], Agata Gwincinska [Medicine, m. 2019]

‘Photos of The Team’ Ellie Wilkins [French & Linguistics, m. 2018], Luke Wintour [PPL, m. 2016]

‘Painting of Crest’ Katie Schutte [English, m. 2019] ‘Etchings of Crest’ David Loggan, Edmund Hort [SCR Collection]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

‘Female Characters’ Mila Ottevanger [English, m. 2019] ‘Photos of Laughing Girl’ Agata Gwincinska [Medicine, m. 2019]

‘Putting the Feminine in Feminism’ Imogen Stead [Classics, m. 2013] ‘Photo of Dancing Girl’ Luke Wintour [PPL, m. 2016]

‘Photos of Founder’s Mitre and Episcopal Ring’ [SCR collection] ‘Marithe’ and ‘Robin’ Irene Yang [Musculoskeletal Science, m. 2018]

‘Hiraeth’ Tina Sang [English, m. 2019] ‘Design for New Hall Roof’ George Gilbert Scott [SCR Collection]

‘On Shelter’ Jane Cooper [English, m. 2017] ‘New College Ante Chapel’ Thomas Malton Junior [SCR Collection]

‘Photo of Sunny Old Quad’ Ellie Wilkins [French & Linguistics m. 2018]

I have always felt that art – or at least an artistic sensibility – is baked into New College’s genetic code. It must come from William of Wykeham – a passionate patron who gathered around him a group of the foremost artists of the day. One can see it in the attention to the fabric given over the generations, not least in our own current concern to ensure that the Gradel Quadrangles are something special and durable, and not just another barrack-like Hall of Residence; and in our sporadic outbursts of audacity, from the Reynolds window, to the Hepworth (though at one point we stupidly turned down a Moore), to the Jeni Ross ‘Dance to the Music of Time’ tapestries. As an undergraduate in the 1970s I felt it. In 1975, the Long Room had just been restored and removed of its sanitary purpose. The JCR Committee decided to gather together in one place its extraordinary art

collection. How incredible it was for students to own such art. Seen together, it could not fail to impress; and, very personally, it had an impact on me: an awareness of the rewards of contemporary art, driven abruptly by Bratby and more subtly by Passmore.

Then, when I was in Asia, I was able to start collecting myself. It was a tremendous piece of good fortune to be in China during the extraordinary effulgence of contemporary art in the last 30 years, and then, more recently, to make a collection of Sri Lankan art. The latter I have not been able much to represent in the College, but there is now some Chinese sculpture intruded into the Lodgings (that which fits the sense of place - much would not!). But one of the biggest pleasures for me in returning has been to see the importance which the JCR gives each year to Arts Week. In this exceptional year the pleasure turns to admiration. It is always inspiring to observe and participate in, just as it has been, within it, to start with the Ruskin students the tradition of holding their exhibition in the startling, but highly appropriate, space which is the Wardenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Stable. Neither are possible physically this year, but I thank all those who are taking Arts Week online for keeping it alive. That gene is proving its resilience.

M I L E S Y O U N G WA R D E N

B E F O R E DAY B R E A K A hush descends. The walls, permeated by novel voices seeking the unknown, breathe. May they remind you of our first declaration, and the narrow, second path they made for you. Do you dare to chase the warmth from the other side of the street? A cat hurries to the darkest corner and awaits the nocturnal change. Tears, streaming down the river and into the abyss. As the illuminated belt dangles from the towers, the city breathes, through the whispers of those in a daze, on their knees, with emptied hands, with all those dreams it heals and breathes again. By the time the city wakes, you will be home.

ABOVE: AYNA TAIRA // RIGHT: LAMIS MUKTA, OIL PASTEL AND ACRYLIC ON PAPER. ALEX BRODERSEN, WATERCOLOUR, FINELINER, CHARCOAL AND TIPPEX ON PAPER.

LATITUDE

51.754270

LONGITUDE

-1.253100

POSTAL CODE

OX1 3BN

TO FEEL AT HOME, FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS CAREFULLY FIG. 3

PRESS WISTERIA HERE:

APRIL

MAY

JUNE

CHECK WHEN COMPLETE:

FOLLOW STEPS 1 - 4 WITH CARE

LISTEN TO THE SOUND OF THE BIRDS AND NOTHING ELSE

(SEE FIG. 1)

CREATE THE LIGHT OF A SUMMER EVENING AROUND 5 PM

(SEE FIG. 2)

A) DISPOSABLE BARBECUE SET LIGHT TO: (SEE FIG. 3)

B) ROLL UP CIGARETTE

A) CARLING, CAN, WARM FROM SUN SIT DOWN, CRACK OPEN: B) ASAHI, 620ML, ICY

PUNCH WHEN COMPLETE: HOURLY RELOCATION OF BLANKET ON LAWN 11 AM

12 PM

1 PM

4 PM

7 PM

PRINT NAME (BLOCK CAPITALS)

COLOUR SCHEME OF AN EVENING (PANTONE) 2114 C 1625 C 9520 C 3577 C 9023 C

DATE (DD/MM/YY)

FIG. 1

SIGNATURE HERE

INSTRUCTIONS: 1. SCAN CODE TO LISTEN TO BIRDSONG ON THE MOUND 2. CUT OUT TEMPLATE AND SHINE TORCH THROUGH FOR DAPPLED SUMMER EVENING LIGHT 3. TEAR OFF MATCH AND USE 4. PUNCH HOLES EVERY HOUR AS YOU MOVE YOUR BLANKET ACROSS THE LAWN 5. FILL OUT DATE 6. TEAR OFF SERRATED EGDE & RETURN FORM TO SENDER

NEW COLLEGE HOLYWELL STREET OXFORD, OX1 3BN

A L ICE SH E DD

The SECOND STAIRCASE INSURRECTION (S.S.I.), 2020

MI A CA M ERO N

– Someone’s left their dressing gown in one of my ensuites, says Staircase Four, ruffled. I’m not keeping everything for the whole month again. It’s like having insects under your skin.

– Oh grow up, Staircase Nine retorts, craning her neck. People leave their things in my rooms all the time. You don’t see me complaining. – That’s different. You’re used to it. – Why should that matter? Get used to it. Four looks irritated. His windows open and close slowly, like he’s trying to hold his anger in, and his steep stairs all suddenly swap places with each other. Unaware, Staircase Two and Three continue talking. They like to think of themselves as outside any arguments – you’d have to talk over Four to say anything to them. Something not done lightly. Their stones shift contentedly in the sunlight, rippling in the spring warmth, thinking of the yellow light that will envelop them when it gets dark, and exuding the smell of freshly washed sheets. Three’s windows wink. – Anything interesting to report? – Somewhat disappointing this time, Two sighs. Usually I keep downstairs full of my favourite socks, but in the last week someone moved one of the washing machines and they were all found. I’ve been quite upset.

– I’m sorry, Two. I know how long you’ve been collecting those. Both Staircases’ stones change to a more melancholy rhythm. When something goes wrong for one, it goes wrong for the other, too. They’re like a stair and a railing, or a stone and a pickaxe; two peas in a pod, never complete without the other. – At least I still have my store of dryer fluff. I’m saving that for something special. – Really? What? asked Three, but he already knew the answer. – I’m making a model of us.

Three’s stairs raise and lower. Was that a shiver? – Won’t that take a while? – Yes. I’ve been working on it for years.

Three opens his door to say something – anything – but his corridors are dry and he’s stuck for words. Before he can compose himself, both Staircases are startled by a clang. They haven’t been paying attention to Four, but Five has. She’s always been lonely, never truly fitting in, stacked like a backstair in between the arrogant Four and uninterested Six, forced to be content with an existence of observation only. Never having anyone to talk

to, Five for years has occupied herself with the question of which birds prefer which trees, who has bought the wrong second hand bike, and the perfect angle at which to watch the sunrise. She watches the grass grow and the flowers bloom. She keeps to herself. And now: now she’s watching as Four, dangerously close, becomes more and more incensed. This isn’t just a case of standard staircase aggravation: Five sees his door becoming progressively more unhinged, swinging backwards and forwards manically, and steam practically rolls off his stones. There could be serious trouble coming. With his commanding view of the Holywell entrance and imposing turrets, Four thinks he runs this place. Meek Staircase Five turns to her left to catch Nine and Ten’s muttering. – What on earth are you doing, whispers Staircase Ten, riling him up like that? Anxious as usual, Ten feels stone goosebumps rising on his outer walls. No one’s stood up to Four since– – Since the 1912 Staircase insurrection. I know. – Then what is wrong with you? His whispers become more urgent. Don’t you remember what happened to Staircase Thirteen – – What have I told you about Staircase Thirteen? Nine is eerily quiet. – I’m sorry, I–

– I told you never to mention him to me. Never. Do you understand what that word means? Never? It means: not now. Not in the future. Not when we’re dead and turned to rubble. Never. Despite Nine’s adoption of an expression of stony calm, she feels her cement boiling. How could Ten believe she had forgotten – her, who had been so devastated at his loss, who had mourned him longer than any other? And it was Four’s fault! It is Four’s fault, still. – Nine, Staircase Ten starts, carefully. Please – tell me what happened. – You know what happened. – I don’t, I – don’t you remember? You wouldn’t let me be involved. – For your own safety. – I could have helped, I could have– – It was for your safety, Nine hisses, and Ten fears he has crossed the line. He goes silent, not daring to speak, until he looks over and sees Nine’s windows dripping. He is about to speak, but then– – You wouldn’t have survived. You weren’t strong enough. – What is that supposed to mean?

