Circa Verne is an online zine and collective for the cool, the cultured and the curious. It is run by ardent and wild-hearted writers, artists, music nerds and passionate activists from all corners of the pale blue dot.
In the following weeks we will be introducing the collective onto our site. The collective’s purpose is to adhere to a manifesto that we have curated which we believe reflects our zines values. In a time of political and social unrest - but a revolutionary and crucial period as well - we find it difficult to be silent and to ignore what is occurring everyday all around us.
The manifesto is as follows:
To build a safe, non-discriminating place on the internet.
To observe, discuss and scrutinise social and political issues.
To shed light on those who are making change in the world.
To build a community of activists, feminists, writers, artists, poets, music nerds and people who want to make change happen and/or who are passionate about the things they create.
To learn to stop apologising for who we are, where we come from, how we were raised, our suffering, our faith, our gender, our beliefs, our sexuality.
To no longer be silenced.
If you are interested in writing for our zine, please refer to our “Write for us” page! More information coming soon.
Unlike a lot of book-enthusiasts, I am not one of those people who fervently believe that a film adapted from a book can never outdo it's book form. Sometimes, the movie is better or just as good as the book; sometimes characters who fell flat in the book have an opportunity to come into their own on the big screen, sometimes an aspect which remained unexplained in the book is given a bit more attention, or the changing of a small thing allows for a completely different and yet wholly familiar experience.
This, however, was not my experience with Perfume: the story of a murderer. I watched the film before I read the book and only for Ben Whishaw, but I never finished it. It wasn't boring per se, and I wasn't repulsed by the theme and ideas of the film, it just dragged for so long that by the middle of the film I stopped caring and turned it off. Still, a few years later I was browsing books online (which I do way too much) I came across it in its original book form. I was curious whether the book was indeed good enough to merit a film, and if this was one of those cases in which the book truly was a lot better than the movie. So I bought it, then went away on holiday, and when I returned there it was; packaged and waiting for me.
I was in the middle of watching Netflix when I received it, but (and this was uncharacteristic) I was so taken by the cover of the book that I decided that I'd read a little bit of it before I continued watching my show. About 5 hours later it was dark outside and I had finished the book. My computer had long gone to sleep. I had missed dinner. I had to take the recycling out in the dark.
In short; the book is better than the film. Even though it took me longer to read the book than it would've taken me to finish the film, it still felt shorter to read it than to watch it. It's not a very long book (about 260 pages or so) but it's long enough to take a large chunk out of your day, and you won't feel you've wasted your time in doing so. It's engaging and original and a story you will be absorbed into and spit out at the end with a heightened awareness of your own sense of smell and perhaps a desire to check if you those you love have a human smell or not.
I have always had some sort of odd fascination for psychopaths, sociopaths, mass murderers etc. I love stories like Lolita and The Picture of Dorian Gray where we are told the stories of those without morals, without ethics, with a simple, clear goal and a life without blacks or whites; just grey space where anything goes so long as it furthers your own ambition. Some part of me, perhaps the hedonistic part of me, would like to live this way; to take what I want and live the life I want and fuck all the consequences and social constraints. In almost every review and analysis I've read of this book the main character, Grenouille, is described as unsympathetic and grotesque, someone abhorrent who the reader cannot feel a shred of empathy for. But as I read the book I wasn't repulsed or disgusted by him at all. Of course I don't condone murder, but I felt I understood him and where his apathy and calculated life came from. I don't even think he really saw what he did as murder but rather just obtaining things he needed in order to get an end result; in the same way one picks violets and roses for a bouquet. He didn't do what he did out of malice or anger, and with a story like his he has every reason to cut himself off from the human emotions which have done nothing but hurt, betray and abuse him.
The story didn't really draw me in through emotional attachment; although I didn't feel repulsed by Grenouille I also wasn't so invested in him that I desperately wanted him to be okay in the end. I finished the book in one sitting because I was curious; the storyline was so different that I needed to know how it ended. I'd been on this journey with Grenouille from the moment of his birth; I needed to be with him until his death.
I don't think this book would appeal to everyone, and it certainly doesn't make it into my Top 10 list. But it's still a clever and interesting piece of literature, and one I think is well worth a read at least once in your life. It's quite short, so won't be too much of a burden (especially if you spread the reading out over, say, a week) and the chapters are extraordinarily short so you feel as though you're making good progress with every turn of the page.
Rating: 3.5/5
Favourite Quote: "She was indeed a girl of exquisite beauty. She was one of those languid women made of dark honey smooth and sweet and terribly sticky.”
This review was written by our Fiction and Literature editor, Lesley, as part of the 99 Classics in Review project
This night, the sun set with silent resolution
Quietly, like the breath of a thief.
No burst of artistic inspiration. No
Display, no prowess. Just somber grey over the heath.
And thus, with maiden lover's footsteps
I crept from this world to one obscured
From the fickle laughter of Apollo's day
To the hallowed gate from which Nyx lured
Blessed and blistered, rich and poor alike
Her creatures we were to mold and feed to her children
Lain sweetly in the arms of shadowy Erebus
While Hypnos and Thanatos bickered over us, hidden
Here, in the toxic mist of unbidden undergrowth
I found myself nestled in seeping midnight lichen
And as I drifted gently into dewy paralysis
Two shadows faced another, three steps from where I was hiding
It was not long ere I realized, these shadows were known
These figures in Nyx's sacred ebony palace
I knew their faces, their voices; one strong,
Commanding. One lithe and callous.
They'd been here before in nights less auspicious
They'd sat and picked listlessly at the darkened moss
And we'd talked through the veil of gelatinous water
Until the sudden ascension, the disruption, the loss.
But together they'd never been; these two
Gods of luminosity and of soft-hearted twilight
One patient and kind with a bloodied history
One angelic with the voice of a snake bite
I watched as they neared, in this world so unlike
Our own, yet ours all the same
I watched as my heart they held in between
Their wretched hands, throwing insults and blame
And pulling, pulling, pulling until the arteries
Burst, spraying glorious red. Then above me
Hypnos reared, hissed, grabbed my soft flesh
And I awoke where I'd remained. Beneath the aged willow tree.
What did you think when my shadow
Didn't darken the threshold of your open door?
When your music played unheard, water steaming
On the coffee table, floral tea leaves a quiet lure.
I wonder if timid hope smoldered to ashes
As your eyes flicked to the ticking minute hand
If you looked down the desolate hallway. Closed the door.
Maybe you didn't think of me at all. I understand.
I didn't cross his mind; him; our resident God
He who walks through halls bestowing favors
Onto the youth in this world, a world so led astray
Making slaves of young women and men into slavers
So oft the gods are unjust, and thus
He is no exception; carved of molten gold
I know he cannot be a mere man, so unkindly burdened
By that mortality which us simple human souls hold
And I, daughter of Fancy and Obsession
Grandchild of Insanity and Romance, long dead
Sit between lust and a good, kind heart
Creating scenarios and emotions inside my own head
I love neither, nor can I live without you
Neither loves me, yet in the corners of memory, I do exist
Swimming through the molecules within arteries
Obscuring emotions through intoxicating mist
What are we doing? All of us, breaking hearts
Fondling fragility as though it's easy to mend
Taking sacred objects from life's eerie altars
Imagining the laws of reality as easy to bend.
We're different people around different people
I'm different around you, around him, around them
Which one of me is real? Are any of them real?
From what infinite river do these infinite people stem?
And am I in love, or lust, or infatuation?
Or am I desperate? Desperate for arms…
Arms to hold a fatigued, pallid body
And shield a heart from midnight's indigo harms?
Do I love men or do I love Love? Or Life?
