LOOK-LOOK CONTRIBUTORS
YOU: THE PHOTOGRAPHERS, WRITERS, AND ARTISTS.
GEOFF GRESH, 21 Guttenberg, NJ
NOEL ILL, 22 Pasadena, CA
MICHELLE CRUZ, 16 Elmhurst, NY
ZACH SUSSKIND, 17 Los Angeles, CA
MARC FANBERG, 23 Baltimore, MD
PAUL GANSKY, 19 Colorado Springs, CO
ANDREA MONNETT, 20 Los Angeles, CA
ERVIL JOVKOVIC, 29 Munich, Germany
M A R Y MILLER 27, Meridian, MS
TIMOTHY BRUDEREK, 22 East Norton, PA
J. AGOSTA, 25 Portland, OR
DEVA ROBINSON, 23 San Francisco, CA
NATE ROCHE, 20 Orlando, FL
REMY PEARCE, 23 New York, NY
ORION SHEPARD, 20 Oakland, CA
NICK DARNSTAEDTER, 16 Studio City, CA
ALANA MACALUSO, 21 Holmes, NY
MAGGIE WINTERS, 14 Arlington, VA
ORIANA LEWTON-LEOPOLD 23, Brooklyn, NY
SARAH RICH, 24 San Francisco, CA
ERIN WALLACE, 16 Seattle, WA
Give It Up The net profits from the sale and sponsorship of Look-Look Magazine go to the advancement of young people in the arts. In matters of virginity and knowing the right time to fold in poker, quite often it is the surrender of control that actually gives you more control in the long run. You give something; you get something, if you know what we mean. Take us, for example, our virginity long since faded (this being our fourth issue) and our seat at the poker table being occupied by some gross dude named Ben, we’re finding other ways to give it up. This summer we are planning on sending another 12 people to the School of Visual Arts “Summer of Art” so fire up your applications. And if you can’t take the summer off, fear not. The Look-Look Arts Foundation is also set up to help out with smaller more immediate the dog ate my paintbrush kinds of needs. If our virginity analogy wasn’t evidence enough, we’re 100% fully committed to our position as the Un-Censors. You send the work; we print it just like we get it. FCC be damned! Oh, right. They don’t have the slightest idea who we are and even if they did, we’re kind of out of their jurisdiction, but you get our drift.
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JANICE LIU, 19 Toronto, Canada
MAYA WHITMAN, 27 Beverly Hills, CA
WILL STERNS, 23 New York, NY
ISAAC BREST, 18 Los Angeles, CA
MARIAN GARRIDO, 19 Barcelona, Spain
ROBERT KARBAUM, 20 Toronto, Canada
ASIYA WADUD, 22 Berkeley, CA
ALEXA STANLEY-MILLER 27, Arlington, VA
WILLIAM BRIAN KESLING 23, Simi Valley, CA
HANNAH WEBER, 17 Suttons Bay, MI
SOPHIE KLAHR, 21 Boston, MA
JASON LEE, 24 San Francisco, CA
TANJA-TIZIANA BURDI, 23 Toronto, Canada
MEGGY WANG, 21 Los Gatos, CA
CHRISTIAN STELLA, 19 Norwalk, CT
RADMAD, 22 New York, NY
ELIJAH TELLER, 16 Los Angeles, CA
FABIO VASSALLO, 28 Rome, Italy
REBECCA YALE, 16 Los Angeles, CA
SIOBHAN BURTON, 17 Richmond, KY
KATIE LUCAS, 16 San Anselmo, CA
AISHA TOBIAS LAYLA DORSEY, 17, Baltimore, MD
JAMES TOLLEY, 18 Manchester, England
CHRISTOPHER LEAL, 17 Fullerton, CA
KATRINA LEIGH UMBER, 25 Corona, CA
CLAIRE GRIFFITHS, 22 Brighton, England
SEAN MCCARTHY, 17 Los Angeles, CA
LEX THOMPSON, 26 Interlochen, MI
THE FRINGE, 16-17 Portland, OR
Contributors not pictured: Alabama Firebird, 23, San Francisco, CA; Owen Gorman, 14, Los Angeles, CA; Steven Liang, 16, Rosemead, CA; Michael Frels, 20, Lubbock, TX; Hannah Ryll, 17, Nesconset, NY; Morgan Bell, 23, Atlanta, GA
Created and Published by: DeeDee Gordon and Sharon Lee, Creative Directors: Lisa Eisner and Romรกn Alonso of Greybull Press, Editor: Cat Doran, Associate Editor: Lauren Edson, Senior Designer: Anna Agapiou, Exhibition Curator: Aaron Rose, Look-Look Crew: Nancy Callahan, Melissa Cunningham, Anton Dembowski, Kristin Epps, Sigalle Feig, Shayne Globerson, Jill Kaufman, Brandie Mellen, Liana Morgado, Marc Precilla, Angie Sarris, Jodie Snyder, Front and Back Cover Art: Katrina Leigh Umber, 25, Corona, CA For PR, please contact: Brandy Fons, brandy@look-look.com. All other inquiries: info@look-lookmagazine.com. To subscribe or for further information on how to contribute to Look-Look Magazine: www.look-lookmagazine.com
Š 2005 Look-Look Inc. All worldwide rights reserved.
