Inspiration Series: No.2 - Russell Herman

I know very little of my father, so when today I received photographs of him playing with his band District Six in 1983 it sparked a desire in me to collect the images together in one place with a little piece for him. Russell Herman was of South African descent and moved to London in 1982. Alongside playing in District Six, a band made up of other South African musicians from the infamous district in Cape Town, he also stood as a member of the ground-breaking band Estudio. What set apart Estudio, who left almost no recorded legacy, is that they existed as a mixed-race group playing together in the midst of the apartheid - at a time when it would have been forbidden to do so. 

Estudio performing in South Africa in the 70s

My memories of the period we shared are scarce, and revolve mainly around his love of Tunnock's tea cakes, and so it is his contribution to music that I choose to remember him for. The kind of unity it exhibits is something that I hope to continually channel in my own life, in a bid to stand against the systems that I disagree with, and commit myself to holding strong beliefs. In his later life, Russell continued to support the distribution of South African music in London, in particular through the pianist Bheki Mseleku. He left the world in 1998 as a man well respected among his peers, as a jazz musician and avid lover of music. Though we do not often hear his name shared it is not for want of contribution to the musical arts. Today he acts as my inspiration. Indeed, one that may be distant and hazy in the best sense of the word, but all the same a man that I must recognise as a strong part of my identity.

Photos courtesy of Kenneth J Gill

The Inspiration Series: No.1

Over the past few weeks I've found myself in a bit of a rut. It's one of those things that inevitably occurs at various points in life. Though not exclusive to being young, it seems that there is an added uncertainty to being in your 20s. In an attempt to figure out the visualisation we hold for our futures we often find ourselves at a loss. Not only is there the question of what you want to do with your life, there is the added pressure of attempting to figure out who you are and how you fit into the larger space of the world. This is something that has always baffled me, as I'm sure it does many others. It occurred to me in the past couple of years that the logic behind figuring out who you are is flawed, for are you not already yourself? 

So then when you reach a crossroads (or in fact a standstill) in your life, uncertain of what the next logical progression should be, it sometimes takes a nudge to find the motivation to continue. Out of that feeling of loss in my own life, The Inspiration Series is born. The intention is to write a weekly piece on something that has inspired me. At those points where I am unsure of where my life may take me, I always manage to find solace in the successes and creativity of the people I come into contact with. The idea is to create a collection of stories to convince not only myself, but hopefully somebody reading this, that there is a world of possibilities out there to explore. 

The first of these comes from this weekend, and a visit I made to the open studios at St James Yard in Bermondsey (South London). The freedom that appears to come with being an artist attracts me to the profession. Not being limited by your trade or discipline, but instead transcending many alternate crafts and lines of work. Having an artist for a mother I am aware that this is a romanticised way of looking at the art world. The kind of struggles that exist within it are as present as in any field, if not more so. Still, St James Yard is an indication of the level of diversity that can exist in a creative space. Work extends from sculpture, printmaking and drawing, all the way to woodwork. When you first approach the accumulation of open doors you are met with the exceptionally hand crafted boats, built by Arthur De Mowbray. Instantly sparking curiosity, a subsequent trip around the corridors leads to a further array of treasures. I'm inspired then by the knowledge that you are never restricted in creation. Even if external factors interfere, nothing can prevent your imagination from flowing. Though one might inevitably experience lulls, upon taking a step out into the world it is possible to find hubs of individuality to encourage you to keep moving forward. 

For more information on the artists at St James Yard visit http://330studios.co.uk

Indulgent Saturdays

Life has become quite hectic since the beginning of term. Between uni and holding down two jobs it feels as if I've always got somewhere to be. It then becomes necessary to take time out to just wander around, without having a direction or final destination, allowing the day to take you where it may. Last Saturday I had a day off and decided to indulge in some of my favourite past times.

One of the best places to get lost in Brighton is Duke's at Komedia. In order to satisfy my fascination with the cinema fully I decided to make two visits. Whoever said everything in moderation clearly never tested the waters of excess (the grass is always greener after all). The cinema never fails to leave me with a feeling of calm. The sense of unity that occurs by being in a darkened room filled with strangers all sharing in the same experience is unrivalled elsewhere. 

The middle of the day tends to be the best time to go to the cinema. Between 11 and 12 the seats are barely filled meaning you're spoilt for choice on where to sit. On this particular day I decided to take the back row, leaving me as the only person in the last 5. The final line of sofas became my home and I settled in feeling more welcome than I do in most other places. Chai latte and maple pecan in hand, I smiled at the knowledge that I am definitely my mother's daughter. When I feel separated from her by distance I find that lone cinema trips are the perfect way to feel that connection reestablished. I imagine her at my age, sat in a cinema not so unlike the one I find myself in, my own position reflected in her content solitude with only a coffee for companionship. I think it's possible that I become more like her every day. 

