Overcoat Issue Five: Love

issue f

ive: lov e

Covers: 300gsm Maine Recycled Silk Body: 130gsm Maine Recycled Silk Typeset in Whitney Overcoat is an independent production publication. The articles appearing within this publication reflect the opinions of their respective authors and are not necessarily those of the publishers or editorial team.

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Editor: Pete Saunders Sub-Editor: Jessie Webb Designer: Pete Saunders Illustrator: April Wright Cover: Chris Gillard — What is love? What is real love? What’s the difference?

Perhaps the only answer is that it’s a matter of personal perspective or learned cultural norms. Whatever it is, it’s powerful. Image taken on 400 ISO stock, pushed to 800. Copyright Chris Gillard 2013. hello@undercoat.net www.undercoat.net

contributors Connel Chiang (RMIT University) Alexis Finch (University of Chicago/DePaul University) Virginia Martin Rosie McIntyre (CATC Design School) Nipun Srivastava (University of Pune) Albertus Swanepoel (University of Pretoria/FIT) Jill Webb (University of Melbourne/La Trobe University)

additional images Anna Camara Tracey Lee Hayes Karla Manjaric Craig McDean Leah Robertson Mark Roper Vien Tran Farrah Whalan

Overcoat is an online publication that aims to share the highest standard of work being produced in creative and professional fields from different institutions globally. It is a platform designed to inspire and connect students and alumni within their own community and with like-minded people around the world. If you would like to contribute work to Overcoat, please send us an email.

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love/editor There could not be a more fitting theme for this issue of Overcoat.

As we pass the first anniversary of Undercoat/Overcoat, it gives reason to pause and reflect. Alexandra has left to pursue new avenues in her editorial work and personal life. She just got married, completing her work/life/love combo. We’re so thankful for her hard work and hope to see her name up in lights, very soon.

Throughout the year, trying to balance full time work, freelance work, magazine contributors, marketing, social media growth, editing and design duties, there were times when the input wasn’t matched by the output and ‘throwing in the towel’ seemed like the only option.

But whenever things seemed at their worst, something special landed in our inbox. Each time we received a contribution from a student, an expression of interest or an article for the magazine, it reaffirmed our conviction in what we are doing and why. Our passion and love for this project keeps things going whenever they seem to stagnate.

The honeymoon period is well and truly over, but the future is bright for us and I am confident for our ongoing success.

Anyone who has embarked on a large-scale personal project (creative or otherwise) will relate to this. While perseverance is a strong motivating factor, deep down there needs to be something more to pull you through those hard times. For many of us, it’s the passionate involvement we feel with our own work; the reminder of what we set out to achieve and why.

In the present issue, each of our contributors has been kind enough to express their thoughts on the concept of ‘love’ in its most encompassing meaning. Whether it’s the subject matter or a reflection on a traditional notion, our interpretations of love are unique and can be expressed in any number of ways. For this reason, we have widened our net of contributors to invite responses from a variety of people — from those in the early stages of their careers, to those who have become icons of their field. We attempted to get a cross-section of what it means to love, both personally and professionally.

Finally, taking the reigns as both editor and designer of the magazine, I want to thank everyone who has contributed their work over the last year. It has filled me with genuine joy and I cannot wait to see what happens next.

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Contents 09/ love, hope and styling

connel chiang 23/ self love rosie mcintyre 31/ time for love jill webb 43/ bĂşl virginia martin 51/ colouring inside the lines alexis finch 63/ hats off to you albertus swanepoel 69/ engine trouble nipun srivastava

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love, hope and styling

When love is the glue that keeps dedication stuck to our sides. connel chiang rmit university

Love and hope have been by my side since I started styling. In 2002, I left my undergraduate Science degree at Melbourne University for full-time work in a fashion boutique in Fitzroy, an inner-city suburb of Melbourne, Australia. I had worked in retail during my degree, so it seemed the most natural progression to dive into the world of fashion. I worked in the boutique for over a year, managing the store and looking after the merchandising. It was an important time where I began to understand the many facets of the fashion industry, and came to see that there were elements to this work that I clearly loved.

I got immense pleasure from dressing customers and introducing new items or combinations they wouldn’t have originally considered.

While there were joys in this, I maintained hope that there was more to my life than fashion retail management and set myself on the path to find an occupation that contained more of these elements.

This hope made me call the fashion editor of the Herald Sun newspaper to ask about being involved in their fashion photography. At the time I didn’t know that ‘fashion stylist’ was an occupation that existed and had no idea how the industry was structured. Nevertheless, I called and asked questions. I talked with creative agencies, then to a stylist, and found myself working on a big fashion campaign shoot a week later. During this shoot I was so nervous that I burnt a hole in a very ugly top (which, as you can imagine, was not looked upon favourably!)

