Tribe Magazine Issue 16

2009

2 TRIBE MAGAZINE ISSUE 16

ISSUE 16 TRIBE MAGAZINE 3


TRIBE MAGAZINE

ISSUE 16

Editor In Chief Mark Doyle

[email protected] Editor (Art)

Ali [email protected]

Commissioning Editor (Writing)Tilly Craig

[email protected]

Marketing & PRSteve Clement-‐Large

[email protected]

CorrespondentsAurore Plaussu, Hannah Lewis, Francesca Didymus, Jennie Mika Pinhey, Alistair Gardiner, Becky Mead, Helen

Moore, Sergey Kireev, Blake Thomas

ContributorsJude Buffum, Norio Fujikawa, Cristina Venedict, Michael Jantzen, Sarah Ahmad, Celeste Rojas, Pedro Almodóvar,

Rogério Degaki, Robert MacNeil, Stephen Harwood, Kim Niehans, Lee Auburn, Tom Warner, Felicity Notley, Brogan McCulloch

Regular ContributorGlyn Davies

Cover (Front & Back)Photo: Mark Doyle, Model: Charlie Eaton

Inside CoverNorio Fujikawa

General [email protected]

Submit [email protected]

Websitewww.tribemagazine.org

Press and Media Enquiries to Steve Clement-‐[email protected]

Artists have given permission for their work to be displayed in tribe magazine. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the permission of the copyright holder(s)

(C) 2013 tribe magazine


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FUJIKAWA26MICHAELJ

ANTZEN38SARAHAHM

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Cristina Venedict

cristinavenedict.ro


WE ARE STILL FAILING CREATIVE GRADUATES

Last month one of our correspondents, Hannah Lewis, spoke about the problems facing creatives and

graduates in creative disciplines in making money from their skills and qualifications. In the current

economic climate, jobs in the creative media and wider creative industries are now even harder to

gain entry to. Graduates are regularly leaving university or college with high levels of personal debt,

lots of hope and expectation but nothing tangible on the CV.

This simply can’t go on -‐ we are systematically failing our creative graduates. So many academic

institutions claim to have vocational elements to their creative courses and yet I personally have seen

many students graduates applying for internships with tribe with little to no real tangible experience

to draw upon or sell to a potential employer. The vocational elements are too small a part of the

degree, and do not give the student a fully immersive work experience. As an organisation, tribe is

snowed under with requests for internships from under and post graduates. The demand is huge, and

the vocational elements that some courses aim to provide are not making enough of a difference.

It’s not so much the skills that the work based graduates need, although these are important, it’s

access to the creative networks and knowing how to use them that is the most critical thing. Access

to creative networks can only really be fully realised by actually working in that sector or industry for

a decent period of time -‐ six months at the very least. It’s knowing who to talk to, where to go,

learning the language and ettiquette of the sector, making the contacts, getting to know people and

collaborating with them on tangible work projects.

tribe currently has a roster of 10 under and post graduate students volunteering with us. We are

limited by how many we can take on, and with no backing to date from any institution or funder, we

do what we can to give our young interns as much experience and access to the creative industries as

possible and support them to grow in confidence as well as knowledge. Let us hope it’s enough.

Mark Doyle, Editor In Chief

[email protected]

EDITORIAL





Robert MacNeil

robmacneil.com


What's the appeal of working in lo-‐res?What I love about working with pixels is that they bring this whole language of gaming into the art, and that gives me a lot of op_ons to play with those metaphors, whether it’s scoring points, dialogue boxes, item menus, status meters, that sort of thing. So usually I’m looking at which of those concepts would be best exploited by the subject maèr. The other thing I love about it is the element of nostalgia. People my age, give or take ten years, can look at it and immediately we’re all taken to this very specific place in our memories. For me, it’s such a pleasant memory it’s almost euphoric. But then I take that almost childlike state of mind, and place it in a modern context with very adult themes like violence or sex or poli_cal corrup_on, and that juxtaposi_on creates a very intense feeling.

What are your tools of the trade?For my pixel illustra_on I use Adobe Photoshop. I get emails all the _me from people asking me what filters I use to make things “look 8-‐bit” and it makes me laugh because the truth is I do 98% of the work using one single tool: the pencil tool set to 1 pixel. That’s it, one pixel at a _me. I have a few other tricks up my sleeve but that’s the bulk of it.

For my other infographic style, I use a combina_on of Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. Typically I’ll do the bulk of the illustra_on in Illustrator and then finish it off in Photoshop if I’m incorpora_ng textures or other techniques.Despite being a digital illustrator, I’ve been trying to get back into keeping a sketchbook. I always send pencil sketches to clients, but outside of that I found I wasn’t really using my drawing skills anymore, and it kinda got me bummed

out. So now I take my sketchbook everywhere and do a lot more life drawing. I was backstage at the Warped Tour last week, and I spent most of the _me just drawing the bands and crowd, it was a lot of fun! Who knows, maybe I’ll end up developing a third, hand-‐drawn style.

Can you talk us through how you plan and create a piece of pixel art?Concept, concept, concept! The first step, in crea_ng any piece of art in my opinion, should be the IDEA. I always spend a lot of _me sketching out rough ideas before I even get onto the computer. I men_oned earlier about figuring out which gaming mechanisms and metaphors to exploit in each piece; that really is step one in my process.Once I have the idea fleshed out, I’ll start crea_ng the individual parts of the artwork, pixel by pixel. Olen _mes if I’m doing a portrait in the piece, that comes first, so I know how few pixels I’m going to have to work with in the other elements. But it really depends on the individual piece. But most of the _me I figure out exactly how many pixels wide and tall the work will be. I like to blow them up at least 10-‐15 _mes their original size; the bigger the pixels, the sexier they are!

Whats the hardest part about being a creaIve?I guess if you’re asking about being a crea_ve (person who is crea_ve for a living), the hardest part is all the non-‐crea_ve stuff! I wish I could wake up every day and spend 8-‐12 hours just crea_ng art, but the truth is that makes up only about 1/3 of what I do. The majority of my _me is spent emailing or calling clients or galleries, marke_ng myself (via postcards, social networking, my website), sending invoices, upgrading equipment in my

JUDE

BUFFUMJude is a commercial artist

and digital graphics

designer living and

working in the USA. His

work celebrates the simple

beauty of the 8-bit era in

contemporary digital

design.

www.judebuffum.com




studio, or doing interviews like this! It's all part of the lifestyle of working for yourself, but some_mes I wish I had more _me to devote to just being… crea_ve.In terms of BEING crea_ve, the hardest part for me is deciding what to focus on. I have so many ideas (I know, what a terrible problem to have!) that I olen get sidetracked and don’t follow through on most of them. Or I’ll get to that halfway point and then lose confidence in the idea and it ends up never coming to frui_on. I can’t even tell you how many sketches I have for poten_al comic books, movies, video games, toys and 2-‐D art pieces that will probably never see the light of day.

Your infographics work is interesIng -‐ whats the appeal of infographics for you? Can you describe the working process between yourself and the client?Well the infographics were sort of my first foray into illustra_on. I graduated from the Tyler School of Art with a BFA in Graphic Design actually. I ended up working for one of my teachers, Paul Kepple at Headcase Design, who primarily does book design. One of the first projects we collaborated on when I started working there was a book called the Baby Owner’s Manual. The book was wrièn with the father-‐to-‐be market in mind, in the style of an appliance owner’s manual, so we created this infographic style to go along with that.From there I kind of fell in love with infographics, especially when they’re used to convey informa_on that infographics normally wouldn’t display, like more personal or humorous subject maèr. Even in my pixel style, there’s that element of the heads up display that I love to incorporate, to communicate other informa_on about what you’re looking at.

