ATIME LIKE NO OTHER At home with Chris Hemsworth Music’s TikTok takeover In depth with Hamish Macdonald The race to stop a pandemic
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Contents
May | June 2020
ATIME LIKE NO OTHER Music’s TikTok takeover In depth with Hamish Macdonald The race to stop a pandemic
Photography Matthew Brookes. Styling Jillian Davison. Grooming Sophie Roberts at Artist Group using Oribe.
108 Real-life Hero
Meet the artist whose work we could all desperately use right now; the latest chapter in the battle to rule the world of console gaming; why horror movies are having a moment; the brands making chic cases for your Apple ‘AirPods’; and the Beastie Boys are back.
The face of Ferragamo, Hero Fiennes Tiffin is on the fast track to becoming Hollywood’s next leading man.
32 Interview
At home with Chris Hemsworth
ON THE COVER Coat, $2099, by BOSS; pants, $1600, by Giorgio Armani; jewellery, Chris’ own.
21 Brief
We talk to the host of Q&A Hamish Macdonald, and discuss why considered journalism is needed now more than ever.
37 Style Our pick of this season’s best outerwear; the resale apps causing the second-hand clothing market to boom; style mavericks serving up inspired iso fits; how Hermès quietly built the most coveted brand in fashion; and more.
72 Watches We put the best new adventure timepieces through their paces.
82 Back home He’s one of the world’s biggest actors. But, during a global lockdown, Chris Hemsworth finds himself much like everyone else – at home, trying to make sense of the new normal.
102 Dance like
116 COVID-19 Inside the race to stop a pandemic – and what the world’s response means for the future of the planet.
122 End of play Professional athletes are respected and celebrated during their careers. But what happens after the final whistle?
128 Travel When the lockdown ends, this Tassie hotspot is the perfect winter escape.
134 Drinks The best wine subscriptions to get you through the next few months.
136 Wellness Saint Jhn is breaking ground as hip-hop’s first rockstar athlete.
140 Motoring The Mini goes electric.
144 The Columnist Dan Rookwood looks at what we can learn from life during lockdown.
everybody’s watching Viral app TikTok is here to stay and could change the music industry forever.
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GQ.COM.AU
PHOTOGRAPHY: ERIC CHAKEEN. STYLING: BRITT MCCAMEY.
Contents
92 One of a kind
Shot on the streets of New York, we look at the unlikely journey of LaMelo Ball – the NBA’s next superstar.
Overshirt, $2970, shirt, POA, pants, $2170, and shoes, $1730, all by Louis Vuitton; singlet, socks and jewellery, LaMelo’s own.
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GQ.COM.AU
W
hen everything changed, it seemed to happen overnight. One minute, we were mingling in bars, going out for meals, catching up with friends, and the next we were shut indoors and alone. Suddenly, even the idea of being in a room full of strangers seemed impossibly quaint, like an old cigarette advert from the ’60s. Those last moments of innocence before we all knew better. Until the late 1800s, it was thought that diseases were spread by ‘bad air’. It’s where we get the word ‘malaria’ from. We know that this virus is transmitted through contact or droplets in coughs and sneezes, but in many ways it feels like a great fog, overshadowing everything – every conversation, every decision. And now that we’re all stuck at home, each day blending into the last, the virus is the only real way to mark time. The number of infected and sick, of lives lost. No one is turning to magazines for breaking news. But if everything is now seen through the haze of this virus, what should publications like GQ offer readers at times like these? Who needs fashion inspo when we’re all staying indoors? And that’s before we get to the tricky matter of what people want to see from celebrities, or if they want to see them at all. Like the issue itself, our cover story with Chris Hemsworth straddles the worst of the virus. He was shot before the shutdown kicked in but interviewed afterwards – which is why he was able to pose here on the beach, without running afoul of the law. Magazines are a reflection of their times and, in some ways, this issue reflects the optimism people felt before things turned dire.
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Between the bushfires, the virus and what has felt like a million other crises, people are desperate for some good news – or, at least, a distraction from the bad news. This issue, we have an in-depth look at the race to stop the pandemic, but you’ll also find a long-form feature on how TikTok is reshaping the music industry, as well as profiles of some of the most interesting, talented people on the planet. Each piece, in its own way, captures this unique moment in time. When it first hit, the virus pitted us against one another – and not just in fights over groceries. It was a gift to those who’ve always viewed foreigners with suspicion and some, even the President of the United States, took pains to point out the virus’ Chinese origins. Last month, a group of prominent Asian Australians launched a petition calling for unity, after a spike in reports of racist abuse and vilification. But as the virus progressed, it was clear we could only beat it by working as one. Staying indoors, washing our hands, looking out for society’s most vulnerable. It’s hard to find hope in dark times, but if there’s any lesson we can take away from the current crisis, maybe it’s that. That although we are now all separated, it’s good to remind ourselves that we’re not alone – and we will get through this together.
Jake Millar Editor GQ.COM.AU
PHOTOGRAPHY: MATTHEW BROOKES. STYLING: JILLIAN DAVISON.
Editor’s Letter
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KITCHEN QUARANTINE Whether it’s making a decent coffee or replicating fast-food essentials, we’re scouring the Internet for the best advice to ensure you eat and drink well from your own kitchen.
YOUR GUIDE TO LOCKDOWN
The ongoing COVID-19 crisis has entirely shifted the way all Australians, whether old or young, poor or rich, go about their business. At GQ.com.au, we’re committed to providing all the information you need to get you through self-isolation, working from home and everything in between.
@GQAustralia | #GQAustralia
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KEEP CONNECTED Now is the time to stay indoors and we’ll constantly be covering the latest and greatest in entertainment, from new film and TV releases to the best reading, gaming and music coming out right now.
WORDS: BRAD NASH. PHOTOGRAPHY: EVERETT COLLECTION/PARAMOUNT; GETTY IMAGES; NETFLIX.
THROWING FITS With maintaining a healthy routine more important than ever, we offer advice to keep both you and your crib looking video-call presentable.
Contributors
Elle Hardy
Selman Hoşgör
COLLAGE ARTIST How far into the TikTok hole did you go for the collage (p102)? TikTok is an endless black hole! The more I surf on Tik Tok, the more it tempts me to. Is it the new Facebook? I’m sceptical. TikTok is different to other social mediums, providing a chance to act or display a different personality and to make a connection in that way. Facebook and other social media platforms do not require a state of acting. What’s with the fascination with old-school celebs in your work? I like to combine the new and the old in my work. Even though they span through different years in history, I think they help us live in the moment. What’s your process for creating collages? It all starts with imagination – collages and illustrations start to appear in my mind before I start to work. Is there anything you regret you didn’t do pre-lockdown? As opposed to being regretful, I’ve come to understand much clearer what’s important in life and what isn’t. What has been keeping you occupied? I think volatile trends, the intent to create distinctive and unique things, and the challenge to improve my previous self are the most important and up-to-date topics of my timeline.
WRITER As you discuss in the feature (p116), you were in Seoul, one of the first global epicentres, as COVID-19 hit. What was that like? It was very strange, as I was there to write about some religious groups, and they turned out to be the ones who spread it initially. So it was a mixture of disbelief and then sadness as I watched a massive city start closing down – but that’s just normal now. Have there been any uplifting moments to emerge out of recent events for you? I’m running on the fumes of hope in that we might find that things don’t have to be the way they are, that we ought to value communities and the collective good far more. You write a lot about religion. What do you have faith in? Most of mine is spent on Arsenal Football Club, and they punish me for it weekly (well, until life stopped). Can you recommend any great books to get us through self-isolation? To my mind, the two greatest novels are VS Naipaul’s A House for Mr Biswas and Nabokov’s Pale Fire. What are you most looking forward to doing when this is all over? I wish I could say something more high-minded, but going on a bender with good mates and hugging them relentlessly is my only thought.
Eric Chakeen
PHOTOGRAPHER You got to witness LaMelo dunking (p92) firsthand – so tell us, is he the real deal? I’m a huge basketball fan and have followed his career since his early high-school days. He’s a really exciting prospect. How was it having members of the public mingle on set with LaMelo? The kids loved LaMelo and he was superengaging with them. He was running around (as much as he could in Louis Vuitton suiting!) and shooting jumpers, posing for pictures and signing autographs. LaMelo seemed to be having fun on the shoot. What is the art of making the talent feel at ease on set? People feed off what you present to them. I am pretty laidback and, having been an athlete, I think there is a language of sports that can put someone at ease. What was the first camera you ever bought with your own money? I bought a Leica ‘R7’ when I took my only black-and-white photography class in my senior year of university. I’m looking at a print it made right now. What’s one thing you’ve learned since being in isolation? Aside from everyone being a baker, I’m not sure. Ask me next month and hopefully I’ll have learned a new language or trade by then.
GQ.COM.AU
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EDITOR
JAKE MILLAR
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CONTRIBUTORS Steven Blake, Matthew Brookes, Jess Campbell, Eric Chakeen, Stephen Corby, Jillian Davison, Jeremy Drake, Noelle Faulkner, Angus Fontaine, Duncan Killick, Elle Hardy, Selman Hoşgör, Pete Lennon, Britt Mccamey, Clay Nielsen, Sophie Roberts, Dan Rookwood, Felix Scholz, Petra Sellge, Tom Sloan, Claire Thomson, Mark Vassallo, Edward Urrutia.
INTERNS Kirra Black, Nicola Brizza, Shardae De Joux, Zak Kalivas, Kimberly Macaraig, Nancy Nono.
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For knowing where you stand
Edited by Amy Campbell
Brief PHOTOGRAPHY: MARK POKORNY. IMAGE COURTESY OF THE ARTIST AND SULLIVAN + STRUMPF.
Art for the apocalypse Sydney-based artist Ramesh Nithiyendran’s sculptures exist in a universe of their own, their electrifying otherworldliness drawing critics and collectors from around the globe. But in times of uncertainty, it’s their sense of colourful escapism that has seen them take on new meaning. GQ.COM.AU
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Brief | Art
R
amesh Nithiyendran should be putting 25 sculptures on a plane to Singapore right now. The Sri Lankan-born, Australianraised artist was due to open a solo show there this month, but then the whole world shut down and the exhibition, which is titled Polymorphous Figures, shifted online. It’s a shame. But if ever there was an artist whose work could help us survive the current state of worldwide uncertainty, it’s probably him. “Hello!” says a shrill voice, apparently coming from a bearded figure with multiple limbs that greets us over FaceTime, during our impromptu tour of Nithiyendran’s Sydney studio. It’s a fitting introduction to the artist’s work – the piece is a sculpture called ‘Multi Breasted Figure’ – but also to his unique sense of humour. We return the greeting without thinking twice about it, which Nithiyendran finds hilarious. We’ll chalk that up to the isolation. But truth be told, his work often tends to evoke a visceral response from onlookers, even in smoother times. Some are life-size and life-like, with wild manes of black curly hair not dissimilar to Nithiyendran’s own, while others are small and nubby with paint-streaked faces. “These are homoerotic dogs,” he explains, pivoting the camera to reveal a couple of examples. “You can see the testicular reference once it’s pointed out – they’ve got a bit of a sex-toy vibe. But at first glance they just seem like naïve, fun dogs.” The Singapore situation is a bummer for Nithiyendran, whose practice is influenced by the different ways various cultures and countries view his work. But he seems to be coping just as well as anyone who’s just had their entire schedule up-ended by a pandemic. The sculpture he was due to exhibit in March’s Art Basel Hong Kong was still on display – albeit in the fair’s digital viewing rooms – and he’s hopeful the installation he’s building for the new Sculpture Park in Jaipur, India, will be unveiled before the year’s out. But Nithiyendran’s relative optimism aside, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that even when COVID-19 is finally quashed (fingers crossed, at least), the art world may never be the same.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: MARK POKORNY. IMAGE COURTESY OF THE ARTIST AND SULLIVAN + STRUMPF.
It comes at a time when demand for the artist’s work – provocative, playful sculptures that have become some of the most collectible on the Australian scene – has never been higher. Nithiyendran’s rise through the art world ranks has been relatively swift. He only finished studying seven years ago and since then, he’s collected almost every scholarship, residency and award known to Australian contemporary art. This year, Sydney’s Powerhouse Museum acquired Nithiyendran’s sketchbooks as well as one of his biggest works, ‘Hog/Human’ (2019). He’s exhibited in The Archibald and Sulman Prizes, as part of Bangladesh’s Dhaka Art Summit, and in South Korea, Taiwan and Germany. The artist’s expressive use of colour isn’t just confined to his work, either; the fashion world is beset by his unselfconscious style, and – though he can’t speak about them in great detail just yet – we hear he has some exciting fashion collaborations bubbling away. But Nithiyendran’s ideas are what make him truly captivating and we can feel our own horizons broadening as our conversation progresses. He’s interested in the aesthetics of
“Artists reflect the times and history tells us that in times of crisis, societies look to art for various ways forward.” organised faith, various dualisms that are present in Western culture, and the way symbolism around sex has been historically employed to further the agendas of people in power. “I try to keep readings of my work fairly open and accessible on different levels, I don’t want to be too didactic,” he says. “Often the works are genderless or gender-fluid, multi-breasted, phallic – which are all quite standard forms of representation in many cultures.” He’s also fascinated by the mythology that surrounds ‘the artist’, which is fitting, given we’re at a time when the function of art is under threat, all while being increasingly relied upon to deliver a much-needed dose of relief from whatever’s on the news. “It’s easy to romanticise artists’ roles in the context of catastrophe,” says Nithiyendran. “Artists reflect the times in a multitude of ways and history tells us that in times of crisis, societies look to art for various ways forward.”
But with the year’s major art fairs falling like dominoes and galleries shutting their doors, he says the mood of most artists in his community is one of uncertainty and anxiety about their livelihoods. And it’s not just public art that’s hurting. With the future unclear on all fronts, Nithiyendran anticipates the private art market – which, like fashion, is a luxury economy – will suffer. “The art market can be incredibly labile,” he points out. “And right now, people are less concerned with the acquisition of luxury goods.” The fate of contemporary art in Australia might be unknown, as are many things at the moment. One thing that has remained true is that artists can help us to understand the world, but they can also offer an escape in uncertain times, through colour and whimsy and humour. And sometimes, maybe that’s enough. n Visit Polymorphous Figures by Ramesh Nithiyendran online at sullivanstrumpf.com.
Opposite: ’Caramel Standing Figure with Plait’ (2019). From left: Ramesh Nithiyendran’s False Gods exhibition, which was held at Sullivan+Strumpf in November last year; ‘Hog/Human’ (2019).
GQ.COM.AU
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Brief | Gaming
Clockwise from top left: Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson and Microsoft’s Bill Gates at the original Xbox launch; Jessica Alba tries out a PlayStation; Steven Spielberg with a Nintendo ‘Fun Center’; Cole and Dylan Sprouse at the launch of the Nintendo ‘GameCube’; Snoop Dogg and Matthew Perry at the Xbox ‘360’ launch party; Justin Bieber on the Nintendo ‘Wii’; Zac Efron plays ‘Halo 3’ on the Xbox ‘360’; rapper Coolio at the launch of ‘PS2’.
Clash of the consoles
With Microsoft and Sony set to launch new videogame systems before the year is through, the gaming community is preparing to witness a sales war of historic proportions. But how did we get here?
Words Brad Nash
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PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
T
he gaming landscape isn’t so much a gradual evolution as a series of sudden, sharp, generational leaps. Every time a new console is launched, an entirely new scene and precedent is set. And just about everyone who’s anyone has come along for the ride. In the early 2000s, console launches were red-carpet affairs, where celebrities like Snoop Dogg and the Sprouse twins rolled up (with parental permission in the Sprouses’ case) dressed in their finest gaming fits, ready to try the new technology. These days, the launches tend to be less about the party and more about the product. But nonetheless, they’re spectacles to behold. And now, as both Sony and Microsoft gear up to release the ‘PS5’ and Xbox ‘Series X’ respectively, the landscape is set to change once more. For all the grief it’s caused us elsewhere, 2020 is going to be an exciting year in gaming. New advancements in computing power promise to deliver more immersive experiences and, for the first time, console gamers will be given access to the kind of hardware that’s previously been limited to custom-built gaming PCs. But in order to appreciate just how far we’ve come, it’s imperative we look at the consoles and innovation that got us to this point. Ahead of this year’s new releases, we glance back at the most revolutionary moments in the history of console gaming.
NOVEMBER 1995
THE PLAYSTATION Equipped with a whopping 2MB of RAM, the OG PlayStation becomes the first console to harness the true power of 3D graphics.
NOVEMBER 2000
PLAYSTATION 2 Arriving in time for the first Christmas of the millennium, the PS2’s cutting-edge graphics and slimline design bid farewell to the chunky aesthetic of the ‘90s.
NOVEMBER 2005
THE XBOX ‘360’ Determined to one-up Sony, Microsoft waits just three years to kick off the so-called ‘seventh generation’ of consoles with the Xbox ‘360’. The first to transcend its gaming apparatus origins and offer a full multimedia experience, the ‘360’ is Microsoft’s only console to rival the sales figures of its Japanese competitor to this day.
NOVEMBER 2006
THE ‘PS3’ A year later comes the ‘PS3’, which is astronomically expensive for its time – $820 for the entrylevel model compared to $499 for the ‘360’ – and only similarly powered. It wins out, with gamers taking to the portable nature of its compact casing.
CHRISTMAS 2020
MARCH 2002
THE XBOX Microsoft’s Xbox explodes onto the scene, boasting a space-age silhouette and state-of-the-art hardware that dwarfs its rivals in terms of processing and graphics.
MAY 2002
A NEW DIRECTION FOR NINTENDO After years of battling it out with Sony, Nintendo chooses to pivot its focus towards family-friendly gaming with its ‘GameCube’, and later the ‘Wii’, leaving the more serious console R&D to Microsoft and Sony.
NOVEMBER 2013
THE EIGHTH GENERATION This marks the first time Sony and Microsoft drop consoles in unison. Both are equipped with almost identical hardware and capabilities but at only $50 more, the Xbox ‘One’ struggles to sell. Not only does its ‘PS4’ rival prove to be the superior performer despite its cheaper price, but it’ll outsell the Xbox more than two-to-one.
THE NEXT GENERATION PC gaming has flourished in the last decade and the culture is calling for a new, power-focused console. With early specs from each brand suggesting 8K compatibility and solid-state hard drives, and both consoles expected to retail around the $600 mark, the strong-arm tactics that have defined console evolution are showing no signs of slowing down.
MARCH 2002
HALO Released at the same time as the Xbox, Microsoft’s exclusive Halo franchise immediately sets the benchmark for shooting games, from both a storytelling and multiplayer perspective. Two years later, Halo 2 becomes the first game to use Microsoft’s new Xbox ‘Live’ service, giving players the chance to connect online and ‘frag’ each other from opposite ends of the globe.
OCTOBER 2016
PLAYSTATION VR Sony debuts the first-ever consolepowered virtual reality headset, which offers 360-degree vision and 3D audio technology. Although gamers are initially hesitant, analysts estimate three million PlayStation VRs have been sold globally since launching. Though Microsoft was said to be designing its own VR experience, they’re yet to enter the game.
GQ.COM.AU
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Brief | Culture
Scary good cinema I
f there’s an image that stays with you long after the credits have rolled on Jordan Peele’s 2017 directorial debut Get Out, it’s the terrified, tear-streaked face of actor Daniel Kaluuya. The whites of his bulging eyes are bloodshot red; the silent scream on his face reverberates louder than any of the film’s audible shrieks. There is no blood, guts or gore, but that shot has come to represent something even more unsettling; it’s symbolic of the rife power imbalance between people of colour and white people – even those who pride themselves on holding liberal values. In the years since, Peele, a former sketch comedy writer and actor, has himself become the face of horror’s new intellectual enlightenment. In 2019 he released Us, a social thriller that plays on our collective fear of ‘otherness’, and later this year Peele’s re-contextualisation of cult ’92 slasher Candyman will hit screens. Written by Peele and directed by second-time filmmaker Nia DaCosta, Candyman is propelled by the reawakening of a supernatural killer, a decade after he was last seen stalking Chicago’s Cabrini-Green housing commission, which is now gentrified beyond recognition. He might be the poster boy of this new generation of cerebral horror films, but Peele isn’t alone. Ari Aster, the American director behind 2018’s Hereditary and last year’s viral hit Midsommar, has found breakout success in taking a relatively familiar scenario – a group of friends travelling to Sweden for a summer festival – and twisting it into a piece of folk
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Daniel Kaluuya in Get Out.
A film still from Candyman. A scene from Midsommar.
Emily Blunt in A Quiet Place.
horror where the journey is even more subliminal and unsettling than the ending. John Krasinski’s A Quiet Place (2018) and A Quiet Place Part II (2020) and Susanne Bier’s Bird Box (2018) are each set in parallel universes, where mankind is a subordinate species and survival is predicated on our ability to suppress our senses. These films are a far cry from the gory gothic slashers that dominated the ’80s and ’90s, many of which were about as disconnected from reality as a film could be. The allure of this new wave of horror flicks, then, is not in the escapism of their predecessors, but their unsettling twists on real life. And as Hollywood doubles down on its commitment to sequels, reboots and expanded superhero universes, the comparatively small budgets of most horror flicks (Get Out grossed $418m worldwide on a budget of $7.4m) afford directors more agency when it comes to pushing thematic boundaries and challenging the social and political views of their audiences. “The world is a scary place at the moment,” Jason Blum of Blumhouse Productions – the studio behind Get Out and the Paranormal Activity franchise recently said – “so it’s very fertile ground.” It would be nice to disagree. But if the producer is right, perhaps there’s at least one silver lining to this current uncertain climate: if the world does get any more alarming, at least the horror films will continue to improve. There’s never been a better time to get scared. Candyman is in cinemas September 24.
PHOTOGRAPHY: ALAMY.
In the last five years, some of modern cinema’s most socially engaged films have come from an unlikely genre: horror. And, with the lines between reality and dystopia showing no signs of becoming clearer, it would appear the scariest is yet to come.
Brief | Tech
Pimp your ’Pods
PHOTOGRAPHY: EDWARD URRUTIA.
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Brief | Film
The Boys are back
They defined and then redefined hiphop for a generation of music fans. Now, Mike D and Ad-Rock return with a new Spike Jonze-directed documentary that charts the Beastie Boys’ shenanigans and successes, while paying homage to their third musketeer, the late MCA.
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efore Brockhampton, before Migos, before House of Pain – even before Wu-Tang Clan – there was the Beastie Boys. Ad-Rock, Mike D and MCA – three best friends and self-described “punks” whose love of music and aspirations to roll with New York hip-hop’s elite saw them become one of the greatest and most unlikely success stories in modern music. It wasn’t all smooth sailing though. Fame went to their heads early on (touring with Madonna in the ’80s will do that to three twenty-somethings) and although they sold over 20 million albums, eventually the money dried up and the music suffered. But instead of packing it in, the Beastie Boys swallowed their pride, returned to their roots and, in the instances of ’92’s Check Your Head and ’94’s Ill Communication, made some of the best music of their career. Beastie Boys Story, a new documentary by long-time collaborator and friend Spike Jonze, delves into the group’s roller-coaster rise to fame. It’s rambunctious, unruly and touching in its emotional tribute to Adam ‘MCA’ Yauch, who succumbed to cancer in 2012. But mostly, Beastie Boys Story is an ode to lifelong friendship.
