Tuesday 7th October 2025
Blog Page 859

The Norrington Table serves no meaningful purpose

Daniel Kodsi
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The Norrington Table serves no meaningful purpose

There are two questions that are raised by the annual publication of the Norrington Table. One of these is interesting and important; the other not so much. The uninteresting question concerns how we are supposed to interpret the table’s results each year. The answer is that there are many meanings that we could impute to the Table, and because of this, it’s probably best not to impute any. The more difficult question is what meaning we should ascribe to finals marks, and here it’s at best wrong and at worst stupid to say ‘they don’t matter’ or ‘so long as you do your best’ or any vaguely therapeutic-sounding pleasantry like that. Finals marks do count for quite a bit, both as a measure (albeit, a potentially bad one) of one’s intellectual ability and as a determinant of what options are available immediately after graduation.

But the importance of the second question, unfortunately, leads us to think too hard about the first one, in that it leads us to think about it at all. Since individual finals marks are highly important, there is a natural inclination to think that the aggregate finals marks of one’s college also matter. Rowers care a lot where their college places in Eights – why shouldn’t students care where their college places in finals? There is a rather prurient interest to the whole thing as well: the Norrington Table is about as close as it’s possible to get to seeing under other colleges’ skirts. It’s titillating, in the way that getting a glimpse of any closely guarded secret can be. There are, after all, people behind those marks. When we say Merton would have placed first if a few more finalists had gotten firsts, there are probably a lot of Mertonians who are thinking ‘if I had just gotten a few more marks, I would have gotten a first’.

Yet there is an obvious distinction between Summer Eights and the Norrington Table. With the former, there is usually no mystery as to how exactly the race was won. But there is a very deep, and I suspect to students impenetrable, murkiness around why marks are distributed as they are. Is it significant that the top three colleges all eclipsed the previous record in finals? Should Lincoln be worried that it has plunged to the bottom of the League? How pleased should Pembroke dons be about how high they’ve climbed in the last couple years? Of course these questions have answers, but there’s no way for us to figure out what they are. There are simply too many variables at play: the proportion of students at each college studying subjects with a higher first rate; the stringency of each year’s examiners; the attitude and competitiveness of each year’s student body; the quality of instruction, both in tutorials and exam prep sessions; the astuteness of college interviewers; and so on. Maybe colleges, or the University, have access to information on each of these data points – but students certainly don’t.

In the aftermath of last year’s Norrington Table I asked what it was that the Table really measured, having taken a quick look at the relationships between League performance and different variables, like college age, wealth and popularity. It is probably worth, a year later, admitting to the crime: that kind of analysis is deliberately sensationalist; the factoids might be fun, but they’re largely empty. To the credit of the Oxford student body, I think this is widely recognised. The Norrington Table is a good excuse for a few minutes of inter-college banter, and for the most part nobody treats it as much more. But there is a real problem with according it even that level of attention; it keeps the Table firmly rooted in the University’s consciousness, and to treat it jovially is usually to fail to treat it critically. Because finals matter, how colleges perform at finals also matters. If it is actually the case that some colleges better prepare students for exams than others – and I see no reason why it wouldn’t be – then this is an inequity that needs to be addressed. But the Norrington Table, given how superficial the information it provides, fails to present a valuable insight into the problem.

Let’s talk about chlamydia

Anonymous
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Let’s talk about chlamydia

I feel an odd sense of solidarity as I take my seat in the waiting room at 9.31am – a time I have chosen to minimise my chances of encountering my peers. One girl is reading Cosmo. A guy is writing out some fractions. A middle-aged business woman is calmly perusing a leaflet on genital warts. I have to say – I thought that rampant moral degeneracy would be more visible on a trip to the clinic.

My name is called and I follow the nurse into a side room, where we make small talk about the H&M sale while she runs a blood test to check whether I have HIV. Then the inevitable question comes. Why am I here? And, in spite of all the support and acceptance I have encountered, the inevitable feeling of shame begins rising again.

I explain the story as briefly as possible – an ex-boyfriend has tested positive for chlamydia, and has told me in no uncertain terms that I must have given it to him, thus here I am. The nurse shrugs, pulls out a swab test, and directs me to the toilet, which also doubles as a baby changing room, so I spend a good ten minutes attempting to penetrate myself with a giant cotton bud while trying not to think about how this is defiling the nappy changing area.

“I think you’re unlikely to have it,” the nurse says. “You haven’t seen this guy since Christmas.” She asks how many sexual partners I have had while at Oxford. The answer is apparently enough to pre-empt a diagnosis, and I am given antibiotics immediately. I leave the clinic an hour later with a box of pills and an overwhelming sense of inexplicable shame.

