Art and Things Magazine 002

I s s u e

2

f e a t u r i n g

and much, much more!

Hello a

gain,

Welcome to Art and Things Issue 002.

Once again, we have to thank our growing community of readers for their support with this project. Your love and enthusiasm has made this issue (and the next) possible.

We’re very happy with the way this project is going, we have ever more wonderful contributors bringing their skills into the mix and have had a chance to meet even more interesting and talented people than ever.

The feedback from Issues 000 and 001 was once again much appreciated, we’ve worked hard on Issue 002 to make constructive changes, to pack more content in, and to make the magazine prettier and fun to read. If there is something inside Issue 002 that you want to get in touch about, then do so by all means. We love hearing from readers and always try to reply, even if it sometimes takes a while (we get a lot of e-mail) Last time around you may have noticed that we were able to expand our page count and thankfully we’ve done so again for Issue 002. We’ve crammed in some more creative writing and have found some more really exciting artists, musicians, writers and whathaveyou for you to go and check out.

Something else worth a mention in this issue is our involvement with a new community arts project in Watford. Both Art and Things and DIY WOMP have strong roots in the

Watford arts community and so we felt it important to become a part of the first ever Watford Live! Festival, that will be taking place between 6th and 20th June 2009. Inside you will find out about our involvement in the festival and how you can become a part of it.

Finally it’s important that we thank the various new distributers we have found for the magazine. The friendly reception Art and Things has received since we started out has been awesome; it makes us want to keep on doing it forever and also makes us really happy. We cannot thank everyone enough. There is a list of distributers in the magazine and we encourage you to support each and every one of them. Mostly by buying stuff from them.

Art and Things is published in the printed editions like the one you are now holding, but we also have a blog that is frequently updated with features and interviews.

So if you still can’t get enough after reading this magazine, then visit www.aatmagazine.co.uk (also visit the site if you’ve had enough).

We really hope that you enjoy the magazine. Thank you for reading.

L

o

v

Sonny, Shiv, Peter and Jamie.

e

O C T N N E TS 3 - Rosemary Gordon i had a strange weekend

9 - Olivia Bargman Why a row a day is good for teenagers

15 - Clare Adams Wait, if you’re ...and I’m ...Ohhh!

21 - The Boy the Girl and All the World and a band with songs about boys and girls 31 - Idle Purpose Giving the British Library a story of its own

5 - Kyla La Grange

7 - Chris Killen

The day of moustaches

Okay, good. Don’t lean backwards

11 - Charlot Webster

13 - Kids Love Lies

Mixtapes and melodies

Not on the bed!

19 - Thee Single Spy

17 - Zemmy Bargain hunting

25 - A Well Oiled Heart It really stinks in here. What have you been doing?

Can I be in your band?

29 - Momentum Adventures in thermodynamics 37 - Stuff White People Like

35 - The list The short-cut

The blog that launched a thousand stereotypes

Rosemary Gordon is one of the coolest girls we know. She’s a digital animator, she designs t-shirts and she is really good at Call of Duty 4. These are some of her t-shirt designs and illustrations that we think are really smart.

Art and Things: Hi Rose, tell us a bit about yourself.

Rosemary Gordon: I’m from a seaside town at the tip of the Thames in Essex. Most think it is blinking arcades and bare legs on a winter’s night, but some of it is Victorian townhouses and good seafood. I’ve studied Graphic Design, I’ve graduated from a Digital Animation Degree and now I’m learning compositing. I’m twenty-four years old.

How did you end up making these designs?

The t-shirt designs came about because it’s practical art; that bit of cloth you use to cover your nakedness is a blank canvas to me. T-shirts used to be just a vehicle for a slogan or a joke that you smirk at for two seconds and never look at again, but now there’s some truly great designers decorating one of the most common items in our wardrobe.

My illustration work comes from a childhood of wanting more far-off spires, zombies and barbarians about. It’s also very influenced by animation.

Most powerful influence?

Heraldry. I don’t always actually use it in my work, but I’ve had catalogues of it since I was young. It’s the symbology, the cultural reference, the hidden meaning you’re not totally aware of. I try to tap into some of that.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A member of the “White Tights” (a Russian urban legend group of female bi-athletes turned sniper mercenaries who fought against Russia during various conflicts from the late 80s).

The greatest genius you can think of?

Genius is a word that shouldn’t be thrown around, but I’ve got a soft spot for autodidacts like Bowie and Nietzsche.

Reading anything good?

If I’m working on my own; absolute solitude. If I’m working with others; absolute carnage.

I read a lot of fiction but at the moment I’m reading ‘The World Without Us’ by Alan Weisman. It looks at the hypothetical of what would happen if every human on earth disappeared tomorrow. Cities like London and New York would be reclaimed by the rivers they’ve diverted surprisingly fast. Basically all that would be left your house in a hundred untouched years would be a pile of ceramic tiles from the bathroom.

We’re all coming over for lunch. What are you making?

What kind of techniques do you most like to employ?

Fresh moules with coconut milk, coriander and lime. Plentiful amounts of chips will be sourced from the chippy.

I’m really into texture so I take lots of photos of different surfaces to then use in my illustrations. So the clouds may be mottled like a patch of carpet, the mountains may be spiraled like an ammonite from the Natural History museum. Using genuine textures brings a level of reality to the drawing, no matter how odd or stylized it is.

What kind of environment do you like to work in?

What are your indispensable tools for the job?

A Wacom drawing tablet. I like to create things fast.

Last CD you bought?

Sabrepulse - Chipbreak Wars What’s your biggest motivation to be creative?

I don’t know any other way to be, it’s not like a hobby.

Nicest thing you did recently?

Made cheese on toast for everyone.

Best way to kill some time locked in a room for 24hrs?

Sleep. Learn how to do handstands.

What’s next for you as an artist?

Movement. Either into a more creative environment, or into a shack in the woods with a scruffy dog. I’m working freelance at the moment; accepting commissions and selling t-shirts, but I would like a junior role in design or video. www.rosemarydarling.com

Words : PB

Shortly before Christmas Art and Things watched Kyla La Grange play an acoustic set at a party. Midway through her first song we’d all decided that we wanted to talk to her, write about her, take pictures of her and put it in the magazine. This gave Jamie yet another excuse to ‘go for a coffee’ as he met Kyla to chat about life and music.

significance of songwriting to Kyla and is careful to recognise this when discussing her long-term objectives in music.

After graduating Kyla returned to Watford and briefly entertained ideas of alternative jobs (including being an irritating charity person in a bib) before devoting herself fully to music. Today she is making her way into the UK music industry and is trying to balance her ambitions of success, with her songwriting integrity.

As for the songs themselves, Kyla says she “likes looking at the darkness found in things”. This broad topic has over the years come to include relationships, death and anything that Kyla finds to be intensely personal or dark.

Kyla’s set is expanding all the time and whilst precious over her songwriting, she is willing to add extra instrumentation and is open to new ways to promote her music. Since she decided to push her Kyla La Grange is a young singer/ career in music, Kyla has found her hard songwriter from Watford with an ability to work has sometimes been supplemented charm audiences both live and on record. by a little luck (such as inadvertently She started playing and writing music in sending songs to the MD of Virgin, her mid teens, with what she now describes resulting in a one on one meeting). These as “angst ridden heartache ditties”, before encounters of luck however are mixed honing her craft on the Cambridge music with an enormous amount of hard work scene whilst at University. During her time on Kyla’s own part. For this interview to studying, Kyla became a regular on the even take place Kyla had to find a spare open mic night circuit and with a newfound hour between recording, writing and confidence in her own talents; she soon conducting meetings with industry insiders decided that music was to become her – a task more frequently undertaken by a chosen career. manager.

Reading this description, many may think that there are countless singers with Kyla’s music is rooted in folk and alternative acoustic guitars who focus on the darker folk, with strong influence coming from a side of things. However it takes a certain range of acoustic singer/songwriter types, talent to silence a venue full of strangers, both male and female. As with many solounfamiliar with that singer’s music. For folk artists, she puts the writing of music me though it was Kyla’s blend of dark, before anything else, pinpointing the brooding lyrics and her subtle, delicate feeling of a “pure form of expression” as her voice that shut my chattering mouth and reason for her doing so. turned my head towards the stage.

Due to the importance Kyla feels for songwriting and expression in music, it is imperative that the people working with her on her music share this ideal. Fortunately Kyla has found a dedicated producer in Marky Bates - a man who realises the

www.myspace.com/kylalagrange Words by Jamie Fewery Photograph by Sonny Malhotra Illustration by Emma Hamshare

Chris Killen is a 28 year-old writer.

His first novel – ‘The Bird Room’ – was published this month. We’ve read it – it’s very funny, very clever and also a little bit sad. We first met Chris at a festival in Holland where we spoke with him about leftfield Canadian Post-Rock. He was in London recently, so we arranged to meet him for lunch in our local.

