Amy Winehouse

Armed with a voice that knew no bounds, she also possessed the fragility and the longing of wanting to be loved, which is something that each and every one of us can relate to. Her delivery of unashamed and brutal honesty within her music was her tool which she had truly mastered like no one else.

Rest in peace Amy. You will be missed terribly.

Super 8

Written for Thirst For Vision.

There’s something about super 8 film that seems to capture a moment in time almost as if it was a memory cut straight from our brains and directly transpired into film. It’s within those often grainy frames that an ever-present charm is found, this is something that remains unmatched within other motion picture film formats.

Initially Super 8 was prevalent within silent cinema. Its lo-fi quality gave a new dimension to film as well as well as complimenting the actions that took place upon the silent screen. The development in electronics meant that in the 1970s Super 8 could be used with sound which strengthened the films popularity. This improvement rapidly gained interest, and much later was most notably championed by the likes of Derek Jarman and Harmony Korine. This then went on to spark wide spread interest amongst more amateur circles.

The unique approach of Super 8’s film has often been used to capture cherished moments within their memorable environments. It offers a distinct portrayal of hazy scenarios that mirror our recollection of yesteryear that lurk around the back of our minds. When watching the film it’s sometimes hard to focus solely on the scene that’s being played out, our attention is frequently diverted to the background and the way in which the colours and light shape the scene. Bursting shafts of light are transformed into vivid glows which can sometimes aid the foreground to merge into the background. In other instances a sharp grainy exposure is present which saturates the more prominent colours that ultimately offer the viewer a more gritty insight.

Super 8 not only gives the user a one of a kind way to portray the past, but it also provides a layer of candid rawness to depict even the most mundane day to day scenarios. It’s that very raw quality that has youthful connotations. These days it acts as a nod to the past during a period long before the digital age. It was a time in which people rejected state of the art mechanics, whether it was through lack of funds or otherwise, which inevitably paved the way for a blossoming lo-fi culture. The key factor in what makes Super 8 so special is that it gives us the perfect escape from the complexities of state of the art photography.

My Best Friend

A few words about my best friend published on Thought Catalog.

My Addiction To Celebrity Gossip

It was in the summer of 2006 that my interest in celebrity gossip transcended from a brief flirtation to a full on obsession. It was a time like no other. It became increasingly apparent that no amount of PR training or product endorsement could hide the cracks appearing amongst the young stars of cinema, music or otherwise. It was approximately ten months before Britney Spears would shave all her hair off. If anything the events amongst her peers prior to Britney’s very public breakdown acted as trail which lead to the train wreck blazing on the horizon.

It seemed as though almost overnight the faces that had governed the glossy pages became less known for their talents and more for their extracurricular activities. The age of the DUI had quickly dawned and the emaciated faces of Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie were encapsulated in mug shots for all to see. Interest in promiscuity, drug abuse, eating disorders and the age old question ‘Who will be in rehab first?’ eclipsed all talk of their careers. So much so, that a new generation of people arrived, who were famous just for having used the platform of their parents, porn or money. Hello, Paris Hilton! Hiya, Kim Kardashian! As long as the salacious scandal was being delivered what did it matter that their careers remained somewhat ambiguous? It sure didn’t matter to me.

It wasn’t just the increasing reckless acts alone that helped gain public interest, but it was also the surge in celebrity gossip blogs that helped document such behaviour to the eager masses. Perez Hilton, TMZ, Oh No They Didn’t, DListed and so forth all became integral parts in profiling the downward spirals of America’s Sweethearts. They would each offer paparazzi shots of Lindsay Lohan falling out of a club, followed by yet more snap shots of her less than 12 hours later doing yoga with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. It’s that very content that has made such websites so alluring. Not content with seeing images of Britney grocery shopping at 2am in a pink wig? Why not watch a video in which you can witness her talking nonsense in an English accent, which adds a whole new dimension to the insanity.

The decaying world of celebrity didn’t just manifest in Hollywood with the likes of Mary-Kate Olsen’s apparent insatiable appetite for drugs and penchant for skipping meals. It was in the UK that the new poster girl for self destruction quickly evolved in the form of Amy Winehouse. With the aid of the public’s rather sick obsession with misfortune, Amy’s nocturnal activities quickly overshadowed her undeniable talent as a singer. Almost instantly we became fed a never ending series of images and footage of Amy bruised and bloodied, strung out and rail thin and looking somewhat subhuman whilst wondering the streets of London in her underwear. Her turbulent relationship with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil propelled the couple into Sid and Nancy status for the internet generation.

