49
of love with Professor Maria Alvarez and then came
along the next day to be an expert in the 1-2-1 clinics.
His ability to break down these complex problems is
ideal for Brush and we were very grateful to him for
making the time.
Do you think it will continue to evolve?
Yes. I do. Do you?
What do you think the connection between art and
philosophy is?
Ooof. No firm answers to that on a meta level. On a
personal level, the two feed each other. I’m not sure
exactly how.
Can the two enrich each other?
I find that they do. I recently went to see William
Kentridge’s powerful exhibition at the RA. Reading
philosophy, and probably just reading quite widely,
provides a well constructed access point for
apprehending these kinds of works. Just something
else to add to life’s experiences. As you say, it’s
not a dealbreaker not to have the philosophy. But it
certainly helps.
Is philosophy art? (Can artists be philosophers, and
can philosophers be artists?)
I don’t think philosophy IS art. But I think we can all
practice and perform in multiple roles. I think being
a philosopher sometimes, an artist at others, a PR
agent when required, a nurse if called on – these are
all compatible ways of being without being the same
thing.
Where would you like to see the project go in the
future? What message do you hope to spread with it?
I’d like the project to offer a starting place for people
intimidated by either philosophy or drawing – a low-
jeopardy entryway to trying out both. Not because
I’m evangelical about either but I do think that there
is comfort to be drawn by working on a problem that
is not YOUR problem. What I mean is that, we are
all beset by personal challenges. Things that bring
us down or low. And while it’s good to talk, it’s not
always useful to talk about those things. There are
times when just talking about a problem, one we
all share, can bring some sense of relief from the
problems we shoulder individually. I guess that’s
where something like this comes in. It’s a good
place to have a chat, turn things over, try and figure
out what you think you think, in a way that can be
neatly unpacked and repacked like a thought picnic.
Diverting and instructive while out on table, but not
needing any further promises or commitments.
The Body Issue | Φ 50
51
The Perfect Fit
by Weronika Przysada
In a faraway land That is what was believed
The farthest one can fathom That’s what everyone knew
The smallest grain of sand Until there came a day
Is smaller than an atom That changed a thing or two
In such a strange abode One sunny little morning
It is widely believed In our Tiny Town
One’s pinky is so small The pint-sized Mr Mayor
It cannot be perceived Starts sounding an alarm
There is a tiny pot The pocket sized citizens
In the neatest little kitchen Look up one by one
Around a tiny stove The sky is getting darker
A dozen little creatures Something obstructs the sun
Each creature wears a shirt A creature of some sort
With twenty mini-pockets A being of some kind
These pockets are for luck But there is something different
And keeping mini-sockets It’s differently designed
For every mini-socket The sheer size of the pockets
There is a mini-plug Of its colossal shirt
For every tiny creature Suggests plenty of sockets
A lot of tiny luck And plugs and luck at hand
The creatures are so lucky But in that very moment
And compact and petite A thought occurs to all
Because in other lifetimes The creature is too great
They kept their workspace neat To fit through a tiny door
The Body Issue | Φ 52
‘If creature of your stature’d Everyone holds their breath
Attempt to come inside The creature blinks confused
The gate would surely fracture’ All fear it may be hurt
The little voices cried Yet it does not seem bruised
What’s more its bulky pockets It seems the architecture
Clearly not filled with luck Of our meagre town
Hold such a size of sockets Fits creature’s massive socket
The public were awe-struck It’s perfectly designed
The giant stands upset The giant rests content
Exiled from Tiny Town Small creatures run and dance
Their eyes full of tears They all got really randy
Their face a mighty frown For development plans
But then a voice is heard The mighty bulky body
Amongst the gathered clan Provides them with a surface
Although the source is small That surely can be used
It speaks of mighty plan For a creative purpose
The huge head gives a nod For artists and engineers
Great muscles twitch and tense A mission for the day
They take a massive step Is to make this place a home
Over the little fence For creatures of all scale!