Perhaps I could learn to love him if he only looked
Into my eyes, smiling because he knew
With grasping fingers how easily this façade is unhooked
This thing, this finite youth washing over us
Looks down on us three and pities you, soft-hearted hero
For who has stood against immortality and won?
Fate has thrown a gauntlet between you and Apollo.
And I'll hold out my heart, the heart of a fair, distressed maiden
A prize neither of you may want, but will fight for
And I will starve and my skeletal frame
Will sigh a lipless sigh at that hallowed door
And through the crumbling ashes, those prison bars of bone
Hold a rotting heart, a prize for an unwilling victor
Fight for me, for your honor, and for mine
Take heed now of this oracular predictor
These poems were written by our Fiction and Literature editor Lesley
I am a long time lover of the mystical and the esoteric. Even when I was very young I was always drawn to the less logical reasons for things (especially astrology. I knew I was an Aquarius way before anyone else in my class knew what the zodiac was.)
So it was no surprise to me personally when I discovered witchcraft and Paganism about 4 years ago and decided that I would spend the next year studying Wicca. It's a natural part of my psyche. I can be extremely logical and cold, and at the same time I need magic and the Universe to exist to keep me sane and calm. Recently I have found myself becoming less and less involved in magick and more and more involved in stressing and my education, and I can't help but miss it a little. (Witchcraft in university is not easy; it's only once you are deprived of candles that you realise how important candles are).
About a year after I decided I wanted to be a witch, I bought my first tarot deck. It was a surprising act; tarot decks are very expensive, especially for an unemployed 17 year old, and I was very, very frugal. I did not like spending more than $10 at a time, let alone a whole $60! But some weird compulsion mixed with the heady incense floating through that metaphysical shop and woops, I'd bought a tarot deck and matching LWB and already had big plans and ideas for my tarot-reading future.
And then those tarot cards stayed pretty much in their box for about a year. I got them out periodically and looked at them, and attempted to read them in moments of desperation. I even started multiple tarot journals and spent hours researching how to read the tarot and watching hours and hours worth of videos on it. All my big ideas had fallen prey to my tendency to get overexcited and then drastically lose interest and motivation. My attention span is terrible.
Last year I stumbled across The Wild Unknown Tarot, a deck which has become one of the most well-known and well-loved in the modern tarot community. It looked absolutely gorgeous, and I definitely wanted to own it. But this time, the guilt of knowing I had a deck waiting, neglected, at home in my cupboard and the fear of spending $80 for something I'd never use stopped me from ever buying it. And yet I kept coming back to it. And wishing I could justify buying it. And walking away, dejected, wishing I wasn't so logical and cold. Finally I realised all was not lost. If I started taking tarot seriously then I could justify buying The Wild Unknown!!!
So here we are, years after I bought my first deck, tarot cards strewn over my desk. I've been practising with the cards for about two months now and it's been a journey I'm glad I'm taking the time to make. I can't fully say that I believe in all kinds of magic and that the cards can show you the future, but that's not really the point of tarot anyway. The cards are supposed to show you the blockages in your path, the possible routes, the things going right and going wrong. Often I find that they simply show me the things that I already knew but didn't want to accept; reading the cards becomes more and more of an exercise in self discipline. It's something I genuinely enjoy and even though sometimes I doubt myself and my interpretation, the cards and their messages often provide a sense of security and comfort; any message and advice is welcome when I'm lost and flailing in my own confusing emotions and situations. University is often stressful; having something like tarot to turn to when I need advice means that I know that I always have something to look to for an opinion (because they may just be pieces of cardboard, but tarot decks do have opinions and attitudes. I now own 2 decks, one of which is quite motherly and kind and the other is blunt and unforgiving). And what's more, my introduction to Tarot has somewhat re-kindled the passion I once felt for Paganism and Witchcraft. I've never been one for deities which is why I'm always turned off religion at the end of the day, but witchcraft is something I think I'll definitely get back into. It doesn't feel like a step back, but a step back into something which I wasn't fully able to appreciate when I was younger. I'm so glad that tarot has brought me back to a facet of my being which I'd begun to neglect but felt a real passion for.
It doesn't matter what your incentive is (even if it's buying that tarot deck you think is gorgeous), but maybe it's worth checking out all those aspirations and dreams you've left behind in your past. We're all busy; there will never be a time when we aren't busy (if we're not busy, we're too tired). Try to re-kindle a fire you've let burn out. You never know what kind of a journey it will lead you down.
“The customer base at the Florian seemed to be largely made up of men with unruffled hair and neat clothing, probably pressed by their attractive, pouting wives. Men who worked for a living, but weren't of the working class. They had reached that elusive rung on the social ladder; accepted amongst the gentry, yet technically the same as any merchant. Except these men, with their chiselled faces and piercing eyes and air of importance, earned much more money than the fish mongers and silk traders in the harbours. There they all were, corporate enemies working against one another, sharing the same roof and drinking the same coffee. They all seemed identical; each flicking through paper with long fingers, rubbing their temples tiredly with their other hand. The thin wisp of steam from their coffee cups drifting beside them, up into their hair, staining their lips and locks with the distinct aroma of caffeine. If only they looked up and saw themselves; saw that the reason they were at a stalemate was because they were all interchangeable. What would happen if one of them was to stand up and do something different? It didn't matter how much money you made, or how respected you were; work was for those without originality and individuality.”
“I periodically received invitations to events like these, though they were generally hosted by people who were much less publicised, and at which 'dress appropriately' could mean anything from come dressed in rags, your Sunday best, or nothing at all. I had jumped into canals wearing nothing and been fished out of the ocean by stern Polizia who had trouble calming my drunken Anglo-Italian screaming into something more civilised. I had rampaged through the piazzas with three other men who had promised a night I wouldn't forget, a bottle promising amnesia hidden in my satchel. I had attended a masquerade ball as a woman and woken up the next morning with my dress around my hips and a purple bruise blooming around my eye. But I had never been asked to attend an event hosted by people like the Falco's, people with real money and real status and a reputation so well polished we could barely tell that it was made up of paste stones and not real rubies.”
“Status and the social ladder were the backbone of society. Those at the bottom felt oppressed by it and those at the top felt safety in it, and for us in the middle it was a mountain that could be climbed with enough determination, and a monarchy to obey until we had. The real truth of the matter was that if we didn’t know where we stood chaos would reign over our little city, but those who were opposed to the hierarchy would never see that. We are always blind to one side of our protests, always ignorant to the flaws in our master plans, always unwilling to paint the other side of the argument onto our placards. As I stood in that bathroom, hands running through the mop of hair I harboured on top of my head, cursing society and its rules and its sections, I couldn’t see how much I needed it.”
“For one spectacular moment, I let myself imagine we were all soldiers in the most wonderful of armies; the army of Youth. Armed with Naivety, Determination and Beauty, heading towards the valley of Unobtainable Dreams and Unconquerable Passions, we were doomed from the start, but too wrapped up in blissful obliviousness to see it. This was what life was for; this was why we were living. To dream of things that couldn’t be, and then attempt to do them anyway. To walk with strangers and know that what we had in common was nothing more than the year of our birth, but have that be enough. To breathe in the same air as a hundred other people and bask in the sweet afterglow of a day in which we had lived, rather than been alive.”
“What can be said of madness? What can be described that has not been described before? More importantly, how can any adjective, any metaphor or poor human simile compare to the rampart disease that ruins a life and tears apart a soul? I cannot describe to you the full extent of my madness, nor the madness of anybody else, and even if I did it would likely not be relatable to you anyway. Madness is a personal illness, it is a malady which sweeps across a person before finding a deep, dark corner to take root in and grow. By the time it begins to affect you, it knows you. It knows how you think, who you are, it knows you better than you know yourself. Or rather, than you knew yourself.”
