Mini Mag by Geeked Magazine

for articles other than the ones printed in the magazine and also those which cover pressing matters that cannot wait for a quarterly publication. www.wegeekedthis.com

Editors' letter

Dear Geeks, Welcome to the first official GEEKED publication! We can’t tell you how very excited we are to be up and running. We’re so excited, in fact, that we couldn’t keep our mouths shut any longer; we’re letting our band of artists, writers and illustrators loose early!! Thanks to all of your support, and the hard work of our contributors, we are happy to give you the GEEKED Mini-Magazine. In this issue of the Mini-Mag, you will find a little taste of all things GEEKED. Our magazine is an illustration-led quarterly publication with an urban feminist slant on art, culture and gender. While this little online ‘zinelet in no way represents all of our interests, we hope that it serves to whet your appetite for the full course, served up on November 19th. Also, because it’s October, we’re celebrating all things autumnal in this Mini-Mag. We’ve got Halloween fashion tips, spine-tingling flash fiction, delicious Day of the Dead recipes and more. And check out our gallery reviews for hot exhibitions open NOW. We hope you enjoy this smidgeon of GEEKED! We think that once you sink your fangs in, you’ll be craving more. We’re still brewing up the whole Mag, but come November 19th, we’ll be rolling out a FEAST! With Spooks and Kisses, Sof & Sam xxx

A Great Feast of Languages: My Summer at the Globe text and photos by Anna Malzy

“They have been at a great feast of languages…” Love’s Labour’s Lost, V.i As with most armchair sports fans, I can sum up my feelings towards the Olympic Games with one word: “meh”. Yes, I get it’s a great sporting event and that it’s being held in London is something to be proud of, but I can’t say that massive crowds, delays, overheating trains and those terrifying mascots inspire all that much pride in me. However there is one aspect of the Olympics I am absolutely jubilant about and would welcome the Games back to London year on year if only for this one thing – the World Shakespeare Festival. Beginning on that oh so meaningful date the 23rd April (Shakespeare’s birth and death day), this is set to be the biggest celebration of Shakespeare ever staged, with thousands of performances going on from the main stage in Stratford, to small guerilla groups out and about on commuter trains. Part of the Cultural Olympiad, the thinking person’s side to the Games, an ambitious program of events has been planned in order to showcase our greatest playwright and make a pretty damn good case for the arts being just as important as sports, and deserving of just as much funding, thank you very much [insert name of narrow-minded, illiberal, white, upper class, male, conservative politician]. One of the most engaging aspects of the WSF was the Globe to Globe Festival, running from the hallowed ground of The Globe Theatre on London’s South Bank from April to June. The festival saw all 37* of Shakespeare’s plays performed by 37 different companies in – and this is the best part – 37 different languages. From Armenian, British Sign Language and Cantonese, to Urdu, Yoruba and Zulu, 600 players from around the world poured in to tread the boards for a couple of afternoons each, and offer unique interpretations of these astonishing plays. Despite receiving absolutely no state funding The Globe retains their standing ‘groundling’ tickets at a student-friendly fiver, so with a chance to see 8 plays for the price of 1 West End show, I booked as many tickets as I could and waited in earnest.

Now, a disclaimer. Whilst I speak English pretty well, have a smattering of French and even less Sinhala, I am not what one could call multilingual. Not even bilingual really. So what on earth would possess me to see, for example, Cymbeline in Juba Arabic – a fairly obscure play, hard enough to understand in English – in a language I would struggle to order coffee in? Well, there are several reasons, the first and foremost of which is – I love Shakespeare. I am an out and out fanatic. I have lines from the plays written up on my wall. I read them whenever I can. My friends made me a cake in the shape of Shakespeare’s head for my birthday. I’ve got it bad. And what I detest, when it comes to Shakespeare, is purists telling people how challenging and demanding he is; that one can only really understand The Bard if one has shut oneself away, ashram-style, for at least 50 years doing nothing but reading and wrestling with the text, until one emerges triumphant, having divined the inner workings of the greatest mind to ever put quill and ink to paper. Thankfully such people seem to be a dying breed. Nonetheless there exist those who would wish Shakespeare to be locked up in a museum, only to be touched with white gloves and god forbid you do anything innovative or slightly different when putting on a play! The great thing about a place like The Globe is that there is little or no room for narrow-minded navel gazing, especially not if you’re a groundling standing in the open air. With a stage jutting out into a crowd of (usually) wet but nonetheless high-spirited punters, who liberally park their bags, programs, drinks and limbs around the edges of the stage, the experience of watching a play in that space is one of bare-faced equality. The walls between audience and players are broken down as each interacts with one another – players mingling with groundlings; groundlings being brought onto the stage. Performers must conjure and beguile a Globe audience in a totally different way to audiences in dark traditional theatres, and in turn they are rewarded with cheers, laughter and applause – especially when they deliver speeches in the pouring rain.

Initially, I recognised how important it was that companies from all over the world were performing these plays, rather than UK companies delivering translations. This meant that there was a kind of giddy freedom evident in each interpretation. For people in Belarus or Turkey or Japan, Shakespeare is a source of inspiration but he isn’t revered in the same way as he sometimes is here. I don’t mean to say there was less respect in the performances – each company seemed to engage with the plays very deeply – but there certainly seemed to be less fear. Last year I directed an all female version of Macbeth. Not too groundbreaking I know, but even the move towards exploring the issue of gender in that small way made me feel that I was doing something a bit taboo, a bit risqué. Cut to The Kochanowski Theatre’s version of Macbeth at the beginning of May, which featured cross-dressing, orgies, and drag queen weird sisters who ended the show with a rousing chorus of I Will Survive. Fearless.

It might seem that, in a country where the native abroad has a reputation for just shouting a bit louder to be understood, and where the theatre is largely thought to be a white, middle class pursuit, a festival presenting the Bard’s work in 37 different languages was a mad, crazed, 3am idea. Mad and crazed it was – and absolutely brilliant. I was fortunate enough to be able to attend several of the performances and was struck by several things.

