Wednesday, May 21, 2025
Blog Page 848

“Exploring what it means to be an intelligent modern woman”

Girls Will Be Girls is an exciting piece of new writing by student Ella Langley premiering at the Burton Taylor Studio before its run at the Edinburgh Fringe this summer.

Supported by an all-female production team, and directed by Hannah Chukwu and Ella Langley, it is an honest and touching account of the lives of seven girls on the verge of adulthood, but still constrained within the school bubble, as they await the results of their application to Oxford University. As Langley explains: “in this environment, in this school, and in that rare moment right before everything changes, girls will be girls.”

In many ways an updated female version of Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, Langley’s play centers on what it means to be a clever young woman about to enter the real world. Its account of what it is to be a 17-year-old girl is often achingly familiar, and the play’s explorations of difficult issues such as eating disorders, academic pressure, racism, and sexism should be highly commended.

The play is somewhat constrained, however, by its setting in what appears to be a private single sex school with a clear history of Oxbridge applications—not exactly a universal female experience—and its somewhat outdated Georgia Nicholson-esque humour, which does not always generate the laughs expected.

Nevertheless, many audience members noted the accuracy of the characters and situations presented at such a school, and the play’s heart and spirit more than outweigh any minor issues with its privileged context.

Langley’s girls are a delight to watch on stage, and even the more off-putting and abrasive character of Rose, brilliantly portrayed by Lara Marks, is revealed to be just as self-conscious and vulnerable as the other girls in a notable scene in every schoolgirl’s refuge, the toilet cubicle. It is the strange beauty of this scene, juxtaposing the troubled girls with the more lively and confident characters as they laugh at lunch about their old school days and Oxford interview experiences, that shows the different and opposing sides to being an intelligent teenage girl in modern Britain.

Aided by notable songs that celebrate femininity such as ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ and ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’, but often with a slower rhythm and sadder tone, the play’s music likewise captures this tension between girlish freedom and existential crisis. This ultimately culminates in a powerful monologue by Natasha Sarna as Reece, attempting to explain her rash behaviour to her teacher as she meanders through her own thoughts and feelings about the school institution. Here she challenges whether her teachers “have any idea what girls are doing to get their grades”, which contribute to the reputation of the school more than to the girls’ own development. A beautifully written piece of prose by Langley, full of exciting and original imagery as well as powerful emotional content, performed with real feeling by Sarna, this is the highlight of an important and thought-provoking work.

As the lights go down when the girls begin to open their letters, the play ends, but the experience continues. Audience members are invited to go downstairs to share their own messages with their younger selves, and what they wished they could have known then. It is an odd experience to revisit such a turbulent and awkward stage in one’s life, but a necessarily important one. This play celebrates what it means to be an intelligent modern woman and embraces flaws with a sense of humour and sincerity that is often lacking in the media and mainstream culture.

Labour is dominating social media ahead of election, Oxford researchers find

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The Labour party is winning the social media battle ahead of election day, research by Oxford’s Internet Institute has this week shown.

The study found that “hashtags such as #VoteLabour and #JezzWeCan are outperforming the likes of #VoteTory and #StrongAndStable”.

However, the study also pointed out that ‘fake news’ is believed to account for around 13% of social media traffic.

The University’s Internet Institute looked at over 1.3 million tweets posted between the 1 and 7 of May which used hashtags attached to the country’s main political parties as well as the election itself.

Specifically, the study found that Labour’s tweets made up 39.7 per cent of party-specific tweets, as opposed to 26 per cent for the Conservative Party, 9.6 per cent for UKIP and 5.7 per cent for the Liberal Democrats.

Twitter mentions for Nicola Sturgeon’s SNP, which is looking to replicate its 2-15 electoral success this week, made up 19 per cent of party-specific tweets.

The study also established that over 12 per cent of political tweets are posted by bots (automated accounts). 21,000 of these tweets were for Labour, compared to only 13,400 for the Tories.

Hannah Taylor, co-Chair of Oxford University Labour Club told Cherwell: “Labour’s dominance of social media is unsurprising given our huge popularity with young people. Whilst it is hard to tell from these studies whether the content is positive, I am optimistic that this shows how Corbyn has sparked conversation online by offering a real, positive alternative.”

Meanwhile, William Rees-Mogg, Oxford University Conservative Association President, was more skeptical of the findings, telling Cherwell: “Twitter is more of an echo chamber for the views of certain politically engaged people than it is representative of the views of the general public, as evidenced by the over-representation of the SNP. We should make predictions on the basis of data gathered on the doorstep, not hot air and hashtags.”

The Oxford Internet Institute (OII) have been contacted for comment.

“The biggest student comedy event of the year”: Oxford Revue and Friends

Fresh out of a Classics exam and intermittently babbling about Ancient Rome, Olly Jackson met me to talk about the biggest student comedy event of the year, the Oxford Revue and Friends at the Playhouse. Hosted by TV comedian Naz Osmanoglu, the Oxford Revue will be joined by the Cambridge Footlights and the Durham Revue in what promises to be a night of fast-paced sketch comedy.

