Oh Comely magazine issue 16, jul/aug 2013 by oh comely magazine

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issue sixteen JUL/aug 2013

keep your curiosity sacred

Interviews with audrey tautou, mogwai, camera obscura japanese bookbinding in 16 beautiful stitches colour and costume at the national theatre dye room portraits of houseboat communities and taste testing fried chicken

this magazine will make you smile paint a friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s portrait and ask them to paint yours brush the dust off an old telescope dye your white sofa blue draw on the walls

oh comely

keep your curiosity sacred editors liz bennett, des tan

deputy editor rosanna durham associate editor dani lurie fashion liz seabrook illustration laura callaghan film jason ward editorial maggie crow, alice morby, olivia wilson words amelia abraham, kerrie braithwaite, alice christie, kate fridkis, tony fuller, fab gorjian, jenna james, alan king, jessica shepherd, ava szajna-hopgood pictures nick alston, sabrina arnault, davis ayer, patrick blossier, aloha bonser-shaw, valerie chiang, anna isola crolla, naomi elliott, anthony gerace, hannah hathaway kells, mira heo, naoko horie, sian keegan, fuchsia macaree, trent mcminn, hugh raine, aya sekine, david swailes, eleanor taylor, alice tobia, beinta ĂĄ torkilsheyggi, ula wiznerowicz, yatender, ping zhu advertising hannah jackson, hannah.jackson@royalacademy.org.uk emily knowles, emily.knowles@royalacademy.org.uk feedback and lost property, info@ohcomely.co.uk submissions, words@ohcomely.co.uk or pictures@ohcomely.co.uk oh comely, issue sixteen, jul/aug 2013. Published by Adeline Media Ltd six times a year. Third Floor, 116 High Holborn, London, WC1V 6RD. 020 7831 8645. Printed in the UK by The Manson Group, www.manson-grp.co.uk. Cover portrait, Juliette Picquier, Models1, by Liz Seabrook. Collar by Ali Forbes and hood by Merrimaking. www.ohcomely.co.uk Contents ÂŠ 2013 Adeline Media Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission from the publishers, although conscientious and beleaguered fair users can relax and have a cup of tea. The views expressed in oh comely are not necessarily those of the contributors, editors or publishers, or the authorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; mothers. ISSN 2043-9857.

Above and on the previous page are photographs by Yatender, taken on a day out in Vũng Tàu City, Vietnam.

60 30 62 102

108 118

c o n te n t s it’s nice to see you here

art

20 tiny people, voracious desires illustrated characters swim in syrup

36 I’m sorry your nose is so big illustration collectives draw each other

26 pop stars and voluntary service workers the frontwoman of camera obscura makes us feel inadequate

44 at what price beauty? in search of kenji kamiyama’s gorgeous and baffling anime epic

28 post-rock by the post-deceased mogwai and their tv horror soundtrack

48 come on you reds! photographing twenty years of the joy, agony and belonging of the football fan

30 drawing on the walls meet the father and child who transformed an undecorated house with coloured pencil

fashion people

34 maybe I’m not the mothering type but the child growing inside me will be special

60 fame will not forget her audrey tautou, the star of amélie, chose the road away from stardom

62 wear this silver key lightly

70 my little sister portraits of a pair who call tokyo home

here hangs the glint of a jewel: a necklace of daisies, a carved knuckle ring and a seahorse for your ear 82 who would do a thing like this? the dastardly thief of the comic book nudes 90 my job is to make you look amazing yet cariad lloyd is a comedian, not a hair stylist

and

58 my monumental ambition and I I’ve stopped copying katharine hepburn’s smile

78 I prefer my fruit salad frozen luminous forms of grapefruit in ice 94 hello, this is your majesty speaking that time we bagged an interview with a dead dictator, and other improbable encounters with ladies, gentlemen and kim jong-il

92 paper and pen the extravagant hand-drawn typography of a graphic designer’s picture dictionary

102 whatever you build, the mud will destroy portraits of houseboats and the families who live in them

108 behind the scenes at the national theatre welcome to the dye room, where costumes go to get into character

118 sixteen grandchildren, sixteen copies of the same slovak cookbook when I joined a slovak-american family, I joined their traditions too

112 my notebook, my colours begin bookbinding with the japanese tortoise-shell stitch 116 just a simple job, some rotten floorboards a day in the life of a painter and decorator

126 kentucky fried everywhere our hapless taste-tester tried six of london’s chicken shops in a single day 128 they’ve lost it since they made it big one gig, a hundred opinions

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Dear the lovely people at oh comely, I awoke this morning, the dawn of my university deadline, in a complete freak out. I fell asleep face down on my laptop surrounded by the carcasses of empty, crushed-up energy drinks cans and Ritz cracker crumbs stuck to my face. After an hour of crying then stopping myself, and convincing myself I could do this, then only to be replaced by great dread, regret and guilt, I looked down and saw a copy of your beautiful magazine. I opened your cover and straight away as always I got inspiration. That is what your magazine has always done for me. Calmed, inspired, made me want to better myself and kick myself up the arse. I was a ‘troubled’ child. I finished/left/got asked to leave school at the age of fifteen and instead went to a rehab centre for young people. Eleven years on and I have pushed myself through university studying photography, grown up and dropped the party lifestyle. I determined to become a somebody and whenever I feel I can’t do this anymore your magazine always picks me back up. This is why I want to say thank you and don’t ever stop creating such a beautiful magazine. Yours sincerely, Katie

what we listened to songs that made this issue and illustrations by sian keegan

what we ate churning butter out of cream takes just a jam jar

Including Musical Performances by

NOAH & THE WHALE EMPIRE OF THE SUN RODRIGUEZ UK EXCLUSIVE

(SEARCHING FOR SUGARMAN)

MARTHA WAINWRIGHT • MICHAEL KIWANUKA• TOM ODELL • TRIBES GHOSTPOET • MATT CORBY • LUCY ROSE • KING KRULE • LONDON GRAMMAR The Bees • Melody’s echo chaMBer • saM lee • The loNdoN FolK GUIld

Time Out Live present

Theatre de Rue & Cirque Traditionnel

TRANSE EXPRESS A CELESTIAL ART AERIAL SPECTACULAR LES PEPONES AN AFTER DARK FLYING TRAPEZE SHOW Late Night Revelry

From the Producers of Secret Garden Party

THE SECRET VALLEY HOSTED BY RUMPUS • THE BOX

THE CORRESPONDENTS • PSYCHEMAGIK • CRAZY P • FUTUREBOOGIE • WOLF MUSIC CHRISTOPHE • SGP ALLSTARS • WAIFS & STRAYS • LAZY HABITS • GYPSY HILL THE ARTFUL BADGER • FEAST OF FOOLS • 8 FOOT FELIX

Long Table Banquets, Feasts & Gastronomy

RUSSELL NORMAN & POLPO • OTTOLENGHI • MARK HIX

SAM & SAM CLARK PRESENT MORO SOUK TENT • ST JOHN DINING ROOM J SHEEKEY FISH & CHIPS • THYME COOKERY SCHOOL

Well Being & The Great Outdoors

LAKESIDE SPA • SECRET SANCTUARY

MEDITATION WITH HEADSPACE • THE EDEN PROJECT DEN BUILDING WILD SWIMMING • HORSE RIDING •FLY FISHING THE BUSHCRAFT COMPANY • FORAGING • YOGA

Staged Theatre, Promenade Plays & Outdoor Overtures

shaKespeare’s GloBe • peTershaM playhoUse TAX DEDUCTIBLE • VIGNETTE OPERA • YELLOW LOUNGE

Secret Forum Supported by Huff ington Post UK Remarkable Talks, Symposiums & Musical Overtures

INTELLIGENCE SqUARED • THE SCHOOL OF LIFE

HUFF POST CONVERSATION STARTERS • THE IDLER • THE ROYAL OBSERVATORY MAX HASTINGS • CHRIS LINTOTT & OXFORD UNIVERSITY ASTROPHYSICS DEPT LITERARY SALON WITH TRACEY CHEVALIER & JOANNE HARRIS

Magic & Games for Families

THE HOUSE OF FAIRYTALES • UNICORN THEATRE

CHARLES DICKENS MUSEUM • HULLABALO ARTS • THE VILLAGE HALL ROYAL SOCIETY OF THE PURSUIT OF LOVEBIRDS • THE BEARDED KITTENS CRICKET MATCH

Buy tickets at:

wildernessfestival.com

Family tickets available – children aged 10 and under go FREE

some people who helped make this issue we asked them about football and greasy takeaways fuchsia macaree, mischievous illustrator

fab gorjian, time traveller and writer

Fuchsia mapped London’s finest chicken takeaways on page 126.

Fab slathered on monochrome face-paint and went back to the era of black and white film on page 100.

Tell us about yourself and your work. Fuchsia used to only be one of my middle names, but when I went to primary school I just told everyone it was my first name, so now it’s what I’m called. Nowadays I’m 24, I live in Dublin and I’m the designer in residence at the National College of Art and Design. What do you love about being an illustrator? Bullying friends by sneakily drawing them in editorial pieces so they get a fright when they open the magazine. Also the fact that when I was little I wanted to be an artist when I grew up, so I think eight-year-old me would be happy with how things have turned out. Have you ever been to a football match? I once had a boyfriend who was really into non-league football, so in my time I’ve been dragged to stand on terraces from Dublin to Hull to Wembley. My main memory is that a lot of the time it was cold, very cold.

Tell us about yourself and your work. I can only tell you the things that anyone might know, like my age and which tennis player I love. But through the stories I’ve written, and also through my illustrations, I’m sure I’ve revealed a lot more about myself than I had ever planned to. That, for me, is the best thing about any creative work: revealing yourself, and seeing others revealed. Who is your dream interviewee, and why? Assuming I could speak his or language, I’d interview the creator of the Blombos Ochre Plaque. About 75,000 years ago, someone created this little thing, which could be anything from a tally-keeper to the earliest known piece of art in the world. I’d love to know what they were thinking when they made those zigzag marks.

What’s your guilty takeaway of choice? Garlic cheesy chips, with a portion of selfloathing on the side.

Have you ever been to a football match? The closest I’ve come to watching live football was back in school. On two occasions I was asked not to play for slidetackling too enthusiastically, and confined to watch from the side until the end of lunchtime. It was their loss.

phewsha.tumblr.com

www.fabgorjian.com

aya sekine, photographer with poise

amelia abraham, film and music writer

Aya captured moments of domesticity in the shoot My Little Sister, on page 70.

Amelia interviewed Tracyanne Campbell, the sarcastic frontwoman of Camera Obscura, on page 28.

Tell us about yourself and your work. After having studied graphic design and photography at the London College of Printing, I split my time between London and Tokyo, working for various publications and participating in exhibitions in both cities. My work is described as ﬁlm-like, clean, simple and eﬀortless. What do you love about being a photographer? Going to places and meeting people I would never have met otherwise. Who, dead or alive, is your dream portrait subject? Louise Bourgeois. This shoot nearly happened at her studio in New York when I first started working. It’s very sad to think that it won’t happen now. I still admire her dedication, treating subjects with sensitivity and compassion. This issue, we’ve interviewed a photographer who’s deeply immersed in the world of football. Do you enjoy team sports? I think shooting a fashion story has elements of team sports, as it involves working with a stylist, hair and make-up artist and models. So I do enjoy this aspect enormously. www.ayasekine.com

Tell us about yourself and your work. I’m a native Londoner and go about life with a completely unnecessary sense of urgency. I work three jobs for love not money and rarely stop to sleep. I’m therefore always tired, and fear that one day I might yawn so wide that I swallow the entire earth. Who, dead or alive, is your dream interview? John Waters, because he is fabulous, and because he pointed out that “there is such a thing as good bad taste and bad bad taste.” Also Susan Sontag, because I share precisely her weird smörgåsbord of theoretical interests. I don’t so much want to interview her as argue with her over lunch. What’s your guilty takeaway of choice? Fried chicken. But I’ve recently had to abstain altogether as I just moved to an area of London that is abundant in fried chicken shops—a real danger zone. The first step is admitting you have a problem. In a parallel universe you’d be... I’d be reading this. amelia-abraham.blogspot.co.uk

pretty lovely proper gardening clobber to keep your fingers green curated by olivia wilson if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like something nice for the garden, pop an email to free@ohcomely.co.uk by the end of the strawberry season to win anything on the page

Hand tools by Burgon & Ball are perfect company for tending the window boxes. www.burgonandball.com Blitz your garden with seed bombs designed by Beautifully Urban to attract butterflies. www.etsy.com/uk/shop/beautifullyurban These spools of twine by Nutscene come in wonderful colours. www.nutscene.com

Idea pads by SORT, perfect for gardener’s scribblings or allotmenteer’s jottings. www.etsy.com/uk/shop/SORT Slot your shed keys onto this felted fox key ring by TheBigForest. www.etsy.com/shop/TheBigForest A quarterly seed subscription from Allotinabox will keep you growing all year round. www.allotinabox.com This terrarium necklace by With Roots (top) has a tiny live plant inside. www.withroots.com

michelle oh Indonesian-born Michelle Kirana Oh designs jewellery inspired by overlooked objects and nature’s throwaways. Something as inconsequential as a twig will inspire the shape of a ring band. Other times, shapes and textures that Michelle notices on coastal walks spark ideas. So it was with the kelp necklace pictured above. Made from sterling silver, tiny, hand-shaped leaves of metal take their shape from the seaweed Michelle admired when walking on the beach. This necklace is usually made to order and priced at £375, but Michelle Oh is giving one away to a lucky reader. To win, write to free@ohcomely.co.uk with a limerick about the sea. When did you ﬁrst come to London and why did you decide to stay? I initially came to London in 2006 to do an art course. I fell in love with the city, with making jewellery, and a lovely English guy. I couldn’t possibly leave! Have you always wanted to be a jewellery designer? I’ve always felt the urge to make. I explored different pathways to begin with,

starting with fashion textiles and print, before discovering jewellery. As soon as I tried it, I knew I had found my medium. What inspires you in the day-to-day rush of stimuli you encounter online and offline? I like the simple overlooked details in life, things we take for granted when we’re doing something as simple as walking by the seaside. I create my jewellery to celebrate the little moments. A lot of my work is organically inspired because I love playing with textures. I think there’s something special in tactility, but most of all I enjoy creating pieces that others can imbue with their own nostalgia. Describe the material you best enjoy working with, and why it brings you pleasure as a craftsman. Metal provides endless possibilities. I’m attracted to the sustainability and permanence of metal as well as its value. I see it as a way to immortalise the stories behind each piece. A lot of my pieces are made in recycled precious metal, whether silver or gold, accented with natural gemstones and pearls. Michelle Oh / shop.michelle-oh.com

THE STREET

Presenting another exciting commission from Secret Arts, an installation not to miss at The Secret Garden Party this year is ‘The Street’ by two talented 2012 Central St Martins graduates Katy Beveridge and Fernando Laposse.

