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Proudly supported by McKR: www.mckr.com.au Cover: 300gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC Text: 130gsm Satin Carbon Neutral FSC 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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Photo: Nipun Srivastava
Editors: Pete Saunders, Jessie Webb Sub-Editor: Eric Brotchie Designer: Pete Saunders Illustrator: April Wright Cover: William Watt — When I need a bit of solitude I head to this spot under the Bolte Bridge with my camera and watch the sunset. There are usually one or two others seeking some solitude too, and rarely are any words exchanged. It’s a surprisingly peaceful place under the busiest road in the city. hello@undercoat.net www.undercoat.net
contributors Eric Brotchie (Leiden University) Andre Eikmeier Yasmine El Baggari (Hampshire College) Pip Hayes (Swinburne University of Technology) Kaori Kato (University of Melbourne) Rihaan Patel (Holmesglen Institute of TAFE) Aaron Searcy (University of Tennessee) Dell Stewart (James Cook University / RMIT University)
additional images Tamirat Gebremariam Shoko Okamoto Nipun Srivastava Adam Trovarelli Sam Woosley
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.
contribute@undercoat.net 4
Photo: Sam Woosley
summer/editor For the majority of people, summer is their favourite season. Perhaps it is the extra hours of daylight or the general warmth, but there appears some collective shift in mindset; a sense of excitement and energy. It is also the time when the City of Melbourne comes alive with its celebrations, laneway and parkland festivals and an uncountable number of cultural events. It becomes the time when we try and squeeze every minute of every day; every cafÊ and outdoor bar full, as meeting friends after work become the norm, instead of a rare break from hibernation. As children, summer was a time of freedom, exploration and adventure. It was a time to tackle a long-term project, create something, try a new activity or simply roam further afield with friends. It was a time to build upon the adventures of the previous summer and see where the next would take you. Perhaps it is this lingering association of childhood summer holidays that ties the stories of this issue together. Stories of wanting to make something, explore somewhere, expand one’s own horizons, or simply take the time to perfect one’s own craft. Whether as a result of adversity, or perseverance or of the desire to create and celebrate experiences, there is a distinctly mature evolution of childlike wonder. There is a natural curiosity in each of these stories that makes them unique and inspiring in their own right; an expression of the author and their view of the world. It is no wonder then, that through the editorial process, I was left to question whether or not I, personally, was also making the most of my days; whether there was more I could be doing to embrace and explore the world around me. Not just in the sense of work, but to take the time to understand all that makes this great city and the world beyond our shores. With summer at our doorstep, it seems more appropriate than ever to rekindle that sense of curiosity and exploration, combine it with the knowledge and wisdom only time can bring and embark on the next adventure.
pete saunders 6
Contents 09/ art, wine and perseverance
andre eikmeier 31/ direct, action rihaan patel 43/ sow it on the mountain aaron searcy 61/ i attune to the earth again kaori kato 73/ dough, ray, me eric brotchie pip hayes 87/ bon voyaj yasmine el baggari 97/ fruit salad dell stewart
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art, wine and perseverance
Convincing the world to drink better wine. andre eikmeier
Vinomofo is a wine site. The most epic wine site on the planet, if you believe our slogan. Our mission is to inspire the world to drink awesome wine. Wine sites were pretty dull when we came into it. We didn’t want to create another dull one. So we courted, begged and then bribed a freelance music graphic designer to join us, and he’s transformed our site into something that has changed the way the wine industry looks online. We think it’s cool, and more importantly, so do our customers. But I’m not here to talk about our wine site. I’m here to share with you a story of resilience — the story of how an out-of-work actor and musician came to found the most epic wine site on the planet. It’s an indulgence, but hopefully you’ll find something in this tale that will give you some sort of inspiration. Better still — read this with a glass of good wine in hand. I’ve been in business for myself since I was 19. That’s 23 years, at the time of writing. Through years of poverty and stupidity, I now hold half an accounting degree and the honour of having acted in four of Australia’s five worst TV shows. I’ve had a dubious singing career with a One-HitWonders covers band, a failed theatre production company, and an event management company to pay off its debts. I’ve had a job on the phones at a wine marketing company, a one-man video production company, and started Australia’s biggest online wine community site, which made absolutely no money. I’ve also had a year-long Kombi-wine adventure travelling around the country. I impoverished my family for the better part of a decade, lost a house and very nearly went bankrupt. It’s only in the last two or three years that things have started to head in the right direction. In 2002 my wife Jodie and I bought our first house in Sydney. We had a massive mortgage, but she had a good job. She’s an actor and she had a gig in a good series that paid well. I quit my job at online wine store Cellarmasters where I was in the phone team (my first wine job) with plans to take a year off, teach myself how to film and edit, and eventually start a video production company. I wanted to make movies. 10
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But, two days after settlement on our rather hefty Sydney mortgage, my wife’s show got canned. We found ourselves both unemployed. Jodie freaked, out it’s fair to say. I said, “don’t worry honey, I’ll sort something out.” So I grabbed a DVD that I’d picked up from Tourism South Australia, jumped in my car, and drove up to the Hunter Valley, which is Australia’s oldest wine region, and about 3 hours north of Sydney. I pulled in to the Hunter Valley Tourism office, asked to see their marketing manager, and showed them the DVD. I didn’t exactly say that I’d made it, I simply told them that this was the kind of thing I could do for them. I walked out of there with a $5K job. I got back to Sydney and bought a second-hand video camera and some cheap editing software, and my video production company was born. In 2005, we moved to Adelaide after the birth of our son, Kalen. I picked up new winery clients there and started doing a bit of web development work as well. It was going okay. Paying the bills — almost. I started getting interested in the idea of consumer reviews — you know, the voice of the people — and I wanted to stop making videos and websites for other people, and create a website for myself. My brother-in-law, Justin had come back from 6 months of travel in South America. It was a bit of a journey of self-discovery, and on his travels, he discovered this thing called Facebook that some of the American backpackers were using to keep in touch with their friends back home. He came back to Adelaide with an idea to create a social site for wine nerds. It was Christmas Day of 2006. We were having a few drinks, and started talking about our brilliant ideas. A few bottles later, we thought it would be a good idea to go into business together. Brothers-in-law. What could possibly go wrong with that? We came up with a site called Qwoff, which was basically an online wine community where you could review wines and share recommendations. We had a forum, a blog, and a video channel — that sort of thing. Just the two of us, working from my garage in Linden Park here in Adelaide.
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We really embraced social media — earlier than most — and built the biggest Facebook and Twitter followings in the wine industry. We were crowned ‘Digital Wine Communicators of the Year’ by Wine Communicators of Australia. That side of it was great. We became an important voice for the wine industry, mainly because we reached this elusive younger audience of wine lovers, Gen X and Gen Y, who, until then, most people had failed to reach. We worked our arses off, and we loved it, but we just couldn’t make any money. God knows we tried. We would host global ‘Tweet-Up’ events that would reach millions of people around the world; we had hundreds of thousands of views on our wine show, Road to Vino, where we travelled the country in a Kombi on this big wine adventure. But, amazingly, no one wanted to pay us to drink our way around the country. We were stone broke. I had two small kids. Little Lulu had come along in 2007. I’d already sold our house in Sydney to get us this far. Now, I was pretty smart at school — I duxed it, actually — and most of my friends were doing pretty well in high-paid jobs. I was supposed to be the smart one, but there I was, not a cent to my name and juggling maxed-out credit cards and disconnection notices. I promised my wife in Christmas of 2008 that if things hadn’t turned around by March, I’d pack it in and get a job. Give me three months, I asked her. Believe in me. March came and went. Still broke. But I couldn’t quit. I just stuck my head in the sand and avoided the conversation at dinnertime. In May 2009 we found an angel investor willing to put in a bit of money — $200K. That allowed us to keep going and get an office — a cool space in Hindmarsh, an old brewery. We started paying ourselves a modest salary and even hired a couple of staff, and we tried a few new things — we launched a location-based check-in app and campaign called the Great Wine Adventure; set up a digital consulting arm, and took on some winery clients. They were some good ideas, but nothing with a good revenue model. We were burning steadily through the capital.
