PoV Magazine issue 3 by Benjamin Turner

identity

NEW WRITING POETRY ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

Cover image by Caroline Briggs THE GUYS AT POV TOWERS: Designer: Ben Turner Editors and co-creators: Chris Pilkington and Ben Turner

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Hello

WELCOME TO ISSUE THREE

AND WELCOME TO POV

Ben and Chris

This is it. Issue 3. Theme? Identity. The Olympics are here and that’s got nothing to do with anything so let’s move on to the matter at hand. Sometimes when we think of theme ideas for the magazine we have a pretty good idea of the kind of work we’re going to get but that wasn’t the case this time. Identity is a more abstract theme than we have chosen before but the artistic world has come out fighting and done us proud. As always, you’re in for a bumper treat of the latest and greatest from the worlds of writing, poetry, illustraion and photography. We’ve also got a special feature running throughout this issue where we have asked some of our favoutite contributors how their own identity shows through in their work and it makes fascinating reading. So make a start on this Kinder egg of a mag, tasty on the outside with a rubbish toy... Hold on, scratch that. Make a start on this Cream egg of a mag, tasty on the outside and full of gooey greatness inside. On your marks... Set... GO! Ben Turner and Chris Pilkington Founders of the feast

Visit: www.povmagazine.co.uk Follow: @pov_magazine Email: hello@povmagazine.co.uk

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WELCOME: CONTENTS

006 MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS 010 IDENTITY OF AN ARTIST: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN 020 MUMMY, AM I FAT? By Emily tredinnick 022 VANISH By Jeff Chandler 024 IDENTITY OF AN ARTIST: JOE CLIFFORD 028 TAG TO THE FUTURE Ben Turner spreads the word of PoV 039 TWIN How much do twins have in common? Emma Seymour finds out 044 THE CRUSTY HOODIE By Kyrsten Bean 046 DOUBLE IDENTITY Caroline Briggs finds the third part of a twin 056 IDENTITY OF AN ARTIST: ZOMBIE COLLECTIVE 064 IDENTITY POETRY By W.M.Lewis 066 NOT JUST A UNIFORM Gareth Liley strips away the layers 068 HABITAT Daniel D Moses’ Lightbulb Project

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088 I IS AN OTHER By Olga Valeska 098 THE IDEA OF ID Sgt.Pilko is still stuck in a box 100 IDENTITY OF AN ARTIST: KATIE FEARN 110 WHAT SHAPES OUT IDENTITY? By Selina Moses 113 SAY HELLO TO SHERIFF PIMIENTO By Mercedes Fonseca 114 NO PLACE LIKE HOME Frances Hawkins explores her own identity 126 IDENTITY OF AN ARTIST: JADE LEAF WILLETTS 130 WHAT IS IN A NAME? The lore of wayside flowers by Cindy Blaney 134 MANIFESTO OF MYSELF By James Bradley 142 WHO IS PAUL DIELLO? Chris Pilkington talks to the charismatic musician 144 DOWN FROM THE PEDESTAL Farah Dadfarma spends a year in Spain 150 THE TEA AND TOAST CLUB Meet 227217

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WELCOME: MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS

MEET THE CONT RIBU TORS 6

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BEN TURNER Designer / photographer / film lover / music listener / book reader / Stephen Fry worshipper. Oh and co-creator of this very magazine, by the way thanks for reading, you’re my new hero and you look amazing, have you lost weight? Having worked on corporate publications for the last few years where everything you do is checked by the complete and utter hell that is a “Branding Team” this is a breath of fresh air. A chance to design something I love with content by people I admire. Can’t ask for more than that eh? Website: www.ben-turner.co.uk Twitter: @benturner83 CAROLINE BRIGGS Caroline Briggs is a photographer and journalist based in the north-east of England. She started out in regional newspapers before moving to London to work for the BBC and study photography at Saint Martin’s College. She moved back to her native Newcastle in 2010 where she now runs a photography and graphic design company with her twin sister, Kelly. She reluctantly admits she runs the risk of being labelled a professional twin and her latest project, Double Identity, does little to dispel that... Website: www.carolinebriggs.co.uk Twitter: @msbriggsy CHRIS PILKINGTON A drummer, father and husband, he is a film editor and co-creator of PoV. A staunch fan of tea drinking thanks to his father that has also led him on many a journey and occupation. Having worked as a removal man, trolley collector and paint mixer he finally found his calling when rediscovering his creative spark during the re-wiring of his stereo. As a film editor he is highly creative and yet loves the techy stuff, plus very grateful for a job that allows him to drink lots of tea. Currently playing drums in one of the UK’s few Cajun/Zydeco bands Rough Chowder, he can be found looking online at vintage drums of the Premier/Beverley/ Ludwig/Slingerland variety. He has a dislike of buttons (pearlescent ones on shirts in particular) and looking smart. Check his drumming: http://www.roughchowder.co.uk And some of his video work: http://goo.gl/0KSP4

CINDY BLANEY Observing and learning about the natural world has always been my passion. I grew up next to a wooded park in the states, and have spent most of my adult life living and working in a woodland in London. Highgate Wood is an ancient woodland, so the scope for my passion here is pretty much infinite, as are the complexities and beauty of such an old ecosystem. I have been drawing pictures, taking photos, and writing articles about the wood for our newsletter since 1994. Lately I have been writing poetry too. The wood is a place that inspires the artist in people from all walks of life, so I have met some interesting people who have also inspired me. I studied photography at UC Santa Cruz, and worked briefly in a photo lab after college. In those days, printing was all by hand. Now, I manipulate digital images with an App called Photo studio on my computer. Images on the computer look more lively and bright, like slide shows in the old days, the extra light brings extra depth. Find out more about Highgate Wood: www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/highgatewood

EMILY TREDINNICK Emily has only just started out as a writer and journo after recently graduating from university. So cut her some slack, yeah? Oh, don’t worry; she’s only 5’2 and struggles to hold a grudge. Easily inspired and overly observant, Emily likes to write about people, live music, travel and food. Plus, anything else in between. You’ll find her in the ‘edgy’ parts of London or at her home in Surrey. She’s a sucker for eighties synth pop and the all American at the Breakfast Club. Blog: http://lapetitefemme1.tumblr.com Twitter: @EmilyTreds

DANIEL D. MOSES Daniel D. Moses is one of those restless creative types, but mainly a freelance photographer and filmmaker based in London. He has directed comedy, music, performance, short, campaign and viral films and continues to collaborate with actors, musicians, performers, comedians, charities and NGOs with moving and still images. With a reportage style that has been described as “non intrusive, but very inclusive”, he strives to capture dynamic imagery whilst creating engaging narratives that allows messages to be heard and stories to be told better. He is a wearer of many ties, has an award winning moustache and loves talking about himself in 3rd person, especially when writing his own bio. Website: www.danielmoses.com Twitter: @danieldmoses Facebook: www.facebook.com/ddmproductions

FARAH DADFARMA I’m currently a third year Law student at Nottingham Trent University. Upon finding a film, poem or book I love, I watch or read my favourite parts over so many times that I could recite them from memory. I draw and paint at any opportunity I get. One of my best places to be is sat in the corner of a homely cafe reading a good book; it’s the little things. There’s nothing more satisfying than creating a “Life To-Do List” and being able to cross off what you’ve achieved, my greatest so far being voluntary work in Botswana helping refurbish and build parts of Bana ba Metsi School. It was an indescribable experience. The next desired destination is Peru. My hero is spoken word poet Anis Mojgani. If you are not aware of whom this wonderfully quirky man is, do Google him!

EMMA SEYMOUR Emma Seymour is a writer and journalist based in London. Starting out as a reporter on regional newspapers in Kent and the capital, she now works in corporate publishing. Her heart lies in writing about real life, people and what makes them tick. Other interests include human rights, politics, animal welfare and international development. Twitter: @Emseymour

FRANCES HAWKINS I am a photographer exploring my identity and memories through looking at landscapes and environments related to my life. I am in my second year of a photography degree at the University of Cumbria, when I am not studying I can be found at my family home in North Northumberland. Website: www.franceshawkins.com

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WELCOME: MEET THE CONTRIBUTORS GARETH LILEY Gareth is a newly emerging writer who gains his influences for short stories and poetry, from everything from the abstract to the everyday mundane. A thirst for travel and exploring the new, influences all his work. He hopes you enjoy reading his material, as much as he enjoys writing it! Twitter: @gaz502

JOE CLIFFORD Joe Clifford is the producer of Lip Service West, a “gritty, real, raw” reading series in Oakland, CA. His work has appeared in Big Bridge, the Connecticut Review, Shotgun Honey, Thuglit, Word Riot, and Underground Voices, among others. He has been to jail but never prison. Website: www.joeclifford.com

JADE LEAF WILLETTS Jade Leaf Willetts is a writer, artist and musician. He blogs at What would Neal Do? and is currently in the process of setting up the Jade Leaf Willetts Poetry Protest. This is not so much a protest, more another weird idea that he justifies in the ‘name of writing’. It basically involves him trying to convince strangers to create videos to showcase his work. Blog: http://jlwilletts.wordpress.com

JÜRGEN BÜRGIN Jürgen Bürgin was born in Lörrach in Germany in 1971. He was studying German literature, linguistics and economy in Freiburg and received a degree at the AlbertLudwigs Universität in Freiburg in 1998. He began to work in the movie business in Berlin in 1999 as public relations manager for a film PR agency and has since participated in the PR for numerous movie releases in Germany. In 2009 he started to develop his passion as an urban photographer, since then shooting in Berlin, Barcelona, Paris, London and New York. He is publishing his work on his webpage and on his vivid Facebook fanpage with more than 3,300 fans. On Twitter he is being followed by more than 10,000 followers, on Google+ more than 20,000. In 2011 he was shortlisted for a Sony World Photography Awards in the category After Dark. Website: www.juergenbuergin.com/ Twitter: @JuergenBuergin Facebook: http://goo.gl/1W92H

JAMES BRADLEY I am currently studying Graphic Design BA(hons), at the University of Cumbria. Much of my work is done exploring the relationship between pattern and typography, which is influenced by everyday life and off screen collaging techniques. I get called a work alcoholic a lot of the time, however I do like to take some time off to explore the world around me. Website: www.jabradley.co.uk Twitter: @jabradleydesign JEFF CHANDLER Jeff currently lives in London where he works as a professional actor and singer. Being faced with a crossroads in his life, he began to write. His weekly blog entitled ‘Malleable Reality’ marries together his passion for writing and photography covering love, life and everything in between. Blog: http://goo.gl/45E2a

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KATIE FEARN Inspired by her love for Whimsical Days and the Magical Simplicity of Life, brought to being her photographic dream, Annabella Whispers Photography. Katie specialises in Location Beauty, Fashion & Product Photography as well as creating Bespoke Quirky Prints. For Katie the power of imagery has always, since a young girl, captured her heart and allowed her imagination to fly. It is her total escapism and all Katie hopes for is to inspire others with her passion for magic. Facebook: http://goo.gl/JQXE6 Twitter: @bellawhispers

KYRSTEN BEAN Kyrsten Bean is a writer and a musician. She pens freelance articles for publications, including Groovemine and Bound by Ink. Her poems have been published in Children, Churches and Daddies, The Railroad Poetry Project, Amphibi.us, The Camel Saloon, The Delinquent, Breadcrumb Scabs, Gutter Eloquence, Censored Poets and others. She writes to motivate artists, writers and musicians to keep going in spite of difficulty at thestifledartist.com. More than anything, she encourages people to try and fail over and over again, because as Steven Pressfield put it in The War of Art: “because this is war, baby. And war is hell.” Website: http://thestifledartist.com MERCEDES FONSECA Mercedes Fonseca’s (aka CedeRed) first book written age six depicts The Cookie Family eating a pair of childrencum-playmates. Her writing now shows a different kind of gore, photographs (at times encephalograms) in words. Lover of detail, analogy, codes and passion. Hater of narrow-mindedness, labels and lack of logic.