What impact has digital art had on art in general?I learned early on in art school that I SUCK at drawing and pain_ng. Well maybe not totally at drawing, but I knew I’d never make it as a painter, so I gravitated toward the computer, especially Adobe Illustrator. My biggest weakness was mixing color and blending paint, so I figured why not let the computer compensate for that and let me focus on my what I can do? What effect has the internet had on art in general? Has it opened you up to new ideas or concepts. or has it created too much visual "noise"? Is hard to find the good stuff amongs the bad?The internet is great for gerng your work out there! It really has cut down on the amount of marke_ng I have to do myself; there’s an en_re army of loyal fans out there who will blog about your work, retweet your latest posts, it’s absolutely amazing!

But as far as inspiring me, I don’t know I think you’re right there is so much out there it can be overwhelming. Also, the more you look at other people’s work the more likely you are to rip someone off I think, whether it’s inten_onal or not. I have influences for sure, but I really try and avoid looking too much at what other people are doing and just focus on the ideas going on inside my own head.

Is there something you'd like to work on, or a client you'd like to work with, you havent had the chance to do yet?Oh yeah, I would love to move beyond just standalone 2-‐D pieces of art and tell more complex stories, through other mediums like comics, film and video games. I have done some graphics for a SONY game, but I’d really love to have a more art direc_ng/




producing sort of role with one of my own stories. I have a few things in the works… Is 8-‐bit art sIll niche, or has it gone mainstream? Is it accepted by the art world? Do you feel accepted as an arIst, or does digital design sIll carry a sIgma? What relaIon, if any, do you have to the tradiIonal art world?I think it’s definitely a marketable style now, in that there are art directors ac_vely proposing it to clients and searching out ar_sts (some_mes me!) who can execute it for their projects. It’s a niche style for certain, but so are most styles when you think about it. It does have its detractors of course, mostly older people who don’t quite “get it”, but even in the design community there are some people who think it’s “gimmicky”, but that’s okay by me. As long as there are some that appreciate its beauty and humor, I’m sa_sfied.

What does the future hold for digital design? What excites you about the future?A lot of my commercial work is for magazines, and there’s some trepida_on in the illustra_on and photographic community that “the death of print” with the advent of more tablet devices will put us all out of business. There are others that say we need to learn how to animate our work because in the future these digital magazines will all need to be filled with flashy moving pictures! I say, do what you love, do it really freaking well, and there will always be a need for your crea_vity, whether it’s print, interac_ve, or some new form of media in the future. I’m looking forward to being able to project my art directly into people’s brains via the iPhoneXYZ, or whatever crazy technology is next! <

www.judebuffum.com








Cristina Venedict

cristinavenedict.ro


Norio FujikawaCurrently based in San Francisco, I am a product designer by trade and have been doing it professionally for a while (longer than I’d care to admit). When I’m not working at my 9 to 5, I try to find the Ime to sketch, paint, or make 3D models. Characters to robots to vehicles, I love puXng all the ideas floaIng around in my head out in some way. Just got a 3D printer that I’m anxious to get up and running!

I grew up reading classic manga and watching a lot of anime, sci-‐fi, and fantasy films. So, as you can imagine, the amazing visions and designs of those arIsts have greatly influenced my work. I remember reading books over and over such as Cyborg 009, Ginga Tetsudo 999, Captain Harlock, Black Jack, Doraemon, Dr. Slump, Dragon Ball or siXng down for the first Ime to watch Yamato, Gundam, reruns of Mazinger, Kamen Rider, or Ultraman (7 was always my favorite). Old sci-‐fi shows like Thunderbirds or Space 1999 with their amazing vehicles have lee quite an impression on me too. Of course film has a done a lot to inspire me. I have to run out and see any and all films with effects in it, live acIon or animaIon.












Norio Fujikawa

behance.net/Peanuts23


THE ENTANGLED PAVILIONMICHAEL JANTZEN


The Entangled Pavilion is one in a series of my design studies that explore new ways in which archi-‐ tecture can be reinvented in order to become more responsive to the people who use it. This is a design study for a new kind of interac_ve architecture.

The structure consists of a large steel support frame (that can be covered with a glass canopy) and four movable steel shade roof segments. Each of the segments are connected to the support frame at a center pivot mast. Two electric powered motorized wheels are aàched to the base of each of the shade roof segments. The wheels run in tracks that are mounted around the perimeter of the large support frame. The motorised wheels and perimeter tracks allow each of the four shade roof segments to be moved independently around the sup-‐ port frame into many different configura_ons. The en_re pavilion is powered by a large circular solar panel mounted on the top of the structure.

There is a built-‐in sta_onary cylindrical pedestal under the support frame at the center. Mounted onto the top of the pedestal is a large detailed steel model of the Entangled Pavilion, with movable shade roof seg-‐ ments. Visitors to the pavilion can interact with the full sized structure by moving the segments of the model into various configura_ons. When they have formed the model of the pavilion into the desired shape, they simply need to press the “move” buòn. At this point, the model is automa_cally held into the selected posi-‐ _on un_l the full size structure automa_cally moves into the same rela_ve posi_on as the model. In this way, the full sized structure can be formed and reformed con_nually in order to accommodate the changing needs and/or desires of the visitors.

michaeljantzen.com/Welcome.html






Thoughts of Art and Time TravelSarah Ahmad

About a hundred and twenty years ago someone had just hurriedly laid his bed, dusted a table of dry white crumbs, mounted a white canvas, wet his brush and lathered it with paint, squished onto a grainy wooden plate. The sun drenched wheat fields outside or the four walls of his space, and some_mes a face he had olen forgoèn, became strokes of blue and yellow, of life and art. More than a hundred years later, mirror shine floors, white washed walls and a space big enough to plant a wheat field was garnered into an exhibi_on hall, walls mounted with colourful canvasses, and beside that a name, Vincent van Gogh. Art, through pictures, pain_ngs and drawings and some_mes drama_c portrayal of moving creatures, can suddenly transport us from now to then. Wheat fields to Self Portraits, a Rural Worker to an Asylum; we can live through the life and _mes of Vincent van Gogh, the ar_st.

The year 2001, Pablo Picasso surprisingly appears at the Na_onal Museum in New Delhi, and through the shapes, colours and people he draws we can almost paint our voyage and once again travel through his age of glory, love, lust and darkness. Picasso leaves us behind, too soon, and gives us a world away from ours. If in _me a _me machine is ever made, it could never travel down this road of shapes, strokes and paint like a pain_ng could. He leaves behind on large hearted canvasses flashes of personali_es and people, of wars

and creatures, Gertrude Stein’s presence in his life and an emo_onal rapture during the Spanish Civil War in ‘Guernica’.

Great stories of heart, history and art and some_mes li`le stories of courage on paper and canvas, which could be found mounted on walls of Art Museums and Galleries or tucked in racks, piles and alley ways, it could be a story closer to some and an inspira_on for many more years to come.

Art is warmer than you think; a closer look into one’s closet, grandma’s red knièd sweater and an embroidered scarf, photographs of vehicles and people, window grills, black and twirled onto frames, weathered finds by grandfather, mother’s long brown easel, some_mes _me travel is all we really do; boxed in drawers and chests, store rooms and studios of a 1950s house, shared, shown and many a _mes framed, now rusted, but never forgoèn, pictures and photos of those olden _mes, never lived through, yet captured skilfully through vintage clicks, _me does stop and travel back, many a _mes, only in our back yards and minds.