Despite the blunder, it was apparent that there was more for me to discover in this world and I wanted in. Before it could happen, however, I had to face the embarrassment of apologising to the stylist in the hope that she would take me back again. That clear and certain hope returned and drove my apology. It’s lucky I listened to it — she took me on and I haven’t looked back.

While assisting the (very forgiving) stylist I started working on the production of fashion shows. The company I worked for looked after both individual salon shows and major fashion festivals. Our team spent weeks preparing for each show, and the days were long. An average week would include logistical preparation for our team while addressing the needs of the stylists, designers and other contractors who made 10

Photos: Mark Roper 12

the show happen. Model lists (including all sizing information) were made for each show, running orders were drawn up, garment sheets labelled for each outfit — and this was all before orchestrating models, designers, production staff and volunteers during the three days of fittings. After the pre-production we ran multiple shows per day and I still had to be nice to everyone! In my role I liaise with them all: the CEO of the major partner, the design assistants, photographers, magazine editors, hair stylists, make up artists, model agents, journalists and obviously the models and designers. Although it is tiring, maintaining these relationships makes the job easier.

Knowing the right people keeps life streamlined.

In his book The Prophet, Khalil Gibran writes: “Work is love made visible”. After multiple fourteen-hour days, what kept me coming back was love. Even now, love of the job gets me up after four hours’ sleep to do it all again. Love is what makes me function when I’m hungover from partying with the models the night before. Love makes me return to work when the day or week has been frustrating or overly difficult. When you love your work, even the boring, mundane and most difficult tasks become joyful. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to make their passion their occupation, and loving what you do is a gift and a blessing. However, while this career path can be highly desirable, it’s not without its hardships. When this dedication to a passion is challenged, it’s essential, again, to draw on love and hope.

Late in 2012 I was working closely on a job with good friends of mine. We had been asked to shoot again for a particular client — the opportunity was a huge accolade, and our stress levels reflected that. What were solid professional relationships began to crumble under the pressure and each individual’s self-confidence eroded during the shoot. Although the final images were great, I was affected by what had occurred.

During the month that followed, depression set in and was compounded when I received little follow-up work — there was nothing to distract me from that slump and get me motivated

Photo: Karla Manjaric

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Photos: Tracey Lee Hayes (Black Magazine) 16

again. I spent the first couple of weeks desperately trying to lift my confidence and ignore the fact that I was hurting inside. I attended work gatherings and attempted to set up new meetings, but really, I knew that I would rather curl up in a ball and shut everything out.

The following weeks I did just that — I didn’t go out and I didn’t look for work. This was one of the darkest moments of my career. I didn’t know when (or if) it was going to end. I searched for different paths to take, but even in my darkened state nothing was as attractive as working in fashion. This left only one option: work through it. At this point, love kicked in. With it came hope, allowing a broken spirit to stand with confidence again.

Life throws us challenges over and over until we learn our lessons.

It can be difficult, but we are better off as people and ‘creatives’ if we listen to these messages and make the necessary changes. To do what you love in a creative field requires a close connection with the self: you have to love yourself in the form of forgiveness, tenderness, encouragement, support, nurturing and freedom in order to continue producing great work. During this depressive period, I realised that I couldn’t stop what was happening. I had to trust that it would be ok.

It seemed to be the right choice: soon after I was booked on a job for Nike, and had the great pleasure of working with international tennis champions Roger Federer and Maria Sharapova. Since then, my weeks have been filling up. Being busy for a freelancer is like heroin for a junkie: bliss.

These ten years in the fashion industry have passed quickly, and yet I still have so much to learn. The love and hope that I experienced in the early days are still present, and, if anything, have become stronger.

I still adore the fundamentals of being a stylist, but new roles like creative/artistic/fashion director are enticing. I have learnt I need to be challenged by what I do in order to sustain affection for it over a long period of time. I have to keep testing my parameters, set new goals and raise my own expectations of what I can achieve. The love that I have for my work needs to know greater levels and the only way to achieve this is by expanding my playground. Despite the great success

Photo: Karla Manjaric

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Photos: Mark Roper 20

that I have had working in Australia, it is time to challenge myself again. I have booked tickets to fly to Hong Kong in May with the goal of becoming an international fashion stylist, and I am preparing my folios and other documents to find new representation. Yes, there is great risk that I might fail, but this risk is borne of hope for my career development as a fashion stylist — and beyond.