Art and Things: What do you like to write about?

Chris Killen: I seem to focus on socially awkward people in my writing. In The Bird Room all the characters are flawed, and at least two of them are almost completely unable to deal with ‘daily life’ head on — one (Will, the narrator) just panics, and the other lives inside her own head, making things up.

My next novel is about two only children who cope with not being able to directly relate to people in different ways.

And what inspires you to write?

Oh, wow, what inspires me? I don’t know. I have ideas all the time. They just kind of pop up when I’m walking around, or answering emails, or in the shower. So just being alive, walking around and things inspires me I guess.

How did you get started with The Bird Room?

I enrolled on a Creative Writing MA at the University of Manchester. I’d already made some attempts at a novel but never finished anything.

My plan was to sign myself up for something so I had to see it through and finish it. Otherwise I’d be a ‘failure’ — not just in my own head anymore, but also to my fellow students and the tutors and everyone. It worked, I guess. And by carrying on with something longer, I found that it was even more engaging and interesting than just the initial short ‘burst’ of pleasure in writing a short story or whatever.

I’d had some ideas for the novel before I started on the MA — a few different ‘plot strands’, things that I was interested in and wanted to explore — awkwardness, paranoia, irrationality, jealousy, etc — and it was a good opportunity to try and ‘weave’ them all together into one thing, instead of maybe just doing a bunch of separate shorter stories.

Did you study writing at University before PostGrad level?

Yes. As well as the MA, I did one undergraduate module in creative writing at Nottingham Trent University. At that point, I think I was just writing Bukowski rip-offs though.

I’m not sure about the ‘finding your style’ part, but for me at least it was a really good experience to be around other writers and to talk about writing and things. Because you’re all there to try and work hard and really focus on it, you will maybe push yourselves harder and improve through that.

I think my writing improved by the end of the year, mostly due to the general ‘environment’ created; and the luxury of focussing on writing as the main thing in my life for a full year, of course.

But to actually ‘find your style’ the only advice I’d give would be to just write a lot.

Did you study literary theory while at uni? Do you find that dissecting and theorising literature jars with the creative process of writing?

I did an English Literature degree, so yeah; there was some studying of theory, though I was only ever a mediocre English student. I think it was good to look at it, to sort of ingest it, and then to forget about it. I didn’t really think about theoretical things when I was writing ‘The Bird Room’. I think the best kind of stuff comes up subconsciously, at least for me. I mean there were certain issues I wanted to address, and certain ’symbols’ I knew I was going to use, but I didn’t want it to be very heavy-handed or anything. It’s nice and surprising when you just write something and then see different levels or ’symbols’ or whatever in it afterwards.

When did you know for certain that you were going to be a novelist?

Well, I never ‘knew’ it was going to actually happen or that I would ever be published. It was very exciting and surprising and unexpected when I was offered the deal. It’s still strange to think that it’s actually happening. For a long time it felt like a massive practical joke; that someone was suddenly going to jump out of somewhere and go ‘HA HA’ and force me go back to work. But I guess I started taking writing seriously and really focusing on if from around 18 years old onwards.

Have you figured out a way to stay disciplined and steadily productive? Or do you feel that fluctuations in focus and inspiration are just things that you just have to work through as a writer? (Do you watch TV for three days and then write solidly for one?)

Oh, yes, there are a lot of fluctuations. I’m still trying to work out a regular routine. Just writing, if I feel uninspired, doesn’t really work for me — I like to write and feel really excited about it, and sort of tell myself jokes, line-by-line, as I’m writing.

I think that’s maybe one of the strengths of ‘The Bird Room’ — that it has a sort of manic energy to it. I think I can tell if I read something that’s just been ‘forced out’; you know ‘going through the motions’. At least I can spot it in my own writing anyway. So my current trick is to try and stay excited and motivated, somehow. Ha. So yes, it fluctuates.

What do you think set you on the path to being a novelist?

Just reading things that really excited me and made me think. I liked the feeling that reading could (occasionally) create — the feeling I get from reading something like Richard Brautigan, or J.D. Salinger, or Knut Hamsun, or Richard Yates …

I guess reading things like that always made me feel inspired and energetic and like I wanted to write too.

Do you have anything to say to young, aspiring novelists?

I think that while it is still a good idea to go through the ‘traditional routes’ — sending your manuscripts out to agents, publishers, signing up for an MA, etc. — there are lots of alternatives too.

It feels like a really exciting time for new writing, not so much on the 3-for-2 tables in Waterstone’s, but on the internet — on blogs and websites — and in small press journals and anthologies.

There are lots of ways to get your stuff out and read, for free, while waiting for those agents and publishers and competition judges and Granta editors to get back to you.

Who is your favourite upcoming writer that we might not have heard of?

I really like Tao Lin, an American novelist, short story writer, poet, and blogger. His blog is called ‘Reader of Depressing Books’ and it links to a lot of his writing online. He seems to being doing something very new, fun to read and original.

What are your immediate plans for the future?

The main thing right now is to try and beat the fluctuations and finish a readable draft of my next novel.

There’s also a lot of hectic (but fun) publicity stuff going on for the release of ‘The Bird Room’. And I started as Writing Fellow at the University of Manchester on Feb 2nd. Heady days. I’m sort of waiting for someone to come along and pull the rug out from under me at any moment. www.dayofmoustaches.blogspot.com Words: PB

Photography by Sonny Malhotra

How do you think writing courses develop writers? Are they the best way to ‘find your style’?

Oliv ia from gradua t F 2008 almout ed h . ama We thin in k z clev ing, her she s e work vibr r, uplifti is a n real nt and h g and ly e the c stands r style o r to w owd. W ut in o e cove rk in an d love o red in he ffice r wo rk.

Art and Things: Hi Liv, tell us where are you originally from and how you started out as an artist.

Olivia: I’m from Shropshire originally- based right on the English/Welsh border in the middle of nowhere. I did Graphic Design and Fine Art at college, but didn’t want to go into either of those as a profession, then discovered that illustration was a bit of both. It’s right under everyone’s noses everyday and I wanted to be part of this and make imagery that improved what a text is saying. I like how it doesn’t alienate anyone and it’s so accessible. Falmouth is where I did my degree.

What are your favorite materials to work with?

Felt tips, old bits of paper, sugar paper, 0.5 mm mechanical pencil, all sorts of bits of paint to splodge around a bit.

What’s your poison?

A Box ‘o Country Manor (and other naughty things..) when at festivals- I like taking the bag out and holding it like a bagpipe. It is also the cure!

Broadly speaking, what inspires you the most?

Funny coincidences that happen to people. I like hearing people’s stories and their opinions on how we came to exist. Also anthropology, old customs and folklore. I’m reading this book at the moment about what it would be like to time travel back to the fourteenth century. It’s inspiring because it’s a historian’s interpretation/reconstruction of a time that’s not documented well. I love that kind of book, as it’s really similar to the job of an illustrator - filling in the gaps with interpretation.

Who s your all-time greatest hero?

Charles Darwin and John Peel - both Salopians and good beards.

Who’ve you been listening to this week?

Milanese, Drums of Death, Beirut, Detektivbyran.

What’re your other creative outlets?

Kid’s workshops - you get a fresh view on what’s in an exhibition and in their interpretation of what they see. They come up with brilliant ideas too. I’ve also been doing printmaking - mono printing by building up the image on the plate, then putting

it through the press is my new discovery and I love the tones and dirty textured bits that occur.

Your favourite comedy quote?

My brain is falling away like wet cake - Bernard, Black Books If we bought you a ticket to anywhere in the world, where would you go? (we re not going to buy you a ticket to anywhere in the world, sorry)

studio in it. An ancient orchard too and an outdoor art gallery.

Last film you cried at?

‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter… and Spring’.

What’re you doing next?

As an artist, your dream would be…?

I’m going to move to a more populated place, slightly more removed from the huge numbers of sheep and into a big studio with fellow designers. I’m working on new promotional material and updating my website with new and fun and happy images.

To have a tree house in a big oak with my

Words - PB

That’s okay. Japan please.

www.livbargman.co.uk

Art and Things dragged Charlot Webster to a café in Islington while she was tired and had a cold. We are glad we did it, and given half a chance we would do it again. After all, we got a couple of CDs and she got a free badge. Everyone went home happy.

For those unfamiliar with Charlot, she’s a singer/songwriter based in Brighton. Her music is at times reminiscent of artists such as Feist, Cat Power and Emily Haines; it has a silky, soulful touch, due in no small part to her upbringing.

Charlot grew up in St. Albans in a musically obsessed household with an extensive vinyl collection in a vintage jukebox and a rehearsal room hidden behind a bookcase.