By KAty BeverIdge And FernAndo LAPoSSe the SeCret gArden PArty 25Th – 28Th JuLy 2013 www.SeCretgArdenPArty.CoM

‘The Street’ by Katy Beveridge and Fernando Laposse is a miniature floating world, existing only for a fleeting moment, which the audience is invited to peer into. Installed either side of the festival footbridge, this magical city street will only come alive as the sun sets, inviting festival goers to pass through it on the way to their final night of reveling

A magazine for paper lovers FOLLOW US AT ✻ www.flowmagazine.com ✻ www.facebook.com/FlowMagInternational

tiny people, voracious desires interview laura callaghan

monica ramos paints swimming pools of syrup and models orgies out of wood The tiny characters of Monica Ramos’ illustrations are everywomen with rampant desires: they lie face down in pats of butter, dive into ponds of syrup or congregate in naked masses. Your illustrations are filled with diminutive figures and swarms of characters that entice the viewer to look closer. What draws you to working in minute detail? I’ve always felt very small, like the world was much bigger than I could handle. (Thank you, Carl Sagan.) I make the figures small and simple to represent people in general instead of specific characters. The simpler the image, the more universal it is. How did you get involved in illustration? I’ve been drawing since I was a kid. One of my earliest memories was drawing flowers on my grandmother’s treadmill because I liked the texture. I half-heartedly tried majoring in Biology, Business and Product Design before finally admitting to myself that I wanted to make pictures all day. It was terrifying.

Food features throughout your work: characters are perched atop waffles, or heavily tattooed in a homage to their favourite meals. Where does this fascination stem from? Everyone relates to food: we eat to celebrate, to mourn and to survive. It’s also delicious. You recently began a blog called Illustration Naked Party with some friends. How important are other creatives for you? My closest friends from school are all artists and I don’t know what I would do without them. They inspire, motivate and support me. We have dinner and drawing parties sometimes. Our latest project was a one-night art show in an empty Dumbo apartment. I’m incredibly proud of all my friends. The nude figure crops up quite often in your work, particularly in your Make Your Own Orgy models. I made the Orgy Kit for fun when I was in school. We had free access to a laser cutter at the time, so while I was having another project cut, I used some of the extra space to make the models. I want to produce a large batch to sell at some point, but it’s on the back burner for now. The blog came after, but I have to admit it’s making me want to draw nudes less and less. Is there any uncharted territory you would like to explore? How about everything? I feel like I haven’t done enough of anything yet. I want to do editorials, album artwork, put on more shows, get the Orgy Kit out and just keep having a good time. Left: Waffle Spa, from the series Comfort Food. Naked Illustration Party is at illnakedparty.tumblr.com. Monica Ramos / www.monramos.com.

left: naked dance party, 2013 below: make your own orgy kit, 2012

“I wonder if I think too much about food. My life is probably slipping away as I ask myself over and over, ‘Quesadilla or meatball sub? Quesadilla or meatball sub?’” —Kate Fridkis, page 34

kirstin nordendal, by beinta á torkilsheyggi, from the series ‘grandmothers of the faroe islands’

pop stars and voluntary service workers words amelia abraham, portrait anna isola crolla

an encounter with camera obscura’s opinionated frontwoman

Conceived in frontwoman Tracyanne Campbell’s Glasgow flat, as all Camera Obscura records are, the forthcoming release Desire Lines is the band’s fifth album. It is their first since My Maudlin Career in 2009. The band are an indie-pop institution, having peddled their peculiar brand of melancholy snarkiness for the past seventeen years. “People often say, ‘Oh, so you’ve had a four-year hiatus,’” Campbell tells me, with her trademark sarcasm, “as though we’ve been on the beach in Thailand or something.” The reality was, she used that time to get her life back and learn to appreciate her city. “On tour constantly or making a record, I lost all sense of who I was and what I was doing in Glasgow. We have had two years off this time. I would do a yoga class or a painting class or learn to cook. Simple things like that, the things that people who have ordinary nine-to-five jobs in the same city every day are used to.” A well-deserved break: since forming the band back in 1996, there’s been little time for pause. “We weren’t even a full-time band for most of it, and that’s what people don’t realise: we’ve got other stuff to do. Kenny, for instance, he worked for many years with people with drug and alcohol addiction and Lee has worked for Richmond Fellowship where he supports people with mental health problems.” Pop stars and voluntary service workers, it’s enough to make you feel inadequate. “Carey joined the band right after she got her degree from university and has been with us ever since,” Campbell continues; comfortable talking about her band mates, bored talking about herself. “Good for her,” I say. “Well, I don’t know,” quips Campbell, “it’s a tricky sort of time and if she was to go out and look for a job tomorrow she might find it quite hard with her English degree and ten years on the road.” It’s this unapologetic realism that often lends an ironic edge to Campbell’s lovelorn lyrics, paradoxically sentimental and discerning all at the same time. “You with your dietary restrictions, said you loved me with a lot of conviction,” muse the lyrics of the not-so-romantic French

Navy. It’s the kind of cynical play on twee that has branded Camera Obscura one-offs in indie pop, and led them to famously garner the support of John Peel and Belle and Sebastian’s Stuart Murdoch. Campbell’s sardonic persona softens when the conversation turns to their fans. Whenever someone emails the band, she says, one of the band replies personally. “I don’t see any reason why not; we’re not exactly The Rolling Stones. It’s a nice way to bring us closer to our fans. That sounds corny but we’ve always had a good relationship with them.” It ought to be corny, but from her it isn’t. Campbell becomes truly animated for the first time all interview when telling me about her approach to experiencing music: “If I want a record I’ll just go and buy it and that’s that. I won’t stream it and I don’t use Spotify. I’m not being a martyr, and it’s not that I don’t know how to do it, I’m just a wee bit more traditional. I like going to the shop on a Monday morning when I know that an album’s coming out and taking it home, and sticking it on, and looking at the artwork.” “It takes a lot of work and effort to make music and then decide which songs are going to make it onto a record, then to decide the running order, and then to decide how you’re going to make it look good, what artwork you’re going to have, where the credits are going to go, what font you’re going to use. This is all something that someone really thinks about and it does feel annoying that some people couldn’t give a shit about it.” Campbell puts on a mock-idiot voice, “I just want track seven and I’m not even going to pay for it, I’m just going steal it from the Internet ‘cause music should be free.” Campbell’s riled up, but she reverts to reason, “What can you do? You can’t get angry about it or you wouldn’t want to make the music anymore. Music is still respected by people who want to respect it and I think luckily we’re one of the bands that have a following who will do that. We’re a dying breed.” Camera Obscura’s fifth album, Desire Lines, is out in the UK on 3rd June.

Photo ÂŠ Haut et Court TV / Patrick Blossier - Batmanu.

post-rock for the post-deceased words dani lurie, portrait patrick blossier

mogwai and their tv horror soundtrack Mogwai are bringing out the dead. The Glaswegian post-rock band’s latest release is the haunting soundtrack to Les Revenants, a hugely successful eight-part zombie drama series from France’s Canal+ network. But the undead here aren’t brain-hungry savages, rather the dearly departed of a small mountain community. They reappear with beating hearts intact and attempt to return to the lives they once had.

the first couple of episodes, but they were really hands on with exactly what they wanted. There were certain scenes that we’d have to write specific songs for. Do you have any favourite zombie or horror movies? I’m a big horror fan. I love horror films! I recently went to the Fright Fest at the Glasgow Film Festival. The best thing I saw there was a documentary called American Scream about people who turn their houses into haunted houses at Halloween. It was brilliant: interesting stories about the people in a strange subculture that I didn’t know anything about, although I’ve been in America on Halloween before and they do go bananas. There was also a compilation film called The ABCs of Death, where 26 directors made short films on different aspects of death. I loved the variety because some of them were hilarious, and then some of them were just twisted and weird. What do you love about horror movies? I quite like fantastical things. The world can be quite drab, so I like the idea of there being more to it that meets the eye. The Exorcist is my favourite horror film.

The soundtrack to Les Revenants is surprisingly reserved for a band famous for its thunderous loud-and-quiet approach—with emphasis on the loud. There’s a sublime frailty in the tinkering of piano keys and strings, an atmospheric unease in the drone of guitars, as unsettled as the dead themselves.

That’s also a film with a great soundtrack. Yes, and actually the sound in The Exorcist was a big influence for Les Revenants, especially the sudden noises. There’s a great documentary about it: they would set guns off on set to frighten the actors. The director was horrible to them. I think there are real priests in it too. It’s a great film.

This isn’t the band’s first foray into putting music to moving image, having written the soundtrack to French football documentary Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait and worked with composer Clint Mansell on the Oscar-nominated score for The Fountain.

Are there any films that you wish you could have done the soundtrack for? Yes, there are. I don’t want to name names, but sometimes the music detracts from the film and you think that they could have tried a bit harder or found someone a bit more interesting.

We spoke to Mogwai’s Stuart Braithwaite about soundtracks and the beauty of things that go bump in the night.

On the other hand, sometimes a film’s music just blows me away, and I’m almost obsessing about that more than the film. I was completely mesmerised by the soundtrack for The Master. The Jonny Greenwood music was incredible, so original. It wasn’t just that it fitted well and was really good music, which it was, but there was something different about it. In years to come, people will probably look back at it as something quite revolutionary.

The band started writing the soundtrack before filming had even begun on the show, so how did you decide where to take the score? We had the story and some stills that gave a sense of the atmosphere, and also a big reference for us was the Zidane soundtrack. What we had in our heads was quite spooky and introspective. Actually, I met the director last week and she said they were quite surprised with the music we came up with. I guess it wasn’t exactly what they were imagining. In our heads, we did exactly as we were told. We only had translations for

Mogwai will be performing their soundtrack to Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait live for the first time at the Manchester International Festival in July. Les Revenants will debut on Channel 4 in the UK later this year.

drawing on the walls words rosanna durham, photos ula wiznerowicz

this is a story about a father and son and how they decorated a house like no one elseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

Last year, the painter and sculptor Stephen Boyd and his ten-year-old son, Eemil, moved to a flat in south London. Moving house means inheriting the past owner’s decor. And Stephen’s abiding impression of his new place was the claustrophobic wallpaper and the welltrodden carpets. Making a home of the flat required some imaginative thinking. So, after stripping back the old paper and alighting on the patchy concrete walls, Stephen and Eemil started drawing as a means of decorating. For good. Yes, that’s hand drawing on the walls in coloured pencil: big, gestural lines across the living room in greens, reds and blues and—best of all—a detailed story-scape of warring stick men in the bathroom. I met the father and son on a late spring day and asked about their unorthodox approach to interior design. While we spoke, Eemil played a game of Club Penguin on his father’s laptop and an overweight ginger cat stalked through the neighbour’s garden below. There couldn’t have been a more domestic setting for an act of large-scale graffiti. What was the flat like when you moved in? Stephen: Really horrible. The place was carpeted throughout and all the walls were wallpapered. Eemil: We edited it! I ripped out the tiles in the kitchen. Stephen: I wanted to make it even more horrible by getting rid of the wallpaper, getting down to the bare walls, that sort of thing. And only then decide on what to do.

Whose idea was it to start drawing on the walls? Eemil: Mine! Stephen: We were sitting around one Saturday morning and drawing. We had all these coloured pencils and started using them on the walls. I started in the corner with maybe thirty or forty different colours and drew randomly. It’s been a while since I’ve had that freedom in a space, to be honest. Just to draw in that way. Did you help to draw, Eemil? Eemil: Yeah, I did most of it. Stephen: We lived in Edinburgh when Eemil was really young, and he painted on walls there. I never really drew when I was a child so I’ve always tried to get a feeling for the way that he draws. Looking at Eemil’s drawing has made mine become very free. What do people think when they see the walls for the first time? Stephen: I’ve only had a few friends around but they quite like it. I grew up with typical patterned wallpaper. You know, something that’s exactly the same across all the walls of a room. Did it feel like an act of rebellion from what you grew up with? Stephen: Not rebellious in terms of what I’ve done with the walls. The flat was such a small space that I had to make something quite large to have a little freedom. But it was great for Eemil: him asking, “Dad, can I do this?” and me saying, “Yeah, just go for it.” Stephen Boyd / www.sboyd.org.uk

Above: Close-up of Stephen and Eemil’s wall drawings in the bathroom. The crowd of stick men and the monster-like Silly Man were first drawn by Eemil in his sketchbook. Right: Line drawings in the living room. Stephen recalls: “I started in the corner and drew towards the door, working around the shelves. It took me two days and was getting a bit chaotic. So when I finally got to the door I thought, ‘That’s it!’ After that, I made the lines wider.”

maybe Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not the mothering type words kate fridkis, photo davis ayer

what bothers me about being pregnant is that microwave hotdogs charm me more than children

“She was always a natural mother, even when she was a girl,” said a relative, describing one of my husband’s cousins. Everyone agreed. I agreed too, knowing her a little. Some people are natural mothers. They get down on the floor with other people’s kids. They have a certain ease, an automatic knowledge, a comfort with their own bodies that allows them to be silly in all the right ways, at the right moments. My face still feels awkward to me, from just behind it, where I live, even though I’ve been wearing it for so long. I catch myself thinking, “Am I making the right expression?” I think this is what it means to be awkward. Those girls and women who have quick, gigantic smiles and who touch everyone with friendly effortlessness have always seemed gifted and a little magical to me. I associate that with being a natural mother. No one would describe me as a natural mother. What bothers me about being pregnant is that there’s a chance I’m not that interested in children. It’s almost definitely true that I’m not good with them, especially not little ones. Often, I forget to even notice them. Meanwhile, my husband is paying sharp attention. He is collecting observations about toddlers, and he regales me with elevator stories (“And then she just burst into song! It was the cutest thing!”) and sidewalk stories and subway stories about tiny, charming girls who the even tinier girl in my belly could potentially one day resemble. When we saw some babies with their parents, he talked about them for days. “Remember her little hat?” he kept saying. I didn’t. He would like to make parent friends and hang out with them and their kids, to see what it is like. I am afraid to see what it is like, because I think I might not like it. “Did you see her?” he asks, as we’re walking and I’m focussing on the promise of frozen yogurt. “That little girl carrying the red ball? With her dad?” I glance guiltily around. No doubt she was doing something adorable. I wonder if I think too much about food. Because, really, I’m always thinking about it. The end of every meal is always a sort of sweet disappointment. Maybe I am focussing on the wrong things. My life is probably slipping away as I ask myself over and over, searchingly, “Quesadilla or meatball sub? Quesadilla or meatball sub?” A natural mother would notice the cute toddling girl carrying the red ball instead. She would remember the hat.

