Back to Top

A New First Love

by Diana Thompson

There are many things in life which I love. I love a good cup of tea. I love my camera. I love that moment when a cat waltzes over and sits on your lap after hours of feline indifference.

I love your hair. I love that dress. I love this song. Love as a concept changes to fit the level of emotion which we are trying to convey, and gets banded around with a relaxed ease. It’s often read and understood within the specific perimeters of our situation – my girlfriends know when I tell them I love them, it doesn’t mean I want to run away to Vegas and get married. I love my absent family in a different way to how I love those who have ushered me into the warmth of their hearts. I love how I live in London, but on a clear night can see lots of stars from my bedroom window. They are all emotional stirrings caused by the same four letter word. Yet somehow we inherently know the difference between the love of something nice, and the love that makes you ponder an infinite future in the arms of someone else.

But what about the first love? Is it something utterly different? When asked who my first love was, my mind completely skipped past my first boyfriend to the first person I ever lived with. This was despite being sure I had loved both partners in similar ways “at the time”. Does our first love change with hindsight and new adventures? Do our memories get consigned to the back of the wardrobe, like that favourite dress from when we were 16?

I would argue that we have multiple experiences of first love. Each new romantic partner brings with it a more seasoned assortment of new feelings which feel different to how we remember them with previous partners. Although I don’t doubt the feelings I had as a teenager were any less real, life experience allows you to grow with each “new first encounter”.

I know that the love I feel for my boyfriend feels different to the love of any previous partner. I know how happy I felt when we shared our first kiss, how excited I was at the prospect of our first Christmas, the joy and anticipation of setting up a home together. Despite us both having done it all before, it felt incredibly new with the joint weekly supermarket shop acting as an adventure in domestic bliss. The way he strokes my hair makes me melt. It’s the teenage butterflies with an adult’s appreciation. A first love, combining the elements of frivolity, passion, stability and longevity.

If pressed for an answer on my first love, I would say it’s him. I’m generally not the soppy type, but I find myself uttering to girlfriends how “I’ve never felt this way before”. Anyway who can make me say and feel things like that must be a first. He makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world every day.

Edvard Munch

by Georgina McNamara

When I was 14 I looked at his woodcuts and paintings and felt that I had found someone who totally understood me. It didn’t matter that he was dead.

His work inspired me to write cliched angst-ridden poetry after school in my bedroom. Since then I have associated his work with my awkward adolescence.

Recently I went to see his paintings in a major London gallery show. I was nervous about being horribly disappointed. But it was wonderful!

My First Love Was

I was finding what was my first love - it is not only actual love that means love between people.

My first love was traced to my childhood… around 3 years old.

I used to watch a children TV programme for children was broadcasted in almost every evening.

The name is Niko Niko Pun/Poon which was a part of TV show of Okaasan To Issho
(‘we are always with our mothers’ or ‘with my/our mother(s)’ in English. It quite sounds a Japanese style sentence).

There was three puppets Jajamaru, Pikkoro and Porori. I was really really attracted by them and also I fell in love with their characters (I was feeling passion when I was watching it at all the time!)

I think it is my first love, I still cannot leave from them.

by Nanae Kawahara

First love is passionate, bitter sweet and often ends in tears. Mine did at least, and the sweetness of first love continued on with the years, stubbornly refusing to see the cracks in forever until it was too late. I strongly believe that first love never dies, I think it haunts you forever, tinged with the sweetness and craze of youth.
I find this photo of my fist love infinitely sad, in it’s intimacy but also the position, like it already spells the end of a relationship.

by Crista Leonard


by Alexander Alekseenko

I’m going to tell a story of my love to the band Nirvana. So I’ve been listening to some of the most mainstream hits by Nirvana when I was a kid, just like everyone else did, you know. Smells like teen spirit, rape me, heart shaped box etc. And never thought that the story behind the front man’s life would get so deep into me. My friend Alina is a big Nirvana fan, so I was listening to it a lot, and at some point I got into it so hard that I wanted to know more. So I’ve read a couple of biographical books about the band and Kurt himself, listened to all b-sides and rare recordings, watched almost all footage one can find. I ended up being a huge fan of the work Kurt did and Nirvana has became one of the few band that I can’t skip when shuffle plays it in my ipod or anywhere else.

This picture is taken at a Nirvana’s cover party dedicated to Kurt’s bday and hosted by a local night club. I was a bit buzzed and headed to the bar to have a drink and this guy was standing in front of me wearing a Cobain hoodie and his hair was lying on it like it was Kurt’s. It was surreal.

First Kiss

by Sophie Cain

Photo Album

by Corinna Spencer

When I was a little girl I loved the cream box that sat up high, just out of reach. It had an embossed pattern of swirling leaves, it was heavy to lift, probably.

I have distant memories, but they may not be true, of peeking inside and carefully opening the book that lay inside the beautiful box. Gently turning each heavy page and then each piece of silky tissue paper.

Of course now that I am older, and I own the box and it still sits up high just out of reach, I can look at it anytime I please.

And I do, often. My parents, on their wedding day.