Olly tells me that the evening will be a culmination of the Revue’s best work from throughout the year, so if you haven’t had the chance to make their termly Audreys, this is the perfect chance to see Oxford’s best comedy talent. New performers have already been through what he calls the “proving grounds” of the Audreys, and the material is mostly tried and tested, so neither audience nor performer is at risk of the dreaded deathly silence which can happen with less experienced comedians.

Ever the sadist, I ask Olly to share his worst comedy show anecdote with me: “It was very tragic, but it wasn’t really my fault—ball gigs are always rubbish! At one minute to midnight, in the middle of our set, someone announced that the fireworks were about to start, and literally everyone left, including the bar staff. We just carried on talking though, because we hoped it would confuse everyone when they returned in the middle of a different sketch.”

Unless something explosive happens during election night, the Revue will certainly have all eyes trained upon them this time though, having secured the best venue in Oxford for their show, as well as their professional comedian host. Olly attributes this to their reputation, which certainly allows them to draw in large audiences and play at big venues like the Playhouse.

Looking at their alumni list from the last 70 years, it’s not surprising: Rowan Atkinson, Michael Palin, Al Murray and Richard Curtis are just a few highlights from the ranks. Indeed, it’s a list rivalled only by the Cambridge Footlights (Hugh Laurie, Richard Ayoade, David Mitchell) who will be sharing the stage on Thursday. Rather disappointingly for this article, Olly insists that the two troupes keep the rivalry friendly: “We went to Cambridge for their Easter gig and we all got on really well backstage. It’s really good and useful to see other people doing sketch stuff”.

One of the advantages of working with other universities is escaping what he calls “the Oxford echo chamber”. Olly says it can be easy to fall back on tired Oxford tropes in sketch-writing: “I hate Oxford sketches, and I always refuse to do them. Sketches about tutes can be funny, but I always think that you can’t show it to anyone other than an Oxford audience.” Olly makes a point of “writing about really weird stuff, which is hopefully universally entertaining”.

As Oxford jokes are out of bounds, I ask Olly to explain the process of coming up with sketch ideas. “Ideas come when I’m just walking around, doing my life…but I also send and receive messages saying ‘wouldn’t it be funny if…?’, and then we will write the other person’s stuff”. This collaborative approach has led to more exciting, fast-paced style of sketch compared to what has been seen in Oxford previously. “All of the sketches are very, very short and punchy. Which is what I think they should be. I think ‘let’s just do the idea!”

The Oxford Revue and Friends will play for one night only on 8 June at the Oxford Playhouse. Tickets are still available on the Playhouse website: http://www.oxfordplayhouse.com/whats-on/all-shows/the-oxford-revue/4775.

On That Point: Thank you, David Hockney

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I struggle with art. Although I can tell a Rembrandt from a Picasso, and enjoy the works of many artists, overall it’s not a mode of expression with which I feel a strong affinity. That being said, something dragged me out of bed last Monday morning, and compelled me to take the train to London, queue for an hour, and then wait until ten o’clock at night to gain entry to a room stuffed with overly-groomed men and photo-hungry tourists. And that’s because it was the last day of the David Hockney exhibition at Tate Britain.

Now I possess neither the pretentious writing-style nor the required desire for self-aggrandisement to write an art critique, so don’t expect one from this piece. But I will say this—everything I’m about to write is true to me, and if it’s incorrect in artistic terms, I simply don’t give a shit. So you should really take me as earnest when I say that I don’t think I’ll see a better art exhibition in my entire life.

There’s a story behind this. There’s a reason why, when I was younger, I spent so much time poring over Hockney’s paintings. Why I was so captivated by ‘Doll Boy’ and ‘Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool’, and will forever feel my strongest bond to ‘We Two Boys Together Clinging’. There’s a reason why I watched all the documentaries there were on YouTube of Hockney’s life, from his Yorkshire upbringing to his student days in London, to his stories of love and of loss in America. It was all because, in a peculiar way, David Hockney is my gay icon.

Like many other LGBT young people, I spent a lot of time trying to reconcile who I was with where I fit into my community. Where I live and grew up in East Yorkshire, there is no ‘queer community’. And even now, attending a College steeped in radical gay politics, full of loud and proud defiance, I’ve never really felt part of it. But to find someone like Hockney, and his paintings, was a revolution for me. The knowledge that there was an artist from Yorkshire, quiet and polite, who sounded like someone I’d bump into walking down the street back home, who was both openly gay and a renowned figure in British culture, regardless of his sexuality, was a source of immeasurable inspiration to me. Someone who in his art expressed all of that emotion and churning anxiety that I was feeling, of guilt, of budding desire, of raw yearning, and of love. And although I’ve never met him, and am sure he would be embarrassed if I told him this, David Hockney legitimised who I was, and he made me proud of who I am. If he was open about his sexuality, and could still lead a successful and fulfilling life, then bloody well so could I.