Following the film I met my friend Beth and the two of us decided to go for lunch. Wandering through the lanes on a Saturday is always a pleasant thing to do. The roads become lined with tables and chairs. An absence of cars, and the floods of people being forced to move with leisure, gives the impression that this is a time to take things at a slower pace. One of those Autumnal days that is both crisp and light met me upon exiting the darkened walls of the screen. Eyes adjusted, I perched at a table amongst the pattern of seated bodies and waited for Beth's arrival. We then sat for a few minutes before picking up and making our way towards Silo, a new zero waste cafe and the first of its kind in the UK. A lunch that consisted of a creamy latte and even creamier risotto left us filled to bursting. Time then for a stroll around the city, conversing all the way.

Amaretto coffees at Beth's followed and then a visit to another friend's house for dinner. The nice thing about being in our second year of university is that everyone has their own homes. Little houses decorated with individual expressions of their residents, it sometimes feels nearer to young children playing house. The excitement at being invited over for a meal still resembles going over for a play date in primary school. Themes of relaxation continued as I was presented with a spread of food and no need to lift a finger. Early evening was consumed by records. Blood on the Tracks transported me back to my flat in London. Sat on the carpet while my mum makes dinner in the kitchen, smells of comfort wafting in through the open plan room adjacent to my small frame. I'm met by the great wonder of memory, and the ability for a sound to knock you back a decade, consumed by the comfort of another time. 

A night walk home was accompanied by Bobby Womack and affectionate thoughts for the city underfoot. Brighton is now bound up in so many positive things, it's difficult not to walk around with a smile on my face. The light breeze that cast its way through my loose curls made the lamppost lit pavements all the sweeter. As one sleepy haze fell over the houses and a further transcended, awaking ready to embrace the coming hours, I prepared to end my day in much the same way it began. In great Groundhog Day style a darkened path was taken back to the depths of Komedia. A Saturday spent making up for the hectic week ahead and a realisation for the necessity of time spent alone as much as in the company of loved ones.

Silo

Not many restaurants come with a mission statement, but then Silo isn't just any restaurant. Dubbed the UK's first zero-waste cafe, the idea is in the title. The crux of founder Douglas McMaster's intention? To serve locally sourced and ethically grown food, without generating waste. When people hear the term zero-waste often it leaves notions of rotting food and empty stomachs, but that couldn't be further from the truth. The experience Silo offers manages to be both sophisticated and relaxed, with an approachable and open attitude to accompany the exceptionally presented dishes. 

Upon arriving at the restaurant we were promptly seated by one of the two friendly waitresses. The nice thing about Silo is they make you feel as if you are the most important person in the place. Complimentary cucumber water and homemade bread had as rubbing our eyes in disbelief. If you've never tried cucumber water let me tell you now, there's something about adding those little green slices that sends things spiralling down a path you're bound to get hooked on. All of the drinks are served in jam jars, which though some have claimed is now fairly niche, added a personal touch that sits well among the hand written chalk board menus. There is an impression that great effort has been put into each minute detail. That's before even mentioning the bread, which is homemade on site using their very own flour mill. You can tell from the taste - closer to eating a malt loaf, with a rich spongy texture and beautifully churned butter on the side. We'd already been made to feel fully satisfied before even receiving our food. 

The menu at Silo is simple. Four key aspects mean that you're not spoilt for choice, but what this means is that each meal is meticulously crafted with great consideration. A wide choice of juices (and the creamiest latte I've ever come across) as an accompaniment mean there's still room for variation on each visit. Being able to watch the chefs make the food in front of you is also a welcome treat. Cooking to this standard is a craft, the presentation becoming more of an art form than an afterthought. 

Continuing the individuality of the experience, our food was brought to us by Douglas himself, head chef and owner of Silo, who then proceeded to explain the idea behind the dishes. I went for the risotto, the method of which I was talked through swiftly. I discovered that the brown rice was cooked much in the same way as normal risotto, until the last moment when a paste was added, giving it extra flavour. The cheese was homemade using the leftover milk from the coffee machine, while the mushrooms were grown in the restaurant (displayed in full sight in the other room for the more curious of diners like myself) from the excess coffee grounds. The risotto was the richest I have come across, containing just the right amount of flavour to leave my taste buds quite literally tingling. The juices were happily mopped up by the bread, leaving no trace at all. The quality of the food itself could make claims for there being zero-waste, but in the unlikely situation that there is leftover food it is all made into compost and gifted out to local farmers and friends. I entered into silo expecting to leave with a clear conscience at the least and was met with an experience unlike any I have found before when dining out. The care that is found at every turn means that customers will come back time and time again. This really should be the future of eating out, for it makes all the other establishments appear decidedly in the dark ages. 

Finding Fela

Fela Kuti is a name with much behind it. Forefather of Afrobeat and a widely renowned Nigerian activist, whose legacy has been largely lost in the West. Finding Fela sees documentarian Gibney attempt to alter this failing. The film looks loosely at the convening of the 2009 broadway musical, Fela!, and how it brought the musician's music to the masses - just as the film now continues to do. Through a combination of footage, photographs and intimate interviews with those who knew and were inspired by him, a picture is constructed that acknowledges ever aspect of his world. The complex history of Nigeria, detailing the civil war and the following military regimes that reigned throughout the 60s and 70s, alongside Fela's own life and music. Interweaving all these stories that are so full in their own right is a difficult thing to manipulate without losing the depth of the subjects, but Gibney does so with a sophistication that greatly informs the viewer while still leaving much to explore. 