My career in the fashion industry has helped me learn a lot about hope and love. I’ve learned that hope is what pushes us into the unknown and love is what keeps us in the present. Hope forces us to dream for bigger and better things. It gives us the energy and strength to move beyond our perceived expectations of ourselves, and in doing so makes us achieve things that we wouldn’t have ever considered possible before. Love is the glue that keeps dedication firmly stuck to our sides. Both are incredibly important in shaping our dreams and keeping us on track, especially when times are tough.

Photo: Tracey Lee Hayes (Black Magazine)

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self love

Capturing inner truths through the lens of a camera. rosie mcintyre catc design school

Photographing people allows me to share what I see of them.

I try to see the unembellished, raw, truthful, beautiful moments: the mannerisms and physical characteristics that make up who we are on the outside, to express what we feel on the inside. My work is about self-love: the struggle to attain it and the bravery to pass it on. It’s about accepting who you are, finding out where it comes from, making yourself vulnerable, learning from your experiences and moving forward. It’s a difficult path to forge; but we wouldn’t be here if it was easy.

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time for love

Everyday life and love in Guinea. jill webb university of melbourne/la trobe university

I recently traveled to Guinea in West Africa with my daughter, her husband and their nine month old son, to meet and stay with my son-in-law’s family. My month in Guinea taught me much about love and generosity and the space that is created for relationships and connection when life is not encumbered by the usual clutter of a busy Western lifestyle.

This story also begins with love; a love story that began when my daughter Anna met her husband Mohamed in Guinea eight years ago. Their relationship — and the way it holds space for two vastly different cultures — has taught me much about a love that tries not to make assumptions, that accepts difference and accepts people for who they are. The arrival of their child, Samba has taught me even more about love, and has reminded me that children are the ones who can teach us the most about a love that is unconditional.

I arrived in Guinea with few expectations except a desire to know Mohamed’s family and to experience his home and culture. I had worried about whether I could share this precious grandson with another family and another culture, but to be present as Samba got to know his Guinean family was an extraordinarily rich experience.

When I first arrived, I wondered how I would fill my days. I knew we would have workshops in traditional dance and drumming each day, but what would I actually do for the rest of the time? I soon discovered that each day was filled with tasks, all essential to the family’s wellbeing. The day began with a trip to the market to buy food and continued with the preparation of that food: washing rice; peeling vegetable;, grinding peanuts and spices; cleaning and gutting fish; occasionally killing, plucking and preparing a chicken. Fires were carefully lit for cooking, dishes were cleaned, the outside ground and inside floors swept and washed. Washing clothes was done in a bucket with cold water, soap and a wash board, wrung out by strong arms and hung up to dry.

I attempted to do things the Guinean way: if I offered to help, I’d be given a sharp knife and vegetables to peel, the family smiling as I clumsily attempted a task they managed with ease. My efforts washing clothes brought a similar response, or an eager offer to show me how to get a grubby T-shirt white again. These were skills 32

that my great-grandmother no doubt knew, skills now buried under an avalanche of technology.

Most of these daily activities happened outside, and despite the amount of work to be done, there was always time to spend with a small boy who was delighted to be with his Guinean family.

From the moment we arrived, Samba was absorbed into Mohamed’s family. He went to each family member, confident, happy and relaxed; he seemed instantly at home. I woke up early on our first morning to the sound of laughing voices: Samba outside with his grandmother, Ne Ne, as the family began the day’s preparations. When I ventured outside, Samba was tied to Ne Ne’s back ‘bamba fe’ style as she went about her morning tasks. His face was a mixture of joy and pride, his back straight, his eyes sparkling.

In Guinea, we were surrounded by new sounds and a vibrant energy.

Mohamed’s family spoke several languages: Susu, Fula, Malinke and French. Each day, musicians would arrive to accompany our morning dance class, staying on for the afternoon drumming class. Samba was transfixed by the music and keen to copy rhythms when he found the drums. He quickly developed a new ‘Guinean’ language, sounds that were deeper and more guttural than the voice he had developed in Australia. If he heard the voice of Ne Ne, or one of Mohamed’s brothers or sisters, he would instantly engage, search for the person who had spoken and excitedly call out in this new ‘language’. They would call and he would respond, he would call and they would respond, always accompanied by laughter. A pattern developed, a call and response to echo the call and response of the Guinean musicians, or the call and response of the drummers and dancers.

Samba seemed completely at home, and was always happy and relaxed in the arms of others, even those he had only just met. In the midst of the day’s activity, there was always someone willing to spend time with Samba, to hold him, play with him, speak or sing to him. The household had a constant stream of visitors and all those who came would pick him up, kiss him, hold him, hug and caress him.

