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Innovation and technology define Vice-Chancellor’s annual Oration

Cara Hene
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Innovation and technology define Vice-Chancellor’s annual Oration

Vice-Chancellor Professor Irene Tracey opened the new academic year on Wednesday, 7th October, with the annual Oration at the Sheldonian Theatre. 

The Oration allows the Vice-Chancellor to define the priorities of the University’s highest office and reflect upon the past year at the University. This year, these include AI ethics, bridging the gap between “town and gown”, and the increasing importance of scientific innovation for the University. 

The Vice-Chancellor commented on the University’s influential role in shaping the AI landscape, both through technical research and noting work on AI governance from the newly launched Oxford Institute of Technology and Justice. Tracey referenced the university-wide rollout of ChatGPT-5 last year, while stressing the need for places where “students are taught to think critically and independently”. She identified Oxford’s tutorial system as a “unique asset” in combating the potential pitfalls of AI in learning. 

Tracey also spoke about local community work, such as partnering with the homelessness charity Emmaus Oxford: “I want my hometown people to actually feel that having the world’s number one university on their doorstep really does make their lives better.” 

From the start, the Vice-Chancellor also referenced that the turmoil facing British politics today might reflect “a nation not sure of its identity”. 

As for Oxford’s identity, Tracey pointed at the role of innovation and STEM, lauding a dizzying array of successes.“It is estimated that over two billion people worldwide are using or benefiting from a piece of research that came from Oxford… that’s impact,” the Vice-Chancellor said.

 The Vice-Chancellor also praised the “eye-watering investment” that Oxford quantum spin-outs have attracted. One such spinout, Oxford Ionics, was acquired for $1.075 billion by US-listed IonQ last year, while Oxford Quantum Circuits (OQC) closed a £260 million funding round this June – the highest ever won in Europe by a quantum computing company. 

“I sense we’re more comfortable now owning [innovation] as part of our identity,” the Vice-Chancellor said. 

For a university traditionally prized for the humanities and philosophy, with eight out of the last eleven prime ministers studying at Oxford, this is a notable shift.

The Vice-Chancellor went on to link these achievements in innovation to strong investment, referencing the University’s £6.9 billion in net asset value. In it, she thanked the Syrian-Saudi Arabian businessman and philanthropist Wafic Saïd for a “transformational” £15 million donation to the new Global Leadership Centre. 

The Vice-Chancellor then spoke about Oxford’s unique financial stability amongst struggling UK universities, calling for “that difficult national conversation about how we fund the UK higher education sector”. Just last week Nottingham University confirmed the closures of all modern language and music degree courses. However, Oxford is not immune to financial pressures. Oxford University Press workers are also still striking over offshoring jobs to India. 

The Vice-Chancellor also affirmed her support for diversity in higher education. She said: “If you are serious about excellence, the potential for excellence and finding top talent, you will end up with a diverse team.” “Look at the Premier League, or my beloved Everton”, she said. 

As said at the beginning of this year’s oration, the Vice-Chancellor concluded by arguing that “at this critical point in our collective history”, the University would make a mark on Britain’s identity as a “place of ambition, excellence, kindness and hope”.

Why does everyone like East of Eden so much?

Abigail Riley
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Why does everyone like East of Eden so much?

East of Eden is a special book in many ways. It is beautiful, for one, and loving too. John Steinbeck dedicated it to his editor and long-term friend Pascal ‘Pat’ Covici. In the preface, he describes East of Eden as though it were a box, a wrapped gift; for his dear friend, the author has packaged “the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation”, there is also “on top of these” “the love I have for you”. Above that “gratitude and love,” trapped with all the “joy” and “despair,” is the empty space of human potential: “Still the box is not full.” 

Steinbeck was born in 1902 in Salinas; thus, an unmistakable personal nostalgia colours the voice of the semi-autobiographical narrator. “I remember my childhood names for grasses and flowers,” he begins on the first page, “I remember where a toad might live and what time the birds awaken in the summer”. Throughout, despite, or perhaps because of, the various horrors the author explores, he always makes time for nature. In chapter eight we meet Cathy, one of those “monsters born in the world to human parents”. Amongst the schemes of her girlhood, Steinbeck remembers to mention “the young grass” that “bristled under the sun” and “the yellow dandelions”. In part, I think the explosion in East of Eden’s popularity is due to Steinbeck’s affection for Salinas Valley. The compulsiveness of his characters is present, as always, so is his ability to render any landscape powerful, visceral in prose. But there is something, ironically, lapsarian about East of Eden: it is a relic of the author’s own childhood. 

Everyone enjoys beauty; a beautiful book, written in a determinedly readable style, is bound to become popular, not to mention the endless power of nostalgia. But there is something else in East of Eden, I believe, that has catapulted it from the fame of every book-tok influencer’s favourite lists to a multi-million dollar Netflix show. I read the book in 2023, perhaps a little ahead of the curve – if that’s possible for a book published in 1925. Since then, I have recommended East of Eden to everyone who asks. But, I would not say it is my favourite book; it might not be in my top five. Rather, I recommend East of Eden in the same way a film buff recommends Good Will Hunting.

It’s feel-good; it’s the ultimate feel-good book because it tells you that your life is your choice. Be good, be bad, be a little bit the one and a little bit the other: just don’t imagine for a second that it is not under your control to be so. The message emerges slowly over the first few hundred pages, but arrives suddenly at the forefront in chapter 24, through the voice of Lee, a Chinese man who cares for Adam Trask’s boys when both father and mother have abandoned them. Adam Trask, of course, embodies his biblical namesake as husband to the ‘monster’ Cathy, and father to the Cain/Abel parallel, Cal and Aran. 