Why would someone who doesn’t really care about kids that much even want to have them? I wonder. For some reason, these feel like different things. My baby feels different to me. She isn’t a regular baby. She’s fantastically unique. She is sort of messianic. It’s hard to explain. Still. It would be better if I were good with kids. This past Shabbat, I was serving as a cantor at a bat mitzvah. I was sitting on one of the plush burgundy chairs with a bat mitzvah girl while the rabbi introduced the Torah service and we got a brief break. I leaned in and made a little joke, and she laughed obligingly. I suddenly realised I had made that same joke to other b’nei mitzvah kids in the past, and I felt like someone’s outof-touch uncle, who has one trick like, “Gotcha nose!” with his thumb between his other fingers, and I felt like I probably shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce. But here I am, defiantly reproducing all over the place. Obliviously reproducing. I have a floating sense of watching myself from above, like my own terribly confused guardian angel. Maybe an angel who’s really new on the job, who has some serious imposter syndrome, who doesn’t feel particularly angelic ever. I remember when a friend with kids was pregnant, and she seemed as though she’d moved into a new, mature phase of life, so intimidatingly put-together and grown up because of it. Just her pregnant belly looked intimidatingly grown up to me. She really knows what she’s doing, I thought, taking a surreptitious glance at it. I look down sometimes, and my big, taut, very pregnant belly looks fake, like a strap-on belly. Like I’m acting a pregnant woman on TV. I described it that way to people for a while, until I realised it didn’t actually mean anything to them. “So... it looks like a pregnant belly?” I feel like someone strapped this belly on me sometimes, like I’m not a real pregnant lady. And maybe it’s because I am so bad at kids, and understand them so little. Maybe it’s because I am awkward all the time inside my own head. And maybe it’s because I don’t feel that grown up. I hope my daughter doesn’t mind. I promise that I will notice her hat. In fact, I will buy it for her, and it will be adorable. “I guess we’re grown-ups now, right?” said my husband last night, randomly. “I guess so,” I said. We were silent for a while. And then we made microwave hotdogs for dinner, and ate turkey and American cheese out of the little deli bags. Kate Fridkis / eatthedamncake.com

I’m sorry your nose is so big

Ella as ‘under construction’ by Josh.

Aaron as the Cherub Clown by Katie.

we c h a l l e n g e d th re e il l u s tra t i o n c o l l e c t i ve s t o d ra w p or tra i t s of e a c h o th er

take a walk around day job collective’s statue park www.day-job.org

Day Job Collective isn’t shy about the power of a nine-to-five to kickstart a creative career. Based in London, the collective is formed of ten recent graduates from Camberwell College of Arts. For this feature, they have depicted each other as statues. Day Job is Joshua Checkley, Daniel Clarke, Aaron Cook, Grace Helmer, Katie Johnston, Charlene Man, Charlotte Mei, Ella McLean, Peter Rhodes and Victoria Willmott. Charlotte’s Toast Face by Grace.

Grace as the illustrated Vishnu by Daniel.

Dan as Venus de Milo, with chicken-shaped meat, by Aaron.

Vicky as a vegetable deity by Charlotte.

Katie as Staffordshire figurines by Charlene.

Josh as a ball in motion by Peter.

Charlene as â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;flowering rakan temple stoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; by Vicky.

Peter as a garden gnome by Ella.

lifelike sketches of zombie collective zombiecollective.co.uk

Zombie is a collective of five graphic artists and illustrators. Rebecca Jay drew these quick twenty minute sketches working from a selection of photographs. She added a wash of colour digitally with Photoshop. Among other projects, Zombie have recently completed a giant illuminated manuscript for the British Library. They say, “We’re always looking for new and interesting ways to draw, and make illustration as accessible as possible.” Zombie Collective is Joely Brammer, Rebecca Jay, Alice Lickens, Maggie Li and Frann Preston-Gannon.

Left, James by Tess: ‘I was worried he’d be a little oﬀended by my representation of him; people sometimes are when I try to draw a likeness of them. James, I promise your mouth, eyes and nose aren’t that big in real life.’ Top centre, George by Babycrow. Bottom centre, Mat by James. Top right, Alec by Robbie. Bottom right, Robbie by Samuel: ‘In this portrait of Robbie, I tried to capture his feral nature and reﬂect upon his lupine upbringing and Viking-like tenacity.’

pirate, pretzel and crow portraits by puck collective www.puckcollective.co.uk Puck Collective are more a rolling co-operative than a collective. With forty members, they throw the doors open to new ones once a year and gently nudge out those who’d like to move on. They’re driven by a desire to work together in ever more inventive and ambitious ways. They say, “The spirit of Puck is to collaborate; the number one rule is not to be a dick.” Puck Collective is Robbie’s Brown Shoes, Babycrow, Patch Keyes, Samuel Esquire, Tess Redburn, James Hines, Colourbox, George Simkin, Joe Cruz, Mat Pringle, Alec Doherty and many more.

Top left, Joe by Colourbox. Bottom left, Joe by George: ‘This portrait is Joe as a superhero. His eyes are his power source, the ability to take in colours and images no other man can.’ Top centre, Tess by Joe. Bottom centre, Samuel by Mat: ‘Carving facial hair with lino-cutting tools is more satisfying than you might imagine and the beards to faces ratio in Puck is strong, so I may try and do a few more.’ Far right, Babycrow by Alec: ‘Babycrow and crow, a loving glare with an exotic bird.’

A self-portrait sketch by Kenji Kamiyama.

at what price beauty? words liz ann bennett, portrait anthony gerace

grappling with the gorgeous and impenetrable vision of anime director kenji kamiyama

009 Re: Cyborg is nothing if not ambitious. The new anime film directed by Kenji Kamiyama has it all: a conspiracy to overthrow civilisation, quasi-Biblical voiceovers, fossilised angels with demonic predilections for possession, and a bizarre plot twist five minutes from the end. The twist is so disorienting that in the small, press screening theatre where I watched it, the inquiring voice of a fellow journalist could be heard from the front row as the lights went up: “So, is the film saying that it’s okay to be a suicide bomber if God tells you to do it? I’m not sure a 45 minute interview is going to be long enough.” In a few days, I was also to interview Kamiyama, best known for his direction of Ghost in the Shell, a cult anime series of seminal importance for a generation of teenagers. I breathed a silent sigh of relief that I wasn’t alone in my confusion. For the first hundred minutes, 009 Re: Cyborg is a straightforward and beautifully-animated tale. The premise is that suicide bombers with mysterious motives have been destroying buildings around the world. All that stands in defence of civilisation is a team of nine human-like

cyborgs with special powers. The cyborgs shimmer and swoop through a landscape of skyscrapers bathed in sunlight. They fall from planes, outrun atomic clouds and engage in lavish fight sequences. The gleaming fable is an update of a classic series of manga comic books from the 50s, Cyborg 009. Its resonance is such that everyone in Japan from the age of twenty up to sixty knows the name. Kamiyama’s remake breaks a new audience for the cyborgs: teens. And the clue to understanding its director must, I thought, lie in how the film speaks to the experiences and dreams of Japanese teenagers. However, I was in for a second piece of cultural bewilderment. For, in the interview room, I find Kamiyama is uninterested in sharing his perspective on Japan. Worse, his English is limited, so he is uninterested via an interpreter. I realise all at once all of the ways this makes talking to him difficult. No interrupting. No jokes. No anticipation. I listen in suspense to long minutes of Japanese and feel powerless. Every time I ask a question about Japan, Kamiyama replies with an answer about the universal and global aims of the film. He speaks in paragraphs: steadily, no pauses, few gestures. Its message is about justice, he says, and it questions the fractured and individualistic interpretations of justice in today’s world. His film is an opportunity for the audience to reflect on an idea of justice as “placing value on other people,” rather than the strong tides of individualism. “In Japan, for example, the self and one’s own desires are valued more now than they ever have been throughout history. If you have 100 million people, there will be 100 million ideas about what justice is.” Japan is just one example, he stresses, and this phenomenon is worldwide. Kamiyama used to be an anime background artist, and his leap into directing was unusual. He speaks at length about how his visual background informed the direction of the film, laughing at points, moving around a water glass and a bottle, gesturing distances. He was

explaining, the interpreter says, that the most technically-accurate rendering of a scene doesn’t always look the most convincing: “3D animators have the tendency to think that as long as it was accurate, that’s fine. But you need to take that accuracy and then do something with it.” Her translation is briefer and I suspect some technical terms have failed to clear the language barrier. I circle back to the heart of the film. Our time is almost up, but by now I have had the sense to stop swimming against the tide. I at last ask a question that he wants to hear: about the dream of universal justice that lies behind 009 Re: Cyborg. “In the original comics,” he explains, “the cyborgs’ powers were very simple. The powers of flight and diving in the deep sea and strength are very simple dreams. Nowadays that’s not making anyone’s dream come true.” His re-make by contrast doesn’t even really cast the cyborgs as superheroes, he says. Rather, it’s their combined power that is inspiring. “When they pool their strength—when you’ve got the American cyborg, the Chinese one, the Japanese, the British, the one from Africa—that’s when they can express the idea of universal justice and universal love. That’s the thinking, that’s the dream behind the film.” At first glance, it’s almost comical that international harmony has turned out to be the film’s aim. From its unusual name onward, 009 Re: Cyborg could barely have been better calculated to throw an international audience off balance. That ending was not, of course, a justification of suicide bombing. Instead it had the bewildering combination of being

both culturally alien and cinematically flawed. There is plenty else in the film to confound Western sensibilities: the villains, for instance, are a conspiracy of Jewish elders called The Samuel Corporation. Both elements would be a one-way ticket to Never Getting Funded in Britain or the United States. In my attempt to understand Kamiyama, my encounter with him has, it seems, been less useful than the film itself. If anything, it has compounded the confusion. I even begin to wonder if his emphasis on the universality of the film was an angle designed for the international press. But the film isn’t nearly cynical enough to justify this gloomy rumination. 009 Re: Cyborg is verbose and theoretical to the point of obscurity in places; it glows with curious naivety. It believes its own message. The film’s sincerity indicates that Kamiyama is to be taken at his word. They say that superheroes give legs to the dreams of the powerless. Like crusaders drawn by boys in bedrooms, Kamiyama’s dreams of international unity have simply outrun his execution. How well or badly the film communicates with an international audience says nothing of what his intentions were. Kamiyama has had the courage to take a Japanese institution, stuff it full of heavy-duty philosophy and attempt to make it speak a universal truth to every audience in the world. The man gets a big hand for his ambition. I was still left wondering, though, if the much-repeated word “justice” was even the right translation. 009 Re: Cyborg is out in the UK on 7th June.

wa nte d:

a d venturous h ear ts issue seventeen invites you to join an exploration of

the final frontier

Next issue, we’re dusting off our as-yet-unused, secondhand telescope and inviting you to explore the depths of space with us.

on june 23rd, send us a photograph of the supermoon (the largest full moon of the year) The moon will be the closest to earth it’ll be all year on June 23rd: the largest and the brightest. We’d like to create a collage of photographs that document the supermoon as it crosses the skies. Wherever you are, look up and take a photo of the moon. Include the moonlit landscape—or street lamp-lit cityscape—you can see around you. We’ll feature a spread next issue. Send your photo to spaceistheplace@ohcomely.co.uk by July 10th with a little about your location.

come on you reds! interview olivia wilson, photos stuart roy clarke

stuart roy clarke has spent twenty years cheering on terraces, lurking in doorways and drinking in pubs in order to photograph the beauty of the beautiful game

Stuart Roy Clarke won’t wait one minute to fill his tank at a petrol station, but he will wait hours to take a photograph. He has spent the last twenty years of his life going the extra mile to capture the beauty of the beautiful game, standing in the thick of a crowd or lurking in doorways looking for subjects. His ongoing body of work, Homes of Football, is not just about the iconic activity of a ball being kicked about a field, but the supporter’s connection with his local ground. From huge stadiums to school playing fields, World Cup finals to local league matches, he finds moments of quiet to chronicle the collective joy, sorrow and madness of being a true football fan. The result is a compelling narrative of humanity in modern day Britain. Tell me about how Homes of Football began. I was very much a street photographer. All I wanted to do really was wander the streets. After the Hillsborough disaster in 1989, I found a real purpose. I’d been a football fan all my life, and suddenly football matches were changing.

