I Will Raise You Pillars

by Sarah Ali

Oh mighty and tender siblings

You who hold each other beneath the rubble

Who will erect pillars in your name?

When they pile you underground

Wrapped tightly in bright blue body bags

Then destroy every record of your peoplehood?

You whose graves remain unmarked

Whose tombstones, too, they will reduce to dust

No soft and downy earth to cushion your resting place

No fresh grass to sprout from your body

Just blood to dampen the sand

When will the moss be granted liberty

To grow across your epitaph

Or the ivy to turn yellow, then amber, then

Brown?

I dream of the day your gravestone grows so

Weathered your name becomes illegible

When the only force wiping away your

Existence is time

And sun

And wind

And rain

I will raise you pillars. I raise them every day.

I will plant you greenery and flowers. Water

Them with every breath

I will honour your martyrs and I will embrace,

Embrace, embrace the living. Like my own. My

Own.

I wrote this at the top of Glasgow Necropolis (from the Greek ‘nekros’, dead person, and ‘polis’, city), a beautiful Victorian cemetery in Glasgow where over 50,000 people are buried. It’s one of the few cemeteries that keep a record of the professions, sex, and causes of death of those buried in it. As I walked among the intricately sculpted, centuries-preserved gravestones, the images I haven’t stopped seeing since October of martyred Palestinians, buried under rubble or dumped unceremoniously in mass graves, wouldn’t leave my mind. This poem is an effort to honour those Palestinians, and my commitment not to let their memory fade.

Christmas in the Anthropocene

By Carli Jacobsen

It’s raining in Scandinavia, and it’s warm,

I reminisce the harsh and cold droplets on my skin.

Even more, I miss the snow.

Three Yule’s ago, the lake froze over,

and i bought a pair of ice skates from an old man in the newspaper.

Nevermind, that was in March, actually.

They predict a wind storm soon,

so I walk every day at this lake.

Some days, you can see auroras,

but it should be too far south for that.

Most days, there are too many clouds

clouded judgement, clouded thoughts,

They’re only hoping our holiday gifts arrive in time

from straits that only hear bombs, only see smoke.

The light is taken at three, I am guided by gold tinsel hanging on forest trees

and mushrooms, still lush on December seventeen.

like it’s a Christmas in the Anthropocene.

or is it a Capitalocene? I don’t seem to recall the difference

as I stroll through the market and I think “sustainable Christmas?”

where crayfish* invade the fish monger stalls

at astonishing prices

for my wallet, and for the planet.

And this Christmas, we listen to music,

War is over? I think twice;

of the ard asli [the original land], **

about a birth of a boy in Bethlehem

trapped under the rubble,

of the Christmas shit I want, not need

of the BBC instead of Love,

actually.

*crayfish is an invasive species in Denmark - reference to prominent debate about the ethics of killing off invasive species.

‘Anerkend Palelaestina’ which in Danish means ‘recognise Palestine’ on the walls of Copenhaghen. Picture taken by author

This is a rebel song: an obituary of Sinead O'Connor

Cover picture: Shuhada’ Sadaqat by Ellius Grace for the New York Times: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/18/arts/music/sinead-oconnor-rememberings.html  

By Carli Jacobsen

Sinead O’Connor authentically uses her music to encapsulate Irish, personal, and international struggle. Nothing can get past the lyrics of her music: she is always so sudden to express an often-taboo truth of controversies, but nonetheless is still held as the moral compass of Ireland, even after her death in late July. Her ruthlessness is best known from the moment she tore up a photograph of Pope Jean Paul II on a Saturday night live in 1992 to address child abuse in the catholic church. The outcries from the public for her provocative conversations never stood in the way of using her position as an artist to create and remind the world of resistance in Ireland. She boycotted the Grammy’s, refused to participate in the US national anthem, and whole heartedly used her screen-time to express her devotion for the refugees of Ireland.  

She embodied Irish struggle and resistance, encouraging other Irish people to never turn a cheek to the injustices under Irish leadership, particularly in relation to the Catholic church, to which she was known as in Irish icon of resistance. She became a priest in Belfast, despite the Vatican’s rejection of women in such positions, but continued to bless and perform her duties to God and the people of Ireland as a religious activist that advocated for transparency and inclusivity in the Irish Catholic church, sharing her own experiences of queerness, bi-polar disorder, and abuse from her mother. Her experiences were shared as a reminder of the genocide against Ireland, and its long-term effects on mental health that she addresses in her songs.  

From her album Universal Mother, Famine exposes the harsh treatment of the Irish people, addressing propaganda and the false narrative of the death of 1 million Irish people. Through listening to her albums in order of their creation, you embark on a journey of Sinead’s spiritual growth and become embraced in the inconsistencies of her identity through her music in parallel with her struggles of healing and of emotional peace. These inconsistencies are the utmost human cultivations of the self as written through song, but these inconsistencies are constantly made sense of through her ongoing radical critique of colonial and capitalist establishments. Her music tells a story of personal growth from a young and remaking Sinead, to a vengeful and will powered Shuhada’ Sadaqat, her name after converting to Islam in 2018, when she reclaims craziness and revitalises her musical talents that have only ever exacerbated love for the marginalised and shame for those in power that attempt to crumble resistance and revolution.  

Sinead O’Connor at the Grotto in Lourdes, France, a Christian pilgrimage site (Michael Crabtree/PA):

https://perspectivemag.co.uk/sinead-oconnor-filmmaker-reflects-on-enduring-power-of-nothing-compares-2-u/ 

We think of both Shuhada’ and Sinead as entangled identities that show unity in resistance, particularly between Ireland and Palestine. Ireland, as one of the few member states supporting a ceasefire regarding the Palestinian genocide, and as one of the only long-standing advocates for the liberation of Palestine since the Nakba in 1948. Both Ireland and Palestine have experienced genocide, oppression, censorship, and the stripping of resources as a human right, and these struggles see unity between both groups. Their flags are used interchangeably as symbols of resistance against struggle.  

Shahuda, even before her conversion to Islam, stood up for the Palestinian liberation. In 1997, she wrote a letter to Israeli defence minister Ben Gvir to condemn the Palestinian occupation and condemn his actions as a leader, after he sent death threats to her and her band. More profoundly, her songs rewrite the Irish occupation. Through music, she has curated a new Irish history that expresses emotions of mourning, anger and hope, like the power of Palestinian music by musicians like Khamal Khalil, who plays with dawla to negotiate the violent power of occupation and complicity of both Israel and nearby Arab states and was arrested after his songs were played in the streets amongst activists and shabab, and curators such as Mo’min Swaitat’s Majazz Project, who has compiled tapes and vinyl's of revolutionary resistance music and cinema, mostly from Jenin in the West Bank. 

The 11/11 March for Palestine in London, where over 800,000 people protested, making it one of the largest demonstrations in British History. Photo taken by author.

Through the contemporary work of Mo’min’s project, we can learn together about the importance of music to navigate violence and exile across political context, from Palestine to Sudan to Kashmir to the Congo. While Sinead’s music was not around to actively resist the Irish occupation, it tells a story today of a reclaiming of narrative that has previously written a famine ridden, barren, terrorist Ireland. Listening to resistance music today reminds us of ongoing political violence where revolution is simmering, using the poetics of national and cultural pride to challenge the dominant narratives that mislead us away from the streets on which we protest.  