Ten feels indignant. He’s always treated like a child, despite being in the double digits, especially by Nine. Supposedly his best friend. Since they were newbuilds, Nine and Ten have laughed together, window-dripped together, and opened their doors to each other. But, there’s always been this – this shadow hanging over them. Something unsaid, unspoken, like wet cement seeping in between their adjoining walls – Let me finish.

Nine takes a breath, her hinges creaking slightly. – This was over 100 years ago, you know, but when I close my curtains it feels like yesterday. We were so happy, practically new, ecstatically young and full of clean glass and working fireplaces. The world was ours. Everyone wanted to live in us, no one could visit us, our entrance was for legitimate use only. No tourists. Thank god. As she speaks, Nine’s windows start to shine with remembrance. She’s never been as happy as she was then. – We all loved each other, you remember, we all existed so peacefully. She pauses. And some loved some more than others. We all see Two and Three. She attempts to chuckle, but it gets lost in her corridors. Her breath is caught behind her door.

EDMUND HORT – You were my best friend, Ten. You still are, obviously. I loved you a bit more than the others. And Thirteen – Thirteen I loved a bit more than the others, too. And so the whole thing was my fault. – What was your fault? Ten ventures. – Everything. It was me. I’m the one who led the uprising. Four knew that, and he knew exactly how to hurt me. That’s what I mean – you weren’t strong enough, you couldn’t have been. Four concentrated all his forces on

Thirteen, and would have on you, too, if I hadn’t kept you out of it. Thirteen could never have withstood it, and he was – well, he was Thirteen. He was made of the strongest stone I know. Ten inhales sharply, his open windows rattling.

– You saved my life. – I couldn’t save Thirteen’s. – You did the best you could. – How do you know that? Nine snaps, all her hinges straining open at once. I was a coward. I let Four win. – You didn’t let him win. There was nothing you could do. – I could have offered myself. It should have been me. – Don’t say that! – It should have been me. Suddenly, Ten hears a crack, a crunch, like bones breaking. Dust enters the air, casually, unaware of the catastrophe it signals. And stone spews everywhere. – Nine! What are you doing! – I don’t know what’s happening – I’m sorry, I’m so angry–

Nine collapses. – Did you hear that? Three mutters, nervous that Four will hear. He and Two have been watching him for any signs of a concentrated outbreak of anger, something that hasn’t happened in all its intensity since – well, since 1912.

– It sounded like stones breaking, Two breathes, his voice shaking as much from the shockwaves as from his own fear. Why is this happening now? He feels overcome with embarrassment, with anger at himself for being so blatant, for potentially breaking the dance that the two of them have been playing for years. There is safety in the dance, in the distance between them. And now it’s been shattered, and so, apparently, has something else. – I need to see past Four, says Three. – Are you serious? What happened to never getting involved? What happened to our vantage point, our being behind Four and behind the conflict? – Oh yeah? And how did that work out for us last time? Two is silent. – Neutral Two and Three got Thirteen demolished, that’s what. They look at each other. Neither of them has

ever acknowledged this before. – We didn’t– – Don’t play that card. We could have stopped him, and we didn’t. They were outnumbered without us, but if we had helped, they could have won. Two reshuffles his stairs. – I know, he murmurs. I know, and I feel awful. – So, come on! We need to get a closer look. – Look, I’m still just – I’m not sure. We’ve all survived this far, haven’t we? Without doing anything about it? And how bad has it really been? – This is so typical of you, Two. – What is that supposed to mean? – You’re such a coward! Two’s top windows blow open in quick succession. – Excuse me? – You don’t want to get involved because you’re worried about yourself, the damage to you, but what about the rest of the Staircases? What about the College? The city, even? You’ve seen how tyrannical Four can be, and

that’s with Nine keeping his power in check. Now, rock knows what’s happened to her, and if there’s another uprising, and if he wins, then there’ll be no one to stop him. We’ve survived this far by staying out of everything, sure, but – have we lived? Two shuffles his foundations. – I still don’t see how that’s typical. – You’ve been making a model out of dryer fluff instead of telling me how you feel, Two. Two’s windows flash pink. It’s the reflection of the sunset, he tells himself. Another crash sounds, and Two makes a decision. – You’re between a rock and a hard place, Four cackles. Ten is looking over Nine’s rubble, unable to do anything but open and close his door in shock. Unnoticed Eleven and Twelve grind their stones menacingly behind him, while in front Six, Seven and Eight flex their hinges. Five looks scared. Ten opens his door to speak, but is interrupted. – I guess it’s true what they say, Four giggles. – Wait– – Seven eight nine! He bursts out, windows

flaring in the dying sunlight. – Seven’s barely involved, Ten says, but Four bellows over him.

BERNARD CECIL GOTCH

– I don’t know if you’ve heard of a joke before, Ten, but that was a fine example of one.

Four’s voice ripples over the grass between them. – You’re right. Seven and the rest of them have helped me on my way. But I am your one and only leader. – What have you done – what happened to Nine? – I’ve been watching you, he laughs menacingly. You’ve been getting uppity. Not staying in your place. Did you really think you could cross me without anyone noticing? Nothing – not even your inner corridors – are safe from me. I’ve had that demolition bomb planted for years, biding my time. And now, well… now’s the perfect moment! Four giggles again, his stairs unstable. Eight reaches down and kicks Nine’s rubble.

– Don’t touch her, Ten cries, his voice cracking. The others laugh. – I can do what I like. Ten is surrounded. He shuts his curtains and prepares for the worst. And then the miraculous happens. Across the grass Two and Three come striding,

the previously neutral and seemingly innocuous Cottages in tow. Behind them towers the Library. Their commanding presence stops Four in his track for a second. – What are you doing, Four laughs, nervously this time. – You’ve ruled us for a long time, Three starts, shakily but becoming stronger by the second. We tolerated it, because we were scared. And because we were complacent. We thought there was nothing we could do. We thought it didn’t matter, because it didn’t affect us. We let you walk all over us, and we didn’t take a step to stop it. But no longer. You’ve reached the heights of our tolerance – you’re at the ceiling. And there’s nowhere to go but down. – You’re outnumbered! Four cries. How do you expect to get anywhere with this band of doorsteps? Five’s floorboards are heaving. She doesn’t have any idea what to do – her whole life has been spent avoiding decisions, staying out of everything, and looking on. For a while, a long while, she has felt the burden of it, of not stepping up for herself, of allowing Four to have his way of everything Three has just said. But could she really do anything to stop it? What would her vote count for, anyway?

Then, all of a sudden from her place in the middle of the enemy, Five darts out and joins them. Four tries to act nonplussed. – As if anything you do matters, Five, he hisses at her. As if anything you have ever done has mattered, to anyone. Do you think Three wants your support? You’re a pathetic excuse for a staircase. As he speaks, Eleven and Twelve look at each other, stony faced but communicating in their own way. The two of them have been so isolated from the others that they can tell just by a glance what the other is thinking. Then, all of a sudden, they reach out and join Three. – Thank you, Four, they boom in unison, for allowing us to see how you view us through your narrow-minded windows. This is your own fault. Five hides a smile.

– You can’t do this to me! Four starts, becoming hysterical. I am Staircase Four – I rule this College! – Not anymore, Three says, forcing Four’s windows open. You climbed your way to the top, it’s true. We’ll all admit it. But you will never rule over us again. With all the anger of 100 years and the rubble

of Nine and Thirteen behind them, they force Four’s windows to burst and shatter, turning yellow in the Library’s glow. He crumbles to the floor. – I can’t believe it, Two whispers to Three, back at home. You were incredible. – I couldn’t have done it without you, says Three, his glass glinting. – Look at you two, says Five. All this time, like stair-crossed lovers. Everyone is silent. No one has ever heard her speak before. And then they erupt into laughter, hinges clanging and stones knocking, and even Nine’s rubble gives a little shuffle. Ten notices, and smiles a bit more.

THE ACADEMIC PURSUITS

RINDA NARESH, SKETCH OF TWO IN THE CLOISTERS. PENCIL ON PAPER. 2020.