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K O O L K O O L I DE I NS
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NOEL ILL, 22, PASADENA, CA
MAILBOX ETC Hello, As you can see from the envelope, I am currently an inmate at Sierra Conservation Center in Jamestown. It was here that I read my first issue of Look-Look magazine. It’s great that somebody finally put together a magazine as such. It’s also great to see through another’s artistic view of the world. I myself am not a photographer but am somewhat of a poet. I’m not a habitual criminal for this is my first term (two years with half time). My crime…was cultivation. Not that it matters any. I want to say that it’s the last time I get locked up but I don’t know what lies ahead of me. I will say that I’m not planning on coming back. Winston Garcia Dear Look-Look Mag, My name is Chris and I work the service deli at Ralph’s Super Market. I can cut you good deals with sandwiches and cakes. Whenever you guys have a party or art gallery opening, I can hook you up with good food CHEAP!! Sincerely, Chris Yap Lolly's twenty-four. She lives in Portland, Oregon. Her writing is a dime a dozen. Cheaper, even. She likes to eat crackers in bed. When she goes to sleep she does so knowing that there exists, somewhere out there, a magazine which doesn't require its authors receive a Masters from some chic university in order to fit in the pages. Lolly Tharp that samson samson guy posted some awesome polaroid shots, you should soooooo put ‘em in the magazine. maybe even the cover, i don't think i ever seen a polaroid on the cover. and if you don't, i'm coming down there straight after work and i ain't gonna shower and i's gonna give you all hugs with no shirt on and i'm a gonna smell bad. yee haww do dat. ok bye for now put that guys photos in the mag, he has a huge fanbase uh huh but not too big, he ain't selling out or nothing. ok ciao for now love Stefan Samson Hi, 6
I was wondering is the magazine rated, in a sense? (G, PG, PG13, R)? Censored? Also, I was wondering if I could use a pen name, and how I would go about it. I am sorry to say I can't find any information regarding pen names and how to go about using them, but I know I do not want to use my real name (just out of despite [sic] for the name, not confidentiality) Since it is a non paying magazine, if my submission is chosen, would there be complications if I were to use a pen name? Kestrel Dear Kestrel, We are technically an unrated magazine. We do not censor any submissions and don’t really fall under any “official guidelines” regarding content. Feel free to use the pen name of your choice, but remember there’s already some dude out there called Hemingway so that one’s pretty much taken. --Look-Look Look-Look: First of all, I would like to say how happy I am about the progress your organization has made over the past year. I visited your site earlier this year when the magazine was being published just once a year and I'm really impressed that you are up to four issues a year and even have available the opportunity for subscriptions. Thank you, TaVaris Gibbs Dear TaVaris, We’re actually published biannually, but hopefully we’ll be a quarterly magazine in the future. That said, subscribe and help make it happen sooner. look look, hello and welcome from the middle of the bible belt. my name is doug wilson and i am a graphic design student at southwest missouri state university. i live in springfield missouri which is one beautifully awkward midwestern town full of white people and their big white trucks. i just found your magazine today at a chain retailer and was intrigued by the content. anyway, that is about all. i hear that you are in la. my wife used to live in la. it is a very big city, but nice. but i am sure you know that. and all about traffic on the 5.
be well and take care, Doug Wilson Dear Look-Look: I have issue 1 of Look-Look magazine. My sister gave it to me. It's very nice to the eyes and the touch and besides I really like the concept. The magazine has been in a shoebox next to my bed for a few months. I admit that I haven't read through the entire magazine yet. This is how I behave when I find something terribly exciting - I don't want to devour it too quickly or waste it. Very truly yours, Liz Crow Hello, Look-Look Magazine does kick ass!! Not scared to publish cool art. Thank you, Courtney Stone-Moore i was just wondering why you only sell two magazines a year?? please respond.. Dylan Sullivan Dear Dylan, Due to financial constraints, we can’t put out as many as we would like. Publishing a magazine can run you some serious coin! Wanna help get more issues out? Subscribe at looklookmagazine.com or purchase it at any of the stores listed on our site! --Look-Look
MIXED MESSAGES ANYTHING GOES
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MARC FANBERG, 23, BALTIMORE, MD
ELIJAH TELLER, 16, LOS ANGELES, CA
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ANDREA MONNETT, 20, LOS ANGELES, CA
ORION SHEPARD, 20, OAKLAND, CA
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WILLIAM BRIAN KESLING, 23, SIMI VALLEY, CA
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OUT AND ABOUT
DISNEYLAND GOTHS VS. EAST L.A. QUINCEANERAS
DISNEYLAND GOTHS
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EAST L.A. QUINCEANERAS
HOW TO AVOID PAYING FOR GAS
YOU CAN RUN A CAR ON VEGETABLE OIL. AND YES, THE EXHAUST SMELLS LIKE FRENCH FRIES. BY SARAH RICH, 24, SAN FRANCISCO, CA
In 2003, I bought a sky blue 1983 Mercedes 300 Turbo Diesel. Other choices for the diesel buyer include VW, Volvo, and many trucks, vans and buses. Among newer models, the most popular is definitely the VW TDI Golf, Jetta or Passat. When I bought my car, I intended to run it on biodiesel rather than straight vegetable oil (SVO), in order to avoid modifying my car. Biodiesel can be put straight into the gas tank of any diesel automobile with no modification, and can be mixed in any ratio with diesel fuel. The disincentive to convert my car has faded in the last couple of years, as the modification required in order to run SVO has become much more userfriendly. There are kits on the market now for do-it-yourself SVO conversion, some for as low as $200. Once the one-time conversion has been done, you save an immense amount of money on fuel, since used veggie oil is worthless to a restaurant and can often be collected for free. A Little Bit Chemist, a Little Bit Cook The recipe for making biodiesel is fairly simple, as is the process, though it must be done with care. Biodiesel comes from a simple chemical reaction between vegetable oil, lye, methanol and alcohol. You can make it at home in a blender in small batches. To increase yield, you can set up a home processor. Homebrew costs about .60/gallon after start-up costs. Consumer biodiesel costs between $2.50 and $3.35/gallon. Sound steep? Consider it a contribution to a righteous cause - boycotting war and driving eco-logically.
1 diesel vehicle 2+ liters vegetable oil or waste vegetable oil (WVO) .5+ liters methanol 1 bottle lye (a.k.a. sodium hydroxide) – this is an extremely
caustic and dangerous substance
1 bottle isopropyl alcohol (a.k.a. rubbing alcohol, available in drugstores) 1 small bottle phenol red (phenolphthalein) for use as a
color indicator when neutralizing the pH of the oil - can be gotten at pool and hot tub supply stores.
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THE CAR
Depending on your budget, you have numerous options. Mercedes from the 80’s can cost between $1,500 and $6,000 depending on mileage and luxury features. Diesel engines can generally take up to twice the miles of a regular car, so don’t be deterred by a car with 200,000 miles. There are clubs for the drivers of million-miler Benzes and Volvos.
THE GREASE
You can use fresh vegetable oil, but it is more sustainable to utilize waste vegetable oil (WVO) from restaurants. Most restaurants will be happy to have you take their waste oil away, since otherwise they pay a removal fee. I’ve even heard that you can get them to give you the fee they’d otherwise pay the removal service. Chinese restaurant waste oil has a reputation for the being the best quality for biodiesel, but then your exhaust will smell like chow mein instead of fries. Recently, a biofuel collective in Northern California acquired a faulty batch of basil-infused olive oil from Spectrum Naturals. Rumor has it the whole town smelled like pesto.
THE REST
Between the hardware store, the drugstore and a pool supply or hot tub store, you should be able to come up with the methanol, lye, alcohol and Phenol Red.
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TITRATION
The first thing to do with your WVO (Waste Vegetable Oil) is titration, which balances the pH of the oil, allowing you to determine how much lye* you need. For titration, mix 1g of dry lye into one liter of distilled water. In a small container combine 10ml rubbing alcohol with a 1ml sample of WVO. Add two drops of indicator solution to the alcohol/WVO mixture. With an eye dropper, slowly add one drop at a time of lye solution to WVO solution, swirling thoroughly to mix each time. When the WVO solution turns pink and stays pink for 10 seconds, you have reached the desired pH range. *Lye Quantity Calculation: Number of milliliters used to reach optimum pH balance Number of liters of oil to be converted = Number of grams of lye required for the next step.
