Dorian SOUSA CALVO – gets shampoo in his eyes too frequently
Elise LACOURT – hit my head in the house of mirrors
Kristina SHATOKHINA – woman of vision; high priestess
Nael NASSAN – super duper something
Sherley DE DEURWAERDER – surely not a fan of #8ACE00
Sofia MILLER – entertains the primordial Hylemxylem
Stefan CAPITANESCU – Opium fragrance lord
Umut UCAK – level 102 yapper
Valère GAUBE – none of the things I did was ungrammatical
Zoltan TAJTI – Quincy knew Picasso. lk.
We are thankful to: Ramona Ventimiglia and the Office of Student Life, Veerle Waterplas, Margaly Monelus, Sonja Di Renzo, Antonio Tavan, the Repro Team, Espace Cultures, Anouk Wies, Karin Langumier, Alannah Meyrath, Bianca Pirrelli, Student Lounge Belval and all children of SAUL, Dalmat CoffeeHouse, Julie Toussaint, LLC, and Silvia from Café Saga.
Unless otherwise noted, all images in the magazine are public domain as described in the Creative Commons CC0-1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication licence, and fall under no copyright obligations.
Direct all copyright claims to: paper.roux@gmail.com
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It’s novembering, and the icy winds of Belval are sharp as ever. It’s the kind that slips under your coat, nestles deep into your bones, and feels just the slightest bit haunted. That signature chill that begs for a damn fine cup of freshly brewed coffee, paired with a perfectly fluffy chestnut cupcake and the latest ROUX issue right in front of you.
If you’re here, if you’ve found your way to our ROUX room: Welcome! You’re in good company. What you’re holding is the second anniversary issue. That’s right: Our magazine is now two years old – still young, perhaps, but this milestone holds weight. 17 issues in, it’s worth a pause, a nod, a bite of celebratory cake. Each page keeps brimming with sharp-witted essays, poetic juices, moments of absurdity, intellectual tangents and artistic masterpieces carefully and most ardently crafted for you – yes, you!
And yet, even on our anniversary, something’s amiss. Maybe you’ve heard it: one of our much cherished members has wandered off campus. Jason, our long-time illustrator and writer, has recently departed to venture into the lush forests of India for a while (not without pens and paper, of course!). Yet, his creative spirit lingers. We like to think of it as a gentle nudge, a call to remain incessantly curious. “I’ll see you again in 25 years,” someone once said in an otherworldly room draped in red curtains and lined with zig-zag floors. Hopefully, it won’t be 25 years until our paths cross again – let’s all send a warm “best of luck, and stay safe!” across the globe, shall we?
Here in Luxembourg, we’ll be keeping you and each other company through the upcoming winter days. So here’s to you, dear readers, and to the fresh springs of Vol. III of this
nice view bro, but where’s my cake??
Society of at MUDAM the Soft Gay Dogs Songs for
Cosima
vonBonin’s
Walking into Songs for Gay Dogs is like stepping into the psyche of that friend who knows too much about Debord, Barthes, and Foucault, has a peculiar attachment to their childhood stuffed animals, and could write dissertations on Looney Tunes characters. Curated by Clémentine Proby and Clément Minighetti, Songs for Gay Dogs, Colognebased Cosima von Bonin’s monographic exhibition at Musée de l’Art Moderne GrandDuc Jean – her first major solo exhibition outside of Germany in a decade – feels like a warm hug from a plush bunny with dubious intentions.
In von Bonin’s work, nothing exists in isolation – not the animals, not the installations, not von Bonin herself. It’s a collaboration between the artist, her materials, her appropriations, and us, her viewers. Her work points towards a deeply interdependent world where innocence and humour sit side by side with social criticism and self-reflection. Is it an exhibition of charming absurdity or a call to consider how we, too, prop up plush façades, protecting vulnerabilities we’d rather keep hidden? Like life itself, Songs for Gay Dogs is a strange mix of comfort and discomfort, inviting us to chuckle at the spectacle even as we find ourselves complicit within it.
Article designed using: View of the exhibition Cosima von Bonin: Songs for Gay Dogs,11.10.2024 — 02.03.2025, Mudam Luxembourg
As you step into the Grand Hall, you can’t help but feel dwarfed by giant, out-of-proportion tables sprawling across the space, each hosting stuffed and plastic figures that blend melancholy with dry humor. Sadly, no gay dogs in sight: Instead, on top of a table, a (rather tall) petite Miss Riley rocket points at MUDAM’s visitors. It’s defanged and feminised – a playful, impotent relic that mocks the militaristic bravado of the real thing. Not far stands Church of Daffy (2023): A life-size epoxy resin replica of the world’s greediest cartoon duck, arms raised as if about to deliver the sermon of the century. Daffy isn’t here for laughs, though. He’s more messianic than mischievous, exposing the pitfalls of unchecked hubris. Underneath, the tables shelter sea creatures on swingsets, such as Mae Day IX (2024), a small whale wearing a crab scarf, flask placed beside: An unobtrusive plea for help in the guise of soft nihilism.
Enter the East Gallery, and you’ll find the installation What if it barks (2018), a council of tuna and sharks theatrically posing in a circle. In front of them Killer Whale With Long Eyelashes I (Rhino Version) (2018) breaks the circle as a fabric-whale fails to climb on a chair, seemingly collapsing on top of a small rhino designed in the 60s by therapeutic toymaker Renate Müller. If the metaphor for human obsession with power wasn’t clear, the giant can labeled Authority Puree (2018) floating above the scene certainly does the job.
Then, in an almost affectionate nod to her own complex relationship with productivity and introversion, there’s the Do Nothing Club (2010-2021). Hundreds of books are stacked in messy piles atop a wheeled platform, protected by soft black velvet fences that command you to take a peek, but not touch. It’s an intimate look into her private world, just as quickly revoked. A metal sign labeled Privato (Privato (Weiss), 2010) hangs within sight, as if to remind us that some thoughts – no matter how accessible they appear to the public – will forever remain unread.
