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phantom-of-the-memes · 7 months

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Since I’ve been making posts about American/ British entitlement towards Ireland, I thought I’d talk about this video here.

I am a student at this college. It’s a big tourist attraction for many reasons, but the main one being that the book of Kells is kept here. I am also from Kells itself, but Dublin having the book and not Kells is a whole other issue.

So this protest that’s been happening over the the past few weeks is in response to the college once again raising rents for student accommodation to astronomical rates. That being when rent in Dublin (and Ireland as a whole) is already unliveable. You’d find cheaper rent off student accommodation, but it’s hardly easy to find places like this. As well as this, the majority of the student accommodation isn’t even on campus to begin with. Most are about a 45 minute luas journey away. So what the fuck are you paying for?

This protest is necessary. It’s been a long time coming. Time and time again they prioritise tourists over us. Buildings are old and falling apart, equipment isn’t functional, accessibility is god awful. I know this because I am disabled and use a rollator, but I can’t even use it on campus most days because there’s simply no ramps/ elevators in some buildings.

In one of my lectures last week we were in one of the old buildings. We had a lot of content to cover, but of course the projector wasn’t working. The professor spent fourty minutes trying to get the computer/ projector to work, but to no avail. So we have a whole lecture to catch up on! All of this while I was looking out the window at this atrocity:

A new building for tourists! Yay!

They’ve been building new school buildings for years, but of course instead of finishing them, they’ll spend their time and money on the tourists. I’m not even having an exam in one of my modules because they told the professor that there simply isn’t enough room to host our class for the exam. And it would be “too expensive” to book a venue… it’s only a class of about thirty. He had written a whole exam and we were under the impression we’d have one, but now it’s just continuous assessment I guess!

So you have to understand why we’re not exactly jumping for joy for the tourists. There are hundreds on campus everyday, just generally being annoying and entitled. And yes DISCLAIMER; not all tourists, not all Americans/ British people, blah, blah. But from my experience, you do encounter some obnoxious people everyday.

So that’s why they blocked entrance to the book of Kells. That’s why it’s disgusting for the tourists to be arguing with them and demanding entrance. For once we just want our college to prioritise us! So yeah we will revoke your entitlement, because we are the ones who study here, we are the ones who have to LIVE here.

#ireland #irish #tcd #trinity college #trinity college Dublin #Dublin #the book of Kells #book of Kells #protest #cost of living crisis #rent crisis #freeze the rent #leftist #tourism

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without-ado · 10 months

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Library of Trinity College Dublin, Ireland

#book #books #bookworm #library #libraries #bookshop #bookstore #library of trinity college #ireland #dublin #photography #photos #trinity college

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coolthingsguyslike · 10 months

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#Trinity College #Library #Dublin #books #architecture

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witlesswitnesstm · 1 month

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Ok so I haven’t posted anything about this before, but I feel as though I have to now because this obsession is taking over my life.

The Marvin Trilogy: My Speculations about Marvin’s sexual trauma

(Surprisingly, I’ve seen almost no one talk about this)

Cw: Pedophila, SA, mention of suicidality

For this, I am taking from both the 1979 album and the 1985 rewrite of In Trousers.

So, the elephant in the room: Set those sails. When I first watched the Trinity College production, the entire song gave me a sense of unease unlike anything else. There’s this whole depiction of Mrs. Goldberg stripping in front of Marvin, a 14 year old, and then Marvin backing away and watching all of the ladies sing. I want to note here how Marvin doesn’t sing in this at all. Then the song ends, and Mrs. Goldberg claims the entire song was a highschool fantasy by Marvin. See, I don’t doubt that parts of it were definitely made up, but I think Mrs. Goldberg coming onto Marvin was not. To me, Set those sails is Marvin’s interpretation of his teacher’s assault. He’s trying to justify his uncomfortableness by imagining this scenario is a sort of “wake up call” to manhood. One of the lines is “You might tell me you’re a victim, you might get what you deserve.” Which, in my opinion, is near damning evidence to suggest that Mrs. Goldberg groomed/abused Marvin in some way. She says that she can’t excuse a boy who’s lost his nerve, which seems to me like her encouraging Marvin’s perception of masculinity, and saying that he needs to reciprocate her affection to be a man. There are further references to how a good man never fails or how men account for the appetite of all, that could be him trying to tell himself he should’ve enjoyed it. A “good man” in Marvin eyes, is someone who has incredible resolve to his heterosexuality, and always lusts for women. What better a way to prove that than to pretend he enjoyed being assaulted?