There was a naturalness about the Guinean response to children, an easiness and a familiarity; a natural assumption that babies were an integral part of family and community.

Photo: Anna Camara 34

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It was a great privilege to be part of Guinean community for those four weeks. Guinea has a tangible sense of community, a life in which people care for each other and take responsibility for the wellbeing of each other. Ne Ne cooked for us each day and each meal was carefully shared between everyone who happened to be there: family, builders, musicians, visitors. Food, water, space and time — even music — were shared. People who asked for help were given help.

I became aware that people in Guinea don’t ‘mind their own business’; they are actively interested in what is happening around them. When we walked through the community, people crossed the track to greet us and shake our hands, asking who we were and why we were there. When an argument started in the street after an unwelcome photo was taken, a huge crowd of people quickly gathered, all trying to help us resolve the problem.

During this time I became acutely aware of how my Australian life is filled and shaped by the things I gather around me. Apart from cooking pots, the clothes and possessions owned collectively by Mohamed’s whole family were stored under one bed and in two boxes. A child in Guinea is not surrounded by an endless array of toys. I saw children rolling old car tyres with sticks, or pulling along battered plastic bottles on a piece of string. Samba had one small calico bag with a few toys for long distance travel and we made do with these in a variety of creative ways.

There is a poignancy when I think back on my time in Guinea. There is something in the Guinean community that feels vulnerable: vulnerable to all that Western development can offer. Once Guinea’s economy picks up, Guinean people will be able to choose to adopt consumerism and Western technology and lives will be made easier with a multitude of labour saving devices. But I wonder, what will be lost?

Will the simplicity and beauty of lives unencumbered by the things we consider essential disappear?

I am wary of romanticising a more traditional society: in Guinea people work hard for precious little, and life can be precarious.

People die in Guinea of illnesses that are quickly and effectively

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treated in Australia. But there is something we have lost, and I wonder if it can be reclaimed.

We define ourselves by where we live, the cars we drive, the clothes we wear, what possessions we have gathered around us. Can we, in our ‘safe’ homes filled with Western technology, cope with the possibility that all of this might not be necessary? What if we were defined not by what we own or how we look, but by who we are and the time we create to connect with others, to be with those we love, taking up responsibility for the wellbeing of those around us, minding each other’s business?

I learnt a precious lesson in Guinea. I experienced living in a family and community where there was space for connection, laughter, music and joy. A space that was not encumbered by the busyness and the material possessions of my everyday life in Australia. This was a precious gift for me, and a priceless gift of love for one small boy.

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bĂşl

Fashion inspired by global coastlines. virginia martin

I know I’m lucky. I’m one of those few people who have been able turn my passion into a job. The journey I went on to achieve this required a lot of determination and it was, well, a lot of hard work.

I’ve spent half my life by the coast and the other half behind a sewing machine — I guess this is how I ended up doing what I do now. Let me explain.

My childhood was spent in metropolitan Melbourne and I grew up in a creative household where I spent my time making and crafting clothes for my friends and I to wear. When I left school I was lucky enough to find myself in the spotlight when my graduate designs appeared in both Top Arts and Top Design [ed: Victoria’s exhibition for school graduates]. After this success, I felt like it was the perfect chance to start my first label. I went for it and was thrilled when it was picked up by stores throughout the country. It sounds so simple, but there was a lot of hard work involved. I was working all night from my ‘office’ — which was the lounge room of my Fitzroy apartment! It was crazy. I loved every minute but soon felt like I needed a break.

I’m not one for relaxing holidays — you know, the ones where you lie about by a resort pool. My version of a break was to move to New York after I secured several internships at renowned labels like Proenza Schouler, Cynthia Rowley and Heatherette. Here, I really grew as a designer. I was in awe. I was immersed in, and mesmerised by, this world. I eventually left New York and found myself down by the beach on the Californian coast working for lifestyle label Travota.

It was a ‘light bulb’ moment. The water suddenly took on a whole new meaning for both my work and my life — I fell in love with the ocean, with surfing, and with the relaxed and calm feeling it gave me.

Like any break, it came to an end and I returned home to Melbourne in 2009 at the age of 24. Back in my hometown, I was eager to establish a new label that would fulfil my desire to create quality tailored garments. After my time in California, the ocean had really become my inspiration and motivation, and I began dividing my time between Melbourne and the Victorian coastal town of Torquay.

It was from that environment that búl was born.