I walked into that exhibition with all of these feelings and memories swirling inside me. And then, there they all were. First, the paintings from the 1960s, some of his darkest and most tortured from when he was a student at the Royal College of Art. My dearest ‘We Two Boys Together Clinging’ was the centrepiece. I stopped to stare at ‘The Third Love’, leaned in closer than I probably should have, and spied in white paint amongst the maelstrom of dark colour the words ‘come on David admit it’. All of those adolescent, agonising feelings I had whilst sitting in my room back at home flooded into me. I did not cry, thankfully, but moved onwards to the next room. ‘A Bigger Splash’, and ‘Portrait of an Artist’ came before me, and an American man, standing next to ‘The Room, Tarzana’, quietly admitted to a staff member that he didn’t even know Hockney was gay. Each painting was so large and engrossing, with more vivid colours than my computer screen would ever have been able to reveal. I drank in every last painting, the playfulness of the set designs, the vastness and intricate detail of ‘Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy’ and ‘Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy’, the charming drawings he had made for friends. All of them were beautiful.

Eventually, I was about two thirds of the way through, and my fifty minutes in the exhibition had nearly run out. Pass through this last party quickly, I thought, and you can go back and look at ‘We Two Boys’ one last time. But that was before I walked into Room 10, and was faced with a series of colossal landscapes of The Wolds. This was East Yorkshire, my home, with trees capped with snow, countryside in freezing winter air, and soft spring mornings. Yes, I was being sentimental, but I didn’t care, because I have honestly never felt more proud of where I come from. Thousands of people, from Chinese tourists to London socialites, have been to this exhibition, and have looked at these marvellous paintings of the county of my birth, of East Yorkshire. And as I stood there, visitors fawning over their beauty, I defiantly thought, so they bloody well should.

As the dying minutes of the exhibition’s life went by, I panicked, and ran back to the first room as the vast spaces gradually emptied of people. I stood there, alone, taking in ‘We Two Boys Together Clinging’ before our impending separation. This painting is all mine, I thought, it’s part of my youth and it will be part of my life. A staff member caught me, I let out a laugh, and I went off into the night. I think I now understand why people love art.

So, what all of this means is that I want to say thanks to David Hockney, someone who helped me understand my sexuality and legitimised who I was in a way that a rainbow flag never could. Someone who’s helped put where I come from on the world stage. And ultimately, for being someone who’s made that kid from Yorkshire that little bit more proud of himself. Thank you.

Fashion-able

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“In a world where the mainstream concept of what is and isn’t beautiful becomes increasingly narrow,” read the introduction of Alexander McQueen’s 1998 guest edited issue of Dazed & Confused, “you have to be young, you have to be thin, you should preferably be blonde, and of course, pale skinned.” This reluctant truth prefacing the magazine’s feature entitled Access-Abled to celebrate disability and diversity, supposedly heralded a revolution in the fashion industry for the new millennium. Rather than normalising or erasing disability, the accompanying images shot by photographer Nick Knight showed models such as double amputee, Aimee Mullins, embracing high-fashion as means of self-empowerment. Her prosthetic limbs emerge through McQueen’s cage-like hoop skirt challenging the viewer and making us aware of the disabled body as an aesthetic possibility.

“As legless and beautiful, she is an embodied paradox, asserting an inherently disruptive potential” identifies Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, theorist and author of Extraordinary Bodies, a founding text in the disability studies canon. This defiant spirit epitomised McQueen, who was devoted to combatting the prejudicial rhetoric which has surrounded images of deformity or otherness within fashion and throughout history. Speaking in a world before the advent of Instagram which has become a 24/7 visual stream of physical homogeneity and perfection, he was prescient in acknowledging how the media plays a profound role in culturally embedding a sense of marginalisation that many people with disabilities experience. Throughout his career and up until his premature death, he aimed to re-define contemporary notions of what it means to be beautiful. But nearly 20 years after this ground-breaking recognition, how far has the industry progressed in its commitment to inclusivity and eliminating ableism?

In a recent study by disability charity, Scope, it was found that 68% of disabled people expressed the need to conceal their disabilities as a consequence of the negativity and discrimination associated with them. This comes at a time when designers and editorial magazines are increasingly capitalising on the concept of female empowerment over physical perfection; notably Victoria Beckham, who commented “I want to empower women and make women look like the best versions of themselves” when referring to the breaking news that her 2017 high-street collection for TARGET will be available in plus sizes. We must question why the fashion industry continues to under acknowledge the intersectional communities of disabled women and risks disenfranchising a proportion of their consumers.

Visibility is crucial to addressing this exclusion, yet the practice of using disabled models in catwalk shows has been reduced to little more than shock tactics, a publicity stunt to propel emerging designers into the international media. Cat Smith, doctoral researcher at the London College of Fashion, refers to this promotion of disabled models as “tokenism” when we read headlines applauding this bold and revolutionary move, but very rarely do we see it filter into commercial campaigns. Smith has dedicated herself to studying representations of disability in the fashion industry through both academic research and her blog, stylishlyimpared.com.