OLGA VALESKA I’m a 21 year old self-taught fine art photographer from France. As a child I found shelter in my imagination. I started to feel an interest in art very quickly through painting, drawing, writing, sculpting... It was not until the age of 20 that I realised how fantastic a medium photography was, allowing me to combine all these passions. Indeed, photography is a true form of art for me, with the approach of setting and self-portraits, I create my own costumes, my own sets, and I plays roles. Also I do not profess to be a photographer but rather a “creator of images”. Because, in the end, what matters is my world which has always existed and will always exist, whatever the medium used to express it. Website: http://olgavaleska.blogspot.co.uk

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SELINA MOSES Whimsical and quirky with a wish to live in the world of Amélie, I have a serious obession with anything vintage. In my spare time I write fiction/fanfiction and articles as well as play around on Photoshop making useless pretty pictures. Blog: http://kittyonadumpster.blogspot.co.uk

SGT. PILKO Born in the wrong century, I’m the type who would love to harp on about exotic foreign trips, filled with peculiar women who have tempted my gaze with silver trays laden with shiny puddings. But alas the nearest I have come to this was to be holding the form for a trip to poke a peasant whilst he clutched at his Nokia 3310... W.M.LEWIS I’m a Brisbane-based poet and fiction writer. My work has appeared in Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, Eclecticism, PoV Magazine, Railroad Poetry Project, street cake magazine and The Night Light, with a forthcoming publication in Multiverses. You can find me (a little too often) on Twitter: @w_m_lewis

ARTIST IDENTITY: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN

HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR IDENTITY EXHIBITS ITSELF WITHIN AND INFLUENCES YOUR ART?

B urgin jurgen

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rgin Are my photographs “German”? Are they “male”? I’m not sure if the origin or the sex of an artist has too much of an influence on art. At least I’m unable what the German or male aspects in my photography are. Let’s take some other aspects: Religion: I’m an atheist. Are my photographs atheistic? I was born and raised in a small town. Is my art provincial? I’m living in Berlin. Are my photos metropolitan? Well I’m trying to find some truth in the last two questions. I think that I’m having both provincial and metropolitan aspects in my identity. Life in big cities is at least an important subject in my photos. And solitude of those who are living in those big cities.

And melancholy. I think some of my photographs can be seen as metaphors for the desire for security - there’s a wonderful German word for it: “Geborgenheit”. And that desire for security, for closeness, for friendship, for intimacy is a major aspect in urban and even more in big city life. People try to create their own villages inside the large cities. The biggest contradiction of life in big cities is, that there’s a lot of solitude, loneliness. Berlin has the biggest share of singles in Germany. Many people are living totally disregarded, they do not have any friends, any social relations. Sometimes people are dying and no one is taking notice of it.

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JÜRGEN BÜRGIN

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MUMMY, AM I FAT? EMILY TREDINNICK

Mummy, am I fat? By Emily Tredinnick

‘Mummy, am I fat?’ asked Brianna, my tenyear-old sister. She was standing in front of her bedroom mirror at the time, having just tried on a bikini for a summer holiday. Although Mum reassured her, as Mum’s do, what struck me from overhearing my little sister’s concerns, were her insecurities over her body image. And she was only ten-years-old. Over the past decade, girls from the ages of six and upwards have become increasingly obsessed with their identities. From an early age, most girls, as well as boys, are introduced to the stereotypical expectations of their sex. Retailers have targeted young children by selling Barbie dolls to girls and action-hero figures for boys. But it’s the more recent issues regarding the mass media’s influence on the identities of young girls, which has caused concerns. A couple of years ago, I used my final piece for my photography A-Level to focus on how the media has an affect on teenage girls. I was inspired by the work of documentary photographer and filmmaker, Lauren Greenfield, who had completed a

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project based on the influences of the media, advertising and peer groups on young women. The project, ‘Girl Culture’, examined how girls and women suffer from issues with their self-esteem and body image. Although Greenfield’s photographs of women as bodybuilders and models were troubling, it was the unnerving images of teenage girls that stood out. In an interview, Greenfield declared how ‘the body has become the primary canvas on which girls express their identities, insecurities, ambitions, and struggles’. But this metaphorical ‘canvas’ has to be skinny, desirable and attractive, as Greenfield’s photographs show. Girls would pose in provocative ways to meet the idealised image the media promotes. Despite Greenfield’s documentary being completed over ten years ago, the photographs and her findings are still relevant to today’s society where the mass media are persistently bombarding teenagers with messages related to their identities and body image. In the UK, the reality TV shows, ‘The Only Way Is Essex’, ‘Desperate Scousewives’ and ‘Geordie Shore’, focus on the regional lifestyles of men and women. These programmes have been criticised for producing inappropriate role models for young girls, as the shows promote girls with limited ambition who favour a materialistic world of fake-tan and hair extensions. The commercialisation industry as well as TV have also been criticised for encouraging the sexualisation of young girls. The UK clothing retailer, Primark, was in

the news recently for selling padded bras to children as young as seven. Aside from the mass media influences, however, lies a darker and more intense pressure that is found in peer groups. From what I can remember at school, girls were constantly competing with one another for popularity. Whoever had the best self-image, clothes and make-up would be admired. Anyone who stood out as original or unique would be considered otherwise. You had to conform to be ‘accepted’, although in reality girls were losing their identities and becoming clones of each other instead. Body image also became crucial to how girls were perceived. At my school, boys would use the back of their notebooks to jot down their ‘perfect girl’. This fantasy girl was made up of different bodily parts from girls in our form, i.e. Jessica’s boobs and Lucy’s legs. It seems crazy now, but at the time you would be considered un-popular if boys believed you were unattractive. It’s easy to sit here and say that teenage girls should stop worrying about their image and instead, go outside for some fresh air. But it is important to figure out who you are and what you’re about. When your body starts to change, it can be hard to deal with. You want to be older than you really are and be like the singers on MTV or the models in Grazia. Perhaps I sound like a middle-age nag, but it is because I have experienced the pressure, the expectations, the battle to survive in your peer group, that I can relate to the issues of identity that teenagers are faced with today.

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VANISH: JEFF CHANDLER

VANISH As the

light slowly dims, a ghostly silence falls over the auditorium. Crisp packets stop rustling, paper ceases to turn and conversation falls away. Darkness surrounds me as I walk into position, and there I stand. Invisible. Waiting. A solitary cough rings out. Music begins to stir and my body is suddenly filled with electricity, forcing my heart to beat its way out of my chest. With a flick of a switch, light floods dramatically onto the dusty stage and so begins the spectacle. It has begun. And I vanish. For the next 90 minutes, I no longer exist. Diving deep into my new identity, I swim around in it, safe in the knowledge that even Miss Marple couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find me. I love the feeling of having everything wash away in an instant as I become someone completely different, forgetting everything that I am. From up here, bathed in bright light, a thousand people disappear into the darkness. I know that they are there, watching, listening even though I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see them. I will never know who they all are. In a few short minutes light will change and applause will pour onto the stage, pulling me back in the room; son, brother, uncle, lover, friend, confidant and everything else in between. Each identity wrapped neatly into a single package. I will have my successes and failures, hopes and fears once again... But for now, I am immersed in the moment and nothing else exists.

By Jeff Chandler

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JOE CLIFFORD

HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR IDENTITY EXHIBITS ITSELF WITHIN AND INFLUENCES YOUR ART?

c lif joe

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About a year ago, I started a blog, Candy & Cigarettes, with one aim: to eliminate the disconnect that existed between my writing and speaking voice. At the time, I had an agent, but she hadn’t been able to get my books published, the result of what I felt was a flaw in the “gatekeeper system.” Agents and publishers are primarily concerned (and understandably so) with sales and profitability. The process erects barriers, separating writer and reader. Candy & Cigarettes helped me break down that barrier, creating a more immediate, interactive experience for the fans of what I do. The final result saw me shed the last of my loftier literary goals in favor of writing a grittier brand

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fford of hardboiled prose. I recently signed a two-book deal with Snubnose Press, which will release my short story collection, Choice Cuts, and hardboiled novel, Wake the Undertaker, later this year. I believe the blog has helped make this possible. It not only provided greater name recognition but also made the work itself more genuine. More authenticity, less bullshit. As a writer and as a man, this is what I strive for, being the real deal and not a pompous douche. The list of writers I abhor is endless, stuffed-shirted phony bastards who win Pulitzers and are published in the New Yorker, and whose sprawling incomprehensible tomes about tennis bore me shitless. Sure, I’d take the awards. But not

at the expense of being untrue to myself. I may never get that seven-figure deal. There was a time I would’ve murdered (literally) for that kind of money. But I don’t need it anymore. What I do need is the respect of the writers I respect, the guys down here in the trenches with me. And you don’t get that playing another man’s game. It’s a game that is changing anyway. The bloated publishing companies are losing ground to the DIY e-publishing mavericks. Last year, for the first time ever, e-books outsold hardcovers. It’s a new era, kids. So what role does identity play in my work? I’d say a pretty important one. In fact, I can’t think of anything that matters more.

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JOE CLIFFORD

RETURN TO

THE LAND OF THE BLIND When Becky

and I leave the Brattleboro Retreat, we hitchhike to the outskirts of Rutland, where her parents live and her dealer operates. Though I’ve only known her a week and a half, there is an inextricable connection between us, and what ties us together is not good. Becky and I are bad people who do bad things. We get a room in a ranch-style motel along the turnpike, between a bait shop and military surplus store. It’s an ugly stretch in rural Vermont, with crisscrossed wooden fences and caved-in barns, Harvesters that don’t run. You can tell the motel is where local husbands go when their wives kick them out. Hearty sad sacks sit in lawn chairs in front of paint-chipped doors, drinking cheap beer from paper cups, John Deere trucker caps pulled low and shielding shameful eyes, looking extra helpless. The room smells like body odor and mothballs, the walls are coated with mildew and slime, and the bedspread hasn’t been changed since Reagan was in office. Becky makes the call. We pool together the rest of our cash, crumbled up bills that don’t amount to much. It only takes half an hour for her guy to show, but it feels like days. We practically throw the money at him, snatch the goods from his hand, and push him out the door. We can’t unwrap the dope or ourselves fast enough. I’ve never fit inside a woman better. By the way her eyes glass over, the sounds she makes as she squirms beneath me, I know that she feels it, too. This is something special. After a prolonged absence, the heroin binds extra hard to our receptors as if to prove a point. Little electrical charges pulsate from her cunt to my cock and

back again; it’s fusion, osmosis, a nuclear chain reaction. Harder and faster and faster and harder. There is a ferociousness in the yearning. Like sharks thrashing in bloody water after chum. Normally heroin kills your sex drive, makes it difficult for a man to get it up or maintain an erection. This is not happening with Becky. After I come, I stay hard, and we keep right on fucking. When we pass out from exhaustion and reawake, I’ll still be hard inside her, and we’ll start back up. We do this all night long. In the morning, we walk old country roads to get her car, a beat-up old red Subaru she’s been storing at her folks’ house. It’s a Saturday, so her parents could be home and we try to be careful they don’t see us. When we start the car, we have to let it idle for a while because it is so cold. No one comes out the house. So either they’re not home or they don’t care. We drive down to Connecticut and my mom’s condo. We fix the rest of our dope in the complex’s cul-de-sac. My mother is not happy to see I’ve left rehab again. I tell her I need money to get back to California and then I will leave her alone. She takes one look at the junkie girl I’ve got nodding out on my arm and grabs her purse. She gives me $500, tells me to leave and never come back. Becky and I buy more heroin in Hartford. We buy a lot of it. Then we’re on I-84, dipping down to 80, heading west. It’s the start of a great road trip. We like the same music, we like the same bands, Tom Waits, Johnny Thunders, Springsteen, Flogging Molly and the Replacements. We like the same authors, Kerouac and Salinger, Vonnegut and Carver. We shoot up constantly in-between the fucking. We

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fuck in roadside motels, at rest stops, in restaurant bathrooms and gas station johns, in the back seat, the front seat, anywhere with enough room for to turn her around and me to slip my dick out. By Illinois, we are out of dope. By Colorado, we are both going into withdrawal. I tell Becky, while she drives and I close my eyes to try to sleep, that we need to drive straight through to San Francisco. Heroin dealers have hours, too, and all the ones I know stop dealing after ten o’clock at night. I wake in Denver, in a slum off Laramie Street, in the middle of the night to find Becky shaking with the cold fits. We have $60 left. This isn’t much concern because we’ve found a way to make money while on the road, hitting truck stops throughout the Midwest. There, Becky puts on a short skirt, affects a sultry pout and solicits the married men when they go inside to pay for their gas. (We’d later try this once inside SF city limits and it would prove useless anywhere other than the Midwest.) We drive up, down, and around the streets of Laramie, stopping every hooker and bum we see at late-night check cashing places or 24-hr. donut shops, asking if they know where to cop some dope. An hour later, all we can find is crack. Desperate to shoot something, we score some rock, which I break down in vinegar. Unlike heroin or amphetamines, crack does not break down in water; you have to use either lemon juice or vinegar. It is very good crack, but as any dope fiend can tell you, shooting coke when you can’t find heroin is about the worst idea you can have, the warm sedation of opiate euphoria replaced by the amped-up cold jitters of cocaine. It is during this increasingly uncomfortable stretch that we meet Doug E. Fresh. Doug E. Fresh is just another vagrant at a gas station wrapped in a ripped padded blue coat reinforced with duct tape, but he swears he knows where to find the best shit. He is black, maybe fifty-five, sixty years old, refers to himself in the third person, and is obviously strung out on something. We hand over our money.