Time travel has always intrigued human beings, we may not skip and go to the future or live in older _mes, but curiosity has driven us to do things that could re-‐define _me travel, unravelling and discovering things from the

‘As we speak, read and listen, Ime

machines are being built’


Gertrude Stein, 1905-‐06, Ar_st: Pablo Picasso


past, leaving behind thoughts through objects of daily use, a memento passed on from one genera_on to the next, _me and travel have made us philosophers and creators, inventors and some_mes destroyers. A few paragraphs in a New York Times ar_cle* describes a Time Capsule, built in the year 1939 by the Wes_nghouse Corpora_on of America. It contains objects like microfilms, news reels, photographs of baseball games, coal and asbestos and things of daily life. The torpedo shaped cylinder with its contents would lay hidden and aler 5,000 years someone would find the “Book of Records” to eventually find the capsule. The year 6939, someone would unravel history through this ar_s_c puzzle and through li`le things we used, the pen we wrote with, the films that reeled on a screen or metallic hangers that held our coats, human kind 5000 years into the future would have something to think about, dissect and debate on.

If I could build a _me machine with metal flanks, fly through thin air, far to the past and away to the future, I would go back to the _me of cafes where writers met painters and thinkers, I would bring them to the present and make them shape our tomorrow, I would then like to visit the future, of deeper thoughts and bigger ideas. A world renowned Indian painter, a pain_ng olen of reality in an abstract nature, was the beginning of an Ar_st’s Society in India; horses, people, eras and heroes, he drew things that inspired him or some_mes even disturbed him, but with strokes that made a na_on think about art again, about their people, films and theories yet again, but lel it there, too far for some to understand. His work makes us travel to the _mes when he sat there, somewhere in the middle, in his own gallery, readily asking names of admirers, signing all those bits of paper and lined pages in books and copies. You olen think where they are, but when at an exhibit, or a friend’s place you suddenly turn around, and a horse painted by MF Husain stares right back at you, you remember the fading legacy of a thinking ar_st.

If I could be a _me machine with wings so wide which could stretch across the earth, then I would just fly high and away, to places where Picasso met his pain_ng, where Van Gogh would paint again, and fear a future of metal rods and tech loaded interac_on, lonely self sustained places, wired spaces and growing differences. Art wakes us up, shows us things that were there, yellow simple fields, Marilyn Monroe posters, coloured

buildings and graffi_ art of expression, abstract sensi_vi_es, simple reali_es in farms and old built places, between trees, long lost sail boats in uèr blue sea or red tulips in large fields of green, the years of Moulin Rouge, the tombs of Mughal India, the possibili_es of things unknown, and a future that could have been.

Dark sand under my feet, a yellowish blue horizon, flat rocky hills, we move back, stopped by a creature, a human perhaps in the middle of it all, mel_ng metal clocks and bare barks, a distant past and a forgoèn future, a loud noise in my head, and here I stand before it all, in front of dreams and no_ons, The Persistence of Memory stares right back. Salvador Dali painted something that we associate with dreams and a surreal reality, but olen in spite of all the daily clutches and chores, we live through a sudden bout of inspira_on and some_mes we revel in a surreal mind.

Mind does travel fast, so does _me; we leave behind things but more importantly people, and some_mes carry things by them, dream of them and write about them, things that make us travel to the past and think about a future. The early 90s Child of India was no different from the many children of that era, rhymes and stories of Humpty Dumpty and the big bad wolf, a wish and a dream, fantasies and bright green parks with wooden swings. But for most, rhymes like ‘Ek Chidya, Anek Chidya’ (one bird, many birds) united the thought process of school going children of India in those _mes. When we listen to it today we are subtly transported to the early 90s, of simple anima_on yet big talk. It takes you back to the days of Doordarshan (one of the first Indian Television channels) and some_mes into our living rooms, rust and green, the sound of the vegetable seller or the smell of dal in the kitchen. These are not only memories, but day dreams of reality, living back in _me, listening to and watching those things that were there, and some which s_ll are.

As we speak, read and listen, _me machines are being built; an ar_st in Netherlands prepares a canvas, paints darkness and sunlight, a boy in New Mexico sprays out a graffi_ on a white bricked wall, in a cafe along the River Thames someone writes about fear and love, someone else plans to make a workable route finder for the blind, a woman films a documentary on the streets of Benaras, a photographer captures a moment in _me, an ar_san


Top: Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889, Ar_st: Vincent van Gogh

Below: Two Horses, Ar_st: MF Husain


A man pours powder into the Time Capsule (designed and developed by The Wes_nghouse Corpora_on in 1939) during its prepara_on


in Kutch embroiders a sari; hence, as we wake up today, someone, somewhere has just captured the days into capsules of canvas, on glossy photo sheets, fabrics of chiffon, in film reels and on bricked walls, unveiled another era of _me travel. And through this _me I wander, will not end here nor will these words, because art seems to have pulled me in many different direc_ons, towards my life in the room I sit in, towards the outside where I drink my evening tea, and towards thoughts, that make me form words, a pain_ng of a pink tulip I sit beside, or a creek of leaves, the black and white in my studio, or the rugged empty sounds of the roads this home lazes in. Art has a quality to begin a thought, for a person to think, a thinker to paint, to act and direct, to sculpt and create, a future with a past, an idea from a thing and a _me through its art.

*Take one capsule and call us in 5,000 years, Caitlin Lovinger, Learning Network, Teacher ConnecIons, New York Times, December 28, 1998

www.nyImes.com/learning/teachers/featured_arIcles/19981228monday.html

The Persistence of Memory, 1931, Ar_st: Salvador Dali


Apresentado em duas divisões separadas por um largo corredor, apresento a visão de um mundo an_-‐gravitacional na exposição "A Sua Princesa Está Noutro Castelo", em Ribeirão Preto -‐ Brasil, de Agosto a Setembro, 2011, na Galeria Marcelo Guarnieri. Inspirado pelas cores, gráficos e sons dos jogos vintage da geração 2D (Super Mario Bros.), o próprio �tulo brinca com a referência a um jogo u_lizado por um jogador comum, com um protagonista de bigode (Mario) que persegue uma princesa raptada por um lagarto gigante.

Durante a exposição, é apresentado ao espectador um conjunto de esculturas 3D, onde a paralaxe de movimentos das várias camadas pode erupcionar neste espectáculo, sem que se coloque qualquer questão acerca da sua origem ou local. As duas divisões seguem os mesmos jogos de vídeo num formato de ecrã único, as cores das esculturas e as paredes à vista -‐ Nível 1 (cores frescas) e Nível 2 (cores quentes) -‐ posicionam o visitante em diferentes níveis de um desafio de experiências rela_vamente às peças expostas.

Para esta instalação em par_cular, recrio uma atmosfera tão pesadamente baseada em reminiscências pessoais, que relaciono com o universo fantás_co dos meus personagens animados favoritos durante a minha infância. Esculturas que, de uma forma ou de outra, permanecem na nossa re_na de amantes de arte, tal como o coelho de inox cromado dos 80's do ar_sta Americano Jeff Koons, ou as peças de uma boneca manga dos 90's, um peluche criado pelo ar_sta Japonês Takashi Murakami.

Os úl_mos dez anos da minha carreira foram dedicados à construção de uma colecção variada e atrac_va de figuras com corpos pequenos e cabeças amplas. A par_r de desenhos, entrego-‐me ao trabalho preciso de esculpir polies_reno. Depois, todas as esculturas são subme_das a um processo de acabamento com fibras de vidro, resinas de plás_co e _nta automo_va.