The funny thing about chlamydia is that, as STIs go, it really isn’t that bad. It has no long-term health consequences (unless undiagnosed for years, in which case it can cause pelvic inflammation or infertility in women), and can be easily treated with a week of antibiotics. To be frank, I have had colds more annoying than chlamydia. And yet, the very mention of the word is enough to inspire terror – one need only look at the prevalence of STI-themed ‘confessions’ from trolls on Oxfess to see how much we as a student body fear infection. In a study by the University of Michigan, two sample groups were confronted by hypothetical scenarios, in which their partner had given them either chlamydia or a potentially fatal flu which could be sexually transmitted. Even though chlamydia is easily treatable and the flu was potentially fatal, the scenario with the chlamydia was considered to be far worse. Reading studies like this as I desperately Googled my situation, I couldn’t help but wonder whether such a response was symptomatic of a naïve ignorance of the realities of infection, or indicative of a darker channel of moral judgement and leftover sexual conservatism.

Sexual morality at Oxford is, in my opinion, fairly progressive. In around eight months of having casual sex, I have been called a hoe approximately once, and been praised as a feminist approximately ten times. At no point in my first two terms did I ever doubt what I was doing, but after getting off the phone to my ex, who came out with such gems as: “I don’t want to slut shame you, but…” and “I just hope you didn’t give me this deliberately,” I began to reassess my lifestyle –what had been a standard way to end Thursday Bridge became something I associated with shame and guilt. This was my fault. I was a slut. My ex was right: the hatred I would presumably incur was deserved and inevitable.

It is worth saying that I am by no means alone in experiencing feelings of worthlessness in the immediate aftermath of the diagnosis of a suspected STI – incidences of depression following this are well-charted.

Fortunately, my friends did not see things this way, and found the entire debacle hilarious. My Facebook nickname was changed to ‘chlamydiaaaaa’, an STI-themed Spotify playlist was created, and a cocktail was devised (Squash-Tequila-Ice). While their reaction was definitely comforting, and gave me some excellent inspiration for my linguistics coursework (which I ended up writing on the NHS webpage for chlamydia), the underlying feeling of worthlessness that that conversation with my ex had inspired didn’t fade.

My next task was to compile a list of everyone who would have to be informed if the diagnosis came back positive. Partner notification is morally complex – you are legally obliged to inform partners only from the past 3 months, but we decided that I should inform everyone on the list, even though, as one friend put it: “you’re going to have a lot of people to avoid in Park End.” The debate as to how best to notify ex-partners is very contentious. Most online sources tell you that a face-to-face conversation is the only acceptable way, but it seems excessive to arrange to meet someone for coffee, when the coffee might be longer and more engaged than the original encounter. “Make a group chat,” one friend suggested. “Pidge them urine tests,” suggested another. Eventually we colour-coded those who should be told in person, and those for whom a polite Facebook message would have to suffice.

And still, although the experience had produced some excellent sconces, I couldn’t help but feel contaminated. As I looked at the list of names, I imagined how each of them would remember me – not as the girl whose room had been really messy, but as the girl with chlamydia who had ruined their first year at Oxford. I basically felt worthless and tainted.

Although I hadn’t received my diagnosis yet, we decided that the ex-partners with whom I was still friends might as well be informed immediately. Logically, the process of notification is just protocol, but as the time got closer I was so ill with nerves that I could only keep down soup. “I’m really sorry,” I babbled, expecting anger and hatred, “but I have to tell you something.” And so I rambled on about statistics and the effectiveness of condoms, close to tears. I will always be grateful to the guy who gave me a hug and told me it was fine, that it was not my fault, and that we should just wait and see what the results came back with.

The truth is, he was right. The risk of contracting an STI is something you have to factor in when you have casual sex, and since more than half of us will have an STI before we are 25, at least one person reading this will have undiagnosed chlamydia and be none the wiser. The best thing you can do is to use condoms, get tested regularly, screw the haters, and remember that chlamydia is easily treatable. In my experience at least, the stigma surrounding chlamydia is far worse than the reality of the condition.

I do not blame my ex at all for his initial reaction. He was understandably scared by his own diagnosis, and, although his comments were unacceptable, blaming the person you think has infected you is a fairly common reaction, and one that is symptomatic of the fear and ignorance which surround STIs. I know this article won’t do much to combat the stigma, but I do hope that you can take away some basic life lessons – if nothing greater than the fact that if you’re mature enough to engage in casual sex, you’re also mature enough to face the consequences. And finally, to any of the men on that list, I am sorry if reading this article has been an emotional rollercoaster for you. I should probably end the suspense by letting you all know the news – my results came back clean.