“I heard the same phrase repeated over and over again, or sentences repeated in quick succession, like a prayer. Except there was no God here, there never had been. Venice was not a city of the pious. Venice was a city devoted to Her, to Her beauty, Her superficial kindness, Her fame. We were a population of sinners, but so long as we didn’t know it, we didn’t care. Me, and all the other inmates of this wretched institution had somehow disobeyed Her, had messed with Her careful plan, and look where we were. Locked away, where our ideas and bared brains would never again be able to corrupt and disintegrate her carefully set up arrangement.
What could we do? Run into the churches raving like the lunatics they saw us as, about how God didn’t know we existed, that the sea surrounding Venice was a moat that kept out piousness and religion and left us to worship only Her, only the one Goddess that kept us alive, that fed us, that clothed us in her salty spray and her bronze sunlight and fed us fish and spice from far off places. Would it even matter? If God had no power here, then did Satan? Surely without one we could not have another. Perhaps Venice had a place for all her obedient Sons and Daughters. I wondered where I would go, a sinner in the eyes of the Holy Trinity and in the eyes of the Mother here. Would there be an afterlife for me? For any of us, howling away in the bowels of a godforsaken asylum in a godforsaken city, our voices loud but never to be heard, our cries legitimate and yet nothing more than delirium.”
This post was written by our Fiction and Literature editor, Lesley
We'd bought the apartment for its size;
Five elephants, maybe more, in the bedroom
A few galaxies in the kitchen sink
Two cargo trucks in the hallway.
Had it been too big? Have we allowed
The space, the stars, the brightly shifting moon
To desert us on two lonely planets?
To blindly disorient us?
To nauseate us?
How did we not recognize that we were living
In a supernova?
I can hear you breathing, darling.
Darkling.
Bastard.
You're as afraid as I am. Of me.
Of the walls closing in.
Of a catastrophe only you saw coming.
Blame it on the apartment?
Right.
Maybe I should blame her
For her pencil skirt, pencil legs
Pencil-ed on eyebrows
Or should I blame the wind
For the way it tugged at her scarf
Forcing you to tug at her thighs
Or should I blame you
And your wandering eyes
And your inability to keep your word?
Or should I blame myself?
For shielding my eyes from the rosy cheeks
And my nose from the rose-scented perfume
And my ears from the rose-sweet voice on your voicemail
Fuck I hate roses.
Should I blame myself?
For falling in love. For being myself.
For trusting you not to follow any temptation
But me?
Should I blame myself?
For not experimenting. For being a prude.
For kissing you goodnight
When you weren't ready to go to sleep.
For being selfish.
Should I blame myself?
For wrapping my hands around a supernova
Because it was beautiful and like
Nothing I'd ever see before
Should I blame myself?
For thinking I was enough.
For buying a black hole instead of a home
And decorating it with empty frames
And promises of memories
Which were never made.
Yes.
It's definitely
This rose-water
Apartment.
This poem was written by our fiction and literature editor, Lesley
This week’s theme is magical realism, which is one of my favorite genres. I mean, who doesn’t want a little magic in their life? Whether it’s a tale of angels and demons, or a story of a hero armed with magic and an iPhone, magical realism is a special place. There is truly something for everyone.
What is Magical Realism?
Magical realism is often used to talk about worlds where “magic” is just another constant in their world, like how rain falls down or math is hard, etc. Magical realism literature is often a blend of details that combine reality with aspects of magic.
A Brief History
But how did the genre of magical realism come about? The term magic realism actually came about in 1925 when it was coined by German art critic Franz Roh. He was actually using this to refer to a new style of painting called the “New Objectivity”. The term magical realism, as opposed to magic realism, first emerged in the 1955 essay "Magical Realism in Spanish American Fiction" by critic Angel Flores when he wrote about Spanish American literature that used aspects of magic.
Magical Realism in Literature
Literary magical realism found its start in Latin America. Writers from Europe who came to visit were inspired by these works and took the news of it back with them to Europe. One of the first and most famous magical realism books was written in this period, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Nobel Laureate Gabriel García Márquez. Magical realism was even used by writers during the Fascist regime in Italy to inspire the downtrodden people (spending your time reading stories of magical unicorns would probably be easier than thinking about Mussolini).
Magical Realism Now
Magical realism is now a very large genre referring to works of art, literature and even film. Just like all other human inventions, it has grown and changed according to the times. It is well loved because who doesn’t want to escape, once in awhile, to a world where magic really exists? I mean, doing Potions homework sounds so much cooler than doing Chemistry homework. And Physics? Well, that doesn’t even exist in a magical world! We dream of a world filled with dreams and wishes that do come true, and books like these provide a brief window into what one of those worlds might be like.
And without much further ado, a heroine with a magical apple tree, stories of faeries who would like to do nothing better than kill you, and more are what await you in this week’s selection of books. Enjoy!
This post was written by our Literature writer, Harsha. Any photos were sourced from Stockphoto.com. This is the first post in a new weekly column called ‘Matchmaker’.
✨L’ARPEGGIATA AND THE DECLINE OF THE CULTURED MIND✨
Last week I attended the first show of my cities' Chamber Music 2017 Season. It was a show called L'Arpeggiata, described on my brochure as "Baroque jazz improvisations on Henry Purcell under the ingenious direction of Christina Pluhar." Before going to this concert I had no idea of who Henry Purcell is, what exactly baroque was, nor who Christina Pluhar was (although I was willing to trust in her ingenuity). But still, as I read this advertisement whilst hiding from the grey clouds in a puff of coffee aroma, I decided to give it a go. What good is a student allowance if it doesn't allow you to go to the orchestra, my decidedly 17th century mind reasoned.
So on a Wednesday evening, wearing Edward my fox stole and the air of quiet sophistication, I traipsed past the students on their way to the pub and entered the auditorium, where my first realization was that I was one of the youngest people there. This didn't surprise me in the slightest. Before this particular concert I'd been to see a violinist and a pianist perform some of Bach's work, and I can safely say I was the youngest willing audience member there. The woman I was sat next to at L'Arpeggiata made the same observation; young people didn't seem to come to watch classical music anymore. And I nodded and shrugged and said something along the lines of c'est la vie and patted Edward.
It's a sad truth because of the fact that it's unsurprising. The vast majority of people my age have no interest in literature or music or theatre, reasoning that they could spend those $40 on booze and just listen to music via their phones for free. But I doubt that any of them sit down to listen to Purcell or Bach whilst getting hammered. In fact, in walking past the student flats 4 times a day for the past month, not once have I heard any classical music being thrown through those sad glass windows.
And of course, there's nothing wrong with progress. Not even I wish we were still in the days of oboes and lyres, and that pop and rock and funk had never been discovered. It's not as though all I listen to is classical music and light opera; I'm not going to pretend that I do. Other than those few concerts and the occasional study break, I barely ever listen to classical music, but isn't that the beauty of live concerts? Isn't that the way this kind of music should really be heard? It may seem odd to people who have been to a lot of pop concerts, to believe that there is more emotion on a violinist's face as she's playing than there could ever be on the face of the chart-toppers faces as they croon about fucking someone. There is something antique and magical about this kind of music which can only really be fully understood if you're watching it unfold in front of you, if you're feeling the vibrations of that music as it reverberates through the floorboards from the stage to your feet, if you're on this journey of self-discovery with the musicians as guides.
To my mind, and I think to the minds of many others, these kinds of things (going to the theatre, to watch an orchestra, to an opera) are the remnants of a Victorian upper class. They're perceived as things the rich and snobby did in their free time because a) they couldn't think of anything else to do, b) they didn't have to work for their wages and c) it was something you did to prove you were superior to everyone that couldn't go.