I then realised, as I got used to watching plays in languages I’d never heard before, was that it absolutely didn’t matter a flying iamb whether one understood the words or not. To be honest, it can be tough enough when the play is in English to understand why he just murdered that guy or if she is related to the donkey or if that’s a ghost or not. If someone has a story to tell, and tells it with passion, then as like as not you’ll get the feel

for what is going on. Two boards on either side of the stage provided passing plot pointers (often hilariously in the wrong order) and whilst these were useful for the occasional clarification, as often as not I found myself too engaged with the plays to look away. Of course there are a couple of pit falls to not speaking the language being spoken on stage. Relationships between characters were often difficult to figure out unless one knew what is going on. It was also a little disconcerting when, as seemed to happen every few minutes during Twelfth Night, the Hindi speakers in the audience erupted into raucous laughter leaving my sister and I looking more than a little perplexed. I noticed things I would not normally have considered had been focusing on the language. Aspects such as the set, the movement and the costumes were suddenly of equal importance to the plot in my mind as I looked to them in order to try to decipher the story or characters. The most memorable design element for me, which, as someone about to undertake a Masters in Gender will stay with me forever, was from Much Ado About Nothing, a screamingly funny comedy where the protagonists Beatrice and Benedick were dressed in tweed slacks and a pink kilt respectively.

met at a couple of plays told me that she was well into her 80s, didn’t speak a word of another language and had come to see how different cultures designed and staged plays. The Globe to Globe Festival felt like one great big melting pot of languages and ideas. I don’t think I will ever see the storm scene from King Lear performed as movingly as it was by the Belarus Free Theatre, a company who, in order to avoid persecution and censorship, have to rehearse in secret; nor, mid-show, be handed a shot of vodka by cross-dressing witches invoking the Fates in Polish; nor believe so fully that Othello is the leader of a hip hop gang, driven mad with jealously by rival rappers. It all makes sense now. The Globe to Globe Festival was a joyous celebration of the diversity that makes up London, and the greatness of a playwright like Shakespeare, whose work enables people from all over the world to find a way to tell and re tell his stories of love, jealousy, anger, compassion, loyalty and ambition – universal emotions from the world’s writer. G *the total number is a subject of (slightly dull) debate

A feature like this is a rather blatant clue about what the players were trying to tell us about the characters, and it was obvious that some of the companies (especially those presenting the comedies) were very aware that possibly the majority of the audience could not understand them, and would therefore need a bit more help with the (often very convoluted) plots. However, this did nothing to diminish the plays but rather enhanced the feeling that all of us – players and audience – were in this together, helping one another along. Above all it felt as though the Globe to Globe Festival made Shakespeare accessible in a completely new way. What with London being such a multi-lingual place I have no doubt that there were many who attended a Shakespeare play for the first time this summer, charmed by the fact that there was a show playing in their own language in the city they live in. It also taught me that, if I can get a pretty good grasp of Antony and Cleopatra, having never seen the play before and hearing it for the first time in Turkish, understanding it in my mother tongue shouldn’t be too daunting a task. I met several people at each performance who, like me, were just curious to see what it was like to watch a play in a new language, and being from the School of Oriental and African Studies several friends saw it as a great excuse for so-called ‘creative revision’. One woman I

Queering Antony Hegarty:

Music, Media, and Transgender Identities ‘It occurred to me in the last year that people can more easily imagine the apocalypse that religions have been telling their members of choice for the last 2000 years, than they can imagine the subtle shift in our systems of governance towards more feminist systems.’ Antony Hegarty Text Agnė Bagočiūtė Illustrations Jessi Finn

Writing about Antony Hegarty, lead singer of Ant-

ony and the Johnsons and the most recent curator the 2012 Southbank Centre Meltdown Festival, is a difficult task for me because he is truly my favorite artist. He has inspired and fascinated me ever since I discovered his art. Needless to say, I wish to do him as much justice as possible, particularly because I am writing about the transgender aspect of his identity. I am myself a queer and a lesbian who does not identify as transgender, but who definitely struggles with the gender binary and with situating myself within it. Even identifying as a woman always seemed rather artificial, and I never knew what it was like to be, or to feel like a woman. For the moment, though, I can say I am a woman - at least, identifying myself as one serves my political interests as a feminist. I think it is important to point out the obvious - as Antony says, he is not the spokesperson for the whole transgender community, and neither am I. My intentions are not to provide overly generalized comments about the transgender community, nor about the ways in which Hegarty fits into that space. Instead I am fully aware of, and acknowledge, that my vision of Antony Hegarty is a projection created through mixing my own queer experience with what I believe his to be. More precisely, I want to look at what Antony has to say about himself, and at how becoming a mainstream artist can provide a platform to speak out about feminist and queer ideas. Antony Hegarty comes from a heavily stigmatized community; in New York in the 90s, the transgender community was marked by the deaths of AIDS sufferers. As Antony put it in one interview, he was literally

‘...camping on the graves of all those queens who had died.’ Antony and the Johnsons actually named themselves after the famous transgender activist Marsha P Johnson, who participated in the Stonewall riots, survived several attempts on her life, was arrested over a hundred times, and was eventually found dead in the Hudson river. Antony’s biography is full of loss, pain, transgression, and desires of transformation. After hearing Antony and the Johnsons, one listener said that despite the utter beauty of his music, it was too painful to enjoy. Truly, Antony’s emotional vibrato is enough to shake you to the core. When such a voice begins to sing about deeply personal and painful experiences, such as violent deaths within the transgender community, abusive relationships, confusion about one’s place in the gender binary, or a sense of absolute loneliness and abandonment, listening can almost seem like an obstacle. No doubt, Hegarty’s music explores the darker and subtler corners of our lives. However, after two albums (Antony and the Johnsons and I am a Bird Now), the themes of Antony’s music became increasingly politicised, his attention turning from reflecting on his own experience to conveying important messages related to transgender identity, the collapse of ecological systems, and the need for the intervention of feminism. Antony’s appearance, voice, art, and personality are all usually described as eccentric, strange, dark, androgynous, or otherworldly. Although these epithets may not necessarily have a negative connotation, they are frequently part of the vocabulary of exclusion: Hegarty is listened to not because he should be heard, but merely because what he says appears anomalous and therefore substantiates the

‘eccentric’ characterisation. This in turn allows interviewers, and some readers, to write off Antony’s words as bizarre or abnormal, and therefore to ignore or overlook the gravity and meaning of his message. Antony has several times expressed his disappointment with the media and the way he is portrayed in it, especially regarding the ways in which transgender identity is approached. Often, media representations of the transgender experience verge on the offensive, showing a shocking degree of ignorance on the subject. These offensive pieces and unethical editing practises — employed to attract readers — illustrate how superficial are the changes in popular social consciousness regarding equality for LGBTQI communities. Although civil rights are slowly being won, media portrayals like those of Hegarty exemplify the lingering expectations for transgender people to comply to heterosexual norms, and thereby often affirm social power structures which engender exclusion. In other words, even when legal rights are granted to a group of people, these people can still suffer inferior status within the hierarchy of heteronormative systems of gender, so we effectively achieve no substantial change. I would argue that this is a primary cause of the uneasiness felt by so many homosexual and transgender people regarding their lack or excess of ‘true’ femininity or masculinity. In some of his interviews, Antony expresses concern about lesbian and gay communities being tempted to find comfort in mainstream ideologies, believing that our goals end with gaining the rights to marriage and adoption. These concerns are perhaps contradicted by inaccurate representations in the media, which often portray Antony from a position of heteronormative superiority, where the radical aspect of queerness meets with the commodification and fetishization of celebrity, thereby normalizing — in some ways — Hegarty’s position as a member of the counterculture. As a result, we might wonder whether it’s possible to be a successful mainstream artist and retain your queerness without it being turned into yet another product for sale in a capitalist consumerist society. I think Antony Hegarty is a fine example of maintaining such a balance. Antony’s transgender identity in the media is often primitively reduced to questions about his sexual organs, while themes that are important to him are touched upon only with irony and seeming discomfort from interviewers. Antony’s reluctance to clearly demarcate the borders of his identity, or to conform to the popular image of a transgendered person, is what leads some to perceive him as an otherworldly impenetrable figure or an exotic other. Despite realising that he is very likely to be misrepresented, Antony continues to speak openly

