It is a far too often used phrase to convey the urgency with which I wish to suggest the reader attend this exhibition, but truly, the National Portrait Gallery’s Lucian Freud: Portraits is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Of course, the art itself more than merits this accolade; however, the reason I am so adamant that all who truly love art must visit this exhibition is that it will never conceivably be reassembled. Comprising works from all stages in the artist’s long and multifarious career, approximately half of the pieces have been sourced from private owners. Indeed, the outpouring of affection towards Freud after his death in July 2011, has allowed the NPG to source works from a plethora of private collections. However, having impressed on you an urgency to attend this exhibition, which ends on 27^th May, for social and historical reasons, I will seek to justify myself through artistic ones.

More than any recent exhibition in London, perhaps besides the Tate Modern’s recent retrospective on Miro, the NPG placed its focus on the historical progression of the artist. Whilst it is no doubt typical to group pieces by date rather than theme for such events, in this case, the foregrounding of Freud’s development is key. If a watershed is useful in pinpointing the moment of transformation in the aesthetic of the artist, then we must place Woman Smiling in this position. From his earliest paintings in 1941, though to 1958, the image of the human form presented to us by Freud is both smooth and pale. Indeed, there is no sense of the progressive layering of oil upon oil that is so symptomatic of his later style; instead, we are presented with the flattened features of man devoid of movement or vitality. This is nowhere better exemplified than in his series depicting his first wife, Kathleen Epstein, where her skin is pale to the point of anemia with a wide-eyed expression of both sorrow and loneliness. Indeed, as we move through the exhibition, we realise that the view is continually denied the eye-contact that allows for an emotional connection to be created. Freud’s models are seemingly ashamed of their participation, and we are not observers but voyeurs at their vulnerability.

It is in one of such paintings of Epstein, Girl in a Dark Jacket, that we can first see Freud’s association with Cubism. It is only slight, he does not descend into abstraction of the features as Picasso did, but the face is certainly formed of angular shapes rather than flowing contours and we can see how his eye has broken the features down into shapes, viewing the parts that form the whole. This connection of Cubism is something that I would like to emphasis throughout his work, though it is a maturation of Picasso’s earlier application, I use the term then to describe Freud’s vision rather than his creations. Even as Freud developed his style post-Woman Smiling, there is still a sense that the face is a composite of shapes, not an integral and unified structure. When he talks about mapping the ‘landscapes of the face’ we understand how the British artist would have viewed such a project; the patchwork quilt of British farmland, with its rich earthy colouring, is the very landscape that Freud captures in the features of his models. Indeed, it is hard to believe that words such as Sleeping Nude, painted in 1950, could have been from the same artists who re-imagined the human form in all its ugliness in Benefits Supervisor Sleeping, painted forty-five years later. The smooth textures of the early work have been completely transformed into an earthy, contoured body that revels in its unconventional choice of subject. There is no idealized beauty after 1958, but there is something true that we cannot ignore.

One could dwell for hours with any of these paintings, and the only disappointment with so large a collection is that we cannot; however, if one had to choose only a handful of pieces to exemplify Freud’s later style then perhaps these would feature. One of Freud’s favourite models, and the one that provides the most interesting poses, was Leigh Bowery. Bald and overweight, the depictions of Bowery are a confrontational assault on the viewer sensibilities, with Leigh Bowery (Seated) being amongst the most provocative. A similar effect occurs with ‘Big Sue’, Freud’s ‘Benefit Supervisor’ whose presence forces us to re-examine our own perceptions of the human form. However, where Bowery exudes confidence, dominating the centre of the canvas, the painting Freddy Standing highlights the vulnerability of man. Ushered into the corner of the room, the figure appears thin and gaunt, a victim not an entertainer. It is when Freud captures this fragility in his work that we feel the most moved; both man and woman are stripped back to an essential being and both are found desensualised and alone. Indeed, man’s inability to connect with his fellow man is ever present, in the solo depictions of individuals and even more so when the models fail to interact within group compositions. If Freud speaks to us through these works, then it is to remind us of our inalienable solitude. 

