LOST & FOUND WINTER 2013 /14
“The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day.” one art by Elizabeth BISHOP Hello Helicon readers! Thanks for picking up this term’s issue, Lost & Found. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we’ve enjoyed putting it together - there were so many eclectic entries that it was hard to choose. We’ve got a new committee this year and we have have been working on a fresh new look for Helicon, both in the magazine and on our blog too. This term we also ran a very successful paper-cutting workshop led by the brilliant Sarah Dennis and we are working hard to get more events up and running next term. A big thanks and well done to all you creative people who have made this term’s issue what it is. Keep an eye out for next term’s theme! With Love, The Helicon Team
The Helicon EDITORIAL Team
What’s the best thing you’ve ever found? Zain Amir
The £2 Book Store on Park Street. Here’s my student loan. Take it. Take all of it.
Emily Craxton
A rediscovered love of making paper chains.
Jess McKay
A pile of little origami animals and shapes that a man had made and left for people to take on a train.
Abby Wynn
Old home videos of myself and my sister when we were babies.
Sacha Beeley
I found a silver cigarette case left on a bench with the initials A.F.B. Mysterious...
Lily Golden
A hilarious musical play me and my siblings had written when we were really young.
Kirsty Wastell
On a walk outside Dubrovnik I stumbled across the abandoned Belvedere Hotel, shelled during the Croat-Bosniak war.
Zoë Zietman
A black bomber jacket covered in playing cards and poker chips that spells out ‘Las Vegas’ on the back in sequins.
fRONT COVER ILLUSTRATION: MARTHA FORD INSIDE COVER illustrations: SACHA BEELEY
THE BEGINNING The beginning was a difficult place Before anything had begun In that void where dreaming has passed But being had not yet awoken. This morning I did not know where I was And asked and asked Too lost to have direction. But the arrows return to me quickly Lying in formation Every day since we began As though I can look through walls And over the miles and years I never knew were there Looking to you since the very beginning. What a way to begin Crossing that empty space, that no man’s land To something new. That was when it began, I think, I felt But nothing set in motion And slowly as that space is filled Will I cross once more?
Anon.
A
relic of the cold war, Teufelsberg, literally translating to ‘devil’s mountain’, is an imposing collection of military structures that sit high above the outskirts of Berlin. Abandoned in 1992 following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the site, situated in West Berlin, was a US listening station designed to intercept soviet communications from the East. The complex epitomises Berlin’s turbulent past - the hill on which it was built is in fact 12 million cubic metres of rubble, the remnants of around 400,000 houses from the ruined city, and beneath that rubble a Nazi technical college designed by Hitler’s chief architect Albert Speer. The hill provided the perfect location for the station, allowing its largest golfball-like radome to command a position 260 ft above the rest of the city. The future of Teufelsberg is uncertain although attempts to preserve it have been made, with no money to pay for its restoration, it too is at risk of being claimed by history.
Photographs & text by Alistair Scott
Find those. On the precinct of cliffs Unravelling the threads and ribbons that were theirs into the Dam below. Open. Open it
Zain Amir Photograph: Pippa Tidd
FOUND ARTIST : REEPS ONE BY
ABBY WYNN
B
eat-boxing is described as ‘a form of vocal percussion’ and is arguably a less mainstream or well-known genre of music. Notoriously difficult, I think it is a talent that many people like to think they possess but in fact don’t. When the latest Jay-Z wannabe exclaims ‘Give me a beat’, half the room stands to attention confident that this is something they are good at. No one, however, does beat-boxing better than Harry Yeff, better known as Reeps One. Twice the UK Beat-boxing champion, this Londoner is one of the most creative and talented 24 year olds I have stumbled across in recent years. His musical zeal, married with his artistic flair, results in an explosive combination of art and music - something that is key to understanding Reeps One the musician. I recently did an interview with Harry and was more than happy with what I discovered.
