My name is Emma Tamplin and I am a student at Belmont University, studying Sociology and English Literature. I am in the process of pursuing various goals in creative writing, documentary photography, and (most prominently as of late) applying to graduate school. I hope to earn a PhD in Sociology to explore my life-long interest in culture, religion, thought, and literature.
This is where I share some of my writing and photographic work. I have experience in Editorial, creative, & sociological writing; portrait, journalistic, & lifestyle photography. Please visit my contently page for my published works.
“They were the creatures of history, whose coming together was of a nature possible in no other day—the day was inherent in the nature… The relation of people to one another is subject of each to time, to what is happening… The more imperative the love, the deeper its drafts on beings, till it has taken up all that ever went to their making, and according to what it draws on its nature is.”
We spent our last night back at The Globe and reminisced about the full-circle we had made. While my fellows conversed lovingly about the memories, I sat in bitter contempt about the literary-ness of this circle. How dare they allow this to have an ending? I felt we would leave and the glue of our shared homelessness would dissolve the second we exchanged the last of our pounds for dollars. I ached for the all-too-familiar feeling of uprootedness and I was angry with myself for falling back into the illusion of comfort.
I could have told you a story about how I learned the importance of experiential learning or that I came back a more cultured person, but that seems like a lie by omission. There is something human and essential about looking intently at historical and inward wars, and there is blessing in being able to do so alongside books and people. I’ve held these memories inside for safekeeping. I still haven’t gone through all of my photos and I can’t bear to open my journals or class notes. I think I am afraid of what I won’t find, or that maybe the associations and sentiments are only in my head. Maybe London wasn’t that awesome or maybe, by putting it on paper, it will crystallize and uproot. But ending a story is a worthy endeavor. Home is, indeed, in your head. The world is, indeed, an orphan’s home, and it is such an incredible thing to be able to see it and be in it and remember it.
The next weekend I got on a plane to Amsterdam with two people, Tatum and James, whom I had known for two weeks but had quickly become my best friends. I was originally determined to remain true to my angsty and contrived air of nomadish individualism, having gone to London knowing no fellow-students and only one of the professors. I vaguely remember Tatum asking me at one point how I had imagined my month would play out before meeting them. My answer had something to do with books and self-induced (and solitary) literary revelation. The whole group thing was an unexpected occurrence that felt equal parts new and old, as though this social being that I hadn’t known since Junior year of high school was being dusted off and, reminded of her actual age, brought back to life. Amsterdam was a wake up call, however, and reminded me of how irrevocably odd and incapable of blending in that I am. The time there can be recounted through a series of lost and stolen things, juxtaposed by deep and unexpected connections. This theme asserted itself the moment the plane landed, as we commissioned a cab to drive us to our hostile. I assured the guys that I had enough cash to get us to centrum, and they reluctantly acquiesced to the driver’s gesture to enter the vehicle. The meter quickly revealed that I did not, in fact, have the adequate funds. We communicated this fact the best we could our driver, who did not appear to understand the variety of English we were speaking
Us: “Sir, you can let us out here, we don’t have enough money”
*Continues driving until I break out in nervous sweats at the thought of owing money to a Dutch man*
When he finally stopped relatively close to the hostile, we raced to find an ATM and eventually handed the crook (driver) an absurd amount of money. We walked into our hostile only slightly disheartened by the loss, still dreaming of ~adventure~. I noticed a bag they were selling at the front desk that read: “Home is in Your Head.” It was perfect, a motto, an answer to my conflicted state of being: am I a loner, homeless and orphaned, or am I just another person, looking for home and a people to share it with. This way I could be both, as soon as I bought this bag, of course. I was refused this purchase, however, because they did not accept my debit card as a form of payment and, as I mentioned, the cab driver had stolen all of my cash.
The memory of Amsterdam is one big blur, filled with fragments of horrible situations that accumulate into a beautiful regard of the city, and a desire to go back and redeem my time there. One fragment that I can extract from the blur is an image of a sportsbar we found and frequented. It served bottomless ribs and 10 shots of Jäger for 10 Euros, a steal that prevented visits to other, more historical, attractions of this city, renowned for it’s food and museums. One museum we did visit, however, was the Heineken Experience, where a tour guide teaches you about the brewing process and the high-cultural language of all things hops and malts. A group of about fifty people gathered around with an allotted glass of beer as the guide taught us, via a headset microphone, the correct way to drink it. He awarded extra pores to those who participated and answered questions correctly. James and Tatum answered the first and second questions correctly, making our small group the elite students. To maintain this status, All I had to do was answer a question correctly, or at the very least remain silent so as not to screw with the batting average. But of course, before he could ask another question, I dropped my beer and loudly broke the glass. The guide made a joke, all the people laughed, and James and Tatum looked down in embarrassment, determined to disassociate themselves from me. The guide gave me a replacement glass out of pity and we smuggled it out of the brewery to take home as a reminder of my failure to blend into the group. Any group. All groups.