That’s not to say that I am some sort of self hating internet troll that’s prone to bouts of schadenfreude. I greet all paparazzi shots with the same sickening amount of inquisitiveness and delight, whether it’s Lady Gaga getting into a car or Lily Allen going for a run. The fact remains that unlike us mere mortals, celebrities can often make the most mundane thing look far more appealing than we ever possibly could. Granted their livelihoods are a lot more dependent on their looks than perhaps ours actually are, which is also why so many of us revel at the photographic evidence of stars without make up. Aesthetics aside, it’s also the often sordid details that make up the celebrity world the perfect escapism from our own lives. I know that I would much rather hear tales of backstabbing and broken hearts amongst the A list rather than hearing about how a colleague had sex in the toilets of a pub during a work night out. I recently announced to a friend that if I was able to retain as many facts about things that matter as I do with celebrity gossip I would probably be dangerous. But since that is not going to happen any time soon I will continue to unashamedly revel in my addiction.

Buffy The Vampire Slayer Was My Life Coach

Dysfunctional relationships are inevitable

My fourteen year old self had a hankering for an idyllic romance with someone resembling David Boreanaz. This notion was rather short lived as I quickly learnt that if that if he’s tall, dark and handsome he’s also probably sadistic, psychopathic and dangerous. Buffy’s teenage dream romance was swiftly shattered due to Angel’s penchant for blood and destruction. Their turbulent relationship kept viewers gripped, however, our hopes of them ending up happily ever after were short lived due Angel bagging himself his very own spin-off show. Much later Buffy found herself pursuing Angel’s former partner in crime Spike, also known as William the Bloody. The name alone offers some insight into how that romance developed and if anything they became nothing more than a walking advertisement for domestic violence.

The first time is usually the worst time

Do you remember the first time? I certainly do. It was on a lumpy mattress whilst ‘You Spin Me Right Round’ by Dead or Alive played on repeat in the background. Buffy herself had taught me to expect the worst, because if anything, she should know. After falling head over heels in love with the vampire Angel, who happened to have a soul, they inevitably took their relationship to the next level. Unfortunately for Buffy all it took was a good hearty orgasm for Angel’s soul to be removed. Soon after their embrace Angel spent the rest of year inflicting emotional and physical abuse on Buffy and her loved ones, which really cemented his position as the one night stand from hell.

Do not under estimate anyone or anything

People change, a lot of the time without any prior warning. Just because one person appears to be unassuming, polite, in a butter wouldn’t melt sort of way doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the real deal. Step forward Buffy's sidekick Willow. Early on she started out as the unconfident bookish geek with cutesy quirks and puppy dog eyes. Fast forward six seasons later and she had evolved into a crazed and rather scorned satanic lesbian with an appetite for the apocalypse. Granted her journey down the path of vengeance was short lived, one season to be exact, but who knew the little Jewish bookworm was capable of such destruction. It’s always the quiet ones and Willow’s venture to the dark side proves that very theory.

Karma is a bitch

Sometimes when certain people are placed in a position of power it can often get the better of them. These people are called assholes. However that being said, assholes always get what’s coming to them. Step forward Faith. Introduced in season three as the fun, rebellious and laid back vampire slayer, she rapidly became the anti-Buffy. She too had recognised this and after accidently killing an innocent man she embarked on a journey down the path of vice. In the climax of season three and after having spent months mercilessly terrorising the town of Sunnydale, Faith lost a battle with Buffy and ended up in a coma. A year flew by and she eventually woke up, having still not learnt her lesson she went in pursuit of Buffy once again. Along the way she dabbled in a bit of magic which lead to Faith torturing those closest to Buffy as well as sleeping with her current boyfriend. But it wasn’t too long until good prevailed evil and Faith found herself banged up in a women’s prison, which only highlighted the message furthermore that if you play with fire you’re going to get burnt.

“The hardest thing to do in this world is live in it.”

As said by Buffy shortly before plunging to her demise, despite being swiftly resurrected for the final two seasons, never has a sentence rang so true.

Mad Tracey From Margate

I was weighed down with Ikea bags whilst staggering along the pavement. She was swiftly marching in my direction whilst sucking on a Marlboro Light. Still to this day I like to think an exchange of glances was made no matter how brief. As she promptly passed me by I clenched my shopping bags tightly as I refrained from calling out ‘I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!’ I quickly turned on my heels and watched her walk into the fleeting pack of pedestrians in the distance. Days later I recalled that very afternoon and I envisioned myself in her sightline in the hope she had noticed me and the manic grin etched across my face. That was the first time I saw Tracey Emin.

Over the coming years our casual encounters increased. I found myself frequently observing her as she walked by. Ritually I would bite down hard on my bottom lip to hold back the exclamations of praise that bubbled in the back of my throat. It was only when I relocated to a more undesirable neighbourhood that I found out she had lived close by to where I was originally dwelling. Part of me still wonders if I had known that bit of information at the time perhaps I wouldn’t have been so eager to change my living conditions.

I was eighteen when I first read Tracey’s book ‘Strangeland’. I had recently moved to London and I was severely lacking in money and creature comforts so I spent most of my evenings reading. Upon completing her book for the first time I went on to read it at least once a week for the following four months. Despite knowing the book almost word for word, still to this day I can happily skim through several pages and digest the text as if it was brand new information. Regardless of my fickle and somewhat short lived fascinations, even now I still find myself in the grasp of an unbreakable affinity with both Tracey and her work.

