Solving murder with murder is an act that is clearly diluded. Even the blind leading the blind can end up in a happier place, due to a heightened sense of smell perhaps or verbal instructions. Yet it can hardly be disputed that resolving murder with murder is an example of the ignorant leading the ignorant.
Yet Dr George Tiller, a physician from Kansas who performed late-term abortions, was not an idiot. One of few who would provide such services in America, Tiller was shot dead during a church service by a pro-life activist who decided that he, too, would take life into his own hands.
Abortions are subjective, agreed. A women impreganated as a result of rape cannot be placed within the same boat as a careless woman, blinded by alcohol or naivety, wanting to go back to her life of one person simplicity. Yet the murder of Dr Tiller is not the setting for yet further debate of whether or not abortion is wrong, but the absolutely nonsensical action of resolving the actions of so-called 'murdering of children' by murdering the man in question. As campaigners for life, the crime was possibly the most undiplomatic thing they could of done.
How can pro-life activists protest against the murdering of their 'future children' if they condone murder themselves? Dr Tiller performed abortions on women in need, whos pregancies threatened their lives or health. He saved women from creating two ruined lives, and in turn saved one. Activists are known terrorise such doctors, inflicting voilence on and against them, their families and their patients - bombing surgeries, revealing personal details including addresses and phone numbers and victimising recently hospitalised patients. All this for the birth of children who could easily grow up under-developed, poor or neglected, or, even worse, to be pro-life themselves.
To use such a crass metaphor, what these activists seem to need is to be held down and raped, impreganated with the sperm of someone who forced themselves into their body. To walk a mile in the shoes of the women they are victimising, they should be faced with the decision of aborting the foetus inside of them, with which they have no ties, no love, only a resounding feeling of humiliation and violation. Or, if they are so lucky as to not have a vagina, to be held down and inserted with one so they can finally be stripped of their precious power - and bollocks - and made to see the situation from a real perspective.
Pro-choice or pro-life, there is no way of justifying the murder of a man who did a service for women who needed him. If pro-life activists want to make themselves out to be a collection of irrational, ill-thinking lunatics, this is a prime way to do it. Even the most cloudy-minded of people can see that the abortion of a foetus is in no way equal to the murder of a middle-aged doctor. Dr Tiller was a man who could of gone on to save numerous more lives, literally or hypathetically, murdered because some people just cannot allow women the right to choose.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Extremely loud and incredibly GOOD
Feature about jonathan safran foer.. make him your hero today.
There is nothing that society loves more than a young and fresh talent. Our attitude towards age has become synonymous with that of the fruit we buy. Youth is unblemished, sprightly and full of juice, whereas an aged fruit, or an aged person, is unsightly, unsavoury, and usually covered with mould.
Our magazines and televisions are brimming with actors freshly picked from the garden of adolescence, artists on the cusp of graduation storming galleries and bands speeding their way from secondary school to fame. Regardless of this arrival of youngsters within the media, there was one medium that was thought to be safe - with which age and experience was the key to success, and wherein no one cared if you were wrinkly and emitted a peculiar odour. This so called net of security was the field of literature.
However this safety net has officially been torn open with the arrival of Jonathan Safran Foer, who is younger than your mum, probably younger than you, and armed with more articulate words than a thesaurus. Foer's debut novel 'Everything Is Illuminated' was written when he was a mere 22 years old and sold more than 250,000 copies in America alone, and by 2005 it had been translated to film by director Liev Schreiber. His follow up novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' received a one million dollar advance, an astonishing sum for an author of such little age and experience. With this it was concluded that he was most likely the highest-earning novelist in America under the age of 30. He has also written a libretto for the German national opera in Berlin, named 'Seven Attempted Escapes From Silence'. Quite the collection of achievements for a man who claims to be a collector himself, acquiring family history, blank pieces of paper belonging to famous writers and second hand trinkets - not to mention his weighty assortment of critics and admirers.
Jonathan's journey within the world of literature begun in the exact same manner as the main protagonist in 'Everything is illuminated'. He travelled to Ukraine as curious 19 year-old Jew to research his family history, in particular the history of his Grandfather, who fled to America during the Second World War to escape the Nazis. The trip was evidently so memorable that it became the foundation for his debut novel, and the story so self-reflective that he named the main character after himself. The book provoked a tidal wave of both praise and criticism, rendering his critics damp and exasperated and his fans thirsty for more. An incredible and unexpected reception from an author who claimed, when the novel first emerged, that he didn't even like writing.
Born in 1977, Foer hails from a small Jewish family in Washington DC and now lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife, fellow novelist Nicole Krauss, and their son Sasha. Foer studied Philosophy and Literature at Princeton University, where he was tutored and encouraged by celebrated American author Joyce Carol Oates. His second book, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close', was written from the perspective of a nine year-old school boy, who alike the protagonist in the debut novel, conducts a reckless search for family information after his father is killed in the 9/11 terrorist attack. The book, much like 'Everything Is Illuminated', has been labelled both a heartbreaking masterpiece and a pretentious hack.
Foer has been described by many that have interviewed him as reserved, knowledgeable and exceptionally polite. The photograph in the sleeve of his novels reveals him as handsome, with dark eyes, thick dark hair and a shy, self-aware smile. Despite his progressing fame, however, he is not one for the celebrity lifestyle. He likes to remain in the shadows, and has repeatedly told interviewers that he likes to be in bed by nine o'clock, and nine-thirty at the latest. Perhaps the key to this writer's success is that beneath is youth flushed cheeks and pearly white teeth, he has the soul of the oldest man in the world.
Foer has referred to himself somewhat as a collector of eccentric things, much like his books, which are collections of fanciful mock-history, extravagant plots and scrapbook-esque images. One of the main reasons for the perpetual criticism of 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' was his use of images within the text, which blurred the boundaries of the layout of a traditional novel. The images included pictures of keyholes, cats and hands, and the book ended with a 12 page image of a man falling, or jumping, from the burning building of the World Trade Centre. An image that has become synonymous with the events of 9/11, it showed the man retract from the air and back into the disintegrating building when flicked through from the first of the 12 pages to the last.
When it comes to his own collections, Foer is just as experimental as he is with his books. He has collected over 60 pieces of blank writing paper from famous authors, which he has framed and on display in his home. Using his endearingly polite manner, he would phone assistants of the writer in question and courteously ask for the next blank piece of paper that they were planning to write on. The most prestigious of his collection include Sigmund Freud, Arthur Miller and Haruki Murakami. It is of no surprise that such a renowned young author is the owner of such a vibrant imagination, and it is of great comfort to know that the future of literature is safely in the hands of at least one brilliant mind.