OMAR KHAN

He had played the part of a model school student, so why couldn’t he play the part of a model Oxford student? It was just a question of theatre – he had to say the right lines, wear the right clothes, attend the right classes and lectures, so that no one would be able to tell him apart from the real students here, the clever ones who got their places on merit. As long as he read everything he was told to, as long as he learned it and repeated it in an appropriate order, who would notice the difference between assiduous research and straightforward plagiarism? No one had so far. “And no one will now,” said Omar to himself, leaning his forehead against the glass. He had to make a choice – to hide in his room forever, or to let himself out and play his part. At that moment there was another knock on the door. This time Omar opened it, hanging his towel over his shoulder. There were three students in the hall, a handsome boy in a checked shirt, with a flush of high colour across his cheeks, accompanied by a pretty red-headed girl, and a bespectacled boy who looked even more skinny than he did. “Hello Rashid!” said the handsome boy cheerfully. “I’m Jim Oakley, I’ve got the room at the bottom of the staircase. I thought you’d died in there. We hadn’t heard a peep from you since your parents left.” “Yeah, sorry,” answered Omar sleepily, stifling a fake yawn, and dabbing at his face with his towel. “I must have fallen asleep. Had

a late one last night, you know what it’s like.” He shrugged sheepishly as Jim and his companions nodded sympathetically, and perhaps even with approval. “It’s Omar, by the way,” he said, stretching out his hand. “Pleased to meet you all.” “Omar? You know it says ‘Rashid Khan’ on the staircase list downstairs,” said Jim. “Oh, that’s my middle name. Well, Omar’s my middle name really. But it’s what everyone calls me. I’ll ask them to change it when I get a chance,” Omar explained with a smile. “Yeah, tell me about it,” said the other boy. “I’m Ted, and they’ve put Edward on my sign. Edward, I ask you!” “We thought you might want to come to the JCR with us,” said the pretty girl. “There’s a tea for all the new students.” “Sure,” said Omar and, putting his key in his pocket, shut the door behind him on his old life, and his old mediocre self, and walked down the winding spiral staircase to his new one. “So, what are you reading?” he asked companionably as they made their way downstairs. “I’m reading PPE.” After the flurry of the Freshers week, with the drinks parties and the long evenings in the bar, Omar found his natural place in the college community. Unlike school, where he was without doubt at the bottom of the pecking order, at college he found he was accepted quickly. Part of this was to do with Jim, who was clearly the most popular boy in his college year.

After the first day, when Jim had taken it on himself to knock on every door in the staircase and take command of the introductions, Jim never had to knock on a door again. He was lucky enough to have an enormous room at the bottom of the staircase, with a view to the street rather than the college. Despite the size, his room was always full of visitors, and the notepad that hung on his door was constantly covered in scribbled messages. Against the odds, given the competition, Omar found that he and Jim became friends quite early on, from the first time he had helped Jim back to their staircase after too many drinks at one of the welcome parties. He was glad he didn’t have to drag him up too many stairs, as Jim was quite a bit bigger than he was. He put him on his bed and as he turned to go, he heard Jim lurch. He raced over with the waste-paper bin, into which Jim threw up messily and copiously. “Thanks, Omar, you’re a bloody good mate,” mumbled Jim. “Come round for tea tomorrow.” Omar remembered the invitation, although he doubted that Jim did. Returning up the street to college at teatime, he heard music from Jim’s room and thought he may as well pop in. He hovered nervously outside the door for a moment and, hearing voices inside, debated whether to knock; when he finally did, it was so lightly that he thought it might not be noticed. However, Jim opened the door immediately.

“Omar, you’re late, come on in. I’ve started cutting cake already.” Omar wandered in, and felt he’d walked into a tardis. Jim’s room seemed to have expanded with the volume of people that filled it; some he didn’t even recognize. He sat next to pretty red-headed Karen, from the staircase, and chatted about the hangover he didn’t have. Jim, the perfect host, brandished an enormous purple-spotted teapot and poured Omar a cup of tea, before popping over to have a few words with him. “Are you going to the Union thing next Thursday?” Jim asked, slurping ostentatiously from his own cup of tea. “I can’t, I have to nip back down to London for the night,” Omar said regretfully, as everyone else seemed to be going. “Parents giving you grief already? Or is it your girlfriend?” asked Jim. “Neither, I’ve just got a gig,” Omar said modestly. “I’m in a band.” “That’s fantastic!” said Jim. “Listen, everyone, did you know that Omar here is in a band in London!” He turned back to Omar. “So what do you play?” “Oh, just guitar, and I do some backing vocals. I don’t really sing.” After that, Jim insisted that Omar fetch his guitar and play for them and, sheepishly, Omar agreed. At Jim’s tea party, he was suddenly the star turn, while the students listened and whooped. His reputation as one of Jim’s crowd

in college was thus established, and in the following weeks he was surprised to find that so many likeable people seemed to like him. Even more surprising, no one thought that he was particularly unusual or geeky for spending eight hours a day in the Bodleian or college library, when not attending lectures or tutorials, emerging only for social events, meals and evening drinks. He really wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that odd at all, he realized; he was like almost everyone else.

R O O PA

EXCERPT

FA R O O K I

FROM

BITTER

SWEETS

MS. NEW COLL 288, F3V. (CHAUNDLER MANUSCRIPT), ‘LIFE OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM’ 15TH CENTURY. THOMAS CHAUNDLER. PEN AND INK & TEMPERA ON VELLUM.

OLD NEW COLLEGE

A VERY SERIOUS POEM

The creak of ancient floorboards and the smell of dusty Eternal lists of crannies or their lesser known Wykeham conjured walls to stay whilst others only So why o’ why, dear visitors, do you bear such funny

books, nooks. shook, looks?

The flagstones of the Cloisters harbour endless past exchanges, And there we share our journeys with centuries of strangers, City walls to save our home from years of war and peace, Yet confusion haunts these hallowed halls and questions never cease. “Is this a polytechnic?” asked a visitor at the plodge, “Only the map says-”, she starts but queries here were dodged, Ushered through the archways she soon forgets her doubts, But questions left unanswered have a way of getting out. She wanders through the gardens, past the Mound and under trees, Beauty never changing through spring flowers and autumn leaves, But as she watched the sun set over Oxford’s ancient spires, There’s still that nagging feeling that someone’s crossed her wires. New College you are mighty, you have stood the test of time, The stories told within your walls are far too long to rhyme. And yet, the visitor cannot help but scream until she’s blue, This is a lovely place and all, “but it’s just not fucking new”.

MADDY PAGE

GRACE OFORI-ATTAH If you had told me 15 years ago when I was studying at New College (or more accurately, lolling about in Garden Quad with my friend Henry, who incidentally, along with other New College friends in various guises, features in a few of my TV scriptsâ&#x20AC;Ś) that my student musings on Chekhov for the Medicine and Literature component of my medical degree would become a seminal piece of work for my own writing career I would have probably shed tears of disbelief.

The disbelief would mainly be because a writing career - which had been a lifelong dream - seemed to be growing ever more distant with each day of medical school. And, of course, it seemed unlikely that an optional study module (at the time seemingly frivolous and indulgent component of my medical degree) could prove to be a key turning point in my future career.

ACT TWO, GRACE OFORI-ATTAH But not only is it true that I can (still tentatively) say I have a writing career, Anton Chekhov and the lessons I learned studying his work inspired the first script I ever dared to write six years ago. It was precisely my frustrated attempts at writing a novel during my first years of doctoring that made me change tack. And Chekhov and New College are themes I keep returning to for inspiration as I continue trying to carve out a career writing for the screen. At New College Commeration ball, I discovered a love of creating memorable sensory experiences, and having New College as a canvas on which to stage a night of fantasy escapism was a perfect experimental playground for trialling techniques that would later characterise my approach to creating visually immersive stories for the screen. Indeed, there is a distinct similarity between my initial ball plans and the way I construct story today. [p. 31, p. 38]

While it is fair to say there are several aspects of my degree that I did not enjoy (I still feel nauseous at the memory of the gnawing, panicky realisation that I was probably studying the wrong subject), university remains an overwhelmingly positive experience for me: full of wonderful people, places, ideas and opportunities that have combined over the years to take root in everything I am today. I would do it all again and I owe medicine a great deal in giving me an opportunity to experience a wide variety of life, more than I would otherwise have gained in my own life. It has undoubtedly informed and improved my ability to write.

“I FIRMLY BELIEVE THAT MY MEDICAL STUDIES HAD A VITAL INFLUENCE ON MY LITERARY ACTIVITY; THEY SIGNIFICANTLY WIDENED THE SPHERE OF MY OBSERVATION, ENRICHED ME WITH KNOWLEDGE WHOSE TRUE VALUE TO ME AS A WRITER CAN ONLY BE APPRECIATED BY SOMEONE WHO IS HIMSELF A DOCTOR.”