In an interview last year for Dazed’s website she criticised society’s misconceptions of the power of self-presentation for those with disabilities, and claimed it was endemic of the way society treats disabled people in general. She suggested candidly that many believe “we’re not worthy of being seen and that we don’t have the same wants and desires as non-disabled people…people just expect that you’re not going to give a shit about how you look because you are disabled!” She urges the industry to reconsider the way in which it approaches diverse casting to create a more sustainable and meaningful change in the way we conceive disabilities.

During Mercedes-Benz fashion week in Moscow last month we witnessed a positive shift in combatting fashion’s fixation on the normative physical body when Jack Eyers, the multi-hyphenate top model, actor and amputee, opened the Bezgraniz Couture show. The project itself was founded in 2010 by Janina Urussowa and Tobias Reisner, and is engaged in creating stylish and functional clothing for people with a range of disabilities. Through designing adaptive clothes and channeling pilot productions, they aim to establish a new image surrounding disability so that it is no longer something to be concealed; both firmly believe that through “changing the world of fashion – we change the world.”

Similarly, Jack Eyers is representative of a new brand of disability models, and has become a prominent activist for diversity in fashion since meeting the founder of Models of Diversity four years ago. Through his matchless charisma and social consciousness, he is achieving a longevity that many current catwalk models could only dream of—from representing Antonio Urzi in New York fashion week to securing a commercial contract with Boohoo menswear. He laments that “if I’d seen more disabled models when I was growing up, maybe I would have felt more confident about myself … there’s a lot of people out there with physical disabilities that need to be inspired.”

The problem of disability representation is by no means exclusive to fashion catwalks and commercial campaigns, but for an industry so heavily defined by exteriority it’s only a matter of time before we recognise its vast potential in re-evaluating our perceptions on the disabled body. As McQueen intimated so many years ago, “give me time and I’ll give you a revolution”.

Communication and confrontation in Brooklyn’s art community

December in New York City was a strange time. Statistically speaking, eight in ten of the people you passed had voted for Clinton in November, and so the slightly haunted, tired look on their faces made perfect sense. The extent to which people felt shaken became even clearer when you spoke to them. I was there for a breakneck three days, going on studio visits with my mother to choose the pieces that will be shown in an exhibition at the Shirley Fiterman Art Center in Manhattan this summer.

Several of the artists are people I’ve known nearly since birth and haven’t seen in a decade, and even so, the first thing on our minds was not attempting to catch up on ten years of gossip but the sense of cataclysm that we all felt.

There’s an argument, and it’s a convincing one, that all art is political and, in the interim period between the election and the inauguration it felt truer than ever. There was an atmosphere of displacement and shifting ground. Between daily revelations about suspicious calls to Russia and plans to defund sanctuary cities (of which New York is one), no one seemed to know where they stood.

For the Brooklyn artists’ community with which I was in contact, this feeling was literalised. At least three of them had just signed a three-year lease with no real idea of where they would go when it was up. Rent prices in Brooklyn are skyrocketing; just two weeks after I was there, it was reported that they had risen over 15 per cent in the last year alone.

To make matters even worse, everyone was certain that come the next budget, the funding for the arts programs they depended on would be slashed. These practical problems aside, the existential angst that seems to suffuse American society bled through to their work. One artist that we approached left our email in her inbox for a while, before eventually replying that she didn’t feel able to make anything new and yet none of her pre-2016 pieces felt right anymore.

Much of art’s connection to politics comes from what people bring to it. Perhaps it’s the best example of the observer effect: what may have seemed neutral becomes political, or the lens with which we see something changes after we come back to a work of art years later.

One of the pieces in this exhibition—Oliver Jones’ ‘The Deceitful Season’ (2014)—involves a collection of battered driftwood upon which an excerpt of a misspelled, garbled poem about the weather is printed, which once might have seemed a more straightforward statement about decay or the environment.

Today, though, it feels like a warning, about our own hubris and the dangers of those who lead us: ‘Those, who go out ont the hill with the stalker, kno who w very little their famed prescience is worth’. These changing meanings also affect those trying to exert control, who often find them threatening, although thankfully the situation in the United States has not (yet) come to active repression of artistic expression. It is at times like these, full of crisis and turmoil, that art seems to be at its most confrontational.

One of my strongest memories is of sitting in the back room of my mother’s gallery in 2002, months after the 11 September attacks. In the following years, that space wasn’t so full of the constant political back and forth that was inescapable during the run-up to the war in Iraq and all the following catastrophes, but still allowed a channeling of fear and emotion, a creation of catharsis.

The art on the walls wasn’t always explicit with its politics, but anyone viewing Duston Spear’s ‘War Night’ in 2003 in all its vast horror and beauty couldn’t fail to think of the constant chaos in the news.

Maybe ironically, the show we’re curating now is being exhibited in the shadow of the new World Trade Center building. As a result, there are certain restrictions. The building can’t accept mail—for security reasons—and everyone involved is hypersensitive to the potential implications of any political statements in the show.