Perhaps the pinnacle embarrassment and Thing-to-be-Redeemed from Amsterdam was stolen and lost on a pub-crawl. We underwent this ~adventure~ whole-heartedly and were in the life of the group from the start. We made many new friends from all around the world and one enemy from Australia, whom I wrestled for a drink coin he had stolen from me. However, this was not the worst thing that was stolen from me that evening. At the second or third bar I noticed that my phone was missing (along with a bus pass but nobody ever talks about that one). I wasn’t about to let this ruin my evening, so I opted to Stay Calm and Crawl on. When we got back to the hostile, I called my mother to let her know she should probably cancel my service. (I am, after all, responsible and foreword-thinking and coordinated). When she answered the phone she was sniffling and obviously upset: “Emma?!” she cried. Apparently, due to some crossed iCloud voodoo, my sister had received a phone call from a non English-speaking man from my number. Mother proceeded to call every phone number she could find affiliated with Belmont administration and abroad. We woke up the next morning to a phone call from one of the faculty members on the trip. James answered the phone: “Hello? … Hey Dr. Tiner … Yes Emma is alive.”
I deduced that my phone was indeed stolen when I found a photo of an unknown woman at the Schiphiol airport, which was obtained through the aforementioned iCloud voodoo. This was further confirmed by a notification on my computer that read: “iPhone Last Found in: Iran.” Some people firmly believe that I first lost my phone and then someone found and took it. I stand by my telling of the story, which is adamant in clearly relaying the fact that my phone was first stolen and, therefore, lost. But, truth be told, taking an inventory of Amsterdam illustrates my inability to lay low and find a home in a group: 1) no cash 2) no tote bag 3) broken beer glass 4) stolen beer glass 5) Lost pub crawl Tshirt 6) Stolen flannel in lieu of lost pub crawl tshirt 7) lost and stolen cell phone. Whether it was lost then stolen, or stolen then lost, I was successfully disconnected from everything. I was lost and stolen, stolen and lost, in and by various countries, and into the journey to and from them, fragmented and scattered into America, England, Scotland, and, apparently, Iran. Amsterdam did a very good job of taking things from me and of reminding me that I cannot own anything without the risk of losing it or having it stolen. Home is in your head, and must be kept there for safekeeping, because the stolen glass was still dropped and broken five months later in America and the bag itself could not have carried every remnant of Amsterdam, alive and gleaming, back to America.
While in London, other abroads were accessible via a Eurorail pass, and the movement became addictive. One weekend it took us to Scotland. When we arrived in Edinburgh, it was late and we were famished, so we roamed the streets in search of Haggis and Scotch. Edinburgh is windy, literary, and old. And maybe this is my subconscious euro-centrism talking, but something about its oldness made it beautiful, made it art. I don’t know much about laws of aesthetics, but it didn’t seem to matter: the oldness of the place overrides the clutter and the decay sanctifies the bad weather. We finally found a place that was open called the Greenmantle and the joint was teeming with bodies and beards. We nestled in the corner and watched in amazement at the cliché of the moment: of course there is a band with a banjo and fiddle, of course the entire joint is joining in song and clinging glasses in the air, of course everybody here is in a flannel and has red hair. It felt like a place that I was destined to return and make my home. We left the bar, high on the authenticity of the experience, and trekked the streets towards our dorm. A friend and I tripped over each other and a fault in the ancient road, and laid pitifully engulfed in laughter for at least an entire minute in the middle of the street.
I, of course, continued to have trouble orienting myself to this city—my “home”—and its bus routes. It really shouldn’t be that difficult because the route pretty much only goes in two directions: If you just make sure you aren’t driving further away from your destination, you’ll get there eventually. But the artful massiveness of everything was intimidating, and we, of course, managed to find ourselves on the wrong bus, with the destination on our map apps floating further and further away from us. We became the classic huddle of young Americans, loudly arguing about where we were headed and what our next move needed to be. I noticed, in seats to our right, a little boy and his little sister, both no older than 9, intently observing us. I could tell he was worried for us. He had that protective air about him that adultless meanderings will give a big brother. It is safe to assume that he was much more intelligent and capable than the combination of the group of us, and he was obviously—while humbly—aware of this. Out of exasperation one of us exclaimed, “which way to London!” We all laughed, but the joke indicated to the young boy that he was now absolutely obligated to interject. “Excuse me, mam…” piped a darling Scottish accent, as he stood up and politely addressed me: “I’m sorry, but this bus is certainly not going to London… Are you lost?” Yes, young boy, I am very lost in your land, and I would very much so like to be your mother.
The next morning we woke up mangled and unrested, but determined to pretend otherwise. After eating what breakfast we could sustain, we set out to hike Arthur’s Seat. The art of the place came to be about the compatibility of environment and construction; nature and society. Someone decided to build the Scottish Parliament Building right next to Arthur’s Seat, and both seem to agree to be where they are. They each rest, settled and thankful. But parliament decays, while the mountain does not. The mountain exhales its acknowledgement of this temporary sufficiency, exclaiming in praise: “You belong here. You belong next to me. For now, you belong to me.” Unlike every other attraction we had visited (Greenwich, Cliffs of Dover, The River Thames, etc), Arthur’s seat was unaccompanied by gift shops or tour guides. It was steep and unpaved, and the wind made the peak seem exhilaratingly dangerous. From here we marveled at Edinburgh in its entirety: in all its history, beauty, and decay.