about his subjects of interest and to engage people in dialogue on feminist ideas. For Antony, being transgender does not necessarily have anything to do with surgically changing one’s sex. As he explains it, for him it is more a ‘condition of the spirit’, in which you feel more aligned with what’s supposed to be the opposite sex, and find yourself drawn to activities and interests more associated with the opposite sex. Sometimes he refers to himself as a ‘two-spirit’ person – a concept which comes from Native American cultures with less restrictive and more inclusive gender systems than those of the Christian world, which allowed for third (and in some cases even more) genders for people to identify with. In a recent speech titled ‘Future Feminism’, Antony talks about himself as a witch. According to him, a witch is what every transgendered person is born as. In Native American cultures, ‘two-spirit’ people were usually shamans, witches or spiritual leaders, while in the Christian world the witch tends to be a symbol of persecution and of the destruction of women by ruling religious institutions. This is not to say that Antony Hegarty is blindly mimicking aspects of Native American culture, but his utilisation of tropes like the witch is a clear protest against institutions that like to have a statistical majority of followers at the expense of difference and plurality. In adopting this strategy, I think Antony is fulfilling the difficult task of finding, exploring and demonstrating a positive, cross-cultural identity, one available even to those who have historically been defined solely in negative terms. By identifying as a transgender, two-spirit witch, Antony merges existing and available vocabularies with his very private experience as a transgendered person to create a unique perspective on himself, as well as to show young queer people that they should respect themselves for who they are. For Hegarty, queerness is not problematic because of individual desires, identities, bodies or gender expressions; the problem is with how society perceives these desires, bodies and genders. Antony often talks about how queer children are different and special, how much potential they hold, what gifts they have, and how at the same time they suffer and feel cursed. When asked about his personal childhood experiences of coming to terms with being transgender, Hegarty starts a sentence, pauses, and then explains that he’d rather not talk about it. To me, this pause, the unfinished sentence and refusal to touch the subject, is probably more explanation than anything he would have said. In this silence rest memories of lost voices; those who could not bear living in constant rejection and chose suicide; those, who were beaten up - sometimes to death; those who have tried to get rid of

internalised guilt and shame but never quite succeeded; those who were so terrified of themselves that they had to deny their innermost feelings and choose constant denial. This gap — the one in Hegarty’s speech - contains the sense of being lost when you are growing up; it expresses the impossibility of being able to conceptualise your experiences because you have no vocabulary to describe what you are going through; and it describes why you keep feeling that you are somehow very different from those who surround you. Even when you begin to grasp that difference, when certain words enter your world and become markers of ‘you’, you are suddenly faced with the realisation that the only place that society has for you is in the margins. The very words you have just found, that you finally feel resonating with your very life, are the same words that render you other. You are faced with the realisation that your experience either doesn’t count or counts only as an example of failure, disease, sickness, eccentricity; an example of what people shouldn’t be. But you also know, despite your mixed feelings of joy, shame, guilt, disgust and pride, that you cannot and will not dismiss who you feel you are. You have to find a way to communicate with the centre from

the margins. You start to understand that you will have to constantly explain yourself and defend your right to deviate from the ‘norm’. In that gap, there’s a sense of initial confusion and helplessness: when you have no idea how to explain yourself while talking to those who cannot or will not let new vocabularies enter their lives, or those who will insist on the removal of your difference for the sake of assimilating you into their thinking systems and making you ‘like them’. Not to mention the shifting explanations within your own mind which you constantly update and deal with by recreating yourself. You adjust your sense of self with fresh experiences and flashes of inspiration that shake the seemingly solid foundations of what you thought was your essence. Antony Hegarty’s life and artistic career may not provide all the answers and formulae to questions about queer existence, but those who inspire us are not there to be mimicked. They are here to offer a thought, a gesture, a moment of silence that we can take in, ‘recycle’ and turn into our own unique practice. G

PUSSY RIOT and the rise of the female activist TEXT BY HIMALI DAVE + ILLUSTRATIONS BY LIANNE HARRISON

“Patriarch Gundyaev believes in Putin Bitch, better believe in God instead The belt of the Virgin can’t replace mass-meetings Mary, Mother of God, is with us in protest!”

This is just one of many provocative verses from the punk-prayer “Virgin Mary, Put Putin Away” by feminist-punk collective Pussy Riot, who has had the Russian government in a political fix for the best part of this year. Performing on 21st February, on the altar of Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ Our Saviour, three members of the group were promptly arrested an hour into their act under charges of hooliganism through the incitement of religious hatred, and sentenced to 2 years imprisonment on 17th August in a verdict which impressively took judge Marina Syrova three hours to deliver. This dubious incarceration of Maria Alekhina, Yekaterina Samutsevich and Nadezhda Tolokonnikova has escalated into one of the most high profile trials to emerge from the former Soviet Union in recent years, steadily becoming a heady global issue. Once again the international gaze has been brought to a sharp focus on the charming Vlad. Putin, a continually circumspect Russian government and the lingering ties between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Kremlin (the aforementioned reference to ‘Patriarch Gundyaev’ concerns a Russian Orthodox Bishop who openly supported Vladimir Putin in the run up to the presidential elections earlier this year).

Aside from migrane-inducing outfits involving brightly coloured balaclavas reminiscent of Mexican Luchadores (without the impressively cultivated facial/body hair, over-zealously oiled, glistening bodies and obligatory paunch) it seems incredible that an angry-punk-rock-feminist-performance-art-collective has thus shaken the Russian political system. One of the reasons for this is that their suspiciously swift detainment and prosecution – a speedy turnover of less than seven months – has been hugely disproportionate to the act committed. And secondly, this incredibly one-sided trial prompting comparisons to Soviet era ‘Show Trials’, has inadvertently exposed the continuing corruption and discrepancies within the Russian political and judicial systems, as well as provided an international platform for these women to voice their views. The trial of Pussy Riot has merely advanced the women’s concerted attack on Putin, Russian society and the inherent corruption in Russian politics, a cause that has been pushed into the global spotlight and furthered through both conventional and social media. Pussy Riot have done more than merely expressing a ‘feminist’ agenda, but have temporarily lifted the veil on