Next, I want to note the differences between Set those sails and the R—- of Mrs. Goldberg. The r of Mrs. Goldberg is incredibly childish, and it’s clearly stated at the beginning that it’s a fantasy by Marvin. In this song, Marvin has the control. He’s the hero who takes Mrs. Goldberg instead of the other way around. He has no clear understanding of what sex actually is, and just wants the absolute power that is implied with it. I personally like the interpretation that Marvin made fantasies of having control to cope with being assaulted. I also like the interpretation that this song is a story he made up to tell others in order to “prove” his heterosexuality. As I briefly mentioned earlier, the behavior of Marvin between the 2 songs is also very stark. In set those sails, Marvin actively tries to get away from Mrs. Goldberg and stays absolutely silent. This is extremely uncharacteristic of Marvin, especially at this age. He always acts out, he always yells, except for this song. This deeply contrasts the R of Mrs. Goldberg, where Marvin is loud and happy, as usual. I take this to mean that Set those sails is one of the few moments where he is truly paralyzed.

There are a few references to Mrs. Goldberg’s misconduct in Highschool sweetheart as well, even if they are a stretch. Marvin says “She gives me words to say” and while this is obviously a reference to the script, it might also be her telling Marvin to lie about what happened. There’s also Mrs. Goldberg saying “Stop making me crazy, Marvin. I love the way Marvin acts, I do.” which is obviously about his unruly behavior, but might also be about her sexual feelings towards him.

As for how this ties into the main theme of misogyny, misogyny affects all. The idea that women are docile and innocent, and men are sex crazed is a product of misogyny. Marvin holding this belief actively hurts him over and over again, blaming himself for not living up to this standard. I truly have no idea if this is what William Finn intended, but I find it interesting how it all fits.

Moving on from childhood, let’s talk about Nausea before the game. Besides probably being my favorite song in the whole show, it gives a whole lot of insight as to how Marvin feels about sex now that he’s presumably experienced it. The constant references to games are important here, I feel like. Marvin absolutely loves winning. He even says that winning is everything to him in The Chess Game. Marvin would do anything to win, including forcing himself through intercourse he desperately does not want to have. It’s implied that he literally throws up afterwards, trying to purge himself of his shame. He even prays for it to stop, but inevitably, it never does. And of course this all stems from his internalized homophobia, and the added layer of possibly being assaulted as a child just makes the entire situation even more tragic. Having sex with Trina could *literally* be bringing back traumatic experiences. This also makes me feel for Trina, because she did nothing wrong. She just wants love, but Marvin is so fucked up. There’s also even more references to being inappropriately touched in highschool with the line “It's anxiety when you recall girls who touch you when you're walking down the hall.”

My chance to survive the night just further elaborates how much Marvin hates being heterosexual. I find the word “survive” to be very peculiar in this case. It went from “winning” sex to “surviving” it. This might imply how worn out he is because of all of this, focusing his attention to his literal survival than his pride. It might also imply suicidal thoughts during sex, leading to him just wanting to live through it, although that might be a stretch. (Marvin’s suicidality is a whole other can of worms that I’d love to get into in another post). One thing though, I don’t actually know if My chance to survive the night is before or after Nausea before the game, but it has a similar implication either way. Anyway, there’s one verse in the song I want to note. Marvin says sex as a dance, but he describes all the movements very objectively, and notes how he isn’t very lucid about it. This might be a sign of disassociation, which is a common trauma response. Another thing from this song is that he says he wants to sleep, but the phone will ring (Presumably a call to intimacy). And this theme of wanting to sleep but not being able to is a theme throughout the whole musical. There’s a reference to it in Nausea before the game with “If I touch her would she let me fall asleep?”, and many references in “I can’t sleep”, but I think that song is more about how Marvin’s ex lovers haunt him in general.

Next up, I want to talk about Your lips and me reprise. This really digs into the whole “Marvin’s ex lovers are haunting him” deal. This is the first time we really see Marvin actually acknowledge the ladies’ accompaniment for his songs, and it’s because of his guilt for making up a story about Mrs. Goldberg. I think Marvin thinking about this in one of his most private places, his shower, just shows how much this affected him, even in adulthood. The line “My body is not yours to hold” by Mrs. Goldberg is extremely powerful, and I think it could have multiple meanings. It’s Marvin’s guilt about fantasizing about her, yes, but it could also be him finally accepting that what he and Mrs. Goldberg did wasn’t supposed to happen. The ensuing panic attack is caused by Marvin’s perception of his childhood crashing around him. If anyone has seen lars_orange’s animatic of this song on YouTube, I really love their depiction of Marvin recovering from his panic attack. He thinks about Whizzer, and he breathes. This is where Marvin takes a victory shower starts. He’s not ashamed anymore. (Unrelated, but is it just me or is this song seem like Marvin taking a shower after having sex with Whizzer? It’s referenced in How America got its name that Columbus planned to take a shower after he and Amerigo spent so much time together.)

