Wednesday 8th October 2025
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Kabakov Tate Review- ‘an exercise in alternative perspectives’

Florence Ward
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Kabakov Tate Review- ‘an exercise in alternative perspectives’

Ilya and Emilia Kabakov’s ‘Not Everyone Will Be Taken into the Future’ is an exercise in alternative perspectives, the most pressing of which transports the viewer back to a childhood way of viewing the world. The exhibition opens with Ilya Kabakov’s 1964 painting, Soccer Player; at first glance, the image is innocent, sky blue and yellow and simplistic like a children’s illustration. But peer through the silhouetted body of the player and the landscape behind depicts the rural town Uglich, home to one of the USSR’s first hydroelectric power stations that was built in 1930s through forced labour.

Ilya Kabakov, rejecting the approved artistic style of the Soviet Union, supported himself as a children’s book illustrator from 1955 to 1987. Although he made his own work alongside this, the perspective of the world that he presents us with is a consistently childlike one. In Soccer Player, there are several juxtapositions at play – the idyllic rural image and the industrial label, the innocence of the image and the sinister contextual undertones – acting as a reminder that a visual representation of society can be at odds with its reality. This is a truth that becomes increasingly apparent in the process of growing up.

Ilya Kabakov is self-consciously aware of the juxtapositions he creates within his work, with the text accompanying the images often offering new or jarring interpretations. Tested! (1981) presents an image, not unlike those found in the iconic Labybird Classics children’s book series, of a woman collecting her returned party membership card after her commitment to communism has been questioned. The text beneath the picture is celebratory, and yet the reality would have been drastically different. Under Soviet regime, trials to establish the loyalty of a citizen to the party would not have been a cause for joy, but more often a death sentence.

The Man Who Flew Into Space from His Apartment (1985) was Ilya Kabakov’s first ‘total’ installation. Looking through the shards of an exploded door, the viewer is immersed in the artwork. The installation is bold in its challenging of the political regime in which it was created: the walls in the apartment are papered with Soviet propaganda, and the huge hole in the ceiling evidence of Kabakov’s desire to escape the oppressive society in which he lived (something he achieved in 1987, when he was offered a fellowship in Austria).

Despite the scale of Kabakov’s installations, the text that accompanies them still establishes them as illustrations for a larger story. Alongside a room filled with floated saucepans and kitchen utensils are the words: ‘When Olga Nicolaevena came to the kitchen in the morning she saw in the corridor numerous pots, pans and plates, which were flying in the air’. The language used by Kabakov to describe this work – simplistic, exploring a linear narrative, magical – is distinctly similar to that of children’s literature. This is Kabakov’s illustration, but taken from the pages of the books he worked on and enacted on a much more ambitious level.

The exhibition distorts perceptions of space, rendering the viewer powerless in a seemingly endless labyrinth of semi-dark corridors that catalogue Ilya’s Kabakov’s mother’s life. After a mostly chronological journey through the Soviet Union, one is spat out from this maze into a classroom, and a collection of Kabakov’s paintings from the 1970s and 80s. Looking at their work, one cannot help but be transported back to childhood, thrust into this helpless and ignorant position that paralleled the situation many adult citizens of the USSR found themselves in.

Kabakov may have begun his illustration of children’s books as a means of operating outside of accepted Soviet art regulations, but there are elements of illustration in all of his and Emilia’s work, telling the story of the state responsible for their oppression.

‘Not Everyone Will Be Taken Into the Future’ is showing at the Tate Modern until the 28th January. 

‘The worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen’

Megan Morgan
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‘The worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen’

With the recent release to cinemas of Star Wars: The Last Jedi, the ‘Chosen One’ genre is once again at the forefront of popular culture (not that it ever leaves for long…). What is the ‘Chosen One’ genre? Well, pretty much what it says on the tin: think Star Wars, think Lord of the Rings, think Harry Potter, think Buffy the Vampire Slayer, think young character goes on quest to defeat great evil with ragtag bunch of friends and mentorship from a figure of wisdom (often beardy and old though as far as I can tell that is not actually a requirement).

In thinking about chosen ones, then, I turned to Rainbow Rowell’s 2015 novel Carry On: The Rise and Fall of Simon Snow. Simon is perhaps unique in the genre in that he exists to be a chosen one figure; the character was in fact created initially for Rowell’s earlier novel Fangirl, as a fictional Harry Potter-type that the main character, Cath, could write fan fiction about. In Carry On itself, Simon is pitched as ‘the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen’. We’ve been promised a Chosen One, been promised a quest; on the face of it, there is no ambiguity about what kind of story to expect.