Extracted from my favourite song of hers, Famine, I share these lyrics, but recommend listening to her music remembering her influence both in Ireland, and in Palestine, especially in the context of the current political crisis that we all should be attentive to learn and understand. 

And if there is ever gonna be healing 

There has to be remembering 

And then grieving 

So that there can be forgiving 

There has to be knowledge and understanding. 

A Walking Ethno-poem of Soho's Streets

A poem by Finola Stowe

Forgot my headphones so street music is more appealing

The unrecognisable instrument

that somehow gets you from A to B

I walk with aim

There’s purpose on these roads.

My route governed by “when I went here”s and “last time”s

Past times guide me and I never thought i’d be familiar

with a Soho street

Person brushes or crashes past me and I say something kind of mean in my head

bu remember that self development girl on YouTube who told me not to think

ill of other people

Peaceful

is literally nothing in this city.

Trippy lights and displays make up the scenery and I’m overwhelmed but

they’re explaining why I should buy this and that and yes,

I agree,

I should buy it

Halt my walk to find it

Consume it.

There’s girls on the street and gum on the floor

Worlds upon worlds of un-ironed business attire, books carried in arms to feign intellect

and calculated hairstyles whilst I take extra steps to consciously avoid

these complex people

of Soho’s streets

Things you do on a walk alone are fluid and unforgettable/

A time of its own

Tracing how I’ve grown

I’ve been walking here for two years

but I still look for the same clues

on the same routes

I traversed back then and

thank

the racket of soho streets for

guiding me.

The Book of Mormon - on the boundaries of political incorrectness

Photo credits: show’s poster - https://www.broadwayinlondon.com/the-book-of-mormon

By Pia Tasso

Blasphemous, racist, undeniably offensive. In a society that seems to be tending towards a hyper-vigilance to political correctness, how is it that a show that essentially gives the middle finger to the Mormon Church continues to be so widely acclaimed?  

Winner of 9 Tony Awards including Best Musical, The Book of Mormon, written by Trey Parker, Robert Lopez, and Matt Stone has grossed over 1 billion dollars internationally and continues to be one of the most enduring Broadway plays. From John Stewart to Oprah Winfrey, the show has been overwhelmingly well received, so much so it would nearly seem out of place to put in question the legitimacy of its jokes and overall message.  

Loosely, the show follows two missionary Mormons, Elder Price and Elder Cunningham – the former a bright attractive man and the latter a gullible man who adulates the former. Sent to Uganda on a missionary operation, they endeavour to convert the local population to the Church of Latter Day Saints. Living in precarious, dirty houses that are depicted to be Ugandan ones, they initially fail to convert the locals. Discouraged by such an outcome, they eventually start lying – making up stories to convince the people that Mormonism is relevant to them all. This eventually leads to their realisation of the metaphorical nature of religious accounts and encourages them in the spread of their new religion across Africa.  

On paper, one would think that a show simultaneously mocking a religious minority and the colonised populations it has converted would spark some controversy. Perhaps the key to understanding the reason for the show’s surprisingly socially acceptable nature lies in the choice of actors to embody this synopsis – namely the Mormons and Ugandans.  

One of the catchiest lines of the show might just be ‘I am a Mormon, and Mormon just believes’, evidently mocking the Mormons’ naïve credulity and lack of pragmatism. But could the same joke not be made just about any other religion? ‘Religion’, and by extension faith, arguably necessitate a degree of non-entirely empirically rational belief, in the contemporary Western understandings of science and factualness. In other words, isn’t it the very premise of a religion to ‘just believe’? It could be argued that the same statement could be applied to nearly any other religion – or in fact to supposedly ‘non-religious’ entities too. This might suggest that Mormons are the scapegoats through which to mock ‘faith’. But because 'faith' is so intrinsically human, perhaps we should consider the idea that our laughs also vent our own insecurities regarding ‘God’ and ‘religion’ in the broad understanding of the terms. 

Photo credits: Julieta Cervantes - https://qcitymetro.com/2018/07/27/time-that-a-black-person-reviewed-the-book-of-mormon/

 This recognition of the show’s broader underlying themes begs for a parallel with other religious groups. Would the show have been equally acclaimed if it treated Islam, and depicted Muslims as naïve worshipers who ‘just believe’? Or would it for the same matter be guiltlessly enjoyed if it poked fun at the Jewish community’s blind faith, considering their complicated history? Though this line in itself bears little importance, such analogies open the door to the reconsideration of the jokes that flow through the play, starting from its very title. Just consider the show being called ‘The Koran’.

Though these are only abstract speculations, my point is to denounce the bias that is intrinsic to our tolerance of political incorrectness, revealed through the boundaries of socially acceptable humour. The metrics by which we abide humorously are defined by an unspoken script, and the show is a contemporary example of those implicit preconceptions. This is not to question the legitimacy of the authors to mock the Mormons – their humour is somewhat beyond their control, predetermined by social norms and values. But precisely because of that fact, irony powerfully informs our understanding of the underlying socio-political dynamics that permeate our world.  

Though the show may in part be ‘funny’ because it took an easy scapegoat to mock religion, we must not forget the other party in the show – the Ugandans. The script is flooded with racist jokes, yet it seems no one gets offended. To give one example, one of the running gags is a man explaining how he now has sex with frogs instead of babies to deliver him from his aids. Another character also complains that he has maggots in the scrotum, but they cannot get a doctor, because he is the doctor…LOL! In theory, those jokes mock the missionary’s conception of Uganda and Africa and thus serve more as a criticism of Western prejudices. But is that really so? The ironic nature and setting in which those statements are embedded make them acceptable. Irony is by definition ‘not true’, and getting offended would theoretically be a lack of humorous awareness. In this context, however, doesn’t irony serve as a façade to enjoy a good old racist joke?

This opens the door to an important theoretical debate surrounding the role and boundaries of irony. Humour and satire are irrefutable pillars of freedom of speech, and constitute valuable political tools. This being said, though everything can be poked fun at theoretically, we must recognise the blatant bias in the choice of groups that embody those jokes, as well as the underlying ideas that incite us to laugh at certain jokes. The playwrights disappointingly use irony to reinforce pre-existent dominant and racist narratives when they could, and arguably should, have challenged this very status quo. Irony is therefore powerful but also dangerous and I merely want to debunk the idea that one cannot take offense because it is ‘not true!’. Perhaps the key is that we should be more introspective of the boundaries of irony as a marker of the limits of our freedom of speech and the collective moral code we tacitly abide by. The Mormons and Ugandans are just defenceless props of our ritual of moral and intellectual ablution, and our laughs a vain form of penitence. 

On 'The Banshees of Inisherin'

Cover picture: a Banshee watching over Colm and Pádraic walking away from one another

By Carli Jacobsen

Martin McDonagh’s work is recognisable as a masterpiece at the first string of Colm’s violin. The film tells of the relationship between who suddenly begins to imagine a future greater than one that has Pádraic in it. Only in the final minutes of the film did I come to terms with Pádraic and Colm’s relationship to be a stab at the Irish Civil War: After endless threats by finger(s), and countless attempts from Padraic to reunite with Colm, a war between the two men begins. By the closing scene, one may have completely forgotten why exactly they were fighting in the first place.

