Adapting

Photos: Jacob Sacks-Jones/ Tinite Photography/ tinite.com

I caught the train back last Sunday. One of those spring afternoons where the temperature  is on the brink of hinting at summer – nudging you in the ribs as everyone bares more skin than seen in months. All the typical Oxford clichés were out: full, pink blossom trees; buildings with warm stone shaded gold; river filled with punts. Already there had been a thinning, with the first wave of students leaving the day before. Boxes had been packed and cars loaded up, buses or trains taken by some, plane tickets checked for others. Not quite a complete dispersal. Plenty remained – exams to revise for, jobs to do, work to complete, for a (lucky) few a city to enjoy for a while without continual, impending deadlines.

I didn’t want to depart. I did, but I didn’t. There were things to look forward to at home: improved sleep, good meals, more head space,  fewer distractions, big hills to climb, friends to visit, adventures with my family. But what about all the adventures I was leaving? I didn’t want to make the transition from city to village, from close proximity to cafes to a car journey to reach the nearest small town, from social life to solitary wanderings.

Now I’ve been back for a week, the sedate routine I’ve returned to feels fitting - natural. It’s like slipping into a pair of well-worn shoes, the leather so soft they mould to your feet immediately; they may not have been put on for months, but there they are, just the same, ready for use once more. This particular half of my life is one that exists on a more expansive scale: more clothes to choose in my wardrobe, more books to browse from endless shelves, more space both in my room and beyond the front door, more food in the fridge, more time for writing, creating, talking, working, walking, and, as always, procrastinating. Yet at the same time it’s smaller. In this split existence, divided between two homes and two modes of being, this is the quieter half. No constant shifts from library to late night cocktails and vigorous dancing. No nagging feeling that every hour of the day should be spent doing something. No writing essays up until two minutes before the deadline. No sense that a night in is a night wasted. There’s still plenty to do right now – I’m balancing numerous projects ranging from academic to professional to creative – but it takes place at an altered pace, in a very different space.

When I'm in Oxford, I can’t imagine being here at home. But when I’m here, Oxford feels far-removed. The evening I got back, I sat down to family dinner, climbed into bed and slotted back in where I’d left off. Of course, it’s not quite the same. Wherever we go, we bring with us the accumulation of what went before. Each time I return home, it’s with a newly tuned perspective and set of experiences – in the same way that each fresh term at university will be informed by what happened in the holidays preceding it. I get to inhabit two lives in tandem. They blur of course, smudging into each other so that the separations aren’t always clear. But I’m happy with that.

For we are creatures of adaptation. Most of us are chameleons. We might not change our colours according to the background shade of our environment (tempting thought), but we can slide between different places, people and pastimes with relative ease. It’s done all the time on a small scale as we flit from one type of interaction to another, altering everything from behaviour to topics of conversation to language used, adjusted between encounters. The situation or type of relationship informs any number of choices we barely think about consciously. What register is used? What responses are given?  Body language? How much of ourselves do we reveal, how much do we conceal? Are we open or protective? Giggling as rude jokes are cracked, or business-like as serious things are discussed? A single day can require all these facets and more. They’re all part and parcel of the same person, but from slightly different angles according to context. None of us have just that one mirror image that captures and characterizes us – for the whole is made up of these multiple, ever-changing, always-expanding reflections. 

These shots are by the very skilled photographer and student Jacob Sacks-Jones (see more of his work on his website Tinite Photography). They were taken for The Oxford Student (one of the university newspapers). It was a rather glorious morning as Alys and I raided the bulging rails of The Ballroom Emporium at the bottom end of Cowley Road, seeking out appropriate items to style. The choice was pretty overwhelming. The shop is divided into two parts - one selling vintage, and the other selling and hiring ball gowns. Our eventual theme was a juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, lighter fabrics offset with heavier coats and, for the final outfit, blue velvet britches. That one did feel vaguely Robinson Crusoe, I must admit. The gold and silver shoes are mine (ASOS). 

The location being on the roundabout, we got our fair share of intrigued pedestrians and bus passengers staring out the window as they swooped past - and even a fleeting cameo from a builder who jumped into one of the frames. 

In other news, I wrote a piece on spinal surgery and my ongoing ambivalence towards the appearance of my back for beauty website ThandieKay - a brilliant platform set up by actress Thandie Newton and make-up artist Kay Montano. 
Also, my friend Flo very deservedly won a Dulux/Guardian competition photography category, with the winning images drawn from her rich, colourful archive of our collaborative shoots. You can see the announcement and photographs here - they will soon be published in the Guardian Weekend too. Rather fittingly, one is from the photo-shoot in the post below this. 

Adapting 2014-03-23T12:30:00-07:00 Rating: 4.5 Diposkan Oleh: Unknown