In one of his more lucid moments, Doug E. Fresh tells me that he only got hooked on drugs after his son overdosed, because, heartbroken, he “had to understand why.” It is a touching story, though it soon occurs to me he might just be a crackhead. In addiction, there is no one quite as sinister or conniving as the crackhead. While Becky sits in a parked car blocks away, Doug E. Fresh, with our last forty dollars in pocket, takes me throughout the various projects and skid row haunts of Denver in search of heroin until two in the morning. The absurdity of the moment doesn’t strike me at first. This isn’t the first time I have been in a strange city, pinning my hopes on a stranger after dark. Every time Doug E. Fresh sees a cab driver or whore, he crouches and points a finger. “Hey’ya there, Mac… Hello, Doll, Doug E. Fresh here, keepin’ it real,” he’ll say, and then he pulls his finger like he’s pulling the trigger of a gun. Doug E. Fresh and I will be standing at a pulled window shade or a cracked-open basement door, in plain view should any police drive by, and he’ll whisper, “Hey’ya, Charlie, Doug E. Fresh here, keepin’ it real, open the door, got some folks wanna buy some heron.” Black people never pronounce the “i” in heroin; it’s always “heron,” you know, like the bird. It takes me a while, but I soon realize Doug E. Fresh does not know any of these people; there is nobody inside these homes to sell us a damn thing. These are condemned buildings. Doug E. Fresh is insane. It is two in the morning in Denver, Colorado. I am in a ghost town, dopesick, out of money, and following the lead of a man who is bat shit crazy. I return to the car empty handed, Becky cries, and we drive away. Leaving town, we pass Doug E. Fresh. He sits on the side of the road in a shopping cart. He is cradling a pineapple rind like an infant and barking at the moonlight. We arrive in San Francisco shortly after ten the next night, and can’t find shit. We sleep in the car. At least we try to. Welcome home.

any dope fiend can tell you, shooting coke when , you can t find heroin is about the worst idea you can have

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

Tags are the most common form of graffiti. Artists use them as their ID cards and spread them around the world. Here at PoV we thought it might be a good way of spreading the word about the magazine but being strictly law abiding folk we decided it might be better to graffiti the town with light.

By Ben Turner ISSUE 3 2012

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

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TAG TO THE FUTURE: BEN TURNER

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TWIN: EMMA SEYMOUR

EMMA SEYMOUR SPOKE TO SOME TWINS TO FIND OUT JUST HOW MUCH THEY HAD IN COMMON

Each twin answered the questions without conferring

TWIN Noun 1. One of two children or animals born at the same birth 2. A person or thing that is exactly like another

‘So we grew together, Like to a double cherry—seeming parted But yet an union in partition— Two lovely berries molded on one stem;’ William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

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TWIN: EMMA SEYMOUR

GABRIELLA TURNER-ATALLAH HOW OLD ARE YOU? Eight and eleven twelfths WHAT DO YOU WHAT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? A singer or an actress or an author. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBY? This is a hard question. I like to write stories and reading but that’s what I do at school too. I like playing Monster High dolls, and that’s it. DO YOU LIKE SCHOOL? I like school because I have the best teacher ever and I like literacy and reading but the bad thing is maths, it is really boring. At playtime when I want to play with my friend people just come and say can I play with you too.

because Elliot normally just wants to play the computer.

WHAT’S THE BEST THING ABOUT BEING A TWIN? When you are lonely you have got someone to play with, like if you are at home and don’t want to play with your toys by yourself, you can just ask if he wants to play.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST SCARED OF? Probably seagulls and spiders. Seagulls fly right up near your head and snatch your food and I had a horrible dream about one. Spiders are creepy because they look horrible, especially daddy longlegs.

WHAT’S THE WORST THING? When you want to play by yourself in your bedroom he will just come up and won’t leave me alone and it’s just annoying.

WHAT’S YOUR HAPPIEST MEMORY? When we went to Majorca because there was a big swimming pool, there were shows on every night and we went on the beach at night time and ran on the sand and it was boiling even though it was midnight. I lost the race, but I did win one.

WHO IS THE MOST ADVENTUROUS OUT OF BOTH OF YOU? Both of us because Elliot likes spiders and he doesn’t really like climbing but I don’t like spiders and flies and stuff but I like climbing and I like going to the woods more

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR TWIN IN THREE WORDS? Annoying. Funny. Probably sometimes nice.

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ELLIOT TURNER-ATALLAH HOW OLD ARE YOU? Eight and three-quarters WHAT DO YOU WHAT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Olympian or footballer. Do you know Bolt’s world record? 9.58 seconds in 100 metres. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBY? What is a hobby? [Something you like to do when you are not at school - Ed] Um, I don’t know. Play with my DS or I will go outside and play with Gabriella, or play by myself if Gabriella doesn’t want to play with me. Bike and scooter. WHAT ARE YOU MOST SCARED OF? A swarm of hornets. Even just one is a bit scary. WHAT’S YOUR HAPPIEST MEMORY? When I went on holiday to Spain (Majorca) because the shows at night after dinner and the bingo, and the people who did the shows. One of the men walks around checking the swimming pool and loads of people jump out of the pool and push him in and then he gets out and pushes us back in the water. HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR TWIN IN THREE WORDS? Annoying. Nice. Good memory.

DO YOU LIKE SCHOOL? Yes but I don’t know why. My favourite lesson is maths and the Olympic PSHE. I don’t know what that stands for. And the certificate assembly. WHAT’S THE BEST THING ABOUT BEING A TWIN? You have somebody to play with. WHAT’S THE WORST THING? Gabriella gets annoying most of the time. WHO IS THE MOST ADVENTUROUS OUT OF BOTH OF YOU? Me because me and Gabriella were in a field playing and I said shall we go into the woods and she said no because I think I can hear someone, and I said to Gab it’s just someone doing pigeon shooting but not in the forest. She said we still shouldn’t go.

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TWIN: EMMA SEYMOUR

MAGGIE BRIGGS HOW OLD ARE YOU? We were born on 22nd Nov 1952, so will be 60 this November. HOW ARE YOU PLANNING TO CELEBRATE THIS MILESTONE? We are both celebrating this with a family trip to Centre Parcs. WHAT DO YOU DO? IF YOU’RE RETIRED, WHAT DID YOU DO BEFORE? I took early retirement two years ago when my husband retired at 60 and we moved to Exmoor. Prior to that I worked as a teaching assistant. WHAT DO YOU ENJOY DOING IN YOUR SPARE TIME? My main interests and hobbies are gardening, walking, caravaning, visiting family and reading. DO YOU HAVE OTHER SIBLINGS? IF SO, IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH EACH OTHER DIFFERENT TO YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THEM? We have two older sisters. I think Michael and I played together mostly rather than with the sisters but they did take us off to play in the fields and woods where we grew up. Until we went to different secondary schools (he passed his 11+ and I didn’t) we did most things together. After that we developed our own sets of friends. We four siblings have remained close. IS BEING A TWIN AN IMPORTANT PART OF YOUR IDENTITY? I don’t see myself as being identified by being a twin. That would be more appropriate for identical twins perhaps. WHAT’S YOUR BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT? My biggest achievement, that’s always tricky to answer. I think it would have to be bringing up four wonderful

children to be happy, well-adjusted adults who are a credit to society, and being happily married for 38 years. YOU BECAME A GRANDPARENT THIS YEAR, DESCRIBE HOW THAT FELT? We became grandparents to the lovely Evie and Ava within a few weeks of each other, that is still surprising, as is that my sister is also going to be a grandparent to yet another little girl next month. We already have three lovely grandchildren from my eldest daughter so I knew how wonderful it is. It still is absolutely amazing to become a grandparent to a little new person. We’re both loving it. If my granddaughter Ava hadn’t been 12 days late the two babies should have met up at Michael’s house in half term. HAS ANYTHING EVER HAD A LIFE CHANGING IMPACT ON YOU? IF SO, WHAT? Not really DESCRIBE YOUR BROTHER IN THREE WORDS. Funny. Supportive. Family-man.

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MIKE SHAPLAND HOW OLD ARE YOU? 60 in November 2012. Maggie will get there five minutes before me as I was the polite one letting her go first. HOW ARE YOU PLANNING TO CELEBRATE THIS MILESTONE? The family is meeting up at Center Parcs, taking five houses, big fun. Hopefully I’ll give up work next summer. WHAT DO YOU DO? IF YOU’RE RETIRED, WHAT DID YOU DO BEFORE? I’m a project manager, semi-retired but only in my mind

YOU BECAME A GRANDPARENT THIS YEAR, DESCRIBE HOW THAT FELT? Very exciting, emotional, proud, disappointed not twins. HAS ANYTHING EVER HAD A LIFE CHANGING IMPACT ON YOU? IF SO, WHAT? Not really, found a £5 pound note once. Haven’t found God yet but still hoping.

WHAT DO YOU ENJOY DOING IN YOUR SPARE TIME? Playing badminton, driving my old Jag, walking, gardening, family days and cuddling my 6 week old granddaughter. DO YOU HAVE OTHER SIBLINGS? IF SO, IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH EACH OTHER DIFFERENT TO YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THEM? Two other lovely sisters. All close, but closest relationship is with my twin sister, always has been, knew her before we were born. We’re on the same wavelength, get along really easily and laugh a lot together. Would die for her (is that going too far?)

DESCRIBE YOUR BROTHER IN THREE WORDS. IS BEING A TWIN AN IMPORTANT PART OF Funny, easily drunk. YOUR IDENTITY? Yes, specially being boy and girl twins which is more unusual. I’m the good looking one, shame about her.

WHAT’S YOUR BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT? 36 years of marriage, all to same person, but I’m so old I can’t remember her name. Family - super son and beautiful daughter.

