A progressive analysis of politics and the arts.
by Laura Potts
The noteworthy Norwich art scene is home to many small gallery-like spaces that have a fast and frequent turnover of shows. Spaces such as Yallops, Nunns Yard and Studio 20 are home to a diverse spectrum of work, and as we enter the spring months they have become hives of activity swarming with artists and viewers. These spaces are important, vital – the work and people they house are integral to cultural independence in the city.
Around this time of year, you’ll have witnessed a flood of articles that aggressively motivate you to increase your dwindling productivity and ‘get yourself back on’ the proverbial ‘track’. If you’re the Daily Mail, you might be delightedly telling people how average UK life expectancy has ground disastrously ‘to a halt.’ However, this obsession with life span and these generally flat, statistical measures of personal power are the real issue, and what I would argue even obscure the long-term, self-preservative solution.Continue Reading
by Bradley Allsop and Calum Watt
Rarely in our lifetimes has there been a more exciting time for young people to engage in politics. Change is in the air and nowhere else offers more opportunities to engage in this conversation, to learn valuable skills and to help shape society than university campuses. This series of articles seeks to offer some guidance for those aiming to ignite student activism at their institutions. Drawing on our experiences as campaigners we hope to highlight some common challenges and give you some advice on how to combat them.
by Lewis Buxton
Despite being called A Book of Fragments and Dreams, the poems in Rebecca McManus’ collection are far from fragmentary. They speak loudly to one another and are rooted decisively in the people, places, and objects of her life. Unthank Cameo has released this collection posthumously after Rebecca McManus was killed by a speeding driver whilst waiting at a bus stop. She was 21 and just weeks away from graduating from the University of East Anglia.Continue Reading
by Alex Valente
Original Italian by Vivian Lamarque (1946-), ‘l’orologio degli alberi’
You were always really
early for any appointment, made
the whole world seem,
late, the world felt bad,Continue Reading
A crush of smells. A roar of voices. Low, sultry light — the kind of light that encourages deep talking and kisses in corners. The Murderers is one of the city’s best pubs, and for good reason. But after just one drink I was out the door and off into the chilly dark with one thing on my mind. Just a few streets over a man was about to do some very odd things in the name of art, and I was dead set on being there. The event was Flat, and it marked the beginning of the annual Norfolk & Norwich Festival.
Not even the cold or one rude whistler could spoil the mood. The first half of Flat was spellbinding, watched in silence by an enthralled crowd. The second half was less about mesmerising leaps and more about thinking, asking its viewers questions about their perceptions of time, space, and gravity. That’s how it always is with art. You think you’re just here to watch a man jump around in a harness? Surprise! Have some deep thoughts instead. It’s a constant no matter the medium, and while it may weird out some it’s also the most important thing that art does. Art makes us think. It makes us talk. Art without conversation is meaningless.Continue Reading
grains of sand pass like biology
my body ticking like a heart
my love straining like teaContinue Reading
by Robyn Banks
Last year, I dropped out of uni. My life was falling apart around me, I’d run out of new excuses for extension requests on my assignments, I was failing to meet any of my responsibilities. My finances were in chaos, I wasn’t eating and I was totally failing to prioritise by continually allowing my grades and self care to slip in order to meet my obligations to other people, which I was barely doing anyway. I was always late, I couldn’t sleep, I managed to check my emails about once a month and consequently fell further and further out of the loop. I pushed my friends away, clawed them back, worried they all hated me and yapped on and on about just how irrevocably miserable I was. I was afraid of my lecturers, assuming they all had some kind of report card about me in their heads in which they totted up all of the missed classes, late assignments, and failings on my part and were sure to judge me for it. I became so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed, so I asked if I could drop out and try the year again in September.
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