Which we happen to think is pretty awesome.

This early exposure to music meant Charlot was listening to Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith and Aretha Franklin from an early age and at 12 years old she decided that her life’s ambition was to somehow become Aretha Franklin herself.

This particular ambition eventually became a causality of the limits of medical science, but her immense passion for music did not.

Following a stint at London’s Vocaltech College, where she was surrounded by an intimidating bunch of wannabe session singers, Charlot moved to Brighton. Her aim was to become more of a singer/ songwriter and with this in mind she enrolled at BIMM (Brighton Institute of Modern Music). Whilst there she not only honed her craft as a songwriter, but also started gigging regularly as a solo artist in the town she now calls home.

Prior to becoming a recognised solo artist, Charlot played a variety of instruments in a variety of bands. Her mission was to play as much and as regularly as possible.

She quickly found her skills as a saxophonist and bass player sought by various bands on the London and St. Albans punk and hardcore circuit and Charlot became a lifelong lover of the noted sense of community in the punk music scene.

This sense of shared idealism and friendship remains extremely important to Charlot, though her music does not borrow anything significant stylistically from punk nowadays. When asked about how she would like to be seen as an artist Charlot says “I want to be in a punk band, that doesn’t play punk music” A statement which sums up her outlook on life in music perfectly.

Charlot Webster undoubtedly has the necessary ambition to further herself as an artist, but she is happy to take things as they come. Comparisons to her peers are taken as compliments and she is philosophical about the notoriously cutthroat industry she is working in.

True to her punk roots Charlot is far more interested in prolonged touring with her bandmates and friends than major label record deals. This outlook is maybe uncommon within her genre,but is also entirely refreshing. .myspace.com/charlotwebster

Words : J.F Photog raphy

: S.Mh

Kids Love Lies are a indie/punk band from London. They are ‘energetic’ and ‘exciting’ and definitely ‘upcoming’.

They have a new single called ‘Count In My Head’ that’s infectious and likeable, much like the band themselves. We like vocalist Ellen’s voice. She has a brash and confident, yet melodious and controlled vocal style. More important than any of this though, is that Kids Love Lies were the first band to undertake our new super-exciting ROCK BAND CHALLENGE. This new Art and Things project is partly an experiment to see if real bands have any advantage at playing fake instruments and partly an excuse to play more video games.

Kids

Love

Lies

We watched Kids Love Lies play the standout set at a live music night at a pub down the road and then dragged them back to the flat, falafel in hand, for a round of Rock Band on the Xbox and a quick interview, which rapidly degenerated into drunken horseplay.

Art and Things: How did this band happen, then?

Raf: We played for about nine months whilst looking for a singer, then we put an ad in Gumtree.

Claudia: Raf didn’t want a second guitarist, but we went behind his back and got one anyway.

Ha! Did you get any entertaining characters audition for singer?

Raf: Yeah, there was this Spanish girl who kept boasting about this other band that she was with who owned a practice studio. She said she could play all of these instruments, but she just couldn’t. … Ellen turned up and it really worked.

Ellen: Yeah I was really pissed when I showed up. They didn’t know. It’s because I was so nervous!

What’s next?

We’ve got the single release at the end of March. We’re going to do a launch for that and get shitfaced!

Have you got a message for the next band to challenge your score in Rock Band?

Raf: Fuck you!

Ellen: Oh god, Raf! No no no, don’t put that in!

Leigh: WHO WANTS TO ARM WRESTLE?

on the bed until it makes a cracking noise.

Everyone looks confused and afraid. This doesn’t look good.

We move on to ‘Cool For Cats’ by Squeeze.

Finally Kids Love Lies seem to be getting it together and they manage to get through with minimal fuck-ups. Raf is particularly pleased with his performance and shouts words to the effect of ‘I AM THE MAN’ and punches the air.

Practice over. Here it is. It’s time for the big one. After a protracted discussion, the final song is decided upon. It’s ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ by Bon Jovi. Confidence is high (presumably due to alcohol consumed earlier) but Leigh and Matt seem to be intent on throwing away any chances of a decent score my selecting Expert difficultly.

They can’t be dissuaded and Kids Love Lies’ Rock Band Championship hopes look to be in trouble.

We begin.

Ellen keeps getting in the way of the screen as she sings. People keep shouting ‘ELLEN! MOVE!’ Ellen moves and then gets in the way again.

The band progress solidly from verse to bridge and into the chorus. Then the solo arrives and all hell breaks loose. I’m convinced that they’ve fucked it up.

The track ends and we await the scores with baited breath Surprisingly the guys manage to rack up quite a respectable score of 252,741 and hit 88% of the notes. Solid performances from everyone and the difficult solo passed on guitar. Kids Love Lies open the contest with a respectable four stars.

The challenge is set for the newcomers. http://www.myspace.com/kidslovelies

Matt: Let’s hit Raf! A fight breaks out Here’s how Kids Love Lies Rock Band effort worked out: Kids Love Lies begin by warming up with ‘That’s What You Get’ by Paramore.

A strong start gives way to an absolutely abysmal middle section. Ellen is unsure of the words. Leigh and Matt are sharing a guitar. They are a bit drunk. They jump

Interview - PB Photography - SMh

We at AAT have had our eye on Clare Adams for a while now. So after much discussion we finally got round to asking Clare about her work. From her answers you’ll gather that she is an incredibly progressive artist, so it is definitely worth checking out Clare’s own websites (after reading the article of course).

Art and Things: What were your beginnings as an artist?

Clare Adams: Lots and lots of drawings of birds, of leaves and of people. I think there is a natural impulse that makes you want to show your work from an early age; I used to paint scenery for local pantomimes and plays. I think my first proper ‘exhibition’ was a few pencil portraits and abstract paintings shown at Art on the Railings an annual small art festival in Chepstow, Wales, near where I’m from.

So how are those first artistic ambitions looking now?

Well the dream was and is to support myself as an artist, but I never anticipated what I’d learn on the way. In my degree I used video production and post-production and so landed a video editing position afterwards and have set-up my own production company too. Two years after graduating from a Fine Art course, plastered with stickers saying ‘emerging artist’ and a ratio of 5:100 rejection emails in my inbox – yes , I’m definitely starting to feel my route taking shape as an artist: the 5 feel really, really good!

Do you have a favourite piece, or is it normally whatever you are currently working on?

I do... its ‘Limited Edition’ which was a oneto-performance I did in 2006. I’d built an installation within which the performance took place, the floor was ankle deep in white sugar, the space was full of blinding light and I was saturated in sugar too; the audience could take a photograph when I had my eyes closed and each moment lasted a minute until I opened my eyes. At the moment I’m working on a piece called ‘Photopollution’ which is the scientific term for light pollution. It’s a continuation of my work with light, gaze and photography in

a live setting. Except this piece is in total darkness and the entire audience will be able to use battery torches to interact with the performance. I like pieces where I don’t have the answers and I’m purely asking (or showing) questions. With this I’m asking both myself and the audience how we want to see the body in performance.

To date, what has been your biggest challenge as an artist?

Being an artist is like being an entrepreneur, except you are the commodity and so the hardest test was to keep up the momentum of work I had at Cardiff School of Art, whilst working and to stay focused on my own ideas. Recently I had a week to produce two record-sleeve sized paintings in response to a song lyric for The Top 100 (www. presentingthetop100.com). I am through to the 2nd round of judging so it was worth the late night painting and a room full of coffee cups for a week.

And your biggest success?

Other than being in this fabulous publication?! I was selected to participate in an artist’s research workshop in Glasgow by the arts group Curious. The workshop is called Autobiology and they have been working alongside neurogastroenterologists at Barts and the London Hospital using biofeedback techniques to investigate the relationship between the brain and the gut (often referred to as the second brain). The workshop was fascinating, we made work responding literally to gut feelings; it was very intense, we had to make performances and work in other mediums every day for a week producing masses of material and research. Definitely a high point.

Do you find that your proximity to London makes working as an artist easier, or harder due to the sheer volume of creative people in the capital?

There may be a degree to which I miss out due to simply not living in London and even living nearby the competition is huge. It is hard and there are lots of No’s but there is masses out there, so it’s best to know what you’re working on and seek out people

I would like to go clay pigeon shooting actually! I like most music really, but I love the 80’s – clothes, music, hair, I really want massive curly hair. I’m into philosophy and taking a course in it at the moment and am also a secret science geek, in another life I would be an astronaut or a neuro-scientist.

Any big plans for the future, both long and short term?

I hope at some point to return to study Fine Art further- maybe then I’ll settle on a medium to work with. But short term I will continue to keep with the process of making performance pieces, videos and paintings and see where it takes me. I have a few exhibitions, events, collaborations lined up for 2009 and hope in 2010 to spend a month in a residency in London – I currently work in a tiny, tiny studio space in my home so the extra space to make work will be refreshing.