There’s a quiet ache in Love Bombing (2023) and Gaslighting (2023), von Bonin’s trademark patchwork-collages that reimagine the innocent Bambi in fabrics sourced from luxury houses. Here, the soft, frightened deer is hand-stitched into scenes that feel as fragile as they are loaded, a juxtaposition of gentleness and vulnerability. Von Bonin prods at pop psychology’s most overused buzzwords, exposing the delicate absurdity of these terms.
Over in the West Gallery, plushies completely take over a strange version of a dark, almost perverted funhouse. Every character has a doppelgänger – doubling as a jab at identity’s multiplicity and the performance that contemporary life demands. Daffy Duck returns, now in a series of black velvet panels, lisping and lurching his way through various poses like an existential mime. Daffy here is caught in a continuous loop of overconfident ambition and spectacular failure, a painful (and almost intrusively relatable) satire of the human spirit’s capacity of consistently falling short –yet soldiering on. Von Bonin’s flawed hero is the self-proclaimed loser we all should be able to embrace within ourselves – trying, failing, and coming back for more.
Not to forget about my personal favourite: Amateur, Dramatics (& MvO’s Bone Beats: Wishful Thinking & Wishful Version / See The Light & Light Version) (2010), an installation that is both absurd and entirely fitting. Here, a rotating platform quite literally groans under the weight of its lazing, worn-out sloth bunny that has fallen right into a beachside stupor. Everything turns, creaks, and somehow lulls you into a sense of indulgent laziness as you observe the sloth bunny spinning past again… and again… and again... There’s a charmingly sardonic vibe, and it almost feels like a critical snark from von Bonin: “If you like, keep up your little performance of hyper-productivity –but it won’t take you far. You might crash out.” (But, in all fairness, that may just be my reading of the installation.)
As if to end on an even bleaker note, the Small West Gallery House blasts experimental electronic noise by Moritz von Oswald, bombarding you with almost nauseating soundscapes as you intrude a tiny space filled with white, tied-up plushies in distressingly awkward poses, seemingly stripped of identity: Who’s Who 3. The Table (Simpson, Eeyore, Duck & Duck Version) / Rope Version (2011–2014) owns the room. The walls read “Du bist in meiner Macht. Ich bin in meiner Macht!” – “You are in my power. I am in my power!” It’s a bit surreal, pushing visitors into an uncomfortable realm of control and isolation where identity and agency literally get stretched to their limits. But for von Bonin, these familiar toys always carry this edge of unease, hinting at the capitalist mechanisms that govern our identities and desires.
Ultimately, Songs for Gay Dogs leaves you lingering in that odd space between amusement and bewilderment. Von Bonin doesn’t offer answers, and she doesn’t explicitly explain her intentions –there’s a gleeful ambiguity to her art, one that lets her “[greedily] steal like a crow” (in her own words) from popular culture while simultaneously critiquing it. Her plush sculptures and soft collages poke fun at the clichés and intricacies of social relationships and consumer habits, with just enough warmth to make you want to stay, and just enough bite to keep you from ever getting too comfortable.
written and designed by Sherley De Deurwaerder
Na Zdrowie! Prost!
A Trappist Beer Tasting
Imagine an elixir so delicious and complex that individuals from three different continents tasted it and were simultaneously moved to write about it.
A small league of extraordinary gentlemen convened with six beers curated by our Belgian beer aficionado Stefan. Daniel, from Tennessee, hyped up by the proposal, could not refuse such an opportunity. Nael and Umut, from Syria and Turkey respectively, were intrigued by the story behind monasteries and these monks’ brews and joined us on the spot. Daniel, our Luxembourgish poet, was already pregaming with a coconutty concoction, but he gladly joined our tasting experience.
These are no ordinary beers, mind you. Only ten Trappist monasteries in the world are officially recognized as Trappist breweries. If you close your eyes and take a sip, you may find yourself transported to a beautiful countryside where the practice of brewing has taken place for many lifetimes. You can finally discard your countless cans of generic beer and enjoy a drink with some lore and personality. Enough monk–y business; it is time to share our memorable tasting experience with you.
Orval Brewery
Umut meter: YAY!
Our first beer passed the vibe check unanimously: Orval from the Orval Brewery. While its written enchantment factor is 6.2%, Orval can vary from 5.9% to 7.2% depending on the brew age. With time, this delicious liquid becomes smoother and more flavourful. On the nose, we discover a very mellow grass scent. Then comes the first sip – a delicate and effervescent symphony. This monk’s concoction blasts us with some gentle citrusy hops, slight herbal taste and dried fruits as a base. The amber colour, full body, and long finish enhance the drinking experience. This is a masterpiece of balance, nearly a century of brewing and expertise in a bottle. Orval has earned itself the Stefan Stamp and the Daniel Seal of Approval.
Westmalle Brewery
The modern recipe for the Westmalle Dubbel is nearly one hundred years old. This brew has an enchantment factor of 7% and a wine-like aroma balanced by a gentle sweetness reminiscent of maple syrup. The colour of the beer is quite typical of a dubbel, showcasing a light brown hue with red undertones. Upon tasting, we find a quite lightbodied beer with typical chocolaty notes and subtle hints of red fruits. While the Westmalle Dubbel remains a good brew, it did not quite stand out among the other contestants, and none of us gave it a strong rating.
Umut meter: BOO!