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I describe búl as a label that reflects the sensibilities of a relaxed coastal lifestyle, but has the design and sophistication of unique, contemporary tailored pieces. The ocean is never far from the label’s heart, and each season I look to a different coastal location around the world. I’ve taken inspiration from Namibian plains, Italian coastlines, beaches in Cornwall and of course the enchanting Australian coast. These diverse cultures are my muses. Each búl garment is delicately created with a focus on fine details, luxurious fabrics and unique trims. One-of-a kind prints are crucial in communicating the feel I want each season to give. For example, the Autumn/ Winter 2013 collection was inspired by Estonian culture, and its signature print was a woven rug motif I found frequently within Estonian culture.

I believe the shop environment really determines the experience and enjoyment one can garner from a brand. I wanted the búl stores to emphasise the coastal inspiration behind the brand.

The stores reflect my love of the natural world and have an earthy feel. When you step into a quintessentially ‘búl’ space, you will find natural wood paneling and floors, large seascape images and soft muted colours. Most recently, landscape artist Simon Taylor created otherworldly creatures from twigs to hang in the window of the flagship store. This installation is both organic in its concept and a complex, modern piece of design: something that I hope also comes across in my own work.

Like any loving relationship, the ocean and I have had a tumultuous affair. I have sustained various injuries from surfing, and sometimes the pressure of running my own label keeps me away from the coast for long periods of time. In the end, though, it’s worth it. I get to focus on the two things I love, every day. I really wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Photos: Vien Tran

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colouring inside the lines Exploring the intrinsic detail in the mind of a sketchnote artist. alexis finch university of chicago/depaul university

Here’s the thing they forgot to tell me.

Without love, none of this is worth it.

You have to be in love with everything you do. Everything. Take the time to do what you love, because all you have is time. Yes, everything takes time. But, we’re so focused on instant messaging and next day delivery and rapid transit that we forget: value is not intrinsically correlated with speed.

Sometimes, there really is no ‘faster’ way. Not with those same qualities you were looking for intact. Not without sacrificing some quality, some intrinsic part of the experience. Not if you still want to love what you’re doing.

I’ve struggled with this delicate balance: this decision that, because I love something, it is worth the time expended, that it is not wasted effort or a foolhardy selfishness. My process of sketchnoting — the visual recording of complex topics through words, images and metaphors — is a case study in seeking balance. Here’s the baseline fact: no matter how fast I can draw, recording a talk will still take at least the length of the talk. That is the simple, unequivocal truth.

Unless the speakers speak less, I still have that chunk of time spent listening. Speed can only be found beyond the length of the talk itself.

I’m self-taught at all this, and the “two phase process” I created, going from pencil to ink (really three phases, since the final step is to add color) is apparently rather unusual. Most sketchnoters want to do the job and walk away — be done with it. My version takes a bit more time. I have a turnaround time of days after a conference, rather than hours, as I ink and edit my pieces. This also means I’m not well suited to do massive live-recordings up on stage next to a speaker, since pencil doesn’t show up well enough for an audience, and I’m not comfortable wielding markers.

So, the debate.

Should I go straight to pen? I’ve experimented by forcing myself to record talks in a small Moleskin with a Pilot G-2 07 (pen nerd).

It’s not my favorite pen, but one that is speedy on the page, encouraging quicker, more decisive notes.

Should I switch to recording directly on a tablet — forsake the sketchbook and just get to the end product? My Wacom Tablet is 52

tiny and the battle I wage with both it and Photoshop is still unfinished. We will see who wins out, but the initial attempts are clumsy and slow from fighting with the technology, not the tools or the process itself.

Here’s the real question. What of my current process am I so in love with? Is there something inherently valuable in the time-heavy process of sketching and editing?

It’s painstaking.

The initial pencil is easy enough. I’ve been doing this for a while, so getting the content down on paper is no longer the big barrier.

That’s not to say I don’t feel the same fear confronting me with every single blank page, every speaker up at the podium — worrying I won’t get the gist, that it won’t turn out ‘good enough’ to do justice to the ideas, the person, up on the stage. I fear getting to the end and finding a big ‘pile of ugly’ on the page. The thing most people ask me, the thing they worry about, is the least concern in my mind.

It isn’t what if I miss something. I will miss things. The point is not to record everything. This is not a transcript. This is a distillation of the story being told, made into a short-hand my memory can backreference later.

It’s the second step — inking over each pencil line, translating chicken-scratch into hand-written typography — that takes time.

But that’s the part when the concepts sink in. It’s this review stage, considering words quickly jotted down, weighing against the option to edit. I can take command of l’esprit d’escalier — that feeling of realising something better to say, but having missed the chance.

With this step, I have that chance, going back over and embedding in my mind the most effective way to depict an idea visually.