Perhaps Jonathan Safran Foer is what literature has needed, a burst of youth to dream it to life again. With an incredible ability to captivate the masses, provoke reaction and blur the boundaries of old and new, it would seem that Foer is taking the book off of its dreary, traditional shelf and giving it a thoroughly modern dusting off.
There is nothing that society loves more than a young and fresh talent. Our attitude towards age has become synonymous with that of the fruit we buy. Youth is unblemished, sprightly and full of juice, whereas an aged fruit, or an aged person, is unsightly, unsavoury, and usually covered with mould.
Our magazines and televisions are brimming with actors freshly picked from the garden of adolescence, artists on the cusp of graduation storming galleries and bands speeding their way from secondary school to fame. Regardless of this arrival of youngsters within the media, there was one medium that was thought to be safe - with which age and experience was the key to success, and wherein no one cared if you were wrinkly and emitted a peculiar odour. This so called net of security was the field of literature.
However this safety net has officially been torn open with the arrival of Jonathan Safran Foer, who is younger than your mum, probably younger than you, and armed with more articulate words than a thesaurus. Foer's debut novel 'Everything Is Illuminated' was written when he was a mere 22 years old and sold more than 250,000 copies in America alone, and by 2005 it had been translated to film by director Liev Schreiber. His follow up novel, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' received a one million dollar advance, an astonishing sum for an author of such little age and experience. With this it was concluded that he was most likely the highest-earning novelist in America under the age of 30. He has also written a libretto for the German national opera in Berlin, named 'Seven Attempted Escapes From Silence'. Quite the collection of achievements for a man who claims to be a collector himself, acquiring family history, blank pieces of paper belonging to famous writers and second hand trinkets - not to mention his weighty assortment of critics and admirers.
Jonathan's journey within the world of literature begun in the exact same manner as the main protagonist in 'Everything is illuminated'. He travelled to Ukraine as curious 19 year-old Jew to research his family history, in particular the history of his Grandfather, who fled to America during the Second World War to escape the Nazis. The trip was evidently so memorable that it became the foundation for his debut novel, and the story so self-reflective that he named the main character after himself. The book provoked a tidal wave of both praise and criticism, rendering his critics damp and exasperated and his fans thirsty for more. An incredible and unexpected reception from an author who claimed, when the novel first emerged, that he didn't even like writing.
Born in 1977, Foer hails from a small Jewish family in Washington DC and now lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife, fellow novelist Nicole Krauss, and their son Sasha. Foer studied Philosophy and Literature at Princeton University, where he was tutored and encouraged by celebrated American author Joyce Carol Oates. His second book, 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close', was written from the perspective of a nine year-old school boy, who alike the protagonist in the debut novel, conducts a reckless search for family information after his father is killed in the 9/11 terrorist attack. The book, much like 'Everything Is Illuminated', has been labelled both a heartbreaking masterpiece and a pretentious hack.
Foer has been described by many that have interviewed him as reserved, knowledgeable and exceptionally polite. The photograph in the sleeve of his novels reveals him as handsome, with dark eyes, thick dark hair and a shy, self-aware smile. Despite his progressing fame, however, he is not one for the celebrity lifestyle. He likes to remain in the shadows, and has repeatedly told interviewers that he likes to be in bed by nine o'clock, and nine-thirty at the latest. Perhaps the key to this writer's success is that beneath is youth flushed cheeks and pearly white teeth, he has the soul of the oldest man in the world.
Foer has referred to himself somewhat as a collector of eccentric things, much like his books, which are collections of fanciful mock-history, extravagant plots and scrapbook-esque images. One of the main reasons for the perpetual criticism of 'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' was his use of images within the text, which blurred the boundaries of the layout of a traditional novel. The images included pictures of keyholes, cats and hands, and the book ended with a 12 page image of a man falling, or jumping, from the burning building of the World Trade Centre. An image that has become synonymous with the events of 9/11, it showed the man retract from the air and back into the disintegrating building when flicked through from the first of the 12 pages to the last.
When it comes to his own collections, Foer is just as experimental as he is with his books. He has collected over 60 pieces of blank writing paper from famous authors, which he has framed and on display in his home. Using his endearingly polite manner, he would phone assistants of the writer in question and courteously ask for the next blank piece of paper that they were planning to write on. The most prestigious of his collection include Sigmund Freud, Arthur Miller and Haruki Murakami. It is of no surprise that such a renowned young author is the owner of such a vibrant imagination, and it is of great comfort to know that the future of literature is safely in the hands of at least one brilliant mind.
Perhaps Jonathan Safran Foer is what literature has needed, a burst of youth to dream it to life again. With an incredible ability to captivate the masses, provoke reaction and blur the boundaries of old and new, it would seem that Foer is taking the book off of its dreary, traditional shelf and giving it a thoroughly modern dusting off.
Theatre v Eastenders
HERES ANOTHER REVIEW. OF THEATRE PRODUCTION 'ENJOY' BY ALAN BENNETT. enjoy.
A Wednesday afternoon visit to the theatre is often synonymous with the image of pensioners shuffling to their seats and the sound of middle-aged women discussing their wallpaper patterns. But as well as these usual matinee treats, Alan Bennett’s Enjoy at the Gielgud theatre also delivers gender-swapping, prostitution, implied incest and the erection of a man who is supposed to be dead.
The resurrection of this play comes 29 years after its original production, a debut that was met with such endless negativity that even Bennett himself nicknamed it ‘Endure’ rather than ‘Enjoy’. It is of no surprise that the audience of the 1980’s production responded with a strong dose of discomfort, as a majority of that audience would now be the age of my grandmother, and I have a feeling she would not have taken too kindly to such a concoction of sexual promiscuity, shameless humour and references to the male genitalia. In addition to the confrontation of such taboos, Bennett places an intricate focus on the troubled social context of the 1970‘s and 80‘s, the rise of industrialism, the demise of traditional community spirit and most importantly, the lack of concern regarding the aged and the vulnerable. Such references could be said to have been too accurate and too cynical for an audience that would prefer to ignore such truths, hide away in their shoulder pads and dance to Duran Duran.
