By Jasmine Sykes.

Content Warning: Mention of Eating Disorder

pilgrimage— 

a journey (usually of a long distance) made to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion; the action or practice of making such a journey 

(Oxford English Dictionary)

5.45am and I’m awoken by the sudden fluorescent glare of a flickering halogen strip light. Momentarily forgetful of where I am, I open my eyes to the sight of a rather overweight and topless middle-aged man in his boxers, rummaging ferociously in the bottom of an enormous rucksack and rattling off a boisterous Italian monologue, between noisy mouthfuls of chocolate biscuits. “Fuck”, I think to myself, “what the hell am I doing?” Today is May 8th 2022: the day I set off to walk 900 kilometres on my own across Spain, to Santiago de Compostela, and then onwards to the Atlantic ocean- armed with two pairs of clothes and my shoes, a notebook, a camera, and a Nokia brick phone.

At that point, little did I know that such encounters would become utterly normal for me; that I would come to be completely unperturbed by nights in bunk beds on foam mattresses topped with disposable sheets, in dormitories sleeping sometimes over a hundred people; or that the thought of walking up to 37 kilometres in 40 degree heat, without a guaranteed place to stay at night, wouldn’t faze me in the slightest. I had no idea that I would meet people of all ages, from all across the world, and all walks of life, who would share with me some of the most intimate and troubling parts of their lives – and I definitely didn’t expect to share mine with them too.

I had long wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago – the ancient pilgrimage across Spain to the relics of St James in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. In part, romantic notions of wanderlust were to blame – Don Quixote inspired whims of tracing the footsteps of ancient travellers in a foreign land, subsisting on rations of stale bread and hides of mead, and sleeping under the stars. Of course, the modern Camino is nothing like that: the route is well-established and signposted, I could always find a bed for the night and I certainly never went hungry. 

Yet there remains something tantalisingly beautiful in the concept of pilgrimage; something deeply and intensely human. I study philosophy – so perhaps I’m biased – but, for me, the lure of the arts and humanities has always been its capacity to capture something of a very essential mystery: that of the human condition. The sciences explain how we live, the arts explain why we continue to do so – they give us something to live for. The notion of pilgrimage is so beguiling because it captures something of that elusive, nebular, and distinctly human essence. What exactly does it mean to be human? What precisely is that glorious and wonderfully Delphic little kernel at the crux of our being that – I’d like to think; indeed I pray – distinguishes us from the rest of the natural world? 

A pilgrim’s journey is not a constitutively necessary one; but it is driven by real need – spiritual need: a fundamental desire for the sacred. “A journey…made to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion”. I met very few people for whom “religious devotion” constituted anything close to the worship of ‘God’, and even fewer whose “sacred place” was in fact the relics of St James. Yet almost everyone I spoke to, walked with, ate with, laughed with, and even cried with, was bound by the same craving to transcend the immanent reality of their lives; and what is that if not deeply religious and sacred? We were all there to find our way, along The Way of St James. For myself, three years of anorexia and bottomless, pitiless, abyss-like depression had left me confused, lost, and without the slightest idea of who I was – let alone who I wanted to be. I was out the other side – luckily – but I felt so defined by my past that I was unsure how to even begin to move forward; in fact, I questioned whether it was even possible.

Crouched in the dirt at the side of a dusty track just beyond Santo Domingo, under the beating heat of the midday sun; and peeling off sweat-drenched socks to reveal my heavily blistered feet rubbed red-raw; such rarefied musings were not exactly at the forefront of my mind (which at this point was actually rather clouded by a caustic migraine over my left eye). But often physical pain is the most potent and tangible reminder of one’s existence. Several times in the previous years I had seriously questioned whether I would continue to go on at all. Yet here I was: wincing – as I probed a particularly tender blister in between my big and second toe – but alive. Remarkably, gloriously, and incandescently alive.