Love in the Time of Braces

by Chelsea Fagan

I had a high-school sweetheart. I don’t know how many of you did, but it’s something I’d heartily recommend if you’re still in the age group to have one. I also had a middle-school sweetheart, though that relationship mostly consisted of holding hands and playing GTA III while his mother brought us Kool-Aid. At the time, of course, it was extremely serious and difficult and riddled with 13-year-old drama. There were a lot of accusations of kissing another girl at the spring dance and not meeting each other at the Royal Farms to walk home from school together. However, despite the tumultuous road we walked, we were certain that we would end up married one day, if only we could make it through those 9th grade honors courses together. As it turned out, we didn’t even make it through the summer before high school—he got a new bicycle and clearly bigger things were happening for him.

And then, after the pathway had been cleared up for someone with the potential to one day get a learner’s permit, I got a high-school sweetheart. As those of you who had one will know, it is the strangest combination of a deep, consuming, almost unhealthy love, and all of the levity and humor of publicly going through puberty. You don’t know where you are, you certainly don’t know who you are, and this “love” that you have found becomes a buoy in an incredibly heavy storm. There is an overwhelming feeling that everyone is falling in love, everyone is in on some secret club you’re not a part of, and if you don’t find love yourself—there are only so many song quotes you can put on your blog to compensate.

So you find someone, and you settle into a cozy little imitation of what you think relationships should be. You have all of the movies, books, and Yellowcard songs you could ever need to tell you what love looks like—what shape and color it is, at least—and now it’s up to you to reconstruct it. You will start fights over a chicken nugget at lunch, freak out about who is going to pick you up from the dance, and profess undying loyalty at all of two weeks into the relationship. It’s cute, of course, because none of it has any real consequence. Unless, of course, you become a Teen Mom™, in which case you can just get your own show on MTV and live off the residuals into your mid-sixties. Either way, for the most part, it’s a pretty light-hearted affair, a high school sweetheart.

Everything is a sort of pantomime of intimacy and sincerity, and like the dog blissfully piloting the plane, we have no idea what’s going on. Strangely, though, these relationships—no matter how absurd when reflected upon with even a few months’ worth of maturity and growth—can echo for a long time. There is a certain soft spot we hold for this time, the other person, and everything we clumsily did together. I still wonder what my high school sweetheart is doing and, though I have no romantic interest in him, get upset at the thought that another girl would be doing anything to hurt him. When I heard, throughout the years since we’ve split, that someone with the capacity to do serious emotional damage (unlike me, who was capable of inflicting a scratch at most in the scheme of things), I got extremely angry. Protective. It was almost like, having seen me at the formative, awkward moments of my life and loving me anyway, he became a member of extended family. Hell, even my mother still asks about him.

And this can’t be said for other people I’ve been with since, even if the relationships ended on the best of notes. For some reason, though the relationships themselves were surely comprised of things more sincere and of greater emotional depth than the arguments and make-ups I carried out in the locker banks, they haven’t rippled through time quite as easily. I suppose it’s a time in your life when your are so impressionable, so fragile, so desperate to be accepted and appreciated for who you are that the idea of someone loving you makes you forever grateful. I think about the girl I was at 15, 16, 17—how insecure, acne-riddled, and inconsistent—and feel I owe my high school sweetheart a thank you for letting me know that I was good enough in some way. Sure, we have the love of friends and family, but when you’re just discovering what sexuality and romance even are, it’s essential to get your membership in the “dating” and “love” clubs. 

Sure, it’s ridiculous looking back on your sweetheart sometimes, it’s funny to think of the immense mountains we were able to construct out of the most insignificant of molehills—but it’s beautiful. We were lucky enough to have found someone to grow with, to change with, and—perhaps most importantly—to be completely ourselves with. At 16, knowing someone sees your flaws and wants to be with you regardless is better than winning the lottery. He will always have given me that, no matter what may happen later in life. And today, if you dare break his heart, I’ll break your kneecaps.

We found a bug

by Agnese Bicocchi

One of the first thing I can remember loving was my godmother’s pug.

by Christina Smith

When I met D, former loves seemed so inconsequential, barely love at all. Three months after meeting, he proposed in Paris. I said yes.

by Jennifer Loiselle

Holding Up a Wall

by Ryan Van Winkle

which is, of course, not the best idea

if you are using only your back. Because

the wall is too large and while you often feel

small, you are not an ant

able to shoulder twenty times your frame.

So, you will need something else and maybe

it is your art, just wood and canvas and old

chipped paint. A glowing two by four

from the police barricade and something of a door

you father saved, the painted canvases of friends

and Dawn’s teeth, all of Dawn’s teeth could hold

up a wall if you know what

I mean, didn’t we call her from behind your father’s door

to whisper nobody was going to love her pimples

and curly fried hair because didn’t we first love

her pimples and curly fried hair

at the chalkboard, over the paper mache, her red

and white neck, like our own peckers bursting

for free and didn’t we think we could hold a wall

with her a long time, could fuck

while holding a wall, could do your taxes and feed birds

from sanctuary below the wall, camp with your children

and raise a little tree for Christmas. That wall would halo glow

and so maybe you need

to palette a love too, a mural

strong enough for a wall.

Honestly I’ve never been ‘in love’ before so I don’t exactly know what the feeling would be like. But I had a bit of a think about what it might feel like and I came up with this picture. I think being in love might be like being lost in something that is infinite, all encompassing and extremely overwhelming and beautiful at the same time.

by Fabliha Reza