Pádraic (Colin Farrell) on the right and Colm (Brendan Gleeson) on the left

It took a moment to decipher exactly who plays the Protestant and who plays the Catholic, yet Pádraic and Siobhan's (Kerry Condon) dedication to the Sunday mass and the Banshee, being Mrs. McCormick (Sheila Flitton), whom they host for the occasional dinner, while Colm has doubt over the oracle telling of the Banshee and struggles to identify sin in his own life during his confessions. Although this is confirmed by Pádraic’s slagging of Colm’s mispronunciation of Irish phrases and his high regard for Mozart, claiming Colm has begun to sound Anglo. And when Pádraic places the ultimatum to resolve the friendship, or burn Colm’s house at 2pm, it is a mirrored moment on the 27th June 1922 when Michael Collins' ultimatum to the four garrison to surrender before 4am. At 4:15 on the 28th June, Collins bombarded the Four courts with a pair of British field guns.

Colm’s house burning

McDonagh embarks you on a journey of brilliant orchestra, cinematic candy of rolling hills and cliffsides, and a dark humour of catholic mockery that is reminiscent of the 2016-2019 dry witted Fleabag series, produced by, written by, and starring Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who also happens to be McDonagh’s partner. The Banshees of Inisherin is a beautifully conducted period piece who’s meaning transcends in time frame, making one laugh and perhaps cry through moments of hostility, rejection and revenge that cannot be separated from the ongoings of personal battles and conflicts in contemporary politics.

The existential and the political: anthropology and Chris Killip

Cover picture credits: Chris Killip, Helen and her Hula-hoop, Seacoal Beach, Lynemouth, Northumberland, 1984

By Iacopo Nassigh

The first retrospective exhibition on the work of Chris Killip (1946-2020), a Manx photographer who has mainly worked in the North of England terminated just one week ago at the Photographers gallery, Soho. Killip’s work expresses a disenchanted gaze on the life Northerners throughout the 70s and 80s, during which the closing of factories and mines left many people without a job. However, Killip’s photographic gaze is not trying to romanticise the resistance of those who remained in the North. His photography is embedded into a deep awareness of the need of solidarity and amplification of these people’s lives, and not of pity for these marginalised groups. With this awareness, Killip spent months and years with the communities he photographed, such as the years he spent in Lynemouth, Northumberland in the early 80s staying in his van among a community of workers in an open-air coal mine by the sea.

Chris Killip, Gateshead [punks], 1986

Even if sharing the same basic experience of an anthropologist doing prolonged fieldwork it seems to me that his poetic eye was seeing something quite different from what an anthropologist normally sees. Where anthropologists see resistance to structural oppression Killip was able to see the human capacity to find relief in despair, to enjoy life as it comes despite the world burning around. His image of a girl playing with a hula hoop or the pictures he took of young punk man going crazy at a rave speak not just of people that find meaning in cultural structures, as old Geertz would put it, but people that actually enjoy themselves without caring much for a while about anything else. This existential quality of Killip’s photography is what I will carry with me other than an even stronger conviction now that things are not just suspended in cultural or political structures. Instead, if one has the eye to see this and suspend disbelief for a second, things can be appreciated for themselves, as moments of emotional explosion that maybe just a photograph can express.

Fuseli and the perceptions of womanhood

by Claire Ding

Last December, I was fortunate to see the work of Henry Fuseli (1741-1825), one of the most eccentric 18th century European artists, at the Courtauld gallery. The exhibition, Fuseli and the Modern Woman: Fashion, Fantasy, Fetishism, explores notions of sexuality, gender, and womanhood, which were constantly being challenged and reshaped during the Victorian era. An array of his private drawings were displayed, foregrounding different courtesans and his wife, Sophia Fuseli, as the centre of attention. Breaking away from female stereotypes of submissiveness and maternal virtues, Fuseli’s work of the Modern Woman destabilises traditional understandings of womanhood. In my opinion, however, his reimagination ultimately does not seek to empower women and continues to confine women in archetypal roles, subjugating them to the aesthetics of an alternative, but nonetheless male, gaze.  

Fuseli does, however, showcase the multiplexity of womanhood by subverting female archetypes through the lense of the appearance and clothing of courtesans. In ‘Sophia Fuseli, Standing in front of a fireplace’ (1791), Fuseli casts his wife in an elaborate drapery with a complex hairstyle, reminiscent of a courtesan. This depiction is further reinforced by her pink cheeks and red lips, and green facial complexion recalling concurrent tuberculosis aesthetics. Interestingly, Fuseli situated Sophia in a domestic setting, marked by the fireplace, which is affiliated with notions of maternal love and care, creating a stark contrast with an erotic appearance associated with women of a dubious moral character and wild sexual passions. Such oppositions can also be seen in ‘Sophia Fuseli, Seated at a table’ (1790- 91). On one hand, Sophia exemplifies sexual immorality, portrayed by her seductive gaze, voluptuous lips and translucent drapery; the sewing basket next to her, on the other hand, associates her with virtuous domesticity. By doing so, Fuseli converges and distorts Victorian female archetypes of the angel in the house and the fallen woman, thus freeing perceptions of womanhood from conventional understandings.  

Sophia Fuseli, Seated at a table Sophia Fuseli, Standing in front of a fireplace

Fuseli further disrupts the perceptions of womanhood by turning women into powerful perpetrators who commit sadomasochistic acts. It has been suspected that this darker side of Fuseli’s imagination was influenced by the writings of Marquis de Sade. In ‘Paidoleteira’ (1821), the courtesan is depicted as committing infanticide using a hairpin and the drawing has a Greek inscription of ‘child murderer’. Similarly, in ‘Woman with long plaits teasing a figure trapped in a well ‘(1817), Fuseli positions the woman as powerful, not only presented by the subject matter itself but also the use of a hierarchical composition. Nevertheless, the empowerment of women in Fuseli’s can be questioned as it appears to serve and appeal to the tastes of the libertines, who likely would have been Fuseli’s clients, rather than giving genuine agency and autonomy to women. In addition, the ubiquitous male gaze not only penetrates his sadomasochistic imagination of women, but also his drawings of female fashion. A recurring motif in his work is the juxtaposition between geometric or phallic shaped hairstyles with an open, provocative display of the female body, which is particularly prominent in ‘Kallipyga’ (1790- 92).  

 Kallipyga Woman with long plaits teasing Paidoleteira

a figure trapped in a well

The exhibition ultimately opens a broader discussion of womanhood and who has the power to define it. Fundamentally, Fuseli as the artist, has the power to imagine and represent womanhood based on his fantasy. This, nevertheless, is a product of the broader social climate, as well as the preferences of his clients; upper-class men. Perceptions of womanhood continue to be written over by the male gaze in art, meaning that women in the drawings of Fuseli are empowered, but not dignified. Following further waves of feminism, as well as the rise of female artists in modern and contemporary art, increasingly we see perceptions of womanhood on a much more individualistic and personal basis, by women themselves. Artists such as Fuseli can be appreciated for their socially innovative nature, but should be admired whilst recognising their historical contingency. 

Who's hands?

Who’s hands?

a poem by Ishani Milward-Bose

Who’s hands have touched this soil?

Who’s feet, bare, have laboured?

