Hollywood Superstar asks The Femcels for inspiration and recommendations to increase our cultural capital. “We want to be able to talk to girls at parties” we exclaim, prostrating ourselves at Gabi and Rowan’s feet while they vape. Their hit song “He Needs Me” is about being a crazy manic pixie dream girl and a fem (cell) in 2025. He needs me, He needs me, He needs me, He needs ME. He blocked me on Snapchat. He won't text me when he skateboards.

"Sometimes I trip over so he doesn't think I'm too perfect"

Femcel No.1 Rowan (24)

Dancer, Edgar Degas (1891) Hamburg, Hamburger Kunsthalle.

It’s at the Hamburg Kunsthalle - where I did Erasmus, and I thought I had seen into a wormhole where Edward Degas had painted weird sci-fi dogs. That is, until my boyfriend at the time ruined it. I work as an illustrator, which is already being replaced with AI. Rich people will always want to buy real paintings. Rich people will always want to buy my paintings.

Fluffy (1980) by Gloria Balsam

Fluffy is a dog who tries to run from her but she always knows it will be by her side. The song makes me feel like I’m in a musical in a parallel universe where everything is so beautiful and strange. I’m in contact with Gloria - I am going to interview her soon : 3 I can do a perfect off-pitch impression of the song, and I’m gonna sing it to her on Zoom. Singing always sounds better out of tune.

The Cuck Song by Leonard Cohen

“What really makes me sick is that everything goes on as it went before.” I’m not really a jealous person (I’m so chill), so maybe I would be susceptible to taking cuckoldry like a chump. Cucks should have rights. I read somewhere that allegedly David dobrick is a cuck, and I see that for him, it kind of humanises him. My favourite bit of the poem is where he keeps putting his full name in a line: “You just wanted to cuckold Leonard Cohen”. Then he goes: “I like that line because it’s got my name in it” he’s so funny and real.

I think you have to revel in the cuckoldry. Last year at a party my friend and I [name redacted] were standing next to a sofa of people, and we were saying how we were both flirting with someone, and that it was going well. Then we look down and the two people we were flirting with start kissing. They start lying down on the sofa, caressing each other and smooching their hearts out. It was unbelievable. We put on some cucky drake song and started jumping around and singing it to them, but they were too into it to notice.

Also, I feel like Leonard was kinda being cucked on that record (death of a ladies' man) because Phil Spector kind of ran away with his music and made sweet love to it, and Leonard had to hate it even tho it’s amazing because he fucked his girl.

Soft City (2008) by Pushwagners and Ghost World (1995)

My tutor at university showed it to me, so maybe in 2021. I think dystopia is so hard to do well, and this is a true masterpiece If you like 60s/70s style illustrations then you should buy this. My friend Barney was upset that I didn’t show him sooner and told me off for gatekeeping.

If the Femcels were in a comic, we should find god. Or go up to strangers and ask them random stuff. Ghost World (COMIC, NOT FILM, NO OFFENCE) is a good reference point. It’s so perfect. I love that half the comic is them just saying random ugly men are hot. I think that’s so real. It’s the meat and potatoes of life.

London could be a soft city. I’m on set as an extra on a Jason Statham movie. All of us are dressed in uniforms of green satin Zara and suits with powdered foundation so it feels like a slay soft city.

Buildings used to be scary because people had more hope

Femcel No.2 Gabi (24)

Shiki-Jitsu or Ritual (2000) Hideako Anno

It’s crazy how a 40-something man can know how to convey exactly what a 16-something girl can feel like around a 40-something man. Teenage-girl Gabriella feels like a dream away, but love and pop force me to remember how I felt. I think all I wanted to be was dope and cool.

As a female, I think an appeal of an anime girl is to go “she’s literally meee” when watching; they tend to have hyperbolic versions of our characteristics. The muse in Shiku-Jitsu is psychotic yet relatable; her psychosis is loveable, but the uncovering of her is too grotesque to be an animated chick. She only wears red and lives in a castle she crafted herself, an abandoned warehouse filled with red umbrellas; she’s flesh, a human flesh version of a big-boobed blue-haired character.

“Could I be an anime girl in real life?” Maybe I could if I got a boob job. The closest we ever got to being anime girls was the 2020 e-girl culture. Maybe if we locked ourselves inside for another 10 years, we would come out as animations.