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Our investor lost a lot of money in property in the Brisbane floods, and started putting pressure on us to get his money back out. We offered to convert his equity to a loan, and offered to pay him back over the next two years. This again put us under massive pressure, and we found ourselves right back in it again, only this time with a lease and some staff to pay. It was now 2011, and after a Christmas break made particularly stressful and emotional by the fact that I was broke (again), Justin came into the office with an idea. “Let’s start Groupon for wine.” “You’re fucking kidding,” I said. “We’ve just gone national with the Great Wine Adventure, we’ve got 6 winery clients, we’re behind on our Road to Vino episodes…” “Yeah but this will make money,” he said. “We need to make money.” “Yeah, but selling wine? A deals site?” I thought it was dirty. We were communicators. We had a community! We couldn’t sell stuff — that would be selling out. That would be commercializing something pure, something good. So we asked our community. “Hells yes! You’ve been crapping on about wine for 4 years, when are you going to shut up let us buy the stuff from you? We trust you, you know what we like, you’ve been telling us what to buy anyway. Sure we want to buy wine from you!” So we brought on Leigh Morgan, a Barossa boy. He was keen to start something and he liked what we did. He put in $50K, and Vinomofo was born. Took us three months to build and launch the site. 12th April, 2011. Our first wine deal sold 21 cases, and we thought that was pretty special. Within three months, we’d sold $150,000 worth of wine, and we had 10,000 members signed up to the site — more revenue and more members than we had in the Qwoff community we’d been building for five years. It was working. Halle-fucking-lujah.
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In our first year of trading we turned over $2.5 million. Unthinkable. We set our sights on being the number one online wine site in the country. We paid our old investor’s loan out and set about finding a new partner to help us scale. It was a really exciting time. We were pitching to angel investors, to Venture Capital (VC) organisations, and everybody wanted to give us money — some of them the same people who’d said “no” when we were pitching Qwoff to them a couple of years earlier. We were approached by one of Australia’s largest media corporations, Fairfax, which blew our minds. I remember the most awesome conference call with their Mergers and Acquisitions team. They asked me what we wanted. I told them a number. They said that was out of the question, and asked what we’d come down to, I said we wouldn’t, it was that figure or nothing. They put me on hold for fully ten long, silent minutes. I thought I’d blown it. They came back on the line, said okay, and moved on to the terms of the deal. We very nearly signed with them, too, but they took too long in the due diligence phase and we slipped back out of the exclusivity phase. Then in January 2012 I got a phone call from the CEO and one of the founders of the Catch of the Day website, Australia’s number one online retail group. They liked what we did. They were looking to get into wine. Would we be interested in having a chat? We were like — sorry, we’re settling a deal with Fairfax in a couple of days, but thank you. Then they offered to fly us to Melbourne to meet, which we did — why not? — and we were brought before their board, which included the CEO of Tiger Global Investments, a New York VC firm who had invested in Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter and Groupon. These were big players. They had two million customers and unlimited capital, and they offered us what was a lot of money at the time. We ended up doing a deal that saw them buy 70% of the company. And we scaled. That second year, revenue was over $10 million, and our membership grew to nearly 150,000. It was the big leagues. We moved the business to Melbourne, joining the Catch team, and learned a lot about online retail and business in general.
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It was a good ride, but we missed that start-up culture. We missed our independence; we missed the life-and-death stakes of having no safety net. We missed the feeling that every week counts, and if it doesn’t work, you don’t get paid. A few things changed in the company, and in those changes we saw an opportunity — and we took it. In June 2013, with the help of a small group of high-powered Adelaide investors, we bought the company back. It was a risky play, but we pulled it off, and now it’s ours again. We’re the fastest-growing tech company in the country, voted ‘Best Startup’ and ‘Best Website’ by StartupSmart in 2014, and we were finalists for the Telstra Business of the Year. We’ve sold over 2.5 million bottles of good wine, and we’ve got over 250,000 happy customers. We’re well on the way towards inspiring the world to drink awesome wine. I’m not sharing all of this with you to big note myself (though it sounds pretty awesome when you lay it out like that). Nor am I selling you on the many virtues of Vinomofo in the hope that you’ll log on at http://vinomofo.com and sign up… I’m telling you all this, because there is perhaps the biggest learning of them all tied up in this story — perseverance. I’ve had many opportunities to quit. I’ve had pressure from all sides, in fact, to do just that, from family, investors, accountants… Many smart people refused to back us. They didn’t believe in us or our business (bet they’re spewing now, eh?) but we didn’t quit. We stuck it out. Perseverance kept us in the game until we could turn things around. Until the sum of our learnings led to something that is (finally) succeeding. The only sure thing is that if you’re not in the game, you can’t possibly make it. So that’s the advice I’d like to leave you with — be in the game. And make it beautiful.