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Adam ‘MCA’ Yauch, Adam ‘Ad-Rock’ Horovitz and Mike ‘Mike-D’ Diamond, in 1994.
Recently, we caught up with Mike Diamond and Adam Horovitz, and received a firsthand taste of the love, banter and incessant teasing that defined – and continues to define – the story of the Beastie Boys. GQ: You worked with Spike Jonze for the first time in ’93, on the ‘Time for Livin’’ video. Does the fact this was some time ago have anything to do with you calling him your ‘former grandfather’ in the notes to Beastie Boys Story? Adam ‘Ad-Rock’ Horovitz: You know how some people have an aunt or uncle that, through circumstance, is like six years old? That’s how it always was with Spike. Mike ‘Mike-D’ Diamond: So, Adam, this doesn’t have anything to do with the romantic situation between Spike and your Grandma Hazel? [Laughs]. AH: If there was a way for me to climb through the phone and fucking choke you right now, I would. GQ: Let’s keep it civilised, please. The ‘artist documentary’ seems to be in vogue right now, but yours was filmed live, during a speaking tour. Why choose this format?
MD: Well, it started with the book Adam and I wrote in 2018. It was coming out and we wanted to promote it but we didn’t just want to be sitting there in a bookstore with blazers and smoking pipes. So we spoke to Spike about it, and we had this idea to develop a live show around certain parts of the book. So we did. It was definitely a weird thing for both of us, in that it was very outside our comfort zones. Well, actually, Adam is pretty experienced onstage… AH: I have another interview about my acting career later, Mike, so we don’t need to go into it here. What Mike’s trying to say is, we didn’t plan on making the movie. We did the live book tour and it came from there. GQ: Let’s rewind to New York in the early ’80s. Two of your earliest supporters, producer Rick Rubin and Def Jam founder Russell Simmons, seemed to believe in the Beastie Boys before you knew it could be a legitimate thing. What was it like being swept up in their vision? AH: It was kind of like when a little kid tells a joke, and all the grown-ups laugh, so the kid keeps telling the same joke over and over. So it was like, ‘OK, let’s keep doing that.’
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
Clockwise from top: the Beastie Boys performing at the Hollywood Palladium in 1987; Run-DMC and the Beastie Boys in New York City; Madonna onstage with Ad-Rock and MCA at Madison Square Garden, New York, in 1985; The Beastie Boys performing a secret London gig in 1994.
GQ: How has your understanding of the dynamic between you, Russell and Rick changed over the years? MD: I think Rick had the vision of a producer, in terms of how the record should sound and, honestly, if we’d mastered Licence to Ill ourselves it probably would have been this garage rap record that we would’ve liked, but not many other people would’ve heard. Then Russell had this business vision of like, ‘OK, here are these white guys, I’m going to get them on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine.’ There were things he couldn’t do yet with the black groups he managed, so I think he was like, ‘Alright, this is gonna happen for these guys, then I’m going to be able to get it done with other groups.’ AH: I think Russell had an idea and then we came along and fit the mould of the idea he had. He saw us and he was like, ‘They can facilitate this thing.’
GQ: Beastie Boys Story is just as much a tribute to Adam Yauch (MCA) as it is a chronicle of your career. What did you learn from him that you carry with you today? MD: I think we always ask ourselves the question, ‘What would Yauch do?’ I think he always pushed us to look at things completely differently, and to think, ‘How do we do something that’s maybe unprecedented?’ GQ: What do you think Yauch would say about the documentary if he were still here today? AH: He’d say, ‘It’s not weird enough.’ MD: He would’ve inserted a 45-minute mini movie within the movie, about some strange psychedelic journey somewhere, no doubt. GQ: The Beastie Boys are referenced by a lot of musicians today, both subtly and not so subtly. Is it something you embrace? AH: It’s cool. I mean, the whole thing is weird. We made an album in the ’80s that people
“I think we always ask ourselves the question, ‘What would Yauch do?’ He always pushed us to look at things completely differently.”
really liked, we sold a lot of copies, but really, we were just trying to sound like someone else, like The Clash or Run-DMC. So to think that people are trying to sound like us now, it’s weird. It’s cool, but it’s weird. GQ: It’s pretty well known that Eminem’s Kamikaze album artwork was a riff on the album art for Licence to Ill. Weird or cool? MD: People made such a big deal over that. We didn’t know he was going to do it, but I knew through friends in the rap world that he was a fan. It felt like he was genuine with his intentions, but I don’t know… we’re still pretty self-conscious about it all. AH: I mean, it’s cool. If Creed got back together or, like, Mudhoney did it, then that would be weird. But for Eminem, I guess it makes sense. It’s nice. GQ: What do you make of hip-hop today? AH: I think it’s interesting. Rap music is always changing, it’s one of the few musical genres that is. You know, whatever’s cool right now, like we found out, there’s always going to be something cooler and more interesting around the corner. n Beastie Boys Story is now streaming on Apple TV+.
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Interview
Hamish Macdonald As a war correspondent reporting from frontlines around the globe – or back home during Australia’s summer bushfire crisis – Macdonald has spent his career covering the stories that shape our world. And now as the host of Australia’s most prominent political panel show, Q&A, he’s the one the country turns to to answer the big questions, during these uncertain times. Words Angus Fontaine
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nterviewing Hamish Macdonald is like duelling a samurai with a switchblade. As a journalist he’s the complete package – writer, reporter, producer and host, deep researcher, courageous chaser, master interrogator and crusader for truth. At 39, he’s flash as a rat with a gold tooth – smart, driven, fit, stylish, funny, kind. His multitasking is legendary. He talks to GQ as he walks, texts us while he reads, eats while he interviews. But he can’t sing a jot and admits he cries “all the time”. So shiny is he that few at the ABC will talk on the record. He’s very private, they say, I cherish his friendship too much. One colleague confides that “women swoon over him, they don’t care it won’t go anywhere”. His comedian friend Tommy Little sums him up: “The funniest bloke in the room… also the most intellectual.” The Sunday Project co-host Lisa Wilkinson admires his “raw honesty, intellectual rigour and forensic focus on uncovering truth – all wrapped up in genuine humility and a whole lot of heart.” “He seemed knowledgeable about and interested in whatever issue in the world I could imagine talking about,” says The Project co-host Waleed Aly, when asked of his first impressions of Macdonald. “In some ways I feel short-changed that I so rarely get to see him, but I still felt bonded to his work and he always supported me at really crucial times. He did a piece to camera in my defence in the aftermath of the Christchurch attacks. I didn’t ask him to do that –
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I didn’t even realise it was planned. But it was an extremely generous thing to do.” The day we speak, Macdonald is dropping an isolation basket to his mother, Carol, a nurse. “Mum,” he declares, “is my greatest hero.” Macdonald may seem so clean he squeaks. But there’s darkness in his past and scars we don’t see. These ghosts in the machine are what make him so damn good. GQ: You’re usually juggling radio hosting, foreign correspondent gigs and presenter roles on two major networks. How is ‘Mr Everywhere’ holding up in isolation? Hamish Macdonald: I’m still busy – working from home and going into the studio only when needed. Most of my working life has been spent covering huge stories internationally where terrible things have happened far from Australian shores. But the last few months are remarkable for the fact I’ve been reporting on huge, difficult stories unfolding here in Australia, whether it’s COVID-19 or the bushfires. These seismic events are not just on our doorstep – they’re in our living room. GQ: Your coverage of the bushfires saw you leave your NSW South Coast holiday to file stories while helping to evacuate your father from his home nearby. What was it like to have your personal life and professional life collide? HM: I’m a sensitive soul and when I’m covering a story up close, I see a lot more than just the pictures that end up on the television.
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PHOTOGRAPHY: STEVEN BLAKE.
Interview
I see people’s lives radically up-ended and, of course, that affects me GQ: Do these times of crisis put more onus on you as a conduit personally. It’s one thing to hear someone has lost their life, for information? it’s another to see how it impacts their family and communities. HM: Of course. People are craving information, and connection and When it’s my family caught up in the crisis I’m even more acutely understanding. It’s our job as journalists to deliver that. I think about aware of how lucky we were compared with those who were losing that mission every day: how do I pursue answers, how do I test the everything. My dad is a pretty pragmatic 80-year-old so when the evidence, how do I deliver it accurately to maximum effect. The fireys told him to get out, he did the right thing, packed up and left. responsibilities are huge because they shape all of our lives. Luckily he – and his home – survived. GQ: The pressure is also huge. Plenty GQ: You grew up in the wilderness of reckon hosting Q&A is TV’s toughest job “Each week my remit is Jindabyne, NSW, the third of four kids who – juggling multiple guests, switching to get a handle on where have all worked in journalism. Was it hard between various technologies, all while the audience – and public seeing your childhood home devastated? dodging legal landmines and maintaining HM: Hard to say. So far, 2020 hasn’t been a year – is at, to make sure that the balance the Government demands of for taking stock. It’s unfolded at such a rapid the tax-funded ABC. every discussion gets pace that none of us are in a position to fathom HM: One of the biggest things I’ve learned them what they need.” how it might have changed our world and us, as since taking over as host has been that, even individuals, Australians… human beings. It’ll with the world upside-down, there’s been no take many months I suspect. No one could’ve imagined we’d go through diminishing appetite for people to engage. Demand for Q&A, a forum a second large-scale crisis that would touch every one of us. where people question leaders and experts, has never been higher. GQ: A rolling stone gathers no moss. But a rolling news cycle and More than ever, people have questions and need answers. rapid-fire disasters like these must leave scars on the reporters GQ: It hasn’t been an easy time to takeover as host. Your first stuck in the spokes. How do you process being in close proximity show had to move venues at the 11th hour due to the bushfires. Now your live studio audience – an energy you’ve grown to love to such traumatic events? at The Project – is in isolation. HM: I’ve worked on many big stories so I’m pretty good at coming out HM: I’m focused on what we have, not what’s missing. And if there’s the other side. I digest then dive in again stronger. COVID-19 is one thing I can do it’s be agile and adaptive to the news. Yes, I love different because we’re all going through it. It’s not like reporting on the big studio audience and the weeks we’ve had that it’s been a conflict overseas or filing from the aftermath of a tsunami where amazing, but in their absence we’re seeing the opportunity to reach I do the coverage then leave. The story in front of us now affects our a much broader, often younger, audience of questioners through whole lives. That’s harder to switch off from. So while it’s tempting to video and Skype and all the other methods we’re collectively roll on, I’m conscious to carve out time to process experiences. adapting to. Every workplace in the world has had to change and so GQ: So how do you decompress? has Q&A. HM: I’m probably happiest when I’m doing an ocean swim. There’s GQ: It seems to be working. According to OzTAM, your broadcast something very calming about being way out there in the dark water. ratings in 2020 are up by a third on last year. iView audience is up It’s wild and freeing and it’s fine just to be. 63 per cent. GQ: You’ve spoken in the past of being badly bullied in boarding HM: We’ve gone from a show with a live studio audience of 300 every school. Do you think that has shaped you as a journalist? week to an audience entirely made up of video questioners. The HM: That experience left me with a much stronger sense of everyone revelation has been that it now means anyone, anywhere in Australia, deserving to have their voice heard. What makes me angriest is can contact us, so we’ve also had a massive increase in the number of injustice, someone treated unfairly. People ripped off. Minorities people submitting questions. Most weeks it’s 200-500, but during silenced. Communities disregarded. Crimes committed under the COVID-19 it’s over 2000 questions a week. radar. These things motivate me to tell stories. I still have a fair degree GQ: A question you’ve made a trademark of asking the audience is of self-doubt but I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. That selfone we often overlook and answer without thinking: How are you? doubt makes me ask tough questions of myself all the time. HM: Those three small words can be the key to unlocking someone GQ: Which brings us to your new role as host of Q&A. As one of and, asked the right way, it can give people licence to share very deep the flagships of the public broadcaster, what makes it such an feelings. Maybe it’s having a nurse mother and pharmacist father but important show? I’ve always been conscious of being a good listener. We’re going HM: I’ve done lots of different shows in different mediums on different through this together. A greater dose of humanity goes a long way. networks, and what makes Q&A unique is it offers a rare opportunity GQ: Yet bad news leads TV bulletins, screams from front pages for the public to reach the people with power. Each week my remit is and snipes 24/7 on social media. Is the real world as wicked as to get a handle on where the audience – and public – is at, to make sure news networks make out? that every discussion gets them what they need.
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HM: In every story I’ve ever covered there’s the story and then there’s been kidnapped by Islamic extremists. The cumulative effect of all the humanity beneath it. There’s always reason for hope and optimism those things, along with being away from home, was the hardest in that human story. Humans are resilient beings and no matter what period I’ve ever had at work and it made me deeply unhappy. situations they find themselves in, they usually find a way to get GQ: What was your own breaking point? through it. That should be inspiring to us all. Crises like the bushfires HM: When my work wasn’t of a standard to justify the personal and COVID-19 seem scary and unending, but out of them come the sacrifice involved. Those big American networks are hungry beasts best qualities in Australians working together, for each other. and I had very little control over where I went or for how long. That GQ: Does good news get reported as often now than in the became a problem. I was burned out. No one story triggered the pre-digital days? mental challenge. It was the cumulative impact of being on the road, HM: I still think a lot of good news gets reported. Most journalists try in war zones and disaster zones with no control over where it ended. to deliver a varied diet of news stories not just murder and mayhem. GQ: This led you to a crossroads in 2016 where you fled People have more choice and autonomy to choose the news they want journalism altogether. these days and consumer behaviour probably tends toward darker HM: Ultimately I took a year out to study at Harvard and reflect on what things. The good stories are there, the successes and reasons for trust to do next and if the media was where I wanted to be. It was a valuable are there. For all the terrible things happening in the world, there are decompression and enabled me to totally reframe everything I do in remarkable things and remarkable people amidst it all. a really positive way. The advice I give young journalists today is that, GQ: You spent a decade as a foreign correspondent for Al Jazeera even if you don’t think anything is wrong or you’ve been impacted, it’s English, the UK’s Channel 4 and US ABC. You speak German vital to debrief on big stories and decompress after long postings. That and studied Arabic in Yemen and Indonesian in Jakarta. Do you transition back into the real world is where trouble hatches. miss the globetrotting life? GQ: How was Hamish Macdonald 2.0 different when he returned HM: I still get to film a few Foreign Correspondent stories every year and to the media? I love that. But I don’t miss doing it all the time. For me, that life had HM: After my break I refocused on doing work I believed in, a very definite lifespan. It was an incredible decade but I found it very storytelling that challenged me, and journalism that I thought was difficult to have any kind of real life, or the sort of life I want where worthwhile. Most of all, I wanted to come home and make I’m surrounded by family and friends. a contribution to the national conversation. GQ: Did you ever think you might not survive a story? GQ: That contribution comes with a catch. How does celebrity HM: I can’t honestly say I ever felt like I was going to die. On sit with you? dangerous stories you’re actually very clearly focused on more HM: Look, I’m a low-key guy, very comfortable with solitude. practical things like, ‘I’ve got a team of five, where are we sleeping I don’t have a big life. I’m happiest around friends and family, tonight? Have we got petrol, food and water for tomorrow?’ The cooking at home, reading or going for a swim or run. I don’t go to focus is on logistics and basic safety and constantly mitigating risk. big parties or openings. I steer clear of that public stuff. I have I never had a conscious feeling, ‘The end has come’. I was always absolute respect for people with public lives but celebrity is grounded in the reality of: get what you need, don’t stay longer than personality-based. Some people are comfortable with it and can necessary, extract the team quickly and smoothly to leave no one thrive and enjoy it. Not me. When it comes to the public domain exposed. Sometimes things got dicey but it’s I want my work to speak loudest. only later you think, ‘Wow, that was hairier GQ: Last year, a photo of you and partner “It’s vital to debrief than I’d have liked.’ Jake Fitzroy holding hands on the red on big stories and GQ: Even when you got out unscathed did carpet at the 2019 GQ Gentlemen’s Ball decompress after long you feel damaged in a deeper way? sent social media into meltdown. Were HM: I am very conscious of PTSD and I’ve postings. That transition you surprised at the depth and emotion of sought counseling when I’ve had concerns. the response? back into the real world is During prolonged periods in difficult places HM: It was overwhelming, but also very where trouble hatches.” I’ve been deeply unhappy but it’s important surprising and lovely. We never anticipated to be proactive in managing your own mind such a response because it was a simple act and body. For me, the fix is being outdoors. I swim, run, hit the gym that wasn’t planned or preconceived. To wake up the next day and see or go on big hikes and camping trips. literally thousands of messages from all over the world was at first GQ: How close have you come to unravelling in the line of duty? a shock but ultimately a beautiful thing. People shared very personal, HM: I worked for an American network [ABC] for a few years in very touching stories that took great courage to say in a public sphere. a heavy era of global news, bouncing between the war in Ukraine, I’m very grateful we triggered that. The unifying message was one we conflict zones in the Middle East and Iraq where ISIS was grabbing all need to hear sometimes: Whoever you are, wherever you are, large chunks of territory and Nigeria where 276 schoolgirls had it’s OK to be you. n
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Style
$9700, by Louis Vuitton.
Coat of charms
Thanks to this season’s finest outerwear, there’s no better time to savour a rare trip outdoors – even as temperatures drop. Photography Edward Urrutia Styling Harriet Crawford Art Direction Dijana Maddison
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$1970, by Dries Van Noten.
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Style | Fashion $11,000, by Bally.
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DISCOVER THE NEW AUSTRALIA’S BEST DRINKS NEWS, REVIEWS AND RECIPES... NOW ON TAP!
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Luxury before logos
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S
in the business. Yet only now that streetwearmania is receding (in a recent interview with Dazed, Virgil Abloh boldly stated “it’s definitely gonna die”) do we declare through the lens of hindsight that well, of course! Nichanian had a point. The hype couldn’t last forever. Our meeting with the designer takes place on a crisp November morning in the South Korean capital, ahead of a showcase of the brand’s AW19 collection. Since launching in 2008, the French luxury maison’s annual menswear universe events – which are part runway show, part party, part cultural experience and full Hermès-world immersion – have travelled the globe, hitting destinations not usually serviced by major fashion weeks but where the brand’s astute and worldly male customers nonetheless
The French brand and the city also have history – Hermès was one of the first big European houses to establish a presence in Seoul when it opened its store inside the famous Shillah Hotel in 1997. The fashion house has also invested widely in the preservation of artisanal practices in South Korea, through its Fondation d’entreprise Hermès, which CEO (and sixthgeneration member of the Hermès family) Axel Dumas founded to help uphold various artforms around the world at risk of extinction. During our trip, while visiting historical landmarks like the city’s Deoksugung Palace where we admired the delicate embroidery of traditional muryeomja curtains, we were quietly told by our tour guide that Hermès paid for their restoration. It wasn’t the only time we were privy to such news.
Since launching in 2008, the brand’s menswear universe events have travelled the globe hitting destinations not usually serviced by major fashion weeks. dwell, such as Shanghai and downtown LA. It was only a matter of time before the event touched down in Seoul, home to one of the world’s largest cosmetic tourism industries and arguably its most progressive pop scene. “Korean men are on the top of modernity; their mind is open to everything,” explains Nichanian (including, as she witnessed, such audacious layering of logos).
Nichanian, like the brand she designs for, isn’t one for self-promotion though. Just as Hermès would rather word of its generous financial donations to cultural causes travel via the whispers of tour guides and locals, the designer prefers her clothes to do the talking. Or rather, she prefers her clothes to enable the men wearing them to feel empowered to do the talking.
All looks AW19.
PHOTOGRAPHY: INKI KANG, HUYK KIM, COURTESY OF HERMÈS.
oon after arriving in the South Korean capital of Seoul late last year – pre-pandemic – Véronique Nichanian found herself observing the outfit of a young man on the street. There was a lot to take in – three or four different brand names and logos in large fonts vied for the French designer’s attention, like neon signs in the city’s famous Gangnam-gu district. “I was thinking to myself, what does this mean? What does this express about himself?” Nichanian wonders aloud with a shrug that implies slight frustration at the s-word that’s dominated menswear for the last few seasons. “I didn’t understand it. The logomania, I hate it.” At the peak of the recent streetwear boom, which menswear archivists will hereafter peg to late 2017 or early 2018, Nichanian’s stance probably would’ve been perceived as cynical and out of date. Hoodies and sneakers were the new status symbols, and the definition of luxury seemed on the cusp of unrecognisable, irreversible change. But Nichanian has been making clothes long enough to recognise the ebb and flow of a fad when one hits and threatens to take hold. Having been with Hermès since it launched menswear in 1988 – and only one other brand, Cerruti, before that – this year will mark the designer’s 32nd at the house, and her 12th as artistic director of what the French maison refers to as its ‘menswear universe’. During this time, Nichanian has established one of the most consistent sartorial languages in menswear and accordingly, one of the most loyal customer bases
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Style | Profile
“I used to say, ‘there’s not one kind of Hermès man, but many Hermès men’,” Nichanian tells us over tea. “I’m not the kind to say, ‘I want them young and skinny.’ I love all men, and I want to make clothes for all of them, clothes they can put in their lives to make them more charming – that’s it.” She smiles, and a silent voilà! flashes across her friendly complexion. She goes on to explain that for the men’s universe event the following evening, which she’s called Walk the Line – in reference to the instrumental role that lines and proportions play in her collections – “real men” will be walking in the runway portion of the show. “You will see models, yes, but you will see an actor, a cook and a photographer. They are tall, they are fat, they are small – it’s normal life.” Nichanian is delighted by the idea of regular men wearing her clothes – a relative rarity, given the era of the influencer we live in.
could seem idealistic. But despite Armageddon 2.0, or perhaps because of it, the shift toward more conscious consumption is well underway, and if anyone is poised to benefit from the ‘buy less, buy better’ mantra, it’s the brand behind the illustrious ‘Birkin’, a handbag so valuable it’s often referred to as fashion’s equivalent of gold. At a Christie’s auction last year, an ultra-rare second-hand 2015 ‘Himalaya Niloticus Crocodile Birkin 35’ went for over $300,000. It’s tempting to wonder whether the ripple effect of the brand’s ‘Birkin’ success affords Nichanian the kind of freedom and activity she speaks about as informing her role and longevity at the house. Since former Hermès chairman Jean-Louis Dumas (the uncle of current CEO Axel) hired her to establish the maison’s menswear arm in ’88, Nichanian acknowledges she’s enjoyed the trust of the business and speaks about it with the acute awareness of a designer who understands that
“I love all men, and I want to make clothes for all of them, clothes they can put in their lives to make them more charming – that’s it.” Where some designers believe their clothes give life to the wearer, for Nichanian it’s the other way around. And as the chef, photographer and actor each walked the runway that night, beaming with the kind of energy that can only come from stepping out in a pair of Hermès’ buttery leather pants, this couldn’t have felt closer to the truth. Of course, Hermès menswear has been this way inclined for years. If you look back at Nichanian’s runway presentations from the ’90s and early aughts – a time the rest of the fashion world speaks about as if referring to a younger cousin undergoing an awkward period of stylistic self-discovery – there are very few looks that would seem out of place today. When we bring up the longevity of her collections, Nichanian grins and lets out a grateful Oui! “It’s like a person. I have wrinkles, it’s my life, you know?” she says. “When you have a sweater or some pants that you really love, I like the idea of keeping them for such a long time. It’s like having a friend.” Given the rather volatile state of the world right now, banking on young guys to think about buying things they’ll still wear in a decade’s time (will we even survive the decade?)
