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Letter from the Creative
Welcome to this semester’s issue of ST.ART Magazine. With the theme °BEYOND °, our ninth issue is dedicated to promoting the immense creative talent found amongst the students and artists of St Andrews, Scotland and beyond. We received an amazing number of submissions and more photography than ever. This issue is your very own escape from looming revision: our contributors’ work will take you beyond the bubble, beyond your own reality and towards a variety of perspectives and experiences. We are very excited about our first ever ST.ART fashion shoot which was set in our beautiful hometown and features the work of up-and-coming Scottish knitwear designer, Eve Gardiner. The creative process, from putting the shoot together to the stunning results, was so exciting and we look forward to it becoming a regular feature. Beyond this semester and into the new year, ST.ART has even more cracking plans to continue being a platform for all things creative including many more ways to getr involved, not to mention launching our brand spanking new website. From everyone on the ST.ART team, good luck in your exams, have an amazing Christmas holiday, and ring in the New Year with style. And remember, take inspiration from anyone, anything, the bubble, and beyond.
MATTHEW BUCHAN
both / NEFELI PIREE ILIOU
above / POLLY MITCHELL right / KUFASSE BOANE
WITCHES AND WICKED BODIES SCOTTISH NATIONAL GALLERY OF MODERN ART Witches and witchcraft have always been source of endless fascination, From sketches in Monty Python, studying them at History A-level, or the fact that they are intertwined with the modern day fascination with all things vampire (Vampire Diaries, Twilight). Obviously we just can’t get enough of them (unlike our ancestors who tried just about every method possible to be rid of them), hence why they Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art dedicated one of their largest exhibitions of the year to the subject. Gathering works from all over the UK, the exhibition featured works by Albrecht Dßrer, William Blake and Francisco de Goya. Spanning the past 500 years, it was intriguing to walk through the series of rooms and be witness to the changing image of witches over the years. Some paintings made the witches look sensual and enticing, whereas the majority showed their grotesqueness and the
repulsion they caused. The gothic paintings were the most eye catching. As you stared in horror at multiple faces, all deformed in the act of uttering curses and spells, the witches blended into one to become the stuff of nightmares. Whilst the earlier works focused more on the body and the face, further into the gallery there was a trend towards depicting accessories that accompany witchcraft such as animals, bones, plants, and demons. Many of these trinkets could have been discarded in a single glance, yet were concisely explained in the blurb that accompanied the painting. Perhaps my favourite work of the exhibition was The Magic Circle by John William Waterhouse. Waterhouse creates a sense of mysticism surrounding the girl in the painting rather than revulsion, capturing the exoticism of her location in the wonderfully depicted light. This insight to a world beyond our reality really was exceptional. words / IMMY GUEST
ANNA GUDNASON / previous page MATTHEW BUCHAN
GALINA NETYLKO
Eve Gardiner is redesigning knitwear. After graduating from Heriot-Watt University’s School of Textiles earlier in 2013, this young Scot has already begun to garner attention from across the UK for her unusual, yet thoroughly wearable knitwear. With a spot as a finalist in the 2013 Knitted Textile Awards, an exhibition at New Designers 2013, and a handful of prestigious features and internships under her belt, Gardiner is cutting edge. Unconcerned with convention, Gardiner’s pieces defy the traditional, frumpy knit. Her work is meticulously designed with long, dreamy lines and a sophisticated silhouette. Always on the look out for up-and-coming Scottish talent, ST.ART is delighted to showcase Gardiner’s latest collection. The unpretentious glamour of Gardiner’s knits inspired the shoot’s tongue-in-cheek look at the British seaside, making the most of the pieces’ shimmering colours and status as knitwear. With a combination of the drab and the magnetic, the stagnant and the dynamic, WINTER AT THE BEACH captures the eerie stillness of winter in a seaside town and its last remaining holiday-goer. For the full shoot, visit Facebook.com/St.artmagazine WWW. EVE-GARDINER.SQUARESPACE.COM
WINTER AT THE BEACH
garments /EVE GARDINER photography /ANNA GUDNASON model /HELEN HENDERSON
ANNA GUDNASON
