How Art restricted my self-confidence but also presented me with it

Back in the years of taking my GCSEs, I took part in the Duke Of Edinburgh Bronze Award (not sure I even got the certificate in the end). Required to do a certain amount of hours on a skill of our choice, I chose to take the skills of sewing my Nan had tried to teach me for years that one step further. Optimistically and passionately I decided to take on the challenge of creating a dress that would be specifically designed for women of a similar shape to me – think the pears; Beyonce, JLo, Alicia Keys (although, I’d be flattering myself comparing me to them). For most of us, school highlights our biggest flaws, it’s a time of peer pressure and dissatisfaction of not looking a particular way. But, in all honesty, I’ve always been relatively comfortable with my body, still, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I never wished I was taller or slimmer. When it came to beginning my project I was stuck in the same old rut of drawing figures that represented standardised fashion proportions instead of reflecting how I or these other women like me were truly shaped. For me, the designs didn’t look flattering or didn’t look enticing without the figures and their tremendously long legs or prominent cheekbones. It wasn’t until I went to a water-colouring class that I realised the unrealistic bodies I was creating. An older lady approached me to ask what I was doing, after explaining she politely said “why do you make them so thin? Why don’t you draw them like us? we’re the ones buying them.” She was right but, it was my own insecurities and what I dreamed of being that restricted me from creating a piece that complimented who I was. I was trying so hard to create a piece of clothing that celebrated a woman’s real body shape whilst at the same time acting ashamed of it. In reality, this is how the fashion world portrays their designs but I had the opportunity to use my art to change it.

Having wanted to be a fashion illustrator for so long Nuno Dacosta and Sabine Pieper represent a few favourites of mine along with Megan Hess who does pieces for Dior, Prada and Vanity Fair. Their works are produced by solid lines and seem effortlessly perfect, something I hope one day mine will be too. However, as are with things that are so perfect they are almost always far-fetched from reality, yet even now this is what I inspire my drawings to be like. So when it came to taking a life drawing class for the first time at the University I didn’t know how to begin – In awareness of mental health issues, the University were aiming to promote body positivity – I didn’t know how to sketch so freely like everybody else around me. It normally takes me hours to get one side of a face how I want it, let alone be given 3-5 mins to sketch a whole person. This was all down to wanting perfection. I wanted perfect lines of the body to reflect the skills of me as an artist but, I was missing the point, I was trying to draw things that weren’t there. I was trying to alter parts of the people I was seeing because I couldn’t do with the varied proportions on my page, ones that didn’t coincide with what fashion drawing had taught me. Yet as I looked on and a new pose began I started to understand the freedom of sketching without setting restrictions. As I drew the curves of the woman in front of me I realised the beauty of all our bodies. I looked upon her with admiration, aware that what I was producing on a page from looking at a real life woman in front of me was just as gorgeous as the rule-drawn ones in my fashion sketch books. How people held their bodies, how their bodies curved and didn’t curved became so attractive, and one particular artist who represents this same admiration for people just as much as me is Austrian born artist Egon Schiele.

Born in 1890 Schiele only lived to the young age of 28, yet he managed to produce a varied collection of spectacular pieces in his too-short life span. There is not one piece of his work that ceases to fascinate me. That doesn’t draw me to the details of our bodies which we usually criticise. Instead, for me, Schiele’s figurative drawings amplify the beauty of the lines of our bodies, that demonstrate the diversity of our anatomy (Astrid points out a similar point in FEATURE: The Media’s damaging impact on 21st-Century beauty). For years I have been fixated on the steady one-drawn lines used in illustration, the flawlessness and the ideal. Schiele throws all this out the window, he not only strips down his subjects but, with limited mediums he can give more depth to a piece of work than any artist I know. It’s a personal opinion that his pieces strike something inside. When I saw his collection at the Leopold Museum in Vienna, the home of the young artist, it displayed a mixture of emotions. Many of the more detailed paintings looked unhappy and disfigured yet some although, their bodies demonstrated vulnerability at the same time illustrated confidence in a sexual and living nature. His works may not be as exposeing to us now as they were back in the 1920s, however, they still possess a confrontation of body image and sexuality that people are yet unable to face. We shy away from seeing our bodies as they really are, even without media influencing people to find a way to bring themselves down. The variations throughout his collections are unarguable, including his own self-portraits: with his famous-long hands, Shiele depicts himself in so many ways, using himself as a forefront of differences in association with our bodies. Life drawing has taught me the acceptance of loving who we are. Of course, I know there’ll still be days where I dislike how I look but I also believe that the bodies we have as humans, whether we are tall, short, curvy, slim, is the most beautiful thing in the world.