Six weeks and 900km after taking my first steps out of the small French town of St Jean Pied de Port, I was standing at the ‘Kilometre 0’ monument in the small fishing town of Muxía, on the north-western coast of Spain, watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean. The Camino finishes, officially, in Santiago, but the route is probably a Christianisation of a much older pagan pilgrimage towards the setting sun in the west, so many pilgrims choose to walk the further 100 kilometres to the ocean. I had done the same, and so, finally, I was finished. There were no bolts of lightning, no miracles, no voice of God from the sky. My “act of religious devotion” had lacked the drama of a Pauline conversion, but slowly a metamorphosis had taken place. In the beautiful monotony of putting one foot in front of the other; in the simplicity of doing the same thing each day; in the kindness of others and the generosity of their stories; I had found the “sacred place”: me. I had made the journey back to myself.

By Dora Black.

I’m sure that I’m not alone in feeling kind of bombarded by the influx of celebrity biopics in the last few years: they are non-negotiable trend of the current cinema-sphere. Baz Lurhman’s ‘Elvis’, Andrew Dominik’s ‘Blonde’, Singer and Fletcher’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, to name only a few, not even accounting for the unreleased ones. Aretha Franklin, Emily Bronte, Amy Winehouse (again), and Whitney Houston are soon to join the lineup. Because hey, coming up with original stories that don’t dredge up people’s private lives is sooo last year! Bitchiness aside, it’s worth mentioning that though some of them are ultimately good, respectful, and commemorative (Asif Kapadia’s ‘Amy’, for one) so a pinch of salt wouldn’t go amiss. And yet there is one stand-out common factor between these more recent films, revealing a more specific trend: scenes of trauma, personal struggle, tragedy, and intensely private moments exploded into a big screen setting. Whilst this seems, one some level, like an inevitability as these stories warrant the most dramatic, evocative, and turbulent representations, it is hard to ignore the fact that famous figures with less problematic lives (and deaths) are simply not given the same attention. I mean I get it, who wants to watch two hours of someone working hard, having a great career and dying happy surrounded by their loved ones and accomplishments. I’m snoring already. I do think it is worth considering, though, the glaring ethical grey area of dramatically displaying the trauma of celebrities who, having died, are ultimately powerless and unrewarded in their own depictions. This is not to say that, by definition, autobiographical films are an exploitative genre, but the line is getting pretty thin. Or maybe they’re fine and I’m just jarred by the scene of Marilyn Monroe/ Ana de Armas getting confronted by the disembodied voice of her unborn child begging to not be aborted.

One thing that bothers me about this format is the guise of dramatising the story to show a real truth, to unveil the mask of fame, to humanise the muse; there is an illusion of truth concealing the fact that often, the protagonist-muse has zero input. It is an indirect interpretation of truth, often with little more insight than any other person who can take the time to search the celebrity’s name on google. ‘Blonde’ for example, was marketed relatively strongly as a biopic, stressing the research, the prosthetics, the striving for accuracy, when the film itself is based on a fictional novel… ‘Spencer’ similarly, took a real life person and generous helping of artistic licence. The irony of this narrative is then that the celebrity is, once again, helpless, voiceless, subject to the whims and creative direction of corporations or management figures, a power struggle that is almost a staple of these tragi-drama biopic genre films (see Princess Diana and the Royal House, Elvis and Colonel Parker, or basically any representation of managers and agents, for example). It creates a paradox of irony; it becomes almost impossible not to perpetuate the problem that these films depict. By consequence of this common structure, guilt is deflected onto the masses: the sprawling audiences, obsessed fans, harassing press: we the audience feel sympathy, we feel our own complicity in the damaging effects of global celebrity upon these sky-rocketed individuals. We see ourselves in the inevitable shot of screaming faces and hands reaching through fences.  The natural consequence is then a deflection of complicity away from the directors, away from the huge-budget production companies, and the cycle continues, creating a bountiful, and morbidly self-sustaining industry. The irony continues in the fact that these protagonist-centred, often triple-threat-requiring roles are a beacon for up-and-coming stars to take on the project and break through the barrier of not-so-serious tv actor, or bombshell, or action stuntman, into the glittering gates of respectable, award-worthy acting spheres.