Russian society and the political system. What emerges from this is that feminist discourse, or the ‘female question’, does not just concern ‘women’s issues’, but in fact impacts society as a whole; the quest for female empowerment and equality is not just a feminist issue, but ultimately a social one. “But that’s not Feminism!!”, the bra-burners cry! And no, they would be right, this is not feminism in the trite sense of the word. Looking at Feminism through the lens of female activists opens up the possibility of viewing Feminism as a transnational, social movement, as well as the reluctant notion that feminist discourse does not solely concern women. Obviously female empowerment manifests differently according to different cultures; in the case of Pussy Riot, their core punk-rock-feminist principles of a ‘non-standard female image’ is strongly connected to their vehement anti-Putin Russian sensibilities. We can see a different kind of female empowerment manifesting in third-world countries through development programmes such as micro-credit and micro-financing schemes, illustrated by the success of the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh in the 70s and 80s. Starting out as small loans given exclusively to men to set up their own businesses, the Grameen bank soon included women, who delivered higher returns. Not only were there obvious pecuniary benefits from this investment for women, but the independence and self worth gained from employment, removed from any dependency on a husband/son figure saw the emergence of a strong, self-reliant female identity within a mainly patriarchal society. As a result of these successes, current international financial development programmes target mainly women in developing countries, for example in the African subcontinent. This is clearly a feminist issue addressing ‘women’s rights’ in developing countries, but the act of becoming self-employed subverts and redresses societal norms as a whole, albeit on an extremely local level. Even though this may not actively express any kind of political agenda, these women can be still seen as activists through the sheer act of changing – or attempting to change – their society. Conversely, the Arab Spring was a hugely politically motivated movement in which the images of supposedly meek and voiceless Arab women standing and protesting alongside men, marching through Tahrir Square

ed sentence means that the slightest bureaucratic violation could signal a return to jail. In addition, this slight concession on behalf of the Putin-Kremlin political machine, as well as the somewhat muted response in Russia from all quarters, suggests that the two-year jail term of Alekhina and Tolokonnikova - to be served in a prison colony - will not be altered. But the actions of these women, in particular Samutsevich’s assertion to use her newly acquired freedom to resume her protests against Putin, show that the small possibility to effect and inspire change, be it locally or globally, validates the risk. As summed up by Pussy Riot in an interview with The St. Petersburg Times a month before their arrest; “What we have in common is impudence, politically loaded lyrics [and] the importance of feminist discourse”. G [To support Pussy Riot, go to http://freepussyriot.org/ and Amnesty International http://www.amnesty.org. uk/]

and Change Square became one of the lasting, powerful images of the revolutions. As well as playing a huge part in the protests themselves the Arab Spring saw female activists mobilising and leading protests through the use of social media such as Twitter and Facebook and blogging from the ground-level. Tawakul Karman from Yemen, Liberia’s President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf and the Liberian activist Leymah Gbowee were jointly awarded the Nobel Peace Prize last year for their individual efforts. Whilst this is a step forward, the long lasting implications seem as precarious and uncertain as the emerging states themselves. Female bloggers highlighted the shocking abuse they faced from fellow male protesters as well as the military, and their frustration at the lack of societal change in attitudes towards women after the collapse of the previous regimes. The trial of Pussy Riot begs similar questions in terms of the longevity of both the international communities’ concern about them and any real, lasting impact on Russian society as a consequence. The unexpected acquittal of Pussy Riot member Yekaterina Samutsevich on 10th October after her successful appeal should reverberate as a glimmer of hope; the reality, however, remains somewhat bleaker. The nature of her suspend-

Jessica Voorsanger Interview by Mohara Gill

Performance, dance, art and that audience participation that you either love or hate…

Jessica Voorsanger is an interdisciplinary artist whose work on the theme of ‘celebrity’ and fame appeals across the generations. From karaoke to musicals, sci-fi to celebs her art is fun, entertaining, bold and thought provoking. She has exhibited extensively at several galleries in the UK including New Art Gallery Walsall, the ICA and the Whitechapel, as well as international venues in New York, Berlin and elsewhere. Here I interviewed her by email about her co-exhibition with Bob & Roberta Smith, London’s Calling currently on show at Eleven Spitalfields Gallery, London. MOHARA For London’s Calling, you’ve chosen to present This is London, a series of photo-collages. Compared to your other projects, these are stylistically quite different; what was your starting point for these pieces? JESSICA The starting point for this series of 2D works come from an odd place. I was speaking to one of my students (I teach at UCA, Canterbury) and we were discussing different television shows that we found interesting and inspiring. As I work with the TV on (I use it like the radio, another sound in the room besides myself) I am always interested in new series that I can watch, preferably by box set, and indulgently watch one episode after another. She mentioned Supernatural and brought in the box set to lend me. I loved it but was also horrified and I am not a horror fan. I found it really scary and had intended to return it after I had seen the first series but by the end of it I was hooked. I liked the way that one character could be possessed by another so I started collaging celebrity’s heads into the eye socket spaces on larger images of celebrities. I tried lots of versions of them but the ones that were the most exciting for me were the ones that used these beau-

tiful images of London. Everything seemed connected in interesting ways, which is why I started drawing into the images and using the architecture of the locations. MOHARA You’ve been obsessed with celebrities in the past (David Cassidy, David Bowie and others); would you say that your depictions of personalities set across lines and dizzying angles is an attempt to redress the balance, in a sense to reclaim the streets and express fan culture from their perspective, or is this more about current trends of cultural consumption by the masses? JESSICA I would love to think that it was about redressing the balance but it isn’t. It is more the latter than the former. It isn’t so much a commentary on cultural consumption but taking advantage of it. This series is a bit of a departure (and holiday) in that in the past there were always specific reasons that I had selected whichever celebrity was depicted or approached in one of my works. In this case it is really about locating the celebrities faces in any throwaway newspaper, TV listing or magazine and playing with them in relation to the location. They become an abstract and slightly irrelevant. The relevant part is knowing who they are and how interesting they are for me out of context.

I spend days cutting out the heads and then just play with them; experimenting which colours, shapes, expressions and hair styles lead to the most possibilities – that’s how they get used. The criteria for selection is very specific: I have to know who they are (I may forget by the time the image gets used and that’s okay), there cannot be anything blocking the face (no microphone or hand, etc) and it cannot have any parts cut off (for example: sometimes there are talk bubbles that block part of the face). Yes, it does reference current trends, as the celebrities that are available are the ones that are popular or promoting a film/show at the time and that is why they are currently in the magazines and newspapers. But there are only so many pictures I can use of Matt Le Blanc at any one time (from the promotional ads for Episodes)... MOHARA Interestingly, you have referenced vintage London – rather than use contemporary images, why? JESSICA There is something magical about vintage images. Also the colours are special. You really feel like this time no longer exists or is accessible. It must have something to do with my fascination with time travel. MOHARA Time travel…? Is this why so many of your works involve dressing-up, performance and roleplay? JESSICA That’s a really nice connection, one I will take forward. Oddly, I am always surprised how all of my interests and influences are so interconnected. I have always been a bit of a sci-fi fan, loving films like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (Bing Crosby) or the book Time and Again by Jack Finney. It’s through seeing how the world has changed, even through our own lifetimes, that makes reliving or visiting a different time so engaging (Life on Mars & Ashes to Ashes, BBC). It’s not being a tourist in the normal sense of the word but having knowledge about a time and place that you shouldn’t. It’s empowering but also romantic (Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen). The first time that it all really came together for me was in the installation that I made for LIMBO in Margate, where I created a fake TV studio set for Star Trek (original

series). I created a fake alien landscape, provided costumes, scripts and props. There was a camera that was used as a link to a monitor so the visitors to the exhibition could have the entire experience: acting on Star Trek, being whichever character you loved best and then seeing yourself on Star Trek! I was Lieutenant Uhuru. Actually the dressing-up and role-play was more to do with embodying the character (fictitious) or celebrity (real), almost like an actor would (in a less professional way). I was exploring the concept of ‘impostors’, attempting to be someone you would like to be but not really, like karaoke - permission for people to sing who can’t, like me. Originally, when I started the Impostor Series it was a reaction to Reality TV and commenting on people who are becoming celebrities by being notorious rather than talented. Not all celebrities became famous through ethical routes but (looking back even as close as 15 years ago) they could actual sing, dance, act, play sport, etc. (usually!). But not necessarily anymore. I was making an obvious connection to the exchangeability of celebrity by featuring people I felt deserved to be famous. The idea has moved on now to encompass not only the actors who portray characters but (in my case) actually wanting to become the characters themselves, which is why I feel that the Star Trek installation was so important for me. As Charles and Ray Eames said “everything connects in the end”. To read this interview in full don’t miss GEEKED first issue out in November. G