Written by Stefan Capitanescu and Daniel Mehus Design by Daniel Schenkels, Nael Nassan, Stefan Capitanescu, and Daniel Mehus
Umut meter: Meh
The Westmalle Tripel brings us into new territory, coming in with an enchantment factor of 9.5%. This strong pale ale is a beautiful golden colour and has a medium body which lends itself to be drunk quickly or slowly depending on your preference. Its prominent tasting notes include cereals, grains, honey, and malt. Daniel from Tennessee says that this beer “smells like the beers I used to make back home with my friends.” A short, grassy finish and toasty mouthfeel will leave you anticipating the next sip.
Chimay Brewery
The Chimay Blue is a true darling of Trappist Beer enthusiasts due to its relative commercial availability and its time–honoured taste. For these reasons, it may be the best entry level beer in this genre. Upon opening a bottle you will catch a scent of bread and spice which serve as a prelude to its myriad tasting notes. When served in a glass, you can admire Chimay Blue’s copper colour as well. Some sips you may find particularly roasty or fruity, while others showcase a smoky or sugary profile. The full body and 9% enchantment factor makes the Chimay Blue filling but not overbearing.
Umut meter: YAY!
Rochefort Brewery
Umut meter: BOO!
For those who enjoy wines, ciders, and complex beverages, we recommend you try the Trappistes Rochefort 8. With a 9.2% enchantment factor, the Rochefort 8 is very smooth, medium bodied, and mildly acidic. The colour, similar to the Westmalle Dubbel, is a sanguine brown. A dragon’s breath of sweet caramel notes will be wafted toward you as you begin to drink. Tasting notes are delicate and light, with a gentle flavour of malt and fruit in the foreground and a slight tartness close behind. The Rochefort 8 quickly earned the Stefan Stamp. After his first sip, he said, and we quote, “I feel hugged by the Trappists.” We will all accept the Trappists’ embrace (except for Umut).
The Trappistes Rochefort 10 is a true heavy hitter, veering into wine territory with an 11.3% enchantment factor. Served in a glass, this beer takes on a rich chocolate brown colour and emanates scents of spice, wine, and freshly cut wheat. A medium body and strong finish will prevent you from drinking this too quickly – this allows you to ponder how many flavours are tucked away inside the bottle. Tasting notes include salted caramel, butterscotch, dried fruit, florals, and grains. In the words of our connoisseur Nael, “This is clearly a well travelled beer. If this beer were a person, they would have a suit and cane.” The Rochefort 10 received dual honours: the Stefan Stamp and the Daniel Seal of Approval.
Umut meter: YAY!
Unprofessionally FromSoftware’s Dissecting
As of last month, my rocky relationship with the Dark Souls series has come to an end. I feel ashamed for having picked up Dark Souls 1 (DS1) many years ago just to conclude, and I quote:“This game aged like milk and it plays slower than a snail, why is this still receiving praise?”I was convinced that my analysis was correct and final; that everyone who liked this game were slaves to the effects of nostalgia and only I knew how to properly appreciate video games.
To clarify, I enjoyed Bloodborne very much as my first game into this rabbit hole, and DS3 right after: rage-quit Sekiro but harbour no bad feelings – Godspeed to whoever enjoys it. DS2 on the other hand has a VIP lounge waiting for it in hell as far as I’m concerned. What helped me understand DS1 was the fact that, although yes, the action-driven gameplay aged like milk, that wasn’t really the point of the game to begin with. I will try to explain what makes DS1 the gold standard with which we benchmark FromSoftware games, and how this might be a problem. The goal here is to highlight the unique essence of a FromSoft game that one can’t easily find elsewhere; for better or worse.
Level design: This is the meat and potatoes of DS1. Not the combat system, not the boss design, but the sense of adventure that is fuelled by the path conquered. Stepping foot into this mysterious kingdom with curses and monsters and people telling you to fulfill a prophecy – and you having no clue what is going on.
FromSoftware’s Dissecting
Level Design
If you require rest, now is the time.
That is, after all, what the bonfire is for.
There are two specific moments along a player’s journey through Lordran that can easily be spotted if they were getting a brain scan, due to the immense neuron activations. First off, taking the elevator down from Undead Parish to Firelink Shrine, unlocking the first big shortcut and showing you that the journey through Undead Burg was not a linear one, and that the world of DS1 is truly a 3-dimensional one, where levels are both next to and on top of each other. The other is when you climb out of Blighttown and connect back to Firelink Shrine, through Valley of Drakes. This is perhaps more impressive because Valley of Drakes is a section one might completely miss, but that can be used as a“primitive fast-travel”by those who know the map well enough. Furthermore, Blighttown is significantly further away from Firelink Shrine than Undead Parish is, and yet, through the Valley, it is still so tightly connected.
These moments shine bright only in contrast to the dark and gruesome journey you are on, which is brimming with demons, poisonous rats, lots of repeated dying, and, most importantly, has no fast-travel mechanic nor a map that shows you where you are or where you are supposed to go.
This lack of navigational help creates a sense of a deeply committed adventure, with every step going further away from Firelink Shrine, your so-called“home.”But it isn’t like they made a game, and said“Ok, now let’s remove the objective markers and the map.”Every level so far was built from the ground-up with zero intention of ever giving you any assistance. However, even if I’m presenting this design choice to be butterflies and rainbows and all that is pleasant, that is of course far from the truth, as the second half of the game significantly suffers from this very design choice.
Upon receiving the Lordvessel in Anor Londo (I cast generational curse on the archers), the level design turns from the Metroidvania style that created one big connected world to multiple disconnected linear levels. The cause of this shift is the now available fast-travel mechanic. And although internally these levels are good, the developers take advantage of the fact that you can fast-travel now, and these new levels do not feel like they are part of the previously explored areas. This second act is where I and almost all my friends felt the need to consult a guide, as the player is left without much clue on where to go next. In the first half, the instructions were clear:“Go to the Undead Parish and Blighttown, and ring the Bells of Awakening.”So all the player needs to do is explore these areas. But when they are told to kill four specific bosses with no indication of their locations, it becomes impractical.