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she’s one of very few in such a position today. “People say to me, ‘Oh, you’ve been doing this for such a long time.’ And I say, ‘Yes, it’s because of my freedom, it’s a key when you’re a designer. It’s the dream of everybody,’” she admits. The designer is also aware that to balance creativity with commerce, the majority of her peers have adapted to producing what are essentially two different collections per season: the first is designed to wow the media on the runway, the second is designed to make money on the shop floor. But at Hermès, the clothes you see on the runway are the clothes you’ll find in its maisons six months later. The idea of presenting clothes to the press only to offer her customers the heavily diluted version doesn’t interest Nichanian. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she asserts with an emphatic wave of her hands. This means that next to many of her contemporaries, whose shows can err on the side of nothing-you’d-ever-consider-wearingIRL, Hermès collections tend to look and feel inherently… wearable. But she dislikes the idea of calling them ‘classic’. “The press says, ‘Oh, it’s so normal,’” says Nichanian with a wink that acknowledges the
irony of the direction our conversation is taking. “But it’s not normal. Because when you look closely at the lines of proportion and the fabrics and the details, everything is done perfectly. At the end it means it’s costly, but it makes sense. You can’t just put a big logo on something and decide it’s luxury. If it’s expensive, it needs to make sense.” The designer still attends Première Vision, Paris’ biggest textile fair, twice a year – another rarity in the age of the multi-hyphenate artistic director for whom flexing on Instagram tends to take precedent over anything in real life. “I’m always running after material and colour,” she says with a laugh. And indeed, as we listen to Nichanian describe the placement of a discreet pocket in the lining of a bomber jacket, as if it’s a secret only her and the jacket’s owner are in on, it’s tempting (and momentarily liberating) to forget that Instagram even plays a hand in fashion today. But it does, even in the Hermès universe. Inside Seoul’s National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art on the night of Walk the Line, hundreds of people – from Korean influencers to VIP customers and friends of the brand – snapped and uploaded look after look as the medley of models and “regular men” walked on by. Weeks later, as we scrolled through the various photos posted to social media after the event, something within us clicked. The shearling jackets, the feathery cashmere turtlenecks, the combat boots with just the right amount of trend appeal, the navy wool pants with pleats in all the right places – these are clothes that look just as appealing on an iPhone screen as they do walking past you on a runway, or on the street. So distinctive is the laidback elegance of every Hermès garment (once you know it, you can’t unsee it), any addition of a logo would feel pretty superfluous. The woman who designs these clothes knows and trusts this deeply, even when the market she works in might forget. It’s why men return to Hermès each season to modernise their trouser style or freshen up their sneakers – every few seasons, ideally. Because designing based on trends is easy, albeit ephemeral. Establishing a language of wearable luxury and having the confidence to stick to it, no matter the seasonal undertow? That’s much harder. And Nichanian does it better than anyone else. n Hermès’ new Sydney maison will open inside the heritage-listed Trust Building at 155 King Street later this year.
PHOTOGRAPHY: HUYK KIM. SCENEOGRAPHY: KYUNGSUB SHIN. BOTH COURTESY OF HERMÈS.
Clockwise from top left: musician Henry Lau, photographer Hong Jang Hyun, actor Yoo Ji-tae, entrepreneur Yeo Min-soo, artistic director of Hermès menswear universe Véronique Nichanian, Olympic swimmer Park Tae Hwan, chef Sam Kim, publisher Lee Hyun Bum and musician Chang Kiha after the Walk the Line show in South Korea; outside Seoul’s National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art; Hermès patterns inside the exhibition component of the Walk the Line event; another look inside the Hermès menswear universe at the Walk the Line event; a bag from the AW19 collection; models backstage in Seoul.
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Style | Inspo
Locked down, dressed up Even though we’re all stuck at home, that doesn’t mean we can’t dream of more fashionable times. To help get you through, we’ve asked a few of our favourite people from around the world to give us a dose of isolation inspo. KEVIN PARKER Musician, Tame Impala How would you describe your look? Apocalypse casual. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? Fremantle, WA.
EVAN MOCK Model, skater How would you describe your look? This is my loungingaround-the-house fit, but I could also get up and go anywhere. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? A warm night in NYC with all my friends at a huge Thanksgiving-type table filled with food and drinks.
JUSTIN O’SHEA Designer, SSS World Corp How would you describe your look? Braveheart. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? On a ranch drinking a beer.
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GENESIS OWUSU Musician How would you describe your look? Prince-casual. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? Grocery shopping.
MELVIN TANAYA Brand director, Song for the Mute
A$AP FERG Rapper How would you describe your look? I call this fit ‘Back to the Future’ because it has hints of vintage vibes with the Jordan 16s and the radio. The future vibes come from the architectural, abstract A-Cold-Wall* suit and the Alexander Wang glasses. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? In this outfit I would be taking trips through the past and the future.
How would you describe your look? Going for the ‘dad’ look. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? This outfit is very versatile. I could wear this out to a nice casual lunch, or Baby Kingdom.
ALTON MASON Model ALESSANDRO SARTORI Artistic director, Ermenegildo Zegna How would you describe your look? My favorite Zegna Couture made-to-measure pure cashmere blazer, with pure cashmere roll neck, black five-pockets, and evening boots. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? At one of my favourite places, the restaurant Da Giacomo! I am imagining eating misto mare caldo, grilled sea bass, and the famous ‘bomba di Giacomo’, drinking a tasteful Barbaresco di Gaia 2011.
How would you describe your look? Clean and cosy. Where would you wear it (if you weren’t stuck at home)? The Alhambra, a Moorish palace and fortress in Granada, Spain.
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Style | Feature
The future is resale
On track to outgrow fast fashion by 2030, the second-hand clothing market is booming – and menswear is at the vanguard. We take a look at the key factors and major players that are changing the industry for the better, redefining the way we think about fashion and creating a tonne of hype in the process.
Words Amy Campbell
T
en years ago, if you wanted to resell a Supreme hoodie or buy a pre-loved Helmut Lang coat, your options were eBay or buy, swap and sell groups on Facebook – which were tricky to navigate at the best of times. Then came early innovators like StyleForum – which has since turned into
more of a virtual messaging board for menswear fanatics – and pockets of social news aggregator Reddit that began to double as virtual auction rooms for sought-after designer pieces. But unless you knew how to shop for vintage clothing in the bricks-andmortar way, for most of the early aughts, the
online re-commerce landscape was disorganised, unregulated and untapped. A lot has changed. According to a recent study by Boston Consulting Group (BCG) and Vestiaire Collective, a luxury resale platform founded in Paris in 2009, it’s expected the global fashion resale industry will be worth around $60bn by 2021, and menswear is becoming an increasingly lucrative piece of the pie. Vestiaire Collective, meanwhile, has seen an 82 per cent year-on-year increase in the number of users selling menswear items. New York-based Grailed, which is arguably the mecca of menswear resale, boasted 3.7 million global users in 2019. Among those who use the platform are celebrities like Lil Yachty, Pusha T and G-Eazy, who’ve all hosted closet sales on the marketplace. By operating in the online world (the majority of people who use platforms like Grailed do so via apps), people all over the world are able to buy and sell garments – or ‘garms’ – that they wouldn’t normally have access to. And for Australians like 22-year-old Lewis Ellis, who buys and sells on Grailed, and 19-year-old Ruben Savariego, who sells vintage on the more thrift shop-style app Depop, joining the resale revolution hasn’t just been about the obvious benefits, like making a buck and contributing to the circular economy. By tapping into a global community of like-minded menswear fanatics, Ellis and Savariego have fostered connections, built businesses and undergone a style awakening.
The slogan beckons at new users from Depop’s sign-up page. It’s an enticing reason to join, and for some of the platform’s users – the majority of whom are younger than 26 – it’s a prophecy that’s come true. Founded in Italy in 2011, Depop is a peerto-peer shopping app where likes, comments and follows are proportionately linked to the number of sales a user makes. “It’s a mixture of a marketplace like eBay, with the aesthetics of social media,” explains Aria Wigneswaran, country manager of Depop Australia. The platform’s Explore page is populated by
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PHOTOGRAPHY: BEN ALSOP.
‘BUILD AN EMPIRE FROM YOUR BEDROOM’
a selection of listings that are curated according to a user’s geographic location. Here, you can find anything from a pre-worn NBA jersey to a pair of Gucci ski goggles. Depop sellers photograph, upload and set the prices of their own listings, and haggling is part of the culture. The same goes for Grailed, where the most expensive item ever sold on the platform (a bomber jacket from Raf Simons’ autumn/winter 2001 collection) fetched $78,000. In fact, it’s not unusual for highly sought-after archival pieces to sell for more than their RRP on the resale forum. “People on Depop will low-ball you a lot,” explains Savariego, a university student from Sydney who began buying and selling clothes on the mobile marketplace in 2017. “I’ll generally price something a little higher than I’m willing to sell it for, knowing that someone will negotiate it down. People on Depop aren’t looking to spend hundreds of dollars.” That being said, the platform’s top sellers make hundreds (maybe thousands) of dollars a day. Bella McFadden, who’s known in the Depop community as Internet Girl, is a professional Depop seller. Last year, she told New York magazine her annual income was “in the six figures”. For Savariego, what began as a way to get rid of old clothes has become more of an entrepreneurial pursuit. When he goes op-shopping, he looks for things he knows will sell on Depop. “I won’t buy anything if I don’t think it’ll look nice in a photograph,” he says. Savariego hasn’t quite built an empire yet – he says he makes around $100 a month, selling between six to 10 items – but the platform has proved valuable in other ways. “I don’t mind the slow-ish pace that my Depop is at right now because I see it more as being fun,” he says. “It’s definitely taught me general business lessons, and things about styling and fashion trends.”
COMMUNITY AND CLOUT The word ‘community’ comes up a lot in conversations about the menswear resale scene, especially in reference to Grailed – the ‘marketplace with community, curation and content at the forefront’. Since launching in 2014, the menswear-specific platform has morphed into an online meeting place for
streetwear and luxury fashion fans all over the globe; all sales are facilitated through a direct messaging function, meaning buyers and sellers interact with each other when doing deals. “I’ve definitely found myself having weird, often drunken conversations with random dudes about clothes and other stuff,” says Ellis, a Melbourne-based fashion graduate who’s been selling stuff on Grailed since he discovered the platform a couple of years ago. “When I was first getting into clothes, I would mainly interact with people through Facebook groups, but they didn’t have the best culture and I had a few pretty bad experiences. I moved towards eBay and Depop, and then I eventually found Grailed. It’s so much more accessible, and people don’t roast you nearly as much,” he says with a laugh. Ellis says there’s still an elitist undertone to some parts of Grailed; the platform’s comments sections often turn into virtual debates, where users try to one-up each other’s fashion history knowledge to earn clout among other sellers. But Ellis thinks the community aspect is a mostly positive thing. “I have fun conversations with people who leave comments on my pieces like, ‘This is sick, where did you get it?’” he says. Unlike Grailed and Depop, where buyers and sellers share a direct line of communication, the prestige-focused Vestiaire Collective operates like more of a traditional, fixed-price marketplace. American platform The RealReal, which became the world’s first listed fashion resale company in 2019, operates using a similar pricing model, and where virtually anything can be uploaded and sold on Grailed and Depop, Vestiaire Collective and The RealReal have strict authentication processes in place. Still, community plays a big part in the Vestiaire Collective experience. “We recently developed a community feature called Newsfeed, where you can see the latest updates from your favourite sellers,” says Sophie Hersan, co-founder and fashion director of Vestiaire Collective, adding that the resale marketplace is always looking for new ways to foster an engaged community. Savariego says he uses Depop similarly to Instagram these days, and maybe even spends
The Depop app interface is a “mixture of a marketplace like eBay, with the aesthetics of social media,” says Depop Australia’s Aria Wigneswaran.
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ARCHIVAL APPEAL One of the most significant cultural shifts to come from the resale revolution (so far) is the way in which it’s changed the fashion industry’s perception of itself; the rise in desirability of second-hand clothing is antithetical to the economy’s apparent obsession with ‘newness’. “The archival aspect is everything,” says Ellis. “People on Grailed don’t want new Raf Simons stuff; they want Raf Simons from years ago.” As for why, he says it’s because the earlier the work, the less commercially compromised a designer’s collection will be. “Those collections might not be popular in the mainstream, but they mean a lot more to the people who care about them.” The appeal of pre-loved fashion is something luxury houses are coming around to and, recently, brands like Burberry have announced partnership initiatives with resale platforms like The RealReal – in this specific instance, by consigning a Burberry item with The RealReal, the customer received a personal styling appointment at a Burberry store. “Luxury companies are embracing the resale business for a number of reasons. One is to participate in a more responsible ecosystem, which ultimately they’ll benefit from such positioning,” explains Vestiaire Collective’s Hersan. Luxury ecommerce players are waking up to the archival appeal, too. Last year, UK-based Farfetch launched its Second Life pilot program, which allows customers to sell second-hand designer handbags in exchange for Farfetch credit. “A little bit of age adds more desirability, I think,” suggests Ellis, who recently sold a parka from Raf Simons’ spring/summer 2018
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collection on Grailed for $600. “People are on [the platform] hunting for their favourite season, or stuff from their favourite designer’s best era – they’re looking for their grail.” Even Depop’s Gen-Z audience is enamoured by a bit of age. “Heritage brands like Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger are among our most searched brands,” says Wigneswaran, adding that anything with ‘Y2K’ in the description does exceptionally well. “Y2K is considered vintage to Gen Z,” she remarks.
THE END OF OWNERSHIP One of the most talked-about benefits of shopping second-hand – whether it’s scouring Grailed for ’80s Jean Paul Gaultier or scrolling Depop for a pair of Nike Air Force 1s – is the sustainable aspect. By choosing to onsell the garments you no longer wear, or buying pieces that others no longer wear, you’re effectively reducing the amount of textile waste that gets trucked off to landfill – which, in Australia’s case, is about six tonnes of clothing every 10 minutes.
Clockwise from top left: Hawaiian shirt on Ruben Savariego’s Depop account (@rubenbaz); outtake from a recent Depop campaign; parka from Raf Simons’ SS18 collection on Lewis Ellis’s Grailed account (@patricebateman); a pair of Raf Simons x Adidas ‘Ozweego’ sneakers on Grailed via Lewis Ellis; an Adidas jacket on Depop via Ruben Savariego; outtake from a recent Depop campaign; outtake from Vestiaire Collective’s SS20 campaign.
PHOTOGRAPHY: IMAGES COURTESY OF DEPOP, RUBEN SAVARIEGO, LEWIS ELLIS AND VESTIAIRE COLLECTIVE.
more time scrolling through the former. “There’s definitely an invisible sense of community,” he says. To foster connections between buyers and sellers IRL, Depop has even begun hosting events offline. Since officially launching in Australia in December 2019, the company has held regular seller markets in Sydney and Melbourne. “We do everything we can to make sure our sellers aren’t just static representationsofourbrand,”saysWigneswaran.
“When I’m out thrift shopping, I’m very much thinking about what other people on Depop might like,” says Savariego. “I know the pieces I buy in the op shop might not have been the most ethically made, originally. But by selling them to someone else, I’m at least increasing their life, and it’s cool to be able to do that.” In addition to purchasing new pieces with the sole intention of flipping them on Depop and Grailed, both Savariego and Ellis regularly sell clothing from their own wardrobes – “stuff that’s not working out”, as Ellis puts it. Neither seem too attached to their clothes or material possessions, a trait that’s (supposedly) emblematic of Gen Z and millennial generations. Rather, they come across as being liberated by the knowledge that if they spend money on something that’s not quite right, they can simply sell it on again. For Ellis, the environmental factor is like an added bonus. “I don’t think people are necessarily out there thinking, ‘I’m not going to buy new-season Rick Owens because it’s bad for the environment.’ They’re thinking, ‘I want Rick Owens from four seasons ago because it’s cooler,’” he says. “Even if it’s not intentional, it’s an amazing consequence for fashion.” As coronavirus brings the global industry to a standstill, fashion needs all of the amazing consequences it can get. And while resale is hurting, it’s arguably in better shape than traditional fashion retail. The digital-first nature of most resale platforms means business has been able to continue as usual, or as close to usual as possible. Stuck at home, people from all over the world are purging their wardrobes, snapping their discards and uploading them for sale. “I think this period will encourage everyone to focus on what’s really important to them. A time to re-evaluate consumption habits and values,” says Hersan. “In fact, Vestiaire Collective was founded during the global recession of 2009,” she points out, explaining it was built to offer friends a chance to transform their closets into extra income. “Our robust business model as an online resale platform disrupted the industry. It’s proven to thrive in tough economic times.” n
ADDED VALUES
BALLY
RALPH LAUREN
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Style
Modern eccentric Rocking sheer silks, sequins and chunky, amulet-style jewels – it’s fair to say Anthony Vaccarello’s SS20 man is not one for playing it safe. And when it comes to Saint Laurent, that’s just the way we like it.
GALAXY MAN Inspired by the energy of Malibu’s nightlife, pieces like this bedazzled blazer are the stuff dancefloors were made for. Jacket, $4645, shirt, POA, pants, $2520 and tie, $255, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello.
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WORDS: AMY CAMPBELL.
Photography Duncan Killick Styling Harriet Crawford Creative Direction Petta Chua
ON TOUR A peek at Mick Jagger’s current on-stage wardrobe prompted Vaccarello to cast his mind back into the iconic frontman’s sartorial archive to draw on pieces such as Jagger’s trademark skinny scarf. Jai (left) wears shirt, $2870, tank, $465, jeans, $4105, scarf, $430, triangle necklace, $485, blue pendant charm, $695, and cuff, $585, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello. Jas wears shirt, $1045, pants, $3530, and ring, $345, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello.
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Style
NIGHTSHADE Here, Vaccarello plucks streetwear staples from the American West Coast, such as the humble hoodie, and gives it a full Saint Laurent makeover in opulent textures. Hoodie, $4645, tunic, $1665, pants, $1830, chain, $695, and leather necklace, POA, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello.
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SHORT AND SHARP In a true transatlantic contrast of sartorial perspectives, Vaccarello takes the trench coat – a YSL classic, of course – and pairs it with LA’s own perennial fashion favourite: a pair of denim cutoffs. Trench, $4295, shirt, $1665, tank, $1045, shorts, $1175, belt, $555, shoes, $1110, necklace, $430, silver chain bracelet, $395, and bronze square bracelet, $520, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello.
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Style
BOHEMIAN BLING Mick Jagger brought the rock’n’roll bling, but Serge Gainsbourg’s Parisian laissezfaire inspired the collection’s laidback accents, such as the barely buttoned shirt. Jai (left) wears shirt, $1045, pants, $4105, scarf, $520, belt, $555, leather necklace, POA, stone necklace, $585, and charm necklace, POA, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello. Jas wears shirt, $1665, T-shirt, $500, pants, $3530, scarf, $1000, necklace with stone, $695, and necklace with knots, $695, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello.
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MILITARY PRECISION When it comes to colour, the Saint Laurent runway tends towards quality over quantity. And it pays off – in this case with a razor-sharp shouldered jacket in royal red, with gold trimmings. Jacket, $5320, tunic, $1120, shirt, POA, and necklace, $430, all by Saint Laurent by Anthony Vaccarello. Hair Pete Lennon at The Artist Group using ‘Hair Rituel’ by Sisley. Grooming Claire Thompson. Talent Jai at Chadwicks, Jas at IMG.
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Grooming
Turn up the heat Whether you opt for the tried-and-tested or the cutting edge in new tech, a hot home shave is an exercise in both pleasure and precision. Words David Smiedt
A
s global grooming trends finally turn away from the ubiquitous beard – just look at the Oscars red carpet or any of the gents on Thom Browne’s Fall 2020 readyto-wear runway show – men are returning to the art of the blade and how to master its many challenges. We’re talking razor burn, ingrown hairs, nicks and stubble when what you truly crave is the kind of closeness that Donald J longs for with various dictators. If there’s one method honed over centuries of trial and error to combat these four horsemen of the depilatory apocalypse it’s heat, pure and simple. It all comes back to the texture of the hair growing out of your face. Which if you haven’t noticed is as coarse as your Aunty Dawn after three mugs of Prosecco at Christmas. Heat works on several fronts. The first is that it opens the pores. Why is that important? It allows for more of the hair follicles to be exposed and the more that are exposed, the more can be cut. Open pores also mean more of the skin’s natural oils work their way down the individual strands adding to the lubrication. And we all know how important that is. Aside from hitting the pores button – sorry, we had to – heat performs another crucial role: it softens the follicles, which means less friction during cutting. As to how to bring the heat, there are two options: old-school and new.
OLD-SCHOOL Two words here: hot towel. You’ve most likely had this treatment at a barber’s and can vouch for the fact that it’s like a one-minute mini vacay when the world and its attendant troubles disappear momentarily. If your barber is any good they may even add a drop or two of quality essential oil to complete the experience. You can, of course, do this at home.
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Put a damp towel in the microwave for 30 seconds, hit it with some lavender, and apply to the face for a minute or so — test that it’s not too hot first though. From there, it’s a matter of reaching for your blade of choice – cut-throat, safety razor or cartridge – taking your time in the ritual and emerging baby-faced at the end. To make it a properly old-school experience, try the Dovo Solingen ‘Shavette Straight Razor’, which delivers a similar result to a cut-throat but is easier to handle. mensbiz.com.au
PHOTOGRAPHY: TYRELL HAMPTON; EDWARD URRUTIA.