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THE CRUSTY HOODIE: KYRSTEN BEAN

THE CRUSTY HOODIE By Kyrsten Bean

As a

street kid, a hoodie was a wardrobe staple. Before we met, my boyfriend Shwill had painstakingly created a hoodie to beat all hoodies. He sewed a gray thermal shirt to the inside of a basic black hoodie to give it a warmer lining. He bent dozens of metal lighter caps and lined them around the hood, giving it a reassuring heft. Finally, he covered the front pockets of the hoodie with leather and leopard print patches,using white dental floss as sewing thread. His hoodie was a punk patchwork dream-come-true. Shwill and I had been traveling up and down the coast of over-patrolled California for months, sleeping in parks and freeway underpasses, hopping trains. We didn’t wash our clothes much. Washing laundry was expensive, and it distracted from the black sheen that started to film over your wardrobe when you’d been on the road for long enough, as if painted on. We were crusty and proud. People always told us to get a job, but we already had one. Every day, like wind-up dolls, we woke up on our cardboard boxes and sleeping bags in Golden Gate Park, then hobbled down to the street to plant ourselves in front of buildings to beg for change. We panhandled breakfast, ate it, then went back to rustle up enough for booze. My pants, too, were a labor of love. Originally a pair of thin green army cargo pants, they had torn in a few places. I sewed the holes in my pants with patches I had scored in random places: leather, leopard, canvas. Shwill’s pants looked better. They had so many patches you couldn’t even see the cargo pants part anymore. They were leather pants made entirely out of black leather patches and dental floss, hugging his lean legs. They

made him look like a gutter punk rock star. We’d only been together for a few days when Shwill decided to give me the hoodie he’d made. “It looks better on you,” he said. His brown eyes locked with mine, the corners of his goateed lips turning up as he helped me put my arms in and zip it up. Wearing it with my patched up cargo pants, I looked bad ass--a long cry from the baggy pants and corduroy backless shirt I’d been wearing when I had first bumped into Shwill walking down Haight Street. Initiation into the gutter punk gang Shwill hung with wasn’t easy. Dating Shwill was. He was the first person I asked to buy me a six-pack of Guiness when I skipped continuation school to go visit the Haight. “Think of all the Mickey’s you can buy with that twenty dollar bill,” said his grungy, shaggy sidekick Maggot, looking me up and down in judgement. I wanted Guinness, had hitchhiked to a number of shows and festivals across the country the previous summer imbibing nothing but cool dark ales, but I looked at him, at Shwill, and at the not insubstantial girl who had ditched school with me, and realized he was right. A six-pack would be gone in a flash. Maggot procured our more affordable booze and we drank it from brown paper bags on the steps of a Victorian mansion around the corner from McDonald’s. I hadn’t been drinking since getting arrested two months earlier while partying in Ohio, had been trying to finish the California High School Proficiency Test and get emancipated before I hit the road again, therefore I got pissed rather fast. Shwill and I talked excitedly, like we’d known each other for years. We slept in the park that night, and the girl I’d ditched

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school with took the BART back home the next morning, but I never went home. Colleen and Jason were Shwill’s main friends. Hardcore junkies, they touted the benefits of junk non-stop, constantly trying to win Shwill and I over to its purported joys. I listened to their tales as they nodded out in dirty doorways, rapt, while Shwill pinched me, shaking his head, mouthing, “No.” He’d seen too many friends go the way of junk--to him, alcohol was the higher road. Staring at my attire when they first laid eyes on me that first slobbering drunk night, Colleen, a spiky hair blonde with a bulldog face and her lanky Canadian boyfriend Jason called me a fucking hippie, a spoiled brat from the ‘burbs who would only break Shwill’s heart. They teased, ridiculed and called me names for weeks, but I didn’t break nor go home. One day, as I sat on the curb, Jason came up to me, said, “I’m just going to fucking punch you in the face.” Colleen stood by, cheering him on. I stood waiting. If he punched me in the face, that made him an asshole. If I could take a punch in the face, it gave me some street credit. I had no idea if I could or would punch him back, but I was ready. He loomed closer and closer, his blue eyes glaring into mine, his thin pasty face close enough to lick. His fist moved closer in, closer in...then he stopped. “You know,” he said. “You’re alright. You didn’t even flinch.” He walked off with Colleen, and from then on they left me alone. Most nights were spent in Golden Gate Park on Tweaker hill with the other gutter punks: Argyle, Ulysses and Scaby Ray. Sitting in a circle, drinking alcohol I’d helped raise the cash to purchase, wearing my coveted hoodie, I felt like I was finally a part of something. I belonged. For half a year I roamed through California and Arizona with Shwill before getting caught by the police one day walking down the street. I was put in a locked ward while my parents tried to figure out what to do with me next. They wanted to throw everything I owned away, but my aunt humored me after I broke down and cried, trying to explain to her how important my hoodie was. I felt like I was trying to speak a different language to my family of origin. They had no idea how many days I’d spent adding patches to the hoodie and the pants while I smoked cigarettes and consorted with my new family out on the streets. Seeing that I was serious, even though she didn’t

understand, my aunt put the hoodie and the pants inside a plastic bag before sealing them inside a white plastic trunk. Knowing the hoodie was safe at her house kept me going through the next month of uncertainty, before my parents decided to send me to an unregulated reform school in a third-world country so I wouldn’t disappear again. I planned to bide my time until I could come back, put on my hoodie again and join my real family on Tweaker hill in Golden Gate Park. Shwill called on the locked ward payphone to check in before I got sent out of the country, said that they were spilling beer for me. He had a couple of tantrums, railing about how it wasn’t fair. “Shh,” I said, “I’ll find a way back to you. I will.” and had waited with the phone to my ear while he screamed at passerby about the injustice of it all. Once, after I got off the phone with Shwill I went and punched a hole in the wall above my bed, surprised by my strength. I missed Shwill, missed his warmth, missed his stupid drunken antics. Sometimes, in the locked ward, they played the radio, and every time Depeche Mode’s Blasphemous Rumors came on, I got all twisted up thinking about Shwill singing it to me, deep in the park, while we were buzzed on the balm of alcohol and endless freedom to roam.I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors... Things changed. I was modified. When I came home eleven months later to reintegrate into society, my aunt told me that she had kept something for me. My heart dropped—I hadn’t contacted Shwill for almost a year. After my parents told me they weren’t sending him my letters, I gave up and moved on. Being across an ocean on a remote side of a tiny island nowhere near the slicked tourist part kept me from pushing matters much. My aunt brought a white trunk out of the back closet of her house. I opened the trunk and pulled out the plastic bag with the sweater in it, felt the familiar weight through the plastic. As I touch its sleek black sheen an odor wafted up to my nostrils. A smell like rotten eggs. It had been inside the suitcase for a year now. It was shredded around the sleeves, the inner lining frayed and torn. Some of the lighter caps had fallen off. How could I have not noticed how bad it smelled? I looked at my aunt. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it? For a relic?” she asked. I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Throw it away.”

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DOUBLE IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

DOUBL IDENT By Caroline Briggs

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Being an

identical twin, and my relationship with my sister, has been the most important influence on me and my life. As a photographer, it is therefore perhaps not surprising it also proved to be the biggest inspiration on my work. And I’m not the only one. Identical twins are a popular subject for photographers, including the likes of Diane Arbus and Mary Ellen Mark, and it is easy to understand why. It’s the intuitive empathy, the watertight bond, and, of course, having a real-life clone that seems to fascinate nontwins. So while I was a little nervous about taking on such a well-worn topic, I hope my personal experience of being one half of a pair means I’m approaching it from a slightly different perspective. Like most twins, I hate being compared to my sister. Which one is the prettiest? Who is the cleverest? Most twin photographs encourage the viewer to do just that – linedup side-by-side, the images invite the viewer to flick from one face to the other… and back again. It’s a voyeuristic approach that plays on the novelty factor of twins, and one that – I think – exists for the non-twin to indulge in.

LE TITY

While I’m also interested in those physical similarities and differences, it is the inward, emotional side of being one half of pair that preoccupies me. The battle between wanting to be alike, yet craving an identity separate from your twin, is one I have lived. Identical twins endure a particular struggle with identity. Their search for self is dominated by their twin status - an intense bond defined by conflict, companionship, love, competition, sharing, and separation and, of course, a shared physical appearance. It means each twin has two identities - as an individual,

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DOUBLE IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

and as a twin. I am Caroline, but I am also one of ‘the twinnies’. I draw of both of these identities daily, and each is as important as the other.  My series, using a double exposure technique, allows the viewer to appreciate the twins’ physical similarities and differences, and thus see them for the individuals they are. There is no way of knowing who is the prettiest, or the fattest, or make any other direct comparison, merely accept there are two separate people in the portrait. I want the viewer to look at the portraits and to understand the realities of being identical twin. Not the misty-eyed, ego-driven urge for a lookalike and best friend, but what it must be like to live your life inexorably linked to another. By creating a single portrait from two people also poses questions about the twins’ relationship and their desire - or lack of desire - to live completely separate lives. Who is this ‘third’ person who seems to be both twins at the same time? Is it their shared identity, or is it the person they would have been if they had been born a singleton? Take me and my sister. Kelly is kind, caring and trusting to a fault. I’m told I’m more wary, cynical and confident. It is almost as if our characteristics developed to balance each other out. But scratch below the surface and you see we are we are incredibly similar. It makes me wonder if the face I show the

world the person I actually am, or the one being a twin has made me. The process itself is straight-forward. I shoot each twin individually in the studio while the other is in the room and have a chat about what they like and dislike about being twins – it’s good that we have that in common. When the second twin sits for the picture on the same stool, with the same backdrop and lighting, I rarely have to give them much direction - they seem to instinctively tilt their head to the same angle, or eye-level, which I find fascinating. In postproduction I overlay one twin on top of the other so each face has equal prominence. Sometimes some features fit identically, other times their faces seem so different. Photographing young twins is interesting as they are the ones who look most alike and turn up for the shoot wearing the identical clothes chosen by their parents and an unquestioning acceptance of being one of a pair. By teenage years the struggle for identity is beginning to show in their choice of clothes and hairstyles and the tensions in their relationships is palpable. Older twins are the most interesting to shoot. Often their life choices and experiences show in the face and the physical differences are very clear. But it is the warmth and easiness between them, and their shared delight in being a twin, that makes the relationship feel so special.

The project is very much ongoing and I’m always is keen to hear from twins – particularly adult twins – who might be interested in taking part. My email is caroline@carolinebriggs.co.uk

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DOUBLE IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

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DOUBLE IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

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DOUBLE IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

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ARTIST IDENTITY: ZOMBIE COLLECTIVE

HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR IDENTITY EXHIBITS ITSELF WITHIN AND INFLUENCES YOUR ART?

Z ombie Specialre featu

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ombie Zombie Collective was established in Summer 2010 as we prepared to graduate from our degree at Kingston. We work in the same industry but in slightly different fields which has enabled us to each bring something different to the table & that offsets every project. We are also very good at critiquing one another; it’s vital to have people to bounce ideas around with & who can be pretty candid whilst doing so. Stylistically we’re all very different but when we come together to work on collaborations and

c o l l e c t i v e

workshops we find a common style to produce strong visual outcomes. For our most recent show ‘Fathoms Deep’ at the Hayward Gallery we produced a whole new range of work as well as curating the event, which included 3 workshops and an activity packed private view. It was a true joint project which pushed us to our best abilities and showcased the breadth of our skills as a collective.