‘Queen Anne’ review – ‘a complex portrait of our political inheritance’

Ethan Croft
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‘Queen Anne’ review – ‘a complex portrait of our political inheritance’

Crippled, grieving, and the laughing stock of England. This is how the Princess Anne, heir to the English throne, begins her story in Helen Edmundson’s play Queen Anne, now showing at the Theatre Royal Haymarket. Emma Cunliffe’s impressive portrayal of the woman who didn’t want to be Queen never falters in communicating Anne’s jittery weakness. Even when wearing the purple robe of state, with orb and sceptre in hand, she hunches visibly, and talks to her counsellors with a nervous high-strung voice. Rising like a phoenix from a vicious smear campaign orchestrated by her closest confidante in the latter half of the play, the central paranoiac element of Anne Stuart’s character never leaves Cunliffe’s performance. Rather, as the Duke of Marlborough tells us, “she has become the Queen.” Though she is personally feeble, Anne begins to fulfil the essentially performative role of the English monarch that was emerging in the years following the Glorious Revolution.

Queen Anne is set during a period of momentous change in British government and society. This is most obviously demonstrated in the title character’s acceptance of her role as an increasingly apolitical head of state, the basis of our modern constitutional monarchy. But it is also shown in characters such as Robert Harley, Speaker of the Commons and later Lord Treasurer. Though played with a particularly comedic flair by James Garnon, his character offers more than comic relief. Harley is the archetypal modern politician, responding to almost all questions from the Queen with his trademark answer “yes, no, maybe.” There were also some unintentional laughs elicited from the audience by Chu Omambala’s Duke of Marlborough. He plays England’s chief soldier with such a declamatory staccato that he was almost chewing up the scenery. Nevertheless, he is given some of the play’s great lines by Edmundson. After a century of civil war, republicanism, a decadent restoration, and another revolution, Marlborough sums up the mood of his time with the words: “These Stuarts have outlived their use.”

Edmundson’s play is probably best described as a court drama. Though the Queen and her entourage at one point move from St. James’ Palace to Kensington, the action never leaves London, and almost all of the characters are aristocrats and members of the elite; there are, for example, some notable cameos from Jonathan Swift (Jonny Glynn) and Daniel Defoe (Carl Prekopp). But Edmundson gives us a glimpse of the real England through the play’s musical interludes. They illustrate the extent to which the ‘majesty’ of the English monarch had been debased throughout the preceding Seventeenth century. We begin with a pantomime depiction of Princess Anne and her husband Prince George copulating, followed by a phantom pregnancy where instead of bearing a child, the parody Anne passes wind. This shocking insult to the heir apparent is made particularly cruel by the context of Anne’s many miscarriages, and the recent death of her eleven year old son William. The revellers’ satirical songs later play a central role in a crisis of Anne’s reign, when she stands accused of “passionate femininity” with a handmaiden. The playwright here demonstrates the increasing power of satire and unfavourable public opinion over the royal family itself. We see the origins of the modern smear campaign acted out for us on stage, with strong undertones of Diana Spencer. The story of the satirists comes full circle towards the play’s close, as they parade effigies of the Marlboroughs and ceremonially hang them, pre-empting the decline of the couple’s fortunes. At the end though, we are still left pondering that old question that haunts the issue of tabloid propaganda today; do they shape opinion or simply reflect it?

The Queen learns to rise above the politicking, and accepts her situation. And though that might seem a little passive of her, there was perhaps no greater struggle than for a monarch at this time, shrouded in the language of divine right and magnificence, to accept their place as one cog in the machinery of the modern state. While earlier Anne had complained about the divisive language of ‘Whig’ and ‘Tory’, she embraces both parties as servants of the Crown, remaining informed and dutiful no matter what the political stripes of her government were. Perhaps Anne truly becomes the Queen when she decides to sacrifice her oldest and most intimate friendship with the power-hungry Countess Marlborough for the sake of the realm. This reminded me of Peter Morgan’s The Crown, where Elizabeth II faces similar tribulations early in her reign. But whereas Queen Elizabeth only learnt to accept precedent, Queen Anne shaped it. Queen Anne is, above all, a play that shows us our political inheritance.

Queen Anne, Theatre Royal Haymarket, London, until 30 September.