NEW TECH Then there’s the new Gillette Heated Razor. You need to be quite the piece of shaving gear to win one of Time magazine’s Best Inventions of 2019 awards and this gadget takes the biscuit by doing away with the hot-towel factor entirely. This is accomplished via a stainless-steel heating bar with two settings (43 degrees and 50 degrees), depending on your temperature preferences, and four sensors to ensure even temperature distribution. Having been instantly prepped, the skin then meets five blades equipped with what Gillette calls FlexDisc Technology – a system that ensures maximum contact no matter what contours, divots and valleys your particular face presents. Better still, it’s waterproof so you can use it sink-side or in the shower and the rechargeable lithium ion battery is good for up to six shaves. shavershop.com.au
MUST-HAVE For all heat’s shaving graces, the tech has not yet reached a stage where additional lubrication is no longer required. Whether you go for gels, creams or foams is entirely a matter of preference but what you do want is a formula that moisturises. Catching our
attention right now is the Australian-owned 26’ Deep range, which is based on aloe vera rather than water and is enriched with kelp sustainably harvested from King Island and the west coast of Tasmania. Try 26’ Deep ‘Men’s Shave Gel With Kelp Complex +’. Should you rather something more traditional, definitely reach for a One Thousand and Ninety Two Synthetic Shave Brush, $79, which will distribute your shave cream into microscopic nooks your padded fingertips won’t reach. These work best with creams already ensconced in their own bowls such as Captain Fawcett’s ‘Shaving Soap with Bowl’. 26deep.com.au; mensbiz.com.au; gentsac.com.au
FINISHING TOUCHES Regardless of what cutting implement you choose to complete your hot shave, there are a few mandatories that kick it up to the next level. A cold damp towel has the opposite effect of a hot one, closing pores to shut them off from shaving debris and bacteria that can cause skin flare-ups. You could even add a drop or three of an antibacterial like tea tree oil. Try the old faithful Thursday Island ‘Tea Tree Oil’. Then, it’s time to moisturise. Make no mistake, no matter how good your razor tech or technique, shaving can be harsh on skin and a healing balm pays instant dividends. This sounds like yet another step to a regimen you’re trying to streamline but if it’s scented with a favourite cologne, it’s actually a multitasker. Occupying shelf space in the GQ bathroom is Dior Homme’s ‘Aftershave Balm’. Or if you’re in the hunt for a new aftershave that finely balances citrus and woodsy elements, hit up the new Salvatore Ferragamo ‘Ferragamo’ EDT. n amazon.com.au; myer.com.au; davidjones.com.au
Dovo Solingen ‘Shavette Straight Razor’, $55.
26’ Deep ‘Men’s Shave Gel With Kelp Complex +’, $24.99 (175g).
Gillette Heated Razor, $299.
Captain Fawcett’s ‘Shaving Soap with Bowl’, $59 (100g).
Salvatore Ferragamo ‘Ferragamo’ EDT, $96 (50ml).
Thursday Island ‘Tea Tree Oil’, $10.85 (25ml).
Dior Homme A
m, $90 (100ml).
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Grooming
The lowdown with JVN J
onathan Van Ness is the very definition of multifaceted. When he’s not repping Queer Eye as the resident grooming guru or touring his show around the globe, JVN is lending his voice to products and practices more verdant than the greenbacks that have surely been thrown his way to spruik multinational brands. Interestingly, he has chosen to align with Biossance, a Californian company that got its start providing free malaria treatments and now delivers vegan formulas in compostable Forest Stewardship Council Certified packaging. We sat down with one of the few men who can rock a leotard to find out why modern grooming needs a solid ethical basis. GQ: What was your first beauty grooming product? JVN: I spent $79 at the Bath & Body Works at The Mall of America. One of the items was a shea butter peel-off mask. GQ: So, why clean beauty? JVN: My first training was at The Aveda Institute in Minneapolis where I was introduced to the idea of sustainability. Then after seven years of doing hair, I developed psoriasis, which made me become far more conscious of what chemicals I was exposing my skin to. GQ: Is there a myth you want to tackle about organic and natural products? JVN: Absolutely – that they’re not as effective as more synthetic alternatives. Going forward, you want a blend of nature and science.
GQ: What ingredients should we be steering clear of? JVN: Sulphates, parabens and, especially in Australia, chemical sunscreens that are not reef-friendly. Go for a mineral sunscreen. GQ: Any ingredients we should be looking for then? JVN: You want organic acids like potassium sorbate and potassium benzoate to take the place of parabens. GQ: Any label-decoding tips? JVN: When an item just says ‘fragrance’, look for alternatives that disclose what’s in the fragrance. That way you can make a more informed choice. GQ: Speaking of fragrance, what’s your rule for application. JVN: Spray, delay and walk away. That is, do a pump or two in the air, wait a moment and then walk through it. GQ: Favourite fragrance? JVN: Byredo ‘Rose Of No Man’s Land’ EDP, $320 (100ml), mecca.com.au GQ: And your hairstyling product of choice? JVN: Aveda ‘Brilliant Anti-Humectant Pomade’, $45 (75ml), aveda.com.au GQ: Any resources you can suggest to become better informed? JVN: The Environmental Working Group’s Skindeep data base at ewg.org/skindeep and The Clean Academy at biossance.com GQ: What’s your stand-out in the Biossance range? JVN: The 100% Squalane Oil, $50 (100ml), – I use it all over, body, hair and as a beard oil! sephora.com.au
KNOW YOUR INGREDIENTS Adaptogens. WHAT ARE THEY? Herbs used in Chinese and Ayurvedic medicine to reduce signs of stress. HOW DO THEY WORK? By functioning as regulators to adapt to the body’s needs rather than push it in one direction or another. WHAT ARE THE SKIN BENEFITS? In addition to reducing the signs of ageing, adaptogens can work as anti-inflammatories. HOW ARE THEY APPLIED? You can take supplements orally but there are an increasing number of topical treatments available. TRY Youth To The People ‘Adaptogen Deep Moisture Cream’, $87 (50ml), which includes ashwaghanda, reishi and holy basil. sephora.com.au
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PHOTOGRAPHY: EDWARD URRUTIA; GETTY IMAGES.
Everyone’s favourite hairstylist-turned-TV-personality discusses why he’s all in on sustainable beauty.
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Watches
Off the beaten path From the ultra-deep dive watch worn by the doctor who led the cave rescue of a Thai football team, through to those made with plastic reclaimed from the ocean, we look at seven adventure-ready models worth exploring. Words Felix Scholz Photography Edward Urrutia Styling Dijana Maddison
D
octor Richard Harris OAM is unbelievably cool. Not cool like Travis Scott, but like that person on the other end of an emergency call when you’re having one of the worst days of your life and you need a voice of unflappable calmness to hold it together. It’s the level of cool you need to keep the hundreds of moving parts in place while you play a pivotal role in rescuing 13 people from the flooded Tham Luang caves in northern Thailand. This sense of calm was evident when we spoke to Harris, an ambassador for adventureoriented brand Bremont, who had just returned home from a cave dive in New Zealand. “It’s called the Pearse Resurgence, on the South Island in the mountains to the west of Nelson,” he says. “It’s the source of the Pearse River. I started going in 2007, and we go back most years now.” So far, it sounds a little like your average yearly getaway, but when Harris describes shipping in tonnes of gear and transporting to the site via helicopter, it all starts looking less recreation, more mission. Then he breaks it down in numbers. “This time we dived the cave down to 245 metres, so it’s one of the six deepest caves to have ever been dived. The deepest ever is only 40 metres deeper. The dive down took us 38 minutes, and then we turned around and spent the next 15-and-a-half hours in decompression.”
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It turns out not taking the time to adjust for the changing pressure on the ascent may result in (potentially fatal) decompression sickness. The prospect of hanging around in six-degree water, covered in gear, deep underground raises two immediate questions. How dangerous is this? And, perhaps more importantly – why do it? “It’s hard to quantify the risk, to be honest,” says Harris. “Deep-diving is obviously more hazardous than shallow diving. With the decompression it means that any problems that you have with
watches are in that range – so one thing I didn’t have to worry about was my watch.” Which, given the myriad other things that can go south in that deep, dark underwater world, is a good thing. But while a broken light is dangerous, Harris goes on to describe that the real risk is how you react to the stress that failure causes: “Respiration is a significant risk. We breathe using a helium gas mix at those depths, but even then we’re right on the edge of the envelope in terms of being able to breathe normally. At rest that’s fine, but
“Most normal dive equipment is rated to 100 or 200 metres, and most dive watches are in that range – so one thing I didn’t have to worry about was my watch.” yourself, the cold or equipment is something you need to resolve underwater. The other major issue is the depth itself. We’re well beyond the rated depths of most of the equipment we’re using, so it’s quite common to have implosions on gear like lights or rebreather electronics.” At this point, Harris mentions his watch, the Bremont ‘S2000’ (opposite), a beefy 45mm diver that’s rated to a depth of 2000 metres. “Most normal dive equipment is rated to 100 or 200 metres, and most dive
the minute you start to exercise, you get into respiratory problems, and that can be lethal. So a lot of our training is around remaining calm and doing everything in slow motion.” Which brings us back to the pressing question – why do it at all? “Well, when you find your own bit of cave – to be the first person ever to swim or walk it – to be the person who found something, to be a true explorer, that’s a remarkable feeling. It’s addictive.”
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Watches
BREITLING ‘SUPEROCEAN HERITAGE CHRONOGRAPH 44 OCEAN CONSERVANCY LIMITED EDITION’ The Swiss House has ramped up its conservation efforts with a limited-edition watch that is both a tribute to our oceans and a call to protect them. To launch it, Breitling opted not for a glitzy party, but rather a star-studded beach clean-up in Bali, led by surfers Kelly Slater and Sally Fitzgibbons. Beyond the photo opp, details like a strap made from ECONYL, a regenerated nylon yarn created from repurposed ocean waste, provide an insight into the brand’s eco cred. $8390; breitling.com
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RADO ‘CAPTAIN COOK AUTOMATIC’ Name a watch ‘Captain Cook’, and you’re signalling a certain windswept majesty and drama right off the bat. And no, before you ask, Rado’s latest isn’t a marketing ploy to tie into Scotty from Marketing’s 250th-anniversary bash celebrating the Capt’s local landing. Instead, it’s a modern version of a 1962 model, which came from a time when diving was equal parts daring and dangerous. This redo adds a high-tech, colourful green ceramic bezel with matching dial and mixes it up with a 42mm bronze case, which will develop its own unique patina over time. $2900; rado.com GQ.COM.AU
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Watches
BELL & ROSS ‘BR V2-93 GMT BLUE’ There’s something about a second time-zone function on a watch. Even if you don’t need to keep track of friends or family in far-off places, there’s something compelling – and less abstract – about looking down at your watch and knowing the time in a distant locale. And when the watch you’re looking down on is Bell & Ross’ latest, there’s an extra layer of urgency to that implicit call to travel. Perhaps it’s the vibrancy of the red-tipped GMT hand, maybe it’s the low-key mid-’70s vibe of the (very cool) elastic canvas strap and the faded look of that 24-hour bezel. Whatever it is, it makes us want to get on a plane. $4900; bellross.com
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SEIKO ‘PROSPEX SSC761’ Over the last few years, Seiko has made a habit of doing limited-edition runs of its divers in blacked-out schemes – inky hues inspired by the rich colour palette of the sea at night. And sure, we can see that the orange hour hand and hour markers on this solar-powered diving chronograph have a touch of sunset over waves about them, but honestly, it’s the black that makes the whole package approximately 60 per cent cooler. $1200; seikowatches.com GQ.COM.AU
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VACHERON CONSTANTIN ‘OVERSEAS DUAL TIME’ It’s 2020 and in a world of first-class suites and glamping, there’s no reason for adventure to be synonymous with hardship. If your idea of the road less travelled is one involving climate control and concierges, Vacheron Constantin’s ‘Overseas Dual Time’ might be the watch for you. Sure, this 41mm steel watch is plenty practical with 150 metres of water resistance, a second time zone and easily interchangeable straps. In fact, it comes with a steel bracelet, as well as a rubber and an alligator number, so you’ll be set, wherever your travels take you. $36,500; vacheron-constantin.com
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PANERAI ‘SUBMERSIBLE MIKE HORN EDITION - 47MM’ As far as explorers go, they don’t come much more legit than Mike Horn. The man has been doing things you wouldn’t dare since ‘97. His feats include spending a year and a half circling the equator with no engine-driven transport. He doubled down a few years later as he sailed, skied and walked his way around the Arctic Circle. His travels have allowed him to see the impacts of climate change up close and the latest Panerai limited-edition to bear his name does as much as it can to minimise its impact on the environment. In addition to Panerai’s familiar form factor, you get a watch with a titanium case and a PET plastic strap, both recycled. $28,700; panerai.com
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A TIME LIKE NO OTHER
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BACK HOME
Over the past decade, Chris Hemsworth has built a reputation as one of Hollywood’s hardest working – and most successful – superstars. And with a new TV series lined up, a blockbuster film in the works and promo tour on the way, things showed little sign of slowing down anytime soon. But 2020 had other plans. Photography Matthew Brookes Styling Jillian Davison Words Jake Millar
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Hoodie, $995, by Song for the Mute; shorts, $1100, by Fendi; bracelets and rings (worn throughout), all Chris’ own.
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E
arlier this year, Chris Hemsworth, the world-famous movie star, heartthrob, superhero, Sexiest Man Alive (2014), world’s second highest-paid actor (2019), husband, brother, father, entrepreneur, philanthropist, Western Bulldogs fan and Norse God of Thunder, suddenly found himself in an unusual position. He was pretty much like everyone else in the world. At home. Growing restless. And worried about what was going to happen next. This was towards the end of March and the shutdown was so complete, it was as though the Earth itself had stopped spinning. Shops closed, jobs gone, chaos in virtually every country. “It’s probably the first time in about 10 years that I don’t know what I’m doing for the next six months,” says Hemsworth, his voice that same gruff baritone you hear on-screen. “I don’t have it all mapped out. To some degree, it’s nice not to have a schedule, but the unknown and the uncertainty is intimidating.” Hemsworth, of course, was not really like everyone else. He knows how lucky he is. He might have been at home along with the rest of the country, but the place he was confined to was the sprawling hilltop property near Byron Bay that he, his wife, the Spanish actress Elsa Pataky, their three children and the family’s pet dog Sunny have been living in since the end of last year. It is a delicate time to be a celebrity. In April, billionaire David Geffen deleted his Instagram account after posting an image of his $200m, 452ft superyacht Rising Sun, presumably taken by a drone. “Isolated in the Grenadines,” his caption read. “I’m hoping everybody is staying safe.” Somehow the well wishes did not go down as intended. The previous month, Wonder Woman star Gal Gadot and a bevy of famous friends delivered a less-than-rousing version of John Lennon’s Imagine (“Imagine no possessions”), while others have inspired little more than derision for posting ‘stay home’ messages from the confines of their expansive living rooms, vast country-style kitchens or manicured gardens. It didn’t help that a video Jennifer Lopez uploaded to social media urging people to #staysafe revealed her LA mansion bore an uncanny resemblance to the one featured in Parasite, Bong Joon-Ho’s Oscar-winning film about unchecked greed and class privilege. Hemsworth, notoriously private at the best of times, knows better than to make himself an easy target. “We’re very fortunate,” he acknowledges of his family’s situation. “But we’re here at home and attempting to homeschool the kids, which is a feat in itself. They’re better students than I am a teacher, to be honest.” As the shutdown hit, Hemsworth was in the middle of filming National Geographic series Limitless, in which he would endure a range of mental and physical challenges with the aim of living longer. He was also set to promote Extraction, a movie he filmed back in 2018. “I love that film so much,” he says of the action thriller, which is out now on Netflix. “So I was excited to get out there and sell it to the world.” Then there’s the fourth instalment of the franchise that has made him a household name, Thor: Love and Thunder. It is still set to commence filming in Sydney this August, though the current crisis leaves pre-production in doubt. He knows he is far better off than most – demand for nationwide unemployment services peaked so quickly in March, Centrelink’s website crashed – but for Hemsworth, the forced break feels like it’s been a long time coming.
“I’ve spent probably 15 years in what felt like a marathon, a constant workload,” he says. “So much of my energy has been geared towards that, and then having kids at the same time, I’ve been constantly trying to find the balance. I’ve really yearned for more stillness and felt a definite need to slow down. Not having a schedule in front of me has made me reposition my values and what’s important, and I think most people are having those kinds of thoughts right now.” HEMSWORTH ALWAYS WANTED TO BE AN ACTOR. He remembers watching Legends of the Fall – the Oscar-winning historical epic starring Brad Pitt and Sir Anthony Hopkins – and being awestruck by Pitt. His range, his charisma on-screen. Then, after taking a course at Sydney’s Screenwise film and television school, Hemsworth knew he couldn’t do anything else. “Overnight, it became my obsession,” he says. But he had another motivation beyond wanting to be the next Brad Pitt. Hemsworth went to school in Heathmont, in eastern Melbourne, but his family later moved to Bulman, a small cattle station town of less than 300 people in the Northern Territory. Things were not easy, and he soon began to dream of making it big. “We had grown up with very little money,” he says. “My parents struggled with bills and financial pressures and I thought if I’m an actor, I can get us out of it, I can take care of my family.” So began a frantic work pace that, until this recent period of forced respite, has not let up in over a decade. But in addition to chasing success, he was also driven by fear. Fear that if he didn’t keep saying yes, keep taking on more projects, things could slow down as quickly as they took off. “You need to have an obsessive approach,” he says, of working in the film industry, “just like anything where the odds are stacked against you and it’s a one-in-a-million chance that you’re going to get your foot in the door. But once you are on that train, not a day goes by where you don’t think it’s going to be taken away, all of a sudden.” But years of running at full pace had begun to take their toll. And even though he’s clearly in a position where he can take his foot off the pedal – Hemsworth made well over $100m last year, alone – old habits are hard to break. “You still have this fear and anxiety programmed in you that it’s all going to slip away,” he says. “But I must admit that once I had paid off my parents’ house and taken care of my family, I had a moment where I thought: what now? What’s driving this? “Every job I’d take, every time I’d go off on these extended trips, it got harder and harder. For a little while you don’t think the kids notice and then you realise they do. I absolutely want to continue to make films that I’m proud of, but that can also wait. Now what’s more important is my kids are at an age I don’t want to miss. And I’d hate to look back in 20 years and go, ‘Right, let’s get to work as a parent’ and I’ve missed it all.” In 2014, Hemsworth had begun filming the second Avengers film, Age of Ultron, when he and Pataky bought their Byron Bay property for $7m. They had been living in LA for years, but this would mark the start of his family’s move out of the showbiz epicentre and back home to Australia. “You’re a little bit too much in the eye of the storm when you’re living in Hollywood,” he says. “Living in Australia, it’s also easier to detach myself from work – and you get a bit more leeway to let a few emails and phone calls slide on by.”
“NOT HAVING A SCHEDULE IN FRONT OF ME HAS MADE ME REPOSITION MY VALUES... I THINK MOST PEOPLE ARE HAVING THOSE KINDS OF THOUGHTS RIGHT NOW.” 86
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Knit, approx. $705, by Isabel Marant; top, $95, by Bassike available from a selection at David Jones; pants, $845, by Song For The Mute.
Trench, $7750, and T-shirt, $1130, both by Louis Vuitton; pants, $200, by StĂźssy.
“YOU CAN FALL INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SELF-IMPORTANCE ON A FILM SET... SO IT’S GOOD TO REMIND YOURSELF THAT YOU’RE NORMAL LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.” ALL GOING ACCORDING TO PLAN, Thor: Love and Thunder will come out next year. By then, Hemsworth will have played the title character for a full decade – it’s easy to forget he was just 25 when he was cast in Kenneth Branagh’s 2011 original. At the time, he had a handful of credits to his name and while he was already reasonably famous in Australia – he appeared on the local version of Dancing with the Stars in 2006 – Hemsworth was a virtual unknown in the US. He had auditioned unsuccessfully for a role in X-Men and also for the lead in G.I. Joe, a part that ultimately went to Channing Tatum. Hemsworth began to think his career might never take off. “I had seven or eight call backs and I thought one of those was going to land,” he says. “But then neither of them did and all of a sudden I thought: this is it, I’ve missed it again. But then Thor came along. If I had got one of those previous roles I wouldn’t have got Thor.” As Hemsworth’s first proper blockbuster role, his tenure as the God of Thunder neatly charts his transition from obscurity to one of the most famous actors on the planet. But between the original franchise and the Avengers films, the next instalment will be Hemsworth’s ninth outing in the role. The money is good, of course, but he began to find he was losing sight of what he wanted out of his career. “I felt a lack of creativity,” he says. “But that was less about whether I was typecast – it was, ‘Is this all I can do?’” In 2017, he decided to mix things up and took an unexpected role as a murderous cult leader in neo-noir thriller Bad Times at the El Royale. The film was well received when it hit screens, making a tidy $52m at the box office, and it could scarcely have been a cleaner break from the big-budget productions that Hemsworth is best known for. Last year’s Avengers: Endgame, by comparison, made more than $4.6bn worldwide. “It reignited my love for acting,” he says of Bad Times at the El Royale. “I got to do something that wasn’t about special effects and action sequences. When it becomes too familiar, it’s very easy for me to say, ‘What the hell am I doing this for?’” There was another element that made Hemsworth pick up the hammer again. Kiwi director Taika Waititi joined the franchise with 2017’s Thor: Ragnorak, and won praise for injecting more humour into the series, which – in an era when audiences are expecting to see more vulnerability from their on-screen male heroes – was at risk of feeling outdated. “He’s insanely fun,” says Hemsworth, of working with the director. “But don’t mistake that child-like, frantic energy for someone who isn’t prepared. That’s quite a unique combination, that he has the ability to, through humour, put you at ease, but is also armed with all the knowledge that a director needs to lead you through the process. And it came at a time when I desperately wanted there to be more humour to the character.” This year, Waititi also won a Best Screenplay Oscar for Jojo Rabbit, his dark WWII comedy about a German boy who finds his mother is hiding a Jewish girl in their attic. “I was certainly happy for him when he won and it was a pretty special moment,” says Hemsworth, before admitting he hadn’t been paying quite as much attention to the awards as he might once have done. “I hadn’t actually seen any of the other films he was nominated against – I hadn’t seen much of anything. Living here I was like, ‘Oh yeah, it’s Oscars season’. I’d been pretty out of the loop.” Hemsworth and Pataky have three children, a seven-year-old daughter and five-year-old twin boys. Although filming schedules can take him away from them for months at a time, he likes the fact they’re
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now at an age where they can enjoy his movies. Even if they’re not convinced he’s the superhero the rest of the world sees him as. “I get a kick out of it when they actually enjoy my movies,” he says. “But there’s also an equal share of eye-rolls – I couldn’t be less cool in their eyes. It’s nature’s way of telling me the truth. You can fall into a false sense of self-importance on a film set, where you feel you’re special, so it’s good to remind yourself that it’s not that case. And kids certainly drive that home.” HEMSWORTH HAS BEEN THINKING a lot about the fate of the world lately, and not just because of the current crisis. His brother Liam, who also moved to Byron Bay earlier this year, lost his home in the California fires in 2018, and the Australian bushfires could have threatened Chris’ own place. “The whole place felt like a tinderbox,” he says. “It makes me realise how little control we have over these things, whether it’s the bushfires or coronavirus. They don’t discriminate, we’re all vulnerable to it.” In early January, Hemsworth took to Instagram and shared a video with his 40 million followers. “Hey there guys,” he said, speaking directly into the camera. “As you’re well aware, the bushfires in Australia have caused massive devastation… we’re really still in the thick of it here and there’s plenty of challenging times ahead.” He called for an urgent need for donations to help those still battling the flames – the country would continue to burn until the beginning of March, when more than 240 days of active bushfires finally came to an end – and announced that he was personally donating a million dollars to the cause. It’s easy for celebrities to throw money around, of course. But last year, Hemsworth also took part in the Global Climate Strike with his family, and he has been vocal in asking world leaders to do more to combat climate change – he told this magazine in 2017 that Donald Trump was “full of shit on every level” when it came to the issue, which is hard to argue with. “It’s no longer this distant, looming threat,” he says. “We’re seeing it play out in real time, on our doorstep. Our relationship to Earth and to society and each other, we’re getting a real shake-up. You start to rethink your values and it becomes clearer what’s important. “You could not have felt a larger sense that climate change is real and it’s time to do something about it. But then it’s off the news and it’s out of sight, out of mind. That’s what scares me because unless things are right in front of us, do we have the energy to focus on it before it’s too late?” That’s what worries Hemsworth most. That things will be left for future generations, for his own children, to deal with – and by then, the opportunity may have already been lost. “They know more about climate change than we do,” he says. “But it’s also disheartening that we couldn’t have righted the ship. To see that kids are striking to get adults’ attention – we should be embarrassed about that. I’m inspired by them, but I’m also disappointed that this is what we’ve left for them. The whole scientific community is in agreement, so to deny it at this point is not just naïve, it’s also irresponsible and dangerous.” It’s a difficult time to think about the future. And it’s easy to pretend Hemsworth has all the answers, that he’s the superhero we all need right now. But it’s also easy to dismiss him as yet another sanctimonious celebrity, preaching to the masses from his mansion, oblivious to the way normal people live. The reality is that neither of those things is entirely true. Hemsworth is not asking us to believe he knows what comes next. He might be one of the most famous men on the planet, but for the next few months, at least, he’s really just another guy at home with his family, trying to get on with life. Hoping for the best, like everyone else. n
ONE OF A KIND
Becoming one of the highest-ranked basketball prospects in the world takes some doing, but to get there without having played a single minute of Photography Eric Chakeen Styling Britt Mccamey Words Christopher Riley
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Vest, POA, shirt, $970, pants, POA, and shoes, $1730 (worn throughout), all by Louis Vuitton; bracelet (worn throughout), Ball’s own.