It’s interesting that you were a street photographer, because that angle and perspective comes across in the series. You are a fan, but there is a delicate detachment and an observational distance to the photos. The techniques of a photographer are great people-watching skills and a sense of anticipation. There is a lot of stealth about me, a slight cunning. If you see someone and you like way he or she is poised, it would spoil it to go and ask them if you can take their photograph, so sometimes you have to pretend you are looking at something else to catch them unawares. It’s a bit like doing a dummy on the football field, you do a little bit of fooling them into carrying on doing what they are doing. Sometimes I quite like empowering people by asking to take their photo and then seeing what they do, how they behave. That is also interesting. There is a stylistic cohesion to the series, even though the subject matter varies by people and place. I have a way of working that is very defined, because the subject is a big enough canvas in itself. So it had

Swansea City 1993.

Top: Liverpool 2005. Bottom: Reading 1990.

to have something to discipline it slightly. It’s the Bronica, no change of lenses, no filters, no light meter, no portrait pictures. It’s really as if I’m trying to say, if I could just have my eyes I would. The Bronica is the nearest thing I can get to that. Why are the ‘homes,’ the football grounds, central to your work? The clubs are so important to the supporters, going ritualistically to the same place every other week through all sorts of bad weather and struggles and maybe in the footsteps of generations before. I couldn’t just have people floating around at big match occasions like the World Cup final. It is very much about where you come from. I could have been an architectural photographer instead; seemingly there are no people, but who built the building? You have chronicled a massive change in the design of stadiums from standing to seated, prompted by the Hillsborough disaster. Have you noticed a difference in atmosphere? Manchester City, for example, used to be at Main Road with four very distinct stands all built

in different eras. Now they are at the Commonwealth Stadium, and it’s homogeneous. If you look across the pitch from any angle you could be at any other angle. It’s very symmetrical and so the singing is more of a murmur that grows into a chant that goes round. There used to be a raucous atmosphere; not unruly, but almost like the different stands were competing against each other, coming up with different chants. Yet the photographs seem to capture that despite the modernisation and the commercialisation of football, an essence has remained the same. I have an absolute conviction that football has something that no other sport quite offers. It offers an escapism, but also a realism, across people’s lives that they don’t get elsewhere. It makes them feel more real, more alive than anything else. Being at one with complete strangers; not knowing your fellow supporter but rooting for the same team. It’s a vigil and it’s the struggle of life, because most of those teams aren’t going to win anything. I think it’s character building. But that doesn’t mean to say I can’t see the ridiculousness of it a lot of the time.

Who do you support? It has to be Watford, because that was the one that formed me. I bunked off school to go there: there was a sense of sacrifice and danger. Football in the seventies was dangerous, with skinheads and people who would beat you up. For me, there was a sense that, like in some tribes there are trials you have to do to become a man, supporting Watford was part of growing up and becoming adult. So Watford for geography, but also Watford for colours. I sometimes think I would have found myself supporting Watford anyway because I just love that gold colour. There is tremendous colour in your photographs. Is that deliberate, an intention to capture the colour of football? I was a black and white photographer before I started Homes of Football, very much a monochrome street photographer. I even started the Homes of Football in that mode, but after a few months I realised something was missing and it was the colour. You shout, “Come on you blues!” or “Come on you yellows!” There is so much colour abounding around

Top left: Barnsley 1993. Bottom left: Doncaster Rovers 1990. Above: Blackpool 1998.

the football ground, so a little bit like the Wizard of Oz film, which starts in black and white, after the first few minutes I changed into colour. I notice that in the images, there are quite a lot of female supporters, which is interesting because it still tends to be a sport dominated by men. Is that something you are conscious of doing? I am very conscious of doing it. I sometimes worry that I will get caught out. People will say, “You just spend all your time looking at women at football matches!” No, I like the fact that they stand out in the crowd. Something I thought I would never have the chance to do was to become interested in women’s football. I was going to ask you about that. I couldn’t really understand it, because it’s not that I think it’s a man’s game. I’ve got a daughter and I’d love for her to play football. As a bloke I like watching women, so it’s not an aversion to women! Then I suddenly worked it out a few

months ago—crystal clear—women’s football doesn’t have a relation to where they play, they often play at different grounds. Watford Ladies were playing here and there and now—fantastic for me—they are playing at Berkhamsted Town, which is where my grandfather played, and suddenly we have this great connection. I support Watford and now they’ve got a really good ladies team, so actually I am very excited about them at the moment. In that way, it’s got all the thumbs up. The big thumbs down for me as a photographer who loves a sense of place is that you won’t see on the wall of the stadium, “Rachel was here 1946,” because she wasn’t.

Left top: Hull City 1990. Left bottom: England 2006. Centre: Manchester City 2003. Above: North Derbyshire 1998.

Stuart Roy Clarke / homesoffootball.co.uk

Left: Leigh RMI. Above: Rangers 1994.

my monumental ambition and I, we get along just fine words jenna james, illustration eleanor taylor

I don’t need katharine hepburn’s smile when I have my own

Moving country, even when it is a homecoming, is terrifying, but worse still for me is the fear of staying put and cultivating a life. Last August I returned to London after several years away. As I found my feet, I started to read the biographies of humans I admired, the famous ones. I was unable to finish a single one. I cut short the lives of Coco Chanel, Katharine Hepburn, Peggy Guggenheim. I was searching for something, analysing my heroes’ rocket ship years. Where did they launch from? How speedy was their ascent? Did they experience malfunctions? I was uninterested in their homecoming—their descent, if you will. It seemed that success was the product of a recipe. The perfect concoction of talent and drive, refined by the perfect shaker: an epiphany, a patron, timing, geography. Their personas and juicy histories felt like perfect inspiration. My admiration grew like a culture in a petri dish. As did my obsession. I began to erect monuments to them on the landscape of my ambition. The image in my mind is a painting in the style of Salvador Dalí. The desert landscape is littered with Grecian statues of heroes that are fleshy but also crumbling—why not both, it’s a Dalí—with drawers jutting out from their flesh, from clavicle to naval. Giraffes wander in the background, clocks melt in the foreground. In the drawers, I filed away their unique characteristics, the events that propelled them, patrons that believed in them, decisions, investments that changed everything. I decided that, in my life, it would be wise to open the appropriate drawers when influential French nobility came calling at my local. I would pull out the guts of Chanel or flash a Hepburn smile that would get me the free champagne. Surely if I sipped on a cocktail made using a vintage recipe, it would have the desired effect: success. The more I dreamt of this imminent success, the more I feared missing out on it. I feared stepping into a pool of opportunity that wasn’t a geyser. I feared a mishap with my drawers, a lacklustre imitation or an inability to tug one open when I needed to most. I was frozen, too afraid to make a move lest it be the wrong one. My nose itched with ambition but my fingers were too paralysed to come to its aid. As much as I feared a poor attempt at impersonation, I was more afraid to make a move that was quintessentially ‘me’ in case the ‘me’ wasn’t received with a fanfare. I finally broke the ice by remembering an evening years ago, when my younger sister wouldn’t let me out of the bathroom until we’d finished a heated argument. She’d barricaded the door and I warned her that I was at boiling point and would punch her if she didn’t let me out. I use this memory to remind myself that I can escape the nightmare of comparison. I remind myself that I will survive, with my still-bloated ambition, if I am prepared to punch any fear that is in my way. I can remove the obstacles that I strategically placed in my own path. Those gross statues... I can assault the figure in the doorway, even if it is myself. I did punch my sister that evening. I punched her in the stomach, winded her to tears and escaped the loo. I’ve matured since then. I am no longer looking for geysers and I’m doing my best to not punch little girls.

fame will not forget her words jason ward

audrey tautou, the star of amélie, enjoys the quiet life

Audrey Tautou was 24 when she became one of the most famous actresses in the world. Cast as the eponymous Parisian waitress in JeanPierre Jeunet’s Amélie, she found herself in the daunting position of becoming an instant cultural icon. “In the beginning it wasn’t something that pleased me,” she says. “I thought, ‘This doesn’t look like me.’” In person, Audrey speaks slowly and carefully—English is not her first language. At times she appears frustrated at her inability to articulate what she wants to convey, but her body is wholly expressive: rolling her eyes, scrunching up her face, raising her slim shoulders towards her ears. A dozen years after Amélie, what’s most remarkable about her is how sane she appears. Such a stratospheric rise at a relatively young age is a recipe for vainglory, but Audrey remains carefully grounded. As the face of Chanel and an actress who continues to give acclaimed performances, Audrey is still one of France’s most recognisable movie stars. However, aside from co-starring in The Da Vinci Code in 2006, she has purposefully avoided pursuing roles that would bring her to a wider audience. “The thing is that I don’t want to become more popular,” she says. “For me it’s something that’s very scary. I don’t want to live a parallel life, so it’s very important that I make choices that will lead me on this road, and not the superstar road.” Based on The Da Vinci Code, Audrey can imagine how her career could have progressed, and the sort of relentless commitment it would demand. “If I do three movies in a year, I lose all my friends. My parents don’t recognise me. I just disappear from my life.” Instead, notoriously judicious, it’s rare to see Audrey act in more than one picture per year. Having glimpsed what she would have to give up, Audrey instead put an emphasis on cherishing the life she’s built in Paris: “All of my family, all of my friends are in France. I wouldn’t be able to share all these moments in my life with them. A career in Hollywood doesn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice, especially when there’s such great work here.” Despite her discernment in film choices, she is keen to dispel the notion that her reticence is due to indifference. Rather, the opposite is true: “The thing is I’m a very... entire person. When I choose a movie I have to fall in love with it. I always want to feel the same strong desire when

I come on a set,” she says. “I need each experience to be unique and that’s why I don’t do too many. I want to keep this flame alive. Cinema can become a business, and it has to be something else. It has to be a human experience.” Proving Audrey’s point is her latest film, Thérèse, which feels unlike anything she has starred in before. Based on François Mauriac’s 1927 novel Thérèse Desqueyroux, the film is a sharply-drawn character study about an intelligent woman ahead of her time, in Audrey’s word “trembling between her independent spirit and the pull of the bourgeoisie,” whose suffocating marriage leads her to a deleterious course of action. Once again playing the title character, Audrey portrays her character’s rich, troubled inner life in a performance that is largely internal, and one of her strongest to date. “I wrote everything Thérèse was thinking on my script as if there were some other lines, some silent lines. I really wanted to be very precise, very clear in my head, so there’d be the sentence I was saying and the one I was thinking. I didn’t want to fake the fact that I was thinking something.” Audrey is unmistakeably still infatuated with acting. “I love the playfulness of it, to extract myself from my life and just dream for three months. You’re in this protective bubble. And I love the fact that it’s a team project, this building of a movie, and you all participate in it.” When I ask if she’d ever consider focussing on other things, she looks shocked, as if the concept is unimaginable. “I just really love to act. I don’t know, it’s like a psychological laboratory and afterwards it’s a question of degrees and colours and it’s great because you are in a constant evolution.” Admirably unconcerned about ageing, Audrey instead embraces the opportunities that it brings to her life as an actress. “Your work changes with the years, and the parts change with you. I can’t play the naive ingénue any more. I couldn’t play Amélie now. But you evolve: my desires are different from the ones I had when I was 24, not only concerning my acting parts but other areas of my life as well. That’s the reason why you can never get bored of this job.” Thérèse is released in the UK on June 7th.

wear this silver key lightl y photography liz seabrook model juliette picquier | models1

bracelet: alex monroe / necklace and earrings: florie willow

rings: sara gunn

necklace: tatty devine

necklace: wolf & moon / earrings: alex monroe

collar: ali forbes / hood: merrimaking

earrings: rosita bonita / rings: michelle oh

earrings: grace du prez

dresses: olgou

my little sister photography aya sekine styling naoko horie hair and make up shinya kawamura

Valeria Novostroeva and Valeriya Martin, photographed here, are both girls from Russia who have emigrated to Tokyo. Aya Sekine shot the portraits in a house in the suburbs of Tokyo that was due to be demolished. Aya says, “Valeria moved to Tokyo with her family few years ago. She is fluent in Japanese, written and spoken. Valeriya is new to the city. “Although they didn’t know each other previously, Valeria naturally took the role of older sister to Valeriya, speaking in Russian to put her at ease. It was only logical for us to shoot the story around the theme of sisterhood. “This shoot in some way reflected my experience when I first moved to London, very excited and unafraid like Valeriya, and later I learned to adopt the way of life in a new city, as Valeria has done. “The house is no longer standing and Valeria and Valeriya may not see each other again, but the feeling of respect and togetherness that we shared on one sunny and chilly early spring day, makes this story memorable and personal.”

dress: hickory / cashmere cardigan: stylistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own

dress: joanna marsh

dress: olgou

dress: joanna marsh

grey dress: reem / lace shirt: vintage from portobello market / shorts: magda berliner

dress: reem / patterned shirt: reem / lace skirt: blue linen cupboard

I prefer my fruit salad frozen photos aloha bonser-shaw

luminous shapes in blocks of ice We look at objects differently when they’re in a glass case. Or encased in a block of ice. That’s what Aloha Bonser-Shaw thought as she began to freeze and photograph natural things—pieces of rubbish—from her house: banana skins, egg shells, hair. Here she has moved on to fruit. She says, “By preserving them in ice and photographing them, I wanted to show how precious and beautiful so many dismissed objects really are.” Aloha Bonser-Shaw / aloha-bonser-shaw.tumblr.com

“I don’t know why The Queen suggested an interview. I’d like to think that after a lifetime of solemnly, dutifully guarding her opinions, she got tired of it, and just wanted to talk about what it was like to live a life where the extraordinary is ordinary.” —Jason Ward, page 94

sylvia bush by valerie chiang

who would do a thing like this? words ava sza jna-hopgood illustrations naomi elliott

s o m e o n e ’s c u tt i n g o u t c o m i c b o o k n u d e s a n d o p era t i o n c o d e n a m e s ta n l e y a re o n t h e tra il

Under the dingy strip lights of their local library, Ava and Naomi have stumbled on a real-life mystery, the sinister theft—or eradication—of nude scenes from comic books. Frame after frame of graphic novel classics have gone, leaving only a hole in the page and the delicate tell-tale cuts of a Stanley knife in the corners. The vandal’s intent and predilections are opaque, and Operation Stanley has swung into action. The evidence so far? Eleven holes in the pages of four seminal works of illustrated fiction. And this, on the left: a missing piece from the

granddaddy of graphic novel weirdness: Daniel Clowes’ book David Boring. The fragment was spotted in, of all places, the family planning and cookery section. Ava Szajna-Hopgood and Naomi Elliott have dubbed their thief Stanley, after his or her weapon of choice, and the story is still unfolding. Here they present part one of the graphic novel that will narrate their adventure, Stanley Falls. To follow the rest of the story, track their progress at www.stanleyfalls.co.uk.