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ARTIST IDENTITY: ZOMBIE COLLECTIVE

ALICE LICKENS

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REBECCA JAY ISSUE 3 2012

ARTIST IDENTITY: ZOMBIE COLLECTIVE

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JOELY BRAMMER ISSUE 3 2012

ARTIST IDENTITY: ZOMBIE COLLECTIVE

FRANN PRESTON-GANNON

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MAGGIE LI ISSUE 3 2012

POETRY BY: W.M.LEWIS

THE OLD MAN OF INDETERMINATE

The old man of indeterminate age Everything grey except the eyes Blue and destroyed like shallow coastal pools Do you have everything you need, honey? He stands and nods at her, whoever she is, thin and intense like a prisoner being ignored He must be five in some inaccessible place I think the stewards are not responsible Honey? Honey? He crushes the grog can and turns at impossible angles, bones aching to be an audience, to be tenderly, sweetly, slowly spoken to: like an old man of indeterminate place Her voice as soft as petals dying in the heat Who cares about him, the old man of indeterminate self, everything true except the eyes? Somewhere he is a child sitting next to a stranger on a plane who cares about him The old man of indeterminate Pain

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SELF PORTRAIT (THIS IS WHY I MUST REFUSE TO MEET MY HEROES) I am consequentially draped and alive like a statue of indifferent marble kept in storage because of priceless and unseen fragility unknown to the public rogues This is why I must refuse to meet my heroes because adulation reveals the flaws and cracks appear so sudden like a submerged greek treasure keen to rejoin the culture and national conversation Is this an important emission I think not of course I meant admission and you know that even the disembodied voices in zanzibar know that which like Bob sing you are more than you know In the perfect moments Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not bothered by these thoughts No no no no no no no no no

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By W.M. Lewis

NOT JUST A UNIFORM: GARETH LILEY

I walk

into a well-known bar in my local town. Its Friday and I’ve just finished a 10 hour shift. It’s time to get my “drink on”. I’m with one of my ‘buddies’ from PDU (professional Development unit) and we are in the mood for a good ole’ booze up. As we walk past the smoker’s area my mate whispers, “oh shit, let’s move, quickly!” I pick up on the fact that he’s clearly seen someone he doesn’t want to bump into. I figure it’s an old flame or something so I quickly usher him through the doors where we have our hands stamped for entry. As we make our way to the bar I decide to do some fishing to find out what made my mate so shifty. He nods towards the entrance to the bar where I see 3, tall, skin heads making trouble with the bouncers. “Oh shit” I mutter , echong his previous statement, I glance at him and we both quickly grab our beers and stalk off to the darkest, quietest part of the bar. Now I don’t want you to think that we’re into anything dodgy, we don’t owe gangsters money and we definitely aren’t into drugs. Our concerns were of a purely professional nature. As two student police officers the 3 gentlemen with shaved heads were well known to us. In fact, we had nicked two of them for public order offences the previous evening. An altercation that did not go well and resulted in my buddy and I having to use C&R (control and restraint) in order to move one of them from the van to the cell at custody. Now we have a decision to make, we know we are in a bad situation, these guys are known violent offenders who do not like police. To make matters worse they knew us and were probably still not happy with the fact we had arrested them, we had to decide how to leave. We chose to finish our beers quietly and then just walk out, we had lost sight of the lads and figured they had left, or were out in the smoking area. After finishing our beers we went back up to the bar to put our glasses down – a little habit we have. As I put my glass on the bar I turned to look for my

NOT

A T S JU UNIFORM

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Somewhere along the line we have adopted a theory that our ‘identity’ is held in our bank statements, utility bills and other shred-able documents. We forget what a person’s identity really is. People are made up of a million ‘individualisms’ which make them who they are. Their lives, their hopes and dreams and unique personal characteristics. Do we ever picture the Al-Qaeda terrorist taking his children to the park for an ice cream? What about the Bishop in black with a dog collar, imagine him with a scotch in a crowded bar watching the footie? Identity can be stripped away or provided in abundance just by the job we have, the uniform we wear or the way we look. We can make instant opinions and decisions about a complete stranger just based on their looks, the way they walk or their accent. Far too often people forget the true meaning of identity. Strive to be different, strive to conceive ideas others don’t, look past your first opinions to find, in any way you can, the most important part of each person you meet. Their identity.

By Gareth Liley ISSUE 3 2012

PICTURE CREDIT: 1000 WORDS / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

colleague who was already a few feet ahead of me on the way to the door. As I follow him I misjudge a gap and knock into the person to my right, spilling the remains of his beer all over the floor. I quickly bent down to pick up the fallen glass and stand up apologising all the while for my clumsiness. As I look to the person who’s drink I’ve spilled I wither inside realising that, as per usual, sods law has dictated that I bump into one of the skinheads and it would of course be the oh-so-savoury individual that I’d had the pleasure to arrest the previous day. “Oh, sorry mate” I mutter, all the while screaming “OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT” in my head. I waited for the recognition which was bound to come, an eternity passes in the blink of an eye as I hold my breath, waiting for it to all kick off. “No worries mate didn’t see you there”, the skinhead mutters, clearly embarrassed at his own clumsiness. “Ok cheers”, I say not really processing the way the situation is panning out. I’m half way to the door before it all clicks in my head. “WAIT… Hold on, did he just say that? My head whips round to look at him and he grins at me and says “no harm done blud”. BLUD? This is not what I had been expecting. Shouting, punching, stabbing even, but not... “BLUD”! I hurry past him to catch up with my mate and we spend some time discussing the incident on our walk to the off licence to get beers for home. v It has been three years since this incident but it stands out as one that illustrates the power of identity. As a police officer I was just a uniform, a statement of power and loss of rights to freedom. As a civilian I posed no threat. Despite spending 4 hours with the gentleman the day before, I realised he had only seen my uniform. As a police officer I was too far removed for any ‘normal’ human being, I couldn’t be a person with hobbies or interests. It was inconceivable that I could have a social life, or love life. My uniform had been my mask, the law my cloak. It made me unrecognisable. In effect ‘I’ ceased to exist. I mean, the real me. So many people think that stripping someone of their identity would be complicated, expensive or time consuming.

HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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Creativity

is a mode of working, a push and pull of ideas and inspiration; a process which is meant to be expressive and outwards looking, but requires a balance of introversion to feed it. Part of my “Lightbulb Project”, an ongoing personal project, this is a selection in a series of portraits of creatives where I hope to explore process, inspiration, ideas, and collaboration. It documents those from the worlds of art, music, writing, performance and self portraiture with a constructed image; a collaboration between photographer and artist which they feel gives a reflection of who they are and how creativity is important to their identity. creatives will take over the world one day, and when that day comes hopefully you’ll recognise one of these people.

By Daniel D Moses

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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HABITAT: DANIEL D MOSES

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BORED? LONELY? WEEKS BEFORE THE NEXT PoV MAGAZINE COMES OUT? Well chin up, stop sitting staring blankly at the wall and log on to the PoV Symposium, a brand new site from the minds behind PoV Magazine. The PoV Symposium is the place to go to keep you entertained between issues with more amazing work from our brilliant contributors and we want you to get involved. If you’ve been inspired to write a short story or poem, take a photo or paint a picture by the themes of the magazine send them to us on hello@povmagazine.co.uk and you could see your work online. The PoV Symposium – better than a poke in the eye.

HTTP://POVSYMPOSIUM.TUMBLR.COM ISSUE 3 2012

I IS AN OTHER: OLGA VALESKA

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is an other The question of identity often raises many questions. Who are we really? We can never be sure: “I is an other” wrote Arthur Rimbaud. I often feel like I’m many people at once, torn between a lot of internal contradictions and very different aspects that clash constantly. This feeling of duality is the basis of this series of photos, painting of interior’s oxymorons, contrasts between shadow and light.

By Olga Valeska

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I IS AN OTHER: OLGA VALESKA

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I IS AN OTHER: OLGA VALESKA

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I IS AN OTHER: OLGA VALESKA

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I IS AN OTHER: OLGA VALESKA

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THE IDEA OF ID: SGT.PILKO

While

cramped inside the box he called on his ever dependable, ever present/non present friend who wasn’t really there. His pal was always there for him when he needed him, bells off the elbows glistening in the sunlight in sound and vision. A perfect vision of early retirement and a general misunderstanding of the deeper meanings of the pagan past. Never one for conversation or first names the look was all he needed. he instilled in the sarge a sense of disgust and dread as his mind was forced back to mull over his dreadful past. The Lego make up dotted from the dregs of day one until the present. Like a freezer door partially shut, the intention was there with only half the result. His mind drifted back but the meaning of it all and the learning to be gained was lost on him. Thinking that he had missed out on something he began to recount his time on earth, he was sure he had been a child, at some point. In fact it might be worth checking he still wasn’t. Taking out his notepad he jotted‘Book Doctors appointment to avoid avid disappointment. Check that me is no longer of child years.’ He then tore out the page, screwed it into a tight delicious ball and ate it. No point wasting energy on thoughts if you couldn’t make use of it somehow. As the cogs of memory turned he had a faint account of having been married. But like a modern day music video or tv drama the imagery was hard to make out and in some cases overstylised. So he chose to ignore it and instead focus on the following...

‘Bookends that look like the be all and end all, swirling music – that of Vaughan Williams disappearing down the open hole of a tuba and back out again, also concurrent with breath-taking exercise. Tuesdays reserved for chasing a poor man through a field whilst wielding my stick, all intention no intent. Camping on Wednesday when I should be elsewhere...’ So on and so forth. ‘I’m sure that I was in the army at one time, but I can’t remember any specifics only the early mornings and trumpets. What Ho! I’m fairly 90% certain that I was and if I was, then I were very good in what I was when I was in the army. If I was. But I must have been, how else could I have acquired a habitually straight back and fondness for short hair?’ The sad fact of the matter was, that the he had indeed no idea of what he was or where he had been. Just a vague collection of postcard-snatchlike-memories and the fact that he is, was and is at this very moment where he was. Having taken some time out inside the box, which was achieved by turning round inside the box and looking at some different bits of wood, it was decided by he to find out more.

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‘No good demanding your local newsagent know who you are if you jolly well don’t, best summon up the old spirit guide and find out what is what...’

– are the corner stone and centre of the culinary world. This is something I have always deeply believed in.’

At that moment the cry of ‘Dinner’ went up and the piercing shards of daylight had become a flood and dazzled him as he sat there in thought. The patter of feet subsided and the burning fury began to ease, then turning to head home he suddenly realised that he was in fact married. No idea as to where his wife was, in fact he couldn’t remember what she looked like.

So much so that a dinner party once held by him consisted of sloshing milk around a large glass while crushing tomatoes in his fist shouting – ‘These will increase one’s longevity and improve virulence toward moving objects’ – whilst dancing on the table in his boxer shorts. This, he believed, the height of entertainment.

Sitting in his overgrown garden, he closed his eyes and summoned his ever-non-present-friend, the spirit guide who, as it happened, was a dab hand at recommending quality whiskey and Then followed a dawning realisation that she brandy. The guide had no name but was in fact was in fact dead and that it didn’t matter any a bearded morris dancer of the hideously middle more. No wonder he had been forced to improve class, retired teacher variety. Once summoned is cooking skills. Not to say that he was of the he was hard to get rid of and only able to thought that women should cook and clean, but communicate via wincing, staring or shuffling. rather he was so terrible at it and a danger to He hated him but he would sometimes find great himself that it was better and safer for any women use of him. in his life to take these jobs on themselves. It was highly likely that his wife, whoever she had been, Just as he was about to zone out, the thought had either taken her own life as an escape or met occurred to him that all this bother about who he her demise through his culinary misadventures. was and where he had come from was starting to bore him and that he really didn’t care. ‘Tomatoes and milk – good calibre types of course ‘I have phone books and erotic literature to shred, plus the odd bible here and there, then I must continue to smear red sauces onto white vans in the area.’ ‘Cripes! What if she is at home waiting for me and I have been gone all this time?’

By Sgt. Pilko

With that he upped and left, leaving a slightly annoyed and half summoned spirit guide in the garden…

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ARTIST IDENTITY: KATIE FEARN

HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR IDENTITY EXHIBITS ITSELF WITHIN AND INFLUENCES YOUR ART?

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Annabella Whispers Photography

earn Since a child I have always been captivated by Whimsical Beauty, Magical Days and the mystery of Folklore Tales. I was brought up spending summers in the Lake District and these ‘fairy-tale’ notions of life running through enchanted forests, lakes and meadows have always stimulated my spirit. Soft delicate natural light, sun flares and imperfections totally tantalise me and my work.

My photography is an extension of my dreams, creative desires as well as personal delights and styles; it is here I know who I am! I am totally at one with a camera in hand and I only hope to inspire others. Identity is such a powerful symbol of individualism and the journey of self-discovery and of finding ‘yourself ’. It is a journey of a lifetime, learning new things every day!