Os trabalhos desta exposição apenas se assemelham este_camente à ideia dos objectos desenhados em computadores, e são automa_camente transferidos para linhas de montagem frias e distantes numa escala tecnologico-‐industrial. Apesar de ser um arqueologista espontâneo de equipamento electrónico e de lazer (média morto), a disciplina da confecção no estúdio é a verdade significante do meu trabalho.

Shown between the two rooms set apart by a wide corridor, I present a vision of an an_-‐gravity world in the exhibi_on ‘Your Princess Is In Another Castle’, in Ribeirão Preto -‐ Brazil, from August to September, 2012, at Marcelo Guarnieri's Gallery. Inspired by the colors, graphics and sounds of vintage games from the 2D game genera_on (Super Mario Bros.), the very _tle refers with humor to a game played by an ordinary player, a game which has a mustachioed protagonist (Mario) running aler a princess kidnapped by a giant lizard.

During the show, the viewer is presented to a 3D a set of liling sculptures, where the mul_layer mo_on parallax could erupt in the exhibi_on space, without leaving any ques_ons about their origin or event place. The two rooms divided follow the same video games single screen format, the colors of the sculptures and walls at sight -‐ Level 1 (cool colors) and Level 2 (warm colors) -‐ which place the visitor in levels of an apprecia_on challenge of the pieces shown.

For this par_cular installa_on, I recreate an atmosphere so heavily based on personal reminiscences, related to the fantasy universe of my childhood's favorite cartoon characters. Sculptures that, in one way or another, remain stuck in our art-‐lovers re_na, as the 1980’s stainless chromed rabbit from the American ar_st Jeff Koons or the 1990’s doll mangá pieces, plush made by Japanese ar_st Takashi Murakami.

The last ten years of my carrer have been dedicated to building an a`rac_ve and varied collec_on of figures in large heads and small bodies. From hand drawing, I throw myself to the precise work of carving the Styrofoam. Then they are all submièd to the finishing process with fiber glass, plas_c resin and automo_ve paint.

To the unwary, the works of this exhibi_on only aesthe_cally resemble the idea of objects designed on computers and automa_cally transferred to the cold and distant assembly lines in the technological-‐industrial scale. Even though I'm a spontaneous archeologist researcher of electronic and recrea_onal entertainment (dead media), the discipline of the handcraling in the studio is the significant truth of my work.

Portuguese transla_on: Inês Silveira

Rogério Degaki










facebook.com/rogeriodegaki


Pedro Almodóvar

Comedy is the genre where humor predominates. There is humor of various colors and comedies of various kinds, and like all genres it also combines with others, drama, tragedy, social criticism, and multiplies into all kinds of bastard, parodic genres.

There is humor in all my films, at times comedy bursts into other genres, embodied in one of the characters, forgive the self-‐quote. Agrado (Antonia San Juan) in “All About My Mother” and Paca (Javier Cámara) in “Bad Education” fulfilled that function. When they appear on scene, they bring comedy with them and impose themselves on the general tone of the narrative. As a writer and director I really enjoy those kinds of incursions and it has taken me time to impose them in dramatic films, especially with Anglo-‐Saxon critics, less flexible when it comes to accepting a mix of genres, something as natural in life as it is in cinema. From you get up in the morning until you go to bed at night, you move through various, sometimes opposing, genres. Since the start of my career that is how I’ve understood cinematic narrative.

Within that constant mix that I have gradually distilled over the past thirty years, the last pure comedy that I made would be “Women On the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown”: In “Volver”, “The Flower of My Secret” and “All About My Mother” there is a lot of humor but only on occasions or attached to one of the characters, as I have explained. In “The Flower of My Secret”, Chus Lampreave-‐Rossy de Palma is a comic duo, but the theme was the weakness of the writer Leo on her road to madness. Therefore, “I’m So Excited!” is the first comedy I’ve made since “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown”, twenty five years ago.

Aspects that I’ve kept very much in mind:

Rehearsal/Rhythm. Despite the spontaneity typical of the genre, the comedies I’ve made to date, and this one is no exception, are rehearsed exhaustively during pre-‐production and afterwards during shooting. Spontaneity is always the product of rehearsal.

A script isn’t finished until the film has opened. I rehearse a script as if it was a play. Coincidentally, both “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” and “I’m So Excited!” seem like plays, in both the action takes place mainly on one set. I rehearse them like plays, but I don’t film them like plays (in fact, I’ve never directed a play, I don’t know what it’s like). They’re very oral comedies, the action lies basically in the words and the characters’ openness.

I usually improvise a lot in rehearsals, then I rewrite the scenes and rehearse them again, and so on, to the point of obsession. With improvisations, the scenes usually become longer but it’s the best way I know to find nuances and parallel situations that I would never discover if I stuck rigidly to the text. After stretching them out and blowing them apart, I rewrite them again, trying to synthesize what has been improvised. And then we rehearse again. Some of the actors, especially Carlos Areces, can’t bear you to cut a single one of their jokes, even if it has come up while the scene is looking for itself and is not yet consolidated. Everything that comes up and involves his character belongs to him. If it were up to him, the film would last three hours. (At times I shoot two versions of the same scene and I admit that at times I edit the “improvised” one.) Lola Dueñas is another one who immediately appropriates all the antics that

TWO OR THREE THINGS I KNOW ABOUT IT(Actors and comedy)




occur to me during the first rehearsals. Afterwards it’s heart-‐rending to tell her that it was just a game, a way of stretching, being crazy, investigating, losing all sense of the ridiculous and above all losing respect for the text, and that it was just a mere exercise. When Lola sees me improvising a scene with her character, however exaggerated it may be, if she likes it, she grabs on to it and it’s impossible to convince her that I wasn’t being serious. I admit that at times she’s managed to get her own way. When I had the idea for the mise-‐en-‐scène of the first time she goes into a trance in the cockpit, looking for sensations while groping the two pilots’ bodies, all those involved laughed, but I never thought about editing the scene like that (but that’s how it is in the film). After insisting a lot, Lola asked me to at least look at how she did it and then decide, but I had to give her the chance to play it like that. She did it, and after seeing it, I had no option but to include it. Lola Dueñas is capable of breathing such truth into the most insane situations that she manages to make any craziness plausible.

Theater-‐style rehearsals are aimed at achieving another key element in comedy: the rhythm, the timing. Timing in comedy is not like rational time. When the actor gives his reply, he hasn’t had the physical or mental time to assimilate the previous line, but he has to deliver his at full speed. No one is going to wonder if he’s understood what was being said to him, and if a spectator does wonder, then it’s a bad sign. Within comedy, the style that teaches you about rhythm (as do all of Woody Allen’s films, but I think that’s because the New York director is in a hurry) is screwball, the crazy American comedy. Think of “Midnight” (Mitchell Leisen), “The Philadelphia Story” (George Cukor), “Bringing Up Baby” (Howard Hawks), “Ninotchka” (Billy Wilder), “The Palm Beach Story” (Preston Sturges), “To Be or Not To Be” (Ernst Lubitsch), “Easy Living” (Mitchell Leisen), “Sullivan’s Travels” (Preston Sturges), and in general any comedy where the comeback is delivered by Cary Grant, Carole Lombard or Katherine Hepburn. (Marilyn is a goddess of the genre but she had her own rhythm, a lethal rhythm. Seductresses in general need that rhythm in order to seduce. Marlene Dietrich, even when directed by

Lubitsch, never managed to talk quickly. They are the exceptions. Beautiful stars, male or female, aren’t usually good comic actors. Let’s add Sophia Loren and Penélope Cruz to the list of exceptions. Both are gorgeous and they can also talk at breakneck speed, but of course one passes as a Neapolitan and the other is from Alcobendas.) But, for example, Claudette Colbert can talk a blue streak, and Ginger Rogers and also Katherine Hepburn, who is very beautiful to contemporary eyes but was odd for the canons of the time.