Some of my notes are almost completely redone during this phase.

Sometimes this is because the speaker was sloppy. They back-loaded their talk, leaving all the meat to the last fifteen minutes with a huge unnecessary ramble in the front end. Sometimes, well, I just realise a better way to show something later.

The third step — as though this weren’t enough already, we’re getting into hour three here — is the coloring in. I start with red; with the arrows. These lead the eye around the page, from topic to topic,

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theme to theme. Sometimes I get a bit arrow crazy, but I’m always happier when there are more, since that means the talk had a flow, the themes were connected, there’s a story to follow. I’m tempted every time to just leave it at this black & white & red state. But I never do.

Then come the other colours. I keep to a limited palette, only laying out a few pens to keep from overwhelming myself with choices, but even this takes time. Making sure the composition is balanced, that each color continues to lead the eye around the page. First the ‘kabams’ get their yellow and orange, then the type gets colored in — one color for all those “big words” since, ideally, those alone should tell you what the talk was all about. Every time, I agonise over the shirt color of the little people I draw.

So that’s the process: three hours for one talk. The finished product could well have been created entirely on the computer. I could edit faster, lay in colors and even change them on the fly, drag images around so they fit better on the page, flow better… It might even result in a ‘better’ product.

But the process has value as well. The process has a point to it.

I’ve been taking ‘ink only’ notes for a class recently, to challenge myself, or maybe just to prove a point, that “I could if I wanted to” knee-jerk reaction. It’s outside my comfort zone, with no way to correct or edit a mis-drawn line. Each one I do, I can feel myself learning to see in advance more clearly. The problem? I’m not doing sketchnotes to learn to draw. I’m doing sketchnotes to learn.

When they’re done, these notes are done. I don’t have to go back.

The process does not include embedding of the content through repetition and repeated exposure.

I suppose I could go back, add color over the ink. Or scan them and see if the process of manipulation on the virtual page was equally gratifying.

But, that too, will take time.

I look around at successful designers, at developers deep in their code.

They aren’t drawing faster or coding more quickly. They are focused, concentrated, and content in the knowledge that they’re pecking away at something big; something that they will see the completion of,

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but to which there is no immediate solution. There is no “fast” way that will be as good or solve the same problem. There is no other way that will be worth it.

Then I look at my friendships, I look at love. Yes, this is the jump.

I look at relationships that stand the test of time. These don’t happen overnight. They don’t happen through quick texts or IMs. They happen over long late-night conversations. They happen during cross country drives and international flights. They happen over the repeated interaction of two people, paying attention only to one another. Not by throwing life experiences ‘out there’ for the world at large to see.

The melting-pot of associations, friendships and pure voyeurism that makes up our social lives today makes the delineation of identity more complex, and yet, less meaningful or defined. More and more, I dislike the default toward “conversation with everyone” rather than conversation with a specifically chosen individual. The apparent fulfillment through one-sided interaction concerns me. Checking to see what someone is up to, without ever having to ask them — without sitting down and talking to them — means we know less about each other, while being tricked into thinking that we know more through constant updates.

Yes, that’s a way to meet someone new, perhaps. A way to find and track indicators of common interests. But, if you’re only looking briefly in on someone’s life, only viewing from afar, without that long immersion, the call and response of conversation, are you learning anything at all? Or does it only feel like it?

To fall in love takes time. To stay in love, that takes time.

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hats off to you

The unexpected twists and turns of life. albertus swanepoel university of pretoria/fashion institute of technology

Life doesn’t always turn out the way you think it would.

I grew up in South Africa under a very strict Calvinist upbringing, and was married at 20. I studied to become a graphic designer at the University of Pretoria but switched careers and ended up training as a fashion designer.

I never thought I would leave my country of birth. However, years later my wife and I went to New York and, by sheer fluke, I was offered a job within a few days. The job fell through when the economy went south and we were on very hard times. Unable to find another job, but too proud to move back, we started a glove company. I still wanted to be a fashion designer, at all costs.

As gloves were so seasonal, I needed to do more. Reluctantly, I started attending the Fashion Institute of Technology to study millinery under Janine Galimard.

I came out at the old age of forty. In many different ways, I had to start all over again. So here I am: a well respected, gay milliner — none of the things I ever thought I would be as a child in South Africa!

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Photo: Craig McDean 68

engine trouble On the road to Nirvana. nipun srivastava university of pune

21 years old and about to graduate — that’s when I found myself wondering what it is that I ought to do. For a middle-class Indian kid, the possibilities were not exactly endless. I was one in a sea of people trying to figure out where my calling lay. At that time, I promised myself one simple thing: I would not earn a living from anything which — to my young mind — felt confining.