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WHAT SHAPES OUR IDENTITY: SELINA MOSES

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WHAT SHAPES OUR IDENTITY? By Selina Moses

Identity

is a word we use often to describe the way we dress, our religious or political affiliation, our ethnic background. Many people make it a particular point of it as the need to mark yourself out as an individual outweighs everything nowadays. What is considered fashionable varies from season to season and some people love to follow the ever changing mainstream offerings. Others prefer to be considered different and prefer doing things like listening to underground music because it reflects their personal style, occasionally just so they don’t have to be classed as mainstream which doesn’t appeal to them. I recently picked up a copy of Joan Collin’s latest book ‘The world according to Joan’ (don’t roll your eyes people, it is a surprisingly good book) in which Queen Joanie speaks her mind about everything. The style and glamour chapter in particular amused me no end, filled with musings about appearance among others things, about the state of style in Britain today especially observing the grungy participants on the Jeremy Kyle show who could use a little glamour in their lives. Joan asserts that in the past, the everyday woman aspired to emulate their favourite film stars in order to look well bred and classy no matter their status or lack of income. She also pointed out that at that

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time, no two Hollywood stars were the same and you could have never mistaken Lana Turner for Ava Gardner because each had their own individual identity, unlike today’s celebrity market, few of whom have no distinguished style. She laments the passing of Old Hollywood style as a way of showing that celebrities were on an elegant pedestal and despises the cookie cutter celebrities of today. Clothes may be considered superficial to many people but they are also a great way of exhibiting your identity and you will always be judged on how you look on the streets, going to a job interview or going to meet the in-laws. There are countless pages in magazines about the style of the season but for a lot of people, it’s not just how to look, it’s how to go about achieving that look. Because of the recession, people have started buying from the two places that it wasn’t previously cool to shop at and even looked down on, supermarkets and charity shops. My first job was working in a charity shop and I soon came to love rifling through the rails and finding bargains as much as the customers. Since then I have raided every charity shop I pass for several years and half my wardrobe comes from these shops. People do ask me with interest where I’ve got an item from, only to react with surprise and sometimes disgust at the

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second hand aspect. Some people buy from charity shops because they don’t want to support high street chains, which is a factor in their identity, the principle of thrift, the love of vintage and retro and dislike/distrust of the commercial shops. Clothes are the most obvious way to show your identity. I must admit that I am a watcher of the programme ‘How do I look?’ where the stylish Jeannie Mai gets to grips with changing all kinds of women and their wardrobe choices, from frumpy and dowdy to seriously tacky and just plain embarrassing. Most women asserted how what they wore represented their identity and their wardrobes tended to express their personality to dress like a slutty extra out of an R. Kelly video, a lazy slob or like their grandmother’s librarian. Upon each makeover, the personality they held onto for so many years has been modified to a more stylish appearance to reflect their identity through their wardrobe. Their confidence in themselves are rightfully restored as they look fabulous and Jeannie Mai saves yet another woman from the wardrobe hell of lime green leopard print leggings, corduroy jackets that you last saw from the 70’s and hoochy ripped tutus, none of which are in the least bit flattering on even teenagers let alone grown women of over 30. These monstrosities were thankfully sucked up some nifty invention that destroyed all of this revolting stuff that I wouldn’t even line my cat’s basket with. I don’t have a cat but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t inflict those

scraps of fabric upon the poor animal for its bedding. Sex and gender are one of the most important factors in determining identity. It is a common misconception that they are the same thing but this isn’t so. It isn’t difficult to observe how gender is projected onto people with just a colour. For example, I work in a restaurant where plastic cutlery and cups are given to children and are usually unconsciously restricted; pink to the girls and blue for the boys. To counter that, I prefer to give them the other colours available of green, yellow or orange as children love bright colours and aren’t

identity crisis, being too Indian for America and too American for India. This is a book that will resonate with many teenagers born and growing up in one country whose families have come from another place. Trying to balance between home life and living a more secular life with their friends, the culture clash between tradition and the modern world we are living in takes a lot of figuring out and almost everyone who has grown up in an environment like this tends to attribute some aspect of their upbringing to their culture. In the end, I started asking some friends on Facebook about this and each one came up with something slightly different that they considered a big part of their identity. A wide range of factors influenced and defined them; their choice of job, their artistic talent, the desire not to want what typically we’ve been conditioned to want, veganism, their sexual orientation, faith in Jesus, being a natural redhead, close ties with their family and love of politics. One friend told me that whatever alias he assumed on what day defined his identity. All these things were influenced by aspects like the impact of events in their life, their personal tastes which they developed over time and sometimes a disregard for conventional ‘rules.’ As I wasn’t even aware that some of these factors influenced them as much as they asserted, I deduce that for a topic of a personal nature, the definition of your individual identity must be down to you.

I don’t have a cat but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t inflict those scraps of fabric upon the poor animal for its bedding.

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as aware of the enforced mindset and personality that traps them into the stereotypical idea of gender. As children, we are usually conditioned to want what everyone else has, to be part of the herd and as teenagers, some of us either carry that on by aspiring to be WAGS and pop stars to identify with popular culture and what is considered ‘cool’ or morph entirely into what seems to our parents like a different species, emo or goth to disassociate from the mainstream, sometimes to make a statement. On the subject of teen identity, I remember reading the book ‘Born confused’ by Tanuja Desai Hidier a few years ago about an Indian American teenager with an

ISSUE 3 2012

SHERIFF PIMIENTO: MERCEDES FONSECA

Say hello to

o t n e i m i P ff i r e Sh

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NO PLACE LIKE HOME: FRANCES HAWKINS

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PLACE HOME

I am a photographer exploring my own identity and how I have become the person I am today. Growing up with a father in the RAF I was constantly moved from one place to another, this has ultimately lead me to question my identity as I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel attached to any one. METHOD I work with medium format cameras, this gives me the chance to slow down and really think about what the project means to me. I am able to take the time and compose a photograph without going onto a computer and changing the natural state in which it was photographed. INFLUENCES Photographers such as Donovan Wylie and Joel Sternfeld influence my photography as they work in an industrial sublime landscape that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always a conventionally beautiful scene. My father is the main inspiration for this project as since he was diagnosed with cancer last year, it has made me see his profession from a more emotional viewpoint. From serving in Iraq and Afghanistan I have been shown his own photographs from his time out there, this lead me to question my own identity and role as a child in the RAF.

By Frances Hawkins

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ONGOING WORK I am currently researching the RAF sites where I used to live, some are closed down and some have changed considerably. These projects will hopefully come together when I travel to the Shetland Islands to explore and photograph the RAF camp on the island, Unst.

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The Heaps These landscape scenes are all I have known since I was a child. Growing up in the RAF, I was moved about regularly. The only place that we kept returning to was my grandparentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s town in Weardale, County Durham. This is the landscape of my childhood.

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NO PLACE LIKE HOME: FRANCES HAWKINS

Semper in Exubitu Vigilans (Always the Vigilant Sentry)

I have photographed my home landscape, with the connection of family and the RAF, I explored a closed down site, left to grow over and become untamed. Choosing a medium format camera as my main tool, this allows me to slow down and show the small details left behind on the abandoned RAF camp.

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

HOW DO YOU THINK YOUR IDENTITY EXHIBITS ITSELF WITHIN AND INFLUENCES YOUR ART?

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letts British/Welsh/gypsy/writer/poet/song-maker/story teller/maker of pictures/reluctant barber/temporary joe-job worker/lover/ immigrant self proclaimed ‘beat’

My ‘art’ is things that I make when I have time in the space between the more pressing issue of scrapping enough metal / working enough to eat. Poems - written on bus tickets, pizza boxes, tissue. Songs - half written (to be recorded one day when time and money equate to privilege), melodies whistled down lanes and forgotten, words lost in memory, pictures unsold. When I speak I fit my environment – talk the same as the folk who don’t make art, folk who are poetry. I have

a rolling existence where I try to document the beauty in the ordinary, in the inconceivable, in the gutter and the stars. I am simultaneously experiencing and detached from the moment, observing from another place, drafting as I go. Writing is my life-long mistress, rarely talked about in my ‘REAL’ world. I am alone with this beautiful affliction, isolated, insular. I do not go to writing groups or readings. I crave the ‘beat’ generation brotherhood, but I am not American, it is not the fifties and I aint so good with people anyhow. When I write THE VOICE is an American drawl much like that of how I would imagine an alter ego to sound. My words sound better read by others. Please read them.

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ARTIST IDENTITY: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

SUICIDE CARDIGAN “Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children” William Makepeace Thackeray We are both still here You – with a pocket ripped the other one zipped holding blades, pills wool – catching red circles where the blood spills and the screwed up note I couldn’t sign Me – with raw guilt and gashes the smell of stale liquor and antiseptic as a stranger washes the self obsession from my face and her silence amplifies the disgrace that I feel and know deep in my soul It’s this self hate cycle that gets you so low she speaks “I’m looking for a heartbeat” I say “It’s broken” and she smiles, a token smile and signs her sheet I can barely look up to meet your eyes but do somehow and I realize that if you had been anyone but you I never would have made it through We are both still here You – grey, old, battered Me – stitching a life out of tatters

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DRINKING WITH THE DEAD

A LITTLE OF MY TIME

I stand at the bar nursing a pint I am wearing a James Dean coat waiting for an old friend/lover I listen to Elvis the greatest hits this is the wrong time and I am in the wrong country so I look like a throwback an old looking young cat

I saw an old lover today she was waiting in line at the store she smiled and said “hello” and I reciprocated with an upside down smile the sort I use for acknowledgement she looked older but her eyes were unchanged kind the kind you want to fall asleep inside

I don’t know what tonight will bring (if anything) but this is the best beer I’ve had in a long while

as I passed collecting my beans and juice from the end of a conveyer belt I wondered what she thought If anything at all

there are people I could talk to strangers, some familiar faces but I am not bothered I prefer to stand here alone

we hadn’t been together long before I was drawn back into a crazier version of life but still it was strange to think that we shared a bit of our journeys together a little piece of our time watched TV, ate together shared our bodies for a while

I think of Bukowski although I never met him I like to think he would have been good bar company if subject to the odd glass shattering outburst

as I left the store the sun was hung low in the sky I shook my head as I walked and I didn’t think much apart from how damn mad the whole thing is I didn’t feel too much either but I was happy to have shared a little of my time.

I think of Amy too drinking, dancing alone by a jukebox like someone swears they saw her mostly I wonder why I have nothing to say to any living soul I think maybe I write too much.

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WHAT IS IN A NAME?: CINDY BLANEY

WHAT IS IN A NAME? THE LORE OF WAYSIDE WILDFLOWERS

By Cindy Blaney

Just as

nick-names can give us an insight into a person’s character or family history, common names for some of our most widespread wildflowers can tell us much more than mere scientific facts. Since living in the wood, I have grown to appreciate the wildflowers that grow along path edges, for; their interesting appearance, their importance to insects, their ingenious seed dispersal, and their edible uses. They are wonderful to show to children on guided walks, and their flowers brighten up the wood each spring. They also have some intriguing common names; Ramsons, Lords and Ladies, Wake-Robin, Herb-Robert, Jack-by-the-hedge, and Herb Bennet, to name a few. I started doing a little research into their origins, and the names started to reveal deeper meaning, shedding light on what these plants meant to our ancestors, on a practical as well as spiritual level. From roots in Sanskrit, to affinities with spirits and saints, these names convey ancient and respectful relationships. Colonizing damp, partly shaded places, the plants that captured my interest are wildflowers of the wayside, growing in clearings in dark woods, originally opened up by stream courses,

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mammals’ wanderings, and herbivores’ grazing, with some evolving seedcoatings that hooked into animals fur for dispersal. These plants would have spread into beacon-like trails with their bright spring leaves and flowers, along paths later followed by our earliest ancestors in their hunting and explorations, offering healing and sustenance to people weakened by winters’ deprivations. In ancient cultures, spring was universally worshipped, and for good reason; the dormancy of winter is a kind of death, and then, through mysterious processes, mostly hidden from the naked eye, the earth and plants spring to life again. Many cultures attributed this hidden force to a spirit, and that spirit was mostly associated with woodland, where the signs of spring are most spectacular, as the ground and trees are covered again in green. This wood spirit went by many names, evolving, through the imagery of British folklore, into The Green Man, Robin-o-the-hood, and Jack-o-lantern, to name a few. All conveyed an image of a human half visible under cover of greenery or darkness, symbolising the link between people and the world of plants. This spirit was respected as a