And that is exactly the delight of Rowell’s work. This is a woman who knows her chosen ones and so a ‘Chosen One’ story is what you get. We’ve got our resistant hero (Simon), his slightly questionable mentor (The Mage), more intelligent best friend (Penny), enemy (Baz) and actual nemesis (The Insidious Humdrum). It really is a ‘Chosen One’ story. But it is also conscious enough of its own genre to be able to poke fun at it and, most importantly, at itself (like Guardians of the Galaxy kind of does for the superhero genre and Marvel Comics).

I mean for starters: Insidious Humdrum. As is said in Fangirl, it really does sound a bit like the name of an ‘ice-cream sundae’. Then, there are spells that come from advertising slogans like ‘Have a break. Have a Kit Kat’ because in this world, words gain and lose power by being repeated. The novel, on multiple counts, is self-consciously ridiculous.

When Simon’s world (the World of Mages) was first introduced in Fangirl, reviewers criticised it for feeling like a sort of poor person’s Wizarding World – but, rather than shying away from the similarities, Carry On actively invites the comparison. It dares the reader to call it a rip-off by playing up to what the novels have in common only to reveal itself as completely its own (as much as any work ever is).

Simon is endearingly useless and clueless. But the shifting narrative perspective serves to remind the reader of what is often overlooked in the ‘Chosen One’ genre: although this is Simon’s story, it is not just Simon’s story. The Chosen One’s actions have consequences and, in this novel, we get to see them and feel them. In many ways the quest, a key part of the genre, falls into the background of Carry On. Because we know the premise (or think we do), Rowell is left with room to do what she does best and write about people, these people—rising, falling, falling in love.

Don’t skip a trip to see Star Wars, but maybe on your way home pick up a copy of Carry On too. For the ‘worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen’, it’s a damn good choice.

My album of the year: Leonard Cohen’s valediction

William Crona
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My album of the year: Leonard Cohen’s valediction

Two days before she died on the 29th July 2016, Leonard Cohen’s erstwhile friend, lover, and muse Marianne Ihlen received a letter from her old devotee as she lay on her deathbed. Marianne first met Cohen when they were both on the Greek Island of Hydra, where Cohen had gone in the early 1960s to escape the unromantic modern world and lead a monastic, medieval existence. Or so he hoped.

A lifetime later, Cohen addresses his old friend one last time in the short, beautifully plaintive letter. He writes: “Well Marianne, it’s come to this time when we are really so old and our bodies are falling apart and I think I will follow you very soon. Know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.”

The letter is moving because Cohen’s tone, infused as always with a wry, melancholy humour, contains a note of surprise that they find themselves as they do – old and decrepit. Yet his reaction is not of anger, despair or resentment but graceful acceptance. Fifteen weeks later, Cohen kept his promise to Marianne, passing over the threshold of this life into whatever lays beyond.

Like David Bowie’s final album, Blackstar, released two days before he died, You Want it Darker is a swan song, a settling of accounts, and the closing chapter of an artist with a long life and career. As happens inevitably with such works, every note and lyric takes on an ineluctable quality of deeper meaning.

But even if a listener were unaware of the record’s context it would be hard not to clock the valedictory tone of this album. From the enchanting echoes in ‘You Want it Darker’ to the weary, resigned groan, “I’m leaving the table,/I’m out of the game,” the impression is of a man watching the last embers of his life slowly fade. This is a man who is submitting to the world the document of his farewell before closing his arms across his chest and laying down to rest with dignity, gratitude, and grace.

Normally, if someone told me they had never listened to Leonard Cohen before, I would under no circumstances permit them to begin with anything but his first three albums. That trilogy, Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967), Songs From a Room (1969), and Songs of Love and Hate (1971), has always been and will always remain the trust, purest, and most piercing of Leonard Cohen’s contributions. They reveal an earnest, restless, and searching soul in pursuit of an ungraspable goal. In You Want It Darker, the itinerant hungry soul has come to rest.

This last album indisputably joins those first three in the highest category of Leonard Cohen’s work and I would have no compunction in directing a new listener to this record. The bird on the wire has flown and I can only thank him, earnestly, for the gifts he has left us.

2017: The year of Jack Antonoff

Verity Stuart
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2017: The year of Jack Antonoff

Four of 2017’s best albums were co-written and produced by pop’s veiled hero, Jack Antonoff, the man paradoxically behind odes of female liberation and songs of empowerment. His work with Lorde, St Vincent and Taylor Swift has evidenced grand change in each artists’ musical sound, dissected and highlighted through Antonoff’s nostalgic, evocative pop production.