By Founder Lauren Victioria Edwards

An Exclusive Chapter from an aspiring novelist

As the summer gets into full swing and A Level exams are a thing of the past, so begins the detailed planning of a novel idea, that up until now has been drafted in the memo section of an out of date iPod. 18-year-old Jordan Edwards is an aspiring novelist from a small town in North Wales and has begun the next step in deriving a novel from his interests in business and politics. Take a sneak peek at the opening chapter of this corporate thriller and be just as hooked as I was!

CHAPTER I

Had one gentleman not decided to depart one of London’s tallest buildings via the seventy­fourth floor that day, perhaps Arthur Marshall might’ve made it home for dinner. The moment he saw the roadblocks and police barricades surrounding his office’s headquarters, he realised that he wouldn’t stand a chance of arriving for his wife’s homemade stew unless he left his chauffeur­driven Mercedes Benz and opted for the claustrophobic rush hour Jubilee line.

The so­called ‘jumpers’ got on his bloody nerves. How selfish must a man be for their final intention to be for half of the roads in Canary Wharf to be inaccessible? They seemed to be dropping like flies more often now than ever in the business district, sometimes hitting one a fortnight and always causing a headache for everyone within a square mile.

What’s worse, despite his constant questions and pressuring for answers from the police barricading the roads, Arthur had never been given a single notion as to who jumps from these windows, from which buildings, or how long it would take for them to clear the mess left behind. For a man as nosey as he was, this was torture in its own right. Of course he refrained from calling himself that, and preferred to use the word ‘interested’. ‘It’s just a matter of personal interest!’ he would insist to whichever officer was present to block the roads that day, only to be turned away, forcing him to grumpily waddle back to his car.

The whole ordeal had left him rather miserable, hunched over grumpily in his Armani suit as the tube dragged through London Bridge station, a distant three stops from where he would then have to change to the District line at Westminster. His face, stretched out long by the angled window opposite him, surprised him; it made him look even more miserable than he felt. The tube made him feel sick.

Arthur watched impatiently as the carriage sluggishly rolled through Southwark and Waterloo before finally halting in Westminster, where he would rejoin what looked and felt like hundreds of cattle attempting to clamber onto the same escalator. It seems that the traditional appearance of commuters on the tube should look similar to that of one of the most despondent groups of people on the planet, and yet even amongst this motley crew Arthur seemed to be trumping the competition.

The misery would only continue as Arthur hopped onto the District line for the final leg of the journey. Well, not necessarily hopped. Squeezed, perhaps, pushing his way onto a carriage with limited open space between other sombre passengers clutching the moist poles for dear life such that they did not fall into anyone else as the train jolted from the station and jaunted towards St James’s Park.

There were dozens of newspapers scattered across the carriage, some tattered, a clear sign of being read by passenger after passenger as they boarded the train, browsed quickly, and left the paper as they had found it on the dusty seats of the carriages before leaving the train. Others were newer, freshly bought from the shops and smelling strongly of the presses they’d left merely hours beforehand. What was common throughout the front pages, however, was the fact that a rather large mugshot of Arthur’s face accompanied by columns about his company, Arbicon, seemed to dominate the first few pages of most of these national publications.

It was for this reason that Arthur was grateful for the rush hour traffic of bodies to keep him hidden. At that moment in time, his face was perhaps one of the most acknowledgable in the country. On this tube carriage, it was buried deep between the shoulders of three other passengers, eyes focused on the floor such that Arthur took on the figure of a low­headed businessman having a tough day. The last thing he wanted was to be recognised.