Yet politics are at the forefront of everyone’s minds these days. The exhibition itself is called Text/ure. It is a collection of art relating to texture, language, and narrative, some conceptual and some verging on representational. A theme common to many of the works involved is how texture, literacy, and the legible work as a part of communication—from the swooping arches reminiscent of the practice-marks as a child learns to write in David Henderson’s ‘History of Aviation’ (2010-17), to the illegible written confessions dipped in beeswax and formed into a honeycomb of Brenna Beirne’s ‘Confessional Cells’ (2014-17) which recognize our own complicity in the hurt of the world.

When the concept of the exhibition was proposed many months ago I had not thought of it in this way, but now the question of how to understand one another when communication is hard seems central, in a time of distrust and hostility.

To me, art like this is exceptionally effective at wrenching us outside our comfort zones, or even the ‘bubbles’ that have seen such a great deal of attention lately. Beirne’s work in particular requires a degree of active participation—as visitors are asked to write down their own confessions as they leave. It doesn’t necessarily work if all you do is glance at it. Instead, it forces the viewer to think, to interrogate, to discuss.

Text/ure opens Tuesday 30th May, at the Shirley Fiterman Art Centre, 81 Barclay Street, New York

Pastel pink speculums, embroidered condoms, and art for reproductive freedom

It is a sad state of affairs that women are having to tackle the same issues in their art today as they were 30 odd years ago in the United States. In 1989, Barbara Kruger produced her potent poster in support of women’s reproductive freedoms—‘Untitled (Your Body is a Battleground)’—for the Women’s March on Washington DC that April. The rally took place amidst wider national demonstrations protesting new anti-abortion legislation that undermined the 1973 Roe v. Wade ruling (legalising abortion at a federal level in the US, up to the third trimester). Though tied to this specific moment, the image’s scarlet slogan still rings through resonantly today.

Three decades on, legislation has regressed again and artists like Zoe Buckman, Katrina Majkut, and Niki Johnson are still challenging male-led legislation on women’s reproductive health more overtly than ever in their respective works. With Trump’s executive order to reinstate the Mexico City Policy that terminated federal funding to international groups providing abortions and his explicit pro-life comments in mind, the conversations these works initiate are now more important than ever.

The artists explicitly grapple with choice and ownership of our bodies from the driving seat, and their works put up a visual fight, forming part of the wave of activism now all the more alive in the States, that is presenting a formidable front to the President. Reactionary art of a similar nature has taken the country by storm since the election, typifying the force art possesses when it collides with activism.

Zoe Buckman has recently occupied one of these shows in Project for Empty Space’s new area for political protest art—‘Grab Back: Feminist Incubator Space’—established as a direct result of the ‘travesty of the election’. Her solo-exhibition entitled Imprison Her Soft Hand displays numerous works from her collection ‘Mostly It’s Just Uncomfortable’, which engages unabashedly with reproductive rights and resilience.

Inspired by the changes to Planned Parenthood, the pastel-coloured, powder-coated gynaecological instruments that form part of the series spark discussion about women’s ownership of their bodies, as the artist has reclaimed ownership over these sterile objects by repurposing them in a more friendly and feminine manner. Concurrently, the baby pink speculums and pale blue forceps detract from the cold harsh metal of the objects and equally harsh attitudes surrounding abortion practises. Utilising these objects as (slightly) more welcoming sculptures, Buckman hopes to change negative perceptions of the often life-saving procedures they perform.

Gynaecological instruments are unsurprisingly a common theme in art fighting anti-abortion legislation today, and are similarly depicted in Katrina Majkut’s work. In her series ‘In Control’, the artist artfully cross-stitches images of contraceptives, STI medications, and surgical tools. Much like Buckman, Majkut’s work initiates conversation about ownership and takes back control over women’s reproductive health. Needlework is a traditionally feminine art—her choice of medium stridently highlights the importance of choice, and that men have no place in legislating on women’s reproductive health.

Also part of Buckman’s collection is an antique examination chair—‘The Oxford Chair’—reupholstered in vintage lingerie. Accompanied by a sound piece fusing together clips from the artist at the boxing gym and giving birth to her daughter, it binds femininity with resilience, serving as a powerful symbol of female strength. Similarly, bubble-gum pink boxing gloves, mint green bindings and red metallic mouth-guards cast in resin are intermixed and juxtaposed with the surgical objects. They combine the typically masculine and feminine, and serve as a reminder that far from being passive, women are in control of their bodies, and will come out fighting for their rights.

Resistance is another prevailing theme in much of the activist art attacking anti-abortion legislation. In a commanding nude, Niki Johnson encapsulates the idea that even when torn down, women will rise-up again. ‘Hills and Valleys’, the feminine form in shades of emerald and white, is constructed from Planned Parenthood signs that were collected from the organization’s closed offices in Wisconsin. As it was a hefty task, the artist sent out a request on Facebook for volunteers to help in the work’s production. Created as a group effort, the nude exalts the value we place on women’s reproductive rights collectively and is a symbol of empowerment in the wake of State cuts.

