STRAND Magazine - Freshers Edition 2024

the 2024 freshers’ issue

Editor-in-Chief - Oisín McGilloway Deputy Editor-in-Chief - Kiana Kardooni Treasurer - Leah Perkins Head of Design - Athena Borovas Head of Social Media - Mali Jones Events and Marketing Officer - Renee Ley Yi Art Editor - Harry Anstey-Walsh Essays Editor - Roxy-Moon Dahal Hodson Fashion Editor - Holly Anderson Co-Film & TV Editor - Humaira Valera

Co-Film & TV Editor - Emily Henman Food & Drink Editor - Matt Pellow Gaming Editor - Karan Nimsons Literature Editor - Dan Ramos Lay London Editor - Daria Slikker Co-Music Editor - Julia Curry Co-Music Editor - Rachel Hughes Photography Editor - Eleonora Fumagalli Sex & Relationships Editor - Rosa Levenson Theatre Editor - Elizabeth Grace Ho

1-2: Poems from ‘At Home: A Collection of Poems’ by Tori Taylor The rollover from August into September is never fun. It brings with it the end of summer, the beginning of new leases, and the return to a life punctuated by 6am starts, dark evenings outside the library, using your psychic powers to make your alarm clock move slower and your lecture hall clock move faster. However, as I made the last train journey back into London before the start of a new academic year, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a feeling of excitement; a glow that hasn’t weakened in the three years I’ve made this journey, that makes it all worth it.

This is, for all intents and purposes, what we’re trying to preserve with our first print edition of the 2024-25 academic year. Freshers’ Editions are a daunting prospect in themselves, with the whole committee working tirelessly alongside other new-year preparations to deliver a diverse collection of pieces on what’s happening in arts and culture around London. But without this daunting feeling, we wouldn’t be able to bring you the glow, the excitement of being a student in one of the greatest cities in the world.

Inside this magazine you’ll find a range of interviews, festival wraps, opinion and anniversary pieces, poems and long reads on a range of subjects from the diverse, invaluable perspective of King’s students. Of course, the foremost purpose is to entertain and inform, but we also want to show our Freshers how journalism can help you navigate the jungle of art exhibitions, film screenings and West End shows that London has to offer. Because, if you like what you see, you can be a part of it too—consider this edition a Welcome Fair stall you can take home with you. We hope you enjoy, and that we see you again very soon !

With love, Oisín McGilloway Editor-in-Chief

3-4: Indie Paradise: London’s All Points East In Conversation with Dan Whitlam 5-6: Gull, so confusing: on growing up beside the sea 7-8: Sinister Spirals and Female Bodies – Revisiting The First Season of ‘True Detective’ (2014)

ol in Nazareth: The Time

9-10: Everything is not co Remains (2009)

That

e): A review Hain (Our Dreams are On Ek e pn Sa re ma Ha : -12 11 ms’ of ‘The Queen of My Drea the UK at its influence on ok lo er id w A : ur 13-14: The Eras To Buffet Vegetarian Indian y rk ui Q ’s el ng A 15-16: Indian Veg: nversation rriers with BRICKS: In Co 17-18: Breaking Down Ba with Tori West

yearning A note on ‘yearning’ Yearning is a verb that describes an intense desire for something. In this case, the simplicity and invincibility that parents seem to embody when you are a child. There is a certain sense of preemptive grief: feeling the loss of your parents in big moments without them being gone yet. ‘yearning’ mourns the ‘what if ’ and the fragility of childhood innocence. Loss becomes familiar like an old friend permanently present in the home.

i want to be small enough for my dad to pick me up and sit me on the back of his bike and let him zombie pedal up the hill and deliver me to the school gates, bitter cold and blushing and little i want my dad to be well enough to hold me above his head and throw me to sit upon the clouds. we sleep steeped in honey and salt, stinging decade old scrapes on my knees and elbows and nose salvaging my sunburnt cheeks my sheets make me the ghost of a bride sticking on my shoulder blades like wings. i am enjoying the moment of peace while the ornament falls off the shelf before shattering on the hearth my hands are in the fireplace because i am braver than i was the day before and before that and before that but

Thursday evening, 10 years from now A note on ‘Thursday evening, 10 years from now’ What underpins this poem is a vignette of domestic normality which, in my view, is more attractive than bliss. The simplicity of this dream life exposes a sensational love story and tenderness hidden in tiny gestures. Everyone deserves their Thursday evening in May, however long away it may be. Having someone to do the dishes with is one of life’s great gifts - especially if you hate getting your sleeves wet.

A cobblestone path, with a rose arch.

There’s a mosaic floor in the hallway, and your bike is leaning against the stairwell.

Joel is on the record player and there’s a cat cluttering the hearth.

We’ve thrown a blanket that mum knitted over an armchair to hide a tea stain we couldn't get out and some flowers I picked sit on a table we chose before we could afford it.

I’m cooking pasta in the kitchen, six months along.

My hair is shorter, the way you like, and you come in from work late as always, damp from the rain, and hug me, your chin on my shoulder.

You smell as you always have.

We eat and bicker over what film to watch, which we both know you’ll sleep through.

We break the final biscuit we bought last night from the corner shop on the way home.

I admire your fingers, as you collect the crumbs from the tablecloth.

You wash and I'll dry.

grief still finds me in the middle of a sun spiked day freewheeling down the big hill and piggybacks a lift to the village we sit together at the school gates and share a kitkat i ask him how he is

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From collection of poems titled “At Home”.

Read on our website strandmagazine.co.uk

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INDIE PARADISE:

London’s All Points East

In Conversation with Dan Whitlam

By Daria Slikker The sun retreats behind a thick cloud in Victoria Park with the dust just beginning to settle. Hundreds of footprints mark a distinctive path, all leading towards All Points East. Featuring Mitski as the headliner, alongside artists like Ethel Cain, Beabadoobee, Suki Waterhouse, and Men I Trust, this was the perfect way to spend a Sunday.

Having never been to Victoria Park before, we stepped out of the number 8 bus completely disoriented. At that point, we no longer needed our phones to guide the way as we followed a herd of people wearing jorts, white skirts, cowboy boots, and yellow security vests.

This festival’s lineup definitely drew a kindred crowd that we were elated to be part of. Once inside the venue, there was only one choice to make… which one of five stages would we be planting ourselves on for the next couple of hours? This was summer in East London.