Lip Kit Glosses by Kylie Jenner

Glosses is a 2018 cinematic masterpiece. Kylie Jenner. IG baddies. Convertible. LA. 3 Strikes by Terror Jr. “Literally so cute”.

As a teen, I was prone to disregard anything mainstream, but I always loved Kylie; she’s just an emo chick in a millionaire's body.

Snap Maps (2017- present)

I am a bog-standard victim of panopticism. I can’t do makeup without pretending I am in a YouTube video. My internal monologue sometimes transcends to a podcast; when I have a crush, I dream about how they view me. I would definitely live off-grid. But yeah, I fuck with snap maps, bitimojis, everyone knowing where I am. Dope.

Knockout by Lil Wayne and Niki Minaj (2010), Young Money Senile Ft Nikic, Wayne, Tyga (2014)

Damn young money senile is fire. It's a rap version of a Melanie Martinez video. Knockout is perfect song-wise, though my dream is to scream like Weezy. “Hey, barbie, can I call you Barbra” Perfect. Video-wise, maybe Senile.

Putting socks on top of ur shoes and tying it for security with another sock

Rachel Fäth and Zazou Roddam at Brunette Coleman, London

American neoliberal doctrine has found an ultimate expression in the technopoly of contemporary America - Meta, Pfizer, Dogecoin, and the Department of Government Efficiency. This post-industrial, post-everything condition, now inseparable from a malaise in Western society, began to dominate some decades ago. Francis Irv’s show of work by artists Rachel Fäth (b. 1991, Berlin) and Zazou Roddam (b. 2000, London) (hosted by Brunette Coleman for Condo London) makes no direct reference to any of this; in fact, the show is sparse, minimal and oblique. It is, however, through the material decisions made by the artists that the works not only speak of capitalism, but embed themselves in it.

Fäth’s two sculptures sit directly on the gallery floor, whilst Roddam’s contributes a wall-based work, two framed polaroid photographs, and a small sculpture atop a plinth in the gallery’s side room. In Roddam’s Lot 2454/ Lot 5152 (2024–2025), crystal doorknobs affixed to their relevant painted wooden doors, or rather to the truncated sections of what were originally wooden doors, protrude from perfectly circular holes that have been cut into the front-facing surface of two plexiglass boxes. The boxes are mounted to the wall in a manner reminiscent of a Judd ‘Stack’, out of which the crystal handles jut into the viewer's space. Behind the plexiglass the slices of door form a pile which produces a whimsical effect, whilst acknowledging the weights and shapes of the wood, juxtaposed satisfyingly by the flawless edges and inset screws of the boxes. Both are transparent, but there are subtle differences between the crystal and the plexiglass - the crystal looks hard, old (vintage) and provides an evocative glimmer of late 20th-century affluence, whilst the plexiglass seems recently fabricated, an inert frame derived from minimalist or conceptual art modes. I imagine the former to belong to a category of other crystal glass objects that includes chandeliers and champagne flutes, and envisage the interiors of yachts, expensive real estate portfolios.

The work’s only pronounced colour derives from the coats of paint that the doors have retained from their original function as front doors of houses. I think of handshakes and the opening of a door. And then of a house as the site of the intimacies of daily life and of the intimate calamity of the mortgage crisis of 2008, who’s long shadow is still felt. Lot 2454/ Lot 5152 looks skeletal, like the vertebrae of a spine within a plexiglass body - a nimble metaphor for the methodology she deploys. Her materialist critique reveals the skeletal structure of significance both within the work she makes and with regards to the conditions of its display.

Some of the materials for Lot 2454/ Lot 5152 were acquired at public auction. This nod to the economics of the work is a neat gesture. It functions as an ironic appraisal of the luxury status of the art object as something that could itself end up in an auction lot. Roddam offers a critique of the status of the artwork as autonomous and gently reveals it instead to be historically and economically contingent and part of a context, in this case, the context of the market.

Fäth’s work shares this stringent attention to form. Her materials are selected and reclaimed; heavy, rugged and industrial steel. Sitting side-by-side on the gallery floor, Locker 5 (2024) and Locker 6 (2024) are forms determined by the size constraints of storage lockers, a materialisation of negative space in welded steel. Some of Fäth’s earlier work sourced its steel from a New York production plant (Francis Irv is an NYC gallery). Steel was a chief American industry before globalisation took those factories and jobs elsewhere. Within this glib generalisation are the experiences of countless individuals of grand economic manoeuvrings. To intuit these poetically, as textures, is to jump between the general and the personal. The scrap steel is not, significantly, in its raw form; it is post-industrial, after the fact. The surface of one work is rusted in places, indicating the chemical entropy that takes place when the metal is left to the elements. There is an association here with industrial decline, alluded to in the colloquialism ‘rust belt’.