The train screeched to a halt at Victoria. Almost immediately as the carriages had stopped shifting and shunting, the door flew agape and a flurry of passengers appeared to fly from the carriage and onto the platform. The bodies knocked past Arthur in quick succession and suddenly he was exposed. No longer were three shoulders around him to protect his face from the eyes of other passengers. Bugger, Arthur muttered. It had been years since he had had to ride the tube, and in that time he had completely forgotten that the train almost always empties at Victoria station. Despite the fact that everybody looks as though their heads are down looking at their phones and newspapers and shoes, all riders of the tube are constantly secretly watching each other, and even the tiniest of movements can often be noticed by everyone on the carriage. It could take mere seconds for him to be recognised if he stayed up here holding this pole. In fact, he had noticed a seated passenger wearing a press pass as he had boarded the train, and God knows that was the last kind of thing he wanted to deal with right now. Without tilting his head too high above his shoulder, Arthur gave the carriage a quick scan, covering as much of his face as possible with his fist as though to mimic a cough.

That was the moment he saw his opportunity. An empty spot had just opened up on a chair just a couple of metres away from him. Without thought, he leapt for it. He would be able to rest his legs and cover his face when sat down, which was a double win from his perspective.

Unbeknowingly to him, he was seemingly racing a woman perhaps forty years his senior to this Priority Seat designated specifically for the elderly and disabled, and he had arrived there more quickly not only because he was slim and athletic, but also because she was shuffling across the carriage excruciatingly slowly and relying on a walking stick for balance. The moment his behind graced the grubby purple cover of the seat was when he detected her approach. It was also the moment his expression blushed a deep shade of crimson. Several other passengers were regarding him strangely, and with a brief and particularly embarrassing ‘Sorry’ he was stood gripping the moist poles once again.

Suddenly the press pass reporter was advancing towards him with an outstretched hand. “You’re Arthur Marshall,” the reporter gasped incredulously.

“Last time I checked,” Arthur joked, without laughing.

“Alan Godfrey,” he announced, shaking Arthur’s hand rather too violently. “The press conference, I was there with the Huffington Post. You did such an excellent job­”

“­I was simply doing my job,” Arthur interrupted. The reporter stopped for a moment, analysing Arthur from head to toe, looking for a cuff out of place on his suit or a nose hair protruding from his nostril. These reporters were always looking for imperfections.

“Well if I may say so, I thought you were very brave. Ridding of the tyranny in the company, giving it a fresh new start. I do look forward to seeing those horrid factories torn to the ground.”

So vocal yet so thoughtless, Arthur thought to himself. “If I may remind you, those factories were my father’s idea.”

“Apologies, sir, I do forget. My condolences for his death.” Arthur felt the floor stop moving beneath his feet. He had lunged from the train sooner than the reporter could utter another meaningless syllable. Sloane Square station. A single stop from where he longed to be. Even so, hailing a taxi would be a world better than remaining on that train. He had heard so many condolences in the past couple of weeks he was beginning to feel like a funeral director. He rushed into the pouring rain without an umbrella and waited in the puddles for a taxi to arrive. Getting wet did not faze him, he just wanted to be home.

It was only when Arthur arrived home, not to the smell of fresh home­baked stew but to his wife leaning forward on the edge of the sofa, her palms cradling her shaking head ­ that he realised something was wrong. Not immediately panicked, he meandered over to her calmly, first placing his umbrella into the bucket by the door and hanging his coat neatly upon its hook. The children were always playing truant and worrying his wife, and her friends were constantly remarking about her behind her back. I wonder what’s got on her back today , he thought.

Although, something seemed different today. Not only was Aleksei Novakov, his personal bodyguard, regarding him worryingly, but the way his wife almost refused to gaze upon Arthur rather than leap up to him for his support was peculiar. He wondered whether she might’ve found out about him and Nikita, and suddenly he was nervous.