Imprinted on our landscape;

From dead skin cells,

Blood dripped from a scraped elbow,

Sweat flowed from exerting bodies,

Under the blistering sun.

A young boy carved his name into the setting cement;

A despondent attempt at recognition, or possession, or ownership.

At materialising and immortalising his part in the process;

Painstakingly scraping cement, hammering rods, welding joints,

Memories of desperation etched into the concrete.

That is all that remains marked

Of the hands that touched that soil,

The feed that laboured on,

The touch that built it up;

The monstrous grey scar in front of me.

Camera and Retrospect: or How to Annotate Life

by Nazli Adigüzel

Since I started studying anthropology, I have been thinking about my relationship with photography. Quite often, I discourage myself from pressing the shutter button, allowing thoughts about Power and Narrative to settle in. Although a healthy amount of self-reflection and an understanding of the politics of representation are crucial to consuming and appreciating visual media, one must not forget the sheer joy capturing an instance can be. For photography is to still time, materialize an interpretive reality, and visualize the narratives we construct. Here, I share a few photographs I have taken over the years. Some are mere combinations of pixels, occupying their places in my SD card, and some have undergone chemical processing in darkrooms, now stacked on top of each other in my dusty albums. Despite their textural differences, in my opinion, they all embrace the beauty and oddities of everyday life.

1. This first photograph, taken during the 2021 lockdown, is from a virtual ballet rehearsal of my sister, who was kind enough to allow me to photograph her. When Time, as we sensed it (with its schedules, alarms, and calendars), became obsolete, my sister’s online ballet classes were one-hour reminders of the fact that Tuesdays and Thursdays still existed outside of our house. Looking back at this photograph, I now understand why 19th-century Impressionists were constantly painting ballerinas— the stamina and the elegance they exude are utterly transcendental.

2. Boredom breeds creativity, some say. This is precisely what happened to me when I was having a staring contest with this Venetian mask instead of doing my calculus homework when I was 16. This mask still dares the dwellers of our living room to a staring competition, but I believe I was the only one in our household to take a photograph of it by placing a piece of fake-crystal prism in front of my lens

3. It is not every day that I am genuinely impressed by street musicians, yet I still think about this Austrian duo converting Museumsquartier in Vienna to the set of Alice in Wonderland. I took many photographs during that trip, some of which I am quite satisfied with, but this one remains my favourite because it is a simple reminder of how genuinely fun humankind can be.

In high school, my literature teacher would always tell his students to hold a pen while reading because it would encourage us to annotate. Here, I tried to choose photographs that I took before I started studying anthropology; it was a period of my life where I was truly annotating life with my camera, one eye closed and the other looking through the lens. This is mainly a reminder for me to start carrying my cameras with me, and hopefully, this can be an encouragement for you, too, dear Readers: to observe, enjoy, and capture life in any medium that satisfies your eyes and minds.

Three Sisters Soup - a First Nations recipe

Photo credits: https://mcmichael.com/collection/first-nations/

by Carli Jacobsen

Three Sisters Soup (bannock beans, corn and squash) are the ‘three sisters’ in traditional ecological knowledge, originating from First Nations Peoples in the United States and Canada. The Three Sisters are usually planted together because they each aid the growth of the other. They collectively contribute to a balanced meal with different textures are flavours deriving from each ingredient. Bannock, also called fry bread, is another traditional cuisine used in savoury and sweet ways. Bannock pairs well as bread to eat with the soup, but also can made into ice cream sandwiches, or eaten plainly with tea. They can be frozen or re-baked for later use. Both these recipes are inspired by traditional recipes I found online by First Nation chefs but have been slightly altered to suit the produce available in London supermarkets. They are vegetarian but can easily be made vegan with plant based duplicates.

---

Three Sisters Soup (Serves 5):

• Half of a butternut squash

• 1 large can of corn

• 1 can of butter beans

• A generous dash of curry powder

• A few curry leaves to your taste

• Red pepper and salt to season

• 1 Vegetable broth

• 1/2 a white onion

• 4 garlic cloves

• 50g of butter.

• Olive oil

• Runny yogurt and fresh coriander/cilantro to garnish (optional)

Method:

• Roast the squash and the garlic coated in olive oil for roughly 2 hours until both are soft enough to mash with a fork.

• for the last 30 minutes of these in the oven, add the sweetcorn. Spread the corn out on a pan and roast in olive oil, S&P. The corn should be slightly browned/crispy.

• thinly chop the white onion, and caramalise in the butter with the salt, red pepper and curry powder.

• Once caramalised, add the stock cube, the butter beans, curry leaves, and slowly add the water bit by bit.

• Using either a fork or a blender, puree the garlic cloves and the squash, adding it to the soup to make the broth thick and creamy. If too thick, slowly add more water. Simmer on mid-low-heat for about 10 minutes on a mid-low heat.

• Within the last five minutes of simmering, add the roasted corn. This adds a little crunch, so you can individually enjoy the various textures and flavours of the Three Sisters, while being able to see how they compliment each other too!

• Season to taste with S&P, and drizzle with yogurt and corriander if you like. Serve with bannock either to dip in the soup or to use for an ice-cream sandiwich dessert (or both!).

Bannock (Makes a dozen depending on preferred size):

(American cooking measurements incoming, apologies!)

• 3 cups of all purpose flour

• 2 tablespoons of baking powder

• 1 teaspoon of salt

• 1 1/2 water. Some recipes use milk.

• 1/4 melted butter.

• If you wish to use the bannock strictly for dessert, you can add caster sugar to your taste.

• A vegetable or seed oil of choice (I used sunflower).

Method:

• Mix all the dry ingredients together in a large bowl, and create a cave in the middle, adding all the wet ingredients.

• Using a fork, slowly bring the dry ingredients into the wet ones until you get a thick and very stick mixture that represents a thick batter.

• In a large skillet, add the oil so that it fully covers the surface of the pan. Heat until hot (be careful)!

• Using a spon, add large dollops of the batter to the pan, frying until golden brown on each side. It should be in the pan for about 5 minutes in total!

• Allow them to cool on a paper towel to suck up excess oil. Keep adding more oil to constantly layer the pan when frying.

To use as an ice cream sandwich, slice the bannock width-ways to create 2 thin slices, spreading ice cream and fresh fruit in between. Enjoy!

Little Homes

a poem by Sarah Ali

It’s the mundane that takes me back:

sunlight glinting off turquoise peaks and swirls of the Neretva,

a raucous kitten winding between my feet,

coconut milk still fresh even out of the can.

Sunlight hits the backs of leaves and sets them alight, a sea of lime and lemon.

My Turkish- and Arabic-speaking friends sit with me and we pass around words

like we’re playing hot potato, or Chinese whispers,

Until something clicks.

Qabool, we cry; a commonality among our tongues.

Believe. Accept. Concordance.

The other night I dreamt

of a winding road back home,

one that led to my best friend’s back door.

His jasmine tree had snowed petals along the soil;

they melted into my palms and fingertips

and I woke up disoriented - the way I felt as a child,

falling asleep on the sofa and waking up in my own bed.

---

Note: everyday sights, sounds, conversations, and rituals have been so important for me in evoking a sense of home. This is a poem I wrote when living abroad for the first time, along the icy Neretva river in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Music at the Margins of Empire - 'Argonaut Mixes' in the spotlight

by Lucy Bernard

Each month I curate a playlist of global, fusion and protest music to accompany the newsletter. Music is fundamental to human experience and encapsulates culture, struggle and communitas, and I hope each month’s mix might shed light on this widely silenced music.