Lee describes the arduous process of translating Hebrew with four elderly Chinese gentlemen who live in San Francisco, smoking opium and solving whatever problems people bring them. After two years, he and the four elderly gentlemen can translate the passage – thus resolving a discrepancy in English translations of the Bible. “The American version orders men to triumph over sin… The King James translation makes a promise… But the Hebrew word, the word timshel – ‘thou mayest’ – that gives a choice,” Lee concludes, “It might be the most important word in the world”. Regardless of whether or not Steinbeck’s Hebrew translation is correct, which it likely isn’t, he’s right that ‘may’ is the most important word in the world: it is the belief in choice, the hope at the bottom of the jar, the empty space in the box that is “still not full”.

If it weren’t couched in the natural beauty of Salinas Valley, or the fascinating moral drama of the Trask and Hamilton families, Steinbeck’s message wouldn’t work so well. That said, the message is central to the book. Whilst other authors of his period reach for obscurity, designing their work to be a puzzle, a dream that requires clever interpretation, Steinbeck teaches a lesson. He delivers an earnest sermon. East of Eden is didactic; it is a fantastic book, it has beautiful language and compelling characters, but it is ultimately didactic. People enjoy reading it because it gives them a sense of control: Netflix could gamble millions on its popularity because they knew it was something that made people feel good about themselves, something they would want to watch on the screen.

East of Eden is a book like Pandora’s Box. It is well crafted, beautiful to look at. Inside, the author examines what he sees as the fringes of humanity, our best and worst parts: “Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts.” When all this has been discarded, when we think the box is nearly empty and the indomitable Trask lies dying, Steinbeck presents us with the final gift. It is the word timshel, the choice to be good or bad in our lives: hope.

The only thing missing from this bean was chocolate

Minnie Mertz
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The only thing missing from this bean was chocolate

If there were a smell I could capture, bottle up, and treasure forever, it would be the toasty and heartening smell of cacao roasting in the morning. Waking up at 5am for those frosty winter dawns was my everyday reality only a short while ago. Dragging myself out of bed, bundling up in thick jumpers, and traipsing through the soggy streets of Saffron Walden were the necessary tasks before entering what, in my humble opinion, could only be described as heaven. There is nothing quite like the sensory adventure you experience in a bean-to-bar chocolate-making room. Bean-to-bar production is, in essence, the process by which cacao beans are turned into that beloved end-of-day pleasure we love so much. 

Before Oxford, I spent a year working at Hill St, a prominent bean-to-bar chocolatier, run by brothers Greg and Chris. It quickly became apparent to me whilst there that true bean-to-bar chocolate making was a remarkably rare undertaking in the UK. The process itself is not one for the lazy or impatient. Through the meticulous stages of roasting, winnowing, grinding, refining, conching, and finally tempering, a chocolate bar is born. Each stage of the process is its own tricky, time-consuming, and complicated task. This method forms a luxury made not only with arduous amounts of love, care, and time, but with sustainability, high quality, and uncompromising flavour at its very tasty centre. 

Upon returning to Oxford this Michaelmas, I was beyond excited to be reunited with one of my all-time favourite spots, an Oxfordshire staple: The Missing Bean. This coffee establishment has become a second home, a place to catch up on essays and to fuel my brain for the day. A flat white with friends on Turl Street or an early-morning espresso at the Roastery in Cowley were pursuits I was so pleased to regain. 

To my delight, upon checking their social media, I caught sight of a brand new launch: The Missing Bean’s first range of bean-to-bar chocolate! I knew I had to get in touch and have a chat with the founders leading this venture. So my impending visit was not only the return to my favourite blend of coffee, but the discovery of a promising world within a business I already loved. 

My afternoon was led by the Head of Sourcing and the Head of Chocolate, Silviu Rad. What immediately struck me in our first few minutes was his passion for learning. There was no end to his desire to push the boundaries and create something incredible. Since The Missing Bean’s primary expertise is roasting coffee beans, the transition into roasting cacao was as smooth as the very chocolate I was about to taste. Silviu’s approach carried the same quiet obsession I garnered, and his refusal to produce merely what was necessary, and his determination to instead produce the best, was inspiring.

Standing in the roastery with Silviu as he talked through the refining process, the familiar waves of heated cacao wafted through the air. That familiar mechanical hum, jarring to some, carried such a wistful reverence to me. Having spent hours roasting beans myself and obsessing over getting that perfect taste, I know how incredibly difficult, but rewarding, a process it can be. 

Silviu pointed me toward their impact report, which details how building direct relationships, supporting farming communities, and respecting the planet form the pillars of their ethos. He spoke about embarking on their bean-to-bar journey by attending European expos, using their refined palates to explore the world of cacao and, more importantly, allowing them to meet the growers themselves. When chatting about these groups, Silviu lit up as if talking about an old friend. The relationships formed were so much more than business; they were grounded in respect, care, and enthusiasm for the craft. Cutting out the middleman creates a kindred partnership, which not only provides better financial gain and support for those in developing countries, but ensures much higher quality chocolate. This approach also helps growers protect biodiversity and maintain their environments. It was refreshing to see the importance of their sourcing, and to read introductions to the many members of the team that aren’t in Oxford, but remain integral to the process, halfway across the world. 