Overshirt, $2970, shirt, POA, and pants, $2170, all by Louis Vuitton.
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T-shirt (middle image), POA, by Louis Vuitton.
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n an era when anyone can become an Internet sensation overnight, it can be hard to distinguish the real deal from those who are looking to steal a few seconds of fame. In the depths of YouTube highlight reels, a huge dunk or a slick step-back can allow false prophets to paint themselves as the next LeBron James or James Harden. But sooner or later, they all get found out. Some people have long been predicting that day would come for LaMelo Ball. The younger brother of Lonzo Ball – the No. 2 pick at the 2017 NBA Draft and first-choice New Orleans point guard – has been on a fast track to basketball’s biggest stage since he was barely in his teens. Viral clips of a fresh-faced 15-year-old LaMelo draining ridiculous half-court shots or scoring 92 points in a single high-school game helped the youngest Ball brother gain widespread attention as a future NBA star. But not everyone was convinced. Following that infamous 92-point game, NBA legend Charles Barkley told ESPN he “had a serious problem” with LaMelo’s performance, arguing he “never went back on defence” and so the achievement should be marked with an asterisk. The suggestion was that LaMelo was cherry picking – choosing his moments to play based on his personal points tally, rather than the team effort. Then there’s the curious case of LaMelo’s father, LaVar Ball. Depending on who you talk to, LaVar is either a marketing genius, protecting his sons’ best interests in the famously exploitative culture of pro sport, or he’s a cartoonish egomaniac at serious risk of jeopardising their careers. A former pro-football player with a Kanye West-like ability to court controversy, LaVar first started making headlines in 2016 as Lonzo was preparing to enter the NBA. He once claimed Lonzo, then at UCLA, was already better than two-time MVP Steph Curry, and that LaVar himself would beat Michael Jordan one-on-one. The 52-year-old quickly became known for his eccentricity. With he and his sons growing in profile, LaVar created the Big Baller Brand in 2016, with the aim of selling basketball apparel. A year later BBB released its first signature shoe, the ‘ZO2’ with an RRP of over $800. “If you can’t afford the ZO2’S,” he tweeted, amid criticism of the price, “you’re NOT a BIG BALLER!” While some, including former Los Angeles Laker Shaquille O’Neal, disapproved, LaVar’s unapologetic tactics won him friends in high places. Jay-Z bought three pairs. “Now, he may go about things wrong,” the mogul told the hosts of Tidal’s Rap Radar podcast. “He may have a big mouth… but that man has a vision of his own. Why wouldn’t I support him?” Soon there was a reality TV show, Ball in the Family, produced by the makers of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, turning LaMelo and his brothers into celebrity-like figures before they were even out of high school. “It was something I grew into,” he says of the pressure that weighed on his shoulders from a young age. “It felt real normal – it felt like my life.” Though, it’s safe to say LaMelo’s idea of normal is probably quite different to most. Before his 17th birthday, when most teenagers were attempting to sneak booze from their parents’ liquor cabinet, LaMelo was joining Lithuanian basketball team Prienai, becoming the youngest American to ever sign a pro-basketball contract. While his time with Prienai was ultimately marred by injury and a lack of playing time, LaMelo sees his stint in Lithuania as a milestone in his rapid, if unusual, development. “I feel it helped me in the long run,” he tells GQ. “I grew up a lot. After doing that I felt I could go anywhere.” Anywhere turned out to be Wollongong, 68kms south of Sydney. Though he spent fewer than six months in Lithuania and was yet to turn 18 at the time, LaMelo was technically considered a professional athlete
and therefore ineligible to play college basketball. With the eyes of NBA scouts set on the big collegiate teams and the renowned NCAA tournament – traditionally the breeding ground for future NBA players – LaMelo opted to join Australia’s NBL (National Basketball League), becoming one the Illawarra Hawks’ final summer signings of 2019. “Australia was an easy decision,” says LaMelo. “Most players wouldn’t really do that – they wouldn’t want to leave friends and family – but I’d already been through all that.” It was in Australia, away from the constant scrutiny of the US sports media, that LaMelo started to thrive. Shaving off the blond afro that had been his signature throughout high school, the LaMelo that arrived Down Under was no longer a quiet teenager, living in the shadow of his brothers. Hawks coach Matt Flinn says he was immediately surprised by LaMelo’s attitude. Any assumptions he might have had about his new recruit were quickly put to rest when training got underway. “The first thing I noticed about LaMelo was just how joyful he was,” Flinn says from his home shortly after the enforced lockdown. “He sleeps, drinks basketball. That’s his whole world and everything he does. “There’s a perception about LaMelo from what you see online but that’s nothing like what you see inside the team group. “He enjoys other people succeeding; a lot of people think it’s all about him. It’s not. He’s a really special kid in that way.” That might be the case, but what we really want to know, of the man who now knows LaMelo’s game better than anyone in the Southern Hemisphere, is how good is he? Are we talking about a future MVP? “I wouldn’t bet against him,” says Flinn. “The kid’s got such self-belief. I’ll tell you a story. We’re playing Adelaide and just before we run out, I grab LaMelo. I tell him he’s going to face this particular guard. ‘Just back up and go at him, he won’t be able to stay in front of you,’ I tell him. “LaMelo replies, ‘Yeah, him and everyone else in the world,’ then runs out on the court.” But you don’t have to be a head coach of a pro team to notice there’s something special about LaMelo. Playing in his trademark black tights, he blends the grace of a ballerina with an instinct of an assassin. You’ll see him floating around the edges of a game, waiting for his moment, then, in a flash, he’s gone. “He sees things happen before they happen,” explains Flinn. “The really great players watch the defence rather than the offence. And he just naturally does that.” Safe to say, LaMelo’s time in Australia was a success. Quickly becoming a favourite among local fans, he would take home the league’s Rookie of the Year award despite missing half the season through injury. In a turn befitting his unique story so far, it was reported in April that LaMelo and his manager, Jermaine Jackson, were in talks to purchase the Hawks. Though the move’s not yet complete, Jackson spoke of LaMelo’s vision for the future of the South Coast club. “He wants to create the best basketball program possible for that community,” the 43-year-old told ESPN. For now, the young star’s sights are set firmly on the short term, namely the 2020 NBA Draft on June 25. While coronavirus has put a big question mark over how the Draft will play out, LaMelo says he’s not picky about where he ends up. “It’s the NBA so I will play for any team. To play with Lonzo would be real cool. We talked about that growing up so it’ll be a dream come true.” He may have a relaxed outlook on where he starts his career, but LaMelo has a clear vision of how it will end. “15 years from now I want to be the best to ever play the game,” he says. Maybe then the doubters will be satisfied. n
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Vest, POA, jacket, $5350, shirt, $970, and shorts, POA, all by Louis Vuitton; socks, Ball’s own.
T-shirt, POA, by Louis Vuitton.
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Shirt, $1290, and pants, POA, both by Louis Vuitton. Singlet and socks, Ball’s own.
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Jumper, $2380, shorts, $1130, and pants, POA, all by Louis Vuitton; socks, Ball’s own. Grooming Clay Nielsen at Art Department using Lucky Bastard Lip Balm & Obal Oil. Production Milisava Tertovich at Tenjune Productions.
Roddy Ricch, Tones and I, Justin Bieber, Dua Lipa, Billie Eilish, Quavo, Loren Gray, Noen Eubanks and Charli D’Amelio, just some of the stars to have benefited from TikTok.
DANCE LIKE EVERYBODY’S WATCHING No longer simply a collection of teens performing dance moves in their bedroom, TikTok’s ability to create viral fame is drawing major artists to the platform and shaping the way music is made. Words Noelle Faulkner Artwork Selman Hoşgör GQ.COM.AU
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h my God,” I think to myself, as I scroll through TikTok from my lounge room floor. “I’ve landed in the Deep South.” A very confident older lady appears on my phone screen, dressed in a USA-flag bikini top, matching USA-flag knock-off Crocs and tight denim shorts. I watch on, mouth agape, as the woman (@sheilafromflorida, 45k+ followers) begins gyrating on her front porch to Prince’s ‘When Doves Cry’. It’s hard to look away. I tap her profile and another video appears. This time, she’s seated in a wicker outdoor chair, swaying her hips to Ginuwine’s ‘Pony’ (“You’re horny, let’s do it”) while wearing a Panama City Beach T-shirt with a Confederate flag emblazoned on the front. I scroll again and then I see it: Sheila is spitting Rico Nasty’s verse from Yunggt3z’ ‘No Reason’, one of the most popular lip-sync songs on TikTok in 2019. If just a couple of years ago, you’d have told me a grandmother from the heart of Trump’s America would be rapping on a Chinese social media app, responsible for creating some of the world’s biggest music hits, I would have thought you were crazy. But here we are. First, some background. For those over the age of 25 – Sheila aside – TikTok is a hugely popular social media app based on 15-second video clips, powered by AI technology and favoured by Gen Z. Owned by Chinese mega start-up ByteDance, TikTok launched internationally in 2017 soon after merging with similar music-based app, Musical.ly, and the sheer ferocity of its growth saw ByteDance’s value climb to more than $122bn in late 2018, stealing Uber’s crown as the world’s biggest start-up. Last year, TikTok was the second most downloaded app in the world, behind only Facebook’s WhatsApp. The concept behind TikTok is nothing new. Music apps Musical.ly, Dubsmash and TikTok’s biggest competitor, Triller (considered to be more adult and US-centric), have been around for years – and YouTube reportedly has its own version in the works. While not technically musical, TikTok also owes a lot to Vine, the Twitter-owned short-video platform that shut down in early 2017, a victim of Instagram’s move into video sharing. Whereas Instagram allows users to edit photos and apply filters, TikTok puts a full editing suite at creators’ fingertips, with everchanging video effects, filters and augmented reality. And unlike other similar music-based apps, TikTok boasts an estimated 800 million users worldwide and is the only certified hitmaker of the pack. Audio is its most shareable element, which explains why it’s a hotspot for new dances, lip-syncing and music discovery.
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When users create a video on TikTok, they have the choice to record a sound or borrow from within the app. That soundbite can then be used by others in their videos, and the cycle continues. TikTok’s addictive potential for endless creative possibilities is why Gen-Z kids see it as the ultimate experimental outlet, Silicon Valley sees it as a threat, and the music industry as a potential goldmine. You’ve probably already heard of what is perhaps the most famous TikTok success story, Lil Nas X’s ubiquitous hit, ‘Old Town Road’. The country crossover now holds the record for the longest time spent at number one in the US (19 weeks), going 12-times Platinum and winning two Grammy Awards along the way. But it wouldn’t have been possible without millions of teenage TikTokers. In December 2018, Lil Nas X posted the track as a meme to his Twitter and social media channels, using a pre-written beat he’d purchased online. Popular TikTok influencer @nicemichael (1.8m+ followers) used the audio in a video, creating the #yeehaw dance challenge, which was then interpreted by millions of other users. Meanwhile, a record label bidding war had broken out, which was eventually won by Columbia Records who swiftly signed 21-year-old Nas X in March last year. The track debuted on the charts that month, and the music industry was suddenly taking this Gen Z-powered dance app a lot more seriously. But TikTok has not simply been plucking artists from obscurity and turning them into stars. It is also breathing new life into existing songs, such as Lizzo’s 2017 bop ‘Truth Hurts’ (“I just took a DNA test”) that found belated success on the platform. Featured in the Netflix original Someone Great, the 32-year-old’s most famous line became a POV-style TikTok meme and, coupled with Lizzo’s rising star, alerted people to her back catalogue. Two years after its release, ‘Truth Hurts’ hit number one on the Billboard charts and stayed there for seven weeks. Seen together, Lizzo and Lil Nas X are two examples of the TikTok narrative as a music gamechanger: a user posts a song, song goes viral, artist gets famous. But that narrative is slowly changing. Not willing to wait for TikTok’s algorithm to chance upon them, artists are taking matters into their own hands and experimenting with ways to take the guesswork out of the platform’s star-making abilities. One of TikTok’s most interesting breakout stars is Canadian rapper Tiagz (@iamtiagz, 1.6m+ followers). He has been reverseengineering TikTok-friendly songs by taking trending samples from viral tracks – such as ‘My Heart Went Oops’ and ‘I’m in the Ghetto (Ratatata)’ – and incorporating them into full-length tracks to create
“IT’S NAÏVE TO THINK THAT YOU CAN MANUFACTURE A VIRAL TIKTOK HIT. THE COMMUNITY HAS TO HAVE OWNERSHIP OVER THE PLATFORM.” songs of the same name. His music is not only associated with the soundbites in searches and on streaming platforms, but also engages users on an esoteric level. Then there are the artists gaining attention by reacting to trending social conversations, with wit and at lightning speed. Emerging Detroit rapper Curtis Roach (@curtisroach, 1.3m+ followers) uploaded the short off-the-cuff rap ‘Bored in the House’ in late March. The rap (“I’m bored in the house and I’m in the house bored”) exploded during global COVID-19 lockdowns and caught the attention of Tyga (@tyga, 4.8m+ followers), who contacted Roach and asked to collaborate. They reworked the track with extra verses and within days, it appeared on streaming services as a collaboration, shooting the 21-year-old Roach’s profile – and his music – into the stratosphere. “We know that people find a lot of their music from TikTok now,” says Michael Weiss, a New York-based industry heavyweight responsible for launching the careers of Noah Cyrus, Labrinth and rising artists NLE Choppa and Lil Tecca; and director of A&R at independent distribution start-up UnitedMasters. “So having something that resonates on TikTok, where people are using music as a form of expression, rather than just passively listening to it, makes it far more relatable and cultural.” With TikTok becoming a barometer of relevance, songs openly made for the platform are already starting to drop – and not simply from as-yet unknown artists. Drake’s single ‘Toosie Slide’, for example, is essentially TikTok by numbers. One: dance moves. Two: an easy-to-re-create video. Three: a soundbite exactly 15 seconds long. The only thing it was missing – compared to viral tracks like Roddy Ricch’s ‘The Box’, Auntie Hammy’s ‘Pew Pew Pew’ and Cookiee Kawaii’s ‘Vibe’ – were interesting sound effects. Drake is not one to shy away from a viral-grab attempt, and the song was seeded to influencers within days of release. What sets TikTok apart from other platforms is that, for now at least, it is a bizarre, uncorrupted place free of inhibitions, where people can dance like nobody’s watching. But the question is that as bigger artists, such as Drake, try to get in on the action, will the TikTok community start to smell a rat? “It’s naïve to think that you can manufacture a viral TikTok hit,” says Manny Kupelian, a marketing executive at Warner Music
Australia. “The community has to have ownership over the platform.” Because of TikTok’s model, making any serious money for artists is tricky – the app doesn’t display views, but does show how many times a sound is used in a video – so most major labels are treating TikTok as a marketing tool to complement activity across other channels. Take Australian musician Tones and I, and her breakout hit ‘Dance Monkey’, which went number one in more than 30 countries last year, spending 24 weeks on top of the ARIA charts – and ending Bing Crosby’s 77-year record for ‘White Christmas’. The song has also been used in over seven million TikToks, to date. The combination of this, her YouTube presence, Triple J airplay and the catchy hook of the song created a perfect storm. “When a viral hit starts making waves, we see a steep spike in usergenerated content [UGC] and can keep the awareness going,” explains Kupelian. This can include engaging with influencers and creators themselves by making them aware of a song. “If there’s enough activity off-platform around this time and everything aligns, you can find yourself with a global viral sensation.” This is what also happened behind the scenes with ‘Old Town Road’. “Columbia did a brilliant job in adding fuel to that fire,” says Weiss. “Putting the narrative out there that it had been taken off the country charts because it wasn’t considered country, getting Billy Ray on there, the juxtaposition and unexpected nature of it – it was all just brilliant. There was no stopping that train.” TikTok taps into three things: our universal connection with music, curiosity as natural voyeurs, and insatiable appetite for distractions. But as with most ‘viral’ content, discovery has become somewhat of an illusion. Content and culture are served via a buffet of feeds and computer-generated suggestions, and for the music industry, technology is big business. With TikTok, there are three players: the creators, the sounds and, crucially, the algorithm. This is the most valuable element of the app’s design and where ByteDance’s AI investments have paid off. The company, which has been under scrutiny surrounding datacollecting concerns, has become a major machine-learning player. In China, ByteDance’s star product is Jinri Toutiao, an AI-based news aggregator that uses large-scale machine learning to track and ‘read’ information, and personalise it for each user. This AI-powered
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“COMPARED TO INSTAGRAM, WHERE THE SUGGESTED PAGE IS FULL OF GARBAGE, TIKTOK’S ‘FOR YOU’ PAGE ALWAYS SEEMS TO BE PERFECT FOR WHAT YOU WANT TO WATCH.” algorithmic approach is how content is fed into TikTok’s ‘For You’ discovery feed and the secret behind why anyone can go viral on the platform – even if they have zero followers. Where Instagram or Twitter’s algorithms are often skewed towards influence, TikTok’s prioritises and personalises pure content. Musically speaking, purity here also pays off; unlike Spotify or Apple Music, there is no commercial influence from major labels – at least, not yet. “The algorithm is where the music industry sees TikTok’s value,” says Mark Siegel, a Nashville-based producer, songwriter and owner of artist development company Static Flight. “Obviously TikTok is so music-based, but compared to Instagram, where the suggested page is full of garbage, TikTok’s ‘For You’ page always seems to be perfect for what you want to watch and hear.” “There are a bunch of factors that go into it,” says Weiss. “Full completed watch-time, repeat listen, content and then there are all these other elements” – the ByteDance special sauce – “but there is no one secret weapon [for hacking it].” For most artists, the easiest path to TikTok success is to have your music used by one of the platform’s dance influencers. And with well over 48 million followers, none are bigger than 16-year-old Charli D’Amelio (@charlidamelio). “You can use the dancers to gauge what may or may not have significant success,” says Weiss. “When Charli posts something, chances are the major labels are either already aware of it, or they’re rushing to reach out to that artist the very same day.” And with this potential to go viral, there are DJs mixing mashups of trending tracks and artists creating dance challenges for their songs, all hoping to catch the attention of users like D’Amelio. One of the most popular dance tracks this year has been ‘Say So’ by Doja Cat, which has been featured in the best part of 20 million TikTok videos. Clocking the value in TikTok virality, Doja Cat enlisted the teenage choreographer of the song’s dance, Haley Sharpe (@yodelinghaley, 1.5m+ followers), for the track’s music video. The move resulted in extra media, eyes and ears on the routine and song, as well as more streams and radio play, snowballing its popularity even further into the charts. When something starts to go viral, the labels are watching and a chain reaction follows.
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“The first sign comes from the TikTok trending sounds, which is their trending chart,” explains Kupelian. “We notice a spike in Google Trends data in searches, as people try to identify the song from the TikTok lyric or equivalent. Next, we see a spike on YouTube via the trending chart as well as an increase in UGC streams. This then flows through onto the Spotify viral charts. On average, 75 per cent of the track’s growth is within the first four weeks. We are marketing at the relevant touchpoints throughout this growth to encourage a complete connection with the song and artist. And once there is song awareness, it builds into streaming on services, playlisting on radio and then into the mainstream, becoming a hit.” The dancers are part of TikTok’s (and the music industry’s) most lucrative demographic, what Siegel calls, “the fangirl nation”. “Teenagers are the most valuable fan base you can have,” he says. “They stream music and buy tickets, they are on artists’ channels. They’re invested.” Siegel works with 22-year-old musician Jacob Whitesides (@jacobwhitesides, 198k+ followers), who emerged from a group of Vine-famous teenage stars known as the Magcon Boys (among them, a young Shawn Mendes). In 2013, they were the equivalent of the TikTok star. “I have worked with artists who have major label deals and have a hard time selling 300 tickets,” recalls Siegel. “And here came this kid, who had only posted videos on the Internet but had millions and millions of followers and was selling 2000 tickets in a market. I’d never seen ticket sales happen that way. That’s when I realised the importance of the fan engagement on Jacob’s socials.” As a social media star, Whitesides has already built a ‘fangirl nation’ and social media empire that helps him snag lucrative partnerships. So Whitesides and Siegel are not like other producer/artist duos trying to engineer viral hits on the platform. They’re using TikTok as a data lab. “What we’re doing is uploading 15 to 30-second snippets from unreleased songs to see what sticks,” explains Siegel. This means Whitesides can experiment with new material, engage with his fans and receive feedback in real time, taking a lot of the guesswork out of what to release – without committing to a full-blown production. “The algorithm also puts him in front of an audience that wouldn’t otherwise see him on Instagram,” says Siegel. “And when we’re in
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
talks about his next record, we’ll be able to The shareable audio element allows you to give them a number to show that before the take a part of someone else’s moment and song has even come out in full, it has already make it your own. It’s interactive had a response.” entertainment. It seems that in spite of every new “Music is a spiritual thing and the reason technology that infiltrates the music TikTok is taking off is the engagement,” business, successful artists still need to snag offers Siegel. “Whether you like music or a major record deal, brand contract or a tour. not, it gives people something to do with That’s where the money is. And whether a song – it’s why all those dances we do TikTok will benefit the industry in the long at weddings exist. We know they look stupid term remains to be seen. “The dangerous but we still do them at every party because thing, and what everyone in the industry is people connect through them.” It’s why asking right now, is how do we all make we shake off our inhibitions to break into the money? What about the songwriters and Nutbush on the wedding reception producers?” says Siegel, pointing out that if dancefloor, and @sheilafromflorida feels you’re a producer working on a low-budget free to lip-sync to Twenty One Pilots from record, you can at least negotiate on the her own front porch. Maybe the kids are master and earn royalties. With Spotify and onto something. Tidal, producer and songwriter credits are Beyond teenagers awkwardly dancing in shown to help with exposure, whereas on their bedrooms, Australians mocking Scott TikTok, they’re not. Morrison, and the frustration of having “If I have a bunch of artists coming to me as the same three songs stuck in my head a producer saying, ‘I want my TikToks to be for what feels like an eternity, it’s easy nicely produced, can you do a few 15-second to see why people can fall into the songs?’ How do we scale that? Because there is TikTok abyss so easily – myself included. nothing on the back end.” says Siegel. “Is there a There are cosplayers, cooking shows, market for artists to pay producers $150 to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s mini equines do a 15-second thing? I don’t know.” TikTok (@arnoldschnitzel, 3m+ followers), The could bring back the art of jingle writing, with Wiggles (@thewigglesofficial, 206k+ a pivot to composing for brands, I offer. “Yes, followers), daggy dads, teenage opera singers, and those writers make tonnes of money – gymnasts, zoo animals, fashion influencers, labels partnering with TikTok to offer farmers, firefighters, police officers, bored Lil Nas X performing at this year’s Grammys; Doja Cat on Jimmy Fallon in February; licensing opportunities could be one way,” he truckies, robots grinding to Justin Bieber’s Lizzo onstage in England last November. adds. “The best thing we can ask for is that it ‘Yummy’, and every subculture inbetween. offers growth to the industry, that’s a positive. Then the entire industry What connects them all is music. can move forward with it.” The idea that anyone can achieve 15 seconds of fame is true. In many ways, TikTok is a salve for all the things we’ve begun to Technology has long led us to the stars and one-hit-wonders of the future despise about social media – the endless feeds of inauthentic – whether it’s Soundcloud, YouTube, TV, MTV or TikTok. But perhaps influencers and capitalist creators flaunting freebies and slimming this time, the hits unearthed by the platform won’t be its most important shakes. If Instagram shows you someone’s life from afar and YouTube legacy at all, but the way they bring us into people’s lives, letting us makes you commit to watching it, then TikTok invites you inside. watch, listen and dance along together – even when we’re alone. n
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Shirt, $1650, and pants, $1500, both by Gucci.