“Unfinished masterpiece”: the only label I feel comfortable giving to DS1. Thanks to its level design, Act 1 provides a game design approach that was thought to be suicide by the industry back then, and pulls it off masterfully, while Act 2 folds under this pressure. Putting aside the real root of this problem – major end-of-production time pressure – the reason why Act 2 fails to impress the player is so clearly the level design, since DS2 fully commits to this “independent linear levels” paradigm, and it is the least appreciated and most controversial Dark Souls game, while Bloodborne, its successor, was praised for its level design which was inspired by the sophisticated shortcut system of DS1.
Another characteristic of the Act 2 of DS1 is how these four bosses and the final boss feel a bit like a boss rush, as your task is now not to explore, or uncover a mystery, but to defeat them. Funnily, after fourteen years and seven Souls-like games under their belt, they still struggle to deliver a well-paced final act to their games, as seen in Elden Ring’s final gauntlet consisting of seven bosses in a quick linear spree after the incredibly vast and relatively non-linear open world the player had been exploring for the past 50-something hours.
To wrap it up with Dark Souls, let’s see what the deal is with DS3. Selling over 3 million copies within the first month of its release and becoming Bandai Namco’s fastest selling game to that date, DS3 made a statement by genuinely elevating the accessibility of the series’ mechanics and world. The previously Metroidvania, and later non-linear level designs were now ditched, and a fully linear world design with a few optional levels that branch off was adopted instead. The lessons learnt from building Bloodborne’s fast-paced combat system were refitted and reimplemented for a Dark Souls title, very successfully I must say.
DS3 is an insane jump in quality as far as the“action”side of Action-RPG is concerned. But this streamlined experience stood out, and although the smoother action gameplay was adored, it seemed like FromSoft did not have intentions of going back to their roots of crafting mysterious worlds and leaving it up to the player to explore them fully on their own. Is this all bad? No, as from my observations, the need to consult a guide is much more minimal in DS3, simply because it is not as easy to get lost any more.
Lastly, we are left with their magnum opus, Elden Ring. Everything I’ve said about DS3 elevating the quality of action and accessibility must be said with much greater importance here. I thought that DS3 was the ceiling for this framework, and I felt proven right when they moved onto a different domain with Sekiro as it was very different from what they had done so far. And after half a decade of pure silence where the community started making up the story and lore of the game because of how little FromSoft had talked about it, Elden Ring hit the shelves in 2022, proving that the ceiling was in fact not reached with DS3. The open world level design gave such a breath of fresh air to the formula and hit everyone with a cement truck of nostalgia; exploring Limgrave and Liurnia brought back that feeling of exploring Lordran for the first time. Mystery around every corner, and full autonomy for the player to navigate this world however they wanted. Sadly, while it matched the energy of DS1’s Act 1, it matched its Act 2 as well. The repetitive copy-paste dungeons, same bosses you fight over and over again, combined with the increasingly linear level design make the game feel stale given the initial scope of freedom offered to the player. Keep in mind that DS3 is as linear as a game can be, and no one complained because the game was designed to be linear from the start.
So, what lesson have we learnt from all this yapping? FromSoftware is excellent at level design, they create amazing novel experiences that you cannot find anywhere else, proven by the mostly failed market of off-brand Soulsborne games –as long as they stick to one level design paradigm from start to finish. The tail-end of most of their games prove that their more open level designs cannot carry the quantity of content they target to provide, and thus fail to fit in that same system. So, until they figure out how to do it, I will continue playing their games and complain at the same time.
Written by Umut Ucak
Designed by Dorian Sousa Calvo & Sofia Miller
From Estate to The Stake
An essay on property, conformity and gender persecution
Surging from the long shadow of the “dark ages,” the archetype of the Witch emerged as a fierce challenge to the forces that have long controlled women’s bodies and lives. Breaking free from the part of caregiver or object of desire, the Witch refused to be confined by expectations of service or submission to her mate. This defiance made her dangerous, but also powerful – a figure of resistance against a system that demands compliance. In rejecting these constraints, the Witch claims a wild, untamed form of female sovereignty.
No wonder then that our world has known a long and bloody history of witch persecutions. The accusation of sorcery became a weapon against those women who did not fit the norms of patriarchal society, those whose example presented political and social threat. As peculiar as it is, matters of witchcraft and matters of real estate often go hand in hand: Baba Yaga and her enchanted hut, Maleficent and her eerie castle, Hansel and Gretel’s Blind Witch with her house of hard cake and candies and window panes of clear sugar...
So who was the so-called “witch,” and how would she find herself swimming in the ever so cruel, hostile waters of real estate? Carol F. Karlsen explores the lives of several colonial New England “witches” in her 1989 book The Devil in the Shape of a Woman, revealing how seventeenth-century witchcraft trials centred closely around property quarrels. Such disputes would often occur when an “improper” individual controlled substantial chunks of property – say, a woman who, by accident or aberration, came in control of the estate, and had to manage it alone because her dear husband (or son, or other male guardian) was absent or far away.
And as the story goes, our heroine was selfassured enough to stand her ground when she clashed with a nearby farmer over the border placement. Then, when the neighbour’s cow – by coincidence! – became ill, all of a sudden no-one could doubt that it was she who had
cursed the animal. If the “witch” were lucky, her experience with the witchcraft trials would leave her utterly destitute; if she were unlucky, alas, an execution put an end to her life. Karlsen draws a comprehensive portrait of a world with a gendered hierarchy through the collection of these numerous tales where petty property conflicts turned into allegations of witchcraft.