Rankin Ann – Liberated Woman: a glimpse from our monthly playlist in 'The Little Argonaut', issue 001.

Dancehall music has been seminal in British culture and black empowerment. Selecta Ranking Miss P began broadcasting on the first ever black pirate radio station 'Dread Broadcasting Corporation' in 1979. She went on to host Radio 1’s first show dedicated to reggae music ‘Culture Rock’ in 1985 and later hosted BBC Radio London’s ‘Riddim and Blues’ on Sunday nights. In parallel, Rankin Ann encapsulates this female-led integration of reggae music into mainstream British media. Her 1982 track ‘Liberated Woman’ from the album ‘A Slice of English Toast’ takes a classic dub track reminiscent of Trojan Records’ Big Youth, brought to life with Ann’s lyrics of female liberation. Reggae’s emergence in the UK was transformative and the (perhaps unlikely) fusion of punk and reggae in the late 1970s as depicted in Bob Marley’s ‘Punky Reggae Party’ and The Clash’s cover of ‘Armagideon Time’ is reflective of the anti-establishment politics of the time. On the Clash’s B-side recording at around 03.00 minutes Joe Strummer shouts “Don’t push us when we’re hot!” after apparently being asked to wrap it up. Dub-powered music is fervently passionate. Indeed, prophet Marcus Garvey prophesied that when the two sevens clash ‘injustices would be avenged’; perhaps this fusion is an ode to exactly that.

In Flight

In Flight

by Maya Patel

The trouble with moving is that it brings disquiet

when you’re here, you long for there

when you’re there, you wish you were here

with each move, it’s like a part of your identity is on the move with you - constantly growing, changing, evolving

until you’re not sure what separates one part from another

until you can’t remember where you felt most rooted, most grounded, your happiest

because you know change is coming

uncertainty within uncertainty and all you want is home...

but home has multiple meanings now

and you’re in limbo until the next one reveals itself.

A view on nationalism and race at the Moosgard Ethnographic Museum

A view on nationalism and race at the Moosgard Ethnographic Museum

by Emmanuel Molding Nielsen

Situated in the bucolic hills of Aarhus bay in Denmark the Mosgaard Museum cuts a striking figure in the landscape. Its pre-history exhibition, the most prominent item currently on display, is interactive, immersive, and deeply informative. Yet, for all its laudable, and for the most part successful attempts at chronicling East Jutland’s prehistory and bringing anthropology to the lay public, the museum’s uncritical engagement with nationalism is naïve and at worst racist.

The good

At its best the Mosgaard Ethnographic Museum successfully conveys anthropological debates – that usually wouldn’t find their way off the dusty shelves a university library – to the lay public. For example, in a part of the exhibition entitled ‘Voyage with the Vikings’ the museum presents a stunning array of artefacts from all over the world that had been found in East Jutland the main peninsular of Denmark.

In a nod to world-systems analysis like Braudel (2007) and Wallerstein (1991), the museum effectively argues that if we’re to construct a history of a region – in this case Jutland – then we need to look beyond the retrospectively imposed horizon of the nation state and see the world from the pre-nationalist perspective the region’s inhabitants. By examining objects found at local archaeological sites in the region, we see that inhabitants’ cultural horizons extended anywhere from present-day York to Greece.
Such object centred histories help to decentre ethnocentric

histories and reminds visitors to the exhibit that East Jutland, rather than being the centre of the world, was instead somewhat of a backwater in a far larger ‘world-system’. Despite occasionally unfortunate phrasing like “artefacts from remote corners of the world”, which encourage a view of Denmark as the world’s navel with the rest of the world relegated to “remote corners”, the museum otherwise succeeds in destabilising Eurocentric approaches to history by drawing attention to Jutland’s marginal role in one amongst many world-systems.

The bad

Despite historically self-aware titles like ‘the first immigrants’, and the curators’ nod to world-systems analysis, Mosgaard museum fails to take these insights to heart. We see this failure in its ongoing projection of Danish national identity into the area’s pre-history with phrases like ‘the first dane(s)’. At first this might seem benignly misguided, but this projection of national identity into the past is taking place in the context heated anti-immigrant sentiment in Denmark.

In 2018, Denmark introduced the so called ‘immigrant ghetto laws’. These laws – targeting primarily Muslim communities – require children above the age of one to spend at least 25 hours a week away from their parents being instructed in ‘Danish values’. Whilst changes are being made to omit the term ‘ghetto’ after international condemnation, the laws are nevertheless supported by a broad coalition in government including the governing Social Democrats.

Central to anti-immigrant rhetoric in Denmark are appeals to protecting amorphous ‘Danish values’ that are believed to have endured throughout time due to the ethnically and culturally homogenous integrity of Denmark. In light of these debates, exhibitions like that at Mosgaard, and their attitudes to national identity and values, speak directly to contemporary politics.

The exhibit’s historicisation of national identity portrays Denmark in a static light and omits the basic fact that the residents of Jutland in the Stone Age are as far removed from contemporary Danes as can be. In fact, the islands and peninsulas that we today associate with Denmark bear remarkably little resemblance to the geographic features of this area in times gone by. The area today know as Jutland, was, until less than 9,000 years ago, part of a landmass known as Doggerland that connected Jutland, present-day Holland, and the British Isles.

By presenting history in such a way, recent changes brought to Denmark by mass migration are presented as an unprecedented assault on a tradition that stretches back to the stone age. This, of course, is spurious and part of a broader discourse where right-wing populists are able to distance themselves from claims of racism, under the cover of historically justified cultural-nationalism.

A final noteworthy point for consideration is that the residents of the fictional Denmark represented in the beginning of the ‘pre-history’ exhibit are all portrayed as white despite the fact their contemporary Cheddar Man – the equally misleadingly named ‘First Brit’ in a recent Channel 4 documentary – was recently revealed to be black. Seeing as the British isles and Jutland were connected back then, it would at least be worth entertaining the idea that ‘the first immigrants’ were a little more diverse than we make them out to be. For an indication of the amount of, albeit qualified, guesswork involved in exhibits like that at Mosgaard consider the fact that there still remains doubt about the sex of one of the central characters of the Museum’s exhibit, let alone their race.

As an ethnographic Museum and academic institution, Mosgaard should not be sleepwalking into these nationalist tropes, but instead commit to extending the much hackneyed anthropological maxim of making the “familiar exotic and the exotic familiar” (Erikson 2017. pg. 3) to the lay public. For a start, they should commit themselves to denaturalising the nation as a cultural unit by drawing the attention of visitors to the transience of cultural formations. Unfortunately, they seem to be imposing a comforting but ultimately fictitious immutability on them.

And the ugly …

Occupying the central auditorium of the Museum is the impressive evolutionary staircase. Descending this staircase you stand side by side with uncannily realistic life-sized models our fellow hominids. The staircase starts with Lucy (cir. 3,2 million years) descends to Sediba (cir. 2 million year) and eventually ends at a model of a modern human known as Koelbjergkvinden (cir. 9000 thousand years).