Immediately as you pass the pearly white gates (the security barriers), a religious experience awaits: the performance of Ethel Cain. Her music, deeply inspired by religious themes, resonates with a messiah-like presence that captivates her followers. The anticipation builds as her 5:35pm start time approaches, each passing second thick with suspense. She arrives with a gentle smile on her face, a silence falling over the crowd as she wraps her black latex gloves around the microphone. The backdrop of “Dust Bowl” plays, showing her solitary figure wandering through a deserted countryside—a modern-day prophet in rural America. The imagery, paired with the raw vulnerability in her voice, transforms the performance into

a sermon of sorts. Throughout her set, she pauses multiple times to ensure the well-being of her audience, making sure that they have enough water. In this blend of haunting vocality and Americana, Ethel Cain delivers a performance that is nothing short of spiritual.

Beabadoobee then waltzed onto the stage, her excitement palpable as she stepped out, fresh off the success of her new #1 UK album, “This is How Tomorrow Moves.” The crowd had swelled, with fans from the West Stage flocking over to catch a glimpse of her. This album marked a departure from her usual sound, embracing the nostalgic vibes of early 2000s music. Dressed in a black, floral dress—a gift from her boyfriend that she shyly confessed to the crowd—she radiated warmth and authenticity. As the final song began, she playfully urged everyone to jump as high as they could, and with that, the crowd erupted in unison, a shared moment of pure, infectious vitality.

By the time Mitski came on stage, people had already been there for 7 hours. However, the energy still remained as the audience sang their souls out to “I Bet on Losing Dogs.” What was left was rather poetic, as the crowds were entranced by the single spotlight delicately placed on her. Although there were still attempts to rush to the front of the crowd, many had decided to observe from afar and chosen a spot to sit. In this instance, there was space to dance freely. Couples held hands, friends shared lyrics, and the vibration of the music travelled through each of our bodies.

Apart from the performances, I had the honour of interviewing Dan Whitlam who played the East Stage.

Daria Slikker: What initially drew you to becoming a singer and performer?

Dan Whitlam: I went to Guildhall School of Drama and Music in London and initially, I did not know what I wanted to do with life. I think a lot of people in their teenage years or early twenties have a quarter-life crisis where they face this dilemma.

We’re inundated with options and social media doesn’t help in how we’re expected to be millionaires by 18. I’ve always liked acting but then during my drama school time, we were given the task of writing a poem about something that happened to us. I chose to write about being stabbed at 16 in London. My lung collapsed and I was in the hospital, but the poem was taken on by the BBC: After that, I put things out on social media and the last two years have come to that.

What were your initial thoughts after the stabbing that led you to express yourself in this vulnerable way?

Anyone who goes through a traumatic event knows that you would like to make peace with it, without having PTSD. For me, it was a period of two years where I was afraid to leave the house. It was only through performing the poem that I was able to distance myself from this event. This allowed me to look at it from an outside pair of eyes and now I don’t even see it as me when I perform it. It’s like those chapters in your life that are in the past and gone.

You talk a lot about the spoken word and performing poetry, where do you see it going in the future?

Films like 22 Jump Street perpetuate a version of spoken word which I don’t believe represents it accurately. Poetry can either be something so colloquial and old that we can’t even touch it, or, it almost has to be a political statement piece. I do love that but can’t poetry just be about feeling bad one day, with rhyme allowing me to access something deeper? The community has gotten so much bigger with Instagram and TikTok, or Rupi Kaur who became a global best-seller. It’s turning into something I love and I’m so happy to be in the scene during this period. I hated the name “spo-

ken word” as I associated it with slam poetry and for me, when you’re doing a poem, it can be rap without a beat.

How do you find that you can make a balance between your poetry being understood whilst also having that hidden layer of depth to it?

I think the subject matter needs to be relatable.

Regardless of class and where you are from, things like love, loss, memory, and growing older all affect us. I like to base my work around what it’s like to be 19 or 20 and going into your 30s - that worrying stage of finding yourself but also trying to please others. When I write, I tend to make the subjects centred around that. That is also why I would not write political pieces. I agree that if you have a platform, you should make a stand, but I just don’t know how I’d place myself in those conversations.

Have you had any influences from other artists? If so, how would you say they’ve affected you?

Massively. Fundamentally, all my love for literature came from this underground scene of rap from people like Loyle Carner, and Little Simz. These lyricists who have cornered a section of the industry for themselves. It’s not pop but it’s slowly becoming bigger. You see the Mercury Awards being dominated by people like Berwyn and these other amazing artists. As it started with Bob Dylan, these lyrics are all just poems in a way. I think inspiration is a bit like smoke… if you don’t catch it in the moment, it’s gone.

As crowds slowly prepared to leave, there were whispers of how much of a success this event had been. This festival would not have been possible without all of the security who made sure everyone was safe or those who lended a helping hand. I’d also like to thank all of the staff from Outside Organisation who helped liaise with interviews on the day. After checking the health app, we could see that a new step trend had definitely been broken after having travelled from stage to stage, but I cannot wait to hopefully do it all again next year.

Photo by Jordan Curtis Hughes via Wikipedia Commons (Liscensed under CC BY-SA 4.0)

Gull, so confusing:

on growing up beside the sea

By Sophie-May Ward-Marchbank I was born within sight of the ocean. I didn’t have a particular affinity for water as a child, I quit swimming lessons early on and didn’t like the rain. Once I remember deciding that I would be one with the water. I stood back from the waves and commanded her to come towards me. She did not, and I never tried again. As I fell into adolescence and my body grew apart from my heart, I told the world that I hated the sea. At the beach I would not swim but sit, and hiss to every grain of sand how I could not stand its presence. It is not hard to imagine why as a child I was strangely discordant with the world around me, forcing a life for myself where I despised the very thing that surrounded me. Where I am from, the sea is a place of congregation - if you did not meet your friends at the beach, you did not meet your friends. I wonder now whether this feigned hatred of the ocean was a breakwater running adjacent to my bones, buffering the impact of relationships, making me an island, shutting down ports, and keeping me dry.

Last summer I took my father to Padstow and the weather reached 21 degrees.

In the car with the windows rolled up, I saw the ocean sparkling like it was just uncorked. I had a sudden urge to run into the arms of the water I had insisted I did not love.

Later that day I bought a cup with little blue fish all over it. I would like to say there was something profound about the fish, or that they looked like people I loved, but they were just little and blue on a tall white cup, yet they moved me irrevocably and changed the way I had

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told myself to see the world. I retracted every word of hate my younger self ever uttered and prayed it would keep me afloat, so the water would forgive me and not force me to drown. I continued having these epiphanies of amicability throughout the following year, where I would find myself loathing my surroundings unconsciously. The realisation was like turning off a whirring fan and discovering, now that it was quiet, why you had been so miserable while it droned in your ears. I resolved to remember how capable I was of loving and how unnatural hatred felt - although I thought this of many things, the sea came first.

My mother started swimming during lockdown.