He had carefully chosen his chair because it was hard and wooden and high, and it looked to him like the kind of chair you would sit on to write. But as he sat, staring carefully at the grained surface of his wooden desk, Nick was aware only of the hardness of his seat and its proximity to the writing surface. The young man tapped his pen with neat, careful precision against the wood, feeling the springs compress inside the little plastic rubberised cylinder as the nib shot out, and then the moment of release as the metal tip was drawn back inside. There was the stiffness of the chair, and the careful metronomic clicking of the pen and the noise of people down in the shop. The syrupy late afternoon light came in obliquely through the window and poured warm into his eye, leaving little kaleidoscopic, geometric after-images in his vision when he blinked, which he could avoid only by lifting his head to a specific angle, focusing out onto the damp-stained off-white back wall of the bedroom, which hurt his neck, leaving the dull sensation of pain in his sternomastoid muscles, and the light and the clicking and the hard wooden chair. Nick was a writer. And, as of the last three months, he had been resident at the Shakespeare and Company bookshop in Paris.

 The shop was small and famous, and was patronised mainly by tourists who had seen Midnight in Paris and who had once heard of Hemingway. Its dusty shelves were weighed down under bulky loads of books, and the dreary plodding noise of an out-of-tune piano seemed constantly to float from some upstairs room, muffled by the ceiling. When it rained, the drops beat down on a little exposed skylight, filling the whole shop with the soft, warm murmur of falling water. And at Shakespeare and Co., one could gain residence for free on the basis that one was a writer; Nick was living there without paying a penny, so ipso facto… that proved it. But what exactly did he write? He had been carrying a notebook for months, carefully labelled “Writing Journal”, and its pages were filled with a thick, curlicue-saturated scrawl, outlining in bright blue ink his most ephemeral and ingenious thoughts before they escaped his mental grasp, collapsing into little heaps of psychic dust. The latest page was entitled “thoughts on dough”. The first line read “the stuff of life – bread, its progenitor. Also – money. Money = basis for life? Elaborate…” The rest of the page was a To-Do list, half ticked off and a brief shopping list.

 The week before, a famous writer, who had become famous by writing salacious, thinly disguised autobiography, had been in-store doing a promotional reading of her latest salacious, thinly disguised work. At the end of the salacious reading, Nick meekly approached her, proffering his recently purchased copy of her book to be signed, and announced in a proud, barely-cracking baritone

-“I’m a writer”.
-“Great”, she replied.
-“I’m Nick”.
-“Hi, Nick”.

 On another occasion, Nick had been helping a customer with a purchase, searching the top over-stock shelves for a last copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. From the height of his ladder, he could see another store volunteer talking, with overflowing, animated gesticulations, to a woman, wearing a green turtleneck sweater and entirely round tortoiseshell glasses.  Nick abandoned the book and the waiting customer, and approached the woman, hearing hints of conversation – hints that suggested that she was a publisher, a publisher “always on the look-out for new writing”. And here he was, a writer, in Shakespeare in Co, standing amongst these heaps of literature; to his left lay the Beat generation, cosily tucked to the side of the entrance, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs, ready for easy discovery and subsequent purchase – to his right was a display of David Foster Wallace, framed by Jonathan Franzen and Dave Eggers. And there, in the middle of it all, was Nick – all parcelled up and ready to be found. And so he approached her – he was a writer he announced, looking for a publisher. Send her some of his stuff she suggested. Well, I will then. Well, I look forward to it. Likewise.

 And Nick sat, too high up against his desk, so his thighs were pinched slightly by the interior of the desk surface, carefully constructing a narrative, with a detailed and complex character development, each imbued with an individual, rich interiority, drawing from his many pages of notes. As each idea came to him, he vividly imagined it read and discussed in excited A-level classrooms or in Booker prize judging rooms, followed by grave and dignified nods. The book sat out on the desk in front of him, held open, pinned down by an empty plant pot and a half-full pack of Camel Blues, torn slightly at the edge. And Nick stared blankly at the page, aware only of the light hitting his eye, and the pain spreading across his neck and down his back and of his carefully chosen chair and the fact that he was writing.