It might be wrong to associate the activities of the upper class with culture, but I think it is ingrained within us to do so. The aristocrats have tended to spend their time at activities others would call "leisure"; reading and writing novels, composing poetry and plays, hunting and horse riding and operas and theatre shows. To me, these things remain the backbone of a life; the bits in which our personalities develop and our true selves are molded and shaped into fantastical, original, unique components of a human. It's easy to disregard literature and watch the television, and it's tempting to spend money on artificial euphoria rather than a ticket to a show. But what is easy is not always right, in fact, it barely ever is right. Just because we live in a relatively modern world does not mean that our minds ought to suffer. Just because it's easy now to find information on a whim and to adopt the opinions and the causes which make up the mainstream majority, does not mean that we ought to. Other than being generally beneficial to your quality of life, does not forming ones own opinions and coming to ones own conclusions seem like a much more rewarding and interesting past-time? Perhaps the civilized mind, or rather the culturally-oriented mind, is being fazed out to make way for logic and reason. It's already evident in the large numbers of students studying health and mathematics and science, and looking down on those doing an arts degree as though we are wasting out lives.
In my favorite book of all time, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Henry says to Dorian; "Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are sonnets." It is worth considering, I think, what kind of music it is that your life has been set to. Is it all heavy basses and indecipherable percussion? Or is there some beauty, some emotion in between those late nights partying? Is there something worth telling future generations about, something you'll remember fondly rather than with regret. Will people bother to write sonnets about your days or will they lay rotting beside you in the grave, forgotten and unmemorable?
Maybe you don't have to throw away all your magazines and delve straight into Sartre. But the next time you're in a coffee shop and you see a flyer for your local chamber music association or theatre, why not pick it up and have a look?
This post was written by our Fiction and Literature editor, Lesley.
As a 19 year old woman living in 2017, I am obviously in tune with many of the social fads and opinions which are floating around the internet and subsequently, our minds. And, as a generally kind, understanding and open-minded kind of person, I tend to not have a problem with any of these opinions and social fads; your ideas and ethics are your own. We all live in our own worlds, our own bubbles, and however you view and judge other people from inside that bubble is your own business. So long as it stays your business.
Recently, I bought two articles of clothing, both of which are genuine fur. Shock horror. One, a gorgeous jacket which unfortunately is damaged and is tiding me over to the next one, is muskrat. My newly acquired stole is fox (head, feet and tail attached).
Both of these items are vintage, but even the fact that I have to write that here feels as though I'm justifying myself, which I'm not. I love fur. I love how soft it physically feels and how luxurious you feel wearing it. I love the look of it, the looks you get when you're wearing it, the feeling I get when I open my closet and see it hanging there. I love going to watch an orchestra wearing a fur stole, walking through the museum with my fur jacket on, looking as much as an upper class Victorian woman as I occasionally feel.
It's an unpopular opinion to have because to many people, wearing fur equates to animal cruelty. To be quite honest, I am not going to get into the whole "vintage fur vs new fur" or "genuine fur vs faux fur" debate, because that isn't my point. I'm not trying to say that buying vintage fur makes me a better person than someone buying new fur, because I don't believe that whether you wear fur or not makes you less or more moral. (As an aside, arguing that wearing fur popularizes it and encourages other people to go out and buy more fur would mean that faux fur should also be "bad" as often it looks the same as real fur from a distance and would thus achieve the same thing). I am not for the abuse of animals. I am not a terrible, cruel human being; not everyone who wears fur is Cruella de Vil.
Most people I've met have been pretty good. I can deal with snide looks and people refusing to talk to me because I'm wearing fur. But open abuse and the instillation of fear of going out in fur should be discouraged. When I first bought my fur coat, my mother warned me about going out in it because "people will throw paint on you." Apparently my mother grew up in a time when people carried around pails of paint constantly in order to throw them on fur-wearers, which seemed unlikely to me. But even now, people will stick stickers on you, make terrible assumptions about you or attempt to lecture and convert you to their point of view.
Guys, wearing fur is my choice. Just like it's my choice to eat sandwiches for lunch, to go to my lectures in the morning and to get out of bed. I make choices every day which don't affect the people outside my window, and what I clothe my body in is one of them. So unless you want to follow me around commenting on every decision I make, leave my fur out of it. There's no correlation between wearing fur and being a horrible person, so you have no right to make that assumption. The fact that I am wearing fur in such a heavily socially charged time shows that I thought about it and made the decision to wear it, so no matter how many staged photographs you show me of animals dying in terrible ways, I will not be converted. If you are coming up to me with the intention of talking about my fur, unless its something positive, then what is the point. I don't wear fur to be lectured. Respect one another, respect each other's choices even if you don't agree with them, and leave them to live their lives whilst you live yours. Unless you see someone literally kicking a dog, or skinning a beaver on the street. Then, maybe make some enquiries.
This post was written by our Fiction and Literature editor Lesley
The human soul and its eccentricities are so complex that it is near impossible to define what it is and what it encompasses. We can only ever know our own, and even then, most of our population know their souls as we know people whom we pass in the hallway. Fully knowing oneself and all one’s intricate avenues is a task which would likely take a lifetime. We are constantly surprising ourselves as we are constantly evolving, our souls shifting and squeezing into novel and brilliant forms.
I have, at times, flattered myself by believing I knew my soul. I believed that, through years of self-study and reading and astrological prescriptions, I had mastered the mysteries of my being and would now proceed to living a life void of unpleasant surprises. And perhaps, at that time, I did know my soul inside-out. But I soon found that the act of living made removing surprises difficult, indeed, impossible. Of course, there are many outside influences beating down on us daily, but the greatest spanner in the workings of my own foolish security was an internal one. My own heart.
Despite having read romantic fiction from the age of 7 or 8, reading Keats almost daily for a year, and writing my own deluded romance stories and poetry from the moment I picked up a pen, I’ve not truly had a romantic experience of my own. Most of the romance in my life comes from that which is around me; the sky, the trees, the birds, the look on another person’s face as they pass me on the pavement. This is romance, but it isn’t the heady romance which ultimately alters a person in drastic ways. I have only ever experienced that kind of romance in an unrequited way, and yet that was enough to almost turn my entire personality around.
The entirety of last year, whilst I was struggling with my last year at high school, making sense of John Keats and my feelings towards him, and the anxiety which accompanies great change, I was also drowning in unrequited love. In the past I would look back at such a time and scoff, wondering how I could ever call such a thing ‘love’ at all. Emotions fade over time, so that the passion and intensity which caused me to stop eating, stop going certain places and laugh at jokes I didn’t think were funny, doesn’t seem quite so strong in my memory. But the poetry and letters which remain, like shards of a vase on the streets of Pompeii, testify to my pain. Now, I don’t shrink from calling it love.
I had hoped that a year of such torture had been enough; a warning from the universe to guard my heart a little more. That, however, is not how I am built. It is instinct to me to allow myself to fall in love. Occasionally I’ll catch myself in the act, mid-tumble, and I’ll dip my fingers into that sticky, gluggy red liquid and ask myself if I want to go back there. Wouldn’t it be better to step away? To save myself from the pain? But I never do, and soon I’m drowning again, in that state which has become second nature, wishing for release in any way – heartbreak or reciprocation.