The first of his projects in 2017, however, was Antonoff’s own personal record, Bleachers’ Gone Now, an album that demonstrates the musician and producer’s unabashed ambition. Gone Now is stately, fragmentary, and unflinching, shaping a world around his songs just as his life is moulded by his music. He insists on indulging in every pleasure in the roaring singles ‘Don’t Take the Money’ and ‘I Miss Those Days’, and yet even the album’s quieter moments brim with intertextuality. ‘Goodmorning’ has recurring reprises throughout the record and collaborators Carly Rae Jepsen, Julia Michaels and Lorde sing backing vocals. We infer a sense of the album’s narrative and yet the quiet admission of defeat on the final song, ‘Foreign Girls’, denotes Gone Now as a kind of vanity record, an attempt at creating something big and masterful but not yet complete.

It is his project with Lorde, however, released the very same month as Gone Now, that affirms a shared ingenuity between the songwriters. Melodrama is a reflection of what it means to be a young woman in the shape of a humid pop record, shameless in its self-indulgence. Antonoff’s production perfectly mirrors Lorde’s intimate lyricism, with small touches occurring when most needed: the unobtrusive guitar strums of ‘The Louvre,’ work when contrasted to the post-chorus’s ambient cracklings, and the trap drums oppose the title track’s orchestral pining. Pop melodies are infused with arrangements of misshapen beats and distorted sounds that creep under the skin. They operate on personal and universal levels, perfectly capturing the unparalleled joy of self-awakening and the testing of personal limits as reflected in the sultry summer world that Lorde and Antonoff create: luxurious, audacious, and melodramatic.

The first two albums released in 2017 with Antonoff’s involvement detail summer obsession, intoxicating claustrophobia and nostalgia unrivalled by the present. But Antonoff’s philosophy shifts in the two albums released in the later part of the year – St Vincent’s Masseducation and Taylor Swift’s Reputation expose bitter, rancorous realities after the sweet summer haze of teenage optimism has waned. St Vincent, otherwise known as Annie Clark, and Swift are two figures who have elicited divisive views from audiences, the former due to her unapologetic presence as a female guitarist in a homogenous male domain, and the latter due to her numerous feuds and romantic controversies.

They both exploit these conflicting philosophies through their unexpectedly celebratory records, as the dangerous female archetypes they are assumed to conform to become figures to embrace. Swift becomes the once exaggerated character from her 2014 music video, ‘Blank Space’, no longer a desperate and long-suffering female caricature, but a villainous, paradoxical woman. She is at once heartbreaker and heartbroken, perpetrator and victim, the girl next door, the business woman, the snake. The album induces a new appreciation for Swift’s adaptability, as the sensual siren of ‘Don’t Blame Me’ and the infatuated girl of ‘Gorgeous’ share the same space.

The album is not, as assumed, simply a vengeful defence of Swift’s mistakes, and there are moments of optimism. While Swift’s best love songs have been founded in moments of fantasy (2010’s ‘Mine’ and ‘Enchanted’), the level of specificity and delight found in everyday things (“spilling wine in the bathtub, building blanket forts”) is deliciously and unabashedly present. Reputation could even be the most personal album in Swift’s repertoire, disguised behind discordant, bruising instrumentals and vocal modification. The breathy, gasping tones of ‘Dress’, the synthesised monotony on ‘King of my Heart’, and uncomfortable borderline rapping on ‘End Game’ fail to disguise Swift’s tumultuous, dizzying, and personal lyrics. Despite her reputation, this is quite possibly Taylor Swift’s first album about love.

St Vincent’s Masseducation, however, tears into loneliness. While the shimmering pop production on Reputation allows listeners to unknowingly dance to aching, throbbing lyrics of hurt, the antagonistic production on Masseducation cannot be ignored. Clark addresses her listeners through gritted teeth, producing a guttural voice with startling candor: “I am alone like you”. Clark truly embraces the dangerous female archetype in a way that Swift only jokingly assumes. The guitars shudder instead of echo, wincing at the harsh brutality of Clark’s loneliness. In the album’s first single, ‘New York’, she speaks in the present and yet talks about the past, echoing an exhaustion at the sexual personalities she’s given and roles that she must play.

It is here that Antonoff’s production is key, as Masseducation is ultimately a pop album, or at least redefining the roles ascribed to female pop singers in 2017. “Sugarboy” exemplifies this through its synthesised production, unblemished vocals, the call-and-response refrain, and the Swiftian, even Carly Rae Jepsen-inspired line, “got a crush on tragedy”. These classic pop tropes are inverted, played at a pace too fast, a beat too soon, feverishly weird and intrinsically fanatical. Clark and Antonoff explore the characters of pop, a theme amplified by the album’s visual aesthetic –  the bold colours and robotic music videos play out as a strange futuristic utopia, sedated with pills, alive with lifeless forms and choreographed to perfection. Creating something genuine within this ridiculous landscape seems impossible, and yet Clark and Antonoff achieve this, not through mockery, but by breaching the limits of generic convention.