Then came the exciting part: the tasting.

Their single-origin bars, presenting the cacao beans from Costa Rica, Peru, and Brazil, are plain by name, though anything but by nature. As someone who has snapped and tasted many bars over my time, I can honestly say that I was sucked in by the depth and the bright, complex flavours in these chocolates. With this chocolate, every delectable molecule that dissolved on my tongue was not only absolutely delicious, but a further testament to the team’s patient processing and care. Each detail, from the careful sourcing of ingredients to the packaging, which represented the colours of the countries of origin, was carefully considered and did not go unnoticed. 

Alongside the core range, the team is set to release three variations with additions: black pepper and lime, sea salt and cacao nibs, and my personal favourite, coffee and walnut. Paying homage to their roots by developing a coffee-infused bar exhibits their dedication to self-sufficiency. In using their own roasted coffee, their creative, slightly nutty flair sets The Missing Bean apart from other bean-to-bar flavours on the market. To taste these products first was – excuse the pun – an absolute treat. This is sure to become my study fuel over the coming year and my pre-9am pick-me-up. 

The Missing Bean is set to launch this new enterprise on 17th October, online and in-store. Staying true to their ethos, they are raising money for charity in a sold-out launch event happening on 22nd October, which is sure to be a celebratory night. 

This isn’t just another commercial extension for a popular brand; it feels like the organic extension of a family ethos that stretches from Oxford to South America. The Missing Bean’s commitment to sustainable and transparent trade, to supporting local business, and to putting delicious chocolate right on our doorsteps might be the sweetest investment they have made yet. So get your calendars marked to head down and support this fruitful and exciting launch. As it turns out, the only thing missing from this bean was chocolate!

Striking workers demonstrate at Oxford University Press

Stanley Arlidge
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Striking workers demonstrate at Oxford University Press

A demonstration in favour of striking finance workers was held outside the Oxford University Press (OUP) last week, as the dispute over offshoring at the world’s oldest publishing house continues. 

Last week’s strike, which began on 28th September and ended on 9th October, marked the second round of strike action by the affected workers, who first went on strike between 1st and 11th September. The dispute began over OUP’s plans to offshore 48 finance department jobs to India-based EXL Services. 

On Wednesday, Unite, the union behind the strike, held a demonstration outside OUP on Walton Street. The demonstration was attended by around 25 people, including union representatives, striking workers, and OUP workers who had come out in solidarity with those on strike.

Under the shadow of a giant inflatable rat brought by the demonstrators, striking workers told Cherwell that OUP was trying to “intimidate” workers into not striking. One striking worker, who is not allowed to talk to the media, said that OUP had tried to say the strike was illegal. Cherwell understands that 21 of 28 union members, the only people legally allowed to strike, voted in support of it. 

Naomi Gravett, Unite’s regional officer, told Cherwell: “Some of these staff have been with Oxford University Press for 20, 30 years. They’ve given their heart and soul to this place… and they just feel like they’ve had their legs taken out from under them…

I could understand if it was a company that’s on their knees and they need to cut costs, but this is one of the biggest publishing houses in the world. They don’t need to save money, so it’s just profit over people.” 

According to public filings, the press made a profit of £47.1 million in 2025/26. OUP is an official department of Oxford University overseen by a delegation of the University’s academic staff. Asked whether OUP was in active consultation with the union to end the strike, Gravett and other union representatives told Cherwell that the union has received no contact from OUP since August. She added that “it was made very clear to us at the outset of the collective consultation that the decision had already been made. It was going to be outsourced; we were just discussing the measures.” 

Discussing the aims of the strike, Gravett said that “what we’d really like is Oxford University Press to turn around and say, ‘look, we screwed up here. You know we’ve made a mistake because this is people’s lives’”. 

In response, OUP told Cherwell: “All of the colleagues impacted by the changes have accepted the terms offered, which include enhanced redundancy terms. We have provided outplacement and wellbeing support, and funding for professional development. We continue to seek opportunities for redeployment, and some colleagues have secured alternative roles within the Press. 

“We have met with Unite to explore ways to resolve the dispute. Approximately half of the colleagues who voted in favour of industrial action took part in the strike. We have always acted, and will continue to act, in good faith.”

Hidden in plain sight: the bakery behind Oxford’s café counters

Priya Burrow
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Hidden in plain sight: the bakery behind Oxford’s café counters

Though you may not recognise the name, you have almost certainly eaten Gatineau’s pastry. If you have ever grabbed a flaky, buttery croissant at Tree Artisan before a 9am lecture, or rewarded a finished essay with something sumptuous at the Art Café, you have Gatineau to thank. For nearly two decades, this French bakery has quietly supplied many of Oxford’s favourite independents, from Society Café and Colombian Coffee Roasters to Missing Bean, Branca, and Alfonso Gelateria. Its name rarely appears on the label, yet its pastry has probably fuelled more tutorials than any of us would care to admit.

Gatineau is the work of Hervé Gatineau, who began a pastry apprenticeship in Toulouse at 15 years old, honed his craft at Laurent Bakery in Sydney, and spent a decade at Maison Blanc in London, several years of it as Head of Pastry. He opened his Summertown shop in 2007, and the business now balances its wholesale accounts with a loyal following of customers who come straight to the counter. It is a bakery deeply woven into the life of the city.

It is also more accessible than you might think. For students who rarely venture north of the University Parks, Summertown can feel a world away, so Gatineau came to us. Since Trinity, it has run a pop-up café on Radcliffe Square, with garden tables looking out onto the Radcliffe Camera. 