I had lost my father to the Army just three years earlier. Everything around me was moving quickly, something that I tried, equally quickly, to come to grips with. Amongst this confusion, I signed up for the Indian Army myself. Being a military boy through childhood, the Army was nothing new. Funny as it may sound, joining the Army was within my comfort zone. My first interview with a multi-national company offered me an easy entry into the world of investment banking. Everyone around me, however, looked restless. This was a tough time for my mind.

How does one decide what to do for the rest of their life, so quickly?

Nothing of ‘the norm’ which would earn my bread seemed comfortable to my mind. The thought of leaving this ‘norm’ in dust and trotting out into the open world was quite intimidating. How would one even survive? That is where the story starts, at that very question.

Instead of trading goods or commodities, I learnt to trade my most basic instincts. Survival in the urban world seems far more daunting than roughing it in the jungle. And, like the jungle, one needs tools here too. I was lucky to have my tools right next to me. Sharpening them before I headed out was the only thing between me and the life I would eventually lead.

The First step: I realised it was best that I stick to doing things I knew best: riding a motorcycle and taking photographs. Believing in a mind-made profession, which did not really exist, I finished college.

I had had a lot of ideas, though none of them were based on any real research. The path in front was a leap of faith. I did the obvious thing. I had some money, so I spent it. I decided to ride my motorcycle to the Himalayas. At 18,000 feet, the road is apparently the highest in the world for a motor vehicle. Who would have thought the rumble of an engine could shape a person’s life, and even personality? That’s the power of true motoring. Travel is like breathing. The change travel brings to one’s personality is like fresh 70

morning air. Ultimately, stuffing trouble into one’s pocket and moving on is what life is. That is what motorcycling in India also embodies.

Even before the planning began, however, issues started cropping up.

My riding gear was not suited for motorcycling in extreme conditions.

Come to think of it, nor was I, or my motorcycle. This was to be a tough start to my travel dreams.

Here in India, we motoring enthusiasts suffer from an eternal disease — lack of quality engineering. A motoring enthusiast in India is an individual who puts oodles of money into vehicles manufactured with less than average quality. A typical motorcycle rider does not flinch when he/she hears the words ‘break down’. Ideally, it’s only part of the game, but with our motorcycles and their vintage technology, break downs are the game.

To sustain travel, us enthusiasts prefer spare parts over clothes, nuts and bolts over food and water. That is what we leave home with. Motorcycle travel is nothing but a question of survival and with our motorcycles and Indian road conditions, it’s the human who has to keep the machine going.

Along with four others, I spent 20 days and nights riding through Kashmir and then into Ladakh. The roads were like hell-holes, the air ever-thinner and the temperature lower. At this altitude, I realised what it takes to become a survivor — unfaltering grit.

Soaked to the last bone, cold and on edge, friction grew high amongst individuals. I found myself, the youngest and least experienced, struggling to keep up with rapidly changing group dynamics.

Regardless, we completed our trip.

Our motorcycles were the real heroes of that trip to Ladakh. While I struggled throughout, my motorcycle and its steadily beating engine was my only solace. That’s my love for motoring: as long as there is fuel in the tank, I know I am safe. Motorcycles were now my preferred mode of travel. Back from the mountains, my desire to travel only increased.

The Second step: For me, cameras are the bridge between motoring and travel. I use cameras to show what I see and the way I see it. But there was a problem. The places I visited had a lot more to them than just looking good in pictures. Just taking pictures was not going to cut it.

I had to write.

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Untrained, I leapt fearlessly onto the keyboard. I wrote what came to mind in the most honest and simple of words. When they published my first travel article, I was more motivated than ever before. My pictures stood as a firm foundation and my words danced on an epic dance floor of belief, perseverance and survival. That one piece of writing had enough wind in its sail to pull me forward.

The societal grip around my ideas loosened with every new article I wrote. My family, my biggest hurdle, was now coming around to support me in my endeavours. The challenge for me was to take it to the next level; my photography needed some serious, hard work.

I had proved my point: I could do this. Now, however, I had to show myself what I could pull off. The day-dreaming started again. With lessthan-average camera equipment and experience, the most one could do was plan. So I planned everything — where, how, and for how long.

The Third step: Plans seldom work. Life rolled the dice once more. I had spent one year on this playground, with no passport and no clear plan of what to do next — that was my situation in early 2011. Small journeys kept me going but nothing was substantial. On one such road trip I received an email that changed everything.