There is perhaps no other producer working with such high-profile women in pop music, helping to expose their various vulnerabilities, romances and agonies in the same way. Despite this, the achievements of these female artists should never be wholly ascribed to Antonoff. In an age of music preaching female empowerment, all too often it is men behind the scenes, selling a dangerous capitalist feminism to eager young audiences.

But these albums do not show Antonoff orchestrating the success of his collaborators – ingenious lyricism is unmistakably found within the artists themselves. Antonoff contributed to the writing of four of Masseducation’s songs in contrast to Annie Clark’s thirteen credits, and he only co-wrote two of the eleven songs Lorde penned on ‘Melodrama.’ Whatever can be said about Taylor Swift, her role as a business woman in control of her own career can never be doubted. Lorde and Julia Michaels even receive writing credits on Bleachers’ Gone Now, creating true collaborating relationships between these musicians.

Antonoff does not define or validate the artists’ creation, but gives them a technical platform to operate outside of generic convention. Melodrama, Masseducation and Reputation are uncompromising, dazzling displays of artistry, demonstrative of real talent, real sincerity, and real compassion, as the artists turn these stories into technicolour memoirs that will reverberate for years to come. By investigating the boundaries of modern pop music in 2017, Antonoff and his collaborators somehow come to define it.

Review: Fall Out

Nick Denny
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Review: Fall Out

When Tim Shipman, The Sunday Times political editor, started writing the book that would become Fall Out, he thought it would be the boring second album. His previous offering, All Out War, detailed the drama, deceit, and devastating wounds of the Brexit referendum and its aftermath. It ended with May triumphant, Boris foreign secretary, and a newly-reinstated Jeremy Corbyn at the helm of a Labour party resounding with mutinous muttering. Oh how times have changed.

His new book takes up the story where All Out War left off, and charts the next chapter of Britain’s tumbling political gyre. It records the failures and chaos of Theresa May’s 2016-17 government, the disastrous election campaign, and the bitter few months that followed, ending the story in October this year. The book is the same style as its predecessor, where expert analysis is blended with a compelling personal narrative, seasoned with plenty of anecdotes from the world of political gossip.

Fall Out, then, is the story of the machinations and madness that inhabit the world of Britain’s political elite. We hear that David Davis keeps his laptop in a biscuit tin in an attempt to stop it being hacked, and that he once mistook Michel Barnier for the foreign minister of Finland, who was very bemused at why Davis had decided to single him out for a conversation about Finnish fish. The many plots of the last year are also laid bare; we learn that Philip Hammond jumped ship and backed Boris immediately after the 2017 election, only to be recalled by May as chancellor, and that Amber Rudd was actively encouraging backbench rebellion over Brexit from the Cabinet.

The dominating figures for much of the book are the trio at the heart of the 2016-17 government, Theresa May and her two chiefs of staff, the ‘gruesome twosome’ of Fiona Hill and Nick Timothy. These two, mostly unknown outside the Westminster bubble, wielded ferocious power during their time in government, including over the PM. During the notorious ‘Trousergate’ incident, after learning that May wanted to wear her own clothes, Hill screams: “Big mistake. You need to realise that the PM does not know her own mind on this stuff and needs me to be the one making those decisions for her”. She calls in the much-derided £995 leather trousers from a designer, before shouting: “Where are the fucking hydrangeas? I want hydrangeas now!” Hill and Timothy succeeded in creating an atmosphere of mistrust and bullying at the top of government, treating civil servants and cabinet ministers alike with contempt – at one point openly referring to Philip Hammond as “the cunt”. It is not surprising to read of the relief felt across Westminster when they resigned post-election.

At the centre we have the figure of Theresa May, who, though pitiable, gives a convincing display of someone promoted beyond their ability. Taken hostage by Hill and Timothy, she is indecisive at critical moments, and time and time again demonstrates the truth of Corbyn’s jibe of ‘weak and wobbly’. Her party don’t have much sympathy; after the election one MP says gloomily: “we all fucking hate her. But there is nothing we can do. She has totally fucked us.”

Her nest of cabinet vipers also don’t come out terribly well. Political plotting is combined with startling incompetency. Pessimism also characterises the mood; at one point a treasury civil servant voices his despair to Philip Hammond. “You’ve got more power than I do, Chancellor, why don’t you do something about it?” “I don’t have any more power than you do,” Hammond replies, “we’re both stuck in this hellhole together.” Indeed, they have each clearly enjoyed informing Shipman of their dislike of each other. Anonymous cabinet ministers call Phillip Hammond a “nervous ninny”, Boris is named “a plonker”, whilst Theresa May is condemned as “economically illiterate”.