Late that last evening a group of us went bar hopping in the attempts to claim as much of the city as we could in the short time we had left. I was stopped by a couple of delightfully lost, backpacking Italians. They insisted I show them “where to go for a good time.” I debated for about .2 seconds whether I would play the “who, me? I am just a confused and fragile American who doesn’t know this city or understand maps” card, but instead responded, “Follow me, boys!” As we left one place in pursuit of another, I took an Italian in each arm and one situated in behind me (one can only assume this was for protection). Finally an entourage, I thought. They insisted I teach them more English, which somehow resulted in their chanting my name and referring to me as their “American Dominant.” Any and all present during this brief brigade would agree that this was the moment that I peaked. I can almost promise my foreign night life tales will never surpass this encounter with my Italian entourage, who nestled me tight into their attentive flattery. However, the high was as fleeting as one might expect and my Italians abandoned me for a club that looked like a better time than I could offer them. I suppose my concierge services were sub-par, and they were quickly disillusioned with me on account of this.
I knew better than to believe in the providence of the notion that Edinburgh is my home. Just as I had become disillusioned with Nashville the moment I called it my home, so would I become disillusioned with Edinburgh or London the second I dared to consider myself as rooted in it as its decaying buildings. It seems that the traveler’s lofty destination is never really met, the longing is never satisfied, and no rest will finally bless the weary trek. There will always be a little Scottish boy in the back of my mind, reminding that I will never get to what I believe to be London, via a public transportation system. The best one can do for art and for the places one visits and longs for, is respect them as moving reference points and be willing to articulate our lost and floating failure to reach the destination and find the center of rest. The best we can do is concede to the little boy’s directions, for he is the local and he knows best. The sojourning nature of finding solace in buildings one yearns to call home renders the attempt to participate in the institutions they represent the actual antithesis of their allure. I talk a big game about being a nomad and in finding sadistic rapture in homelessness and orphanhood, but there is something deep in me that finds comfort in the fact that Arthur’s Seat will almost certainly be the same, offering the view while the view itself fluctuates, falls, and rises. Art longs for the sojourning individual to be above it, observing it, moving along it. In short, there is something good, something that evades interpretation, to be a human with legs that scale mountains and eyes that appreciate the smallness of otherwise dwarfing constructions. But then one must leave before the solace abandons like a group of backpacking Italians.
“Yet I suppose it was not like that at all really. One changes everything after by going over it”“But the real thing,” she said, getting her teeth into this, for she liked arguments… “the real thing is the picture you carry in your eye afterwards, surely? It can’t be what you can’t remember. Can it? “I don’t know” he said, “only the point about the blitz is this, there’s always something you can’t describe, and it’s not the blitz that’s true of. Ever since it happened I feel I’ve been trying to express all sorts of things”
-Henry Green, Caught
If you have talked to me in the last year, you know I have an irrational attachment to Last July, my month in London. Pardon me for bringing it up again. While there I wrote a fragmented thing about my experiences up to that point. I quickly ran through the photos and jotted down the main points. I did this with the intention of having a partner piece, which would cover the happenings of the second half of the trip, featuring a full exposition of photographs, and even perhaps round off the month into a fine conclusion that is only possible through extrapolated hindsight. I haven’t done this for several reasons: the first being by inclination to procrastinate (I have yet to go through and post all of the pictures from a trip to Africa in 2013 lol); the second being an irrational fear of crystallizing and weaning my experience, which has been breathing and heaving as illusory nostalgia in my psyche. There is something sacred about going somewhere else; not quite there, but somewhere between gone and having been.
While in London I did everything you are supposed to do. So much of it was really very basic. In the spirit of a class over romantic novels places during World War II, we visited the Imperial War Museum and Winston Churchill’s War rooms and I obsessively read a poem called “In Distrust of Merits” by Marianne Moore, which asserts “There was never a war that was not inward; I must / fight till I have conquered in myself what / causes war.” I took another a class over Downton Abbey, Pride and Prejudice, and English homes, leading me to obsessively read Virginia Wolf, and join her “in thought through the streets of London feeling in imagination the pressure of dumbness, the accumulation of unrecorded life.” London brought the joy of learning and walking simultaneously—through the actual city and through neighboring countries—both literally and imaginatively. More than the actual city itself, London represents an uprooted-ness for me, one that recalls the joy found in portability, in other places and terrains. The same class took us to Chawton where we visited Jane Austen’s home and saw an original manuscript of one of her childhood plays, and to Chatsworth where we had high tea and consumed scones in bulk. The associations I have with London are appropriately dramatic, as they consist mainly of the joy discovered in inquiring of the relationship between lands and people and history and war, and an individual life to each; in short, the joy in the basic-ness of movement.
So Here I begin my complete ramblings, beginning with England. Ramblings of Amsterdam, Scotland, and back to London will follow soon!