My first professional assignment had arrived: a photography and writing internship on a tropical island in Africa. And just like that, all plans and travel went out of the window. For one, Africa was at the bottom of my travel list. I would head to Africa only when I had the equipment to do justice to a place so overwhelming. Life had something else in mind.

The baggage limit didn’t allow for my comfort zone to be carried with me. I would be working for someone else, in a different continent and with people from different countries. The will I had worked so hard to strengthen mocked me in the face of the unknown. With a crisp new passport I was heading out of India for the first time. My excitement was boundless. I was on my way to Africa.

If one could imagine walking into warm soup, that is what my arrival in Africa felt like. The air on Zanzibar was thick, the smells were countless and it was dark. Africa is tough, even in the most comfortable of situations. I had the basics at my disposal, but that was it. Even getting to the Internet was a struggle at first. People here were intense; the weather not much different.

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Every moment I spent here taught me something new — even if it was just the fact that people and emotions everywhere in the world are the same. As part of my internship I did everything a tourist would do and a little more. Thanks to the magazine I was working for, my experience as a photographer was unparalleled. As a traveller, I learnt that an open mind wasn’t enough. An open heart is just as important.

Soon, my love for motoring caught up with me. I made a six-day solo journey across the island, riding a motorcycle all over Zanzibar. The puny 250cc Honda gave me a chance to study the island inch for inch and meet people everywhere. This is also when I fell in love with the island.

The beauty of Zanzibar lies in the fact that it isn’t skin deep. The island oozes history and with it, the struggle of its people. In the confined streets of the main city, tourism is everywhere, but so is hidden tension. In the countless alleys of Stone Town, amidst the numerous restaurants and shops, there exists a layer of questions for people like me. I noticed that as long as I was a tourist, things were fine; the moment I got inquisitive, things got tense. I was quick to learn that not knowing Swahili had its pitfalls.

Within a month, it was time for me to finish up and leave. Driving to the airport, my hands gripped my knees and I felt I wasn’t ready to leave. I wanted to learn more about the country, as I had barely scratched the surface. This played heavily on my conscience, but my assignment was over and I had to leave. I had come close to the island and through it, closer to Africa than the average tourist. Zanzibar gave me a lot more than I imagined and made me forget that I was a greenhorn at travel. I am yet to meet another 22-year-old kid who has photographed, filmed, and written about an exorcism. Spending hours in the forest with an open lens in pouring rain photographing native monkeys was another first for me.

Hitting the ground running as I re-entered India, I launched my own travel showcase: www.theroadtonirvana.com. I had taken another step towards my goal — making travel and motoring a single versatile unit for outbound experience. Soon after, I drove across the states of Maharashtra and Gujarat for 30 days in India’s little wonder car — the TATA Nano. I am the clichéd SUV aficionado and once again, I was out of my comfort zone. Size matters in India, especially on the road. But I found myself amazed. I remember a statement made by a

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friend to his English colleagues. He said, “In England, you drive on the left of the road, in India, we drive on what’s left of the road.” The Nano was perfect for that!

Six months had passed since I had returned from Africa, yet I was still in a daze from the whole experience. I wrote about it and got my articles published, which had now become routine. Yet there was something missing — 2011 did not feel complete. In October the same year I set out again. I travelled through the desert state of India on my motorcycle, alone. Yet again, I spent close to a month on the road, this time without any support system. Rajasthan would get so hot in the day that my motorcycle started showing signs of failure in the first quarter of my journey. The engine over heated repeatedly and so did my anxiety about being able to finish the trip on my terms.

Faced with the questionable performance of my most beloved steed, I found myself gasping for a recovery plan. In the middle of the desert, 2000 kilometres from home, it would be tougher if I gave up. I chose to ride on regardless of the motorcycle’s condition. The engine was knocking and missing strokes but the motorcycle kept on going. It was as if she knew what was at stake — my belief.

After 5000 kilometres of riding my motorcycle and touring Rajasthan, I was home. Faced with 25000 photographs and over 10 hours of video footage now the challenge was to hunker down, process and show the world what I had seen. An eight month effort gave rise to my most beloved project yet, Rooh-E-Rajasthan (Spirit of the Desert). With that much processing, time lining and film editing, I had pushed myself on to another aspect of prolonged professional travel.

The Next step: In the years that have passed, travel has helped me become socially aware. There are issues with society and they need attention. People everywhere are bound by their own unique sets of conventions and traditions, which are often limiting. I am still flummoxed by many things and fascinated by many more. Confusion, frustration, feeling lost and finding myself constantly out of my depth have forced me into becoming more appreciative of the things I do.

I still find myself beside the same companions I first left home with — a camera and an engine.

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thank you for reading. www.undercoat.net

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