Timing. Rapid-‐fire dialogue. Rehearsals. Otherwise, even though the situations are funny, and the actors excellent and with resources, the film becomes long and so do the scenes. I don’t want to point the finger, but one example of this problem is “Bridesmaids”. The director lets the actresses improvise until they come up with the right joke. You shouldn’t improvise in front of the camera but long beforehand. To crown it all, both the editor and the director are in love with the actresses and the material shot. The result is an attractive film, but one that lasts 125 minutes (it is saved because Kristen Wiig and Melissa McCarthy are wonderful comedians). Another golden rule: comedies shouldn’t last more than an hour and a half. You just have to see how the ones we like most usually last between 75 and 90 minutes.

The rhythm depends on the actors and the editing. There are schools that favor this rhythm and schools that are an attack against it. Among the former, it helps to have a lot of experience in sub-‐products (vampires, zombies, diabolical possessions, aliens, robots, espionage, etc.) or to come from cabaret. Both experiences are the best schools. Cabaret as understood in the Mediterranean or Anglo-‐Saxon way. To me, for example, “Saturday Night Live” seems like cabaret, the cradle for decades of the best American comics. The Actor’s Studio however, with all the respect and admiration it deserves, seems just the opposite to me. Brando, a comedy actor? No. And he tried it. He even sang and danced in “Guys and Dolls” (Joseph L. Mankiewicz), stiff as a board, but Brando was too self-‐aware. I don’t know if Montgomery Clift ever actually tried it but I can’t


imagine him. Or James Dean. Or Daniel Day-‐Lewis. I don’t debate his greatness (or that of any of them), but no matter how thin he is, Daniel Day-‐Lewis can’t manage to give the slightest sensation of lightness. Marilyn Monroe is still the exception. Adopted by the Strasbergs, she managed to overcome the weight of the Method.

In any case, going back to the subject of men and comedy, in the golden era of screwball, the 30s and 40s, even if you weren’t a great comic actor or you couldn’t be compared with the Absolute King, Cary Grant, if you had a good script and were good looking, and fell into the hands of Ernst Lubitsch, Mitchell Leisen, Preston Sturges, Billy Wilder, George Cukor or Howard Hawks, you could pass yourself off with dignity as a comic actor. Not just Joel McCrea and Gary Cooper, even the excessively macho-‐men types like Clark Gable, James Stewart or John Wayne emerged unharmed, quite attractive and very well dressed in legendary comedies. Once you lost the freshness of the early twenties, you could let yourself go, get on a horse, well-‐armed, and become a legend of the West.

Another model that escapes the norm is actors or actresses with charm. Audrey Hepburn is the epitome along with Shirley MacLaine. Both were a genre in themselves. And Cary Grant, always. And Rex Harrison and his wife Kay Kendall. Charm and class. Or prominent teeth, Carol Burnett, Marta Fernández Muro, or simply being English, Maggie Smith. Or verging on being a clown, Rosalind Russell, Lucille Ball, Lina Morgan. Or a regular guy, Jack Lemmon, or just ugly and sarcastic, Walter Matthau. Having an odd, almost shrill, voice also helps and works very well in this genre, Judy Holliday, Gracita Morales, Verónica Forqué. I should name a French comedian... Here’s one, Arletty, a woman who was several decades ahead of her time in her way of acting, direct and contemporary. The above mentioned characteristics would be of no use if they weren’t accompanied by loads of talent, as is the case with all of them.

Some ladies and men of film noir managed, thanks to good scripts and a sense of rhythm, to be really funny. The prize goes to Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. And Myrna Loy with William Powell in

the very funny “The Thin Man” saga. They stretched the characters created by Dashiell Hammett into six feature films, always overflowing with charm, style and wit. This brings us to another of the essential keys that a comedy must respect: couples.

When the miracle of chemistry between two or more actors arises, everything must be put at its service. In comedy, as in other genres, the chemistry between couples is sacred and has produced results that are history in the memory of this notable hundred-‐year old art. Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant, Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon, Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine, Diane Keaton and Woody Allen, Rafaela Aparicio and Florinda Chico, Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, Bogart and Bacall, Carole Lombard and any other actor they put beside her, Fernán Gómez and Analía Gadé, Loren and Mastroianni, Vittorio de Sica and all his partners, Tony Leblanc and Conchita Velasco, López Vázquez accompanied by Gracita Morales, Alfredo Landa, Manuel Alexandre or any actor of their generation, Maria Luisa Ponte, Laly Soldevila also with any actor or actress, Luis Ciges, alone or in the company of others, Tota Alba, Trini Alonso, Pajares and Esteso, Edgard Neville and Conchita Montes, Martes and Trece, Tip and Coll and so many others. I didn’t intend to include Spanish actors so that there should be no comparative insults, but I couldn’t help it. There are many more than those mentioned.

I’m a great admirer of the Spanish school of acting, and the Mediterranean school in general. I wouldn’t include them in the screwball style (in the 30s and 40s Spain wasn’t in any condition to make crazy comedies, our tragic reality only allowed for cinematic escapism via quaint, traditional, very honorable comedies). But the Mediterranean school has its own entity, it is an identifiable school in the way it tackles all the genres, and it is very different from the British or American schools, or the French, which obviously I don’t include even though geographically it is Mediterranean.

In the Mediterranean school, what dominates is the characters’ passion, carnality and openness, as if the characters didn’t respect themselves or others. This characteristic is something that suits comedy very well. The women and men are made of flesh and


blood, they haven’t been to the hairdresser’s, and they shout a lot, they lose control, it seems they’re going to devour each other, even though afterwards everything is resolved as it should be, in bed. They are less elegant than the Saxons, but sexier. This closeness to the earth and reality allows the Mediterranean school to talk about social problems with great humor, laughing at life’s limitations and tragedies, depending on the era, and letting light and laughter break through the blackness. A maestro, unclassifiable and unique, who worked with the greatest local exponents of this way of acting was Luis García Berlanga.

Light and artifice. The kind of comedy that inspired “I’m So Excited!” is stylistically very artificial, the lighting and the settings crackle with pastel colors, underscored by red, that deliberately avoid realism and naturalism. Humor shouldn’t worry about political correctness, in fact, just the opposite. Taboo and humor are two antagonistic concepts. Comedy of any kind allows you to tackle all subjects, even the most shocking. In 1940, the genius Charlie Chaplin dared to make the imminent Nazism the subject of a delicious comedy. I can’t think of a more terrifying

subject than Nazism. Should the Monty Pythons, Mae West or Saturday Night Live be politically correct? No.“I’m So Excited!” is about to land on our screens. I have to thank all the actors for their blind, total commitment. Now we just have to wait for someone to laugh, or smile, or leave the cinema in a better mood than when they entered. After all, that’s what comedy is, and it’s no small thing.

Pedro Almodóvar

Images courtesy of Pathé Productions Ltd

Pedro’s new film ‘I’m So Excited!’ is released in the UK

on 3 May 2013

facebook.com/Im-‐So-‐Excited-‐Movie-‐UK

http://www.facebook.com/Im-So-Excited-Movie-UK

http://www.facebook.com/Im-So-Excited-Movie-UK



Stephen Harwood paints landscapes that are half-‐remembered loca_ons from his own childhood, yet informed by images from the Shell Guides to England, published just before and just aler the Second World War. Images, then, from a past he cannot have lived, but which accompanied his family on childhood rides through the English countryside. The pain_ngs are also in fact re-‐workings of photos taken by the ar_st John Piper of sights from Harwood's own Shropshire landscape. Piper's idiosyncra_c photographs are invested with a curious melancholy that maps the distance between Harwood and his past, a new Shropshire lad whose past can only be re-‐invented.