This is a history marked with violence and hardship, but set to a narrative of Fela's music it is coated with a richness that expresses the joy and the passion of the people of the country. So no longer is this a faceless history or even an unknown place, it is a personal account. The film then hands to the West a glimpse of a world that is perhaps entirely foreign to them. Not only do we play witness to a meticulously sculpted and detailed portrait of a man, a musican, and a visionary but the country that inspired and fuelled him. We discover how Fela's life informed his music, so that his history is laced in the lengthy compositions. To find the man behind the songs you have to look through them, and Gibney does just that, using them as a premise for exploration.

When we think of revolutionaries there are names that reappear - Nelson Mandela, Malcolm x, Che Guevara - these are icons whose legacies have been solidified in history. Finding Fela places Kuti in his rightful place among these, as one of the only men who was brave enough to stand up against the authoritative military regimes of Nigeria. Here we are provided with a history that we should know. Through his music, his strong defiance was expressed in a way that spoke to the masses.  Not only did Fela shape the history of afrobeat, he provided Nigeria with a voice that lives on years past his death. Finding Fela ensures that this continues to happen. Forever live Africa. Forever live afrobeat. The meaning of Fela is now brought to England and people should be urged to witness it. 

The Labour of Love

I spend a lot of time deliberating over the ideal writing conditions. In my mind, I am sat in a little cafe in Paris, espresso by my side, scribbling notes by hand as an assortment of interesting people saunter past (this particular imagining features Dali emerging with his anteater by his side). The reality continues to fall short of this. Though I have scoured the many cafes of Brighton for a little corner of my own I always reach the same pattern of feeling I have outstayed my welcome. There are other factors too of course. Having the perfect chair (an old leather one that makes me appear tiny and fragile in comparison, ready to be swallowed by its aged canvas), having the ideal chai latte, good lighting, and enough privacy to remain anonymous in order to not be disturbed. Brighton offers an array of cafes, the most part of which I have quickly learnt to love. There is the Blackbird tea rooms, with its eclectic walls that reflect my grandma’s house; Marwood cafe and its decoration of model spaceships providing an always desirable extra terrestrial vibe; and the more recently discovered Brighton Museum & Art Gallery Cafe that sits on a balcony overlooking the museum, dwarfing the people below into miniatures to be captured on the fresh pages. The latter is a place that I may well feel at home but the truth of it remains.


In actuality, the places that I write are often randomly selected by a spurt of inspiration. Currently I am churning out words, slumped in my housemate’s bed while he listens to Bill Murray singing Christmas songs and tirelessly repeats the same phrase of ‘can we go and watch a film now please?’ Other favourites include the hour train ride from Brighton to London, crouched over my phone while frantically drumming my fingers on the screen in order to fill the yellow notes. Then there’s my front room back in London as my mum attempts to talk to me, only to be answered with sharp grunts that indicate I am otherwise occupied. It is from her that I recently discovered an article detailing the daily routines of writers. The thing that stuck with me was a quote from E.B. White — ‘A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.’ After spending the day talking about the difficulty of motivating oneself to write, a discussion that I seem to have time and time again, the answer seems painfully simple. Write. Write anywhere, anytime, anyhow. Don’t think about it - just do it. If I spent less time deliberating over the logistics of my work, and whether I even have the ability do it, and more time just getting on with it the plague of blank pages may finally cease to exist. 

"Starting tomorrow — if not today:

I will get up every morning no later than eight. (Can break this rule once a week.)

I will have lunch only with Roger [Straus]. (‘No, I don’t go out for lunch.’ Can break this rule once every two weeks.)

I will write in the Notebook every day. (Model: Lichtenberg’s Waste Books.)

I will tell people not to call in the morning, or not answer the phone.

I will try to confine my reading to the evening. (I read too much — as an escape from writing.)

I will answer letters once a week. (Friday? — I have to go to the hospital anyway.)"

-From Susan Sontag's diary, 1977

Brighton Fashion Week

It's been three years since I worked on London Fashion Week and thus three years since I last entered into the world of fashion. Even now I can still remember the kind of hysteria that seems to penetrate the whole affair. The manic pace at which everyone backstage works. That feeling of tension that remains right up until the moment the lights dim, the models file out and you know that things are out of your hands. Last weekend I managed to see things from the other side. Adding yet another reason to love my job, I was given tickets to the Sustain and Zeitgeist catwalk shows at Brighton Fashion Week. This time I got to drink wine, sit in the front row, and (despite getting drenched in torrential downpour on the way) pretend that I was Tavi Gevinson.