Whilst we all attempted to spring clean our lives, we were confronted with the darkest versions of ourselves which emerged once doors were locked and distractions scarce. She was one of the only people who I truly believe became a better person after this sombre period. She swam out to the same buoy at least once a week and every time she came back she seemed to glow, slick with salt, skin slightly chilly, like the sun had chosen her over all others. My mother begged us to join her, to feel what she did when the waves lifted her body until she became baby-light again. We refused every time, but there was always something about her pebbly smile that made me want to say yes. That summer I finally did.

I donned my swimming gear and put my clothes back over top so you would never know I was about to plunge into the chilled waters. I think being from Plymouth is a lot like that, something beneath the surface, discovered as colleagues wash away into friends, sitting within me wherever I go shaping me like a wave eroding rock even from afar. My mother used to comment how it was ironic that all the years I could have spent afloat, I chose the few months before I left to start loving the sea. It didn’t occur to me then, with my mind flooded with notions of moving away and becoming something new, how this may have been my body’s final plea to remain static, where the water was warm and I knew who I was.

Shell photo by Pixabay (liscensed under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication) Starfish photo by anavrin-ai via deviantart (liscened under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License)

I didn’t take my swimming costume to London. The thought of immersion in water which did not taste of salt and where I could not see the mast next to my first home felt like an empty imitation of that which I loved. I am unwilling to say that life in London was torturous, despite it often feeling this way. London is the most vibrant and all-consuming city I have ever existed in and I must continue to remind myself of the privilege I have to call myself a resident. However, as I sat in verdant parks and dined in underground spots, there was a cove within me, an echoing absence once filled by the ocean, glistening, imminent, and mine. As my time in the city went on, the absence grew less painful. It settled like sediment onto the floor of my skull as little aches in the shape of each person I had loved and left, but it never disappeared. Occasionally, I would kick at the sand and watch as my vision went foggy, grainy, and full of a gritty desire to return.

When I moved out of my first flat and into the second, my father marvelled at how quickly I threw my belongings on the floor, left the boxes unpacked, locked the door, and told him to step on it - there was a blustering need within me to breathe coastal air again. Stepping along the shingle aisle leading me to the bay, I suddenly feared something would go wrong. That I would have forgotten its lapping on my shins, get denied entry and spat out like a rock, branded an unwanted addition. Maybe it was the prick of pebbles underfoot or the water’s swelling magnetism, but I did not let myself turn back. I tried to slip as gently as possible past the silk surface, to make myself small and unnoticed lest I disturb the peace. Contrary to what I hoped, I was not inconspicuous. Yet contrary to what I feared, I was not rejected - I was swaddled. The not-quite-warm June water rippled against me and all at once I knew I was forgiven and had never been resented.

The love of the ocean is unconditional and as steadfast as she is deep. There are etymological reasons that we call the sea ‘she’, but the romantic in me likes to believe her as a maternal presence; she is the largest mother on earth, kissing the forehead of the land. I didn’t quite swim that day, just drifted, as buoyant inside as out. I mused on what it felt like to be home, reading the words I would later write in the seaweed that clung to my arms.

I began writing this piece on that day and there was rarely a time during summer I was not in, beside, or thinking of the sea; maybe I needed to feel what it’s like to leave again after growing so fond of the place I was raised. Going back home for summer has instilled in me a twinkling pride about being from Plymouth.

It has made me feel, as I stroll cobbled streets with the smell of salt and chip fat as myriad as the people that breathe it, what it is like to call somewhere home.

To belong in a way that isn’t earned, to feel a bewildering polarity inside of you, because a need to escape meets a plea to always remain.

Whilst I painted my nails blue and fashioned a shell necklace, I discovered how I emulate my hometown in the way that I look and smell, the way I think and the way I flow against the people I love. My eyes are seafoam and my bones driftwood, I love in wave caresses, I crave the shush of the tide in the same way I need my parents. The closeness of my departure day loomed over me, so I found a space in the sun where the sea glimmered opalescent and the gulls were gutsy but least likely to steal a chip. I wondered - had I spent enough time watching the currents? Had I thought about it enough? Let it wet my eyelids? Would I be okay once it was no longer in my sight?

The answer of course is yes. I will once again adjust to glass and river as reflections and understand that no matter the surface, I remain the same girl looking back.

And more so than anything, the sea will remain for as long as I am alive, beating on, mighty and gentle, all wine-dark and fleshy with a voice like velour, so stable and patient that I need not worry how long I spend with her, she will always remain if I ever need to sink for a while and remember what home feels like.

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SINISTER SPIRALS AND FEMALE BODIES Revisiting The First Season of ‘True Detective’

In a world of police procedurals, be the first season of HBO’s True Detective. Cary Joji Fukunaga’s critically acclaimed nonlinear narrative descends into an ever-complex helix of cultish sacrifice and terror. In Season 1, disparate detectives Rust Cohle and Marty Hart are plunged into the seemingly impenetrable murder case of sex worker Dora Lange, slowly uncovering violence and ferocity hidden in plain sight that emanates from the seat of power. The show’s eight episodes increasingly gravitate inward, mirroring the symbol of the cult of Carcosa – a jagged spiral etched onto victims’ bodies and crafted within twig sculptures. As the narrative flits between three time periods, it delves into the conflicted consciousnesses of Rust and Marty, as well as inching toward the belly of the beast, the heart of the ritual practice that is uncomfortably close to home.

True Detective’s first season is rooted in literature, both in its production and in its influences. Nic Pizzolatto initially devised the script as a novel, and later assumed a solitary role as sole writer, executive producer, and show-runner with Fukunaga directing. Thus, the script was weighted with literary monologues steeped in philosophical pessimism, Rust’s existential soliloquies at odds with the detective duo formula that True Detective reinvents.

The repeated motifs of Carcosa and the ‘King in Yellow’ allude to Robert W. Chambers’ 1895 short story selection The King in Yellow, which contains stories connected by the titular fictitious play about the mythical realm of Carcosa, reigned by a malignant entity; inducing madness in characters who read it. Likewise, the esoteric, enigmatic figure of Rust is intensely drawn to the Dora Lange murder to the point of obsession. The King in Yellow directly influenced H.P. Lovecraft in his creation of the Cthulhu Mythos, highlighting the season’s proximity

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to the world of weird fiction, only translated to screen.

Additionally, the “spaghetti-faced man” who chases a young girl in rural Louisiana (later revealed to be a central member of Carcosa) calls back to the octopoid cosmic entity of Cthulhu himself.

The show’s elusive propinquity to the preternatural is complicated by its murky portrait of human nature and the shifting dichotomy between light and dark, moral and monstrous. This is not a simple narrative of good cops and bad murderers. Rust and Marty repeatedly commit glaring transgressions in order to track down Carcosa’s members, and wield police department resources at will – such as Rust stealing drugs to infiltrate a biker gang – convoluting morality and justice. As the detectives become enmeshed with the sprawling murder case and its eldritch overtones, they too become polluted by its mystique.