Still, it was the Summertown flagship that I was generously invited to visit, and there Gatineau’s delectable desserts and sweet treats were restored to their original purpose: bringing authentically French patisserie to an increasingly diverse Oxford food scene.

Arriving rather early on a drab Wednesday morning – the kind that usually calls for a meal deal and a library desk – I was greeted by a beautiful spread of pastries and breads, all baked that day. The cakes are made in the kitchen just behind the counter, reassuringly within view, and the whole shop smelled gloriously of baked goods. Warmly welcomed by the Gatineau team, we were soon presented with croissants, patisserie, chocolates, and madeleines: a small fraction of the full Gatineau range. 

The croissant (£2.70) came first – the truest test of any French bakery. As someone who typically steers clear of anything quite so indulgent, I was pleasantly surprised by how light and airy it sat on the palate, a testament to the French butter and flour Gatineau imports for exactly this purpose. Director Débora assured me that the vegan version is indistinguishable, which is welcome news for anyone whose college brunch options begin and end with toast.

The highlight of the morning, however, was indubitably the Paris-Brest Pistache (£7.95). Extra-crunchy choux is filled with a fresh pistachio paste made in-house and crowned with pistachio crumbs. The sweetness pairs perfectly with that texture, which leaves a slight savoury aftertaste. Be warned that it is generous: even split between two, it was more than filling, so treat it as a dessert to share rather than a snack to polish off alone.

Gatineau also offered the most undeniably French sweet treat, the madeleine (£1.50). It is the perfect size for a snack before a lecture or during a library break, and it caters to an array of palates: Madagascan vanilla, lemon, and Valrhona-coated. A florentine, with the classic lace of caramelised nuts and candied fruit, added a welcome crunch to the sweeter end of the table. The house chocolates came last, studded with macadamias, cranberries, and pistachios. 

The same care extends to what is in your cup. The coffee is Mexican, chosen to complement the food rather than overpower it, and the beans on the shelf come from Missing Bean, one of the cafés at the other end of Gatineau’s delivery round.

What truly sets Gatineau apart, however, is the ethics behind the pastry. As a wholesaler, it thrives on relationships rather than simple supply, and many of them run both ways. Alfonso Gelateria is a good example: its gelato is served at Gatineau’s café on Radcliffe Square, while Gatineau’s pastries sit on the counter of Alfonso’s new shop on Little Clarendon Street. In a city centre increasingly lined with chains, that kind of mutual support between independents matters.

Its ethos extends well beyond Oxford, too. Débora explained that Gatineau sponsors chefs from Indonesia and the Philippines to learn the exacting, and often arduous, tradition of French patisserie, giving them rigorous training and a secure job within the city’s wider community. Closer to home, fruit and vegetables come from local farmers wherever possible, so the patisserie counter shifts with seasonal produce, while the flour, butter, cream, and chocolate are imported from France for the sake of authenticity.

All of this painstaking care is reflected in the price. Gatineau is undeniably on the more expensive side, and few students will be making it a daily habit. But you are paying for skilled people and excellent ingredients rather than a brand, and a 10% student discount softens the blow considerably.

So whether you need a celebration cake for a friend’s birthday, catering for a ball or a survivors’ breakfast, or simply a sweet pick-me-up between the library and your next tutorial, Gatineau is the answer. With its pastry already on so many of our café counters, and its own pop-up a stone’s throw from the Bodleian, there is no excuse not to try the full range at the source.

The quiet guilt of upward social mobility at Oxford

Aayah Aslam
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The quiet guilt of upward social mobility at Oxford

Freshers’ formal. The first black-tie event I attended at Oxford. The golden glow of the candlelight, the grand dresses, tailored suits, and frustratingly elegant food should have been infinitely exciting for me as an incoming student. Yet the overwhelming feeling I remember was not, in fact, happiness or awe, but guilt. The beauty that surrounded me should have been inspiring, tangible evidence of my success, but a sombre emotion sat heavy in my chest. 

I could not forget the place I had departed from. I was the first person in the history of my school to be accepted into Oxbridge. I was paraded around in assemblies as proof of meritocracy. Even my own family members repeatedly questioned whether I could truly fit in here. The glittering world of Oxford felt like a faraway land compared with the area I grew up in. Experiencing my success without a deeper sense of responsibility towards my community was difficult. I felt embarrassed benefiting from an institution whose privileges are unfairly distributed, especially while people from my community still did not have access.

I found myself sitting in a majestic dining hall at an Oxford college, wondering what was so different between me and any of the other hard-working girls at my school. What amazing things had I accomplished to be given the chance to sit in these halls as an intellectual equal? I knew I had worked incredibly hard, that I had spent endless hours hunched over a desk in random empty classrooms in my school because we didn’t have a library – but so had so many other people in my area. What differentiated me from them? Was it a lack of access and opportunity?

I believe that such sentiments stemmed from a lack of self-confidence. That is not to say I was confident I would be accepted. I was susceptible to the occasional dose of imposter syndrome. But my uncertainty did not stem from a belief that Oxford was somehow above me. I did not feel out of place at Oxford, nor did I feel undeserving of a place here. I felt guilty that it was me who had been offered an olive branch out of the socio-economic disadvantages of my area, and not the hundreds of other young people who were far more competent than I was. They had just never been taught to be confident in their abilities and that honing them was not an embarrassing endeavour. 