This is London page 75 Jessica Voorsanger, This is London, London’s Calling, Eleven Spitalfields Gallery, 2012. Courtesy Eleven Spitalfields

London’s Calling is on at Eleven Spitalfields Gallery, London 7 September – 26 October 2012

This is London page 111 Jessica Voorsanger, This is London, London’s Calling, Eleven Spitalfields Gallery, 2012. Courtesy Eleven Spitalfields

This is London page 67 Jessica Voorsanger, This is London, London’s Calling, Eleven Spitalfields Gallery, 2012. Courtesy Eleven Spitalfields

For more information and to view examples of Jessica’s work: http://www.elevenspitalfields.com/ http://jessicavoorsanger.zxq.net

Maximum City

Suhasini Kejriwal & Young In Hong James Freeman Gallery, London 12 October-10 November 2012 www.jamesfreemangallery.com Global and emerging economic powerhouses are reshaping communities and this exhibition – a collaborative project between two female artists inspired by Suketu Mehta’s study on Mumbai, Maximum City, explores the rise of mega-cities from a human perspective. Kejriwal’s giant fibreglass installation based on a previous work Monument (2012) is organised across three strata – from consumerism reflected by bold fruits and market vegetables to the aspirations and desires of success as signified by bright plastics and references to educational attainment, leisure, health and beauty salons – typified with words such as Jeet (to win). This is in stark contrast to the jumbled mishmash of soiled, discoloured, squashed consumables – comments on the social structures of Indian society. This disjuncture is also apparent in Kejriwal’s large-scale illustrative piece of everyday life hemmed in by encroaching high-rise developments. Similarly Young In Hong explores the subject of crisis and personal identities when confronted with change, a theme taken a step further in her video piece Miners’ Orange (2009). Here participants and ex-miners take part in a processional parade, dressed in uniforms and carrying orange items echoing demonstrations and pickets from the 1990s – despite the government-sponsored transition of Gohan-Sabuk from mining town to gambling centre, it is impossible to erase the collective memory of the past from its residents and inhabitants. G By Mohara Gill

Young In Hong, Miners’ Orange, video projection still, 2009. Courtesy James Freeman Gallery, London Suhasini Kejriwal, Monument, fibreglass & acrylic paint, 2012. Courtesy James Freeman Gallery, London

Yoko Ono

A Guessing Game by mohara gill

Art, can be read on so many levels, it can be engaging,

expressive, intelligent and powerful, as well as giving some wonderful insights into the mind of a person. But it can also be problematic, abstract and intangible, especially in the case of conceptual artists such as Yoko Ono. Born in Japan in 1933, Ono was in Tokyo during the bombings of 1945, one of several experiences that appear to have shaped both her work and personality. Perhaps best noted for her tireless efforts as a peace campaigner and her collaborations with John Lennon, including their legendary lie-in Bed-Ins for Peace, Ono has also worked across several disciplines - as performer, musician, poet, writer, filmmaker, and artist. As an art history student I became acutely aware of Ono’s creative and performance-led output from early on, but because of her associations with Lennon and celebrity, I had issues acknowledging her importance as an artist in her own right, an impression further abetted by the fact that in comparison to other artists – above all, women artists, there has been remarkably very little published on Ono’s artistic achievements. At the time I also found most contemporary art, principally conceptual, impenetrable and even suspect in terms of meanings, motives and accessibility. So, I was curious to see her exhibition at the Serpentine – my first opportunity to study her work up close. From the outset, despite being prepared to give her art a fair reading, I felt disarmed, if not slightly on edge – there were no helpful gallery explanations or descriptive labels to guide and inform the viewer, nor was there any logical room sequence. Puzzled, I exited, thinking perhaps I might have inadvertently missed picking up a pamphlet. I hadn’t. Sheepishly I quietly sneaked back in, avoiding eye contact with the ever-vigilant gallery assistants. Ok – granted, this was a clever piece of curating, outside the usual gallery-going rituals; I had no option but to let my mind wander, to make up its own imaginings. My first encounter was Helmets (2001/2012), an installation suspended from the ceiling coupled with fragmented sky jigsaws and accompanied by a continuous loop of haunting and plaintive birdcall. I guessed this was a comment or reflection on war, but which war? Vietnam? Iraq? Afghanistan? All wars? Confused, I walked round, carefully trying to avoid disturbing the exhibits which included Three Mounds (1999/2012) - piles of carefully heaped earth labelled Country A, B and C. Was this a reference to genocide? My head ached struggling to think up answers, whilst contemplating a video of a slow-burning match, Flux Film No14 (1986).

Moving on I came across a remnant of torn canvas, Painting to be stepped on (1961/2012). Like a piece of everyday detritus I wanted to ignore it, to step over it, not on it. Not entirely convinced by the title of this piece I shuffled past, thereby avoiding the issue of having to deal with picturing what might be underneath all those dirt markings. Round the corner my eye caught the installation A Family Album (1993). This collection of everyday found objects smeared with red paint begged interpretation from a more feminist perspective with reference to gendered stereotypes and physical pain – high heeled shoes, needle and thread, a coat-hanger (an allusion to the torture of abortion?), and mental anguish kept firmly under lock and key, Mind Box (1993). The subject of the self was underlined again in Vertical Memory (1997), a repetitive monochrome sequence of digitally merged and manipulated photographs of Ono’s father, husband and son accompanied with texts. Like extracts from a teenager’s diary these chronicled encounters with various men; men in positions of power and authority: schoolteacher, doctor, priest and a mortuary attendant, leading to the inevitable (as perhaps revealed in the title of this exhibition - to the light), a foretaste of the experience of death. More familiar territory was covered in two complimentary video works, Cut Pieces (1964/2003). Essentially recordings of an interactive performance piece,