Clare Adams

What else are you into aside from your art? Music, reading, cooking, pigeon fancying?

Photograph by Phil Boorman

that may be interested in your work or festivals and events. Because it’s so large, one thing can lead to another and artists pass on each other’s details when things come along. There are uncertain gaps in my practice, but it’s getting easier to plan ahead and at those times it’s good to look for more spontaneous competitions.

www.space.org.uk/events.php www.energy-of-clare.tk

ZE

E

Zemmy is a 22-year-old MA student at UCL. She plays piano and sings. Her music is a collision of soul-splashed pop and folk-inflected indie. The next time we have a party we’re definitely going to ask her to play some music for us. With her voice, she could sing about two girls one cup and convince us that there’s romance and beauty in it somehow. (We doubt that someone as sweet and lovely as Zemmy knows what two girls one cup even is. We certainly don’t.)

We called up Zemmy and asked if she wanted to hit up Woolworths on it’s last day to see if we could grab a bargain so we could put it in the magazine. Unfortunately when we arrived at the moribund pic-n-mix emporium it was already closed, so we just milled around Camden market for a bit and then went back to Sonny’s to get pissed.

Art and Things: So, Zemmy. What do you do when you’re not playing piano and singing?

Well, I’m doing a Masters in Public Policy at UCL. And I’m learning to play guitar.

Oh, awesome.

Yeah, I need a guitarist.

How did you start out playing music?

Well I started singing when I was at school and I’ve just kept doing it since then really.

What kind of stuff do you listen to at the moment?

Little Dolls, I like them ‘cause they’re weird.

Haha, maybe someone will e-mail you.

We pop into a little shop selling Cannabis paraphernalia and general tat.

See anything you like?

Erm… We spot a hideous Princess Diana memorial plate. The likeness is sketchy at best.

Holy shit, how about this?

Hahaha Oh, god! That’s probably one of the worst things in here.

What are you planning to do next, musically?

Just write more songs, hopefully some darker sounding stuff.

Eventually we got cold and went to sit in Sonny’s kitchen and drink wine. We mostly talked about films. These are Zemmy’s favourite films.

1. Amores perros 2. Almost Famous 3. Mean Girls.

www.myspace.com/zemmym Sonny, take a picture of this plate!

Sonny: No.

-PB

We recently met Alex Mattinson, frontman of London indie outfit Thee Single Spy in the local pub. We had good talk about music and then we went for pancakes.

Thee Single Spy layer rich, melodic baroque-indie lushness over Alex’s intricate lyrical creations. We wanted a chance to pick Alex’s brain about the creative and practical challenges for hardworking unsigned musicians.

Art and Things: How did Thee Single Spy come about and when did you start creating stuff for Thee Single Spy? Alex, Thee Single Spy: Well, I began on my own, about two and a half years ago. I’d written loads of really bad songs on my own with the idea that I’d be in some kind of British Sea Power style band with massive guitar amps. But when it came down to it I couldn’t actually find anyone to play the stuff.

So I ended up just playing in my own, from there it just sort of snowballed. We got a drummer and then Fran who is an actress - she started singing for us and there is about five or six of us now, lots of instruments. It’s all just gathered pace from that starting point.

So do you take a collective attitude to things now?

Yeah, it used to be more of a collective attitude though. It’s definitely a democracy but in terms of people coming in and out - that happens less and less now, there’s a regular line up of the five of us.

So you’ve found that as you get together more and the set starts to solidify things become more static…

Yeah, and as we play more and we get more gigs and things you sort of realise that you need to have more defined idea of what you’re doing. So we used to have… I think there was eight or nine of us at one point and when we were recording there was lots of different people. But the five us were at the core of it.

So now you can immediately say, right this is what I want from this and that…

Exactly. We all used to sit and say “Oh, this would be good on a viola! Let’s go and get a viola.” But now we know what we’re working with. We did some recording two weeks ago and we knew

exactly what we wanted. It’s much easier to write to a solid line-up.

So how have things been going live?

Yeah really well actually. Obviously when you start out you send out hundreds of requests to people and you get maybe a few responses.

More recently I haven’t had to send out requests, it’s just been people asking us to play. You know like word of mouth. That’s when you realise that you’ve .. not that you’ve ‘made it’ but that you’re doing something that people are aware of..

So you don’t have a label as of yet.

No, this single was put out on our friend Jim’s label, which was pretty much set up just a vehicle for his friends stuff. But he’s in a band as well so he’s pretty busy, so we went halves on this. It was about £*** (a fair few quid -Ed) each. But we haven’t got a label, or management, booking. We have nothing actually!

But in this day and age it’s not really absolutely necessary to have those things… at least until quite a way down the line…

It’s not, no. The thing we’re looking for actively is a manager at the moment. I just really need someone who can take on that role.

It can be difficult to concentrate on making decent music and also all of the ‘business’ side to things at the same time.

Well yeah and for me, I kinda get really nervous on the phone when I talk to people… so I’ll ring up and say something like ‘Oh hi Alex, it’s Peter’ and then ‘Oh shit sorry’ and I’ll panic and hang up and have to call back and say I went through a tunnel or something. That’s not a good way to run a business. Or a good way for a front-man to run a band. So yeah I’d like to have someone who could just do these things. But we don’t have any money.

Yeah, with this record we made all of the money back for Jim – his band is called Gold Heart Assembly - but for my half I just wrote it off. I just wanted to have enough records here to hand out to people. I think the main thing for us is just being completely honest with what we do. We’ve worked in a couple of recording studios and it was a really great atmosphere, but I personally can’t work when I can see a taxi meter ticking away, there’s no way I could ever do that. So when you go away somewhere, we like recording in barns or houses.

So many people talk about doing it and don’t and yet the people that do seem to get such great results…

I think if you just go somewhere, you don’t even have to be isolated just if you’re between four walls and it’s a different place to where you are normally, in terms of creativity it’s just really contusive to making stuff happen.

So for the next year are you writing primarily or gigging or…

Everything just goes on at the same time. I think it would be silly to stop one thing in favour of the other. I don’t think you should ever stop gigging, you’ve just got to keep playing. Otherwise, people might come to your website through other people but you’re not in front of a crowd playing and making contact with people. I feel more validated when I can see people’s reactions. Say 200 people have this record, they can listen to it when they want but it’s more immediate if you’re in front of an audience, you can see their reaction.

Yeah! Who does?

Nobody has any money! So we’ve recorded in houses or church halls, village halls, stuff like that. We’ve bought a lot of equipment ourselves but you know, borrowing equipment, bringing people along as engineers… that’s a really good way for us to do it. With the recent recordings we were just all in the same room together and the guy we were recording with had a really good idea about how to manage the sound and get the spill between the mics… it’s a good, creatively free environment. So doing it by ourselves can come out pretty well, but I would like to have just someone who could say – I record it, you pay for it and then we’ll put it out. I’d like just to have that backing.

I think there’s a balance to be struck there because a lot of bands with all of the resources in the world would still choose to work in that way with their friends, in a room, sharing ideas but at the same time I suppose it can be tough and expensive supporting yourself, stumping up loads of your own cash just to be able to share your stuff with everybody…

I think if you look at a myspace page and you see ‘oh wow, I’ve had a thousand plays today’ that’s a nice feeling but…

I’ve never had that feeling. A hundred maybe…

Hahaha, okay yeah… but a hundred plays on myspace doesn’t really compare to having a hundred people in a room listening to you.

I’d rather play to 10 people than have 15 people buy the record. Because you can see their reaction and you can work off of it.

Once I wanted to be a writer, like a novelist, but I realised that I was too impatient to get the feedback. Even if I were to write a book, I’d write it, send to publishers and then never see anyone reading it. I’d never see what they were thinking.

If you’re in front of a crowd then you can see if people are bored or if they want you off the stage. I’m just too impatient to get it out there. www.myspace.com/theesinglespy Interview - PB

Photo: SMh

p’ ie po te ind world. u ‘c e t’s e Ou all th hs. y Tim girl.and st 6 mont b d e l e a o l h t o . e f y be bo n th Don’t slap. the ng way i o l l e a b la come have

Pat, Kirsty, Matt and Rich of The boy.the girl. and all the world met at Guildford’s Academy of Contemporary Music in late 2006 and initially began making music with what lead singer and songwriter Pat Knight recalls as a ‘strange acoustic setup’.

“We were two singers and a guy playing bass, sitting on stools… I can’t remember what happened to make us go that way. Eventually Rich came on board and-” “-Made it better!” finishes drummer Rich.

“Also, Pat used front it all.” adds Kirsty Sutton, the band’s glockenspiel-playing vocalist. “We used to be his sort of session musicians. Now we’re a proper ‘band’.”