I wondered how many of my peers in that formal hall felt the same way. Were they able to enjoy the infinite beauties of Oxford without an ounce of guilt? The invisible burden weighed heavily on me; the emotion was deeper than impostor syndrome. I felt I had to be a flawless representative of working-class students, as proof that people like me have full capacity to thrive in prestigious institutions like Oxford.

I felt that the only way to lessen this guilt would be to repay my community – to go off into the world, become successful, and then return home, proving that being accepted into Oxbridge no longer felt like a random anomaly, but a genuine chance.

I was reminded of this silent burden every time I returned home for the vacation. I secretly felt glad that I did not have to stay there for long, that it would only take six weeks in this temporary space before I could return gladly to a better place. Perhaps I should have wholly enjoyed all the privileges that Oxford has to offer without constantly binding myself with these chains of guilt. After all, could I truly presume that my peers from wealthier backgrounds did not also feel concern for such causes? I still felt accountable to the community I came from, and that assimilating too well at an institution like Oxford could be weaponised as proof of my abandoning them.

There is no way of getting out of the burden of social mobility. One may either wholly embrace the shift, or remain stuck without purpose. Perhaps the only solution to limit the emotion is through direct action: helping disadvantaged communities while recognising our own privilege. 

The return of the surreal 

Sylvie Quick
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The return of the surreal 

Mythical, dreamlike, phantasmagorical, and absurd: Surrealism, which took the art world by storm in the early 20th century, has enjoyed a huge resurgence in the past decade. 

The original pioneers of the movement have been receiving new attention and admiration. Early this year, Salvador Dali’s painting ‘Bacchanale’ sold for a whopping €254,400 at auction, and exhibitions displaying the work of Leonora Carrington were held in both London and Paris this summer. Contemporary artists have also been turning to themes of the irrational and the unconscious in their own work, producing a second wave of surreal artworks to be enjoyed and analysed. However, for a movement that was heavily intertwined with its contemporary science, politics, and culture, it’s extremely unusual to see a huge resurgence a century after its creation. 

Artist Paulo Nimer Pjota rose to fame recently with his summer exhibition ‘Encantandos’ at the South London Gallery, displaying 11 large-scale works, all depicting different, mystical, mythological scenes, figures and animals against a number of magical, dream-like backdrops. Pushing the boundaries of traditional painting, he made the gallery space a part of his landscapes, painting a large-scale mural on all four walls, inviting them to physically step into his artworks, challenging the traditional limitations of the canvas. He combined both modern culture, such as Brazilian hip-hop and rap music, and the images and styles seen in street art, with ancient myths and legends to create a unique painted landscape. His incredible exhibition displayed the new direction of contemporary Surrealism and reflects the interest and enthusiasm of the public towards this new wave of dream-like, imaginary images. With new art forms and media readily available and accessible, and the rapid changes of technology seen in the last decade, how will this modern renaissance of the surreal be different from its origins? What can we expect from the return of the surreal?

It’s impossible to mention this resurgence without acknowledging the influence of AI and the accessibility of dream-like, absurd images. In the last few years, the visual content we consume, whether in person or online, has been flooded with artificially generated images and videos, and as technology advances, it’s becoming more and more difficult to differentiate between the real and the fake. The status of photographs as truthful reproductions of reality has declined, and roles such as graphic designers and illustrators are at risk. This influx of artificial images has divided the art world: some artists embrace technological advancements to advance their own techniques and support their creativity, offering a fresh medium for their art forms. Artist Zach Blas has been exploring this intersection in his own art, navigating the new artistic possibilities provided by new technology, whilst simultaneously highlighting its potential dangers and downfalls. For example, his work ‘Icosahedron’, an AI chatbot residing in an electronic sphere, combines computer monitors with the familiar Magic 8 Ball toy, inviting visitors to interact with it, providing mystical answers to their questions or ‘predictions’ for the future, akin to a Tolkien-esque magic orb. However, through interaction with the artwork, the limits of the chatbot are revealed, shattering the illusion of an omniscient knowledge source and the availability of personalised algorithms and answers.  

Surrealism is simultaneously an introspective art style, taking inspiration from personal experiences, emotions, and the psyche as a way of revolting against rationality, rather than just responding to external factors. By translating the unconscious activities of the human mind into dream-like visual scenes, Surrealism mainly aimed to engage with the unconscious mind and encourage artistic expression, often informed by the developing understanding of human psychology. However, knowledge of the human subconscious has advanced from the days of Dalí and Carrington, with greater understanding of how the brain processes information and the impact of culture on our psyche. 

Contemporary artists have been using these psychological developments as inspiration. Artist and researcher Albert Barque-Duran combines his fields of study in cognitive technology with new media techniques as a way of showing the intersections of art and science. His research informs his art, infusing his images with his developing understanding of how the human brain works and understanding the mechanics of human creativity.  He describes his work as offering a “reinterpretation-actualisation of the surrealist movement through contemporary   knowledge”, with his art depicting ordinary objects in bizarre combinations or eerily out of place. 

In a similar vein, contemporary artist Julie Curtiss has also adopted modern psychological developments within her work, intertwining them with developing understandings of sociology and gender studies, including ideas of femininity, heteronormativity, and examining psychological theories in the modern world as themes for her work. She examines the position of women in society using distorted and warped depictions of everyday objects or familiar images. In theme, her work is similar to that of Carrington, working almost 100 years earlier. However, Curtiss, taking inspiration from pop art and illustrations, adopts modern techniques such as acrylic or vinyl to produce shiny, sterile, faceless figures in exposed positions. This physical barrier detrails the viewer’s gaze, pushing them closer to a voyeur than the central eye of traditional art.  