While it is generally accepted that witch trials were born to, and fuelled by, the Christian theocracy of the Medieval age, it would be dishonest for us to label Christianity itself as violently anti-feminist. Many European religious movements were led by women exclusively. One such religious order was the Beguines. Beguines were based predominantly in the Low Countries (the modern Benelux area); you may travel no further than Liege to find their settlements. Beguines built what we now would call utopian neighbourhoods and villages for their women-only communities, forging their own cosmos away from that of men. They lived a life dedicated to charity, chastity, and communal labour, often sheltering fellow sisters who were escaping abuse in their households. Unlike nuns, beguines were free to leave if they wished to separate or marry, as they took no religious oaths.
The meeting of witches with the master, woodcut, 1720.
Many of these women were also extraordinary mystics and theologians. Figures such as Hadewijch of Antwerp, Mechthild of Magdeburg and Marguerite Porete, who were active leaders of their beguine communities, authored sublime mystic texts that explored love, light, divine eroticism, madness, and annihilation.
Unfortunately, devotion to faith and material support from the noble patrons didn’t serve as a shield against societal cruelty. Beguines were constantly bullied and shamed, accused of being “beggars” or “living in heresy,” and negatively stigmatised for many decades and centuries to follow. Patriarchal order could not tolerate women denying matrimony and pursuing freedom, managing their lives and their homes as they wished. A threat so high the beguines presented, that the antagonism culminated in the tragic trial of the French beguine Marguerite Porete, the author of the book The Mirror of Simple Souls.
Published circa 1300, The Mirror became a popular read in France. This mystical work explored the matters of Divine Love, while also reflecting some of the ideas of the Free Spirit movement – for example, the denial of the need for middlemen, such as priests or even the church itself, to communicate with God. This stance no doubt had a strong ideological link with Porete’s beguine sisters, who, quite similarly, were denying any “middlemen” between women and social, economic life. Unsurprisingly, the Church found that her example and her message posed a danger to institutional religion and societal order.
Marguerite was burned at the stake in Paris on the Place de Greve in 1310. Though otherwise hostile to Porete, the chronicle writer, in his account of the trial, notes how the crowd was moved to tears by the stillness with which the beguine faced her death.
written and designed by Kristina Shatokhina
Christine de Pizan meets the three ladies and lays the foundation of the city of ladies, for The Queen’s Manuscript, c. 1410–1414, f. 290r (British Library)
With Belval winds becoming more hostile and the cold temperatures picking up, I find myself reflecting on my music journey of this year. Truth be told, it has mainly consisted of opening dusty cardboard boxes of forgotten tunes that had been stuck in the attic for a while. In those revisits, I have grown extremely fond of the Trip-Hop genre: Atmospheric sounds mixed with psychedelic electronica or hip hop. Fittingly, Massive Attack’s Mezzanine, released in 1998, is one of the most influential albums of that style.* Even if you’re not familiar with the music, you might have stumbled upon the striking album art of a stag beetle, its carapace intertwining with metallic assemblages. Matching the vibe of the cover, the album content is equally mysterious and captivating.
This much is revealed when examining the opening track Angel, which, to me, perfectly encapsulates the themes of this album. Indeed, the record talks about eroticism, passion, and affection, yet it casts a dark veil over it; therefore thematising an allconsuming type of passion, one that disorients and numbs mind and senses. The title of this track, including the cycling lyrics of ‘Love you / love you / love you / love you’ are not uplifting or sunny, but instead gloomy, edging on threatening. It is as though the song carves an opening across our chests; one, which makes way for our deepest desires and most violent ruminations to emerge. As such, the lyrics here function like a smothering chant, a baleful mantra of sorts, growing in size as the drums become all the more noisy.
Risingson carries on the mystique of the record by offering a dreamy, low-voiced exposure on Bristol’s party-anddrug scene at the time, while Teardrop contrasts the prior with the high pitched, ethereal vocals of Elizabeth Fraser from Cocteau Twins. Diving into more emotional depths than Angel, this track extends the album’s themes by speaking of passion and fearlessness. It urges us to act upon love, to rid ourselves of fear, since ‘Love is a verb / Love is a doing word.’
Like arachnids and insects, the instrumental of Inertia Creeps progressively crawls and rises. Similar to mosquito bites on the skin, this song translates an itch, an infectious state which keeps tingling on the surface of your body, long after you’ve scratched it open. Easily one of my favourites on this album, Inertia Creeps cycles and surrounds the listener, engulfing them into a strange, hypnotic soundscape. This track focuses on a repetitive, sexual encounter, using phallic imagery – ‘Room is still, my antenna in you’ – while musically emphasising the creeping, rising and circling movements of sensual stimulation; one which the narrator of this song cannot seemingly detach themselves from – ‘inertia creeps, moving up slowly […] she comes, moving up slowly.’
The next track, which is an instrumental version of the closing song, is titled Exchange. It is a rather groovy, dreamy tune, which serves as an interlude. Dissolved Girl then, feels to me *Fun fact: This album also exists as genetic information, as it has been encoded into synthetic DNA. Crazy!
like a love child between Angel and Teardrop, truly wallowing in the alluring nature of the record. Following the suggestion of the title, this track literally dissolves into a hectic haze, reaching a rock-ish climax which is balanced out by the sultry vocals of Sarah Jay Hawley — ‘need a little love to ease the pain [...] Passion’s overrated anyway.’ Meanwhile Man Next Door lays out a cinematic scene of the narrator, who wishes for a peaceful life, while his loud neighbour’s lifestyle prevents them from such. When I listen to this one, I imagine myself sitting in a dimly lit apartment – with a neighbour whose huge head is that of a beetle.