REAL-LIFEHERO
Charming without trying to be, funny, self-aware and resoundingly handsome. He’s only 22, but Hero Fiennes Tiffin is a modern leading man in the making. Photography Tom Sloan Styling Mark Vassallo Words Amy Campbell
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Shirt, $11,600, pants, POA, and shoes, $2020, all by Louis Vuitton.
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n July last year, Hero Fiennes Tiffin was waiting backstage at Florence’s Palazzo Della Signoria for Salvatore Ferragamo’s spring/summer 2020 menswear show to start. Set among the square’s bold stone arches, columns and frescos – which counts among its many sculptures a 16th-century reproduction of Michelangelo’s ‘David’ – the event was a celebration of Italian grandeur that now feels as if it could have taken place not just in a different year, but an entirely different universe. A lot has changed. And a lot has changed for Fiennes Tiffin, too. Emerging as the final look before creative director Paul Andrew stepped out to take his bow – royal blue trousers with oversized cargo-like pockets, a billowy shortsleeved shirt, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder – the 22-year-old marked his arrival on the fashion scene. Less than six months later, he would be named the face of the brand’s new fragrance, ‘Ferragamo’. “It’s one of the more surreal feelings,” says Fiennes Tiffin of representing a brand like Ferragamo. “Because I didn’t set out to do it intentionally, I feel like I’ve got a bit lucky.” Lucky, maybe. But there’s no doubt he has pedigree. Born Hero Beauregard Faulkner Fiennes Tiffin in London, his greatgrandfather was Sir Maurice Fiennes, a British industrialist who was knighted for his contribution to engineering, and his greatgrandfather was Frederick Benjamin Twisleton-WykenhamFiennes, also known as the 16th Baron of Saye and Sele. Naturally. And then there’s his uncles, the actors Joseph and Ralph Fiennes. But if Fiennes Tiffin’s full name is too much of a mouthful, you need only mention the word ‘Hero’ to any pre-teen with an Internet connection and they’ll know who you’re talking about. Fiennes Tiffin’s first major project came in 2009, when he was cast to play a young Tom Riddle in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Since then, he’s been steadily scoring roles, but it was a 2019 film called After that gave the young actor his first real brush with viral fame. Based on an epic piece of One Direction fan fiction that spawned a series of bestselling young adult novels, After chronicles an intoxicating (some would argue toxic) romantic relationship between two university students. He plays Hardin, a bad boy with a troubled past whose object of affection is the bright-eyed, straitlaced Tessa, played by Australian actor Josephine Langford. “I had to learn that you can never judge your character,” he explains of the role. “At the start it was… not an issue for me, but it was something I had to deal with, you know? Playing a character who’s so unlikeable at moments – so hateable, to be honest.” But just like Robert Pattinson’s Edward Cullen in Twilight, the sociopathic tendencies of Fiennes Tiffin’s character seem to make him even more appealing to fans.
Fiennes Tiffin, however, assures us the fans he’s met IRL have been nothing but lovely. “I won’t pretend that I’m not aware some people take things too far. I hear friends tell me about things that they see online, people say some outlandish stuff on social media, but that’s to be expected I guess,” says the actor with an empathetic shrug. The sequel, After We Collided, will premiere later this year. And unless all the juicy bits have been jammed into the film’s first trailer, it looks like things are set to heat up. But Fiennes Tiffin is remarkably unruffled by the sex scenes – or annoyingly good at creating the impression of being so. “Most of the shots are only five or ten seconds long,” he rationalises. “It’s not as daunting or weird as you might think.” In addition to Ferragamo, he has modelled for Dolce & Gabbana and was sitting front row at Dior Men’s pre-Fall 2020 show in Miami last December. But despite his fashion leanings, in his daily life he’s more inclined towards comfort than couture. “When you get into trackies after a long day of constantly changing into different clothes,” says Fiennes Tiffin, “that is the best feeling in the world.” It’s an attitude at odds with his place among a new breed of on-screen heartthrobs. This group of complex, sensitive, very pale leading men – think Timothée Chalamet, Adam Driver, Austin Butler – has gradually replaced the macho stars of the past. Luck and timing could be held accountable for some of Fiennes Tiffin’s good fortune – but to lean too hard on such assumptions would be lazy and, more to the point, misleading. “I’ve had an advantage,” acknowledges Fiennes Tiffin, “but I do feel like I’ve learned 90 per cent or more on the job. Growing up, my parents spent a lot of time on the phone or away. We knew they were shooting a movie, but we didn’t really know what that meant.” He says his mother, director Martha Fiennes, and his father, cinematographer George Tiffin, were supportive but realistic when he decided to give acting a real shot. “They said, ‘By all means, go for it. But make sure you’re doing other stuff as well,’” he recalls. Despite his reputation as a new-age hot guy, the Fiennes Tiffin we encounter is more endearing than brooding. He counts Martin Freeman as one of his favourite actors (though he finds the question impossible to answer), he likes LA but is a London boy at heart, and rarely is he happier than when he’s playing football, which he does four times a week. He’d usually be running off to play with his mates right now, but he got injured the other day. “I’ve been missing it a lot. Feeling a little bit lost without it actually,” he trails off. A more self-absorbed actor might think of an injury as a barrier to getting jobs. But it doesn’t appear to bother Fiennes Tiffin, who says he’d like to land one more role before 2020 is through. “I’ll conquer the world next year,” he teases. We believe him, too. n
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Blouson, $16,240, and shirt, $835, both by Hermès.
COVID-19 We look at the frantic effort to contain the spread of a new pandemic, as countries struggled to come to grips with a spiralling global health and economic crisis – and what those early weeks tell us about how we will handle the next one. Words Elle Hardy
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1
282
581
1320
December 8, 2019 China
January 21, 2020 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand 3 deaths
January 23 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, United States 17 deaths
January 25 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France 41 deaths
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9826
14557
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January 28 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany 106 deaths
January 31 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines 213 deaths
February 2 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK 305 deaths
February 5 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium 492 deaths
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50580
75748
77794
February 8 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium 724 deaths
February 15 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt 1526 deaths
February 20 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran 2129 deaths
February 22 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Israel 2359 deaths
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82294
85403
87132
February 25 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Bahrain, Iraq, Oman 2700 deaths
February 27 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Bahrain, Iraq, Oman, Brazil, Denmark, Estonia, Georgia, Greece, Norway, Pakistan, Romania, North Macedonia, Algeria, Austria, Croatia, Switzerland 2804 deaths
February 29 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Bahrain, Iraq, Oman, Brazil, Denmark, Estonia, Georgia, Greece, Norway, Pakistan, Romania, North Macedonia, Algeria, Austria, Croatia, Switzerland, Belarus, Lithuania, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nigeria, Mexico, San Marino 2924 deaths
March 1 China, Japan, South Korea, Thailand, US, Vietnam, Australia, Nepal, France, Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Canada, Germany, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Finland, India, Philippines, Russia, Spain, Sweden, UK, Belgium, Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Israel, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Bahrain, Iraq, Oman, Brazil, Denmark, Estonia, Georgia, Greece, Norway, Pakistan, Romania, North Macedonia, Algeria, Austria, Croatia, Switzerland, Belarus, Lithuania, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nigeria, Mexico, San Marino, Azerbaijan, Ecuador, Ireland, Monaco, Qatar 2977 deaths
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y the time a team of scientists at The University of Queensland had created its first potential coronavirus vaccine in the laboratory in late February, the deadly virus had already spread well outside mainland China. Travel bans were causing chaos as governments tried to stop the virus that would be known as COVID-19 from arriving on their shores. Stock markets were plummeting, conspiracy theories circulating and signs of social panic evident in the boycotting of Chinese businesses and stockpiling of food and daily essentials. Police in Tamworth, NSW, even tasered a man during a heated altercation over toilet paper. It was, of course, already too late to contain the novel coronavirus – but in the race to develop a vaccine, it started to become unclear if the bigger long-term problem was the virus itself, or the behaviour of some seven-and -a-half billion potential hosts around the world. The UQ team began work on its vaccine on January 11 after Chinese scientists were able to upload the coronavirus’ DNA blueprint to the Internet. The university’s vice-chancellor and president, Professor Peter Høj, AC said that long hours in the lab had produced initial dividends, but that there was still a long way to go. “There is still extensive testing to ensure that the vaccine is safe and creates an effective immune response,” he announced in an update to the media, “but the technology and the dedication of these researchers means the first hurdle has been passed.” The achievement might not have been possible but for the work of another team of Australian scientists, at The University of Melbourne’s Doherty Institute. In late January, days after the first case was diagnosed
By February 17, as her symptoms worsened, she went to another hospital and tested positive for coronavirus, the 31st case in the country. Patient 31 became the anonymous face of the race to stop the deadly outbreak. It wasn’t only respiratory systems that were at risk, as fears quickly went global, spreading as rapidly as pathogens themselves, as panicked sleuths took to social media to try to expose the identity and movements of the “super spreader”. The global death toll crossed into the thousands, though was slowing as a percentage of overall infections. The case of South Korea’s Patient 31 illustrated how dealing with the outbreak involves much more than finding a vaccine. The race was on not only to find a medical solution to the virus, but to work out how to deal with its drastic social, political and economic effects. By cursed coincidence, I had arrived in South Korea to research the country’s megachurches as Patient 31 was unknowingly spreading the virus throughout them. I was even in negotiations to meet with leaders of Shincheonji, a religious sect with over 317,000 members around the country, when news broke of the major outbreak within the organisation’s Daegu branch. Authorities believed that Patient 31 could have come into contact with some 9300 worshippers during her time at the two church services, with the virus spreading to other congregations as Shincheonji is believed to send its members to report on other megachurches. Perhaps only 48 hours away from being part of the rolling coronavirus counter, I sat in my tiny hotel room watching a wider city of 25 million grind to a halt as schools and workplaces closed, public gatherings were banned and church services were cancelled. The response in the
DESPITE ALL THE UNCERTAINTY, ONE THING THAT WAS KNOWN ABOUT THE CORONAVIRUS IS THAT IT WAS ALREADY WELL BEYOND THE SCALE OF PREVIOUS SIMILAR OUTBREAKS. in Australia, the team announced that it had perfected the “art” of re-creating the virus in the laboratory from a patient sample – the first scientists to do so, outside of China. Having successfully grown and isolated the virus, they were able to share their research with health authorities around the world, which in turn would help others, such as the University of Queensland scientists, begin the path to creating an effective vaccine. In April, scientists from the University of Melbourne also started a clinical trial of the Bacillus Calmette-Guerin vaccine, a hundredyear-old treatment that’s still used to combat tuberculosis in the developing world. Infectious disease researcher Nigel Curtis, who planned the trial on 1000 healthcare workers, hoped that it would prove effective against coronavirus. “Nobody is saying this is a panacea,” he told the New York Times. “What we want to do is reduce the time an infected healthcare worker is unwell, so they recover and can come back to work faster.” But all of these truly global, collaborative efforts in the race to combat the deadly virus were hampered by less controllable issues. The University of Queensland scientists had been working on their vaccine for two weeks, when on February 6, a 61-year-old woman in South Korea checked into the Saeronan Oriental Medicine Hospital in the city of Daegu complaining of headaches after being involved in a minor car accident. ‘Patient 31’, as she is now known, attended Sunday services at the Shincheonji Church of Jesus, on February 9 and February 16. On February 15, doctors suggested she get tested for coronavirus due to her high fever, but she instead went to a buffet lunch with a friend at a hotel.
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countries that experienced the first major outbreaks – China, South Korea, Iran and Italy – was understandable. While other novel coronavirus outbreaks in recent history – SARS (severe acute respiratory syndrome) and MERS (Middle East respiratory syndrome) – each killed fewer than 1000 people, the 2005 H5N1 avian flu had a fatality rate of about 60 per cent, though it has killed only 455 people. Despite all the uncertainty about the coronavirus, the one thing known was that it was already well beyond the scale of these previous similar outbreaks. In late February, a study of 72,000 cases in China found reasons for both calm and alarm. The JAMA ( Journal of the American Medical Association) revealed that the overall fatality rate was 2.3 per cent – some 23 times higher than seasonal influenza. There had been no deaths in people aged nine years and younger, however cases in those aged 70 to 79 years had an eight per cent fatality rate and those aged 80 years and older had a fatality rate of 14.8 per cent. Deaths were also elevated among those with preexisting conditions such as cardiovascular disease, diabetes and cancer. People who were diagnosed with ‘critical’ cases had a mortality rate of 49 per cent. Perhaps even more frightening is the statistical research into transmission of these sorts of viruses. Following the SARS outbreak in 2003, the California-based Institute for Operations Research and the Management Sciences says that a “super spreader” was believed to be responsible for some 300 cases in a Hong Kong residential complex with 19 buildings, the site of the largest community outbreak of SARS. Scientists traced the transmission to broken plumbing in the building, which allowed virus-laden diarrheic gases from the infected man to
move into apartments throughout the complex. Unlike a sneeze or a cough by a carrier, which can only infect others within a few metres, simulation research found that these sorts of virus-laden plumes can travel up to 200 metres and continue to infect people. It’s these kinds of rapidly spreading diseases that can quickly move beyond an ‘outbreak’ in a community (such as Wuhan in China, where the COVID-19 was initially thought to have originated) to an ‘epidemic’, which spreads across a country. The word many had avoided using – ‘pandemic’ – is when an epidemic begins to spread across international borders. “A pandemic by itself isn’t the worst-case scenario – the worst-case scenario is a pandemic that involves a pathogen capable of causing a lot of moderate to severe disease and death,” The University of Queensland associate professor of virology Ian M Mackay told GQ. “But even when death rates are low, or cause severe outcomes in only a section of the community, coupled to a virus that can quickly spread far and wide, the effect will be experienced by many millions and severely strain healthcare resources and other services. That strain will be much greater for low-income countries and on our poor and Indigenous populations.” In other words, most Australians ought to be as worried about how much strain our health system can take as we should be about getting the virus itself. Professor Mackay noted that the pressure of dealing with the many unknowns of an outbreak can “drive reaction instead of more carefully planned actions”. The lack of readiness for a pandemic has concerned scientists and public health officials for some time, with numerous warnings that we are desperately unprepared for a mass virus on a global scale. And authorities around the world cannot say that they were not warned.
authorities on January 1, and China’s National Centre for Disease Control and Prevention issued a Level-2 emergency warning about the new coronavirus on January 6, though according to sources such as The South China Morning Post this information was not widely disseminated. If Chinese authorities were being cagey about the extent of the public health crisis, they were being downright censorious of the doctor who first raised the alarm. On December 30, 34-year-old Chinese ophthalmologist Li Wenliang sent a message to his former medical school classmates in a group chat stating that while he had been working at Wuhan Central Hospital, he had seen seven cases of a virus that he thought looked like SARS, the flu-like epidemic that killed 774 people in more than two dozen countries in 2003 (coronavirus had already exceeded this death toll by early February). Several days later he was summoned to the Public Security Bureau and told to sign a letter for “making false comments” that had “severely disturbed the social order”. By January 10, Dr Li said that he started coughing and came down with a fever; he was diagnosed with coronavirus on January 30 amid claims that he was denied medical care by the state as punishment for issuing a public warning about the deadly virus. “If the officials had disclosed information about the epidemic earlier, I think it would have been a lot better. There should be more openness and transparency,” he told the New York Times shortly before his death sometime around February 6 or 7 – around the same time that South Korea’s Patient 31 had first arrived at hospital. In death, Dr Li became something of a figure akin to the Tiananmen Square protester who stood in front of the tank that became the focal
IN DEATH, DR LI BECAME AKIN TO THE TIANANMEN SQUARE PROTESTER WHO STOOD IN FRONT OF THE TANK THAT BECAME THE FOCAL POINT OF THE 1989 MASSACRE. A report by the World Health Organisation’s Global Preparedness Monitoring Board released late last year looked into the likelihood of a mass flu pandemic sweeping the world. “There is a very real threat of a rapidly moving, highly lethal pandemic of a respiratory pathogen killing 50 to 80 million people and wiping out nearly five per cent of the world’s economy,” said the report’s authors Dr Gro Harlem Brundtland and Elhadj As Sy. “A global pandemic on that scale would be catastrophic, creating widespread havoc, instability and insecurity. The world is not prepared.” Perhaps most ominously, they went on to warn that “for too long, we have allowed a cycle of panic and neglect when it comes to pandemics: we ramp up efforts when there is a serious threat, then quickly forget about them when the threat subsides. It is well past time to act.” But while scientists and public health experts were trying to prepare us for the scale of the coronavirus outbreak, the way in which leaders were dealing with it – or not dealing with it – was becoming an increasing concern. Chinese President Xi Jinping eventually fronted up and called it the “largest public health emergency” since the founding of the modern Chinese state – but the doctor who had alerted the world to the unfolding crisis was not afforded the luxury of such public honesty. The first known patient is believed to have shown symptoms on December 8, though genome data has shown it was possible that the virus began spreading between people as early as late November. While early blame was put on the Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market in Wuhan, which most of the subsequent cases had links to, Chinese scientists now believe that it was introduced rather than originated there. Still, it was closed by
point of the 1989 massacre. The two top trending hashtags on Chinese social media were “Wuhan government owes Dr Li Wenliang an apology” and “We want freedom of speech” – although both were quickly censored. His death can be seen as a tipping point for the Chinese Government’s handling of the crisis. But as President Xi finally admitted the extent of the problem, both the virus and fallout of how to handle panic and misinformation were far from only a Chinese problem. By the time I left Seoul in late February, Scott Morrison appeared to be atoning for the perception of inaction during the summer bushfire crisis by taking a more technocratic approach, declaring early that COVID-19 would become a pandemic but stating that “we got ahead of it originally by acting quickly,” and that “Australia is in the best-placed position to be prepared for this than anywhere else and so we just want to make sure it stays that way.” Federal and state governments were preparing to put in place the health sector emergency response plans, which involve escalating precautions such as closure of schools and public transport, banning mass gatherings such as sporting events, and compulsory quarantining and vaccinations of entire cities. To get to these sorts of scenarios, the crisis modelling said worst-case forecasts for a pandemic outbreak could last up to 10 months, with up to 40 per cent of the nation’s workforce sidelined by illness or caring for family members. But the actions of any single country in managing the consequences of a pandemic will still be at the mercy of the world’s two most powerful nations and two largest economies, China and the United States. At a rally in South Carolina, President Trump labelled the
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A woman in a protective suit and mask crossing an empty intersection in Beijing, China, on February 8.
The Piazza del Duomo in Milan, Italy, on March 12.
The Brandenburg Gate at Pariser Platz, Berlin, Germany, on March 23.
Times Square, New York City, United States, on March 22.
Covent Garden, London, United Kingdom, on March 20.
A security guard outside the Sydney Opera House, Australia, on March 19.