TRANSESTERIFICATION (MAKING YOUR FUEL)
In this process, lye acts as a catalyst to separate the glycerin from the oil by replacing the glycerides with alcohol. What you are left with are ester chains, also known as Biodiesel. To blend a test batch, designate a kitchen blender as your bioD blender and never use it for food purposes again. Biodiesel in its completed form is nontoxic, but the chemicals used in the process should not be touched, inhaled or ingested. In the blender mix the lye plus the methanol (amount of methanol = 20% of the total volume of the oil being converted). Blend until all the lye dissolves. To this mixture add one liter of preheated (120-130°F) WVO. Blend for 15-20 minutes. Pour into a container and allow to settle for at least eight hours. Once it has settled, you will have a layer of glycerin and a layer of biodiesel. The glycerin (if you’re crafty) can be used to make soaps, tinctures or lotions. The biodiesel must be washed and is then ready to go into your car.
WASHING
The washing process can happen in a number of ways. If you’ve gotten this far, you can look into washing strategies and suggestions online. Biodiesel needs to be stored out of direct sunlight and in relatively stable temperatures. Cold air will cause it to congeal. *Please note: if you really want to be a DIY superstar, please do your research thoroughly. You can always buy biodiesel that has been made by someone else. Plenty of people, especially in California, are dedicated to making biodiesel so that you can be a consumer without being a chemist.
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USING SVO
If you don’t want to make or buy biodiesel, you can use Straight Vegetable Oil (SVO). There is a different conversion process for the use of SVO, which does not involve chemistry, but does require some mechanical intelligence. To run on SVO requires a one-time conversion to the vehicle itself that costs between $200 and $800 depending on where you source your materials. You need two tanks: one for diesel and one for veggie oil. The car ignites on diesel. A temperaturesensitive switch knows when your SVO is hot enough to switch tanks. The benefit to SVO conversion is that once you’ve done it, all it takes is a little networking to have free fuel forever. No more gas stations but plenty of places to fill your tank. Your local greasy spoon is your hook-up.
WHEN IN NEED (A.K.A. THE MIDDLE OF NEVADA)
When you’re far from fast food or filling stations, you can always use regular diesel in these cars. Converted SVO vehicles can run solely on their diesel tanks; biodiesel cars can handle any ratio of diesel to bioD. If you are interested in converting your car or buying a diesel, check out the following websites as starting points. Many local stations and collectives have their own sites with specifics for finding equipment and supplies in your region:
www.biodiesel.org www.journeytoforever.org/biodiesel www.veggievan.org www.biofueloasis.com If you need incentive beyond the practicalities, know that by switching to biofuel, you are riding the crest of a wave toward revolutionizing consumption and restoring the earth. I love my biodiesel car; it represents a new paradigm of freedom. You have more choices than you know.
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WORD UP
POETRY
Ceramic Christ And Mary staring down from the wooden shelving shaking their heads in empathy with the sway of the late April wind. A Hardened And Battered Brass Crucifix twisted in the sheets beside the strength that seeps and leaks away each time his eyes squeeze out a pinch of the laceration called cancer. His Soft Hand Pulsing, one senses the agonizing pain and confusion, his thumb waxing and waning in strength and force against one’s hand; one fourth a replica of his. Tears Tainted With Cheap Black Eyeliner Fall, a hurried descent in the allergen mingled air, to the sheets on which he is dying, a remainder to stay behind until LA FIN Tubes Tangled, Twisted, Tugging, a shock to see his strong past supported by their feeble limbs. Lips Forming Incomplete Sentences, a whisper... “It’s so hard to believe...” never letting out what needs to be ejected, but in encore presenting a final... “...I love you.” One Focuses Intently Upon His Eyes which dart in hysteria around the cream room in between bouts of forceful and p r o l o n g e d closure, far surpassing the limitations of a mere blink. I COULD’VE SWORN HE WAS WAITING FOR DEATH to waltz through the door.
The First and Last Glimpse By Siobhan Burton, 17, Richmond, KY
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PHOTO BY NATE ROCHE, 20, ORLANDO, FL
Lonely Old Woman Gives Way to Rambling Poem By Paul Gansky, 19, Colorado Springs, CO
I had an aunt I cut her lawn every Thursday at 3:45, She would bang out of the screen door with her little dog Rush when I came by. Marble-mouthing something at a low volume Because the false teeth pinched her gums I just smiled faintly and put on my gloves. Muttering all the time She'd meander behind me with Rush while I ricketed the mower Tell me her house was rotting to hell. The air conditioner was clacking a little differently The roofers didn't use galvanized nails Someone was sucking her money And no one believed her. Her children were born out of eggs Her husband had flown the Big Top And the vision in her left eye was filtered through grey gauze. Sometimes she would capture me after I was done And put me at the nook table with a bowl of freezer-burn Try to convince me that She was the captain going down with the ship. I didn't say anything All I wanted was fifteen dollars. I smiled and blinked my eyes so she thought I was following along. Watching her I knew what it looked like to dissolve.
PHOTO BY ERVIL JOVKOVIC, 29, MUNICH, GERMANY
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Sixty Miles
By Timothy Bruderek, 22, East Norton, PA
Sixty miles apart, a long stretch of highway divides our schools and our busy lives. Edge of Seventeen blasting out of the windows of my grey Dodge. Yellow line, white line, dotted and spotted and striped lines are painted slowly down the center of the road as I drive, past a lonely billboard and an occasional telephone pole. Sixty miles of long distance relationships and phone bills. I pick up the phone after one ring, hoping to hear your voice each time. We used to drive down I-95 together, listening to Joni and letting the cool air stretch our hair out the windows of your old Ford Escort. You used to speed, your voice and your youth in the air that blew through the windows. They now lie by the side of the road, like a ripped up tire, covered in dust and dirt and shards of plastic from a broken mix tape that I made for you.