Art Direction: Adam Trovarelli
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direct, action
A search for truth through filmmaking. rihaan patel holmesglen institute of tafe
Everything was going fine until I saw a film titled Koi Mil Gaya during my school years in India. It was film about a search for an alien in outer space. This film influenced me in such a way that I decided to study science at school. My family warned me that my marks were not appropriate for science but all I was interested in was searching for an alien in outer space. This is how my story started. I had a specific interest in alien and space biology but these were not the subjects I was supposed to learn. In my class, people were studying for marks instead of studying to learn something they could apply to life. I was not good at memorising things but I was always interested in stories. I remembered the story of Albert Einstein and his principle of relativity without effort, simply because I was interested in his life. I didn’t know that I was really a student of the arts. Despite my family’s warnings, my marks were good enough to pass. Again, film influenced my life. At school, I had watched another movie titled Salaam Namaste. This story takes place in Melbourne, Australia, and it inspired me to go to Melbourne to live life as it was portrayed in the film. I was hoping to study there, so I started to prepare for IELTS (the International English Language Testing System), which would be the next step to getting a degree. During my IELTS course, a fellow student told me I should become a model. At that time modelling was not an occupation I was familiar with, so the student explained to me that people who look handsome could walk on ramps promoting products, and ultimately, become famous. I went home and looked at my face in the mirror, and I thought: they’re right. I do have the potential to be a model. So, along with my IELTS preparation, I started to train to become a model in a city where hardly any modeling classes were available. In modeling class, I was given a few acting lessons, a few modeling lessons and lots of management lessons. I was about to complete my course when I got a student visa! My visa agent advised me to apply to study Air Conditioning and Refrigerator Engineering, because it was on the high-demand list to eventually help convert my student visa to Permanent Residency. 32
From a financial point of view, I’m from a middle-class Indian family. We took a loan to pay my tuition fees in Melbourne and I was supposed to find a part-time job, under the conditions of my visa, to cover my living expenses. But after four months of trying I didn’t have any work — I studied full-time so couldn’t be employed. Eventually, I got a job in a city hotel as a housekeeper, where I learned how to clean bedrooms, bathrooms, and toilets, but the job was not paying me a healthy amount. If I had to pay $2 for a coffee, I had to think about the position of my family back in India versus my position in Melbourne. I had an unfulfilled desire to be an actor, which, at this point, came alive. I realised that, instead of modeling, I should give acting a try. I registered myself with a casting service and learned few acting tricks from a casting director. I got a few job offers, but to accept them I had to be white. One day, I got casting call for a daily soap soon to start on Channel 31 (a community television channel). I decided to go for it, but for that I had to give up my housekeeping job. From then on, I studied from Monday to Friday and acted on Saturday and Sunday. I didn’t have a paying job. I realised that asking for money from back home every month was not a good idea, so instead I decided to change my diet. I decided to just eat rice. Two cups of rice in the evening was my full day’s diet. No breakfast. Nothing. Just the two cups of rice, and tea with powdered milk in the morning. On one side, I was acting with a community channel and learning film production. On the other side, I was starving to death. Just when things looked really bad, I got a job offer from an AC refrigerator company as a trainee. That guy used to pay me $10 per day for part-time or $15 for full-time, and if I did lots of work, then $20 per day. Weekly I was able to earn $40. I finally had some fuel in my body but I was already sick, and sometimes I would feel dizzy. One day in the shower, I was suddenly unable to see anything. Darkness took over my eyes. When I opened them a few minutes later, I was lying on the floor and the shower was running. Somehow, I prepared myself to go bed and rested for a while. I called home and described the
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situation and they asked me to come back to India immediately. Three days later, I was home, and I never returned Melbourne. I got enough life experience, however, in those 8 months. I used to be a funny and outgoing guy, but I beame very calm and serious. I had seen the darkness of life very closely. My other relatives used to make fun of me for withdrawing from Melbourne. I lost my reputation. I came home with neither a degree, nor money. All I had was an experience, the value of which was yet to be realised. My family advised me to stay and study in India itself. One day, I saw a small ad in the newspaper announcing that a filmmaking workshop was soon to take place in the city. I thought it would be a great opportunity to meet filmmakers and get acting work with them. But during the first two days we completed an introduction to filmmaking, and I was hooked. We had to make a multi-shot film of around 3 minutes. Mine was screened in front of the class, and complimented as the best-edited film. It gave me confidence that acting was not the only thing for me — I could direct films too. I flexed my muscles and decided to direct all my effort towards filmmaking. I had already wasted lot of time in my life. Now I felt I had to take everything seriously and just focus. At the end of the workshop, we were given an assignment to make a 15-minute short film. I wrote a science fiction story, but didn’t know how to make it — I needed technical knowledge to create the complex scenes I’d written. So, I took an Advanced Diploma in 3D animation and visual effects. Again, I took this course very seriously and learnt everything. It was then that I felt like I could do anything in the world. As a first attempt, I made a short film on child labor. It was selected by PBS THIRTEEN New York and screened during prime time on Saturday night. My journey started. The first film I made was titled Dust of Orphan. The second was The Burial of Daughters. After that I made few more short films and won a few more awards. I kept sending my short films to festivals, and one after another I got official selection or awards for each. Local media started covering my films. I started doing commercial projects but I always felt that my filmmaking had some higher purpose in life. When I looked back
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at history, I realised that I cared most about social issues and I was drawn to films about them. Naturally I met people who were dedicated to social causes. I decided to use filmmaking as a tool to address social issues and inspire people to act, and to make these issues and causes the backbone of my films. I wanted to make filmmaking meaningful. “What men value in this world is not rights but privileges,” said American writer H. L. Mencken. People said to me, who cares about social issues when we have enough of our own problems in life? Sometimes these people were unable to think beyond profit and loss. But on another side, I saw people who had their own life problems and financial limitations doing incredible social work. This duality of life dazzled me. I thought, how is it possible? After learning about these people more, I realised they had a strong belief in serving humanity with whatever little they had, through whatever acts they could, wherever they were. These are people who do not just care about personal gains — they think beyond that. Their work is motivated by love and compassion. As a filmmaker, I study the impact of storytelling. Stories are basically emotionally charged ideas with an embodied belief system that can change anybody’s behavior. There is one great example in the history of Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi, who believed in non-violence, was inspired by a play called Satyavadi Raja Harishchandra. After watching this play he decided to stick with the truth. He bought India independence without advocating violence and hatred. Today, Mahatma Gandhi stands as a symbol of non-violence. The United Nations celebrate Non-Violence day on the 2nd October, Gandhi’s birthdate. After learning all this, I came to know that yes, it is possible to help and encourage people to value human rights by telling them meaningful stories. Films are a strong, persuasive medium of storytelling. They basically use two senses, sight and hearing, to stimulate emotions. I have mastered all aspects of filmmaking from writing screenplays to the final rendering of the film. I’ve even learned about visual effects that make creating impossible scenes possible within few hours. If I’m going to use these skills to make a film, then why not to give it a meaningful message?
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If it is humorous, it has to be a meaningful humour so people can apply its messages to their life, and ultimately help society and humanity. Entertainment just for the sake of entertainment is like a fire in a matchbox — temporary. What I want to do is to inform and educate people in an entertaining manner. Nowadays, I make my films on the real-world heroes who are bringing change to society. I share these films on the internet so people everywhere can be inspired to act on what they believe in. I want my films to be universal. I want anybody in the world to be able to relate to them. I want to be remembered as a filmmaker and storyteller who gave people meaningful films. They should fill society with hope for a better world: a world without war, without hate, without injustice.