Group Four picks up on the themes of passion and melancholy and turns them into an exploration of solitude – describing dull time at work, waiting for time to pass, looking at screens and flipping through magazines. This song later elevates into a tense crescendo of self-contemplation; heavy with desire for dionysian liberty and chaos – ‘See through me, little glazed lane / A world in myself.’ And finally, the familiar melody of Exchange returns in the last track, concluding this excellent record.
Fraser’s vocals bless this album once again in Black Milk: another deeply melty track, which is similarly charged with sensuality as Angel, Inertia Creeps and Teardrop What this one adds though, is cannibalistic imagery, which further emphasises the themes of dark desires – ‘Eat me / In the space.’ Whisperings of disorientation and staggering between reality and a faraway paradise follows in the ninth song: Mezzanine. This one feels like a much murkier, wispier Risingson, painting an image of a spiralling staircase or a twisty mezzanine – ‘All these half-floors / Will lead to mine.’
This album has kept calling out to me for years: when I’m sitting at the train station in the fog, when I’m on my late walk home – hell, even when I am scrubbing the floors of my bathroom. Mezzanine is what it feels like to unsuccessfully navigate through a cloudy, foggy place; like passing a cemetery, a dark alley, a rusty apartment, paranoid and lost but somehow comforted, as though you’re stumbling through your
Brat. Brat is the word. It’s not the bird, bird ain’t the word. Not anymore, not at this point.
“Words [have] lost their meaning,” “what we have here is failure to communicate” with strings of sounds — instead, “colours of the rainbow” are called in aid, against all odds . Who’d have thought millennia passed since ancient Egypt, we’d be talking not even so much as in “images (and words)” but in living colour s.
Yet, here we are. “Born to be kings [— we’re] the princes of the universe — and even so, we gave (we give) into the confines of our deepest, most visceral engines of operation and creation, frequencies of visible light, “light to dark, dark to light, light to dark. Heaven must be more than this” but who gives a shit. If it ain’t wrong, don’t repair it, “wise men say” , so color me badd , “cover me” – let everyone’s true colors shine through their “sobriety” of “all […] pain and strife” .
I say, say say that you let go and appreciate the circumstances and the environment. Celebrate the now, do as you please ‘cause it’s a mad world out there — a “jungle, baby” — and ain’t nobody and “nothing’s gonna stop” it turning. Heaven [as it were] is a place on Earth but only if you get out of your own way, shut up, and drive .
Again (Lenny): there “ain’t no right” or wrong , there is just doing it (i.e., “doin’ it well” ). There are no mistakes, ‘cause every mistake is improvisation (so not true the other way around, by the way , and every little thing [everyone has ever done] is magic – yes, “kind of magic” .
So no judgy, Kentucky — winner winner, chicken dinner. Today it’s brat, as was the pack back at the Breakfast Club (“don’t you [ever effing] forget about” that) and tomorrow it’ll be something else, something someone somewhere will not understand, will misunderstand, misinterpret, mis“represent” ; pardon me , but I ain’t fooled by change anymore, and so should you focus, really focus hard on staying Gold. Always, always gold, Ponyboy
The Police – On Any Other Day ; Smashing Pumpkins – Age of Innocence ; from Madonna – Bedtime Story ; from Guns ’n Roses – Civil War ; Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World ; Phil Collins – Against All Odds ; Dream Theatre – Images and Words (Album) ; Living Colour: Band ; Queen – Princes of the Universe ; from Dream Theatre –Surrounded ; from Elvis Presley – Can’t Help Falling in Love ; Colour Me Badd: Band ; from Maria McKee – Show Me Heaven ; Cyndi Lauper – True Colours ; Tanita Tikaram – Twist in My Sobriety ; Hanson – MMMbop ; Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney – Say Say Say ; from Guns ’n Roses – Welcome to the Jungle ; Chaka Khan – Ain’t Nobody ; Starship – Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now ; Belinda Carlisle – Heaven Is a Place on Earth ; Rihanna –Shut up and Drive ; Lenny Kravitz – Again ; from Aerosmith – Janie’s Got a Gun ; Depeche Mode – Wrong ; LL Cool J – Doin’ It ; from Blur – There’s No Other Way ; The Red Hot Chili Peppers – By the Way (Album) ; The Police – Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic ; Queen – A Kind of Magic ; Simple Minds – Don’t You (Forget about Me) ; Orishas – Represent ; Weezer – Pardon Me ; Tears for Fears – Change ; Character in Francis Ford Coppola’s The Outsiders
written by Zoltan Tajti designed by Sherley De Deurwaerder
all the world’s a stage and we’re merely players pretenders of ourselves (an illusion) a lie! told by ourselves pretending to be being nothing breathing stolen breaths we do not live but do we exist? hiding behind masks? screaming for freedom in a prison of fear and hopeless cries we are (are we?) soulless marionettes, broken bones frozen faces masked minds fools
inspired
by
Shakespeare written and designed by Anna Tautorus
the tragedy
you’re watched by whom? the dead ones? applauding the misery and cruel disorder of a sinister play of sorrow the never-ending masterpiece
who’ll be me after my death? and was I ever? why does hell feel so cold? burn this place down rip reality apart like us in broken and shattered pieces the masks we leave behind for the next ‘us’
‘till then we’ll be lost unseen in the spotlight
EncorE un imité dE PétrarquE
par Valère Gaube ; mise en page de Kristina Shatokhina
Sonetto XXXV
cErca nElla solitudinE di scamParE gli sguardi dEl PoPolo ma non si Può sottrarrE dall ’ amorE chE lo brucia .
Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi
Vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti, Et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
Ove vestigio human l’arena stampi.
Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi
Dal manifesto accorger de le genti,
Perché negli atti d’alegrezza spenti
Di fuor si legge com’io dentro avampi:
Si ch’io mi credo omai che monti et piagge
Et fiumi et selve sappian di che tempre
Sia la mia vita, ch’è celata altrui.