The Sustain catwalk show was based on the idea of sustainable fashion. The notion that our clothes shouldn't be disposable or follow trends. Instead they should be expressions of ourselves, something to be cared for without fuelling excessive consumption. As speaker Izzie Roffe-Silvester of Material Fiction suggested at the opening of the show - 'our clothes are our second skin'. The designers that graced the catwalk varied from the outlandish and obviously recycled, to subtly handmade constructions with hints of colourful crochet dominating the pieces. Victoria George's Knitty Gritty fell into the latter, with eye catching designs reminiscent of African prints. Each model was finished off with a pair of purple Dr Martens' 1460 boots (myself and my colleagues may have been more than a bit partial to the line). Still, George's clothes represented the side of the night that seemed more wearable and appealing to the everyday. Kumiko Tani and Kaori Ito's line in contrast, expressed the more far out side of things. The true definition of upcycled saw embellished and frankly stunning dresses made from plastic shopping bags and household items. A real indication of making something out of nothing. 

My favourite of the Sustain show came in the form of the surprising Brandy Nicole Easter, whose line is perhaps best described as endearing. A theme of cats ran through the collection, with cut out shapes embroidered in a style that reminded me of Matisse. Completed with a cat backpack, it was the cutesy details of the clothes that gave them a clearly handmade touch. Care and individuality was to be truly seen throughout the show.

The Zeitgeist catwalk continued the undertone of innovation by showcasing emerging designers. The nature of fashion week is that there are always a couple of people that shine cuts above the rest. For me that is always those who have a distinctly recognisable style. The first of these was Natalia Rivera. For the past week I haven't been able to get the image of sequin stencils of palm trees, leaves and flowers out of my head. I have been left to obsessively trawl the internet in the hope of having a piece of my own. The kind of item that you would centre your entire wardrobe around, carefully cherishing it and secretly caressing it at night. If our clothes are our second skin, I want mine to be embellished with sequin palm trees. 

If Rivera's work seemed offbeat, Louise O'Mahony made her look like toast with butter. Beautifully manipulated prints decorated with an array of pompoms and pieces that had been so meticulously embroidered that I found myself straining my eyes to get a closer look. When you talk about sustainability and fashion it often feels as if the two contradict one another. To promote such values within a world that's based on consumption seems counterintuitive. Then you observe designers such as the ones I've mentioned above and it becomes clear - the creation of clothing is an art form, an envisioning of individuality sculpted and brought to life in vivid colour. To claim our clothes are an indication of the person we are can be difficult, as that lays the construction of our identities in another's hands, but for these designers that suggestion is evidenced. To witness creative minds effect an external projection on to a catwalk really is fascinating. Here each stitch acts as a spark of their character spilling out of the seams and into the room before you.

Photographs sourced from Brighton Fashion Week and own

Amore e Piombo

Amore e Piombo: the photography of extremes in the 1970s. Translated - the love and lead - a title that encapsulates the juxtaposition of freedom and violence displayed in the collection of photos from 1970s Italy. A time characterised by upheaval, with revolt against the communist regime combined with a refusal of 'traditional' values in favour of the sexual liberation that has become so widely associated with the time period. The black and white images provide a stark glimpse of a much wider scene. The glamour of movie stars, the explicit destruction of explosions, the more subtle threat of exposed pistols, and the countless photographs of politicians at work reveal a surface which is impenetrable in its secrecy. If anything, what proves most interesting are the questions it raises 40 years on about the appearance of our own world. Captured in images that will remain unchanged by time, what will future generations infer from the many photos of the present day? 

The curation of the exhibition itself compliments the impact of the photographs. Cabinets lined with portraits give a sense of an archive of work, placing historicity at the forefront of discussion. Documentation of Aldo Moro's assassination lines the floor on blocks that hinder the pathway of the viewer, perhaps reflecting the nature of violence to act as an obstruction within life. The words of Moro's family loom in the background - 'As to Aldo Moro's life and death, let history judge.' And so it will.

Amore e Piombo is at Brighton Museum & Art Gallery until 2nd November. The exhibition stands as another of the many great free things to do in Brighton. It works as part of the wider Brighton Photo Biennial - the UK's largest photography festival. With 19 exhibitions and more than 50 events it leaves a lot to explore as the days grow increasingly colder. 

Rainy days and big ideas

Today I'm spending the most part of my time on trains pacing from the sleepy city of Bath and my slightly less sleepy best friend into the awaiting arms of blissful Brighton, and my home for now. Rain splattered window panes provide a misty haze as I watch the world whirl past. It's times like this that provide me with the perfect opportunity for unclouded contemplation. So as I sit in the welcoming blue chair, the Stones serenading me through one working headphone, I consider my life and what is to come.

I've always resented the fact that I'm a planner. I constantly have big ideas brewing in my overactive mind. The desire to be spontaneous and leave my fate to the throws of a hectic life always falls short to lists of ideals - places I want to go, things I want to achieve. Perched at the edge of a table, two businessmen in matching jackets seated opposite on their phones, I find myself doing just this. In an attempt that seems childish, I colour in my train ticket with a red felt tip and big notions for the future. Just over a month away from my 20th birthday, there is the consideration of how my 20s might be spent. 