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sow it on the mountain
A Postcard from Fayette County, West Virginia. aaron searcy university of tennessee
The four-hour drive from East Tennessee to Clifftop, West Virginia begins with I-81 — a scenic hurtle of traffic that curves northeasterly through the Great Valley of the Appalachian Mountain chain. Riding along the western back of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the four-lane highway traces a deep green trough of lowlands some 1,200 miles (1,900 km) long, following the same logic of the ancient Seneca Trail networks once used by the local Catawba, Cherokee, Creek, and Algonquian tribes. It’s the path of least resistance — now paved and painted — that just happens to terminate near my hometown of Dandridge, Tennessee. Once through the northeastern anvil tip of Tennessee and into Virginia’s stretching western panhandle, I-81 branches left into I-71, heading true north, crossing up and over yet another series of ridges through the Jefferson National Forest to eventually make its way out of the valley and onto the Appalachian Plateau. Now in West Virginia, passing Rocky Gap, Bluefield, and Ghent, the deciduous and broadleaf trees give way to higher elevation forests of spruce and fir. There’s a high piney sort of smell in the air, and the hint of a chill even in late July and early August — a sensation more than welcome if you’ve spent the last couple of weeks sweating with everyone else in another impossibly humid Tennessee summer. The road here gets fairly curvy, and if you haven’t rolled the windows down just yet, I’d certainly recommend it. You might even throw on a long-sleeve shirt just for fun. At the toll stops along the way, you might find yourself somehow happy to pay — partly on account of the meager sums of 40 cents or so required at each stop, but probably more so due to appreciation for the sheer implausibility of the road itself. Nearing Fayette County and Clifftop at last, the road winds its way through two or three more impressive and deep tunnels that bore directly into the mountainside, eventually making its way across one of the world’s longest steel single-span arch bridges, over the New River Gorge. Pulling off the exit and onto a winding gravel back road, the festival site emerges through layers of leafy green. 44
Clifftop, West Virginia is the home of Camp Washington-Carver — the Mountain Cultural Arts Center of West Virginia and, more importantly to many, the annual home of the Appalachian String Band Music Festival. Most often referred to simply as ‘Clifftop’, the festival averages a yearly draw of some 4,000 enthusiasts and musicians through the first weekend of August. Held on the grounds of what was once a 4-H agricultural extension camp set aside for West Virginia’s African-American youth, the most noticeable landmarks include an aging water tower presiding over a ridge to the left of the main entrance, a much more recent-looking outdoor stage adorned with an enormous “Camp Washington-Carver” banner, and the central Great Chestnut Lodge, one of the largest structures of its kind built using stone and native chestnut found onsite. Though more than modest in overall size and infrastructure — weighing in at less than a tenth of the size of some of the more conventional rock megafestivals — Clifftop is unlike any other music gathering in the world. For starters, the vast majority of ticket buyers are musicians themselves. In the backseat of almost every pickup truck and station wagon that passes through the loosely guarded entryway is at least one instrument case nestled amidst the food and camping supplies: banjos, fiddles, guitars, and upright basses. Every now and then a mandolin, mando-banjo, or a banjo-ukulele. Once these vehicles are parked and satisfied with a reasonably flat campsite, instruments are among the first items to find their way out of the crowded backseats and truck beds with perhaps a moment taken to pitch a tent or sling a hammock. Though the official dates for the festival this year are set for July 29 through August 2, campsites begin popping up about a full week in advance to secure some of the better strategic positions. There’s good reason for this. What brings people to Clifftop isn’t the chance to witness a favorite band play from afar, but rather to play right along with them, learning tunes firsthand, by ear, from friends and strangers both. Spending time with others in folding chairs under a tarp in the woods is actually the principle objective in this setting, as opposed to a secondary downtime activity
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— after nightfall, literally hundreds of simultaneous jam sessions can be parsed from among the deepest pockets of trees under strands of Christmas lights or the soft haloes of hanging kerosene lanterns. With the heart of the official festival schedule revolving around the music itself, daytime workshops and events are also offered in those early social dance traditions to which traditional Appalachian music is functionally and developmentally tied — namely, flatfoot dancing, square dancing, and square dance calling with additional sessions in storytelling, basket-making, morning yoga and even “Stretching for Musicians and Dancers.” To add to the idiosyncrasy, no feature artist is promised to headline Clifftop in advance, and no advertised artist lineup exists other than the three ‘Master’s Showcases’ which are drawn from the previous year’s contest winners. This year — which happens to be the 25th annual Clifftop — those masters will be John Harrod, Frank George, and Tyler Andal, 2013’s Grand Master Fiddler. If you think you should somehow recognise these names, you shouldn’t. The most publicity this festival gets is, like the handful of other old time festivals across America, restricted to a small write-up in the local paper or a brief recorded piece on public radio. As a musical genre, very, very few old time musicians can actually support themselves entirely through the standard template of touring, recording, and merchandising that seems to work out for more mainstream musical acts, and the realm of even remotely well-known upper tier traditional players remains a very small pond indeed. Very little effort is spent on advertising or canvassing, and the official Clifftop website is essentially a single-page branch of the main West Virginia parks and culture government site that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1990 — which is fairly likely, given this is the first year Clifftop came into existence. Regardless, even amidst the awe-inspiring level of obscurity surrounding this sort of festival, let us bear witness to those who consistently bring about the miracle of yearly attendance. This year, entry polls tallied attendants hailing from 44 American states and international visitors from Australia, Belize, Brazil, Canada, Denmark, England, France, Germany, New Zealand, Norway, and
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Sweden among others, despite overall attendance being largely down compared to the last several years. Racially the group skews vastly Caucasian with fairly few but consistent exceptions, and males tend to have a small but noticeable hedge over females in terms of players, the reverse is true for dancers. Politically — using an entirely unscientific barometer of “Coexist,” “Support Local Food,” “Stop Mountain Top Removal,” and “Obama Biden 2008” bumper stickers, mind you — Clifftop attracts a left-leaning demographic. Remember those yoga classes? This is a fact often taken as somewhat of a surprise to outsiders, particularly given the more pernicious and lingering connotations of isolation-borne backwardness and stubborn conservativism tied to Appalachian culture as a whole. In any case, this leftist tendency is seemingly true for most every other old time festival across the board. Interestingly enough to the subculture neophyte, this is not at all the case for bluegrass gatherings, which tend to pull a conservative-leaning demographic, despite being a much more recent musical phenomenon altogether. Go figure. As for age, the crowd is a thorough mix — from long-time West Virginia fiddlers and patriarchs like Lester McCumbers, possibly closest to the genre’s 1920s canonization and now in their 90s, to ‘second-generationers’ mostly in their 50s like Mike Seeger, Bruce Molsky, or Rafe Stefanini, to a fairly large number of new players now in their early-to-mid 20s. From what I can gather from my own observations and personal experience, at least half of this younger group seem to have at least one family member firmly rooted within the aforementioned middle group — likely latent products of the folk revival of the 60s and early 70s. This connection for me is my father, who persuaded me at sixteen to learn clawhammer banjo, himself being a contest-winning banjo player at Uncle Dave Macon Days (another old time gathering) from way back in 1981. We drove here together. Clifftop, like old time music itself then, straddles a balance between being intimately tied to place, perpetuated by strong familial connections and local Appalachian traditions, e.g. West Virginia’s Hammons family, while at the same time being deeply reliant
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upon much broader influences for both its birth as well as its future. Claw-hammer style banjo for instance, the predominate Appalachian banjo right-hand technique, comes directly from much earlier West African styles of gourd-based playing brought and spread throughout the region by slaves. This lower-register, deeply rhythmic banjo playing would eventually intermingle and accompany the higher, more melodic ranges of English, Scotch-Irish traditional ballads and fiddle playing to create a distinctly North American hybrid by the early 19th century, or traditional Appalachian music as it is known today. Functioning originally as dance accompaniment, the music played at Clifftop reveals the same basic structure that preceded it two centuries ago — the fiddle beginning and carrying the melodic center of each tune, followed by the banjo, guitar, and bass in repetitive building blocks of two, three, or four parts. Using this old time, “A-B” structure, players are generally able to learn, comprehend, and repeat tunes exceptionally fast, while song lengths can also be stretched ad infinitum or ad nauseum, depending on your perspective. For the sake of practicality, this means tunes can be tailored to accompany just the right length for any given square dance, buck dance, or contra dance — the fiddler’s universal sign for the end of which simply being a raised leg. Though written music certainly does exist for some of the most popular and beginner-friendly tunes like “Soldier’s Joy,” “Old Joe Clark,” “Ida Red,” “Angeline the Baker,” or “Forked Deer,” paper notation is almost entirely eschewed in favor of picking out melodies out by ear, which remains the standard means of melody learning and transfer today. I assume a large part of this comes from the early rural status quos of traditional Appalachian music’s inception, but I’ve also heard it convincingly argued that Appalachian fiddle styles simply cannot be effectively translated given the inborn complications of fiddle cross-tuning, droning, sliding, improvising, and playing “crooked” within irregular time signatures. (See “Tennessee Mountain Fox Chase,” “Elzic’s Farewell,” “Lost Indian,” “Yew Piney Mountain,” or Eck Robertson’s “Say Old Man Can You Play the Fiddle?”). My last guess is this lack of notation could now simply be a point of subcultural