This can be linked to the spiralling vortex reoccurring within the show. Either the spiral begins at the centre, curling outward, infecting those outside its radius with a madness reminiscent of the fictional play, The King in Yellow, as well as echoing the spider web nature of the expansive occult circle. On the other hand, the spiral could be seen as curving inward, gravitating toward ‘Carcosa’ and otherworldly ascension. This sign appears throughout the episodes, from delicate twig sculptures and Rust’s hallucinations, to Errol Childress’ labyrinthine lair. Whichever way the vortex moves, it is symbolic of both the ritualistic cult as well as the magnetic pull of the transcendent. It can also be related to Rust’s Nietzschean statement that “Time is a flat circle. Everything we’ve ever done or will do, we’re gonna do over and over and over again” – cynically assuming that the spiral of time simply reiterates, and that nothing is ever solved, a view he appears to revoke in the final line of Episode 8, ‘Form and Void’: “If you ask me, the light’s winning”.

Photo by sorin88 via Flickr (licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 3.0)

By Hannah Tang

The prominence of the female body in the show is striking, and intrinsically linked to the inhuman fear of True Detective. In the opening scenes of the first episode, the naked murder victim Dora Lange is posed kneeling in a mockery of prayer, by a tree in a burnt sugarcane field. Her bare form is analysed critically by male officers. A significant element of her violation is this performance of unveiling, creating a dynamic of watcher and watched: this can also be observed in the horrifying pictures snuck into church Bibles and the tape of missing girl Marie Fontenot’s abuse and murder. Just like The King in Yellow, the cult constructs a stage for their violent brutalisation, littered with props of painted spirals and deer antlers. Its victims are voiceless, from the dead Dora Lange and missing Marie Fontenot, to the catatonic victim Kelly Reider; while their bodies can be found, their agency will never be. Marty’s mistresses, his young secretary, and later a former victim of child exploitation, are undressed in a display ripe with echoes of Carcosa, revealing his power dynamic that is, at best, deeply concerning. The silent female form is simultaneously revealed to and removed from the viewer, voiceless, sex workers and mistresses dually bared to an unflinching gaze – correspondingly, the cosmic horror of Louisiana’s dark underbelly is at once strikingly visible and yet infuriatingly impenetrable. Which horrifies a person more: the systemic injustice within institutions of government and religion permitting and perpetuating the most brutal of crimes, or the supernatural terror of cult sacrifice marked with otherworldly symbols? Or is it the unshakeable feeling that neither can truly be seen?

ecological. The main title theme, ‘Far from Any Road’ by The Handsome Family, details a deadly cactus personified in the form of a woman that renders unsuspecting victims insane. She can be interpreted as metaphorical of the poisonous nature of Carcosa, or alternatively, the form of Dora Lange. Her unclothed form eventually drives detectives to obsession and merges them with the Louisiana landscape, just as she herself is devoured by the fields and fused to deer antlers. Shots of the title sequence outline the detectives’ empty profiles replaced with rural horizons, the stage of the crimes – the claustrophobic, untethered environments are partially constructed within their mental landscape and decay. The primitive stick structures that frame the narrative further root the show in the natural world, while at the same time remaining distinctly fabricated, locating beacons of violence and diabolism. Juxtaposing components of the ecosphere with the preternatural results in a grating tension: perhaps such ferocious rituals revert to a natural instinct deeper than the modern mind can comprehend. By interlacing these two elements, the sweeping Southern landscape – appearing in childlike ritual drawings and lingering in a shot’s peripheral vision – is transformed into something more sinister. This is a reversal of Mother Nature as stereotypically benevolent, inverted as a sovereign force that swallows you whole.

Ten years on, True Detective Season 1 remains as enthralling as ever. Its rich, serpentine narrative, its arcane protagonist and its intricate exploration of human nature cement it as a truly iconic piece of television. Maybe time is a flat circle, and once you submerge yourself in True Detective’s cavernous depths you become compelled to revisit it time and time again, a Sisyphean fate.

This body horror additionally delves its tentacles into the

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EVERYTHING IS NOT COOL IN NAZARETH:

By Arinne Fatum I am not claiming to be Sisyphus but the fact of the matter is, if you ever find yourself climbing the hills of Nazareth trying to find a bottle of water, I reckon you would be much more sympathetic to his plight. Nazareth has a different reputation outside than it ever did back home. Growing up as an Arab in the northern Galilee I felt like a Sisyphus who could see a respite in sight; but Nazareth kept handing me a punishment for a crime I had not committed.

I had long ago decided that while I didn’t hate Nazareth, I certainly did not love it there; yet Elia Suleiman’s The Time That Remains has made this city as bright and flashy as Hollywood for me. I never wanted the rosetint, and definitely not an insulting representation. I always preferred the reality as raw as it truly was. To me, Nazareth is an underfunded city, with narrow and steep streets due to bad city planning, and no money to fix them. If you manage to tear your eyes from the Church of Annunciation and the old city, you are met with a brutal reality, one that looks more like the violent repression of an entire group of people and the resignation of an entire society to a flawed system. Suleiman introduces you to this world and makes you an integral part of it, a pillar even, and the parts of Nazareth which I considered unsightly become a source of comfort. I felt that I was not a viewer and more a silent witness, waiting to be called to the stand to testify to what I had experienced throughout this film.

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The first time I stumbled across the Time That Remains, I was in the middle of a mild identity crisis. I was Palestinian, I knew that to be the case, but when I was back in my country I had to be an Israeli-Arab; when I looked up what an Israeli-Arab should be, I was met with something that I felt had nothing to do with me. Amidst my existentialism and teenage angst, I was handed The Time That Remains on a grainy youtube link, and as I sat, and as I watched it, I was spoon fed the answer to my crisis.

Elia Suleiman is a Palestinian Citizen of Israel, a Nazareth native, and a director. Three things I didn’t consider could ever exist in the mainstream, this was already revolutionary to me. Suleiman knows that the situation is a mess, and he knows that the majority of it is out of our hands. He knows that we are facing full frontal attacks by the names of: poverty, unemployment, youth unemployment, gang crime, and every other buzzword that impacts marginalised communities. Instead of giving us a heart-wrenching biopic trying to unravel it, he almost laughs, throws up his hands, and says ‘take it as it is!’

From the minute I first watched it, then watched it again, and again, and again, I’ve been looking for that experience of being seen inside-out in every film I watch, and book I read, and person I meet.

The characters are instantly familiar to the viewer because they are familiar to Suleiman. The main character, Fuad, is his father; the other characters are his old neighbours and schoolmates. Suleiman even plays an adult version of himself within the film, the setting based on his youth and his own memories.