This staircase, however, for all of its impressive design, presents a curious and telling chronology of our evolution. Whilst the figures stand in chronologically descending order from Lucy to the fully dressed human, the evolutionary chronology is somewhat flawed. On the middle of the stair case standing between Homo Ergaster (1.5 million years) and Homo Neanderthalensis (41,000 thousand years) is a Homo Sapiens (300,000 years), biologically identical to Koelbjergkvinden in every possible way. Then why is this wax figure placed alongside Homo Ergaster and Homo Neanderthalensis?

Ostensibly it could be argued that this is because the staircase is solely chronological and on the basis of this criteria the placement of the figures is technically correct. However, I would argue that evolutionary timelines are distinctly different to conventional ‘timelines’. First, evolution is not merely temporal, it is biological and therefore designed to reflect degrees of genetic relatedness. Second, evolutionary discourses have historically been rooted in enlightenment notions of both moral and civilisational progress.

This conflation harks back to the days of E.B. Tyler (2010) and Social Darwinism where Europeans, it was argued – due to their technological superiority and undeniable whiteness – were believed to be at the apex of an evolutionary hierarchy which included early hominids and other non-European races. Whilst Social Darwinism as espoused by Tyler is today recognised to be wrong and lacking in any analytic purchase, elements of this discourse still linger on in public discussion and even amongst academics who ought to know better. Bearing this in mind, why does opting for a timeline, rather than an evolutionary staircase, have troubling stylistic implications? First, the evolutionary staircase leaves one with the impression that we have evolved towards greater whiteness. This is because the modern human, standing alongside the early hominids, on the middle of the staircase is black whereas the modern human at the end of the staircase is the only fully white and clothed person there. One cannot avoid the impression that the figures on display, almost without exception, get progressively whiter.

Furthermore, it’s the white modern homo sapiens at the bottom of the staircase who is most recognisably human sporting both cloths and an impressive array of tools. By contrast, the other human, both older and black, but also undoubtedly an avid user of tools, is naked apart from ritual body paint on one leg.

As such, the evolutionary staircase may not be as good a tool to think with as it initially appears. Rather than providing a biologically accurate account of evolution it inadvertently encourages a dangerous – and ultimately racist – conflation of cultural and racial notions of progress and evolution. This conflation confirms, rather than destabilises the Social Darwinism that still lingers on in our accounts of history.

A better way to present this otherwise impressive exhibit would have been to place the 300,000 year old replica of a homo sapiens besides the other homo sapiens at the bottom of the staircase, this would have rendered the exhibit evolutionarily accurate, and exorcised the exhibit’s racist biases. The covertly racist presentation of this exhibit is clearly not conscious, but at a time when we’re slowly beginning to have a more nuanced conversation about race that recognises the importance of unconscious biases, this is a conversation that needs to be had. If even anthropologists are sleepwalking into racist evolutionary tropes and failing to challenge inaccurate and uncritical national narratives, then who will?

References

Braudel, F. 2007. The Mediterranean in the Ancient World. Penguin Books, Limited. Tylor, E. B. 2010. Primitive culture: Researches into the development of mythology, philos- ophy, religion, art, and custom.

Wallerstein, I. 1991. Braudel on Capitalism, or Everything Upside Down. The Journal of Modern History.

Eriksen, T. H. 2017. What is Anthropology? (2nd. Edition.) London: Pluto Press, pp. 3-19.

Both sides of the big beat

Both sides of the big beat

by Dimitris Markantonakis

The beat is the most important element of the West African musical tradition; the Gods spoke through the drums, which made them the most prominent of all instruments. The tribe encircled them, as they danced to their rhythm (Stearns 1970: 3). Drumming, as we know it, is essentially an African concept; Gene Krupa, his fan Keith Moon, and all subsequent drummers, pounded on European instruments, using West African ideas. These have travelled throughout the globe ever since (ibid: 14-15).

Hard bop is a jazz style which emphasizes simpler melodic lines, strongly rooted in gospel and spiritual music. Art Blakey was one of its drumming pioneers; leader of the Jazz Messengers, a legendary ensemble that included the who’s who of jazz. Respectively, fellow drummer Tony Allen was a forefather of Afrobeat; a West African fusion of regional traditional music, with soul, jazz, and funk. Allen always looked upon Blakey as his idol.

Tony Allen’s A Tribute to Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers was released in 2017 with little fanfare. Everything, from the cover design to the label, and the title, suggests that this EP considers itself a tribute album; it vastly underestimates itself, for it is more than that.

In concert, Allen addressed the audience as a modest fan, rather than an established master; he is thankful and very happy of the opportunity to pay tribute to his musical idol, whose repertoire is difficult, even for legends. “Allen is an Afrobeat guy. Tonight I will show my jazz side (...), the way we can fuse things together, which has been my way of life” (Allen 2016). This album reveals both sides of Tony Allen; Afrobeat, and jazz. These are not at all mutually exclusive.

Moanin’ is fragmented and intersected with Miles Davis’ So What, which further alludes to the uncanny connection between both pieces; Miles lifted his idea from Bobby Timmons perhaps? As a joke, try to whistle the melody of Moanin’ above Why Don’t You Do Right, a Timmons’ favourite, and then So What above both. In Allen’s version, the 4/4 swing is played in double time, while the melody is fragmented and halted; this achieves an 8/4 feeling, that moves back and forth the music line.

This beat is the greatest addition to Blakey’s music. Traditional African music is polyrhythmic, meaning multiple rhythms are played seperately at the same time, combining 3/4, 6/8 and 4/4 time signatures; that would be a simultaneous performance of a waltz, a blues, and a swing; the singing, clapping, and heavy stomping of both audience and musicians, further complexify (Stearns 1970: 4). Afrobeat incorporated this traditional element. Therefore, instead of Blakey’s straightforward 4/4 heavy swing, Allen applies African polyrhythmy to the hard bop idiom, leading to impressive results, and an altogether fresher take to the Messenger’s book.

Which takes us to Politely. Therein, Bill Hardman’s simple yet elegant blues theme is elevated; deconstructed and broken down into several pieces. The straightforward 4/4 swing is fragmented into a complex 6/8 blues, which creates a sense of movement through the chord changes. Compare it with Blakey’s own live performance from the Club St Germain. The extended solos from Bobby Timmons and Jymie Merritt, combined with the marvelous interplay between musicians and audience, add nice touches. Allen instead utilizes a constantly alternating tempo; below a steady bassline, and minimalistic piano arpeggios. The two latter create the impression of heavy rain and thunder, while the tom and cymbal hits sound as if shuffling earth, and piercing lighting strokes. Rather than the tranquil, swaggering politeness Hardman originally intended, Allen’s arrangement creates an even darker sense of urgency, almost apocalyptic. My personal highlight of the album.

Dizzy Gillespie’s main melody of Night in Tunisia is broken into repeatable parts, and performed as a series of disjointed riffs. This creates a strong rhythmic feeling, which places the beat into the foreground. I can imagine someone dancing to the tune, on a sidewalk, after hours. This gives the impression that every single instrument is soloing; not merely the leads, but the entire rhythm section as well, especially the drums. Multiple melodic layers are created, above and below the main theme. For instance, the bass maintains a steady riffing beat, with the piano chromatically improvising around it; the soprano solos through the changes, while the drums shuffle, reshuffle and improvise constantly below; never to merely confine themselves in plain timekeeping, nor to play twice the same line.