The revival of the play however was met with a much different reaction. With the aid of director Christopher Luscombe, the play received a £1 million box office advance and left the audience applauding as though there were no tomorrow. Set in an old and traditional neighbourhood in Leeds, Bennett projects his own working class background through the characters of Connie and Wilfred Craven, a couple for whom life has become a habit. Their life together is the epitome of gloom; they complain of no company, no love and no purpose to live. Waiting to be relocated from their claustrophobic back-to-back home to modern council provided flats, the couple fantasise about the improvements that this new, state-of-the-art home will bring to their lives.
The set is an aesthetic reflection of the characters own drab existence; the wallpaper is retro, the furniture cheap, the entire room laden with uninteresting details.. The set is islanded in the centre of the stage, symbolic of both the compression of back-to-back housing and also the couples inability to escape each other. On either side of the set is complete darkness, from which other characters emerge, free to come and go with frequency, yet Mr and Mrs Craven rarely leave the staged home. They appear trapped, as though they are the subjects of an old photograph, struggling to escape from beyond the yellowing edges to the world around them.
Before the plot escalates into a dramatic frenzy, the audience is provided with an insight to the daily lives of the old married couple. Incurably bad-tempered Wilfred resides in his chair, occasionally halting his grumbles to wax lyrical about their daughter, Linda. Connie meanwhile wonders aimlessly about the house, making tea, eliminating dust and woefully remembering their long-lost son, of whom she clearly adores but of whom Wilfred despises. The conversations between the couple are a source of incredible humour and their bickering is endlessly entertaining. Much to the annoyance of Mr Craven, his wifes memory is reminiscent of a sieve. Wilfred becomes more forceful and aggressive the more his wife forgets, yet unaffected Connie repeatedly replies “My memories bad you see. My mother lost her memory… I think”. In a particularly amusing scene Connie asks Wilfred how he takes his tea, to which he incredulously replies, “We’ve been married 35 years!”
With the arrival of a female council worker, the play takes a dramatic turn towards the obscene. It soon becomes apparent that the council woman, there to observe the Craven’s day-to-day life but forbidden to interact with the couple, is in fact the Craven’s estranged gender-swapping son in drag. Then there is the arrival of Linda, the doted on daughter who, far from being the high flying personal secretary the couple described her as, is quite clearly a prostitute. An incident with a neighbourhood problem child leaves Wilfred supposedly dead in his chair, creating the foundation for the scene that Bennett himself claims is the funniest scene he has ever written. The aid from a neighbour leads to the removal of ‘deceased’ Wilfred’s trousers, in a bid to tidy him up before calling the ambulance. The removal however leads to the discovery that not every area of Wilfred is dead, and one organ in particular is still very much alive.
Faces are flushed and collars are loosened as endless sexual references, dark humour and social satire follow suit, such being the characteristics that make the play the success it is today, and that made it such a failure 29 years ago. Enjoy is considered as the black sheep of Bennett’s work, as while the controversy and social and political references are greeted like old friends, the slapstick element and theatrical plot are considered unusual for Bennett’s typical style. However we live in a multi-racial society, and this black sheep in particular is rather brilliant.
Enjoy is a play that confronts nearly every issue in society, and although the play was set so long ago, these issues will continue to be valid today, yesterday and tomorrow. In the midst of fanciful plot lines and extravagant characters is a darker heart, the lives of Mr and Mrs Craven, aging rapidly and frightened of what their place will be in the ever-transforming society. The funnier it gets, the more solemn we feel, and most of the audience do not know whether to laugh or cry. And so they chose both, which is perhaps why the theatre was filled with such a strange wheezing sound. Whether it produced chuckles, tears, gasps or smiles, this play was just as enjoyable as it said on the tin.
A Wednesday afternoon visit to the theatre is often synonymous with the image of pensioners shuffling to their seats and the sound of middle-aged women discussing their wallpaper patterns. But as well as these usual matinee treats, Alan Bennett’s Enjoy at the Gielgud theatre also delivers gender-swapping, prostitution, implied incest and the erection of a man who is supposed to be dead.
The resurrection of this play comes 29 years after its original production, a debut that was met with such endless negativity that even Bennett himself nicknamed it ‘Endure’ rather than ‘Enjoy’. It is of no surprise that the audience of the 1980’s production responded with a strong dose of discomfort, as a majority of that audience would now be the age of my grandmother, and I have a feeling she would not have taken too kindly to such a concoction of sexual promiscuity, shameless humour and references to the male genitalia. In addition to the confrontation of such taboos, Bennett places an intricate focus on the troubled social context of the 1970‘s and 80‘s, the rise of industrialism, the demise of traditional community spirit and most importantly, the lack of concern regarding the aged and the vulnerable. Such references could be said to have been too accurate and too cynical for an audience that would prefer to ignore such truths, hide away in their shoulder pads and dance to Duran Duran.
The revival of the play however was met with a much different reaction. With the aid of director Christopher Luscombe, the play received a £1 million box office advance and left the audience applauding as though there were no tomorrow. Set in an old and traditional neighbourhood in Leeds, Bennett projects his own working class background through the characters of Connie and Wilfred Craven, a couple for whom life has become a habit. Their life together is the epitome of gloom; they complain of no company, no love and no purpose to live. Waiting to be relocated from their claustrophobic back-to-back home to modern council provided flats, the couple fantasise about the improvements that this new, state-of-the-art home will bring to their lives.
The set is an aesthetic reflection of the characters own drab existence; the wallpaper is retro, the furniture cheap, the entire room laden with uninteresting details.. The set is islanded in the centre of the stage, symbolic of both the compression of back-to-back housing and also the couples inability to escape each other. On either side of the set is complete darkness, from which other characters emerge, free to come and go with frequency, yet Mr and Mrs Craven rarely leave the staged home. They appear trapped, as though they are the subjects of an old photograph, struggling to escape from beyond the yellowing edges to the world around them.
Before the plot escalates into a dramatic frenzy, the audience is provided with an insight to the daily lives of the old married couple. Incurably bad-tempered Wilfred resides in his chair, occasionally halting his grumbles to wax lyrical about their daughter, Linda. Connie meanwhile wonders aimlessly about the house, making tea, eliminating dust and woefully remembering their long-lost son, of whom she clearly adores but of whom Wilfred despises. The conversations between the couple are a source of incredible humour and their bickering is endlessly entertaining. Much to the annoyance of Mr Craven, his wifes memory is reminiscent of a sieve. Wilfred becomes more forceful and aggressive the more his wife forgets, yet unaffected Connie repeatedly replies “My memories bad you see. My mother lost her memory… I think”. In a particularly amusing scene Connie asks Wilfred how he takes his tea, to which he incredulously replies, “We’ve been married 35 years!”