Indeed that is where I am heading now. I had one of those moments where I stopped and looked at myself and said “You need to concentrate on literally everything else right now.” And then I shrugged and let myself fall. Because, yes, there are a million other things I need to worry about; my upcoming tests, assignments, exams, society work, creative pursuits, staying in contact with family and friends, figuring out whether I’m the person I want to be, asking myself deep and psychological questions. And yes, it would be easier to do all of this whilst not simultaneously nursing a terrible growing crush. But I’ll always let myself fall. Not once have I ever put my hands out to catch myself, not once have a walked away from what has always been a terrible experience. Why? Maybe I love the self-torture. Maybe any emotion is worth feeling for my occasionally terribly apathetic personality. I think I do like the pain, the self-inflicted tragedy, because there is a part of me which believes that tragic people make the best artists, and deep down we all sort of wish we were cutting off our body pieces like Bach, imagining it as though it’s in some way a romantic metaphor for our suffering, whereas in reality it’s nothing more than disfiguring ourselves in a horrifically painful way. There’s some beauty in it, some kind of terrible beauty in that sacrificial act stemming right back to our Pagan roots, which attracts me to it and makes me wonder if maybe Bach had life figured out and we have it wrong. Why not, in a Dorian Gray-esque kind of way, live our lives to the fullest and indulge every passion? The ones which hurt us, teach us, and the ones which don’t, bring ecstasy.
It’s easy to reject your feelings and leave them to whither in a darkened corner of your heart. It makes living easier, it makes day-to-day activities less vivid and more bearable, and it allows you to live in reality without shying away the way I have to do. I only spend about 10% of my day in reality, and the rest in a dream-scape inside my head, falling in and out of love with the people around me with insane intensity. But isn’t there something worthwhile in all of that pain? Isn’t there a gemstone glittering at the base of it all, a winking, glinting shard of glass in which lies the secret to your soul.
Maybe.
And at the end of the day, as Plato rightly said “At the touch of love, everybody becomes a poet.” Maybe if I love enough, I’ll become a published one.
This piece was written by our Fiction and Literature editor
Evolution is an inescapable force in our world. Not only are the fauna and flora around us constantly evolving, we as human beings are changing too, and the world with us. It is inevitable and occasionally terrifying, and the idea of change has different connotations for different people. A few months ago, Circa Verne contacted some very talented folks to ask them to draw, paint, sculpt, photograph, or digitally create a piece of work which encompassed the idea of change to them, particularly in the world of 2017. We've combined them all into one post here for your viewing pleasure!
Celeste.
Statement: As a human, in some moment of our life, we dare to change something about ourselves through pain, so we grow. I believe that it's when you find yourself, and I find it truly beautiful. I drew mother nature in her own beauty, because for me, nature is one of the most perfect examples to the process of changing and growing without seeing it (full of patience and slowness). She call’s us all, tending her hand almost saying "I'm like you". The hole in her body, represent the emptiness that we feel when we have to change and move on in life. That's why I left that innocent, basic stem in the middle, a symbol of growth waiting inside of an empty, but necessary hole.
Jessica Estrada.
Title: The Tower
Medium: Ink, mixed medium on paper
Statement: Change is inevitable, but it's not always beautiful. I chose to depict my feelings on the changes I've seen in the world around me, growing like mold since late 2016, and seeming to spiral out of control in these first few months of 2017. People are sloughing off their skins and extruding these ugly monsters -- brightly colored, loud, a warning sign declaring their venomous nature. Insect-like, they're displaying the basest of mentalities, "us vs them", mistrusting the different, the nuanced, the subtle. No tolerance for the individuals branded "scapegoat". But of course, these mentalities were always there. They were concealed and whispered, lurking beneath the surface, but they were always there.
Jessica Estrada is a 24-year-old artist living in the central valley of California. Their preferred medium is simply pen and ink. They live at home with their cat, Nacho, and their family. Their website is estradaart.tumblr.com
Lynn.
Statement: My piece shows the different moon phases above a mountain range, surrounded by stars. I’ve always been fascinated by how much changes in nature can affect the human mind and emotions. The changing of seasons, the tides, the moon phases, everything has a deep impact on my thoughts and mood and I feel like change in nature always has a great symbolic meaning. I decided to draw the moon phases for this project because the night sky has always been my biggest source of inspiration and I just love drawing anything space-related.
I’m Lynn, a 17 year old digital artist from Germany. I create minimalistic line art of nature, space and witchy things. Drawing is a way of finding peace for me and it has been my biggest passion for years now.
Rachel Bennett.
The Future: Pt. 1
Statement:This piece depicts the fear of the unknown, the impending changes we face in our lifetime, and the difficulty of knowing how to proceed. Above all, I hope this piece represents the resistance to going backwards; that no matter how fearful we may be of what comes next, we must walk forward into the future, not backwards.
This image is one of a four part series that I will be showing at Chapterhouse Cafe & Gallery in Philadelphia as part of their Spring show, which will run from April 14th to July 13th. You can view my work online at rachelbennettdraws.tumblr.com or on instagram @rachelbennettdraws. You may contact me with questions or comments via my portfolio site at www.rachelbennett.net.
Stephanie.
Statement: For my piece, I represented the word "change" in an illustration of a phoenix because it is a creature that is always changing forms, from life to death, flames to ashes, and reborn again. However, this ever-changing cycle is always constant and its spirit never dies. The phoenix is housed in the Greek letter delta, the mathematical symbol for change.
Mochichito is a designer based in Raleigh-Durham, NC. Inspired by the magical, imaginary, fuzzy, and fierce.
instagram.com/mochichito
etsy.com/shop/mochichito
100daysoflittledudes.tumblr.com
Stefanie Shank.
If you’d like to see more of Stephanie’s amazing art works, visit her Tumblr page here.
Swathi.
Statement: My artwork for the word “Change”, encompasses the thought of slow changes. Changes need to be gone through slowly, but they reap rich rewards. It might take time, but it will certainly be beneficial to an individual, a country and the world.
The word “Change” in my artwork goes through seven colour changes. Each colour transition in the word signifies the meaning behind the colour used. The lettering starts off black, which is a colour associated with death, power, and unrest. From black it moves to brown, a colour symbolising nature, warmth and support. From that we move to green, a fresh colour denoting harmony, balance, greenery, and peace. From green we move on to a blue, a colour associated with serenity, trust and calmness. We then move to yellow, a bright joyful colour and finally to an orange which is an extension of the yellow; a colour filled with life and energy. This transitions in colours, can be synonymous with change; making small changes as an individual, as a leader or as a nation can lead to a better and richer lives for people, nations and in turn, the world.
Making small changes can be as simple as being kind and helpful to the people around you, spreading love, and making peace with the next person, protecting the rights and beliefs of people and making their voice heard, putting together ideals to make the world a peaceful and better place to live in, safeguarding the environment from harm and making it a safe place for future generations. As they say changes can be hard at first, messy in the middle but they will result in gorgeous benefits at the end.
My name is Swathi and I am an Designer and Illustrator from India. I am a UI designer at my day job and by night I am an artist and illustrator. I enjoy exploring new mediums, and experimenting with different styles. I love working on/with typography and lettering, inked illustrations, pattern design, watercolours, and gouache painting. I am a strong believer in hard work and patience and how important the two are to become successful at work and in life.
Travis Marks.
Statement: This piece signifies that even though our bodies don't stand the test of time, we'll always be that young kid at heart.
Travis Marks is a freelance Story Artist, Character Designer, Illustrator and 2D Animator living in Los Angeles, California. You can view his work at:
www.travismarksportfolio.squarespace.com
https://www.instagram.com/travismarksart/
www.travismarksart.tumblr.com
Now that you’ve viewed these brilliant pieces of work, we’d like you to take the time to sit back and recognize how all of these pieces represent change, in their own special way. Even though they are all uniquely different, one way or another, they all represent beautifully what ‘change’ is. In such a hectic society, we often lose sight of what is right or wrong, and routinely choose the most cliche answer to every question. Through these art pieces, we hope that you realize that no matter what you decide is right, or wrong, you always have the right to express what you think is right in any way you’d like. No matter how different or varied it is from anybody else’s view on the matter. So please, don’t ever let the elevator get you down.