Overall, this resurgence in Surrealism challenges the traditional conceptions of how we view and interact with art. While the subject matter, the absurd distortion of everyday objects, and the creation of dream-like irrational scenes and scenarios have largely persevered, the mediums in which art is created and the ways in which we are interacting with it are being changed and reshaped by contemporary surrealists. The art created embraces modernity, intertwining aspects of modern culture with ancient myth, and using new opportunities provided by greater knowledge and technology to inform their art, whilst simultaneously highlighting their faults, displaying the conjunctions and challenges in the current art world. 

Feeling fresher: How to be casually healthy whilst going out in Oxford

Barbara Kempny
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Feeling fresher: How to be casually healthy whilst going out in Oxford

Freshers’ Week is drawing to a close, and the first lectures are rolling around alarmingly fast. The past week has been a cycle of pub, club, and grub alongside a whirlwind of people you’ll spend the rest of your university time with. It’ll have been a tough week – the first week away from home for many, adjusting to newfound independence whilst navigating the throes of Freshers’ Week. With luck, you’ll have come out with a few good stories and some budding friendships. 

Yet, the toll of a regular party-going lifestyle may soon catch up with you. A lingering sore throat might have started developing during freshers – an omen of the famous ‘freshers’ flu’. Fatigue might start to catch up at the most inconvenient times – when sitting in the front row of crammed lecture halls. And the Hassan’s cheesy chips that felt so right after THAT Bridge night might be starting to feel less inspired.

Partying and going out are important parts of the social scene at Oxford, and for most, Fresher’s Week is only really a taste of the nights to come. Balancing an active partying lifestyle without completely compromising health is something I struggled with in my first year and something I’m determined to do better in my second. 

Fully subscribing to wellness principles, especially as a student, seems onerous, tedious and, well, a little boring; after all, plenty of social bonding does come from drinking, smoking and just not sleeping. Yet, letting health completely slide can catch up with you well before the end of an eight-week Oxford term: you feel groggier, less energetic, and eventually less enthusiastic about going out at all.

Getting enough sleep, drinking plenty of water, and eating a balanced diet are hardly revolutionary advice. Yet, so much of the time in Oxford, they feel almost unattainable or unsustainable. Implementing micro-habits and small tweaks could optimise and enhance the party-going lifestyle, and make going out in university just that bit more calm.

Giving your immune system that ‘Gasolina’

You can tell which lectures were recorded in Michaelmas from the orchestra of coughing harmonising with the lecturer: the soundtrack of students battling freshers’ flu whilst still diligently making their daily pilgrimage to lectures. (classic Michaelmas fresher behaviour). Freshers’ flu is the catch-all name for the coughs, colds, and influenza-like symptoms experienced after Freshers’ Week. 

Because Freshers’ Week centres around thousands of new undergraduate students travelling from all over the UK and the world to one campus or small city, a melting pot of infectious diseases boils anywhere where groups of students gather. Communal swigs of bottles of wine and other drinks at pres certainly don’t help. Neither do several nights of poor sleep and heavy drinking.  

Some of the factors contributing to freshers’ flu can’t or really shouldn’t be avoided: it is important to meet a wide range of people in one’s first week at university, even at the cost of some respiratory irritations the following week. For a lot of people, going out, drinking, and sleepless nights are formative experiences in Freshers’ Week. If you led a reckless lifestyle during Fresher’s Week but still don’t want to be completely wrecked by a bout of fresher’s flu, there are small preventative measures that you could put in place. 

Not sharing your drinks so liberally is a very easy, doable action. In first year, I struggled with this one – if someone did so much as look my way, I would be offering them a sip of my drink. Second-year me will rein in this habit: holding my drinks closer to myself, and just saying no if people I’m not too familiar with ask me to share. Not only does sharing your drinks put you on the firing line for fresher’s flu, but oral herpes and meningitis sound very scary. 

Small changes to your diet can also strengthen your immunity, preventing illness in the first place and speeding up recovery. Citrus fruit, like oranges and tangerines, are perfect options here. They taste good, make a perfect light snack at any time of the day, and are fairly cheap. They contain Vitamin C, an antioxidant critical for aiding the correct functioning of the immune system. Vitamin C cannot be made or stored by the body, and so external sources of this micronutrient, say from citrus fruits or even vegetables like bell peppers or broccoli, are essential, particularly when grappling with fresher’s flu. It’s comforting to know that ingredients common to most healthy-ish savoury meals, such as ginger, garlic and onion, contain antioxidants and other micronutrients important for good immune health. 

Even drinking tea during the day can aid immune health. Green teas contain high concentrations of epigallocatechin gallate, a chemical which boosts the body’s immunity, whilst both green and black teas contain flavonoids – very good news for the body’s immune system. Studies have also found that milk benefits immunity – suddenly a cuppa sounds like the silver bullet for fresher’s flu. 

By the sounds of things, any food or beverage that’s fairly-ish healthy and not too processed could be the answer to a smoother ride through the oncoming Fresher’s flu epidemic. 

Disturbia-nces of sleep and what to do about them

Day after day of late nights can leave you feeling fatigued, groggy and very much sleep-deprived. There is no clever hack that replaces sleep, but there are ways to make the occasional bad night less painful.