With the arrival of a female council worker, the play takes a dramatic turn towards the obscene. It soon becomes apparent that the council woman, there to observe the Craven’s day-to-day life but forbidden to interact with the couple, is in fact the Craven’s estranged gender-swapping son in drag. Then there is the arrival of Linda, the doted on daughter who, far from being the high flying personal secretary the couple described her as, is quite clearly a prostitute. An incident with a neighbourhood problem child leaves Wilfred supposedly dead in his chair, creating the foundation for the scene that Bennett himself claims is the funniest scene he has ever written. The aid from a neighbour leads to the removal of ‘deceased’ Wilfred’s trousers, in a bid to tidy him up before calling the ambulance. The removal however leads to the discovery that not every area of Wilfred is dead, and one organ in particular is still very much alive.
Faces are flushed and collars are loosened as endless sexual references, dark humour and social satire follow suit, such being the characteristics that make the play the success it is today, and that made it such a failure 29 years ago. Enjoy is considered as the black sheep of Bennett’s work, as while the controversy and social and political references are greeted like old friends, the slapstick element and theatrical plot are considered unusual for Bennett’s typical style. However we live in a multi-racial society, and this black sheep in particular is rather brilliant.
Enjoy is a play that confronts nearly every issue in society, and although the play was set so long ago, these issues will continue to be valid today, yesterday and tomorrow. In the midst of fanciful plot lines and extravagant characters is a darker heart, the lives of Mr and Mrs Craven, aging rapidly and frightened of what their place will be in the ever-transforming society. The funnier it gets, the more solemn we feel, and most of the audience do not know whether to laugh or cry. And so they chose both, which is perhaps why the theatre was filled with such a strange wheezing sound. Whether it produced chuckles, tears, gasps or smiles, this play was just as enjoyable as it said on the tin.
I dig art and I dig you
Heres a shocker for you.. another review. Of the tate modern.
If you looked up ’The Tate Modern’ in a dictionary, you would find it described as a splendid place to pass away a rainy Saturday afternoon, gaining your weekly dose of culture. Walk around the highly spacious and modern building, says the dictionary. Enjoy the talents of Mark Rothko, Pablo Picasso or David Hockney and feel ever so sophisticated and refined.
Or you could dispose of your rose-coloured glasses and put down your dictionary of utter lies, and discover that The Tate should really be defined as a big cold building filled with pretension and over-priced salads.
The main attraction of the Tate is the shop, which is far more intriguing than most of the exhibitions, but horrifically over-priced and a constant reminder of the empty wallets in our pockets and the credit crunch snapping at our heels. The second most alluring attraction is the café and restaurant, but once you are in there the decision is instantly regretted. The cheapest thing on the cafe menu is Sour bread and oil, which is priced at nearly enough for a return tube journey, and with a taste highly reminiscent of sweat. The glares from the café staff upon only ordering a starter is enough to make you bow your head in shame, feeling apologetic for not being able to afford anything more. The service borders on rude and the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ appear to be a taboo. Maybe it isn’t arty and cool to be polite anymore.
One thing that cannot be criticised about the Tate is its excellent architecture and thoroughly modern décor. Each of the seven floors is expansive and minimalist, with incredibly high ceilings with an escalator leading to the next floor up. The entire atmosphere of the building is similar to being in an airport, surrounded by space and each person going to a different location; Paris, Jamaica, Berlin… constructivism, pop art, sculpture…
Exhibitions currently showing include Nicholas Hlobo on the second floor, Poetry and Dream and Material Gestures on the third floor, and Idea and Object and States Of Flux on the fifth floor. A state of flux is exactly what the latter exhibition is, with as many artists and art pieces wedged in it as possible. As you wonder around the 12 different rooms that make up the exhibit, you are left wondering what exactly I is that you are looking at.
The idea of the exhibition is to display Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism and the way that these movements have broken the traditional boundaries of picture making. The exhibition aims to concentrate on the rise of technology, machinery, photography and the visual precision of art, yet the main thing that the exhibition demonstrates is how many prestigious art pieces they can stuff into one space. In this sense the exhibition is somewhat synonymous with a teenage boy boasting of how many women he has slept with, a gallery boasting of how many prestigious pieces they own and therefore shoving them into any exhibition, completely regardless of their relevance.
Some of the rooms in States Of Flux are incredibly intriguing, such as room seven which displays the energetic rise of Pop Art, room ten which is occupied with the endearing photography of west African Seydou Keita and room eleven displaying Russian posters distributed by Lenin’s Bolshevik party during the beginning of communism. The entire exhibition is impressive in the way that it tells the story of the rise of modern art, and how this rise ties in with our social and political history, such as the mockery of mindless consumerism within pop art and the Russian propaganda posters advocating communism.
A majority of the rooms however provoke nothing but confusion and the overwhelming desire to shut your eyes. The eighth room in particular is astonishingly devoid of any purpose. It is a display by artist Susan Hiller, showing five clips from famous films, including Matilda (1996) and Stalker (1979), played in unison and over the sound of frenzied clapping. It is based on female adolescence and the supernatural, and very well, it may have some kind of deeply artistic meaning that only those in a love affair with art could understand. But this is a public gallery open all people, regardless of their cultural backgrounds and knowledge of art, and this exhibit seems like nothing but a post-modernistic joke wherein the artist uses the work of five other people, puts them in a new context, and calls it her own art. The Seydou Keita exhibit, also, seems out of place. The photographs are beautiful and skilfully taken, yet their relation to the purpose of the exhibition is ambiguous. They seem carelessly thrown in, making the exhibit less of a story of art and more a messy jewellery box, a remarkable collection that is hard to see through all the clutter.
For those who visit the Tate Modern to learn and experience more of art, it may be best to stay at home with a paint brush. The selection of works from prestigious artists seem endless, and will never cease to impress and inspire. Yet the layout and organisation of these pieces and exhibitions leaves little to be desired. Seeing a great work of art within a confusing context can seriously detract from the experience, and in this case The Tate definitely needs to realise that sometimes, less really is more. Combined with the tempting but expensive shop and discourteous café, maybe it would be better to spend that rainy Saturday afternoon out in the rain after all.