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pride. More classically bent violinists are referred to as being ‘papertrained’ within trad purist circles, the phrase more often than not parenthetically wedged between knowing chuckles, sidelong grins, and maybe a soft elbow to the ribs. Yes, old time musicians can be cliquey, at times rivaling middle-school tier precedents. As a result, the more subtle parts of countless tunes are everevolving right along with any given individual’s take — a combination of tradition and personal flair. Thus, festivals like Clifftop serve a practical and irreplaceable role in perpetuating this deeply social form of music, a music which sits atop the precarious perches of both “Art” and “Tradition.” Though notably boosted with the advent of internet mediums like YouTube, which has become an enormous learning tool in its own right, in-person group playing remains the most preferred and effective pedagogy. On any given stroll through the campgrounds, you’ll notice a number of younger musicians with an instrument case in one hand and a small, battery-powered audio recorder in the other to play back later. This combination of selfdirected YouTube exploration, with the occasional in-town weekly jam and collaborative festival gathering, appears to be the most common paradigm by which players progress here at Clifftop. This helps explain why such a small festival in West Virginia attracts musicians from all over the world. Though contest winners tend to reflect the festival judges’ regional biases and playing styles more often than not, international players do also manage to creep their way into the rankings year to year. In 2013, that player was Burguiere Polo of Ardeche, France who took home second in the Senior Fiddle contest, wedged right between Pete Vigour of Virginia in first and Elmer Rich of West Virginia in third. This year, just after I arrived and managed to stake out an empty camping spot, Ian Alexander became the first Australian ever to place in a contest at Clifftop and the only international ranking of 2014, claiming a yellow ribbon and taking home third place in the Senior Banjo contest with “Shortenin’ Bread.” He also happens to be a Melbourne doctor. Later when I found Ian and the contingent of Melbournians around his tent, I discovered that not only does Melbourne have an old
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time scene of its own, well-represented yearly in West Virginia, but that Ian himself has been serving as a musical ambassador of sorts between Australia and Appalachia. Since 1999, Ian has been sponsoring trips for Melbourne musicians to attend summer workshops and festivals here in the States, while bringing some of the biggest names of Appalachian string band music to Australia twice a year for the Harrietville Festival and the National Folk Festival in Canberra. Some of these names include Adam Hurt, Bobby Taylor, Kim Johnson, and Joseph Decosimo, whose band would go on to take first place this year. Now playing regularly in Victoria and touring with his band Appalachian Heaven, Ian’s introduction to Appalachian music came about not through family influences or regional folkways but through another route just as common — he just heard it one day and liked it. A lot. Originally an orchestral chamber music clarinet player, Ian happened upon a late night circle of old time musicians within a much larger and more diverse Australian folk festival after his fellow classical players had long since called it a night. The rowdiness and energy of the stringband musicians left an impression on Ian, who would buy his first aluminum pot banjo later that year along with his first instructional book. Now some 25 years later, Ian has not only become an accomplished claw-hammer player himself, but has actively fostered the Appalachian music tradition right in the heart of Melbourne for two decades. Ian’s path to old time along with his active participation in both Australian and American summer music gatherings is one particularly apt example of the modern face of old time — of a regionally-borne music tradition no longer exclusively tied to its original people or place. For a few weeks in the summer, amidst the campers and hammocks of festivals like Clifftop, a new sort of community is briefly gathered to collaboratively recreate and ultimately reimagine the music of a place and time now gone. While it’s inherently steeped in this collective past, old time in the last century continues to undergo enormous change in its own right. For one, the gradual stylistic polishes and influences of generations
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of contemporary musicians has resulted in an audible evolutionary trend within the music itself towards a smoother and more “note-ier” fiddle playing as opposed to the earliest recordings of “scratchier,” rhythm-centric fiddling. If you listen closely, the scratches aren’t just coming from the vinyl itself. (Compare first generation fiddler and North Carolina hero Tommy Jarrell to the second generation Bruce Molsky). To many, the assumption is that fiddling is simply getting better, albeit changed, and the majority of younger players under the trees at Clifftop seem to play more contemporary, smoother renditions of centuries-old tunes that were likely once very different. A second, and possibly more profound revolution is one of choice. For many in early rural Appalachian communities, what is now called “old time music” was simply called “music,” as it encompassed almost every form of music available. Ian’s decision to dive directly into the culture of traditional Appalachian-style banjo as a modern Australian citizen may come across as somewhat eccentric, underpinned with a level of willful intention that tends to provoke some good hearted skepticism. But let us also note that even those born right here in the heart of the good ole Geographical Appalachia must inevitably make the same conscious decision to play old time in the 21st century, when just about everyone — and I mean everyone — has contact with countless musical genres, influences, and subcultures through the many, many streams of modern media. As the son of a banjoplaying peach farmer, raised in rural East Tennessee with at least five family generations of Tennessee farmers in my blood, I can say with authority that I knew the words to every Weezer and Blink 182 song years long before I could actually name a single fiddle tune with confidence. Ideals of cultural authenticity be damned. Or muddled severely. Take your pick. Old time has been a music of convergence since its inception — that strange conglomeration of New World and Old World, British Isles and West Africa, banjo and fiddle that took root not so long ago atop the backbone of the Appalachian Mountain chain. Perpetuating a unique regional musical tradition while also being deeply entwined with technology through its earliest 1920s
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canonising recordings and modern global media sharing networks today, Appalachian music epitomises the very heart of disparate forces brought to collusion, right down to its very musical structure and DNA. Past and present, improvisation and tradition, rural West Virginia and Melbourne, Australia. By the time Sunday morning rolls around to Clifftop 2014, with all the ribbons and prizes given away, the vendors packing up their wares, and the campsites gradually being dismantling by the early-risers or the up-all-nighters, you’ll notice a quiet hum — that of telephone numbers, emails addresses, and zip codes being exchanged right along with handshakes, hugs, and well-wishes. It’s my favorite part — the true lifeblood of modern Appalachian music. All occurring just before the mountainous descent, the drive down the plateau and into the valley, and just before you leave the campground for good, the inevitable “see you next year.”
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i attune to the earth again Folding nature into paper. kaori kato university of melbourne
I have been developing my art practice through paper folding and by creating organic sculptural forms and mixed media installations for several years. This activity has been a major vehicle in the exploration of my art. Paper is a material used in a number of ways in everyday life. It is used as a tool to carry human communications; it is used to print a photograph or create a drawing. It preserves history. It has always been a simple and democratic resource: one that can be used by anyone. I am interested in the nature of handling paper, which can be quite difficult. It is fragile. It does not stay the same. It tears, breaks, swells when wet, and breaks down when exposed to sunlight. It burns. It eventually decays, but while it lives it is incredibly strong and capable of having many identities. I have explored other materials that can be folded and bent such as plastic, fabric and metal. I incorporated them into the development of my installation works, however paper is what I am most attached to and has always been my material of choice. This delicate yet simultaneously robust material gives me a means of investigating and exploring movement, structure and the sense of being engulfed by natural phenomena such as geysers and volcanic activity, waterfalls, ocean waves and the northern lights. I started folding paper during my childhood in Japan’s rural Hokkaido, when I was often sick in bed. My mother taught me origami, and I learnt how to create simple shapes such as animals and flowers by folding paper in all kinds of ways. There is a mystery in the way one single piece of paper seems to have unlimited potential. When I am folding the paper I have to touch it hundreds of times and I find this activity the most absorbing. This interest in paper, and my subsequent investigation, stems from my childhood in Hokkaido and travel experiences in Iceland that allowed me to experience pristine, natural settings. In these places I was able to interact with the cycle of seasons. I describe Hokkaido’s nature as feminine, and Iceland’s nature as masculine. These impressions from nature have remained a point of engagement for me and my work. 62
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The patterns and folds I make in the paper incorporate mathematical formulae found in nature, such as the structure of honeycomb and the golden mean. My installations are often constructed from dozens of sheets of paper and include these elements both formally and conceptually. The forms I produce are organic, as gravity often determines how the shapes finally sit in their own environment. The folds — in a sense a source of weakness in the structure of the material — find conceptual and physical power and strength in my forms. I often exclaim disapprovingly during the installation of these works that I am never able to get the same form twice. The organic paper forms in my installations are never permanent. In fact, the wind, the gravity, and also spontaneous touches by human hands decay and accelerate damage to the works. My concerns about global warming and the frequent natural disasters occurring around the world are reflected within my work. The position of the works and their constructed angles are all ‘ultimate’, ambitious and variable — they are fragile, perilous; about-to-break or aboutto-fall. No matter where the exhibition is placed, I let my works form naturally in their given environment without any artificial support structures. The organically formed sculptures follow aesthetical patterns seen in natural phenomena, and eventually these sculptures will fall and decay through prolonged exposure to the sunlight, wind and temperatures. This is, of course, just like nature.