Post the club and any afterparties, it can be helpful to have a quick post-night-out sleep routine. For example, drinking lots of water and eating a light snack, like a banana, before bed. A warm shower and cleanse before bed can also help set a calming atmosphere. Although this might seem like a very long-winded process at the time, in first year I found that having this routine meant I had a better quality of sleep but also meant I woke up feeling a lot cleaner and nicer. 

Running on two to five hours of sleep can make the next day tough, both for you and the people around you. This is where naps are really your friends. A short nap around mid-afternoon – around 20 minutes – can improve alertness without consuming half the day, although exactly how groggy you feel afterwards varies. 

‘Nappuccinos’ can be incredibly effective. Drinking caffeine, for example, a latte, just before a nap means that you wake up feeling fresher, more awake and caffeinated. Caffeine from coffee takes around ten minutes for the first effects to be felt, with peak concentration typically being reached after forty-five minutes. This works perfectly with the timings of a nap and so can be an effective technique for working past the lack of sleep. 

In reasonable quantities, up to 400 mg per day for a typical healthy adult, caffeine can be a good helping hand following a poor night of sleep. Too much, however, can instead leave you jittery, anxious, nauseous, or struggling to sleep the following night.

Coffee isn’t for everyone, especially following a night out. In this case, teas are your friend – practically any, for example, Oolong, black, and green teas. Green teas and matcha tend to have higher caffeine content, and matcha is often preferred over coffee due to more prolonged and smooth effects on energy – the caffeine in matcha is absorbed more slowly compared to that of coffee, due to the presence of an amino acid called L-theanine. Cocoa also contains caffeine – so having a hot chocolate or square of dark chocolate can also contribute towards a solid caffeine intake, albeit a smaller dose. 

Although these tricks can get you through an occasional bad morning, it is also important to make sure that sleep deprivation does not become a constant throughout the remaining eight weeks of term at Oxford. Taking rest days, where you get a proper night of sleep, and saying no to some late-night social events throughout the coming weeks will ensure that running on three hours’ sleep per night is not your new baseline. Eventually, another night out stops being fun and starts feeling like an obligation. Sometimes the healthiest ‘micro-habit’ is simply saying no and going to bed. 

I Gotta Feeling I’ve got a hangover

It’s difficult to tell what symptoms of a hangover are and what is just pure exhaustion. Hangovers are typically characterised by vomiting, diarrhoea, headaches, sleep deprivation, amongst other symptoms. Interestingly, most hangover symptoms peak when blood alcohol concentration is back to zero.

This is probably the principle behind the ‘hair of the dog’ hangover cure, where one drinks more alcoholic beverages upon onset of hangover symptoms. Unsurprisingly, postponing your hangover by drinking more is not much of a cure.

Drinking lots of water both before going to bed and the morning after is a good idea, especially as alcohol suppresses vasopressin, increasing urination and contributing to mild dehydration. It will not magically cure a hangover, but it may at least address the thirst.

Some sort of kebab van novelty is the norm after a night out. While eating food following alcohol consumption can go a long way to easing hangover symptoms; however, fatty foods shouldn’t really be the go-to. As boring as it sounds, eating healthy, fairly unprocessed foods is the way to go: oatmeal at 4am; eggs and avocado on toast as a 1pm breakfast; if you really squint, carrot sticks could almost be chips. Not only is this cheaper than getting £5 fried food items after every early-morning escapade, but also your skin and waistline will be better for it. 

Finally rapping it up…

Term times at Oxford are notoriously short and notoriously intense, as first years will soon discover – and older students, by now slightly scarred, already know. Balancing a social life, a demanding workload, your health, and – for many – living away from home for the first time is difficult. 

I know I put health and wellness on the back burner in first year. I’m not planning a monastic second year in response. If anything, I want to go out just as much – only without feeling completely destroyed by week four.

Being healthier at Oxford does not have to mean swapping Park End for Pilates and becoming evangelical about chia seeds. Drink some water. Stop sharing bottles with half the smoking area. Eat something vaguely nutritious. Take a nap when you need one. And, occasionally, accept that the best preparation for your next night out is a night in.

Sport Spotlight: Charlotte Maple

Gavriella Epstein-Lightman
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Sport Spotlight: Charlotte Maple

Sport has been a constant feature of incoming Oxford University Cricket Club (OUCC) women’s Blues captain Charlotte Maple’s time at Oxford. Now completing her DPhil, she began at Oxford six years ago to study Ancient and Modern History at Lady Margaret Hall. As an undergraduate, she combined her demanding degree with Blues competition in both cricket and football. This year, by comparison, will be easier, she tells me.  

“The only feeling I have is excitement”, Maple says when I ask how she feels about becoming captain of the Blues. “I have been playing for OUCC for six years, and I’ve been hugely invested in the squad. I’m going to make the most of it.”

Maple first played cricket when she was seven. Her father was a keen cricketer who had played the sport to a high level, and he encouraged her to play for the local village cricket club in Somerset. She was the only girl in the local team. “It felt isolating, but I fell in love with the game,” Maple tells me. Aged twelve, she was scouted for a county trial for Somerset, and after being accepted, she played county cricket for two seasons. She was told that a professional cricket career was possible, but put the sport aside to focus on GCSEs and A-levels. Her love for cricket never left, and upon arriving at Oxford, she promptly signed up to the cricket team at Freshers’s’ Fair, getting her first Blue that same year.