As an artist Reeps is experimental and bold. He talks about his art,
saying: “I love ink and marker work, I feel most in control. Taking over big spaces with black and I’m happy.” A video on his website shows him tackling a white-walled room with a thick marker pen and casually drawing oversized doodles wearing a snapback and graphic tee: this guy is certainly not fitting a generic box. In the video he describes his art as an expression of the moment of ‘turning the page’ in a sketchbook from one drawing to the next. His art is an amalgamation of multiple ideas evident in his mantra, “instead of turning the page, I will start another drawing within that drawing.” This eclectic style is at times potentially overwhelming and conflicting as he partners every possible style on one canvas. Reeps’ ever growing and diverse CV also shows him representing England at the Secret Wars Art Battles. These are live art battles that take place in secret locations and showcase two artists going
head to head in a creatively fuelled battle. When I asked him what this was like he remarked, “Big crowd and a shed load of energy. I was the youngest but this never held me back.” The Secret Wars Battles aim to showcase new artists and young talent, a category that Reeps clearly fits into with his distinct black and white sketches - also the colour scheme for all the promotional material for Secret Wars. His journey to the top has not been trouble free. “I have had to fight pretty hard to get here,” he says, before talking about the fact that his journey to success has not been nearly as straightforward as being a DJ. Being a beat-boxer slash artist is paving new turf. Creative
success is something that can rarely be conquered solo, which is something that the strong collaboration with his brother, Linden Jay, confirms. Working together for many years their rock solid dependence upon each other is something Reeps attributes to his success. For young people, Reeps is representative of experimentation and is a man of resilience when it comes to pushing creative boundaries and forming a collaboration between art and music in a way that has rarely been done so successfully. I am excited about what to expect artistically and musically in the next few years. Reeps talks about his aims for the future: “As long as I’m making more and more people dance and changing what
“I have always
loved Bristol and the way
the city has treated me is something
special.”
people think of my artwork I’ll be happy.â€? Changing perspectives, attitudes and preconceptions is something that he is constantly, and subtly achieving. His gritty, energetic music has seen him showcased at all major festivals including Glastonbury and Boomtown. +H ÂżWWLQJO\ GHVFULEHV KLV DUW as ‘organic’. His homemade and explosive art style is incorporated in something called ‘Organic Electronics’. I’ll let him explain it: “The Organic Electronic concept is to create contemporary music and art by using Physical principles and no digital processing. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but in short I’ve found ways of using the vibration of my voice alone to create geometry in ZDWHU DQG WR PDQLSXODWH ÂżUH IRU example. It all looks, and sounds
computer generated, but it’s not. It’s all real.â€? Bristol has been lucky enough to welcome Reeps on numerous occasions, and hopefully future ones. As the creative capital of the South West, Bristol welcomes musical and artistic talent from all over the country. For Reeps this proves no exception. He talks of performing in Bristol saying, “I have always loved Bristol and the way the city has treated me is something special.â€? He is of the same mindset as many of us creative junkies when he says, “I’ve always said if I ever fall out of love with the intensity RI /RQGRQ \RX ZLOO ÂżQG PH LQ Bristol.â€? Being a homegrown London musician and artist, the diversity and artistic scope that London offers is hard to match.
to follow reeps one visit: reepsone.co.uk
Gunseli Yalcinkaya
Above: Eszter Erdosi, Opposite: Robin Cowie
On Reflection On a train entering the suburbs, a woman stares at her inverse in the window. She is projected into gloom where everything is the opposite of what she’d wanted. It’s funny how it takes darkness to show us what we’ve become, how far we’ve drifted from hope. how far we’ve drifted from hope.
