“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”

— Margaret Atwood

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on university & mental health

(I)

“In my first depressive episode, I believed the fact I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning because I was just a bit hopeless – I made a cavalier joke out of it, people laughed. I stopped eating regularly – I made another joke, friends laughed again. I laughed with them. Depression doesn’t knock on the door and introduce itself; it isn’t monotonal – people still make jokes, they still function, they still believe they’re happy. In my case, I would have insisted I was having a great university experience. I was also drinking a bottle of wine alone most afternoons and crafting misspelt essays to my tutors full of excuses.” – Shon Faye, “The Real Reasons We Are Silent About Depression”

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“The truth is, I often like women. I like their unconventionality, I like their completeness, I like their anonymity.” – Virginia Woolf


HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY! What an excuse for me to make yet another doodle and collage of my favourite authoress instead of studying for my linguistics midterms.

Did i just spend the entire afternoon lazing around in bed & flailing to kate bush?
Sometimes the rain makes me do the silliest things.

i wrote something

Inspired by a passing comment, and perhaps, obligated by a casual promise I made to a friend when we were discussing our college’s journal, I penned an essay on my love for cats one afternoon, and, by some miracle, summoned the guts to submit said essay for publication. (Of course, I’ve written for other zines & publications, but I’d usually prefer for my readers to remain relatively anonymous — that is, not living in the same building as I am — to me.) Anyway, HERE is the article, a mere, whimsical, little sketch of my childhood.

For something more substantial, please do check out the marvellous new zine, “Do What You Want”, that Ruby Tandoh and Leah Pritchard put together. It’s currently available for pre-order HERE, & all profits raised will be donated to charity organisations in aid of women’s mental health, including Sisters Uncut and Beat ED.

Here I am, once again, writing about art, or at least trying to make sense of it.
To think that four years ago, I was sat around paint-stained tables, with my friends, scribbling away about Mondrian and Kahlo. We would exchange our answers when our teacher left the classroom to attend to administrative issues — the test was hardly important, anyway, and we’d rather be painting. So whispers filled the classroom, “What do cupboards signify in Dali’s paintings?”, “What does blue mean?”, “What is the painting about?”

“What is the painting actually about?”

Four years later, I’m here, once again; attempting to write about art, again. Or at least trying to discover how one writes about art, then realising the impossibility of the task — again. God knows how I found myself in this rut despite having sworn off the study of art history years ago. If only I could better transmute my sentiments into mere language, or failing which, I could simply turn in a painting instead of a paper.

“She looked before she drank. Looking was part of drinking. Why waste sensation, she seemed to ask, why waste a single drop that can be pressed out of this ripe, this melting, this adorable world?” — Virginia Woolf, Between The Acts
Only Woolf could describe the world as “adorable” and not sound reductive doing it.