Though British politics has continued to gallop on since the end of this book, the number of fresh details and glowing insights make Shipman’s vigorous prose a worthwhile read. However, as entertaining as the book is, one is left with growing despondency at the fact that these individuals are still in government. As our country faces Brexit one hopes that our political class can pull together and face the challenges. The story isn’t over yet, and we wait for the next in Shipman’s series, no doubt containing more farce and strife. But, who knows, might we see a Labour government?

Professor Biggar should be allowed to speak, even if we disagree

Emma Ball
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Professor Biggar should be allowed to speak, even if we disagree

It is our responsibility to publicly decry instances of racism or hate speech when we encounter them, that much is certain. However, in today’s increasingly politically sensitive society, a line must be drawn between denouncing those who have encouraged racist ideas and those, such as Professor Nigel Biggar, with well-researched opinions who are making no attempt to justify slavery or European superiority. In the manner of the ‘Boy who Cried Wolf’, the legitimacy of holding true racists to account is undermined by such accusations directed at academics whose viewpoints are not designed to be provocative and are founded on the basis of extensive historical research. Misdirecting such accusations could have the severe consequence of lessening their impact and therefore their power for social reform.

In cases such as the criticism of Professor Nigel Biggar, it is therefore important to be clear on the facts of the matter before a case for public criticism or support is made. This is particularly significant when it is considered that much of the criticism, most notably from the Oxford-based rights group Common Ground, has been focused on what Biggar has supposedly implied, rather than what he directly stated.

A reading of his article: ‘Don’t Feel Guilty About Our Colonial History,’ as published by The Times, reveals that Biggar never claimed that the British Empire did not commit atrocities nor does he say that our sense of guilt as colonialists should be entirely removed. Instead, it becomes clear that he merely advocates the advancement of a balanced view considering the negative and positive aspects of empire and a moderation of our guilt so that it does not become a paralysing force for our future policy decisions. Ironically, Common Ground condemn Biggar’s argument for its lack of evidence whilst offering little specific evidence of their own to counter his arguments.

Particularly significant is the accusation levelled at Biggar about his supposed support for British interference in the affairs of foreign countries. By claiming that our guilt should not prevent us from adopting an interventionist foreign policy, Biggar is attempting to make our decisions less encumbered by historical baggage, not endorsing a return to ideas of white supremacy. In fact, the implication that any interference by Britain in international affairs is bad and presumptuous seems deeply flawed. Surely it is our duty to intervene where we perceive there to be gross injustice? Do we not consistently do so by sending in aid?

This particular controversy opens up a wide range of further debates, many of which have been at the forefront of other discussions, such as those surrounding the statue of Cecil Rhodes. It has therefore become more and more important that we are aware of the dangers of possessing a selective memory when examining our history. Our ability to learn from past mistakes is prevented when we make blanket statements. Whilst aspects of colonialism were undoubtedly negative, it is arguable that in some regards the connections forged have left a positive legacy in the continuation of the Commonwealth and the introduction of the Commonwealth Games.

Issues with the criticism of Biggar do not just lie with the faults in their content, but also with the spirit in which they were made. By challenging his right to an opinion, they are challenging his right to academic free speech. This has dangerous implications. Academic free speech enables consideration of multiple different perspectives, thereby allowing balanced conclusions to be reached. In a time of growing threat from fake news, it is essential that academic free speech prevents the formation of misconceptions and ensures issues can be discussed before they escalate or become deeply ingrained.

Obviously we should applaud all those who seek to make the world free from discrimination and racism. I count myself among that number. However, we should not sacrifice crucial liberties such as the right to academic free speech in the process, especially not through wilful blindness or ignorance.

Modigliani Tate review – ‘a delight to walk through’

Eleanor Birdsall-Smith
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Modigliani Tate review – ‘a delight to walk through’

The first room of the Modigliani exhibition is almost empty. One single self-portrait of humble size hangs on the right hand side of a rather dingy blue room. While this is a somewhat unusual and potentially even anticlimactic entrance to an eagerly anticipated exhibition, it importantly and pointedly sets the tone for the rest of the show, which elegantly focuses on careful appreciation of each individual piece of art.

The exhibition does not over-exert itself for the sake of drawing big crowds. Unlike many recent exhibitions focused on art giants of the 20th century, the walls are not plastered from ground to ceiling with every possible piece of art that can be fit within the space limits. Instead, each painting is given precisely the necessary space to be appreciated in its own right. It has been argued that as a medium, large scale exhibitions naturally overwhelm, and prevent sincere appreciation of any one single piece. And it is certainly true that there is a fine line between giving people their money’s worth (exhibitions at the Tate are certainly not cheap, even with student concessions) and maintaining the suitable atmosphere for the individual pieces on show.