Women’s bodies are still very much a battleground for reproductive rights, but when activism and art collide so forcefully like this, one can be hopeful that this will not always be so. Whether it be Buckman’s pink speculums or Majkut’s embroidered condoms, these works all confront us with the fact that our reproductive health is our choice alone. Putting up a fight, they show no legislation will stop women from claiming back what is theirs. As PES’ new gallery’s name so brilliantly tells, “Grab them by the pussy” Mr Trump, and they’ll grab back.

 

Fighting for the right to life at Oxford

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On a wintry evening last January, I was in a college room with thirty other people to hear an MP speak and answer questions: not an unusual situation for an Oxford undergraduate. Halfway through the talk, the porters of the college came in with an unusual request: that we close the curtains of the room. There had, they explained apologetically, been complaints from students about what could be seen from outside.

What were we doing in that room that was so shadowy that a mere glimpse of it through a window was unacceptable? We were attending an Oxford Students for Life (OSFL) event, listening to Fiona Bruce speak about against abortion on the grounds of gender and disability. This was what had to be hidden.

Ms Bruce had no PowerPoint presentation, so no one would have been able to tell from the window what she was talking about. All they would have seen was our society’s stand, which says “Promoting a culture of life at the university” in a vaguely Tolkien-esque font. The problem wasn’t any particular thing being said—the problem was the fact that we exist.

But exist we do. We’re a small society: Georgia Clarke and I are co-presidents, and there are currently three other committee members, two women and one man. We run about four events a term—among our speakers this year were the New Wave Feminists, Kelsey Hazzard (of the US-based Secular Pro-Life) and historian Daniel K. Williams (author of a book on the progressive roots of the pro-life movement). We’ve had a debate on assisted suicide between philosophers David Oderberg and Jeff McMahan, and ran a ‘Stump the Pro-Lifer’ event where we invited people to ask us any question they wanted.

If this sounds a bit different to what you were expecting (“feminists? secular?”), I don’t blame you. There’s a carefully-cultivated stereotype of pro-lifers as hidebound reactionaries who pin up posters of Mike Pence on their walls and drift off to sleep fantasising about Gilead, the fundamentalist, misogynistic dystopia from The Handmaid’s Tale.

In reality, OSFL attracts people of all ideological stripes. I’m a socialist and used to be a member of the Irish Green Party. Ruth Akinradewo, who writes for our blog and has spoken against pro-choice motions at OUSU meetings, was involved with the Rhodes Must Fall campaign. We’ve got Tories and Labour supporters coming to our events, Remainers and Brexiteers, and possibly even the odd libertarian.

What unites pro-lifers is the straightforward idea that every human being is of equal worth, and that this fundamental equality is grounded in their humanness, in their simple membership of the species. We think that attempting to base equality on anything else is inevitably exclusionary—it can’t be race, sex, or sexual orientation that gives us our dignity, but nor can it be cognitive ability (cognitively disabled people are equal), or the capacity for consciousness (coma patients are equal), or physical size. From a scientific, factual and intuitive perspective, it is clear that the fetus is an individual human life, deserving of this basic dignity. Moral progress over the last few centuries has always involved extending the sphere of fundamental dignity outwards, to include more humans. We want to continue this project until it includes all humans.

As with all human rights revolutions, this will require a transformation of society—not towards Gilead but away from it. According to a 2005 study from the pro-choice Guttmacher Institute on abortion in the US, the top reasons given for having an abortion were that a child would interfere with education, work or ability to care for dependents (74 per cent), being unable to afford a baby now (73 per cent), and relationship problems or not wanting to be a single mother (48 per cent).

The reality of abortion is rarely an empowering choice: it’s more likely to be a boyfriend walking away, a labour market that discriminates against pregnant women and mothers with children, and a culture that tells women facing a crisis pregnancy that they have to choose between their child and their future.

In an equal society, women wouldn’t face these trade-offs. It should be the job of pro-lifers to work to make that society a reality, and in the meantime to try to provide as much concrete support as possible for young parents, and for women facing crisis pregnancies. In OSFL we try to help in a small way by passing motions in JCRs and MCRs to make sure that colleges have adequate facilities in place to support student parents.

Confronting products of the subconscious

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I hate listening to people’s dreams. It’s like flipping through a stock of photographs. If I’m not in any of them, and nobody’s having sex, I just…don’t care”. These are lines from the opening episode of the cynically comic It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. If this rings true for you then stop reading now, or continue reading in the knowledge that this article contains dreams that do not involve you and, at their most sensational, contain only kissing and inconsequential nudity.

Common dream folklore claims that 90 per cent of your dream is forgotten within ten minutes of waking up. However, by dwelling on the few scenes I have in my mind on waking, I have been able to remember them long enough to bore people at breakfast with my night time trials and tribulations.

The best way to remember dreams is to think about them as soon as you wake up. To remember them for a prolonged period of time, keep a pad of paper or notebook by your bed and write them down. For the last couple of weeks, I have kept a dream diary. I started recording them out of curiosity of what my subconscious was dwelling on, since during the day I find myself too caught up in events to consider the subtle impact they have on me.