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PHOTO BY ERIN WALLACE, 16, SEATTLE, WA
Somebody’s Girlfriend By Mary Miller, 27, Meridian, MS
Somebody’s girlfriend is a talker chatty chatty they say it’s only because she’s nervous but I’m not buying it She’s overly confident, self congratulatory, too insane To be normal like that Somebody’s girlfriend used to be fat but found a recipe for thin: if she talked constantly during meals there was no time to eat; as her dining companion there are two options: eat and ignore her or go hungry while listening, smiling and responding to insipid conversation either way, leaving tired and bloated Somebody’s girlfriend can’t hold a job calls in sick often becomes gravely ill at the thought of work but thinks of herself as a go-getter, a top gun, a maverick In her mind she is a big wig, a beauty queen, a saint The dearly held delusions of an only child who never grew up Somebody’s girlfriend must give one hell of a blow job
PHOTO BY REMY PEARCE, 23, NEW YORK, NY
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By Asiya Wadud, 22, Berkeley, CA I am writing lines for twelve year old girls writing Lines for lost motel mothers Writing lines for violated women I am writing lines out loud. I am writing I am writing from a spaceless place Where twelve-year-old girl-minds take shape. I am Hiding what I do know I am listening to twelve-year-old cherry Lipped girls strutting hips Ohio girls laugh Wide-mouthed laughs I am listening to little girls In their worlds I can spot the eternal four-year-old I have lived three months of a four-year-old’s I have held her Giddy hand at my side I have seen the world with little girl eyes I have seen grandmothers in Southern rockers I have seen Grandmothers who don’t forget names I have seen Ancient women who know what all is to come. There are some Grandmothers that know my world I am writing lines for women I love to love ancient women And four-year-old girls writing lines for motel mothers I am writing.
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PHOTO BY ALANA MACALUSO, 21, HOLMES, NY
STEPFATHER when the men came the house changed the Mother was gone to the voices to the cans of condensed milk he kept in a straight row on a shelf in the basement By Alabama Firebird, 23, San Francisco, CA
SHOW OFF Take bus to city Go shopping looking pretty Strut your stuff, kitty By Hannah Ryll, 17, Nesconset, NY
W H I T E . S M I L E . TO O T H PA S T E there she gallantly goes dating her flawless self jewish american princess respect absent from the shelf she will masticate pleasure hindered by her addiction rubbing sandpaper to skin resentment bleeds friction watch miss inspiration arrive her followers threescore feed this market of worship eat tribute glamour whore By Michael Frels, 20, Lubbock, TX
PHOTO BY JANICE LIU, 19, TORONTO, CANADA
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SMELLS LIKE...
ANDY WARH OL
PHOTOGRAPHS UNDER THE INFLUENCE
PHOTOS BY ISAAC BREST, 17, PACIFIC PALISADES, CA
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POSSESSED BY TAXIDERMY
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PHOTOS BY LEX THOMPSON, 26, INTERLOCHEN, MI
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MIND’S EYE PHOTOJOURNALISM
ROLLER HEAVEN
text and photos by Alexa Stanley-Miller, 27, Arlington, VA
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Roller skating peaked in the disco days of the 1970s, experienced a slow decline during the ‘80s and was nearly destroyed by the in-line skate in the early ‘90s. Rink closures happened one after another, in time with plummeting sales of roller skates.Yet the sport refused to die. The roller rink isn’t gone from American culture, it just slipped off the radar. There are entire worlds that exist within the realm of the roller rink, from generations of people who skate competitively in various events (figures, singles, pairs, team dance, freestyle and precision team) to those who participate in recreational skating. Roller skaters do not all conform to expected athletic standards. They are not all thin, muscular, young and graceful. Many are older and some are chubbier and more awkward and more “real” than anything you might expect to see. At the Moonlight Rollerway in Glendale, California, the senior show team trains on Tuesday evenings. If you stick around until 9pm, the Rollerway transforms from a world of grey-headed seniors choreographing skated dance steps to a place populated by impossibly tall and glamorous female impersonators. This is when the gay and transvestite/transgender skaters stake their claim to the rink. The music ranges from disco to Nelly and it is a seriously good time. A world away from the intense training regimes of the precision teams, many of the “tranny-girls” come to the rink more to be seen than to seriously skate. Some people cling to the rail around the edge of the rink like a drowning person to a lifeboat while others who skated competitively race around the rink with hair flying and nails flashing as they jump and spin to the beats. Style takes a frontseat to skating, and matching outfits are key. In 2004, Fresno, California hosted twenty-seven nations for The World Roller Figure Skating Championships. Opening ceremonies were held and included various exhibitions, a Special Olympic performance, and a Parade of Countries as the men and women prepared for nearly ten days of intense competition. The World Championships proved that roller skating doesn’t lack in excitement, athleticism or drama, yet it isn’t a sanctioned Olympic event. Right now the FIRS (Federation Internationale de Roller Sports) is working to have roller skating included in the upcoming summer Olympic Games.The individuals and teams will keep training and competing while hoping that their home rink doesn’t close down.
In America, those who skate competitively know that roller skating has long been overlooked in favor of ice skating. There are the same sequined skirts, serious coaches, double axels, and good luck teddy bears. But imagine performing the same tricks as ice skaters with an extra five pounds attached to your feet.With no prize money, no sponsorships, no endorsements and little to no media attention, roller skaters are in it purely for the love of the sport. And that’s a rare thing. --Alexa Stanley-Miller
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OPEN PAGES
INSIDE MY HEAD: ONE PERSON’S ART AND PHOTOS
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ART AND PHOTOS BY NICK DARNSTAEDTER, 16, STUDIO CITY, CA
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PEOPLE I LIKE INTERVIEW WITH MISTY McELROY
Our Lady of Rock ’n’ Roll By J. Agosta, Portland, OR
Interview by the Fringe, Portland, OR
M
y alarm clock went off at 6 a.m. this morning. It takes me a full hour to snooze my way out of a temporary coma in the mornings, and after a late band practice last night with the Fringe, the only thing motivating me to peel myself from my bed this morning was knowing that I was going for another day at the coolest job in the world—band manager of the Fringe and Assistant Director of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls. The Fringe is a band of 16-year-old girls playing music in the grand rock tradition. They started as an all-girl Queen cover band called, of course, King. Now they play a wide mix of originals and covers, with standouts like their unholy cover of PJ Harvey’s “Dry” and their stellar song “Midnight Radio.” At their show this past weekend I witnessed 15 young fans, arm in arm, swaying to their songs in front of the stage. It was magical. Some people think I am crazy for enduring the early morning band practices while trying to support my rock ‘n’ roll habit by moonlighting as a bartender, but at least I’m not alone. I work alongside a band of women who have surrendered themselves to a life of music. I don’t mean a ‘band’ as in four chicks who play the guitar, bass, drums and sing—though that’s part of what we teach. I mean a band of a thousand plus ladies (and a few guys along the way) who instantly feel connected to this place, and understand the importance of putting a set of drumsticks or an electric guitar in the hands of a 10-year-old girl and letting her control the volume knob. “What do y’all do at that there music school? What’d ye say it’s called?” “The Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls,” I answer to the second of the two questions I get asked most frequently in my daily life. And the answer to the first: in short, “a music school for girls.” But it’s so much more than that. Imagine a place where any girl between the ages of 8 and 18 can come to not only learn how to play an instrument, but also to write songs, play in a band, and play shows. Now, let’s add some workshops to this fantasy; zine writing and publishing, self-defense, body image, and band merch just to name a few subjects. What could make this any more complete than having an in-house recording facility in the works and an in-house record label for girls to release their music on, as well as intern at? Oh yeah, a free instrument and CD lending library. Who would have come up with such a ridiculous and genius idea? Behind the scenes of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls, in its Northeast Portland warehouse, with its rooms filled with donated equipment and excited girls, and its musical mob of volunteers and supporters scattered across the country, is a woman, Misty McElroy, who thought that girls deserve the opportunity and encouragement to express themselves with volume and conviction. Misty, in short, has started a revolution for girls in rock ‘n’ roll. And who better to interview her for this story than a band of girls who got their start because of her labor of love? 54
fringe:
Why do you think there is a need for something like the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls?