Yoko Ono, AMAZE 1971, Installation View, “This Is Not Here”, Everson Museum, Syracuse, NY, 1971. Photo by Ian Macmillan @ Yoko Ono. Courtesy Serpentine Gallery

members of the audience (men and women) were invited to cut off items of the artist’s clothing. In the earlier film, Ono appears in a constrictive black dress, all innocent, nervous and vulnerable. Most of the participants appeared hesitant in the undertaking of their task, apart from some male spectators, who although shy seemed to be enjoying the ceremonial spectacle. By comparison, in the later version Ono comes across more confidently, addressing the camera directly; a recognition on age, experience and women’s liberation over the past fifty years. This issue was also explored in Freedom (1970) where the frustrated artist haplessly tugs at her bra, attempting to rip it apart. The theme of the body continued with the eye-catching Bottoms (1966), a series of distracting and almost mesmerising close-ups of the human posterior in motion. Although a reflection of the free love, hippy movement of its time, I felt this was a cheap shot; a deliberate attempt at provoking the censors; summarily the long version was banned in the UK before being released with an X-rated certificate. Of slightly more merit was Fly (1970). Here the naked female form of actress Virginia Lust has been transformed into a variegated landscape of skin, lips, nipples and pubic hair. Whilst gratuitous in its celebration of nudity, it was interesting to watch flies navigating across this seemingly alien terrain. The most enjoyable and exciting piece of the exhibition was Rooms and Footsteps (2012) a work that reflects the spirit of Fluxus, which Ono associated with early in her artistic career. As expressed in the works and manifestos of the key founder of this movement, George Maciunas, this was an aspect of conceptual art that concentrated on performance, participation and abstract ideas. Here a series of instructional cards offered fun, inspirational, magical mind-games, encouraging the reader to play and invent architectural spaces. This idea was expanded further in the cleverly entitled large-scale installation Amaze (2012), a transparent glass labyrinth with a reflection at its centre that left me slightly baffled if not concussed. Ono in her own words has stated that ‘it was a fact that statues and paintings deteriorated in time, or were destroyed by political considerations. I knew that no matter how much you wanted it to, the work never stayed the same. So, as an artist, instead of trying to hold on to what was impossible to hold on to, I wanted to make “change” into a positive move: let the work grow by asking people to participate and add their efforts’ 1 and this was echoed in the final two works in this exhibition. #smilesfilm 2 a long-term web project to upload portraits of smiles and Wish Tree which offers an outlet for people to write down their private thoughts and wishes; both pieces that express hope, love and the power of human emotions.

In the end, by experiencing Ono’s work at first-hand I found that my views had changed considerably, although the artistic value of many remained in my mind at least – questionable. I felt that here was an artist (and she deserves to be labelled so) who by encouraging the viewer to depart from their usual behavioural patterns and to see things differently had not only something important to express, whether it be personal, political or feminist, but had also broadly remained true to her defining principles – participation and peace. By pushing the boundaries of what can be classed as creative production, she is an inspiration to all – art can be one thing and yet everything, sometimes the beauty is in the guessing… G p11 Yoko Ono/Hans Ulrich Obrist – The Conversation Series. Walter Konig Books 2 http://www.smilesfilm.com/ 1

Yoko Ono, Installation view(s), Yoko Ono: TO THE LIGHT, Serpentine Gallery, London (19 June - 9 September 2012) @ 2012 Jerry Hardman-Jones. Courtesy Serpentine Gallery

Recommended references: Yoko Ono/Hans Ulrich Obrist The Conversations Series, Walter Konig Books 2010 www.imaginepeace.com www.flickr.com/photos/yokoonoofficial/collections/ Yoko Ono TO THE LIGHT was on at the Serpentine Gallery, London 19 June to 9 September 2012 www.serpentinegallery.org

â&#x20AC;&#x201A;23

Conservational by Stephen Cheung

My blood runs cold. My stomach feels hollow.

i'm terrified. I did all i could to survive out here. I wanted to live.

but it's too late now. this is as far as I'll go.

this is my life...

wahh?

the warmth is heavenly. i'm we found a survivor!

alive!

Skull, studs and Green Oh My ! Halloween from the High Street

Text and photos by Samantha Langsdale

I’ve been in England quite a while now and I must say, the one thing which really sticks in my craw, year after year, is the lackluster response to Halloween. I know, I know. You’re all massively skeptical because it’s often characterized as just another ‘Capitalism-driven holiday’, but I think you’ll find that it is, in fact, totally frickin’ legit! Halloween has got a gorgeous little history and within many cultures and contexts you can find festivals which are spookily similar to what goes on here (did you see what I did there? Eh?). Originally called All Hallows’ Eve, Halloween is a day, which not only alludes to the harvest season, it was also historically celebrated as a day of commemoration for the dead. Traditions like Samhain (Celtic) and Día de los Muertos (Mexican) all fall on or around October 31st and they combine amazing autumnal food with rituals of commemoration. Oh, and there are skulls! Who doesn’t love skulls? Look, I don’t expect you to get in garb and go party like a frat boy, but why not loosen up just a little and enjoy Halloween this year? You don’t even have to try that hard. The High Street is just busting at the seams with Halloween-inspired gear that’s cheap and oh-so wearable. Lucky for you, I’ve already done the field-work to prove this theory!

I mentioned skulls, right? Everyone loves skulls (did I say that already? Am I trying too hard?!). That is particularly true in the High Street shops right now! You can find pretty skulls; studded, I-could-rough-you-up skulls; glittery skulls on scarves… the skeletal possibilities are virtually endless! And skulls are a great Halloween option for both ladies and ghouls. The best part is, all of these pieces are under £20 and can be found, in all their myriad forms, in any High Street shop. Or why not spend October 31st strutting around in some wicked kicks? Check out these fierce pumps that say,

‘Step into my torture chamber Mr. Grey, let me teach you a lesson’! The originals may be runway, but the High Streets have filled their shelves with cheap imitations of these stigmata-inducing stilettos. Why not go for something a bit more classically creepy? These mean-greenies screech, ‘I’ll get you, my pretty! And your little dog, too’! Another option for both ladies and skeletons:

Accessorize your mug with a Ron Burgundy moustache, carry a glass of milk and BAM! Instant costume success! Ladies, don’t let all the Hackney hipster he-men have all the fun with handlebars! Sport a little freaky fluff for All Hallows’ Eve and be the envy of every dude in Dalston. Have you seen cute, sparkly masks in party shops? Drop a fiver and create a hell-raising hair accessory by wearing your mask as a headband or as a fascinator.

See? Posh and petrifying. If you’re starting to feel convinced that sporting a little Halloween sass is worth your while, have a wander down Upper St. Martin’s Lane and visit the ladies at Screen Face (www.screenface.co.uk). Their stock of wigs, eyelashes, and makeup could make Dracula feel like he was underdressed!

