Your next show addiction

Since some of you haven’t ventured from the safety of your home since Game of Thrones season five’s SHOCKING ending, still frozen in terror from the quite frankly cruel, pure coldblooded evilness of THAT, I have just the remedy. Yes, they’ve beheaded Sean Bean and let Joffrey live for too long but by god this is an outrage....

Anyway, before I let my tears blur my writing I’d like to bring to your attention a safer substitute for your addiction, that won’t leave you crying over your favourite character dying. And it comes flying in to save the day in a Kilt.

Based on the international bestselling books by Diana Gabaldon, Outlander is the GOT alternative. A historical romance about a kickass no shit taking WWI nurse Clair Beauchamp who ends up in 1743 Scottish Highlands via some magical stones.*

Encountering dastardly cads and swashbuckling red head Scots within the first few hours of her displacement Claire survives on her wits and luck. But, like GOT there is gore, the opening scenes show Claire covered in blood repairing a horrific leg wound behind the Front Lines. Then there’s the romance, the cheeky scenes are definitely more….saucy? Well, so graphic that when I started to show my mum it I had to leave the room from embarrassment at forgetting it and having to suffer from the awkwardness. Yet, she still watches the show. Now that induces a shudder of yuck through me.

Anyway, the adaption from the books is just so beautifully crafted, and I can promise the long-suffering fans of franchises who are emotionally distraught over the murder of beloved characters as a plot device Outlander is a safe blanket to wrap yourselves in. It has all the excitement of Game of Thrones and adventure of Russell T Davis era Doctor Who, but, unfortunately, no dragons. Unless you count Claire’s fiery relationship with a certain tawny lad…

My advice, watch Outlander before a tidal wave of kilts explodes everywhere. That way you get the smug satisfaction of saying you watched it first. And won’t get any spoilers. For people who like reading the books beforehand the first book published in the English edition is called “Cross Stitch,” and if you’re not normally a big reader try it anyway. It has enough drama and dramatic twists to give Corrie a run for its money.

Now go forth in your tartan pyjamas and whiskey fuelled drunkenness and rebound from Game of Thrones like the hot piece of ass you are.

*Disclaimer: No whiskey or disorderly Scots were involved in the transportation of person from time A to time B

Pretty.

If anyone ever wants to commit a robbery, you can always hire me as a distraction. I’m so good a disturbance I can trick myself into doing the completely opposite thing I set out to do. I get distracted by pretty things. So if it’s a jewelry heist and I’m your getaway driver please keep the rubies and diamonds out of site till you know we are not being followed. Otherwise, I will stop the car and demand to see the little beauties.

 In the same way a dog lover believes every dog is a puppy, no matter how big, ugly, fat or old, Art is that puppy for me. Art can be horrific, it can make me want to run away, yet still enthrall me. The piece can be completely awful, yet if powerful enough I will apply the word “pretty.”

Yes, pretty.

Which seems utterly ridiculous when I happened to be doing all essay based subjects which involve a slightly more advanced vocabulary. Somewhere in me, my 4-year-old self-squeals in delight I still use the word. I’m sure if my English teachers found this they would groan and throw a thesaurus at me. Whoops.

I think, the way I just used pretty can be encompassed as a watered down version of passion, the attachment you get to the art is a special connection, individual to each piece. Pretty, my pretty is a shovel into understanding art. My way to scratch the surface of a piece, in order to think as the artist, to understand what they want to me to feel. If you want me to get all philosophical about it I feel like it was that way Plato or Aristotle who tried to understand the universe through the eyes of a creator. Which I guess when looking at art, is essentially what you do.*

*If you’re playing pretentious teenager bingo you can go ahead and tick off “insinuating deep inner meaning”.*

I used to be completely confused by art, I didn’t really understand why people claimed a picture spoke 1000 words. Reading books was my way of understanding the world, still is. But paintings and sculptures are visual literacy, they encase hours of writing and redrafting (which artists do too) into one virtual object. Like from one painting by Edward Burne Jones who painted dark romantic worlds of Pre-Raphaelite knights and mysterious women, can tell me more about the political and cultural turmoil of the industrial revolution than a three-part documentary on the BBC.

Pretty fascinates me, I won’t go into the gender minefield of the word’s history because as I’ve used it so much I’ve created an offshoot meaning of the word that is special to me. The way I use pretty is a distilled version of my passion for construct. Not order, order can be terribly boring, but the conception and evolution of something unnatural yet completely accepted and painstakingly crafted. I use pretty so much I’ve made up a new way to use it. Which is unfortunate for all you other English speaking people out there.

When looking at the brutal torture of Bacon [Francis] or the theatrics of Rossetti [Dante Gabriel] I start a timeline in my mind of my feelings, reactions and knowledge of the pieces presented. I take my first impression of it, find how impassioned I am by the work to use the word pretty, in accordance to its name and discover what exactly the artist is telling me. Whether I just have to look into my copy of Gombrich (I hear the screams of art historians, and with this say “Don’t fret my darlings, for I have other books in which I use to further my knowledge of art!”) or just make something up in the moment. It’s a bit like story telling when you delve into art, so when you say a picture holds a thousand words you couldn’t be more correct, and every story needs a beginning.

My once upon a time is pretty. A springboard into history and imagination, from which the prose I produce in conjunction to Art is almost lyrics as a result of instruments. A beautiful compliment, but not necessary as everyone else’s feelings are evoked differently. So, if you still don’t understand pretty that’s fine. But please, if anything, get out there and find your own way of experiencing art. You’ll find it resonates through all structures within society, the temples of Greece? Look at the grills on the front of the Rolls Royce parked in the street, think pretty, and then say “why?”

Credits to the photos and paintings go to Paula Rego, Claude Monet, John Singer Sergent , Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Francis Bacon, Edward Burne Jones, Wikipedia, Saatchi, francis-bacon.com

If I have miss represented anything/ anyone or have used your image without your specified permission please email me (address can be found in contact me at top of page) and I will happily correct it or take it down.

Introducing...

It’s the summer holiday and like any true teenager born between the 90s and Generation X, I am in a committed relationship with my laptop.

Now, let’s just assume I’ve been living under a rock for the past couple of years, which basically, is me avoiding further internet embarrassment from my pre-teen years and only now have decided to start blogging (and the award for longest sentences and shitty grammar goes to….)

My name is Belle and I live a 40 minute train ride from London.

Let’s face it, if I said where I was from most of you would have no idea. So I won't say specifically. Also, internet stranger danger ya know? My mother would be proud.

Being English if you can’t pinpoint the whereabouts of your home in relation to the nearest city (or landmark) then you should just hang your head in shame give back your passport to the Queen right now. I mean it. 

Go on then, bugger off to Buckingham palace.

I’m 17 and read more than I speak. Which is ironic considering I’m a wannabe drama student and have a long list of tried and tested swearwords that have got me in trouble more times than I'd like to admit. 

If you ever want to spot me in a crowded room I have a tendency to contort my face to the music I listen to, in practice for when I go onto win my BAFTA. So if you see a curly haired, emotional looking girl on the 10:35 southbound Bakerloo tube from Waterloo on a Saturday, it’s likely me listening to the Fray’s “How to save a life.” Because I’m just that cool.

I hope you like babbling of an inexperienced blogger who on the side takes advantages of having very talented friends who photograph her *cough* Ella *cough*, tries and fails miserably with makeup tutorials, and has a deep love for Pride and Prejudice.

 

*For super secret internet safety reasons here's a picture of me disguised in a blue wig pretending I'm Coraline