Finally, I want to talk about Another sleepless night. Specifically the 1985 version. This gives a clue into how passionate Whizzer and Marvin are, even before The thrill of first love. There is one key difference in the lyrics from the college production to the actual lyrics. In the actual lyrics, there’s a line, “I’m feeling hot. He'll close his eyes, and then surprise: I'll be awake and performing” but the college production changes it to “He’s feeling hot. I’ll close my eyes, and then surprise: I'll be awake and performing”. The actual lyrics enforce Marvin’s need for homosexual intimacy, which feels very in character for him at this point. He’s craving anything other than heterosexual sex and he finally has that in Whizzer. The college lyrics paint a completely different picture, implying that Whizzer is the one who wants passion. Then Marvin says “He'll wanna sleep, but asks for more. To put up with a guy like myself must be a bore.” This suggests Marvin still feels a sense of guilt for not being able to give what others want from him. These different interpretations bring completely different meanings to the line “But he sleeps in this bed, with me, a survivor.” For the original lyrics, the connotation of “survivor” is positive; he’s survived his trauma and able to move on. For the college production, it’s negative; he still feels fragile or insecure because of what he’s been through. Ultimately it ends semi positively with both versions saying that Marvin’s never felt more alive.

Ok, god damn that was a lot of words. Short story, Marvin is hells of fucked up, and I really really really love the Marvin trilogy

#falsettos #in trousers #trinity college #musicals #god these musicals have ruined my life #William Finn is a genius #william finn #please talk to me about the Marvin trilogy #marvin trilogy #marvin falsettos

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retrofalsettos · 4 months

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went down a rabbit hole about the Trinity College production of In Trousers (the one with the slide that's on youtube) and found these newspaper articles! apparently it was done at least twice, once in January 1992 and once in November with the rest of the Marvin Trilogy. recordings of both In Trousers and Falsettoland can be found online, but unfortunately, a recording of March doesn't seem to exist.

#this is revolutionary to me because ever since i found out they did falsettoland too i was like why wouldnt they do the entire trilogy #like if they were to skip any part why would they skip the middle #but they didnt!#trinity college march of the falsettos recording 1992 please spontaneously show up please i need you plea #in trousers #also the falsettoland photo looks like one of those analogue horror images i think its so funny #trinity college

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thisphantomlife · 1 month

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Hozier at Trinity College talking to The Phil (The University Philosophical Society) as part of the Activist Festival hosted by Trinity College Dublin Students’ Union, he also received the Gold Medal of Honorary Patronage, March 12th 2016

#hozier #2016 #trinity college #activist festival

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killersfool · 5 months

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hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students!

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me.

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him.

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure."

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering.

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day."

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert.

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage.

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose.

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch.

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa.

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in.

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted.

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uwmspeccoll · 2 months

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Manuscript Monday

This Insular manuscript was created by Irish Catholics, who were well known to be stewards of knowledge and artistic ability during the ‘dark ages’ of the 6th-10th centuries CE. In particular, the Insular style consists of flattened, two-dimensional figures of people and animals accompanied by elaborate ornamentation throughout its pages. We often see interlacing designs and Celtic knots within this ornamentation and the proportions and rendering of the figures and architecture seen throughout the manuscript are not always realistic. For example, in the Book of Kells, produced around 800 CE by Irish monks in Scottish west-coast island of Iona, the columns holding up the arches on canon tables are circular and would lack structural integrity in the real world, for obvious reasons. We can see the flattened, strange rendering of figures on folio 32v (shown below), which is a depiction of Christ Enthroned. Christ’s knee is lifted to hold up the codex in his hand, but the placement of his knee is anatomically incorrect. We also see the flatness of the figure and the inclusion of ornamentation throughout the image, and we can see even more of this decoration on carpet pages throughout the manuscript. The Insular style was not only limited to manuscripts but was also used in metal objects like broaches, chalices, sculpture, and architecture which are also said to have been inspiration for Insular style manuscripts.

Our copy of the facsimile of the Book of Kells was published by the Faksimile Verlag of Luzern, Switzerland in 1990 and includes a separate volume with commentary edited by the noted Trinity College librarian Peter Fox. If you have the urge to see the original Book of Kells, it is shown in the Trinity College Library in Dublin. The library shows two folios of the manuscript at a time and changes the pages shown every twelve weeks.

View more Manuscript Monday posts.

– Sarah S., Special Collections Graduate Intern