Suleiman’s character is silent; according to the director this is because he does not know enough about film to grant himself permission to speak. His lack of voice is brilliant, he does not speak so the plot cannot be changed by his words, much like the viewer. We become witnesses alongside him, and as his watchful gaze mirrors our own, we get lost in his world where he has been made a silent observer. We start in a Nazareth Israeli occupation. We are welcomed by the remnants of a society trying to understand how a life could deteri-

that was a bustling Palestinian city, to a city eaten alive by the Israeli occupation. We are welcomed by the remnants of a society trying to understand how a life could deteriorate as quickly as it has, and in doing so we are slowly integrated into the madness of it all.

Suleiman takes us through a war that doesn’t seem much like a war, with choreographed dances showing scenes of pillaging and looting. Gentle music of retro Arab stars guides us from the loss of Nazareth to the loss of the entire country, it is so gobsmackingly surreal that you can only laugh at how ridiculously close to reality it is.

Imagine, an Iraqi soldier happens upon our main character, Fuad, and his friends having a calm coffee in the street while the war rages loudly behind them. As he is walking by, Fuad stops him and asks where he is going. Our Iraqi soldier responds that he is on his way to help in the liberation of Tiberias, the men proudly tell him not to bother as the city has already been liberated, and is in fact in the complete other direction to where he is walking. The soldier looks astounded, he begins to move clearly looking for the next battle, and asks them, “what is in that direction instead?” The men tell him Haifa, but just as he begins to valiantly move again they stop him and tell him to sit down with them instead.

They were, in fact, wrong on every single count.

To a Palestinian nowadays it is common knowledge that Tiberias fell before Nazareth, but communication in 1948 was few and far between and they had no way of knowing that the city had completely fallen. Furthermore, the Arab armies were as organised as the Iraqi soldier that we see marching bravely in the wrong direction. It takes a lot to stop yourself from shaking the screen and shouting at them to stand up and not be so passive. The war was lost from the minute that they began drinking their coffee, but this just adds to the building hysteria that Suleiman wants you to accept from the very start to the very end of this film.

If that isn’t enough you are introduced to Suleiman’s neighbour, a foul-mouthed, drunken petrol station owner who will not accept the loss of the war. Every few scenes, we see this man douse himself in gasoline and threaten to light himself on fire because the situation has become so ludicrous that he can not think of any other way to manage. He never does it, but the sentiment is understood. This character is so perplexed by his new poverty, the demonisation of his Arab identity in his own land, and the loss of all that was familiar to him, that he builds grander and more delusional plans to take back the country. A gem includes: “If every Arab soldier got drunk before a battle he would see enemy aeroplanes much closer and be able to fight back much quicker.”

The situation snowballs to such a horrific extent that Sulei-

man uses this neighbour to personify the wildest thoughts of Palestinians, back then and now. Whilst I, or anyone else I personally know, have yet to pour petrol over ourselves, I reckon we can understand the desperation.

Suleiman makes a point of not attempting to humanise himself to his occupier, he instead chooses to centre the Arab’s experience. When Fuad chooses to save an occupation soldier from a car crash, the focus is intentionally on how the choice impacts Fuad. We understand that in the end, despite his chivalry, it is not Fuad who gets priority in the hospital, it is the soldier laying next to him. Instead, Fuad is shut out with a partition by a nurse. Suleiman’s work is riddled by this constant quandary of a humanity that desperately stretches its hands to find another, and yet misses every single time.

We see a specific breed of cruelty in an absurd scene that unfortunately mimics an even more absurd reality. The occupation forces fight doctors in the hallway for a Palestinian patient who is wanted for questioning. The wounded man on a gurney is pushed back and forth until finally the soldiers raise a gun at the doctors, who in turn put their hands up in surrender. However, once the soldiers try to take away the patient, the doctors run after them to get him back.

Suleiman reveals later in the film that due to his activism against the occupation in his youth, he was put on a wanted list and had to flee the country. We are not surprised that he has decided to take to protesting, to put his frustrations in the public domain. At this point we have borne witness to scenes of massacre, poverty, depression, repression. At every major point in this film, Suleiman gives the Israeli an opportunity to prove him wrong, and wants the Israeli to do better and be better, but at every turn he is disappointed.

Who could really blame him for turning his back?

Every time I rewatch this film, I am not ready for its end. I have remained in the time that remains, and for that I am ridiculously grateful. Not only is the filmography immaculately polished, the lack of plot and the mundanity of some of the scenes are so human it eats at your bones. There is such intimacy that Suleiman hides in: scenes of meals, scenes of a school choir singing, or a child getting reprimanded by his teacher. There is no canon-fodder or filler, every last scene and character matters. I’ve struggled to verbalise my whole life this ache that people like mine have to be known as human. Come introduce yourselves to this life we have built up from such a hostile land, let yourselves be known to and to know this world that was hidden from you before.

To this day I point everyone who asks to this film, because for 1 hour and 49 minutes, I was seen and known. In my mundanity and my ordinariness, and in my hardship too. I think Sisyphus might have enjoyed Suleiman’s Nazareth, maybe the hills would become a comfort to him too.

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Hamare Sapne Ek Hain (Our Dreams are One):

By Anainah Dalal Almost every South Asian child, from the subcontinent and beyond, has grown up with a Bollywood influence. We live and breathe Bollywood, dance to its tunes, or have fond memories of that one film our parents and grandparents could never let go of. It’s so easy to be blinded by it, to allow it to permeate our lives and stories to the point that we not only quote these films daily but attach deep emotional meaning to them. I am a critic of Bollywood, it has its flaws and I unabashedly make them known; but I cannot deny the influence it has had on my friendships, cultural education, and the simple joys it makes known.

Photo by megabeth via Flickr (licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0)

A review of ‘The Queen of My Dreams’

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All of these facets of the film industry, its legendary status, influence, and critique can be found in The Queen of My Dreams (2023) directed by Fawzia Mirza, which puts a unique spin on the old Bollywood movie Aradhana (Shakti Samanta, 1969) as it breathes new life into it as a remodelled tale of queerness, coming of age, and immigrant-hood. The film follows Azra (Amrit Kaur), a Pakistani-Canadian woman as she navigates her mother Mariam’s (Nimra Bucha), disapproval of her queerness while grappling with a tragedy back home in Karachi. But step one foot in Karachi, and we are instantly transported to 1969, where a young Mariam, also played by Amrit Kaur, navigates dreams of moving abroad and finding love in the shadow of her overbearing mother, Amira (Gul-e-Rana).

However, what brings Azra and Mariam together is their love for the classic Aradhana, passed down from mother to daughter as a symbol of eternal love.