The curators of the Modigliani collection, however, manage this balance with almost unprecedented success. His preparatory drawings, for instance, are not a few faint scribbles used for the sake of filler, but hold true merit in their own right. They are striking and poignant and illuminate things that the final paintings never could.

The information given alongside his first portrait is not only useful and interesting, but marks the end of the exhibition’s concern with Modigliani the man; the focus from this point forward is primarily about the work itself. One room makes up a secondary part of the exhibition, with separate (free) tickets, and delves into the way in which he lived. It makes use of virtual reality headsets, and whilst I initially thought that this could come off as a gimmick, in fact it is extraordinarily immersive.

It also cleverly declutters the rest of the show; looking at the art itself, the audience is not overwhelmed by artefacts, photographs, or long spiels of information. The presence of Modigliani the man is only felt in one other part of the exhibition, in a film projection titled ‘Modigliani’s Paris’, which consists of a small selection of clips and images focusing around the role of Montmartre. The exhibition is structured in such a way that this primarily acted as an introduction to the next two rooms of artwork, which focused on Modigliani’s potentially lesser-known work with stone and free carving. He was quoted to have said that he always wanted to work with stone, and although this work was limited due to his poor health, the small white room dedicated to his sculpted ‘Heads’ is a highlight of the whole show.

This focus on the merit of each individual piece is consistent throughout the exhibition; the Art acts as the central focus. Any relevant history of the era is woven into the description of the works, providing accents to the pieces without dictating or defining the layout. The small descriptions under the name and date of the works, which in other exhibitions are often filled with pointless technical details, here provide well-written insights into the subject of the painting, Modigliani’s relationships and his influences.

The room of nudes, which includes the controversial pubic hair that led to the closure of his only solo show by police in 1917, are not scandalous in the same way anymore. In fact, I didn’t even initially notice the demure little dark triangles (though maybe that’s just because I’m a hairy feminist myself!). More importantly, however, not all women had these little bushes, some were more classically smooth, and while this may not seem exciting or interesting in itself, the originality and variation of the female form certainly was.

Modigliani painted women with pubes and women with small, sharply pointed breasts, as well as some women with narrow hips and wider waists, and some with soft rounded boobs, which sat lower on their chests. This meant that when the traditional Serpentine S expected of a woman’s silhouette in art was present, it didn’t feel as tired, it just seemed to suggest that this woman depicted really was naturally wide hipped. Of course, the pieces were made for male buyers, but the inaccuracies and sumptuous quality of the female bodies are at least interesting and at times quite accurate, without being angry or vicious like the nudes of Picasso and the Surrealists can often be.

The exhibition has been criticised for being nothing more than a simple display of everything we know about Modigliani, which therefore only acts to illuminate his lack of range. It is unfair, however, to argue that this is indicative of a lack of quality, and obtuse  to suggest that as a result all the paintings begin to look the same. This is an artist who painted for himself and for his subjects, rather than for an audience. All the works certainly do look like Modigliani’s, but they also differ dramatically at times, as they sensitively channel the essence of their subjects and when he pulls it off really successfully, the results are intensely powerful.

With hindsight Modigliani’s work was not particularly dangerous; it did not take the art world by storm or change the face of art as we know it. Compared to his contemporaries and his influences, Modigliani was relatively tame; all his subject’s eyes, however creepy their monochrome nature may be, are in the right place, the sloping mannerist limbs have not progressed much further than the likes of Botticelli and he never put a urinal in an exhibition declaring it to be ‘Art’. This does not, however, imply that his art isn’t valid and interesting. The exhibition is beautiful, it has humour and power and is a delight to walk through; I would suggest it is a brilliant way to spend a couple of hours.

Toxic Masculinity and the Mythopoetical Movement

Barney Pite
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Toxic Masculinity and the Mythopoetical Movement

The book Men and the Water of Life by Michael Meade is not particularly well known. Michael Meade is a writer and mythologist who rose to prominence as part of the mythopoetic Men’s Movement of the 1980s and 1990s, which originated ultimately in psychoanalysis, stemming primarily from the work of Carl Jung. This book explores problems of masculinity within the frame of various mythological traditions, particularly those of the Hausa in Africa, and the celtic traditions of Ireland. Meade writes a dense and poetic form of English. At the beginning of each section of the book, Meade tells a story – a son who angers his father when he throws away a rat, a son who disobeys his father, a great hunter, when he eats some forbidden honey, and a boy who angers a half-giantess by a lake. He then explores each myth in depth, examining it’s implications and it’s meaning within the frame of the male journey.

Men and the Water of Life sprung from Meade’s experience running workshops and conferences for men, in which “executives, ex-cons, priests, war veterans, doctors, healers of all kinds, students, craftsmen, professors, and artists of every descriptions…wandered and laboured in the “forest of stories”, and…relived life’s wounds”. Meade uses these old stories to cut inroads into the male psyche and to explore the forces that drive the masculine.