I was sat up in bed late one night... ...with a graphic novel I’d borrowed from the library, David Boring by Daniel Clowes. The story is a strange and sinister murder mystery, and as the twists in the plot became increasingly menacing, I was starting to wish that my boyfriend beside me was still awake. Then I turned a page, and stopped dead. I turned it back, and turned it back again. “Eww, wake up. You’ve got to see this.” “What?” “Look—someone’s cut out some of the frames. Look—it’s all the rude ones. It’s all the explicit frames from this scene.” Further on, more panels had been sliced away. It was never the rudest, never the most naked, but a taste I couldn’t quite fathom. Was it just bums? I wondered. No, it wasn’t all bums, or boobs, even feet. I could decipher no theme or pattern to the vandalism. It were as if someone was trying to lessen the amount of skin on show. Or save it for something else. I reached for my library pile and flicked through Ghost World, then Ice Haven, then Caricature. Frame after nudey frame, something had been taken away. All had one or two panels missing, enough to get a feel for an untraceable yet specific desire. Maybe there was a montage book out there, I thought to myself, a new narrative just full of nakedness. A few nights later, I was up late again, this time sticking post-it notes on every page of the comics I’d collected. They formed a concertina of neon in the stack of books by the front door. It was still dark on Saturday morning when I headed off to the library. The car park was deserted. Only a light in the back caretaker’s room betrayed a cleaner at work. Finally, at ten, I was allowed in. I slammed the books down on the counter, the only library assistant on duty looking up to face the collected works of Daniel Clowes. “You can’t return post-it notes,” she said. I took a deep breath: “No, those are there for a reason. You see, someone’s been cutting out some of the err...” “Sex scenes?” My voice lowered to a conspiracy-friendly level. “Well, yes.” My hands clenched around the stack of comics that I didn’t really have any intention of handing over. “I’ve marked each page that’s been cut out with a post-it. Is there any way you can find out who’s been doing it?” The librarian removed her glasses, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As far as we know, they don’t even take them out of the library.” “You mean they do it in here?” I asked. “Surely you’d notice someone wielding a scalpel?” “I’ll be honest with you, it’s the least of our troubles. You should see what happened to the sex education books last week. Absolute nightmare.” She held out her hand for my library card, but I didn’t give it over. Something just didn’t add up. Instead, I packed the books back into my rucksack and walked out, leaving only a flurry of post-it notes behind. In the weeks that followed, I couldn’t get those panels or their perpetrator out of my head. My library fine steadily mounted but there was something holding me back from returning them. There could be other books and there were definitely other suspects: the library was teeming with them. One way or another, I had to find out the answer to those missing frames. There was only one thing for it: a stake-out.

my job is to make you look amazing words jason ward, portrait trent mcminn

cariad lloyd on the joy of good improv, and growing slowly into a career in comedy

Andrew is seven years old and looks suspiciously like a grown woman. An aspiring stand-up comedian, he is eager to talk about history—if somewhat confused by the subject—ambivalent about his stepfather Colin and obsessed with Doctor Who. An awkward, highly-endearing figure, Andrew also happens to be the first character ever devised by comedian Cariad Lloyd. “I was pushed into comedy, really,” she explains. She was at the start of an acting career when a friend suggested that Cariad try writing a comic monologue. “It took a long time to convince me. My friends were all doing comedy shows at Edinburgh and I went up with a very serious play about burning, this thing on people who died in fires. It was an amazing play but we had six people in the audience.” Then, Cariad borrowed a late 80s Doctor Who jumper and her mother’s knee-high socks to perform Andrew at a few gigs. He was soon followed by other characters, creating a loose revue of monologues. “That’s how I tricked my brain: ‘It’s still acting, guys!’” Cariad grew into her new career path slowly. “You meet some people who are obsessed,” she says, “and I never thought I was that person until I admitted to myself that all I do is watch comedy, talk about comedy, write comedy. I realised, oh, I guess I am in that gang now.” She gigged solidly until her debut Edinburgh Fringe show found her nominated for best newcomer. Cariad has barely stopped since, filling her schedule with a second Edinburgh show, an upcoming BBC sketch show based on her characters, and frequent appearances as a member of Regency-parody comedy troupe Austentatious, who perform improvised, imaginary Jane Austen novels. (A surprise hit with Austen fan clubs: “We ended up on the cover of Jane Austen magazine. We didn’t even know there was a Jane Austen magazine.”) Andrew is emblematic of Cariad’s characters: joyfully silly and random yet performed with obvious affection. “They’re like real people to me, which sounds mental, but it’s how they are in my head,” Cariad says. “So when people criticise them or say things about them it’s like someone talking about a friend. You want to say, ‘Well, you don’t really know them, you just saw them on a bad day.’”

From ASDA worker and femme fatale Kitty Romford to cult member Judith (who just does the admin), her characters work so well because even though they’re still clearly Cariad in a French jumper or a ball gown or dressed like a Moomin, they share her zestful sensibility. “You turn a bit of yourself up really loud and put a costume on it and call it something else. Each character I perform is a version of me, but I do a voice and go, ‘It’s not me! It’s not me!’” Cariad also teaches improvisation to comedians and newcomers alike, and she is zealous about its benefits. “You see people whose ideas in their daily life are blocked, and then there’s this world where everything they say I’m going to say yes. That’s a really addictive thing—a place where you’re accepted.” Disappointingly, improvisation still doesn’t have the reputation that it does in America. “I think it scares some people. They don’t know what to expect,” she says. “Also, there’s a lot of bad improv out there, but it’d be like if you’ve only seen one film and it was terrible so you think you don’t like films.” Watching Austentatious perform their improvised show, you realise the gulf between bad improv and the work of professionals: as funny as anything written and rehearsed, their shows are emboldened not only by their playfulness but the sense that the performers are all in it together. Cariad agrees: “Bad improv is about people trying to outdo each other and being the funniest, and it should be about supporting each other. My job is to make you look amazing.” Things are more complicated, of course, when the demands of collaboration and Cariad’s vividly personal characters collide. In filming the pilot of her BBC sketch show, she discovered it wasn’t always possible to walk a middle ground. On Andrew, for instance, she says, “At one point the producers said they were thinking about having him wear a hoodie. I told them I wouldn’t perform the sketch unless he wore the Doctor Who jumper. I’ve been really amazed by the things I’ll compromise on and the things I won’t. I wasn’t compromising the jumper. It’s who Andrew is. It’s the key to him.’” Cariad Lloyd / cariadlloyd.com

paper and pen interview rosanna durham the extravagant hand-drawn typography of a graphic designer without a brief

Pablo Delcán is a graphic designer in New York. His Picture Dictionary project reminded us of the doodles in our school exercise books, the bold naivety and decorative self-consciousness. Tell us about your work and graphic design practice. My work ranges from books to murals, with an emphasis on typography and lettering. My lettering technique is self-taught and is a blend of my classical training in graphic design and typography and my personal interest in handmade letterforms. What appeals to you about drawing the written word at scale? What I find most fascinating about the act of drawing language is the conversation between form and content, and how I can direct this conversation to bring a different perception of what is being said.

Last year I began a daily exercise on a large chalkboard wall where I would typographically illustrate headlines from that day’s New York Times. It was interesting to see the transformation of these headlines, many of which were tragic and dramatic, when they became simple pieces of visual poetry. They were no longer just text from a newspaper, but murals drawn on my kitchen wall. Tell us more about the idea behind the Picture Dictionary. It began as a student project in my undergraduate typography class. The idea of this book was to showcase my study of letterforms on tracing paper. Every illustration is followed by a vellum page with the text you would find in a children’s picture dictionary. Pablo Delcán / www.delcan.me

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hello, this is your ma jesty speaking

i m a g i n a r y i n ter v i ew s wi t h ladies, gentl emen and k i m j o n g - il

the afternoon the queen phoned words jason ward, illustration alice tobia

I wasn’t in the office when they found the voicemail, but they played it to me afterward. The identity of the caller was unmistakable—that famous voice, buffered by nine decades of social change, but still essentially the same as it had always been. We were surprised that she hadn’t asked her private secretary to call, but it’s probably the sort of thing she wanted to do herself. She announced herself as the Queen, presumably because saying, “Hi, it’s Liz here,” would be unbecoming, and “This is Your Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God,” would be a bit much. There was something else too; beneath the clipped, formal tone, she seemed nervous, but maybe I’m just reading too much into it considering everything that happened afterwards. On the voicemail, the Queen explained that she’d been drawn to oh comely while waiting to be received at a girls’ school in Frome. The magazine was in the common room, and when the headteacher returned to escort her to the lunch she was midway through reading a piece on making your own coracle. On her return to Windsor Castle she asked a lady-in-waiting to get a copy of the magazine. The Queen never got around to making the coracle, but she did make a pinhole camera a month later, she said, using it to take pictures of Phillip and the grounds of Balmoral. She got a subscription shortly after that, using her middle names Alexandra Mary as a wry pseudonym. Perhaps realising that she was getting distracted, the Queen explained the purpose behind her call: she wanted someone from oh comely to interview her. She didn’t elaborate on what had informed her decision, only that she’d give us an hour of her time and that someone should come to the Goring Hotel the following Thursday, at 20:00. The Queen then bade us a good day, and hung up. It was to be the first interview she’d ever granted to anyone. The task of conducting the interview, inevitably, had already been taken by the time I’d even arrived at the oﬃce. Brushing oﬀ the disappointment, I reminded myself what a terrifying assignment it would be.

The call to tell me that the terrifying assignment was now mine came early on the Thursday morning, after the original interviewer pulled out for reasons never fully explained to me. I spent the rest of the day frantically reading up on the Queen and searching the internet for information on the appropriate etiquette for being in her presence. I arrived in Belgravia a full hour early, making circuits of the hotel until it was time to go in.

----Some people in the office think the whole thing was a prank, but I find that hard to believe. When I arrived at the hotel the concierge knew exactly who I was and why I was there. Approaching me later, as I was cradling my cup of tea and trying to remember all the questions I’d jotted down, the look of disappointment on his face appeared genuine. The Queen was feeling unwell, he told me, and wouldn’t be able to make it. Even after the news reports came out and she started cancelling public appearances, I never really believed she was ill. I have no proof that the Queen was faking her gastroenteritis, and it seems like an awfully elaborate ruse to get out of a 45-minute interview, but my opinion is that she got cold feet at the last minute and backed out, maybe even as she was being driven the short distance from Buckingham Palace to the hotel. I don’t know why she cancelled, or why she’d suggested the interview in the first place. I’d like to think that after a lifetime of solemnly, dutifully guarding her opinions, she got tired of it, and just wanted to talk about what it was like to live a life where the extraordinary is ordinary. We never heard from her again, and all calls to the Royal Household were met with a studied politeness that seemed to mask disdain. The Queen remains the most famous person in the country and the least knowable. When I came to writing this up, I reread the notes I’d made during that fretful afternoon of research and terror. It seems a shame to let them go to waste, so I will present some of them here. “Alexandra Mary” still has a subscription to the magazine, so I presume she’ll be reading this. Even though she denied herself the chance to answer these questions, I hope she can do so now, if only to herself, in a drawing room perhaps, or on a slow journey to visit strangers in Dunfermline, Abercynon, Dudley, or some other far-flung corner of her realm.

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interview notes What sort of attachment do you feel to Britain and its people? Do you feel genuine compassion for the country, or is it more like a duty? Do you lie awake at night worrying about the economy and wars the way other people lie awake worrying about bills and whether they’ll find love? When were you happiest in your life? Are you ever lonely? Do you ever step outside of yourself and think, “Wow, I’m the Queen”? What sort of event provokes this reaction? When you were young, was there anything you wanted to grow up to be? If you hadn’t been born into royalty, what would you have liked to have done with your life? Do you ever wish you could be someone else? Do you ever feel sorry for Charles having to grow up groomed for a job he can only get on the event of your death?

Do you genuinely believe that God intends for you to rule the country? Do you ever wish you had the absolute power that your distant predecessors possessed? Do you actively dislike any parts of Britain? Do you think the British Empire is something to be ashamed of, or something to take a reserved pride in, whilst acknowledging many failings? Do you miss it? Do you wish you could have also been the Empress of India? What’s your favourite joke? If, for whatever complicated reason, you had to abdicate and give me the throne, what advice would you give me for being Britain’s ruling monarch? What are the most important things I’d need to know?