Distinctly a difficult teenager and young adult, Azra is repeatedly criticised by her mother for her difference, be it in her lesbian-ness or Canadian-ness, who at one point claims “I am not nobody, mein tumhari maa hun (I am your mother)” when teased for a mispronunciation. In response to Mariam’s frustration with her daughter, her husband Hassan (Hamza Haq) claims “If you want to know what your daughter would be like, uski ammi ko dekho (look at her mother).” And we do get a look at what her mother was like; young, vivacious, and bold Mariam taking her life into her own hands in Karachi, wearing gorgeous ‘60s dresses and exclaiming “It’s 1969, I should be able to do what I like!”. With the aid of recreated scenes - from the song ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani’ recreated by Kaur as a young Mariam with her husband and by Ayana Manji as a young Azra, falling in love with a girl for the first time. Mirza furthers a beautiful legacy of generations of women falling in love to the same movie and song; mother and daughter united in Bollywood, both playing a gorgeous Sharmila Tagore in her iconic blue saree, even as they are torn apart in actuality.

However, none of the women can reckon with each other’s

differences. A young Azra remains disturbed by her mother’s need to fit into a very White Nova Scotia alongside her turn to religion which she enforces upon Azra, while a young Mariam is unable to understand her mother’s relentless hold over her life. In return, an older Azra is unwilling to conform to her mother’s traditionality in Karachi, while Mariam cannot see why her daughter remains so resolutely herself even in times of grief. There is a discomfort in the intergenerational tensions, and also a recognition. For when Azra bathes an old Amira who profusely apologises to her, mistaking her for a young Mariam, the tears in Azra’s eyes reflect the cracks that lie in the acceptance and rejection of young South Asians, queer and otherwise!

The Queen of My Dreams holds a softness and nuance that 90% of Bollywood films are unable to retain, while also paying homage via references and resemblances to Aradhana for its role in shaping the lives of numerous South Asians, intergenerationally and across the borders of India and Pakistan. It does not replicate Aradhana, but borrows from its storytelling, style, and music to tell an epic tale of bridging boundaries between loved ones. One of the film’s accomplishments is refusing to create divisions within the sub-continent, but rather pushing for love as the overpowering message, as is recognised by Amrit Kaur in her acceptance speech for a Canadian Screen Award.

Kaur thanks Mirza for “casting an Indian woman in a Pakistani part” and “pushing for unity between two countries that were once one.” This is reflected in the film, be that when a heartbreaking qawali version of ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani’ plays, or when I recognise glimpses of my hometown in Karachi as depicted in the film. “Colonisation pushed us to a place of division, genocide, and now two communities who once loved each other, live in absolute vitriol,” [1] Kaur continues in her acceptance speech. This bringing together of communities and families, especially women - where the dreams of those seemingly disparate are ultimately the same - is what lies at the heart of The Queen of My Dreams.

As the credits rolled, I broke, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. A strong whiff of nostalgia and a feeling of being deeply seen blends into one as they reckon with all the possibilities the film represents. Possibilities of family, love, and difference that still blooms in the face of conflict, a resistance to negativity and division that is much needed in current times, all depicted in the film with a care that Mirza fishes out of herself and her viewers.

The Queen of My Dreams enters your life like a breath of fresh air and leaves behind the sweet, lingering scent of a film that is as unforgettable as the tune of the song it takes its name from - ‘Mere Sapno ki Rani ’- or the deliciously saccharine mogra that instantly reminds me of childhood.

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: r u o t s the era

A WIDER LOOK AT ITS INFLUENCE IN THE UK

By Dylan Ang 2:24, the timer flashed on the screen. The clock is ticking down. A cacophonous roar erupts from the stadium whilst Leslie Gore’s hit “You don’t Own Me” is drowned out. It was the moment 86,000 Swifties dreamed of.

Taylor Swift last toured the UK with the Reputation Stadium tour in 2018, back when tickets were much easier to source. For this tour, the hours spent queuing online for tickets is described as ‘The Great War’, a reference to a song off her album Midnights. Even for those without tickets, standing outside the stadium was still good enough to hear the roar of the crowd within.

As someone who had been to multiple concerts and festivals this year (including Olivia Rodrigo, SZA, Coldplay and even Glastonbury), the energy within the stadium was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. Everyone was dressed up; fathers with no interest in Swift supporting their daughters, and mothers with their sons celebrating Swift’s legacy. From the nosebleed seats to the stadium floor, there were handcrafted body suits from her Lover set, DIY t-shirts from her Red era, all in tribute to Swift’s extensive career. This was not just a concert, this was a movement - an event of something more monumental.

Swift began the concert with an introduction adorning her eras. A recording of her singing the words “It’s been a long time coming” whilst the echoes of her album titles opens the spectacle. Her backup dancers dressed in towering silk fans graced the stage.

The dancers point towards the centre. The realisation that Swift is seconds away from appearing has hit the audience. Screams of joy and ecstasy fill the whole stadium.

Swift appears like a real life barbie, opening with ‘Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince’ from her album Lover. It’s a nod to the last album she wrote before

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COVID-19 suspended her planned tour named ‘Loverfest’.

She looks around upon an extendable podium, gazing at every inch of the stadium. Waving to the very back, acknowledging every single person. This is her moment, her victory lap of 11 different albums and 3 re-recordings so far. Her way of saying she is ‘The Man’.

For those unaware, this is Swift’s sixth concert tour. She is no newcomer to the pop scene, more like a veteran in her field. The Era’s Tour spans 152 dates traversing every corner of the world, from Buenos Aires to Tokyo and Milan to New Orleans. Whether you’re someone who has discovered Swift during the Folklore and Evermore lockdown eras, or whether you’ve been here since the very beginning, there is something for you, Swift made sure of that.

The crowd followed Taylor’s every move, from waving in unison in ‘You Need to Calm Down’, to singing with her during ‘Lover’.

Swift has the power to evoke a certain sense of nostalgia for older fans. For many, it is a throwback to her country beginnings and her rise to global stardom. The Fearless Album was what put Swift’s name on the world stage with ‘Love Story’ being an instant pop classic. The teenagers during the Fearless era have now grown up, many with children who are now beginning their ‘Swifty’ journey.

Swift sings through her eras, bringing back hits from the Red era and passing on her legacy, giving a signed hat to one lucky fan, usually a young child. The powerful ballad ‘Enchanted’ from her third album Speak Now is an era that doesn’t get much stage time, but some of the most stunning outfits of the tour.

The crowd erupted when Swift brought upon her first full pop era of 1989, in which she delivered her quintessential hits ‘Style’ and the 2014 earworms ‘Blank Space’ and ‘Shake it Off’.

She performs her newest era The Tortured Poets Department the most theatrically out of all her albums. The narrative of dying love in ‘Fortnight’ is communicated through the set.