The Mythopoetical movement, and in particular Michael Meade, identified an absence of mythological spirituality in most people’s lives, and Meade discovered, through his own participation in rituals which explore the spiritual lives of men, that many men sought ‘re-entry to the unfinished initiations of youth and the timeless forest of spiritual adventures.’ ‘Men and the Water of Life’ offers to it’s readers a insight into the unfinished initiations.

It might at first seem that writers like Michael Meade and Sam Keen, having written books  like Fire In The Belly which seeks to challenge masculine obsession with the ‘WOMAN’ and to change the “WOMAN to women into Jane (or one certain woman)”, are working on a different wavelength from the feminist movement which came into existence the generation before them. However part of initiation into manhood is the ability to temper oneself, to cool one’s anger with the metaphorical ‘water’, addressing in the process the existential anger and personal uncertainty that lies at the heart of violence against women: “A man must be tempered; he must have his temperament made and remade through repeated immersions in fire and water” Meade writes. Sam Keen’s central purpose, moreover, of finding ways for men to see women as people rather than an idealised “creatrix or goddess”,”mother and matrix” or “erotic-spiritual power” is fundamental to ending sexualisation and objectification.

There is a myth often perpetuated (mostly by men themselves) that men lack the emotional complexities of women. This is a deeply untrue. Men need emotional and spiritual support just like women, but there are far more women’s groups than collective support for men, and there are far more books in the vein of Simone De Beauvouir and Jermaine Greer than those like Keen’s or Meade’s. There are reasons why complex initiation rituals are a fundamental part of most pre-modern societies; initiation into manhood tempers the man and allows himself to understand his place within his order. The mythopoetic movement exemplified by books like Fire In the Belly and Men and the Water of Life present ways for men to undertake these initiatory journeys in the modern world and in their own way

Oxford’s outdoor laboratory infected with ash dieback

Isabel Morris
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Oxford’s outdoor laboratory infected with ash dieback

Wytham Woods, which has served as the University of Oxford’s outdoor laboratory since 1942, has contracted ash dieback, a fungal disease which affects ash trees.

The disease was confirmed in the ancient, semi-natural woodland last summer, when symptoms were detected on saplings. It is alleged to have arrived by spores spread by wind, cars or brought on shoes.

Dr Keith Kirby, a researcher at the University’s Department of Plant Sciences, told Cherwell: “We have been expecting the disease at Wytham for a couple of years, as it is present elsewhere in Oxfordshire.”

The chronic disease is caused by an Ascomycete fungus, and is characterised by leaf loss and crown dieback in ash trees. The fungus has spread rapidly since its first detection in the UK in 2012, with recent data showing that it affects more than half the country. Ash dieback poses a major threat to Britain’s 80m ash population, as well as wildlife that depend on the trees for their survival.

Ash trees make up about one third of the Woods’ canopy, meaning a major loss of the species will have substantial ecological consequences for the woods and surrounding areas.

Covering 1000 acres, Wytham Woods is a designated Site of Special Scientific Interest and one of the most studied areas of woodland in the world. Divided into four main habitats, the woods are home to more than 500 species of plants and 800 species of butterflies and moths. Wytham has also been the origin of over 200 PhDs and 1,500 scientific papers.

In an interview with the Times last week, Professor Ben Sheldon, Head of the University’s Department of Zoology, confirmed that every single tree in the Woods has been marked and mapped, their species identified and growth progress measured every few years. He said: “One of the reasons we do that is we are interested in the ways tree species interact. You are also ready in case some big change happens.”

Speaking about the future of the woodland, Dr Kirby said: “The spread and impact of the disease and its impact on other wildlife themselves will be research topics in the woods. Other research will be largely unaffected, unless the level of tree death gets to the stage where it is not safe for the researchers.”

An upside to the change, he said, is that “the woods are likely to become more open, and this could benefit some plants on the woodland floor, as well as some birds and small mammals that like dense undergrowth.”

Because the disease cannot be directly controlled, management in the Woods have to do away with trees along walking tracks that become dangerous as the disease progresses.

Colonial scars remain in Singapore, even if you can’t see them

Lee Chin Wee
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Colonial scars remain in Singapore, even if you can’t see them

I come from Singapore, a country that bears testament to the mixed legacy of British colonial ambition. Singapore’s fortunes have ebbed and flowed with the currents of conquest: First as a trading post under the Srivijaya and Majapahit kingdoms, and later as British port which served as a conduit for trade between China and British India. But the bounty of empire was extracted through oppression – along with trade came racism and inequity.