On the surface, it seems like the sound-bite description of B.G.W. as ‘cute indie pop’ is still pretty close to the mark. Their live set bounces, it’s folky, upbeat and seems to exude positivity.

“On the whole, you cant deny that the music is really jaunty, the band, they bring a lot of passion to it, a lot of energy and it’s really good and colourful” remarks Pat. “But a lot of the time the lyrics are really depressing. I like having people dig deeper.” Indeed, a casual listen gives the impression of something as recklessly happy as ‘Wake Up, Boo’ by the Boo Radleys, only when given more attention do the considerably darker themes of B.G.W’s, music emerge. Pretty much like ‘Wake Up Boo’ by the Boo Radleys.

Love’s ups and downs, (mainly the downs) remain a constant theme throughout their repertoire. “I’m kind of obsessed with the whole idea of that first girlfriend and how it makes you feel” says Pat; “There’s something really amazing, something really magical about it and its just so naïve. I thought we were going to get married and live together. Of course we weren’t, we were thirteen. There’s such a growing up curve when you first get dumped. You grow up ten-fold but forget it all the next time around”

While Pat is still the man behind the songs, the band agree Kirsty has emerged as a front person for the live act and it’s her stage presence, audience interaction, confidence and twirly-whirly dressed that really stand out.

B.G.W. realise that it’s easier to win over a crowd when you’re willing to engage in a bit of banter. They take pictures of the spectators; “I can’t understand why more bands don’t take photos of the crowds they play to.” says Kirsty after snapping the smiling crowd during their support set for Spinto Band. The bands myspace is adorned with pictures of the audience at their most recent gig; the band obviously enjoys what they do and are thankful for the chance to do it.

The band are looking forward to hitting the festival circuit next summer, an environment that they’re sure to find themselves well suited to, but first intend to spend some time recording. They have recently managed to get noticed by Audio Authority (after Rich and Pat bunked work for a week to call and e-mail people) and are currently organising sessions with Ken Stringfellow to produce a single and B-side. While it’s not going to be a massively hyped assault on the charts this time round, Art and Things recommend you do what you can to pick up a copy, we’ll certainly point you in the right direction.

Art and Things magazine and DIY WOMP are proud to be part of the inaugural Watford Live! Festival.

Watford Live! is a festival that aims to promote and develop the arts and art scene in Watford and encourage artistic involvement in all its forms in the town. As one of Watford’s most prominent artistic concerns, DIY WOMP is to host several exhibitions as a part of the festival, which is to run from 6th June 2009 to 20th June 2009. As a part of this arrangement Art and Things magazine will not only be featuring some artists from the festival, but also encouraging budding writers in the town to work with us by submitting both editorial content and creative writing pieces.

Throughout the festival the Art and Things editors will be holding several writing workshops, designed to provide some guidance and assistance for young and aspiring writers. We hope that if you are reading this and that you’d like to nurture your passion for writing that you will attend. Similarly, if you are a creative writer who wants to be published in print and online for Art and Things (which involves having your work illustrated and distributed all over London and selected locations in the UK) then please send something for consideration over to either Jamie or Pete (email addresses listed at the bottom of this article). As ever, we’re also interested in hearing from talented photographers, designers and illustrators who’d like to contribute to the magazine.

Alongside this Art and Things recruitment drive, DIY WOMP will be looking for new talent to have their work displayed in exhibitions at Watford Live! Photographers, painters, sculptors, graphic and graffiti artists are all encouraged to get in touch with the company (again email at the bottom of the page) if they feel they have something to contribute.

Additionally we will be investing in new equipment to make our galleries and exhibitions bigger and better than ever before and include video/animation artists in ways we have previously been unable to.

Both DIY WOMP and Art and Things promise to have a look at everything that is sent to us and we will endeavour to respond to everyone who contacts us. We hope you will join us in making the first ever Watford Live! a huge success and something to be proud of.

Thanks Jamie, Peter, Sonny and Shiv

Contacts: W r i t i n g jamie@Art and Thingsmagazine.co.uk pete@Art and Thingsmagazine.co.uk P h o t o g r a p h y sonny@Art and Thingsmagazine.co.uk G r a p h i c s shiv@Art and Thingsmagazine.co.uk DIY WOMP Submissions: diy-womp@hotmail.com

to submit work for the augural

original, diverse, and exciting artwork

email: diy-womp@hotmail.com

www.diy-womp.com

AWell Oiled Heart

The old man had barely opened the door to the downstairs bathroom when the stench hit him.

He grimaced and didn’t enter. With all his weak arms could muster, he threw the bones in as far as possible, adding them to the collection. The light never went on anymore - he did not want to see how large that pile was - but he remained there looking into the darkness. It seemed utterly black.

A chilling sound came, brittle like a rattlesnake’s caveat. The bones were shifting under their own weight and spreading across the dirty floor tiles.

He shut the door quickly.

The old man wiped his hands on the stained apron about his middle. Pulling some matches from his pocket, he struck one and leant down awkwardly to light the incense he had left by the door. Remarkably potent little sticks; their thick, musky odour diffused more than he thought possible of that dead smell. The pale wallpaper behind it was stained in streaks from the pungent smoke.

Standing straight took the air from his chest. His hand reached out to the wall for support. His legs trembled. A fleeting idea told him to blame his dizziness on something external, that fetid stench or the incense maybe, but he shook his head.

He was old, and it wasn’t just the wrinkles that reminded him. He stared at his hand against the wall; watched his veins, little canals sluggishly delivering blood to the tips of his fingers. The old man studied those aged fingers until his breathing returned to normal and he had found his focus again; he was only halfway through his work.

When he went to the door to check the locks, the letterbox snapped open.

“Bring out your dog.”

The old man jerked back from the voice. A pair of eyes peered through the letterbox. The old man didn’t recognise them but he wasn’t stupid; it was one of the boys from the shops. The old man cursed himself for not realising they had followed him home. He had been so absorbed in his work, rushing back to scribble down the results of his little excursion.

“We wanna play with your dog!” Said the pair of eyes. The old man could hear calls of encouragement coming from others outside.

“Let him out, come on!”

“Don’t be mean. We won’t hurt him.”

“And we’ll bring him back!”

It wasn’t the taunts of the little brats that worried the old man; he barely heard them. It was simply that pair of mischievous eyes, sliding back and forth across him and his hallway. Those eyes, piercing deeper toward the kitchen.

“Urgh, it stinks in there, Mister.” The eyes added, and the little nose under them wrinkled in disgust.

The old man hoped it was the incense. Quickly, he grabbed the closest weapon to hand, jabbing the end of an umbrella through the letterbox, shouting, “Get out of here, you mongrels. Don’t you know better than to poke your head into someone else’s letterbox? I should call the police.” There was a yelp and the letterbox snapped shut like a bone breaking. “Now go home.” He barked.

The old man doubted the boys would leave just as much as he himself would call the police, but now they knew he wasn’t going to put up with their games. Even so, he waited there, listening, half-crouched and holding the umbrella like a machine gun. His face was blank, as though it had become slack to give more energy to his ears.

There was no noise from the street. No footsteps, no talking. The silence stretched out like a shadow at sunset; elongated. The old man licked his lips.

Suddenly there was a bang. The old man instinctively thrust the umbrella at the door but the letterbox hadn’t opened. He stood up straighter. Another bang, louder, and the old man knew what it was. He put his head into the front room just in time to see an egg smack the window.

Through the albumen oozing slowly down towards the sill he watched the boys ready another assault. He sighed, a strange mixture of sadness and relief. There was nothing he could do to stop the brats. Their bodies were too young and quick.

Nothing he could do that wouldn’t hinder his own work. So he fled for the kitchen. The banging continued for some time but the old man smiled. As long as they are throwing eggs, he thought, they are not peeking through the letterbox.

The kitchen was a mess. There were coils of wire and scrap metal and crates and boxes of all sizes strewn carelessly about the floor and the worktops. On the stove was a large cook pot. Its fleshy contents bubbled away as the old man stood by it. Even on a low heat the fat was spitting at his sleeves, mottling them just like the yolk on the front of his house. The old man didn’t care. He never turned towards the pot or looked down to wipe his sleeve. He never even felt the little pinch of hot flecks on the back of his hand. He was lost now, his concentration held solely by the round table in the corner of the kitchen. Or rather, by his work, which was sitting on it.

The old man pulled at his beard, studying his handiwork. It was exceptional. With grubby fingers he packed a pipe with a rich, dark tobacco and puffed, just admiring his accomplishment. It had never been his vocation. It had never even been a hobby. But he was good at it. All those years of working behind a desk to realise his hands had such talent. At least he had found out; he could not imagine himself without his work now. Puffing harder, the old man’s pipe flared intensely and smoked billowed around his head, threading through the edges of his beard.