Constant dreaming seems an adequate way to pass the time but then I also have to ensure that I don't lose my present in wild fantasies. At the end of the train line a current existence filled with a mixture of new and friendly faces, piles of books containing new worlds to get lost in and a working life that surrounds me with shoes, lies patiently. I have no clue where the next few years of my life will take me but if the direction continues to grace me with the same variation of adventures I'll welcome it with the same willingness as the little blue seat housing me for the next 3 hours.

Hairy situations

(Post late night hair ordeal)

1am hair cuts with blunt scissors. Cries of objection from my more sensible counterparts. The consideration that as the ageing process continues there isn't much time left for bad hair decisions. From the highly questionable triangle haircut I sported during my early teenage years, to the later shaved head that resembled less Natalie Portman and more a newly born lamb, and the final unspeakable bleaching incident that left me closer to a Simpson than I care to admit - my hairs been through the wars. At my own hands I have chopped and singed the life out of my locks, possibly in the hope that those ever unruly curls will have less of a mind of their own. I'm now sat in another late night/early morning position of staring at the kitchen scissors in deliberation. A recent post by my favourite blogger, discotheque confusion, considered the joys of a free home haircut. My current wonky fringe would suggest a lower success rate. How much longer will I feel comfortable with that fateful snip snip snip and consequential sporting of a dodgy head of hair for the following weeks? Then, I still manage to find a small sense of liberation in separating myself from the inanimate signifier of femininity that flows from my scalp. Even looking like a baby lamb for a year was made all the sweeter by the breeze on my head - far superior to any non-helmeted bike ride. Not so enjoyable were the cold ears and absent minded attempts to fiddle with my tresses out of boredom or awkwardness. After all I suppose it is nice to have something to hide behind if the moment demands it.

Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys.

To claim a book has life altering capabilities is not uncommon, though whether this is a substantial claim to make always comes into question. I have always been impressionable. The art that I come into contact with has a tendency to imprint itself upon my person, at least for a fleeting period of time. This goes back as far as carrying around a piece of ribbon in my pocket so I could pretend to be Violet Baudelaire at the age of 10. Even so, I do not throw around the term life changing lightly, or for that matter frequently. When discussing Viv Albertine's autobiography this is a phrase that reemerged from each person I spoke to, as a significant commonality.

For those of you who don't know, Albertine is perhaps most noted as guitarist of the 70s all-female punk band The Slits. Her recent autobiography, Clothes, Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys. stitches together a painting of a life that stretches much further than this. Yes, it is emblazoned with a frank depiction of the UK punk scene - with personal accounts of Sid Vicious and Mick Jones, both of whom Albertine was acquainted with. Beyond this,  however, lie engaging reflections of a daughter, mother and wife. The book is underpinned with the passions of a musician, yet stands alone as an often painfully honest piece of writing. Viv takes leaps over a simple portrait of the music industry by considering the position of women and the choices they are faced with in a way that is continually relatable.

The whole of Clothes reads at great ease. Albertine's distinct voice, which is both humorous and grounded, resounds throughout. All in all the book is likeable. It is a pleasure at each turning and remains without pretence. For me, it was not so much life changing as life affirming. The doubts and falters that line a life as full as hers are still entirely recognisable. To have the same level of consciousness echoed in the words of a woman who has stood as such an inspiration, above all was reassuring. That those same uncertainties break through as clear as day, signposting each point alongside a voice that remains unapologetically defiant, is refreshing. What Albertine offers is a full and uninhibited portrayal of the self, providing a guiding light of reference for women both young and old. Almost as an accidental role model, it is through her honesty that Albertine reveals truths about being a woman that have perhaps been refined to the corners of our psyché. Her words resonate as the shared difficulties that permeate everyday life. It may not make claims for every woman's experiences, yet it does not attempt to hide its own and thus acts as an example of the kind of openness that can only be helpful for such a mystified gender. Here is not just a reflection of one woman's story, but a necessary invitation into at least one reality of womanhood. 

An Ode to Anna

Nineteen seems to be one of those decidedly in-between ages. It's hard to decipher whether you're coming or going, with changes of location and surroundings being prominent factors. The past year saw me pack up my life in London, exchanging the hectic drum of city life for the slightly more sedated shores of Brighton's seaside town. A year on, having witnessed as they completed everything from travels across India to Art foundations I get to watch as a greater proportion of my friends become scattered around the country. There is a heightened sense of longing as I observe the distance between us increase. Somewhere along the line a feeling of mourning has established itself in the pit of my stomach, as if the reality of letting go of those years spent a walk away from my favourite people has come into fruition. This seems a strange fate, due to the fact that a year has passed since I made the similar move of bidding farewell to my home in favour of new adventures. Then there are the other emotions - of anticipation and excitement. Throwing caution to the wind and stepping out into the unknown. I could never have predicted the kind of paths I would be led down through straying from London, though in hindsight they appear small there is no doubt of their altering capabilities. I share in that anticipation now, as I regard some of the best people I have had the pleasure of knowing make the same branch off into a world of their choosing. This, then is for them. With four people particularly in mind, this is an indication of my faith in their endeavours. May they enter into their new lives with the assurance that their presence, for me, has been both humbling and necessary during the tumultuous years of my teenage life. The journeys that they are about to embark upon are going to be made all the more wonderful by the beauty that they continue to carry with them and dazzle others with. May the next year bring them new levels of joy, creativity and success. At the end of it all I will be sitting on that same red sofa waiting to hear of your adventures and pretend that no time has passed at all.