Several years later I attended a talk she did in conjunction with an exhibition at Tate Modern. It was the first time I had been in her company for more than several fleeting seconds and it was everything and more I had hoped it to be. She rolled in forty five minutes late slightly inebriated and announced to the audience that she had just come from the GQ Christmas party. She then took a sip from the freshly poured glass of wine which was waiting for her and sat firmly in her seat. With no further hesitation she instantly began discussing with the interviewer her time with Sarah Lucas in the shop that they briefly owned in East London.

The candid way in which she divulged information mirrored the articulate and almost romantic way in which she often describes her past. It became apparent that it’s the unashamed and brutally honest way in which she expresses herself which has kept me returning to the pages of her book so frequently. As well as her unique capability of conveying her message by taking the listener or reader with her to that specific moment in time she refers to. Despite reminiscing memories from fifteen something years ago her words were delivered with the same passion and enthusiasm that she evidently felt back then. It’s that same raw emotion that has become her tool and that’s why I find Tracey Emin so enthralling.

I Sold My Soul To The Devil

Recently my friend and I found ourselves drunkenly discussing supernatural stories in the early hours of the morning. She recalled a tale that she had heard several years ago about a distant family member who had been supposedly raped by a ghost. In the midst of our nonsensical drunken banter I began to recollect an urban legend that spread around my school. Apparently someone’s best friend’s cousin’s aunt twice removed had wrote 666 on a mirror and found themselves possessed by the devil which lead to their untimely demise. Despite our stories lacking in any elements of truth they still commanded us to Google witchcraft at 3am.

“Did you know you can make a pact with the devil to achieve infinite person gain?” My friend announced informatively, as she studied the screen of the computer. I lifted my head from the mound of pillows that I had burrowed my face into and I starred at her blankly.

“Oh, I’m sure!” I replied sarcastically.

“I’m being serious. There’s a spell here. You cast it to sell your soul to the devil. Apparently loads of celebrities have done it to become successful!” She shrieked.

“Are you reading Wikipedia? So who are the supposed ambassadors for Satanism then?”

“According to this, Lady Gaga, Rhianna and Katy Perry have all done it!”

“Last last week you told me not to listen to Lady Gaga because her music is a form of mind control orchestrated the Illuminati. Now you’re saying she’s jumped ship and converted to Satanism?”

“I don’t know, isn’t it all the same thing?” She said as a cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth. “If it works for her, it could work for me. Let’s do it together! It’ll be fun!”

I finished my glass of wine and nonchalantly agreed to take part. I realised I was at that point of being drunk where I was too inebriated to care. Not to mention the fact that I was slightly intrigued to see what would happen if the spell did work. We studied the instructions and it all seemed relatively simple. We were to each write our declaration to Satan, sign it, mark it in our own blood and then burn it in candle light. Despite my knowledge of the black arts being somewhat minimal, it seemed like standard practice to me. We both sat down on the cold surface of the floor and scribbled our incantations on separate pieces of paper. The wine I had consumed quickly began to take effect, I struggled to stay between the lines of the page, and the more I squinted at what I had written the more illegible it appeared to be.

“Right, now we need to sign our names in blood.”

“Huh? What?” I responded as my eyes rolled into the back of my head. The minor detail of my own blood being part of the ritual had temporarily escaped me.

“I don’t mean your signature, just a dot is sufficient to mark what you have written, look, come here...”

Before I even had chance to respond to my friends ludicrous instruction, she tightly grabbed hold of the palm of my hand and swiftly plunged a pin into my index finger.

“What the fuck?!” I cried out.

“Quick, now wipe your finger across the bottom of page where you signed your name.”

The sharp jab of the pin quickly caused my eyes to well up. My eyelashes had stuck together causing my sight to become somewhat bleary. I could vaguely make out several red dots that had begun to form along the pale blue lines of the note pad. I gently swirled my finger in a clock-wise motion as I waited for my vision to return. Eventually I pulled my finger away and placed it into my mouth as I looked at the faint circles of crimson that I had drawn. We then took it in turns to read aloud what we had written. In an attempt to get it over and done with I took it upon myself to go first. It was only when I heard my friend call out “So mote it be, hail Satan!” that I realised the full extent of how surreal the situation was.

To close the ceremony we each folded up our pacts and burnt them in the flame of the candle. As the smoke of the burning paper wafted through the air and clogged up each of my nostrils, a feeling of nausea quickly swelled in the pit of my stomach. I began to panic as I wondered if it was a sign that I was now in Satan’s almighty evil clutches, or was it more to do with having drunk my bodyweight in wine. It was only when I woke up the following day that the later seemed to be the most rational explanation. However, I’m forever the optimist and so I live in the hope that at least something remains to be seen.