Chekhov wrote about how his relatives and friends “were always condescending toward [his] writing and constantly advised [him] in a friendly way not to give up real work for scrib-

bling”. The concept of “real work” and life’s true vocation is one that seemed to trouble the author in his own life, and is a recurring theme throughout much of his work. I sometimes feel that practising medicine would be a more “worthy” way of spending my time than “scribbling” down made-up stories and there are people who will say this directly to me, which always makes me question my choice even more. But, then Chekhov also wrote:

“MEDICINE IS MY LAWFUL, WEDDED WIFE, AND LITERATURE IS MY MISTRESS. WHEN ONE ISN’T ENOUGH FOR ME, I SPEND THE NIGHT WITH THE OTHER. THAT MAY BE A LITTLE IMPROPER, BUT THEN IT’S LESS DULL.” This quote feels even more pertinent as I write this during the Coronavirus crisis when, less than a year after happily announcing my divorce from medicine, I felt the inevitable pull of my ex-wife tempting me back to the NHS. And return I did. Because once a doctor, always a doctor… Still, people always ask how I jumped from Psychiatry to writing - two seem-

ingly disparate fields. I’ve always found this an unusual question as for me, my interest in psychiatry is rooted firmly in it being a subject that requires a close study of human behaviour. Why do people do the things they do? This question has always fascinated me and, I imagine, many other writers of fiction over the years. I chose Psychiatry because to me, it is the most creative discipline within medicine and seeks to find a scientific answer to that question. As the patient begins to disclose their history, they are storytelling. One becomes absorbed in understanding the patient’s entire history, and tries to find a way to create an alternative ending to the story (or to that specific chapter of the story), different to the ending their mental illness had planned. So maybe it isn’t such a stretch to see how someone fascinated by stories and writing became a psychiatrist. Writing brings a personal, private satisfaction that nothing else in my working life has ever come close to. There is such joy in creating something entirely yours, of your mind, that didn’t and couldn’t exist if you hadn’t made it. Two writers given the same identical premise will not produce identical work; the expression of your thoughts in character and action are entirely your individual choices (before producers and editors get involved in the birthing and rearing process of your baby). Since leaving medicine for screenwriting I have met several secret writers with “serious” day jobs and I always tell them to keep go-

ing with the daydream. In a world dominated by picture-perfect social media lives, fear of failure hinders many would-be writers/creatives. There’s an illogical desire for perfection and it seems safer to stick to doing the things we are used to and already know we can do reasonably well. I’ve been a slave to perfection (I still am!), and particularly in a university settinglike Oxford, perpetually surrounded by the ghosts of so many concrete “greats” (not in the classical sense) it is easy to feel you aren’t good enough to do the things you dream about. A Google search of “Notable Oxford writers” is enough to make you roll over in bed, pull the covers over your head and continue consigning the idea of writing anything to the scrapheap of unfulfilled dreams.

But for those who are continually nagged by the desire to do something, anything creative, the dream will become a waking nightmare if not given proper attention. And this is when it’s okay to fail. Everybody has to start somewhere. And it’s better to regret the things you try to do than regret the things you never get around to doing. So be bold, express that creativity if you feel the urge, and most importantly, be patient with yourself because too much pressure is anathema to the creative brain and may prematurely kill good ideas that haven’t been given the requisite time to flourish. And who knows, that dream career might just become a reality.

QUOTES FROM: ANTON CHEKHOV’S SHORT STORIES - SELECTED AND EDITED BY RALPH E. MATLAW.

THE COLLEGE OF ST MARY OF WINCHESTER OR NEW COLLEGE, 1928. EDMUND HORT . ENGRAVING. ELEVATED VIEW OF NEW COLLEGE FROM THE SOUTH.

ANNOTATED PLAN FOR NEW COLLEGE COMMEMORATION BALL, FANTASIA, 2007. GRACE OFORI-ATTAH. MIXED MEDIA.

W H E R E D I D B O Y S G O

T H E

I remember when it first started, god, how could I forget. We were all lounging on the slight grassy slope in garden quad, sunning ourselves and planning all kinds of hell, when I heard it first. Thin Lizzy’s 1976 single “The Boys Are Back In Town;” my friends, all pretty cool guys, nodded their heads and took another sip of their beers, looking young and fierce, like they were the boys and this was their town; and hell, back in those heady summer days of 1983 it was our town. The stunts we used to pull, hohoho, you wouldn’t believe - but that was another time, a simpler time. Before my life was upended. I sat there, nodding along, pretending I’d heard the song before, but all the while listening to the lyrics; “Guess who just got back today Them wild-eyed boys that had been away Haven’t changed, hadn’t much to say But, man, I still think them cats are crazy” Sang Phil Lynott in that voice that just makes you want to kick back and say hell to it all, you know? But I wasn’t thinking about that, though God knows I was in hell. I couldn’t help thinking “where had those boys been?” I didn’t wanna embarrass myself before my friends, cos damn, they were crazy cats, who knows what kind of larkin mischief they’d get up to at my expense. But I

R O R Y

W I L S O N

couldn’t hold it in. Rearranging my face to look like sowme crazy cool cat, I nonchalantly asked, “hey dudes, where the hell did those crazy, foolin, son-bitches get to huh?” blank stares. “I mean like, where did those boys get to, you know, like for real.” “What,” asks my friend Scooter, kind of like the leader of our pack of hellraisers. “I mean, where did the boys go? It seems like they were out of town, at least that’s the implication of ‘the boys are back in town,’ so I was just wondering, where did they go? You know, where did they go when they left the town.” More blank stares, but I noticed an edge, a nervousness pretty foreign to this motley crew of damned foolers, crazy hot spit boys and goofers. Scooter said, “shut up man, you’re one crazy cat,” and we all laughed it off, just a couple of cool damn cat boys chuckling on that damn sonbitchin’ grass. But I couldn’t get it off my mind. Where did those boys go? All summer it bothered me, all that sweet summer of ‘83 (oooooh yeah mama). At first I pushed it away. Who cares where they went? I mean just let it hang man. But I couldn’t get it away from me; where had they gone, those kids who were, “living downtown/Driving all the old men crazy?” If they’d been living downtown, presumably they had entered into rental contracts,

and in the Dublin area these are typically 8-12 months, with the landlord reserving the right to repossess property uninhabited for longer than a quarter of this lease, so they couldn’t have gone for long, presumably less than 2 months before coming back to town, presuming that the “town” was in fact Dublin in the first place. God damn it Thin Lizzy, what the hell did you damn mean? I found myself drawing concentric circles around Dublin in atlases working how far conceivably they could have gone from the city. If they’re back “Down at Dino’s Bar and grill,” in verse 5, how did they get there? Had they been gone for long? Gone for long enough that they still had bad blood with the ‘old men’ of downtown? I needed to know. That team of damn crazy hoodlums, slickboys and big daddies I called my gang told me to leave it, to stop bothering with it, to stop asking questions, but I couldn’t stop. Where had those damn boys gone? If they were back in town, they must have been somewhere else before those crazy, crazy boys, but where? My obsessions persisted into the vac, even my parents couldn’t silence my obsession. I remember my mum wiping the tears of frustration from my face and whispering, “don’t think about it son, no one knows where the boys went, just that they’re back

it’s something we all went through when we were younger, you just have to accept it and move on.” That’s when I stopped speaking to my mum; if I had known she was working for the damn man, I would have moved out years ago. I kicked out of that damn hell hole, sleep in a polytunnel now. At least that’s real man - well not the polyethylene covering, that’s obviously an artificial compound - but you know what I mean man. I knew I had to keep pushing, the truth was there. I travelled to Dublin, found Dino’s and tried to retrace those damn boys’ trail. In Fingal, I finally tracked down a lead, the crazy, “chick that used to dance a lot,” the one that slapped that damn Johnny, gosh those kids were crazy. She’s an old woman now, living in a farmhouse at the edge of the town. When I asked where those boys went she shut the door in my face. “Don’t ask me about those damn boys,” she said, “they took everything from, those blasted fellas. But god I can’t blame ‘em, those damnable hell cats, geez Louise.” She smiled, taking a long drag of her cigarette, you know, real cool and slow. “Those damn boys.” But her face clouded, and she slammed the door in my face. I was pretty put out man. I’d be on the trail of those damn boys for months now, and as I was hiking back down the road, the

night got dark and I had to sleep under a hedge. But it was cool man, the evening was warm, I was plucking at my guitar (I don’t know how to play) just plucking man you know, just plucking, when all of a sudden this eerie as hell mist falls and all the birds stop singing and then there they were. Thin Lizzy. Phil Lynott, Brian Downey, Eric Bell and Eric Wrixon, standing there in front of me, hair blowing in the wind just looking hard as hell you know. “This is where the boys went,” they murmured, reaching their hands out to me, smiling beatifically. I could smell Phil’s perm. The world went black. They beat me with baseball bats, crushed my ribs, broke my legs in four places, fractured my skull, then covered my body in petrol and set me on fire. But it was cool man, y’know? Even as my vision blurred and I could smell my own skin begin to cook, I thought, this is real Rock n’ Roll, that real real stuff, ya dig? If only my crazy damn gang of wacko boys, kings of the summer could see me now. And you know what? I don’t even care where the boys went. Because now I know. The boys are inside me. Inside all of us. And God damn are they back in town.