TO TRANSPORT YOU BEYOND THE CONFINES OF THE LIBRARY Johnny Black- Robin Mood feat Chromatics Cirus (Atom Tree Rework) - Bonobo Locked - Jona Mayr and Parra for Cuva Place de la Republique ( Rauschhaus Kuschellhouse) - Coeur de Pirate Ghostwriter - RJD2 Easy Muffin - Amon Tobin Sun Will Rise - Speech Debelle and Bonobo Being Yourself - Mano le Tough Television People - Axel Boman Howling (ﾃ［e Remix) - Frank Wiedemann and Ry Cumir
NAZIRA KASSENOVA’S PLAYLIST
KUFASSE BOANE /previous page KELLY DIEPENBROCK
KELLY DIEPENBROCK
Beyond Our Reach Works of Art Lost to Time
image /SAGE LANCASTER
When you think about it, the idea that one can teach, or study, human history is somewhat ludicrous. To condense hundreds of years of existence into periods, or eras, each characterized by a choice array of defining events is incredibly reductive; the lives of millions, their love and toil and temper is passed over by the bespectacled eye of the sage historian in favor of that of their more prominent, more revolutionary contemporaries. We will never know the names of these anonymous individuals, much less recognize their quiet, quotidian achievements: a dribble of paint on the canvas of a contemporary of Picasso, a sorry sonnet scrawled on a beer napkin by an admirer of Shakespeare – these have eroded like so many saplings into the roaring river of time, gone but not mourned,
for we cannot grieve over that which we did not know. There are, however, works of art and literature that tantalize the modern day historian, important pieces that have made an appearance in the annals of time only to vanish, torturously irretrievable and therefore implicitly all-important. One instance of the loss of a considerable amount of collected literature occurred around 48 BC, when the Library of Alexandria in Egypt – supposedly the host of hundreds of thousands of scrolls of meticulously compiled knowledge from all corners of the ancient world – was burned during Caesar’s civil war, at least to a certain extent. The Library allegedly existed in a lesser form for some four hundred years, until thoroughly torched in 391 AD under the reign of Emperor Theodisius I, who disagreed
with the pagan philosophies featured in the Library collection and therefore ordered them decimated. The burning of the Library of Alexandria has become emblematic of unattainable cultural knowledge. It represents the perpetual marginalization of art in light of political power, all of that beautiful thought carefully absorbed by papyrus scrolls and then cruelly eaten by the flames of intolerance and imperial feuding. We will never know what, exactly, was contained in those lost scrolls: they were likely reproductions of ancient Greek texts – one of them may, in fact, have been the Margites, Homer’s first epic poem - a comedy – written before the Iliad and the Odyssey. It is alluded to in Aristotle’s On the Art of Poetry, and considered by the aforementioned philosopher as the epitome of comic composition. History – or our limited conception of it – is littered with the idealized ‘lost works’ of famous artists: plays or paintings that, were they accessible, would surely contribute to the beauty of the modern world, and serve as manifestations of unsurpassed artistic talent. Some art is ‘lost’ for dubious or unknown reasons: Leonardo da Vinci’s Medusa Shield, a painting of the head of the mythological Medusa emblazoned on a shield, is said to have been sold to Florentine merchants by da Vinci’s father, who considered it macabre. The explanation of its disappearance is questionable, yet this work may have served as inspiration for Caravaggio’s Head of Medusa. A little more than half a decade later, to the west of Italy, a man named William
Shakespeare led his acting company, the King’s Men, in a rendition of his play Cardenio, thought to relate to Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote, which involves a character by that name. Though there is proof that it was acted for King James in 1613, the manuscript was never found. Other works of art, like those in the Library of Alexandria, disappear during war or national turmoil, a casualty of human avarice. During World War II, hundreds of prominent, valuable works of art went missing due to either artillery or appropriation by Nazis: Raphael’s “Portrait of a Young Man”, taken from a private collection in 1939, is one masterpiece stolen by the Nazi Army and since unseen. “The Amber Room”, an ornately decorated chamber built by artist Andreas Schluter for the King of Prussia in the 18th century – sometimes referred to as the ‘eighth wonder of the world’ - was looted by Nazis and, composed entirely of amber, unconscionably sold for spare parts. Vincent Van Gogh’s “The Painter on the Road to Tarascon” is thought to have been destroyed during Allied bombing of Magdeburg, while Gustave Courbet’s “The Stone Breakers” was destroyed in an Allied siege near Dresden. So much of art – and history – remains beyond our grasp, in the dark, musty space outside the remits of our imagination. Our knowledge of its existence is but a tease, a reminder of the total indifference of time, even when concerning the pinnacles of human achievement. TAMAR ZIFF