One of the most coveted events of the Oxford cricketing season is the annual Varsity match against Cambridge, held at Lord’s Cricket Ground. The men’’s Blues have played at Lord’s for over two centuries, but the women’’s Blues first played at Lord’s in 2022. Maple was part of the pilot squad playing that match. I ask her what it is like to play on such a historic sporting stage. “It’s an incredibly exciting and important opportunity, one that nobody else really has, to play an amateur fixture in one of the most spectacular cricket grounds”, Maple explains, her enthusiasm evident. She points out that some professional cricketers never even have the opportunity to play at Lord’s in their careers.   

Maple is keen to encourage more female students to engage in cricket. She tells me that women’s cricket became a full Blue sport from 2016. Since then, the standard of women’s cricket has continually increased, as has the number of participants. Last year, a second women’s team was piloted for the first time. Beyond Oxford, women’s cricket is taking off, growing in strength in funding, professionalism and grassroots engagement. “It’s a growing sport, and we’re rising with it at Oxford”, she says, as we end the interview. 

Why are we so afraid of being bored?

Jessie Jukes
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Why are we so afraid of being bored?

We wake up, and our phone is immediately in our hand – we scroll, we text, we check the weather, the news, our emails. Then it’s breakfast, which we eat while scrolling, tapping, and liking. We brush our teeth with a YouTube video on, walk to lectures while on the phone, eat lunch while watching TV. And then, when it’s time to sleep, our phones are the last thing we look at. Every day is the same. 

When this reality is spelt out, it does sound slightly dystopian. With hundreds of thousands of hours of content and entertainment at our disposal – all accessible whenever and wherever – there is little reason to ever feel bored. When there’s a lull in the conversation, a queue to wait in, a moment of silence, we can pull out our phones and be instantly entertained. To us, boredom has become a gap to be filled, an empty space to be occupied with distraction. But perhaps, in our eagerness to fill these spaces, we have underestimated what they were doing for us. 

Short-form content is everywhere on social media. A mere swipe-up on your phone can send you down the rabbit holes of TikTok, Instagram Reels, or YouTube Shorts. And sometimes, even the short-form content isn’t short enough. Our attention spans have become so fried that we won’t even watch the entirety of these 30-second videos, deftly scrolling after we’ve read the caption and seen the first 10 seconds. This quantity-over-quality style of media consumption, one which delays not only our having to feel bored but also our need to think critically, is having knock-on effects on all forms of media; even Netflix, famously designed for streaming long-form content, has a designated ‘Clips’ section now. Algorithms and media corporations have recognised that we are, in fact, becoming increasingly restless with engagement that requires patience or critical thinking. 

Our unwillingness to accept boredom has not only changed how long we are willing to watch content, but how we watch it. I’ve noticed a tendency in modern films to use dialogue to over-explain – think exaggerated exposition scenes, where we are explicitly told how a character feels, rather than being clued in by context. Even the unnecessary inclusion of ostentatious, fast-moving action scenes is designed to draw our attention away from our phones. Films that present ambiguity or require interpretation can feel unusually demanding by comparison, and are thus often misconstrued. Engaging properly with films requires patience and active thought, but, faced constantly with media that immediately rewards us, we are becoming unfamiliar and thus uncomfortable with this. And it is not only that we are unwilling to actively engage with other media – a decline in media literacy has eroded our ability to do so. 

As children, boredom was typically remedied with activities that required patience and creativity: drawing, writing, inventing. Now we have a whole generation of iPad kids who have never felt bored and likely will never have to. We, too, are now made so uneasy by boredom and the gaps that it creates in our lives that we avoid it completely. With this, though, we are losing access to the mental space that allows us to create our best ideas. We make our best decisions, have our best thoughts, and best understand the world around us when we allow ourselves the time to actually think, without a phone in hand or music in our ears. And nowhere is this discomfort with unstimulated thought more evident than when we have to actually concentrate on something. 

When we try to study, we are forced to confront something that our phones have been shielding us from – the fact that not every moment will provide stimulation, entertainment, or immediate gratification. We have become so used to unthinkingly filling every idle moment that it can be a real struggle when it becomes time to switch our brains back on, especially after a long vacation spent without any academic stimulation. At Oxford, despite a barrage of deadlines and collections and essays constantly looming over us, the ever-present option of unlocking our phones and not having to think is increasingly tantalising. And then a five-minute break becomes a one-hour scroll. I’ll admit that I’m often the first to pull out my phone when struggling to come up with ideas, idly waiting in a queue or walking somewhere, but it is undeniable that sometimes we do just need to pause, to wait, and do nothing. It is precisely when we resist this urge, when we allow ourselves to feel and to sit in our boredom, that our brain begins to make important connections and create original ideas.

We’ve come to think of boredom as an inevitable but unpleasant gap between activities, or as space to fill, but we’ve stopped seeing that space as worthwhile in itself. Those ‘lightbulb’ moments where a crucial point suddenly comes to mind often occur in moments of inactivity, like when you’re in the shower and a thought pops into your head, or when you’re staring into space, struggling to write an essay, and an idea suddenly comes to you. It’s when we allow ourselves to exist with this feeling that we do our best work.

The discomfort that boredom brings is arguably necessary, not only in academia, but for life in general. Giving our brains space to actually think allows them to work, whether that be to problem-solve or to spark our creativity. So whenever you next find yourself waiting in a queue, or walking to a lecture, it might be worth not immediately trying to fill those gaps. Instead, try to see this time as something that needs to be embraced, rather than something to be filled. Maybe then what feels like empty space might not be so empty after all. 

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