‘And what do I do with myself once I’ve stocked up on affordable, High Street Halloween fashions?’ you’re asking me. Brew for thyself and your coven a big batch of potion from Harry Potter Mixology (http:// sashahalima.com/blog/2011/06/harry-potter-mixology-the-goblet-of-fire-cocktail-concoctions-edition/)! Stir up a sweet and tangy ‘Cedric Diggory’ and drink him down! (Yeah, that’s right, I said it!) Then get thee to the Old Vic Tunnels where Wahaca will be hosting a Day of the Dead Festival complete with devilishly delicious eats and music by Rodrigo y Gabriela (http://oldvictunnels.com/event/day-of-the-dead-festival/)! Even Satan would shout, ‘Oh HELL yes’! So come on, Brits. Give it a go, put some Frankenstein into your fashion sense. Rock an RPatz hairdo for the day and see if you can’t get some PYT (Pale Young Thing) to accessorize your look with a few bite marks. Roll out your best Rocky Horror Picture Show rags and make the devil sorry he let you loose! Halloween is right on your High Street this year, so don’t be a Halloweenie! G

F rom the dangling rubber bats to “Thriller” pumping out of the oversized speakers, the Halloween party was one cliche after another. Even the revellers, dressed as an array of characters from every horror flick filmed,

went by their themed names. Elvira, her arms in the air with her hands barely reaching higher than her stiff hair, smiled on unknowingly. Then she wondered. It was the first thought through her head. It felt like it was the first thought that had ever occurred to her. What? What was she doing here? And who the hell were all these people anyway? She couldn’t remember being invited to a party much less arriving at one. The clothes she wore were just as alien to her as the party-goers around her. But before she could start piecing together the events of how she got to this place, having great difficulty in locating even one memory that existed before, another question popped into her mind. Why? Why was no one moving? Why was the dance floor crowded but no zombie-like shapes being thrown to the beats of Michael Jackson? Then Elvira realised. There was no music. The room, a large darkened living space belonging to the wealthy parents of whichever show-off put on this spectacle, was silent and still. The supposedly “domestic” disco lights in the corner never changed from the red bulb to the blue and the disco ball remained unmoving. Everyone around her had shoulders lopsided or bums sticking out, halfway through a dance move or general groove before time was abruptly frozen. It was when Elvira tried to turn to her right that things got stranger. Not only was everyone and everything else rigid, so was she. Not even her eyes could move within their sockets and she was left staring at the same part of a scene, restrained, unable to see beyond the frame. Frame? She couldn’t see the glass. It wasn’t a window frame she was looking in or at or through, but a frame of her world. A frame of her existence. In front of her and pressed up tight against her she could sense a world of words. Letters the size of hands surrounded her. But she couldn’t see them. She couldn’t see anything because everything was black. The room in which she found herself and everything in it was sensed, not seen. Light. Faint, ever so faint. But the world lit up by a fraction. Again. Like a lamp with a hundred settings between “Off ” and “On”, the world around Elvira grew one setting brighter. And again the luminescence was silently clicked up a small notch. Pages being turned, exposing those not far away. Elvira was part of a photograph, a picture in a magazine of a party in full swing. But this wasn’t for her. She’d woken from the staged scene and she needed to escape. Imprisoned in and between paper, she refused to believe this confined world would be all she’d ever know. She made her choice. When the time came she would use all the willpower in her pressed bones to jump out and grab on to whoever turned her page. She would tear herself from this printed world and be reborn in the physical one, kicking and screaming if need be. And the page turned. Two flimsy paper hands wrapped around the girl’s head as she screamed, dropping the magazine and pulling Elvira into our lives. G

TEXT BY SARAH HILARY ILLUSTRATIONS BY GAVIN READ

She wore white, of course. A vision, isn’t that what they say? She was a vision.

Her bouquet complemented his buttonhole. Lemon blossom for fidelity, sorrel for affection. She provided little cards so we would know exactly what was signified by the arrangement she held to her bosom. A marble shelf, her bosom, thanks to the frock. Sepulchre in satin. ‘All flowers and plants,’ she divulged, ‘have special meanings.’ Fidelity and affection. Lovely copperplate printing in the card, very black and emphatic. When it came time for the tossing I stood aside, taking refuge beneath the brim of my hat. All you could see of my face was the smile I’d painted there in lipstick: Rum Kiss. A bridesmaid grabbed the bouquet, leaping for it like a cheer-leader; I saw the bunting of her knickers under hitching chiffon. The hat was my camouflage, and my extravagance. I was giddy when I bought it, on a spree. I found the shop in St James’s, one of those Last Bastion places, withering gilt signage and a window where sun-bleached boaters sat with studied frivolity on frowsy cushions. A brass bell rattled when I pushed at the door. Inside the light was sallow, the place perfumed like a street market in Marrakech. The walls on one side were papered with old posters curling caddishly at the corners: Victorian pop-art images of Havana, Mexico, India. The shop was wood-lined, like being inside a box, and dry as tinder. One spark and it would all go up. I saw fedoras and sou’westers rocketing into a sky seething with smoke, a monstrous ‘Hats Off!’ punctuated by an endless confetti of grosgrain and tamped navy felt. My hat was on a wooden podium high, high up. All-over pheasant feathers, a tickly brim down to my chin, amber and orange and peacock blue. Dogs followed me home through Green Park, sniffing at the hatbox, suspecting a treat. A red setter, dopey thing, kept frisking at my heels. I suppose he could smell the bird that once was. Poor pheasant, plucked and pie’d, but I was ruthless that day. Reckless. I wanted to free the damn hat, throw it like a three hundred pound frisbee for the setter to fetch. He’d have torn it to shreds in seconds, looking for the carcass which wasn’t there. Into the attic it went, after the wedding. In its box, lavish with tissue paper, a dun-brown bonnet without the sun to strike a bright note from its feathers.

The groom wore grey, the same soft shade as the doves they released after the wedding service. Up they flew, wings clattering like football rattles, whirring, purring in their breasts. I wondered how often they’d performed this pantomime of freedom, tempted back each time by crumbs to the hotel’s dovecote. No distinguishing features, the groom. I should like to report, with proper compassion of course, a wall eye or club foot. Nothing like that. A perfectly nice man. The happy couple took the honeymoon suite. Made love all night, as happy couples do. I’d fucked the bride in a Travelodge in Slough. Skin and teeth and the kiss of sweat like a promise in my palms. ‘You like this?’ she said. ‘I do.’ They’d hired a marquee, as an investment against rain. She’d bought two pairs of the same shoes in case a heel broke, and spent hundreds on hair extensions to make the best effect of her chignon. French manicure, St Tropez tan to set off the white satin. At the reception they served nut-free wedding cake in case of allergies. She told everyone she was having her bouquet professionally preserved, and his buttonhole. What else, I wondered? Her eggs and his sperm frozen as a contingency against sterility? You can’t be too careful in this day and age, with hormones in the fish and what have you. It was money well spent, in any case. The last I heard she was having the baby’s feet cast in bronze, miniature handprints set in plaster of Paris. Time standing still, if a bit shakily, on one leg. Not a day has gone uncelebrated. Not one. Does she have, sandy in a drawer somewhere, the cut-out keyhole from Room 71, Travelodge, Slough? It was shaped so you could hang it on the outside of the door: Do Not Disturb. It tore easily, being only paper. On the back you were supposed to tick boxes saying what you’d like for breakfast. We didn’t stay that long. I did contemplate, as the champagne was pinging in the crystal flutes and the doves were returning one by one to their cote, making a grand statement with the trout parfait. But where would’ve been the point, really? It was her Big Day. I’d had mine, in Room 71. Mice have found the pheasant feather hat in my attic and nested there, fucking contentedly, raising little knuckled clutches of brown babies. Isn’t nature astonishing? G

FOOD RULES! ZINE Text by FRANCESCA WETHERILT Illustration by CHARLIE CAMERON The idea for Food Rules! was born out of a really successful all vegan barbecue a group of

friends and I had in June. It was overcast and drizzly but we were so determined to feast our faces off that it just didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. We had tofu teriyaki skewers, potato salad, barbecue baked beans, peanut butter tofu burgers, a tonne of homemade dips and a peanut butter, chocolate and coconut cheesecake for desert. All the while we were huddled under a gazebo feeling thoroughly smug about how much effort we had all made and it turning out so great.