@EthanTheFirst

The Handmaid’s Tale: unnervingly familiar and uncomfortably relevant

Beccy Swanson
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The Handmaid’s Tale: unnervingly familiar and uncomfortably relevant

We aren’t in Gilead, so I can assume that you, reading this article, have a degree of personal agency. That you are reading this at all, in fact, gives you more autonomy than half the population of Margaret Atwood’s near-future dystopia. I can’t make you do anything. However, I can ask you – beg you – not to marathon The Handmaid’s Tale. You don’t deserve that. The show definitely does not deserve that.

Its trippy, slow motion, trance-like pacing, and copious (perhaps over-enthusiastic) deployment of flashback sequences are too much to handle in one sitting – and that’s without getting into the gruelling content of the show.

In one-hour chunks, Channel 4’s The Handmaid’s Tale feels like a brutal assault on the viewer’s complacency. In a binge watch, the unrelenting violence of Gilead’s zealous and extreme patriarchy made me feel nauseous, then numb. Working in conjunction with Atwood, the show’s creator, Bruce Miller, has pulled no punches. The show covers a range of both gendered and non-gendered violence: rape, FGM, and surgical removal of hands and eyes – not viewing to be undertaken lightly then.

For all this violence though, the series finds time for quieter moments. Before watching, I wondered how the show would spin ten hour-long episodes from the relatively slim novel. In part, the time is made up by the extension and invention of storylines only hinted at in the novel: television offers the advantage of moving beyond the boundaries of first-person narration. Miller uses this flexibility to follow characters like Ofglen and Nick – whose attempts to escape or resist are portrayed brilliantly by Alexis Bledel and Max Minghella – and in this way, to offer viewers a glimpse of how the regime feels for those who, unlike the lead, Offred, are not straight or white.

Even among these extended storylines though, the show still manages moments of inaction. Deployed judiciously, these scenes are opportunities to enjoy the real talent of stars Elizabeth Moss, Samira Wiley, and Yvonne Strahovski (respectively the protagonist Offred, her best friend and fierce activist Moira, and the infertile Serena Joy, whom Offred serves). Wheeling, slow motion close-ups are justified by their subtle but powerful performances. Ironically, given the second-class status of their characters, these women dominate the show. Occasionally however, these moments are spoiled by a sense of directorial self-indulgence, and there are times when the balance of tension threatens to fail, particularly in the middle of the season.

Issues with pacing aside, the show’s atmosphere is consistently creepy, in a way that wasn’t as obvious in the novel. What the show can’t convey of Atwood’s gleeful wordplay, it more than makes up for in cruelly effective visuals. The silent threat of a hand on a thigh, the raw, constant visibility of a mutilated face or the oppressive monotony of red: these are all chilling reminders of Gilead’s regime not available in the verbal world of the novel.

Visually, too, The Handmaid’s Tale distinguished itself from the novel through its updated setting.  Even the soundtrack – which punctuates ominous strings with incongruous Kylie Minogue – prefers unnerving familiarity to horror-movie distance.

Much has been made of the show’s uncomfortable relevance, the worrying ease with which the patriarchal regime takes control. Whatever you think of Trump’s America (and it’s worth bearing in mind the show was made before he was even elected), The Handmaid’s Tale is a difficult reminder of the danger of complacency. Atwood’s original novel included nothing that had not been done in some place, at some point in history. Although the show pushes beyond this remit, it doesn’t have to push very far – which leaves one with the bitter afterthought that this isn’t Gilead – or at least, not yet.

Grief pushes music to its conceptual limits

Joe Baverstock-Poppy
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Grief pushes music to its conceptual limits

We’ve all been there – you’re showing your friend a cool band you’ve just discovered. The song you’re playing may be a little abrasive or unorthodox and the denunciation arrives: “This isn’t music”. It’s an insult most have heard applied to music as normal as punk, free jazz, and rap by particularly closed minded listeners. However, it does offer an interesting question, where is the boundary between music and sound?

One definition could be that any human organised sound is music. But does that make audiobooks, performances of poetry and stand-up albums music? Most would disagree, the primary purpose of these sounds is the words they convey rather than the sound itself, but much of humour is dependent in rhythm, think of comedic timing, much of music relies on poetry and messages to give it emotional weight.

Artists who deliberately explore the grey areas between music and sound have produced some of the most challenging music ever: noise music, field recordings and lowercase. I like to call this music conceptual music, alike to conceptual visual arts in its question of what makes music music. Field recordings my artists such as Bill Fontana and Jana Winderen are akin to objet trouvé, noise music and lowercase similar to abstract expressionism in its use of single varied timbres for entire songs.