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encountering kim jong-il at cannes words tony fuller, illustration ping zhu Circulation figures for oh comely in North Korea are not encouraging at the moment. We are hopeful that this puzzling anomaly may be addressed by our publication in this issue of a unique and hitherto unknown meeting at Cannes between the unusual film director and DPRK dictator, Kim Jong-il, and the acclaimed BBC savant and film buff John Sweeney. The exact provenance of this interview is uncertain, but may not be unrelated to Mr Sweeney’s penchant for séance acquired during his bruising encounters with the Scientology movement. I cannot put my finger on precisely what it was about him that immediately arrested my attention and drew the startled whistle to the lips. It would be all too easy to single out the bouffant birds-nest perched on the cranium, perhaps the only part visible as I surveyed the surrounding cluster of Cannes cognoscenti. Even with the 10cm platform Cuban-heeled shoes, the distinctive pompadour barely reached the shoulders of Spielberg and co. hanging on every word. No, not that. Nor the protruding pot-belly, upholstered in iconic monochrome safari suit, peeping out as the crowd shifted. Of course I had read the official reports that, sartorially speaking, his image was “unprecedented in the world’s history,” but that was definitely not it either. Nada. It was rather, or so it seemed to me at the time, that a sort of charismatic cloud lurked over his general vicinity. Obviously there could only be one topic of conversation. Put aside the solid eleven holes-in-one secured on his debut performance playing golf. The spontaneous eruption of rainbows in the sky at his birth? Passé! His well-documented transcendence over normal defecation? A touch indelicate, perhaps. No, there could be only one topic: Pulgasari. The very name of the film had haunted me since that Damascene moment at the British Film Institute when I first absorbed its wonders. Forget film noir, I was told, forget film blanc or even film jaune for that matter. This was film arc-en-ciel. Cinematography would never be the same again. Ostensibly, it was South Korean abductees Shin Sang-ok and Chong Gon Jo who directed, but of course the master behind all, supervising every incomparable frame, was none other than Kim Jong-il himself. Decanting myself into the tight galaxy of illuminati I was immediately conscious that the diminutive dictator at its centre had something on his mind besides his hair. A dreadful social gaffe had evidently just occurred. Whether it had been Lucas or Herzog who had just mouthed the faux pas could not be readily discerned, but my impression was that

both had erred. While the Master himself was clearly struggling to fight down the feeling of nausea with which this outré behavior had afflicted him, his small cortège openly regarded the hapless duo as prominent fiends in human form. I sensed an opportunity. “Maestro,” I began. Ten sets of eyeballs swiveled in my direction. “It would be an honour indeed were you to share with us your views on filmmaking and, in particular, the secret of Pulgasari. What is it that makes it the film of all films?” A silence ensued and just as I was beginning to wonder whether I might have laid it on a little too thick, a broad grin swept over the podgy visage. Indeed, nothing could have exceeded the genial cordiality with which he directed a cheery little wave in my direction. Palpable relief descended on the cortège as the oriental Führer, now beaming like a searchlight, began to expound his film extraordinaire. It would be paltering with the truth were I to claim that I can recall much of what was said on that august occasion, what with the strain of encountering this veritable Yoda and perhaps more than a trifle influenced by the champagne imbibed, but two particular pearls of wisdom remain forever etched in memory. The Dear Leader was indulging in what some have considered to be the highest form of pleasure, self-quotation. For the jewels in question are to be found in one of the multiple volumes which constitute the last word on film theory. I refer, of course, to his magnum opus, the epochmaking essay The Cinema and Directing. “The basic duty of the director is to make revolutionary films of high ideological and artistic value, which make an effective contribution to arming people fully with the Party’s monolithic ideology and which imbue the whole of society with the great Juche idea.” Phew! Heady stuff. And certainly a vital clue to explaining his well reported admiration for such tours de force as Friday the 13th, Girls! Girls! Girls! and Rambo. But what of Pulgasari? “Seeing it once is different from seeing it twice... A certain production awakens fresh interest each time one sees it and excites greater passion and warmth. This sort of production is called sincere art.” The man’s logic was inescapable. What Kim Jong-il was saying is that with a piece of sincere art its potential for full appreciation is infinite. Each repeated viewing accelerates the excitement and passion to the extent that there is really no need to ever encounter another film. Hence the audacious secret of Pulgasari. Distilled from his collection of 20,000 DVDs, the Dear Leader has created the film of films, the urfilm, the cinematic equivalent of a Jungian Archetype. Like the Leader himself, there is simply no need for another. This is Artistic Juche in its purest form. Pulgasari! Go and see it—often!

Kim Jong-Il was supreme leader of North Korea from 1994 to 2011, presiding over one of the most repressive regimes in the world, and a catastrophic famine in the 1990s. He was an obsessive film collector, amassing over 20,000 VHS tapes and DVDs, and writing a book, On the Art of Cinema. Favourites were said to be Godzilla and Rambo. In 1978, he had South Korean film director Shin Sang-ok and his actress wife Choi Eunhee kidnapped to bolster North Koreaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s film industry. They only escaped during a trip to Vienna in 1986.

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richard the third is alive, and his name is boris johnson

Richard: Well. This... Again, you know, these are, these are big terms for what happened.

words alice christie, illustration nick alston

Mair: Did you infer the bastardy of your brother’s, that is, King Edward’s, children? Richard: It was a long and lamentable story...

This strange dispatch reputes to be an account from the BBC journalist, Eddie Mair, of a nightmare he had following his headlinegrabbing interview with Boris Johnson in March. “One of the most bizarre experiences I’ve had as a broadcast journalist was when I interviewed Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London, for the Andrew Marr show. Boris was evasive throughout, and his replies became headline news, continually re-quoted to me wherever I went. I felt as though I were stuck in a world of belligerence and evasion, which would have been funny if it weren’t so disturbing. Not long before, the body of King Richard III had been dug up in a car park in Leicester. One night I had a terrifyingly vivid dream that I was challenging Richard with quotes from Shakespeare’s Richard III. To my horror, he responded in the words of Boris Johnson. This is my nightmare interview with Richard, before he was proclaimed king in 1483. At the time, he was the Duke of Gloucester and Lord Protector, running the country for his twelve-year-old nephew, Edward V.” Eddie Mair: Good morning, my Lord Gloucester! Before we talk about you, let’s talk about your nephew, the young King Edward V.

Mair: Did you infer the bastardy of Edward’s children? Richard: Well, I mean, I mildly sandpapered something somebody said, and yes it’s very embarrassing and I’m very sorry about it. Mair: Do you aspire to “bear the golden yoke of sovereignty”? Richard: It’s not going to happen. Mair: Do you want to be king? You could end it all just by saying what you know to be true. Richard: What, that I don’t want to? Mair: That you want to be King. Richard: Oh, come on. Look, what I want is to spend the next—my time remaining as Lord Protector to do as well as I can as Lord Protector. Mair: Did you ask your page, “Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold will tempt unto a close exploit of death”? Richard: Well, if I may, permission to obfuscate.

Richard, Duke of Gloucester: Sure.

Mair: Oh, please don’t.

Mair: It has been said, “Woe to that land that’s govern’d by a child.” Do you agree?

Richard: Can I just go back to what I said before, which is...

Richard: Well, it’s happened before. The former King Henry VI inherited the throne as a child and I don’t see why there should be a problem. Mair: Surely the young King Henry VI had “virtuous uncles to protect his Grace”? How did you feel when you saw the headline “The Hearts of Men are Full of Fear”? Richard: Can we talk about something more interesting? Mair: Did you advise the princes “to repose them at the Tower, for their best health and recreation”? Richard: I, no. Well, effectively, yeah. (He laughs uneasily.) Mair: Did you promise an accomplice to your plot “the earldom of Hereford and all the movables whereof the King your brother was possess’d”? Richard: Are you sure our viewers wouldn’t want to hear more about housing in London? Mair: Did you commission the assassination of Lord Hastings?

Mair: You’re a nasty piece of work, aren’t you? Your wife, Anne, has been quoted as saying you are “unfit for any place but hell.” And your sisterin-law Queen Elizabeth, has been quoted as saying you are a “bottled spider, a foul bunch-back’d toad.” Richard: What people want to know is—they don’t care about conversations with my friends and family, they don’t care about some ludicrous, so-called made up quote, and what’s the third accusation? I can’t remember. Mair: That you have plotted to kill your nephews and seize the throne. Richard: My nephews! What people care about... Mair: And where are they now, eh? Richard: Yeah, exactly. Where are they now! What people care about, Eddie, is what is happening in the economy and which king has the best prospectus for recovery. Mair: Richard, Duke of Gloucester, thank you. Richard: Thanks for nothing.

In February this year, the skeleton of Richard III was dug up in a castle in Leicester. Facial reconstructions have revealed his striking similarity to Lord Farquaad from Shrek. Richard proclaimed himself king in 1483, after the parentage of Edward, his twelve-yearold nephew and the heir to the throne, was declared illegitimate. He was widely suspected of murdering Edward and his younger brother, who disappeared soon after he assumed the throne.

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dress code: strictly sepia words fab gorjian, illustration sabrina arnault

It’s June 2010, but it’s also June 1953. I’m about to conduct the weirdest interview of my career. There is an actress you will know; an Oscar-winner, a BAFTA-winner, an animal rights campaigner, former ballerina and reluctant member of Mensa. Someone who even managed to walk away from one of the biggest flops in recent memory with praise. I remember falling for her nine years ago when I saw her playing a frustrated young waitress in 1980s Brooklyn. The way she smoked outside the diner: it was exactly how girls smoked in the 80s. At least, it was in my school. She never actually asked for anonymity, but she did use the phrase “play along” once or twice, and it seemed to mean all the world to her that I do so. This lady is not someone you’d want to disappoint. So, back to 2010, or 1953. I’m waiting outside her dressing room and my left leg is shaking. She has ten minutes, I’m told, before she has to be back on set for her latest picture: a black and white noir homage in which she plays opposite one of Hollywood’s highest-paid poster-boys. As I look down, I see what looks like smoke swirling out from under the dressing-room door, accompanied by the ghostly sound of the Flamingos doo-wopping from within. I enter. “Somethin’ the matter, sugar?” she says in a huskier voice than her own, but I see no one. There’s a thick fog in the room, as though dry ice has been pumped in. Then, in a gloriously theatrical moment, she switches on a lamp and reveals herself reclining coolly in a black dress. And now a realisation comes to me. Everything, every little thing in that room, is in monochrome. Even her. Her hair is almost white, her skin pale grey, her lips and eyes a darker grey. “Cigarette?” She pulls out two, both white from tip to tip. I decline ungallantly and she becomes impatient. “We’re burnin’ daylight. Ask away.” It’s never been a secret that she gets into her roles very deeply. “There’s no other way to be believed. It’s like pathological lying,” she once said in a magazine. But this is something else. The monochrome make-up, the fog and stark lighting, the gramophone in the corner. Suddenly my wine-red jacket seems garish; and she notices, asking me to take it off with a “Be a doll, and...” Something seems to be on her mind. “Gee-whiz, what’s a girl supposed to say to that?” she keeps asking in reply to my questions about the film and her acting process. I’m getting nowhere, and I know I’ll continue to get nowhere unless I either interview her character, Irene, or ask her to be herself. I go for the latter. “I’m tired,” she eventually says in her own voice, slumping in the recliner. “Not one fool around here will play along.” This hurts me a little, but I decide that I deserve it; the same way I did when I couldn’t kiss Jennifer Bradbury when we were eight years old, playing Sleeping Beauty and Prince Charming. “It’s an isolating job,” she says. “You’re never where you think you are, and you’re never with the people you think you’re with. It’s all sets

and characters, unless you think they’re real.” Like a sphinx testing my brain-power, she goes on. “It’s hard to create worlds for your audience but never get to visit those worlds yourself. Being in a film is like hosting an amazing party that you can’t enjoy because you’re always busy topping up drinks or answering the door. A film set, it’s just an office for an actress, but for someone sitting in a cinema it’s another world. A beautiful place, a terrifying place, somewhere they’ll never be in reality. People they’ll never meet.” The echoing voices of the Flamingos continue to drift through the fog. I wonder why I was fool enough to break this illusion she’d so carefully weaved. As I peer through the haze, my eyes flutter as her hair, eyes and jewellery glimmer in that magical, blurry way that can only be seen in old movies. Why didn’t I accept that cigarette, and then affect a thick Bogartian drawl whilst I give her the third degree? “It first hit me when I was working on the set of ——— in Brooklyn. Watching that film—you can feel the 80s, can’t you? The music, the clothes, the VHS look and sound they reproduced. But one day I saw myself in a digital photo and saw K——— in modern daylight, and I just thought she looked like an idiot on her way to some cheap 80s night at a disco. She was a pastiche, not a human being.” By now my interviewee is an uneasy presence in the dressing-room. It’s as though she feels naked. But what’s so wrong, I ask, with humdrum reality under bright lights? “People seem so disappointed when they see me on the street, in high-definition. You would be too.” Now is my chance to save this encounter, and so I blather on about how stunning she is under any light. She doesn’t seem convinced. “Is that right? So if we went outside now and you could see the lint and stray hairs on my dress, perhaps even some dandruff. If you could see the pores of my skin. Would you still think I’m stunning?” I nod easily. But she’s too far along this road that leads back to her character. I’d seen it coming slowly as the ten minutes were passing. Up she gets and heads for the door. “Gotta go, sweetheart. Now get outta the way,” she says, and it’s here that I remember how to play along. I grab a trilby hat from a costume pile and place it on my head at a Dana Andrews angle. “Wrong, wrong!” she almost screams, then grabs a long trench-coat with a high collar and forces it about my shoulders. Desperately, I go to her make up table, find a shade of pale grey and slather it on my face. It seems to work, as she almost smiles. I walk over to her and she suddenly recoils in horror. “No, Phil, no! I didn’t mean it, I tell ya.” I’m confused, but then she points to the shooting-script on the table. I see the line she has just said, and then I see the technical direction that follows it: Phil slaps Irene. I get it now. She wants me to slap her. I catch myself in the light bulb-framed mirror, and see a shifty-looking man in a trench coat and trilby. Then her elegant hand shoves a white cigarette into my mouth and the picture is complete. Very gingerly, I slap her. It’s pathetic, but it seems to do the trick. She looks at me with all the hurt and worldly precociousness of a Gloria Grahame or Lauren Bacall, and I remember then what a devastating actress she can be. She walks out, and into the dark hall, restraining her sobs. The Flamingos are about done. I stand for a moment and listen to them. I’m not sure why but, for the first time ever, I suddenly become aware that I am enjoying the voices of people who are now dead.