“I have more sympathy this time around towards myself and to Libya. She looked tired.”

Franz Fanon describes the American flag flying as a reminder of reality’s conditions, recognized through its tension, a stimulant. At first the flag appears graceful, but as you get closer, that grace seems to break apart, and we pick up as many pieces of mercy we can find.

I’m drawn to that visual stimulant of tension because it feels energised. Fanon described the moment of this encounter as a “jolt”. A "jolt" represents a profound moment of realisation, rupture, or awakening that disrupts the established order of consciousness or being. It’s not necessarily a shock in how we might think of it objectively, but a transformative moment where existing structures—psychological, social, or colonial—are disrupted. It signifies a moment of profound disillusionment. The catalyst that is a transformative possibility. It’s as much about the shattering of the old as it is about the emergence of the new—a dynamic, often painful, necessary step towards agency.

So I find myself in Libya for the first time in 12 years, where these “jolts” visualise that Libya is still a child learning how to walk. The flag came to symbolise the reality of a country stuck in time from conditions of a civil war that the West conditioned to happen; I saw faded flags everywhere, often distressed, covered in dust, tied up underneath air conditioning vents. Not too much has changed since the last time I was there. Lanes still don’t exist. Men do donuts with their cars in the middle of an intersection. Libyans are quick to find humour in their situation. They have to laugh a little at themselves - try not to lose themselves to the stress. I found myself doing the same. All my relatives said the same thing - “it’s Libya, that's how it is”.

When you think of the American highways, you think of open roads, long-haul trucks - Road trip Americana. Maybe country music is playing in the background. Every car I saw in Libya was missing a tail light with fake Mercedes Benz emblems on the hood of Hondas; at least one door wouldn't be able to unlock on its own.

After 12 years, I was ready to document everything. In 10 days, I had taken nearly 1,000 photos and videos. The last time I was there, I disliked everything that it was to be Libyan. In retrospect, I was a kid who hated myself—living in Portland. I begged my parents to buy me a patagonia puffer vest because it was “cool”. So here I was, in a much better place, eager to prove to myself that I had changed and that validation existed in that act of catching these jolts. I came out of that tension and discomfort I had held within myself - that I was always scared to grow out of.

Here’s my top 5 photos from that trip:

1: First Look

There is no such thing as “too much” in an Arab wedding. The glam and drama of the brides’ sisters and friends having the first look at the bride was all too good. I was lucky enough to sneak a picture before the hijabi security guards tried to follow me around all night to tape the back of my phone to stop me from documenting. Weddings are like the club: You can tell who’s single based on how much they shake their hips. Aunties sit and gossip to figure out which ones they can set up with their sons.

2: Bootlegs Galore

If the fakes on Canal St were actually all storefronts, then we’d all agree it would be a game-changer for the market. That was Libya. These shops' dedication to having lights, mannequins, etc, is all for their culture of logo-mania. They love a logo. None of the major fashion houses have an actual store in the country, except for Omega Jewelry (thanks to Ben Saoud). This hijab store plastered all the logos of the ‘designers’ they sell—big fan of the directness here.

3: Passport Photo

One of the most important things I had to do in Libya was to get my first passport. The order of events to get a passport there is like the plot of a well-awarded indie short film. When we needed to take our photos, I noticed that they had a menu of outfit choices one could be photoshopped into. Seeing that half of the options became increasingly militant made me laugh. How many men decided: “I want that one.”

4: Beautiful

The freshest orange juice would cost you maybe 50 cents for a bottle. Even gas was cheaper than water at 30 cents a gallon. I miss how simple it was. The beauty of everyday life in Libya is that, as chaotic as it might get, they take pride in the simplicity of executing their tasks. If you’re going to do something once, you had better do it right - and do it the “easy” way. They have an eye for finding the shortcuts on the street or the “DIY” approach to fix anything - literally. Driving on the freeway, I saw these guys on the side with hundreds of oranges, and it felt like they were just emanating a glow onto the street. Orange juice tastes better here. Maybe it’s because it's made by two chill dudes posted on the side of a high-speed freeway with no lanes: like this ^.

