Love Comes First

Recently, my hometown of Rotherham has been on the local and national news. It's surrounded by negativitiy and the far right English Defence League have been protesting and camping outside the police station, exploiting a serious issue so it fits in with their warped political ideology based on racisim.  This divisive group, who are wasting vital money and police time,  however, have not been ignored by the local people. 

Tonight, just hours after an EDL protest, local artists, charities, shop owners, musicians etc. gathered in the imperial buildings for a night to show the good side of the town. 

The Button Tin, Imperial Buildings, Rotherham

'Love Comes First' wasn't about politics, it was about humans being nice to each other- standing together as one in the face of crimes that are threatening to break our town. In a time such as this we should all stand as one, and not allow ourselves to be divided. Instead we need to focus on the real issue, justice for the victims rather than turning this into an issue of race. The EDL are making people who are part of our community feel unsafe in their own town - this needs to change so we can move forwards from this. 

Love Comes First buttons, sold to raise money for the event

We want to celebrate what's beautiful about Rotherham, our home town- focussing on the positive and the community. And a night like this shows the beauty perfectly! 

Thank you to everyone that arranged the event - Gemma Nemer & Brian Johnston, and please everyone just be happy and nice! 

Self

Leaving college and starting university makes you ask a lot of questions. What course am I going to do? Where will it take me? Can I actually succeed in the world? Where am I going to study? Should I move out? These all make you question yourself, and who you are. 

So who am I?

Am I defined by my body? Is it purely my physicalities that make me who I am? This is how people recognise me, isn't it? Every day I walk to my friends and they know it's me because I look like me, not because I am the same person inside. Or is it by something more scientific? Do genetics define me?

"Muddy Underworld", self portrait, water based oils

Unlike a lot of people around my age I am confident about my body. Not because it's perfect, but because it isn't. My flaws make me me, like the wrinkle above my belly button and the scar on my knee. And this body will always be mine, even if I do end up in a "muddy underworld" as Adeimantus talked of in Plato's Republic. 

"Who are you?", Oil pastels on wooden mirror

Looking further into my naked body, on an old mirror saved from my Auntie's skip, I drew from various photographs in a black oil pastel. Along with this there are old newspaper clippings, history of the country that surely does make up part of me, my country and my community. 

But more than this, the mirror which is central to this piece makes the audience look and think; who am I? 

"Can I Be Frida?", Self portrait, oil paint

My family tree has always interested me. Obviously, it's part of who I am. Who my parents and grandparents are. I've traced it back, looking into all of the people whose genetics help make up my DNA. Because from a scientific point of view, this is who we are. A series of A's T's C's and G's that make up a unique code that make up me, coming from our parents. 

Is this all I am? Am I defined by my family? Must I find my creativity somewhere in the family tree, find my love of jewellery and philosophy there too? 

The Studio

                                         

So it might not be the biggest, it might not be the poshest, but my studio- a small summerhouse in the back garden- is perfect. Shared with my sister, this is a place I can either sit in the quiet and write my novel and read books, or I can blast out music and paint my ideas onto big wooden boards and even the studio walls themselves. 

Covering the walls are postcards of inspiration- Klimt, Rembrandt, Lowry. I've wrote quotes from favourite novels and covered them in things that inspire me to create beautiful things. 

The floor is covered with paint and piles and piles of newspapers, sketchpads, magazines, card, paper, even plant pots and old things from the kitchen that I might one day do something with.