Keran James, Studio 1.1




The Foot

Felicity Notley


Mrs McIntyre was not overly surprised when she found a severed foot in her bag. That was the kind of

prank the medical students of Edinburgh liked to play.However, when she upturned her bag and allowed the foot to fall heavily onto the worktop she was

given pause.There were curling black hairs clinging to the bleached skin and the foot was on the large side, so

probably a man’s. A clinical smell mingled unprofitably with the smell of meat. Her first thought was to

get it out of the kitchen as soon as possible and give it a decent burial. But for some reason she delayed this appropriate act.

When her husband came home she informed him, ‘There’s a foot on the kitchen table. Do not be alarmed.’

He took it well and aler dinner was even happy to dry the dishes and move around this unfortunate

isolated body part, as if it might really have belonged there.Aler supper they watched the news and Mrs McIntyre (whose first name was Gwynneth) snuck back to

look at the foot. She stared at it un_l a crease formed between her eyebrows. She then returned to her husband and leant against him on the sofa.

On the black and white screen they were showing a party in a field. The men and women had flowers

in their hair. There was a hand-‐wrièn sign lying beside them on the grass.In the morning Mr McIntyre was firm. The foot had to go.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs McIntyre, and she took a fine linen tablecloth, hand-‐embroidered in Ireland, and in this she carefully wrapped the pale, clammy foot.

She then went out to the boòm of the garden. She laid the foot, s_ll swathed in white, on the green

grass and dug a hole one foot deep and one foot in diameter. She placed the bundle within the hole and covered it generously with earth. She hauled the birdbath from its usual posi_on next to the wild

rosebushes and used it as a gravestone.For a while all was well.

The birds loved the new posi_on of the birdbath and they swooped down to it to wash and take their

_ny drinks more olen than usual.Mrs McIntyre – Gwynneth – watched the birds out of the window and some_mes seemed to be quite

happy to see them having so much fun.Then one day in December there was a great freeze. The McIntyre’s house was in a fine posi_on high

on a hill. From an upstairs window one could see the whole of the Edinburgh skyline complete with the

lonely white bones of the abandoned Greek temple. When it snowed, however, the roads became impassable and this winter they were quite cut off. The ice across the birdbath froze, and then cracked.

Mr McIntyre said to his wife, ‘What really was the story with that foot, Gwynneth my lovely?’‘There is no story,’ she said, but she looked again into her memory and this _me she was sure.

Mrs McIntyre turned to her husband with the air of one making a confession. ‘There was a man I once

knew,’ she began.He placed his fingers firmly around her arm and looked at her. ‘There is no way,’ he said, ‘That foot

could belong to anyone you knew. They have strict guidelines about that sort of thing. In teaching hospitals they only use the bodies of criminals and vagrants. Not exactly the company we keep.’ He tried

to catch her eye, make her laugh.

Mrs McIntyre didn’t say anything. Over her husband’s shoulder she could see the birds flying to and from the birdbath.


She’s in the walls, she’s in the room, she’s in your head.

Brogan McCulloch

It had been a week and still no one came. Without a handle on the inside of the door she could not get out. In that corner she

sat, eyes fixed on the door, her way out. Her hunched body pressed tightly against the walls, clinging to the pattern. As time

bleeds, slowly she lurks, her hands on the wallpaper to caress, scratch, rip. There is that stool that stares, threatens to approach.

It’s short legs, although strong, she does not believe are quick enough for the chase. She laughs to herself, creeps forward. The

skin of the stool slits open and pink fleshy innards are revealed. She pulls a little then withdraws. She takes refuge in the walls,

where she can hide in the green that saturates the room. She peers closely at the wardrobe, it’s mouth ajar. She had thought

earlier she could hide in there but she did not dare trail out the insides of the man. So she stays away and he keeps his eye on

the door... She’s in the walls, she’s in the room, she’s in your head.




LIFE DRAWINGTribe correspondent Francesca Didymus discusses the revival in life

drawing

A dying art? Or an ‘exclusive’ exercise for ar_sts to master the human form? As I have discovered it seems that neither of these explana_ons seem firng to the prac_ce in today’s society. Un_l rela_vely recently, if you had asked someone what life drawing classes involved, the no_on of the prac_ce as an ancient, perhaps out moded and boring ar_s_c discipline probably would have been at the forefront of most minds.

For centuries people have been drawing the human form, its crude origins can be traced to sketches on cave walls, but is largely rooted in the humanist culture of the ancient Greeks. Philosophers and ar_sts were deeply interested in the structure of the body, in par_cular the study of anatomy and the later work of Leonardo Da Vinci in the fileenth century. Michelangelo, as heralded by the Art Historian Vasari would express the desire to seek beyond the beauty of nature, in the pursuit to aàin true perfec_on in the depic_on of the human form. Furthermore, the study of the nude would take prominence in the eighteenth and nineteenth century when ar_sts were to the study in academies, for instance; the Royal Academy of Arts and the L'Académie Française.

However, with modernism and conceptual art came the rejec_on of all that had gone before. Looking forward rather than looking back to an_quity, ar_sts morphed the figure into a symbol and then gradually rejected the prac_ce life drawing altogether. The body became a poli_cal ba`le ground, the scene of feminist and feminine mixed media prac_ce with only a few prominent ar_sts pushing the prac_ce in a more contemporary light. In the years to come, the drawing of the human form would gradually welcome female ar_sts. Consequently, the body began to be implemented as a tool to challenge social and gendered stereotypes and thus the subject of many psychoanaly_cal interpreta_ons, such as Lucien Freud’s Painter and Model of 1986.

So, why resurrect life drawing now?

Today life drawing is marketed as a skill ‘suitable for any ability’ and is thus a popular evening leisure ac_vity. Around the world Life Drawing classes a`ract crowds of all ages and abili_es. Perhaps in reac_on to constant media exposure to the 'perfect' body, and certainly with the emergence of Burlesque as fashionable entertainment, the naked body has a new beauty, glamour, edginess, an




excitement, a curiosity. Here life drawing has no s_gma but has been re invented for people as crea_ve outlet in an underground scene with an almost cult following.

Life drawing s_ll remains a skilled study of the human body, but not all of the classes are as ‘straigh�orward’ as a study of the human form. Among the most popular classes are those finding a way to re-‐invent the stereotype, for instance the company ‘London Drawing’. Those behind the reinven_on are Anne Noble-‐Partridge and David Price. In 2006, Anne and David were asked to run a pilot series of life classes in the galleries at Tate Modern, which grew into a six year project. As tutors they had years of experience teaching life drawing in the conven_onal way, but when faced with working in galleries full of surrealist art, abstract sculpture or conceptual photographs at the Tate , they realized that the same rules and ideas just didn’t work any more. Realising this was an amazing opportunity to turn life drawing on its head, they proceeded to scrap the rule book and start again. They began to ques_on tradi_onal prac_ce, asking things such as “How had art academies and ins_tu_ons forfeited such a stalwart of its own heritage?” And more importantly, how could they make figura_ve work that is relevant today?