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Additional photograph: Shoko Okamoto
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Additional photographs: Tamirat Gebremariam
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dough, ray, me Pip Hayes talks dough, bees and arrogant roosters. eric brotchie leiden university
Part one: kneadless to say
Pip has builders’ hands with bustling sinews
What do I know about Pip Hayes? Good
that have presumably beaten a lot of dough.
question. I have a tiny scrap of paper in my
He’s doesn’t look like a country businessman,
notebook that I jotted something on after
which I vaguely expected. He looks more like
an email exchange. After that, what I know
one of my mates, or an errant character from
is what office people might call ‘high-level’
a Mark Twain story. My first impression is that
information; in other words, ‘not much’.
he actually looks like the baker described in
Given that Hayes is going to arrive soon,
my notes. Unfortunately, I start by asking him
I decide I should start thinking of some
what it takes to make sourdough…
questions for him. After all, I’m an interviewer,
Part two: A rising star
and he’s probably expecting to be asked a
The first thing you should know about Pip
number of predictable questions, like what
is that on the subject of Pip Hayes, he is
it takes to bake sourdough, and what life is
wonderfully understated. As we build into
like when you live in a holiday town for most
our chat about his life, I discover the wealth
of the year. I sip from my beer nervously,
of Pip’s achievements is only matched by
and quickly recheck the name in my phone:
the breadth of his humility. He’s far more
Pip Hayes. ‘Hi Pip,’ I say in my head. ‘Sit
interested in what people think than what
down. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get
people have done, himself included. Pip tells
you a drink?’ Just play it cool, I think. It’s fine.
me he works at the Wye River General Store
You’ll be fine. You’ll think of good questions.
on the Great Ocean Road; I later find out he
Interesting ones. I open my notebook and
is a minor partner in the affair. He says it’s
thumb through in search of the haloed notes.
only because he’s been down there since
I find them. There are words inside. Yes.
2011 and not given up, but I suspect there’s
Perhaps some readers already know Pip.
more to it. For someone who could wax lyrical
Perhaps they have been lucky enough to have
with the confidence of the self-made, instead
spent a lazy afternoon with him, sinking beers
he speaks volumes with an inclusive and
or playing cards. All I know is that my notes
life-loving attitude, a rare and comforting
describe a person who has a very different life
combination in a world surrounded by the
to mine, or the average Joe. That’s a good start,
superficial and the extravagant.
I think, but my job tonight is to draw out so
Through our initial musings I learn that a
much more. When Pip arrives and sits down I
loaf of sourdough, as short-lived as it might
survey a beard, a golfing cap and a nondescript
be (Pip’s shorter-lived than most), is a
yet salt-of-the-earth-type brown/green
kind of time capsule which represents the
spring jacket. I’m comforted by this. I notice
conditions in which it’s made. ‘The reason 74
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I love it (baking) is it’s not only about the
and about the timing you’ll have in the
end product… it’s also a real science with all
morning to produce the loaves you need.’
kinds of variables,’ says Pip. ‘If you bake using
He says that in the summer down at Wye,
traditional methods, every last detail can be
he works all through the night to produce
important, or you might not get a loaf at all.
the massive amount of bread needed to
You have to take into consideration all kinds
supply the tourist hordes. ‘It’s a great time
of things, and I love the fact that every day
to be down there,’ he says ‘I usually finish
I bake, I’ll have a product that isn’t always
in time to go down to the beach and watch
the same; in fact it’s impossible.’
the sun come up. I try not to miss it,’ he says.
There’s something very refreshing about a
‘We have some of the most beautiful sunrises
man who can speak so freely of things that
in the world down there.’
are rare and unique. The way Pip deals with
In saying this, Pip strangely echoes the words
rare and unique products every single day,
of Chris Hadfield, the Canadian astronaut,
is perhaps what makes him an artist. As I
who I recently saw speak. Hadfield too made
slog in and out of the office each day, I ponder,
sure he saw each of the 16 sunrises one can
the most creative thing I even get close to
see every 24 hours while he commanded the
is choosing which type of coffee I am going
International Space Station. I reflect that the
to order, perhaps go crazy and get a soy cap
life of the baker and the life of the astronaut
instead of a regular. Actually, by the time you
may have more in common than one might
and I might do this every morning, Pip has
think. Both have similar things to say about
already finished the whole creative process
learning their trades. Hadfield said when he
of fine tuning each loaf and sweet treat in his
grew up there wasn’t even a space program
batch, in fact he’s probably free for the rest of
in Canada, so he started out with little formal
the day. I sigh and ask what kind of variables
knowledge of the aerospace industry at all; all
he’s talking about, and how Pip controls what
he knew is that he wanted to be an astronaut.
he can each morning.
Pip too says he has never been formally
‘The main thing about creating bread is the
trained in bread making. He just learned from
quality of the dough (flour origin and density),
a small number of mentors and texts how to
but you also need to think about the quality
knead, punch, fold and bake. In both men I
of the water and about the temperature in
see the same drive of a truly self-made man;
the room.’ These, I think, are a given, but he
where a long journey within works to create
goes on. ‘You also need to know about the
something from nothing. It’s all very romantic.
type of cultures (yeasts) you’re putting in,
It leads me to blurt out my next (purely
about barometric pressure of the environment,
secular) question.
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‘Is there a Bible for bakers?’
something you love. I ponder what the Scots
‘Not really,’ Pip replies. ‘You kind of pick and
did for my own historical reference. It turns
choose bits and pieces from here and there,
out I will never be inspired by haggis. Following
what you know works well, and avoid what
this thought, we digress to chew some fat
doesn’t.’ Pip says he’s got a fairly large stack of
about a charity cycling event along the Great
baking books he creates from. ‘There are a few
Ocean Road. But I can’t get my mind off family,
revered texts,’ he rejoins, ‘but no Bible I know
and how lonely Pip must feel when he’s not
of.’ ‘I guess you should probably get started
baking. Just hanging out and presumably
on that.’ I quip poorly. He reflects that perhaps
sleeping a little bit on the business-owned
this wouldn’t be a bad little enterprise, and
property in Wye’s hinterland must be a difficult
ponders on his potential for teaching his craft;
part of his life. Bit-by-bit, as if cycling our own
sharing his skills with others.
way down the spectacular road to that place
‘I do love training people who come down
itself, I get to the burning question: exactly
to Wye,’ he says. ‘They come in all ages and
how has Pip kept sane in the darkness of
from all over. I’ve gotten to know the people
regional Victoria since 2011?