Democrats’ criticism of his response to the virus “their new hoax”, later using it to shore up his anti-immigrant rhetoric. However his statement was intended, there can be little doubt that indecisiveness, as it became an increasingly political issue, delayed the US from taking early action. As journalist Alex Shephard wrote in The New Republic, “The decision to make coronavirus a political crisis first, an economic crisis second, and a public health crisis third is creating an environment in which Fox News viewers – who are disproportionately older – may ignore the warnings of public health officials.” Trump soon appointed Vice President Mike Pence to oversee his Coronavirus Task Force – the same man whose policies saw a spike in HIV infections in 2014, while he was governor of Indiana. Professor Mackay worries about the incentives for politicians such as Xi and Trump to play up or play down a pandemic, rather than rely on expert advice to manage the situation. “The event we’re all watching unfold is really a challenge for a world that has more communications options than ever before,” he says. “Today we suffer from monopolies who foster rejection of science and fact while using distraction to encourage the creation of outrage and hatred. This mix means that the trust in authority required to understand and deal with an imminent pandemic is lacking.” Dr Connal Lee is a philosopher at Flinders University who specialises in the ethics of pandemics. He says that for authorities around the world, it’s a “damned if you do and damned if you don’t situation” when it comes to revealing information to the public. “Pandemic plans and world bodies call for transparency to increase trust and legitimacy without fully
within the coming year”. After his quote went viral (so to speak) he emphasised the context that we don’t know what proportion will be symptomatic, nor “what proportion of symptomatic people will have severe outcomes”. Mackay thinks that it’s “very likely” that coronavirus will end up being another permanent virus like the flu or measles that we never truly get rid of. He added that medical advances in dealing with bacteria mean that we’re not likely to see something truly terrifying like the plague reemerge in our time, but that the risk of future pandemics may be intrinsically tied to global social trends. “Population sizes have grown and travel links the world together in ways that are very different,” Mackay explains. “The strain of so many being infected may lead to shortages of drugs as well as advanced medical care, and under those conditions, we could still see large impacts on many people.” For example, Professor Peter M Sandman from the University of Minnesota estimated that the worst-case scenario for a “lowprobability, high-magnitude pandemic” would combine the scale of the 1918 Spanish flu, which infected 30 per cent of the globe and claimed an estimated 50 to 100 million global victims, with the lethalness of the 2007 avian flu epidemic, which killed 60 per cent of people – meaning it could wipe out 18 per cent of the world’s population – and that’s before you factor in the social and economic chaos that would ensue. As the saying goes, those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it. And so far, many world leaders are proving not
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
“DANGER CAN BE USED AS A POLITICAL TOOL AND APPEALING TO FEAR IN PUBLIC RHETORIC HAS A HISTORY OF HELPING THOSE IN POWER TO CONSOLIDATE THEIR POWER.” realising that when it comes to revealing information, such as stats and threat levels, it can make the authorities look alarmist and could create fear. On the other hand, if they don’t release information, it can look as though they have something to hide.” A nother challenge that governments and public-health authorities face is getting the public to comply with evidence-based policies, such as compulsory vaccinations. But Dr Lee says, “This is not to say that a healthy distrust of those in charge is not a good thing,” and we should be careful about what motivates politicians. “Danger can be used as a political tool and appealing to fear in public rhetoric has a long history of helping those in power to consolidate their power,” he adds. Pandemics also raise serious issues of distributive justice, such as how we allocate scarce health resources in the event of mass infection. “Most people will accept that vulnerable groups need some form of priority, but this term is not well understood and can include stigmatised groups like the poor, the obese, smokers and prisoners whom the public may feel do not deserve priority,” Lee said. “This happened during SARS with prisoners and the obese among the first to get vaccines in parts of Canada. People tend to think of the elderly and babies, but we may all be vulnerable to serious morbidities and certain socially unpopular groups may also need priority aid.” This is an issue that will come into sharper focus if some predictions for the eventual spread of COVID-19 prove to be correct. Harvard professor of epidemiology Marc Lipsitch believes it’s likely that “40 to 70 per cent of people worldwide are likely to be infected
only have we learned little from the Spanish Flu outbreak, but that many of us will gleefully ignore warnings on how to minimise the effects of a global virus as we watch it unfold. Just as in 1918, when the Spanish Flu got its name from wartime media blackouts that only saw Spanish papers initially reporting it, what some were beginning to call the ‘Chinese Coronavirus’ was being greeted in many countries with misinformation. Medicine has come a long way since 1918, of course, but the way the world has reacted to the effects of this most recent crisis does not bode well for our ability to handle future pandemics. While we wait for the University of Queensland’s vaccine to spur our immune systems into action – a development that may take several months to perfect and a further 12 to implement – the message coming from experts is undoubtedly that this is a global problem, and we can’t think or act in isolation. Closing borders and hoarding hand sanitiser is only going to create a new set of problems, and the only realistic solution is one that involves all people and countries seeing this as a collective, global issue. One of the few things we know is that, for the time being at least, it looks impossible to completely stop the spread of COVID-19. Whether or not we contract the virus ourselves, our world has changed irrevocably since the day Dr Li sent that fateful group message. We can take some comfort in knowing that we will get through this. The world will eventually recover. But the symptoms we are seeing now, such as a lack of resources for our health system and doubts about the ability of those in charge to effectively respond to it, gives us reason to fear the arrival of something even bigger. n
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From left, Nathan Bracken, Adam Gilchrist and Ricky Ponting celebrating during the Johnnie Walker Super Series between Australia and the ICC World XI played in Melbourne in 2005.
END OF PLAY
Superhuman talent, unyielding focus and an almost-masochistic ability to put yourself through hours – years – of mental and physical pain. They’re key to playing any sport at the highest level. But what happens when it’s time to leave the game behind? Words Stephen Corby GQ.COM.AU
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athan Bracken’s first game in his country’s canary-yellow strip was at the fabled Melbourne cauldron in 2001. At the time, the tall Aussie fast bowler had never met Ricky Ponting, Adam Gilchrist or Andrew Symonds – only watched them on TV like the rest of us. But now he was running out behind them, into a colosseum of colour and the kind of noise that causes the hair on your arms to dance. “Even just that first warm-up, I can’t describe it… it’s not just a fairytale, it’s more than that; standing there and hearing the national anthem at a packed MCG, you just buzz,” Bracken says with a sigh. “And the reaction when you get a wicket, the roar of the crowd, you can’t put that into words – you’ve mentally pictured what it would be like, so many times, and it’s like all you ever wished for as a kid, but you get there and it’s even better than you imagined. “Suddenly it’s like every training session you did, every party you missed because you had a game on, you’re there thinking you’ve got something for all that sacrifice. It was worth it.” At that moment, who wouldn’t trade places with the 23-year-old? Many of us can, and do, daydream about what it’s like to take a wicket at a packed MCG and feel lifted above normal human existence by the guttural and grateful roaring of the crowd. But only the very few ever get a chance to live that fairytale. Of course, what we – the conventionally talented masses – fail to appreciate is that most will also never know what it is like to fall from those heights, or how crushing the landing is.
She says the often debilitating experience many athletes go through after their final whistle is very much a form of chemical withdrawal. “In many ways, you could probably liken it to coming off something like cocaine,” explains Clews, the author of Wired to Play: The Metacognitive Athlete. “When you’re engaged in physical exercise and movement it can be very emotionally stabilising, because it brings up your serotonin, it brings up the dopamine, and when you do it with a team of others, it brings up the oxytocin, and they’re all feel-good neurochemicals that help stabilise mood. “So the athletes, when they stop, can find themselves highly emotionally dysregulated, anxious and struggling with depression as part of this chemical change.” Some never recover. The suicide of former Wallaby Dan Vickerman in 2017 at the age of 37, leaving behind his wife and two young children, forced the issue into the spotlight, and sparked some soul searching from friends and teammates, including former hooker Brendan Cannon. Fellow Wallaby Cannon says a professional athlete’s life is literally unreal – they’re always the centre of attention, their days are planned for them, and they are constantly supported – “and then it all stops”. “When you’re told you can’t play anymore, it’s like the light goes out, it’s all gone, you’re a former player now” he says. “The spotlight gets turned off and you feel like you’re in the dark.” Vickerman’s career was ended too soon, in 2012, by stress fractures in his right leg. But even when top sportspeople think they’re ready to retire, the reality can shock. Gearoid Towey, a three-time
“THAT’S YOUR JOB FOR SO LONG; GETTING WICKETS, GETTING THAT ADRENALINE RUSH, AND THEN WHEN YOU STEP AWAY IT’S JUST GONE – NOTHING... YOU MISS THE RUSH.” After the fairytale faded and the adrenaline ceased to fizz, the low point for Bracken, a dual World Cup winner and one-time No. 1-ranked fast bowler in the world – wasn’t when he applied, in desperation, for a job packing shelves, only for the manager to laugh at him. No, there would be far darker days than that. And nights, where the then-broken-and-broke 31-year-old, a man who had once swum in success, would hide in the dark with his failure – the inability to support his family – and see only one way out. This is not the way it’s supposed to be. We tend to imagine our heroes are immortal, but it turns out that, for many of our sporting elite, the only place those fabled versions of themselves live on is on YouTube. Bracken’s career crashed after a knee injury forced him out of the game in 2011 – sparking a five-year court fight with Cricket Australia for compensation and medical bills. The roller-coaster ride of soaring highs and special treatment ended with a brutal shunt. “That’s your job for so long; getting wickets, getting that massive adrenaline rush, and then when you step away it’s just gone – nothing – and you look for that, you miss the rush,” Bracken adds. “But I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that I’m never going to get that, ever, again.” No matter how well set they are for life after sport – and the bestlaid plans can be ruined in a flash, by injury or the swipe of a coach’s red pen – dealing with the loss of that deafening, physical affirmation can be painfully difficult. Gayelene Clews is a former elite triathlete who now works as a performance psychologist for Olympians and other sporting stars.
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Olympian who rowed for Ireland and now lives in Australia, set up a mental-health charity, Crossing The Line, to help sportspeople deal with their loss. “Beijing in 2008 was my third Olympics and I couldn’t wait to retire. I’d had enough. I had plans and a degree, I’d finished at the top of my sport; it should have been great,” Towey says. “But what I didn’t give much thought to was how much your identity is tied into being an athlete – and the purpose and passion that it gives you; you know what you’re doing, every day, from the age of nine or 10, you have clear goals. “Then you get to your 30s and for the first time, you don’t have a plan. What a lot of athletes underestimate is how much of a shock that’s going to be.” After his own struggles, Towey fell into the area of mental health for retired sportspeople “by accident”, never having realised the size of the problem. “In the Olympic community alone, well over 100 Olympians have committed suicide, and that’s including gold medallists – not just people who haven’t quite made it, or who’ve struggled,” he says. “A lot of athletes, in all sports, they’re competing for 10 years, if they’re lucky, out of an 80-year life. And at the moment, that 10 years, for a lot of people, it’s destroying their lives, it’s destroying the next 60 years for them.” We’ve had a few examples of that, with high-profile swimmers, such as Grant Hackett, running off the rails, and then there was our flag-bearer and basketball superstar, Lauren Jackson, who has spoken of how her depression at not playing anymore led to an addiction to painkillers.
“One of my good friends said to me, ‘Athletes die two times’, and it’s true – as an athlete you have to re-create yourself in a way that other people don’t have to,” Jackson, a three-time WNBA MVP, told GQ. Some sportspeople are better prepared than others, and those who can refocus their ingrained drive and discipline into the world of business can do very well. Even the lucky ones, however, speak of struggles, both physical and mental. Adam ‘Mad Dog’ MacDougall had an unusually prolific career in rugby league, playing in the top flight from 1995 to 2011, predominantly with the Newcastle Knights where he won the premiership in 2001. Unlike nearly all of his teammates, MacDougall had been preparing for a life outside footy before he ever signed a contract. His mum wouldn’t even let him play unless he went to university first, because she’d seen his father, Gil, play League at the highest level, only to have his career cut short at 26 by injury. “My dad used to say, NRL stands for Not Real Long,” says MacDougall, who now runs his own Man Shake empire of meal-replacement drinks,
But what about the joy of winning – the thrill of the crowd? Surely that’s worth any level of stress? “The fact is, there are times when you win games and the overwhelming feeling is more one of relief than any kind of joy in winning. It’s just relief, and that’s not a great emotion to be chasing,” MacDougall admits. As much as playing League has benefited him – providing a financial launching pad for his business career – MacDougall knows it took plenty away as well. “Playing League for 20 years, from age 17 to 37, I think that’s crazy now; running into people for 20 years, it’s not going to be good for your health, and every morning I’m reminded of my stupidity – I’ve had more than 25 operations, nine on my left knee alone,” he says. “But I enjoyed the suffering, and that’s something that all the top players had, the ability to enjoy suffering – it’s what makes the difference in the final few minutes, the lungs are suffering, you’re burning, but you’re willing to go a bit harder.
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
From left: Adam MacDougall and Andrew Johns of the Newcastle Knights after the NRL preliminary final against the Cronulla Sharks in 2001; Nathan Bracken bowling for Australia in a test match against the West Indies.
as well as writing self-help books, “and he told me: ‘You need a plan B’. That’s why my transition has been a lot easier – I didn’t allow League to define who I was as a person.” He agrees that those who struggle most are the people whose whole sense of self is attached to their sport. Or, as performance psychologist Phil Jauncey neatly puts it: “If all my life is, ‘I’m good at footy, therefore I’m a good person’, then if I’m no longer good at sport, that must mean I’m not a good person anymore. That’s where the depression kicks in.” MacDougall believes that kind of thinking puts professional footballers in “dangerous positions”. “I don’t think professional sport is very conducive to mental health,” says the now-Sydneysider. “It’s temporary yet high-wage employment, and it’s always uncertain. And there’s that constant pressure in the background, where you’re expected to perform every week. It’s a very stressful existence, I’d say it’s definitely one of the most stressful jobs there is.”
“As they say, if you want ordinary results you find ordinary people, for extraordinary results you find abnormal people. And with people like Ben Cousins and Andrew Johns, they’re extreme personality types; they’re willing to suffer, and they do everything at a million miles an hour, and often that undoes you, off the field. “Then there’s the lack of impulse control, the lack of anger management that you see in a lot of players, and the fact is, that’s encouraged in the game, that can serve you well, but it can be hard to turn that off after 20 years. I struggled with that, and I know some of my mates did as well.” It’s easy for MacDougall to list all the ways his body is now paying for the suffering he put it through – his push-until-you-vomit approach to training is something he now sees as “dysfunctional” – but he doesn’t like to complain. “Am I going to whinge now that I wake up and it feels like someone has kicked me in the back? No, there’s a cost for things in life,” he says with a shrug.
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MacDougall maintains a similar equanimity over the possibility, or what he sees as the certainty, that he will suffer from CTE (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy), a brain disease linked to repeated concussive blows to the head and most recently shoved into the public eye after AFL star ‘Polly’ Farmer’s brain was found, after his death, to be riddled with it. “I’m aware of the fact that I’ve got a damaged prefrontal cortex. I’m well aware that some of my mates, like James McManus and Andrew Johns, they’ve struggled with mental health,” he says. With some emotion, he recalls being knocked out, cold, four times in one match, with three of his tacklers cited for illegal high hits. Can he actually remember any of it? “I remember crying at half-time, not knowing where I was, or who I was, and they gave me some smelling salts, and a pat on the back and told me to get back out there,” he says, ruefully. “Players never want to be soft, you don’t want to let your mates down. That’s why professional athletes need to be protected from
home a reported $64m a year, tend to drag up the mean wage for basketball players, but it’s still a handy $12.2m a year on average. In the NFL, quarterbacks make around $9.1m, but the average salary for the men who play in that physically ruinous league is ‘only’ $1.7m. Footballers plying their trade in England average $6m a year. The most shocking figures, though, come from a compelling sports documentary called Broke, made by ESPN and featuring some hugely paid men talking about how they each managed to blow tens of millions of dollars. By the time they have been retired for two years, 78 per cent of NFL players are bankrupt or under financial stress. Within five years of retirement, an estimated 60 per cent of former NBA players are broke. And that’s for the big American leagues. Former Canterbury Bulldogs star Andrew Ryan – now the manager of player transition for the NRL – says there’s a huge misconception about how much money footballers are paid in Australia.
From left: Dan Vickerman of the Wallabies during a match between Australia and South Africa in 2006; Andrew Ryan of the Canterbury Bulldogs scoring a try in a match against the Penrith Panthers in 2010.
themselves. I’d go out and play, with these micro-concussions, and sometimes you’d be spacing out after every tackle, you’d have black spots in your eyes, but you’d just keep going.” For now, MacDougall stays fit, meditates, takes omega-3 supplements and regular saunas. His research tells him it might help, but he admits that he’s basically “just trying to put off what I know is waiting for me.” Mood swings, dementia and death are the three rotten pillars of CTE. Still the pull of that roaring crowd, those moments of glory, are hard to shut off. “You could ask League players, no matter where they’ve ended up, and 99 per cent would say they’d do it again,” he says. “I know I would.” BUT HANG ON. Aren’t all professional sportsmen stupendously rich? Doesn’t that soften the blow? And why would Nathan Bracken need a job packing shelves? The fact is, when we hear how much athletes earn, it tends to be all about the big numbers. NBA superstars like Steph Curry, who takes
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“When I first started, in 2000, I was holding down a job and playing, but I would have played for nothing, if I could have,” he says. “I would have done anything just to play one single minute of NRL, that’s how much I wanted it.” “We’re not on the huge wages like the Americans are. Guys aren’t buying Ferraris,” he adds. “I think players today would say they get paid well. But you’ve got to remember that the average career is 90 games, but the median player will play just 60 games, and 25 per cent of players will actually play 10 or less, because they just won’t make the cut. So even five years would be a pretty good career. “In terms of wages, the top five players in the game will earn more than the bottom half of players, combined. The minimum wage is $85,000, and that’s what a lot of the players are on, so the perception that they’re all out buying houses is very different to the reality.” The clue to how the NRL is approaching the problem is in Ryan’s title – transition manager – and the organisation also has a full-time welfare and education manager, Paul Heptonstall, whose goal is to
have the majority of players engaged in some form of training outside of football. While acknowledging there is a way to go to provide the necessary support for former players, Heptonstall says there has been some improvement in recent years. “We started with roughly 50 per cent of players being involved in something outside the game, back in 2012,” he explains. “Last year we hit 80 per cent and I’m confident with this break in this year’s competition we could hit 90 per cent.” Under the salary cap, clubs are allowed to pay players to take part in extracurricular activities, but getting agreement to do so took some doing. “To get the clubs on board we commissioned some research, which found that not only did those players who were engaged in something outside the game have longer careers, but of those players that weren’t engaged in anything, a quarter of them were being investigated by the Integrity Unit for off-field indiscretions,” Heptonstall says. “Only one per cent of the players who were being engaged had been investigated, so that was black-and-white, and the clubs quickly got on board.” Heptonstall says there’s a clear correlation between the players who become more rounded while playing and those who have a smoother transition to life after football, with fewer mental-health issues. “What drove us was the desire to see players retiring without losing their sense of purpose and losing their identity,” he adds. “The objective is not so much the percentage of players engaged, but more
That fall in social standing certainly hit Bracken, who “applied for every job under the sun” but was repeatedly told he didn’t have the experience necessary and that, as a 31-year-old, he was going up against 21-year-olds with better qualifications. Bracken had been bundled out of the game after his third knee operation, when the surgeon told him he’d be facing a full knee replacement if he didn’t stop. “It came down to a quality-of-life decision; continue to play or look after the rest of your life.” That knee injury also cost him his one chance at a big-bucks contract in the IPL that would have left him far better off, financially. The only job he held qualifications for, as a personal trainer, was also impossible because he couldn’t run anymore. “Bowlers don’t get bat-sponsorship deals, and no one was paying me money to wear their shoes,” he says matter-of-factly. “Some players get paid exceptionally well, but most are just in that middle bracket, and it’s not going to provide for you for the rest of your life. “I’ve seen a couple of boys doing surprising jobs since I finished. When you’re done, you’re done.” As Nathan’s wife, Haley Bracken, tells it, the biggest shock came when he asked his employers for help. “He went to see Cricket Australia to see whether they could cover his medical costs – and they basically said, ‘If you want anything from us, you’ll have to sue us’,” she recalls. The legal battle lasted five years, an indication of how vigorously it was fought by CA, which eventually settled out of court. Cricket Australia did not respond to requests for comment for this article.
PHOTOGRAPHY: GETTY IMAGES.
“WHAT DROVE US WAS THE DESIRE TO SEE PLAYERS RETIRING WITHOUT LOSING THEIR SENSE OF PURPOSE AND LOSING THEIR IDENTITY.” the culture of life-long learning and not being defined only as an athlete. When they retire, hopefully the players will still feel valued, with a skill set that will earn them success in their next vocation.” Of course, the NRL isn’t alone in introducing programs aimed at player support. Last year, the AFL appointed a head of mental health and wellbeing as well as a chief psychiatrist dedicated to working with “current and past male and female players, umpires, coaches and administration staff”, while Cricket Australia introduced a wellbeing education program after players highlighted mental health as their priority concern. The problems go back many years, of course, and in the early 2000s, a few ex-players, including the legendary Ron Coote, established a charity, Men of League, aimed at helping players who were doing it tough after hanging up their boots. The charity has provided $1.9m in financial support over the past two years, as well as social visits – many of them carried out by retired players who are better off – to the homes, aged-care facilities and hospitals where the afflicted retired players reside. MacDougall knows that football doesn’t provide the experience or many of the skills necessary to fit into the job market but says it’s the fall from grace, or greatness, that also hits players hard. “When you’re playing you’re at the top of the social hierarchy, you’re looked up to, but when you stop playing you fall down that order, fast,” he says. “I went to a private equity company to get some experience, straight out of footy, and I remember one of the blokes there asked me to go and get the coffees in, to make myself useful – it was a hard reminder; this is where you are now.”
In the meantime, Bracken became increasingly desperate, depressed and unable to leave the house, to the point where he was setting himself the simplest of goals: “just getting out of bed and making breakfast”. “I felt like a failure, I couldn’t provide for my family, I couldn’t get a job,” he says, his voice slowing with emotion. “If it wasn’t for my wife and my two boys… I remember I got up once in the middle of the night, and I was just sitting there alone, worrying, and my eldest came down and said, ‘What are you doing?’ And that just stopped me. He took my mind off things. “That probably saved me. Things could have ended very differently.” Finally, Bracken gratefully accepted a job with his father-in-law’s asphalt and construction business, even though he wasn’t physically able to get on the tools. “I’ll always wonder whether he actually needed me, or if he was doing me a favour,” he says. Five years later, he is now working with Boral Concrete in Newcastle, looking after their accounts. “I’m at a place now where at least I know who my friends are, the ones who were there for me when I really needed them, but they’re all people from outside cricket,” he says, with some bitterness. “I went two years where I didn’t hear from a single player. I’ve since had a couple of them who’ve come to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was that bad’, and others who say they’ve been through a similar thing.” It’s easy to imagine that being part of something as astonishing and exciting as our national cricket team would be a bond for life, membership of some sacred union of the worshipped and wondrously talented. Maybe we’re lucky we’ll never know what that’s really like, either. n
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Travel
Winter escape When the world returns to normal, rather than heading overseas, we make the case for staying local with an escape to the Tasmanian wilderness. After all, Aussie tourism could use the love right now. Words Jeremy Drake
Lake St Clair’s Pumphouse Point.
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P
eter Hayes is a legend in these parts of Tasmania. A fly-fishing maestro and casting champion, he sports the sort of grit and weathered grin you would expect from a man who spends his life on the water. As we drift along one of the tributaries of Lake St Clair in Tasmania’s central wilderness, mist rising off a glassy horizon, Hayes hands me a leather-wrapped hip flask filled with the finest local whiskey. I sip it like it’s my mother’s milk. “Fly-fishing is a real hunting activity,” he says with the seriousness of a hardened outdoorsman. “And I think there is still a certain percentage of the population who are hunter-gatherer types. It’s not OK to go out with a gun anymore and just kill stuff. But there’s the people who want to mountain-bike and ski, and there are also the people who want to fish.” I’m not sure if it’s the whiskey, the gentle rocking of our boat or my new love of fly-fishing that has my head in a spin. It could
be all three as I watch Hayes cradle a box of his handmade ‘flies’ in readiness for our next cast. Four days into a Tasmanian escape, my hands and nose are frozen, but my heart is warm and filled with the sort of joyful escapism and disconnectedness you would get if you were tucked away in a log cabin in the Alaskan wilderness or Scottish Highlands. But this is Tasmania in the wintertime. Just a one-hour flight from Melbourne, but an entire world away from your wildest winter imaginings. There’s no denying that tourism in Tasmania was on a stratospheric growth trajectory. Well, until the current crisis, that is. In the year ending September 2019, the state had over 1.1 million interstate visitors, up four per cent on the previous period. But what’s most astonishing is that it’s the September quarter that is growing the fastest. Visitation during last winter was the highest the state has ever enjoyed, according to the latest Tasmanian Visitor Survey.