Stewart Carswell
I
found her by a bus stop. Service number seven. Eyes, well eye, blue button, stared up from the pavement. A long stitch ran from neck to navel; stuffing oozing through in places; thread pulled out in curls. Leg torn nearly off. She lay dishevelled. Lifeless. In a hunch. Hair wet, hair matted but still plaited by some long forgotten little fingers who had left their own hair bobble in the woollen hair on sodden head. She sat. Waited for the bus. The bus to reverse, for frantically opened doors. For little one to stumble down the steps and stoop, for little one to reach for cotton hand. Waited for the next bus. For return on foot. That furrowed face to smooth at her discovery. Those small arms to grip her tightly. Her sodden head to brush a rosey face, flushed with worry. Warm face marked with mud from woollen hair but uncaring because she had been found. Waited still and waits still now. Perhaps been trodden down, kicked by commuting feet.The rush to catch a bus. The crush to catch a seat. All moving. All so live, so animated. Those who came in twos. Pairs of people, hands stitched tight together. Eyes of gazing glass. They did not see her but thought themselves quite alone. There were others. Not so swift. Those, who, like her sat slumped. Hunched. Moved only an arm in thirst. Talked quietly to unseen voices, or perhaps to her. They too stared with button eyes and hung about their heads was woollen hair. Like her they waited. Still. Quiet breath. A spluttered cough. They came but like all others left with time.
Lily Golden Opposite: Robin Cowie
I often see a bit of her in you. Your working face is spoiled by tragic cracks of overuse. That same scent of liqueur it lingers round your hands growing black with raging dust increasing year by year. I doubt your skills with numbers. Little use can come from faded ink that once was clear. Her movement slowly stopped, and I was left distraught. In spite of this I loved her. In every space we went, the room was lit by her alone. She lived, before her ticker lost it’s place. Her hands once bright, with hopefulness well known. She simply loved to dance through ticks and tocks. Perhaps I should invest in better clocks.
Livi Petter ILLUSTRATION: Biff
10 QUESTIONS WITH JONATHAN PUGH BY
SACHA BEELEY Jonathan Pugh has been a freelance cartoonist since 1987. After working for The Times for almost fifteen years his work is now published in the Daily Mail.
ONE
When did you first start drawing cartoons and was it always clear that you wanted to be a cartoonist? I started when I was about six-years-old. I did want to become a cartoonist but also wanted to play football for England. Never for a moment thought either would happen!
TWO
You were once an art teacher, what age were you teaching to and what can you say about the experience? I was teaching 8-13 year-olds. I did quite enjoy it but found it increasingly frustrating that it left me so little time to do my own drawing.
THREE
Is it ever difficult to think of a witty new cartoon every day under such strict time pressure? It’s always feels difficult! Panic, anxiety
and stress do get the creative juices going!
FOUR
Could you tell us about entering the art world: what advice would you give for aspiring illustrators? It is, like all creative jobs, a tricky and competitive world to break into. But somebody has to do it, and work is out there if you’re prepared to go and find it - but you do need tenacity, self- belief, a thick skin (for dealing with rejection), and most importantly, passion. Look around and see where your work might fit in - there are countless trade magazines and small publishers who need illustrations. One commission often leads to another... But never miss a deadline - they will not ask you back!
five
When working on projects outside of The Daily Mail, such as your cards, is there anything in particular that you draw on to inspire you?
So much depends on the project deadlines do focus the mind. Looking at other people’s work can be very inspirational. Household bills can also be very motivating!
six
Do you have a studio where most of the illustrations are made or do they come spontaneously wherever you are? I have a studio at the top of the house where I do all my work. Once I step out of my studio I try not to think about cartoons in the hope I’m preserving a few brain cells for the next deadline.
SEVEN
Many of your cartoons that have appeared in The Daily Mail and The Times are political. Have you provoked any complaints? Not nearly as often as I expect. Once every three or four years I might get a flurry of complaints about a particular cartoon.
EIGHT
How long does it usually take you to produce one cartoon? The idea’s the crucial bit which can take between five seconds and two hours. The drawing speed is dictated by the deadline - if pushed I can do something in under fifteen minutes, but in a perfect world I’d like half an hour or so. Larger scale cartoons and any involving colour will take a lot longer.
NINE
If you could be any other kind of artist, what would it be? Oil painter.