who live down there pretty well, but there’s
‘I make sure I come back to Melbourne fairly
also backpackers and tourists who come
regularly,’ he says. ‘I have to admit recently
in.’ Pip’s minor partnership of the enterprise
I’ve begun to feel slightly isolated, so it’s
in Wye River, I ponder, is the very definition
been good to come up and catch some of the
of a moveable feast. There are perhaps
festivals in Melbourne.’ I feel it’s not even the
people all over the world who know how to
slightest exaggeration; even those with the
bake sourdough because of this guy sitting
calmest and most carefree of country lifestyles
opposite me: That’s pretty cool.
cannot live without the arts, creative minds,
Part 3: Of matters pertaining to culture
and young, free people who make Melbourne
‘The reason I got interested in baking came
Melbourne. It’s no surprise that I find Pip to be
from my grandmother,’ Pip says. ‘There’s a
an unassuming culture vulture in more than a
long tradition in Eastern Europe of baking,
baking sense, having been to MIFF in August,
particularly rye breads and sourdoughs, and
and the Fringe Festival in September. Again
my grandmother’s donuts were an inspiration
with the humility, Pip turns the interview on its
from early on.’ I have written the Polish word
head again, and seems more interested in what
Pączki in my notes in anticipation of this,
I’ve been up to in Melbourne recently: ‘Let me
and it jumps off the page at me now. There
know of any good shows.’
is something special about being inspired
And the rest of our conversation bleeds into
by family and cultural heritage to start doing
the raging din, as various Melbournites flitter
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through the bar doors, sit down to enjoy this
really interested in it.’ Pip props his cap up
and that; the same coffee shop democracy
from his brow slightly: ‘We’ll see how we
that sifts through Chinese whispers as the
go next year’.
world travels by. We talk about Nellie, Pip’s
And this simple phrase, which we may have all
loyal chariot-pilot pooch, and about Jean-
said at some time in our lives, that somehow
Claude; an arrogant, accidental rooster he
seems like a good place to leave Pip. It sums
keeps down at Wye. ‘He’s just got this really
up his resilience, and his undeniable, essential,
aggressive kind of attitude,’ Pip smiles, ‘he
insatiable love of experience. As our daily lives
tends to scare away the wild dogs that
can be so inextricably linked with commercial
sometimes appear down there.’ I am presently
needs, the news, with pettiness, with greed,
amazed to find out the name has nothing to
Pip takes life as it comes; it’s actually a rare
do with the illustrious van Damme. Finally,
and beautiful thing.
after some digression into the world of film
The full moon is rising, or at least I think it’s
and television, I take myself back to my
full, and I close up my notebook, nodding to
original notes. There’s one more thing I need
Pip that our work is done for the night; we may
to ask about: ‘beekeeping.’
go our separate ways. Outside, I shake Pip’s
It doesn’t surprise me that Pip keeps bees,
hand and bid him bon voyage. He jumps into
after all, it’s the archetypal country gent’s
his car and speeds off into the night, the little
game; always has been. He says he’s
vehicle ready for the long haul down to Rye. As
fascinated by bees, and thinks that Otway
the brake lights squash his hatchback into the
is a great place to have a go at keeping them.
nightscape, I think of the small patch of grass
‘We’re right in the middle of a whole National
one hundred and fifty kilometres away, where
Park filled with gums, and my property is on
he will step out into the cool night, playing an
the edge of the bush, so it’s the perfect spot.’
unending soundtrack in the background of the
I ask how the honey tastes. ‘Well, last year all
Southern Ocean.
the beekeepers down there had a really bad
The bees will be asleep in the hive, the sea will
year, because there was an early bloom that
be rippling at the foreshore, and in a few hours
didn’t come to much,’ Pip pauses pensively.
Pip’s hands will start warming up, as he kneads
‘It’s not a big thing for me, just a hobby really,’
through a hazy morning batch, waiting for
but I can tell he’s itching to get that first pot
another Spring sunrise at the end of the Earth.
of honey ready for his mates. Then he starts again: ‘When I was in Brisbane I met the guys behind Bee One Third (the rooftop honey
Pip Hayes is the baker at the Wye River General Store:
syndicate in the city’s CBD) and they got me
http://wyerivergeneralstore.com.au/
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bon voyaj
Connecting cultures through shared experience. yasmine el baggari hampshire college
Yasmine El Baggari, a native of Morocco, is passionate about connecting people and bridging cultures to encourage a more peaceful caring world. She launched Voyaj, an online platform that matches host families with travelers, worldwide, to provide people with meaningful experiences and open hearts and minds. For the past four years, Yasmine’s reach has included working with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, research at Harvard University and the US State Department as a Young Moroccan Ambassador. She has presented her research at the following conferences: Middle East Studies Association, National Organization for Women, and the African Studies Association. Her work has appeared in National Geographic, Jadaliyya, Fair Observer, Inc. Magazine, The Economist, and The Huffington Post. Yasmine has received awards from the African Studies Association, Hampshire College’s $60K Award for Entrepreneurship and Innovation, The Entrepreneurial Spirit Award, the Sander Thoenes Research Award, and two Ingenuity Awards. Yasmine is a StartingBloc Fellow, a One Young World Ambassador, and from Global Shapers Rabat Hub.
Let me ask you: how can we progress, as humans, if we don’t understand the value of helping other people from different walks of life? At the start of each year, I sit down and I stare at a blank page for a couple of minutes before energetically scribbling a list of goals — from personal and academic, to social and professional. One goal might be to gain inner peace and seek a richer, more satisfying life. Another might be to cultivate my leadership spirit while creating a successful social enterprise. Others can be as simple as being more open-minded. The more years I write, the more I am convinced that identity and values are the sources of the passion in my life. I am a free Arab, African, Moroccan, and Muslim woman and have had the power to choose the direction of my own life in any way I pictured it. Even before that delightful Friday morning when I left home at 17 years old, the dream I had to travel the world was starting to take shape. 88
I wanted to experience other cultures with all my senses. I wanted to travel to twenty countries by the time I was 21. I wanted to visit all fifty states by the time I graduated from university, and I wanted to go on an Atlantic Ocean journey in a cargo boat. It was up to me to work hard and persevere to make the dreams in my imagination become reality. My dream today is for other people to experience this world with all their senses, if that’s what they wish for. If I have found a way to travel the world, why can’t they? I’ve travelled to different places and the candid conversations I’ve had with mothers, fathers, sisters, and grandparents have changed who I am. My mentor, Barbara Capozzi, is a woman who is very special to me. Every time we drink tea by the Niagara Falls, I hear in her words the positive impact she’s had on people. It never fails to get me excited and fired up. Her commitment to communicate her experiences to people so they are able to see their full potential, and her ability to make anyone trust her, has helped me become the person I am today. I am open-minded, motivated, and driven to have a social impact, and I am inspired to travel the world, largely because of her. So I have started Voyaj, an online platform that matches people, worldwide, to provide them with meaningful experiences — opening hearts and minds. I have based Voyaj on the life-changing experiences I have had through my own travels, and I want to bring those opportunities to others all across the world. I actually have this long list in the front of my travelling journal I’m writing right now, and I’m checking places off left and right everywhere I go! I was in America last week, now I’m in Dublin, next I’ll be in Africa, and in a few months I’ll be off to the Middle East. That kind of experience should be available to everyone. That is what Voyaj is all about. People are uniquely capable of such rapid exploration and development of relationships. Through my journey with Voyaj, I have come to believe this special capability of people can be an accelerator for peace building, social enterprise and technology-powered entrepreneurship.