Later that day, a bit bevved up on Cheeky Vimto and still brilliantly full of food, I had what I guess you could call an epiphany. I could never recall an occasion where every person present had contributed homemade food to such a high standard. More than that, not everyone who came was vegan, but everything we ate was, which meant so much to me as I felt, more than ever, that our choices to abstain from animal products were respected, normalised and celebrated. I felt so awed by the talent and compassion on show that I knew I needed to document and share it. A zine felt like the perfect medium to encapsulate this spirit, as this format has an amazing heritage of showcasing passion and creativity, from football to feminism and everything in between. I hope to translate the compassion, open-mindedness, tolerance and amazing sense of community that veganism means to me, to anyone who wants to experience it too. Part of that means making it as affordable as the recipes themselves. My friend Charlie, who is contributing the illustrations and InDesign-ing the hell out of the content, suggested we print the zine using a Risograph machine, a method he is already familiar with from his sterling work at Camberwell College of Art. By using a printing method that is vegan, environmentally friendly and cheap to make (and therefore to sell!), we are able to do so without making any compromises. The way the Riso is able to champion all these excellent components is that it doesn’t have heated rollers or require warm-up time, and it prints super fast, which contributes to it being highly energy efficient. The ink is made with soy oil, which is ethically sourced and therefore also vegan. Charlie has been integral in our working towards creating something beautiful and substantial, with his illustrations and guidance on everything from paper stock to whether or not to use endpapers. That, coupled with contributions, encouragement and support from friends, makes me believe we have managed to put together something worthwhile and hopefully useful! I also believe the way zines are discovered and distributed helps to both complement and galvanise the spirit of what ethical veganism means to me. Having worked in a bookshop for four years, I really cherish and value the physical book, and zines are just an extension of that love. Blogs are a really important and useful source of information for the vegan community, which makes finding new recipes particularly easy, especially since they are almost always peer reviewed. There are plenty of really excellent blogs and other online sources of information, but I find that stumbling across a recipe in a zine or cookery book feels like you’ve uncovered a treasure, a snapshot of time, immortalised in print. I think this is true of zines generally, too. They play a huge part in capturing specific moments of single or collective thought, or documenting a sub-culture or genre, in a manner unrivalled by other formats since they can be printed and distributed cheaply and quickly. It’s important to keep this type of social documentary alive! I was so chuffed when Sofia asked me if I would like to contribute something to the first issue of Geeked. It is so important to keep writing and talking and thinking and expressing what matters to us and questioning the bullshit that gets thrown our way for being ourselves and believing or behaving a certain way. I was once asked whether I honestly thought that my veganism would make any substantial difference to what it is I purport to care about. I’d like to think that creating a zine, and, by extension, a platform to distribute a collection of delicious recipes and reach people who may not have considered veganism as a viable diet and lifestyle, will be corporeal proof that yes, I do think one person can make a difference and we should categorically never give up trying to. G

You can find more info about this new zine on GEEKED first issue, coming out this November.

Dia de los Muertos Cake Recipe and photo by Francesca Wetherilt Illustration by Jacob

When asked to create a Halloween recipe for the Geeked Halloween mini-mag, my thoughts immediately turned to pumpkin. What a wealth of delicious dishes this humble squash can make, from pumpkin and sage risotto to that American holiday favourite, pumpkin pie. I wanted to make something a bit more unusual and decided to take inspiration from the traditional Mexican festival, DĂa de los Muertos, aka Day of the Dead. I thought that the amazing, brightly coloured sugar skulls could really translate well onto a cake, so I decided to make a warm and spicy Mexican chocolate cake, garishly decorated with icing and edible flowers. It was super fun to make and allows lots of creativity, so, enjoy!

Ingredients For the cake: 225 g plain flour 225 g caster sugar 120 g cocoa powder 1 tsp baking powder 2 tsp cinnamon 1 tsp cayenne pepper (or more, depending on taste) 240 ml cold water 5 tbsp vegetable oil 1 tbsp distilled white vinegar 1 tsp vanilla extract To decorate: Ready to roll Regal-Ice icing. Dr Oetker is vegan and available in most supermarkets I’ve checked (or make your own!) Some tubes of coloured icing pens Edible flowers – either of the real from your garden variety or wafer/icing. I used wafer daisies as the only living things my garden supports are mosquitoes Sugar stars/dark chocolate chips/any other bright sugary stuff you think would look nice Preheat your oven to 180˚C/Gas Mark 4. Grease a 20 cm round cake tin. To make the cake, sift the flour, cocoa powder and baking powder into a large mixing bowl, followed by the sugar, cayenne pepper and cinnamon, stirring to combine. Add the wet ingredients in whatever order you fancy and beat until combined and no lumps remain. Pour into the cake tin and bake for 30-35 minutes. The top will look slightly cracked and a skewer should come and clean. Whilst the cake is cooling, preferably on a wire rack, start making the skull. Roll out roughly 200 g of the white ready to roll icing with a rolling pin, on a surface lightly coated with icing sugar. You want to get it as thin as you can without it falling apart when you try and lift it off the surface, otherwise all your hard work will be ruined and that would suck. Using the 20 cm cake tin as your initial template, place onto the rolled out icing and trim round the edge with a sharp knife, leaving you with a circle of icing the same size as your cake. Find a picture of a Mexican Day of the Dead skull you like and think you could crudely imitate with icing. Or you might be amazing at the art of cake decorating in which case, go wild. Really how you proceed from here is up to you. I used a skewer to trace an outline of my chosen skull and then trimmed off the excess icing with a knife. I used a black icing pen and traced round the edge, filled in eyes, a nose and mouth, before picking up some coloured icing pens to draw flowers, hearts, dots and symmetrical squiggles. I also used sugar stars. By the time you’ve finished creating your masterpiece, the cake should be cooler. Transfer to a plate and place the icing skull onto the sponge. I used the wafer daisies around the edge of the cake to make it as ostentatious as possible. I was quite frankly surprised by how not-shit it looked as my last attempt at drawing ended in year 9 with a self-portrait that made me look like a strange fish woman. I think what I’m trying to say if I can do it, so can you. ¡Buena suerte! G

GEEKED MAGAZINE

COMING OUT NOVEMBER 19TH