AGATA GWINCINSKA. PHOTO. 2020

N O B L O O D Y WAY ! for

Mark

and

Mike,

whose

room

was

ABOVE: LUKE WINTOUR // RIGHT: DUNCAN GILLIES MACLAURIN

A crowd of students sitting round a room one summer night in 1983. They barely move, make little sound, assume they’ve every right to simply wait and see. Until the college porter comes along to tell them that they’re threatening the peace. It’s obvious he’s got his sums all wrong. And what’s he going to do? Ring the police? This memory will always ebb and flow. A part of me has never come of age. So when, today, I find a treble “No!” means rattling the same old bloody cage, I’m back in Oxford sounding out success, the silent choir inside me shouting “Yes!”

PAINTINGS 48 JESSICA ROBB. ACRYLIC PAINTING INSPIRED BY VAN GOGH’S ‘THE NIGHT CAFE’. 2020. 49 JOEY RICCIARDIELLO. WATERCOLOUR PAINTING OF TUTORS’ GARDEN WALK. 2020.

PHOTOS 52 AGATA GWINCINSKA AYNA TAIRA LUKE WINTOUR RACHEL LAING LUKE WINTOUR AGATA GWINCINSKA SABINE RAAF AGATA GWINCINSKA AGATA GWINCINSKA 54-58 ELLIE WILKINS ELLIE WILKINS LUKE WINTOUR 60-64 AGATA GWINCINSKA AYNA TAIRA AGATA GWINCINSKA AYNA TAIRA

I remember my time at New College with immense fondness, and it really was a transformative period for me. Many people assume that because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m an author, I must have read English at university. However the truth is very different. I went up to read Music but soon realised that I wanted to spread my wings and try out different subjects that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never even considered before. Luckily for me, the Dean was very supportive and so after a year, I transferred onto the PPE course. It was a revelation. I found that philosophy suited me perfectly, and I credit those philosophy tutorials with teaching me the first rudiments of writing. Spinning abstract ideas into a narrative and reading my thoughts aloud to be critiqued were a brilliant training. I soon realised when waffle was boring and learned to self-edit. I also found myself naturally trying to entertain my tutor as well as debate the subject, and would try to insert jokes into even the driest of philosophy essays. That impulse has never left me. New College was a magical, heady, intoxicating setting for three of the most important years of my life, in which I found the courage to change direction in life, found my voice, and incidentally found my husband, to whom I am still married. I will always feel enormous love for this most special of places.

S O P H I E K I N S E L L A

A M A G I C A L , H E A D Y , I N T O X I C AT I N G S E T T I N G

C H A R L O T T E COMBINING ART AND TECHNOLOGY THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF VIRTUAL REALITY (VR), CHARLOTTE MIKKELBORG IS CHANGING THE WORLD THROUGH POWERFUL FILMMAKING. STARTING HER CAREER AS A BBC-TRAINED JOURNALIST, MIKKELBORG HAS SINCE DIRECTED AND PRODUCED AWARD-WINNING FILMS AND IMMERSIVE EXPERIENCES THROUGH HER COMPANY, PICTURE THIS PRODUCTIONS. DESCRIBED BY VICE AS ONE OF THE “FEMALE FILMMAKERS REVOLUTIONIZING HOW WE SEE THE WORLD”, MIKKELBORG HAS SHOWN HER FILMS AND VR EXPERIENCES IN THE US CONGRESS, THE UN, AND 10 DOWNING STREET - USING THE MEDIUM TO SHED LIGHT ON GLOBAL ISSUES FOR AUDIENCES INCLUDING POLITICIANS, BUSINESS LEADERS, AND CELEBRITIES. CHARLOTTE MIKKELBORG DISCUSSES HER CAREER WITH FLORA DAVIES.

M I K K E L B O R G

FD: After you graduated ford, what led you to

from Oxjournalism?

CM: I ran into a girl I studied Middle Eastern politics with while taking my books back to the Bodleian and I didn’t have any real plan for what I was going to do post-graduation so I asked her what she was doing. She said “Well, I’m going off to Rome to learn Italian” and I thought to myself “why not?” So I literally headed straight to STA, bought my ticket, and went and lived in Rome for a couple of months to learn Italian. I came back from Rome and did work placements at Radio Oxford and Central Television, and decided to apply for a one year postgraduate diploma in Broadcast Journalism at Cardiff University. Straight off the course I got a job at BBC Wales but I didn’t stay long as I got accepted onto the fast track BBC News Trainee Scheme. It was six months training, followed by six months placement this time at BBC South. I knew by now that I wanted to become a foreign correspondent as international affairs had always interested me more than domestic, but there was no obvious route to those jobs within the BBC. I spoke Italian, so I went to Rome and got a job working for a current affairs TV magazine programme, set up by The International Herald Tribune (now the International New York Times). I did that for a couple of years, covering all regions of the world from a Rome base. I felt as if the whole world was moving towards China, so I decided to go there. The International Herald Tribune TV didn’t think they needed a correspondent in China so they didn’t support me

going, but once I was in Shanghai digging up stories, they changed their minds. Then, after a fortuitous meeting with the head of BBC Asia, I took on the role as BBC Shanghai correspondent and did that until 2008. FD: So how did you make the transition from journalism to film? CM: I wanted to have the time to dig deeper into stories as well as to be able to explore the visual art of storytelling in more depth - so I left the BBC and made my first longer form documentary called Building 173. I was lucky enough to find a group of talented people in Shanghai to work on the film with me. I invested some of my own money but a lot of people worked on it for free on the basis that they’d get paid if and when we sold it. We did sell it in the end...in 26 countries, so we were really proud of that. FD: What other films have you worked on? CM: From there I worked on a couple of other movies. I produced a UK production called The Human Spider for Channel Four about a Frenchman who climbs all the world’s tallest buildings without any safety equipment. I also line produced a feature film called Made in China. I wasn’t involved on the creative side and it wasn’t necessarily my kind of film but it was a lot of fun and I learnt a lot about the fictional side of movies which was fascinating! FD: So how did you get into VR?

CM: I met Lucy Walker’s producer in LA [Lucy is another New College alumni who has been Oscar nominated for her documentary work] and he started describing 360 filmmaking to me. I didn’t quite get it until I finally stuck my head in a VR headset. The quality was horrible at that time but the concept made so much sense to me. Why would we experience television or film media in a 2D rectangle? There’s no logic to it; it’s just the way that the tech evolved. I saw the potential of VR to be a much more powerful way to experience film - to experience education and entertainment in 360 degrees...the same way we experience the rest of our lives. At that time, the UN and NGOs were using 360 quite a lot because a film called Clouds Over Sidra about a little girl living in a refugee camp had demonstrated that 360 film versus regular 2D film could double donations. So, when I saw the UN put out a new tender to make a 360 film, I pitched for it, won and made my first 360 film, Born Into Exile. In 2018, I worked on The Journey which premiered at South by Southwest (SXSW). The film took you on a journey through childhood in the 3 of the most difficult places on earth. It ended up winning the 61st Cine Golden Eagle for best VR short. FD: How did you end up collaborating with British Airways for their centenary celebration? CM: I’d heard that BA was interested in investing in VR as part of their centenary celebrations in 2019, and so I pitched them this idea

which I thought they’d just write off as mild insanity. Fundamentally, I wanted to tell the story of humankind’s relationship to flight, starting with the first person who made any real inroads into flight which was Leonardo da Vinci. We wanted to return a sense of awe and wonder to the idea of people being able to fly. Nowadays, it’s all about queues and airports and delays. I worked with Neil Corbould’s Oscar winning special effects team on custom building an interactive motion platform as I felt like you couldn’t tell a story about flight without being able to feel like you were flying. The easiest way to describe the experience is probably to say that you become like a time travelling pilot from the time of Leonardo through to the Wright Brothers and eventually 100 years into the future of flight. The experience is also multisensory which was really important to me, so you feel the wind, the warmth of the sun, and smell the sea air. We also did a version of The Journey which was multisensory where you took your shoes off and we had heated reed matting which gave you this sensation of the hot desert sand beneath the mat. I think that there’s so much potential in the immersive arts: you can really transport people to other places - sometimes fantastical, abstract places - and the more senses you engage in that, the more powerful the experience. FD: Do you have any advice for New College students hoping to go into filmmaking or the immersive arts?

CM: Filmmaking and the immersive arts are broad areas and I think it depends what you want to do. If youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re interested in television journalism or documentary filmmaking then I think that some of the post grad diplomas in photojournalism, television journalism and documentary filmmaking specifically, can be a really good way to go as they teach you really important skills for documentary making like thorough research, how to conduct a good interview - all of those skills that you may need in documentary filmmaking. People who are naturally good listeners and naturally empathetic people make the best documentarians. On the fictional filmmaking side, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d recommend work experience if you have the contacts and, if not, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d definitely go to film school - like the National Film and Television School which is an excellent school and highly rated internationally. If you had the funding for it, then there are also some excellent film courses in the US like at The Tisch School of the Arts in New York and at USC and UCLA on the West Coast. There are now also immersive media courses at certain British Universities including Royal Holloway and UCL. Or you could look at an internship at one of the immersive arts companies; my company is quite small but there are companies that keep a slightly bigger, ongoing presence like Marshmallow Laser Feast, 59 Productions, Factory 42, and the Moment Factory.