Another interesting relationship to consider that I think could explain the sudden explosion of the genre into vogue would be the relationship between biopics and the awards industry. Through these pre-existing stories, the directors and production teams are given, or at least hijack, a story structure bespoke-fitted to the award season criteria:

         – They are uncommon and yet follow the common man (people with normal backgrounds but unusual talent and unusual careers). Mass relatableness without being mundane.

         – They are epic and dramatic. The absolute highs of global acclaim, whether of extraordinary career success, economic and material prosperity, extravagant and star-studded social circles, are off-set by the common problems of substance abuse, or mental health fluctuations, abusive relationships, traumatic experiences etc.

         – Audiences have a pre-existing excitement and sentiment. There is a developed connection between the audience and protagonist, independent of and preceding any knowledge of the film at all, bolstering popularity and somewhat warping the public critical eye.

Though this connection is mostly speculation and a personal theory, it does circle back to the issue of ethics in the use of these stories. Are these production companies trying to ‘capture the magic and charisma’ of someone’s life, ‘bring awareness’ to the traumas of industry, or are they trying to blatantly exploit a dead icon’s personal life in order to lean into the favour of institutions like The Academy? Who can really tell!

By Sia Jyoti.

Raised in a traditional, well-mannered household, the idea of smoking was introduced to me as wholly  unacceptable. Cigarettes took the shape of shame and failure, for reasons not entirely related to the  physical side effects, and I accepted this at face value. Yet, in noticing when and where smoking could  be seen as glamour raised questions on duality and classicism for me. Does an action’s acceptability  defer from class to class? What is it that makes a practice chic for some and degrading for others? Now,  detached from the views instilled in me through the insulation of ‘home,’ I can unravel the act of  smoking through an objective lens. 

In its raw form, smoking causes cancer. Early death with a chance of blindness and a side of blackened  lips; smoking is not your friend. This aspect does not change, for everyone is aware of smoking’s side  effects. Yet that very disinterest in side effects shared amongst all smokers is either seen as an  embarrassingly active rejection of improvement in some, or a rebellious charm in others. In seeing a  man smoking by a bus stop and a girl rolling by a racecourse, the likelihood of similar conclusions being  drawn borders on impossible. Whether a woman on a sidewalk wears the same eyeliner as a girl in  Jimmy’s smoking area does in no way leads to a similar categorisation of them. For our bias is not  rooted in objective reasoning but in class perception which is inherently tied to the acceptability of our  actions.  

As ill-informed as a teenager may be in smoking to fit in, one would likely forgive them for their naivety.  In assuming that their future is bright and that the occasional secret cig in their friend’s garden will not  hinder their success, the action is deemed harmless; almost bordering on cute. In an equally naive frame  of mind, youth smoking in a less established area will instantaneously lead to the correlation of  addiction, and failure — with a subtle undertone of disgust. Both scenarios mirror one another in their  isolated events — but for the possibility of the latter’s bright future. I have come to realise that plenty  is excused when people believe that you’re likely to succeed in the future. Whether based on selfish  gains or purely on the human instinct to trust what is ‘good’. In our current society, goodness is  associated with pretence and wealth. In our failed attempt to associate what is good with what is  meaningful, acceptance has manifested itself in wealth-induced social integration.  

It is for this reason that classism presents a cloud over smoking. Whilst the action of rolling in an  African American community will blindly correlate to ‘illegal’ marijuana consumption, it takes the form  of artistic technique at a predominantly privately educated university. It seems our judgement is not on  the stamina of one’s lungs but on the inevitable winner of the race that is born ahead of everyone else  on the track. Where economic differences differentiate so widely between the starting point of one’s  career path, smoking is only injurious to those who find the finish line to be further away. 

Nonetheless, I find it fascinating. Not the class perception or the injurious side effects, but the  communal side of it. Whether one smokes on the patio of their beach house or in the melancholy of  their relentless clerical job, both breathe it in for a moment of calm. Despite the social fragmentation  of humans, we share in our yearning for a moment of peace. A second of giving into a weakness which  collectivises irrespective of one’s class or background. Perhaps the next time I see a cloud of smoke, I’ll  leave it at that — unfazed by the person behind it.

By Mimi Nation-Dixon.