However, these experimental music genres are somewhat alien. So caught up in high minded aesthetic questions that they fail to speak to the human experience. Phil Elverum’s A Crow Looked at Me may be the first in questioning the boundaries of what is musical, whilst keeping it strongly tied to the human experience.

Elverum has always used moments of abstraction, most notably in his album Mount Eerie, but the majority of his work across his 20-year career has been noted for its musical and emotional power. On a personal level I have grown up with the songs and soundscapes of Phil Elverum more than any other artist. This connection gave A Crow Looked at Me an especially potent punch to the gut.

A Crow Looked at Me is the first album Elverum has released since the death of his wife six months prior. The album is purely focused upon this event, Elverum’s approach to the topic giving the album its conceptual/musical grey area status. This approach is stated immediately in the first song: “Death… [is] not for singing about… it’s not for making into art”. Elverum acknowledges that death is so empty that no real art can be made of it.

This self-denial of art puts it in an unusual place. It most certainly is musical, featuring pretty sorrowful guitars and floaty percussion, however, contrasted with the complex arrangements of Elverum’s previous work, this bare bones album seems comprehensively amusical. The purpose of this album is not to produce a work of art for people to enjoy but as a visceral release for its author. Elverum refuses to make his grieving process attractive to the voyeur. Criticisms of this album, denounced as ‘uneventful’, ‘lacking’, or ‘dull’, are failing to realise that this is exactly what grieving is, to make an album that wasn’t any of these descriptors wouldn’t be an accurate portrayal of grief.

Phil Elverum’s efforts in stripping his style down to minimal forms and challenging the role of the audience and a crowd to be placated is deeply conceptual, however unlike other conceptual musicians, it carries a message beyond questioning art: it is a treatise on the nature of grief. By taking experimental ideas surrounding music and art as a whole and being able to connect it to a deeply personal and emotional subject makes this album a triumph of music as high art. Listen to this album, hear Phil’s pain, but don’t expect to enjoy it.

New College storms to top of Norrington Table

Cherwell News
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New College storms to top of Norrington Table

New College has topped this year’s Norrington Table, knocking previous leaders Merton into second place in the annual ranking of college academic performance.

New rose from 18th, with 57 of its 114 students achieving Firsts in their final exams, in a year of significant change in the rankings that saw more New students receive Firsts this year than Upper Seconds.

Pembroke, which was awarded the highest number of First Class degrees in its history, came third in this year’s table, which is still at a provisional stage.

Queen’s were this year’s biggest movers, vaulting up to fourth from bottom of the table last year.

Oriel, who came second last year, have sunk back to 20th position.

Lincoln was this year’s lowest rank college, with just 16 of its 75 students achieving Firsts.

The Norrington Table, an unofficial academic ranking of colleges, is calculated using a points system for the degrees undergraduate students were awarded in that year.

A First Class degree gains the college five points, with three points for an Upper Second, two for a Lower Second and none for a Third or a Pass. The total score is expressed as a percentage of the maximum possible score, which is all Finals candidates multiplied by five.

Graphic: Cherwell Data

 

Students responded to the news with a variety of memes. One meme, posted to the The Memeing Spires of Oxford page on Facebook, noted Lincoln’s last place finish.

Lincoln College finished last in this year’s Norrington Table.

Another meme, posted to Oxford Dank Memes Society, highlighted Queen’s rise from bottom of the table last year to fourth position in 2017.

A full list of results can be found here.

My town and my gown: Gloucester

Sam Sheppard
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My town and my gown: Gloucester

There is a saying: absence makes the heart grow fonder. In my case, at least, this is untrue; the time I’ve spent in Oxford has only made me realise that I regard my home city with indifference at best.

Gloucester is not a particularly exciting place to live. When it comes to culture, heritage or visual appeal, Oxford definitely has the edge. In the city of dreaming spires, you’re constantly surrounded by beautiful, historic architecture and striking reminders of Oxford’s famous alumni, from J.R.R. Tolkien to Tim Berners-Lee. In contrast, Gloucester offers a host of spectacularly underwhelming views which range from supermarkets and drab industrial units to derelict warehouses and an abandoned Royal Mail sorting office. The rather horrific icing on the cake is that Gloucester’s best-known citizen is Fred West, the notorious serial killer. With this stain on its record, it isn’t hard to see why Gloucester doesn’t do as well as Oxford in the history stakes.