A big thank you to all of the artists involved in the One Word Project, for their creating their genius art works and doing Circa Verne the honor of collaborating with them!
All rights of the artworks remain with the original artists.
This project was run by the head of art, Joëlle den Toom, at Circa Verne.
A question that is difficult to answer but most of us probably agree that a good film is one you enjoy. One that you tell your friends about after you’ve seen it, one that you want to share with other people because it made you laugh or it made you cry. However, the question that really got me thinking is…
What makes a great film?
I thought long and hard about this, as someone who regularly watches movies and considers myself a bit of ‘film buff’, it really intrigued me to think about what the distinction really is between good and great.
I think the easiest way for me to explain my thought process is to go off a film that I recently saw and thought, without a doubt, that it was a great film. One night a few months ago I was trying to decide on a film to watch (this normally takes me a good forty minutes), and my eye wandered to ‘It Follows’, the 2014 indie smash hit. I’d missed all of the hype the movie received when it first came out because, well I don’t know, I tend to arrive late at things. Anyway, I watched the film with my friend Antonia, and by the time it had finished we both sat in a stunned silence. ‘It Follows’, for those who haven’t heard of it, is a psychological horror film about a young woman named Jay, who is tirelessly pursued by a supernatural being after a sexual encounter with a boy named ‘Hugh’. Initially it sounds a bit dumb, but the film is actually a well paced, excellently written and suspenseful amateur film worthy of the praise it has received.
What makes the film really excellent is the amount of detail that you can see throughout. The setting of the film is perplexing to say the least, as we subtly transition between all four seasons throughout the course of just a few days. This is something so discreet that you probably wont even notice the first time around. I actually read about this aspect of the film in an article by M.J Pack for the Thought Catalogue, check it out here. The disorientation caused by the changing of season is certainly not original to the film’s director David Robert Mitchell, in fact its an old technique used in literature. However, Mitchell transfers these traditional literary tools onto the screen, creating an unsettling visual that underpins the tone of the entire movie.
Mitchell takes the artistry in his film a step further by also involving a distorted time period in which this thriller takes place. The technology in the film is a amalgamation of decades including an eighties corded phone and a modern day kindle-type device in the shape of a sea-shell. All together these components create a decade obscuring masterpiece.
The way David Robert Mitchell builds tension using music is phenomenal, the score by Disasterpiece (check it out on Spotify here) perfectly accentuates the chilling pursuit of Jay and her friends by the mysterious and ever persistent ‘it’. By the end of the film I found I was completely engrossed in the atmosphere that Mitchell had created, and that was brilliantly led by protagonist Maika Monroe as it’s lead.
As it goes David Robert Mitchell’s ‘It Follows’ is a great film. It is critically acclaimed (although that isn’t always a true qualifier of a good watch), it has been consistently listed as one of the best horror films of the last ten years and has the approval of innovative directors like Quentin Tarantino. However, most importantly of all, ‘It Follows’ is an artistically beautiful, well crafted achievement of modern cinema. Give it a watch y’all.
This piece was written by our regular contributor;Neve Holmes-Shaw as part of Circa Verne’s Art Fest.
Etsy is a hodgepodge of shops, ranging from artistic endeavors to clothing to home décor and everything in between. It's one of those places one could spend an eternity spending money in; a mall of the most dangerous kind because it doesn't require leaving the couch.
One of the shops available for your viewing in pARTizan Prints, a new outlet at which you can buy watercolor prints to hang in your house, dorm, flat, or toilet (where you hang your art is your business). We've interviewed her as part of our Art Fest to get a glimpse into the life of a budding artist in the 21st century.
How old were you when you first discovered that art was your calling?
Art has always been a huge passion of mine. However, I can’t exactly pin point when I realised that art was for me. I suppose my family would suggest that it was when I was about two or three years old, when I was running around the garden with my sister, painting absolutely everything.
What inspired you to sell your work?
I’ve always thought about selling my art one day as a bit of a joke, but it wasn’t until my sister and I walked into a small store in Arrowtown one day, in which we saw a bunch of simple prints and paintings being sold at ridiculous prices that I finally thought that I could do something similar, but at much more affordable prices and with my own spin to it.
Do you have a specific audience to which you market your prints?
No, I don’t have a specific audience that I market towards. I think that art should be for everybody, and so I like to create pieces that can be enjoyed by everybody.
What do you think the role of art is in our society?
Art is and always will be a way of expression. Even in today’s society, where people’s days seem to be too hectic to even take in anything, art still finds a way to express an important message to the masses. Whether it’s a small piece tucked away in a dusty garage, or a gigantic painting plastered on a billboard for the whole world to see, art always carries an important message. The only thing society has to do is to take time to understand what this expression is, and admire it for what it is.
How do you think the role of an artist has changed in society since, say, the 18th and 19th centuries?
I don’t think the role of artists has changed much at all. After all, art has always been, and always will be a way of expression. In the 18th and 19th century, artists painted what they thought was beautiful, gruesome or even hilarious. They documented what they thought others needed to see. Similarly, photographers, painters and artists in general do the same in todays society. From painting a gorgeous landscape, to taking photos of the wars that are constantly erupting. We document and record what we feel society needs to see, and then society picks and chooses what they feel the important messages are within our pieces.
An image of struggle and poverty often springs to mind when thinking of a budding artist. Do you think that hardship is a necessary component to masterpieces?
Yes, and no. Art is in no means an easy profession, and honestly, I think that all artists endure struggles throughout their career in some way or form. In many ways, hardship and struggle can provoke an artist to create pieces that will resonate with viewers. Both sympathy and empathy will stem from their pieces and people may easily connect with the artist. However, that’s not to say that one cannot connect with viewers and have that same special bond unless they have struggled through poverty.
What would you like to achieve with your art? Is there a message you try to spread?
There are only two reasons for which I create my art. The first of which is to create happiness. I’d like to think that if somebody was to buy a piece of my art, they’d feel happy when they see it. That when looking at it, they’d see the love, time and devotion that the artist has put into it to create they’re piece, specifically for them. Secondly, 50% of my paintings earnings will always be donated to a charity. For some of the paintngs, such as the endangered species range, the charity which will be donated to is the WWF (word wildlife fund). However, for other paintings, buyers are able to tell me which charity they would like to donate to!
WANT TO BUY A PRINT? CHECK OUT pARTizanPrints ON ETSY HERE
This interview was conducted by our Literature and Fiction editor Lesley as part of Circa Verne's ART FEST
Even the most liberal, free, unbound human being will in someway find themselves reluctantly agreeing with Mary Shelley as she writes in her novel Frankenstein "Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change." For me, a liberally minded but very rooted individual (despite my dreams of being the kind of person who could settle down anywhere and find happiness) change is, indeed quite painful. Beginning university, moving to a city which is a 2 hour car ride or a 42 hour walk, to live with people who are complete and utter strangers, is a heck of a lot of change for my fragile and emotional nature. In order to combat the stress and utter desolation which I'm sure will follow me around for at least a month whilst I am figuring my new life out, I have created a playlist of songs which will hopefully get me through the year relatively unscathed.
1. As the Romans Do by Theo Katzman
I had not heard of Theo Katzman until approximately three days before writing this piece, but it is actually this song which inspired the playlist. The first verse (particularly "I bid a fond farewell to my best-est friends / I packed my possessions in a U-Haul van/ I soared, like a sailor to the promised land") matched my own situation so perfectly that I couldn't start this playlist with any other song.