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whatever you build, the mud will destroy portraits hannah hathaway kells, interviews kerrie braithwaite

photographs of the families in the tenacious houseboat community at shoreham-by-sea

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Along the riverbank at Shoreham-bySea, more than forty retired World War Two boats are home for families from all walks of life. The robust steel hulls of the minesweepers, landing craft and torpedo boats are but a temporary defence against the decaying power of the mud in which they sit for most of the year. The different shapes of homes and home owners are no barrier to the sense of community in this unique place.

mary I inherited this boat, which belonged to my father-in-law. We’ve been here sixteen years. My son lives on another boat. He and his partner are about to have a baby, so that will be the fourth generation of our family living here. The views are wonderful. It’s a bird sanctuary so it can’t be built on. Everyone here has an artistic bent one way or another. If anybody needs any help we’ll try and sort them out.

hamish In 1986 we bought the moorings, which were originally run by the council. I spent the ﬁrst years building other people’s boats. Mary on Red Biddy, her partner is Rodger and I built the top cabin on that boat for his dad. I did CSO voluntary service overseas in Fiji, spent a lot of time on boats out there doing minor engineering works and building projects. I renovate my own boats now; I’ve got eight of them.

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aron We moved into this upper structure the day before I was due with my second baby. We nearly lost the roof of the caravan in a storm; it was craned on top of this deck before the upper structure. Phil came to our aid, he threw an anchor on a chain over the caravan to hold the roof down until the storm passed. I was a jeweller up in London with a workshop in Hackney. I always wanted out to start our family. This is a collection of ex World War Two boats. A lot of them were timber vessels, and each one is quite individual. We are sitting on the mud 95% of the time. The jettys made out of wood and steel don’t last ﬁve minutes. They rot away. Whatever you build doesn’t last for long.

phil I rescued my parrot George from a cruel owner eight or nine years ago. I went to see these people who lived on another houseboat. The parrot was speaking quite nicely, and he took off his slipper and threw it at the cage. I said, “You don’t treat animals like that,” and just carried him out the door and took him home. He’s been with me ever since. I retired just before I came here. I used to work on motorway construction. The boat looked a little bit dilapidated when I bought it. My children came down and said, “Dad, what have you done now?” They’re quite happy with it now.

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“When I was fourteen, a little boy I was babysitting said, ‘My dad’s a costume designer. Do you want to see his Oscar? He won it for Star Wars!’ His father came home and I told him, ‘Look, I really want to make theatre costumes.’” —Lizzie Honeybone, head of the National Theatre’s dye room, page 106

from the series four girl friends, by mira heo

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behind the scenes at the national theatre

“Sir, Madam, do you have backstage passes? No? Then, I’ll have to escort you out, I’m afraid. This area is off bounds to the public. Oh, and you were just looking for the toilet, were you? Right. That explains the autograph book. Out we go.” Backstage at the theatre is a world famously and frustratingly off limits. Until the day chances when you’re invited up, or you get hired by one of the specialist industries that roots here: costume, acting, make up, lighting. “Sign the book, please. Date, time and purpose of visit.” That’s the visitor’s greeting to backstage at the National Theatre. After years of visiting London’s most-attended theatre, I find myself legitimately, gloriously, backstage. I’m visiting Lizzie Honeybone, head of the dye room. It’s part of the very large costume department, but Lizzie and her colleagues’ work doesn’t so much involve making costumes, rather breaking them down. Dying, staining, printing, ageing: the dye room is the place where costumes get into character.

Shall we sit down for a cup of tea and talk? Lizzie: Yes. Becky, do you want to chat too? That’s our intern: she’s lovely, you need to talk to her. Who wants sugar in their tea? There we go, girls. Now, what do you want to know? To start, how long have you been working at the National Theatre? Lizzie: Off and on for twenty-five years. I took break for babies, filming and TV. And did you train as a dyer? Lizzie: No, I trained as a tailor because I’d always made my own clothes. Then, when I was fourteen and babysitting, the little boy I was looking after said, “My dad’s a costume designer. Do you want to see his Oscar? He won it for Star Wars!” His father came home and I told him, “Look, I really want to make theatre costumes.” He said, “Go to Wimbledon School of Art, learn all your craft and you’ll be happy as Larry.”

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a visit with lizzie honeybone, head of the dye room words rosanna durham, photos liz seabrook

Wimbledon was really good. I learnt everything there, from how to tie a toga to making 1950s fashion; how to make a corset, a hat, a wig; how to dye and print. It’s all changed since your day, Becky, hasn’t it? She did the same course as me.

there were lots of black, dark colours. You see the change happening in the high street. There’s has always been a deeply talented bank of people. I’ve seen amazing hand-beaded costumes made for Judi Dench and tailoring to make your mouth water.

Becky: They do a lot, just not as much as you did. And not many people wanted to go into the dye room.

The National Theatre has started live-broadcasting plays in cinemas. Is there an added pressure for realism in your costumes when the work is being filmed?

Lizzie: That’s strange. Perhaps they didn’t want to damage the costumes they’d made. Becky: Most wanted to make costume; there was no breaking down.

Lizzie: No, I love it. I don’t want people to be able to look at anything and know how it was done. I want super-realism. And having worked in film, I know what passes on screen.

Lizzie: It’s nice to finally get the dye room to yourself, isn’t it?

What films have you worked on?

How has the style of costume at the National Theatre changed during your time here?

Lizzie: I did Children of Men in 2006 where I was dressing lots of asylum seekers. The clothes had to be rotten and because there were so many extras, there were rails and rails. It was really hard work: it’s a fast turnover. Whereas here I can consider things and give more time to the

Lizzie: We’ve seen trends come and go, big time. When I started here

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day. But it’s still only a six-week rehearsal period. And if a designer is late with their designs, then you’ve really got to go with it. So you might have three or four weeks to work on them? Lizzie: Well, Children of Sun we may only have... Becky: Shhh. Lizzie: It’ll be fine. How about the clearing up process; is that the boring part? There is a stereotype of dyers having stained hands. Lizzie: Yes, the creative who works in mess or dyers who have messy hands. But you don’t need to have blue hands all the time. I don’t want the dye absorbed through my skin because I’m working with wildly noxious chemicals.

What are the risks of working with dyes? Lizzie: They used to be really harmful. There was something called ‘dyer’s nose’ where dyers would destroy their nasal membrane with the chemicals that they used. When I started, the blue dye still smelt of bitter almond. We all know what that is: cyanide. Today there’s no chance of breathing anything revolting—if you’re sensible—because we’ve got really good extraction. You have to wear the right clothes, wear masks and appropriate things. Do you notice quality dye in clothes you buy on the high street? Lizzie: Yes, the acid dyes. Fluorescents were in vogue recently and the dyes were bloody good. Incredible neons. Eye-burning. But we just can’t replicate these things here. When I first started, I phoned up the Imperial Chemical Industries and got through to a boffin. I explained that I couldn’t dye polyester and I felt inadequate. They were so lovely,

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Becky and, overleaf, Lizzie, at work in the National Theatre dye room.

said, “You never will,” and explained the commercial dying process. They use these amazing temperatures and equipment: dye is baked into the fabric. Could you talk about the relationship you see developing between the actor and their costume? Lizzie: Oh, it can be intense. Some actors don’t want their costumes washed because that gives them a real sense of being in the part. What, even if they stink? Lizzie: That’s their character and so maybe the reaction of someone wriggling their nose from the smell is real. There’s quite a lot that you have to deal with. And a lot of actors, big names, will not wear certain colours. They have it in their head that they don’t look good in it. Or it has some terrible association. It happens more in film. I can’t give you names but I’ve known people cut up their costumes.

Do you feel that you’re dealing more with people in your day-to-day work than costumes? Lizzie: No, I’m all about the character. That’s what I’ve got to get across through their clothes. I’m very keen to make actors feel they are wearing the right sort of thing. Even if they are a shabby boffin looking crumpled. I’ve just done the costume for Alan Bennett, and I had to pill his jumper and put gravy stains on it. What are the values that you’ve taken out of the dye shop into your everyday life? Lizzie: I adore colour. I don’t want to live in a white house and I don’t want to sit on a white sofa. The cardigan I’m wearing was the most disgusting pale blue. I threw it in with some green dye and now look! The National Theatre / www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

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Japanese stab binding is a traditional method of fixing loose sheets together with a thread pattern to create a bound notebook. The beauty of the technique is the amount of variation you can apply to your book. You can choose the paper, thread, the design of the front and back covers and make something exactly how you want it. The method that I have used is traditionally referred to as the Kikko Toji, or Tortoise-Shell bind, which is named after the diamond pattern that the bind creates, similar to that of a tortoise shell.

You will need: sheets of paper for your notebook a thick yarn needle embroidery thread something to put holes through the paper: an awl or a drillâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;or a needle and lots of patience Turn over for diagrams and instructions.

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my notebook, my colours words and photo alice morby

bind beautiful pages with the japanese tortoise-shell stitch

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One. Mark four evenly-spaced holes on the front cover of your book, about 2cm in from the spine. Mark two holes on either side of each of the four holes that you have just marked, but this time only 1.5cm away from the spine. The pattern is shown on the top left.

Nine. Now go across and down through B (diagram 7).

Two. Line your table with waste cardboard, and punch the holes through. For small amounts of paper, use an awl. Alternatively, you can put a blob of blu-tack underneath the paper and stab through with a thick needle. To pierce a larger amount of paper at once, you’ll need a clamp and a drill instead.

Eleven. Repeat steps four through eight. Your book should now look like diagram 9. Go down through the next hole to the right as shown.

Three. Now for the sewing. We’re going to start at hole C, labelled in the diagram above. It looks like an odd place, but it’s important. Push the needle through the middle of the spine and then pull up through hole C, leaving a bit of thread as a tail to tie a knot in at a later stage. (See diagram 1). Four. Loop around the spine, and up through hole C from beneath (diagram 2). Five. Go down through C2, then loop around the spine and go down through C2 again (diagram 3). Six. Bring the needle up through C, then down through C1 (diagram 4). Seven. Loop around the spine and down through C1 again (diagram 5). Eight. Go up through C (diagram 6).

Ten. Flip the book upside down. Diagram 8 shows the same step as diagram 7, but flipped.

Twelve. Flip the book upside down. Diagram 10 shows the same step as diagram 9, but flipped. Thirteen. Repeat steps four through eight. Your book should now look like diagram 11. Fourteen. Loop around the left edge of the book and up through A again (diagram 12). Fifteen. Go down through B, up through C, then down through D (diagram 13). Sixteen. Flip the book. Diagram 14 shows the same step as diagram 13, but flipped. Seventeen. Repeat steps thirteen and fourteen. Your book should now look like diagram 15. Eighteen. Go down through the final hole. To finish, bring the thread out through the centre of the book and tie a knot with the tail of thread you left at the beginning (diagram 16).

did you know?

oh comely is one of your five -a- day s u b s c r i b e o n l i n e t o e n s u re a re g u l a r p o r t i o n o h c o m e l y. c o. u k / s u b s c r i b e

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just a simple job, some rotten floorboards words alan king, photo david swailes

a day in the life of a painter and decorator

Funny. I’ve had the keys to this house for two years now, but every time I let myself in, it still feels a little bit odd. Eight in the morning, as arranged, and I call out to the house in general, “Morning!” Paul answers from the middle floor landing, “Morning, Bob-Bob!” A merchant banker wearing blue striped pyjamas, hair all over the place, with toothpaste on his unshaved chin isn’t something you see often. Unless you’re living in the same house or you’re a carpenter and a builder. And I am a carpenter and builder. Hence the Bob-Bob tag. It started with the kids in this family when I first worked here. As most of my work comes through recommendations, my other clients picked up on it. The kids grew and moved on to ‘Alan,’ but the adults stuck with ‘Bob-Bob.’ Always Bob-Bob, never just Bob. The next ten days will see this living room transformed. Carpet ripped up. Old oak floorboards sanded and varnished. Sash windows, walls and doors carefully repaired and restored. That is, if I can find the carpet under the layer of kids’ toys, shoes, magazines and half-eaten rice cakes. “Morning, Bob-Bob,” mumbles Judith from behind the car keys she’s holding between her teeth, freeing up both hands to pull the Spider Man top over threeyear-old Andrew’s head. “I’ve made a good start on clearing the room. Just a tiny bit more to do. I’ll be back to finish it as soon as I can. I thought you could make a start on prepping the walls? School run—back about 11.30. It’s rehearsal for the parent, teacher, pupil concert today. See ya. Byee.” Hand in hand, she and Andrew head for the huge four wheel drive which I refer to as the company van. I don’t know if she finds this genuinely annoying or not. Andrew complains that he wants to stay home and watch Pepa... and then they’re gone. Half a minute later, I hear, “Bye, Bob-Bob, have a good day,” before the door slams shut behind Paul and I’m left alone in the house. Surrounded by the stuff of one of the many families whose lives I drift in and out of, I carefully pick my way to the kitchen. A hastily-scribbled note propped against the kettle reads, “B.B. help u self to T etc. Out of sugar and loo roll. Cake in fridge.” Two years ago I answered my mobile to hear a woman’s voice. “Hi, I’m Judith. Are you the man who knows how to use apostrophes?” “Pardon?” “We had an A5 flyer through the door. Carpentry. Painting and decorating. That sort of thing. It read that you work considerately in people’s homes, with the apostrophe in the right place.” “Sounds like me. How may I help?” “I want a cupboard built into the recess beside the chimney thing in the dining room so that, you know, it looks like it’s always been there. Could you do that?”

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A week later, I measured up, did some quick sketches at the kitchen table amid the remains of breakfast, with Andrew on my lap grabbing at the pen. We agreed a price and start date and I got up to leave. We shook hands and I was walking to the door to get my jacket when I heard for the first time, in this house, “Oh. While you’re here, could you just...” No matter which home I’m in, the could-you-just is always a “simple job” which will only take “a couple of minutes.” This particular could-you-just was a leak behind a bath that had been soaking the joists for about four years! I spent an unpaid hour lifting floorboards, showing her the soft spongy stuff where dry, hard timber should be. She told me she’d get a couple more estimates and I didn’t hear any more until I went back to fit the cupboard. The bloke who’d done the work for half the amount I’d quoted had messed up. Badly. The very expensive tiles were already falling off, and that wasn’t the half of it. Could I fix it all within a week because people were coming from Canada to stay for a month? Anyway. Back to today. Kettle on. Deep breath. In my socks, I pick my way between the lego, robots and toy farm animals. I know there’s a carpet here somewhere.