Ma pur sí aspre vie né sí selvagge
Cercar non so ch’Amor non venga sempre
Ragionando con meco, et io co’llui.
Sonnet 35
il chErchE dans la solitudE à échaPPEr aux rEgards du PEuPlE mais nE sE PEut soustrairE à l ’ amour qui lE brûlE
Seul et penseux les plus désertes plages
Vais arpentant à pas lents et longuets
Les yeux rivés sur l’arène aux aguets
Pour d’hommes fuir les traces qui m’outragent
Point d’autre armet qui cache mon visage
Dont l’expression le vulgaire intriguait
Car à mes traits où rien n’appert de gai
Se lit par trop le feu qui me ravage
Si que je crois que par monts et vallées
Et rus et bois il n’est un qui connaisse
Cœur de ma vie soit d’Eve soit d’Adam
Mais jungle telle en lieu si reculé
N’ai su trouver qu’Amour ne m’apparaisse
Parlant à moi Et moi lui répondant
Explication
Voici une autre imitation du Chansonnier, composée dans la foulée des deux premières, lesquelles furent en septembre publiées. Je m’y étais alors expliqué sur mes intentions de traducteur ; je souhaiterais revenir ici sur deux aspects davantage techniques de ma démarche et que ceux qui m’ont fait l’honneur de me lire n’ont pas manqué de relever : je parle de la désinvolture avec laquelle j’ai traduit certains vers, ainsi que du côté « vieil françoys » de ma langue. Pour ce qui est du procès en infidélité, j’en ai déjà indiqué les raisons dans le précédent article ; aussi vais-je ici tâcher de reformuler mon propos, dans l’espoir de le clarifier. Je voulus capturer, par-delà les mots, ce qu’il y avait de proprement inégalable dans la voix de cet illustre poète de mon choix. Chimère que de prendre pareille ambition au pied de la lettre, cela va sans dire ; mais je trouvais, et trouve encore, poésie à le faire. A cet effet, la soumission exacte aux mêmes contraintes formelles que mon modèle me parut indispensable ; et cette façon de rendre sonnet pour sonnet présentait cet autre avantage de produire un résultat qui pût plaire, en tant que tel, et à l’œil et à l’oreille. Et puis, que voulez-vous, j’ai ce trait puéril que j’aime à compter sur mes doigts. L’entière fidélité à la lettre, chose d’ailleurs idiote, m’étant rendue par mon choix même impraticable, je n’eus plus qu’à être volage bellement, en tâchant de me faire pardonner sur le sens et davantage encore, comme je l’ai dit, sur la voix. Le lecteur en soit juge. Abordant le second point, quoi de mieux, justement, qu’une patine archaïque pour imiter la voix d’un poète du trecento ? Certes, Pétrarque écrivait l’italien de son temps, alors que mon français se distingue par ce qu’il n’est pas contemporain ; mais peu importe, au fond. J’écris ainsi avant tout par affinité, et par amour de cette langue dont je ne rejette aucun des trésors, – moi, lorrain, qui ne puis pourtant guère réclamer le français par droit d’héritage et de primogéniture ! Et l’éolien Pindare, et l’attique Eschyle, n’affectionnaient-ils pas les mâles cadences du parler dorien lorsque leurs vers requéraient souffle et amplitude ? Et Homère, dont ils empruntèrent tous ; Homère, qui commença la littérature de par chez nous, ne fit-il pas parler icelle en autant de dialectes qu’il y avait de cités se disputant sa paternité ? C’est une langue artificielle, une langue d’art que je me plais à employer ici ; qu’on m’en fasse donc grief. Pour ma part, je suis de tout français contemporain. Coquetterie ? – Mais qui saurait, en poésie, faire la juste part de la coquetterie et de la profondeur ? En conclusion, je réclame pour le poète la toute licence, et j’exige de lui le jugement droit et sain pour s’en bien servir. Licence et jugement : d’aucuns diraient liberté, tout simplement.
take care take care take care
all of a sudden all of a sudden all of a sudden all of hell froze over all of hell froze over all of hell froze over and yet she didn’t wake up and yet she didn’t wake up and yet she didn’t wake up there was no warmth left in my body there was no warmth left in my body there was no warmth left in my body and my tears froze in my eyes and my tears froze in my eyes and my tears froze in my eyes my hands turned to ice my hands turned to ice my hands turned to ice my body grew numb my body grew numb my body grew numb and there was and there was and there was nothing left nothing left nothing left she finally rested she finally rested she finally rested the gravity of it all the gravity of it all the gravity of it all
slaughtered smile slaughtered smile slaughtered smile your head explodes your head explodes your head explodes your veins have run dry your veins have run dry your veins have run dry your intestines have turned red your intestines have turned red your intestines have turned red and you can see and you can see and you can see the blood in your eyes the blood in your eyes the blood in your eyes the scars on your hands the scars on your hands the scars on your hands water in your lungs water in your lungs water in your lungs but the bullet grazed you but the bullet grazed you but the bullet grazed you shot away into the frame shot away into the frame shot away into the frame you shot your shot into the dark you shot your shot into the dark you shot your shot into the dark and remained there like it hit you and remained there like it hit you and remained there like it hit you did your world turn upside down did your world turn upside down did your world turn upside down or has it become just another day or has it become just another day or has it become just another day
by designed and written
Daniel Schenkels
you’re vomiting up mucus you’re vomiting up mucus you’re vomiting up mucus
choking on your own saliva choking on your own saliva choking on your own saliva crying this might be the end crying this might be the end crying this might be the end she shames you she shames you she shames you for dying in front of us for dying in front of us for dying in front of us or not quick enough or not quick enough or not quick enough your body and mind gave up your body and mind gave up your body and mind gave up and yet your frame remains in this chair and yet your frame remains in this chair and yet your frame remains in this chair a lump in my throat a lump in my throat a lump in my throat choking on my smoke choking on my smoke choking on my smoke and you smile and you smile and you smile your infinitely sad smile your infinitely sad smile your infinitely sad smile in the name of art and everything sacred in the name of art and everything sacred in the name of art and everything sacred you bleed out you bleed out you bleed out you don’t recognise the water you don’t recognise the water you don’t recognise the water held together by the hip held together by the hip held together by the hip you lose shape you lose shape you lose shape and suddenly we became and suddenly we became and suddenly we became reduced to humans reduced to humans reduced to humans for now i’ll lay for now i’ll lay for now i’ll lay in the sink in the sink in the sink
waiting to be lit waiting to be lit waiting to be lit
do you entertain do you entertain do you entertain the
death
death
BERLINTERCONNECTED
Fragmented little pieces of life usually walk past each other without a glance. The fancy suits snob the ripped jeans, The ripped jeans snob the fancy suits, And the lonely daisy growing at the edge of the railway gets crushed at 250 km/hour, No witness, no remembrance, no love whatsoever.