Yes, it’s that time of year again; get ya picnic baskets, grab your retro bicycles and start a-frolicking because summer is officially here. And if ever an album was born to shoulder that oft-quoted title of ‘quintessential summer soundtrack’, it’s King Charles’ debut LoveBlood. A glorious mélange of reggae rock and folky whimsy, LoveBlood can be most aptly summed up as the lyrical love child of Caribbean Tropicana and rosy English folk.

The effortlessly beguiling opening lines of ‘Mississippi Isobel’ – ‘she grows wild strawberries/She’s made of ivory and pearl’ – exemplifies King Charles’s seductive powers of song writing. The buoyant piano chords breezily evoke visions of carefree summer afternoons, while ‘Lady Percy’, replete with gospel and reggae influences and armed with a joyously infectious refrain ‘Oh-uh-oh-oh Lady Percy will never come to my show’ is enough to send most reaching for the coconut bikinis and rum (in the best possible way of course).

The glam-folk extravaganza ‘Bam Bam’, as unsubtle as a door in the face, nevertheless highlights the King’s unbridled theatricality in a sublime riot of calypso rhythms, effervescent riffs and bombastic reggae-electro beats.

Meanwhile, the angelically mellow ‘Love Lust’ offers a reminder of King Charles’s close links to the Mumford and Sons brand of neo-folk revival. The dark vampishness of ‘Polar Bear’ and its refrain – ‘she’s got the hot blood of a polar bear/ The cool head of a crocodile’ – provides a climactic antithesis to the chirpy, tropical overtones of the album as whole.

LoveBlood marks a considerable victory for the hitherto much-maligned genre of reggae-folk. King Charles has brought the genre to near perfection by combining rythmic mastery with songwriting par excellence. So raise a salute to the King, procure a cocktail and form a conga line to a beach near you.

Four Stars

Instead of possessing the husky rasp normally associated with Mancunian acts, Ren Harvieu’s voice is that of a classic singer, evoking memories of late 50s and 60s pop and the likes of Dusty Springfield and Shirley Bassey. Originally intended for release last summer, Through the Night had to be pushed back after Ren suffered a traumatic spinal injury at a party when a guy landed on her whilst vaulting over a hedge.

Happily, she is now recovered and her music feels imbued with her new sense of freedom, adopting an invigorating carpe diem attitude on ‘Open Up Your Arms’ in which she implores ‘Let me in before it’s too late’. The album as a whole speaks of independence and strength, with a musical and lyrical maturity which seems well beyond her 21 years.

The instrumentation is orchestral and lush with an intimate live feel to the recording, providing some relief at a time when computerised synthesisers and excessive layering are dominating the market. The album is full of big choruses, and the use of euphoric strings on songs like ‘Through the Night’ make Harvieu sound like a less kooky but more human Florence and The Machine. The one issue with these big choruses is that, combined with the strings and Harvieu’s 60’s vibe, some tracks, like ‘Walking in the Rain’ and, to a lesser extent, ‘Summer Romance’, end up sounding dangerously close to ABBA.

But by and large, the album is a triumph, with the slower tempo songs, like ‘Tonight’ and ‘Forever in Blue’ being equally, if not more interesting, than the anthemic numbers. You often hear albums being described as summer albums. Through the Night is an album for the spring–time; a refreshing breath of life which promises more to come.

Four Stars

Dry the River are at an interesting point in their musical trajectory. The five piece from London have quietly been honing their brand of ardent and emotionally wrought folk music and, while they have thus far evaded the glare of large-scale publicity, with a string of sold-out venues and a forthcoming UK headline tour in April this present state of humble obscurity is on the cusp of reversal. Nonetheless, this was evidently lost on the security guard who midway through my interview with Matthew Taylor (electric guitar) and Jon Warren (drums) curtly demanded they produce their tickets for the gig at Garage, Islington. ‘Erm, we’re actually playing…’ Jon replies, unabashed by their lack of celebrity.