TEN
Our theme for this term’s issue is ‘Lost & Found’. What was the last thing you lost and the last thing you found? My marbles. Double chin.
artwork by emily craxton
temple of diana BY
ciaran stordy
Taking a final drag of his cigarette he proceeds to throw the lifeless butt on the ground, but winces as it misses its mark. “Whoops! I’m sorry, didn’t see you there,” he apologizes. A girl looks at him with a blank expression on her face and shakes the ash from her shoe without taking her eyes from his. “Where are you from?” she asks in broken English, her intonation laced with a thick German accent. “Portland, Oregon,” he replies. She acknowledges his answer with a nod. She clearly has no idea where Portland is but by now has deduced his nationality from his voice. “Here for holiday?” “Indeed…” He reaches for his mobile phone, which is lying next to his lunch – a half-eaten kebab – on the ledge of a kiosk. The phone falls clumsily from its precarious perch, hitting the ground twice, the first time louder than the second, like a heartbeat. He bends down and reaches for it but arrives too late. Looking up he meets her gaze. She’s crouching on the pavement and extending her arm out towards his similarly stooped figure. “Here, take it,” she says brightly. “Thanks.” He suddenly becomes conscious of the pungent Döner aromas fermenting in his mouth and, embarrassed, stands up and snatches back the phone. She asks, “How do you like Munich?” “Huh?” She gestures with her hand to indicate their general surroundings and says, “Munich. How do you like it?” “Oh!” He blushes. “Really cool place.” There ensues an uncomfortable silence
between the two; he shifts his weight from right to left, then back again. “Ah! Normally Americans don’t like it!” she laughs, clearly relieved to have found something to say. “No, it’s awesome!” She blushes. He says, “So hey, thanks again for picking up my phone.” “No problem!” He studies her and sees delicate skin enclosing two browngreen eyes like little islands; black mountain peaks ringed by green-tinged foliage ringed by breaking surf look out at him. He sees a button nose jutting out cutely like an unreachable, bare promontory. Below, ship-lips open slightly at the keel in an unconscious half-smile, revealing rows of ordered sailor-teeth. Thick dark streams of hair, the ends of the world, frame it all and watch survivors on the twin islands beg the sailors for help. To no avail. The ship stays.It’s like a painting, he thinks to himself. I could stare at her all day – wait, say something; she’s about to leave! “You’re really pretty…” She giggles. He is encouraged. “I’m here alone; just me and my backpack.” He signals towards the backpack by his feet. “It would be great if you could show me ‘round?”
She finds him seated on a bench staring up vacantly at a tangle of tram-wire She approaches and upon seeing her, he, startled, jumps up; with his elbow pressed against his side he cocks his forearm and gives a nervous wave, regretting the motion immediately. “Hello, sorry to be late. Did you wait a long time?” “No, not at all.” He had been on the bench for almost forty minutes. “Glad you could make it.” “I take you for a drink, yes?” “Sounds cool.” “There is a nice Bavarian bar in Marienplatz.” He nods in reply but panics as the confidence that had fuelled his proposal the day before suddenly ebbs away. He feels like a wine barrel with a gaping hole at its base. She starts to talk about the street they are walking on, gesticulating excitedly and beaming at him. Soon the clenched fists buried in his pockets relax and he is able to meet her smile more often. The barrel is repaired and refilled, slowly. They walk into the heart of the square and she tells him something about the statue-topped obelisk in front. He doesn’t quite hear her; he is too
busy trying to keep up through the bustling crowds. “Here is the place.” Inside, she finds a table; she orders from a blonde woman dressed in Bavarian costume. As the waitress leaves the girl turns to him. A few minutes of small-talk pass between the pair before two frothing beers are set down before them. “Augustiner beer,” she states. “Good?” Lowering the sipped glass and scraping his upper lip with his lower to remove the sweet froth he replies with a nod. She asks, “So, you were saying… the army. How is it?” “I wouldn’t know; not anymore, anyway… I was training to be a Marine but I quit before coming to Europe.” “Why?” He opens his mouth to answer her question but then checks himself. Taking hold of his drink he searches for an adequate response. He can’t tell her the truth: that he was scared, that he hadn’t measured up… “I felt I needed to get out of the States. See the world, you know. Embrace culture, expose myself to new things… free my spirit.” She raises her eyebrows in approval and says, “You did the right thing. There is a lot to see and,” she pauses, “you would not have met me if you had stayed in the military!” Her eyes twinkle and he agrees enthusiastically that the latter is without doubt a great incentive. She orders another round. They continue talking and as more and more beer flows into their bodies it washes out the uncomfortable inhibitions clogging their throats.“Have you been to Hofgarten yet?” she asks. “I haven’t, no. What is it?” “A garden, very nice.” Then, without consulting him, she exclaims, “okay then, let’s go!” They pay and walk out into the street.