There is nothing wrong in recognising that colonialism does not lend itself well to simplistic moral evaluation. Singapore emerged relatively unscathed compared to most other British colonies. We had the good fortune of being spared a ruinous war of independence, and the British governed us less severely compared to what was then-Burma. The British were by no means altruistic; but in wanting to prosper off their colonies, they also saw fit to build up political institutions and infrastructure.

In that light, it is unfair to condemn Prof Biggar as a “white supremacist”, given that he, too, rejects the unalloyed celebration of colonialism. He concedes that it is impossible to ignore the terrible damage wrought by white Europeans on the territories they colonised. However, Biggar would have you believe that, despite its apparent costs, colonialism resulted in net benefits for the colonised. He cites the introduction of “political order”, and contrasts it against “the grave human toll of a century of anti-colonial regimes and policies”. However, he fails to discuss the possibility that colonialism might have tilled the soil for the rise of populist and subsequently authoritarian nationalist leaders. Neither does Biggar acknowledge the ethno-centric notion of “political order”, which disregards the pre-colonial systems of governance that thrived long before European colonialists saw fit to dismantle (or co-opt) them.

But even if colonialism gifted “political order” to the unwashed masses in the same manner as Prometheus giving fire to the uncivilised, this must be weighed up against how colonialism institutionalised and exported racism to the world. European colonialists did not invent racism, but weaponised race on a scale hitherto unseen. Key to this approach was the use of racial classification to support a divide-and-rule strategy; painting the colonised peoples as a racial “other”, then encouraging various racial groups (as defined by British bureaucrats) to jostle between each other for scraps of political and economic power.

British Singapore was a plural, but profoundly segregated, society. Each “race” was assigned a plot of land to call its own – the Europeans were granted prime land; the Chinese were located southwest of the Singapore River; the Indians congregated in Serangoon Road and Arab Street; and the Malays were located near the northern fringes of the town. To perform this task of ethnic sorting, the British had to conduct a census on a population whose idea of “community” vastly differed from the pseudo-scientific European theory of “race”. Non-Malay language groups such as the Bugis and Javanese peoples, along with non-Muslim groups such as the Aborigines and the Dyaks, were grouped under the clumsy heading of “Malays”. This census, in turn, influenced colonial policy – someone who self-identified as Bugis would have been housed in a Malay area; their children forced to enrol in Malay-language schools.

Erasure of identity was not the only harm. The European theory of “race” was founded on the premise that peoples were different not only in appearance and culture, but also in inherent capacities. European civilisation was seen as the most advanced, with other “races” lagging behind. It was no wonder, then, that the British administrators in Singapore developed damaging stereotypes for each “race”. George Leith, who was a senior military officer in Malaya, wrote that “(the Malays) are incapable of any labour apart from the cultivation of paddy fields.”

The scars of British rule remain. A few years after the British granted independence to Malaya, the racial enmity fostered by their divide-and-rule strategy contributed to a series of deadly mass riots. Even today, the trope of the “lazy Malay native” has been co-opted by the local Singaporean populace to explain why there exists a racial disparity in socio-economic outcomes. In every former British colony, colonisation created racial tensions and ethnic strife when there previously was none.

Perhaps the crucial lesson here is that the “benefits” of colonialism – the roads which were built, the trade which flocked to Singapore’s shores, the introduction of Western “political order” – will always be remembered, because they are easily quantified. But colonialism has also led to less tangible impacts on race, identity, and national conscience. These harms are harder to quantify, because you cannot point to a racist stereotype and say, “the British did it”; but you can point to a road and say, “the British built it”. Biggar is wrong: The real problem is that it is too easy to claim that colonialism was beneficial for colonised peoples. The real harm is that it is too easy to let the fog of history obscure the trauma that colonialism inflicted upon the colonised.

And this, mind you, applies to my homeland – one of the “best case outcomes” for colonialization. In places far less fortunate than Singapore, British imperialists enslaved black workers to work in diamond mines and farms. In 1893, Cecil Rhodes and the British South Africa Company murdered 1,500 Ndebele for the sake of colonial expansion in Rhodesia. These are, without question, immoral actions.

Yet Biggar counters, “The massacre of up to 20,000 Ndebele in Zimbabwe in 1983-4 was perpetrated, not by the British but by that patriarch of African nationalism Robert Mugabe.” He, wrongly, fetishizes moral consistency. Perhaps it ought to be the case that we condemn the past in general; but in the absence of that, it is at least better to condemn some aspects of our past rather than none of it. That this occurred does not diminish the moral horror of British atrocities in Rhodesia. It only suggests that these crimes are as deserving of moral condemnation as Mugabe’s slaughter of the Ndebele.

To commit the lesser of two genocides does not make you a saint.

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