But finally comes Sunday, It’s dawn,
Rays of sun make weird warm shapes across the duvet cover,
But it doesn’t hurt the eyes.
The hair is a mess, the cheeks are pink
But we have never looked so effortlessly cool. The face pops out the window, And the neighbour’s first cigarette tickles the nostril’s delicate hairs.
It’s Sunday, it’s dawn, in Berlin’s eastern districts.
At that exact moment, the fancy suits and the ripped jeans complain together about how the BGB is always late, while the dreamy child, bored, picks up the daisy growing at the edge of the rails, and offers it to the little girl with the mismatched socks.
On Sundays, at dawn, in Berlin’s eastern districts,
Where people crossing the same paths couldn’t be following more opposite directions, Is when all the little lives come together in strange harmony.
This is my favourite moment to go on a walk, And get reminded of all the invisible links that tie us all together.
I walk along East Side Gallery, Witness the early impatient tourists queuing to get their picture with the famous kiss, The guides and their red umbrellas repeating the same jokes for the fifth time this week, The ravers and their sparkly make-up, dancing their way back home through the crowd.
design by Elise Lacourt
They all cover their ears with their hands as the noisy orange ambulance passes by, The party girl drops her beer with a KLING,
And the dog licks it as its tail wags like a windshield wiper.
Lucky thing, the Späti owner never sleeps, and is never out of beer.
He stays awake night and day, Soothed by the delicious smell of roasted almonds from the Turkish candy shop next door,
And the sound of the antique dealers setting up their booths around Boxi square’s tall trees, Already debating loudly the price of vintage lamps, crackled dishes and starshaped sunglasses.
While the Turkish confectioner takes the baklavas out of the oven,
His wife brings their son on a fun trip to Mauerpark.
She pushes his back on the swing so high in the sky,
That he can see the birds partying around the TV Tower’s disco ball,
And the yawning people on their vertiginous brutalist balconies.
Up there, sipping their espresso,
They also watch the city wake up, The fundraisers in fluorescent jackets, People jabbering in German, or pretending that they are late,
The busker at the station covering Creep on his out-of-tune guitar, People clapping, and his ex-girlfriend changing paths.
They watch the tagger covering a faded graffiti,
And the wobbly old lady smiling at the shapes and colours mixing on the wall,
As she remembers the fall in 1989.
The sun has fully risen by now, and a tear rolls down her wrinkly face.
She thinks about what a beautiful Sunday morning it is, And the gossip magazine she forgot in the U-Bahn. Through time, space and feelings, It really is beautiful, How (Berl)interconnected we all are.
C U P C A K E S
SPICY PEARS, GRAND-MARNIER WHIPPED
One of my favorite moments of the winter is walking around town and breathing in the delightful scents from the roasted chestnut carts... But in Luxembourg, the chill can creep up on you, freezing the tip of our nose before you realize it! So, let’s keep warm and safe and bring the delicious aroma of chestnuts straight into our kitchens!
These scrumptious cupcakes with an incredibly airy texture and crispy edges are inspired by Christophe Felder’s Chestnut Cake recipe. He bakes it as a single large cake – which is just as scrumptious – but I was just too tempted to turn them into cute little cupcakes with fancy toppings, perfect to share with friends in front of a cheesy Christmas movie. (It’s never too early!)
For the batter:
• 120g semi-salted butter
• 4 eggs
• 500g chestnut cream
• 30g flour
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• Preheat the oven to 180°C.
Makes 12 cupcakes Takes about half an hour to make
To make it extra:
• 3 pears
• Grand-Marnier
• A sprinkle of mixed spices (cinnamon, ginger, cardamom...whatever you like or have in your cupboard!)
• Butter and flour the cupcake tins.
• Peel the pears, cut them in half, and add them to a pot with a bit of water, a splash of Grand Marnier, spices.. Bring the mixture to boil and let it simmer till the pears are nice and soft.
• On a low heat, melt the butter in a pot and let it cool down.
• Separate the egg whites from the yolks and whisk the whites till they look like soft snow!
• Mix the egg yolks, the flour and the vanilla extract into the batter, and don’t forget to lick the spoon.
• Little by little, gently incorporate the whisked whites till the batter looks homogenous, airy and light.
• Pour the batter in the cupcake tins and bake for about 20 minutes.
• In the meantime, whip the cream with the leftover spoon of chestnut cream + some more Grand-Marnier, and cut up the pears in small cubes.
• Once the cupcakes are golden and have cooled down, add a generous dollop of whipped cream on top of each of them, and finish them off with a spoon of the delicious steamed pears...all that is left to do, is to enjoy a cupcake/multiple/all of them with a nice cup of coffee <3