A light drizzle has begun to varnish the pavement; around them pedestrians bear the same glossy covering on their coats as the ground, and trudge silently through the soft haze. She guides him out of the square and into a Subway station. On the train, sitting in his seat and staring at one of the advertisements plastered onto the side of the carriage, he notes the
smoothness of the vehicle. No rattle, not like in the US. Some time passes, then the train stops and she, hurriedly, grabs hold of his hand and leads him out into the rain, which has strengthened during their time underground and saturates their hair almost instantly. In the distance he sees a small but elegant garden, with symmetrical paths cutting through it and feeding into a stone pavilion in the middle of the space. “There!” She points to the central structure. Their shoes lumber through puddles as they make for the shelter of the pavilion. A statue of the Roman goddess Diana stands on the domed roof, watching the garden and the city beyond for game, observing the pair with a half-melancholy, half-contemptuous expression through the rain. Staring with glazed eyes in the opposite direction, the decapitated head of a stag hangs limp from the goddess’s glorious shoulder; his dead eyes see the pair take refuge in his killer’s shrine. Panting and laughing as they catch their breath, they pace happily to and fro underneath the goddess’ pedestal. Suddenly he notices an electric tension in the air and a hand slip into his. He turns and sees her; her eyes are gleaming out of the gloomy twilight of the dome. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a while and then kisses him. A gentle shiver glides down his spine as he feels warmth infuse his body and expel the rain’s cold. She presses her teeth down into his lower lip and her body into his; he feels like he is melting.
He begins to say something: “I don’t –”. She shoves him in the chest and he tumbles onto the slippery marble floor. Before he can protest she is on top of him and kissing him again. He manages to pull away for long enough to ask whether people might see them. She makes a vague reference to the rain and runs her hand through his hair and then along his collarbone. The rain is falling now in thick concentric layers, warding off intruders, hiding them. Her hands feel their way down his chest and slope to the sides as they meet his uppermost ribs. The water is soaking the back of his jacket and the knees of her trousers but with every minute that passes they feel it less and less. Her core arches to make room for her hands as they snake further downwards. In reply he gathers tight clumps of her clothing in his fists and lets his tongue ease into her mouth. His belt is loosened. Soon they are writhing naked on the marble, feeling nothing but each other’s warmth, the rain around them intensifying as if to parallel their synchronized hearts. Muddy water is
streaked across their limbs, clothes are left lying in small damp heaps around them. Their surroundings disintegrate into a mesh of indistinguishable colors; locked inside of each other, dancing in tune to the swollen, suffocating lust between them, they spiral down into the earth, forgetting their own names as they plummet into oblivion.
“I’m telling you man, she was amazing. I think I love her.” “Uh huh. You’re saying this chick picked you up off the street and then screwed you in the middle of a park?” “Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that…” “Just sayin’…” “Ha, shut up. You don’t understand.” “Whatever, bro. Ciao.” He hangs up the payphone, throws the now useless international-call credit away and slings his backpack onto his shoulder. He catches sight of something familiar in the periphery of his vision. He turns but with a jolt realizes that it’s not her. He’s not in Munich anymore, but in Prague, the next stop on his tour of Europe, his ‘culture escapade’. With a pang he finds that he doesn’t remember her name… did he forget, or just never ask? Shrugging, he draws a city-map from his pocket and walks down the street.
PHOTOGRAPH:PIPPA TIDD
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