Dreaming in Berlin

It's taken me the best part of the summer to get myself together to write this post. Like a lot of things in life, my trip to Berlin that occurred in mid-June has gathered a dust of haze that has illuminated its edges with a sweet tinge of romanticism. If you are familiar with my past writing at all you have probably already become accustomed to my partiality towards this. The one thing that I am asked time and time again by friends is the best things to do when visiting the city of wonder, so based on my experience I've compiled a list of 10 tips. I'd love to hear some of your own in return.

1) Stay somewhere out of the ordinary
When picking a hostel to spend a week in Hannah and I did the usual thing of trailing through trip advisor feeling increasingly despondent. Friends who I have spoken to have done everything from couch surfing to hostel hopping, the former sounding like one of the best ways to really delve into the heart of the city. We settled on the slightly obscure option of a hostel boat. Eastern Comfort is situated directly behind the East Side Gallery, something which took us a little bit too long to discover. Surrounded by Friedrichshain in the former East, my personal favourite district, and Kreuzberg in the former West you really couldn't ask for a better location with transport links a mere skip and a jump down the road. We found ourselves in a little cabin with just enough space for 6 bunk beds, but one look out of the window at the river cascading in the sun and the space appeared to stretch endlessly before us. Though many a morning was spent in deliberation as to whether it was in fact the boat that was moving or our fragile heads, nothing quite matched being perched on the outside deck, glass of wine in hand, in the cool evening breeze. 

2) Have breakfast outside
A brief walk along the streets of Friedrichshain will display rows of cafes, lined with tables on the street outside. Settling into a seat one morning, book in hand and pastry at the ready we found ourselves in perfect company. In a moment that was reminiscent of Snow White we became surrounded by a flock of tiny birds, perched on our table and chirping underneath. There seems no better way to spend a morning than watching the fluttered excitement of feathers over a few crumbs.

3) Indulge in an Indian
One of the great things about many of the restaurants in Berlin is the layout of tables, which face outwards towards the street so that everyone ends up sat in a prime people watching position. On the first night, we did exactly this over a beautifully selected Indian feast. The richness of the food held great superiority over the dishes in the UK, and we both ended up having to practically roll ourselves home for having eyes that are certainly bigger than our stomachs.

4) Don't get caught up on door policies
One downfall to Berlin is the notorious door policies of clubs. A night can go either way, as a breeze to go into places or the greatest challenge possible. If you scour the internet there are countless tips on how best to achieve entry but these can often prove entirely fruitless. Thankfully, with places staying open through much of the day and an abundance of locations to choose from there will always be something. Discovering the huge variation between the clubs of Berlin is one of the great joys of the nightlife. From entering into a building that from the outside resembled nothing more than an ordinary house, but opened out to reveal a tiny one-roomed tech-house club, to the blackout techno club that stretched into a courtyard where we danced the day away with sunlight streaming on to us. Of course, there is Berlin's infamous use of abandoned spaces, and for me Stattbad stood out as a cut above the rest. Positioned in an abandoned leisure centre, lined with pipes and ominous boilers that loom over you as you dance into the day, we got lost here for numerous hours among a crowd that was both approachable and warm, to the sound of Detroit Swindle. Sadly, when we went only part of the club was open but the rest of it boasts an impressive empty swimming pool turned dance floor. A real wonder compared to the dominantly sparse buildings of the UK scene. 

5) See the city by bicycle
If, like me, you are a bit of a restless person there's no better way to see a city than by bike. Following the distance of the u-bahn and speeding through parks under a canopy of trees. A feeling of weightlessness over the course of the day. It made it that much easier to get to grips with the layout of the city and discover my favourite parts. Clumsiness does prevail and I did find myself lying under an overturned wheel with a debris of smashed beer bottles scattered around me, but then I did leave with a few scabs to show for my day of fun and Hannah got the hilarious image of me toppling over at great speed. 

6) Get lost in Templehof Airport
As mentioned above, there is a cornucopia of abandoned areas to conquer across Berlin. My only regret is that I did not take the time to explore more of them. At least I have more reason to return and do so next time. Abandoned Berlin provides a detailed documentation of many of these sites so in preparation of a trip it can prove far more helpful than a travel guide. One of the better known and more accessible of the options is Templehof Airport, initially constructed in 1923 it underwent mass reconstruction by the Nazis in the 1930s in anticipation of increasing air traffic. Since its closure, the airport has now been transformed into a national park. Huge stretches of runways are now filled with skateboarders and cyclists, establishing one of the biggest playgrounds I've ever encountered. Under the ominous shadow of the airport itself there is nothing quite like watching the fading daylight emit itself against the huge structures. Next to the great expanse of tarmac a community garden has been created, establishing a commitment to horticulture that reminded me of the Green Fields at Glastonbury. Sculptures of airplanes are struck in miniature contrast to the real wartime models that can be observed dotted around the fields. A place definitely better seen on bicycle for maximum exploring potential.