And when they're almost there
They trip over the wall…
All balance is now lost
And down, on town, they fall
53
Being Mortal, Mushrooms,
and Mouldy Apple Cake
by Eva Plajer
The Body Issue | Φ 54
Mushroom post cards on the wall and plastic plants hang from the
shelves. Lula’s on the bed, it’s green, she reads. SSRIs (for oral intake)
once day. Your ears may ring, nausea and diarrhea. Depressions may get worse. The kettle,
old and yellow, freaks me out. We’re boiling coffee, Tesco’s instant, it is night. Taylor sweetly
chirps throughout the evening. Tesco, red and blue, dictates my life: With some enthusiasm we eat
old, half rotten apple cake (you know the box, blue plastic, slightly squished?). Lula’s belly’s bulging.
Her navy blouse is stretched. She’s pulled a cushion underneath, and small and yellow sponges from the
sink as breasts. Lula says, I’m pregnant. No one knows, with whom. And no one knows, since when or
why. She strokes her massive belly – strokes the cushion – and reads that ears may ring. Serotonin. I think of
Houellebecq. And cringe. And Lula says I think one of my ears has already been ringing since this morning.
We now discuss the doubtless fact that all of us, some time, will have to die, for Lula says: Why should a woman
carry on producing humans for humanity? Why should one, she continues, carry on, set humans and more humans
on the earth? For, we all live and we all want to die. For, tell me, who would want to live forever? I mostly like to
live she calmly says. But there’s a time when I will want to die. He is upset, distressed, she is a Christian. I say:
Producing no more people? That’s not Christian. She just says, no, he starts debating. And says nobody wants to
end a life that’s good. And timeless ought good life to be. Oh no, says Lula, not before the time, she says, and
says: through death alone can life be good. He’s leaving for the loo. It’s been too much, I say. We’ve talked
this through before. He cannot bear it. His atheistic ethics is more theist than our Christianity.
When he comes back I’m sitting on the carpet and cutting my hair, the ends, just where it’s splitting.
Nail scissors. He thinks I am depressed again. I am too tired for depressions. Just Taylor really
massively annoys me. They’re playing clash of clans and little people mindlessly hop
through weird greenish worlds. I’m sending Eric tons of little emojis. He hates
them. The little yellow royal symbol, and one wonders, how Whatsapp
even thought of it. Lula tells Eric, I am pregnant. I say, I hate
toddlers. I want to kick a puppy. She says, I’ll send a
wizard clan. Then we all go to bed.
55
by Chiara Zucchelli AQUE
D
The Body Issue | Φ 56
DUCT I weep earthy moss from the cracks
where the blood of ancient gods once spl a tt e r e d .
I gather up the dust, the dirt and sand blowing over to
the farmers laying in the cornfields,
the fat beggars on the roadside. My gaze lingers o v e r
the golden corn, the coins in a shrivelled can of coke.
Cars drive through my wasting archways
and scathe
and scratch
and slice
my spuming skin of stone: Once regal, once divine.
I’m held together at the mercy of modernity,
hooked up to rusted metal from my peak
to my trough. Since someone suggested,
“Put a scaffold up on it?”
– As if that could erase a thing.
Gauze on an open artery of
carved up dreams
bombs dropped
and rain eroding.
“What a sad little creature,”
with sand clutching to the moss.
“Why is that still here?”
with salt in a festered wound.
Drive on, to your sacred destination.
I too once was an endpoint, for Nero, for Caligula,
for Caesar. But all great things, as I have seen,
rot and shrivel and cough and bow,
struggling to stay up, with a scaffolding untouched
for ten years.
“We’ll get to it...
We’ll get to it...
We’ll get to it.”
PHOTOGRAPHY by Sarah-June Brehm 57
Friday, 24 June
by Maria Payro
The Body Issue | Φ 58
59
PHIMAG.ORG
EDITOR IN CHIEF
Chiara Zucchelli
FICTION
David Chandler
Victoria Comstock Kershaw
Sara Bernabe
Maria Payro
NON-FICTION
Luca Marsico
Julie Uszpolewicz
George Williams
POETRY
Francesca Caselli
Laura Empson
Antonia Kattos
Carlota Salvador Megias
GRAPHIC DESIGN
Sarah-June Brehm
SOCIAL MEDIA
Wayan Chan