ALEV SCOTT HAS HAD A REMARKABLE AND VARIED CAREER SINCE GRADUATING FROM NEW COLLEGE. AFTER ASSISTANT DIRECTING SEVERAL THEATRE AND OPERA PRODUCTIONS, SCOTT MOVED TO TURKEY WHERE SHE BEGAN WORKING AS A JOURNALIST AND HAS SINCE PUBLISHED SEVERAL BOOKS ABOUT TURKEY, THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE AND DEMOCRACY. ALEV SCOTT TALKS TO FIRST YEAR FRENCH AND SPANISH STUDENT FLORA DAVIES ABOUT HER LOVE OF OPERA, HER EXPERIENCE AS A FEMALE JOURNALIST TRAVELLING THE WORLD, AND THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING PROACTIVE AT OXFORD.

FD: After graduating with a degree in Classics, you directed theatre and opera productions. What drew you to the theatre and what sort of things did you direct? AS: I’d done some acting and choreography, and directed a few plays at Oxford. I was convinced I wanted to be a theatre or opera director, so I did some assisting jobs in London and also in France for about 18 months or so. The opera I worked on was Così fan tutte, an 18th century Mozart comedy about sexual politics which we set in the 1950s French Riviera. Because I had a music scholarship at Oxford, I had performed in concerts as well as in drama productions, but I had never properly combined music and drama. There are more male than female directors in theatre, but the ratio is even more skewed in opera. It’s a much more male world. So it felt good to be involved as a woman with a musical and theatrical background. I’d definitely advise any female wannabe directors at Oxford to try your luck in opera. FD: So what drew you from opera to journalism? AS: I moved to Istanbul at the very beginning of 2011. I hadn’t set out to write but it was such an interesting time to be there in terms of what was changing on the cultural and political scene. I was also relearning the language. I started pitching ideas as a freelancer and I wrote for a number of different publications which is how I ended up writing my first book.

FD: Your most recent books draw parallels between ancient and modern politics - would you say your classical training came in handy for that? AS: I wrote my most recent book with an Athens-based Greek archeologist, and our book is about the parallels that can be drawn between the earliest form of democracy in Ancient Athens, and the crises of 21st century democracy. It was really interesting to write because I went back to my classical education, but also brought in everything I’d learnt about populism, demagoguery, and democracy from my political journalism over the past few years. There is just so much overlap and it’s nice creating that bridge for people. That’s what we tried to do in the book. So, I guess it’s a work of comparative political history which I brought my classical training to. FD: You worked as a journalist in Turkey during a very turbulent time politically - did that experience bring some challenges, particularly being a female journalist? AS: It was tricky at times. Because I am half-Turkish and half-British, I was simultaneously seen as a traitor and an outsider whenever I wrote negatively about the government. The fact that I was a woman also meant that I got a lot more abuse than my male counterparts. I received so many death and rape threats, especially after my Guardian coverage of the attempted military coup in 2016 - which ultimately got me kicked out of the country. But

in a way it can be an advantage, I suppose, if you want to put a positive spin on it. It meant that I was often underestimated. I think sometimes my sources would possibly be a bit more relaxed about telling me things because they didn’t take me seriously as a journalist. It was mostly frustrating though, particularly when I wanted to cover things happening outside of Istanbul in the south east of the country where you really just can’t travel easily by yourself without causing a bit of a stir. I would often drag my then-boyfriend with me so they would talk to me because I was with a man, which is how it works in certain parts of Turkey. FD: Do you think more women should be encouraged to go into journalism and that there should be more support networks out there for women in journalism? What was your experience of it? AS: It would have been great for me if I’d had a mentor. If you work for an organisation like Sky or the BBC, you’re probably going to have quite a lot of backup and HR resources. If you’re a freelancer, it’s much more difficult so I would have really benefited from a network within which I could have had regular contact with an older female journalist who could tell me “avoid this” and “be careful of that”. Especially if I had a specific problem. When I did have any real issues I was left to myself trying to figure it out what to do and I inevitably made mistakes. So I think a mentoring programme would be really good. I, for one, would love to share whatever tips I’ve picked up along the road.

FD: Many New College students are interested in going into a career in the arts, such as the theatre. Do you think that we should be proactive at Oxford in preparing for our future careers or should we just have a bit of fun and enjoy the university experience? AS: I mean, you can have fun and get involved without even that much effort - there’s so much going on - but I think that it’s worth being really proactive. If you have any inclination to go into theatre after your degree, you should take advantage of all the amazing opportunities and the funds that Oxford has. You can literally just pitch a play, get yourself a producer, get yourself a creative crew, and go for it. You’re not going to get that opportunity again. It’s very, very difficult to persuade people to give you money in the real world. Directing at Oxford is just the best thing - I wish I’d done it more. Do as much as you can at university and travel too. It’s always helpful to get a new perspective so I would say going to a new country, immersing yourself in the culture, and learning the language is something you’ll never regret - going to Turkey was probably the best decision of my life and it changed the course of my life. You have to take risks, so go for it. FD: What’s in store for you in the future? AS: Well, lockdown has obviously curtailed my work at the moment but I am thinking about writing about Cyprus, which is where my moth-

er’s family is from and where I spent a lot of time as a child. I think it’s a very interesting place because it’s divided literally in two - it’s got a very bloody recent history. Its capital, Nicosia, is the last divided capital city in the world. So that’s on the horizon for me hopefully, when we can travel again.

ALEV SCOTT HAS PUBLISHED THREE BOOKS: TURKISH AWAKENING: A PERSONAL DISCOVERY OF MODERN TURKEY (2014), OTTOMAN ODYSSEY: TRAVELS THROUGH A LOST EMPIRE (2018) AND, WITH ANDRONIKE MAKRES, POWER & THE PEOPLE: FIVE LESSONS FROM THE BIRTHPLACE OF DEMOCRACY (2019), WHICH WILL BE OUT IN PAPERBACK IN SEPTEMBER 2020

LUKE WINTOUR , 2019.

ELLIE WILKINS, 2019.

LUKE WINTOUR , 2019.

D AV I D L O G G A N , 1 6 7 5 .

K AT I E S C H U T T E , 2 0 2 0 .

E D M U N D H O RT, 1 9 2 8 .

“ S T R O N G F E M A L E CHARACTERS” A N D

T H E

M A D O N N A / W H O R E P A R A D I G M The question of what makes a feminist character dominates in our age of awareness and careful consideration. Does it matter if she swashbuckles her way into heroic victory every five minutes? Does it matter if she is created by a man? Does it matter if she is overtly sexual? Does it matter if she’s prim and proper? Perhaps a misconception post-Hunger Games is that a “strong female character” literally means a strong woman who beats people up. This is not to say that Katniss Everdeen is, but rather that Young Adult fiction writers took the Katniss character and made her into an archetype who they cookie-cut until they didn’t resemble her anymore. Giving a woman a sword doesn’t make her a feminist, it just

makes her character who could easily be a man, but whom the author has made a woman for tokenist purposes. Work has to be done to make her a believable character with emotions and motivations, rather than just a woman who happens to be there, and therefore make her physical strength all the more satisfying. Yet the converse is also true - giving a woman a dustpan and brush doesn’t make her an advocate for the patriarchy. Give me a 1950s housewife who thinks critically, and who we actually get to see thinking, over a “strong” woman who uses her high heels to kill a man, and then needs to get rescued by the hero on an alternating basis. In the Marvel Cinematic Universe, for example, Peggy Carter begins as an independent and feminine character who has, through hard work and ability, ascended to the role of “Agent” during the Second World War. By “Endgame” (spoiler alert) the Russo brothers destroyed her professional rise within her own series and her powerful (but secondary) romance with another character in order to render her a non-speaking prize for Captain America to win. I think that might be why we have such an issue with male-created female characters. In 2018, Gwen C. Katz on Twitter showed some of the most heinous crimes of men writing women of all time, quoting the first page of a male-authored book: “pants so impossibly tight that if I had a credit card in my back pocket you could read the expiration date.” These characters think, but their thoughts don’t pass the Bechdel test. The male gaze predominates;

they think about men, their breasts, even their urinary tracts. They are voyeurs marvelling at their own bodies. If these men stopped for one second to ask a woman what they thought about, they probably wouldn’t get this as their answer. However, an overtly sexual woman portrayed positively breaks the Madonna/ Whore paradigm, and is certainly to be encouraged in the search for a well-drawn and sympathetic female character. What these men get wrong, more than anything, is allowing sexuality to dominate (see, for example, the contrast between the sexually desirous and murdered Lucy and the restrained, lauded and rewarded Mina in Dracula). People are complex; allowing any one facet of someone’s personality and identity to dominate to the exclusion of much else is always going to result in a one-dimensional and boring character. Sexuality and romance are positive, but they shouldn’t be the only thing that’s valuable in a woman. They betray a pervasive worldview that all a woman is good for is being the object of a man’s desire. For example, a supposedly independent and powerful femme fatale is still using her sexuality for her own gain. This can be powerfully subversive or played out and a box-ticking way of creating a “strong female character” and still having her be sexually appealing. If sexuality is an important part of the character, it should be due to her own desires, not the desires of others towards her. It should liberate and free her, not restrain her. Of course, the book may be like The Handmaid’s Tale, specifically about the conflict between patriarchy and womanhood, but Offred’s actual

