A little gray cat skitters around the woods surrounding the School of Sculpture Berlin. It has a short tail that twitches as it surveys the thicket behind the kitchen tent. I fill a glass with water and lay it at my feet for the cat, it drinks and I listen to the sound of machinery.
Welcome to the world of Goblin Men, where fruits are sold for locks of hair, and lives are lost for having their share! Goblin Market, a staged play, performed on campus in the Factory on March 24th and 25th, was a student led project that brought nineteenth century English writer Christina Rossetti’s poem, “Goblin Market,”
A continuation of my discussion with Jacob appears here- but first, a little bit about his background: “I was born in Huntsville, AL., and quickly took to the great traditions of bluegrass and soul food that surrounded my upbringing. I fell in love with the music of the Appalachian foothills and found myself exploring genre
“It’s not the fault of the wood if it wakes up as a violin.” Arthur Rimbaud If it wakes up instead as a guitar, it might be the fault of Jacob Horack. I met with Jacob on a December afternoon shortly before the winter break. We sat down in the library amid the busyness of
I felt the chilly wind as I stepped out of the taxi. The hotel my boss booked for me was in the northern district of the city. I stood next to the car gazing at the dark red building while the driver took my suitcase out of the trunk. The building was wide rather than
“I want the idea of the ballroom to be communicated as a radical place of freedom where nothing is too much,” says JC (they/she), one of the heads of BCB’s LGBTQ club. During our conversation right now, JC is sitting on my bedroom floor kindly answering my questions, but on September 25th they were dynamically
Die Bärliner takes a look back at the history of the factory, BCB’s beloved art space. From its opening in 2013, it has been a home to studio and performing arts courses, served as a stage for student theater productions, hosted festive events, and been a haven for practicing arts students looking for a quiet
“But as they burned, disappearing irrevocably one after the other, you stopped believing that there was any purpose in a book’s existence. Or perhaps the only one to have worked out their purpose was the Sarajevan author and bibliophile who, instead of using expensive firewood, warmed his fingers last winter on the flames of Dostoevsky,