Part of what has made Dry the River so distinctive in today’s increasingly popular neo-folk market is the intense poeticism in Peter Liddle’s songwriting and his hauntingly angelic falsetto. The majority of tracks on the group’s debut album, Shallow Bed, are also laden with religious symbolism, embodied by herds of oxen in ‘No Rest’ and a portentous angel of doubt in ‘New Ceremony’. These references are conscious as, Matthew explains, ‘religion and spirituality are really important to Pete… he’s always been surrounded by the Church and singing in the church choir from a young age.’

No doubt this spirituality has contributed to the fact that Dry the River are prone to wrestling with dark and introspective themes. The music is mired in human misery, whether that be the alcoholism in ‘Bible Belt’ (the track that has garnered almost half a million YouTube views) or the sickness and imminent death in ‘Shaker Hymns’.

I ask what provides the inspiration for this, and Matthew replies, ‘They’re pooled from experience, from everything we have experienced in life, our travels and touring and seeing other cultures.’ Jon and Matthew both add that they’re strongly influenced by Americana, particularly the South with its tradition for laid back melodies holding mournfully elegiac undertones. This American influence is not lost on the band’s critics, but for the Guardian (a tad unfairly, perhaps) it was ultimately ‘hollow when you know they come not from some remote Appalachian cabin but a shared house in Stratford, east London.’

Being such a folk driven band, I ask whether they feel that with the huge popularity of Mumford and Sons et al, the neo-folk climate is over saturated at the moment. Jon is adamant, ‘If you speak to anyone from Mumford or whatever, they’ll tell you that there isn’t a new folk climate because folk has always been around. But I do think it’s a reaction against mainstream musical culture, against the X Factor’. Matthew adds, ‘We’re actually trying to move away from folk… we want a diverse musical sound.’

This grass roots approach to making music also explains the band’s love of touring. Fresh from playing SXSW in Texas, Jon enthuses that touring is ‘the perfect life. There’s no pressure and we have such communicative fans, we can just relax and have a beer with them after… Pete isn’t the kind of front man who likes to hide himself away, he’ll have a beer and chat after.’ In a music industry rife with feuds, its clear that goodwill and mutual affection solidify this band. Dry the River may be on the ascent, but as of yet their feet remain firmly on the ground.

Oxford Universtity has a vibrant creative writing scene and here are just a few places to look to feed and showcase your creative talent… 

The Failed Novelists. 

If you’re interested enough in writing to have got this far, then you’ll want to know about the Failed Novelists. The biggest creative writing group of our university, they are a non-scary ‘writer’s support group’ which (aptly) meets in the Welfare Room of Teddy Hall and addresses its newsletters ‘Dear Failures’. Although the prospect of spending your Sunday afternoons amongst the literati of Oxford might sound daunting, current president Alex Wooley assures me that they endeavour to be kind, at least to first timers, and that ‘the point of the society is feedback, for free, about people’s work.’

The society was formed, back in 2005, after a night out when it was discovered that all the conquered revellers had written novels in their adolescence. Once the drafts had been dug out and shared over restorative cups of coffee in a cafe, there was no pride left to these founders. From then onwards, the society was established and they shared their newer work.

But whilst the tea has gone – ‘too difficult to bring all the mugs and the kettles and things’ – the spirit has remained and the Failed Novelists have been meeting ever since. New additions to the programme have been the production of an annual anthology of the Failures’ work which goes on sale and sells a decent number of copies. There is also an annual creation of a collaborative novel to which all Failure’s are invited to contribute.

Alex himself has appreciated the positive effect of the society on his work, admitting that ‘quite often I’ll write something and I’ll think that it is perfectly obvious, but everyone else wonders – ‘Why does your mind work like that?’ He points out that ‘the communal aspect is extremely useful’ for writers who otherwise engage in a fairly lonely communication between soul and screen. 

If you are interested in contacting this group, then email [email protected]

Oxford University Poetry Society.