I have often found myself losing focus when watching a TV show or a film – but I always find myself completely entranced when watching a piece of theatre – from my younger brother’s starring role as the donkey in his Year 2 nativity, to watching Juliet Stevenson star in Robert Icke’s combative play, ‘The Doctor’– I was captivated, albeit for different reasons.

This may be because through choosing to go to the theatre you are committing yourself to two hours of complete submission to the story being told. You are physically within the same building as the actors – so, however talented or not they may be (I am here referring to my brother’s role as a donkey), you can see and feel the human effort and skill behind the story.

This became apparent to me over summer; watching the preview night of ‘The Doctor’, there was a moment when an actor forgot his line at a pivotal moment. Confused panic spread across the eyes of all the cast on stage.

Suddenly this dramatic pause had lost all drama.

It was now just awkward.

Bizarrely, the audience felt nervous – a bit like what I would imagine one to feel if, when taking a bus, the driver took his hands off the wheel and yelled “look no hands!” Momentary excitement swiftly replaced by pulsating panic. But – through eye contact and improvisation the actors soon navigated their way back to the story. Hands now securely back on the wheel, the audience could breathe a sigh of relief. The wheel of the story once again moving.

Forgetting lines is probably one of an actor’s worst nightmares, but – with actors performing every night for weeks on end – statistically, forgetting your lines is inevitable. Human error is a necessary by-product of human effort. Top journalists will make typos – evidenced by a quick flick through the website MailOnline (though I am hesitant to use the phrase ‘top journalism’ and MailOnline in the same sentence). What I am trying to get at here is, wherever human effort is involved, mistakes are inevitable.

Yet it was this ‘mistake’ which made me realise the value of live theatre, and why it will always strike me as uniquely challenging – whether I am lucky enough to be able to perform and make live theatre professionally, or even just to be able to afford to watch live theatre regularly.

Theatre, to me, is where the most authentic human stories are told. The actors are just humans creating a story. The actors don’t know what will exactly happen on the night, and neither do the audience. This creates room for the unexpected.

As an actor, there is nothing more exhilarating than being on stage, adrenaline electrifying both performer and audience, the scene takes a new turn – the story leads the narration. Back in 2014, the space for exciting spontaneity facilitated by live theatre could be observed in the final performance of Jez Butterworth’s play Mojo. Actor Ben Whishaw smashed up the card table hinges and all, Daniel Mays and Rupert Grint ‘corpsed’ in their scene when Mays spat out a toothpick, and Tom Rhys Harris improvised his (usually silent) entrance. It was organic and exciting, and thus more real.

Live story-telling has power and value; evoking empathy through enhancing the shared human experience. I will never forget watching ‘A Monster Calls’ with a whole mass of fellow National Youth Theatre members. After the curtain call, we were all stuck to our seats, coming to terms with the story we had just been immersed in. On the tube home, none of us spoke to one another – so struck by the emotion of the play. Our silence however, was secure. Secure in the knowledge that we were all experiencing the same heightened emotions. Although silent, we were united by the invisible thread of the story we had just been told.

After-all, story-telling, although not one of the ‘seven life processes’, is a base human requirement, the feeling following watching a piece of live-theatre shouldn’t be elitist – and, making it inaccessible risks losing a key part of our human voice.

By Izzie James.

Content Warning: References to Sexual Assault

This past week, fans of the artist Alexander O’Connor, known by his stage name ‘Rex Orange County’, were left heartbroken when it emerged that he is being taken to court over sexual assault charges. Although the trial is yet to happen, the idea that their favourite artist could do something so horrible sent shockwaves through his fanbase and the internet. 

Many people took to social media to express their disappointment and disgust. O’Connor’s music was a source of comfort. Those who have been supporting him for years found themselves unable to listen to his music. Thoughts went out to the victim, who remains anonymous, with fans tweeting messages such as: ‘this has broken me but my sympathy only lies with the victim’ and ‘we’re truly hurt but can’t imagine how the victim feels.’

The case against O’Connor brings back a question that has been asked for many years: Should we separate the art from the artist? How can we? Should we no longer listen to someone’s music, watch their movies or consume their artwork after they have been accused of something so terrible?