It began to taste like he was smoking incense so he tapped out the tobacco into the cook pot and flung the pipe over his shoulder to the other side of the kitchen. He couldn’t work with a pipe in his mouth anyway, and now was time for the most delicate procedure.

The heart needed to keep beating or else it wouldn’t power the rest. But blood rusts the cables like acid burns a leaf; the thing would rot from the inside out in a matter of days if he were not careful. The old man took a battered notebook, curled from sitting in his pocket, and laid it open on the table for reference.

He had developed a method of siphoning the blood out while feeding in a replacement. As the blood was draining, distilled water was pumped through the cables – to clean them – and then oil. It was amazing how much more robust a heart was running on oil instead of blood. But the process was always messy and the heart had to keep beating. The old man readied his equipment, pulling various apparatus out from under the clutter. The brain was trickier to hook up yet the siphoning was a much simpler procedure. It was infuriating, to go through all of the intricate nuances with the brain just for the heart to stop. It had to keep beating. The old man tightened his apron and set to the task. He worked furiously.

“I tell you what, Victor,” he said to himself afterwards, pouring the bloody water down the sink, “I don’t know why you worry sometimes.” He left the hot tap running to stop any congealing in the pipes and ran his hands under briefly.

There were two chairs by the table, scuffed and worn. The old man pulled out the nearest and sat down to get a closer look at his work. He didn’t feel nervous, but noticed a slight quiver in his lips that made his beard tremble. It was natural, he supposed, now that he was so close.

Clenching his teeth to steady himself, he pulled a few finishing tools down from the worktop.

He filed the uneven edges that had previously escaped his eyes, buffed the chest sheen with his clean sleeve and checked that the pistons in its legs worked properly. After bending them back and forth a few times they continued the movement on their own. It was waking up. The old man pressed the small switches hidden flush about its body and little motors began to hum into life. He sat back to watch and patted his pockets to find his tobacco. Cursing his pipe for never being where it should be, he hobbled over

quickly to retrieve it, kicking the clutter out of the way. By the time he had got back up, so had the cat. The old man laughed and clapped his hands a little. His eyes, like dark pits in the dim light of the kitchen, never strayed from the animal. The cat didn’t have any eyes, just a shiny, hairless head.

The old man came to stand closer. He smoked his pipe smugly, occasionally stooping to blow the fumes in the little creatures face. Almost there, he thought. Now he had to find out if it had been worth all the sweat and trouble.

He held out two fingers before the animal’s nose.

It leant forward slightly and the man drew a large circle in the air. The sensors built beneath the metal skin picked up the movement and its head whirred loudly as it followed his fingers. The old man grumbled and pulled a small tub of grease down from an open cupboard. With his tongue between his teeth, the old man ran globules of grease over the creature’s neck. When he repeated the experiment, there was no jarring squeak of dry pivots.

Next the old man clicked his fingers at various points and distances around the cat. It turned its bald head to face every sound. The old man chuckled; how many times had he wired it wrong and ruined its senses? Not today. The cat was lucid. He picked up his notebook and wrote eagerly on a fresh page, smacking the full stop down hard. The pencil went behind his ear, where his wanton hair kept it snug; the notebook went into his pocket.

“Good, you can hear me, but can I hear you?” He asked the little animal. It was moving tentatively towards the edge of the table, peering over to the floor. He pushed it back roughly towards the wall.

Its heavy metal legs gouged the tabletop. Holding a finger up, urging obedience, the old man reached over to stand a radio upright on the worktop. He moved it slightly to avoid any spits from the cook pot and turned it on.

It was serendipitous that the cat could talk at all, but the old man was not going to waste a bit of luck; after so long working, he was due at least some. How it worked exactly, he had no idea so he tried to not think too hard on it, but it was intriguing to say the least. He tuned the radio slowly. It crackled and hissed at him, static erupting at different volumes. Suddenly, he heard it; a sharp, low rumble, like loud breathing. He stopped his own breath and inched the volume up. The old man pursed his lips and called to the cat. It responded, meowing harshly through the radio. There was an unnerving quality to its voice, just like the dog before, but the old man had learnt to ignore it. He was too pleased to worry about something so inconsequential. He clapped again and considered a little dance.

Lack of both room and lung capacity stopped that celebration, so he contented himself with smoking another pipe instead.

“At last.” He said. Three senses in as many minutes. It boded well. There was no reason now that it would not be able – The cat shifted its weight sharply and the table rocked, spoiling the old man’s mood. He let the pipe fall out of his mouth and pushed the creature harshly back to the wall.

“Not yet.” He said firmly. It looked at him with its head turned slightly. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed at treating a little animal with such force.

It had done exactly as it should have up till now, more so; it was eager. He ground his teeth at his actions and froze momentarily, leaning over the table towards it, worried that he may have stunted it in some way. It seemed oblivious to his pains, sitting back on its hind legs with a clunk.

Its tail, a perfectly straight rod of familiar metal, tapped the table in a precise rhythm. He sat down as well, trying to relax his knotted shoulders as much as he could, and flashed an awkward smile for the cat.

“Don’t you want to have a bit of fun first? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A bit of fun before you go

wandering?” It meowed through the radio at the old man’s cosseting words. “How about a ball to play with? No, wait. What about a piece of string?” The old man reached over to the worktop to pick up a loose wire about a foot long. He giggled as he held it out before the cat. “Go on.

It’s a big worm. Get it! Go on.” The old man’s feet tapped a beat and he hummed a silly melody.

The radio was silent. The wire wriggled in the old man’s gnarled grip and the cat watched it swing left and right. Watched it.

“Play with it!” The old man shouted, banging his sweaty fist on the table.

“Victor!” A voice cried suddenly. The old man’s head whipped round.

“Victor, where are you?” The old man scrambled to his feet. He was torn momentarily between the voice and the cat. Finally, he picked up an empty crate and overturned it onto the little creature on the table. By the time he was in the corridor, she had called again.

“Come

quickly,

Victor.

Where

are

you?”

It was dark in the bedroom, with only a thin sliver of light cutting through the pitch curtains.

It fell on the bed, picking out the dull reds and browns of the duvet. In that slice of pale light, the old man could see her legs turning as though in discomfort. He hurried quickly to her side.

“Victor. Where have you been?” Her face was wan and her skin flush with her skull. Of all the weight she had lost, it was the weight from her face that worried the old man most. He could forget – had forgotten – her previously plump bosom and wide hips. But when he looked at her now she seemed vague and shadowy, like a distant relative of herself. Her eyes rolled wildly around the room before settling on him. She asked the question again.

“Only downstairs, my love.” He said, taking her withered hand. “What do you need? Tell me.

Anything you want.” He felt her weak grip, their leathery hands coarse against each other. She breathed awkwardly.

“I’m scared, Victor. I can’t see properly. Why can’t I see properly?” A tear rolled down her cheek, undulating over the wrinkles. He ran his fingers through her lank hair and kissed her forehead.

It was strange; even though she had been bedridden for some time now, and even though she looked dissimilar to the woman he married so long ago, she still smelt the same to him. And when he closed his eyes and kissed her forehead again the years retreated and awakened blissful memories. The old man sighed.

“What’s wrong with me?” She asked. He looked at her.

“It’s just the pills. It’s a side effect, my love, that’s all. It will go away.”

“I want to go out, Victor. I want to see the sun.”

The old man froze, both hands holding one of hers. He couldn’t let her out, not in her condition. Afraid she might be able to read it from his face, the old man went over to the window.

He narrowed his eyes to see through the gap in the curtains. It was dusk; the gloaming silently smothered the houses further down the street, chasing the sun towards the other end. She was so frail and needed rest. What if those schoolboys were still outside, lurking somewhere down in that dark end of the street? There was some egg on the outside of the window. No, she definitely couldn’t go out.

“You shouldn’t.” He said, looking back to her once he had composed himself. “You’re far

too weak, my love. You need to rest. Rest is the best thing.” His hand gripped the curtain till his knuckles went white. She turned her head groggily towards him.

“Please, Victor, I want to see the daylight. It’s been so long. Where are my shoes?” She tried to prop herself up, eyes searching round the darkened room, frowning. Quickly, before she spotted her dusty red slippers at the foot of the bed, the old man whipped the curtains open and the last remnants of the day’s sun washed over the bedroom; an intense ochre. She put a hand over her face fearfully and fell back against her pillow, groaning. He smiled. Rest really was the best thing for her.

“You see, my love? You see? You must rest. You’re not strong enough yet. What good is the sun if it only makes you worse? You must rest and take your pills. Have you taken you pills?”

“No.” She said weakly. The old man shut the curtains and made her take the medication.

He watched her slowly sip the water he had left on the bedside table before he had gone to the shops. She was so thin, her skin almost translucent, he was sure he could see the liquid spreading around her body. It seemed to revive her temporarily and they shared a warm smile.