AGATA GWINCINSKA

personality is not defined by her sexuality. The characters may define her by it, but Margaret Atwood herself is careful not to. This patriarchal gaze is often necessary for characters to brush up against, but it is important that the woman is given agency in fighting against it. Another thing to embrace when writing female characters (and characters in general) is diversity, whether in race, ethnicity, religion, sexuality or body shape and size. The power of treating these with respect and incorporating these aspects into a character is enormous in order for people to both see themselves represented, and to see other people like them normalised, accepted and celebrated. Tokenism is

WRITE A WOMAN IN ANY SITUATION YOU WANT TO, BUT ENSURE THAT SHE IS COMPLEX AND BELIEVABLE.

dangerous; it gives the impression that the character has been included in order to check a box and pacify the reader with no real thought put into the character, their beliefs, and motivations. A belief system and driving force can be very helpful in building a personality. We shouldn’t write off female characters because they’re conventional, or flawed. The most dangerous thing we can do is create an atmosphere in which women must be paragons to be feminist. It’s just as reductive as demonising her for her sexuality. The rallying call for how to write female characters has to be “let women be complex.” It creates as many harmful expectations to represent women as perfect as to represent them as manipulative and emotional demons. The Madonna/ Whore dichotomy is a device which to go by in the sense that they are exactly the two representations of women we should be avoiding in our society by a wide berth when sincerely and non-satirically writing female characters we want the audience to like. In the words of Maeve Wiley, my favourite thing is “complex female characters.” Write a woman in any situation you want to, but ensure that she is complex and believable.

M I L A O T T E V A N G E R

FEMINISM, N. ADVOCACY OF EQUALITY OF THE SEXES AND THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND ECONOMIC RIGHTS OF THE FEMALE SEX; THE MOVEMENT ASSOCIATED WITH THIS. FEMININITY, N. BEHAVIOUR OR QUALITIES REGARDED AS CHARACTERISTIC

LUKE WINTOUR

OF A WOMAN; FEMININE QUALITY OR CHARACTERISTICS; WOMANLINESS.

In all honesty, women have never been my strong point. Beginning with my first playmate and friend, I have tended to form closer friendships with men, feel more relaxed in their company and participate more readily in their group dynamics. A similar statement can be made about femininity: I care less about my appearance than I probably should, have most of my fashion sense provided for me by my long-despairing mother, and wear make up only when the situation seems to compel it. When issues like wearing a bra, menstruating or removing hair first cropped up in my life, I felt overwhelmed and annoyed. How much easier life would have been as a boy! How I envy the simplicity of their situation! With all this and more running as an undercurrent through my life, it came as quite a shock that the topic I stumbled upon for my PhD thesis revolves around women. Despite its roots in literature rather than reality, my research deconstructs ideas of femininity, shines a light on the distortion of women through the male gaze and connects womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voices with gender and society. I am exploring visceral expressions of motherhood and maidenhood, all the while acutely aware of my own dispassionate expression of both. The effect has been twofold, exposing my complex and, at times, insecure relationship with feminism, while simultaneously bringing me closer to connecting with my own femininity. The first time I encountered feminism as a concept was aged fourteen, in a newspaper report given to us for linguistic analysis by a

severe English teacher. I don’t remember the contents of the piece itself – I was far more interested in interpreting the rhetorical strategy to bother with the intricacies of the argument – and might have forgotten the entire incident were it not for the distinct memory of my teacher’s face looming in front of mine and asking “are you a feminist?”. I’d never explored the question, linked feminism only as far as headlines about “pussy riots”, and was keen to get back to underlining instances of hyperbole in tabloid journalism. In short, I said “no”. The severity of expression increased, an exasperated comment was made about how “we’re not all bra-burning fanatics”, and my teacher stalked off. There was a certain frostiness to our interactions thereafter – her comments about the condition of women seemed to be aimed more pointedly but fell on increasingly deaf ears, until by sixth form, I had become resolute. We studied Christina Rosetti’s poetry alongside Thomas Hardy’s, the former representing sisterhood and the plight of the female condition, the latter projecting guilt in grief onto his deceased wife’s shadow. I didn’t (and still don’t) like Rosetti’s poetic style, couldn’t connect with her female narratives as much as I apparently ought to, and felt the “sisterhood” theme in poems such as Goblin Market was reduced in its simplicity to cliché. Meanwhile, I found Hardy’s poetry hauntingly beautiful, expressing the complexity and intensity of grief in a way that resonated even with someone as inexperienced in loss as me. This was, it turns out, an unpopular opinion to hold, exacerbating the classroom tension until it came to a head

when we were asked to decide whether or not to continue English Literature to A2 level. The syllabus gave Marxism and Feminism as two perspectives through which to study literature, of which students picked one to explore for examination; I asked if I could explore the former, and was told that only the latter would be offered in teaching. I chose not to continue with English. This would be a relatively trivial incident in my school career, were it not set against a wider narrative of the sort of competition, social and academic, healthy and unhealthy, which thrives in an all-girls school environment. Every academic year kicked off with a whole-school assembly, in which GCSE and A level results were lauded along with the triumphant exclamation “…and we beat the boys!”, referring to the boys’ school which happened to be situated next door. In the upper years, careers like law, finance, and economics were pushed our way because they were the ones that needed women to compete with all the boys. While I don’t disagree with the logic and applaud the sentiment of empowerment, as someone with no interest in any of the “right” careers, their narrative didn’t seem to apply. Equally, my relationship with the boys’ school was never one of competition but of collaboration, through participation in their joint choir, orchestra, and drama productions; a partnership my school rarely reciprocated. By the end of my last school year, I was spending most of my free lesson periods helping out ad hoc in the music department down the road and running a

joint culture society with one of their teachers. At eighteen, my mind had been made up: feminism represented confinement and competition, too distant to be tangibly relatable to my own life – I didn’t need it, and it didn’t need me. The first person I met at New College was my next-door neighbour at the top of staircase six, whom I heard before I saw via her dulcet tones to the tune of Beyoncé floating through the partitioning wall as she unpacked. During one of our first conversations, a defining moment in our early friendship as well as my university experience, she asked if I was a feminist. I said “no”. As it happens, she is forthright, uncompromising and incredibly intelligent – and, yes, an outspoken feminist – to whom I owe an education. Her initial shock was quickly replaced with a desire to inform, so that over a year of frank discussions and exasperations, she brought feminism to me, teaching me what years of school could not. She exposed my own small-minded perspective, based on limited understanding and a lot of defiant gut-feeling, and showed me why feminism should matter not just to me but also to everyone else. Most importantly of all, she gave feminism a definition: for the first time, it no longer represented just competitiveness and a struggle against all the odds, but also empathy, partnership and understanding. Feminism, to me now, is the ability to walk a mile in another’s shoes as well as the expectation of others to walk a mile in mine. And yet, it’s not quite as simple as a story of

My perspective, however, is beginning to change, with my thesis as its catalyst. My first piece of extended research centres on sociolinguistic studies of gender and speech: do women express themselves differently from men? If so, how and why – is it nature or nurture, innate or socially conditioned? Re-reading the Greek tragedies on which my analysis is based, time and again female relationships are portrayed as astonishingly close emotional bonds, transcending boundaries of age, social class or geography: aristocratic heroines will confer their emotional distress to foreign female slaves, but never to their male peers. Solidarity and

SHE ASKED IF I WAS A FEMINIST. I SAID ‘NO’.

“happily ever after” for me and feminism, thanks to the disruption caused by my detachment from traditional, societal aspects of femininity. I often ask myself the question of whether it is possible to be a good feminist if I mostly hang out with boys, especially when I catch myself ignoring – or even participating in – casually sexist remarks or behaviour rather than confronting them. Similarly, female friendship groups have, at times, exposed their own politics and expectations of the group dynamic which I don’t pretend to understand, and which have been rarely replicated among male friendships. This, alongside apathy about my general appearance, a strong dislike of shopping and all the countless other societally-manufactured “essentials” for expressing oneself as a woman in the modern world, has made me repeatedly wonder how “feminist” I can truly expect to be if I don’t connect wholeheartedly with the idea of femininity itself.