For fans in 2022, separating the art from the artist seems different. This is because social media has created a new insight into the lives of the artist. Fans will feel closer to the artist because they can view their everyday life through social media, creating this sense of knowing the artist on an intimate level. Before social media, you couldn’t just log onto Instagram to see what your favourite celebrity is up to, or interact with them through your phone. With O’Connor’s charges coming to light, many fans feel that a personal connection, and a form of trust, has been broken. It goes to show that social media is not a reality, and that following and watching someone religiously through a screen does not mean that you know them.

There is another strange dimension to separating the art from the artist. Some artists are able to push past their controversies and accusations. Chris Brown has had numerous charges against him, with the most notorious being his assault on Rihanna in 2009. He’s also been accused of theft, sexual assault and has had a restraining order filed against him. Despite all this, he still has a huge following, with his music continuing to be played around the world.

Although O’Connor has pleaded not guilty, with his trial date set for January, his reception after the case will be interesting. Rex Orange County is considered a ‘nice guy’. His music centres around love, heartbreak and healing. His lyrics include statements such as:

‘It ain’t new to me, feeling this lonely’

‘There ain’t no one else more beautiful in this damn world’

‘I can show you everything’

In contrast, Chris Brown’s lyrics are littered with profanities, objectifying women and boasting about his actions:

‘These hoes ain’t loyal’

‘I can make a broke bitch rich’

‘She f*** me for the fame’

Chris Brown’s ability to continue to thrive in the music world suggests that the image an artist perpetuates affects people’s reactions to their controversies. O’Connor, if proven guilty, will induce a huge feeling of betrayal in his fans, as they saw him as the reliable ‘nice guy’. In contrast, Chris Brown embodies the ‘bad boy’ trope, an unapologetically controversial figure who does not shy away from it in his lyrics. Where O’Connor opens up about sadness and loneliness in his songs, creating a bridge between listener and singer, Chris Brown keeps you at a distance, his songs never really breaking through surface level materiality. 

If O’Connor is proven guilty, he should not be allowed the privilege of having a platform or continuing to produce music. Chris Brown should not either, but unfortunately, he has come out of his controversies fairly unscathed. Expectations aside, it is important to hold all artists to the same standards. We shouldn’t be giving a platform to assaulters. Social media is a great way to support your favourite artist, but it is not always an accurate portrayal of that person.

By Thea Opperman.

Autumn leaves turning; thick knitwear and coats being brought out again; the fading, but still somewhat fresh tan from summer giving the illusion you are not as exhausted from freshers as you feel; limited assignments and work; the joys of making your new house (filled with mould) feel more like home. These are just a few of a myriad of reasons why the beginning of the year is so enjoyable, and why October is a happy month – I think.

Now, remember that feeling – that happiness – because by week 3 it all comes crashing down, and like a bolt of lightning, you are hit with the question of housing. “Where will I live? Who will I live with? How many of us will stay together? Are we really good enough friends yet? I’ve only known them for two weeks!! And what if my budget doesn’t stretch? How will I tell them I can’t afford what they can?…” and on, and on, and on. The anxiety of housing is an age-old problem, but something feels different in the air this year, something much more alarming. 

Traditionally, one of the main problems facing freshers is the question of who they will live with, considering how quickly Durham’s housing drive gets going. We have all been there, sussing out your hallmates whilst they size you up too. During the coronavirus years, this problem could not have been felt more prominently, given how small fresher’s social circles were, and thus their ability to ‘find their people’, as the saying goes. 

So when reaching second year, one would hope those problems might stay firmly put in the memories of ‘the good old days.’ But alas, just as soon as you have figured out how the malfunctioning shower works in your new house, you have to start thinking of third year housing, and the cycle restarts: “Which group will you fall into? How can you slim down from 6 people to 4? Would writing a dissertation with their mess be possible? Can I really live with them again?!” Once again you find yourself frantically running around Durham begging any estate agent to show you something half decent within budget, all the while trying even harder not to jeopardise friendships and feelings. 