According to Leonard Feather’s liner notes (1958), the name of Benny Golson’s Drum Thunder Suite derives from its dramatic use of mallets, which suggest thunder. There is more to it than that. Chango was the Yoruban God of Thunder, known as Shango in Trinidad; he was worshiped by his own secret cult of musicians, to whom they dedicated their rhythms. In Trinidad, Haiti, and Cuba, Shango was mostly favored by drummers (Stearns 1970: 28-29). The composition of the Drum Thunder Suite, resembles the development of one of these cults, through the ages. It is divided in three movements; Drum Thunder, Cry a Blue Tear, and Harlem’s Disciples. Drum Thunder represents the early secret meetings, as they took place amongst the African slaves of the Caribbean; the drumming is heavy, raw and emphasized. Cry a Blue Tear moves us to the early jazz orchestras of the United States. The paradiddles resemble the early rudimentary technique, as the full drum set had yet to fledge; the strong Latin element, nuances the earlier calypso influences of the idiom. We are essentially in the South, as the African chants are juxtaposed with work songs, Cajun, and Caribbean music. Finally, Harlem’s Disciples is upbeat and mellow; the melody is funky reflecting the state of jazz in 1958; the drumming is still heavy, yet more nuanced. We now listen to modern jazz, from its Messengers. From the secret slave meetings to the late-hour club sessions, music and culture persist.

In his own take, Allen twisted the above concept inside out, to Africanize Blakey’s tribute to Africa. The drumming is even heavier; the wind instruments are loud and dissonant, resembling both animal cries and Balkan fanfares. The strong bass beat is modern. The movements are not separated, as in the original arrangement, but juxtaposed, to demonstrate the circularity of musical culture; steady flow and a strong continuity. This contrasts the fragmented melodies of all previous pieces.

Paired with a Parisian ensemble, a little larger than Blakey’s usual formations, yet more familiar with his own, Allen takes the sense of Africanism, omnipresent in all of Blakey’s work, to Africanize it even further. This album is a tribute from one master to another, of a kind that deserves its own tribute altogether. Viewing it as a mere tribute, would diminish its status; it is something new, altogether larger, and unalike all that preceded. In the same manner the impressionist painters payed tribute to their old idols, while innovating, Allen breaths fresh air to jazz; one in which tradition and modernism are fused and blurred, conforming to neither. According to a Greek song, all that is old needs to be burned, for the prettiest bud to blossom; the fusion would be that burning. Such is perhaps the route onwards.

References

Allen, Tony. (2016) Tribute to Art Blakey. Live concert recorded on the 16th of February 2016 from the Maison des Arts de Creteil, for the Festival Sons d’hiver. Retrieved in 2020 from YouTube.

Feather, Leonard. (1958) Liner Notes in the LP Art Blakey And The Jazz Messangers. BLP-4003. Blue Note.

Stearns, Marshall W. (1970) The Story of Jazz. Oxford University Press, 1970.

Global Fusion Sounds of the Decade

by Benedict Croft

You can listen to the full playlist on Spotify while reading the article.

St Germain – St Germain

After a lengthy break from music, the French house and nu jazz producer Ludovic Navarre returns to the scene with this refreshing project fusing Malian instrumentalists with deep French house grooves. The track ‘Sittin’ Here’ leads with the powerful Wassoulou vocalist Nahawa Doumbia and Griot guitarist Guimba Kouyate who transcend Navarre’s energetic percussive samples underlined with silky sub-bass riffs to create an overall sound that is subtle yet deeply funky, a sound rarely achieved by global house producers. The most impressive instrumentalism occurs in ‘Hanky Panky’ between ngoni players Sadio Kone and Guimba Kouyate who are able to merge individually complex melodies together creating a texture that appears initially intimidating but that settles into a rich groove pushed forward by recurrent jazz rhythms. Navarre in St Germain demonstrates his ability to create an organic sound by knowing when to take a step back and allow the instrumentalists to simply play, producing the tracks around their musical input to the extent where deep house appears as the natural ally of traditional Malian music.

Mogoya – Oumou Sangare

Wassoulou pioneer Oumou Sangare educates the global music scene in Mogoya, creating roots music that sounds intrinsically contemporary. It is hard to tire of the syncopated funk beats which reference the pop Malian rhythms of the 1980s and 1990s, which Sangare herself helped develop, in a fresh and highly energetic reinterpretation. In true Wassoulou style, Mogoya is a dance music album at its heart, brushed with refreshing electronic elements enabling the production of a later remixed album in 2018 which saw the likes of Natureboy Flako, St Germain and Tony Allen turn their hand to Sangare’s music. This modern sound is best exhibited in ‘Kamelemba’ where delicately reverbed vocals are interspersed with vintage synth harmonies and occasional sampling, all whilst the traditional instruments of the ngoni and calabash lay an irresistible acoustic groove. Sangare is not one to shy away from the political and this album is testament to that, with her songs discussing themes surrounding the global refugee crisis and the current tense political situation in Mali. Mogoya reaches out for unity through dynamic musical collaborations and pointed social critique to create a work that feels, in every sense, contemporary.

Banglarasta – Lokkhi Terra and Shikor Bangladesh All Stars 

Banglarasta is the outcome of the world music collective Lokkhi Terra, led by Kishon Khan, combining with Bengali and Baul folk group the Shikor Bangladesh All Stars to produce some of the most interesting global fusion sounds of the decade. Put simply, this project combines heavy dub reggae with the classic folk instrumentation of West Bengal and Bangladesh. In ‘Shaddho Ki Re Amar’ the khol drum and taal cymbals set a traditional rhythmic cycle with characteristic dotara melodies accenting Bangla vocals, whilst deep bass lines, skanking guitars and tight horn riffs push the folk sounds into roots reggae. This short EP exhibits a blend barely explored anywhere else and makes you question why Bengali folk as a musical tradition is so untouched by the global fusion scene.

Yemen Blues – Ravid Kahalani 

Ravid Kahalani, the founder of Yemen blues, is an Israeli musician with Yemenite parents, living between New York and Tel Aviv, known now for his creative integration of sounds from numerous traditions including Yemenite folk, Jazz, Afrobeat and Middle Eastern takht. This album announced Kahalani onto the scene, with critics unable to satisfactorily place its musical origins or influences in a way that allowed it to transcend genre, surely the ultimate aim of any fusion music. Kahalani sings in Yemeni Arabic alongside Ahmed Alshaiba, a Muslim Yemenite oud player making Yemen Blues more than simply a musical collaboration but a cross cultural exploration between Jewish and Islamic traditions. In ‘Jat Mahibathi’, Alshaiba opens with a dūlāb that references typical takht traditions, yet, this is instantly confused by the entry of the darbuka percussion, which, although sounding intrinsically Arabic, feels rhythmically more North African. Then enters Kahalani’s distinctive vocals which provide great intensity through dramatic pitch changes and layered voices which are softened only by brass and flute lines that eventually break out into a trumpet solo, giving the piece an overall jazz-like feel. Yemen Blues is by no means limited to this sound however, with tracks such as ‘Trape La Verite’ referencing folk styles that could be heard from the Scottish Highlands to the Sarawat Mountains of Yemen. It is this diversity which creates a work, that, despite drawing on numerous ancient musical traditions, sounds entirely unique.