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sixteen grandchildren, sixteen copies of the same slovak cookbook words jessica shepherd

when I gained slovak-american in-laws, I also became part of an amazing family tradition

Shortly before we were married last year, my husband and I received a carefully-wrapped package from his grandmother, Dolores, sent from America via a travelling family member. The package contained her grandmother’s Slovak-American cookbook, complete with her annotations, bookmarks and extra guidelines. We couldn’t wait to try out some of the recipes inside: pecan tassies, sugar-rolled koláče, lemon chiffon cake. Later that year, I met Dolores in New Jersey, where the family threw us a wedding party and she cooked a huge feast of favourite dishes from the cookbook. An intuitive chef, she meticulously tailors each dish to the preferences of family members, so that every morsel can be savoured. I realised that the book was much more than a collection of tasty recipes, it was a family institution. The cookbook is a compilation of recipes published by New Jersey’s Slovak community in 1952. Recipes were contributed by members of The First Catholic Slovak Ladies Association, combining traditional Slovak food with familiar American dishes. A treasured collection, President Gerald Ford was presented with a copy of the cookbook in 1976, and he accepted it gladly saying, “Betty will love it!” Dolores’ grandmother, Anna Piga, had moved from Slovakia to America in 1907, and it was with her that Dolores’ baking began. “When I was a

child, my mother used to go to work, up until my brother was born, so I was with my grandmother, helping her to do cooking and baking.” She remembers that her grandmother would carefully carry the yeast dough upstairs and place it on a bed surrounded by pillows and duvets to keep it warm and help it rise, as the house was sometimes cold and drafty. The Slovak community of the 1950s that she grew up in was close-knit, with well-defined traditions and borders. Dolores recalls, “The church we belonged to was Slovak. At that time the churches were separated: there was a Polish parish, an Italian parish, a Slovak parish, the Irish people had their churches. You were more or less immersed in the culture, whether you liked it or not, because that’s where you went every Sunday. They didn’t mingle much with other people: they knew other people from work, but they didn’t visit back and forth to their homes. It was like that mostly with all the different nationalities in town. That’s how they were.” To this day, each family member is given a copy of the cookbook as a rite of passage. Dolores remembers, “One of my aunts gave a copy to my grandmother, and she thought, ‘What do I need a book for?’” Now, as family members each go their own way, and begin their own traditions, some customs are perhaps harder to sustain. With so many delectable dishes in the Slovak-American cookbook, I know that some traditions will continue for many gatherings and dinner times to come.

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Above: Dolores’ wedding photo and the cookbook. “When I was first married that was really my only cookbook I had for a long time.”

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Doloresâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; family tree, from her grandmother Annaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s parents to her grandson Oliver, who is married to Jess.

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Pages and scraps from the cookbook. The pale yellow slip has a handwritten recipe for Easter cirak cheese, a tricky-to-make family favourite. Dolores says, “My grandchildren all try to make that and it never comes out right—except for Grandma’s!”

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how to bake koláce pastries words liz ann bennett

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For the filling: 340g ground almonds 4 egg whites

225g sugar 1tsp vanilla

we tried out a recipe from jess’s cookbook

One. For the first dough, sift together the flour, salt and sugar. Add the yolks, yeast and milk and stir well. The dough will be quite dry and stiff to handle.

These deliciously flaky pastries are traditionally made at Christmas, but are good all year round. You can stuff them with whatever jam or sweet filling you like—we made ours with ground almonds.

Two. For the second dough, sift the flour into the butter and mix until you have a smooth dough. (If you’re tempted to rub the butter into the flour as if it’s crumble topping—don’t! You want a smooth dough, not a lumpy one.)

My English baking experience was a little baffled by the dough textures. The yeast and flour suggested it would be something like a sweet bread dough, but the consistency was much more like pastry. I wondered if it needed vigorous kneading like bread, or delicate handling like pastry, and opted for a middle ground: combining the doughs as smoothly as possible, but trying not handle them too much. I needn’t have worried: the results were chewy and substantial without being heavy. There was also a touch of the savoury to them that made a pleasant change from sweet cookies. For the first dough, you will need: 225g plain flour ½tsp salt 1tbsp sugar For the second dough: 225g plain flour 225g butter, at room temperature icing sugar, to flour the surface

2 egg yolks, unbeaten 1 package instant dried yeast 120ml lukewarm milk

Three. Mix both the doughs together thoroughly, kneading if necessary. Four. Cover the mixture and leave to rise for two hours. Punch the dough down, and leave it to rise, covered, for a further two hours. Both times, the dough will swell gently. Five. Mix together the ingredients for the filling. Save the extra egg yolks for brushing the pastries later. Six. Roll the dough out, on a surface sprinkled with icing sugar, to about half a centimetre thick. Seven. Cut the dough into about thirty small squares. Put a blob of filling in the centre of each square and bring together two opposite corners so that they overlap by a few centimetres. The pastries tend to unfurl while cooking, so overlap more than you think you need to. Eight. Place on ungreased baking paper a little apart. Beat the leftover egg yolk and brush the pastries with it. Alternatively, you can sprinkle with icing sugar instead. Nine. Bake at 180°C in a pre-heated oven for about 30 minutes.

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home from home places to go, people to see

duck ceramics

ditto press

www.duckceramics.co.uk

www.dittopress.co.uk

What’s for sale? Beautifully crafted, porcelain homewares inspired by antique crockery but with a modern twist. Each one is individually made and prices start from £10. What’s your motto? Wonky wares for any occasion. Recommend us something special. The complimentary coasters, for when a glass of wine just isn’t enough, or anything from the ﬂoral collection because I just love to make it!

What’s your story? We’re the UK’s first and largest risograph printers. Similar to screen printing, it’s more economical and uses bright ink colours. Stencil printing is a specialism. What’s your mission? Being approachable and helpful art printers with tons of expertise. Recommend us something special. Oh comely readers get 10% off a first risograph order. Mention oh comely in your email or phone call.

duke of uke

eclectic eccentricity

www.dukeofuke.co.uk

www.eclecticeccentricity.co.uk

What’s for sale? An enormous range of ukuleles, priced from £20 to £1000, an array of other instruments and all necessary accessories. What’s your mission? As London’s only ukulele store we’re a vibrant community hub, hosting regular shows, events and friendly musical guidance. Recommend us something special. Learn to play in a group! We’ll teach your favourite songs, both old and new!

What’s for sale? Jewellery created using vintage components with a story to tell. What’s your mission? To create enchanting pieces for the inquisitive of heart. Recommend us something special. Our new geometric collection features bold shapes and sumptuous, universeinspired beads. Think mathematical forms meet tribal accents, all with a vintage ﬂourish!

the glasgow school of art shop

royal school of needlework

www.gsa.ac.uk/shop

www.royal-needlework.org.uk

What’s for sale? The GSA Collection represents the wealth of talented designers from the School producing jewellery, homeware, textiles and affordable accessories. What’s your mission? To sell covetable contemporary designs by students and graduates. Recommend us something special. Alice Dansey-Wright’s vibrant Glasgow Scarves, inspired by 1950’s souvenir designs, are too pretty to resist!

What’s for sale? Always wanted to learn embroidery and haven’t known where to start? We have courses for everyone and at every level. What’s your motto? Keeping the art of hand embroidery alive. Recommend us something special. Come to our free exhibition of Certificate and Diploma students’ work from (9 -14 July, 10am-5pm), which takes place during the RHS Hampton Court Flower Show.

open to create

spookernox

www.opentocreate.com

www.spookernox.com

What’s for sale? A creative smörgåsbord of creative coaching, mentoring and playful workshop sessions. What’s your motto? Igniting people’s creativity in playful ways. We champion everyone’s right to be creative in their unique way, and leave them more vibrant and alive. Recommend us something special. Dinner & Drawing. Indulge in oﬀthe-wall drawing games and delicious home-cooked food.

What’s for sale? Limited edition prints by Tate-commissioned illustrator and artist Charlie Sutcliffe. What’s your mission? No more mass produced wall art. Everybody should be able to buy beautiful, handmade and unique pieces of art. Recommend us something special. Junckle-O, a seven separations of colour that bring the illustration to life and put a smile on your face.

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kentucky fried everywhere words jason ward, illustration fuchsia macaree

can a man’s love of takeaway chicken survive six servings and fifty miles of cycling?

There’s a curious plethora of chicken shops in London named after US cities and states, as if the right name will make their customers forget that they’re sitting in a takeaway in Croydon, desolate. Too poor to buy a plane ticket, I decided to tour America exclusively through the medium of London’s fried chicken restaurants, cycling from one to another. A slightly remorseful but avowed enthusiast of fast food, the prospect of sampling the capital’s ﬁnest fried chicken excited me, despite the 45 miles I had to cycle and sheer volume of poultry that lay in my path. After all, how often do you get to visit an entire country in an afternoon?

1. tennessee

4. california

Tennessee Fried Chicken, 502 Kingsland Road, Dalston

Hollywood Fried Chicken, 10 Lillie Road, Fulham

As I ride towards Dalston I’m struck by how hungry I am; in the queue of lunchtime diners I briefly consider the ferociously-cheap meal deal, but remind myself that marathon runners don’t start off sprinting.

Hollywood Fried Chicken sits on a strange little street near Earl’s Court that seems incongruous in its proximity to Chelsea.

I read once that taste tests are usually rigged, as most people prefer the ﬁrst version of something they try. Sure enough, my food is delicious. I understand why my fellow customers have chosen to dine at Tennessee Fried Chicken out of the many anonymous chicken shops that dot Kingsland Road. The chicken is tender, the breadcrumbs spicy and ﬂoury. The grease soaks through the wrapping onto my notebook. I sit in the yard of a nearby church and wish I’d bought the meal deal after all.

2. illinois Chicago Fried Chicken, 138 Fortess Road, Tufnell Park Approaching Chicago Fried Chicken, my stomach affects a sensation halfway between a yowl and a lurch. I ignore the feeling. Inside, the server fiddles with his phone, pretending I don’t exist. Stubbornly refusing to draw attention to myself, I act as if I’m perusing my options. Eventually he asks me what I want, not looking up. The chicken here is smaller and comes in a burger box. A few doors down is an establishment that describes itself as a literary café, bustling with young, earnest, bearded people who are reading, chatting and typing on laptops. As I lean against my bike and eat my unsatisfying chicken, I start to wonder if I’ve gone wrong somewhere in my life.

3. texas (first attempt) Dollar Fried Chicken, 320 Kennington Lane, Vauxhall After a long journey that takes me south of the river to Vauxhall, a place half suburb, half industrial estate, I find that Dallas Fried Chicken has become a Dollar Fried Chicken. It’s difficult to properly articulate the effect this revelation has on my fraying state of mind: the cruel pain of cycling through an entire city only to discover that the ‘Texan’ chicken shop I’d been heading towards had decided to change its name. The adjustment is baffling: the word ‘dollar’ is still suggestively American, but hardly connotes fried chicken. Are the owners trying to imply that their chicken is good value (only a dollar) or that it tastes expensive (worth lots of dollars)? The man behind the counter just shrugs when I try to engage him in conversation. Despondent, I order a chicken burger. I eat it in view of the animals of Vauxhall City Farm. The horses whinny, indifferent to my plight.

On the way to the shop I think I see the actor Tim Robbins, but it’s just a random person. (Here in my grease-ﬁngerprinted notebook I’ve written: “Are chicken hallucinations a thing? Google when home.”) I wonder if any movie stars own property in Chelsea, and whether they’ve ever passed Hollywood Fried Chicken and been tempted to check it out. The chicken is mostly bone and gristle; I try to think of a devastating metaphor about the Hollywood experience but my brain is too clogged with grease.

5. kansas Kansas Chicken and Ribs, 102 High Street, Hornsey The journey from Earl’s Court to Hornsey takes in most of the city. It’s roughly the same distance as my earlier north-to-south transit but feels longer due to fatigue, over-eating and the onslaught of rush hour traffic. I console myself by thinking of the great explorers who first charted North America. Am I really so different from Lewis and Clarke? I go inside and ask the man for the smallest piece of chicken he has. He looks at me apprehensively but accedes to my request. I’ve lost all ability to analyse the food I’m eating and can’t distinguish what makes Kansas’ fried chicken any better or worse than anywhere else’s. My hunger may never return again, I fear: I’m more chicken now than man.

6. texas (second attempt) Texas Fried Chicken, 405 Fore Street, Edmonton Dismayed by my earlier failure to visit Dallas, I add a final destination to my journey: Texas Fried Chicken. My final quarry sits at the edge of a shopping park opposite over-sized outlets of ASDA and Argos. When I enter Texas Fried Chicken the man at the counter looks at me like I’m a normal person, like I’m not the sort of person who would spend a day cycling around London eating endless chicken. Glassy-eyed and with fingers that won’t stop feeling greasy, I order a meal deal. I sit by the window and watch the customers trickle in and out. It’s the evening and my body is filled with chicken and regret. I’m not sure if I’ve discovered anything new in the name of science, except that it’s impossible to visit six fried chicken restaurants in one day and not feel unwell, and you probably knew that already. I finish my meal, wipe my hands with another insufficiently-cleansing napkin, and head home for a bowl of Weetabix and a good cry.

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Hundreds of artists demonstrating how they work

18 – 21 July

Waterperry House and Gardens | www.artinaction.org.uk

TWO TICKETS FOR £22! Buy two standard adult entry tickets online and SAVE £10. Tickets can be used on any day. Go to www.artinaction.org.uk Use the unique promotional code OHCOMX (Terms and conditions apply)