It's perfect for jumping around playing air-guitar, dancing wildly in your room ignoring your problems and quietly humming to yourself whilst you hang posters on your wall. As a someone studying for a classical studies major and a minor in Latin, the lyrics of this song resonate deeply with me and make me smile uncontrollably. I'm not saying that it's a life-changing song with deeply chilling lyrics, but there's something about Theo promising me that I can build my own empire in less than a day as long as I "do as the Romans do" is somehow very inspiring.
2. Wild World by Yusuf / Cat Stevens
Who doesn't know this song? You can never remember where you first heard it, but you can't help but sing along when it somehow mysteriously enters your life again. For me, part of the reason that this song is on this playlist is for that nostalgic reason; it inspires some kind of fuzzy feeling in my body, a kind of calm safety, a remembrance that some things will always be the way I left them.
But more than that, the lyrics of this song remind me of my mother. I'm not sure if Cat Stevens knew my mother, or if somehow he wrote this song with my mother telepathically singing in his ear, but his sweetly sung warnings "remember there's a lot of bad and beware" and "you know I've seen a lot of what the world can do" are words taken directly from my mother's mouth. And while I often (read: always) roll my eyes and remind my mother that I'm practically senile and I don’t need constant reminders to be sensible, I don't think she'd truly be my mother if she didn't issue them. Wild World allows me to remember mum's words without having to have her on the phone 24/7.
3. My Sharona by The Knack
It doesn't in any way relate to my moving away from home. It doesn't remind me of home, of my family, of good times, or tell me that life will be okay. But there are very few songs which make me forget reality like this song. In fact, listening to it right now whilst writing this is difficult. I've had to stop for multiple dance breaks, replay the song twice, and even whilst typing I'm bouncing around in my chair. This song is the ultimate distraction; repetitive lyrics which are easy to sing along to, plenty of opportunities to let out excess emotion by shouting "WOO!" or crooning in the way only 70s rock allows you too, and the kind of guitar playing you simply can't sit, stand or lie still to. Whether I'm in my room, walking down the street, in the shower, cooking dinner, it doesn't matter. I will listen to this song at any time, in any place and it will never fail to take me out of whatever problem I find myself in for a glorious 4 minutes and 55 seconds.
4. L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. by Noah And The Whale
I love this song. I loved it the moment I saw the title. I loved it even more when I heard the lines "the barmen used to call her Little Lisa Loony Tunes / she went down on almost anyone". When I heard the chorus, I was lost. Maybe I have a secret, buried spelling/grammar fetish, maybe I just thought it was somehow unique, maybe I'm biased because I just love Noah And The Whale.
The reason that this song made its way onto this playlist (and, to be honest, almost every one of my playlists) is because of the chorus and the message of hope which it conveyed. "What you don't have now will come back again/ You got heart and you're going your own way". In times of insecurity and identity crisis, it's nice to be reminded that the universe will provide, and that staying true to yourself is worth it in the end. Yes, I'm studying a degree which many people have told me will lead nowhere. I don't drink alcohol. I don't wear "normal" clothes. I don't have to fit in to be accepted. L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
5. Superior by Sunday Sun
Some people might assert that my attraction to Sunday Sun is that they're Dutch (I, too, am Dutch) but quite surprisingly their nationality is not what inspired me to listen to their music. That was Spotify's Discover playlist. In fact I only just discovered that they were Dutch when I was researching something interesting about them to begin this paragraph with so you can imagine I am currently quite surprised that I have something in common with these 4 men.
Superior is a song from their latest album 'Live Out Loud' and it's a song which combines two of my favorite things; dancing and feelings of supremacy. The shyness I exhibited during primary school completely disappeared during high school, leaving me with a personality into which is infused a high dose of narcissism. But change, especially big change like moving away from home, tends to knock my self-esteem a little, so lines like "Girl I need you to say the word / We are superior" are essential to keeping my delicate sense of worth in balance.
6. What's Up by 4 Non Blondes
This is a song which I love for it's many screaming opportunities. The entire chorus consists basically of yelling. I find that vocalizing ones emotions through loud shouting is very cathartic, and who could possibly claim that the repetitive "Hey yeah yeah" of What's Up's chorus is not loud shouting or, consequently, very cathartic?
Other than the vocal aspects of this song, it also of course has lyrics which resonate with me. "And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed / Just to get it all out what's in my head" is basically my coping strategy for stress. Songs which capture my own experiences or habits in such a precise way often make their way into a Top Ten position on my playlists, hence its inclusion here. I imagine I will likely spend some time lying bed, crying, and potentially having 4 Non Blondes singer Linda Perry singing my situation at me might make it better.
7. London Bound by Lucy Spraggan
This song begins with an infusion of energy and doesn't give it up until the end. A pretty non-surprising pop song, the reason I chose this son (other than the continuous "woah-oh-oh"-ing) is the title of it. It's a reminder of my own goals and dreams; ideally, after doing my Bachelor I'd like to do an exchange to England to do postgraduate study. Even though I know I ought to just be concentrating on the present and not already living in the future through my imagination, I think it's good to keep your goals in mind. Maybe it'll make me study harder.
8. Live Life by Zayde Wølf
This song is a little less adrenaline-filled than the previous song. Zayde Wolf (apparently some kind of wolf/man hybrid) has the perfect smoky, ear-catching voice for a song encouraging one to live one's life. The lyrics of this song resonate deeply with me; "Sometimes I think that I'm a dreamer / The one that's standing all alone" describes me as a person, especially lately. I spend a lot of my life inside my own head, creating and shaping a reality which is pretty different and a lot softer round the edges than the reality I actually live in. It's a coping mechanism which stems from those days in primary school when I spent my time hiding from other kids and loitering around the staff room. Now it's escalated to a point where I spend more time dreaming. "What am I gonna do to feel like freedom's mine" is also quite appropriate seeing as I'm about to be hit with more independence than I'm used to, and taking control of it rather than letting it take advantage of me is probably a good strategy. Cheers, Zayde.
9. Music Makers by Seo Linn
This is, I think, the only song with foreign words making up at least half of the song and, surprisingly, it's not even a language which I know. It's Gaelic. This might sound like a pretty left-field language for me to throw in here, but I actually spent about 8 months on DuoLingo desperately trying to learn Gaelic. I don't have the self-discipline to actually continue with such a thing so it never really went anywhere, but I still love hearing it and attempting to sing along. Other than the Gaelic, I thought this song was appropriate for the chorus: "We are the music makers / We are the dreamers of dreams / We are the movers and shakers / Of the world forever it seems". It's a fun, upbeat reminder of our youth and of the fact that we, for the moment, are the rising stars of planet earth. If that's not empowering, I don't know what to tell you.
10. Sense of Home by Harrison Storm
This is a song which I've actually spent quite a lot of time listening to before and during creating this playlist, and it's only just now that I thought to include it. If it's not obvious by the name of the song, it's sort of about home and the people who make it home; family. When reading the lyrics, it seems to be about something quite sinister, but I haven't done any research to check what Storm actually wrote the song about. The first chorus, however, does deal with going away from home (probably not to go to college, but I'm willing to use imagination). It's a bit of a reminder that although you're far away from home, family and those you love are still there for you, and not to forget that in your new life.
11. This Must Be The Place by Iron & Wine, Ben Bridwell
I mean, what can I say about Iron & Wine other than that he's fan-fucking-tastic. A lot of artists pass through my consciousness within a month, appearing and disappearing from my playlists and long car trips with a kind of flippancy I usually reserve for people who act superior to me. Not Iron & Wine. 2017 marks the third year of his voice on my radio, and I'm having to admit that he's likely going to be there for years to come. There's something about his music early in the morning, a cup of coffee in one hand and sleep in my eyes, which just makes me smile. This Must Be The Place is originally a song by Talking Heads. The music has been slowed down a bit by Iron & Wine and Ben Bridwell, and whilst I usually prefer originals to covers, this is one song for which I make an exception. Other than being a particular favorite in general, it does deal with finding home in an unfamiliar place. There's my justification for it's place here. Not that Iron & Wine ever needs justification.