If you looked up ’The Tate Modern’ in a dictionary, you would find it described as a splendid place to pass away a rainy Saturday afternoon, gaining your weekly dose of culture. Walk around the highly spacious and modern building, says the dictionary. Enjoy the talents of Mark Rothko, Pablo Picasso or David Hockney and feel ever so sophisticated and refined.
Or you could dispose of your rose-coloured glasses and put down your dictionary of utter lies, and discover that The Tate should really be defined as a big cold building filled with pretension and over-priced salads.
The main attraction of the Tate is the shop, which is far more intriguing than most of the exhibitions, but horrifically over-priced and a constant reminder of the empty wallets in our pockets and the credit crunch snapping at our heels. The second most alluring attraction is the café and restaurant, but once you are in there the decision is instantly regretted. The cheapest thing on the cafe menu is Sour bread and oil, which is priced at nearly enough for a return tube journey, and with a taste highly reminiscent of sweat. The glares from the café staff upon only ordering a starter is enough to make you bow your head in shame, feeling apologetic for not being able to afford anything more. The service borders on rude and the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ appear to be a taboo. Maybe it isn’t arty and cool to be polite anymore.
One thing that cannot be criticised about the Tate is its excellent architecture and thoroughly modern décor. Each of the seven floors is expansive and minimalist, with incredibly high ceilings with an escalator leading to the next floor up. The entire atmosphere of the building is similar to being in an airport, surrounded by space and each person going to a different location; Paris, Jamaica, Berlin… constructivism, pop art, sculpture…
Exhibitions currently showing include Nicholas Hlobo on the second floor, Poetry and Dream and Material Gestures on the third floor, and Idea and Object and States Of Flux on the fifth floor. A state of flux is exactly what the latter exhibition is, with as many artists and art pieces wedged in it as possible. As you wonder around the 12 different rooms that make up the exhibit, you are left wondering what exactly I is that you are looking at.
The idea of the exhibition is to display Cubism, Futurism and Vorticism and the way that these movements have broken the traditional boundaries of picture making. The exhibition aims to concentrate on the rise of technology, machinery, photography and the visual precision of art, yet the main thing that the exhibition demonstrates is how many prestigious art pieces they can stuff into one space. In this sense the exhibition is somewhat synonymous with a teenage boy boasting of how many women he has slept with, a gallery boasting of how many prestigious pieces they own and therefore shoving them into any exhibition, completely regardless of their relevance.
Some of the rooms in States Of Flux are incredibly intriguing, such as room seven which displays the energetic rise of Pop Art, room ten which is occupied with the endearing photography of west African Seydou Keita and room eleven displaying Russian posters distributed by Lenin’s Bolshevik party during the beginning of communism. The entire exhibition is impressive in the way that it tells the story of the rise of modern art, and how this rise ties in with our social and political history, such as the mockery of mindless consumerism within pop art and the Russian propaganda posters advocating communism.
A majority of the rooms however provoke nothing but confusion and the overwhelming desire to shut your eyes. The eighth room in particular is astonishingly devoid of any purpose. It is a display by artist Susan Hiller, showing five clips from famous films, including Matilda (1996) and Stalker (1979), played in unison and over the sound of frenzied clapping. It is based on female adolescence and the supernatural, and very well, it may have some kind of deeply artistic meaning that only those in a love affair with art could understand. But this is a public gallery open all people, regardless of their cultural backgrounds and knowledge of art, and this exhibit seems like nothing but a post-modernistic joke wherein the artist uses the work of five other people, puts them in a new context, and calls it her own art. The Seydou Keita exhibit, also, seems out of place. The photographs are beautiful and skilfully taken, yet their relation to the purpose of the exhibition is ambiguous. They seem carelessly thrown in, making the exhibit less of a story of art and more a messy jewellery box, a remarkable collection that is hard to see through all the clutter.
For those who visit the Tate Modern to learn and experience more of art, it may be best to stay at home with a paint brush. The selection of works from prestigious artists seem endless, and will never cease to impress and inspire. Yet the layout and organisation of these pieces and exhibitions leaves little to be desired. Seeing a great work of art within a confusing context can seriously detract from the experience, and in this case The Tate definitely needs to realise that sometimes, less really is more. Combined with the tempting but expensive shop and discourteous café, maybe it would be better to spend that rainy Saturday afternoon out in the rain after all.
A passage to india
And here is another review. I don't actually like doing reviews, but apparently uni LAPS THEM UP. Of the roman coppola film the darjeeling limited. really don't know why owen wilson appears in so many rubbish films if he could continue doing these. also as it was a review i was cautious of overly praising the film, despite loving it, and so i put on my cruel gloves and tapped away with my spiteful criticism to please the cold hearts of our university lectures. yes thats right i basically insulted jason schwartzman for a good mark. i'm mean.
“Do you think we could have been friends in real life, if we weren’t brothers?”. This is the setting for the odd and intricate film that is ‘The Darjeeling Limited’. Three brothers struggle through their dislike of each other, their murky pasts and spicy food on a journey that either makes you want a brother, want to travel, or want to move to another country where this film is promised never to be aired.
Written by Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola, the film takes place on ‘The Darjeeling Limited’, a train travelling through India with the metaphorical destination of brotherly peace and well-being. Adrien Brody, Jason Schwartzman and Owen Wilson play the three American brothers Peter, Jack and Francis, each rendered distressed and dysfunctional by their fathers untimely death. The oldest brother, played by Wilson, organised the meeting after the brothers had not seen each other in over a year.
Each brother is laden with individual woes, Wilson having a severely damaged face from a road accident, Brody with a wife back in America on the cusp of childbirth, and Schwartzman estranged from his girlfriend, played by a bitter and elusive Natalie Portman in the introductory mini film ‘Hotel Chevalier‘. However their assorted problems are all tied together and accentuated by the death of their father, a loss they have yet to come to terms with. The objective of the journey is for the three to become brothers again, “like we used to be“. Having not seen each other since their fathers funeral, the fraternal trio spend the journey bickering, suppressing their secrets, pursuing Indian stewardesses, trading prescription drugs, accosting poisonous snakes and slowly, but erratically, becoming the family they once were.
The journey, as expected in any road-film, takes many unanticipated detours, each event leading to a lesson learnt and each argument leading to a spiritual realisation. The rich culture of their Indian surroundings inevitably has a therapeutic effect on their heavy mindsets and soon Jack is even walking about with no shoes on. Oh how the diversity and beauty of the Indian countryside can even make a cold hard American feel!