ANNA GUDNASON
SAGE LANCASTER
ANASTASIA DAUKAS
MATTHEW BUCHAN
KELLY DIEPENBROCK
Bird Dream
My wife was complaining about the birds, again. They sat outside our small cottage in rows, pecking at the ground. There were hundreds of them; pigeons, flea-infested pests. I didn’t care, so long as they stayed outside the house, but they scared my son and so they had to go. He lay in bed every night, sweating in the knowledge that they were out there, persistently pecking. I had watched them for many nights now, their grey bodies shining in the dark, apparently ignorant of how bizarre their behaviour was to the human observer. Tonight it became too much. We had a fight, fuelled by red wine and overcooked lamb. She had gone to bed and I faced them once more, this time intent in my motive, powerful now I knew there was a problem to be eliminated. I pushed open the top half of the kitchen door and smelled the air. It was cool
and calming on my muggy head. I stretched before undoing the bottom latch and entered the garden with flailing arms. I felt foolish making so much motion without sound, but I didn’t want to wake them inside or disturb the neighbours. The birds made no motion. They continued to bob at the ground. This unnerved me. Spurred on by drunken anger I waded into their midst. Insolence! Pure insolence! Fucking things wouldn’t scatter. I kicked my feet out in a sort of jig side to side. I planted myself and firmly took aim at the nearest one with my boot. It made satisfying contact and the pigeon flew through the air in a silent arc. It made no sound; it did not even attempt to flap its wings. It fell, splat, on the ground with its wings bent weirdly. The birds around me pecked at the ground. My cheeks were flushing and my ears were
pumping. Something coursed around my body causing a chemical reaction that separated my brain and limbs. I stamped in every direction, squashing tiny bodies and skulls into the grass. Bones splintered under my feet. Feathers and blood congealed on my soles. I marched on, faster and more furious with every confirming crack. The outer edges of the lawn were still infested with creatures, bobbing and bobbing and I strode towards them, purposeful and clear-headed. I picked up a bird around its middle and wrenched its apart, splitting the neck from the torso. A thin spinal bone pierced my forefinger, but I pulled it out and threw it on the floor spattering my own blood on the carcass. I stooped and reached for another, and another, crawling on my knees now, ripping and tearing and smashing my fists on their heads. Once the frenzy was over I stopped
and stared at the goddamn bird massacre I had created around me. Nothing was living anymore, but I didn’t care. I made no attempt to clean up the mess of black detritus that now covered our once immaculate lawn. Back in the kitchen light I felt suddenly panicked. I left my shoes at the door. I was filthy and slowly walked to the bathroom. I took off my clothes and stepped into the shower. Hot water hit my face, scalding me but removing sweat, blood and feathers. I stayed long enough to let the water eventually turn from pink to clear and scooped up feathery mulch from the drain before getting out of the shower. I didn’t remember getting into bed that night. In the cocoon of flowery morning duvet only flashes of dying birds came to me. I shut my eyes to the bright day and pulled the sheets over my head.
LARA JOHNSON-WHEELER
LINDSAY STEVENS
Matthew Buchan Nefeli Piree Iliou Kufassee Boane Polly Mitchell Immy Guest Galina Netylko Anna Gudnason Tamar Ziff Sage Lancaster Kelly Diepenbrock Anastasia Daukas Lara Johnson-Wheeler Lindsay Stevens
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Contributing
The Team
Editor in Chief / Nicole Horgan Managing Editor / Bianca Howard Creative Director / Hettie O’Brien PR director / Katya Leibholz Fashion Editor / Vanessa Krooss Music Editors / Eleanor Quinn, Nazira Kassenova Blog Editor / Charlotte Coote Photography Editors / Anna Gudnason, Kelly Diepenbrock, Nefeli Piree Iliou Friends and Resources / Claire Abrahamson, Claire Simon Sponsorship / Polly Mitchell, Rose Pallone, Gus Townsend
The Team
Events / Ruoy Zhang, Chris Govier, Devon Williams, Elizabeth Panton, Sarah Pollock, Lizzie Gow