misty: Because for some reason, women in rock are still con-
sidered a novelty. Girls are still being raised to be passive, play acoustic instruments, and it’s still not socially acceptable for them to be in positions of power or agents of their own youth culture.
fringe: How do you define
fringe: How do you feel about all the other girls’ rock camps that
Roll Camp for Girls?
have sprung up around the world since you started the first Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls in 2000?
misty: Freedom.
misty: I am thrilled.
Rock ‘n’ Roll in the name, Rock ‘n’
Freedom to play whatever you want, blend whatever genres you want, and to amplify your creativity. It’s freedom from all the hard parts of being a girl in our culture today.
fringe: Why rock ‘n’ roll? misty: It’s all I know.
And it’s my true, sincere passion in life
– one of the few things that makes me happy on a visceral level.
fringe: What is or was your biggest hurdle to overcome in starting or running the Rock Camp?
misty: Well, I had to learn EVERYTHING about running a non-
profit, and even what a nonprofit is and what an executive director does. I had to learn to manage the egos and personalities of hundreds of volunteers, as well as what a board does and how to stay in compliance with the government. I had to get over my shyness and social inadequacies pretty quick to ask for help, money, and the time and talent of all the volunteers to keep up with the demand and the momentum of the programming.
But I do hope that they at least acknowledge where the opportunity for girls’ rock camps even came from. I honestly believe Portland was the only city capable of launching the revolution and made it possible for the idea to spread. We’re actually going national this year, with “official” chapters in Brooklyn, New York and potentially in Tucson, Arizona. Our mission and curriculum will be officially used in a legitimate fashion at our chapters in other cities.
fringe: If you could meet and befriend one person, dead or alive, who would it be? Why?
misty: My father. He died when I was 10 years old and I always think how into the rock camp he would be. I’d really like to know him as an adult – we shared an intense love of rock music when I was really young and I’d love to make him proud of how our rock camp brings kids and adults together in similar ways.
PHOTOS BY J. AGOSTA, 25, PORTLAND, OR
WORD UP
PROSE
T o Jill, From Jud
By Hannah Weber, 17, Suttons Bay, MI
One time I was walking to Jill’s house on Seldom Street. Jud and Arnie Berkley live two houses down from her in a house everyone tries to overlook. It must have been a lovely house once, pale green with flower beds all over and a big backyard. But Mr. Berkley left some eight years back I’ve heard and now Ms. Berkley has to work two jobs. The paint is chipped. The grass is now weedy and overgrown except for the back where Jud and Arnie like to blow things up. As I walked past their house on the way to Jill’s I heard a bang and looked quickly down the side of the house. I was not quick enough and Jud stood up from the bald spot on the ground. “Hey.” He shouted to me. His face was smeared with ash and I could smell sulfur and burning hair. “Hey, chick, come here.” In that moment I wanted to run but I could see a dash of red on the ground by his foot. He had something in his hand behind his back, a paper lunch sack. He ran over to my safe haven on the sidewalk and held it out to me. “You know Jill?” I nodded. “Her house is that one down there.” Another nod. I knew no word would have come. “Want to give her this for me? It’s hers.” I gripped the bag with a sweaty fist, fearing what he would do if I said no. He smiled and nodded, backing away again to the bald spot in the backyard. I ran the last eighty feet to Jill’s house, the bag at an arm’s length in front of me. I did not look inside it. Jill answered the door with a smile. “Hi Betsey.” “This is from Jud. He said it was yours. I don’t know what it is.” I said this all in the breath I had been holding. She took the bag, and still looking at me, reached a freckled arm inside. A white cat tail. Part of Seamus Luckybottums IV.
PHOTO BY STEVEN LIANG, 16, ROSEMEAD, CA
THE TIME BETWEEN
by Sophie Klahr, 21, Boston, MA
And in an airport somewhere he is standing, a slight dampness under his arms, searching for any recognition in the crowd of faces streaming past him. His attention jumps to dark eyes, but no, no it is not him. He shifts in his shoes, the white half cowboy boots with slightly pointed toes and the smeared pen drawing of James Dean’ s face on the bottom. His shoulder hurts from carrying the bag. He looks at his hands and brings his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to rub his eyes and looks at the bag. The bag is a tan canvas sack with rolls of t-shirts and mix tapes stuffed in socks thrown hurriedly inside, the bottom skid-marked from being thrown in the bellies of so many planes. His back hurts and he slumps against the uncomfortable metal row chair, the canned air of airports in his lungs and the sickly sweet smell of fries which he cannot afford from the McDonalds. Outside, planes are blinking, circling, loading and unloading again, and he sits very still with a pen in his hand, resting on a blank piece of white notebook paper. Outside the sky is a pink gray haze, which could be very early morning or summer dusk, and he does not know how long he has been awake. He does not remember which city he is in. He does not know who he expects to find him.
PHOTO BY JANICE LIU, 19, TORONTO, CANADA
57
Emily says that they’re vintage. She says, “They’ve probably never even known music as clear as this before.” The cord is wrapped up her arm, still enough left over to touch the ground; its end going into some sort of adapter and then that into her Discman. The cord wraps around my neck. Emily lassoes me in closer, says, “They’re incredible, aren’t they,” and models them for me. She puts her hands on the big half sphere winter earmuff-looking cups and rocks out for a moment. Shaking her hair from side to side and lip-synchscreaming along to an imaginary song. The Discman is off. She falls down on the bed—sits up on the edge— knees together. Her feet apart. Her toes curl and she sways her body back and forth. She doesn’t break character. She bangs her head and says, “I must look like a little girl that’s just found her big brother’s record collection.” And she starts twisting the cord around her finger. She twists the cord around her finger, looks up at me from between her big vintage headphones and says, “Take my pants off. Take my pants off.”