Her power as a force to be reckoned with in ‘Who’s afraid of little old me’ is clearly communicated by her movements as she chases her backup dancers upon a levitating platform, but is also a nod to Swift being seen as overbearing by some in the music industry. The loss of a battle internally with an ex-lover is realised in ‘The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived’ with Swift marching down the stage in front of a procession.

In ‘I can do it with a broken heart’, her struggles as a pop star are communicated with the golden age-esque theatrical performance in which she describes it as “Female Rage: The Musical”. Swift is able to communicate a story that captivates the audience into wanting more. It’s the beauty of her work and craft that keeps her fans interested.

What draws most people to attend the concert over and over is the acoustic set. Swift can play whatever song she wants for the audience. For many it’s a chance to hear some of her deep cuts and songs that rarely see the day of light. She is known for being “chaotic” and creating mashups that any swiftie would die to hear live.

I was lucky enough to witness the megabridge of “Hits Different” and “Death by a Thousand Cuts” along with the mashup of “The Black Dog, Come Back… be here” and “Maroon”. All songs which I was dying to hear.

Everyone was riding on the high of the surprise songs as the Midnights set marked the ending of the concert. She begins with single Lavender Haze before transitioning into infectious hit Anti Hero. Swift sings to the very corner restricted view seats, making them know they are appreciated. She ends the set in full glory with Karma, parading around in a iridescent jacket whilst fireworks go off in the background and rainbow confetti flutters through the stadium. She ends up with the same energy she starts with. It’s as if this 3.5 hour marathon is a walk in the park for her. Reminding us of her strength and endurance as an artist.

There is no doubt that the Era’s tour is one of the greatest concerts to ever exist. In a time where artists have begun to strip back, Swift shows that more is more and delivers a once in a lifetime experience. She truly is a “mastermind”.

music artists. For her 2023 Concert Film, Swift skipped in what she describes as “the middleman” such as major film distributors and negotiated a music deal directly with AMC for her movie release. In which Beyonce soon followed suit with a similar plan for her Renaissance Tour Film as well.

But Swift’s influence has not come without detriment from malicious individuals and groups. Swift’s Vienna shows were cancelled due to a threat of terrorism by extremists.

Those attending were devastated that the show of a lifetime was cancelled by those willing to cause harm. An 11-yearold girl from Australia was stabbed on a trip to see Swift in Wembley. Taylor also recently met with families affected by the Southport tragedy in which a mass stabbing took place at a Taylor Swift themed dance class. This is not Swift’s fault in any way, but a sign that her influence on the world has caused negative repercussions by her fans so close to her.

After the end of her European Leg, Swift addressed the cancellation stating that safety was a key priority for her. She wished to only be “grieving concerts and not lives” and that she “decided that all of my energy had to go toward helping to protect the nearly half a million people I had coming to see the shows in London.” Swift would likely be taking similar preclusions after the 2017 Manchester Bombing in which a Suicide bomber set up a bomb at the end of Ariana Grande’s concert in which 23 people died.

Nonetheless the UK was lucky to experience the “Swiftiemania” that swept through the country. Everyone was still busy making friendship bracelets to trade, sewing iconic Taylor Swift outfits and creating elaborate signs to showcase their love for the singer. On every corner you would see someone in a t-shirt or a jumper with The Eras Tour clearly adorned. Those with the sparkly bodysuits, cowboy boots and friendship bracelets were clearly headed to the Era’s tour. In this current age there is no other tour with symbols so clearly representing Swift’s legacy. It is a testament to its influence on pop culture and the world itself.

Swift is a performer, a songwriter, a director, a singer, and feline enthusiast. She is forever on her toes writing her next song, thinking about her directorial debut or collaborating with new artists. She is feeding her fans. She is in her prime with no plans to slow down.

Her expertise has led her to have a profound influence on the In Swift’s 2023 Time’s Person of the Year Article. She asks wider community. Brands and individuals are trying to cash us one question: in on the Taylor Swift hype. In the UK “Swiftogedden” , a popular club night for those who love Taylor Swift, has been “Are you not entertained?” consistently packed since the Eras tour. At Heathrow Airport, a sign with the Swift track “So Long, London” is displayed In which we reply, “We bloody are!” wishing travellers a farewell. Further, Swift’s arrival is estimated to have brought 1 billion to the country with 300 million alone in London. Her influence also extends to other

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INDIAN VEG

By Matthew Pellow Walking along Chapel Market, Indian Veg is difficult to miss, with its garish signage that beckons passersby with promises of a budget-friendly feast. Since it opened in 1985, the restaurant has been a favourite haunt of students and locals alike, enticed by its budget price point – around £12 – for unlimited buffet and free corkage. As you step into the restaurant, you are immediately greeted by an array of bold, and at times questionable, claims about the benefits of a vegetarian diet that plaster every wall. Though perhaps an eyesore, the quirky décor of Indian Veg added to its unique charm, creating an atmosphere that’s both eccentric and thought-provoking.To start with, signage suggests a bowl of the lentil soup. For me, the bold, spicy, smoky and garlicky soup served as a great introduction to Indian Veg and a definite highlight among the buffet selection. As I ate, I picked out a few of my favourite pieces from the walls. One poster insisted, “Drink one glass of warm water just when you are about to go to bed to avoid clotting of the blood at night to avoid heart attacks or strokes.”

I particularly enjoyed what I will dub the Wall of Juices, which featured a ‘Juice for Depression’ made from carrot, apple, spinach and beet – a delicious, if not clinically proven, alternative to antidepressants. Another poster near the buffet offered selfhelp tips, including some humorously relevant advice for the all-you-can-eat spread below: “Don’t overdo.

Keep your limits.” For me, the sometimes interesting, sometimes hilarious wallpaper was without a doubt the highlight of my dining experience. Returning to the food as I must, lest this article be exiled from the Food and Drink section, you can help yourself to a daily varying buffet of tasty, spicy home-style vegetarian curries, salad, chutneys, raita, rice dishes, bhel puri, paratha and onion pakora – an extensive variety of dishes indeed. Of that day’s selection, my favourite was the potato and pea curry, spiced

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intensely with mustard seeds. The paneer, pea and coconut curry came in a strong second, with the nutty sweetness of the gravy enhanced by desiccated coconut. However, dishes rely heavily on the cheapest ingredients; each curry includes at least one of the following – potatoes, chickpeas or peas – which often results in a lack of textual variety and distinction among the curries. Inevitably, as likely their most expensive ingredient, the paneer in the paneer, pea and coconut curry appears to be more of an afterthought than the main element of the dish. Given this fact, make sure to take a lot of salad, of which I would especially recommend the refreshing onion and mint salad to cut through the stodge of starches. The atmosphere of the restaurant was also a little peculiar – certainly not helped by the décor. As I finished my first plate, I overheard an argument erupting in the kitchen, audible from my table. Similarly, while not rude, I wouldn’t describe the service as friendly. Service at Indian Veg is very much ‘hands off’, with little interaction with staff beyond settling the bill.