12. Divide & Conquer by Vandaveer
I'm fairly new to Vandaveer (which might be a surprise since there's two Vandaveer songs on this playlist) but I liked this song initially for it's name, which made me think of Julius Caesar for some odd reason. Perhaps because I've been watching Rome lately? Anyway, I was actually quite drawn to the rhythm and the unique voice on this track. The line "When you gaze out your window / Does it faze or envelope you?" made me smile because I thought it was thought-provoking. Staring out of windows is something people who are alone tend to be known for, and it is important that being alone doesn't immediately correspond to being lonely. It's alright to be comforted by your own company, to be alright with the world around you minus other human bodies.
13. Concerning Past & Future Conquests by Vandaveer
Yes, Vandaveer song #2! This one is a little more upbeat in rhythm (maybe not crazy club-dancing upbeat, but enough to wave your arms around in your dorm room I think). I think this is a time to think about how we got to where we are, as well as where we're going. And it is in our youth when, aided by arrogance, we get to say things like "I wanna have it all / I'm gonna have it all" and believe it. There's nothing wrong with that. It's healthy, I think. This song made me feel as though I can do anything I want, and that whilst there will be failures, there's always going to be some future conquest to worry about.
14. For Now by Kina Grannis
This song is gold. So much so that I have a poster of some of the lyrics hanging in my room (handmade). It's a song about the finite nature of our lives, the fragility of our race, the fact that things happen and will continue to happen with or without us. We could get depressed about it and wonder what the point of it all is (as one of the boys I knew last year constantly did) or we could accept that "We are the ones for now" and relish in the fact that for a short amount of time in our planet's life-span, we are the group of people who get to conquer, create, destroy and live. That's important.
15. Everything Unsaid by Joshua Hyslop
Everything Unsaid made it onto my playlist for the same reason as quite a few songs, I am now realizing; the simple fact that I love it. Joshua Hyslop has this voice which inspires feelings of simultaneous hope and melancholy, a mixture I have never experienced before. The song is a reminder, to me anyway, to be true to who you are and not allow society to make you into something or someone who you're ultimately ashamed of. It's a lesson we should definitely remember when moving into a group of strangers. It's easy to pretend to be someone you're not in order to fit in, but it's better to be who you are and find people who accept you for you, even if that takes longer. At the end of the day, as the lyrics say "Now all of these monstrosities, the choices I have made / They will not go away, I've made my bed and here I lay."
16. All That You Have Is Your Soul by Tracy Chapman
Tracy Chapman is some kind of goddess. I haven't heard a Tracy Chapman song I haven't loved. She's my go-to for late night listening, so I had to have her in this playlist. She's like an auricular journey home. I can close my eyes and listen to Tracy Chapman and there's this sense of safety, warmth and home there. It's a sense of nostalgia, I guess. It was hard to choose just one song because I love so many, but I thought the message "All that you have is your soul" was a humbling one to be reminded of this year. Of course, the story of the song is rather a tough one to which I cannot relate in reality, and I would never pretend to. But its still inspiring to hear of a kind of hope, even after a tough life.
17. Wonderful World, Beautiful People by Jimmy Cliff
I thought it best to end this playlist with something happy and peppy. This song definitely fits that bill. How could anyone listen to this song and not sway along in your chair? Other than the superficial beat to this song which would cheer anyone up, I believe, the lyrics of this are especially topical not just to me but to the world. I don't think I need to remind everyone that the world we live in is going through quite a tough time right now, with fear and hate conquering in many areas. It's important that we "Take a look at the world / And the state that it's in today / I am sure you'll agree / We all could make it a better way / With our love put together / Everybody learn to love each other / Instead of fussing and fighting / Cheating but biting / Scandalizing and hating / Baby, we could have a wonderful world, beautiful people". I know that's a lot of lyrics but now even if you don’t listen to the song, I've gotten my message across. And it's a message I would like to keep in the back of my mind whilst I'm in university and, indeed throughout the rest of my life.
This playlist was composed by our Literature and Fiction editor Lesley as part of Circa Verne's ART FEST
It is said that there are certain times of day at which doing certain things are more effective. For some people, studying is best done in the early morning. Others find that exercising is most rewarding in the evening. Although I usually spend a lot of my waking hours doing nothing, I do have some activities which I only do at certain times of day. Watching films is one of these activities. As I am amid my Summer holidays, my waking hours have shifted from sun-up to sun-down, to afternoon to early morning. I wake around noon and fall asleep at 3am. It's not always convenient; often I wake to find I've missed an opportunity to go out to town, see my family or have lunch. But it's allowed me to catch up on one of my favorite past-times; watching movies late at night.
And so, it was that at about 1am, as I was flicking through Netflix on a half-hearted search for anything remotely interesting to watch, I came across Lars von Trier's Nymphomaniac. Perhaps not a title which immediately screams "Quality Entertainment" to most, I've been finding myself more and more intrigued by films which are honest about sex, sexuality and the human condition. It has always been a personal dream to create a work of art, be it film, fiction, or photography, which showcases the things which are taboo in media as the way they truly are, without the fictional and stereotypical guilt or shock-factor. It's why I fell in love with The Dreamers, directed by another infamously controversial director Bernardo Bertolucci. Whilst incomparable in theme, both these films showcased sex and lust honestly and unapologetically, simultaneously reminding their audiences that sex isn’t taboo in reality, and that it doesn't have to be taboo in film either. It's uncensored, it can be crude, and it doesn't have to be beautiful. But explicit sex doesn't have to be limited to porn websites or dark corners in rental shops.
Even Nymphomaniac turns out to be a film not exclusively about sex, despite its title. To me, it was a film about morality, society and nature. Whilst to some it might be misogynistic and degrading to women, this wasn't at all what I saw in it. As this isn't meant to be a review of the film I'll leave most of my opinions about the message of the movie or its creative directing out of it, but I would like to say that to me, Nymphomaniac brought up some important and interesting points regarding women, sexuality and sexual natures, and the way they are viewed through civilization's microscopic lens. The Dreamers, too, whilst not lacking in sex scenes, was more a film about the cinema, freedom and youth. I wondered what it was that had so impacted me upon first watching The Dreamers. Now I think I know. Often it is what makes a film controversial which makes it great. Being over G-Rated does not mean we should shy away from a film; we should be able to watch some movies without children nearby. Reading reviews and comments online, I found myself shocked by the outrage and almost anger voiced by some people for the explicit scenes included. Sex in all its consensual forms should not be a reason for outrage. It should be lauded for its honesty, or better yet, not mentioned as a special feature at all. In my opinion, it should simply be accepted as a part of life, and isn't that what we watch films to see? Snapshots of a life, albeit a life of a fictional character.
It's difficult to write a piece like this without coming across as a bit of a pervert. That's a shame. The fact that I'm a woman might change that opinion from perverted to, I don't know, 'hippy-ish' or 'open-minded'. And there's nothing wrong with being open-minded and free-spirited. There's nothing shameful about it, just as there's nothing shameful about seeing sex in the cinema. Sex sells, but I think it tells too. Sex tells stories with more intensity than words sometimes can. When it's done well, sex is a tool we should be more open to seeing used in cinema, rather than shun or cry out against. If that somehow puts a label on me, then so be it. If you're ever wondering where I am or what I'm doing at odd hours in the very early morning, I can tell you with almost 100% certainty that I'm in my bedroom, watching something beautiful.
This piece was written by our Literature and Fiction editor Lesley as part of Circa Verne's ART FEST