AUDIOPHILE By Christian Stella, 19, Norwalk, CT
PHOTO BY TANJA-TIZIANA BURDI, 23, TORONTO, CANADA
BLUNT REV E By Paul Gansky, 19, Colorado Springs, CO
“Come in come in boy!” Big pasty hands grasp my shoul-
incessantly, up past her neck, eyes looking ready to twad-
ders and shove me into the low brick building. Her Janis
dle out of their sockets. Her daughter, one of about a half-
Joplin rasp blows up behind me - pleasantries and ques-
dozen she’s told me about, materializes to run out to get
tions careening into laughter, how are you what’s that on
her mother something from Arby’s while we’re talking.
your shirt what god it's so hot in this place, whoof, (hands
“Beef and Cheddar. Small milkshake. And one of, uh, a
whipping the air in front of her face) every day I ask ’im to
couple a Reese’s Cups from the machines dear. I feel like
get down here and see if anything’s blocking the air vent,
something light today. It’s just too hot in here to eat big,
that Darren won’t do anything but sit in the bar next door
and I got my own personal summer going on....”
whoaaeeheh... I don’t mind her. Carol is the first person I’ve seen In the practicing room, she sags onto her tiny
in months worth saying something about. Friends, teach-
black piano stool with a giant sigh. Everything with Carol
ers, neighbors: unobtrusive, polite, always conscious to
has the volume pushed up. Her hair a monster rusty Brillo
never let anything out that might compromise character.
pad, wide upper arms flinging her hands across the room,
But Carol is a self-propelled sledgehammer - full of that
feet banging out rhythm, voice jaunty, all teetering on
weird, strong zest for life that I suppose buoys your sanity
that tiny stool in this four-by-four square of fluorescent
when you’re hopping from one rental house and dollar bill
light and scuffed walls.
to the next.
And the keyboard with the fake wood paneling
Our conversation continues past the bored kids
and the plastic keys streaked with finger grease. The bass
and simpering mothers she’s dealt with during the day.
and treble set to a sort of shriek like highway wind. I’ve
She tells me about her father, the domineering fool she left
had two other piano teachers in the three years I’ve tried
in South Dakota. She’s a born-again Christian, goes to an
to conquer the instrument: one was a stiff ex-Marine with
inner-city church run by a tattooed preacher who has
a bad spine, the other liked to chew entire packs of sugar-
served hard time and occasionally dishes out Vulcan nerve
less gum at one time and lay on the floor behind me
pinches to the congregation of ex-cons trying to stay
screaming, “The notes, the notes, my God!”
straight. “You shoulda seen, we brought in these boys that had been kidnapped and sent to live at this devil boot
But in the two lessons I’ve had, Carol doesn’t seem terribly
camp. Well they went nuts as you can imagine when we
interested in imparting the fineries of tempo or teaching
got ’em inside the church, all the crosses and Mother
me how to roll my fingers across the keys lightly to make
Mary, so we cornered them in behind the ping-pong table
each note sound full and cultured. In an hour, the first
in the youth room and one of the boys, he just flipped his
twenty-five minutes are filled with her letting out the six
nose at me and said you don’t know what power you’re
previous hours of lessons.
messing with. And I just said, ’well I've got the power of
Day after day in this room, reverberating every awkward
God, he is right and true. And at that -’” her hands flip up
dink-dink-dink of Old MacDonald and Here We Come a
again and accidentally rake my glasses up over my head.
Wasseling, it’s easy to see why Carol’s knees bounce up
Oblivious, whites showing, she says, “- and at the word ‘God’ this boy curled up on the couch like this, frozen
60
ELATIONS ~ white and stiff and just screamed with his hands over his
thing painful and put it to this.”
ears! Oh, the things....”
“Like -”
“Uh-huh.” “Like a girlfriend or a dead family member. “And, ah my gad, like the fruity guy on the col-
Something that really shook you.”
lege band bus back in the ’60s who carried a briefcase full of drugs instead of his trombone, but didn't have any
I’m eighteen and I can cop a pretty authentic
aspirin for my headache” - mid-sentence she flies off her
mid-life crisis from what I’ve gotten from my parents or a
stool and rockets around the room, sheets of music flutter-
movie. Otherwise, it’s all pretty small potatoes - forgetting
ing, and she pulls a book from her weathered music kit
deodorant, being put on the spot by a teacher. I stare off
and flops it up on the keyboard. “God, that reminds me,
thoughtfully towards the heater vent, hands coiling and
you like Zep don’t you, all boys your age like ’em, here I
scratching at the flaky skin on my upper arms, and finally
found this sheet music for a quarter at a garage sale -
she says, “Nothing, huh?”
“Stairway to Heaven!!!”” The slow moaning strains of the song start in, immediately recognizable, and she asks me
Goddammit. This glaring hole always over me: I
if I’d like to learn this rather than whatever she’s given me
know things are hideous, but I just don’t have the pound of
from the scales book. Before I can answer, her entire
personal anecdotes to season myself. Like my friends,
body suddenly heaves off the seat, her voice busts out into
peering through the social keyhole to adopt whatever pus-
a crotch-curdling wail that obliterates any memory of
pumping beat rules inside.
Robert Plant. Her daughter stumbles in with the beef and chedNine minutes and many sight-read guitar solos later, she finally lets me back on the piano. The song has been severely simplified and I nail the notes of the beginning but Carol grabs my hands and squeezes them tightly. “This...this song, you must feel it, you have to know where it came from, how it told of all the people that had their dreams ripped out from under them, and they were without anything, lost again. You have to feel that pain or it won't sound right. It's not just getting the notes right.” “Okay.” Tentatively I try again, laying my fingers down with a flourish, playing slow and holding the pedal so the notes hum. She shakes her head. “No. Think, draw on some-
dar. Carol tweaks my shoulder. “That about does it for today, kiddo, you have a good week.”