In this sense the narrative can sometimes be difficult to digest, as each argument somehow leads to the trio being one step closer to becoming the brothers they once were, and each predicament they come across conveniently leading to a spiritual experience. The film accurately portrays a typical broken family and the trouble they have with living, but Anderson is less accurate in his portrayal of how these problems are solved. Not all family dramas can be fixed with a trip to India, a shag with a stewardess and a few heartfelt chats.
Something that cannot be criticised is the charming camera work. Hues of red and orange provide a specifically Indian atmosphere, translating the beauty of the country to the screen. The visual shots are often vibrant with colour and crammed with small objects and various trinkets. Anderson evidently prefers the complex to the simple, ensuring the audience’s eyes never wonder.
Vivid and strange, this is the film counterpart of Marmite - you will either love it or hate it. The constant symbolism and intense emotional context may be too much for your digestive transit, but it could also make your food go down much easier. The portrayal of family complexities are eerily realistic, thanks to the skilled acting of Wilson, Brody and Schwartzman and the visuals are mesmerising, stuffed with action, beauty and colour. The Darjeeling limited is like a jumble sale find - interesting, smells a bit strange, but has great possibilities.
“Do you think we could have been friends in real life, if we weren’t brothers?”. This is the setting for the odd and intricate film that is ‘The Darjeeling Limited’. Three brothers struggle through their dislike of each other, their murky pasts and spicy food on a journey that either makes you want a brother, want to travel, or want to move to another country where this film is promised never to be aired.
Written by Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola, the film takes place on ‘The Darjeeling Limited’, a train travelling through India with the metaphorical destination of brotherly peace and well-being. Adrien Brody, Jason Schwartzman and Owen Wilson play the three American brothers Peter, Jack and Francis, each rendered distressed and dysfunctional by their fathers untimely death. The oldest brother, played by Wilson, organised the meeting after the brothers had not seen each other in over a year.
Each brother is laden with individual woes, Wilson having a severely damaged face from a road accident, Brody with a wife back in America on the cusp of childbirth, and Schwartzman estranged from his girlfriend, played by a bitter and elusive Natalie Portman in the introductory mini film ‘Hotel Chevalier‘. However their assorted problems are all tied together and accentuated by the death of their father, a loss they have yet to come to terms with. The objective of the journey is for the three to become brothers again, “like we used to be“. Having not seen each other since their fathers funeral, the fraternal trio spend the journey bickering, suppressing their secrets, pursuing Indian stewardesses, trading prescription drugs, accosting poisonous snakes and slowly, but erratically, becoming the family they once were.
The journey, as expected in any road-film, takes many unanticipated detours, each event leading to a lesson learnt and each argument leading to a spiritual realisation. The rich culture of their Indian surroundings inevitably has a therapeutic effect on their heavy mindsets and soon Jack is even walking about with no shoes on. Oh how the diversity and beauty of the Indian countryside can even make a cold hard American feel!
In this sense the narrative can sometimes be difficult to digest, as each argument somehow leads to the trio being one step closer to becoming the brothers they once were, and each predicament they come across conveniently leading to a spiritual experience. The film accurately portrays a typical broken family and the trouble they have with living, but Anderson is less accurate in his portrayal of how these problems are solved. Not all family dramas can be fixed with a trip to India, a shag with a stewardess and a few heartfelt chats.
Something that cannot be criticised is the charming camera work. Hues of red and orange provide a specifically Indian atmosphere, translating the beauty of the country to the screen. The visual shots are often vibrant with colour and crammed with small objects and various trinkets. Anderson evidently prefers the complex to the simple, ensuring the audience’s eyes never wonder.
Vivid and strange, this is the film counterpart of Marmite - you will either love it or hate it. The constant symbolism and intense emotional context may be too much for your digestive transit, but it could also make your food go down much easier. The portrayal of family complexities are eerily realistic, thanks to the skilled acting of Wilson, Brody and Schwartzman and the visuals are mesmerising, stuffed with action, beauty and colour. The Darjeeling limited is like a jumble sale find - interesting, smells a bit strange, but has great possibilities.
One man and his ukulele
Heres a music/band review I did for a magazine project I did of recent..
When 16 year old Zach Condon packed his bags to go travelling around Europe, leaving his New Mexico home and prosperous education behind, little could be said as to what would become of him. Lost and lonely in the heart of Italy? Down and out on the streets of Paris? Or perhaps he would be inspired by the Balkan gypsy music of the Middle East, create a sound appealing to ears worldwide and become a significant part of the alternative music scene. Maybe we all should have dropped out of school...
Beirut combine elements of Eastern European folk sounds, soulful vocals and an endless reminiscence of founder Zach’s youthful travels. Unable to play guitar due to a damaged wrist, Zach's main instruments are the trumpet and ukulele. On stage he is joined by a band of 12, armed with an assortment of instruments such as an accordion, mandolin, flugel horn, glockenspiel and viola.
Music enthusiasts hungry for something new have been the key to the bands success. A huge online fan-base was built up after the leaked release of Beirut's 2006 debut album Gulag Orkestar, and critics and fans alike awaited their official release and imminent fame with bated breath. The hype transferred from internet to reality when Beirut performed their first live show to a sold out venue, witnessing first hand the legacy they had, somehow, already created.
Having produced two albums and countless EP's at the tender age of 22, Zach and his band captivate their audience with music a world away from the guitar-heavy indie bands that music scenesters are repeatedly exposed to. The most recent album released in 2007, The Flying Club Cup, draws influences from various Balkan brass orchestras and bohemian music of the Middle East, incorporating sounds from across the globe to create the charm and intrigue that is Beirut.
Unusual and bewitching, Beirut are a must listen for those seek something different. Zach Condon plays music that either makes you feel as though you travelled through Europe with him, or leaves you desperately wanting to go wherever it is that he went.
When 16 year old Zach Condon packed his bags to go travelling around Europe, leaving his New Mexico home and prosperous education behind, little could be said as to what would become of him. Lost and lonely in the heart of Italy? Down and out on the streets of Paris? Or perhaps he would be inspired by the Balkan gypsy music of the Middle East, create a sound appealing to ears worldwide and become a significant part of the alternative music scene. Maybe we all should have dropped out of school...
Beirut combine elements of Eastern European folk sounds, soulful vocals and an endless reminiscence of founder Zach’s youthful travels. Unable to play guitar due to a damaged wrist, Zach's main instruments are the trumpet and ukulele. On stage he is joined by a band of 12, armed with an assortment of instruments such as an accordion, mandolin, flugel horn, glockenspiel and viola.