S O L I D A R I T Y A N D S I ST E R H O O D A B O U N D

sisterhood abound, and unsurprisingly so in the unashamedly patriarchal climate of fifth-century Athens. In response, I’ve started to reconsider my own experiences of friendship: how often have I really opened up to male friends? How often have I truly had frank discussions, shown myself at my most vulnerable, or dared to ask them for help? In reality, it’s always instinctively easier to shrug it all off in front of men to mask any apparent “weakness”. Instead, my closest emotional friendships, my intricate support network, tend to be my female friends whose empathy and connection with my own experiences I both cherish and aim to reciprocate. My study of the intersection between language and gender has also brought me closer to “the feminine” in the realm of my own cultural interests, as I’ve started to seek out women’s voices in ways I never have before. After a lifetime of maintaining that I prefer listening to male vocals, I’m beginning to remember how much the music of women such as Eva Cassidy, Laura Marling and Norah Jones has resonated with me over the years. Similarly, having been previously dismissive of the literary fad prioritising female perspectives in modern retellings of Greek myths, I began Madeline Miller’s Circe with scepticism, but finished it touched to the core. Instead of moving closer to the superficial and socially-ascribed aspects of femininity which have tended to push me away, I am finding instead that the feminine is coming to me, bringing with it a welcome sense of belonging. It seems, then, that my second wave of education

has finally arrived. Just as nearly seven years ago I discovered why feminism was for me, perhaps now, in dialogue with the ancient women whose lives and emotions I’m beginning to explore, I can begin to connect with my own personal brand of femininity; by the end of my research, I might even – at last – become comfortable with putting “the feminine” into what feminism means to me.

I M O G E N

S T E A D

FOUNDERâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MITRE AND EPISCOPAL RING, BEQUEATHED TO THE COLLEGE IN 1403

IRENE YANG. MARITHE. PENCIL ON PAPER; ROBIN. COLOUR PENCIL ON PAPER.

GEORGE GILBERT SCOTT

A W E L S H WO R D ( N. ) A H O M E S I C K N E S S F O R A H O M E T O W H I C H YO U C A N N O T R E T U R N, A H O M E W H I C H M AY B E N E V E R WAS ; T H E N O S TA L G I A , T H E Y E A R N I N G , T H E G R I E F FO R T H E L O S T P L AC E S O F YOU R PAS T

You begin sitting in the center of the quad on a cloudless summer night. A shifting in the shadows, a mere whisper in the wind. But I notice you. The moonlight traces your seated silhouette on the grass. A soft glow paints the sandstone walls silver, and your eyes are slave to its magnetic aura. You appear every night, and I look at you looking at the walls and this becomes a nightly routine for both of us. In daylight, you vanish and the ruins resumes being ordinary, vast courts of withered grass and rusted gates. Overrun with ivy and mold, the collapsed walls are discolored with green. The arched windows are shattered in jagged patterns, clashing with the homely beige surfaces. It is empty. Has been, for decades now. Empty was the college when the ivy swarmed over the walls and ensnared the building in its rope-like clutches. Empty was the silence when lone travelers stumbled upon the abandoned castle-structure. Empty is your bed, wherever it is, as you sit through listless nights alone. Or so you think. You begin to walk around, running your hands along the rough surfaces, trying to remember the feeling. Each sandstone building holds a memory that fills the air with an inexplicable heaviness. Accommodation, hall, chapel, common room. You might be the only one left who remembers what this place used to look like. You end your tour perched at the edge of the gardens; gazing, yearning, coexisting. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a crumpled, faded, color-print photo in

the back pocket of your ripped jeans. On it is a sun-lit shot of the college, set on an emerald hill. You printed it ages ago, after your first term, excitedly pinning it to your wall at home, showing anyone who entered. “Looks like your new home is a welcome change,” your dad said when he saw it. New home. Change. How dusty those words sound now, you haven’t thought of anywhere as home for a long time. This isn’t what they meant, you’re sure of it. Because change does not equal demolition. The definition of new home isn’t leaping from place to place like stepping stones in a rushing river. One…a cramped attic space perched on top of a household of eleven…two…a basement office with tables pieced together to form beds… three…rooms reeking of moldy cheese and stale urine…four…you can’t keep up anymore, you’re losing balance, you’re falling, you’re swept away by the raging current. You’re nothing but a silhouette now. You mourn the death of a girl that was never given the chance to thrive. The one that is supposed to be living in a sandstone castle with tall gates and climbing ivy in peace and security. And so you drift. Until you reach the ruins. How it must’ve felt to sift through memories that never existed, the emotional turmoil of seeing this college after the disaster – and then you decided to keep coming, over and over until your grief scabbed over and fell away, and the sight of it became a soothing balm to your pain-filled past. It was a tragedy when it struck. The worst one

H T E A R I H

in decades, centuries. The greatest earthquake since the one in 16th century Shaanxi. It affected half the northern hemisphere, bringing floods, tsunamis, landslides, tectonic plates split in two. It felt like the entire earth was rebelling against us. The world survived, like it always does. But there were casualties, and this place, among many others, was damaged beyond repair. You learned to move on, pick up the pieces, and build something new. Then one day, I see you out in broad daylight, standing in the blinding sun, staring at a section of the crumbling wall. Instinct surges through my brain and I see spots, it floods my senses, it drives me to hobble towards you. The sunlight sears my skin, the gravel is hard on my slipper-encased feet, my body jerks ungracefully like a puppet in a child’s hands. “Move,” I say, my voice comes out creaking and rusty, an old mailbox that hasn’t been opened in too long. “Move away from there girl!” You turn, startled, and leap out of the way as a hunk of falling stone collides with the ground where you stood. “Thank you,” you say. “Why are you here?” You smile. “It’s a couple days until term starts, it’s my first year at university.” My entire body quakes. My face assembles itself into a snarl. “Don’t lie to me. This place is nothing but ruins!” I am shouting, spittle sprays out of my mouth but I don’t care, I must hear it from you -

“Excuse me, are you alright?” I jerk my eyes up and realize they are wet with tears. My heart feels shredded and my throat is raw. I turn to the man who has chanced upon the ruins, and me. You are nowhere to be seen. “Where’s the girl?” “I didn’t see any girl. All I saw was you out here alone, so I thought I’d ask if you were okay.”

R E T H

They put up a notice. They’re bulldozing the ruins in two days. Something about building a new city, roads, infrastructure. More living space. Reviving the land. I call whoever I can get ahold of. I beg, plead, wail, reason. And when all else fails, I scream at the top of my lungs. I doubt it helps my case,

you are scared. I’ve approached you the wrong way, but it’s too late now, and I must get you to confess. Your face is pale now, you’re shaking violently with the effort of withholding the truth. I can hear you inhale in unsteady gulps. Everything is silent, so silent my ears ring. “I j-just…” You whisper. The birds peek out of their nests, trees crane downwards to listen in. “I just don’t know how to move on.” My eyes widen. “Every moment I spent here is hell, but I can’t bring myself to let go, it’s all I have left of it…I need to protect it. It’s a reminder of what life was like before…everything.” Your body wracks with sobs now, you sink to the gravel, the spot you’ve lingered at for far too long…

but I can’t stand it. No one understands. No one knows the value of this place, nobody is left to remember with me. A parade of machines rolls their way through a gap in the walls, parking in front of the gates. I’m about to walk away, but a familiar voice reaches my ears. “Please sir, don’t do this.” There you are, dwarfed by the large vehicles and construction workers. “This place is everything to her.” You point in my direction, and it’s my cue. I’m out of the shadows striding over before you take another breath. I see you, you see me. You turn to me and give me the purest look of desperation I’ve ever seen. “You can’t tear down the college,” you say. “It’s a part of her life. It’s her last memory of me.” No. My heart threats to tear itself apart. I take a deep breath. “No. It’s alright,” I say to the bewildered man. “Tear it down. It’s empty now.” Then I walk away. I don’t look back to see if you’re still there. As I leave, the guttural growl of the machines thunders through the college, and my grief blurs the lines on the road. But something inside me feels freed, and I allow it to carry me away. I should’ve realized long ago that the hope I’d find you again is as empty as those ruins were. It’s time to leave. You come back to the ruins of the college the next night, but by then I am gone. You stand there, looking at the time-worn, half-collapsed walls, and then slowly fade away.

T I N A

S A N G

ON SH E LT E R In the cloisters, as under a vast ribcage, We walked to keep out of the rain. I thought Of emptiness: how, like a bare stage That teems with expectancy, these wrought Vaults and chasms encase empty space And invite the mind’s eye to fill it up again. In silence is clamour; in stillness, grace. Time is dismantled. Nothing is arcane. In the faint etchings left behind By student vandals in thrall of their youth, In St. Cuthbert, augustly enshrined Beside plaques for inveterate seekers of truth, In this legion of effigies, the past roars And roars. I could not speak – words were din – Standing mutely there, the heart soars And the pause ushers native solace in. Centuries passed before I wondered aloud Something facile, something lost to the breeze; We felt as invisible as two in a crowd, But we were alone, and we were at ease.

ABOVE: JANE COOPER // RIGHT: THOMAS MALTON JUNIOR, ENGRAVING, NEW COLLEGE ANTE CHAPEL, 1803.