OUPS both brings professional poets to Oxford and supports the work of student poets. Hence we have invited speaker events but also open mic nights as a platform for Oxford’s student performers. We take submissions for the society magazine Ash in the forms of poetry, photography and essays. Weekly workshops at 7 pm on Wednesday in the Mitre pub provide brilliant opportunities for poets to develop their writing. We do a lot for ourselves but also try to co-operate with other groups; this term we’re hosting a 3^rd week reading by Tom Chivers and Patrick McGuinness with St Anne’s Arts Week and a Shakespeare recitation competition with OUDS. We’ve had a range of things going on and anyone interested can join our facebook group or email [email protected].

Hanzla MacDonald

The Writers’ Block

The Writers’ Block is a show on Oxide radio that sprung from an idea we had to showcase Oxford playwrights. Over time, however, our remit has changed, though our commitment to sourcing and showcasing the best of Oxford student writing remains. Basically, we read out submissions from a variety of genres, reacting to them in our own unique way and having a bit of a laugh in the process (with a few guests and songs thrown in for good measure). We try to respond to everything we’re sent positively, no matter what the content, so there’s no fear of savage dissection of your carefully crafted work. If you’re interested in submitting, e-mail your work to [email protected].
Credit to Huw Fullerton, Helen Joslin and Benedict Hardy

Huw Fullerton

Andrew Irwin

The Triumph of Perfect Love 

The state of the world was evil: convulsed by war and injustice, it constantly collapsed further into bloody misery. The eternal cry of the suffering peoples of Earth pierced Heaven with ever greater insistence. Deliver us, was their plea, from hatred and cruelty, and make men love their neighbours as themselves! Now in Heaven there was an angel whose name was Forethought, who was a friend to humanity. He threw himself at the feet of God and implored him to answer the screams of the afflicted, and God smiled on his prayer and sent him forth with perfect love on his wings, to distill it into the hearts of men. As he flew over every island and continent, all negative and destructive emotions were banished. Soldiers on the front line fell joyously into the arms of the enemy; would-be criminals cast away the tools of their wickedness.

In the time that followed, injustice became a meaningless concept. Now that every man and woman loved their neighbour as their self, murder, war and every form of prejudice were things of the past. There was no place for theft, when all property was held in common. Prosperous nations rushed to share their wealth with the less fortunate. To take sexual pleasure by force would have been as unthinkable as to refuse to give it freely. There was no marriage, no lasting partnership, for no-one loved any one human being more than another. Even strangers were beloved, and so great was humanity’s love for the unborn that contraception and abortion were forgotten. To the children born of these liaisons every adult was a parent, but there were no families and no friendships.

People found they had no need for art, since they were everything to one another. The great works of the past, all drenched in the high colour and tragedy of negative passion, meant nothing to them, so they burned poetry and paintings to warm the weak and old in winter. 

Because the angel Forethought had sped only the vocal pleas of suffering humans, articulate even in their pain, now the love of man for man drove out any pity for the other beings with whom they shared their world. Countless species were extinguished as the human population, swollen by love, tried to squeeze enough food from the earth, yet her resources were found to be finite at last. As famine swept the continents and islands, life became torture. To die of hunger was bad, but to see those around you die at the same time and feel the pain of each as your own, that was worse than unbearable! They did bear it; they had to; but every day the cry went up to Heaven more and more: Deliver us, Lord, from this curse of perfect love!

Forethought had a younger brother, the angel Afterthought. He came to pity humanity in this hour, and he abased himself before God for their sake. But his prayer found no fulfilment. When will these wretched creatures be satisfied? God asked him, unsmiling. They wanted love. Let them starve on love!

The End

Concerning Lions

The wounded lioness strains upwards, blood streaming where the arrows pierce her. Shameful the victory over that splendid suffering! Cybele’s lions, unconquered, answered only to she whose yoke they bore, Mother Rhea who has the mastery of the wild at Cnossus. Their roar was madness.

Benaiah the son of Jehoiada killed a lion in a pit on a day when snow had fallen – snow in the Holy Land, long melted where there are no lions now, though the brilliant white and the tawny danger of it still dazzle on the page.

There are also lions in Homer. They fight, they roar, they cut bloody swathes through the sheepfolds, regardless of the spears in their chests, and it is their very courage that kills them.