The old man couldn’t find any words so he sat there smiling at her until her eyes closed and her shoulders slumped. Then, he puffed the pillow around her feeble head and gave her another kiss. He whispered, “Nothing but rest now, my love. Things will change soon. But until then-” “The doctors. Have the doctors found a cure?”

She asked, her voice suddenly bright.

“Almost. A few more weeks, at most.” The old man had always been able to lie easily. He had learnt the skill as a young man, sitting in a tiny office selling things he didn’t believe in. But his words weren’t a lie as such; just that the doctors had nothing to do with it. The old man coughed fitfully into his hands. He needed to check on the cat.

“Don’t leave me.” She begged, as though she had sensed his thoughts. The fingers on one hand rose slightly, reaching out for him. He took them.

“Never.” He replied and hummed a rising melody until she was asleep. The pulse in her wrist syncopated his. “Never.” He said. Then he got up and left the room.

Catch Part II of Stefan Podsiadly’s A Well Oiled Heart in issue 003 of Art and Things or right now on aatmagazine.co.uk.

Illustration - Kila Carr-Ince

Hurrying through the hallway, the old man did not notice that the incense had gone out or the umbrella lying on the doormat. He held the small of his back and took the stairs at fast as he could.

Damien G. Walter

When great uncle Peter came to live with our family in the house by the sea I asked my mother why it was he never spoke. My mother explained that great uncle Peter had always been silent, that when he was born he came out without even a scream. Great uncle Peter could have only been young when the family; his mother and father and his sister Ranyevskya - my great grandmother, came over the sea from the old country.

And in the smoky streets of London they learnt the tongue of their new home to speak in the world, and kept the language of the old country for home. But great uncle Peter spoke not a word of either. And years passed and then decades and my grandmother was born and my mother and then me and as far as anyone knew great uncle Peter said never a word.

We knew that Peter was special and we looked after him. Through generations of the family he was passed from one relative to the next, always the women watching over this silent, detached man.

But then grandmother died of old age and it came my mothers turn and there it skipped a generation. My mother was a working woman and did not have the patience to nurse great uncle Peter. At first she panicked when my father brought this strange savant down from London to our house by the sea. Panicked at the years of life she saw slipping through her fingers, sucked away by Peters needs. My parents advertised for a nurse. They could afford this with the money from two jobs that had already bought the big house and the best schools for me and my two brothers.

But the nurse was never needed. Once a day I would take great uncle Peter for a long walk along the Brighton seafront

and after only a few days we became a familiar sight on the promenade, the stooped yet still tall old man in the heavy black overcoat, the young girl with masses of unruly blonde hair in her own red windbreaker.

The pebble was always with him.

At dinner times he would pop it into his pocket, when he slept it lay on the side table beside him. At any other time it was in his hand, rotating in his long supple fingers. For months, I am certain, I supposed that he took it from the beach.

One day I looked at it more closely. The form of the stone was depressed in two places, where his thumb and forefinger rubbed against its milky surface. I remarked on this to my mother and she started with surprise – yes, Great uncle Peter had had the stone ever since she could remember, maybe as far back as his being a boy and always turning, turning, turning in his fingers until its shape became forever altered.

On our last walk along the seafront I took Peter down to the edge of the shore itself, a short walk from the promenade over the beach of grey pebbles that we rocked and rolled our way over in long, stumbling steps. From the shore we watched the sun drop towards the sea and the pink sky creep upwards from the flat horizon. The waves crashed in towards the beach, climbing higher up the narrow sand channel with each attempt and threatening to flood my expensive shoes.

I was looking down at those very shoes when I felt great uncle Peter beside me move with a speed and determination I had never guessed him capable of. I looked up to see his long arm drawn up and back, the cupped hand close by his cheek gripping the pale pebble. He stayed

in that pose for only a second before his arm swept forward, the hand unclasped and the pebble was sent soaring out over the waves in a massive arc. We stood silently watching the stone diminish into a tiny speck and then dip down and vanish into the cold waters of the sea, its sound lost amongst the roaring of the waves.

that something out there understands them.

My great uncle Peter looked down at me, the first time he had seemed to even notice his niece and quite unexpectedly a giant smile cracked his face in two.

For all our sakes, I hope he hit what he was aiming for.

I remember great uncle Peter’s stone crashing down into the sea, its ripples quickly lost amongst the waves then carried to the farthest shore and off into the future.

‘Hello’ he said. ‘Everything now will be just fine.’

And then on that spot he simply collapsed, his heavy body - that I had no way to hold up - falling against the mattress of smooth pebbled beach with a clatter and a crunch.

And the stone sank beneath the waves.

Illustration Jessica Allan

My father found the papers beneath great Uncle Peters bed the day we returned from the hospital. They were written in a tiny, tight calligraphy of nonsensical scratches that spread over page and then page and then page of notebook after notebook. We had never seen great uncle Peter write. The edges of the pages were worn round from fingering, yellow stains crept inward onto their whiteness, the eldest were thin and brittle as though they would crumble under the touch and the newest had been closed for the last time many years before. I keep them now in two large plastic boxes. When I peel back the lids the air they release is impregnated with the scent of those pages, the feeling of those words. I take them and I lay them side by side on the carpet of our bedroom floor and stare at the neat rows of nonsensical letters. I sit and I stare for hours that can become days until my husband or my son or then my grandson pull me away. There isn’t any sense in those words, however hard I try I can’t find a thing in them but however hard I try I can’t stop searching for their meaning. Those tiny shapes scare me more every day because I know, I KNOW

In a notebook heavy with months Mark wrote the date, underlined it and set down his pencil.

He’d arrived early enough to secure his usual place on the first floor, tucked away from the chatter of the issue desks with his back to a bookshelf looking out on the room. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the skylight where white light fought dust, more determined now winter flirted with spring.

Mark knew Sir Colin St. John “Sandy” Wilson didn’t design the British Library with him in mind. This didn’t particularly bother him. Mark wasn’t sure where he stood on Sir Sandy even though he walked the floors of his imagination daily.

He was impressed, of course, and jealous, obviously, that Sandy’s idea had found its way from his mind to the page through a pencil. That it had grown into cardboard and glue before painted wood and then still further into brick, glass and stone.

What’s more, Sandy’s models hadn’t just been built but the tiny figures that gave them scale now had flesh. They flowed through, fluidly choreographed in an unmusical dance. In clusters at the bottom of stairs quietly talking, lining up escalators or leaning over laptops, they fitted the building like dry sand poured into a seaside bucket. Inside was immaculate, a white stone temple to quiet purpose. So Mark was never sure why the outside of the building, a red brick afterthought, was so ugly.

Mark stretched up his arms, pushing fingers hard against the back of his palms and sighed comfortably, now well accustomed to his accidental indolence.

He knew there were plenty others like him. Others who noted down shelf marks and ordered up large leather-bound books they never planned to read. Some even came in suits to sit; to keep a wife or mother rested in a dream of busy days.

Mark had seen imaginary businesses run from here, a man and a mobile phone masquerading as many. Yesterday, or it might have been the day before, he’d watched a smart Indian man with a name too long to fit on forms apply for every accountancy vacancy in London.

Apparently Karl Marx and George Gissing used to work in the old reading room, side by side without realising, and sometimes Mark hoped some residue of their achievement would rub off on him. Or that he’d simply sit beside a famous name. It was hard to see where they might be today. Still, Mark enjoyed mapping out the readers’ lives from what he thought he saw.

The girl was back. Her startled eyes sucked Mark into more precise meditations. They’d started talking now and he’d found out her name. Gaia.

Pretentious parents probably, but he liked the way the myth jarred with her thin limbs and narrow hips, her pale Englishness. Her being named after round, huge breasted mother earth amused Mark and surprised the names he’d given her before they spoke. Every part of her was small, so intricately assembled she looked cold to the touch, like the curved handle of a fine bone teacup. She came to life through long, dark, disobedient curls she sometimes pinned back to reveal a small tattoo behind her left ear, or let fall about her face in a wavy frame. Her eyes, too, contradicted her miniature features.

Huge, blue and staring, exaggerated by the dark lines she drew, they gaped through the room.

Mark could clearly see their meetings develop from coffees in the café to the doorstep of her house. There their eyes dancing in and out of meetings with lips curved in half smiles. Awkward and uncertain, they would go into this unfamiliar home. He’d make a joke, probably, draw breath in the bathroom and rally his reflection. They’d drink herbal tea in pretence of plans to sleep, only now beginning to let fingers brush. They’d get into her bed fully dressed, still foreign to each other, and only take off jumpers and jeans in the privacy of darkness. Though they’d kiss, with slightly parted lips and bodies pressed together, they’d do nothing else that night. He’d sleep fitfully in the unfamiliar sheets but enjoy her beauty, her shallow, unexpected snore. They’d kiss again when they woke early; her unblemished by cool morning light, him breathing through his nose to spare her the smell he could taste in his throat. They’d get up and leave together, kiss again goodbye on the platform. He wouldn’t come to the library that morning but run a hot, deep bath and soak in the excitement of the new encounter.