In fairness, it isn’t all bad. Gloucester can boast the splendid Gloucester Cathedral (which avid movie-goers will recognise from its use in the first two Harry Potter moves) and a smattering of Tudor architecture. But the fact remains that vast swathes of Gloucester are grey, dismal and a little bit shit. Coming back from Oxford is like waking up from a fantastical dream-world and arriving in a cold harsh reality.

There is also another, much more personal reason for my lukewarm feelings toward Gloucester. I went to school not in Gloucester but in Cheltenham, an affluent spa town about eight miles away. As a result, I don’t have any non-Oxford friends who live in Gloucester – they all live in Cheltenham, a town with which I’m far more familiar.

For me, this is pretty much the fundamental difference between Gloucester and Oxford. My social life in Oxford is far healthier: here, I’ve made plenty of amazing friends, and I can see most of them almost every day. In Gloucester, I’m left feeling isolated and bored. Even my best friend, who I’ve known since primary school, was born in Oxford; when it comes to my social life, it seems that all roads lead to Oxford.

I do have considerable affection for the street I live on – the one where I grew up – and it’s always nice to come home. Even then, there’s no denying I spend most of the long vac looking forward to my return to Oxford.

Layers of history in the bright colours of Porto

Ellie Duncan
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Layers of history in the bright colours of Porto

When it comes to Oxford architecture, the word ‘iconic’ is often used. The distinctive honey-coloured stones of the colleges and libraries, and the quaint pastel colours of New College Lane, all cultivate a charm and character reproduced in books and films through the ages. I have little claim to knowledge about architecture, but as living in Oxford has proven, I will very quickly take my physical surroundings to heart.

Cue July 2017, and I’m on holiday with friends in Porto, proudly clutching my pocket guide to the city, my Gateway to Knowledge about the coolest bars and best museums. (Who cares if my friends are consistently beating me to it on their phones, with their travel apps and Google directions: I’m standing up for print culture and fold-out maps!) And the book has another advantage. Its potted cultural histories and handy need-to-know sections are a treasure trove of facts that I can surreptitiously pass off as my own. Strolling through the medieval Jewish district, I spot a door knocker in the shape of a fist. ‘Ah,’ I remark, leading the pack towards it. ‘A good example of a bronze hamsa, or protective hand door knocker.’

Yet, there is one element of Porto architecture that can’t be briefly explained, one that doesn’t need revealing to the observant few. On every street, covering the walls of almost every building, azulejos (hand-painted tiles) are a visual delight. They are as various as they are ubiquitous, ranging from plain or vivid colours to geometric pattens and elaborate, detailed narrative designs. At São Bento station, azulejos inscribe Portuguese history into the tiled fabric of the city – the panels designed by Jorge Colaço in 1930 telling of historic battles and conquests. A distinctive blue and white style dapples the facades of chapels and churches all over the city, my own favourite being Capela das Almas, our first glimpse of Porto as we emerged from the metro. Later that evening, the deep blues of the Christian depictions had intensified in the glow of the setting sun.

After only a day or two, I quickly became a tile aficionado, remarking on the recurrence of certain styles, musing on one building’s particular display of a lovely bottle-green. It occurred to me that I might want to do a little more research. Islamic influence in Spain, stretching back to the Middle Ages, introduced a sophisticated knowledge of ceramic techniques. The term ‘azulejo’ stems from Arabic, and a tradition of azulejo art first established itself in Portugal in the early sixteenth century, after King Manuel I first visited Seville, the centre of the tile industry at that time. Further down the centuries, the Portuguese azulejo tradition evolved in a multitude of ways, from waves of Italian influence later in the sixteenth century, to allegorical art-deco approaches such as those on display in Capela das Almas.  Now, the use of these iconic tiles can be seen in architecture all over Portugal, from churches to stations to ordinary housing blocks. Move over, Lonely Planet.

Of course, my trusty little book could direct us to particularly impressive and famous landmarks for viewing azulejos, but it is evident that individual stories of each building would vastly overspill the constraints of this tile tourist’s starter pack. Yet after a few days of walking around the city, the gradual feeling of orientation began to set in. Particular patterns etched themselves into my mental map, marking out supermarket locations and routes home. Everyone collected their favourites. Sometimes the buildings matched our clothes. Viewing the main part of the city from the opposite side of the Douro river, the multi-coloured facades stacked almost on top of each other are a testament to the continuous use of azulejos throughout Porto’s construction.

In its sheer variety, azulejo architecture in Porto hints at a wealth of stories – of choice, purpose, artistic talent. Its vibrancy and affinity to idiosyncrasy mark out the charm of a place to which I would love to return.