Music enthusiasts hungry for something new have been the key to the bands success. A huge online fan-base was built up after the leaked release of Beirut's 2006 debut album Gulag Orkestar, and critics and fans alike awaited their official release and imminent fame with bated breath. The hype transferred from internet to reality when Beirut performed their first live show to a sold out venue, witnessing first hand the legacy they had, somehow, already created.
Having produced two albums and countless EP's at the tender age of 22, Zach and his band captivate their audience with music a world away from the guitar-heavy indie bands that music scenesters are repeatedly exposed to. The most recent album released in 2007, The Flying Club Cup, draws influences from various Balkan brass orchestras and bohemian music of the Middle East, incorporating sounds from across the globe to create the charm and intrigue that is Beirut.
Unusual and bewitching, Beirut are a must listen for those seek something different. Zach Condon plays music that either makes you feel as though you travelled through Europe with him, or leaves you desperately wanting to go wherever it is that he went.
Monday, 11 May 2009
HERES A STORY!
heres a story then yeah!
My eyes would collect dust if I never saw you again. If we were in school I would offer you the apple in my lunchbox. My wishes are that you will look at me instead of the blackboard because the colour of my eyes is all the education you will ever need. I will follow you to the school bus.
Everytime I'm on a bus all I want is to be home, my body feeling the tiresome wear of the journey that has been part of my life for longer than my mind will ever know. All I ever seem to be doing is travelling around. But your face is my travelling book, and in my mind I read it over and over again until the hills have become my house, and I'm at home again. And with the book that holds your face in my bag, I put on a song that sounds like your body and I hum this song of you on the long road back to where I live.
And I walk past all these houses that look just like yours, and in every window I see the face of a male that smiles right at me. As I get ready to drop my bag and jump into your big arms I realise that that smile isn't yours, and quickly I move on. As my feet scuttle through the old town the dust begins to build up in my eyes and fall to the floor. I try catch it as it pours out but it falls from my hands because I begin to miss you more and more.
My father looks out of the door and exclaims quietly that it is raining dust outside. As I stand behind him I express my surprise that such a odd thing should occur on such a normal day in such a normal town. He sighs and turns away, remembering the time that his eyes would rain dust. I can see his chest beating with the old dream that her dusty hand was still around to hold his dusty face.
I run to my bedroom and hide under my bed where I have stored many things to occupy my mind. In the collection of books and beehive of clothes I can see the smile of all my photos. Friends from my past and future that tell me to stop being a sentimental jumble. So I put some music on and rest my travel worn head.
You told me that you're parents used to listen to this album when they first moved in together, telling me that it made them cry. And when you said it you created the prettiest smile, and my mind went back to the pretend past of when your parents were as young as us. When they used to dance on their kitchen floor and talk about the future with no worries that they would ever be the past. And they looked just like me and you, and we held hands.
I asked you what we would listen to when we first lived together. In our little house with intricate leaves weaving their way up our walls and roof, trying to capture some of that love that was seeping out. And in your overflowing eyes I saw the picture of you, me and Joni Mitchell, living happily ever after in the most dust-free of houses.
My eyes would collect dust if I never saw you again. If we were in school I would offer you the apple in my lunchbox. My wishes are that you will look at me instead of the blackboard because the colour of my eyes is all the education you will ever need. I will follow you to the school bus.
Everytime I'm on a bus all I want is to be home, my body feeling the tiresome wear of the journey that has been part of my life for longer than my mind will ever know. All I ever seem to be doing is travelling around. But your face is my travelling book, and in my mind I read it over and over again until the hills have become my house, and I'm at home again. And with the book that holds your face in my bag, I put on a song that sounds like your body and I hum this song of you on the long road back to where I live.
And I walk past all these houses that look just like yours, and in every window I see the face of a male that smiles right at me. As I get ready to drop my bag and jump into your big arms I realise that that smile isn't yours, and quickly I move on. As my feet scuttle through the old town the dust begins to build up in my eyes and fall to the floor. I try catch it as it pours out but it falls from my hands because I begin to miss you more and more.
My father looks out of the door and exclaims quietly that it is raining dust outside. As I stand behind him I express my surprise that such a odd thing should occur on such a normal day in such a normal town. He sighs and turns away, remembering the time that his eyes would rain dust. I can see his chest beating with the old dream that her dusty hand was still around to hold his dusty face.
I run to my bedroom and hide under my bed where I have stored many things to occupy my mind. In the collection of books and beehive of clothes I can see the smile of all my photos. Friends from my past and future that tell me to stop being a sentimental jumble. So I put some music on and rest my travel worn head.
You told me that you're parents used to listen to this album when they first moved in together, telling me that it made them cry. And when you said it you created the prettiest smile, and my mind went back to the pretend past of when your parents were as young as us. When they used to dance on their kitchen floor and talk about the future with no worries that they would ever be the past. And they looked just like me and you, and we held hands.
I asked you what we would listen to when we first lived together. In our little house with intricate leaves weaving their way up our walls and roof, trying to capture some of that love that was seeping out. And in your overflowing eyes I saw the picture of you, me and Joni Mitchell, living happily ever after in the most dust-free of houses.
Friday, 1 May 2009
Mangoes, ganja and homophobia
Here is an analysis piece I recently wrote for my international journalism module, focusing on homophobia in Jamaica. I recently went to Jamaica (for my best friends grandads 9oth birthday celebrations not because I'm rich and a fanciful trip to the caribbean tickled my pickle) and I didn't actually witness much homophobia at all. I think the reason for this is that homophobic beliefs are quite deeply embedded in their culture, and therefore they don't continuously talk about it. Fans of the Jamaican music scene argue that homophobic lyrics within their songs are aimed to get reactions out of the crowd and are not taken literally by either the performers or the audience, and that you have to be Jamaican to understand that their culture of homophobia is not as literal and prejudiced as it would seem. Maybe.. but the facts released below and numerous human rights organisations would disagree.
It's interesting to consider whether countries within the UN should comply to unwritten rules regarding prejudice, because now that more and more countries are democratic and accepting of minorites, those who still shun what the majority of the world accepts seem to be shunned and boycotted themselves. DIG IT.
Great country though, smelt like heaven in a fruity bowl.