Land of Gold – Anoushka Shankar

After a few years of Shankar re-exploring the roots of her music, Land of Gold signalled the return of the electronic and dub-influenced sitar-playing that originally positioned her as a key innovator in the global fusion scene. Shankar’s release of the Home in 2015 was a showcase of her virtuoso ability and deep understanding of traditional Indian raag. This appears to have inspired Land of Gold, which exhibits her most impressive instrumentalism yet. ‘Crossing The Rubicon’ is able to combine pop-like sitar hooks with dynamic passages of intense improvisation contrasted with the warm tones of the hang played by Manu Delago. Later in the track, Shankar opens the floor to shehnai player Sanjeev Shankar who, backed with aggressive drum samples, constructs a haunting war cry that is still able produce a distinctively South Indian sound. The entirety of Land of Gold is deeply political with every track crying out against injustice, often simply through instrumentals and occasionally enhanced with spoken and sampled vocals such as in ‘Remain The Sea’ and ‘Dissolving Boundaries’ which feel almost cinematic and demand sincere reflection. Shankar is an artist at the height of her craft, able to integrate tradition, progression and politics in a way that feels entirely natural and necessary to her sound and, consequently, places her as a giant in her field.

Dehumanising the dead

Dehumanising the dead

by Annie Thomlinson

If you have seen at least one London bus this academic year, you must have seen an advert for the Body Worlds exhibition. But did you know that all of the bodies displayed are real life dead people?

Last year I read an article by Tony Walter about the exhibition and about how it had revolutionised the way that we approach the dead. Body Worlds takes the bodies out of the coffins and graves where they are hidden from display and places them at the centre of our attention through the process of plasticination - a preservation technique which replaces the water in the body with a polymer. Walter’s article, written shortly after the first exhibition in London premiered, highlights the controversy associated with this revolutionary way of dealing with the dead; after all ‘the corpse has been identified by anthropologists for almost a century as a problematic object, generating repulsion, awe, symbolism, and ritual’ (Walter:2004 613). However, articles about the current exhibition placed a lot less emphasis on the ethics and cultural understanding of using dead bodies and where they mentioned that the plasticinates were real humans, the focus was more about how it made the exhibition quirky and unusual.

I attended the exhibition a couple of weeks ago to experience it myself and I found that this amoral position on the ethics of displaying dead bodies really came through at the exhibition. Apart from a sign at the beginning which acknowledged that all of the body parts on display were donations from anonymous dead people, the history of the plasticinates lives was not mentioned and the only reference made to the lifestyle of the donors was in reference to their body composition. For example, where there was a very fatty set of organs, reference was made to the fact that these organs had belonged to someone who had lived an unhealthy lifestyle, using their history to make a scientific educational point.

This dehumanisation of the body can also be seen in the terms used by Von Hagens. He refers to the preserved bodies as plasticinates, rendering them material objects rather than formerly living beings. The bodies are also taken apart in such a way which, whilst maintaining the human form, makes them less complete. For example, there was a plasticinate called the ‘split jumper’ where the plasticinate had been put into the splits and the body had been taken apart in such a way that even the penis was cut in half. This manipulation of the body is testament to the deconception of the plasticinate from the person it had belonged to. The idea of mutilating the genitals of a dead body would be considered deeply disrespectful if it was done to an ordinary dead body, yet the dehumanisation of the body through the plasticination process allows it to be done without complaint. In his article, Walter refers to Hertz’s distinction between wet and dry remains of dead bodies. Hertz argued that whilst the wet remains of a body are the object of mourning, the dry remains are not. The plasticination process makes the bodies hard and rigid so they lose the fleshiness associated with the living, making them dry remains, disassociated with life and, therefore, taking away the aspect of mourning. I wholeheartedly agree with this argument. As a particularly squeamish person myself, unable to stay in class during dissections at biology classes in high school, I did not have the same reaction to the plasticinates. The plastic texture of the bodies made it extremely difficult to imagine that they were once living beings.

If you’re intrigued by this discussion, I would absolutely recommend attending the exhibition. It is not only incredibly informative about the human body - just you wait until you see how small a uterus is- but also from an anthropological perspective it presents an entirely new and unfamiliar approach to death which can only be fully understood when you come face to face with a plasticinate.

«After Sight» - Benode Behari Mukherjee at the David Zwirner Gallery

«After Sight» - Benode Behari Mukherjee at the David Zwirner Gallery

by Benedict Croft

David Zwirner presents Europe’s first ever solo exhibition of Kolkata- born artist Benode Behari Mukherjee, who studied and taught at Rabindranath Tagore’s famous Kala Bhavana art school in Santiniketan, West Bengal. Mukherjee was born in 1904 with a serious eye condition that in 1956 led to his complete loss of sight, pushing him to explore new artistic fields – most notably that of collage and sculpture. It is on these later works that Zwirner’s exhibition focuses.

Inspired deeply by his own environment and Indian folk traditions, Mukherjee followed in the tradition of his Kala Bhavan mentors, allowing for the collaboration between cross-cultural modernism and indigenous styles. His loss of sight, however, freed his work further from realist constraints, allowing it to be constructed purely by his inner vision and memory. Techniques such as collage allowed Mukherjee to understand shapes and dimensions through touch, with colour being dictated purely by memory.

A collage of the two figures, constructed in 1959, displays Mukherjee’s continued desire to represent his external world, doing this through harsh yet vibrant geometric forms that are given depth through definite lines, which act as a form of counterpoint. Although some of his later works move closer to the complete abstract – with external objects defined through a multitude of singular shapes that evoke the collages of Matisse and paintings of Arp – they remain grounded in Mukherjee’s environmental reality. The collection consists of depictions of forms that are often deemed prosaic, such as cats, goats, and household objects; yet the dynamic use of colour re-energises such subjects, presenting them as no less than crucial forms. Mukherjee’s work, however, is nuanced, with these works not attempting to force a realist interpretation, but instead allowing for powerful insights into his inner vision.

It is, to some extent, difficult to enjoy Mukherjee’s charming pieces, which were once so loved by the villagers and locals of Santiniketan, in the elite setting of the David Zwirner gallery – a white-washed, high- ceilinged, Georgian townhouse in central London – where they seem to act in compete contradiction to their surroundings. Nonetheless, although they appear small, their brilliance dominates the space, bringing warmth and colour to the heart of Mayfair.

The Unstickler

by Catherine Fu

People’s patterns feel like rules:

The same motivations, reactions, expressions.

Rules that no one sees yet all are trapped in.

That dogma. How boring.

In my search for excitement I got lost

In this world where conventions rule morality;

Where very few share that vision

Of courage, freedom and compassion.

Snap out of it! I screamed

Silently, I chose loneliness over conformity,

Boldness over serenity. 

I chose to be free - and being free means never quite belonging.

‘Chill’, someone told me,

‘You have too much intensity.

Life is about the little things, 

So kick back your feet, and stop this search for meaning.’

I smiled, and said nothing.

I want to be normal. I want to fit in.

But being normal can mean being blind,

Judgmental, unthinking, and unkind.

Don’t get me wrong: I, too, laugh

At banter, memes and sarcastic humour.

But no one’s face is seen through this screen

And all of us are in danger.