Despite this criticism, I do not intend to disparage the owners of Indian Veg in their commitment to their local customers. On the contrary, they have made a commendable contribution to the local community by offering free meals to the homeless. While I was at the restaurant, the staff went out of their way to fill a takeaway box with curry and paratha for a homeless man who was waiting outside. Such initiatives highlight their genuine commitment to the local community.

While I wouldn’t recommend this restaurant for solo diners seeking high-quality traditional Indian cuisine, Indian Veg is ideal for groups of friends looking for an affordable evening out. Gather some friends, bring along a few bottles, and enjoy a no-frills yet relaxed dining experience. It’s a great choice for anyone who loves Indian cuisine and wants to enjoy a vegetarian meal in a casual, unique setting.

s ’ l e Ang y k r i Qu n a i r a t e Veg n a i d In t e f f Bu 16

Breaking Down Barriers with BRICKS

By Roxy-Moon Dahal-Hodson

Tori West is the founder and editor of BRICKS magazine, an independent arts and culture publication based in London. Beginning from West’s bedroom floor, the magazine has featured the likes of Paramore, RAYE, beabadoobee and Phoebe Bridgers. The founder is known for their candid approach to the realities of being a Welsh workingclass queer creative in the industry. Utilising her success and background, West forged the BRICKS Learner Platform, a monthly or annual subscription containing 50+ creative opportunities via email every week. I was captivated by her integrity and relatability, and eager to have a conversation with someone from a similar background to mine who has found success in the creative industry.

Many working-class people who start a promising career are given the chance to discard their class label and assimilate into a new identity. Contrary to this, Tori West champions the struggle in raw social media posts and through the undercurrents of BRICKS magazine. I was curious what influenced West to showcase being unapologetically ‘workingclass’. West explains, “I’m a massive believer in ‘you can’t be what you can’t see’ and I really struggled to understand what I wanted to gain out of the creative industry. Growing up in Wales, I didn’t have access to that - I didn’t see journalists. My mother was a seamstress and I first went to university to do fashion design as it felt accessible. It was the wrong course for me - I hated pattern cutting. I’m not a maths girl.”

After much discussion with her tutor, West changed their course to fashion communication at university.

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She defines her path as “non-linear” and initially never believed creating a magazine counted as a genuine and realistic “job.” On entering the industry, West states how they experienced “microaggressions in the office drastically impacting my self-confidence.”

These encounters led her to conclude “If I can get through and push as many people as I can with me - there is a slightly selfish reason for that. In all honesty, I needed something different. I couldn’t find it, so I built it.”

Only 16% of the creative industry is made up of working-class people - Tori West is working to change these odds. She states, “I read that statistic and was like ‘I’m off.’

That’s my whole career.”

West addresses how class is not protected under the Equalities Act, “Class is not widely considered as a marginalisation. It feeds into so many other things like racism and ableism.” She discovered “how hard it was to break through to the creative industry as a working-class person. A lot of people kept assuming I was a rich bitch - I was actually a full-time cleaner. I found it so offensive - I would love to be a nepo baby. But of course they think that.

It’s so rare [someone like] me to be in this position.”

Using Bristol as a “stepping stone” to bridge the gap between South Wales and London, West highlights the change in their accent.

“People in Bristol used to say ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’ Or say, ‘What do you mean?’” After fourteen years of life in England “I shifted my accent to sound less Welsh - I was sick of hearing comments about it. It’s a massive regret of mine.”

West trained herself to be what is considered “more wellspoken.”

I was intrigued by Tori West’s day-to-day experience working as an editor: “It changes constantly. I’m always switching roles. If we’re making the print, I’m heavily involved in production on set. When I’m not, my work is very social media driven. I’ll often think about the Learner Platform and we’ve also just started a talent agency. So, I’m very split across the board. One day I’m the talent agent for the day, the next I’m a social media girl, and then it’s tax day. That’s what running a business is like - it’s crazy. I’ve had to become so business savvy. I need the calmness to put out little fires every day. You have to be ready for that.”

BRICKS is a unique publication due to the nature of its independence, “editorships aren’t usually doing the accounts, running the socials, and looking after their entire workforce and contributors.”

Social media allows us to connect and gain opportunities, yet we feel constantly surveyed and put in front of the spotlight; Tori West spoke about the burden of being online, “I really struggle with it. I started the magazine because I wanted to be behind the scenes - I couldn’t do public speaking. The change I’ve had to undergo is obscene. I feel like sometimes I sacrifice my anonymity for profit. That isn’t something I wanted to do. However, to post a brand opportunity, compared to the money I would get as a full-time cleaner, helped me save time. I started to shift my mindset. The more I could grow my socials, the more time I could

spend doing BRICKS.” The political roots of BRICKS are undeniable; many corporate-run publications avoid politics or claim to support causes and movements without sincerity or action. West is frustrated by this, “there are a lot of individuals working at magazines who write about their experience with class and a friend will say, ‘I literally went to private school with that person.’ It’s disingenuous - why do you feel like it’s your voice? I saw magazines putting out statements on Black Lives Matter when I knew they weren’t paying my Black friends. It was the pandemic and they hadn’t been paid for months. You’re not looking after the Black community like you claim to.”

I inquired about any future aspirations or achievements West had for BRICKS, “I would love to get us to a stage when we’re on a salary or have enough disposable income to give back.

For example, a bursary or grant scheme - even paying someone to create their own magazine. That would be incredible. Obviously, I would love to have more contributors. At the moment, the backbone of the creative industry is being replaced with AI and unpaid interns. It’s really scaring me. I meet so many incredible people who have been pushed out of the industry, not because of lack of skill or ideas, it’s the fact they need survival money and they’ve switched industries completely. It breaks my heart.”

West recalls picking up a Canadian independent magazine, “I thought it was so cool that someone could create this and now it’s in a bookshop. Looking through it, I began complaining about the same type of person being photographed: skinny, brown mousy hair, lolita style… I was told by my partner at the time, ‘If you’re going to moan about this enough, why don’t you start your own magazine.’ I said ‘Maybe I will.’ He continued, ‘What would you even call it?’ When we walked further down the street - I’m not even kidding - there was a pile of bricks blocking the path. Then I started complaining again, ‘That’s insane - why would someone do that? Why would you block someone’s access like that?’ I was like, ‘Oh! I’ll call it BRICKS.’” I joked to her “Sometimes complaining gets you places.”

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