The dream book is covered by marbled blue tones with white and gold, which form large peacock-like feathers. The edges of the pages have a gold trim and a gold elasticated trap holds it shut. Albeit with different backstories, common themes have played out in many of my dreams. Some believe that dreams are manifestations of subconscious thoughts, most often negative ones such as anxiety. It is not until recently that I accepted this.

For the last two terms, I had been under the impression that my dreams were an outside force that purposefully sought to upset me and cause me pain, during the one time of the day I could escape from my own thoughts. However, it has become clearer to me that, rather than dreams being forced upon me by external demons, they are productions of my subconscious. The upset they caused stemmed from not accepting certain aspects of my life and not facing up to my emotions. It is with this new, potentially more productive, mindset that I began analysing my dreams this term.

“On a snowy mountain—skiing. With Caitlin and Tim. All the ski lifts are for two people only. They scramble to get on together. I am left alone as the ski lift swings in the wind. Abandoned.”

Artwork: Mila Fitzgerald

It was clear to me what this dream was about, as soon as I woke up. The feeling of abandonment and betrayal had been lingering in my conscious mind for a few weeks before this dream. Caitlin and Tim are both close friends of mine with whom I had a tense relationship at this point. This sentiment was repeated in another dream a couple of weeks later. I was sat in a cool, unfamiliar utility room. Caitlin told me that her and my boyfriend’s ex, had eaten my two large Cadbury’s chocolate bars together. One was mint flavoured and the other was Oreo flavoured.

Again, this stirred a deep sense of betrayal. It was not the disappearance of a possible chocolate treat that hurt me but the fact that she did so with someone who, unfoundedly, represents a threat to my happiness. I remember the feeling of anxiety rising up and nauseating me. She seemed completely unaware of how she had made me feel and her innocent smile made that feeling all the worse.

After this dream, I could not deny to myself the way that Caitlin had made me feel in waking life. The dream pain pointed me towards a real pain in my life—a pain that was hurting my everyday existence.

My new relationship has undeniably been on my mind. Of the 23 dreams I recorded, seven were about James, my new boyfriend. Two involved people tempting me away from him, but thankfully never succeeding, and two suggested underlying fears that he will hurt me emotionally, or leave. One of the most upsetting of these was a dream that involved me finding my ex-boyfriend sat by a white fence in a wide field of grass. He had asked to meet up and got unsettlingly angry at my hesitation. I was painfully torn.

I had so many questions to ask him but did not trust myself to have the strength of character to spend time with him and not fall back into the unhealthy state of mind that surrounded him and our relationship.

Then there was the question of James. I did not know if it would be betraying him to even talk to my ex. All these emotions were overwhelming in the two seconds of real-time that dragged on for some minutes in my dream. Perhaps it was his anger at my tentative silence that spurred me to push him away. My subconscious had come to a decision and realisation that I am proud of. The dream showed that I really had chosen to move on. However, this did not diminish the numbing sadness on waking. No matter the outcome, an interaction like that, and the real-life events it took its inspiration from, are not nice to dwell on.

Another of these more taxing dreams happened only a few nights ago. I was lying in bed with James and he was propped up on his elbow looking down at me. His frown fills me with the familiar rising feeling of anxiety. It is almost as if my emotions have read the script before any words are spoken. The overriding fear is that he is going to break up with me. He starts to talk. The room is dimly lit and I can only see one half of his face clearly. “I think we should spend less time together” he says in a measured and cold voice.

Tears start to silently fall from the corners of my eyes. I cannot think of anything to say. Instead I lie perfectly still looking up at his vacant face until mercifully I wake up. It turns out the crying had forced its way into reality and I found myself, next to James, warm and comfortable but with tears collected in the corners of my eyes. The sun was making the edges of the blinds glow and the room was light enough for me to see James open his eyes and smile at me. Of course, it was only a dream.

These dreams did make me acknowledge the underlying anxieties that I half-knew I was trying to suppress. They are anxieties and insecurities carried over from a past relationship, and I never addressed them in that previous environment. I was surprised they surfaced so quickly, since everything in reality is fine. I thought it would take a little longer, or at least some kind of disagreement, to trigger the irrational anxiety which stems from insecurities cultivated in past experiences.

Artwork: Mila Fitzgerald

However, I made the decision to address them. I took the step of condemning those worries as the irrational thoughts that they are. I took time to work out where they came from and have explained all of this to James. The other dreams about James were more pleasant though.

“At Iffley Sports Centre. I am about to cycle back to see James. Text him to let him know I am leaving now. See an ice cream stand giving away free ice cream. Get two tubs, with scoops of mint-choc-chip in James’ tub, and put them in the basket of my bike to cycle home.”

I have since discovered that he does not like mint-choc-chip flavoured ice cream but it was a lovely sentiment all the same. What was interesting in this dream is that I could read the text in the message I sent him. This is unusual because often in dreams you cannot read written text, although this is not always the case.