Trump’s team of failures are running out of time

Adam John Ellison
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Trump’s team of failures are running out of time

There is, perhaps, no more fitting analogy for the Trump administration than the rise and fall of Anthony Scaramucci. Day one: controversially hired as Communications Director. Day five: ranting, nonsensical, abuse-filled phone call to CNN. Day ten: fired.

Scaramucci’s incompetence was so dramatic that there is already talk of a Hollywood film deal. This episode demonstrates a consistent trend within the Trump administration; you have to be desperate to consider working there and unqualified to be considered. There has been a slow purge of competence under the guise of “draining the swamp”, Reince Priebus, an establishment Republican, was banished from the White House by the demands of white nationalist Steve Bannon and the now banished Scaramucci.

The President’s staff are – with perhaps two or three exceptions – all horrific choices. A former Doctor with no government experience is Housing Director, a man who wanted to abolish the Department of Energy is now leading said department, and a pro-segregation Southern lawyer with a history of outspoken racism is Attorney General. When the most competent members of the cabinet are an oil baron at Secretary of State and a general literally nicknamed ‘Mad Dog’, it’s eminently clear that something has gone very, very wrong.

This inability to secure even a shred of professionalism extends to legislation as well as individuals. Four separate Obamacare repeal bills, each one more disastrous, poorly constructed and controversial than the last, have failed. Despite being the soundbite of his candidacy, the much lauded “wall” has yet to emerge in any sense. The divisive and discriminatory limits on Muslims entering the US have been smacked down time and time again. From the evidence thus far, it would appear that the only saving grace of America’s disastrous president is his almost impressive inability to get anything done.

Yet the worst part of this unique series of failures is that it’s becoming normal. Every day I wake up to see ‘Trump Advisor Under Investigation’, ‘Journalists Attacked by Trump Spokesperson’ or some other depressing variation of a similar vein. When George W. Bush was in office, he was the subject of daily ridicule and his policies were decried as reactionary, but even he ensured that those hired had experience, and passed legislation after months of development. When Ronald Reagan revealed that he had lied to the American people about selling arms to terrorist groups, he arranged a special broadcast – not to attack or berate the journalists that revealed the truth – but to acknowledge, at least in a roundabout way, his own crimes. These men are both Republicans who embody a brand of self-serving American Conservatism which I find cruel and cynical to say the least. Yet even they possessed two qualities that Donald Trump fundamentally lacks: a bare amount of common decency and a shred of competence.

Unfortunately, it would seem that Donald Trump is starting to change the way we think. The barrage of headlines, the attempts to invalidate or obscure reports from places such as CNN or the Washington Post, the brash and cruel personal attacks, are all building to a fundamental shift in how politicians act. Gone is the civil behaviour of the past; the dignified letter that Bush left for Clinton at the beginning of the latter’s presidency or the friendly rivalry of McCain and Obama. In their place there is the bitter and divisive mantra of Trumpism.

All of this is beginning to strain the President. As of writing he is currently hiding away on a 17-day holiday, adding to the 40 days of golf trips he has already indulged himself in. The Secretary of State is considering resignation, the investigation into his Russian ties is not only gaining steam but has assembled a Grand Jury to begin the stages of prosecution. Never, in the history of the United States, has a President been such a lame duck, so close to impeachment and so hated within his own party – all within a mere six months of taking office. The Trump Administration is circling the drain, but we mustn’t allow it to drag America down with it.

When historians rank America’s leaders, George W. Bush generally appears in the bottom five of all 45 presidents, Reagan in the top quarter, and George Bush Senior somewhere in between. Donald Trump, however, has a reserved place at the bottom of the pile. Alongside historical disasters such as James Buchanan – who helped start the Civil War – and the utterly corrupt Warren G. Harding, Trump will languish as one of the great national mistakes. He is unique, at least in the modern age, in just how incompetent he is – but we cannot let Donald Trump change America or what we should consider the fundamentals of politics. To do so may result in this era of Trumpism lasting long after his years in office.

At the Royal Academy: Matisse in the Studio

Altair Brandon-Salmon
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At the Royal Academy: Matisse in the Studio

Who was the greatest Western artist of the twentieth century? It’s an unfashionable question now, as it has been for nearly five decades. Academics shun such arbitrary ranking and consider more objective questions, rather than indulging in subjective grading. It’s peculiarly hard for the twentieth century too; it might not be unreasonable to proclaim Michelangelo as the greatest of the sixteenth century, but how do we go about comparing Freud with Pollock with Warhol? It’s futile.