Yet as he approached, it was not upset that Arthur saw behind her dewy hazel eyes. It was fear. A fear which made her pupils dilate the moment she saw her husband coming towards her. She gestured towards the television, where a breaking headline story displayed the story of a man who, just hours ago, had leapt from the seventy­fourth floor of one of London’s tallest buildings. Arthur recalled the barricaded roads and no entry signs which had forced him to endure such a gruelling journey on the tube.

“Selfish bastard,” Arthur noted. “What of it?” he shrugged towards his wife, who pulled herself away from him as though he was going to destroy everything within his reach. Arthur, in no mood for playing games, placed his cool hand gently upon the area between her neck and breast, pressing upon the sweating diamonds of her necklace. “Tell me.”

“The suicide,” she gasped, without saliva to moisture her throat. “It’s Perry Hart.” A heavy look of defeat immediately broke upon Arthur’s face as he turned backwards towards the television to see Perry Hart’s face appear. The picture they’d chosen was staring blankly at Arthur from the screen as though mocking him. A single word dominated his thoughts like a childhood memory he just couldn’t be rid of;

Shit.

An Interview with Laura Elisa, Creator of Gemwaith Elisa Jewellery

The Young Collective’s Founder Lauren Edwards spoke to 21-year-old, Laura Elisa Simpson about the beginning of her beautiful handmade enamel and copper jewellery business.

That moment just after you crawl into bed is when we all begin to develop crazy ideas and draw up optimistic business plans. But, for most of us, we wake up in the morning and almost certainly shrug of the spontaneous ideas thought of the night before.

After a period of ill health last year, Laura Simpson decided she needed something to do in order to occupy her time: “I wanted something to do at home when I felt up to it. I read a lot about jewellery making and enamelling was a technique which caught my eye, mainly because it was possible to add colour to the jewellery.” Even with no previous experience, Laura decided she felt up to the challenge, “I had no jewellery making skills, but once I felt a bit better I taught myself. Before I knew it I had bought a kiln and was bringing my ideas to life.”

Not many people have a hobby they believe they can take to the next level and develop into a business, never mind a young adult who has taken on something entirely new. Yet speaking to Laura she makes it sound so simple: “I enjoyed it so much that I just wanted to share my work with others. I shared some pictures of my jewellery on my personal social media and people seemed to like my work, so I took the leap.” With that began the beginning of ‘Gemwaith Elisa Jewellery’.

“At the start, when I was learning I would just saw out simple shapes and enamel them in one colour, just to get my sawing and enamelling techniques up to scratch. I now have a scrapbook where I put down my ideas.” Although, her jewellery is mostly custom made to order there’s still a very much personal touch to her pieces “My Welsh roots reflect in some of my designs, along with the shapes and colours I love. I also love adding text to my jewellery to add meaning.” Her business has only been up and running since earlier this year but, Laura worked on getting the technique down a couple of months prior to ensure the best possible outcome for her designs: “I saw the shape out of the copper sheet, file it and enamel it in a kiln. Most pieces go into the kiln around 6 times. I also make stud earrings and rings, which is of a similar process.”

Her pieces are up on Etsy, you can also find her on Instagram and on her Facebook page. With social media making it easier to spread the word about upcoming designers, there’s a lot to say when Laura takes her pieces to a local fair not too far from her home town, giving her the chance to interact with her customers for an even more personal touch. When asked about whether Gemwaith Elisa Jewellery is full-time she explains: “At the moment it’s a full-time job as I get ill from time to time. Having my workspace at home means I can rest when I need to. I’m planning to continue with my jewellery making as a side-line business as soon as I am able to work away from home again.”

As I’m someone that gets incredibly enthusiastic about ideas that run around in my head I asked Laura what she would say to other people who wanted to get started on a business or idea of their own. “If you have a business idea you’re passionate about, go for it! You don’t need a swanky workspace to start a small business; you can run it from the comfort of your own home. To be honest, starting my own business was never something I wanted to do, things change and life can be challenging; you have to adapt and carry on the best you can. Determination is all you need.”

Go and check out Laura’s social media’s or Etsy page and see her pretty pieces for yourself!

https://www.facebook.com/gemwaithelisajewellery/

https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/JewelleryElisa

https://www.instagram.com/gemwaith_elisa_jewellery/