As mentioned above however, these issues are not particularly new, and, as most students can attest, come Christmas, the nightmares of housing are a thing of the past. But this year there is an added layer of complexity in the air: the excessive rise in the cost of living, paired with the overpopulation of such a small city as Durham, has led to an atmosphere of extreme stress and anxiety when it comes to finding student accommodation. 

It has been reported that the day before Frampton & Roebuck estate agents released their housing, students were waiting in line from 2am. Now, where the fault lies for these cases is a potent question, and undoubtedly, the university’s responsibility for the extremities of the situation cannot be understated. Zara, a second-year student waiting to sign for her final year, told Wayzgoose that “having to queue through the hours of the night to sign a house, because of the university’s desire to oversubscribe for profit, was a hard pill to swallow at 2 o’clock in the morning.” 

Sadly, Zara’s words ring true. In 2017, Durham released a document outlining their Building Strategy for the next ten years. They write “[we are] committed to delivering excellence across the board… Nevertheless, we can do better and to that end we have reviewed the size, shape, and mission of the University. We currently have 15,000 students in Durham City… [but] Following extensive work, [the] Council [of the university] has agreed to increase the student population at Durham University to 21,500 by 2027.” 

Let’s take stock of these staggering figures for a moment: Durham has reached 20,268 students, according to their website. That is only 1000 students away from their predicted target for 2027. To have achieved an 81% increase of the 10-year goal in just 5 years is terrifying, even when considering the argument that this extreme spike has been compounded by coronavirus. 

Zara went on to highlight that “it also puts students in an unfair position of risk and vulnerability” by having to queue in the middle of the night; but I would argue it does much more. By expanding Durham at such a rate that their 43% 10-year growth rate is achieved in half the time, the university makes students incredibly vulnerable to private landlord’s fluctuating rent prices. Looking at my own third year flat this year, costing us £140 per week, including bills. Next year, however? It has been raised to £195, not including bills. That’s a near 40% increase in just one year.

But what does this mean for the everyday student trying to find somewhere to live? Well, the university clearly has severe structural issues at hand, but the mental health factors and implications of this crisis are arguably far greater. One student told Wayzgoose that their friends, having formed a group of 5, were “forced to drop one person as the 4-man houses were all they could afford”, leading to obvious cases of loneliness, exclusivity, and seclusion. Furthermore, Max, a third year looking for Master’s accommodation, stated that “housing has taken up so much of my time that work and sports have had to take a back seat.”

Clearly, then, everyday life is being seriously affected here for many. But, as Emma, a second-year student, told us, her forced re-shift of their group last year has meant living with an add-on who “has been the best new housemate!” This crisis is undoubtedly a problem, but perhaps it may lead to more patience and kindness from one student to another. The reassurance of home security creates the space in which art, academics, personal growth, and creativity may flourish. Students now stripped of this sense of security are not only plunged into impending physical vulnerability, but also a mental ‘fight-or-flight’. All I can hope for by highlighting these issues is that those feeling them most profoundly might see that it is not their fault, and that they are not alone. 

Sources: Durham University Strategy 2017-2027 

(https://www.durham.ac.uk/media/durham-university/about-us/pdfs/DurhamUniversityStrategy2017-2027Summarydoc.pdf)

By Amelia Melvin.

About halfway through my audio tour, which guides me through the so-called Masterpieces of the Louvre Museum, I come across Caravaggio’s, ‘Death of a Virgin’. Placed in the centre of the Denon Wing, looming at a massive 370cm x 245cm, it certainly is hard to miss. The lady in my headphones speaks of its scandalous origins, and Caravaggio’s unpopular choice to depict the Virgin Mary as a prostitute, drawing on elements of the real rather than the sublime. The grieving apostles appear as ordinary men, and there is a darkness which emanates that is accentuated by the vivid use of the red and black background. What strikes me, is that despite my somewhat limited knowledge of Caravaggio, the artist, he was an artistic master of his time and thereby his art would be consistently valued. Needless to say, the grandeur of the painting before me does not disappoint. To learn, however, that this painting was rejected from the Roman Catholic Church of which it was commissioned, and that it was only venerated posthumously, definitely surprises me. Of course as a pretext to this, I am no expert in 17th Century Italian paintings, nor on the standards of Catholic art for that matter. However, learning of the Roman Catholic Church’s decision did get me thinking about the way in which there are no absolutes in our perspectives of art. The validity of an interpretation relies largely upon specific variables of time, place and person, all of which can be shifted through just a matter of opinion.