Anne -‐ London Drawing: “We began by posing life models in response to the surroundings. We staged a class in the Turbine Hall, looking at the figure in that vast space. We led a workshop in the Kandinsky exhibiIon, in a room dominated by his artwork, with professional dancers improvising to the music by Wagner which had inspired Kandinsky to create the art. We staged a performance in the Louise Bourgeois retrospecIve exhibiIon, with blind-‐folded models arranged in tableaux, sewing with bleeding hands.”

During one of their workshops in the Tate Modern the pair threw away the rule book and turned the concept of Life Drawing classes on its head. They began to ques_on the prac_ce, asking things such as “How had art academies and ins_tu_ons forfeited such a stalwart of its own heritage?” And more importantly, how could they make figura_ve work that is relevant today? They began by staging a class in the vast space of the Turbine Hall, their classes then developed from the poses of sta_c bodies to professional dancers improvising to Wagner’s music in front of Kandinsky’s art. Addi_onally, the ‘World as Stage’ exhibi_on was perhaps the first outlandish idea from the couple as the en_re class involved a complete reliance on the commitment of the par_cipants: there weren’t any life models present. This led London Drawing to completely change their approach to drawing materials as, for example, in response the Arte Proveria collec_on at Tate Modern which focused on found and household materials, used these same materials to draw with, giving par_cipants scouring pads and grass rather than pencils. Drawing from the figure became conceptual, when, in response to the 2009 Ronnie Horn retrospec_ve at Tate Modern, life drawings were cut up and then reconstructed by par_cipants groups, according to the concepts of Horn’s own drawings.

London Drawing ran these ground breaking workshops at Tate Modern workshops for six years, and wanted to con_nue this concept-‐driven approach to drawing from the figure and so began The Drawing Theatre drawing events at Baèrsea Arts Centre, using space imagina_vely and crea_ng set ups which were more about atmosphere and ideas than about ‘gerng the figure right’.

By working with performers, ar_sts and theatre companies, London Drawing are rejec_ng s_gmas associated with life drawing



“We started working with performers and arVsts and theatre companies to generate ideas for the class. The idea was to facilitate the development of a genuinely creaVve environment that parVcipants could explore in many different ways. “

Anna, London Drawing


as an unpopular prac_ce for experienced ar_sts. Life drawing has the ability to transcend linguis_c and cultural barriers, by forming a group of people with the desire to study the human form, its idiosyncrasy and emo_ons.Their refreshing approach gradually became more about the atmosphere and the customer’s ideas than about “gerng the figure right”. Life drawing has the ability to transcend linguis_c and cultural barriers, by forming a group of people with the desire to study the human form, its folds, contor_ons and movements. Perhaps life drawing is increasing in popularity because it provides a simple form of escapism from the monotony of life itself, and the social and economic pressures that normally fill the crea_ve recesses of our minds. Figura_ve drawing enables one to release their crea_vity in a comfortable environment where one will not be judged for a style but guided-‐ akin to the ambience of a teacher in a school classroom. London

Drawing is leading the way in Life Drawing classes where a lack of experience is not a disadvantage, but acts rather as a means of opening up one’s imagina_on without limita_ons or preconcep_ons of how the end product should look. Many classes with a similar approach to London Life Drawing have been emerging all over the country. From Kink Ink, The Drawing Circus in Brighton to fancy dress Life Drawing classes in Plymouth, and even Life Drawing for Hen Par_es, life drawing classes are championing this refreshing approach as sessions gradually become more about the atmosphere and par_cipants ideas than about “gerng the figure right”. Thus, a more immersive approach to drawing the ‘nude’ is taking centre stage.

Francesca Didymus

[email protected]

londondrawing.com



Celeste Rojas se ha dedicado a fotografiar en los úl_mos años ciudades la_noamericanas. Inicialmente buscó

ficcionar una urbe la_noamericana genérica a través de la serie La ciudad líquida, que se abordó en tres ejes

temá_cos: la ciudad improvisada -‐espacios urbanos en los que se responde a toda dificultad con lo que se

pueda-‐ la ciudad de nadie -‐las ruinas, las edificaciones que han perdido su sen_do de uso, pero donde

persiste la huella-‐ y la ciudad ero_zada que incorpora a los habitantes en sus espacios y plantea posibilidades

de una relación “amorosa” con los espacios de la ciudad. De la imaginación de una urbe la_noamericana,

Celeste, en el proyecto “El espacio de la resistencia, desplazamientos y construcciones del habitar” ha

extendido su mirada hacia la ruralidad y la posibilidad de establecer diálogos entre los modos de habitar en

ambas zonas, insis_endo en la huella de los cuerpos sobre las cosas y la decisión que la subje_vidad fija sobre

éstas, entendiendo el habitar como un construir, como un concepto respecto del que es necesario erigir un

diagnos_co y una reflexividad que cues_one el ser del habitar e indague en las posibilidades de su realización

para cada cual. Extensión del ojo que ha incluido, en esta obra, al audiovisual y el experimento con dis_ntos

soportes en algunos casos ajenos a lo propiamente fotográfico, como el libro, con pretensiones de objeto

ar�s_co en sí mismo, reflexionando respecto a los usos y modos de reproducción de este úl_mo y la

Fotogra�a, en el Arte y la Historia.

Celeste Rojas has spent the last several years photographing La_n American ci_es. Ini_ally, her search looked to fic_onalize a generic La_n Metropolis across her serie “The Liquid City”, which approached three thema_c axises: ‘The Improvised City’ syncre_c hybrid urban spaces which answered every difficulty contending with theavailable resources. “Nobody’s City” focused on the ruins and edifica_ons that had lost their original sense of use, but where a trace persists, illustra_ng a development in layers of recent history. Closed by ‘The Ero_cized City’, which incorporates the inhabitants within their spaces. Sugges_ng possibili_es of a love affair.

From the imaginary of the La_n American city, Celeste in her project: “Space of The Resistance: Displacement and Construc_ons of Dwell” has extended her sight to rurality and the chance to establish dialogs between forms of dwellings in this environment; understanding this concept in a sense of building, conceived to develop a diagnosis and a reflec_on able to ques_on the being by dwelling, inquiring upon his chances of realiza_on. This extended sight incorporates the audiovisual component with experimenta_on on different media supports, even if they are unrelated to the conven_onal concept of photography, including the book, which ponders about the uses and ways of reproduc_on with Photography in Art and HistoryThis series is agglu_nated as a reflec_on and a reverie Heidegger longed for and sustained by the subjec_vity of a photographer who decided to extend her approach to anyone who wants to get involved with her artwork.

CELESTE ROJAS








StaVonary

Lee Auburn

The way ahead is blocked. They pause then creep, mostly they pause, fidge_ng in their seats. The natural flow,

choked. Intermièntly someone will roll down their window and then aler a while close it again. In turn, each of

them realise that the shared delusion of the cool and pure is nothing more than warm exhaust fumes.

If they are listening to the radio, it tells them the tailback is now approaching thirteen miles.

If they were listening, they now try to calculate their place in that tail.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Jon sneaks a glance at the redhead in the dusty black Jag. He wonders if she would

ever be interested in a guy who drives a Polo. He doubts she would care that it’s a 1.6ltr. Why would she? He doesn’t.

Jon allows himself a flee_ng fantasy, pulled through the open windows of their cars, straddled on the back seat of the

Jag. He smells her perfume. Fumbling with zips, belts and hooks. His vision now obscured by a tangle of hair and pale


freckled breasts. The radio is playing something old and slow. With her skirt hitched up, they work

around her pan_es. Breathing hard, the windows slowly fog.