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provider of health and good fortune and a protector of the plants without which people could not survive, and which they disrespected at their peril. So ingrained is this respect in our culture, that the old habit of touching wood or knocking on wood not to jinx your luck still survives as a nod to the power of the woodland spirit. The first leaves to emerge from the ground in spring are those of the Wild Arum. One of its common names of Wake-Robin says it all. The plant is a herald of new life beginning, when the sometimes devilish woodland spirit, known for centuries as Robin, Robert, or Hob, wakes up. The origins of the name Robert can be traced back to the oldest Germanic roots meaning fame (hrod), and bright (beraht). The flowers resemblance to sexual organs are all the symbolism needed for a re-birth of the forest, and have led to it acquiring nearly 100 different common names over the centuries, the most discreet of which, Lords and Ladies, is still commonly used. The flower, consisting of a sheathed spadix, opens up and heats up to above ambient temperature while emitting a foul smell, to attract small midges in to the flower to pollinate it,

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WHAT IS IN A NAME?: CINDY BLANEY after which the midges fly off, and the smell disappears. The root tube of this plant, used to store starch, can be very thick, and was dried and ground to make an edible powder used as a nutritious drink, before the introduction of tea and coffee. This use was reflected in another common name, Starch-root. However, the raw root, berries, and leaves of the plant are poisonous, containing needle-shaped crystals within oxalates of saponins, produced by the plant for protection, which result in a stinging sensation in the mouth, as soon as they are eaten. Closely following the emergence of Wake-Robin, are the leaves of Wild Garlic, whose common name of Ramsons stems from a language about as old as you can get, Sanskrit. It derives from the origin of the word for Garlic, which goes to show how important plants in the onion family are and have been to people for their health and well-being throughout human history. All parts of the plant are edible. Also known as Ramps, its emergence is still celebrated in the cultures of mountain folk in the Appalachian mountains on the east coast of America. It is celebrated for its great power as a tonic to ward off winter ailments. We are all now familiar with the scientific reasons it is so good for us, but our ancestors would have welcomed its appearance as a timely cure for winter colds. Herb-Robert, another spring flowering plant, with its delicate mauve blossoms and striking hairy red stems, was used for medicinal purposes as well, internally for gastrointestinal infections among other things, and externally for wound dressings. Although various interpretations exist as to the origin of its name, it was thought unlucky to bring it into the house, just as it was thought unlucky for a Robin to come into the house. In general, anything associated with the devilish side of the natural spirit, in name or nature, had a superstitious ritual around its treatment. So, it seems likely that the origin of Robert in this case pre-dates the Saint Robert of France, who was known for his medical knowledge of plants, and may only relate to the Latin word for

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Ramsons Wake-Robin Lords nd Ladies Herb-Robert Herb Bennet Jack-by-the-hedge red by association, and actually stems from older beliefs and customs. Use of this plant is now known to greatly enhance our immune systems, making oxygen more readily available to our cells. Due to its pungent smell, the leaves were also used to keep insects and pests away, and it has been documented that plants growing in the vicinity of Herb-Robert are noticeably healthier and more robust. The seed pod has evolved to eject the seeds some distance from the plant, encouraging its spread. Jack-by-the-hedge, or garlic

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mustard, also flowers early in spring, and the leaves would have been harvested for their nutritional value, being high in vitamin A and C, and eaten raw or cooked. Jack came to be used as a name for anything familiar, but was also another term for the wood spirit. Jack-o-lantern could lead a person astray with a lure of bright lights in the dark woods. With their bright white flowers, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but picture foragers of wild garlic and garlic mustard following trails or patches of these flowering plants through

woodlands, and sometimes getting lost. This makes for a neat cautionary tale about over-harvesting, warning us not to be too greedy with natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bounty. This plant can also scatter its seed several meters, as well as growing buds straight out of its roots, facilitating its spread as a wayside plant. Although not as early flowering, the leaves of Herb Bennet emerge early in spring, producing small star-like yellow flowers later in the season. Any plant with Herb as part of its common name will have medicinal uses. Its aromatic root was used as a flavouring and healing agent, giving it another common name, clove-root, as it smells like cloves. Keeping a piece of its root in the house was thought to bring good luck and to drive away evil spirits. The earlier folk name for this plant may have been lost along the way, and we are left with the later Christian system of plants being named after saints. In this case, the plant was named after Saint Benedict, who was known for driving away evil spirits. Sound familiar? The seeds of this plant are contained in a ball of hooked seed-cases at the ends of tall stems, that hook into fur, and even clothing, of animals and people that brush past, thus ensuring the plants distribution along paths. I was fascinated to discover that many of these plants are invasive where

they have been introduced in other parts of the world, particularly in the USA. Garlic mustard even produces a chemical that suppresses non-native mycorrhizal fungi, needed for other plants with which it grows. Whereas, in its native environment, it does not affect the mycorrhizae, showing what fine balances nature has evolved over hundreds of years, before the relatively recent disruptive actions of people. It is unfortunate that our close connections with the plants we can

I went in search of these familiar plants with a new vigour and appreciation. They grew well in their particular niches, although not as plentifully as I imagined. Wake-Robin and Ramsons grew in profusion along the sunny bank at the edge of the wood, by the fence along Muswell Hill Road, one of the oldest roads in the area, used for centuries. Here I found them healthiest near a supply of ground water, away from trampling feet and paws, with their roots in the cool, rich earth, and their flowers in the sunshine. HerbRobert grew here as well, and in other damp and sunnier spots, but in fewer numbers. I found it growing right next to my house, and sampled some of its leaves in a soup I made of nettles and wild garlic, all of which I am lucky enough to have growing in my garden on the edge of the wood. I hope this article will inspire a greater respect for and interest in the wild plants around you, and encourage you to let wild plants grow in your own gardens and neighbourhoods. They are beautiful, fascinating, and useful, and, most importantly, they are ancient companions that connect us with our environmental heritage.

Any plant with Herb as part of its common name will have medicinal uses still find growing around our houses and beside pathways along which we regularly walk have grown more and more distant. A more holistic view of the world was a necessity for the survival of our ancestors, and is becoming increasingly valued today, as more people recognise the damage that has been caused by alienation, and the benefits of understanding and working with the natural world.

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MANIFESTO OF MYSELF: JAMES BRADLEY

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When James Bradley was asked to create a ‘manifesto of something’ at university he thought he’d stick to something he knew all about. Himself. Ben Turner asks the questions. ISSUE 3 2012

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MANIFESTO OF MYSELF: JAMES BRADLEY

MANIFESTO OF MYSELF, HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? At university we were asked to create a manifesto of something personal to us, and so I wanted to communicate what I believe. The targeted audience for this were companies I am interested in getting a work placement with or a job. Manifesto of Myself is a pattern book made from deconstructed typographic elements from my manifesto. The book is aimed to inform people about myself as a designer but also as a human being. In the back of the book is a postcard/illustrator file which allows the receiver to design their own pattern and send it back to me. There are two versions of this book a printed mail out and online mail out. HOW DID YOU PUT IT TOGETHER? I started with numerous A3 pages of thumb nailing and collages of printed out typeface, this process allowed myself maximum amount of play and fun whilst thinking about the form of the project. Then I took this process onto Adobe Illustrator, were I started editing the typefaces and colouring to create the final pattern book.

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WHY DID YOU DO THIS RATHER THAN A REGULAR CV/PORTFOLIO? This was definitely an experiment to see how people might be willing to interact with me. In the past I have sent out CV’s and PDF portfolio’s but people only seem to want to look at them once you have phoned them up a couple of times. So I wanted to see if this method made a more immediate impact on someone I was trying to start a conversation with, offline and online. DID YOU FEEL IT WAS IMPORTANT TO INFORM PEOPLE OF NOT ONLY YOUR DESIGN TALENT BUT OF YOU AS A HUMAN BEING? I find myself being obsessed with design and I feel some of my colleagues believe I do not have a life outside work! So in a way I want to express what else I am interested in using the manifesto. Also, looking at the professionals who will be receiving this item, they need to know the sort of human I am, as I am wanting to come and work for them but also to be involved in their lives. I feel that it is very important to have the right people around you in life and work. DID YOU TRY TO SHOW YOUR HUMAN SIDE BOTH IN THE CONTENT AND DESIGN ST YLE? I feel the designs communicated who I am as a person through their colour and pace but primarily through the text/statements. I do wish I had involved more of my hand rendered items into this piece. The underlying pace is very important to who I am as I’m always out doing projects and exploring so I needed this reflected within my work through movement. The colour, I feel, represents my passion and energy towards projects and life.

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WHO IS: PAUL DIELLO

WHO IS PAUL DIELLO? PoV’s Chris Pilkington tries to find out...

I’m a

musician, a singer, composer and pianist. I’ve been writing music since I was around 13 years old and performing in various bands since I was 17 before branching out and recording my debut album as a solo artist in 2008. My music has been described as acoustic melodica and folkpop but I find it hard to know what genre best describes it, I just write what I’m feeling on that day! I always wanted to be Madonna when I was growing up. I used to push two tables together in our back room and pretend it was a stage and dance around in my smalls to the True Blue album singing into a hairbrush, god knows what the neighbours thought!! I always wanted to be a pop star on the cover of magazines. As I got older that side of it became less important and I just wanted to reach people with my music. I’ve always been so moved by music and feel such a connection with certain artists that I wanted to be able to have that kind of positive influence on other peoples lives. I always felt a real connection with the piano, my grandad had an upright and I always looked forward to our Sunday visits so I could sit and play for hours. When I first came across Tori Amos it was like something clicked in me, I was so mesmerised by her music and she completely inspired me in my songwriting. It took me a long time to develop an identity in terms of stage style. In the early days I didn’t like to draw too much attention to myself when I was on stage, I thought I wanted my

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voice to be all that people focused but looking back I just don’t think I could let go enough to experiment with costume and presentation. Since becoming a solo artist I’ve really got into dressing up and now my live show is very much about visuals as well as the music. I like to create an atmosphere on stage with set and costumes that instantly draw the audience in. I want my show to be fun for people so I always talk to the crowd a lot and tell them funny stories about the songs or just experiences that I’ve had, it helps me connect with an audience and hopefully they enjoy it! I’m always thinking of new photo shoots and

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For more information go to: www.pauldiello.com www.facebook.com/pauldiellomusic www.youtube.com/pauldiello

I like to create an atmosphere on stage with set and costumes that instantly draw the audience in

how to present myself, there’s a lot of androgyny in my image so I like to play up to that. I want each image to be memorable and stand out. At the moment my sound is soft and acoustic with lots of strings and harmonies and piano, I don’t know if my image necessarily complies with that sound but I think that’s ok, it’s fun to break the rules. I’m currently recording my second album which is much more up tempo and electronic so I’m looking forward to creating some new images to accompany my new direction, god knows what I’ll turn up wearing, maybe I’ll go back to dancing on tables in my smalls, or maybe not!

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DOWN FROM THE PEDESTAL: FARAH DADFARMA

DOWN FROM THE PEDESTAL

By Farah Dadfarma

It was only as the plane landed on Spanish soil that it hit home; this is it, I’m going to be living in here in Salamanca for a year. Living in a different country, away from family, friends and generally the people who know you best of all, is a little daunting to say the least. Back in Nottingham, when I felt fed up with the same routine and the same surroundings, I would tell myself: “things will be better when I go to Spain”. ‘When I go to Spain’ seemed to be my answer to everything as I was hoping that something amazing may happen to me while I was out there. I suppose it’s quite typical of people to idealise prospects of living abroad since we associate them with summer holidays, which are always great. Just those couple of weeks away somewhere are sheer bliss, so what wouldn’t you like about living abroad for a while?