Nonetheless, it seems clear that if you were to name the three most important artists (which is not quite the same as greatest) then academics and critics might agree upon Pablo Picasso, Marcel Duchamp, and Henri Matisse. Significantly, all had made their artistic breakthroughs before the end of the Great War, allowing for their influence to percolate through the rest of the century and into ours. They also all worked in Paris, moved in similar circles, exhibited in the same exhibitions, and the three were inspired by the example of Cézanne: to break away from the rigid confines of painting only ‘what you could see’, exposing the fictions of academic art.

Yet from the vantage point of a hundred years on, of this trio, Matisse emerges as the finest, most formally coherent and consistent. If Picasso tailed off in quality after Guernica (1937) and Duchamp became consumed by chess in the nineteen-twenties, never to fully re-engage with art, Matisse stands alone: from his early Fauvist paintings, like the scandalous Woman with a Hat (1905) to the startling, laconic cut-outs of the nineteen-forties, his output was prodigious and luminous.

That’s what makes the new Matisse exhibition at the Royal Academy such a joy. There is little attempt to establish a biographical continuity, or to explain how he continued to exhibit in Vichy Nice during the Second World War. They are questions for another show. What is important is the art and Matisse’s practice of it. As the exhibition title hints, Matisse in the Studio wants to show how his art often sprung from the objects around him, taking inspiration from a diverse set of cultures.

Early on, the curators highlight a marvellous quote from Matisse, taken from a letter he wrote to Surrealist poet Louis Aragon in 1942:

‘I have at last found the object for which I’ve been longing for a whole year. It’s a Venetian baroque chair, silver gilt with tinted varnish like a piece of enamel. You’ve probably seen something like it. When I found it in an antique shop, a few weeks ago I was bowled over. It’s splendid. I’m obsessed with it.’

Here, before the viewers, is the selfsame item, a battered, faded nineteenth-century chair, with a pair of sea serpents’ heads where the arms curve down to the seat. There are a row of paintings and charcoal drawings behind it, showing Matisse’s shifting representations of it, using it as a prop in his still lifes. In one, Rocaille Chair (1946), he represents the chair from a high vantage point, as if we are looking down on it, the arms now sea-green and deploying a flat brass gold for the rest, while the background is a dark matte maroon, folding the background and foreground into one. Not only does this painting emphasise Matisse’s glorious facility with colour (equalled only by Pierre Bonnard), but it points to Matisse’s own guiding artistic ethic: ‘For me, the subject of a picture and its background have the same value… there is no principal feature, only the pattern is important.’ Just as relentlessly formalist as the Cubist Picasso, and sharing many of the same sources of influences in African art, he departs from the orthodoxy of Modernism by his embrace of ornament and pattern, both in colour and line.

This becomes apparent in the most successful gallery of the exhibition, ‘The Studio as Theatre’. The antiseptic white walls of the Royal Academy’s Sackler Wing are antithetical to trying to summon the spirit of an artist’s studiolo, and the placing of Chinese porcelain, totemic figures from Gabon, and French chocolate pots besides their painted representations are not wholly successful. Yet in the penultimate gallery, covering Matisse’s Middle Eastern fantasias, an extraordinary series of women posing as odalisques, surrounded by rich, polychrome tiles and North African textiles, the show comes together. Matisse had visited Algeria in 1906 and spent consecutive winters in 1912 and 1913 in Morocco, collecting furniture and objets d’art, learning the deep lessons of Islamic art.

The gallery creates a set Matisse may have recognised (the fittings are all his): a large, nineteenth-century screen on the back wall, a small, eight-sided ornate painted table known as a guéridon from Algeria, and a Moroccan chair. Buttressing the artefacts are the paintings themselves, including The Moorish Screen (1921), a stunning work of two women in a domestic interior wearing Western clothes but in Arabian surroundings. The palette is astonishing, the line work delicate, his deft handling of the painting’s innerspace and swathes of patterned paint almost comparable to wallpaper. But it is glorious wallpaper, of the type you have never seen before and you will never see again.

It is a relief, after such orgiastic beauty, to leave the gallery and see the cool, clarity of Matisse’s cut-outs, their bold shapes and blocks of colour a reduction in form which cleanses the palette after the complexity of the previous visual effects. It prepares us to return to a duller, greyer world, for we cannot see our world with Henri Matisse’s eyes, and that is our tragedy. Whatever the curatorial weaknesses may be, this exhibition is essential in the sense that great beauty is essential to all our lives and we need to be able to revel in it. Go.

Matisse in the Studio is on at the Royal Academy until 12th November, 2017.

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