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While I have been gradually building Voyaj from concept to reality, I’ve come to notice how lucky I have been. It was around my third year of college that I realised how much Hampshire College has given me, and part of the motivation for Voyaj was that for the first time I saw how I could give back even more. From early on, I realised it did not matter how I reached my dreams, as long as I knew I could positively contribute to society. I have been raised with the notion that those who have received benefits need to give back. I look back to when I was given a life-changing opportunity to study in the United States, which then allowed me to travel to 34 states and interact with Americans who opened their hearts and homes to me. Being a guest in different homes has given me the biggest dose of wanderlust imaginable. I now feel so much closer to the rest of the world. The more people I meet, the more places I want to explore. Now I just want to go everywhere. The process has not been without its pitfalls. I’ve had a peek at the human condition, and seen how vulnerable I can be, how shaky my construction of myself is, how big the world is, and how hard it is for me, sometimes, to sail through it. 2014 has seen horrors and wars happening everywhere. With discrimination against Muslims, and oppression against women, the world is becoming too dark for my taste. I have had to persevere through many challenges this year, but the horrors have only reaffirmed my goals. This is my way of doing something about these issues; creating a platform for people to connect, be exposed to the rest of the world, and to simply get educated about other cultures and people. I am firmly convinced that connecting forward-looking people with broad thinkers and doers across different regions of the world through Voyaj can help make the world a better place. This year has been my time away to get rejuvenated, experience new things, and come back with new perspectives. I know I made the right decision by taking a year off from school to build my company, and I think I will be all the more engaged and excited about school when I return. The best use of my time now is to bring my
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own distinct passion to others. I want to help people gain a vivid appreciation of life, coupled with positive emotions and the ability to positively look at things. Sometimes, it really is all about perspective! Off the back of this whirlwind year, I feel as if I am able to fly away and aim for the moon, if not more. In retrospect, the moon itself does not seem too far, and who knows? Maybe one day, I will expand Voyaj into space. As I travel and connect with people from around the world, I make sure I breathe. I take a deep breath and sit firmly wherever I am. It is proving to be an exhilarating, inspiring, and connective experience thus far. I feel more and more fortunate for the different communities I explore. It is such a comforting feeling knowing that so many of the humans I meet share common ideals. As I travel, I conduct interviews with promising business leaders, entrepreneurs, and policy makers to explore socioeconomic synergies. The international, multi-generational discussion of solutions to today’s global problems urged me to participate in a range of activities to learn as much as I can. I am not alone in my pursuit of a better world. I am surrounded by inspiring individuals, which has helped me identify possibilities for partnerships and collaborations across countries for my work. As I write for different magazines, filmmakers join me on my adventures, and I talk to locals about their daily lives and cultures, and identify Voyaj hosts and ambassadors. I want to depict stories, capture moments and write about this journey of self-discovery for as long as I live. I recognise beauty in the art of communication. As a firm believer of the importance of connections, I am convinced that it is exactly how we will be able to instill understanding and acceptance, and break down cultural barriers. I aspire to explore hospitality at a deeper level, and look to embrace differences wherever life takes me. A friend once said to me: “I can imagine a world that is just that — a world, not scattered countries divided by language, but a world united. I can imagine a world where culture isn’t just something we read about in books but someone with a name who sits there in front of us breathing, smiling, talking, and sharing. We already live in a
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world where we can connect with people from all around the globe in a matter of seconds, I think it’s time we actually sat down and met.� For now, all I can do is feel my heartbeat under my hand and let myself just sit for a moment and listen to my breath, to find the connection with the place around me at this moment in time. Who knows where I will be next, and how far this journey will take me.
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fruit salad Notes from a fruit bat.
dell stewart james cook university / rmit university
I have pages of failed and finished lists that get gradually smothered with fruit stickers. Collecting them has become a preoccupation. The colours and patterns that emerge have evolved into a series of prints, both on paper and objects. The possible arrangements keep multiplying. The process echoes my laboriously filled school diaries, dutifully coloured with a blanket of texta illustrations, repetitive patterns and extravagant bubble writing. A love of fruit is hardwired into us humans. Fruit is the embodiment of nature’s generosity and bounty, and harvest is a keenly anticipated time. Research has shown picking fruit releases dopamine — strongly associated with the reward system of the brain, triggering a state of bliss or mild euphoria. We’ve evolved with a survival high that traces back to 200,000 years of hunter-gathering. Perhaps if we have had an upbringing that engages it, it enables us a lifetime of seeking out the feel-good rush of a harvest. I come from a long line of fruit bats with an ability to sniff out any nearby ripening fruit. I’ve preserved laneway plums, apricots, oranges, feijoas, figs and persimmons. Growing up in the country meant we had fruit when it was ripe on nearby trees. We would stop on the way home from school to raid particularly loaded guava and mandarin trees on the side of the road. Being the tropics we had bananas, pawpaws, custard apples, guavas, sapotes, sour sops, rollinias, five corners, mulberries, lychees, jaboticabas — as well as oranges and mandarins. On school holidays you could easily lose a day up a mandarin tree building nests and ad hoc shelters, and exclusively eating the sweet fruits. I know apples are probably the least exotic fruit in the lunchbox, but I feel like I ate only five apples in my life before I was 13. Then I visited my aunt in Tasmania and feasted on them, along with cherries, raspberries and apricots, for the first time. This seems so quaint now, when I live within walking distance of two fresh food markets, an organic greengrocer and three different supermarkets. Fruit has become a product we buy when we desire it — regardless of season or locality — and apples are everywhere, always, as they keep and travel well. 98
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Apple stickers are the first I remember; a friend regularly stickered me with pink lady stickers at lunchtime. You have to do something with them. I read on the internet somewhere that they are edible, but I trust that information as much as I trust the internet. I know they don’t break down in the compost, as they appear in my vegetable garden in spite of my own attempts to inter them elsewhere. They are insidious little things, and the branding of the simplest produce with unnecessary packaging seems a small sign of the end times. So, the stickers represent the antithesis of my dream of a backyard orchard, trees laden with abundant fruit. That said, stickers must also trigger dopamine. Just ask any kid with a sticker reward chart. STICKERS! So many types. Such pretty colours. And so I collect them, and they reflect where I was, what fruit was around, and what had an interesting sticker. The collection records a season; I have evidence that 2013 was a good year for peaches. I also get nostalgic for places that appear on stickers, the limes and mangoes that come from North Queensland make me a little homesick every time, and pawpaws are the worst for this. Their variety appeals to the bowerbird in me, I find myself seeking new and different colours, and new and different fruits. I have started sticking new ones on white paper in order to photograph them and use them. The fruit salad scarves are the first in this series. Printing stickers on silk is surprisingly satisfying; the trompe-l’œil on silk subverts the innate trashy materiality of the stickers. Rainbow is just a beginning — I will keep adding to this, as long as they keep making coloured stickers. There is something satisfying and complete about a full spectrum. I always felt better when the pencils went back in the box in order. Even as a kid I regretted sticking stickers on most things. They have a truly crappy quality about them, and never peel off properly. My siblings and I have a history of destroying pieces of timber furniture by covering them in awful stickers. It feels like the only solution for those cupboards might be to burn them, but that goes against the make-do-and-mend philosophy of the parental home. By comparison, a notebook is a harmless place to stick them. And a jumper covered in them is somehow delightful.
(Previous) Notebook 1 and 2. (Right) ‘Fruit Salad 2014’ Digital print on Silk Crepe de Chine (Over) ‘Rainbow’ Collage
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