An amusing aspect of thinking back through dreams is all the inconsistencies and impossibilities that you imagine. For example, in one dream, I walked along the train tracks from Gloucester Green tube station to Durham—it only took a couple of minutes. In another, I was in a play set in Saigon with vivid red costumes and a set, which was decorated with gold detail. As I ran through the dry ice haze backstage a security guard stopped me. My internal monologue in the dream thought: “there are so many restrictions at this modelling shoot and catwalk show”.

This made no sense since it was clearly a play. A major plot flaw. Perhaps this was just my brain filling in the gaps randomly. This must have been the case in one dream where I was sat in a car with someone who was moving a tube of smoking liquid towards me. My instinct in the dream told me that they were trying to make me pass out so this substance must have had chloroform properties. My brain inexplicably labelled this substance to be zinc oxide despite it being a powder and the dream clearly depicting a smoking clear liquid.

“Clinging onto a wooden ceiling beam high above a large hall. Ravens swarm around me. But I am not me. I am a young boy. Terrified.”

This dream threw up many questions. In fact, it was the dream that led me down the journey of recording my dreams. It was the only time in all my recorded dreams that I was not myself. The young boy, whose thoughts were my own in the dream, was breathless with terror. The wooden ceiling beam was made from dark wood and square in shape, making it incredibly hard to hold onto. The drop from the vaulted ceiling would have been crippling, potentially deadly, and his legs kicked in the vast openness.

Artwork: Mila Fitzgerald

On waking, the fear was cleared but I was unsure about the significance of the raven. So, I looked up what they meant. There was a mixed answer online. Some said that ravens appear to remind you that you have a choice or that fear is holding you back from reaching your full potential.

Others said that they symbolised misfortunes and failures. Potentially most aptly, some claimed that the raven reminds you of an underlying, yet omnipresent, unhappiness. It therefore seems appropriate that these birds appeared in the dream that spurred me on this reflective journey. The analysis of fears and uncertainties hopefully aid the process of discarding old, negative habits as the raven foreshadows. I am not sure about the pseudo-science surrounding such symbolism, but it is an interesting angle to consider.

However, I am sure of the personal benefit of reflecting on the more immediately obvious emotions within the dream and who they are associated with. In all honesty, what I found was no real surprise to me. They were my own deep seated emotions in a film-like form after all. Despite this, it has been healthy to accept that these recurring emotions clearly show that certain events have had an impact on me.

By reflecting and embracing what I discover, I believe that I can use this awareness to guide my waking hours. That’s what this article boils down to. I encourage you to do as I have done and record your dreams, read back over them after a couple of weeks and see for yourself what your subconscious is trying to tell you.

Has a recent argument unsettled you more than you thought? Is exam pressure making you more anxious than you have time to realise during the day? Are certain people in your life constantly being linked to negative or positive emotions?

Ask yourself questions of this manner and decide for yourself whether to act on the answers. This discussion of subconscious wellbeing is something that is becoming more widely accepted. I personally believe that by accepting, addressing and acting upon emotions reflected repeatedly in my dream, I have been able to put certain events into perspective and overall have found it to be a positive experience.

As Prospero says, in The Tempest, “we are such stuff that dreams are made on”. The recording of my dreams has led me to the realisation that this is all too true.

Artwork: Mila Fitzgerald

All names have been changed.

SnapShot: Crewdate

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If there’s one thing that Cherwell staff take more seriously than headlines and hacking, it’s crewdating. And, not content with the arduous trek to deep dark Cowley for our usual venue, this week we took a three and a half hour Megabus to Cambridge to crewdate (sorry, I mean ‘swap with’) our Tab counterparts, Varsity.

On arrival, we were shown to our respective hosts’ rooms and I immediately admonished 17-year-old Emma for her blatant mistake on her UCAS form. My host was nice, sure, but her room was incredible and outdid, in every capacity, the majority of hotels I have ever stayed in (Edinburgh Travelodge, eat your heart out.)

Apart from a few arguments over the rules of pennying (reader, if you do learn anything today, make it Cambridge’s ‘an empty glass is a full glass’ rule) the night was classic crewdate territory—think sconces over allegations of libel, and a certain editor declaring he has one shoe for red wine, and one for white.

We then headed to the biggest Wetherspoons in Europe which taught me only that even if you have two stories, a dancefloor, and a smoking area, a Spoons is still a Spoons and there will inevitably be people drinking from pitchers with a straw, someone drunkenly spilling the details of their personal life to anyone who will listen, and one girl crying down the phone outside. All of them were me.

The night progressed to a slightly swankier bar, although that wasn’t exactly difficult, where I apparently was under the illusion that Cambridge spending is not real spending. I haven’t checked my bank balance yet so I might be right but I have a strong suspicion that I will be living off pesto pasta for the rest of the month.

As the night drew to a close, people started to divide off and go back to their hosts, and one former editor took the current Varsity editor under her wing, presumably to pass on her sage editorial advice and InDesign tips. How nice.

So, if you prefer drinking from shoes with the tabs instead of actually shoeing them, then you’re in for a treat. Just make sure your editor has sick bags and a change of clothes for the Megabus home.