7) Go to Mauerpark on a Sunday
At the point of entering Mauerpark on a sun filled Sunday I had not slept in 3 days. This inevitably enhanced the curiosity of being lost in a mass of crowds scouring the flea market. Still in no way comparable to my astonishment at being met with a stone amphitheatre filled with onlookers of a karaoke set. Much of Berlin seems to descend on the park to lounge about on a lazy Sunday and with the fading cries of a stranger's voice filling the air it is certainly set apart from your average day in a park. 

8) Venture out of the city centre for some wild swimming
11am and I find myself leaving the dark constraints of another Berlin club and entering into the waiting rays of light pressing down against my tired eyes. Jumping on a train, I am quickly led out of the hectic buzz of a city day, and before I can grab my bearings I am walking through a vast woodland, enveloped by rows of trees as far as the eye can see. Eventually the trees start to diminish in numbers and we find ourselves at a clearing, staring hard at the idyllic setting before us. A perfectly still lake awaits, with the only sign of life surrounding it being the outline of a nudist doing yoga in the morning light and a single tent erected among the strips of long grass. It transpired as one of those pinch yourself moments where I was convinced that I must be dreaming. The completeness of that single moment, presented with an image of nature at its height, is still beyond me. Skinny dipping in the ice cold waters ensued before we collectively passed out in the sun among the hum of cicadas. Entirely at peace and in the company of my favourite people, I have never felt such an extreme appreciation for a present moment. It sits as the pinnacle of my time in Berlin and an indication of the scattered opportunities that the city offers. 

9) Find some locals to show you around
Leading me on to the penultimate line of advice for an expedition through the varied waters of Berlin. Find someone to guide you along the way. We were lucky enough to have the exceptional companionship of two people who had spent time previously getting to grips with the city and without them our experience would in no way be the same. Their commitment to showing us the best of Berlin ensured that we left with a great fondness for the city in tow. 

10) Leave your expectations at the door and be prepared for adventure
The one thing that people returning from Berlin seem to have in common is an overwhelming urge to go back. It is this that assures me that the possibilities that are offered by the winding streets are endless. As long as you travel with an open mind, ready for whatever may meet you along the path, I have no doubt that the charm of the city will affect you in the same way it has everyone I know. 

All photography (except Templehof Airport) by Lizzy Gilson.

Home is where the heart is

I'm sat in the front room of the home I knew for the first 18 years of my life. There are differences from when I first lived here. The endless stacks of magazines have now been sorted through, leaving a distinct feeling of space in the otherwise cluttered room. As the sun streams through the window, filtering through the heavily leafed  branches outside, there remains a feeling of recognition despite these minor changes. The way the blankets of green reflect in the cabinet doors sends waves of nostalgia of many afternoons spent sat on the woven carpets underfoot. I am listening to Bright Eyes, one particular album that I used to listen to on a loop as I walked home from school, enhancing that feeling that I have been transported back to another period of my life. Simultaneously I am an infant, decorating the floor with an array of lego blocks from the seemingly bottomless green canvas box in the corner of the room, and a teenager sitting on a wooden chair across from my mum as I tell her of my recent trip to Portugal, watching as the sun draws patterns upon my sun kissed skin. Every time I now return to this room I appear changed. By my recent travels, or my first year living on my own. The red velvet sofa remains consistently the same, though the holes in its back are telling of an ageing process not too separated from my own, but a different person sits on it. Even so, as I hang out the washing I am overcome by that same smell of fresh linen and find myself surrounded by all those previous versions. There is a resounding comfort of being back in this room that I hope will never change; of having a base, a sanctuary that refuses to alter alongside the continual changes of a hectic life. My mother who continues to perch on the end of that same sofa, listening to me ramble on with an understanding that never falters. As I ready myself to return once again to the building I have learnt to call home for the past 2 months, anticipating my second year at university, I take great comfort in knowing that my second home will remain beckoning at the end of a train line. The walls laced with memories of a childhood all but lost and the one consistent of a parent, characterised by an unconditional care that will not be matched anywhere else. 

Blogging from Budapest

             

Sitting on a white bench in the middle of Margaret island surrounded by matching white trellis, an array of pink and white flowers in full bloom and the gentle click of crickets and distant hum of laughter. I am alone for the first time in days. It gives me a chance to gather my reflections of Budapest, a city I found myself flying towards at the start of the week.

       

In reminiscence the thing that strikes me the most are the buildings. A selection of mystifying architecture that on paper is probably best described as confused. There appears to be no continuity between the renaissance style palaces and art nouveau houses, leaving an impression that is timeless in practice. Combined with the strange tin can buses and bright yellow trams, there is a feeling of cultures colliding. 