Mark scratched his pencil on the page,

pretending to make a note from the journal lying open by his notebook. He avoided those eyes; worried they could watch him looking. He knew he wouldn’t leave Celine even after four years of trying. And yet he was fairly sure he’d see Gaia again after that first night. He’d be drawn to her, still new to him, unable to stop imagining her form. Long held routines bent out of shape so they could sit by the river, linking fingers under trees as the streetlights flickered on.

Maybe he’d guiltily get to know her fragile frame.

And still he’d stay with Celine even asher full, familiar body repulsed him. Her tongue would probe unwanted in his mouth as he squeezed tight his eyes, too weak to disobey. He and Gaia would see each other more and more and he’d juggle half-truths and lies like knives, always on the point of slicing through his palm. He could see himself, half ashamed in the lull of a Saturday afternoon, his window open to the sun, frantically purging perfume from white sheets before Celine could arrive.

Of course he’d tire of Gaia, Mark knew that too. The phone calls and early mornings would exhaust him, strain and then tear at her canvas image. He’d fixate on the tiniest flaws, the thin hairs above her lip or the girlish way she spoke to her dad on the phone. He’d resent her unchecked youth, her chattering friends and the part she’d played in pinning him between two poles, stretching apart his ribs and flooding his lungs with suffocating air.

Tightening muscles all about his spine Mark pushed against the back of his chair and slowly pressed out a thick, heavy breath. With the middle and index fingers of each hand he pushed against his eyelids, rubbing the balls so they creaked audibly in their sockets.

He’d lose them both, of course, and friends too. He saw all this and still Mark knew exactly what he’d do.

Malachie Driscoll Illustration - Siobhan Maguire

A d v e r t i s e : Art And Things is now three issues old (000, 001, 002) and so far we have existed on funding from relevant sources. However our long-term goal is to make Art and Things a sustainable project, shedding light on emerging talented artists wherever they may be found. In order to do this we invite any enquiries about advertising in the magazine.

So if you run a label, a gallery, club nights, own a bookshop, venue or cafĂŠ that you feel would benefit from affordable advertising to a large number of people then please email jamie@aatmagazine.co.uk.

Staff:

Editors Jamie Fewery, Peter Bloxham Art Editor Shiv Maguire Photography Editor Sonny Malhotra Freelance Design Liz Cummings, Darren Luchmun, Emma Hamshare, Danielle Maltman.

Writers Sarah Cunnane, Stefan Podsiadly Illustrators Jessica Allen, Kila Carr-Ince, Shiv Maguire Cover Image Rosemary Gordon Printed by John Good

Thanks: This has been our largest issue yet and we owe a great debt to these people: Anne Boyd, Bob Jones, Watford Live! steering committee, Grelle White, our stockists, Rob Good, David Wenk.

S t o c k i s t s : We are always looking for distribution outlets. If you own a café/bar/bookshop/ venue and would like stock a few copies, please email jamie@aatmagazine. co.uk and we’ll drop some magazines off to you. Here are a few of the many places that you can currently find a copy of Art and Things.

Borders, Watford Sacred Café, Carnaby Street The Good Ship, Kilburn Old Town Hall, Hemel Hempstead University of Hertfordshire The Foundry, Shoreditch Central St. Martins Tate Modern The Amber Rooms, Watford London Graphics Centre, Covent Garden Watford Palace Theatre Kodak Express, Camden Oh Bar, Camden Watford Library Middlesex University The Hideaway, Highgate Chelsea College of Art and Design Watford Museum Foyles, Charing Cross Road The London Review Bookshop, Bloomsbury Cha Cha Cha Café, Watford Borders, London Colney CVS, Watford

Perhaps you know someone who is ‘creative’ and ‘arty’ but unfortunately appears to lack any of the necessary talent, tenacity or professionalism to actually produce anything. All is not lost. Inform them that they can have a long and healthy career based entirely on pretence and fakery – all they need to know is detailed in this issue’s list.

How to be an art-house wanker: 1. Tell everyone that you’re an artist, musician or writer, but never actually produce any art, music or writing.

2. Turn up to a house party with a guitar. Or find a guitar in one of the bedrooms. Play it all night. Extra points for playing the same Pixies cover repeatedly.

3. Tell people that your ‘house’ in a fashionable inner-city area is ‘basically a squat’. When it’s not, it’s a new-build flat owned by a friend of your Dad’s paid for mostly out of your trust fund that your mum visits every other weekend to ‘make sure you’re looking after the place’.

4. Intern at a different record label/magazine/pr agency every month. Never do any work or have any ambition to move on in these areas, but tell long, rambling stories about what happened ‘at work recently’ as vehicles to constantly namedrop.

5. Know next to nothing about photography but buy an expensive digital SLR to do ‘band’ photography with. Ignore the rules of the photo pit, get in the way of everyone else, leave your flash on and shoot randomly from the hip and at arms length. Produce a series of burry images of feet and close-ups of guitars. Later, be sure to talk to a member of the opposite sex at length about how the art form needs ‘shaking up’ and how you have a ‘totally fresh approach’.

6. Go to parties and gigs solely because you’ve managed to get yourself on the guest list. Promise ten of your mates that you can get them in for free ‘plus free drinks’ because you know the band/promoter/owner. When none of you get in, talk shit about band/promoter/owner on the internet under a fake name.

7. Start a blog. Make two or three posts in the first month then promptly give up after it is not an immediate hit.

Tell everyone your reason for giving up was to work on your novel. Eventually, whittle your novel down to three thousand words and hand it out to people at work, citing is as the reason you ‘might be leaving soon’.

8. Buy a pair of wayfarer (Where’s Wally?) style glasses. These are great, because even if you don’t need glasses, you can just get some frames with clear, non-prescription lenses and people think that you read books. In fact, you think that books will ‘skew your completely original authorial voice’, which is why you’ve never read one.

9. Approach editors or designers of art ‘zines in person and say “Yeah, I’ll be in your little magazine thing if you want.”

Make sure you emphasize heavily that you’re doing them a favour and insist upon being paid up front. When they refuse you, tell everyone that you think that these magazines are ‘shit’ 10. Be sure to make friends with at least one person from a hype band. Constantly refer to them and tell stories about stuff that’s happened to them ‘on tour’ as if you were there.

11. Get annoyed by this list.

Bile: PB & JF

Christian Lander is the man behind the incredibly successful blog and book Stuff White People Like. If you’re not already a fan of his blog we suggest you become one asap and see how many entries apply to you. We spoke to Christian about blogs, books and future plans.

Stuff White People Like

On January 18th 2008 Christian Lander posted his first article on Stuff White People Like. On March 31st 2008 he signed a book deal with Random House and on July 1st 2008 his book was released. So it’s fair to say that things have moved fast. Since then Christian has spent his time touring around the US promoting his book and enjoying the rewards that come with having a book sitting atop bestseller charts in America and Australia. Considering the rapid rise of his blog it would be fair to assume that there was a solid business plan backing it up. However Christian says “to start a blog with a plan for it to explode is a bad life choice” and that the original idea for the blog was just to write funny stuff for his friends to read.

The blog and book come with the message “you don’t have to be white to be white” and it is from this statement that much of the comedy comes. Stuff White People Like is never specific about race, instead it’s a hilarious list of middle class cliches that will make you cringe while you laugh - making it apparent that those who manage to get offended have just missed the joke. “People see the title and expect different stuff. It is just an update on the yuppie definition” says Christian when asked for his own description of the blog, adding “it is just me putting myself out there. Everything applies to me except nature. And Che Guevara.” (Incidentally, Christian’s favourite post is Knowing What’s Best for Poor People).

Though the book continues to sell and the blog continues to gain popularity, there could be a temptation to succumb to the lure of advertising money. But Christian is more focussed on just writing funny stuff, and has even stopped checking the hit rate for his blog whenever there is a new post. The success of the blog is opening new doors to Christian and in order to take advantage of any new opportunity the blog is slowing to on average a post a week. He says “I won’t try to keep it alive for any other reason than if it’s funny. I never expected it to get this far anyway”.

Words - JF

The future is undetermined for the blog, but whatever happens Christian has had an incredible year with his comedic creation. He is still trying to promote the book to UK publishers and for any potential UK readers the book is available (albeit the American version). Recently Christian has made the move to LA to forge a career as comedy writer, but for now he is happy to be one of the few authors with no failed books on their resume.

www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com