Checking her make-‐up in the mirror, Cassie works her red-‐hair, it’s star_ng to lose body. The Jag’s

air-‐con has been broken for over a month and she’s annoyed with herself for not having had it

fixed. The air outside the car s_nks and inside it’s stale. At least she doesn’t have to suffer a back

seat full of squabbling kids, she smiles. Fanning herself, Cassie catches the eye of the poor man in

the baèred white Polo, she gives him a half smile and a shrug. Trying to silently convey, “Would

you look at this, are we ever going to move again.” He shrugs in agreement, and then turns to his

kids. Whatever he snarls seems to work, as the children are now s_ll. She checks her phone again.

S_ll no signal.

The brats in the Polo stop messing about. Hemmed in either side by an Arc_c and a white Transit,

Danny had found them an amusing distrac_on. He _ps a bo`le of warm urine onto the tarmac.

Aler seeing the colour of his piss, Danny wonders if he should see a doctor. He catches a glimpse

of another ambulance speeding in the opposite direc_on. Opening his door, Danny climbs out of

his lime-‐green Focus. Taking care not to scratch his new car and making sure not to step in the

puddle of his oddly coloured piddle. With the door open he steps up onto its exposed sill. Now

elevated, shielding his eyes from the glare, Danny wishes he had the telescopic vision of a

superhero as he squints and tries to see the miles ahead.

If they are listening, the radio tells them that there have been fatali_es.

If they were listening, then they are glad they are miles away.


Peacetime

My memory of the time before the war is fragmented. I was

still new, I didn't hold on to the fleeting moments as I would

now. No-‐one does growing up. It is a universal tragedy that

we cannot remember our opening years of life, they are our

most innocent and for many will be our happiest. Yet we lose

them. How many broken people would rest easier tonight if

they could recede once more to the comfort of being a

helpless child protected by a watchful guardian? What little I

can recall is made up of warm feelings and sun-‐bleached

snapshots, a blurry photo album of things I'm not sure were

ever even real, though some days flood back when the

channels are opened in lucid clarity.

If there is one season that correlates with the memories of

my earliest years, and I have found I am but one of many in

this respect, it is summer. I suspect it is perhaps an untruth

we all deceive ourselves into believing, for never do the years

shine quite so vividly as they did then. If we could go back

and relive these days we might find the sun was not quite so

bright, the azure skies greyer than we imagined they would

be, the endless days brought to a close by a sunset sooner

than expected. I wonder if all the days of rain and cold

shutting us away indoors are forgotten, so that the brief

spells of fine weather meld into one seemingly infinite prior

life of walking among lush grasses and across pebbled

beaches. Weeks where the fields would be blanketed by a

constant layer of mown grass, which you pile into large

mounds and crash into; thoughtless of the dangers or

unpleasant matters possibly lurking within. You emerge

scruffy haired and out of breath, blades of grass sticking to

your tongue, only to be pelted in the face by a coarse tuft of

the stuff, thrown by a laughing friend. I suppose I was

unwittingly lucky, living as close to the countryside as I did. I

believe now that one of the most singularly important factors

of happiness in childhood is the opportunity to see the open

land on the clearest of days, to feel in the grip of your hands

the living earth and inhale the perfume of crushed garlic after

a passing heavy shower. If the summers we inhabit in

adulthood do not match the joy of our childhoods I think it

may be because we have forgotten how to enjoy these

moments. There is a freedom in running with complete

disregard through forests aglow in dappled sunlight, or

frolicking without purpose in cool streams and waiting for the

elements to dry you; spread-‐eagled on an island rock, the

sound of the rushing water cleansing your mind. It is good

that these are the things that the conscience holds on to, not

the hours spent wailing in uncontrollable tantrums and the

mortifying shame of the following reproaches, for I am sure

in truth there were many more moments of these kind. No,

for me the years before the war are radiant.

The garden imposes itself on these memories, as if even

then I knew the important part it would play in my

adolescence; scenes of playing or lounging in the sun,

exploring it's hidden worlds as any child would. It was not

grand or stately but maintained a quiet beauty easily

overlooked by the wandering eye. Ugly stone steps led to a

misshapen, weed-‐ridden path that wound its way to an area

of grass surrounded on all sides by impenetrable hedges of

ivy and hawthorn. A bird table stood ornate in the centre;

often timid birds would dart and bathe in the water and I'd

watch them with languishing interest from my window

above. A wooden gate, almost hidden within the dense

hedges and overwhelmed by twisting ivy, led to a more open

area. Here, beside a tidily kept lawn, a small garden grew.

Delicate rose bushes, often only blossoming one defiant

flower a year, lived among patches of strawberries and other

flora that would bloom in greater numbers, if not quite so

majestically. All this was watched over by the far-‐reaching

branches of an apple tree, a weather-‐beaten statue of a

cherub sheltering at its roots; lonely and wingless, observing,


too, the yearly display. Each year when the summer

months came this tree would inexplicably burst with

life, producing a bounty of apples, which mother in turn

would bake into endless pies and crumbles. We would

sit on the grass by the bird table with my father eating

an array of homemade delicacies; the sweet smells

mixing with the earthy scents of the garden under the

setting sun. All this was contained in a space no bigger

than the width of our peculiarly petite house, it was in

length our garden seemed more than it was; it seemed

almost a corridor, trapped within the similarly sized

gardens of our respective neighbours. The back of the

garden led to the crumbling walls of our old garage, its

one small window now cloudy and stained an

unhealthy looking brown after years of exhaust fumes

and the battering of seasons. The rusting, corrugated

iron roof appeared in a state of near collapse for years

but never fell. It was in here my father would take to his

work; so for years it was a place I rarely entered, except

when watched closely beneath his gaze.

As for the house; it suited the garden perfectly; a

crooked jumble of nooks and crannies assembled under

the pretence of rooms. It was old in design; my father

would refer to it as 'a miner's cottage', though in truth

'a cramped cottage' might well have served better.

Everything from the yellowing, floral wallpaper to the

less than elegant mantelpiece predated my existence by

several decades. Doors would seem to grow and shift

depending on the month; sometimes fitting snugly with

their frames and at others jutting out mischievously.

The slate floors would freeze our toes in the winter

months and crack or shatter any porcelain or crockery

foolish enough to fall upon it. I would soon learn as a

child that the blue, velvet rope trailing up the stairs was

for decorative purposes only and not to be used as a

'traditional handrail' would. These were but a few of

the quirks I grew up living with, till it seemed to me that

the house became another member of our family, a

living organism capable of mood swings and dark days

just like the rest of us, and in years to come it would

hurt me in a way I could not quite understand to hear

my parents speak ill of it, as though it had not been our

home, had not fulfilled its purpose. For my parents, I'm

sure it would have been more than adequate. Even with

a child there would've been room to spare, but then

they had another and myself soon after and suddenly

the house shrunk. Bedrooms were made were dining

rooms ought to have been, studies were set up within

those same bedrooms. My own room faced east,

towards the rising sun. It was the smallest in the house

but there was room for a bed, a desk and a cupboard

for clothes; toys could be stored spaciously on the

bedroom floor. Privacy was rare in those early days, not

that I had any inclination towards it, but for my parents

I'm sure it must have been a silent strain. Still, with

good schools nearby, work easy to acquire and a town

well serviced with a multitude of shops, the decision to

settle was all but made for them. Visitors would

comment on its cosiness or its quaint features, but in

the simplest terms it was small, too small for a family

that would only grow in size.

And yet if there was ever any sense of looming

threat, any dark clouds marching steadily towards our

little cottage, thundering warnings from afar, I was

never aware of it. My quiet world was entirely

contained within the confines of the house and the

loose, decaying fences that separated our garden from

our neighbours.

Tom Warner







Kim Niehans


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Tribe Magazine Issue 16