MOT EL
B y M e g g y Wa n g , 2 1 , L o s G a t o s , C A
It is so quiet, like being in an expensive car with a smoothly running engine, except we are not going anywhere and this room is cheap. Yet if you look out of the window you see other people moving, other couples escaping for shits and giggles in the city, and it is like the scenario in which you are in an unmoving train and the train next to yours starts to go to Hoboken and as it does you find yourself wondering if you are headed to Hoboken too. It is very quiet. I am afraid to move, to wake you. You wake easily. It is only ten o' clock, why are you sleeping? You are tired. Where are we going? Nowhere. People look peaceful when they sleep, similar to when they are dead. I have never seen a dead person except on TV, so I can't really make a judgment like that, but I hear people say it so it must be true. You look so beautiful, like an angel, except I've never seen one of those either, so I can say you look like a Victoria's Secret angel, big breasts and all. Well maybe not so big. I can cup one in my palm, I know this for a fact. I know they will be warm, but I do not touch. I don't want you to have bad dreams. We have been traveling for how many days now? I believe it is five days. It must be some time around the twentieth because I bought you a pack of tampons from a corner store an hour ago while you sat in this very room and chewed your nails waiting for me to get the crap kicked out of me (in this "bad neighborhood"). You said you were going to call the police if I didn't show up in exactly twenty minutes. I can picture you panicked and calling them five minutes too soon, and then me showing up as the police stand at the motel door. It makes me want to laugh, the way you jump the gun. Five days. We would be in Las Vegas by now, playing craps or blackjack, losing money, having an off-the-cuff wedding. We should get our stories straight. What did you eat? Lots of buffets, lots of them. Comped buffets. Did they have good food? They had some amazing, um, mashed potatoes. How much money did you lose? How much money do you think we should lose? I will have to ask you tomorrow morning. It must be the stress that causes you to sleep. I think once you slept an entire day, when you thought you might be pregnant. I never told you, but I had the name of it all picked out. I was convinced it was a girl and I was going to ask if we could name it Holly. Then your period came and you screamed with excitement, but I was sort of sad. I think Holly is a nice name. If you ever do get preg-
nant I will ask for real. It has nothing to do with Christmas, I swear. That wouldn't make sense for a half-Jewish baby. But anyway, you don't have to worry about anything. I don't want you to stress out. I don't even want you to do anything. It will be all me. You can wait in the car. You can even wait in the motel, a motel just like this one, but I thought you might want to see the look on his face. I knew when I saw this motel that it would be okay. The parking lot was sort of empty, which is usually a bad sign, but it also means that things would be sort of quiet, and we need a lot of quiet to think; I'm not sure about what. It seems like it would be a good idea to just be quiet and let you relax. I scrubbed the tub with a paper towel and some soap and you didn't seem to mind the remaining dirt when you took a bath. In fact, you squealed when I walked in and dragged me down to kiss you. I just wanted to use the toilet. But I was happy to see you happy. Lately you look so morose. I guess that's partially why I'm so glad to see you asleep, peaceful, brow smooth. I want to touch you; I want to climb on top of you and gently awaken you. I know it's not a good idea. I thought it would be romantic, but you said it would remind you of him. It's frustrating. I'm nothing like him. You trust me and still there are certain things I can't do, and certain things you can't do, like close your eyes. You always have to look at me, to make sure it's still me. And sometimes there are things that are okay to do sometimes, like pin your wrists, and other times you just burst into tears and it kills the mood for everyone. I can't even be mad, even though I'm frustrated. I can't. We should go to Vegas for real. Like, after this is over, we can go to Vegas. We can go eat at cheap buffets and play slot machines and maybe I'll ask you to marry me so that we can get hitched at a gaudy Elvis chapel. I think this is a great idea. I will wake you up to tell you. You will sleepily open your eyes and say, "You idiot, who really gets married at an Elvis chapel?" But this is what I want to do. Just like the other thing. It is sort of something like, I do this because I love you, but it is more something like, I am terrified of what will happen if we do not do this. So we will do this, I will do this. I will.
PHOTO BY JASON LEE, 24, SAN FRANCISCO, CA
63
I STILL HAVE MY TEDDY BEAR THE ONE I GOT THE DAY I WAS BORN HIS FUR HAS BECOME A BIT MATTED AND HIS NOSE IS SCRATCHED BUT THAT'S FROM BEING HUGGED WAY TOO MUCH AND CRIED ON WAY TOO MUCH AND RELIED ON TO HIDE MY DIARY KEYS KINDA TOO MUCH I USED TO WRITE IN A JOURNAL EVERY DAY FOR FIVE YEARS STRAIGHT I NEVER MISSED A DAY NOT A ONE HOW THE FUCK I MANAGED THAT I'LL NEVER KNOW AN OBSCENE COMMITMENT MAYBE TO WHAT I'M NOT SURE BUT IT'S ALL CAPTURED ALL THE THOUGHTS FROM HATING MY SISTER TO MY FIRST MASTURBATION TO MY CRUSHES AND MY FIGHTS FUNNY I'VE READ THE ENTRIES OVER AND OVER AND EVERY TIME I WONDER AGAIN WHO IS THIS GIRL? 64
DEAR DADDY, DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL? WE WERE CAMPING AT OUR TRAILER. I THINK I WAS 8 AND HAD PIGTAILS. IT WAS RIGHT AROUND THE TIME I LEARNED TO BLOW BUBBLES WITH MY BUBBLEGUM. WELL YOU HAD A FRIEND WHOSE NAME I DIDN'T HEAR. HE HAD A RECEDING HAIRLINE. AND A BROWN CAR.
YOU TOLD ME TO GO RIDE WITH HIM ’CAUSE I WOULD LIKE THE WIND BLOWING. I DID. AND I ALSO LIKED THE SOUND OF THE MOTOR AS IT ATE THROUGH THE DIRT ROADS IT EVEN SKIDDED A BIT. I THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE BEEN SCARED FOR ME. HE DROVE PRETTY CRAZY. WELL. I'M OLD NOW. MAYBE I'M GOING THROUGH A PRE-SOMETHING OR MAYBE IT'S A POST-ONE. BUT I WANT A CAR LIKE YOUR TRAILERTRASH FRIEND HAD. I FOUND ONE DADDY. IT'S REAL NICE. IT HAS A 454 BIG BLOCK ENGINE. DON'T YOU THINK I WILL LOOK PRETTY DRIVING IT? WON'T DO WINTER REAL GOOD. SO I MAY HAVE TO MOVE TO VANCOUVER TO DRIVE IT. I'LL MISS YOU. BY RADMAD, 22, NEW YORK, NY 65
OPEN PAGES
INSIDE MY HEAD: ONE PERSON’S PHOTOS
I photograph myself, my life, and places and people I love. I’m interested in transformation - the way people change and stay the same - and how people and things reflect and affect each other. I grew-up along with my three younger brothers in Corona, California on the edge of the Inland Empire. The youngest, Chris, just turned sixteen. He’s a dream to photograph because he’s grown and changed every time I see him and is an opposite of me in most ways. John and Dan are a year and a week apart always. The way I create and organize these images from my life helps me express and discover what’s important to me. It also helps me focus on the beauty in life, even in the midst of pain.