Later, I arrive at what has to be one of my favourite paintings in the Louvre: Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’, ‘La Grande Odalisque’. Painted in 1814, I learn that Ingres follows traditions of Neoclassical art whilst drawing upon influences of Romanticism. The naked female body he presents is an image of sensuality and classic femininity, and yet as a representation of human form, it is deformed and inaccurate. The audio points out the overly long back, and the disproportionate size of her legs, and even the unnatural turn of her head to look at the viewer of the painting. On the whole, these distortions add to the illusion of the divine woman, and create this ethereal beauty that radiates from the work when I look at it. Despite the widespread critical acclaim the painting now receives, I am not shocked to learn that in 1819, when the painting was first exhibited, there were many who were outraged by the blatant anatomical inaccuracies in a supposedly naturalist painting. I, for one, can’t deny a certain unease I have with the idea of a male painter restricting his female subject to the mode of the aesthetic rather than the realistic. Indeed, when his later works began to take prominence, this piece too began to be regarded in a different light. Even further along, this painting, and Ingres’ techniques, became inspiration for future surrealist and avant-garde artists. I love this piece not only because it plays with ideas of beauty, but also because it seems to encompass three very integral ideas of art; that of the challenging, the inspiring and the subjective.

During my time in Paris, I was staying in a hostel in the local town of Belleville. There I met two backpackers from Germany, named Lasse and Rickie. Rickie studies Art History at The University of Hamburg, and Lasse is a mechanic. Over beers in the hostel bar, we began telling each other of our experiences of the city, in particular our thoughts on the exhibitions in the Louvre. Rickie offered an insightful overview of the Islamic Art exhibition, found on the bottom level of the museum. Her response largely focused on what she found particularly interesting, and what she had learnt and understood from some of the displays. Lasse described his enjoyment in finding the silliness in the gallery’s exhibits, and the absurdity he felt viewing some of these works for what they were. He began by getting out his phone, and chuckling to himself, showed us a collection of zoomed-in pictures of the penises of each of Michelangelo’s sculptures. Now, don’t get me wrong, my initial response, as I can only imagine some of yours may be also, was that of shock at the utter contempt for the high and classic that is Michelangelo’s art. But then I was pleasantly surprised. In boyish humour, Lasse described how absurd it was that all these people were standing so seriously and solemnly throughout the gallery, taking in every piece as it came, as if its value was set in stone by the very fact that it existed within this museum. He found humour in the pretentiousness, and was able to appreciate the art from this viewpoint. From what he described, I have this image of him wandering around, giggling and laughing incessantly, taking pictures of things others would ignore or see differently.

Though dissimilar, I don’t think that Lasse’s perspective is any less valid than the perspective of Rickie. I am sure that the latter may be more respected in the, quote, unquote, ‘Art World’, and it is hard to deny how Rickie’s art education might have shaped her experience, but I believe that Lasse’s refreshing interpretation is one that actually has the potential to open up new avenues of understanding and exploration of artistic works, in a way that a traditional viewpoint would not. In my eyes, the very nature of art begs to be subjectivised. It only comes alive when it is interpreted, misinterpreted and reinterpreted. Any hierarchy in which these interpretations can be placed are no more products of their time and influences, than the interpretations themselves. Just as in the rejection of Caravaggio’s, ‘Death of a Virgin’, or in the controversy of Ingres’ shaping of the female body, Lasse’s delight at the anatomy of Michelangelo’s sculptures will always be plausible even if it does not align with interpretations of the expected or of the norm.

By Izzie James.

When discussing contraception with friends, there will often be someone who has a negative story to tell. Experiences of acne, mood swings, depression and weight gain often come up when talking about the contraceptive pill. 