It's interesting to consider whether countries within the UN should comply to unwritten rules regarding prejudice, because now that more and more countries are democratic and accepting of minorites, those who still shun what the majority of the world accepts seem to be shunned and boycotted themselves. DIG IT.
Great country though, smelt like heaven in a fruity bowl.
If Gordon Brown, Girls Aloud and the Metropolitan Police were openly homophobic there is little doubt that there would be outrage amongst the masses. It is a common belief that homosexuals should be allowed to roam free and experience the same basic human rights. After all, we’re not in Jamaica.
Many dream of living in a country like Jamaica, basking in the sun, palm trees and azure skies. But if you are a homosexual in this country, you could not be further away from paradise. Despite being one of 16 common wealth countries in the world, with our own queen as their monarch, the Jamaican society is renowned for its ceaselessly homophobic attitudes, labelled by numerous human rights activists as ’the most homophobic place on earth’.
Such homophobia corresponds with the fact that in 2005 Jamaica had the highest homicide rate in the world. More than 1600 people were killed in that year, which equates to five murders each day. Despite being a small country with less than three million inhabitants, today the Jamaica is ranked with the fifth highest murder rate, forerunner only to countries such as Sierra Leone and Iraq. Yet when the prejudice that circulates the Jamaican culture and media is taken into account, such astoundingly high figures begin to make sense. For a country whose anthem is ‘Jamaica, Land We Love’, there appears to be little compassion when regarding prejudice towards minorities.
Organisations such as Amnesty International and the Human Rights Watch have frequently published reports listing multiple abuse and murder cases of homosexuals in Jamaica, many also claiming that the police provoked and participated in such crimes. Such supposed homophobia is linked to the countries laws, as sodomy is illegal and punishable for up to 10 years in jail. Similarly prohibited is ‘public indecency’, commonly intercepted as homosexual relations that stop short of intercourse. This crime is punishable for up to two years in jail with hard labour. Although lesbians are not directly referred to within the law, the societies attitudes towards female-on-female relations are similarly intolerant.
In addition, the majority of the island is of devoted Christian faith, predominantly Anglican and Church of God. Such conservative Christianity has in many cases led to an extreme intolerance of homosexual conduct, an attitude taken up by the Rastafarian movement, the police and the government.
Even the media to an extent express a homophobic stance, as the Jamaican press regularly publish the names of men charged with consensual sodomy and gross indecency. Consequently, this labels these men as gay and leaves them extremely vulnerable to verbal or physical violence. In this system there is little justice, as whether or not the charge was accurate is unimportant, as once the Jamaican society believes someone is homosexual there is no amending this reputation.
Undeniably reflective of the islands homophobic culture is the Jamaican music scene. Renowned internationally for being the home of reggae, dancehall and Bob Marley, Jamaica has had a valid impact on music worldwide. However much of the music that stems from Jamaica is fiercely homophobic and the inciting of violence against homosexuals is a common theme in Jamaican music. In an interview with the Sunday Herald, leader of Stop Murder Music Campaign Peter Tatchell said that in a bid to boost publicity and sales, many Jamaican singers have resorted to sensationalist bigotry, and that lesbian and gay people have to live with the violent consequences of these murderous lyrics.
Such consequences can be deaths. In 2004 the founder of the first Jamaican Lesbian, Gay and Transgender rights group (J-FLAG) was murdered. Known as Brian Williamson, the gay rights activist was the first man to publicly announce his homosexuality within the Jamaican media. Police concluded that a jealous ex-lover committed the murder, and although they acknowledged that Williamson was gay, the possibility of hate-crime was ruled out. However Rebecca Schleifer of the Human Rights Watch HIV/AIDS program claimed to have had an appointment with Williamson on the day of his murder, and said that upon arrival at his house she found a crowd of people dancing around his mutilated body. In a 2004 Human Rights Watch report Schleifer stated that men were celebrating and laughing, as well as shouting about targeting homosexuals one at a time. Despite these claims there has never been further police investigation into the hate-crime subtext of the murder.
During a BBC interview Prime Minister Bruce Golding admitted that he is not in power to fire senior police officers, and that a large number of policemen had recently been dismissed due to corruption. Lack of further investigation into cases such as Williamsons therefore could be based on the Jamaican police force being an independent body that is free of political interference. An Amnesty International report released in 2007 stated that Jamaican police are suspected to frequently and carelessly indict men for sodomy, therefore labelling them as gay whether they are or not. Although prosecution is often unsuccessful, the terror and the danger is in the charge itself.
Perhaps the most surprising from a supposedly democratic country is that neither of the two major Jamaican political parties have expressed official support for homosexual rights. The People’s National Party claim that gay rights violate the social values of the Jamaican people, and similarly Prime Minister Bruce Golding famously told the Sunday Herald newspaper that homosexuals would find no solace in any cabinet formed by him. In response to the international criticism that followed this statement, Golding defended his rejection of homosexuals in a recent BBC interview. He claimed that Jamaica must establish its own morals and is not going to allow values to be imposed on it from outside, continuing to say that Jamaica has a longstanding culture that is opposed to homosexuality. Yet his insistence that these attitudes are slowly changing clashed with his own refusal to retract his previous statement and say he would accept a homosexual into his cabinet. Anyone else’s, he said, but not his.
If record breaking murder rates and international outrage is not enough to force Golding’s arms open to homosexuality, then it would seem there is nothing to be done but watch this small island descend into its prejudice and isolation, floating further and further away from the rest of the democratic world.
Oh hello!
I've recently decided to start a blog on the basis that I can no longer be bothered to roll around in my bed everynight, unable to sleep because I'm worried that I'm going to end up as someone who would prefer to write a story about shoes than the poverty ridden circumstances of under-nourished children.
And so I am going to publish a few articles I've written for university, specifically regarding international journalism and arts and entertainment, as well as some other thoughts. As an aspiring journalist my aim is to reach people, inform people and maybe even make an impact and creating a blog seems to be an apt way of doing it.
And hereby I christen my blog with a cracker of a joke: I once kicked a french chicken in the stomach. What did it say? OEUF!
Bit of french humour for you there. Enjoy!
And so I am going to publish a few articles I've written for university, specifically regarding international journalism and arts and entertainment, as well as some other thoughts. As an aspiring journalist my aim is to reach people, inform people and maybe even make an impact and creating a blog seems to be an apt way of doing it.
And hereby I christen my blog with a cracker of a joke: I once kicked a french chicken in the stomach. What did it say? OEUF!
Bit of french humour for you there. Enjoy!
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