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LA INGLESA Having already completed my first and second year of University in Nottingham, I was aware that it was practically the norm for students to go out and drink excessively in order to maintain a social butterfly status. Conversations would thrive from embarrassing, drunken stories from the night before; in fact I think that was probably the only topic of conversation that would hold people’s interest. I’ve never been that keen on that scene. This was one of the reasons why I was looking forward to my placement year in Spain; I had the notion that University life would be more relaxed and there wouldn’t be so much emphasis on going out every night and drinking. But considering I was going to be going into the third year of my degree and a bit more maturity kicks in by that stage; it could have been wishful thinking. I soon learnt that University antics in Spain are zanier than those in England. Ironically, the fact that I had chosen to stay in Halls of Residence meant that I would be experiencing Fresher’s Week all over again as the Residence was full of first and second year students - I didn’t know this! Their fresher’s week, known as ‘Novatadas’ in Spanish, not only consists of going out at night for the whole week but also activities during the day in which, to participate in, you have to leave your dignity at the door. Egg and flour fights between other residence halls, walking around in public in your pyjamas with your underwear worn on top, ridiculous fancy dress costumes, having whipped

cream rubbed on your face and being drawn on with marker pens, just to name a few. Of course I did participate in them as it was the first week; you want to meet as many people as possible and everybody else had to make a fool of themselves so we were all in it together. It was during Novatadas that the name ‘la inglesa’ was created which means ‘the English girl’. It was never said maliciously, it’s just the Spaniards’ way; they don’t tip toe around you, they joke and even mock you a little bit, regardless of the fact that they’ve just met you. But since I didn’t know this at the time, I wasn’t sure how to interpret it; I laughed with them as I didn’t want to express my bewilderment, but I often wondered to myself; was this going to be my label for the rest of the year? It wasn’t my label for the rest of the year, thankfully, but the only problem which is inevitable of escaping, is the fact that you are always introduced as ‘this is Farah, she’s English’ or ‘my friend from England’ (all said in Spanish of course.) Although these were perfectly acceptable ways of introducing me, it got slightly tedious after a while. Once it was revealed that I was from England, they looked surprised and even awe struck. It was sweet how excited they got about meeting someone who is from London, but unfortunately they insisted on speaking to me in English, and I had to constantly remind them that I wanted to speak Spanish; it was practically my main

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DOWN FROM THE PEDESTAL: FARAH DADFARMA objective. Again, this wasn’t done impudently; the Spanish are just keen on improving their English. Funnily enough, I had more chance understanding them speaking in Spanish because, with all due respect, their English was quite terrible! Alternatively, you will always find those couple of Spaniards who are fluent in English because they either study the language or their love of American films has led them to learn it. I did indeed find those couple of Spaniards. They were wonderful people, of whom I became quite close to during my time there, but unluckily for me, I couldn’t help but give in to having a conversation with them in English, since that didn’t require thinking about whether I’m using the correct grammar or not. YOU CAN TAKE THE GIRL OUT OF BRITAIN... Whilst living in England, I always thought that due to my mixed background (Iranian father and Irish mother) I didn’t really have the traits of a typical British person. However it was when I was exposed to the Spanish culture that I realised how British I am in my mannerisms. People I had met in Spain were tactile, louder and not easily embarrassed, whereas the British are little reserved and overly polite. When ordering food you say please and thank you, whilst holding the door for someone they say thank you, after accidently bumping into someone on the street you apologise, if you interrupt someone you say sorry and if a car lets you cross the road you usually raise your hand as a way of saying thank you. This was all rather amusing to the other students in my residence, supposedly because they weren’t used to it. Considering that Spain and the United Kingdom are still in Europe, Spain is only a two hour flight away from the United Kingdom and they’re both First World Countries, it fascinates me how different the traits of Spanish and English people are. However, I admire how succinct the Spaniards are in their behaviour; you know where you stand with them. I guess they don’t see a reason why one should say please and thank you to waiters or till operators, for instance, since you don’t know these people and they aren’t going out of their way to do anything for you; they are merely doing their job. Nevertheless, my mannerisms didn’t change, regardless of how funny it was to other people; that aspect of the culture I couldn’t adapt well too. Yet on a slightly different note, this thirst for learning English, which the majority of Spanish society seemed to have, gave me a great advantage. I put up adverts around the centre of Salamanca stating that I was a native English speaker willing to give English private tuition classes and the amount

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when I was exposed to the Spanish culture ... I realised how British I am

of call-backs I received within two weeks was unexpectedly successful! Obviously it wasn’t possible to accept all job opportunities but I agreed to two jobs; both consisting of teaching English, but one was actually in a Language Academy in a city close to Salamanca; Zamora, whilst the other was private tuition for a little boy who lived in Salamanca. I was ridiculously nervous before starting the job in the Language Academy as that was a fairly big responsibility to take on; it wasn’t just one child I would be teaching but classes of 12, ranging from the ages of 10 to 16 years. The teaching and tutoring jobs weren’t easy; it required a lot of patience and I often had to think on my feet to make the lessons enjoyable. Besides, children are curious and so there were many times I had been asked English grammar related questions which, even if I could explain certain grammar rules, they’d manage to find an exception to the rule which would even leave me wondering ‘why is that so?’ I suppose you don’t really question your first language with such depth; you just start speaking it from an early age and it’s always made sense to you. Nevertheless, I felt so fulfilled by this job as it was something I didn’t think I could

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succeed in. Working with groups of such amiable kids, knowing that the lessons I had planned were successful, that the children had learnt from me and earning money for it all, was wonderful. LOST IN TRANSLATION For me, choosing to live in Spanish halls of Residence, rather than in a flat with other studyingabroad students was a wise decision because I got to see, firsthand, what Spanish University life is like. However there was a downside; whilst not wanting to slate the placement abroad experience, I had never managed to shake off the tourist feeling. It was natural that the students spent more time with their native Spanish friends than with foreign students, it wasn’t something I was offended by; it was just something which wasn’t ideal but I had to accept. It all reminded me of the film Lost in Translation which I can relate to somewhat. The storyline didn’t mirror my current situation in Spain exactly, (the characters Bob and Charlotte from America are trying to come to grips with the culture difference in Japan) but it was interesting to watch how two people can be in a city surrounded by people and still feel alone. Then again, when it came to Residence parties or birthday parties suddenly everyone in the residence was like one big family; I loved those moments. I’ve observed that Spanish people always seem to have time to do things with friends and family, no matter how busy they are. Whether it’s sitting down to have lunch and dinner together properly or going to a music festival for the weekend; that’s how it should be. I had the pleasure of joining a couple of girls in my residence to WOMAD festival (World of Music and Dance) in the beautiful city of Cáceres and it was fantastic. I had stayed at one of the girl’s house for the weekend and the family were very accommodating, despite the short notice of me coming. As I’m aware that when talking about different cultures and nationalities you want to be careful not to generalise, I’m just basing this on my personal experience with friends and family back in England; it’s never been this way. There always needs to be notice for gatherings or weekend trips. On many occasions there has been an inconvenience or bad time or an “I’ll just check my schedule first” answer; I admit that I have even been like that myself. I think it has something to do with stressful London life (the London Underground system being one of the potential

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DOWN FROM THE PEDESTAL: FARAH DADFARMA

causes) which is so diverse to the laid back lifestyle in Spain. We all seem to think that we are really busy when we are probably just busy worrying. The family and friend-orientation and concise manners are two traits of the Spaniards which I’d quite like to incorporate into my daily life in London more often. And this brings me to another part of Lost in Translation; character Bob who, after having spent a while in Japan, decided that he wants to eat Japanese food more frequently and take better care of himself in general. After his weird and wonderful experience in Japan, whilst not changing his personality exactly, he wants to incorporate some of the Japanese traits into his everyday life back in America. Perhaps it’s an inevitable consequence of living abroad and experiencing a new culture. FINDING YOURSELF Before I had set off to Salamanca, family members and even close friends had said to me “when you go to Spain, you will find yourself.” Maybe this was the reason why ‘when I go to Spain’ was my answer to everything. Nonetheless, I always responded to this in the same apathetic way, and that would be to smile, nod and say ‘thank you, yes, I hope I have a really good time there.’ The truth is, I had never really liked the saying ‘find yourself’, probably because I never actually understood it, it always

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sounded silly to me. Why would I need to find myself? I’m here. However, the meant-well intentions of those words have meaning to me now. Finding yourself isn’t always necessarily a case of discovering new things about yourself, to the extent where you feel like a new person. For me it was a case of accepting the qualities I always knew were there. I think we tend to forget that it’s hard to get an idea of what a person is really like at the start of, not just University, but any course or job which involves meeting a large group of people for the first time, as everyone is trying to make a good first impression. However that’s not to say that people are callous once we all start our daily routines, you may find that a person who seemed to be entertaining when you first met them is actually quite a shy person. While I look back at the week of Novatadas with brilliant memories that never cease to make me smile, it didn’t really reflect who I am as a person. There’s nothing I love more than to be with friends and to be sociable, but I’m definitely not a loud person who would do ridiculous things to be centre of attention. The Spanish students soon realised that about ‘la inglesa’ since a phrase often used to describe me was ‘es muy maja’ which translates to ‘she’s very nice’ in English. I have always been known as nice and what I find interesting is that, in spite of the different country, culture, language and group of people; they took no time at all to figure that out about me, aside from my participation in

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every frivolous activity or fancy dress event. It just goes to show that you are who you are no matter where you go. EXPECTATION VS REALITY To this day I don’t even know what this ‘amazing’ thing in which I wanted to come my way in Salamanca was. This year has been brilliant; it wasn’t at all what I had expected, however, but what I was expecting may have been a tad farfetched. It probably doesn’t help that people have idealistic perceptions of placement years abroad purely consisting of sun, sea and a beautiful love story due to how they’re portrayed in films. Let’s not forget that I was still living a typical University student lifestyle consisting of studying, socialising and having a job. Therefore there were ups and downs, highs and lows, fantastic days and mundane days, the only differences were that the weather was better and the scenery was beautiful. The experience hasn’t changed me as a person; given that the people I have met in Salamanca also see me as a level-headed person like the people I know back home in London. But looking back at the Farah before going to Salamanca, compared to the Farah afterwards, I’ve noticed a big change in my perspective. I accept that you can’t rely on going to a different place to change you. If anything, the year has made me want to do the things that I always used to do and love, such as playing the piano again, writing more, painting more. I still

had moments in Salamanca where I would sit in my room and sketch or take myself off to a cafe with a good book and just have time to myself; the latter being something I did often back in England, not only because I liked it but when I had a lot on my mind as well. There’s nothing wrong with doing that, I just thought that the new way of life in Salamanca would have kept me so busy and distracted that I wouldn’t want to do that. And so after all the awkward conversations due to the language barrier, embarrassing moments, lonely moments, adapting, homesickness, fancy dress events, laughter, meeting new people and the realisation that things don’t always turn out the way that you had hoped; as cliché as it might sound, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Ok, so it wasn’t a magical year that was fun and exciting from start to finish and it certainly wasn’t like an extended holiday as my parents liked to call it, but it was real. The experience has definitely made me understand how important it is not to idealise opportunities but look forward to them all the same. What’s more I feel like I will be able to embrace whatever comes my way next year when I return to Nottingham to finish my degree. And who knows, with this placement year under my belt I can have more experiences living abroad, whether in Spain again or another country; now that I know what to expect. This is just the beginning.

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TEA + TOAST CLUB: 227217

WELCOME TO OUR CLUB. TAKE FIVE. SIT BACK . RELAX. AND MEET SOMEONE WHO TOOK IDENTITY TO A DIFFERENT PLACE...

‘FOR THIS PROJECT I AM INTERESTED IN EXPLORING MULTIPLE IMAGERY AND THEIR LAYERS WITHIN SPACE AND TIME. AND EVEN MORE SO IN MULTIPLE IMAGERY, LAYERS AND THEIR NEW MEANING WHEN CONFINED TOGETHER WITHIN THEIR NEW SPACE AND SURROUNDINGS.’ Fine Arts BA student ‘227217’ opted to use his student number as his name and work on iPad and other digital media instead of paper and canvas. Upon producing a website for his second year project he received a disappointing mark and comments from tutors who seemed opposed to the digital methods and indeed the high quality of the imagery contained within. To PoV it seemed crazy that modern day art course tutors should be so closed minded and even technophobic. Visit the site and decide for yourselves.

HTTP://227217.COM/

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ISSUE 2 2012

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human conditionâ&#x20AC;? Graham Greene

Next issue theme

the human condition get involved via our website: www.povmagazine.co.uk on twitter: @pov _ magazine or email: hello@povmagazine.co.uk ISSUE 2 2012

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NEW WRITING POETRY ART PHOTOGRAPHY ON A COMMON THEME

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