5: She’s tired

Any neighbourhood I visited in Tripoli and Benghazi was never short of a Libyan flag. They were everywhere. I had revisited the area called “The Old City,” where my Dad spent most of his childhood selling Jewelry in the Medina. He took us on a tour of his old spots. During my 10 days in Libya, I took a photo of every flag that I saw - this one made me the most emotional. Just a faded flag folded up on itself, tucked in the corner of an arch, in a place I hadn’t seen in 12 years. It felt like you could see the flag's life, not only because it was faded but because it was alone. It hadn’t been interrupted by anything else, no wires, graffiti, or even more flags surrounding it. I think this sums up what I felt like coming back. Tied up, faded…but still the same. Older now, understanding what a flying flag aloft in the wind means when you see yours faded and blue. I have more sympathy for myself…for Libya. She looked tired.

Isabelle Frances McGuire’s Year Zero at The Renaissance Society, Chicago.

Isabelle McGuire has given us an America in tripartite form. Inside her show Year Zero at The Renaissance Society in Chicago, a life-sized recreation of Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace cabin, whose ‘real’ equivalent (Kentucky’s ‘Abraham Lincoln Birthplace National Historical Park’) is itself a facsimile cabin, alongside two slightly undersized figures of Santa Claus and Jesus, who prostrate on wood-and-dirt-mound pedestals. These cultural figures’ apparent exhumation, however, feels almost entirely depoliticized, positing them in the press release as “‘revisiting the past, re-animating old models, or re-wilding familiar symbols”. This seems like a poetic way to say that you’re picking and choosing from a cultural consciousness that you know will be shared but defining it as active engagement. I am more inclined to feel that “re-wilding” is predominantly passive: a languorously ironic presentation of referents, successfully bolstered by confident and considered choices of material and scale. It does not share the high buzz that McGuire’s more directly funny work exudes - a child’s call of duty cosplay and animatronic baby Yoda at King’s Leap, SuperBaby2(Unmanned) {“The Child”, “Reborn”} (2023) spring to mind. But the eerier tone (the Lincoln house approximates the haunted house) provides visual dividends for a show of empty spaces and characters to be projected onto, even vampirised ones. I enjoy work that pokes at open-ended interpretation, and there are lots of threads to tug, but don’t tell us to look out for it in the accompanying text. Reticence works far better when simply shown, not didactically spelt out.

The Renaissance Society occupies the odd position of being Chicago’s closest approximation of the Kunsthalle format, geared toward commissioned work by living artists. TRS has shown Ghislaine Leung and Aria Dean - always leaning towards reasonably reticent content which balloons to gorge on its own context, for better or worse, under the guises of various forms of sculpture and new media practices, with a yearly-ish dense yet star-studded group show. This is fine and usually stands out in Chicago, not only due to its usually high quality, but by a relative dearth of that form of contemporaneity’ in other art spaces. Given the literal academic backdrop of the space (on the UChicago campus), all the vitrine installations in the hallway vaguely blended in with the incessant postering of doors and walls you see if you climbed the four flights up to the show. Supplementary material, choices for how you might approach the work in the main space, completely separated from the grist of the exhibition. It sucked because McGuire’s sole video in this, Frankenstein in the Underworld (2024) shown in a vitrine, was fucked-up and really good. It firmly illuminated a strain of body-mod which runs through the show. The two disinterred figures are qualified as “bodies printed from medical CT scans of anonymous women” in the accompanying text and fit nicely with McGuire’s previous relation to kitbashing (creating new models from an assortment of different parts) and video game culture.

The show poster, Depo Provera (2024) a work in itself, listed on the checklist - which I don’t think I’ve seen before - shows a staged photoshoot of McGuire injecting her mother’s behind. It was named after a dubiously effective hormonal birth control her mother had been taking while pregnant with McGuire. This oddly heart-warming personal history complicates the previous historical referents. But, when combined with the specificity of the CT scans and the exclusively male personae in the work, spins a discussion around the agencies of differently gendered bodies. Year Zero (alt-history, rebirth, cycles, sublimation, etc.) is a satisfying show, and at its base has a tonal consistency and specificity that I very much appreciate, even though that was exactly what I expected. More of this in Chicago, I think.