By Katrina Leigh Umber, 25, Corona, CA
66
67
PHOTO GEOGRAPHIC The people, places and things that live in your world
1
ADAM BRAGG, RICHMOND, VA
ERIN WALLACE, 16, SEATTLE, WA
75
REBECCA YALE, 16, LOS ANGELES, CA
JASON LEE, 24, SAN FRANCISCO, CAEVON CURTIN, 25, NEW YORK, NY
70
FABIO VASSALLO, 28, ROME, ITALY
OWEN GORMAN, 14, LOS ANGELES, CA
CHRISTOPHER LEAL, 17, FULLERTON, CA
MICHELLE CRUZ, 16, ELMHURST, NY
JAMES TOLLEY, 18, MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
KATIE LUCAS, 16, SAN ANSELMO, CA
MAGGIE WINTERS, 14, ARLINGTON, VA
ORIANA LEWTON-LEOPOLD, 23, BROOKLYN, NY
ROBERT KARBAUM, 20, TORONTO, CANADA
WILL STERNS, 23, NEW YORK, NY
GEOFF GRESH, 21, GUTTENBERG, NJ
ELIJAH TELLER, 16, LOS ANGELES, CA
ERIN WALLACE, 16, SEATTLE, WA
WILL STERNS, 23 NEW YORK, NY “Natalia from Ukraine gets fitted for sneakers backstage to prepare for the contest’s first look. She would go on to win first prize and a $250,000 modeling contract with Ford.”
ERIN WALLACE, 16 SEATTLE, WA “Why do I like this?”
MICHELLE CRUZ, 16 ELMHURST, NY “Warped Tour-Randall’s Island, NYC.”
REBECCA YALE, 16 LOS ANGELES, CA “I was in St. Marco Plaza in Venice feeding the pigeons, and I realized that they really are beautiful creatures, the curve of their neck and the spectrum of colors within their grays are spectacular and really unique.”
JAMES TOLLEY, 18 MANCHESTER, ENGLAND “On the semi-final of the County Cup, I went outside the huddle at half-time. Fundamentally I just wanted to capture their expressions as the coach was screaming at them, looking over two players’ shoulders, the three lads were framed quite well.”
WILL STERNS, 23 NEW YORK, NY “Contestants wait nervously backstage at Ford’s 2004 Supermodel of the World contest.”
KATIE LUCAS, 16 SAN ANSELMO, CA “I wanted to show how vulnerable this girl looked to me. Her hair seemed to be the only thing that hid her face from people.”
GEOFF GRESH, 21 GUTTENBERG, NJ “Me and the Ex.”
REBECCA YALE, 16 LOS ANGELES, CA “This was actually at Magic Mountain after waiting for about 3 hours for the ride ‘X’ under a dark, gloomy sky. The sun finally started to peek out from the trees and the whole park had a gold glow.”
JASON LEE, 24 SAN FRANCISCO, CA “There is something beautiful in the complexity of life.”
FABIO VASSALLO, 28 ROME, ITALY “Last summer, while staying at my parents’ home, I realized how retro-styled our flat was. The furniture has not changed in the last 30 years! Next thing I knew, I was taking this picture of my foot, with this socks-sneaker combo that screams BOOGIE NIGHTS!”
MAGGIE WINTERS, 14 ARLINGTON, VA “Sometimes the weather looks so menacing, the trees turn against us as their black, leafless frames are outlined by the even blacker sky.”
ORIANA LEWTON-LEOPOLD 23, BROOKLYN, NY “I eavesdropped on these girls and followed them. Their conversation, matching bikinis and way of strutting down the beach intrigued me.”
OWEN GORMAN, 14 LOS ANGELES, CA “These are some guys on the school running team.”
ORIANA LEWTON-LEOPOLD 23, BROOKLYN, NY “These girls seemed in their own little mysterious world. I tried to take their photo without disrupting it.”
CHRISTOPHER LEAL, 17 FULLERTON, CA “School starting means seeing this guy more.”
ROBERT KARBAUM, 20 TORONTO, CANADA “Here is where the rock star dreams begin and where the good times continue when all hope is lost. Whether in a basement, garage, or empty room, it needs only to be filled with dreams, and those with the passion to fulfill them.”
ELIJAH TELLER, 16 LOS ANGELES, CA “That’s my friend Louie lining Barry McGee’s truck with wood so Barry could hang his artwork in there. We were helping set up the Beautiful Losers exhibit in Orange County.”
ERIN WALLACE, 16 SEATTLE, WA “Wearing hearts.”
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1. 2.
Be someone between the ages of 14-30 who does not get paid for your art (i.e. be amateur in the pure sense of the word).
Go to look-lookmagazine.com and follow the submission guidelines on the web site. By the way, your images MUST be at least 300 dpi in order to be reproduced in the magazine. So if you’re not sure, con tact us and we’ll set you straight.
OR
3.
Send your work via snail mail to: Look-Look Magazine Submissions Department 6685 Hollywood Blvd. Hollywood, CA 90028
Please note: We are not able to send any submissions back to you so you should be prepared to part with your work on a permanent basis. See you in the next issue! look-lookmagazine.com
LAST LOOK-LOOK A PARTING SHOT
TANJA-TIZIANA BURDI, 23, TORONTO, CANA-
The Ad Gallery. Something like the peanut gallery only worth much, much more. You see, if it weren’t for the corporate sponsors featured in the following pages, there would be no Look-Look. With no Look-Look you’d be right back where you started, with no outlet for your creativity and we’d have an awful lot of free time on our hands. The companies whose ads are featured in this magazine are the kinds of companies we’d like to work for if anyone would ever hire us for “real” jobs. They’re the kinds of places where it doesn’t suck to go to work and where you don’t get icky corporate grease on your hands when you touch the doorknobs. Or at least that’s how we imagine it is. They never actually invite us over or anything...But we are so over that because they do something much more important. They provide the funding so that your art can appear on the pages of Look-Look. And they even let young people create their ads, which if you think about it, is highly unusual and might even possibly get them kicked out of the corporations hall of fame incorporated if they don’t look out. Man, they’re cool. And from the bottom of our tiny black hearts, we thank them for putting up with us through another issue. Look-Look
The Sponsors
The Artists
American Apparel
Dola Baroni, 18, Los Angeles, CA
Ron Herman
Maya Whitman, 27, Beverly Hills, CA
Le Book
Morgan Bell, 23, Atlanta, GA
MySpace.com
Claire Griffiths, 22, London, England
Bumble and bumble.
Sean McCarthy, 17, Los Angeles, CA
Virgin Mobile
Aisha Tobias Layla Dorsey, 17, Baltimore, MD
“Sweatshop free, baby.”
“My ‘Free City’ is no city at all.”
“Just Be.”
“If only we evolved differently.”
“I don’t need no instructions to know how to rock.”
“I actually have my suitcase sitting on my skateboard
and with
it wasn’t until I looked under my desk, playing around my new camera, that I figured out I really do live as I
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