Although this isn’t the case for all women, and the pill can be an effective option to prevent pregnancy, it is difficult to ignore the long list of side effects that taking the pill can have. Recently, a viral TikTok trend where women held up this list of side effects to the camera sparked a wave of frustration, with comments comparing the list to the ‘size of a large blanket’. It is hard to comprehend that a contraceptive option that is used so widely and by so many young women can have this many adverse impacts on the female body.

It should be made clear that I am in no way discouraging the use of contraception or saying that the birth control pill should not be used. Sometimes pills can even be helpful in combating problems such as acne, or reducing painful period cramps and heavy bleeding. However, I think that our attitude towards the impacts of the pill should be improved, and we should be attempting to dismiss the stigma around discussing birth control. Starting a broad conversation about the contraceptive pill and making sure that it is the correct option for you is essential for your health. Both mental and physical health should not be compromised by birth control, especially as educating women on their options can make an important difference.

Too many women settle with the pill they are first prescribed, thinking that experiencing effects such as acne, weight gain or tiredness is a small price to pay for preventing an unwanted pregnancy. A large number of women also experience stomach cramps from period pains, meaning that they’ll be used to the uncomfortable realities of the female body. However, being aware that your current pill is not suited to your body can make a world of difference. 

For women considering taking a combination pill, knowledge of something called ‘the pill ladder’ can be very useful. Combination pills contain both oestrogen and progestogen, however there are many different types, some containing more oestrogen, some containing more progestogen (it should also be noted that there is the option of a progestogen-only pill). If a woman takes a combination pill with higher levels of oestrogen, and experiences effects that can be blamed on this, she should consider taking a pill with lower levels of this hormone. The same can be said for progestogen dominant combination pills. This means the woman would move along ‘the pill ladder’, moving left for less oestrogenic impacts and right for less progestogenic impacts. An example of this would be if a woman is experiencing acne and mood swings on a progesterone dominant pill such as Microgynon, it is worth moving right across the ladders to a more oestrogen dominant pill such as Cilest.’ (This is quoted from the ‘GP Notebook’, which is linked below and highly recommended for more in-depth detail.)

I decided to open up a conversation with my housemates. These opinions are not being included to discourage anyone from taking the birth control pill, and I would like to preface them by stating that we all agreed that access to birth control is extremely important for women today. One girl emphasised that she found the birth control pill to be effective and stress-free, and that she did not experience any negative side effects. However, the general consensus of the group was that to improve women’s experiences on the pill, we all need to prioritise education, conversation and support. 

It was clear that some of my housemates thought that the pill was prescribed to them flippantly, and one claimed that she was advised to persevere through any immediate symptoms, as they could ‘settle’ after some time. She now regrets staying on this pill for so long, as she later found another form of contraception much more compatible with her body. She added that taking the pill becomes built-in to a daily routine, so much so that transitioning off it seems like a huge step. This leads to further worry about the sudden hormonal change that women could experience all over again, even though, for my housemate, this transition actually helped her find a more suitable form of contraception.

Another one of my housemates spoke about how she had gone to her school’s medicine centre with some friends, and they were all automatically prescribed the same pill. Looking back on the experience, she spoke about how they all would have had different hormonal makeups, and that their individual reactions to this pill would have been different. However, none of them were told that a check-up on their birth control journey was necessary. She thought that a scheduled check-up with her GP would have been very useful, as she could have listed any side effects that she had experienced and they could have considered whether that specific pill was right for her. 

We all agreed: the realisation that you do not have to settle for birth control has only come to us in our twenties. Although the fault does not lie with us, we all wished that we had been educated on information like ‘the pill ladder’, so that we could have had more productive conversations with our GPs about what was best for our bodies. It is therefore vital that young girls who want to begin taking the contraceptive pill have the right information and education to put their bodies first.

Recommendations:

https://gpnotebook.com/en-gb/simplepage.cfm?ID=x20130725203135685340

Sophie Smith Galer’s ‘Losing It: Sex Education for the 21^st Century’

‘Your brain on birth control.’ From Women’s Health Weekly (available through Durham online library)