           

Walking down the street with the wind blowing my curls about me in disarray I cannot draw my eyes from the structures that tower over me. They are consuming in their individually distinct character as they loom against the backdrop of the midday sky. It is easy to feel lost here, or at least to lose oneself. The ties of my life back home fade with rapid force and with the normal stresses dispersed I am free to at last be the person I know I am at core - entirely at ease in my surroundings. 

          

Walking past parliament in the beating down sun and feeling a clarity in the slight breeze. Such calm may seem like a simple notion but it is one that is lost in London. Approaching the river and smelling the salty sea air, there's something almost Mediterranean about a city posed on rolling hills set to a foreground of silky waters. That's the thing about Budapest though, it's charm isn't rational. It's as if someone has taken all the magical elements of the countries of Europe and constructed one city of their own idealised imagination. Perhaps it is the yellow tint of my sunglasses that makes everything appear as through a filter, or the romanticism of being in a foreign land but neither the lens of my camera nor my words can capture the essence of being in a new place, separated from the endless buzz of a city too familiar. 

As we coax back into the mainland, night has fallen upon the decadent structures of the palaces. The skyline is dotted with illuminated steeples and a slither of moon that hangs low, observing the bodies beneath. A place has never felt so close to magic as we drift back among the other enchanted figures, ready for it's spell to breeze over us once more.

           

With the days remaining in our recent home diminishing, final promises of Turkish baths and jazz clubs linger on the horizon. The next leg of our adventure will see us travel 6 hours by train to the sunny forts of Croatia and what I anticipate will be the considerably less peaceful surroundings of Outlook festival. The only thing I'm sure of is the prospect of returning to England's awaiting arms is becoming increasingly undesirable with each passing day. 

           

There's a Party in Croatia

The way that I observe my life appears as something along the lines of a prolonged comedy sketch. A string of embarrassing mishaps and continual mistakes that I have gradually learnt to seek humour in. Probably (hopefully) more characteristic of my age than my core person. It then appears that if you take a group of girls entering their 20s and place them in a foreign country the disastrous elements become heightened. Spending the past week in sunny Croatia at Outlook Festival this was certainly evidenced.

An experience that began with almost missing our 6 hour train from Budapest, followed by queuing for an hour and a half in a torrential downpour, losing my purse with the contents of all my bank cards and money on the second night, tied up by a series of misadventures that are perhaps not so blog appropriate - it seems that almost everything that could go wrong, did... All the same, as I find myself back in the familiar confines of my mother's sitting room all I can muster is a desire to be back in the dusty ruins of Fort Punta. Despite the initial fear of being forced to beg for tokens at the side of arenas, I can say with the upmost assurance that I have never spent a week feeling more without a care than the week just gone. So then what is it about the bass festival, now in its 7th year, that has the ability to instil such ease even at times of panic?

Entering into the campsite just outside Pula on the first day, drenched to the bone and covered in mud, I found myself fighting the urge to feel immediately disheartened. The general morale of the group had been rapidly dashed by continual complaints and despite my best efforts I found myself struggling to resist comparisons to the rainy backdrops of UK festivals. After ditching our backpacks, the clouds had cleared but my scepticism had kicked in in full force. Maybe I travelled all this way for yet another mud bath. I could've just caught a ferry to the Isle of Wight instead of trekking to the other side of Europe. 

Mustering the last of the days strength we set off towards the beach with low expectations and a healthy dose of British cynicism in tow. As with other festivals I've become accustomed to the fact that you hear the music well before you see it. Similar to the moment of standing on a sweat filled tube as it nears Westbourne Park on Carnival day and you feel the structures underfoot begin to rattle. Rising anticipation as you feel the bass start to run through you. Then it's upon you, the sight of a swarm of bodies, locked together in exaggerated movement. This, however, was unlike anything I've seen before. A crowd outstretched along crystal waters, extending as far as the eye can see. In the snap moment it took my eyes to adjust, taking it in, all those stresses and doubts had vanished, dispersed into thin air. It's that age old thing - no description can match the reality. Though I've seen the photos and heard the stories, it takes for you to stand in the midst of it to truly grasp it. 

The consecutive days passed in a length of bliss. Beginning by lazing in the beating down sun and swimming in the clear streaks of water before descending on a playground of ruins lined with some of the best soundsystems I've ever come into contact with. The creators of Outlook claim they wanted to reflect soundsystem culture - 'heavyweight soundsystems, in a friendly, warm and inspiring peninsular, sea-side location.' Well with one of the most incredible settings they seem to have stumbled upon the perfect combination; thousands of people out to have a good time in a literal paradise. Whenever people comment on the friendliness of festival crowds I'm always sceptical. Largely happy groups are easily hindered when among such a high concentration of people, and although you might reflect my scepticism I've never been among such an entirely warm congregation. It could be the influence of the surroundings, but over the week it was simple to observe, everybody seemed to be in a state of ecstasy. Days that felt like months and a feeling of calm that is yet to shift, all I know is I'm counting down every second until I find myself back under the Croatian sun.