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Travel
My Tourism Tasmania guide Jacob Fisher might be from a different generation to Hayes, but he sports the same boyish enthusiasm for his state and the outdoors – a trait endemic to just about every Tasmanian you meet west of the Derwent Bridge. And he proves the state’s sleepy reputation belies a destination with plenty on offer.
Festival season
“When I was growing up, winter was hibernation time in Tassie,” says Fisher. “You tucked yourself away and you emerged in spring to do all those things you love. But now it’s become this time when you can still stay quiet and inside, but it’s broken up by outdoor adventures and these spikes of festival activity, like Dark Mofo.” He’s referring to the Dark Mofo Winter Festival, the annual brainchild of local entrepreneur and MONA founder David Walsh. Although Walsh had to make the difficult decision to cancel the event this year due to the spread of COVID-19, both MONA and Dark Mofo have become not only permanent centrepieces of Tasmania’s tourism but also seedlings that have germinated a once dormant period in the state’s calendar. The Huon Valley Mid-Winter Fest is another of those “spikes of activity”, which kicks off with the burning of a two-storey wicker man, ‘Big Willie’. Lit by flaming arrow, it’s meant to symbolise the letting-go of negative energy. darkmofo.net.au; huonvalleymidwinterfest.com.au
Natural beauty
Back in the early ’80s, the wedge of pristine rainforest in south-west Tasmania, now known as Franklin-Gordon Wild Rivers National Park, was at the centre of one of Australia’s biggest political debates. Thanks to a High Court decision, it still remains untouched and is now a major drawcard for thousands of interstate visitors. After an Indiana Jones-ish traverse of the Franklin River’s iconic swinging bridge, Fisher walks me up to Nelson Falls and we stand together beneath the barrage of water that’s cascading into the rainforest. It is so icy
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cold it bites at our skin and runs so heavy that you can feel its collective energy gathered from further upstream. It’s this same energy that makes the Franklin River one of the most rafted destinations in the Southern Hemisphere. Rafting is certainly not a winter activity, however, so the Franklin River Rafting Company runs popular eight- to 10-day tours during the summer and autumn. parks.gov.tas.au; franklinriverrafting.com
A taste of luxury
Tasmanians are the kings of reinvention so it’s no wonder they’ve been able to take a period of the year where most people stay at home and turn feeling cold in front of the fire into a money-spinner. And if the Tassie locals are the masters, tourism entrepreneur Simon Currant is the undisputed emperor. His reimagination of an old hydroelectric pumphouse into a luxury boutique hotel is truly what dreams are made of. Sitting diminutively out in the heart of Lake St Clair like a delicately placed jewel, Pumphouse Point features 12 rooms and separate lounge areas, constantly warmed by open log fires and well-stocked honesty bars. pumphousepoint.com.au
Eat and drink
Food and wine act as the glue to any Tasmanian cold-season experience. They bookend the chilly days and help to personify the places you visit on the Apple Isle. There is a love for food here and its connection to place, the seasons and community that exists nowhere else in Australia. In 2008, Rodney Dunn and Séverine Demanet started The Agrarian Kitchen Cooking School & Farm to help bring this to life. Fast-forward a few years and their vision has grown into a truly authentic paddock-toplate eatery in New Norfolk. Fire and smoke wafts from the brick kitchen crevice at the rear of the room providing a lunchtime warmth, while the wide-open space, white walls and large windows are yet another classic Tasmanian reinvention of a space that was actually once the town’s old mental asylum. n theagrariankitchen.com
Clockwise from top left: fly-fishing at sunrise; The Agrarian Kitchen Eatery & Store; The ‘Swinging Bridge’ over the Franklin River, at the start of the Frenchmans Cap Trail; Dark MOFO; MONA; The Shorehouse, and The Retreat, both Pumphouse Point.
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Travel | Experience
W Brisbane
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GQ.COM.AU
WORDS: DAVID SMIEDT.
F
or a large chain – 55 properties and counting – W Hotels does a good job of maintaining an idiosyncratic feel that always errs on the right side of ‘zany’. Its new Brisbane property neighbours the buzzy revamped North Quay district and is easy strolling distance of the South Bank Arts Precinct. It’s also pet-friendly, which is handy if you or your fur baby happen to suffer from separation anxiety. Where many a W is known for its candlelit, dark-and-moody aesthetic, this one embraces Queensland’s inherent sunniness with open, light-drenched spaces daubed in pastel swirls and hints of timber blonder than a Gold Coast hairdresser. The motif extends to the rooms, which feature just-so touches of colour like the rose-shaded water glasses beside the sinuous black bathtubs. Like we say, it’s the little details that are the most striking. Bonus points for the aquamarine cabinetry that functions as the mini bar – it’s all very Austin Powers-meets-minimalism. If monochrome, breaststroke and classic movies are your holiday trifecta, check out the blackand-white Wet Deck pool area that features a roster curated by the team from Open Air Cinemas on Tuesday evenings. It’s not on year round but when it is, the experience is a memorable one. Food-wise, some of the team from Byron Bay’s famous Three Blue Ducks eateries have migrated north. Offering breakfast, lunch and dinner, this version of the iconic cafe acquits itself well over all three but we recommend the Expresso lunch, where $25 gets you a roasted cauliflower salad, pulled lamb burger, soba noodle salad or salmon pastrami with a beer or glass of wine. Up on level five, the Away spa is a neon-pop explosion that somehow still manages to be relaxing and offers a fine line in Sodashi and Skeyndor facials – as well as a dedicated men’s offering. There are also individual rain showers, aromatherapy steam rooms, relaxation pods and his-and-hers saunas. Yes, it’ll probably be a while before we all travel again, but when we do, you’ll know where to find us. Rates from $251 per night. marriott.com.au
GQ PROMOTION
DIRECTORY The modern man’s definitive guide to essential shopping and sophisticated style.
What’s inside counts Swiss watchmaker Oris’s Big Crown ProPilot X Calibre 115 balances the best of design and tech. When fully wound, the movement delivers up to 10 days of power, and is housed in a lightweight and durable titanium case. oris.ch
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This knit is the perfect layering piece to have on hand as the weather cools. It’s made from Verified Merino wool, meaning each fibre can be traced back to Australian farms. countryroad.com.au
Preferred carrier Whether you’re exploring the rugged outdoors or hanging out in the urban jungle, a Joeybag carries everything you need. Each crossbody bag is hand-crafted and comes with a unique ID number. joeybag.com.au
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Opposite: Saint Jhn onstage during his recent ‘Ignorant Forever’ tour; working out between tour dates.
The temple of Saint Jhn The mantra ‘live fast, die young’ is on the way out. In its place is a generation of musicians who embrace health and fitness as a core ingredient of success – a trend few embody more than Saint Jhn, hip-hop’s first rockstar athlete. Words Christopher Riley
PHOTOGRAPHY: JASON DENISON.
I
really wanna be great,” Saint Jhn tells us as we pull up to Sydney’s Metro Theatre ahead of his sold-out show in March. Dressed in pink sweatpants, a graphic white T-shirt, dark glasses and a pair of Nike ‘AirMax 97s’, the Brooklyn native looks out the window of the blacked-out SUV as if talking to himself. “Like, I really wanna be great,” he continues. “When they whisper ‘Saint Jhn’, I want you to think of the most legendary shit on the planet. Someone who broke the rules; who wrote his own script.” He turns to face us. “So,” he concludes matter of factly, “I’m willing to work for it.” It’s hard not to believe him. Charismatic would be an understatement for the
American (by way of Guyana), who is the sort of person tourists would approach for a picture based purely on the assumption he’s someone famous. Tall, his skin immaculately moisturised, his dreadlocks tinged with blond, he’s cut like an athlete but talks like an artist. It’s fair to say the 33-year-old has been putting in the work for some time now. First performing under his birth name, Carlos Saint John, in 2010, he released a string of EPs before working as a writer for other artists, scoring credits on Usher’s Hard II Love album in 2016. 2020, for all it may be a year the world wants to scratch from its memory, was when
things really started to take off for the singercum-rapper. Weeks after the Sydney show, he would score his first number-one with his song ‘Roses’. True to his ‘Ghetto Lenny’ nickname, Saint Jhn’s visual persona has an if-LennyKravitz-made-trap-music vibe – part rockstar, part ghetto fabulous. Musically, he blends rap, R&B and the songwriting sensibilities of pop music to create a sound that sits somewhere between The Weeknd and Kendrick Lamar. Though, if you talk to Saint Jhn, he’s just as likely to draw comparisons between himself and elite sports stars as he is to musicians. “I’m an athlete,” he tells us while approaching the
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“What happens if a speaker is off? You think the audience gives a fuck? They want a show. I have to figure out what happens if something happens?”
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venue. “This is my sport. You got to treat me like LeBron [ James]. You have to. I could literally come off stage and get a massage, an ice chamber, go to bed, prepare for the next one, and it would be appropriate considering the effort I’ve put in.” It’s probably a fair point, too. Saint Jhn approaches his shows like an athlete would any big game. There are no bottles of Hennessey lined up backstage – he doesn’t drink – and his rider consists of little more than fresh fruit and water. He’s calm but serious – like he has a job to do. And he’s thinking about everything, constantly reassessing his game plan and calling out ‘audibles’ – on-the-fly directions – like an NFL coach would, mid-match. “I picture it,” he says. “I visualise it. I walk in here, Tone [Antonio Tubbs, his manager] tells me how many steps, I’m looking at where the speakers are. I’m charting my path. No matter what my game plan, I’m planning to call audibles. What happens if a speaker is off? You think the audience gives a fuck? They want a show. I have to figure out what happens if something happens?” The question hangs for a moment before we’re interrupted. It’s game time. The Chanel sunglasses go on and Saint strides toward the stage like a man with purpose, launching straight into a version of ‘Wedding Day’ from his recent Ghetto Lenny’s Love Songs mixtape. The crowd, a sweaty mix of streetwear-laden teenagers, scream their appreciation in response. But something’s wrong. Having just swapped the pink sweatpants for a pair of custom-made leather trousers, Saint is having a wardrobe malfunction, the loose waistband fighting a losing battle against his energetic performance. The audience may not be able to tell, but backstage, it’s clear something’s up. After the third song ends, he quickly exits the stage. Time to call audibles. The leather pants come off and, still holding the mic, he slips into a pair of shorts his manager hands him. Before the audience knows what’s happened, he’s back onstage. The rest of the show goes off without a hitch. It’s a display of musical talent mixed
Opposite: Saint Jhn on tour wearing items from his Not a Cult clothing brand; signing posters ahead of his Sydney show.
with raw athleticism that’s tiring just to watch. The high-energy songs are complemented by jumps and kicks and to the slower ones, Saint sways his hips like a salsa dancer. By the final number, a rendition of ‘Trap’ featuring Atlanta’s Lil Baby, some of the front-row faithful look like they might pass out from exhaustion. After the show, we find Saint backstage sipping sparkling water. If he’s tired, he doesn’t show it. “I don’t know how to be comfortable,” he says of his work ethic. “Comfort is uncomfortable to me so I push myself to new places.” When he’s on tour, he saves his energy for his shows, but any break in his schedule means time in the gym. “If I’m in New York I go to Dogpound [boxing gym], if I’m in LA, I have a personal trainer so we’re doing CrossFit. “We’re doing three sets and three cycles, so we’re doing nine workouts in the course of an hour and in-between we’re doing half-mile sprints. I’m pushing myself to the point where I might throw up.” As for the diet, he leads a largely pescaterian lifestyle along with “smoothies post show, smoothies in the morning, eggs, avocados and lots of fruit”. In other words, the shredded physique and onstage energy should hardly come as a surprise. Of course, Saint Jhn is not the only hip-hop artist applying himself with the rigour of an athlete. Since the rise of streaming services took away the revenue that album sales used to provide, artists have had to focus more on making their live shows as epic as possible. Travis Scott, for example, has ridden a wave of success based as much on his musical talent as the viral footage of his wild, unruly shows – featuring mosh pits, stage diving and, in the case of a notorious 2017 gig in Arkansas, such mayhem the artist was arrested for “inciting a riot” – that evidently provoke the biggest cases of FOMO among young fans. But it’s not just the growing emphasis on live shows that has led the current generation of artists to take their health more seriously. In the last few years alone, the hip-hop world has mourned the loss of a significant number of artists, some as a result of murder, but even more from drugs. Popular rappers Lil Peep,
“When I’m off tour, if I’m in New York I go to Dogpound [boxing gym], if I’m in LA, we’re doing CrossFit... I push myself to the point where I might throw up.” Mac Miller and Juice Wrld each passed away from overdoses in the past three years, and all before their 27th birthdays. Meanwhile, the past few years have seen a quiet rise in the number of high-profile rappers dedicating themselves to healthy lifestyles in the hope of avoiding the same fate. Florida’s Rick Ross, who has suffered multiple seizures in the past, took to CrossFit – or RossFit as he calls it – and was able to shed a rumoured 65kg. In his memoir, Hurricanes, Ross explained the need to change his life around after being put on life support following a 2018 seizure. “This was nothing that was ever really on my bucket list,” he writes, “but after waking
up in the hospital… My mother, my family, my best friends, we just reminisced on how far we came… everything we’ve accomplished.” We ask if this sort of thing plays on the mind of Saint Jhn, who’s not only sober but steers clear of drugs, bar the occasional edible. As if in recognition of the severity of the issue, he pauses and asks for the door to be closed so we can have some quiet. “Yeah, I saw the pitfalls,” he says, turning serious. “You’ve seen this movie before. And you’ve seen the way it ends. So I’m betting on a different ending. I’m betting I’m here for a really long time.” n
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Fully charged
An EV with emotion? The Mini Electric aims to bring nostalgia and heritage into the future. Words Noelle Faulkner
E
verybody loves an underdog. We see it in sport, culture, politics – hell, even at the Academy Awards. We just can’t help but root for the Davids fighting Goliaths. Psychologists will tell you it’s because we get more pleasure out of unexpected successes. But maybe it’s also that we respect adaptability, innovation, and admire grit. Either way, there is a reason why the humble Mini has survived all these years as an icon. Because, at its very core, it has always been the little car that could. Scratched onto a tablecloth in 1956 by Morris engineer Sir Alec Issigonis and put into production in 1959, the Mini was a solution to European fuel shortages caused by the Suez Oil Crisis. At the time, the British Motor
inspired the transverse engine to become what it is today, it also had emotion, style, comfort and practicality in spades, going on to become an enduring, trophy-winning cultural icon. In a few months, almost 61 years after the bug-eyed British box first rolled off the production line, a fully electric variant will arrive in Australia. Produced in the brand’s historic Oxford plant and borrowing the synchronous 135kW/270NM-producing motor from its Bavarian cousin the BMW ‘i3’, the Mini ‘SE’ (its variant name) possesses all the characteristics of its ancestors. It has a low centre of gravity, a dynamic front-wheel-drive system with spritely acceleration (0-100km/h in 7.3 seconds), razor-sharp agility and the
Yes, it hits 100km/hour in an impressive 7.3 seconds, but it’s design touches like the lemon side-view mirrors that catch the eye.
Company needed a car that was small, fuelefficient, family-friendly and of-the-moment. While the rest of Europe was making squashy ‘bubble cars’, Issigonis’ bold design was based on a highly simplistic, boxy frame that could be easily manufactured, fitted four adults comfortably and was engineered to be a wellbalanced, thrilling thing to drive. His secret? A 90-degree rotation of the engine and shift of the mechanical guts and front-wheel-drive system. Sir Alec’s Mini not only served as an economical solution and single-handedly
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smugness of a niche underdog. Does it feel every part like a Mini Cooper? Yes, just without the noise. Being a ‘conversation car’, not a new generation model (it is underpinned by the same BMW UKL1 platform as the ‘Cooper’), it’s been engineered so the 32.6kWh battery doesn’t impact space or feel. The compromise resulted in a modest range of 235 to 270kms, but also meant charging from 0 to 80 per cent takes just 35 minutes on a 50kW DC supercharger, around an hour and a half on a
regular 22kW public charger and three and a half to full charge on an 11kW Mini Electric wallbox for the home. As for price, Mini International told GQ the ‘SE’ will be globally positioned between its three-door siblings. This places it at around $35k-47k in Australia, making it one of the cheapest and most urbanfriendly EVs on the market. The biggest cry from EV-haters is the demise of car culture, as if removing internal combustion dilutes everything the automobile stands for. It’s true that rarely do new cars bring as much joy as the fuzzy charm of their vintage counterparts. And many marques still chase the idea of nostalgia. Look at the Porsche ‘911’, Ford ‘Mustang’, Nissan ‘GTR’,
cent of all Mini sales are already electrified,” says Mini’s head of communications, Andreas Lampka. “But our other mission is to emotionalise electro-mobility – and we’re the only brand I can think of that can.” Lampka admits Porsche’s ‘Taycan’ and the Honda ‘E’ also share this desire. “But the ‘Taycan’ is a different proposition and the Honda ‘E’ doesn’t have the same emotional appeal. And all other electric cars are boring!” he says with a laugh. This is where the benefits of a powerful parent like BMW kick in – the ‘SE’ only exists because it can piggyback on the accomplishments of the critically acclaimed but stylistically polarising BMW ‘i3’. “No one
Two-tone paintwork, an ‘E’ for electric on the plug point and cross-hatched leather seating are just some of the Mini’s subtle, stylish new details.
Toyota ‘Supra’, Alpine ‘A110’, Suzuki ‘Jimny’ or the Fiat ‘500’ for example. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to marry the way we feel about the cars that mean something to us with our eco-responsibility. Hans Zimmer can use all the synths in the world to create an engine sound for BMW, as he has been enlisted to do, but digital and analog are oil and water. Alas, stirring this pot is the aim of the Mini Electric. “We want to bring electro-mobility forward, and with the plug-in hybrid ‘Countryman’ [launched last year], five per
is going to argue that the ‘i3’ is unreliable or not a well-done car.” Lampka says with a smile. “[The Mini] is, perhaps, a car for someone who thinks that the ‘i3’ is good, but a bit… ugly.” It’s not the first to normalise the EV – that accolade goes to the Nissan ‘Leaf’, which has all the trappings of a “normal” small car. But Mini has a knack for capturing the zeitgeist. In the ’60s, it was a fashion icon and a racing tour-de-force on every surface. It was classdiffusing, loved and embraced by celebrities (like The Beatles and Princess Margaret),
“No one is going to argue that the ‘i3’ is not a welldone car. [The Mini] is, perhaps, a car for someone who thinks that the ‘i3’ is good, but a bit… ugly.” GQ.COM.AU
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youth culture, racing engineers and families alike. During its revival in the early ’00s by BMW, Mini aligned with culture’s cool-Britannia obsession and fashion’s desire for individuality. And today it occupies a happy place between premium and consumer, style and functionality, and eco and driving thrills. “Mini started as a solution to a problem,” says Lampka. “If Alec could have engineered an electric car, he would have.” Charlie Cooper, the grandson of John Cooper – the motorsport legend behind the Mini’s racing successes – agrees. Electric powertrains were a matter of when, not if, and converting old Minis into EVs is a subculture that exists already.
“Seeing the Mini go electric would have been a natural progression for what [Cooper] would be doing, had he been around today.” “Seeing the Mini go electric would have been a natural progression for what [Cooper] would be doing, had he been around today,” he says. “I have no doubt he would be involved in something like this.” With all the torque and immediacy electric powertrains offer, the mind wonders what a John Cooper Works performance variant would produce. “Why not?” says Lampka with a coy shrug. We will have to wait for a new platform architecture, but there is hope
that the spirit of the Mini Cooper’s speedy heritage is not lost with the demise of the petrol engine. As the industry faces a dark and possibly turbulent future, the Mini Electric, merely by existing, prevents another automotive icon’s nostalgic light from going out. This won’t be the last legacy brand we see put up a fight to survive, but it’s certainly nothing new for the little car that could. n The Mini ‘SE’ will arrive in Australia in July.
A brief look back at key moments in the Mini legacy
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The Columnist
DAN ROOKWOOD on
What can be learned from lockdown H
ow many times this year have you said the phrase, ‘When things get back to normal’? But what if normal isn’t coming back? What if this Black Mirror dystopia is the new normal? COVID-19 has triggered the fastest, most dramatic societal upheaval since… well, for many Australians, the recent bushfires. But in global terms, it’s the biggest crisis since World War II and will definitively go down in history as such. Not to diminish the tragedy of this disease and its ripple effect of devastation, but there’s a school of thought that says such a pandemic represents an opportunity for a system reset, a once-in-a-lifetime catalyst to remake society for a brighter future. At the time of writing, much of the world is in lockdown, who knows for how long. Ever the optimist, I’ve given the potential long-term effects some thought – hey, I’ve had some time on my scrubbed-raw hands since I completed Netflix and Marie Kondo’d the entire house. So, post-virus, here’s what else might spread globally. First of all, g’day. I’m in the new and still unfamiliar habit of striking up neighbourly conversations – albeit still from a safe distance. I’d never even met the family across the street before. Turns out a pandemic is quite the ice-breaker. Our street is in a WhatsApp group now. Maybe this heightened sense of empathy and community will stick – perhaps we’ll smile, wave, even say hello rather than studiously avoid eye contact. No offence but I’d rather not shake your hand though. In fact, maybe we’ll wave goodbye to the humble handshake – a customary greeting that in times past was a sign of trust (‘Look! No sword!’) but is now the most common way of palming off infection. Attitudes towards public health, and investment in it, will improve. The handwashing ritual will continue. Phone, wallet, keys… and hand sanitiser – we won’t leave home without it, once we’re actually allowed to leave home. From taps to soap dispensers to doors and elevator buttons… pretty soon everything will be contactless technology. It won’t be unusual anymore to see people wearing masks and gloves, especially on public transport. Working from home, we now know how many of those meetings could indeed have been emails, and how many of those business trips could have been video calls. For those who are usually office-based, the WFH experience should usher in more of a relaxed, flexible working culture. And dress code. And daytime drinking rules. You’ll also have noticed that working out from home is very much A Thing. Running – the safest way to actually leave home for some solitary head-clearing, soul-calming exercise – is enjoying a renaissance (a ‘runaissance’?). As I write these words, my wife is doing an online yoga class in the living room. Namaste at home. Some of the effects of the lockdown will take some time to appear. Like nine months. Love in the Time of Corona = a baby boom around Christmas. Meanwhile, if Shakespeare banged out King Lear while quarantining from the plague, there should be some pretty spectacular creative output resulting from this. I’ve learned three chords on the guitar so expect the album to drop in 2021. Despite the enforced isolation of recent weeks, many of us have experienced a sense of togetherness. Kindness is contagious in a crisis. Truly the worst of times brings out the best in people. As well as a lot of memes, As I write these Instagram challenges and GoFundMe requests. words, my wife Perhaps most importantly, we’re all taking a breath, and we’re breathing in less polluted air due to reductions is doing an online in emissions from travel and industry. This pandemic is an yoga class in inflection point for that other global crisis, the slower one with the living room. even higher stakes, which remains the backdrop against which Namaste at home. this new normal will now play out.
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